But Zelmane, who had now to play her prize, seeing no way things could

long remain in that state, and now finding her promise had tied her

trial to a small compass of time, began to throw her thoughts into

each corner of her invention, how she might achieve her life’s

enterprise: for well she knew deceit cannot otherwise be maintained

but by deceit: and how to deceive such heedful eyes, and how to

satisfy, and yet not satisfy such hopeful desires, it was no small

skill. But both their thoughts were called from themselves with the

sight of Basilius, who then lying down by his daughter Philoclea, upon

the fair, though natural, bed of green grass, seeing the sun what

speed he made to leave our west {479} to do his office in the other

hemisphere, his inward muses made him in his best music, sing this

Madrigal.

Why dost thou haste away

O Titan fair, the giver of the day?

It is not to carry news

To western wights, what stars in east appear?

Or dost thou think that here

Is left a sun, whose beams thy place may use?

Yet stay and well peruse,

What be her gifts, that make her equal thee,

Bend all thy light to see

In earthly clothes enclos’d a heavenly spark:

Thy running course cannot such beauties mark.

No, no, thy motions be

Hastened from us with bar of shadow dark,

Because that thou the author of our sight

Disdain’st we see thee stain’d with others’ light.

And having ended; “Dear Philoclea,” said he, “sing something that may

divert my thoughts from the continual task of their ruinous harbour:”

she, obedient to him, and not unwilling to disburden her secret

passion, made her sweet voice be heard in these words.

O stealing time, the subject of delay

(Delay, the rack of unrestrain’d desire)

What strange design hast thou my hopes to stay,

My hopes which do but to mine own aspire?

Mine own? O word on whose sweet sound doth prey

My greedy soul, with gripe of inward fire:

Thy title great I justly challenge may,

Since in such phrase his faith he did attire.

O time, become the chariot of my joys,

As thou drawest on, so let my bliss draw near,

Each moment lost, part of my hap destroys.

Thou art the father of occasion dear:

Join with thy son to ease my long annoys,

In speedy help, thank-worthy things appear.

Philoclea broke off her song as soon as her mother with Zelmane came

near unto them, rising up with a kindly bashfulness, being not

ignorant of the spite her mother bare her, and stricken with the sight

of that person, whose love made all those troubles seem fair flowers

of her dearest garland, nay, rather all those troubles made the love

increase. For as the arrival of enemies makes a town to fortify itself

as ever after it remains stronger, so that {480} a man may say,

enemies were no small cause of the town’s strength: so to a mind once

fixed in a well-pleased determination, who hopes by annoyance to

overthrow it, does but teach it to knit together all his best grounds,

and so perchance of a chanceable purpose, make an unchangeable

resolution. But no more did Philoclea see the wonted signs of

Zelmane’s affection towards her, she thought she saw another light in

her eyes, with a bold and careless look upon her, which was wont to be

dazzled with her beauty; and the framing of her courtesies rather

ceremonious than affectionate, and that which worst liked her, was,

that it proceeded with such quiet settledness, that it rather

threatened a full purpose than any sudden passion. She found her

behaviour bent altogether to her mother, and presumed in herself she

discerned the well-acquainted face of his fancies now turned to

another subject. She saw her mother’s worthiness, and too well knew

her affection. These joining their divers working powers together in

her mind, but yet a prentice in the painful mystery of passions,

brought Philoclea into a new traverse of her thoughts, and made her

keep her careful look the more attentive upon Zelmane’s behaviour, who

indeed, though with much pain, and condemning herself to commit a

sacrilege against the sweet saint that lived in her inmost temple, yet

strengthening herself in it; being the surest way to make Gynecia bite

of her other baits, did so quite over-rule all wonted shows of love to

Philoclea, and convert them to Gynecia, that the part she played did

work in both a full and lively persuasion: to Gynecia, such excessive

comfort, as the being preferred to a rival doth deliver to swelling

desire, but to the delicate Philoclea, whose calm thoughts were unable

to nourish any strong debate, it gave so stinging a hurt, that,

fainting under the force of her inward torment, she withdrew herself

to the lodge, and there, weary of supporting her own burden, cast

herself upon her bed, suffering her sorrow to melt itself into

abundance of tears; at length closing her eyes, as if each thing she

saw was a picture of her mishap, and turning upon her heart-side,

which, with vehement panting did summon her to consider her fortune,

she thus bemoaned herself.

“Alas! Philoclea, is this the price of all thy pains? is this the

reward of thy given-way liberty? hath too much yielding bred cruelty?

or can too great acquaintance make me held for a stranger? hath the

choosing of a companion made me left alone; or doth granting desire,

cause the desire to be neglected? alas! despised Philoclea, why didst

thou not hold thy thoughts in their simple course, and content thyself

with the love of thine own virtue, which would never have betrayed

thee? Ah, silly fool, didst thou look for truth in him that with his

own mouth confessed {481} his falsehood? for plain proceeding in him

that still goes disguised? They say the falsest men will yet bear

outward shows of a pure mind. But he that even outwardly bears the

badge of treachery, what hells of wickedness must needs in the depth

be contained? But O wicked mouth of mine, how darest thou thus

blaspheme the ornament of the earth, the vessel of all virtue? O

wretch that I am, that will anger the gods in dispraising their most

excellent work: O no, no, there was no fault but in me, that could

ever think so high eyes would look so low, or so great perfections

would stain themselves with my unworthiness. Alas! why could I not see

I was too weak a band to tie so heavenly an heart? I was not fit to

limit the infinite course of his wonderful destinies. Was it ever like

that upon only Philoclea his thoughts should rest? Ah silly fool, that

couldst please thyself with so impossible an imagination! an universal

happiness is to flow from him. How was I so inveigled to hope, I might

be the mark of such a mind? He did thee no wrong, O Philoclea, he did

thee no wrong, it was thy weakness to fancy the beams of the sun

should give light to no eyes but to thine! And yet, O Prince Pyrocles,

for whom I may well begin to hate myself, but can never leave to love

thee, what triumph canst thou make of this conquest? What spoils wilt

thou carry away of this my undeserved overthrow? could thy force find

out no fitter field than the feeble mind of a poor maid, who at the

first sight did wish thee all happiness? Shall it be said, the mirror

of mankind hath been employed to destroy a hurtless gentlewoman? O

Pyrocles, Pyrocles, let me yet call thee before the judgment of thy

virtue, let me be accepted for a plaintiff in cause which concerns my

life: what need hadst thou to arm thy face with the enchanting mask of

thy painted passions? what need hadst thou to fortify thy excellencies

with so exquisite a cunning, in making our own arts betray us? what

needest thou descend so far from thy incomparable worthiness, as to

take on the habit of weak womankind. Was all this to win the

undefended castle of a friend, which being won, thou wouldst after

raze? Could so small a cause allure thee? or did not so unjust a cause

stop thee? O me, what say I more? this is my case, my love hates me,

virtue deals wickedly with me, and he does me wrong, whose doings I

can never account a wrong.” With that the sweet lady turning herself

upon her weary bed she happily saw a lute, upon the belly of which

Gynecia had written this song, what time Basilius imputed her jealous

motions to proceed of the doubt she had of his untimely loves. Under

which veil she, contented to cover her never ceasing anguish, had made

the lute a monument of her mind, which Philoclea had never much

marked, till now the fear of a competitor more stirred her, than

before the care of a mother. {482} The verses were these:

My lute within thyself thy tunes enclose,

Thy mistress’s song is now a sorrow’s cry,

Her hand benumb’d with fortune’s daily blows,

Her mind amaz’d can neither’s help apply.

Wear these my words as mourning weeds of woes,

Black ink becomes the state wherein I die,

And though my moans be not in music bound,

Of written griefs, yet be the silent ground.

The world doth yield such ill-consorted shows,

With circled course, which no wise stay can try,

That childish stuff which knows not friends from foes,

(Better despis’d) bewonder gazing eye.

Thus noble gold, down to the bottom goes,

When worthless cork, aloft doth floating lie.

Thus in thyself least strings are loudest found,

And lowest stops do yield the highest sound.

Philoclea read them, and throwing down the lute, “Is this the legacy

you have bequeathed me, O kind mother of mine?” said she, “did you

bestow the light upon me for this? or did you bear me to be the author

of my burial? a trim purchase you have made of your own shame, robbed

your daughter to ruin yourself? the birds unreasonable, yet use so

much reason, as to make nests for their tender young ones; my cruel

mother turns me out of mine own harbour; alas, plaint boots not, for

my case can receive no help; for who should give me help? shall I fly

to my parents? they are my murderers: shall I go to him, who already

being won and lost, must needs have killed all pity? alas! I can bring

no new intercessions; he knows already what I am is his. Shall I come

home again to myself? O me, contemned wretch; I have given away

myself.” With that the poor soul beat her breast, as if that had been

guilty of her faults, neither thinking of revenge, nor studying for

remedy, but, sweet creature, gave grief a free dominion, keeping her

chamber a few days after, not needing to feign herself sick, feeling

even in her soul the pangs of extreme pain.

But little did Gynecia reck that, neither when she saw her go away

from them, neither when she after found that sickness made her hide

her fair face, so much had fancy prevailed against nature. But O you

that have ever known, how tender to every motion love makes the

lover’s heart, how he measures all his joys upon her contentment: and

doth with respectful eye hang his behaviour upon her eyes: judge I

pray you now of Zelmane’s troubled thoughts when she saw Philoclea,

with an amazed kind of sorrow, {483} carry away her sweet presence,

and easily found, so happy a conjecture unhappy affection hath, that

her demeanour was guilty of that trespass. There was never foolish

soft-hearted mother, that, forced to beat her child, did weep first

for his pains, and doing that she was loth to do, did repent before

she began, did find half that motion in her weak mind that Zelmane

did, now that she was forced by reason to give an outward blow to her

passions, and for the lending of a small time, to seek the usury of

her desires. The unkindness she conceived Philoclea might conceive,

did wound her soul, each tear she doubted she spent, drowned all her

comfort. Her sickness was a death unto her. Often would she speak to

the image of Philoclea, which lived and ruled in the highest of her

inward part, and use vehement oaths, and protestations unto her; that

nothing should ever falsify the free chosen vow she had made. Often

would she desire her, that she would look well to Pyrocles’s heart,

for as for her she had no more interest in it to bestow it any way:

“Alas!” would she say, “only Philoclea hast thou not so much feeling

of thine own force as to know no new conqueror can prevail against thy

conquests? Was ever any dazzled with the moon that used his eyes to

the beams of the sun? Is he carried away with a greedy desire of

acorns that hath had his senses ravished with a garden of most

delightful fruits? O Philoclea, Philoclea, be thou but as merciful a

princess to my mind as thou art a true possessor, and I shall have as

much cause of gladness, as thou hast no cause of misdoubting? O no,

no, when a man’s own heart is the gage of his debt, when a man’s own

thoughts are willing witnesses to his promise; lastly, when a man is

the jailor over himself; there is little doubt of breaking credit, and

less doubt of such an escape.”

