Pyrocles weakened with the loss of blood, the effects of hate, and in

that weakness surcharged with kindness, the fruits of love, not able

to abide the interchoking of such extremities, the paleness of his

face witnessed the parting of his spirits, so that not able to stand,

Musidorus was forced to fall with him, or else would not stand after

him. And at the suddenness of his unexpected adventure, or vehemently

respectable misadventure; like one (who unawares slipping from a great

height) is choked betwixt the height and the lowness, ere he can

consider, either whence he fell, or where he falls. Being thrown from

the top of contentment, to be drowned in the depths of misery, he had

his reasonable part so hastily overwhelmed with confusion, that he

remained dead alive, as the other was living in death. At last,

re-assembling his confounded senses from the rocks of ruin, grief had

gathered so much strength through weakness, as to attempt an

impossibility in manifesting itself.

“O what a monster of misery am I! even when most fortunate, most

unfortunate, who never had a lightning of comfort, but that it was

suddenly followed with a thunder of confusion. Twice was my felicity

by land (that it might be washed for ever away) made a prey to the

inexorable waves, whilst the relenting destinies pitying the rigour of

their own decrees, to prevent their threatened effects, would have

drowned me in (respecting the ocean of sorrow prepared to swallow me)

that little drop of the sea. And, O thrice happy I, if I had perished

whilst I was altogether unhappy; then, when a dejected shepherd

offensive to the perfection of the world, I could hardly, being

oppressed by contempt, make myself worthy to be disdained, disdain to

be despised, being a degree of grace. {435} O would to God that I had

died obscurely, whilst my life might still have lived famous with

others, and my death have died with myself; whilst my not being known

might have kept my dishonour unknown, even then when matched, matched

by one, and in the presence of many fighting for one who was more dear

to me than all the world. Ah me! most miserable, in not being more

miserable. Such a pestilentious influence poisoned the time of my

nativity, that I have had a spark of happiness, to clear me the way to

destruction. I was carried high to be fit for a precipice, and that

from that height I might behold how low the dungeons were wherein I

was to fall. Even now I was so far from fear, that I was higher than

hope, being in imagination master of all my wishes; yet at an instant,

as if all that could be inflicted on myself were not sufficient to

afflict me, being armed with resolution, both to brave the terrors of

death, and to contemn the flatteries of life, I am tormented in

another, whose sufferings could only make me tenderly sensible. And

with that, sorrow, as it were sorry to be interrupted by utterance,

did damn itself up to swell higher, feeding on the contemplation of

itself within: where, when absolute tyrant of the breast, it might

rather burst him, than burst out.”

Then he was lying down senselessly on his senseless friend, as in all

estates striving to be still like him, when lo he felt his breast

beat, and thereafter saw his unclouded eyes weakly strive to shine

again; thus first re-saluting the light, “Oh where am I?” Musidorus

replied: “With him who is hasting to die with you.” “No,” said he, “I

have hastened to live with you.” “Death or life,” said Musidorus,

“either of them must join us, but neither of them is able to part us.”

With that Pyrocles, weakly rising, entrusted his feet with their own

burden, but Musidorus, jealous of the carriage of so precious a

treasure, would needs aid them with his arm, his strength

strengthening Pyrocles, and the weakness of Pyrocles weakening him.

Thus, whilst guided by one, who was acquainted with the castle, they

were seeking out a room, where Pyrocles reposing might cause take a

trial of the estate of his body, and repair the bloody breaches of the

late battery; it being, though evil fortified, yet well defended: as

they were walking along a gallery, they heard, from a chamber

neighbouring the side of it, a dolorous sound, but so heavily

delivered with a disorderly convoy, that choked with sobs, else

drowned with tears, the pains of the bearer had so spoiled the birth

that it could not be known; yet a secret sympathy, by an unexpressible

working, did more wound the mind of Pyrocles, than it was wounded by

all the wounds of his body, he pitying his complaint, though not

knowing from whom, nor for what: “O how the soul, apt for all

impressions transcending {436} reason, can comprehend unapprehensible

things;” this was the lamentation of the lamentable Philoclea.

The ladies after the departure of Zelmane, by the inundation in their

ears of horrible sounds, were violently invited to come fearfully to a

window overlooking the court, where they beheld the bloody effects of

that, whereof they were the innocent causes. At first the lilies of

their cheeks overgrowing the roses, paleness had almost displaced

beauty, were it not beauty was so powerful as to make paleness

beautiful; yet their often travelled memory instructed their judgment,

that misery being at a height, could not but of force either work the

end of itself, or a beginning of comfort, and they could expect no

worse estate than that in which they were.

Pamela would fain have flattered herself to think that it was

Musidorus come to deliver her, but she had rather have still remained

captive than to have drawn him to such a danger for her delivery; and

having once apprehended that he was there, never a blow was given but

that she was wounded with it, being ever sorry for the overthrown,

never glad for the overthrower; either pity prevailing with the

tenderness of her sex, or because she knew no danger could come by

overcoming.

As for Philoclea, she who through the gentleness of her own nature

would have smarted for any other who had been in danger, when she

remembered the hazard of her treasure Zelmane, who, as she knew, did

not use to be an idle spectator of so earnest a game, a multitude of

thoughts, without art artificial, did paint fear in her face, and

engrave grief in her bosom. Whilst they continued thus, Pamela, in

vain striving to match majesty with affection, stood with a distracted

stateliness, and with a stately astonishment, where grief and fear in

Philoclea made easily a consort in sorrow, with watery eyes, like the

sun shining in a shower, weakly clearing a cloudy countenance; when

suddenly they heard one cry, since the castle was won to set the

ladies at liberty; but they who were well acquainted both with the

frowns and smiles of fortune, as they had ever triumphed over the one,

would not suffer themselves to be led captives by the other; neither

could this accomplish their contentment, till they had the lords of

that pleasant bondage, which they did value more than unvaluable

liberty; the constrained activity of the body having nothing

diminished the voluntary thraldom of the mind.

But ah! this smooth calm came only to make them the more sensible of

the succeeding tempest, which the breath of one from below, roaring

forth the death of Zelmane, did thunder up upon them. Pamela (like a

rock amidst the sea, beaten both with the winds and with the waves,

yet itself immoveable) did receive this rigorous {437} charge with a

constant, though sad countenance, and with fixed eyes witnessing the

moving of her mind, yet neither uttering word, nor tear, as disdaining

to employ their weakness in so great a grief. Such might have been the

gesture of Niobe hearing the news of her children’s death, ere she was

metamorphosed into a stone; like one, majesty triumphing over misery,

who would rather burst strongly within than be disburdened by bursting

out in an abject manner.

But, ah me, the confounded Philoclea, who, being the weaker, had

received the sharpest assault, an affectionate fury forcing from her

an absolute passion, which a dutiful kindness through compassion only

provoked in her sister, she, smothered with so monstrous a weight, did

sink down under it to the earth.

This made Pamela forget her other grief without any comfort,

transferring her affection from her friend to her more than friendly

sister; for whom she saw at that time her care might be more

serviceable, wherewith she brought her to herself, and she herself to

sorrow. At first the tongue and the eyes being too feeble instruments

for so violent a passion, she used her hands, beating that breast

which the most barbarous creature else in the world could not have

done; offering those torn hairs as oblations to him after death, which

had been the delights of his life; and deforming that face, the

register of nature’s wonders, confirmed by the admiration of men.

Which when Pamela, of a patient became a physician, sought to hinder,

she thus said: “Alas! sister, you do not know what a treasure I have

lost, even a treasure more worth than all the world was worthy to

enjoy. Ah, pardon me thou, whom even death is not able to kill in my

soul: pardon me, who have ever concealed thy secret, now to discover

mine own, for while my life lasts, short may it be, and long it shall

not be, I will show to all the world that, which, whilst thou livedst,

I would have been ashamed to have shown to thyself even thy perfection

and mine affection. Neither do I regard how the conceits of others

censure my carriage in this; for there is no eye now, wherein I desire

to appear precious, nor no opinion, whereof I crave to make a

purchase; death may end my life, but not my love, which, as it is

infinite, must be immortal. I would gladly use means to dispatch this

miserable life; but it were a shame for me, if, after so great a

disaster, sorrow only were not sufficient to kill me.” And with that

beauty in the heaven of her face, two suns eclipsed, being wrapped up

in paleness, she fell down grovelling on the ground.

Pyrocles, imagining what report might be made, and not doubting what

effect it would work, bent to furnish physic for her mind, ere he

sought any for his own body, came in at the door, whom Pamela, {438}

her arms and her tongue rivals in kindness, embracing, said, “Never

more welcome, though ever welcome, Zelmane; thou who ever art

victorious, hast thou likewise brought thyself away a trophy from

death?” “Sweet ladies,” replied she, “who would faint to fight for

such divine creatures as you are? and who could have force to fight

against you?”

Philoclea, who at first, either dull through excessive dolour, did not

conceive her sister’s words; or else suspecting, as she thought, her

impossible desire to please her, all being doubtful to trust what they

do extremely affect, did misconceive her meaning. She was raising her

eyes to examine her ears: but the most trusty of her senses preventing

both, by a palpable proof, gave her an absolute assurance; so that ere

she could think Zelmane was at all to be embraced, finding herself

embraced by Zelmane, she was lifted up to a heaven of joy, as before

she had been sunk down in a hell of grief; never absolutely her own;

but either ravished or ruined. Spying the blood on Zelmane’s garment,

not knowing whether her own, or her enemy’s, she grew pale; and then,

looking on her sister, she blushed, suspecting that she suspected the

cause of her paleness, conferring it with her former plaints, to be

more than a friendly kindness; but Zelmane, fearing what might be the

effects of her fear, said, that she expected a congratulation of her

victory, and not condoling of past danger, which was acquitted with

the speechless answer of an affectionate look, and a passionate

pressing of her hand.

Then Pamela, inquiring the perilous course of her short progress, she

told how fortified with their fortune, trusting more to it than to her

own valour, which, like their beauty, could not but prevail, she had

first overthrown the two brethren of Anaxius; and thereafter, fighting

with himself, it was her chance, God strengthening her weakness to

punish his injustice, to kill him; she could not say overcome him, no,

she was not ashamed to affirm, that though he was killed, she thought

him not overcome, seeing both he died with opinion, and in action of

victory; death preventing the knowledge of his last success. A rare

happiness, his life and fortune having both but one bound.

Both highly praising her valour, and admiring her modesty, and glad of

their own delivery, whereof they thought her the author, thoughts

striving to express themselves the more powerfully without words, they

were acknowledging the fame with a grateful countenance, and kindly

affecting looks, when Zelmane, not complementally hunting that which

she fled, but like one who with a glass reflects the force of the sun

somewhere else, earnestly protested that she would be loth to usurp

that which was due to another, especially in the owner’s presence.

And, turning towards {439} the black knight, who all the time stood

aside as her attender, though armed, trembling for fear of one

unarmed, who unarmed, would not have been so afraid of an army in

arms, she freely affirmed, “There is the deliverer of us all, from

whom we receive our liberty, to whom we owe ourselves, since it is

that which makes us ourselves.”

Then the black knight, invited by the willing countenance of the

princess, abasing his helmet, advanced more fearfully than to a

battle, to kiss her hand: when Zelmane, courteously retired Philoclea

a little distance from thence, as glad to confer with her, as to give

her friend occasion to confer with Pamela, who presently, whilst the

roses of his lips made a flower of affection with the lilies of her

hands, knowing her own Dorus, at the suddenness of the assault, the

moving of her mind was betrayed by the changes of her countenance, the

blood of her face ebbing and flowing according to the tide of

affection; yet borrowing a mask from hate, wherewith to hide love, she

thus charged him, who already had yielded: “How durst you thus presume

to present yourself in my presence, being discharged it, when you

deserved the uttermost that reason could devise, or fury execute? Hath

my dejected estate emboldened you to exalt yourself against me?” Then

he, gathering courage from the extremity of despair, thus cleared his

intention: “True it is, lady of my life, and shall be of my death, I

was worthy then to have been banished from the world. But what of a

world of worlds? I was banished from your sight, and, which is worst

of all, deservedly. Neither come I now of contempt, but only to

testify my obedience, which otherwise at this time might have been

construed to a cowardice. Such a love as mine, wedded to virtue, can

never be so adulterated by any accident, no, nor yet ravished by

passion, as to bring forth a bastard disobedience, whereof my very

conscience not being able to accuse my thoughts, I come to clear

myself. But now, having performed all that was within the compass of

my power, a part of my blood witnessing my affection, which I wish

were confirmed by the rest: you may see, directness of my destiny,

that no force can force me to anything, much less from your sight,

save only your own will, which is unto me a law, yea, an oracle. And

now when you see I do it not for fear of others, but only out of a

reverence to you; if not for your satisfaction, yet for my punishment,

so to persecute him whom you hate, I will go waste the remnant of my

wretched days in some remote wilderness as not worthy to be seen of

any, since odious in your sight: having, I hope, by many proofs

prevailed thus much with your opinion, that after my death you will

think there was some worth in me; though not worthy of your love.”

