{523}
The almighty wisdom evermore delighting to show the world that by
unlikeliest means greatest matters may come to conclusion; that human
reason may be the more humbled, and more willingly give place to
divine providence; as at the first it brought in Dametas to play a
part in this royal pageant, so having continued him still an actor,
now that all things were grown ripe for an end, made his folly the
instrument of revealing that which far greater cunning had sought to
conceal. For so it fell out that Dametas having spent the whole day in
breaking up the cumbersome work of the pastor Dorus, and feeling in
all his labour no pain so much as that his hungry hopes received any
stay, having with the price of much sweat and weariness gotten up the
huge stone, which he thought should have such a golden lining, the
good man in the great bed that stone had made, found nothing but these
two verses written upon a broad piece of vellum.
Who hath his hire, hath well his labour plac’d;
Earth thou didst seek, and store of Earth thou hast.
What an inward discontentment it was to master Dametas, to find his
hope of wealth turned to poor verses, for which he never cared much,
nothing can describe, but either the feeling in one’s self the state
of such a mind Dametas had, or at least the bethinking what was
Midas’s fancy, when after the great pride he conceived to be made
judge between the Gods, he was rewarded with the ornament of an ass’s
ears. Yet the deep apprehension he had received of such riches, could
not so suddenly lose the colour that had so thoroughly dyed his thick
brain, but that he turned and tossed the poor bowels of the innocent
earth, till the {524} coming on of the night, and the tediousness of
his fruitless labour made him content rather to exercise his
discontentation at home than there. But forced he was, his horse being
otherwise burdened with digging instruments, to return as he came,
most part of the way on foot, with such grudging lamentations as a
nobler mind would, but more nobly, make for the loss of his mistress.
For so far had he fed his foolish soul with the expectation of that
which he reputed felicity, that he no less accounted himself
miserable, than if he had fallen from such an estate his fancy had
embraced. So then home again went Dametas, punished in conceit, as in
conceit he had erred, till he found himself there from a fancied loss
fallen to essential misery: for entering into his house three hours
before night, instead of the lightsome countenance of Pamela, which
gave such an inward decking to that lodge, as proudest palaces might
have cause to envy it, and of the grateful conversation of Dorus,
whose witty behaviour made that loneliness to seem full of good
company, instead of the loud scolding of Miso, and the busy rumbling
up and down of Mopsa, which though they were so short, as quite
contrary to the others’ praiseworthiness, yet were they far before
them in filling of a house, he found nothing but a solitary darkness,
which as naturally it breeds a kind of irksome ghastfulness, so it was
to him a most present terror, remembering the charge he had left
behind, which he well knew imported no less than his life unto him.
Therefore lighting a candle, there was no place a mouse could have
dwelled in but that he with quaking diligence sought into. But when he
saw he could see nothing of that he most cared for, then became he the
right pattern of a wretch dejected with fear: for crying and howling,
knocking his head to the wall, he began to make pitiful complaints,
where nobody could hear him: and, with too much dread he should not
recover her, leave all consideration how to recover her. But at length
looking like a she-goat when she casts her kid, for very sorrow he
took in his own behalf, out of the lodge he went running as hard as he
could, having now received the very form of hanging into his
consideration. Thus running, as a man that would gladly have run from
himself, it was his foolish fortune to espy, by the glimmering light
the moon did then yield him, one standing aloft among the boughs of a
fair ash. He that would have asked counsel at that time of a dog, cast
up his face, as if his tooth had been drawing; and with much bending
his sight, perceived it was Mopsa, fitly seated there for her wit and
dignity. There, I will not say with joy, for how could he taste of
joy, whose imagination was fallen from a palace to the gallows? But
yet with some refreshing of comfort, in hopes he should learn better
tidings of her, he began to cry out, {525} “O Mopsa, my beloved
chicken, here am I thine own father Dametas, never in such a
towardness of hanging if thou canst not help me.” But never a word
could his eloquence procure of Mopsa, who indeed was there attending
for greater matters. This was yet a new burden to poor Dametas, who
thought all the world was conspiring against him, and therefore with a
silly choler he began another tune. “Thou vile Mopsa,” said he, “now
the vengeance of my fatherly curse overthwart thee if though do not
straightways answer me.” But neither blessing nor cursing could
prevail. Mopsa, who was now great with child with the expectation of
her may-game hopes did long to be delivered with the third time of
being named. Which by and by followed, for Dametas rubbing his elbow,
stamping and whining, seeing neither of these take place, he began to
throw stones at her, and withal to conjure her by the name of hellish
Mopsa. But when he had named her the third time, no chime can more
suddenly follow the striking of a clock, than she verily thinking it
was the god that used her father’s voice, throwing her arms abroad,
and not considering that she was muffled upon so high a tree, came
fluttering down like a hooded hawk, likely enough to have broken her
neck but that the tree full of boughs tossed her from one bough to
another, and lastly, well bruised, brought her to receive an
unfriendly salutation of the earth. Dametas, as soon as she was down,
came running to her, and finding her so close wrapt, pulled off the
scarlet cloak, in good time for her, for with the soreness of the
fall, if she had not had breath given her, she had delivered a foolish
soul to Pluto.