In this combat of Zelmane’s doubtful imaginations, in the end reason,

well-backed with the vehement desire to bring her matter soon to the

desired haven, did over-rule the boiling of her inward kindness,

though as I say with such a manifest strife, that both Basilius and

Gynecia’s well-waiting eyes, had marked her muses had laboured in

deeper subjects than ordinary: which she likewise perceiving they had

perceived, awaking herself out of those thoughts, and principally

caring how to satisfy Gynecia, whose judgment and passion she stood

most in regard of, bowing her head to her attentive ears. “Madam,”

said she, “with practice of my thoughts, I have found out a way, by

which your contentment shall draw on my happiness.” Gynecia delivering

in her face as thankful a joyfulness as her heart could hold, said,

“It was then time to retire themselves to their rest, for what with

riding abroad the day before, and late sitting up for eclogues, their

bodies had {484} dearly purchased that night’s quiet.” So went they

home to their lodge, Zelmane framing of both sides bountiful measures

of loving countenances to either’s joy, and neither’s jealousy, to the

special comfort of Basilius, whose weaker bowels were straight full

with the least liquor of hope. So that still holding her by the hand,

and sometimes tickling it, he went by her with the most gay conceits

that ever had entered his brains, growing now so hearted in his

resolution that he little respected Gynecia’s presence. But with a

lustier note than wonted, clearing his voice, and cheering his

spirits, looking still upon Zelmane, whom now the moon did beautify

with her shining almost at the full, as if her eyes had been his

song-book, he did the message of his mind in singing these verses.

When two suns do appear,

Some say it doth betoken wonders near,

As prince’s loss or change:

Two gleaming suns of splendour like I see,

And seeing feel in me

Of prince’s heart quite lost the ruin strange.

But now each where doth range

With ugly cloak the dark envious night:

Who full of guilty spite,

Such living beams should her black seat assail,

Too weak for them our weaker sight doth veil.

“No,” says fair moon, “my light

Shall bar that wrong, and though it not prevail

Like to my brother’s rays, yet those I send

Hurt not the face, which nothing can amend.”

And by that time being come to the lodge, and visited the sweet

Philoclea, with much less than natural care of the parents, and much

less than wanted kindness of Zelmane, each party full fraught with

diversly working fancies, made their pillows weak props of their

over-laden heads. Yet of all other were Zelmane’s brain most

turmoiled, troubled with love both active and passive; and lastly, and

especially with care, how to use her short limited time to the best

purpose, by some wise and happy diverting her two lovers’ unwelcome

desires. Zelmane having had the night, her only counsellor in the busy

enterprise she was to undertake, and having all that time mused, and

yet not fully resolved, how she might join prevailing with preventing,

was offended with the day’s bold entry into her chamber, as if he had

now by custom grown an assured bringer of evil news. Which she taking

a cittern to her, did lay to Aurora’s charge, with these well-sung

verses:

{485}

Aurora now thou showest thy blushing light,

Which oft to hope lays out a guileful bait,

That trusts in time to find the way aright,

To ease those pains, which on desire do wait.

Blush on for shame: that still with thee do light

On pensive souls (instead of restful bait)

Care upon care (instead of doing right)

To over pressed breasts, more grievous weight.

As oh! myself, whose woes are never light

(Tied to the stake of doubt) strange passion’s bait.

While thy known course observing nature’s right,

Stirs me to think what dangers lie in wait,

For mischiefs great, day after day doth show,

Make me still fear, thy fair appearing show.

“Alas!” said she, “am I not run into a strange gulf, that am fain for

love to hurt her I love? and because I detest the others, to please

them I detest? O only Philoclea, whose beauty is matched with nothing

but with the unspeakable beauty of thy fairest mind, if thou didst see

upon what rack my tormented soul is set, little would you think I had

any scope now to leap to any new change.” With that with hasty hands

she got herself up, turning her sight to everything, as if change of

objects might help her invention. So went she again to the cave, where

forthwith it came into her head that should be the fittest place to

perform her exploit, of which she had now a kind of confused conceit,

although she had not set down in her fancy, the meeting with each

particularity that might fall out. But as the painter doth at the

first but show a rude proportion of the thing he imitates, which after

with more curious hand he draws to the representing each lineament, so

had her thoughts, beating about it continually, received into them a

ground-plot of her device, although she had not in each part shaped it

according to a full determination. But in this sort having early

visited the morning’s beauty in those pleasant deserts, she came to

the king and queen, and told them that for the performance of certain

country devotions, which only were to be exercised in solitariness,

she did desire their leave she might for a few days lodge herself in

the cave, the fresh sweetness of which did greatly delight her in that

hot country; and that for that small space they would not otherwise

trouble themselves in visiting her, but at such times as she would

come to wait upon them, which should be every day at certain hours;

neither should it be long, she would desire this privileged absence of

them. They, whose minds had already taken out that lesson, perfectly

to yield a willing obedience {486} to all her desires, with consenting

countenance made her soon see her pleasure was a law unto them. Both

indeed inwardly glad of it, Basilius hoping that her dividing herself

from them, might yet give him some fitter occasion of coming in secret

to her, whose favourable face had lately strengthened his fainting

courage. But Gynecia of all other most joyous, holding herself assured

that this was but a prologue to the play she had promised her.

Thus both flattering themselves with diversly grounded hopes, they

rang a bell, which served to call certain poor women which ever lay in

cabins not far off, to do the household services of both lodges, and

never came to either but being called for, and commanded them to carry

forthwith Zelmane’s bed and furniture of her chamber into the pleasant

cave, and to deck it up as finely as it was possible for them, that

their soul’s rest might rest her body to her best pleasing manner:

that was with all diligence performed of them, and Zelmane already in

possession of her new-chosen lodging; where she like one of Vesta’s

nuns, entertained herself for a few days in all show of straightness,

yet once a day coming to her duty to the king and queen, in whom the

seldomness of the sight increased the more unquiet longing, though

somewhat qualified, as her countenance was decked to either of them

with more comfort than wonted; especially to Gynecia, who seeing her,

wholly neglected her daughter Philoclea, had now promised herself a

full possession of Zelmane’s heart, still expecting the fruit of the

happy and hoped for invention. But both she and Basilius kept such a

continual watch about the precincts of the cave, that either of them

was a bar to the other from having any secret communing with Zelmane.

While in the meantime the sweet Philoclea forgotten of her father,

despised of her mother, and in appearance left of Zelmane, had yielded

up her soul to be a prey to sorrow and unkindness, not with raging

conceit of revenge, as had passed through the wise and stout heart of

her mother, but with a kindly meekness taking upon her the weight of

her own woes, and suffering them to have so full a course, as it did

exceedingly weaken the estate of her body; as well for which cause, as

for that she could not see Zelmane, without expressing, more than she

would, how far now her love was imprisoned in extremity of sorrow, she

bound herself first to the limits of her own chamber, and after (grief

breeding sickness) of her bed. But Zelmane having now a full liberty

to cast about every way how to bring her conceived attempt to a

desired success, was oft so perplexed with the manifold difficulty of

it, that sometimes she would resolve by force to take her away, though

it were with the death of her parents, sometimes to go away with

Musidorus, and bring both their forces, so to win her. {487} But

lastly, even the same day that Musidorus by feeding the humour of his

three loathsome guardians, had stolen away the princess Pamela

(whether it were that love meant to match them every way, or that her

friend’s example had helped her invention, or that indeed Zelmane

forbare to practise her device till she found her friend had passed

thro’ his): the same day, I say, she resolved on a way to rid out of

the lodge her two cumbersome lovers, and in the night to carry away

Philoclea: whereunto she was assured her own love no less than her

sister’s, would easily win her consent; hoping that although their

abrupt parting had not suffered her to demand of Musidorus which way

he meant to direct his journey; yet either they should by some good

fortune find him; or if that course failed, yet they might well

recover some town of the Helots, near the frontiers of Arcadia, who

being newly again up in arms against the nobility, she knew would be

as glad of her presence, as she of their protection. Therefore having

taken order for all things requisite for their going, and first put on

a slight under-suit of man’s apparel, which before for such purposes

she had provided, she curiously trimmed herself to the beautifying of

her beauties, that being now at her last trial she might come unto it

in her bravest armour. And so putting on that kind of mild

countenance, which doth encourage the looker on to hope for a gentle

answer, according to her received manner, she left the pleasant

darkness of her melancholy cave, to go take her dinner of the King and

Queen, and give unto them both a pleasant food of seeing the owner of

their desires. But even as the Persians were anciently wont to leave

no rising-sun unsaluted, but as his fair beams appeared clearer unto

them, would they more heartily rejoice, laying upon them a great

foretoken of their following fortune: so was there no time that

Zelmane encountered their eyes with her beloved presence, but that it

bred a kind of burning devotion in them, yet so much the more gladding

their greedy souls, as her countenance was cleared with more favour

unto them; which now being determinately framed to the greatest

descent of kindness, it took such hold of her unfortunate lovers, that

like children about a tender father from a long voyage returned, with

lovely childishness hang about him, and yet with simple fear measure

by his countenance, how far he accepts their boldness, so were these

now thrown into so serviceable an affection, that the turning of

Zelmane’s eyes was a strong stern enough to all their motions, winding

no way but as the enchanting force of it guided them. But having made

a light repast of the pleasant fruits of that country, interlarding

their food with such manner of general discourses as lovers are wont

to cover their passion, when respect of a third person keeps them from

plain particulars, at the {488} earnest entreaty of Basilius, Zelmane

first saluting the Muses with a base viol hung hard by her, sent this

ambassage in versified music to both her ill-requited lovers.

Beauty hath force to catch the human sight;

Sight doth bewitch the fancy evil awaked,

Fancy we feel includes all passion’s might,

Passion rebell’d oft reason’s strength hath shaked.

No wonder then, though sight my sight did taint,

And though thereby my fancy was infected,

Though, yoked so, my mind with sickness faint,

Had reason’s weight for passion’s ease rejected.

But now the fit is past; and time hath giv’n

Leisure to weigh what due desert requireth.

All thoughts so sprung, are from their dwelling driv’n,

And wisdom to his wonted seat aspireth;

Crying in me: “Eye-hopes deceitful prove;

Things rightly priz’d: love is the band of love.”

And after her song with an affected modesty she threw down her eye, as

if the conscience of a secret grant her inward mind made, and suddenly

cast a bashful veil over her. Which Basilius finding, and thinking now

was the time to urge his painful petition, beseeching his wife with

more careful eye to accompany his sickly daughter Philoclea, being rid

for that time of her; who was content to grant him any scope, that she

might after have the like freedom; with a gesture governed by the

force of his passions, making his knees best supporters, he thus said

unto her: “If either,” said he, “O lady of my life, my deadly pangs

could bear delay, or that this were the first time the same were

manifested unto you, I would now but maintain still the remembrance of

my misfortune, without urging any further reward, than time and pity

might procure for me. But, alas! since my martyrdom is no less painful

than manifest, and that I no more feel the miserable danger, than you

know the assured truth thereof, why should my tongue deny his service

to my heart? Why should I fear the breath of my words, who daily feel

the flame of your works? Embrace in your sweet consideration, I

beseech you, the misery of my case, acknowledge yourself to be the

cause, and think it is reason for you to redress the effects. Alas!

let no certain imaginative rules whose truth stands but upon opinion,

keep so wise a mind from gratefulness and mercy, whose never failing

laws nature hath planted in us. I plainly lay my death unto you, the

death of him that loves you, the death of him whose life you {489} may

save; say your absolute determination, for hope itself is a pain,

while it is over-mastered with fear; and if you do resolve to be

cruel, yet is the speediest condemnation, as in evils, most welcome.”