When he, full of humble affection, was retiring himself with a

courtesy as low {440} as his thoughts; she, thinking enough done to

try him, yet without seeming to trust him, whilst, though guilty of

grief, her countenance could accuse her of no care, as out of a fresh

remembrance, said, “That she would not have Dametas to lose a servant,

nor Mopsa a suitor, by her means; and if he would needs return towards

the lodges, that he should first expect some employment homewards from

her.” Then he, as one, who fallen in the bottom of some deep water,

coming to float above, in sight of land, receiveth some comfort,

though still in danger, began to re-assemble his dispersed spirits

again, looking more cheerfully. But ere his thoughts, every one of

them overflowing another, could settle themselves in words, she,

preventing the violence of so sudden a change, did call to her sister,

by accusing their indiscretion, in holding these two so long by

talking with them, from looking to themselves. Which Philoclea

allowed, trembling with an earnest fear, to know in what estate

Zelmane stood.

They two, injured by this courtesy, with an unwilling obedience

accepted of it; more respecting the pleasure of others, than their own

necessity. Pamela as only affecting Zelmane, offered her either all,

or a part of their chamber: and she, her tongue rebelling against her

heart, refused what she desired, pretending a lothness to trouble

them. Then the sisters offered to accompany them; but, after they had

a while coloured true kindness with ordinary compliments, Zelmane

prevailed against herself, to go accompanied as she came: yet both

looking as if they would have left their eyes behind them, as well as

their hearts; as soon as they were by themselves in a chamber, Zelmane

disapparelling herself, the black knight, though better skilled in

giving, than in curing of wounds, yet lately experienced by passing

the like danger, he would needs prove a surgeon: and after he had

purchased the things necessary, having considered his wounds, he found

none, save the last that went through the body, dangerous; and yet not

deadly: thereafter melting their minds in discourses, either of them

had his own contentment doubled by hearing of the others.

Then the black knight, taking leave for a while, locking the door

behind him, went down to the court, to try if any spark of the late

fire remained as yet to quench. For after the opposite party, as if

their arms were not sufficient to arm them, unless their arms were

armed with walls, ran to fortify themselves within houses, which had

no strength save that which men were to afford them: he, who thought

his own good fortune no better than a misfortune, till he was assured

that his friend had the like, without whom no happiness of his could

be accomplished, recommending the remnant of the adversary’s ruins to

his two {441} companions, had gone to learn if he were alike happy in

all places: and they, fear freezing the courage, and dissolving the

hearts of their scattered enemies, found quickly more throwing

themselves weaponless at their feet, than they could have leisure

severally to raise, so that they were more weary, though more

contented with pardoning than they had been with punishing.

Some more crafty, or more fearful, cried out at the windows that they

would surrender upon security of pardon. But they, scorning to

capitulate with fugitives, who would not have done it with them when

fighters: and disdaining all that, by the most large construction,

could be wrested to the sense of constraint, they would not equal them

with those who were already humble till they submitted in a more

submissive manner, depending only on their free disposition. Which

they, either trusting to the virtue of others, or mistrusting their

own, having done the knight of the sheep was constrained, his wound

bleeding in great abundance, which being made by an impoisoned dart,

had inflamed all his body, to retire. The other, having received the

keys of the gate, committed the chief captives to keepers, till the

black knight’s coming, who presently thereafter exacting what

conditions he pleased, did discharge them all. Then sentinels were set

on the wall, and a company appointed to watch all night: when suddenly

one came from their friend, to desire them to come and take their last

farewell of him: a request wonderfully grieving them, yet quickly

granted; yea, performed ere answered.

Being met, and all others retired, he with these words deeply wounded

their souls. “Dear friends, whom I may justly call so, though none of

us as yet doth know another; You see, I have acted my part, and the

curtain must quickly be drawn. Death, the only period of all respects,

doth dispense with a free speech. At a tilting in Iberia, where I was

born, dedicated to the memory of the queen Andromana’s marriage, a

novice in arms, amongst others, I ran in a pastoral show against the

Corinthian knights, whom the success had preferred in the opinion of

the beholders: till the worthily admirable princes, Musidorus and

Pyrocles, drawn forth by the young prince Palladius, brought back the

reputation to our party, and there did such things as might have

honoured Mars, if he had been in any of their places, and made either

of them worthy of his. Thereafter being drawn away from that country

by an accident, the report whereof craves a longer time, and a

stronger breath than the heavens are like to afford me, their glory

tyrannizing over my rest, did kindle such flames in my bosom, that,

burning with a generous ardour, I did resolve leaving my own country,

as too strict a bound for my thoughts, to try my fortune, where I

might either live famous, or die {442} unknown; vowing withal to

travel, till these princes were either the subject or witnesses of my

valour. What passed in my way I pass over: perchance others may

remember. At last, invited by fame, I came to this fatal country, it

the band of my heart was, and now must be of my body: where first

carried with curiosity, the fever of youth, I went to the Arcadian

pastorals for my recreation, but found the ruin of my rest. There,

blinded with beholding, and tormented with delight, my earnest eyes

surfeited on the excellencies of the pattern of perfection, the

quintessence of worth, even the most divinely divine Philoclea. Ah too

adventurous eyes! Neither could this content them, but they would

needs offer up her picture on the altar of my heart; where, by my

thoughts their choice might be allowed, yea, and idolatrously

advanced. For they, scorning the simple rudeness of the eyes, as

easily defrauded of their too forwardly affected object, would

securely entreasure it in a more precious place, by a piercing

apprehension sinking it in the soul for ever. For a time, suffered as

a stranger, and a shepherd, known as you know, by the name of

Philisides, amongst the rest, I had the means to pour forth my plaints

before her, but never to her, and, though overthrown, not rendered, I

had concluded never to have thrown the dice betwixt hope and despair,

so betraying my estate to the tyranny of another’s will. No, I was

resolved she should never know her power in me, till I had known her

mind of me: so that, if she would not raise me, she should not have

means to insult over me. Thus if I had not procured pity, I should not

have exposed myself to disdain.

“In the haughtiness of my heart, thinking nothing impossible, I durst

promise myself, that, my deeds having purchased reputation, with words

worthy of respect, I might venture the process of my affection. In the

meantime I joined joyful with you in this late war now ended: though

professing a general desire of glory, yet for a particular end, and

happy end, since I send for her. But since whilst I lived, I had not

the means, as I wished, to content her. I crave not, by the knowledge

of this, after death to discontent her. It shall satisfy me, that I

die before my hopes; and she cannot grieve for the loss of that which

she never knew to be hers.”

With this, the other sliding apart to bear and bury his sorrow

privately, the black knight, weeping, embraced him in his arms, and

told him what he was, saying, he was glad that his vow was performed;

he being a benefitted witness, not the endangered subject of his

valour. Then contentment, budding forth in his countenance, flourished

in a smile, and having kissed his friends, desiring to live in their

memory, wished them as contented lives, {443} as his was a death. He

died as joyful as he left them sorrowful, who had known him a mirror

of courage and courtesy, of learning and arms; so that it seemed that

Mars had begotten him upon one of the Muses.

Musidorus, exceedingly sorrowful for this irreparable loss, was yet

more sorrowful when he remembered himself to be in danger of a

greater; and recommending the direction of all below to the knight of

the pole, he went himself up to visit his patient, whom he found,

though lying, yet resting; and though not sleeping, yet dreaming. As

soon as he heard Musidorus, starting as one awakened out of a slumber,

he looked on his face, grieved to see the impression of grief in it,

he not knowing the cause, with an inquisitive amazement. But the other

preventing that threatened tempest, did blow away the clouds that were

gathered in his countenance; telling him that he had no interest in

the anguish which then did afflict him. “What,” said Pyrocles, being

passionately moved, “can Musidorus have anything wherein I have no

interest?” “Aye,” said he, “and for the present a greater wonder; my

grief may breed you joy, I having lost a friend, and you a rival.”

Then he began to discourse unto him what was past. And beside that,

which was justly deserved, pity adorning praise and praise augmenting

pity, a generous passion so conquered the unconquerable Pyrocles, that

he lamented him dead, whom he had not known; no, nor would never have

loved alive, and undoubtedly would have wished him no better success

than he had. Yea the very thing which before might have most

discontented him, did then most content him; having his judgment

confirmed by the like, in one of such worth.

After that, laid down in one bed together, friendship making them

free, and solitariness bold, whilst their minds began to be delivered

of all, wherewith they had a long time travelled, a maid came to the

door, sent by the two sisters, to visit Zelmane, who hearing two,

where she expected but one, and the one by the manner of his speech

likely to be a man, did presently return, and reported to the ladies,

who were lying together, that whereof her ears had given her

sufficient assurance. At which news Pamela, burning within, sparkled

forth these words to her sister: “What wonder though strangers ever

wandering, wander from all things. Chiefly those of our sex, who being

born to be bounded within houses, when they cannot be bounded within

kingdoms, how can they be bounded by modesty? Yet, though I hate the

deed, the respect of the doer, but more of us whose company she hath

haunted, left her reproach, by the commentary of fame, be too largely

extended, binds me to conceal her shame, that {444} we blush not at

it. But we must either free ourselves from her, or she herself from

this slander.”

“Oh,” but answered the ever (and now more than ever) mild Philoclea,

“we must not, sister, rashly condemn those whom we have oftentimes

considerately approved, lest the change be in our judgment, and not in

them. No doubt, because of the indisposition of her body, it was

necessary that she should have someone to accompany her; perchance a

woman mistaken, and if a man, who knows for what end? She, who being

sound would acquaint herself with none, in this estate could not be

acquainted with any.”

“It is an easy matter,” replied Pamela, “for one who can deceive to

dissemble; neither is this a new acquaintance. You might have seen her

use that knight who did come in with her, rather kindly than

courteously; a preceding friendship overpassing present respects: for

where a great familiarity is, no ceremonial duty can be observed.”

Then Philoclea, having found her, could hardly restrain the violence

of a just laughter. “As for that which you affirm last,” said she, “I

cannot deny it: no, I dare assure you, and assure yourself I will

assure nothing without assurance, that knight is the man of the world

whom Zelmane most dearly loves, and yet I know, that neither would he

offer nor she suffer her honour to be wronged, as you imagine.” This

last wound was too deep for Pamela to speak after it: so that she,

abandoning her heart to throw itself over the rock of unkindness, in

danger to be drowned with her own tears, was thus prevented by

Philoclea: “Dear sister, and if any word can express more dearness

more dear than that, your using me not only as a sister, but as a

friend in the highest degree of trust, would make me ashamed to

mistrust you, or that you should be beholden to any other than to me

for my secret. So might my strangeness justify your unkindness, though

you should discover and condemn that which I know you will conceal,

perchance approve, and further being by my imparting of it to you,

made of the party, ere the report of others make you a judge; be bold

my tongue: though my cheeks blush, yet they cover you. Be not ashamed,

nay even glory to tell that Zelmane is the prince Pyrocles: he, whom

you have heard so oft, yet ever to his honour named; and, to define

him unto you more particularly, the friend of Musidorus, over whom

with him you are jealous; they lying now in one bed, with no less love

than I told you. Why he goes disguised with others, and why I am plain

with you I need not tell; you may imagine. One God hath metamorphosed

both, the one in a shepherd, the other in a woman; and we only can

restore them to themselves, and themselves to the world, that they may

grace it with the glory of their actions as they were wont to do.”

