BOOK III

{299}

This last day’s danger, having made Pamela’s love discern what a

loss it should have suffered if Dorus had been destroyed, bred such

tenderness of kindness in her toward him that she could no longer keep

love from looking out through her eyes, and going forth in her words,

whom before as a close prisoner she had to her heart only committed;

so that finding not only by his speeches and letters, but by the

pitiful oration of a languishing behaviour, and the easily deciphered

character of a sorrowful face, that despair began now to threaten him

destruction, she grew content both to pity him, and let him see she

pitied him, as well by making her own beautiful beams to thaw away the

former iciness of her behaviour, as by entertaining his discourses

(whensoever he did use them) in the third person of Musidorus, to so

far a degree, that in the end she said that if she had been the

princess whom that disguised prince had virtuously loved, she would

have requited his faith with faithful affection; finding in her heart

that nothing could so heartily love as virtue: with many more words to

the same sense of noble favour, and chaste plainness. Which when at

the first it made that unexpected bliss shine upon Dorus, he was like

one frozen with extremity of cold, overhastily brought to a great

fire, rather oppressed than relieved with such a lightning of

felicity. But after the strength of nature had made him able to feel

the sweetness of joyfulness, that again being a child of passion, and

never acquainted with mediocrity, could not set bounds upon his

happiness, nor be content to give desire a kingdom, but that it must

be an unlimited monarchy. So that the ground he stood upon being

over-high in happiness, and slippery through affection, he could not

hold himself from falling into such an error, which with sighs blew

all comfort out of his {300} breast, and washed away all cheerfulness

of his cheer with tears. For this favour filling him with hope, hope

encouraging his desire, and desire considering nothing but

opportunity; one time (Mopsa being called away by her mother, and he

left alone with Pamela) the sudden occasion called love, and that

never stayed to ask reason’s leave, but made the too much loving Dorus

take her in his arms, offering to kiss her, and, as if it were, to

establish a trophy of his victory. But she, as if she had been ready

to drink a wine of excellent taste and colour, which suddenly she

perceived had poison in it, so did she put him away from her, looking

first up to heaven, as amazed to find herself so beguiled in him; then

laying cruel punishment upon him of angry love, and lowering beauty,

showing disdain, and a despising disdain. “Away,” (said she),

“unworthy man to love or to be loved. Assure thyself, I hate myself

being so deceived; judge then what I do to thee for deceiving me. Let

me see thee no more, the only fall of my judgment, and stain of my

conscience.” With that she called Mopsa, not staying for any answer

(which was no other but a flood of tears) which she seemed not to mark

(much less to pity) and chid her for having left her alone.

It was not a sorrow, but it was even a death which then laid hold of

Dorus: which certainly at that instant would have killed him, but that

the fear to tarry longer in her presence (contrary to her commandment)

gave him life to carry himself away from her sight, and to run into

the woods, where, throwing himself down at the foot of a tree, he did

not fall into lamentation (for that proceeded of pitying) or grieving

for himself (which he did no way) but to curses of his life, as one

that detested himself. For finding himself not only unhappy, but

unhappy after being fallen from all happiness: and to be fallen from

all happiness, not by any misconceiving, but by his own fault, and his

fault to be done to no other but Pamela; he did not tender his own

estate, but despised it, greedily drawing into his mind, all conceits

which might more and more torment him. And so remained he two days in

the woods, disdaining to give his body food, or his mind comfort,

loving in himself nothing but the love of her. And indeed that love

only strove with the fury of his anguish, telling it that if it

destroyed Dorus, it should also destroy the image of her that lived in

Dorus: and when the thought of that was crept in unto him, it began to

win of him some compassion to the shrine of that image, and to bewail

not for himself (whom he hated) but that so notable a love should

perish. Then began he only so far to wish his own good, as that Pamela

might pardon him the fault, though not the punishment: and the

uttermost height he aspired unto, was that after his death she might

yet pity his error and {301} know that it proceeded of love, and not

of boldness. That conceit found such friendship in his thoughts, that

at last he yielded, since he was banished her presence, to seek some

means by writing to show his sorrow, and testify his repentance.

Therefore getting him the necessary instruments of writing, he thought

best to counterfeit his hand (fearing that already as she knew his,

she would cast it away as soon as she saw it) and to put it in verse,

hoping that would draw her on to read the more, choosing the elegiac

as fittest for mourning. But never pen did more quakingly perform his

office; never was paper more double moistened with ink and tears;

never words more slowly married together, and never the Muses more

tired than now, with changes and re-changes of his devices: fearing

how to end, before he had resolved how to begin, mistrusting each

word, condemning each sentence. This word was not significant; that

word was too plain; this would not be conceived; the other would be

ill-conceived; here sorrow was not enough expressed, there he seemed

too much for his own sake to be sorry; this sentence rather showed art

than passion, that sentence rather foolishly passionate than forcibly

moving. At last, marring with mending, and putting out better than he

left, he made an end of it; being ended, was divers times ready to

tear it, till his reason assuring him, the more he studied the worse

it grew, he folded it up, devoutly invoking good acceptation unto it;

and watching his time, when they were all gone one day to dinner,

saving Mopsa to the other lodge, stole up into Pamela’s chamber, and

in her standish (which first he kissed, and craved of it a safe and

friendly keeping) left it there to be seen at her next using her ink

(himself returning again to be true prisoner to desperate sorrow)

leaving her standish upon her bed’s head, to give her the more

occasion to mark it: which also fell out.

For she finding it at her afternoon return in another place than she

left it, opened it. But when she saw the letter, her heart gave her

from whence it came; and therefore clapping it to again she went away

from it as if it had been a contagious garment of an infected person:

and yet was not long away, but that she wished she had read it, though

she were loth to read it. “Shall I,” said she, “second his boldness so

far, as to read his presumptuous letters? And yet,” saith she, “he

sees me not now to grow the bolder thereby: and how can I tell whether

they be presumptuous?” The paper came from him, and therefore not

worthy to be received; and yet the paper she thought was not guilty.

At last she concluded, it were not much amiss to look it over, that

she might out of his words pick some further quarrel against him. Then

she opened it, and threw it away, and took it up again, till (ere she

were aware) her eyes would needs read it, containing this matter.

{302}

Unto a caitiff wretch, whom long affliction holdeth,

And now fully believes help to be quite perished,

Grant yet, grant yet a look, to the last moment of his anguish,

O you (alas so I find) cause of his only ruin,

Dread not a whit (O goodly cruel) that pity may enter

Into thy heart by the sight of this Epistle I send:

And to refuse to behold of these strange wounds the recital,

Lest it might thee allure home to thyself to return

(Unto thyself, I do mean those graces dwell so within thee,

Gratefulness, sweetness, holy love, hearty regard)

Such thing cannot I seek (despair hath giv’n me my answer:

Despair most tragical clause to a deadly request)

Such thing cannot he hope, that knows thy determinate hardness,

Hard like a rich marble: hard, but a fair diamond.

Can those eyes, that of eyes drown’d in most hearty flowing tears

(Tears and tears of a man? had no return to remorse)

Can those eyes now yield to the kind conceit of a sorrow,

Which ink only relates, but ne laments, ne replies?

Ah, that, that do I not conceive (though that to my bliss were)

More than Nestor’s years, more than a King’s diadem.

Ah, that, that do I not conceive; to the Heaven when a Mouse climbs

Then may I hope to achieve grace of a heavenly Tiger.

But, but alas, like a man condemned doth crave to be heard speak,

Not that he hopes for amends of the disaster he feels,

But finding the approach of death with an inly relenting,

Gives an adieu to the world, as to his only delight:

Right so my boiling heart, inflam’d with fire of a fair eye,

Bubbling out doth breathe signs of his huge dolours:

Now that he finds to what end his life and love be reserved,

And that he thence must part, where to live only he liv’d.

O fair, O fairest, are such the triumphs to thy fairness?

Can death beauty become? must I be such monument?

Must I be only the mark shall prove that virtue is angry?

Shall prove that fierceness can with a white dove abide?

Shall to the world appear that faith and love be rewarded

With mortal disdain, bent to unendly revenge.

Unto revenge? O sweet, on a wretch wilt thou be revenged?

Shall such high planets tend to the loss of a worm?

And to revenge who do bend, would in that kind be revenged

As th’ offence was done, and go beyond if he can.

All my offence was love: with love then must I be chastened;

And with more, by the laws that to revenge do belong.

If that love be a fault, more fault, more fault in you to be lovely:

Love never had me oppressed, but that I saw to be lov’d.

You be the cause that I lov’d: what Reason blameth a shadow,

That with a body ’t goes? since by a body it is?

{303}

If that love you did hate, you should your beauty have hidden:

You should those fair eyes have with a veil covered.

But fool, fool that I am, those eyes would shine from a dark cave:

What veils then do prevail, but to a more miracle?

Or those golden locks, those locks which lock me to bondage,

Torn you should disperse unto the blasts of a wind.

But fool, fool that I am, though I had but a hair of her head found,

Ev’n as I am, so I should unto that hair be a thrall.

Or with fair hand’s nails (O hand which nails me to this death)

You should have your face, since love is ill blemished.

O wretch, what do I say? should that fair face be defaced?

Should my too-much sight cause so true a sun to be lost?

First let Cimmerian darkness be my only habitation:

First be mine eyes pull’d out, first be my brain perished,

Ere that I should consent to do so excessive a damage

Unto the earth, by the hurt of this her heavenly jewel.

O not, but such love you say you could have afforded,

As might learn temp’rance, void of a rage’s events.

O sweet simplicity: from whence should love be so learned?

Unto Cupid, that Boy, should a pedant be found?

Well, but sulky I was: Reason to my passion yielded,

Passion unto my rage, rage to a hasty revenge,

But what’s this for a fault, for which such faith be abolished,

Such faith, so stainless, inviolate, violent?

Shall I not? O may I not thus yet refresh the remembrance,

What sweet joys I had once, and what a place I did hold?

Shall I not once object, that you, you granted a favour

Unto the man, whom now such miseries you award?

Bend your thoughts to the dear sweet words which then to me giv’n were,

Think what a world is now, think who hath alt’red her heart.

What? was I then worthy such good, now worthy such evil?

Now fled, then cherished? then so nigh, now so remote?

Did not a rosed breath from lips rosy proceeding,

Say, that I well should find in what a care I was had?

With much more: Now what do I find, but care to abhor me?

Care that I sink in grief, care that I live banished?

And banished do I live, nor now will seek a recovery,

Since so she will, whose will is to me more than a law.

If then a man in most ill case may give you a farewell:

Farewell, long farewell, all my woe, all my delight.

What this would have wrought in her, she herself could not tell, for,

before her reason could moderate the disputation between favour and

faultiness, her sister and Miso, called her down to entertain Zelmane,

who was come to visit the two sisters, about whom, as about two poles,

the sky of beauty was turned: while {304} Gynecia wearied her bed with

her melancholy sickness, and made Miso’s shrewdness (who like a spirit

set to keep a treasure, barred Zelmane from any further conference) to

be the lieutenant of her jealousy; both she and her husband driving

Zelmane to such a straight of resolution, either of impossible

granting, or dangerous refusing, as the best escape she had was (as

much as she could) to avoid their company. So as this day, being the

fourth day after the uproar (Basilius being with his sick wife,

conferring upon such examinations as Philanax and other of his

noblemen had made of this late sedition, all touching Cecropia, with

vehement suspicion of giving either flame or fuel unto it) Zelmane

came with her body, to find her mind, which was gone long before her,

and had gotten his seat in Philoclea, who now with a bashful

cheerfulness (as though she were ashamed that she could not choose but

be glad) joined with her sister in making much of Zelmane.

And so as they sat devising how to give more feathers to the wings of

time, there came to the lodge-door six maids, all in one livery of

scarlet petticoats, which were tucked up almost to their knees, the

petticoats themselves being in many places garnished with leaves,

their legs naked, saving that above the ankles they had little black

silk laces, upon which did hang a few silver bells, like which they

had a little above their elbows upon their bare arms. Upon their hair

they wore garlands of roses and gilliflowers, and the hair was so

dressed, as that came again above the garlands, interchanging a mutual

covering so that it was doubtful whether the hair dressed the

garlands, or the garlands dressed the hair. Their breasts liberal to

the eye; the face of the foremost of them in excellency fair; and of

the rest lovely, if not beautiful: and beautiful might have been, if

they had not suffered greedy Phoebus over-often and hard, to kiss

them. Their countenances full of a graceful gravity, so as the gesture

match with the apparel, it might seem, a wanton modesty, an enticing

soberness. Each of them had an instrument of music in their hands,

which comforting their well-pleasing tunes, did charge each ear with

unsensibleness that did not lend itself unto them. The music entering

alone into the lodge, the ladies were all desirous to see from whence

so pleasant a guest was come: and therefore went out together, where

before they could take the pains to doubt, much less to ask the

question of their quality, the fairest of them (with a gay, but yet

discreet demeanour) in this sort spoke to them.