Zelmane, who had fully set to herself the train she should keep, yet

knowing that who soonest means to yield, doth well to make the bravest

parley, keeping countenance aloft; “Noble prince,” said she, “your

words are too well couched to come out of a restless mind, and thanked

be the Gods, your face threatens no danger of death. These are but

those swelling speeches which give the uttermost name to every trifle,

which all were worth nothing, if they were not enamelled with the

goodly outside of love. Truly love were very unlovely if it were half

so deadly, as you lovers, still living, term it. I think well it may

have a certain childish vehemency, which for the time to one desire

will engage all the soul, so long as it lasteth. But with what

impatience you yourself show, who confess the hope of it a pain, and

think your own desire so unworthy that you would fain be rid of it;

and so with over-much love sue hard for a hasty refusal.” “A refusal!”

cried out Basilius, amazed with all, but pierced with the last, “Now

assure yourself whensoever you use that word definitively it will be

the undoubted doom of my approaching death. And then shall your own

experience know in me, how soon the spirits dried up with anguish

leave the performance of their ministry, whereupon our life dependeth.

But alas! what a cruelty is this, not only to torment but to think the

torment slight? The terriblest tyrants would say by no man they

killed, he died not; nor by no man they punished, that he escaped

free: for of all other, there is least hope of mercy where there is no

acknowledging of the pain; and with like cruelty are my words breathed

out from a flamy heart, accounted as messengers of a quiet mind. If I

speak nothing I choke myself, and am in no way of relief; if simply,

neglected: if confusedly, not understood: if by the bending together

all my inward powers, they bring forth any lively expressing of that

they truly feel, that is a token, forsooth, the thoughts are at too

much leisure. Thus is silence desperate, folly punished, and wit

suspected: but indeed it is vain to try any more, for words can bind

no belief. Lady, I say, determine of me, I must confess I cannot bear

this battle in my mind, and therefore let me soon know what I may

account of myself; for it is a hell of dolours when the mind still in

doubt for want of resolution, can make no resistance.”

“Indeed,” answered Zelmane, “if I should grant to your request, I

should show an example in myself that I esteem the holy band of

chastity to be but an imaginative rule, as you termed it, and not the

truest observance of nature, the most noble commandment {490} that

mankind can have over themselves, as indeed both learning teacheth,

and inward feeling assureth. But first shall Zelmane’s grave become

her marriage bed, before my soul shall consent to his own shame,

before I will leave a mark in myself of an unredeemable trespass. And

yet must I confess that if ever my heart were stirred, it hath been

with the manifest and manifold shows of the misery you live in for me.

For in truth so it is, nature gives not to us her degenerate children

any more general precept than one to help the other, one to feel a

true compassion of the other’s mishap. But yet if I were never so

contented to speak with you (for further, never, O Basilius, never

look for at my hands) I know not how you can avoid your wife’s jealous

attendance but that her suspicion shall bring my honour into

question.” Basilius, whose small sails the least wind did fill, was

forthwith as far gone into a large promising himself his desire, as

before he was stricken down with a threatened denial. And therefore

bending his brows, as though he were not a man to take the matter as

he had done; “What,” said he, “shall my wife become my mistress? Think

you not that thus much time hath taught me to rule her? I will mew the

gentlewoman till she have cast all her feathers if she rouse herself

against me.” And with that he walked up and down, nodding his head, as

though they mistook him much that thought he was not his wife’s

master. But Zelmane now seeing it was time to conclude: “Of your

wisdom and manhood,” said she, “I doubt not, but that sufficeth not

me, for both they can hardly tame a malicious tongue, and impossibly

bar the freedom of thought, which be the things that must be only

witnesses of honour or judges of dishonour. But that you may see I do

not set light your affection, if to-night after your wife be assuredly

asleep, whereof by your love I conjure you to have a most precise

care, you will steal handsomely to the cave unto me, there do I grant

you as great proportion as you will take of free conference with me,

ever remembering you seek no more, for so shall you but deceive

yourself, and for ever lose me.”

Basilius, who was old enough to know that women are wont to not

appoint secret night meetings for the purchasing of land, holding

himself already an undoubted possessor of his desires, kissing her

hand, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, as if the greatness of the

benefit did go beyond all measure of thanks, said no more, lest

stirring of more words might bring forth some, perhaps, contrary

matter. In which trance of joy Zelmane went from him, saying she would

leave him to the remembrance of their appointment, and for her, she

would go visit the Lady Philoclea, into whose chamber being come,

keeping still her late taken-on gravity, and asking her how she did,

rather in the way of {491} dutiful honour than in any special

affection, with extreme inward anguish to them both, she turned from

her, and taking the Queen Gynecia, led her into a bay window of the

same chamber, determining in herself, not to utter to so excellent a

wit as Gynecia had, the uttermost point of her pretended device, but

to keep the clause of it for the last instant, when the shortness of

the time should not give her spirits leisure to look into all those

doubts that easily enter to an open invention. But with smiling eyes,

and with a delivered over grace, feigning as much love to her, as she

did counterfeit little love to Philoclea, she began with more

credible, than eloquent speech, to tell her, that with much

consideration of a matter so nearly importing her own fancy, and

Gynecia’s honour, she had now concluded that the night following

should be the fittest time for the joining together their several

desires, what time sleep should perfectly do his office upon the king

her husband, and that the one should come to the other into the cave:

which place as it was the first receipt of their promised love, so it

might have the first honour of the due performance. That the cause why

those few days past, she had not sought the like, was, lest the new

change of her lodging might make the king more apt to mark any sudden

event; which now the use of it would take out of his mind. “And

therefore most excellent lady,” said she, “there resteth nothing, but

that quickly after supper, you train up the king to visit his daughter

Philoclea, and then feigning yourself not well at ease, by your going

to bed, draw him not long to be after you. In the meantime I will be

gone home to my lodging, where I will attend you, with no less

devotion, but as I hope with better fortune than Thisbe did the too

much loving, and too much loved Pyramus.” The blood that quickly came

into Gynecia’s fair face, was the only answer she made, but that one

might easily see, contentment and consent were both to the full in

her; which she did testify with the wringing Zelmane fast by the hand,

closing her eyes, and letting her head fall, as if she would give her

to know, she was not ignorant of her fault, although she were

transported with the violence of her evil.

But in this triple agreement did the day seem tedious of all sides,

till his never erring course had given place to the night’s

succession: and the supper by each hand hasted, was with no less speed

ended, when Gynecia presenting a heavy sleepiness in her countenance,

brought up both Basilius and Zelmane to see Philoclea, still keeping

her bed, and far more sick in mind than body, and more grieved than

comforted with any such visitation. Thence Zelmane wishing easeful

rest to Philoclea, did seem to take that night’s leave of this

princely crew, when Gynecia likewise seeming somewhat diseased,

desired Basilius to stay a while with {492} his daughter, while she

recommended her sickness to her bed’s comfort, indeed desirous to

determine again of the manner of her stealing away; to no less comfort

to Basilius, who the sooner she was asleep, the sooner hoped to come

by his long pursued prey. Thus both were bent to deceive each other,

and to take the advantage of either other’s disadvantage. But Gynecia

having taken Zelmane into her bed-chamber, to speak a little with her

of their sweet determination; Zelmane upon a sudden, as though she had

never thought of it before. “Now the Gods forbid,” said she, “so great

a lady as you are should come to me; or that I should leave it to the

hands of fortune, if by either the ill-governing of your passion, or

your husband’s sudden waking, any danger might happen unto you: no, if

there be any superiority in the points of true love, it shall be

yours; if there be any danger, since myself am the author of this

device, it is reason it should be mine. Therefore do you but leave

with me the keys of the gate, and upon yourself take my upper garment,

that if any of Dametas’s house see you they may think you be myself,

and I will presently lie down in your place, so muffled for your

supposed sickness, as the king shall nothing know me. And then as soon

as he is asleep, will I, as it much better becomes me, wait upon you.

But if the uttermost of mischiefs should happen, I can assure you the

king’s life shall sooner pay for it than your honour.” And with the

ending of her words she threw off her mantle, not giving Gynecia any

space to take the full image of this new change into her fancy. But

seeing no ready objection against it in her heart, and knowing that

there was no time then to stand long disputing; besides remembering

the giver was to order the manner of his gift, yielded quickly to this

conceit, indeed not among the smallest causes tickled thereunto by a

certain wanton desire that her husband’s deceit might be the more

notable. In this sort did Zelmane nimbly disarraying herself, possess

Gynecia’s place hiding her head in such a close manner, as grievous

and over watched sickness is wont to invite to itself the solace of

sleep. And of the other side the queen putting on Zelmane’s outmost

apparel, went first into her closet, there quickly to beautify herself

with the best and sweetest night-deckings. But there casting an hasty

eye over her precious things, which ever since Zelmane’s coming, her

head otherwise occupied, had left unseen, she happened to see a bottle

of gold, upon which down along were graved these verses:

Let him drink this, whom long in arms to fold

Thou dost desire, and with free power to hold.

She remembered the bottle, for it had been kept of long time by the

kings of Cyprus, as a thing of rare virtue, and given to {493} her by

her mother, when she being very young married to her husband of much

greater age, her mother persuaded it was of property to force love

with love effects, had made a precious present of it to this her

beloved child, though it had been received rather by tradition to have

such a quality than by any approved experiment. This Gynecia

(according to the common disposition, not only, though especially of

wives, but of all other kinds of people, not to esteem much one’s own,

but to think the labour lost employed about it) had never cared to

give her husband, but suffered his affection to run according to his

own scope. But now that love of her particular choice had awakened her

spirits, and perchance the very unlawfulness of it had a little blown

the coal, among her other ornaments with glad mind she took most part

of this liquor, putting it into a fair cup all set with diamonds: for

what dares not love undertake armed with the night, and provoked with

lust? And thus down she went to the cave-ward, guided only by the

moon’s fair shining, suffering no other thought to have any

familiarity with her brains, but that which did present under her a

picture of her approaching contentment. She that had long disdained

this solitary life her husband had entered into, now wished it much

more solitary, so she might only obtain the private presence of

Zelmane. She that before would not have gone so far, especially by

night, and to so dark a place, now took a pride in the same courage,

and framed in her mind a pleasure out of the pain itself. Thus with

thick doubled paces she went to the cave, receiving to herself, for

her first contentment, the only lying where Zelmane had done; whose

pillow she kissed a thousand times, for having born the print of that

beloved head. And so keeping with panting heart her travelling fancies

so attentive that the wind could stir nothing, but that she stirred

herself, as if it had been the space of the longed for Zelmane, she

kept her side of the bed, descending only and cherishing the other

side with her arms, till after a while waiting, counting with herself

how many steps were betwixt the lodge and the cave, and of accusing

Zelmane of more curious stay than needed, she was visited with an

unexpected guest.