{445}

Then Philoclea, exchanging estates with her sister, words arrested by

thoughts, she became sad, and the other joyful; who thinking herself

well revenged of the past scorn, and having a sufficient pledge of her

sister’s secrecy, began to complain of their father’s strict using of

them, by surmisings of his own minding to mar their fortunes, so that

where he should rejoice at such an occasion, if coming to the

knowledge thereof, he would not fail to disappoint it, perchance with

the ruin of the princes; which would not only prove a particular loss

for them, but, which she lamented more, a general loss for all the

world; depriving it of these patterns of virtue, who in all their

actions did but point out the height of perfection, and encourage

others to follow their footsteps in the way of worth. Therefore it

behoved them to regard themselves, and seriously to consider a matter

of so great importance. Then, both beginning to muse, night did cast

the nets of sleep over their eyes, yet could not hinder their earnest

thoughts from prosecuting the course of their own fancies: for what

they were thinking when waking, they still dreamed when sleeping.

But ere the morning star began to retire, as giving place to a greater

light, whose coming, it, as a forerunner, had only warned the world to

attend, both awaked complaining of the night’s length, and having with

passionate discourses worn away darkness, as weary of them, they arose

and hastily apparelled themselves, though not in a curious, yet in a

comely manner. Then, with a pretended charity, they would needs go

visit the diseased patient, being themselves impatient. A little

before their coming, Musidorus being gone to give order for the burial

of Philisides, and, at the earnest desire of Pyrocles, of Anaxius,

whose valour now had the full praise, from which his own presumption

had derogated much whilst he lived: as they approached to his chamber

door, they heard Pyrocles preparing his voice for the convoy of a

sadly conceived, and weakly delivered song, which they resolved not to

interrupt, attending the letter which followed.

More dangerous darts than death, love throws I spy,

Who by experience now know both their wounds:

Death pierc’d me all, yet could not make me die:

Love with a thought me in effect confounds.

The power of death, art sometimes may restrain,

Where love, I find, can never physic find:

Death only plagues the body but with pain,

Where love with pleasure doth torment the mind.

Death still to all alike none free doth leave;

Where partial love shafts but at some doth send:

{446}

Death with more mercy kills than love doth save:

Death’s end breeds rest, love never rests to end.

Death doth enlarge, where love imprisons still;

Death forc’d by fates; love willingly doth kill.

As soon as this song was ended, Pamela opened the door, saluting him

still (so to disguise her knowledge) by the name of Zelmane; and asked

in what estate she was with herself, who returned this answer; “How

can I smart having such angels to give me comfort? Or how can I feel

pain in their presence, whose faces are heavens of pleasure?” “Since,”

said Pamela, “being only unfortunate by falling in our company, the

hazard of your life hath procured our liberty, so that accidentally,

though far from our intention, we have been the causes of all your

trouble, how can we think of your pain, but as of our own? Or have any

delight whilst you rest grieved?” “Wonders of worth,” said Zelmane, “I

shall ever, whilst I live, reckon for my highest happiness my being

honoured by your company; and as for my travels in this, they are by

the success abundantly rewarded, since I could aspire to no higher

good than I have compassed, having purchased you any contentment.”

Whilst that passionate Zelmane, with an animated fervency, did

incorporate her hand with Philoclea’s, whose speaking looks, however

some time out of modesty obliquely moving, had a continual revolution

about his face; the black knight’s coming in drew Pamela’s spirits

from her thoughts to her eyes. A gentleman followed him, directed from

Basilius; who after his duty done to the ladies, having shown them

that their father and mother were in good health, invited by their

enquiring attendants, told how the first, whom prodigal fame had

breathed forth with news, hastened by himself, as who carried an

acceptable message in hope of benefit or thanks, certified the king

how the castle was won, and his daughters delivered by the black

knight, who before had put a period to the victories of Amphialus. At

this Pamela looking on Musidorus, blushed; and he, though by no

gesture betraying his joy, rejoiced, not because he heard himself

praised, but because she heard him praised, and that Anaxius in a

single combat was killed by Zelmane, she not long over-living the

victory.

The king hearing this, who of his gracious nature would rather save

one friend than destroy all his enemies, as if the delivery of his

daughters had been a matter of small moment, and a gain too light to

counterpoise so great a loss, did abandon his soul to the tyranny of

sorrow, even more than majesty in a prince, or virtue in affliction,

in the balances of reason, would have allowed of such weight. At this

Zelmane’s smile was accompanied with Philoclea’s. {447} But when he

spoke of Gynecia’s griefs overgrowing the other, they grew pale, being

afraid of the fountain from whence her tears did flow, lest it should

drown them.

But whilst Gynecia (the messenger insisted) as run mad with anguish,

enclosed in a chamber, would suffer none to come unto her; all

wondered that her children being safe, a stranger’s death, or her

husband’s grief, could weaken the known strength of her mind so much.

The next messenger came, being the latter, and thereby the better

informed, who sugared the first news with the assurance of Zelmane’s

safety. Then the queen coming forth as after a great tempest, the sky

of her countenance cleared, looking brighter than before. The king

would have come himself here in person, but he was persuaded to send

Philanax with a number of chosen men, to receive the castle and

ladies; eftsoons being curious to know who cured Zelmane; when it was

told him that the knight who won the castle would trust none with that

save himself, he was sorry that one of his worth should be put to such

trouble, and would needs have an ordinary surgeon sought out to

undertake the charge. “In the meantime the queen came and brought out

of a box a sovereign balm, which she hath sent by me to be applied to

your wounds, fair Zelmane, not doubting but they will quickly become

sound if her direction be observed, which is only that you rest and

keep yourself quiet from company now, and by the way till she herself

may use other remedies. And for this effect she entreats you, miracles

of nature, her daughters, to forbear her company during this time:

that your example, whose authority abused might embolden the

indiscretion of inferiors, may be a law for others: and she assured me

that she would by a secret spy learn how she were obeyed in this. Such

a care hath she of this sweet lady’s health.”

By the end of this commission well did Zelmane and Philoclea know at

whom in particular those general injunctions did only aim. This

enjoined abstinence did give Zelmane a surfeit in sorrow, who had

rather have continued still infirm, than to have recovered by so cruel

a physic. And yet her misery was multiplied when she remembered the

cause, whereof this, in respect of that which she did expect, was a

slender issue, and but a little fury, sent to afflict her out of that

hell of Gynecia’s breast, into whose company she was shortly to enter.

Now the black knight, purposing to depart before Philanax arrived,

brought his companion, the knight of the pole, as a partner of his

victory, to kiss the ladies’ hands extenuating his own part, and

preferring his: Those who have true worth in themselves, can never

envy it in another. Thereafter advising him privately to have their

little company in a readiness, he went with an uncounterfeited {448}

reverence, humbling himself before the idol of his soul, to know her

will: telling her what he had done, being only done for her, he would

attend thanks from no other; neither would he be known till he might

be known for hers: and she, her countenance rather lightening courtesy

than affection, desired him to return to his old master, and he should

be restored to the estate which by his fault he had before justly

forfeited; wishing that he would carry himself more moderately

hereafter, if he would not incur her indignation, and raise all regard

of him out of her memory.

Then Musidorus, as contented as one who had been brought from hell to

heaven, with many vehement attestations to win trust with her, and

imprecations against himself in case of perjury, wished, if ever his

mind were so unhappy as to be surprised by any purpose tending in the

least degree to grieve her, that he might never live till it took

effect, but die ere it were discovered. And like a wary gamester, who

having once advantage is loth to adventure again, willing to seal up

his ears with the acceptable sounds which they had received, he took

leave, leaving his heart with her, and taking hers with him. Then went

he towards Pyrocles, the joy of his heart shining through his face,

and acquainted him with his unwilling absenting himself, referring all

further conference till their meeting at the arbour. And having in a

complimental manner craved, but not desired employment from Philoclea,

in any service after the funerals were performed, he marched with his

troop away, the most part thinking that he went to meet Philanax:

whilst Pamela from a window followed with her eyes, till clouds of

dust did bury their object in the air.

Soon after their departure from the castle, about this time, Philanax

arrived, who, immediately after he had received the castle in the

king’s name, sought for the knight, whose gift, though not given by

him, he esteemed it to be. For he, being generously judicious, thought

it more fit that princes should defray obligations by rewards, every

man being inferior to him to whom he stands indebted, than to be

behind with any by being beholden; and hearing that he was gone by

public enquiry for him, and praises of him, he witnessed to the world

how highly his valour was valued. After he had saluted the princesses,

he visited Zelmane, and told her how careful his master was to have

those wounds cured, which in his service had been procured, that

thereafter he might otherwise express his gratefulness. But Zelmane

affirmed that though that blood which was shed had been followed by

all the rest of her body; with the king’s former courtesies towards

her, the deserving by the recompense was both preceded and exceeded.

Then Philanax, loth to strive with deeds in words, {449} desired her,

if her health might serve, to provide for her removing with the rest

to-morrow, otherwise, that should be done for her which she herself

would direct.

Immediately after his departure Zelmane arose; and having apparelled

herself, began to walk, not so much to try how she might comport with

the intended journey, as that she might pretend any means which might

afford her the satisfaction of Philoclea’s presence; where, violently

carried by her thoughts, she came soon, but not so soon as she wished,

and was wished: where Pamela apart entertaining her thoughts, she thus

entered with Philoclea: “Dear love, Oh in what an ocean of troubles

doth our estate continually float, yet hath never so much as attained

the sight of any secure port. I see that this freedom will but bring

us to a greater bondage: we are led from captivity, only to become

captives. For where before those senseless walls were thought

sufficient to guard us, we shall be watched now by one more jealous

than Juno, with more eyes than ever Argus had. I would willingly

convey you where I might enjoy you, and you a kingdom: but this, my

infirmity first hindered, and the coming of Philanax hath altogether

prevented. In the meantime, till for performing of that, a longed for

occasion come, I must arm myself against your father’s folly, and your

mother’s fury. The one’s might easily be deluded, but the other’s

cannot be resisted, but by a show of yielding, which I must cunningly

counterfeit: and therefore trust no external show; for whoever have my

countenance, you have my heart.” Philoclea’s words were, that she

cared not where she went, so it were with him, nor what she did, so it

were warranted by his direction, as bent rather to burn her breast,

than to let it lodge any thought which durst but doubt of the

sufficiency of his intentions, since whatever circle they made, having

always for their centre the excellency of his own worth. So parting,

as if they had been to go to live in sundry kingdoms; though going to

live in one company, night invited them to repose.

The next morning being saluted by the trumpet’s sounds, and all ready

to remove, they were quickly transported over the lake; and as

quickly, when landed, mounted by the provident care of Philanax, to

finish their journey. But ere they came two or three miles off the

lodges, Basilius met them, who embraced his daughters; not that he

would go first to them, but that he would be last with Zelmane, whom

he had kissed with his eyes, ere his lips were drawn from his

daughters. And as soon as he had shown as much affection, encountering

her, as his state before so many would permit: he said, that

notwithstanding her countenance was the treasure in the world whereof

he was most covetous, {450} yet it grieved him that another should be

so happy as to have procured her liberty rather than himself; and that

it was his purpose, as a private adventurer, to have manifested his

affection, fighting as a knight, not as a king, for her delivery.

Zelmane replying, that it had been against all reason, that so great a

prince, on whom the lives of so many did depend, should have been

hazarded for the life of one whose fall could extend no further than

to her own ruin: “Your ruin,” said he, “I wish that mine were first;

for it could not but follow after. And do not think that the black

knight, or any other durst do more for you than I: yet such is the

miserable estate of us kings, that we cannot prove men, but are

compelled to move in our own sphere.”

The journey’s end cutting off their discourse, Gynecia was waiting on

their alighting, and having first duty--tyrannizing over

affection--carelessly kissed Pamela, disdainfully Philoclea, and

vehemently Zelmane, thereafter enquiring of her wounds, thanks (though

bestowing nothing defraying much) were courteously returned for the

balm which was sent; she protesting that if no other thing could help,

she would pull out her own heart, when Basilius interrupted them,

coming to have lightened his heart, by burdening his body with his

mistress’s alighting.

Dametas came starting and leaping like a giddy kid to meet with

Pamela; and as soon as she was alighted, for the first salutation,

told her how much she was beholden to him, having shown his manhood

and goodwill as much as the best fellow in these bounds could have

done, swearing that he had ventured more for her than he would do for

all the world again, and for his own life too; “Aye,” quoth he, “and

when my man Dorus durst not be seen, who was thought a brave fellow,

yet he feigned a business far from the noise of war, to seek sheep;

but the truth is, to hide himself, whilst my deeds made all our army

laugh for joy: so that during all that time of trouble, which I

tremble yet to think upon, I never heard of him, till even now he sent

me word by a shepherd, whom he met on the way, that he had found the

ewes which had strayed, with great difficulty, and was driving them at

leisure, for fear they should miscarry. But when he comes, I promise I

will make his cowardice be known for leaving me, when I would fain

have left myself for fear.” “O but,” said Pamela, “you must not be

offended, though every man be not so stout as you are; he may be an

evil soldier, but yet a good shepherd: and I hope you keep him that he

may keep sheep, not that he may kill men.” “Now in good faith,” said

he, “I see you are not changed, for you were ever wise, and so you do

continue still. I may well chide the fellow, but I will not beat him.”