“Most excellent ladies (whose excellencies have power to make cities

envy those woods, and solitariness to be accounted the sweetest

company) vouchsafe our message your gracious hearing, which as it

comes from love, so comes it from lovely persons. The maids of all

this coast of Arcadia, understanding the often {305} access that

certain shepherds of those quarters are allowed to have in this

forbidden place, and that their rural sports are not disdained of you,

have been stirred up with emulation to them, and affection to you, to

bring forth something, which might as well breed your contentment: and

therefore hoping that the goodness of their intention, and the

hurtlessness of their sex, shall excuse the breach of the commandment

in coming to this place unsent for, they chose out us to invite both

your princely parents, and yourselves to a place in the woods about

half a mile hence, where they have provided some such sports, as they

trust your gracious acceptations will interpret to be delightful. We

have been at the other lodge, but finding them there busied in

weightier affairs, our trust is that you will not deny the shining of

your eyes upon us.” The ladies stood in some doubt whether they should

go or not, lest Basilius might be angry withal: But Miso (that had

been at none of the pastorals, and had a great desire to lead her old

senses abroad to some pleasure) told them plainly, they should nor

will, nor choose, but go thither, and make the honest country people

know that they were not so squeamish as folks thought of them. The

ladies glad to be warranted by her authority, with a smiling

humbleness obeyed her; Pamela only casting a seeking look, whether she

could see Dorus (who poor wretch wandered half mad for sorrow in the

woods, crying for pardon of her who could not hear him) but indeed was

grieved for his absence, having given the wound to him through her own

heart. But so the three ladies and Miso went with those six Nymphs,

conquering the length of the way with the force of music, leaving only

Mopsa behind, who disgraced weeping with her countenance, because her

mother would not suffer her to show her new-scoured face among them.

But the place appointed, as they thought, met them half in their way,

so well were they pleased with the sweet tunes and pretty conversation

of their inviters. There found they in the midst of the thickest part

of the wood, a little square place, not burdened with trees, but with

a board covered and beautified with the pleasantest fruits that

sun-burned Autumn could deliver to them. The maids besought the ladies

to sit down and taste of the swelling grapes, which seemed great with

child of Bacchus: and of the divers coloured plums, which gave the eye

a pleasant taste before they came to the mouth. The ladies would not

show to scorn their provision, but ate and drank a little of their

cool wine, which seemed to laugh for joy to come to such lips.

But after the collation was ended, and that they looked for the coming

forth of such devices as were prepared for them, there rushed out of

the woods twenty armed men, who round about environed them, and laying

hold on Zelmane before she could {306} draw her sword, and taking it

from her, put hoods over the heads of all four, and so muffled, by

force set them on horse-back, and carried them away; the sisters

crying in vain for succour, while Zelmane’s heart was rent in pieces

with rage of the injury and disdain of her fortune. But when they had

carried them four or five miles further, they left Miso with a gag in

her mouth, and bound hand and foot, so to take her fortune; and

brought the three ladies (by that time the night seemed with her

silence to conspire to their treason) to a castle about ten miles from

the lodges, where they were fain to take a boat which waited for them,

for the castle stood in the midst of a great lake upon a high rock,

where partly by art, but principally by nature, it was by all men

esteemed impregnable. But at the castle-gate their faces were

discovered, and there were met with a great number of torches, after

whom the sisters knew their aunt-in-law Cecropia. But that sight

increased the deadly terror of the princesses, looking for nothing but

death, since they were in the power of the wicked Cecropia, who yet

came unto them, making courtesy the outside of mischief, and desiring

them not to be discomforted for they were in a place dedicated to

their service. Philoclea (with a look where love shined through the

midst of fear) besought her to be good unto them, having never

deserved evil of her. But Pamela’s high heart disdaining humbleness to

injury, “Aunt,” said she, “what you have determined of us I pray you

do it speedily: for my part I look for no service, where I find

violence.”

But Cecropia, using no more words with them, conveyed them all three

to several lodgings (Zelmane’s heart so swelling with spite that she

could not bring forth a word) and so left them: first taking from them

their knives, because they should do themselves no hurt, before she

had determined of them: and then giving such order that they wanted

nothing but liberty and comfort, she went to her son, who yet kept his

bed, because of his wound he had received of Zelmane, and told him

whom now he had in his power. Amphialus was but even then returned

from far countries where he had won immortal fame both of courage and

courtesy, when he met with the princesses, and was hurt by Zelmane, so

that he was utterly ignorant of all his mother’s wicked devices, to

which he would never have consented, being (like a rose out of a

briar) an excellent son of an evil mother: and now, when he heard of

this, was as much amazed as if he had seen the sun fall to the earth.

And therefore desired his mother that she would tell him the whole

discourse, how all these matters had happened. “Son,” said she, “I

will do it willingly, and since all is done for you I will hide

nothing from you. And howsoever I might be ashamed to tell it to

strangers who would think it wickedness, yet what is done for your

sake (how evil {307} soever to others) to you is virtue. To begin then

even with the beginning: this doting fool Basilius that now reigns,

having lived unmarried until he was nigh threescore years old (and in

all his speeches affirming, and in all his doings, assuring that he

never would marry) made all the eyes of this country to be bent upon

your father, his only brother (but younger by thirty years) as upon

the undoubted successor, being indeed a man worthy to reign, thinking

nothing enough for himself: where this goose (you see) puts down his

head, before there be anything near to touch him. So that he holding

place and estimation as heir of Arcadia, obtained me of my father the

king of Argos, his brother helping to the conclusion, with protesting

his bachelorly intentions, for else you may be sure the king of Argos,

nor his daughter, would have suffered their royal blood to be stained

with the base name of a subjection. So that I came into this country

as apparent princess thereof, and accordingly was courted and followed

of all the ladies of this country. My port and pomp did well become a

king of Argos’s daughter: in my presence their tongues were turned

into ears, and their ears were captives unto my tongue; their eyes

admired my majesty, and happy was he or she, on whom I would suffer

the beams thereof to fall. Did I go to church? It seemed the very gods

waited for me, their devotions not being solemnized till I was ready.

Did I walk abroad to see any delight? Nay, my walking was the delight

itself: for to it was the concourse, one thrusting upon another, who

might show himself most diligent and serviceable towards me: my sleeps

were enquired after, and my wakings never unsaluted: the very gate of

my house full of principal persons, who were glad if their presents

had received a grateful acceptation. And in this felicity wert thou

born, the very earth submitting itself unto thee to be trodden as by

his prince; and to that pass had my husband’s virtue (by my good help)

within short time brought it, with a plot we laid, as we should not

have needed to have waited the tedious work of a natural end of

Basilius, when the heavens (I think envying my great felicity) then

stopped thy father’s breath, when he breathed nothing but power and

sovereignty. Yet did not thy orphancy, or my widowhood, deprive us of

the delightful prospect which the hill of honour doth yield, while

expectation of thy succession did bind dependencies unto us.

“But before, my son, thou wert come to the age to feel the sweetness

of authority, this beast (whom I can never name with patience) falsely

and foolishly married this Gynecia, then a young girl, and brought her

to sit above me in all feasts, to turn her shoulder to me-ward in all

our solemnities. It is certain it is not so great a spite to be

surmounted by strangers as by one’s own allies. Think then what my

mind was, since withal there is no {308} question, the fall is greater

from the first to the second, than from the second to the undermost.

The rage did swell in my heart so much the more as it was fain to be

suppressed in silence, and disguised with humbleness. But above all

the rest, the grief of griefs was, when with these two daughters, now

thy prisoners, she cut off all hope of thy succession. It was a

tedious thing to me that my eyes should look lower than anybody’s,

that (myself being by) another’s voice than mine should be more

respected. But it was unsupportable unto me to think that not only I,

but thou, should’st spend all thy time in such misery, and that the

sun should see my eldest son less than a prince. And though I had been

a saint I could not choose, finding the change this change of fortune

bred unto me: for now from the multitude of followers, silence grew to

be at my gate, and absence in my presence. The guess of my mind could

prevail more before than now many of my earnest requests. And thou (my

dear son) by the fickle multitude no more than an ordinary person

(born of the mud of the people) regarded. But I (remembering that in

all miseries weeping becomes fools, and practice wise folks) have

tried divers means to pull us out of the mire of subjection. And

though many times fortune failed me, yet did I never fail myself. Wild

beasts I kept in a cave hard by the lodges, which I caused by night to

be fed in the place of their pastorals. I as then living in my house

hard by the place, and against the hour they were to meet (having kept

the beasts without meat) then let them loose, knowing that they would

seek their food there, and devour what they found. But blind fortune

hating sharp-sighted inventions, made them unluckily to be killed.

After I used my servant Clinias to stir a notable tumult of country

people; but those louts were too gross instruments for delicate

conceits. Now lastly, finding Philanax’s examinations grow dangerous,

I thought to play double or quit, and with a slight I used of my

fine-witted wench Artesia, with other maids of mine, would have sent

those goodly inheritrixes of Arcadia to have pleaded their cause

before Pluto, but that over fortunately for them, you made me know the

last day how vehemently this childish passion of love doth torment

you. Therefore I have brought them unto you, yet wishing rather hate

than love in you. For hate often begetteth victory, love commonly is

the instrument of subjection. It is true that I would also by the same

practice have entrapped the parents, but my maids failed of it, not

daring to tarry long about it. But this sufficeth, since (these being

taken away) you are the undoubted inheritor, and Basilius will not

long over-live this loss.”

“O mother,” said Amphialus, “speak not of doing them hurt, no more

than to mine eyes, or my heart, or if I have anything more dear than

eyes or heart unto me. Let others find what sweetness {309} they will

in ever fearing, because they ever are feared: for my part, I will

think myself highly entitled, if I may be once by Philoclea accepted

for a servant.” “Well,” said Cecropia, “I would I had born you of my

mind, as well as of my body, then should you not have sunk under those

base weaknesses. But since you have tied your thoughts in so wilful a

knot, it is happy my policy hath brought matters to such a pass that

you may both enjoy affection, and upon that build your sovereignty.”

“Alas!” said Amphialus, “my heart would fain yield you thanks for

setting me in the way of felicity, but that fear kills them in me

before they are fully born. For if Philoclea be displeased, how can I

be pleased? if she count it unkindness, shall I give tokens of

kindness? perchance she condemns me of this action, and shall I

triumph, perchance she drowns now the beauties I love with sorrowful

tears, and where is then my rejoicing?” “You have reason,” said

Cecropia with a feigned gravity; “I will therefore send her away

presently that her contentment may be recovered.” “No good mother,”

said Amphialus, “since she is here, I would not for my life constrain

presence, but rather would I die than consent to absence.” “Pretty

intricate follies,” said Cecropia, “but get you up and see how you can

prevail with her, while I go to the other sister. For after, we shall

have our hands full to defend ourselves if Basilius hap to besiege

us.” But remembering herself she turned back and asked him what he

would have done with Zelmane, since now he might be avenged of his

hurt? “Nothing but honourably,” answered Amphialus, “having deserved

no other of me, especially being (as I hear) greatly cherished of

Philoclea, and therefore I could wish they were lodged together.” “O

no,” said Cecropia, “company confirms resolutions, and loneliness

breeds a weariness of one’s thoughts, and so a sooner consenting to

reasonable proffers.”