For Basilius, after his wife was departed to her feigned repose, as

long as he remained with his daughter, to give his wife time of

unreadying herself, it was easily seen it was a very thorny abode he

made there: and the discourses with which he entertained his daughter,

not unlike to those of earnest players, when in the midst of their

game, trifling questions be put unto them, his eyes still looking

about, and himself still changing places, beginning to speak of a

thing, and breaking it off before it were half done. To any speech

Philoclea ministered unto him, {494} with a sudden starting and

casting up his head, made an answer far out of all grammar; a certain

deep musing, and by and by out of it: uncertain motions, unstayed

graces. Having borne out the limit of a reasonable time, with as much

pain as might be, he came darkling into his chamber, forcing himself

to tread as softly as he could. But the more curious he was, the more

he thought everything creaked under him; and his mind being out of the

way with another thought, and his eyes not serving his turn in that

dark place, each coffer or cupboard he met, one saluted his shins,

another his elbows; sometimes ready in revenge to strike them again

with his face. Till at length, fearing his wife were not fully asleep,

he came lifting up the clothes as gently as I think poor Pan did,

when, instead of Ioles’s bed, he came into the rough embracing of

Hercules; and laying himself down, as tenderly as a new bride, rested

a while with a very open ear, to mark each breath of his supposed

wife. And sometimes he himself would yield a long-fetched sigh, as

though that had been a music to draw on another to sleep, till within

a very little while, with the other party’s well-counterfeit sleep,

who was as willing to be rid of him as he was to be gone thence,

assuring himself he left all safe there, in the same order stole out

again, and putting on his night gown, with much groping and scrambling

he got himself out of the little house, and then did the moonlight

serve to guide his feet. Thus, with a great deal of pain, did Basilius

go to her whom he fled, and with much cunning left the person for whom

he had employed all his cunning. But when Basilius was once gotten, as

he thought, into a clear coast, what joy he then made, how each thing

seemed vile in his sight, in comparison of his fortune, how far

already he deemed himself in the chief towers of his desires, it were

tedious to tell: once his heart could not choose but yield this song,

as a fairing of his contentment.

Get hence, foul grief, the canker of the mind:

Farewell complaint, the miser’s only pleasure.

Away vain cares, by which few men do find

Their sought-for treasure.

Ye helpless sighs, blow out your breath to nought,

Tears drown yourselves, for woe, your cause is wasted;

Thought, think to end, too long the fruit of thought

My mind hath tasted.

But thou, sure hope, tickle my leaping heart:

Comfort, step thou in place of wonted sadness,

Fore-felt desire, begin to favour part

Of coming gladness.

{495}

Let voice of sighs into clear music run;

Eyes, let your tears with gazing now be mended,

Instead of thought, true pleasure be begun,

And never ended.

Thus imagining as then with himself, his joys so held him up, that he

never touched ground. And like a right old beaten soldier, that knew

well enough the greatest captains do never use long orations, when it

comes to the very point of execution, as soon as he was gotten into

the cave, to the joyful, though silent, expectation of Gynecia, come

close to the bed, never recking his promise to look for nothing but

conference, he leaped in that side reserved for a more welcome guest.

And laying his loving’st hold upon Gynecia: “O Zelmane,” said he,

“embrace in your favour this humble servant of yours: hold within me

my heart, which pants to leave his master to come unto you.” In what

case poor Gynecia was, when she knew the voice, and felt the body of

her husband, fair ladies, it is better to know by imagination than

experience. For straight was her mind assaulted, partly with the being

deprived of her unquenched desire, but principally with the doubt that

Zelmane had betrayed her to her husband, besides the renewed sting of

jealousy, what in the meantime might befall her daughter. But of the

other side her love with a fixed persuasion she had taught her to seek

all reason of hopes. And therein thought best before discovering of

herself, to mark the behaviour of her husband; who, both in deeds and

words still using her, as taking her to be Zelmane, made Gynecia hope

that this might be Basilius’s own enterprise, which Zelmane had not

stayed, lest she should discover the matter which might be performed

at another time. Which hope accompanied with Basilius’s manner of

dealing, he being at that time fuller of livelier fancies than many

years before he had been, besides the remembrance of her daughter’s

sickness, and late strange countenance betwixt her and Zelmane, all

coming together into her mind, which was loth to condemn itself of an

utter overthrow, made her frame herself, not truly with a sugared joy,

but with a determinate patience to let her husband think he had found

a very gentle and supple-minded Zelmane; which he good man making full

reckoning of, did melt in as much gladness as she was oppressed with

divers ungrateful burdens.

But Pyrocles, who had at this present no more to play the part of

Zelmane, having so naturally measured the manner of his breathing,

that made no doubt of his sound sleeping, and lain a pretty while with

the quiet unquietness to perform his intended enterprise, as soon as

by the debate between Basilius’s shins and the unregarding forms, he

perceived that he had fully left the {496} lodge: after him went he

with his stealing steps, having his sword under his arm, still

doubting lest some mischance might turn Basilius back again, down to

the gate of the lodge. Which not content to lock fast, he barred and

fortified with as many devices, as his wit and haste would suffer him,

that so he might have full time both for making ready Philoclea, and

conveying her to her horse, before any might come in to find them

missing. For further ends of those ends, and what might ensue of this

action, his love and courage well-matched never looked after, holding

for an assured ground, that “whatsoever in great things will think to

prevent all objections must lie still and do nothing.” This

determination thus weighed, the first part was thus performed, up to

Philoclea’s chamber door when Pyrocles, rapt from himself with the

excessive fore-feeling of his, as he assured himself, near-coming

contentment. Whatever pains he had taken, what dangers he had run

into, and especially those saucy pages of love, doubts, griefs,

languishing hopes, and threatening despairs, came all now to his mind,

in one rank to beautify his expected blissfulness, and to serve for a

most fit sauce, whose sourness might give a kind of life to the

delightful cheer his imagination fed upon. All the great estate of his

father, all his own glory, seemed unto him but a trifling pomp, whose

good stands in other men’s conceit, in comparison of the true comfort

he found in the depth of his mind, and the knowledge of any misery

that might ensue his joyous adventure, was recked of but as a slight

purchase of possessing the top of happiness; for so far were his

thoughts passed through all perils, that already he conceived himself

safely arrived with his lady at the stately palace of Pella, among the

exceeding joys of his father, and infinite congratulations of his

friends, giving order for the royal entertaining of Philoclea, and for

sumptuous shows and triumphs, against their marriage. In the thought

whereof as he found extremity of joy, so well found he that the

extremity is not without a certain joyful pain, by extending the heart

beyond his wonted limits, and by so forcible a holding all the senses

to one object, that it confounds their mutual working, not without a

charming kind of ravishing them from the free use of their own

function. Thus grieved only with too much gladness, being come to the

door which should be the entry to his happiness, he was met with the

latter end of a song, which Philoclea like a solitary nightingale,

bewailing her guiltless punishment, and helpless misfortune, had newly

delivered over, meaning none should be judge of her passion, but her

own conscience. The song having been accorded to a sweetly played on

lute, contained these verses, which she had lately with some art

curiously written, to enwrap her secret and resolute woes.

{497}

Virtue(1), beauty(2), and speech(3), did strike(1), wound(2),

charm(3),[b3-10]

My heart(1), eyes(2), ears(3), with wonder(1), love(2), delight(3):

First(1), second(2), last(3), did bind(1), enforce(2) and arm(3),

His works(1), shows(2), suits(3), with wit(1), grace(2) and vows’(3)

might,

Thus honour(1), liking(2), trust(3), much(1), far(2), and deep(3),

Held(1), pierc’d(2), possess’d(3), my judgment(1), sense(2) and

will(3).

Till wrong(1), contempt(2), deceit(3) did grow(1), steal(2), creep(3),

Bands(1), favour(2), faith(3), to break(1), defile(2) and kill(3),

Then grief(1), unkindness(2), proof(3), took(1), kindled(2),

taught(3),

Well(1)-grounded, noble(2), due(3), spite(1), rage(2), disdain(3)

But(1) ah(2), alas(3)! (in vain) my mind(1), sight(2), thought(3),

Doth him(1), his face(2), his words(3), leave(1), shun(2), refrain(3),

For no thing(1), time(2), nor place(3), can lose(1), quench(2),

ease(3),

Mine own(1), embraced(2), sought(3), knot(1), fire(2), disease(3).

The force of love to those poor folk that feel it is many ways very

strange, but no way stranger than that it doth so enchain the lover’s

judgment upon her that holds the reins of his mind, that whatsoever

she doth is ever in his eyes best. And that best, being the continual

motion of our changing life, turned by her to any other thing that

thing again becometh best. So that nature in each kind suffering but

one superlative, the lover only admits no positive. If she sits still,

that is best, for so is the conspiracy of her several graces, held

best together to make one perfect figure of beauty. If she walk, no

doubt that is best, for, besides, the making happy the more places by

her steps, the very stirring adds a pleasing life to her native

perfections. If she be silent, that without comparison is best, since

by that means the untroubled eye most freely may devour the sweetness

of his object. But if she speak, he will take it upon his death that

is best, the quintessence of each word being distilled down into his

affected soul: example of this was well to be seen in the given-over

Pyrocles, who with panting breath, and sometimes sighs, not such as

sorrow restraining the inward parts doth make them glad to deliver,

but such as the impatience of delay, with the unsurety of never so

sure hope, is {498} wont to breathe out. Now being at the door, of the

one side hearing her voice, which he thought if the philosopher said

true of the heavenly seven-sphered harmony, was by her not only

represented, but far surmounted, and of the other having his eyes

over-filled with her beauty, for the king at his parting had left the

chamber open, and she at that time lay, as the heat of that country

did well suffer, upon the top of her bed, having her beauties eclipsed

with nothing but with a fair smock, wrought all in flames of

ash-colour silk and gold lying so upon her right side, that the left

thigh down to the foot, yielded his delightful proportion to the full

view, which was seen by the help of a rich lamp, which through the

curtains a little drawn cast forth a light upon her, as the moon doth

when it shines into a thin wood: Pyrocles I say was stopped with the

violence of so many darts cast by Cupid altogether upon him, that

quite forgetting himself, and thinking therein already he was in the

best degree of felicity, he would have lost much of his time, and with

too much love omitted the enterprise undertaken for his love, had not

Philoclea’s pitiful accusing of him forced him to bring his spirits

again to a new bias; for she laying her hand under her fair cheek,

upon which there did privily trickle the sweet drops of her

delightful, though sorrowful tears, made these words wait upon her

moanful song. “And hath that cruel Pyrocles,” said she, “deserved thus

much of me, that I should for his sake lift up my voice in my best

tunes, and to him continually, with pouring out my plaint, make a

disdained oblation? shall my soul still do this honour to his

unmerciful tyranny, by my lamenting his loss, to show his worthiness

and my weakness? He hears thee not, simple Philoclea, he hears thee

not; and if he did, some hearts grow the harder the more they find

their advantage. Alas! what a miserable constitution of mind have I! I

disdain my fortune, and yet reverence him that disdains me. I accuse

his ungratefulness, and have his virtue in admiration. O ye deaf

heavens, I would either his injury could blot out mine affection, or

my affection could forget his injury.” With that giving a pitiful but

sweet shriek, she took again the lute, and began to sing this sonnet,

which might serve as an explaining to the other.