{451}

Then all entering the lodge with Basilius, though the supper was

ready, Gynecia would dress Zelmane’s wounds first, and Basilius would

see them dressed; so by his despised importunateness restraining the

torrent of Gynecia’s passions, which would but burst forth more

furiously thereafter. This freeing Zelmane’s ears at that time, was

but a relief to her, as they find who expel poison by counterpoison,

she being as weary of him, as afraid of the other.

Then sitting down to the supper, more curious of a surfeit to their

eyes, than for their sustenance to the rest of the body: the eyes of

Basilius were ever feeding on the face of Zelmane with a fearful

earnestness, save sometimes when they were constrained to retire by

the violence of his wife’s looks, thinking that they with a jealous

anger had upbraided his error, which she, otherwise busied, had never

so much as observed. The one of her eyes was settled like a fixed star

on Zelmane, the other like a wandering comet threatening confusion

where it shined, strayed betwixt Zelmane, and her daughter Philoclea,

watching and chastising with her look her stolen looks. Zelmane’s

languishing lights made the table envied, whilst her dejected looks

did only bless it, as scorning to look on any, since she might not

look where she liked. Philoclea chained by thoughts to Zelmane, did

imitate her being pensive, because she was pensive: yet like a cunning

painter, who having fully fed his eyes with the affected object, turns

back within himself, that his imagination may engrave it the more

exactly within his memory, she would sometimes with a thievishly

adventurous look spy Zelmane’s gesture, that she might the better

counterfeit it in her countenance. As for Pamela, she kept her

accustomed majesty, being absent where she was, and present where she

was not. Then, the supper being ended, after some ambiguous speeches,

which might, for fear of being mistaken, be taken in two senses, or

else were altogether estranged from the speaker’s mind; speaking as in

a dream, not what they thought, but what they would be thought to

think: everyone retired to the lodge where they had used afore to lie;

Basilius having first invited them the next morning to see a pastoral

represented by the ordinary shepherds, to congratulate their

prosperous return.

* * *[b3-09]

{452}

After that Basilius, according to the oracle’s promise, had received

home his daughters, and settled himself again in his solitary course

and accustomed company, there passed not many days ere the now fully

recomforted Dorus, having waited a time of Zelmane’s walking alone

towards her little arbour took leave of his master Dametas’s husbandry

to follow her. Near whereunto overtaking her, and sitting down

together among the sweet flowers, whereof that place was very

plentiful, under the pleasant shade of a broad leaved sycamore, they

recounted one to another their strange pilgrimage of passions,

omitting nothing which open hearted friendship is wont to lay forth,

where there is cause to communicate both joys and sorrows, for indeed

there is no sweeter taste of friendship than the coupling of souls in

this mutuality, either of condoling or comforting; where the oppressed

mind finds itself not altogether miserable, since it is sure of one

which is feelingly sorry for his misery: and the joyful spends not his

joy, either alone, or there where it may be envied; but may freely

send it to such a well-grounded object, from whence he shall be sure

to receive a sweet reflection of the same joy, and, as in a clear

mirror of sincere goodwill, see a lively picture of his own gladness.

But after much discourse on either part, Dorus, his heart scarce

serving him to come to the point whereunto his then coming had been

wholly directed, as loth in the kindest sort to discover to his friend

his own unkindness, at length, one word emboldening another, made

known to Zelmane, how Pamela upon his vehement oath to offer no force

unto her, till he had invested her in the duchy of Thessalia, had

condescended to his stealing her away to the next seaport. That

besides the strange humours she saw her father more and more falling

into, and unreasonable restraint of her liberty, whereof she knew no

cause but light-grounded jealousies, added to the hate of that manner

of life, and confidence she had in his virtue, the chiefest reason had

won her to this was the late danger she stood in of losing him, the

like whereof, not unlike to fall if this course were continued, she

chose rather to die than again to undergo. That now they waited for

nothing else but some fit time for their escape, by the absence of

their three loathsome companions, in whom folly engendered suspicion.

“And therefore now,” said Dorus, “my dear cousin, to whom nature began

my friendship, education confirmed it, and virtue hath made it

eternal; here have I discovered the very foundation whereupon my life

is built: be you the judge betwixt me and my fortune. The violence of

love is not unknown to you, and I know my case shall never want pity

in your consideration. How all the joys of my heart do leave me, in

thinking I must for a time be absent from you, the eternal truth is

witness unto me, I know I {453} should not so sensibly feel the pangs

of my last departure. But this enchantment of my restless desire hath

such authority in myself above myself, that I am become a slave unto

it, I have no more freedom in mine own determination. My thoughts are

now all bent how to carry away my burdenous bliss. Yet, most beloved

cousin, rather than you should think I do herein violate that holy

band of true friendship wherein I unworthy am knit unto you, command

me stay. Perchance the force of your commandment may work such

impression into my heart that no reason of mine own can imprint into

it. For the gods forbid, the foul word of abandoning Pyrocles might

ever be objected to the faithful Musidorus. But if you can spare my

presence, whose presence no way serves you, and by the division of

those two lodges is not oft with you: nay, if you can think my absence

may, as it shall, stand you in stead, by bringing such an army hither,

as shall make Basilius, willing or unwilling, to know his own hap, in

granting you Philoclea, then I will cheerfully go about this my most

desired enterprise, and shall think the better half of it already

achieved, being begun in the fortunate hour of my friend’s

contentment.”

These words, as they were not knit together with such a constant

course of flowing eloquence as Dorus was wont to use, so was his voice

interrupted with sighs, and his countenance with interchanging colour

dismayed. So much his own heart did find him faulty to unbend any way

the continual use of their dear friendship. But Zelmane, who had all

this while gladly hearkened to the other tidings of their friends

happy success, when this last determination of Dorus struck her

attentive ears, she stayed a great while oppressed with a dead

amazement. There came straight before her mind, made tender with woes,

the images of her own fortune, her tedious longings, her causes to

despair, the cumbersome folly of Basilius, the enraged jealousy of

Gynecia, herself a prince without retinue; a man annoyed with the

troubles of womankind, loathsomely loved, and dangerously loving. And

now for the perfecting of all, her friend to be taken away by himself,

to make the loss the greater by the unkindness. But within a while she

resolutely passed over all inward objections; and preferring her

friend’s profit to her own desire, with a quiet, but heavy look, she

thus answered him: “If I bear thee this love, virtuous Musidorus, for

mine own sake, and that our friendship grew, because I, for my part,

might rejoice to enjoy such a friend, I should now so thoroughly feel

my own loss, that I should call the heavens and earth to witness how

cruelly you rob me of my greatest comfort, measuring the breach of

friendship by mine own passion. But because indeed I love thee for

thyself, and in my judgment judge of thy worthiness to be loved, I am

content to {454} build my pleasure upon thy comfort, and then will I

deem my hap in friendship great when I shall see thee, whom I love,

happy. Let me be only sure thou lovest me still, the only price of

true affection: go therefore on, worthy Musidorus, with the guide of

virtue and service of fortune. Let thy love be loved, thy desires

prosperous, thy escape safe, and thy journey easy. Let everything

yield his help to thy desert, for my part absence shall not take thee

from mine eyes, nor affliction shall bar me from gladding in thy good,

nor a possessed heart shall keep thee from the place it hath for ever

allotted unto thee.”

Dorus would fain have replied again, to have made a liberal confession

that Zelmane had of her side the advantage of well-performing

friendship: but partly his own grief of parting from one he loved so

dearly, partly the kind care in what state she should leave Zelmane,

bred such a conflict in his mind, that many times he wished he had

either never attempted, or never revealed his secret enterprise. But

Zelmane, who had now looked to the utmost of it, and established her

mind upon an assured determination: “My only friend,” said she, “since

to so good towardness your courteous destinies have conducted you, let

not a ceremonial consideration of our mutual love be a bar unto it. I

joy in your presence, but I joy more in your good: that friendship

brings forth the fruits of enmity which prefers his own tenderness

before his friend’s damage. For my part, my greatest grief herein

shall be, I can be no further serviceable unto you.” “O Zelmane,” said

Dorus, with his eyes even covered with water, “I did not think so soon

to have displayed my determination unto you, but to have made my way

first in your loving judgment. But alas! as your sweet disposition

drew me so far, so doth it now strengthen me in it. To you therefore

be the due commendation given; who can conquer me in love, and love in

wisdom. As for me, then shall goodness turn to evil, and

ungratefulness be the token of a true heart, when Pyrocles shall not

possess a principal seat in my soul, when the name of Pyrocles shall

not be held of me in devout reverence.”

They would never have come to the cruel instant of parting, nor to the

ill-faring word of farewell, had not Zelmane seen afar off the old

Basilius, who having performed a sacrifice to Apollo, for his

daughters’, but principally for his mistress’s happy return, had since

been everywhere to seek her. And now being come within compass of

discerning her, he began to frame the loveliest countenance he could,

stroking up his legs, setting his beard in due order, and standing

bolt upright. “Alas!” said Zelmane, “behold an evil fore-token of your

sorrowful departure. Yonder see I one of my furies, which doth daily

vex me, farewell, farewell {455} my Musidorus, the gods make fortune

to wait on thy virtues, and make me wade through this lake of

wretchedness.” Dorus burst out into a flood of tears, wringing her

fast by the hand. “No, no,” said he, “I go blindfold whither the

course of my ill hap carries me: for now, too late, my heart gives me

this our separating can never be prosperous. But if I live, attend me

here shortly with an army.” Thus both apparelled with the grievous

renting of their first combination, having first resolved with

themselves that whatsoever fell upon them, they should never upon any

occasion utter their names, for the conserving the honour of their

royal parentage, but keep the names of Daiphantus and Palladius, as

before had been agreed between them, they took divers ways: Dorus to

the lodge-ward, where his heavy eyes might be something refreshed;

Zelmane towards Basilius, saying to herself, with a scornful smiling,

“Yet hath not my friendly fortune deprived me of a pleasant

companion.” But he, having with much search come to her presence,

doubt and desire bred a great quarrel in his mind. For his former

experience had taught him to doubt; and true feeling of love made

doubts dangerous, but the working of his desire had ere long won the

field. And therefore, with the most submissive manner his behaviour

could yield, “O goddess,” said he, “towards whom I have the greatest

feeling of religion, be not displeased at some show of devotion I have

made to Apollo, since he, if he knew anything, knows that my heart

bears far more awful reverence to yourself, than to his, or any other

the like deity.” “You will ever be deceived in me,” answered Zelmane;

“I will make myself no competitor with Apollo, neither can blasphemies

to him be duties to me.” With that Basilius took out of his bosom

certain verses he had written, and kneeling down, presented them to

her. They contained this:

Phoebus, farewell, a sweeter saint I serve,

The high conceits, thy heav’nly wisdom’s breed,

My thoughts forget: my thoughts which never swerve

From her in whom is sown their freedom’s seed,

And in whose eyes my daily doom I read.

Phoebus, farewell, a sweeter saint I serve,

Thou art far off, thy kingdom is above;

She heav’n on earth with beauties doth preserve,

Thy beams I like, but her clear rays I love:

Thy force I fear, her force I still do prove.

Phoebus yield up thy title in my mind;

She doth possess, thy image is defac’d,

But if thy rage some brave revenge will find,

On her, who hath in me thy temple raz’d,

Employ thy might, that she my fires may taste,

And how much more her worth surmounteth thee,

Make her as much more base by loving me.