But Amphialus (taking of his mother Philoclea’s knives, which he kept

as a relic since she had worn them) got up, and calling for his

richest apparel, nothing seemed sumptuous enough for his mistress’s

eyes; and that which was costly, he feared was not dainty; and though

the invention were delicate, he misdoubted the making. As careful he

was too of the colour; lest if gay he might seem to glory in his

injury, and her wrong; if mourning, it might strike some evil presage

unto her of her fortune. At length he took a garment more rich than

glaring, the ground being black velvet, richly embroidered with great

pearl, and precious stones, but they set so among certain tufts of

cypress that the cypress was like black clouds, through which the

stars might yield a dark lustre. About his neck he wore a broad and

gorgeous collar, whereof the pieces interchangeably answering, the one

was of diamonds and {310} pearl set with a white enamel, so that by

the cunning of the workman it seemed like a shining ice; and the other

piece being of rubies and opals, had a fiery glistering, which he

thought pictured the two passions of fear and desire, wherein he was

enchained. His hurt, not yet fully well, made him a little halt, but

he strove to give the best grace he could unto his halting.

And in that sort he went to Philoclea’s chamber: whom he found

(because her chamber was over-lightsome) sitting on that side of her

bed which was from the window, which did cast such a shadow upon her

as a good painter would bestow upon Venus, when under the trees she

bewailed the murder of Adonis: her hands and fingers (as it were)

indented one within the other; her shoulder leaning to her bed’s head,

and over her head a scarf, which did eclipse almost half her eyes,

which under it fixed their beams upon the wall by, with so steady a

manner, as if in that place they might well change but not mend their

object: and so remained they a good while after his coming in, he not

daring to trouble her, nor she perceiving him, till that (a little

varying her thoughts, something quickening her senses) she heard him

as he happened to stir his upper garment: and perceiving him, rose up,

with a demeanour, where, in the book of beauty, there was nothing to

be read but sorrow: for kindness was blotted out, and anger was never

there.

But Amphialus who had entrusted his memory with long and forcible

speeches, found it so locked up in amazement that he could pick

nothing out of it but the beseeching her to take what was done in good

part, and to assure herself there was nothing but honour meant unto

her person. But she making no other answer, but letting her hands fall

one from the other, which before were joined (with eyes something cast

aside, and a silent sigh) gave him to understand that considering his

doings, she thought his speech as full of incongruity, as her answer

would be void of purpose: whereupon he kneeling down, and kissing her

hand (which she suffered with a countenance witnessing captivity, but

not kindness) he besought her to have pity of him, whose love went

beyond the bounds of conceit, much more of uttering: that in her hands

the balance of his life or death did stand; whereto the least motion

of hers would serve to determine, she being indeed the mistress of his

life, and he her eternal slave, and with true vehemency besought her

that he might hear her speak; whereupon she suffered her sweet breath

to turn itself into these kind of words.

“Alas! cousin,” said she, “what shall my tongue be able to do, which

is informed by the ears one way, and by the eyes another? You call for

pity, and use cruelty; you say you love me, and yet do {311} the

effects of enmity. You affirm your death is in my hands, but you have

brought me to so near a degree of death, as when you will, you may lay

death upon me, so that while you say, I am mistress of your life, I am

not mistress of mine own. You entitle yourself my slave, but I am sure

I am yours. If then violence, injury, terror, and depriving of that

which is more dear than life itself, liberty, be fit orators for

affection, you may expect that I will be easily persuaded. But if the

nearness of our kindred breed any remorse in you, or there be any such

thing in you, which you call love toward me, then let not my fortune

be disgraced with the name of imprisonment: let not my heart waste

itself by being vexed with feeling evil, and fearing worse. Let not me

be a cause of my parents’ woeful destruction; but restore me to

myself, and so doing, I shall account I have received myself of you.

And what I say for myself, I say for my dear sister, and my friend

Zelmane, for I desire no well-being without they may be partakers.”

With that her tears rained down from her heavenly eyes, and seemed to

water the sweet and beautiful flowers of her face.

But Amphialus was like the poor woman, who loving a tame doe she had

above all earthly things, having long played withal, and made it feed

at her hand and lap, is constrained at length by famine, all her flock

being spent, and she fallen into extreme poverty, to kill the deer to

sustain her life. Many a pitiful look doth she cast upon it, and many

a time doth she draw back her hand before she can give the stroke. For

even so Amphialus by a hunger-starved affection, was compelled to

offer this injury, and yet the same affection made him with a

tormenting grief think unkindness in himself that he could find in his

heart any way to restrain her freedom. But at length, neither able to

grant nor deny, he thus answered her: “Dear lady,” said he, “I will

not say unto you (how justly soever I may do it) that I am neither

author nor accessory unto this your withholding; for since I do not

redress it, I am as faulty as if I had begun it. But this I protest

unto you (and this protestation of mine let the heavens hear, and if I

lie, let them answer me with a deadly thunderbolt) that in my soul I

wish I had never seen the light, or rather, that I never had a father

to beget such a child, than that by my means those eyes should

overflow their own beauties; than by my means the sky of your virtue

should be overclouded with sorrow. But woe is me, most excellent lady,

I find myself most willing to obey you: neither truly do mine ears

receive the least word you speak, with any less reverence than as

absolute and unresistable commandments. But alas, that tyrant love

(which now possesseth the hold of all my life and reason) will no way

suffer it. It is love, it is love, not I which disobey you. What then

shall I say? {312} but that I, who am ready to lie under your feet, to

venture, nay to lose my life at your least commandment: I am not the

stay of your freedom, but love, love, which ties you in your own

knots. It is you yourself that imprison yourself: it is your beauty

which makes those castle walls embrace you: it is your own eyes which

reflect upon themselves this injury. Then is there no other remedy,

but that you some way vouchsafe to satisfy this love’s vehemency;

which since it grew in yourself) without question you shall find it

(far more than I) tractable.”

But with these words Philoclea fell to so extreme a quaking, and her

lively whiteness did degenerate to such a deadly paleness that

Amphialus feared some dangerous trance: so that taking her hand, and

feeling that it (which was wont to be one of the chief firebrands of

Cupid) had all the sense of it wrapt up in coldness, he began humbly

to beseech her to put away all fear, and to assure herself upon the

vow he made thereof unto God, and herself, that the uttermost forces

he would ever employ to conquer her affection, should be desire and

desert. That promise brought Philoclea again to herself, so that

slowly lifting up her eyes upon him, with a countenance ever

courteous, but then languishing, she told him that he should do well

to do so, if indeed he had ever tasted what true love was: for that

where now she did bear him goodwill, she should (if he took any other

way) hate and abhor the very thought of him, assuring him withal, that

though his mother had taken away her knives, yet the house of death

had so many doors that she would easily fly into it if ever she found

her honour endangered.

Amphialus having the cold ashes of care cast upon the coals of desire,

leaving some of his mother’s gentlewomen to wait upon Philoclea,

himself indeed a prisoner to his prisoner, and making all his

authority to be but a foot-stool to humbleness, went from her to his

mother. To whom with words, which affection indited, but amazement

uttered, he delivered what had passed between him and Philoclea,

beseeching her to try what her persuasions could do with her, while he

gave order for all such things as were necessary against such forces,

as he looked daily Basilius would bring before his castle. His mother

bade him quiet himself, for she doubted not to take fit times: But

that the best way was, first to let her own passion tire itself.

So they called Clinias and some other of their council, advised upon

their present affairs. First, he dispatched private letters to all

those principal lords and gentlemen of the country whom he thought

either alliance, or friendship to himself might draw, with special

motion from the general consideration of duty: not omitting all such,

whom either youthful age, or youthlike minds {313} did fill with

unlimited desires: besides such whom any discontentment made hungry of

change, or an overspended want, made want a civil war: to each

(according to the counsel of his mother) conforming himself after

their humours. To his friend, friendliness; to the ambitious, great

expectations; to the displeased, revenge; to the greedy, spoil;

wrapping their hopes with such cunning that they rather seemed given

over unto them as partakers, than promises sprung of necessity. Then

sent he to his mother’s brother, the king of Argos; but he was then so

over-laid with war himself as from thence he could attend small

succour.

But because he knew how violently rumours do blow the sails of popular

judgments, and how few there be that can discern between truth and

truth likeness, between shows and substance, he caused a justification

of this his action to be written, whereof were sowed[b3-01] abroad

many copies, which with some glosses of probability, might hide indeed

the foulness of his treason; and from true common-places, fetch down

most false applications. For beginning in how much the duty which is

owed to the country, goes beyond all other duties, since in itself it

contains them all; and that for the respect thereof, not only all

tender respects of kindred, or whatsoever other friendships, are to be

laid aside, but that even long-held opinions (rather builded upon a

secret of government than any ground of truth) are to be forsaken; he

fell by degrees to show that since the end whereto anything is

directed is ever to be of more noble reckoning, than the thing thereto

directed, that therefore the weal-public was more to be regarded than

any person or magistrate that thereunto was ordained: the feeling

consideration whereof had moved him (though as near of kin to Basilius

as could be, yet) to set principally before his eyes, the good estate

of so many thousands over whom Basilius reigned, rather than so to

hood-wink himself with affection, as to suffer the realm to run to

manifest ruin. The care whereof did kindly appertain to those who

being subaltern magistrates and officers of the crown, were to be

employed, as from the prince, so for the people; and of all other,

especially himself, who being descended of the royal race, and next

heir male, nature had no sooner opened his eyes, but that the soil

whereupon they did look, was to look for at his hands a continual

carefulness: which as from his childhood he had ever carried, so now

finding that his uncle had not only given over all care of government,

but had put into the hands of Philanax (a man neither in birth

comparable to many, nor for his corrupt, proud, and partial dealing,

liked of any) but beside, had set his {314} daughters, in whom the

whole estate, as next heirs thereunto, had no less interest than

himself, in so unfit and ill-guarded a place, that it were not only

dangerous for their persons, but (if they should be conveyed to any

foreign country) to the whole commonwealth pernicious, that therefore

he had brought them into this strong castle of his, which way, if it

might seem strange, they were to consider that new necessities

required new remedies, but there they should be served and honoured as

belonged to their greatness until by the general assembly of the

states it should be determined how they should to their best (both

private and public) advantage be matched; vowing all faith and duty

both to the father and children, never by him to be violated. But if

in the meantime, before the states could be assembled, he should be

assailed, he would then for his own defence take arms; desiring all

that either tendered the dangerous case of their country, or in their

hearts loved justice, to defend him in this just action. And if the

prince should command them otherwise, yet to know that therein he was

no more to be obeyed than if he should call for poison to hurt himself

withal: since all that was done, was done for his service, howsoever

he might (seduced by Philanax) interpret of it: he protesting that

whatsoever he should do for his own defence, should be against

Philanax, and no way against Basilius.

To this effect, amplified with arguments and examples, and painted

with rhetorical colours, did he sow[b3-02] abroad many discourses,

which as they prevailed with some of more quick than sound conceit to

run his fortune with him, so in many did it breed a coolness, to deal

violently against him, and a false-minded neutrality to expect the

issue. But besides the ways he used to weaken the adverse party, he

omitted nothing for the strengthening of his own. The chief trust

whereof, because he wanted men to keep the field, he reposed in the

surety of his castle, which at least would win him much time, the

mother of many mutations. To that therefore he bent both his outward

and inward eyes, striving to make art strive with nature, to whether

of them two that fortification should be most beholding. The seat

nature bestowed but art gave the building; which as his rocky hardness

would not yield to undermining force, so to open assaults he took

counsel of skill how to make all approaches, if not impossible, yet

difficult; as well at the foot of the castle, as round about the lake,

to give unquiet lodgings to them, whom only enmity would make

neighbours. Then omitted he nothing of defence, as well simple defence

as that which did defend by offending, fitting instruments of mischief

to places whence the mischief might be most liberally {315} bestowed.

Neither was his smallest care for victuals, as well for the providing

that which should suffice, both in store and goodness, as in well

preserving it, and wary distributing it, both in quantity and quality,

spending that first which would keep least.