The love which is imprinted in my soul

With beauty’s seal, and virtue fair disguis’d,

With inward cries puts up a bitter roll

Of huge complaints, that now it is despis’d.

Thus, thus the more I love, the wrong the more

Monstrous appears, long truth received late,

Wrong stirs remorsed Grief, grief’s deadly sore

Unkindness breeds, unkindness fostereth hate.

{499}

But ah, the more I hate, the more I think

Whom I do hate; the more I think on him,

The more his matchless gifts do deeply sink

Into my breast, and loves renewed swim.

What medicine then can such disease remove,

Where love draws hate, and hate engendereth love?

But Pyrocles, that had heard his name accused and condemned by the

mouth, which of all the world, and more than all the world, he most

loved, had then cause enough to call his mind to his home, and with

the most haste he could, for true love fears the accident of an

instant, to match the excusing of his fault, with declaration of his

errand thither. And therefore blown up and down with as many contrary

passions as Aeolus sent out winds upon the Trojan relics guided upon

the sea by the valiant Aeneas, he went into her chamber with such a

pace as reverend fear doth teach, where kneeling down, and having

prepared a long discourse for her, his eyes were so filled with her

sight, that as if they would have robbed all their fellows of their

services, both his heart fainted, and his tongue failed in such sort

that he could not bring forth one word, but referred her understanding

to his eyes’ language. But she in extremity amazed to see him there,

at so undue a season, and ashamed that her beautiful body made so

naked a prospect, drawing in her delicate limbs into the weak guard of

the bed, and presenting in her face to him such a kind of pitiful

anger, as might show this was only a fault; therefore, because she had

a former grudge unto him, turning away her face from him, she thus

said unto him:

“O Zelmane or Pyrocles, for whether name I use, it much skills not,

since by the one I was first deceived, and by the other now betrayed,

what strange motion is the guide of thy cruel mind hither? Dost thou

not think the day-torments thou hast given me sufficient, but that

thou dost envy me the night’s quiet? Wilt thou give my sorrows no

truce, but by making me see before mine eyes how much I have lost,

offer me due cause of confirming my plaint? or is thy heart so full of

rancour that thou dost desire to feed thine eyes with the wretched

spectacle of thine overthrown enemy, and so to satisfy the full

measure of thy undeserved rage with the receiving into thy sight the

unrelievable ruins of my desolate life! O Pyrocles, Pyrocles, for thy

own virtue’s sake, let miseries be no music unto thee, and be content

to take to thyself some colour of excuse, that thou didst not know to

what extremity thy inconstancy, or rather falsehood hath brought me.”

Pyrocles, to whom every syllable she pronounced was a thunderbolt to

his heart, equally distracted betwixt amazement and sorrow, abashed to

see such a stop of his desires, grieved {500} with her pain, but

tormented to find himself the author of it, with quaking lips, and

pale cheer, “Alas! divine lady,” said he, “your displeasure is so

contrary to my desert, and your words so far beyond all expectations

that I have least ability now I have most need to speak in the cause

upon which my life dependeth. For my troth is so undoubtedly constant

unto you, my heart is so assured a witness to itself, of his unspotted

faith, that having no one thing in me, whereout any such sacrilege

might arise; I have likewise nothing in so direct a thing to say for

myself, but sincere and vehement protestations; for in truth there may

most words be spent, where there is some probability to breed of both

sides conjectural allegations. But so perfect a thing as my love is of

you, as it suffers no question, so it seems to receive injury by any

addition of any words unto it. If my soul could have been polluted

with treachery it would likewise have provided for itself due

furniture of colourable answers, but as it stood upon the naked

conscience of his untouched duty, so I must confess it is altogether

unarmed against so unjust a violence as you lay upon me. Alas! let not

the pains I have taken to serve you, be now accounted injurious unto

you, let not the dangerous cunning I have used to please you, be

deemed a treason against you: since I have deceived them whom you fear

for your sake, do not you destroy me for their sake; what can I

without you further do? or to what more forwardness can any counsel

bring our desired happiness? I have provided whatsoever is needful for

our going, I have rid them both out of the lodge, so that there is

none here to be hinderers or knowers of our departure, but only the

almighty powers, whom I invoke as triers of mine innocency, and

witnesses of my well-meaning. And if ever my thoughts did receive so

much as a fainting in their affections, if they have not continually

with more and more ardour from time to time pursued the possession of

your sweetest favour, if ever in that possession they received either

spot or falsehood, then let their most horrible plagues fall upon me,

let mine eyes be deprived of the light, which did abase the heavenly

beams that struck them, let my falsified tongue serve to no use but to

bemoan mine own wretchedness, let my heart impoisoned with detestable

treason, be the seat of infernal sorrow, let my soul with the endless

anguish of his conscience become his own tormentor.” “O false

mankind!” cried out the sweet Philoclea. “How can an imposthumed heart

but yield forth evil matter by his mouth? are oaths there to be

believed, where vows are broken? No, no, who doth wound the eternal

justice of the gods, cares little for abusing their names, and who in

doing wickedly doth not fear due recompensing plagues, doth little

fear that invoking of plagues will make them come {501} ever a whit

the sooner. But alas! what aileth this new conversation, have you yet

another sleight to pay, or do you think to deceive me in Pyrocles’s

form, as you have done in Zelmane’s: or rather, now you have betrayed

me in both, is some third sex left you, to transform yourself into, to

inveigle my simplicity? enjoy, enjoy the conquest you have already

won: and assure yourself you are to come to the farthest point of your

cunning. For my part, unkind Pyrocles, my only defence shall be belief

of nothing, my comfort my faithful innocency, and the punishment I

desire of you, shall be your own conscience.”

Philoclea’s hard persevering in this unjust condemnation of him, did

so overthrow all the might of Pyrocles’s mind, who saw that time would

not serve to prove by deeds, and that the better words he used, the

more they were suspected of deceitful cunning. That void of all

counsel, and deprived of all comfort, finding best deserts punished,

and nearest hopes prevented, he did abandon the succour of himself,

and suffered grief so to close his heart, that his breath failing him

with a dreadful shutting of his eyes, he fell down at her bedside.

Having had time to say no more but, “oh! whom dost thou kill

Philoclea?” she that little looked for such an extreme event of her

doings, started out of her bed, like Venus rising from her mother the

sea, not so much stricken down with amazement and grief of her fault,

as lifted up with the force of love, and desire to help, she laid her

fair body over his breast, and throwing no other water in his face,

but the stream of her tears, not giving him other blows, but the

kissing of her well-formed mouth, her only cries were these

lamentations: “O unfortunate suspicion,” said she, “the very mean to

lose what we most suspect to lose. O unkind kindness of mine, which

returns an imagined wrong with an effectual injury. O fool to make

quarrel my supplication, or to use hate as the mediator of love:

childish Philoclea, hast thou thrown away the jewel wherein all thy

pride consisted? Hast thou with too much haste over-run thyself?” Then

would she renew her kisses, and yet not finding the life return,

redouble her plaints in this manner. “O divine soul,” said she, “whose

virtue can possess no less than the highest place in heaven, if for

mine eternal plague thou hast utterly left this most sweet mansion,

before I follow thee with Thisbe’s punishment for my rash unweariness,

hear this protestation of mine: that as the wrong I have done thee

proceeded of a most sincere, but unresistable affection, so led with

this pitiful example, it shall end in the mortal hate of myself, and,

if it may be, I will make my soul a tomb of thy memory.” At that word

with anguish of mind and weakness of body increased one by the other,

and both augmented by this fearful accident, she had fallen down in a

swoon, but that Pyrocles, {502} then first severing his eyelids and

quickly apprehending her danger, to him more than death, beyond all

powers striving to recover the commandment of all his powers, stayed

her from falling, and then lifting the sweet burden of her body in his

arms, laid her again in her bed. So that she, but then the physician,

was now become the patient, and he to whom her weakness had been

serviceable, was now enforced to do service to her weakness, which

performed by him with that hearty care which the most careful love on

the best loved subject in greatest extremity could employ, prevailed

so far, that ere long she was able, though in strength exceedingly

dejected, to call home her wandering senses, to yield attention to

that her beloved Pyrocles had to deliver. But he lying down on the bed

by her, holding her hand in his, with so kind an accusing her of

unkindness, as in accusing her he condemned himself, began from point

to point to discover unto her all that had passed between his loathed

lovers and him. How he had entertained, and by entertaining deceived,

both Basilius and Gynecia; and that with such a kind of deceit, as

either might see the cause in the other, but neither espy the effect

in themselves. That all his favours to them had tended only to make

them strangers to this his action; and all his strangeness to her, to

the final obtaining of her long promised, and now to be performed

favour. Which device seeing it had so well succeeded to the removing

all other hindrances, that only her resolution remained for the taking

their happy journey, he conjured her by all the love she had ever

borne him, she would make no longer delay to partake with him

whatsoever honours the noble king of Macedon, and all other Euarchus’s

dominions might yield him, especially since in this enterprise he had

now waded so far, as he could not possibly retire himself back,

without being overwhelmed with danger and dishonour: he needed not

have used further persuasion: for that only conjuration had so

forcibly bound all her spirits that could her body have seconded her

mind, or her mind have strengthened her body, without respect of any

worldly thing, but only fear to be again unkind to Pyrocles, she had

condescended to go with him. But raising herself a little in her bed,

and finding her own inability in any sort to endure the air: “My

Pyrocles,” said she, with tearful eyes and a pitiful countenance, such

as well witnessed she had no will to deny anything, she had power to

perform, “if you can convey me hence in such plight as you see me, I

am most willing to make my extremest danger a testimony, that I esteem

no danger in regard of your virtuous satisfaction.” But she fainted so

fast that she was not able to utter the rest of her conceived speech;

which also turned Pyrocles’s thoughts from expecting further answer,

to the necessary care of reviving her, in {503} whose fainting,

himself was more than overthrown. And that having affected with all

the sweet means his wits could devise, though his highest hopes were

by this unexpected downfall sunk deeper than any degree of despair:

yet lest the appearance of his inward grief might occasion her further

discomfort, having wracked his face to a more comfortable semblance,

he sought some show of reason, to show she had no reason, either for

him, or for herself to be afflicted. Which in the sweet-minded

Philoclea, whose consideration was limited by his words, and whose

conceit pierced no deeper than his outward countenance, wrought within

a while such quietness of mind, and that quietness again such repose

of body, that sleep by his harbinger’s weakness, weariness, and

watchfulness, had quickly taken up his lodging in all her senses. Then

indeed had Pyrocles leisure to sit in judgment on himself, and to hear

his reason accuse his rashness, who, without forecast of doubt,

without knowledge of his friend, without acquainting Philoclea with

his purpose, or being made acquainted with her present estate, had

fallen headlong into that attempt, the success whereof he had long

since set down to himself as the measure of all his other fortunes.