{456}

“This is my hymn to you,” said he, “not left me by my ancestors, but

begun in myself. The temple wherein it is daily sung is my soul; and

the sacrifice I offer to you withal is all whatsoever I am.” Zelmane,

who ever thought she found in his speeches the ill taste of a

medicine, and the operation of a poison, would have suffered a

disdainful look to have been the only witness of her good acceptation

but that Basilius began afresh to lay before her many pitiful prayers

and in the end to conclude that he was fully of opinion it was only

the unfortunateness of that place that hindered the prosperous course

of his desires. And therefore since the hateful influence, which made

him embrace this solitary life was now passed over him, as he doubted

not the judgment of Philanax would agree with his, and his late

mishaps had taught him how perilous it was to commit a prince’s state

to a place so weakly guarded, he was now inclined to return to his

palace in Mantinea, and there he hoped he should be better able to

show how much he desired to make all he had hers: with many other such

honey words, which my pen grows almost weary to set down. This indeed

nearly pierced Zelmane: for the good beginning she had obtained of

Philoclea made her desire to continue the same trade, till the more

perfecting of her desires; and to come to any public place she did

deadly fear, lest her mask by many eyes might the sooner be

discovered, and so her hopes stopped, and the state of her joys

endangered. Therefore a while she rested, musing at the daily changing

labyrinth of her own fortune, but in herself determined it was her

only best to keep him there, and with favours to make him love the

place where the favours were received, as disgraces had made him apt

to change the soil.

Therefore, casting a kind of corner-look upon him, “It is truly said,”

said she, “that age cooleth the blood. How soon, good man, you are

terrified before you receive any hurt? Do you not know that daintiness

is kindly unto us? And that hard obtaining, is the excuse of woman’s

granting? Yet speak I not as though you were like to obtain, or I to

grant. But because I would not have you imagine I am to be won by

courtly vanities, or esteem a man the more because he hath handsome

men to wait on him, when he is afraid to live without them.” You might

have seen Basilius humbly swell, and, with a lowly look, stand upon

his tiptoes; such diversity her words delivered unto him. “O

Hercules,” answered he, “Basilius afraid? Or his blood cold that boils

in such a furnace? Care I who is with me while I enjoy your presence?

Or is any place good or bad to me, but as it pleaseth you to bless or

curse it? O let me be but armed in your good grace, and I defy

whatsoever there is or can be against me. No, no, your love is

forcible, and my age is not without vigour.”

{457}

Zelmane thought it not good for his stomach to receive a surfeit of

too much favour, and therefore thinking he had enough for the time to

keep him from any sudden removing, with a certain gracious bowing down

of her head towards him, she turned away, saying she would leave him

at this time to see how temperately he could use so bountiful a

measure of her kindness. Basilius, that thought every drop a flood

that bred any refreshment, durst not further press her, but with

ancient modesty left her to the sweet repast of her own fancies.

Zelmane, as soon as he was departed, went toward Pamela’s lodge in

hope to have seen her friend Dorus, to have pleased herself with

another painful farewell, and further to have taken some advice with

him touching her own estate, whereof before sorrow had not suffered

her to think. But being come even near the lodge, she saw the mouth of

a cave, made as it should seem by nature in despite of art, so fitly

did the rich growing marble serve to beautify the vault of the first

entry. Under foot the ground seemed mineral, yielding such a

glistering show of gold in it as they say the river Tagus carries in

his sandy bed. The cave framed out into many goodly spacious rooms,

such as self-liking men have with long and learned delicacy found out

the most easeful: there ran through it a little sweet river, which had

left the face of the earth to drown herself for a small way in this

dark but pleasant mansion. The very first show of the place enticed

the melancholy mind of Zelmane, to yield herself over there to the

flood of her own thoughts. And therefore, sitting down in the first

entry of the cave’s mouth, with a song she had lately made, she gave a

doleful way to her bitter affects, and sung to this effect:

Since that the stormy rage of passions dark

(Of passions dark, made dark by beauty’s light)

With rebel force, hath clos’d in dungeon dark

My mind, ere now led forth by reason’s light.

Since all the things which give mine eyes their light.

Do foster still the fruits of fancies dark:

So that the windows of my inward light

Do serve to make my inward powers dark.

Since, as I say, both mind and senses dark

Are hurt, not help’d, with piercing of the light:

While that the light may show the horrors dark,

But cannot make resolved darkness light:

I like this place, where at the least the dark

May keep my thoughts from thought of wonted light.

{458}

Instead of an instrument, her song was accompanied with the wringing

of her hands, the closing of her weary eyes, and even sometimes cut

off with the swelling of her sighs, which did not suffer the voice to

have his free and native passage. But, as she was a while musing upon

her song, raising up her spirits, which were something fallen into the

weakness of lamentation, considering solitary complaints do no good to

him whose help stands without himself, she might afar off first hear a

whispering sound, which seemed to come from the inmost part of the

cave, and being kept together with the close hollowness of the place,

had, as in a trunk, the more liberal access to her ears, and by and by

she might perceive the same voice deliver itself into musical tunes,

and with a base Lyra give forth this song:

Hark, plaintful ghosts, infernal furies, hark

Unto my woes the hateful heavens do send,

The heavens conspir’d to make my vital spark

A wretched wreck, a glass of ruin’s end.

Seeing, alas, so mighty powers bend

Their ireful shot against so weak a mark,

Come cave, become my grave, come death, and lend

Receipt to me, within thy bosom dark.

For what is life to daily dying mind,

Where, drawing breath, I suck the air of woe:

Where too-much sight makes all the body blind,

And highest thoughts downward most headlong throw?

Thus then my form, and thus my state I find,

Death wrapp’d in flesh, to living grave assign’d.

And pausing but a little, with mournful melody it continued this

octave:

Like those sick folks in whom strange humours flow,

Can taste no sweets, the sower only please,

So to my mind, while passions daily grow,

Whose fiery chains, upon his freedom seize;

Joys strangers seem, I cannot bide their show,

Nor brook aught else but well-acquainted woe.

Bitter griefs taste best, pain is my ease,

Sick to the death, still loving my disease.

“O Venus,” said Zelmane, “who is this so well acquainted with me, that

can make so lively a portraiture of my miseries? It is surely the

spirit appointed to have care of me, which doth now, in this dark

place, bear part with the complaint of his unhappy charge. For if it

be so, that the heavens have at all times a measure of their wrathful

harms, surely so many have come to my {459} blissless lot that the

rest of the world hath too small a portion to make with cause so

wailful a lamentation. But,” said she, “whatsoever thou be, I will

seek thee out, for thy music well assures me we are at least-hand

fellow-prentices to one ungracious master.” So rose she and went,

guiding herself by the still plaining voice, till she saw upon a stone

a little wax-light set, and under it a piece of paper, with these

verses very lately, as it should seem, written in it:

How is my sun, whose beams are shining bright,

Become the cause of my dark ugly night?

Or how do I, captiv’d in this dark plight,

Bewail the case, and in the cause delight?

My mangled mind huge horrors still do fright,

With sense possessed, and claim’d by reason’s right:

Betwixt which two in me I have this fight:

Where who so wins, I put myself to flight.

Come cloudy fears, close up my dazzled sight,

Sorrows suck up the marrow of my might,

Due sighs blow out all sparks of joyful light,

Tire on despair upon my tired spright.

An end, an end, my dull’d pen cannot write,

Nor maz’d head think, nor falt’ring tongue recite.

And hard underneath the sonnet were these words written:

This cave is dark, but it had never light.

This wax doth waste itself, yet painless dies.

These words are full of woes, yet feel they none.

I darkened am, who once had clearest sight.

I waste my heart, which still new torments tries.

I plain with cause, my woes are all mine own.

No Cave, no wasting wax, no words of grief,

Can hold, show, tell my pains without relief.

She did not long stay to read the words, for not far off from the

stone she might discern in a dark corner, a lady lying with her face

so prostrate upon the ground that she could neither know nor be known.

But, as the general nature of man is desirous of knowledge, and sorrow

especially glad to find fellows, she went, as softly as she could

convey her feet, near unto her, where she heard these words come with

vehement sobbings from her. “O darkness,” said she, “which dost

lightsomely, methinks, make me see the picture of my inward darkness:

since I have chosen thee to be {460} the secret witness of my sorrows,

let me receive a false receipt in thee; and esteem them not tedious,

but, if it be possible, let the uttering them be some discharge to my

over-laden breast. Alas! sorrow, now thou hast the full sack of my

conquered spirits, rest thyself awhile, and set not still new fire to

thy own spoils: O accursed reason, how many eyes thou hast to see thy

evils, and how dim, nay blind thou art in perceiving them? Forlorn

creature that I am! I would I might be freely wicked, since wickedness

doth prevail: but the footsteps of my overtrodden virtue lie still as

bitter accusations against me. I am divided in myself, how can I

stand? I am overthrown in myself, who shall raise me? Vice is but a

nurse of new agonies, and the virtue I am divorced from, makes the

hateful comparison the more manifest. No, no, virtue, either I never

had but a shadow of thee, or thou thyself are but a shadow. For how is

my soul abandoned? How are all my powers laid waste? My desire is

pained because it cannot hope, and if hope came, his best should be

but mischief. O strange mixture of human minds; only so much good

left, as to make us languish in our own evils. Ye infernal furies, for

it is too late for me to awake my dead virtue, or to place my comfort

in the angry gods, ye infernal furies, I say, aid one that dedicates

herself unto you; let my rage be satisfied, since the effect of it is

fit for your service. Neither be afraid to make me too happy, since

nothing can come to appease the smart of my guilty conscience, I

desire but to assuage the sweltering of my hellish longing dejected

Gynecia.”

Zelmane no sooner heard the name of Gynecia, but that, with a cold

sweat all over her, as if she had been ready to tread upon a deadly

stinging adder, she would have withdrawn herself, but her own passion

made her yield more unquiet motions than she had done in coming. So

that she was perceived, and Gynecia suddenly risen up, for indeed it

was Gynecia, gotten into the cave, the same cave wherein Dametas had

safely kept Pamela in the late uproar, to pass her pangs, with change

of places. And as her mind ran still upon Zelmane, her piercing

lover’s eye had soon found it was she. And seeing in her countenance

to fly away, she fell down at her feet, and catching fast hold of her:

“Alas!” said she, “whither, or from whom dost thou fly away? The

savagest beasts are won with service, and there is no flint but may be

mollified: how is Gynecia so unworthy in thine eyes? or whom cannot

abundance of love make worthy? O think not that cruelty, or

ungratefulness can flow from a good mind! O weigh, alas! weigh with

thyself the new effects of this mighty passion, that I, unfit for my

estate, uncomely for my sex, must become a suppliant at thy feet! By

the happy woman that bare thee, by all the joys of thy {461} heart,

and success of thy desire, I beseech thee turn thyself to some

consideration of me, and rather show pity in now helping me, than in

too late repenting my death, which hourly threatens me.” Zelmane

imputing it to one of her continual mishaps, thus to have met with

this lady, with a full weary countenance; “Without doubt, Madam,” said

she, “where the desire is such as may be obtained, and the party well

deserving as yourself, it must be a great excuse that may well colour

a denial: but when the first motion carries with it a direct

impossibility, then must the only answer be, comfort without help, and

sorrow to both parties; to you not obtaining, to me not able to

grant.” “O,” said Gynecia, “how good leisure you have to frame these

scornful answers? Is Gynecia thus to be despised? Am I so vile a worm

in your sight? No, no, trust to it hard-hearted tiger, I will not be

the only actor of this tragedy: since I must fall, I will press down

some others with my ruins; since I must burn, my spiteful neighbours

shall feel my fire. Dost thou not perceive that my diligent eyes have

pierced through the cloudy mask of thy disguisement? Have I not told

thee, O fool (if I were not much more fool) that I knew thou wouldst

abuse us with thy outward show? wilt thou still attend the rage of

love in a woman’s heart? The girl, thy well-chosen mistress, perchance

shall defend thee when Basilius shall know how thou hast sotted his

mind with falsehood, and falsely sought the dishonour of his house.

Believe it, believe it, unkind creature, I will end my miseries with a

notable example of revenge, and that accursed cradle of mine shall

feel the smart of my wound, thou of thy tyranny, and lastly (I

confess) myself of mine own work.”

Zelmane that had long before doubted herself to be discovered by her,

and now plainly finding it was, as the proverb saith, like them that

hold the wolf by the ears, bitten while they hold, and slain if they

loose. If she held her off in these wonted terms, she saw rage would

make her love work the effects of hate; to grant unto her, her heart

was so bound upon Philoclea, it had been worse than a thousand deaths.

Yet found she it was necessary for her to come to a resolution, for

Gynecia’s sore could bide no leisure, and once discovered, besides the

danger of Philoclea, her desires should be for ever utterly stopped.