But wherein he sharpened his wits to the piercingest point, was

touching his men (knowing them to be the weapon of weapons, and

master-spring, as it were, which makes all the rest to stir: and that

therefore in the art of man stood the quintessence and ruling skill of

all prosperous government, either peaceable or military) he chose in

number as many as without pestering (and so danger of infection) his

victual would serve for two years to maintain; all of able bodies, and

some few of able minds to direct, not seeking many commanders, but

contenting himself that the multitude should have obeying wits,

everyone knowing whom he should command, and whom he should obey, the

place where, and the matter wherein; distributing each office as near

as he could, to the disposition of the person that should exercise it:

knowing no love, danger nor discipline can suddenly alter an habit in

nature. Therefore would he not employ the still man to a shifting

practice, nor the liberal man to be a dispenser of his victuals, nor

the kind-hearted man to be a punisher; but would exercise their

virtues in sorts, where they might be profitable, employing his chief

care to know them all particularly, and thoroughly regarding also the

constitution of their bodies; some being able better to abide

watching, some hunger, some labour, making his benefit of each

ability, and not forcing beyond power. Time to everything by just

proportion he allotted, and as well in that, as in everything else, no

small error winked at, lest greater should be animated. Even of vices

he made his profit, making the cowardly Clinias to have care of the

watch, which he knew his own fear would make him very wakefully

perform. And before the siege began, he himself caused rumours to be

sowed, and libels to be spread against himself, fuller of malice than

witty persuasion, partly to know those that would be apt to stumble at

such motions, that he might call them from the faithfuller band, but

principally, because in necessity they should not know when any such

things were in earnest attempted, whether it were, or not of his own

invention. But even then (before the enemy’s face came near to breed

any terror) did he exercise his men daily in all their charges, as if

danger had presently presented his most hideous presence: himself

rather instructing by example than precept; being neither more sparing

in travel, nor spending in diet than the meanest soldier; his hand and

body disdaining no base matters nor shrinking from the heavy.

The only odds was, that when others took breath, he sighed; {316} and

when others rested, he crossed his arms. For love passing through the

pikes of danger, and tumbling itself in the dust of labour, yet still

made him remember his sweet desire and beautiful image. Often when he

had begun to command one, somewhat before half the sentence were

ended, his inward guest did so entertain him that he would break it

off, and a pretty while after end it, when he had (to the marvel of

the standers by) sent himself to talk with his own thoughts. Sometimes

when his hand was lifted up to do something, as if with the sight of

Gorgon’s head he had been suddenly turned into a stone, so would he

there abide with his eyes planted, and hands lifted, till at length

coming to the use of himself, he would look about whether any had

perceived him; then he would accuse, and in himself condemn all those

wits that durst affirm idleness to be the well-spring of love. “O,”

would he say, “all you that affect the title of wisdom by ungrateful

scorning the ornaments of nature, am I now piping in a shadow? Or do

slothful feathers now enwrap me? Is not hate before me, and doubt

behind me? Is not danger of the one side, and shame of the other? And

do I not stand upon pain and travail, and yet over all, my affection

triumphs? The more I stir about urgent affairs, the more methinks the

very stirring breeds a breath to blow the coals of my love: the more I

exercise my thoughts, the more they increase the appetite of my

desires. O sweet Philoclea (with that he would cast up his eyes,

wherein some water did appear, as if they would wash themselves

against they should see her) thy heavenly face is my astronomy; thy

sweet virtue, my sweet philosophy; let me profit therein, and farewell

all other cogitations. But alas! my mind misgives me, for your planets

bear a contrary aspect unto me. Woe, woe is me, they threaten my

destruction; and whom do they threaten this destruction? even him that

loves them; and by what means will they destroy, but by loving them? O

dear, though killing, eyes, shall death head his dart with the gold of

Cupid’s arrow? shall death take his aim from the rest of beauty? O

beloved, though hating, Philoclea, how, if thou be’st merciful, hath

cruelty stolen into thee? or how, if thou be’st cruel, doth cruelty

look more beautiful than ever mercy did? or alas! is it my destiny

that makes mercy cruel; like an evil vessel which turns sweet liquor

to sourness? so when thy grace falls upon me, my wretched constitution

makes it become fierceness.” Thus would he exercise his eloquence when

she could not hear him, and be dumb-stricken when her presence gave

him fit occasion of speaking: so that his wit could find out no other

refuge but the comfort and counsel of his mother, desiring her, whose

thoughts were unperplexed, to use for his sake the most prevailing

manners of intercession.

{317}

She seeing her son’s safety depend thereon, though her pride much

disdained the name of a desirer, took the charge upon her, not

doubting the easy conquest of an unexpert virgin, who had already with

subtlety and impudency begun to undermine a monarchy. Therefore

weighing Philoclea’s resolutions by the counterpoise of her own

youthful thoughts, which she then called to mind, she doubted not at

least to make Philoclea to receive the poison distilled in sweet

liquor which she with little disguising had drank up thirstily.

Therefore she went softly to Philoclea’s chamber, and peeping through

the side of the door, then being a little open, she saw Philoclea

sitting low upon a cushion in such a given-over manner, that one would

have thought silence, solitariness, and melancholy were come there

under the ensign of mishap, to conquer delight, and drive him from his

natural seat of beauty: her tears came dropping down like rain in

sunshine, and she not taking heed to wipe the tears, they hung upon

her cheeks and lips as upon cherries which the dropping tree bedeweth.

In the dressing of her hair and apparel, she might see neither a

careful art, nor an art of carelessness, but even left to a neglected

chance, which yet could no more unperfect her perfections than a die

any way cast could lose its squareness.

Cecropia, stirred with no other pity but for her son, came in, and

hailing kindness into her countenance, “What ails this sweet lady,”

said she, “will you mar so good eyes with weeping? shall tears take

away the beauty of that complexion which the women of Arcadia wish

for, and the men long after? Fie of this peevish sadness; insooth it

is untimely for your age. Look upon your own body and see whether it

deserve to pine away with sorrow: see whether you will have these

hands (with that she took one of her hands, and kissing it, looked

upon it as if she were enamoured with it) fade from their whiteness

which makes one desire to touch them; and their softness, which

rebounds again a desire to look on them, and become dry, lean and

yellow, and make everybody wonder at the change, and say, that sure

you had used some art before, which now you had left; for if the

beauties had been natural, they would never so soon have been

blemished. Take a glass, and see whether those tears become your eyes:

although I must confess, those eyes are able to make tears comely.”

“Alas! madam,” answered Philoclea, “I know not whether my tears become

my eyes, but I am sure my eyes thus beteared, become my fortune.”

“Your fortune,” said Cecropia, “if she could see to attire herself,

she would put on her best raiments. For I see, and I see it with

grief, and (to tell you true) unkindness, you misconstrue everything

that only for your sake is attempted. You think you are offended, and

are, indeed, defended: you esteem yourself a {318} prisoner, and are,

in truth, a mistress; you fear hate, and shall find love. And truly, I

had a thing to say unto you, but it is no matter since I find you are

so obstinately melancholy as that you woo his fellowship, I will spare

my pains, and hold my peace:” and so stayed indeed, thinking Philoclea

would have had a female inquisitiveness of the matter. But she, who

rather wished to unknow what she knew than to burden her heart with

more hopeless knowledge, only desired her to have pity of her, and if,

indeed, she did mean her no hurt, then to grant her liberty; for else

the very grief and fear would prove her unappointed executioners.

“For that,” said Cecropia, “believe me upon the faith of a king’s

daughter, you shall be free, so soon as your freedom may be free of

mortal danger, being brought hither for no other cause, but to prevent

such mischiefs as you know not of. But if you think, indeed, to win me

to have care of you, even as of mine own daughter, then lend your ears

unto me, and let not your mind arm itself with a wilfulness to be

flexible to nothing. But if I speak reason, let reason have his due

reward, persuasion. Then sweet niece,” said she, “I pray you

pre-suppose, that now, even in the midst of your agonies, which you

paint unto yourself most horrible, wishing with sighs, and praying

with vows, for a soon and safe delivery: imagine niece (I say) that

some heavenly spirit should appear unto you, and bid you follow him

through the door that goes into the garden, assuring you that you

should thereby return to your dear mother, and what other delights

soever your mind esteems delights, would you (sweet niece) would you

refuse to follow him, and say that if he led you not through the chief

gate, you would not enjoy your over-desired liberty? Would you not

drink the wine you thirst for, without it were in such a glass as you

especially fancied? Tell me (dear niece) but I will answer for you,

because I know your reason and wit is such, as must needs conclude

that such niceness can no more be in you, to disgrace such a mind,

than disgracefulness can have any place in so faultless a beauty. Your

wisdom would assuredly determine how the mark were hit, not whether

the bow were of yew or no, wherein you shot. If this be so, and thus

sure (my dear niece) it is, then, I pray you, imagine that I am that

same good angel, who grieving in your grief, and, in truth, not able

to suffer that bitter sighs should be sent forth with so sweet a

breath, am come to lead you, not only to your desired and imagined

happiness, but to a true and essential happiness; not only to liberty,

but to liberty with commandment. The way I will show you; which if it

be not the gate builded hitherto in your private choice, yet shall it

be a door to bring you through a garden of pleasures, as sweet as this

life can bring forth; nay rather, which {319} makes this life to be a

life: My son (let it be no blemish to him that I name him my son, who

was your father’s own nephew; for you know I am no small king’s

daughter) my son, I say, far passing the nearness of his kindred with

nearness of goodwill, and striving to match your matchless beauty with

a matchless affection, doth by me present unto you the full enjoying

of your liberty, so that with this gift you will accept a greater,

which is, this castle, with all the rest which you know he hath in

honourable quantity, and will confirm his gift, and your receipt of

both, with accepting him to be yours. I might say much both for the

person and matter; but who will cry out the sun shines? It is so

manifest a profit unto you, as the meanest judgment must straight

apprehend it; so far it is from the sharpness of yours, thereof to be

ignorant. Therefore (sweet niece!) let your gratefulness be my

intercession and your gentleness my eloquence, and let me carry

comfort to a heart which greatly needs it.”

Philoclea looked upon her, and cast down her eye again: “Aunt,” said

she, “I would I could be so much a mistress of my own mind as to yield

to my cousin’s virtuous request; for so I construe of it. But my heart

is already set” (and staying a while on that word, she brought forth

afterwards) “to lead a virgin’s life to my death; for such a vow I

have in myself devoutly made.” “The heavens prevent such a mischief,”

said Cecropia. “A vow, quoth you? No, no, my dear niece, nature, when

you were first born, vowed you a woman, and as she made you child of a

mother, so to do your best to be mother of a child: She gave you

beauty to move love; she gave you wit to know love; she gave you an

excellent body to reward love; which kind of liberal rewarding is

crowned with an unspeakable felicity. For this, as it bindeth the

receiver, so it makes happy the bestower. This doth not impoverish,

but enrich the giver. O the sweet name of a mother! O the comfort of

comforts to see your children grow up, in whom you are, as it were,

eternized! if you could conceive what a heart-tickling joy it is to

see your own little ones with awful love come running to your lap, and

like little models of yourself still carry you about them, you would

think unkindness in your own thoughts, that ever they did rebel

against the mean unto it. But perchance I set this blessedness before

your eyes, as captains do victory before their soldiers, to which they

must come through many pains, griefs and dangers: No, I am content you

shrink from this my counsel, if the way to come unto it be not most of

all pleasant.” “I know not” (answered the sweet Philoclea, fearing

lest silence would offend for sullenness) “what contentment you speak

of; but I am sure the best you can make of it (which is marriage) is a

burdenous yoke.” “Ah, dear niece,” said Cecropia, “how much you are

{320} deceived: A yoke, indeed, we all bear, laid upon us in our

creation, which by marriage is not increased; but thus far eased that

you have a yoke-fellow to help to draw through the cloddy cumbers of

this world. O widow-nights, bear witness with me of the difference!

How often, alas! do I embrace the orphan-side of my bed which was wont

to be imprinted by the body of my dear husband, and with tears

acknowledge that I now enjoy such a liberty as the banished man hath;

who may, if he list, wander over the world, but is for ever restrained

from his most delightful home? That I have now such a liberty as the

seeled dove hath, which, being first deprived of eyes, is then by the

falconer cast off: For believe me, niece, believe me, man’s experience

is woman’s best eye-sight. Have you ever seen a pure rose-water kept

in a crystal glass? How fine it looks, how sweet it smells while that

beautiful glass imprisons it? Break the prison; and let the water take

its own course, doth it not embrace dust, and lose all its former

sweetness and fairness? Truly so are we, if we have not the stay,

rather than the restraint of crystalline marriage. My heart melts to

think of the sweet comforts I, in that happy time, received, when I

had never cause to care, but the care was doubled: When I never

rejoiced, but that I saw my joy shine in another’s eyes. What shall I

say of the free delight which the heart might embrace without the

accusing of the inward conscience, or fear of outward shame? And is a

solitary life as good as this? Then can one string make as good music

as a consort: then can one colour set forth a beauty. But it may be,

the general consideration of marriage doth not so much mislike you, as

the applying of it to him. He is my son, I must confess I see him with

a mother’s eyes, which if they do not much deceive me, he is no such

one, over whom contempt may make a just challenge. He is comely, he is

noble, he is rich; but that which in itself should carry all

comeliness, nobility and riches, he loves you; and he loves you who is

beloved of others. Drive not away his affection (sweet lady) and make

no other lady hereafter proudly brag that she hath robbed you of so

faithful and notable a service.”