But calling to mind how weakly they do, that rather find fault with

what cannot be mended than seek to amend wherein they have been

faulty: he soon turned him from remembering what might have been done,

to considering what was now to be done, and when that consideration

failed, what was now to be expected. Wherein having run over all the

thoughts, his reason, called to the strictest accounts, could bring

before him, at length he lighted on this. That as long as Gynecia

betrayed not the matter, which he thought she would not do, as well

for her own honour and safety, as for the hope she might still have of

him, which is loth to die in a lover’s heart, all the rest might turn

to a pretty merriment, and inflame his lover Basilius, again to cast

about for the missed favour. And as naturally the heart stuffed up

with woefulness, is glad greedily to suck the thinnest air of comfort,

so did he at first embrace this conceit, as offering great hope, if

not assurance of well-doing, till looking more nearly into it, and not

able to answer the doubts and difficulties he saw therein more and

more arising, the night being also far spent, his thoughts even weary

of his own burdens, fell to a straying kind of uncertainty; and his

mind standing only upon the nature of inward intelligences, left his

body to give a sleeping respite to his vital spirits, which he

according to the quality of sorrow received with greater greediness

than ever in his life before: according to the nature of sorrow, I

say, which is past care’s remedy; for care stirring the brains, and

making thin the spirits, breaketh rest: but those griefs wherein one

is determined there is no preventing, {504} do breed a dull heaviness

which easily clothes itself in sleep, so as laid down so near, the

beauty of the word, Philoclea, that their necks were subjects each to

other’s chaste embracements, it seemed love had come thither to lay a

plot in that picture of death, how gladly, if death came, their souls

would go together.

THE THIRD ECLOGUES

Thyrsis not with many painted words nor falsified promises had won

the consent of his beloved Kala, but with a true and simple making her

know he loved her, not forcing himself beyond his reach to buy her

affection, but giving her such pretty presents, as neither could weary

him with the giving, nor shame her for the taking. Thus, the first

strawberries he could find, were ever in a clean washed dish, sent to

Kala; thus posies of the spring flowers were wrapped up in a little

green silk, and dedicated to Kala’s breasts; thus sometimes his

sweetest cream, sometimes the best cakebread his mother made, were

reserved for Kala’s taste. Neither would he stick to kill a lamb when

she would be content to come over the way unto him. But then lo, how

the house was swept, and rather no fire than any smoke left to trouble

her. Then love songs were not dainty, when she would hear them, and as

much mannerly silence, when she would not: in going to church great

worship to Kala. So that all the parish said, never a maid they knew

so well waited on: and when dancing was about the may-pole, nobody

taken out but she, and he after a leap or two to show her his own

activity, would frame all the rest of his dancing only to grace her.

As for her father’s sheep, he had no less care of them than his own:

so that she might play her as she would, warranted with Thyrsis’s

carefulness. But if he spied Kala favoured any one of the flock more

than his fellows, then that was cherished: shearing him so (when shorn

he must be) as might most become him: but while the wood was on,

wrapped within it some verses, wherein Thyrsis had a special gift, and

making the innocent beast his unweeting messenger. Thus constantly

continuing, though he were none of the fairest, at length he won

Kala’s heart, the honestest wench in all those quarters. And so with

consent of both parents, without which neither Thyrsis would ask, nor

Kala grant, their marrying day was appointed, which because it fell

out in this time I think it shall not be impertinent, to remember a

little our shepherds, while the other great persons, are either

sleeping or otherwise troubled. Thyrsis’s marriage-time once known,

there needed no inviting of the neighbours in that valley, for so well

was {505} Thyrsis beloved, that they were all ready to do him credit,

neither yet came they like harpies to devour him; but one brought a

fat pig, the other a tender kid, the third a great goose; as for

cheese, milk and butter, were the gossips’ presents. Thither came of

strange shepherds only the melancholy Philisides; for the virtuous

Corydon had long since left off all joyful solemnities. And as for

Strephon and Claius, they had lost their mistress, which put them into

such extreme sorrows, as they could scarcely abide the light of the

day, much less the eyes of men. But of the Arcadian born shepherds,

thither came good old Geron, young Histor, though unwilling, and

upright Dicus, merry Pas, and jolly Nico. As for Dametas, they durst

not presume, his pride was such, to invite him, and Dorus they found

might not be spared. And thereunder a bower was made of boughs, for

Thyrsis’s house was not able to receive them, every one placed

according to his age. The women, for such was the manner of the

country, kept together to make good cheer among themselves, from which

otherwise a certain painful modesty restrains them, and there might

the sadder matrons give good counsel to Kala, who poor fool wept for

fear of that she desired. But among the shepherds was all honest

liberty, no fear of dangerous telltales, who hunt greater preys, nor

indeed minds in them to give telltales any occasion, but one

questioning with another of the manuring his ground, and governing his

flock, the highest point they reached to, was, to talk of the holiness

of marriage; to which purpose, as soon as their sober dinner was

ended, Dicus instead of thanks, sung this song, with a clear voice and

cheerful countenance.

Let mother earth now deck herself in flowers,

To see her offspring, seek a good increase,

Where justest love doth vanquish Cupid’s powers,

And war of thoughts is swallowed up in peace,

Which never may decrease,----

But like the turtles fair,

Live one in two, a well-united pair;

Which that no chance may stain,----

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

O Heav’n awake, show forth thy stately face,

Let not these slumbering clouds thy beauties hide,

But with thy cheerful presence help to grace

The honest bridegroom and the bashful bride,

Whose loves may ever bide,----

Like to the elm and vine,

With mutual embracements them to twine;

In which delightful pain,----

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

{506}

Ye Muses all which chaste affects allow,

And have to Thyrsis showed your secret skill,

To this chaste love your sacred favours bow,

And so to him and her your gifts distil,

That they all vice may kill.----

And like to lilies pure,----

May please all eyes, and spotless may endure,

Where that all bliss may reign,----

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

Ye nymphs which in the water’s empire have,

Since Thyrsis’ music oft doth yield your praise,

Grant to the thing which we for Thyrsis crave,

Let one time, but long first, close up their days.

One grave their bodies seize:----

And like two rivers sweet,

When they, thought divers, do together meet,

One stream both streams contain:

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

Pan, father Pan the God of silly sheep,

Whose care is cause that they in number grow,

Have much more care of them than them do keep,

Since from these good the other’s good doth flow,

And make their issue show----

In number like the herd

Of younglings, which thyself with love hast rear’d;

Or like the drops of rain.

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

Virtue, if not a God, yet God’s chief part,

Be thou their knot of this their open vow,

That still he be her head, she be his heart;

He lean to her, she unto him do bow:

Each other still allow:----

Like oak and mistletoe,

Her strength from him, his praise from her do grow;

In which most lovely train,----

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

But thou foul Cupid, sire to lawless lust,

Be thou far hence with thy impoison’d dart,

Which though of glitt’ring gold, shall here take rust.

Where simple love, which chasteness doth impart,

Avoids thy hurtful art,----

Not needing charming skill,

Such minds with sweet affections for to fill,

Which being pure and plain,----

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

{507}

All churlish words, shrewd answers, crabbed looks,

All privateness, self-seeking, inward spite,

All waywardness, which nothing kindly brooks,

All strife for toys, and claiming master’s right.

Be hence, aye put to flight:

All stirring husband’s hate

’Gainst neighbour’s good for womanish debate,

Be fled as things most vain,----

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

All peacock pride, and fruits of peacock’s pride,

Longing to be with loss of substance gay,

With wretchlessness what may thy house betide,

So that you may on higher slippers stay,

For ever hence away:----

Yet let not sluttery

The sink of filth, be counted housewifery;

But keeping wholesome mean,----

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

But above all, away vile jealousy,

The evil of evils, just cause to be unjust,

How can he love suspecting treachery?

How can she love where love cannot win trust?

Go snake, hide thee in dust,----

Nay dare once show thy face,

Where open hearts do hold so constant place,

That they thy sting restrain,----

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

The earth is deck’d with flowers, the heav’ns display’d,

Muses grant gifts, nymphs long and joined life,

Pan store of babes, virtue their thoughts well staid,

Cupid’s lust gone, and gone is bitter strife,

Happy Man, happy Wife,----

No pride shall them oppress,

Nor yet shall yield to loathsome sluttishness,

And jealousy is slain:----

For Hymen will their coupled joys maintain.

“Truly Dicus,” said Nico, “although thou didst not grant me the prize

the last day, when undoubtedly I won it, yet must I needs say thou for

thy part hast sung well and thriftily.” Pas straight desired all the

company they would bear witness that Nico had once in his life spoken

wise: “For,” said he, “I will tell it his Father, who will be a glad

man when he hears such news.” “Very true,” said Nico, “but indeed so

would not thine in like case, for he would look thou should’st live

but one hour longer {508} than a discreet word wandered out of thy

mouth.” “And I pray thee,” said Pas, “gentle Nico, tell me, what

mischance it was that brought thee to taste so fine a meat?” “Marry

goodman blockhead,” said Nico, “because he speaks against jealousy,

the filthy traitor to true affection, and yet disguising itself in the

raiment of love.” “Sentences, sentences,” cried Pas. “Alas, how ripe

witted these young folks be nowadays but well counselled shall that

husband be, when this man comes to exhort him not to be jealous.” “And

so shall he,” answered Nico, “for I have seen a fresh example, though

it be not very fit to be known.” “Come, come,” said Pas, “be not so

squeamish, I know thou longest more to tell it than we to hear it.”

But for all his words, Nico, would not bestow his voice, till he was

generally entreated of all the rest. And then with a merry

marriage-look he sung this following discourse, for with a better

grace he could sing than tell.

A neighbour mine not long ago there was,

But nameless he, for blameless he shall be,

That married had a trick and bonny lass,

As in a summer day a man might see:

But he himself a foul unhandsome groom,

And far unfit to hold so good a room.

Now whether moved with self-unworthiness,

Or with her beauty fit to make a prey;

Fell jealousy did so his brain oppress,

That if he absent were but half a day,

He guessed the worst (you wot what is the worst)

And in himself new doubting causes nurst.

While thus he feared the silly innocent,

Who yet was good, because she knew none ill,

Unto his house a jolly shepherd went,

To whom our prince did bear a great good will;

Because in wrestling, and in a pastoral,

He far did pass the rest of shepherds all.

And therefore he a courtier was be-named,

And as a courtier was with cheer received

(For they have tongues to make a poor man blamed,

If he to them his duty misconceived)

And for this courtier should well like his table,

The good man bade his wife be serviceable.

{509}

And so she was, and all with good intent;

But few days past when she good manner used;

But that her husband thought her service bent

To such an end as he might be abased.

Yet like a coward fearing stranger’s pride,

He made the simple wench his wrath abide;

With chumpish looks, hard words, and secret nips,

Grumbling at her when she his kindness sought.

Asking her how she tasted courtier’s lips,

He forced her to think that which she never thought.

In fine, he made her guess, there was some sweet,

In that which he so fear’d that she should meet.

When once this entered was in woman’s heart,

And that it had inflamed a new desire,

There rested then to play a woman’s part;

Fuel to seek, and not to quench the fire,

But (for his jealous eye she well did find)

She studied cunning how the same to blind.