But when Dametas began afresh to desire his daughter not to forget the
pains he had taken for her in her childhood, which he was sure she
could remember, and to tell where Pamela was. “O good Apollo,” said
Mopsa, “if ever thou didst bear love to Phaeton’s mother let me have a
king to my husband.” “Alas, what speakest thou of Phaeton?” said
Dametas. “If by thy circumspect means I find not out Pamela, thy
father will be hanged to-morrow.” “It is no matter though he be
hanged,” answered Mopsa, “do but thou make Dorus a king, and let him
be my husband, good Apollo, for my courage doth much prick me toward
him.” “Ah Mopsa,” cried out Dametas, “where is thy wit? Dost thou not
know thy father? How hast thou forgotten thyself?” “I do not ask wit
of thee, mine own God,” said she, “but I see thou wouldst have me
remember my father, and indeed forget myself. No, no, a good husband.”
“Thou shalt have thy fill of husbands,” said Dametas, “and do but
answer me my question.” “O I thank thee,” said Mopsa, “with all my
heart heartily, but let them be all kings.” Dametas seeing no other
{526} way prevail, fell down on his knees, “Mopsa, Mopsa,” said he,
“do not thus cruelly torment me; I am already wretched enough, alas!
either help me, or tell me thou canst not.” She that would not be
behind Apollo in courtesy, kneeled down on the other side; “I will
never leave tormenting thee,” said Mopsa, “until thou hast satisfied
my longing; but I will proclaim thee a promise-breaker, that even
Jupiter shall hear it.” “Now by the fostering thou hast received in
this place, save my life,” said Dametas. “Now by the fair ash,”
answered Mopsa, “where thou didst receive so great a good turn, grant
post haste to my burning fancy.” “O where is Pamela?” said Dametas. “O
a lusty husband,” said Mopsa. Dametas, who now verily assured himself
his daughter was mad, began utterly to despair of his life; and
therefore amazedly catching her in his arms, to see whether he could
bring her to herself, he felt the weight of a great cudgel light upon
his shoulder, and for the first greeting he knew his wife Miso’s
voice, by the calling him ribald villain, and asking him whether she
could not serve his turn as well as Charita? For Miso having,
according to Dorus’s counsel, gone to Mantinea, and there harboured
herself in an old acquaintance’s house of hers, as soon as ten of the
clock had stricken (where she had remained closely all that while, I
think with such an amiable cheer, as when jealous Juno sat
cross-legged to hinder the child-birth of her husband’s love) with
open mouth she went to the magistrate appointed over such matters, and
there, with the most scolding invective, her rage rather than
eloquence could bring forth, she required his aid to take Dametas, who
had left his duty to the king and his daughter, to commit adultery in
the house of Charita’s uncle, in the Oudemian Street. But neither was
the name of Charita remembered, nor any such street known. Yet such
was the general mislike all men had of Dametas’s unworthy advancement,
that every man was glad to make himself a minister of that which might
redound to his shame; and therefore, with panic cries and laughters,
there was no suspected place in all the city but was searched for
under the title of Dametas, Miso ever foremost, encouraging them with
all the shameful blazings of his demeanour, increasing the sport of
hunting her husband, with her diligent barking, till at length, having
done both him and herself as much infamous shame as such a tongue in
such an action might perform, in the end not being able to find a
thing that was not, to her mare again she went, having neither
suspicion nor rage anything mitigated. But, leaving behind her a
sufficient comedy of her tragical fancies, away homeward she came,
imputing the not finding her husband, to any chance rather than to his
innocency. For her heart being apt to receive and nourish a bitter
thought, it had so swallowed {527} up a determinate condemnation, that
in the very anatomy of her spirits one should have found nothing but
devilish disdain, and hateful jealousy. In this sort grunting out her
mischievous spite, she came by the tree, even as Dametas was making
that ill-understood intercession to his foolish Mopsa. As soon as she
heard her husband’s voice, she verily thought she had her play; and
therefore stealing from her mare as softly as she could, she came
creeping and halting behind him, even as he (thinking his daughter’s
little wits had quite left her great noll) began to take her in his
arms, thinking perchance her feeling sense might call her mind’s parts
unto her. But Miso, who saw nothing but through the choler of
revengeful anger, established upon the fore-judgment of his trespass,
undoubtedly resolving that Mopsa was Charita, Dorus had told her of,
mumping out her hoarse chafe, she gave him the wooden salutation you
heard of; Dametas, that was not so sensible in anything as in blows,
turned up his blubbered face like a great lout new whipped: “Alas!
thou woman,” said he, “what hath thy poor husband deserved to have his
own ill luck loaden with displeasure? Pamela is lost, Pamela is lost.”
Miso still holding on the course of her former fancy, “What tellest
thou me, naughty varlet, of Pamela; Dost thou think that doth answer
me for abusing the laws of marriage? Have I brought thee children,
have I been a true wife unto thee, to be despised in mine old age?”