Philoclea heard some pieces of her speeches, not otherwise than one

doth when a tedious prattler cumbers the hearing of a delightful

music. For her thoughts had left her ears in that captivity, and

conveyed themselves to behold (with such eyes as imagination could

lend them) the estate of her Zelmane: for whom how well she thought

many of those sayings might have been used with a far more grateful

acceptation. Therefore listening not to dispute in a matter, whereof

herself was resolved, and desired not to inform the other; she only

told her that whilst she was so captivated she could not conceive of

any such {321} persuasions (though never so reasonable) any otherwise

than as constraints: and as constraints must needs even in nature

abhor them, which at her liberty, in their own force of reason, might

more prevail with her; and so fain would have returned the strength of

Cecropia’s persuasions, to have procured freedom.

But neither her witty words in an enemy, nor those words, made more

than eloquent with passing through such lips, could prevail in

Cecropia, more than her persuasions could win Philoclea to disavow her

former vow, or to leave the prisoner Zelmane, for the commanding

Amphialus. So that both sides being desirers, and neither granters,

they broke off conference; Cecropia sucking up more and more spite out

of her denial, which yet for her son’s sake she disguised with a

vizard of kindness, leaving no office unperformed which might either

witness, or endear her son’s affection. Whatsoever could be imagined

likely to please her was with liberal diligence performed: musics at

her window, and especially such musics as might (with doleful

embassage) call the mind to think of sorrow, and think of it with

sweetness; with ditties so sensibly expressing Amphialus’s case, that

every word seemed to be but a diversifying of the name of Amphialus.

Daily presents, as it were oblations to pacify an angry deity, sent

unto her; wherein, if the workmanship of the form had striven with the

sumptuousness of the matter, as much did the invention, in the

application, contend to have the chief excellency: for they were as so

many stories of his disgraces, and her perfections; where the richness

did invite the eyes, the fashion did entertain the eyes, and the

device did teach the eyes, the present misery of the presenter himself

awfully serviceable; which was the more notable, as his authority was

manifest. And for the bondage wherein she lived, all means used to

make known that if it were a bondage, it was a bondage only knit in

love-knots: but she in heart already understanding no language but

one, the music wrought, indeed, a dolefulness, but it was a

dolefulness to be in his power: the ditty intended for Amphialus, she

translated to Zelmane: the presents seemed so many tedious clogs of a

thralled obligation: and his service, the more diligent it was, the

more it did exprobrate, as she thought, unto her, her unworthy estate:

that even he that did her service, had authority of commanding her,

only construing her servitude in his own nature, esteeming it a right,

and a right better servitude: so that all their shots, how well soever

levelled, being carried awry from the mark by the storm of her

mislike, the prince Amphialus affectionately languished, and Cecropia

spitefully cunning, disdained at the barrenness of their success.

Which willingly Cecropia would have revenged, but that she saw her

hurt could not be divided from her son’s mischief: {322} wherefore she

bethought herself to attempt Pamela, whose beauty being equal, she

hoped if she might be won, that her son’s thoughts would rather rest

on a beautiful gratefulness than still be tormented with a disdaining

beauty. Therefore giving new courage to her wicked inventions, and

using the more industry, because she had missed in this, and taking

even precepts of prevailing in Pamela, by her failing in Philoclea,

she went to her chamber, and (according to her own ungracious method

of subtle proceeding) stood listening at the door, because that out of

the circumstance of her present behaviour, there might kindly arise a

fit beginning of her intended discourse.

And so she might perceive that Pamela did walk up and down, full of

deep, though patient thoughts. For her look and countenance was

settled, her pace soft, and almost still of one measure, without any

passionate gesture, or violent motion: till at length, as it were

awaking, and strengthening herself; “Well,” said she, “yet this is the

best, and of this I am sure, that howsoever they wrong me, they cannot

over-master God: no darkness blinds his eyes, no jail bars Him out. To

whom then else should I fly, but to Him for succour?” and therewith

kneeling down even where she stood, she thus said.

“O all-seeing light, and eternal life of all things, to whom nothing

is either so great that it may resist, or so small that it is

contemned: look upon my misery with Thine eye of mercy, and let Thine

infinite power vouchsafe to limit out some proportion of deliverance

unto me, as to Thee shall seem most convenient. Let not injury, O

Lord, triumph over me, and let my faults by Thy hand be corrected, and

make not mine unjust enemy the minister of Thy justice. But yet, my

God, if in Thy wisdom, this be the aptest chastisement for my

unexcusable folly, if this low bondage be fittest for my over-high

desires; if the pride of my not enough humble heart, be thus to be

broken, O Lord, I yield unto Thy will, and joyfully embrace what

sorrow Thou wilt have me suffer. Only thus much let me crave of Thee,

let my craving, O Lord, be accepted of Thee (since even that proceeds

from Thee) let me crave, even by the noblest title, which in my

greatest affliction I may give myself, that I am Thy creature, and by

Thy goodness, which is Thyself, that Thou wilt suffer some beam of Thy

majesty so to shine into my mind, that it may still depend confidently

upon Thee. Let calamity be the exercise, but not the overthrow of my

virtue: let their power prevail, but prevail not to destruction: let

my greatness be their prey: let my pain be the sweetness of their

revenge: let them (if so it seem good unto Thee) vex me with more and

more punishment. But, O Lord, let never their wickedness have such a

hand, but that I may carry {323} a pure mind in a pure body!” and

pausing awhile, “And, O most gracious Lord,” said she, “whatever

becomes of me, preserve the virtuous Musidorus.”

The other part Cecropia might well hear; but this latter prayer for

Musidorus, her heart held it, as so jewel-like a treasure that it

would scarce trust her own lips withal. But this prayer sent to heaven

from so heavenly a creature, with such a fervent grace as if devotion

had borrowed her body to make of itself a most beautiful

representation; with her eyes so lifted to the skyward that one would

have thought they had begun to fly thitherward to take their place

among their fellow stars; her naked hands raising up their whole

length, and as it were, kissing one another, as if the right had been

the picture of zeal, and the left of humbleness, which both united

themselves to make their suits more acceptable. Lastly, all her senses

being rather tokens than instruments of her inward motions, altogether

had so strange a working power, that even the hard-hearted wickedness

of Cecropia, if it found not a love of that goodness, yet it felt an

abashment at that goodness, and if she had not a kindly remorse, yet

had she an irksome accusation of her own naughtiness; so that she was

put from the bias of her fore-intended lesson. For well she found

there was no way at that time to take that mind but with some, at

least, image of virtue; and what the figure thereof was, her heart

knew not.

Yet did she prodigally spend her uttermost eloquence, leaving no

argument unprovided which might with any force invade her excellent

judgment; the justness of the request being but for marriage; the

worthiness of the suitor: then her own present fortune: fortune, which

should not only have amendment, but felicity: besides falsely making

her believe that her sister would think herself happy if now she might

have his love, which before she contemned: and obliquely touching,

what danger it should be for her if her son should accept Philoclea in

marriage, and so match the next heir apparent, she being in his power:

yet plentifully perjuring how extremely her son loved her, and

excusing the little shows he made of it, with the dutiful respect he

bare unto her; and taking upon herself that she restrained him, since

she found she could set no limits to his passions. And as she did to

Philoclea, so did she to her, with the tribute of gifts seek to bring

her mind into servitude: and all other means, that might either

establish a beholdingness, or at least awake a kindness; doing it so,

that by reason of their imprisonment, one sister knew not how the

other was wooed but each might think that only she was sought. But if

Philoclea with sweet and humble dealing did avoid their assaults, she

with the majesty of virtue did beat them off.

{324}

But this day their speech was the sooner broken off, by reason that he

who stood as watch upon the top of the Keep[b3-03] did not only see a

great dust rise (which the earth sent up as if it would strive to have

clouds as well as the air) but might spy sometimes, especially when

the dust (wherein the naked wind did apparel itself) was carried aside

from them, the shining of armour; like flashing of lightning,

wherewith the clouds did seem to be with child, which the sun gilding

with his beams it gave a sight delightful to any but to them that were

to abide the terror. But the watch gave a quick alarm to the soldiers

within whom practice already having prepared, began each, with

unabashed hearts, or at least countenances, to look to their charge,

or obedience which was allotted unto them.

Only Clinias and Amphialus did exceed the bounds of mediocrity, the

one in his natural coldness of cowardice, the other in heat of

courage. For Clinias (who was bold only in busy whisperings, and even

in that whisperingness rather, indeed, confident in his cunning that

it should not be betrayed than any way bold, if ever it should be

betrayed) now that the enemy gave a dreadful aspect unto the castle,

his eyes saw no terror, nor ear heard any martial sound but that they

multiplied the hideousness of it to his matted mind. Before their

coming he had many times felt a dreadful expectation, but yet his mind

(that was willing to ease itself of the burden of fear) did sometimes

fain unto itself possibility of let, as the death of Basilius, the

discord of the nobility, and, when other cause failed him, the nature

of chance served as a cause unto him, and sometimes the hearing other

men speak valiantly, and the quietness of his unassailed senses would

make himself believe that he durst do something. But now, that present

danger did display itself unto his eye, and that a dangerous doing

must be the only mean to prevent the danger of suffering, one that had

marked him would have judged that his eyes would have run into him,

and his soul out of him, so unkindly did either take a scent of

danger. He thought the lake was too shallow, and the walls too thin:

he misdoubted each man’s treason, and conjectured every possibility of

misfortune, not only forecasting likely perils, but such as all the

planets together could scarcely have conspired: and already began to

arm himself, though it was determined he should tarry within doors;

and while he armed himself, imagined in what part of the vault he

would hide himself if the enemies won the castle. Desirous he was that

everybody should do valiantly but himself; and therefore was afraid to

show his fear, but for very fear would have hid his fear, lest it

should discomfort others: but the more he sought {325} to disguise it,

the more the unsuitableness of a weak broken voice to high brave

words, and of a pale shaking countenance, to a gesture of animating,

did discover him.

But quite contrarily Amphialus, who, before the enemies came, was

careful, providently diligent, and not sometimes without doubting of

the issue, now the nearer danger approached (like the light of a

glow-worm) the less still it seemed: and now his courage began to boil

in choler, and with such impatience to desire to pour out both upon

the enemy, that he issued presently into certain boats he had of

purpose, and carrying with him some choice men, went to the fortress

he had upon the edge of the lake, which he thought would be the first

thing that the enemy would attempt, because it was a passage, which

commanding all that side of the country, and being lost, would stop

victuals, or other supply that might be brought into the castle: and

in that fortress having some force of horsemen, he issued out with two

hundred horse and five hundred footmen; ambushed his footmen in the

falling of a hill, which was over-shadowed with a wood; he with his

horsemen went a quarter of a mile further; aside hand of which he

might perceive the many troops of the enemy who came but to take view

where best to encamp themselves.