She remembered withal the words of Basilius, how apt he was to leave

this life, and return to his court, a great bar to her hopes. Lastly,

she considered Dorus’s enterprise might bring some strange alteration

of this their well-liked fellowship. So that encompassed with these

instant difficulties, she bent her spirits to think of a remedy, which

might at once both save her from them, and serve her to the

accomplishment of her only pursuit. Lastly, she {462} determined thus,

that there was no way but to yield to the violence of their desires,

since striving did the more chafe them. And that following their own

current, at length of itself it would bring her to the other side of

her burning desires.

Now in the meanwhile, the divided Dorus, long divided between love and

friendship, and now for his love divided from his friend, though

indeed without prejudice of friendship’s loyalty, which doth never bar

the mind from his free satisfaction: yet still a cruel judge over

himself, thought he was some ways faulty, and applied his mind how to

amend it with a speedy and behoveful return. But then was his first

study, how to get away, whereto already he had Pamela’s consent

confirmed and concluded under the name of Mopsa in her own presence:

Dorus taking this way, that whatsoever he would have of Pamela he

would ask her, whether in such a case it were not best for Mopsa so to

behave herself, in that sort making Mopsa’s envy an instrument of that

she did envy. So having passed over his first and most feared

difficulty, he busied his spirits how to come to the harvest of his

desires, whereof he had so fair a show. And thereunto (having gotten

leave for some days of his master Dametas, who now accounted him as

his son-in-law) he roamed round about the desert, to find some unknown

way that might bring him to the next seaport, as much as might be out

of all course of other passengers: which all very well succeeding him,

and he having hired a barque for his life’s traffic, and provided

horses to carry her thither, returned homeward, now come to the last

point of his care, how to go beyond the loathsome watchfulness of

these three uncomely companions, and therein did wisely consider how

they were to be taken with whom he was to deal, remembering that in

the particularities of everybody’s mind and fortune, there are

particular advantages, by which they are to be held. The muddy mind of

Dametas he found most easily stirred with covetousness. The cursed

mischievous heart of Miso, most apt to be tickled with jealousy, as

whose rotten brain could think well of nobody. But young mistress

Mopsa, who could open her eyes upon nothing that did not all to

be-wonder her, he thought curiosity the fittest bait for her. And

first for Dametas, Dorus having employed a whole day’s work, about a

ten mile off from the lodge, quite contrary way to that he meant to

take with Pamela, in digging and opening the ground under an ancient

oak that stood there, in such sort as he might longest hold Dametas’s

greedy hopes in some show of comfort, he came to his master with a

countenance mixed between cheerfulness and haste, and taking him by

the right hand, as if he had a great matter of secrecy to reveal unto

him: “Master,” said he, “I did never think that the gods had appointed

my mind freely brought up to have so {463} longing a desire to serve

you, but that they minded thereby to bring some extraordinary fruit to

one so beloved of them as your honesty makes me think you are. This

binds me even in conscience to disclose that which I persuade myself

is allotted unto you, that your fortune may be of equal balance with

your deserts.” He said no further, because he would let Dametas play

upon the bit a while, who not understanding what his words intended,

yet well finding they carried no evil news, was so much the more

desirous to know the matter, as he had free scope to imagine what

measure of good hap himself would. Therefore putting off his cap to

him, which he never had done before, and assuring him he should have

Mopsa, though she had been all made of cloth of gold, he besought

Dorus not to hold him long in hope, for that he found a thing his

heart was not able to bear. “Master,” answered Dorus, “you have so

satisfied me with promising me the utmost of my desired bliss, that if

my duty bound me not, I were in it sufficiently rewarded. To you

therefore shall my good hap be converted, and the fruit of my labour

dedicated.” Therewith he told him, how under an ancient oak (the place

he made him easily understand by sufficient marks he gave to him) he

had found digging but a little depth, scatteringly lying a great

number of rich medals, and that, piercing further into the ground he

had met with a great stone, which, by the hollow sound it yielded,

seemed to be the cover of some greater vault, and upon it a box of

cypress, with the name of the valiant Aristomenes, graven upon it: and

that within the box he found certain verses, which signified that some

depth again under that all his treasures lay hidden, what time for the

discord fell out in Arcadia, he lived banished. Therewith he gave

Dametas certain medals of gold he had long kept about him, and asked

him, because it was a thing much to be kept secret, and a matter one

man in twenty hours might easily perform, whether he would have him go

and seek the bottom of it, which he refrained to do till he knew his

mind, promising he would faithfully bring him what he found, or else

that he himself would do it, and be the first beholder of that

comfortable spectacle; no man need doubt which part Dametas would

choose, whose fancy had already devoured all this great riches, and

even now began to grudge at a partner, before he saw his own share.

Therefore taking a strong jade, laden with spades and mattocks, which

he meant to bring back otherwise laden, he went in all speed

thitherward, taking leave of nobody, only desiring Dorus he would look

well to the princess Pamela, promising him mountains of his own

labour, which nevertheless he little meant to perform, like a fool,

not considering, that no man is to be moved with part, that neglects

the whole. Thus away went Dametas, {464} having already made an image

in his fancy, what palaces he would build, how sumptuously he would

fare, and among all other things imagined what money to employ in

making coffers to keep his money; his ten miles seemed twice so many

leagues, and yet contrary to the nature of it, though it seemed long,

it was not wearisome. Many times he cursed his horse’s want of

consideration, that in so important a matter would make no greater

speed: many times he wished himself the back of an ass to help to

carry away the new sought riches (an unfortunate wisher, for if he had

as well wished the head, it had been granted him). At length being

come to the tree, which he hoped should bear so golden acorns, down

went all his instruments, and forthwith to the renting up of the

hurtless earth, where by and by he was caught with the lime of a few

promised medals, which was so perfect a pawn unto him of his further

expectation that he deemed a great number of hours well employed in

groping further into it, which with logs and great stones was made as

cumbersome as might be, till at length, with sweaty brow, he came to

the great stone. A stone, God knows, full unlike to the cover of a

monument, but yet there was the cypress box with “Aristomenes” graven

upon it, and these verses written in it.

A banish’d man, long barr’d from his desire

By inward lets, of them his state possessed,

Hid here his hopes, by which he might aspire

To have his harms with wisdom’s help redressed.

Seek then and see what man esteemeth best,

All is but this, this is our labour’s hire:

Of this we live, in this we find our rest;

Who holds this fast no greater wealth require,

Look further then, so shalt thou find at least,

A bait most fit for hungry minded guest.

He opened the box, and to his great comfort read them, and with fresh

courage went about to lift up that stone. But in the meantime, ere

Dametas was half-a-mile gone to the treasure-ward, Dorus came to Miso,

whom he found sitting in the chimney’s end, babbling to herself, and

showing by all her gestures that she was loathsomely weary of the

world, not for any hope of a better life, but finding no one good,

neither in mind nor body, whereout she might nourish a quiet thought,

having long since hated each thing else, began now to hate herself.

Before this sweet humoured dame Dorus set himself, and framed towards

her such a smiling countenance, as might seem to be mixed between a

tickled mirth and a forced pity. Miso, to whom cheerfulness in others

was ever a sauce of envy in herself, took quickly mark of his

behaviour, {465} and with a look full of forworn spite: “Now the

devil,” said she, “take these villains that can never leave grinning,

because I am not so fair as mistress Mopsa, to see how this skipjack

looks at me.” Dorus, that had the occasion he desired, “Truly

mistress,” answered he, “my smiling is not at you, but at them that

are from you, and indeed I must needs a little accord my countenance

with others’ sport.” And therewithal took her in his arms, and rocking

her to and fro, “In faith mistress,” said he, “it is high time for you

to bid us good night for ever, since others can possess your place in

your own time.” Miso, that was never void of malice enough to suspect

the uttermost evil, to satisfy a further shrewdness, took on a present

mildness, and gently desired him to tell her what he meant; “For,”

said she, “I am like enough to be knavishly dealt with by that churl

my husband.” Dorus fell off from the matter again, as if he had meant

no such thing, till by much refusing her entreaty, and vehemently

stirring up her desire to know, he had strengthened a credit in her to

that he should say. And then with a formal countenance, as if the

conscience of the case had touched himself. “Mistress,” said he, “I am

much perplexed in mine own determination, for my thoughts do ever will

me to do honestly, but my judgment fails me what is honest, betwixt

the general rule, that entrusted secrecies are holily to be deserved,

and the particular exception, that the dishonest secrecies are to be

revealed; especially there, where by revealing they may either be

prevented, or at least amended. Yet in this balance your judgment

weighs me down, because I have confidence in it, that you will use

what you know moderately, and rather take such faults as advantage to

your own good desert, than by your bitter using it be contented to be

revenged on others with your own harms. So it is, mistress,” said he,

“that yesterday driving my sheep up to the stately hill which lifts

his head over the fair city of Mantinea, I happened upon the side of

it, in a little falling of the ground, which was a rampier against the

sun’s rage, to perceive a young maid, truly of the finest stamp of

beauty; and that which made her beauty the more admirable, there was

at all no art added to the helping of it: for her apparel was but such

as shepherds’ daughters are wont to wear; and as for her hair, it hung

down at free liberty of his goodly length, but that sometimes falling

before the clear stars of her sight, she was forced to put it behind

her ears, and so open again the treasures of her perfection, which

that for a while had in part hidden. In her lap there lay a shepherd

so wrapped up in that well-liked place, that I could discern no piece

of his face, but as mine eyes were intent in that, her angel-like

voice struck mine ears with this song.

{466}

My true love hath my heart, and I have his,

By just exchange, one for the other giv’n:

I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;

There never was a bargain better driv’n.

His heart in me, keeps me and him in one,

My heart in him, his thoughts and senses guide:

He loves my heart, for once it was his own,

I cherish his, because in me it bides.

His heart his wound received from my sight:

My heart was wounded with his wounded heart,

For as from me, on him his hurt did light;

So still me thought in me his heart did smart:

Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,

My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

“But as if the shepherd that lay before her had been organs, which

were only to be blown by her breath, she had no sooner ended with the

joining her sweet lips together, but that he recorded to her music

this rural poesy.

O words which fall like summer dew on me,

O breath more sweet, than is the growing bean;

O tongue in which all honeyed liquors be,

O voice that doth the thrush in shrillness strain;

Do you say still, this is her promise due,

That she is mine, as I to her am true.

Gay hair, more gay than straw when harvest lies,

Lips red and plump, as cherry’s ruddy side,

Eyes fair and great like fair great ox’s eyes;

O breast in which two white sheep swell in pride:

Join you with me, to seal this promise due,

That she be mine, as I to her am true.

But thou white skin, as white as curds well pressed,

So smooth as sleek stone, like it smooths each part:

And thou dear flesh, as soft as wool new dressed,

And yet as hard as brawn, made hard by art:

First four but say, next four their saying seal,

But you must pay the gage of promis’d weal.

“And with the conclusion of his song he embraced her about the knees.

‘O sweet Charita,’ said he, ‘when shall I enjoy the rest of my toiling

thoughts; and when shall your blissful promise, now due, be verified

with just performance?’ With that I drew nearer to them and saw, for

now he had lifted up his face {467} to glass himself in her fair eyes,

that it was my master Dametas”; but here Miso interrupted his tale

with railing at Dametas, with all those exquisite terms, which I was

never good scold enough to imagine. But Dorus, as if he had been much

offended with her impatiency, would proceed no further till she had

vowed more stillness: “For,” said he, “if the first drum thus chafe

you, what will you be when it comes to the blows.” Then he told her,

how after many familiar entertainments betwixt them, Dametas, laying

before her his great credit with the king, and withal giving her very

fair presents, with promise of much more, had at length concluded

together to meet that night at Mantinea in the Oudemian Street, at

Charita’s uncle’s house, about ten of the clock. After which bargain

Dametas had spied Dorus, and, calling him to him, had with great

bravery told him all his good hap, willing him in any case to return

to the old witch Miso; “for so indeed, mistress of liveliness, and not

of ill-will, he termed you, and to make some honest excuse of his

absence. ‘For,’ said he, kissing Charita, ‘if thou didst know what a

life I lead with that drivel, it would make thee even of pity receive

me into thy only comfort.’ ‘Now mistress,’ said he, ‘exercise your

discretion, which if I were well assured of, I would wish you to go

yourself to Mantinea, and (lying secret in some one of your gossip’s

houses till the time appointed come) so may you find them together,

and using mercy reform my master from his evil ways.’”