And thus she did. One day to him she came,

And, though against his will, on him she leaned:

And out gan cry, “Ah well away for shame,

If you help not, our wedlock will be stained.”

The good man starting, asked what her did move?

She sigh’d and said, “The bad guest sought her love.”

He little looking that she should complain

Of that, whereto he fear’d she was inclin’d:

Bussing her oft, and in his heart full fain,

He did demand what remedy to find,

How they might get that guest from them to wend,

And yet the prince that lov’d him not offend.

“Husband,” quoth she, “go to him by and by,

And tell him you do find I do him love:

And therefore pray him that of courtesy

He will absent himself, lest he should move

A young girl’s heart, to that were shame for both

Whereto you know his honest heart were loath.

“Thus shall you show that him you do not doubt,

And as for me, sweet husband, I must bear;”

Glad was the man when he heard her out,

And did the same, although with mickle fear.

For fear he did, lest he the young man might

In choler put, with whom he would not fight.

{510}

The courtly shepherd much aghast at this,

Not seeing erst such token in the wife,

Though full of scorn, would not his duty miss,

Knowing that ill become a household strife,

Did go his way, but sojourn’d near thereby,

That yet the ground thereof he might espy.

The wife thus having settled husband’s brain,

Who would have sworn his spouse Diana was,

Watched when she a further point might gain,

Which little time did fitly bring to pass.

For to the court her man was called by name;

Whither he needs must go for fear of blame.

Three days before that he must sure depart,

She written had, but in a hand disguised,

A letter such, which might from either part,

Seem to proceed, so well it was devised.

She seal’d it first, then she the sealing brake,

And to her jealous husband did it take.

With weeping eyes (her eyes she taught to weep)

She told him that the courtier had it sent:

“Alas,” quoth she, “thus woman’s shame doth creep.”

The good man read on both sides the content,

It title had, “Unto my only love”:

Subscription was, “Yours most, if you will prove.”

Th’ epistle self such kind of words it had;

“My sweetest joy, the comfort of my sprite,

So may thy flocks increase thy dear heart glad,

So may each thing e’en as thou wishest light,

As thou wilt deign to read, and gently read

This mourning ink in which my heart doth bleed.

“Long have I lov’d, alas thou worthy art,

Long have I lov’d, alas love craveth love,

Long have I lov’d thyself, alas my heart

Doth break, now tongue unto thy name doth move;

And think not that thy answer answer is,

But that it is my doom of bale or bliss.

“The jealous wretch must now to court be gone;

Ne can he fail, for prince hath for him sent:

Now is the time we may be here alone,

And give a long desire a sweet content.

Thus shall you both reward a lover true,

And eke revenge his wrong suspecting you.”

{511}

And this was all, and this the husband read

With chafe enough, till she him pacified:

Desiring that no grief in him be bred,

Now that he had her words so truly tried:

But that he would to him the letter show,

That with his fault be might her goodness know.

That straight was done with many a boist’rous threat,

That to the king he would his sin declare;

But now the courtier gan to smell the feat,

And with some words which showed little care:

He stayed until the good man was departed,

Then gave he him the blow which never smarted.

Thus may you see the jealous wretch was made

The pander of the thing he most did fear.

Take heed therefore, how you ensue that trade,

Lest the same marks of jealousy you bear.

For sure, no jealousy can that prevent,

Whereto two parties once be full content.

“Behold,” said Pas, “a whole dicker of wit: he had picked out such a

tale with intention to keep a husband from jealousy, which was enough

to make a sanctified husband jealous, to see subtilities so much in

the feminine gender. But,” said he, “I will strike Nico dead, with the

wise words that shall flow out of my gorge.” And without further

entreaty thus sang:

Who doth desire that chaste his wife should be,

First be he true, for truth doth truth deserve:

Then such be he, as she his worth may see,

And one man still credit with her preserve.

Not toying kind, nor causelessly unkind,

Not stirring thoughts, nor yet denying right,

Not spying faults, nor in plain errors blind,

Never hard hand, nor ever reins too light.

As far from want, as far from vain expense

(The one doth force, the latter doth entice)

Allow good company, but keep from thence

All filthy mouths that glory in their vice.

This done, thou hast no more, but leave the rest,

To virtue, fortune, time and woman’s breast.

“Well concluded,” said Nico, “when he hath done all, he leaves the

matter to his wife’s discretion. Now whensoever thou marriest, let her

discretion deck thy head with Actaeon’s ornament.” Pas {512} was so

angry with his wish, being indeed towards marriage, that they might

perchance have fallen to buffets, but that Dicus desired Philisides,

who as a stranger sat among them, revolving in his mind all the

tempests of evil fortune he had passed, that he would do so much grace

to the company, as to sing one of his country songs. Philisides,

knowing it no good manners to be squeamish of his coming, having put

himself into their company, without further study began to utter that,

wherewith his thoughts were then, as always, most busied: and to show

what a stranger he was to himself, spoke of himself, as of a third

person in this sort:

The lad Philisides

Lay by a river’s side.

In flow’ry field a gladder eye to please;

His pipe was at his foot,

His lambs were him beside,

A widow turtle near on bared root

Sat wailing without boot.

Each thing both sweet and sad

Did draw his boiling brain

To think, and think with pain

Of Mira’s beams, eclips’d by absence bad,

And thus, with eyes made dim

With tears, he said, or sorrow said for him:

“O earth, once answer give,

So may thy stately grace

By north, or south still rich adorned live,

So Mira long may be

On thy then blessed face

Whose foot doth set a heav’n on cursed thee,

I ask, now answer me:

If th’ author of thy bliss,

Phoebus, that shepherd high,

Do turn from thee his eye,

Doth not thyself, when he long absent is,

Like rogue, all ragged go,

And pine away with daily wasting woe?

Tell me you wanton brook,

So may your sliding race

Shun loathed loving banks with cunning crook:

So in you ever new

Mira may look her face,

And make you fair with shadow of her hue:

So when to pay your due

To mother sea you come,

She chid you not for stay,

Nor beat you for your play,

Tell me if your diverted springs become

{513}

Absented quite from you,

Are you not dried? can you yourselves renew?

Tell me you flowers fair,

Cowslip and columbine,

So may you make this wholesome spring-time air

With you embraced lie,

And lately thence untwine:

But with dewdrops engender children high:

So may you never die,

But pull’d by Mira’s hand,

Dress bosom hers, or head.

Or scatter on her bed,

Tell me, if husband spring-time leave your land,

When he from you is sent,

Whither not you, languish’d with discontent?

Tell me, my silly pipe,

So may thee still betide,

A cleanly cloth thy moistness for to wipe:

So may the cherries red

Of Mira’s lips divide

Their sugared selves to kiss thy happy head:

So may her ears be led

Her ears where music lives,

To hear and not despise

Thy lyric-liring cries;

Tell, if that breath, which thee thy sounding gives.

Be absent far from thee,

Absent alone canst thou then piping be?

Tell me my lamb of gold,

So may’st thou long abide

The day well fed, the night in faithful fold:

So grow thy wool of note,

In time that richly dy’d

It may be part of Mira’s petticoat,

Tell me, if wolves the throat

Have caught of thy dear dam,

Or she from thee be stay’d,

Or thou from her be stray’d,

Canst thou poor lamb, become another’s lamb?

Or rather till you die,

Still for thy dam, with baa-waymenting cry?

Tell me, O turtle true,

So may no fortune breed

To make thee nor thy better-loved rue:

So may thy blessings swarm,

That Mira may thee feed

With hand and mouth; with laps and breaks keep warm:

Tell me of greedy arm,

{514}

Do fondly take away

With traitor lime the one

The other left alone:

Tell me poor wretch, parted from wretched prey

Disdain not you the green,

Wailing till death, shun you not to be seen?

Earth, brook, flow’rs, pipe, lamb, dove,

Say all and I with them,

‘Absence is death or worse, to them that love.’

So I unlucky lad

Whom hills from her do hem,

What fits me now but tears, and sighings sad?

O fortune too too bad,

I rather would my sheep

Th’adst killed with a stroke,

Burnt Caban, lost my cloak,

Then want one hour those eyes which my joys keep.

Oh! what doth wailing win?

Speech without end had better not begin.

My song climb thou the wind,

Which Holland sweet now gently sendeth in,

That on his wings the level thou may’st find

To hit, but kissing hit

Her ears the weights of wit.

If thou know not for whom thy master dies,

These marks shall make thee wise:

She is the herdess fair that shines in dark,

And gives her kids no food, but willow’s bark.”

This said, at length he ended.

His oft sigh-broken ditty,

Then raise, but raise no legs with faintness bended,

With skin in sorrow died,

With face the plot of pity,

With thoughts, which thoughts their own tormentors tried.

He rose, and straight espied

His ram, who to recover

The ewe another loved,

With him proud battle proved.

He envied such a death in sight of lover,

And always westward eyeing,

More envied Phoebus for his western flying.

The whole company would gladly have taken this occasion of requesting

Philisides in plainer sort to discover unto them his estate. Which he

willing to prevent, as knowing the relation thereof more fit for

funerals than the time of a marriage, began to sing this song he had

learned before he had ever subjected his thoughts to acknowledge no

master, but a mistress.

{515}

As I my little flock on Ister bank

(A little flock; but well my pipe they couth)

Did piping lead, the sun already sank

Beyond our world, and ere I got my booth,

Each thing with mantle black the night doth sooth;

Saving the glow-worm which would courteous be

Of that small light oft watching shepherds see.

The welkin had full niggardly enclosed

In coffer of dim clouds his silver groats,

Ycleped stars; each thing to rest disposed,

The caves, were full, the mountains void of goats

The bird’s eye clos’d; closed their chirping notes.

As for the nightingale, wood music’s king:

It August was, he deign’d not then to sing.

Amid my sheep, though I saw naught to fear,

Yet (for I nothing saw) I feared sore;

Then found I which thing is a charge to bear,

As for my sheep I dreaded mickle more

Than ever for myself since I was bore.

I sat me down: for see to go he could.

And sang unto my sheep lest stray they should.

The song I sang old Lanquet had me taught,

Lanquet, the shepherd best swift Ister knew,

For clerkly read, and hating what is naught,

For faithful heart, clean hands, and mouth as true:

With sweet skill my skilless youth he drew,

To have a feeling taste of him that fits

Beyond the heaven, far more beyond your wits.

He said the music best thilk power pleased

Was jump concord between our wit and will;

Where highest notes to godliness are raised,

And lowest sink not down to jot of ill:

With old true tales he wont mine ears to fill.

How shepherds did of yore, how now they thrive,

Spoiling their flock, or while ’twixt them they strive.

He liked me, but pitied lustful youth:

His good strong staff my slipp’ry years upbore:

He still hop’d well because I loved truth:

Till forc’d to part with heart and eyes e’en sore,

To worthy Corydon he gave me o’er,

But thus in oak’s true shade recounted be,

Which now in night’s deep shade sheep heard of me.

{516}

Such manner time there was (what time I not)

When all this earth, this dam or mould of ours

Was only won’d with such as beasts begot:

Unknown as then were they that builded towers:

The cattle wild, or tame, in nature’s bowers

Might freely roam, or rest, as seemed them:

Man was not man their dwellings in to hem.