But as if the sight of the enemy had been a magnet-stone to his

courage, he could not contain himself, but showing his face to the

enemy, and his back to his soldiers, used that action as his only

oration, both of denouncing war to the one, and persuading help from

the other. Who faithfully following an example of such authority, they

made the earth to groan under their furious burden, and the enemies to

begin to be angry with them, whom in particular they knew not. Among

whom there was a young man, youngest brother to Philanax, whose face

as yet did not betray his sex with so much as show of hair; of a mind

having no limits of hope, not knowing why to fear; full of jollity in

conversation, and lately grown a lover. His name was Agenor, of all

that army the most beautiful: who having ridden in sportful

conversation among the foremost, all armed, saving that his beaver was

up, to have his breath in more freedom, seeing Amphialus come a pretty

way before his company, neither staying the commandment of the

captain, nor reckoning whether his face were armed, or no, set spurs

to his horse, and with youthful bravery casting his staff about his

head, put it then into his rest, as careful of comely carrying it as

if the mark had been but a ring, and the lookers-on ladies. But

Amphialus’s lance was already come to the last of his descending line,

and began to make the full point of death against the head of this

young gentleman; when Amphialus perceiving his youth and beauty,

compassion so rebated the edge of choler that he spared {326} that

fair nakedness, and let his staff fall to Agenor’s vampalt[b3-04]: so

that both with brave breaking should hurtlessly have performed that

match, but that the pitiless lance of Amphialus (angry with being

broken) with an unlucky counterbuff, full of unsparing splinters,

lighted upon that face, far fitter for the combats of Venus, giving

not only a sudden, but a foul death, leaving scarcely any tokens of

his former beauty; but his hands abandoning the reins, and his thighs

the saddle, he fell sideward from the horse. Which sight coming to

Leontius, a dear friend of his, who in vain had lamentably cried unto

him to stay when he saw him begin his career; it was hard to say

whether the pity of the one, or revenge against the other held as then

the sovereignty in his passions. But while he directed his eye to his

friend, and his hand to his enemy, so wrongly consorted a power could

not resist the ready minded force of Amphialus, who perceiving his

ill-directed direction against him, so paid him his debt before it was

lent, that he also fell to the earth, only happy that one place and

one time did finish both their loves and lives together.

But by this time there had been a furious meeting of either side:

whether after the terrible salutation of warlike noise, the shaking of

hands was with sharp weapons: some lances according to the metal they

met and skill of the guider, did stain themselves in blood; some flew

up in pieces, as if they would threaten heaven because they failed on

earth. But their office was quickly inherited, either by (the prince

of weapons) the sword, or by some heavy mace, or biting axe; which

hunting still the weakest chase, sought ever to light there where

smallest resistance might worse prevent mischief. The clashing of

armour, the crushing of staves, the jostling of bodies, the resounding

of blows, was the first part of that ill-agreeing music which was

beautified with the grisliness of wounds, the rising of dust, the

hideous falls and groans of the dying. The very horses angry in their

master’s anger, with love and obedience, brought forth the effects of

hate and resistance, and with minds of servitude did as if they

affected glory. Some lay dead under their dead masters, whom

unknightly wounds had unjustly punished for a faithful duty. Some lay

upon their lords by like accident, and in death had the honour to be

borne by them, whom in life they had borne. Some, having lost their

commanding burdens, ran scattered about the field, abashed with the

madness of mankind. The earth itself (wont to be a burial of men) was

now, as it were, buried with men, so was the face thereof hidden with

dead bodies, to whom death had come masked in divers manners. In one

place lay disinherited heads, dispossessed of their natural

seignories; in another whole bodies to see to, but that their hearts

{327} wont to be bound all over so close, were now with deadly

violence opened: in others, fouler deaths had uglily displayed their

trailing guts. There lay arms, whose fingers yet moved, as if they

would feel for him that made them feel: and legs, which contrary to

common reason, by being discharged of their burden, were grown

heavier. But no sword payed so large a tribute of souls to the eternal

kingdom as that of Amphialus; who like a tiger, from whom a company of

wolves did seek to ravish a new gotten prey, so he (remembering they

came to take away Philoclea) did labour to make valour, strength,

choler and hatred, to answer the proportion of his love which was

infinite.

There died of his hand the old knight Eschylus, who though by years

might well have been allowed to use rather the exercises of wisdom

than of courage, yet having a lusty body and a merry heart, he ever

took the summons of time in jest, or else it had so creepingly stolen

upon him that he had heard scarcely the noise of his feet, and

therefore was as fresh in apparel, and as forward in enterprises, as a

far younger man: but nothing made him bolder than a certain prophecy

had been told him that he should die in the arms of his son, and

therefore feared the less the arm of an enemy. But now when

Amphialus’s sword was passed through his throat, he thought himself

abused, but that before he died, his son indeed seeing his father

begin to fall, held him up in his arms, till a pitiless soldier of the

other side, with a mace brained him, making father and son become

twins in the never again dying birth. As for Drialus, Memnon, Nisus

and Polycrates, the first had his eyes cut out so that he could not

see to bid the near following death welcome; the second had met with

the same prophet that old Eschylus had; and having found many of his

speeches true, believed this too, that he should never be killed but

by his own companions; and therefore no man was more valiant than he

against an enemy, no man more suspicious of his friends: so as he

seemed to sleep in security, when he went to a battle, and to enter

into a battle, when he began to sleep, such guards he would set about

his person, yet mistrusting those very guards, lest they would murder

him. But now Amphialus helped to unriddle his doubts; for he

overthrowing him from his horse, his own companions coming with a

fresh supply, pressed him to death. Nisus grasping with Amphialus, was

with a short dagger slain. And for Polycrates, while he shunned as

much as he could, keeping only his face for fear of punishment,

Amphialus with a memorable blow struck off his head; where, with the

convulsions of death, setting his spurs to his horse, he gave so brave

a charge upon the enemy, as it grew a proverb, that Polycrates was

only valiant after his head was off. But no man {328} escaped so well

his hands as Phebilus did: for he having long loved Philoclea, though

for the meanness of his estate he never durst reveal it, now knowing

Amphialus, setting the edge of a rival upon the sword of an enemy, he

held strong fight with him. But Amphialus had already in the most

dangerous places disarmed him, and was lifting up his sword to send

him away from himself; when he thinking indeed to die, “O Philoclea,”

said he, “yet this joys me that I die for thy sake.” The name of

Philoclea first stayed his sword, and he heard him out, though he

abhorred him much worse than before, yet could he not vouchsafe him

the honour of dying for Philoclea, but turned his sword another way,

doing him no hurt for over-much hatred. But what good did that to poor

Phebilus, if escaping a valiant hand, he was slain by a base soldier,

who seeing him so disarmed, thrust him through?

But thus with the well-followed valour of Amphialus were the others

almost overthrown, when Philanax, who was the marshal of the army,

came in with new force renewing the almost decayed courage of his

soldiers. For crying to them, and asking them whether their backs or

their arms were better fighters, he himself thrust just into the

press, and making force and fury wait upon discretion and government,

he might seem a brave lion, who taught his young lionets, how in

taking a prey, to join courage with cunning. Then fortune, as if she

had made chases enough of the one side of the bloody tennis-court,

went of the other side the line, making as many fall down of

Amphialus’s followers as before had done of Philanax, they losing the

ground, as fast as before they had won it, only leaving them to keep

it, who had lost themselves in keeping it. Then those that had killed,

inherited the lot of those that had been killed; and cruel death made

them lie quietly together, who most in their lives had sought to

disquiet each other; and many of those first overthrown, had the

comfort to see their murderers over-run them to Charon’s ferry.

Codrus, Ctesiphon, and Milo, lost their lives upon Philanax’s sword.

But nobody’s case was more pitied than of a young squire of Amphialus,

called Ismenus, who never abandoning his master, and making his tender

age aspire to acts of the strongest manhood, in this time that his

side was put to the worst, and that Amphialus’s valour was the only

stay of them from delivering themselves over to a most shameful

flight, he saw his master’s horse killed under him. Whereupon asking

advice of no other thought but of faithfulness and courage, he

presently alighted from his own horse, and with the help of some

choice and faithful servants, got his master up. But in the multitude

that came of either side, some {329} to succour, some to save

Amphialus, he came under the hand of Philanax: and the youth

perceiving he was the man that did most hurt to his party, desirous

even to change his life for glory, struck at him as he rode by him,

and gave him a hurt upon the leg that made Philanax turn towards him;

but seeing him so young, and of a most lovely presence, he rather took

pity of him, meaning to take him prisoner, and then to give him to his

brother Agenor to be his companion, because they were not much unlike,

neither in years, nor countenance. But as he looked down upon him with

that thought, he espied where his brother lay dead, and his friend

Leontius by him, even almost under the squire’s feet. Then sorrowing

not only his own sorrow, but the past-comfort sorrow which he foreknew

his mother would take, who with many tears and misgiving sighs had

suffered him to go with his elder brother Philanax, blotted out all

figures of pity out of his mind, and putting forth his horse, while

Ismenus doubled two or three more valiant than well-set blows, saying

to himself, let other mothers bewail an untimely death as well as

mine, he thrust him through. And the boy fierce, though beautiful, and

beautiful though dying, not able to keep his falling feet, fell down

to the earth, which he bit for anger, repining at his fortune, and as

long as he could resisting death, which might seem unwilling too, so

long as he was in taking away his young struggling soul.

Philanax himself could have wished the blow ungiven, when he saw him

fall like a fair apple, which some uncourteous body, breaking his

bough, should throw down before it were ripe. But the case of his

brother made him forget both, that, and himself: so as over-hastily

pressing upon the retiring enemies, he was (ere he was aware) further

engaged than his own soldiers could relieve him; where being

overthrown by Amphialus, Amphialus, glad of him, kept head against his

enemies, while some of his men carried away Philanax.

But Philanax’s men, as if with the loss of Philanax they had lost the

fountain of their valour, had their courage so dried up in fear that

they began to set honour at their backs, and to use the virtue of

patience in an untimely time, when into the press comes, as hard as

his horse, more afraid of the spur than the sword, could carry him, a

knight in armour as black as darkness could make it, followed by none,

and adorned by nothing; so far without authority that he was without

knowledge. But virtue quickly made him known, and admiration bred him

such authority that though they of whose side he came knew him not,

yet they all knew it was fit to obey him; and while he was followed by

the valiantest, he made way for the vilest. For taking part with he

besiegers, he made the Amphialians’ blood serve for a caparison {330}

to his horse, and a decking to his armour. His arm no oftener gave

blows, than the blows gave wounds, than the wounds gave deaths, so

terrible was his force, and yet was his quickness more forcible than

his force, and his judgment more quick than his quickness. For though

his sword went faster than eyesight could follow it yet his own

judgment went still before it. There died of his hand, Sarpedon,

Plistonax, Strophilus, and Hippolitus, men of great proof in wars, and

who had that day undertaken the guard of Amphialus. But while they

sought to save him, they lost the fortresses that nature had placed

them in. Then slew he Megalus, who was a little before proud to see

himself stained in the blood of his enemies, but when his own blood

came to be married to theirs, he then felt that cruelty doth never

enjoy a good cheap glory. After him sent he Palemon, who had that day

vowed, with foolish bravery, to be the death of ten; and nine already

he had killed, and was careful to perform his, almost performed, vow,

when the black knight helped him to make up the tenth himself.

And now the often-changing fortune began also to change the hue of the

battles. For at the first, though it were terrible, yet terror was

decked so bravely with rich furniture, gilt swords, shining armours,

pleasant pensils, that the eye with delight had scarce leisure to be

afraid: but now all universally defiled with dust, blood, broken

armour, mangled bodies, took away the mask, and set forth horror in

his own horrible manner. But neither could danger be dreadful to

Amphialus his undismayable courage, nor yet seem ugly to him, whose

truly affected mind did still paint it over with the beauty of

Philoclea: and therefore he, rather inflamed than troubled with the

increase of dangers, and glad to find a worthy subject to exercise his

courage, sought out this new knight, whom he might easily find: for

he, like a wanton rich man that throws down his neighbour’s house to

make himself the better prospect, so had his sword made him so

spacious a room that Amphialus had more cause to wonder at the

finding, than labour for the seeking: which if it stirred hate in him

to see how much harm he did to the one side, it provoked as much

emulation in him to perceive how much good he did to the other side.