There had nothing more enraged Miso than the praises Dorus gave to

Charita’s beauty, which made her jealousy swell the more with the

poison of envy. And that being increased with the presents she heard

Dametas had given her, which all seemed torn out of her bowels, her

hollow eyes yielded such wretched looks, as one might well think Pluto

at that time might have had her soul, very good, cheap. But when the

fire of spite had fully caught hold of all her inward parts, then

whosoever would have seen the picture of Alecto, or with what manner

of countenance Medea killed her own children, needed but take Miso for

the full satisfaction of that point of his knowledge. She that could

before scarce go but supported by crutches, now flew about the house,

borne up by the wings of anger; there was no one sort of mortal

revenge that had ever come to her ears, but presented itself now to

her gentle mind. At length with few words, for her words were choked

up with the rising of her revengeful heart, she ran down, and with her

own hands saddled a mare of hers; a mare that seven years before had

not been acquainted with the saddle, and so to Mantinea she went,

casting with herself how she might couple shame with the punishment of

her accursed husband: but the person is not worthy in whose passion I

should too long stand.

{468}

Therefore now must I tell you that mistress Mopsa, who was the last

party Dorus was to practice his cunning withal, was at the parting of

her parents attending upon the princess Pamela, whom, because she

found to be placed in her father’s house, she knew it was for

suspicion the king had of her. This made Mopsa with a right base

nature, which joys to see any hard hap happen to them they deem happy,

grow proud over her, and use great ostentation of her own diligence,

in prying curiously into each thing that Pamela did. Neither is there

anything sooner overthrows a weak heart than opinion of authority,

like too strong a liquor for so feeble a glass; which joined itself to

the humour of envying Pamela’s beauty, so far that oft she would say

to herself, if she had been born a princess as well as Pamela, her

perfections then should have been as well seen as Pamela’s. With this

manner of woman, and placed in these terms, had Dorus to play his last

part, which he would have quickly dispatched in tying her up in such a

manner that she should little have hindered his enterprise. But that

the virtuous Pamela, when she saw him so minded, by countenance

absolutely forbid it, resolutely determining she would not leave

behind her any token of wrong: since the wrong done to herself was the

best excuse of her escape: so that Dorus was compelled to take her in

the manner he first thought of, and accordingly Pamela sitting musing

at the strange attempt she had condescended unto, and Mopsa hard by

her (looking in a glass with very partial eyes) Dorus put himself

between them, and casting up his face to the top of the house,

struggling all over his body, and stamping sometimes upon the ground,

gave Mopsa occasion (who was as busy as a bee to know anything) to ask

her lover Dorus what ailed him, that made him use so strange a

behaviour: he, as if his spirits had been ravished with some

supernatural contemplation, stood still mute, sometimes rubbing his

forehead, sometimes starting in himself, that he set Mopsa in such an

itch of inquiry that she would have offered her maidenhead, rather

than be long kept from it. Dorus not yet answering to the purpose,

still keeping his amazement: “O Hercules,” said he, “resolve me in

this doubt. A tree to grant one’s wishes! Is this the cause of the

king’s solitary life? which part shall I take? happy in either,

unhappy because I cannot know which were my best hap.” These doubtful

self-speeches, made Mopsa yet in a further longing of knowing the

matter: so that the pretty pig, laying her sweet burden about his

neck, “My Dorus,” said she, “tell me these words, or else I know not

what will befall me, honey Dorus, tell them me.” Dorus having

stretched her mind upon a right last: “Extremely loved Mopsa,” said

he, “the matters be so great, as my heart fails me in the telling

them: but since {469} you hold the greatest seat in it, it is reason

your desire should add life unto it.” Therewith he told her a

far-fetched tale; how that many millions of years before, Jupiter

fallen out with Apollo, had thrown him out of heaven, taking from him

the privilege of a god. So that poor Apollo was fain to lead a very

miserable life, unacquainted to work, and never used to beg, that in

this order having in time learned to be Admetus’s herdsman, he had

upon occasion of fetching a certain breed of beasts out of Arcadia,

come to that very desert, where wearied with travel, and resting

himself in the boughs of a pleasant ash tree, which stood a little off

from the lodge, he had with pitiful complaints, gotten his father

Jupiter’s pardon, and so from that tree was received again to his

golden sphere. But having that right nature of a god, never to be

ungrateful, to Admetus he had granted a double life: and because that

tree was the chapel of his prosperous prayers, he had given it this

quality, that whatsoever of such estate, and in such manner as he then

was, sat down in that tree, they should obtain whatsoever they wished.

This Basilius having understood by the oracle, was the only cause

which had made him try, whether framing himself to the state of an

herdsman, he might have the privilege of wishing only granted to that

degree; but that having often in vain attempted it, because indeed he

was not such, he had now opened the secret to Dametas, making him

swear he should wish according to his direction. “But because,” said

Dorus, “Apollo was at that time with extreme grief, muffled round

about his face, with a scarlet cloak Admetus had given him, and

because they that must wish, must be muffled in like sort, and with

like stuff, my master Dametas is gone I know not whither, to provide

him a scarlet cloak, and to-morrow doth appoint to return with it. My

mistress, I cannot tell how, having gotten some inkling of it, is

trudged to Mantinea, to get herself a cloak before him, because she

would have the first wish. My master at his parting, of great trust

told me this secret, commanding me to see nobody should climb that

tree. But now Mopsa,” said he, “I have here the like cloak of mine

own, and am not so very a fool, as though I keep his commandments in

others, to bar myself. I rest only extremely perplexed, because having

nothing in the world I wish for, but the enjoying you and your favour,

I think it a much pleasanter conquest to come to it by your own

consent, than to have it by such a charming force as this is. Now

therefore choose, since have you I will, in what sort I shall have

you.” But never child was so desirous of a gay puppet, as Mopsa was to

be in the tree, and therefore without squeamishness, promising all he

would, she conjured him by all her precious loves that she might have

the first possession of the wishing tree, assuring him that for the

{470} enjoying her, he would never need to climb far. Dorus, to whom

time was precious, made no great ceremonies with her; but helping her

up to the top of the tree, from whence likewise she could ill come

down without help, he muffled her round about the face, so truly, that

she herself could not undo it. And so he told her the manner was, she

should hold her mind in continual devotion to Apollo, without making

at all any noise, till at the farthest within twelve hours’ space, she

should hear a voice call her by name three times, and that till the

third time she must in no wise answer; “and then you shall not need to

doubt your coming down, for at that time,” said he, “be sure to wish

wisely, and in what shape soever he come unto you, speak boldly unto

him, and your wish shall have as certain effects as I have a desire to

enjoy your sweet love.” In this plight did he leave Mopsa, resolved in

her heart to be the greatest lady in the world, and never after to

feed on worse than frumenty.

Thus Dorus having delivered his hands of his three tormentors, took

speedily the benefit of his device, and mounting the gracious Pamela

upon a fair horse he had provided for her, he thrust himself forthwith

into the wildest part of the desert, where he had left marks to guide

him from place to place to the next seaport, disguising her very fitly

with scarfs; although he rested assured he should meet that way with

nobody, till he came to his bark, into which he meant to enter by

night. But Pamela, who all this while transported with desire and

troubled with fear, had never free scope of judgment to look with

perfect consideration into her own enterprise, but even by the laws of

love, had bequeathed the care of herself upon him, to whom she had

given herself; now that the pang of desire, with evident hope was

quieted, and most part of the fear passed, reason began to renew his

shining in her heart, and make her see herself in herself; and weigh

with what wings she flew out of her country; and upon what ground she

built so strong a determination. But love, fortified with her lover’s

presence, kept still his own in her heart; so that as they rode

together, with her hand upon her faithful servant’s shoulder, suddenly

casting her bashful eyes to the ground, and yet binding herself

towards him (like the client that commits the cause of all his worth

to a well-trusted advocate) from a mild spirit said unto him these

sweetly delivered words: “Prince Musidorus, for so my assured hope is

I may justly call you, since with no other my heart would ever have

yielded to go; and if so I do not rightly term you, all other words

are as bootless, as my deeds miserable, and I as unfortunate, as you

wicked, my prince Musidorus, I say now that the vehement shows of your

faithful love towards me have brought my mind to answer it in so due a

proportion, that contrary to {471} all general rules of reason, I have

laid in you my estate, my life, my honour: it is your part to double

your former care, and make me see your virtue no less in preserving,

than in obtaining: and your faith to be a faith as much in freedom, as

bondage. Tender now your own workmanship, and so govern your love

towards me, that I may still remain worthy to be loved. Your promise

you remember, which here by the eternal givers of virtue I conjure you

to observe, let me be your own as I am, but by no unjust conquest; let

not our joys which ought ever to last, be stained in our own

consciences, let no shadow of repentance steal into the sweet

consideration of our mutual happiness; I have yielded to be your wife,

stay then till the time that I may rightly be so; let no other defiled

name burden my heart, what should I more say? if I have chosen well,

all doubt is past, since your action only must determine, whether I

have done virtuously or shamefully in following you.”

Musidorus, that had more abundance of joy in his heart than Ulysses

had what time with his own industry he stole the fatal Palladium,

imagined to be the only relic of Troy’s safety, taking Pamela’s hand,

and many times kissed it. “What I am,” said he, “the gods I hope will

shortly make your own eyes judge; and of my mind towards you, the

meantime shall be my pledge unto you; your contentment is dearer to me

than mine own, and therefore doubt not of his mind, whose thoughts are

so thralled unto you, as you are to bend or slack them as it shall

seem best unto you. You do wrong to yourself, to make any doubt that

a base estate could ever undertake so high an enterprise or a spotted

mind be able to behold your virtues. Thus much only I confess, I can

never do, to make the world see you have chosen worthily, since all

the world is not worthy of you.” In such delightful discourses, kept

they on their journey, maintaining their hearts in that right harmony

of affection, which doth interchangeable deliver each to other the

secret workings of their souls, till with the unusual travel, the

princess being weary, they alighted down in a fair thick wood, which

did entice them with the pleasantness of it to take their rest there.

It was all of pine trees, whose broad heads meeting together, yielded

a perfect shade to the ground, where their bodies gave a spacious and

pleasant room to walk in, they were set in so perfect an order that

every way the eye being full, yet no way was stopped. And even in the

midst of them, were there many sweet springs which did lose themselves

upon the face of the earth. Here Musidorus drew out such provisions of

fruits and other cates, as he had brought for that day’s repast, and

laid it down upon the fair carpet of the green grass. But Pamela had

much more pleasure to walk under {472} those trees, making in their

barks pretty knots, which tied together the names of Musidorus and

Pamela, sometimes intermixedly changing them, to Pammidorus and

Musimela, with twenty other flowers of her travelling fancies, which

had bound themselves to a greater restraint than they could without

much pain well endure: and to one tree more beholding to her than the

rest, she entrusted the treasure of her thoughts in these verses:

Do not disdain, O straight up-raised pine,

That wounding thee, my thoughts in thee I grave:

Since that my thoughts as straight as straightness thine,

No smaller wound, alas! far deeper have.

Deeper engraved, which salve nor time can save,

Giv’n to my heart, by my forewounded eyne:

Thus cruel to myself how canst thou crave

My inward hurt should spare thy outward rine?

Yet still fair tree, lift up thy stately line,

Live long, and long witness my chosen part,

Which barr’d desires, barr’d by myself, impart,

And in this growing-bark grow verses mine.

My heart my word, my word hath giv’n my heart;

The giver giv’n from gift shall never part.

Upon a root of the tree, that the earth had left something barer than

the rest, she wrote this couplet:

Sweet root say thou, the root of my desire

Was virtue clad in constant love’s attire.

Musidorus, seeing her fancies drawn up to such pleasant

contemplations, accompanied her in them, and made the trees as well

bear badges of his passions, as this song engraved in them did

testify:

You goodly pines, which still with brave ascent,

In nature’s pride your heads to heav’nward heave;

Though you besides such graces earth hath lent,

Of some late grace a greater grace receive.

By her who was (O blessed you) content

With her fair hand, your tender barks to cleave,

And so by you (O blessed you) hath sent,

Such piercing words as no thoughts else conceive.

Yet yield your grant, a baser hand may leave

His thoughts in you, where so sweet thoughts were spent,

For how would you the mistress’s thoughts bereave

Of waiting thoughts all to her service meant.