The beasts had sure some beastly policy:

For nothing can endure where order n’is.

For once the lion by the lamb did lie,

The fearful hind the leopard did kiss.

Hurtless was tiger’s paw, and serpent’s hiss.

This think I well the beasts with courage clad,

Like senators a harmless empire had.

At which whether the others did repine,

For envy harb’reth most in feeblest hearts

Or that they all to changing did incline,

As e’en in beasts their dams leave changing parts

The multitude to Jove a suit imparts,

With neighing, blaying, braying, and barking,

Roaring and howling for to have a king.

A king, in language theirs they said they would:

(For then their language was a perfect speech)

The birds likewise with chirps, and puing could

Cackling, and chatt’ring that of Jove beseech.

Only the owl still warn’d them not to seech

So hastily that which they would repent;

But saw they would, and he to deserts went.

Jove wisely said (for wisdom wisely says)

O beasts, take heed what you of me desire.

Rulers will think all things made them to please,

And soon forget the swink due to their hire:

But since you will, part of my heav’nly fire,

I will you lend; the rest yourselves must give,

That it both seen and felt may with you live.

Full glad they were, and took the naked spright,

Which straight the earth clothed in his clay:

The lion heart; the ounce gave active might;

The horse, good shape; the sparrow, lust to play;

Nightingale, voice, enticing songs to say.

Elephant gave a perfect memory:

And parrot, ready tongue, that to apply.

{517}

The fox gave craft; the dog gave flattery:

Ass patience; the mole, a working thought;

Eagle, high look; wolf, secret cruelty:

Monkey, sweet breath; the cow, her fair eyes brought;

The ermine, whitest skin, spotted with nought;

The sheep, mild seeming face; climbing, the bear.

The stag did give the harm eschewing fear.

The hare, her sleights; the cat, his melancholy;

Ant, industry; and coney, skill to build;

Cranes, order; storks, to be appearing holy;

Chameleon, ease to change; duck, ease to yield:

Crocodile, tears, which might be falsely spill’d:

Ape, great thing gave, though he did mowing stand,

The instrument of instruments, the hand.

Each other beast likewise his present brings:

And but thy dread their prince they ought should want,

They all consented were to give him wings:

And aye more awe towards him for to plant,

To their own work this privilege they grant,

That from thenceforth to all eternity,

No beast should freely speak, but only he.

Thus man was made; thus man their lord became:

Who at the first, wanting, or biding pride,

He did to beasts’ best use his cunning frame

With water drink, herbs meat, and naked hide.

And fellow like let his dominion slide;

Not in his sayings, saying “I,” but “we”;

As if he meant his lordship common be.

But when his seat so rooted he had found,

That they now skill’d not how from him to wend;

Then gain in guiltless earth full many a wound,

Iron to seek, which ’gainst itself should bend,

To tear the bowels, that good corn should send,

But yet the common dam none did bemoan;

Because, though hurt, they never heard her groan.

Then ’gan the factions in the beasts to breed;

Where helping weaker sort, the nobler beasts

(As tigers, leopards, bears, and lions’ seed)

Disdain’d with this, in deserts sought their rests:

Where famine ravin taught their hungry chests,

That craftily he forc’d them to do ill,

Which being done, he afterwards would kill.

{518}

For murders done, which never erst was seen,

By those great beasts, as for the weaker’s good,

He chose themselves his guarders for to been.

’Gainst those of might, of whom in fear they stood,

As horse, and dog, not great, but gentle blood:

Blithe were the common cattle of the field,

Tho’ when they saw their foe’n of greatness kill’d.

But they or spent, or made of slender might,

Then quickly did the meaner cattle find,

The great beams gone, the house on shoulder’s light:

For by and by the horse fair bits did bind:

The dog was in a collar taught his kind.

As for the gentle birds like case might rue,

When falcon they, and goss-hawk saw in mew.

Worst fell to smallest birds, and meanest herd,

Whom now his own, full like his own he used.

Yet first but wool, or feathers off he tear’d:

And when they were well us’d to be abused:

For hungry teeth their flesh with teeth he bruised:

At length for glutton taste he did them kill:

At last for sport their silly lives did spill.

But yet, O man, rage not beyond thy need:

Deem it not glory to swell in tyranny.

Thou art of blood, joy not to see things bleed:

Thou fearest death: think they are loth to die.

A plaint of guiltless hurt doth pierce the sky.

And you poor beasts in patience bide your hell,

Or know your strengths, and then you shall do well.

Thus did I sing and pipe eight sullen hours

To sheep, whom love, not knowledge, made to hear,

Now fancy’s fits, now fortune’s baleful flowers:

But then I homeward call’d my lambkins dear;

For to my dimmed eyes began to appear

The night grown old, her black head waxen grey,

Sure shepherd’s sign, that morn should soon fetch day.

According to the nature of divers ears, divers judgments soon

followed: some praising his voice, others his words fit to frame a

pastoral style, others the strangeness of the tale, and scanning what

he should mean by it. But old Geron, who had borne him a grudge ever

since in one of their eclogues he had taken him up over-bitterly, took

hold of this occasion to make his revenge, and said, he never saw a

thing worse proportioned, than to bring in a {519} tale of he knew not

what beasts at such a sport-meeting, when rather some song of love, or

matter for joyful melody was to be brought forth. “But,” said he,

“this is the right conceit of young men, who think then they speak

wiseliest, when they cannot understand themselves.” But little did the

melancholic shepherd regard either his dispraises, or the other’s

praises, who had set the foundation of his honour there, where he was

most despised. And therefore he returning again to the train of his

desolate pensiveness, Geron invited Histor to answer him in

eclogue-wise; who indeed having been long in love with the fair Kala,

and now by Lalus over-gone, was grown into a detestation of marriage.

But thus it was.

GERON and HISTOR

GERON

In faith, good Histor, long is your delay,

From holy marriage, sweet and surest mean:

Our foolish lust in honest rules to stay,

I pray you do to Lalus’ sample lean:

Thou seest how frisk, and jolly now he is,

That last day seem’d, he could not chew a bean.

Believe me man, there is no greater bliss,

Than is the quiet joy of loving wife:

Which whoso wants, half of himself doth miss.

Friend without change, playfellow without strife,

Food without fullness, counsel without pride,

Is this sweet doubling of our single life.

HISTOR

No doubt, to whom so good chance did betide,

As for to find a pasture strewed with gold,

He were a fool if there he did not bide.

Who would not have a Phoenix if he could:

The humming wasp if it had not a sting,

Before all flies the wasp accept I would;

But this bad world, few golden fields doth bring;

Phoenix but one, of crows we millions have.

The wasp seems gay, but is a cumbrous thing.

If many Kala’s our Arcadia gave,

Lalus’ example I would soon ensue,

And think, I did myself from sorrow save.

But of such wives we find a slender crew;

Shrewdness so stirs, pride so puffs up the heart,

They seldom ponder what to them is due.

With meagre looks, as if they still did smart

Puling or whimpering, or else scolding flat,

{520}

Make home more pain than following of the cart.

Either dull silence, or eternal chat;

Still contrary to what her husband says;

If he do praise the dog, she likes the cat.

Austere she is, when he would honest plays;

And gamesome then, when he thinks on his sheep,

She bids him go, and yet from journey stays,

She war doth ever with his kinsfolk keep,

And makes them fremb’d, who friends by nature are,

Envying shallow toys with malice deep.

And if forsooth there come some new found ware,

The little coin his sweating brows have got,

Must go for that if for her lowers he care:

Or else; Nay faith, mine is the luckiest lot,

That ever fell to honest woman yet:

No wife but I hath such a man, god wot:

Such is their speech, who be of sober wit:

But, who do let their tongues show well their rage,

Lord, what bywords they speak, what spite they spit?

The house is made a very loathsome cage,

Wherein the bird doth never sing, but cry.

With such a will as nothing can assuage.

Dearly their servants do their wages buy,

Revil’d for each small fault, sometimes for none:

They better live that in a jail do lie

Let other fouler sports away be blown,

For I seek not their shame, but still methinks

A better life it is to live alone.

GERON

Who for such fickle fear from virtue shrinks,

Shall in his life embrace no worthy thing:

No mortal man the cup of surety drinks.

The heav’ns do not good haps in handfuls bring,

But let us pick our good from out much bad:

That still our little world may know his king.

But certainly so long we may be glad,

While that we do what nature doth require,

And for th’ event we never ought be sad.

Man oft is plagu’d with air, is burnt with fire,

In water drown’d, in earth his burial is:

And shall we not therefore their use desire?

Nature above all things requireth this,

That we our kind do labour to maintain:

Which drawn-out line doth hold all human bliss.

Thy father justly may of thee complain

If thou do not repay his deeds for thee,

In granting unto him a grandsire’s gain.

{521}

Thy Commonwealth may rightly grieved be,

Which must by this immortal be preserved,

If thus thou murder thy posterity.

His very being he hath not deserved,

Who for a self-conceit will that forbear,

Whereby that being, aye must be, conserved.

And God forbid women such cattle were

As you paint them: but well in you I find,

No man doth speak aright who speaks in fear,

Who only sees the ill is worse than blind.

These fifty winters married have I been;

And yet find no such faults in womankind.

I have a wife worthy to be a queen,

So well she can command, and yet obey:

In ruling of a house so well she’s seen.

And yet in all this time betwixt us twa,

We wear our double yoke of such content,

That never passed foul word, I dare well say:

But these are your love toys, which still are spent

In lawless games, and love not as you should,

But with much study learn late to repent.

How well last day before our prince you could

Blind Cupid’s works with wonder testify?

Yet now the root of him abase you would.

Go to, go to, and Cupid now apply,

To that where thou thy Cupid may’st avow,

And thou shalt find in women virtues lie,

Sweet supple minds which soon to wisdom bow

Where they by wisdom’s rule directed are,

And are not forc’d fond thraldom to allow.

As we to get are fram’d, so they to spare:

We made for pain, our pains they made to cherish:

We care abroad, and they of home have care,

O Histor, seek within thyself to flourish:

Thy house by thee must live, or else be gone:

And then who shall the name of Histor nourish?

Riches of children pass a prince’s throne;

Which touch the father’s heart with secret joy,

When without shame he saith, “These be mine own.”

Marry therefore, for marriage will destroy

Those passions which to youthful head do climb,

Mothers and nurses of all vain annoy.

HISTOR

Perchance I will, but now methinks it time

To go unto the bride, and use this day,

To speak with her while freely speak we may.

{522}

He spoke these words with such affection, as a curious eye might

easily have perceived he liked Thyrsis’ fortune better than he loved

his person. But then indeed did all arise, and went to the women,

where spending all the day, and good part of the night in dancing,

carolling and wassailing; lastly, they left Thyrsis, where he long

desired to be left, and with many unfeigned thanks returned every man

to his home. But some of them having to cross the way of the two

lodges, might see a lady making doleful lamentation over a body which

seemed dead unto them. But methinks Dametas cries unto me, if I come

not the sooner to comfort him, he will leave off his golden work, that

hath already cost him so much labour and longing.

[End of Book III]

ARCADIA