Therefore, they approaching one to the other, as in two beautiful

folks, love naturally stirs a desire of joining, so in their two

courages hate stirred a desire of trial. Then began there a combat

between them, worthy to have had more large lists, and more quiet

beholders: for with the spur of courage, and the bit of respect, each

so guided himself, that one might well see the desire to overcome made

them not forget how to overcome: in such time and proportion they did

employ their blows, that none of Ceres’s servants could more {331}

cunningly place his flail: while the left foot spur set forward his

own horse, the right set backward the contrary horse, even sometimes

by the advantage of the enemy’s leg, while the left hand, like him

that held the stern, guided the horse’s obedient courage. All done in

such order that it might seem the mind was a right prince indeed, who

sent wise and diligent lieutenants into each of those well-governed

parts. But the more they fought, the more they desired to fight; and

the more they smarted, the less they felt the smart: and now were like

to make a quick proof to whom fortune and valour would seem most

friendly, when, in comes an old governor of Amphialus, always a good

knight, and careful of his charge; who giving a sore wound to the

black knight’s thigh, while he thought not of him, with another blow

slew his horse under him. Amphialus cried to him that he dishonoured

him: “You say well,” answered the old knight, “to stand now like a

private soldier, setting your credit upon particular fighting, while

you may see Basilius with all his host is getting between you and your

town.” He looked that way, and found that true indeed, that the enemy

was beginning to encompass him about and stop his return: and

therefore causing the retreat to be sounded, his governor led his men

homeward, while he kept himself still hindmost, as if he had stood at

the gate of a sluice to let the stream go, with such proportion as

should seem good unto him, and with so manful discretion performed it,

that (though with loss of many of his men) he returned himself safe,

and content, that his enemies had felt how sharp the sword could bite

of Philoclea’s lover. The other party being sorry for the loss of

Philanax, was yet sorrier when the black knight could not be found:

for he having gotten a horse, whom his dying master had bequeathed to

the world, finding himself sore hurt, and not desirous to be known,

had in the time of the enemy’s retiring, retired away also; his thigh

not bleeding blood so fast, as his heart bled revenge. But Basilius

having attempted in vain to bar the safe return of Amphialus, encamped

himself as strongly as he could, while he, to his grief, might hear

the joy that was made in town by his own subjects, that he had that

day sped no better. For Amphialus, being well beloved of that people,

when they saw him not vanquished, they esteemed him as victorious, his

youth setting a flourishing show upon his worthiness and his great

nobility ennobling his dangers.

But the first thing Amphialus did, being returned, was to visit

Philoclea, and first presuming to cause his dream to be sung unto her,

which he had seen the night before he fell in love with her, making a

fine boy he had accord the pretty dolefulness unto it.

{332}

The song was this.

Now was our heavenly vault deprived of the light,

With sun’s depart: and now the darkness of the night,

Did light those beamy stars which greater light did dark:

Now each thing that enjoy’d that fiery quick’ning spark

(Which life is call’d) were mov’d their spirits to repose,

And wanting use of eyes, their eyes began to close;

A silence sweet each where with one consent embrac’d

(A music sweet to one in careful musing plac’d)

And mother earth, now clad in mourning weeds, did breathe

A dull desire to kiss the image of our death:

When I, disgraced wretch, not wretched then did give

My senses such relief, as they which quiet live,

Whose brains boil not in woes, nor breasts with beatings ache,

With nature’s praise are wont in safest home to take.

Far from my thoughts was aught, where to their minds aspire

Who under courtly pomps do hatch a base desire.

Free all my powers were from those captivating snares,

Which heav’nly purest gifts defile with muddy cares.

Nay could my soul itself accuse of such a fault,

As tender conscience might with furious pangs assault.

But like the feeble flower, whose stalk cannot sustain

His weighty top, his top downward doth drooping lean:

Or as the silly bird in well-acquainted nest

Doth hide his head with cares, but only to rest:

So I in simple course, and unentangled mind,

Did suffer drowsy lids mine eyes, then clear, to blind;

And laying down mine head, did nature’s rule observe,

They first their youth forgot, then fancies lost their force;

Till deadly sleep at length possess’d my living corpse.

A living corpse I lay: but ah my wakeful mind

(Which made of heav’nly stuff, no mortal change doth blind)

Flew up with freer wings of fleshly bondage free;

And having plac’d my thoughts, my thoughts thus placed me.

Methought, nay sure I was, I was in fairest wood,

Of Samothea land, a land which whilom stood

An honour to the world, while honour was their end,

And while their line of years they did in virtue spend.

But there I was, and there my calmy thoughts I fed

On nature’s sweet repast, as healthful senses led.

Her gifts my study was, her beauty were my sport,

My work her works to know, her dwelling my resort.

Those lamps of heav’nly fire to fixed motion bound,

The ever turning spheres, the never moving ground;

What essence dest’ny hath, if fortune be or no;

Whence our immortal souls to mortal earth do flow:

What life it is, and how that all these lives do gather,

With outward maker’s force, or like an inward father.

{333}

Such thoughts, methought, I thought, and strain’d my single mind,

Then void of nearer care, the depth of things to find,

When lo with hugest noise, such noise a tower makes

When it blown down with wind, a fall of ruin takes,

Or, such a noise it was, as highest thunders send,

Or cannons thunder-like, all shot together lend.

The moon asunder rent, whereout with sudden fall

(More swift than falcon’s stoop to feeding falconer’s call)

There came a chariot fair, by doves and sparrows guided,

Whose storm-like course stay’d not till hard by me it bided.

I wretch astonished was, and thought the deathful doom,

Of heaven, of earth, of hell, of time and place was come.

But straight there issued forth two ladies, ladies sure

They seemed to me, on whom did wait a virgin pure.

Strange were the ladies’ weeds, yet more unfit than strange.

The first with clothes tucked up, as nymphs in woods do range,

Tucked up even with the knees with bow and arrows pressed:

Her right arm naked was, discovered was her breast.

But heavy was her pace, and such a meagre cheer,

As little hunting mind, God knows, did there appear.

The other had with art, more than our women know,

As stuff meant for the sale, set out to glaring show,

A wanton woman’s face, and with curl’d knots had twin’d

Her hair, which by the help of painter’s cunning shin’d,

When I such guests did see come out of such a house,

The mountains great with child, I thought brought forth a mouse,

But walking forth, the first thus to the second said,

“Venus come on.” Said she, “Diana you are obey’d.”

Those names abash’d me much, when those great names I heard:

Although their fame (meseem’d) from truth had greatly jarr’d.

As I thus musing stood, Diana call’d to her

The waiting nymph, a nymph that did excel as far

All things that erst I saw, as orient pearls exceed

That which their mother hight, or else their silly seed,

Indeed a perfect hew, indeed a sweet consent,

Of all those graces’ gifts the heavens have ever lent.

And so she was attir’d, as one that did not prize

Too much her peerless parts, nor yet could them despise.

But call’d, she came apace; apace, wherein did move

The band of beauty’s all, the little world of love.

And bending humbled eyes (O eyes the sun of sight)

She waited mistress’s will; who thus disclos’d her spright;

“Sweet Mira mine,” quoth she, “the pleasure of my mind,

In whom of all my rules the perfect proof I find;

To only thee, thou seest, we grant this special grace

Us to attend, in this most private time and place.

Be silent therefore now, and so be silent still

Of that thou seest; close up in secret not thy will.”

{334}

She answered was with look, and well-perform’d behest:

And Mira I admir’d; her shape sunk in my breast.

But thus with ireful eyes, and face that shook with spite

Diana did begin, “What mov’d me to invite,

Your presence, sister dear, first to my moony sphere,

And hither now, vouchsafe to take with willing ear.

I know full well you know, what discord long hath reign’d

Betwixt us two; how much that discord foul hath stain’d

Both our estates, while each the other did deprave,

Proof speaks too much to us, that feeling trial have,

Our names are quite forgot, our temples are defac’d;

Our offerings spoil’d, our priests from priesthood are displac’d.

Is this the fruit of strife? those thousand churches high,

Those thousand altars fair now in the dust to lie?

In mortal minds, our minds but planets’ names preserve;

No knees once bowed, forsooth, for them they say we serve.

Are we their servants grown? no doubt a noble stay:

Celestial powers to worms, Jove’s children serve to clay.

But such they say we be: this praise our discord bred,

While we for mutual spite, a striving passion fed.

But let us wiser be; and what foul discord brake,

So much more strong again let fastest concord make,

Our years do it require; you see we both do feel

The weak’ning work of time’s for ever whirling wheel.

Although we be divine, our grandsire Saturn is

With age’s force decay’d, yet once the heaven was his.

And now before we seek by wise Apollo’s skill,

Our young years to renew, for so he saith he will,

Let us a perfect peace between us two resolve;

Which least the ruinous want of government dissolve,

Let one the princess be, to her the other yield:

For vain equality is but contention’s field.

And let her have the gifts that should in both remain;

In her let beauty both, and chasteness fully reign.

So as if I prevail, you give your gifts to me,

If you, on you I lay what in my office be.

Now resteth only this, which of us two is she,

To whom precedence shall of both accorded be,

For that, so that you like, hereby doth lie a youth,”

(She beckoned unto me) “as yet of spotless truth;

Who may this doubt discern: for better wit, then lot,

Becometh us: in us fortune determines not.

This crown of amber fair,” (an amber crown she held)

“To worthiest let him give, when both he hath beheld:

And be it as he saith.” Venus was glad to hear

Such proffer made, which she well show’d with smiling cheer,

As though she were the same, as when by Paris’ doom

She had chief goddesses in beauty overcome.

{335}

And smirkly thus gan say, “I never sought debate,

Diana dear, my mind to love and not to hate

Was ever apt: but you my pastimes did despise.

I never spited you, but thought you overwise.

Now kindness proferr’d is, none kinder is than I;

And so most ready am this mean of peace to try;

And let him be our judge: the lad doth please me well.”

Thus both did come to me, and both began to tell;

For both together spoke, each loath to be behind,

That they by solemn oath their deities would bind,

To stand unto my will, their will they made me know

I that was first aghast, when first I saw their show;

Now bolder wax’d, wax’d proud, that I such sway must bear;

For near acquaintance doth diminish reverent fear.

And having bound them fast by Styx, they should obey

To all what I decreed, did thus my verdict say.

“How ill both you can rule, well hath your discord taught;

Nay yet for ought I see, your beauties merit ought.

To yonder Nymph therefore” (to Mira I did point)

“The crown above you both for ever I appoint.”

I would have spoken out; but out they both did cry;

“Fie, fie, what have we done? ungodly rebel, fie.

But now we needs must yield, to that our oaths require.”

“Yet thou shalt not go free,” quoth Venus. “Such a fire

Her beauty kindle shall within thy foolish mind,

That thou full oft shall wish thy judging eyes were blind.”

“Nay then,” Diana said, “the chasteness I will give,

In ashes of despair, though burnt, shall make thee live.”

“Nay thou,” said both, “shalt see such beams shine in her face,

That thou shalt never dare seek help of wretched case.”

And with that cursed curse away to heaven they fled,

First having all their gifts upon fair Mira spread.

The rest I cannot tell; for therewithal I wak’d,

And found with deadly fear that all my sinews shak’d.

Was it a dream? O dream, how hast thou wrought in me,

That I things erst unseen should first in dreaming see?

And thou, O traitor sleep, made for to be our rest;

How hast thou fram’d the pain wherewith I am oppress’d?

O coward Cupid, thus dost thou thy honour keep,

Unarm’d, alas! unwarn’d to take a man asleep?

Laying not only the conquest, but the heart of the conqueror at her

feet. But she receiving him after her wonted sorrowful, but otherwise

unmoved, manner, it made him think his good success was but as a

pleasant monument of a doleful burial: Joy itself seeming bitter unto

him, since it agreed not to her taste.

Therefore, still craving his mother’s help to persuade her, he himself

sent for Philanax unto him, whom he had not only long {336} hated but

now had his hate greatly increased by the death of his squire Ismenus.

Besides, he had made him as one of the chief causes that moved him to

this rebellion, and therefore was inclined, to colour the better his

action, and the more to embrew the hands of his accomplices by making

them guilty of such a trespass, in some formal sort to cause him to be

executed, being also greatly egged thereunto by his mother, and some

other, who long had hated Philanax; only because he was more worthy

than they to be loved.

But while that deliberation was handled, according rather to the

humour, than the reason of each speaker; Philoclea coming to the

knowledge of the hard plight wherein Philanax stood, she desired one

of the gentlewomen appointed to wait upon her to go in her name and

beseech Amphialus, that, if the love of her had any power of

persuasion in his mind, he would lay no further punishment than

imprisonment upon Philanax. This message was delivered even as

Philanax was entering to the presence of Amphialus, coming, according

to the warning was given him, to receive judgment of death. But when

he, with manful resolution, attended the fruit of such a tyrannical

sentence, thinking it wrong, but no harm to him that should die in so

good a cause; Amphialus turned quite the form of his pretended speech,

and yielded him humble thanks that by his means he had come to that

happiness, as to receive a commandment of his lady: and therefore he

willingly gave him liberty to return in safety whither he would,

quitting him not only of all former grudge, but assuring him that he

would be willing to do him any friendship and service: only desiring

thus much of him, that he would let him know the discourse and intent

of Basilius’s proceeding.