{473}

Nay higher thoughts (though thralled thoughts) I call

My thoughts then hers, who first your rind did rent:

Than hers, to whom my thoughts a lonely thrall

Rising from low, are to the highest bent;

Where hers, whom worth makes highest over all

Coming from her, cannot but downward fall.

While Pamela sitting her down under one of them, and making a poesy of

the fair undergrowing flowers, filled Musidorus’s ears with the

heavenly sound of her music, which before he had never heard, so that

it seemed unto him a new assault given to the castle of his heart,

already conquered: which to signify, and withal reply to her sweet

notes, he sung in a kind of still, but ravishing tune, a few verses:

her song was this, and his reply follows.

PAMELA

Like divers flowers, whose divers beauties serve

To deck the earth with his well-coloured weed,

Though each of them, his private form preserve,

Yet joining forms one sight of beauty breed.

Right so my thoughts, whereon my heart I feed:

Right so my inward parts, and outward glass,

Though each possess a divers working kind;

Yet all well knit to one fair end do pass:

That he to whom these sundry gifts I bind,

All what I am, still one, his own, do find.

MUSIDORUS

All what you are still one, his own to find,

You that are born to be the world’s eye;

What were it else but to make each thing blind:

And to the sun with waxen wings to fly.

No, no, such force with my small force to try,

Is not my skill, or reach of mortal mind:

Call me but yours, my title is most high:

Hold me most yours, then my long suit is sign’d.

You none can claim but you yourself aright,

For you do pass yourself, in virtue’s might.

So both are yours: I bound with gaged heart:

You only yours, too far beyond desert.

{474}

In this virtuous wantonness, suffering their minds to descend to each

tender enjoying their united thoughts, Pamela having tasted of the

fruits, and growing extreme sleepy, having been long kept from it with

the perplexity of her dangerous attempt, laying her head in his lap,

was invited by him to sleep with these softly uttered verses:

Look up, fair lids, the treasure of my heart,

Preserve those beams, this age’s only light:

To her sweet sense, sweet sleep some ease impart,

Her sense too weak to bear her spirit’s might.

And while, O sleep, thou closest up her sight,

Her sight where love did forge his fairest dart,

O harbour all her parts in easeful plight:

Let no strange dream make her fair body start.

But, O dream, if thou wilt not depart

In this rare subject from thy common right:

But wilt thyself in such a seat delight,

Then take my shape, and play a lover’s part:

Kiss her from me, and say unto her sprite,

Till her eyes shine, I live in darkest night.

The sweet Pamela was brought into a sweet sleep with this song, which

gave Musidorus opportunity at leisure to behold her excellent

beauties. He thought her fair forehead was a field where all his

fancies fought, and every hair of her head seemed a strong chain that

tied him. Her fairer lids then hiding her fairer eyes, seemed unto him

sweet boxes of mother-of-pearl, rich in themselves, but containing in

them far richer jewels. Her cheeks with their colour most delicately

mixed, would have entertained his eyes some while, but that the roses

of her lips, whose separating was wont to be accompanied with most

wise speeches, now by force drew his sight to mark how prettily they

lay one over the other, uniting their divided beauties: and through

them the eye of his fancy delivered to his memory the lying, as in

ambush, under her lips of those armed ranks, all armed in most pure

white, and keeping the most precise order of military discipline. And

lest this beauty might seem the picture of some excellent artificer,

forth there stole a soft breath, carrying good testimony of her inward

sweetness: and so stealing it came out, as it seemed loath to leave

his contentful mansion, but that it hoped to be drawn in again to that

well-closed paradise, which did so tyrannize over Musidorus’s effects,

that he was compelled to put his face as low to hers, as he could,

sucking the breath with such joy that he did determine in himself

there had been no life {475} to a Chameleon’s if he might be suffered

to enjoy that food. But long he was not suffered, being within a while

interrupted by the coming of a company of clownish villains, armed

with divers sorts of weapons, and for the rest both in face and

apparel so forewasted that they seemed to bear a great conformity with

the savages; who, miserably in themselves, taught to increase their

mischiefs in other bodies’ harms, came with such cries that they both

awaked Pamela, and made Musidorus turn unto them full of a most

violent rage, with the look of a she-tiger when her whelps are stolen

away.

But Zelmane, whom I left in the cave hardly bestead, having both great

wits and stirring passions to deal with, makes me lend her my pen a

while to see with what dexterity she could put by her dangers. For

having in one instant both to resist rage, and go beyond wisdom, being

to deal with a lady that had her wits awake in everything but in

helping her own hurt, she saw now no other remedy in her case, but to

qualify her rage with hope, and to satisfy her wit with plainness: Yet

lest too abrupt falling into it, should yield too great advantage unto

her, she thought good to come to it by degrees with this kind of

insinuation. “Your wise, but very dark speeches, most excellent lady,

are woven up in so intricate a manner that I know not how to

proportion mine answer unto them: so are your prayers mixed with

threats, and so is the show of your love hidden with the name of

revenge, the natural effect of mortal hatred; you seem displeased with

the opinion you have of my disguising, and yet if I be not disguised,

you must needs be much more displeased. Hope then, the only succour of

perplexed minds, being quite cut off, you desire my affection, and yet

you yourself think my affection already bestowed. Your pretend

cruelty, before you have the subjection, and are jealous of keeping

that which as yet you have not gotten. And that which is strangest in

your jealousy, is both the injustice of it, in being loth that should

come to your daughter, which you deem good; and the vainness, since

you two are so in divers respects, that there is no necessity one of

you should fall to be a bar to the other. For neither, if I be such as

you fancy, can I marry you, which must needs be the only end I can

aspire to in her: neither need the marrying of her keep me from a

grateful consideration, how much you honour me in the love you

vouchsafe to bear me.” Gynecia, to whom the fearful agonies she still

lived in made any small reproval sweet, did quickly find her words

falling to a better way of comfort, and therefore, with a mind ready

to show nothing could make it rebellious against Zelmane but too

extreme tyranny, she thus said: “Alas, too much beloved Zelmane, the

thoughts are but overflowings of the mind, and the {476} tongue is but

a servant of the thoughts; therefore marvel not that my words suffer

contrarieties, since my mind doth hourly suffer in itself whole armies

of mortal adversaries. But, alas, if I had the use of mine own reason,

then should I not need, for want of it, to find myself in this

desperate mischief: but because my reason is vanished, so have I

likewise no power to correct my unreasonableness. Do you therefore

accept the protection of my mind which hath no other resting place,

and drive it not, by being unregarded, to put itself into unknown

extremities. I desire but to have my affection answered, and to have a

right reflection of my love in you. That granted, assure yourself mine

own love will easily teach me to seek your contentment; and make me

think my daughter a very mean price to keep still in mine eyes the

food of my spirits. But take heed that contempt drive me not into

despair, the most violent cause of that miserable effect.”

Zelmane who already saw some fruit of her last determined fancy, so

far as came to a mollifying of Gynecia’s rage, seeing no other way to

satisfy suspicion which was held open with the continual pricks of

love, resolved now with plainness to win trust, which trust she might

after deceive with a greater subtlety. Therefore looking upon her with

a more relenting grace than ever she had done before, pretending a

great bashfulness before she could come to confess such a fault, she

thus said unto her: “Most worthy lady, I did never think till now,

that pity of another could make me betray myself, nor that the sound

of words could overthrow any wise body’s determination. But your

words, I think, have charmed me, and your grace bewitched me. Your

compassion makes me open my heart to you, and leave unharboured my own

thoughts; for proof of it, I will disclose my greatest secret, which

well you might suspect, but never know, and so have your wandering

hope in a more painful wilderness, being neither way able to be lodged

in a perfect resolution. I will, I say, unwrap my hidden estate, and

after make you judge of it, perchance director. The truth is, I am a

man: nay, I will say further to you, I am born a prince. And to make

up your mind in a thorough understanding of me since I came to this

place, I may not deny I have had some sprinkling of I know not what

good liking to my lady Philoclea. For how could I ever imagine the

heavens would have rained down so much of your favour upon me, and of

that side there was a show of possible hope, the most comfortable

counsellor of love. The cause of this my changed attire, was a journey

two years ago I made among the Amazons, where, having sought to try my

unfortunate valour, I met not one in all the country but what was too

hard for me, till in the end, in the presence of their queen {477}

Marpesia, I hoping to prevail against her, challenged an old woman of

fourscore years, to fight on horseback to the uttermost with me. Who

having overthrown me, for the saving of my life, made me swear I

should go like an unarmed Amazon, till the coming of my beard did,

with the discharge of my oath deliver me of that bondage.”

Here Zelmane ended, not coming to a full conclusion, because she would

see what it wrought in Gynecia’s mind, having in her speech sought to

win a belief of her, and, if it might be, by disgrace of herself to

diminish Gynecia’s affection. For the first it had much prevailed: but

Gynecia, whose end of loving her was not her fighting, neither could

her love, too deeply grounded, receive diminishment; and besides, she

had seen herself sufficient proofs of Zelmane’s admirable prowess.

Therefore slightly passing over that point of her feigned dishonour,

but taking good hold of the confessing her manly sex, with the

shamefaced look of that suitor, who having already obtained much, is

yet forced by want to demand more, put forth her sorrowful suit in

these words: “The gods,” said she, “reward thee for thy virtuous pity

of my over-laden soul, who yet hath received some breath of comfort,

by finding thy confession to maintain some possibility of my

languishing hope. But alas! as they who seek to enrich themselves by

mineral industry, the first labour is to find the mine, which to their

cheerful comfort being found, if after any unlooked for stop, or

casual impediment keep them from getting the desired ore, they are so

much the more grieved, as the late conceived hope adds torment to

their former want. So falls it out with me happy or hapless woman, as

it pleaseth you to ordain, who am now either to receive some guerdon

of my most woeful labours, or to return into a more wretched darkness,

having had some glimmering of my blissful sun. O Zelmane, tread not

upon a soul that lies under your foot: let not the abasing of myself

make me more base in your eyes, but judge of me according to that I

am, and have been, and let my errors be made excusable by the immortal

name of love.” With that, under a feigned rage, tearing her clothes,

she discovered some parts of her fair body, which if Zelmane’s heart

had not been so fully possessed that there was no place left for any

new guest, no doubt it would have yielded to that gallant assault. But

Zelmane so much the more arming her determination, as, she saw such

force threatened, yet still remembering she must wade betwixt

constancy and courtesy, embracing Gynecia, and once or twice kissing

her, “Dear lady,” said she, “he were a great enemy to himself, that

would refuse such an offer, in the purchase of which a man’s life were

blessedly bestowed. Nay, how can I ever yield due recompense for so

excessive a favour? but having {478} nothing to give you but myself,

take that: I must confess a small but a very free gift: what other

affection so ever I have had shall give place to as great perfection,

working besides upon the bond of gratefulness. The gods forbid I

should be so foolish as not to see, or so wicked, as not to remember,

how much my small deserts are over-balanced by your unspeakable

goodness. Nay, happy may I well account my mishap among the Amazons,

since that dishonour hath been so true a path to my greatest honour,

and the changing of my outward raiment hath clothed my mind in such

inward contention. Take therefore, noble lady, as much comfort to your

heart, as the full commandment of me can yield you: wipe your fair

eyes, and keep them for nobler services. And now I will presume thus

much to say unto you, that you make much of yourself for my sake, that

my joys of my new obtained riches may be accomplished in you. But let

us leave this place, lest you be too long missed, and henceforward

quiet your mind from any further care, for I will now, to my too much

joy, take the charge upon me, within few days to work your

satisfaction, and my felicity.” Thus much she said, and withal led

Gynecia out of the cave, for well she saw the boiling mind of Gynecia

did easily apprehend the fitness of that lonely place. But indeed this

direct promise of a short space, joined with the cumbersome

familiarness of womankind, I mean modesty, stayed so Gynecia’s mind

that she took thus much at that present for good payment, remaining

with a painful joy, and a wearisome kind of comfort, not unlike to the

condemned prisoner, whose mind still running upon the violent arrival

of his death, hears that his pardon is promised, but not yet signed.

In this sort they both issued out of that obscure mansion: Gynecia

already half persuaded in herself, O weakness of human conceit, that

Zelmane’s affection was turned towards her. For such, alas! we are

all, in such a mould are we cast, that with the too much love we bear

ourselves, being first our own flatterers, we are easily hooked with

others’ flattery, we are easily persuaded of others’ love.