“Truly, my Lord,” answered Philanax, “if there were any such, known to

me, secret in my master’s counsel, as that the revealing thereof,

might hinder his good success, I should loathe the keeping of my blood

with the loss of my faith, and would think the just name of a traitor

a hard purchase of a few years’ living. But since it is so, that my

master hath indeed no way of privy practice; but means openly and

forcibly to deal against you, I will not stick, in few words, to make

your required declaration.” Then told he him in what a maze of

amazement, both Basilius and Gynecia were when they missed their

children and Zelmane. Sometimes apt to suspect some practice of

Zelmane, because she was a stranger; sometimes doubting some relic of

the late mutiny, which doubt was rather increased than anywise

satisfied, by Miso, who, being found almost dead for hunger by certain

country people, brought home word with what cunning they were trained

out, and with what violence they were carried away. But that within a

few {337} days they came to knowledge where they were by Amphialus’s

own letters sent abroad to procure confederates in his attempts; that

Basilius’s purpose was never to leave the siege of the town till he

had taken it, and revenged the injury done unto him. That he meant

rather to win it by time and famine, than by force of assault; knowing

how valiant men he had to deal withal in the town: that he had sent

orders that supplies of soldiers, pioneers, and all things else

necessary, should daily be brought unto him: so as, “My Lord,” said

Philanax, “let me now, having received my life by your grace, let me

give you your life and honour by my counsel; protesting unto you, that

I cannot choose but love you, being my master’s nephew; and that I

wish you well in all causes but this. You know his nature is as apt to

forgive as his power is able to conquer. Your fault past is excusable,

in that love persuaded, and youth was persuaded. Do not urge the

effects of angry victory, but rather seek to obtain that constantly by

courtesy, which you can never assuredly enjoy by violence.”

One might easily have seen in the cheer of Amphialus that disdainful

choler would fain have made the answer for him, but the remembrance of

Philoclea served for forcible barriers between anger, and angry

effects: so as he said no more, but that he would not put him to the

trouble to give him any further counsel, but that he might return, if

he listed, presently. Philanax glad to receive an uncorrupted liberty,

humbly accepted his favourable convoy out of the town; and so

departed, not visiting the princesses, thinking it might be offensive

to Amphialus, and no way fruitful to them, who were no way, but by

force, to be rescued.

The poor ladies, indeed, not suffered either to meet together, or to

have conference with any other, but such as Cecropia had already

framed, to sing all their songs to her tune, she herself omitting no

day, and catching hold of every occasion to move forward her son’s

desire, and remove their own resolutions; using the same arguments to

the one sister, as to the other; determining that whom she could win

first, the other should, without her son’s knowledge, by poison be

made away. But though the reasons were the same to both, yet the

handling was diverse, according as she saw their humours to prepare a

more or less aptness of apprehension. This day having long speech to

Philoclea, amplifying not a little the great dutifulness her son had

shown in delivering Philanax; of whom she could get no answer, but a

silence sealed up in virtue, and so sweetly graced, as that in one

instant it carried with it both resistance and humbleness: Cecropia

threatening in herself to run a more rugged race with her, went to her

sister Pamela, who that day having wearied herself with reading, and

with the height of her heart disdaining to keep company with any {338}

of the gentlewomen appointed to attend her, whom she accounted her

jailors, was working upon a purse certain roses and lilies, as by the

fineness of the work, one might see she had borrowed her wits of the

sorrow that then owed them, and lent them wholly to that exercise. For

the flowers she had wrought carried such life in them that the

cunningest painter might have learned of her needle, which with so

pretty a manner made his careers to and fro through the cloth, as if

the needle itself would have been loth to have gone fromward such a

mistress but that it hoped to return thitherward very quickly again,

the cloth looking with many eyes upon her, and lovingly embracing the

wounds she gave it: the shears also were at hand to behead the silk

that was grown too short. And if at any time she put her mouth to bite

it off, it seemed, that where she had been long in making of a rose

with her hands, she would in an instant make roses with her lips; as

the lilies seemed to have their whiteness rather of the hand that made

them than of the matter whereof they were made, and that they grew

there by the suns of her eyes, and were refreshed by the most, in

discomfort, comfortable air, which an unawares sigh might bestow upon

them. But the colours for the ground were so well chosen, neither

sullenly dark, nor glaringly lightsome; and so well proportioned, as

that, though much cunning were in it, yet it was but to serve for

ornament of the principal work; that it was not without marvel to see

how a mind which could cast a careless semblant upon the greatest

conflicts of fortune could command itself to take care for so small

matters. Neither had she neglected the dainty dressing of herself; but

as if it had been her marriage time to affliction, she rather seemed

to remember her own worthiness than the unworthiness of her husband.

For well might one perceive she had not rejected the counsel of a

glass, and that her hands had pleased themselves in paying the tribute

of undeceiving skill to so high perfections of nature.

The sight whereof so divers from her sister, who rather suffered

sorrow to dress itself in her beauty than that she would bestow any

entertainment of so unwelcome a guest, made Cecropia take a sudden

assuredness of hope that she should obtain somewhat of Pamela:

thinking, according to the squaring out of her own good nature that

beauty carefully set forth, would soon prove a sign of an unrefusing

harbour. Animated therewith, she sat down by Pamela, and taking the

purse, and with affected curiosity looking upon the work: “Fully happy

is he,” said she, “at least if he knew his own happiness, to whom a

purse in this manner, and by this hand wrought, is dedicated. In faith

he shall have cause to account it, not as a purse for treasure, but as

a treasure itself, worthy to be pursed up in the purse of his own

heart.” “And {339} think you so indeed?” said Pamela, half smiling, “I

promise you I wrought it but to make some tedious hours believe that I

thought not of them; for else I valued it but even as a very purse.”

“It is the right nature,” said Cecropia, “of beauty to work unwitting

effects of wonder.” “Truly,” said Pamela, “I never thought till now

that this outward gloss, entitled beauty, which it pleaseth you to lay

to my (as I think) unguilty charge, was but a pleasant mixture of

natural colours, delightful to the eye, as music is to the ear,

without any further consequence, since it is a thing, which not only

beasts have, but even stones and trees many of them do greatly excel

in it.” “That other things,” answered Cecropia, “have some portion of

it, takes not away the excellency of it, where indeed it doth excel:

since we see that even those beasts, trees and stones are in the name

of beauty only highly praised. But that the beauty of human persons is

beyond all other things, there is great likelihood of reason, since to

them only is given the judgment to discern beauty; and among

reasonable wights, as it seems, that our sex hath the pre-eminence, so

that in that pre-eminence, nature countervails all other liberalities

wherein she may be thought to have dealt more favourably toward

mankind. How do men crown, think you, themselves with glory for having

either by force brought others to yield to their mind, or with long

study, and premeditated orations, persuaded what they would have

persuaded? and see, a fair woman shall not only command without

authority, but persuade without speaking. She shall not need to

procure attention, for their own eyes will chain their ears unto it.

Men venture lives to conquer, she conquers lives without venturing.

She is served, and obeyed, which is the most notable, not because the

laws so command it, but because they become laws themselves to obey

her; not for her parents’ sake, but for her own. She need not dispute,

whether to govern by fear or love, since without her thinking thereof,

their love will bring forth fear, and their fear will fortify their

love; and she need not seek offensive or defensive force, since her

only lips may stand for ten thousand shields, and ten thousand

inevitable shot go from her eyes. Beauty, beauty, dear niece, is the

crown of the feminine greatness; which gift on whomsoever the heavens

(therein most niggardly) do bestow, without question, she is bound to

use it to the noble purpose for which it is created; not only winning,

but preserving, since that indeed is the right happiness which is not

only in itself happy, but can also derive the happiness to another.”

“Certainly, Aunt,” said Pamela, “I fear you will make me not only

think myself fairer than ever I did, but think my fairness a matter of

greater value than heretofore I could imagine it. For I ever, till

now, conceived those conquests you speak of rather to proceed from the

{340} weakness of the conquered than from the strength of the

conquering power: as they say, the Cranes overthrow whole battles of

Pigmies, not so much of their cranish courage, as because the other

are Pigmies; and that we see young babes think babies of wonderful

excellency, and yet the babies are but babies. But since your older

years, and abler judgment find beauty to be worthy of so incomparable

estimation, certainly, methinks, it ought to be held in dearness,

according to the excellency, and no more than we would do of things

which we account precious, never to suffer it to be defiled.”

“Defiled?” said Cecropia, “Marry, God forbid that my speech should

tend to any such purpose as should deserve so foul a title. My meaning

is, to join your beauty to love, your youth to delight. For, truly, as

colours should be as good as nothing if there were no eyes to behold

them; so is beauty nothing, without the eye of love behold it: and

therefore so far is it from defiling it, that it is only the honouring

of it, only the preserving of it; for beauty goes away, devoured by

time, but where remains it ever flourishing, but in the heart of a

true lover? and such a one, if ever there were any, is my son, whose

love is so subjected unto you, that rather than breed any offence unto

you, it will not delight itself in beholding you.” “There is no effect

of his love,” answered Pamela, “better pleaseth me than that: but as I

have often answered you, so resolutely I say unto you, that he must

get my parents’ consent, and then he shall know further of my mind:

for, without that I know I should offend God.” “O sweet youth,” said

Cecropia, “how untimely subject it is to devotion? no, no, sweet

niece, let us old folks think of such precise considerations: do you

enjoy the heaven of your age, whereof you are sure; and like good

householders, which spend those things that would not be kept, so do

you pleasantly enjoy that which else will bring an over late

repentance, when your glass shall accuse you to your face what a

change there is in you. Do you see how the spring-time is full of

flowers, decking itself with them, and not aspiring to the fruits of

autumn? what lesson is that unto you, but that in the April of your

age, you should be like April? let not some of them for whom already

the grave gapeth, and perhaps envy the felicity in you, which

themselves cannot enjoy, persuade you to loose the hold of occasion,

while it may not only be taken, but offers, nay sues to be taken,

which if it be not now taken, will never hereafter be overtaken.

Yourself know how your father hath refused all offers made by the

greatest princes about you, and will you suffer your beauty to be

hidden in the wrinkles of his peevish thoughts?” “If he be peevish,”

said Pamela, “yet he is my father; and how beautiful soever I be, I am

his daughter: so that God {341} claims at my hands obedience, and

makes me no judge of his imperfections.”

These often replies upon conscience in Pamela, made Cecropia think

that there was no righter way for her than as she had, in her opinion,

set her in liking of beauty, with persuasion not to suffer it to be

void of purpose; so if she could make her less feeling of those

heavenly conceits, that then she might easily wind her to her crooked

bias. Therefore employing the uttermost of her mischievous wit, and

speaking the more earnestly, because she spoke as she thought, she

thus dealt with her.

“Dear niece, or rather dear daughter, if my affection and wish might

prevail therein, how much doth it increase, through you, the earnest

desire I have of this blessed match, to see these virtues of yours

knit fast with such zeal of devotion (indeed the best bond) which the

most politic wits have found to hold man’s wit in well doing? For as

children must first by fear be induced to know that which after when

they do know, they are most glad of, so are these bugbears of opinions

brought by great clerks into the world to serve as shewels to keep

them from those faults, whereto else the vanity of the world, and

weakness of senses might pull them. But in you, niece, whose

excellency is such as it need not to be held up by the staff of vulgar

opinions, I would not you should love virtue servilely, for fear of I

know not what, which you see not, but even for the good effects of

virtue which you see. Fear, and indeed foolish fear, and fearful

ignorance, was the first inventor of those conceits; for when they

heard it thunder, not knowing the natural cause, they thought there

was some angry body above that spake so loud: and ever the less they

did perceive, the more they did conceive; whereof they knew no cause,

that grew straight a miracle: foolish folks not marking that the

alterations be but upon particular accidents, the universality being

always one. Yesterday was but as to-day, and to-morrow will tread the

same footsteps of his foregoers: so as it is manifest enough that all

things follow but the course of their own nature, saving only man, who

while by the pregnancy of his imagination he strives to things

supernatural, meanwhile he loseth his own natural felicity. Be wise,

and that wisdom shall be a God unto thee; be contented, and that is

thy heaven: for else to think that those powers, if there be any such,

above are moved either by the eloquence of our prayers, or in a chafe

at the folly of our actions, carries as much reason, as if flies

should think that men take great care which of them hums sweetest, and

which of them flies nimblest.”