And ever among she would sauce her speeches with such bastinadoes,
that poor Dametas began now to think, that either a general madding
was fallen, or else that all this was but a vision. But as for visions
the smart of the cudgel put out of his fancy; and therefore again
turning to his wife, not knowing what in the world she meant, “Miso,”
said he, “hereafter thou mayest examine me, do but now tell me what is
become of Pamela.” “I will first examine this drab,” said she, and
withal let fall her staff as hard as she could upon Mopsa, still
taking her for Charita. But Mopsa that was already angry, thinking
that she had hindered her from Apollo, leaped up and caught her by the
throat, like to have strangled her, but that Dametas from a condemned
man was fain to become a judge, and part this fray, such a picture of
rude discord, where each was out with the other two. And then getting
the opportunity of their falling out to hold himself in surety, who
was indeed the veriest coward of the three, he renewed his earnest
demand of them.
But it was a sport to see, how the former conceits Dorus had printed
in their imaginations, kept still such dominion in them, that Miso,
though now she found and felt it was her daughter Mopsa, yet did
Charita continually pass through her thoughts, {528} which she uttered
with such crabbed questions to Dametas, that he not possibly
conceiving any part of her doubt, remained astonished, and the
astonishment increased her doubt. And as for Mopsa, as first she did
assuredly take him to be Apollo, and thought her mother’s coming did
but mar the bargain: so now much talking to and fro had delivered so
much light into the misty mould of her capacity, as to know him to be
her father. Yet remained there such footsteps of the foretaken opinion
that she thought verily her father and mother were hasted thither to
get the first wish. And therefore to whatsoever they asked of her, she
would never answer, but embracing the tree, as if she feared it had
been running away, “Nay,” says she, “I will have the first wish, for I
was here first;” which they understood no more than Dametas did what
Miso meant by Charita; till at length with much urging them, being
indeed better able to persuade both, than to meet hand to hand with
either, he prevailed so much with them, as to bring them into the
lodge to see what loss their negligence had suffered. Then indeed the
near neighbourhood they bare to themselves, made them leave other
toys, and look into what dangerous plight they were all fallen, as
soon as the king should know his daughter’s escape. And as for the
women, they began afresh to enter into their brawling, whether were in
the fault. But Dametas, who did fear that among his other evils, the
thunderbolt of that storm would fall upon his shoulders, slipped away
from them, but with so maugre a cheer, as might much sooner engender
laughter than pity. “O true Arcadia,” would he say (tearing his hair
and beard, and sometime for too much woe, making unwieldy
former-faults) “how darest thou bear upon thee such a felonious
traitor as I am? And, you false-hearted trees, why would you make no
noise to make her ungracious departure known? Ah Pamela, Pamela, how
often when I brought thee in fine poesies of all coloured flowers,
wouldst thou clap me on the cheek, and say thou wouldst be one day
even with me? Was this thy meaning, to bring me to an even pair of
gallows? ah ill-taught Dorus, that camest hither to learn good manners
of me? did I ever teach thee to make thy master sweat out his heart
for nothing, and in the meantime to run away with thy mistress? O my
dun cow, I did think some evil was towards me ever since the last day
thou didst run away from me, and held up thy tail so pitifully: did I
not see an eagle kill a cuckoo, which was a plain foretoken unto me,
Pamela should be my destruction? O wise Miso, if I durst say it to thy
face, why didst thou suspect thy husband that loveth a piece of cheese
better than a woman? and thou little Mopsa, that shall inherit the
shame of thy father’s death, was it time for thee to climb trees,
which should so shortly be my best burial? O that {529} I could live
without death, or die before I were aware! O heart, why hast thou no
hands at commandment to dispatch thee? O hands, why want you a heart
to kill this villain?” In this sort did he inveigh against everything,
sometimes thinking to run away, while it was yet night: but he that
had included all the world within his sheep-cote, thought that worse
than any death; sometime for dread of hanging he meant to hang
himself; finding, as indeed it is, that fear is far more painful to
cowardice, than death to a true courage.
But his fingers were nothing nimble in that action, and anything was
let enough thereto, he being a true lover of himself without any
rival. But, lastly, guided by a far greater constellation than his
own, he remembered to search the other lodge, where it might be Pamela
that night had retired herself. So thither with trembling hams he
carried himself; but employing his double key, which the king for
special credit had unworthily bestowed upon him, he found all the
gates so barred, that his key could not prevail, saving only one trap
door which went down into the vault by the cellar, which as it was
unknown of Pyrocles, so had he left it unregarded. But Dametas, that
ever knew the buttery better than any other place, got in that way,
and passing softly to Philoclea’s chamber, where he thought most
likely to find Pamela; the door being left open, he entered in, and by
the light of the lamp he might discern one on the bed by her; which
although he took to be Pamela, yet thinking no surety enough in a
matter touching his neck, he went hard to the bedside of these
unfortunate lovers, who at that time being not much before the break
of day (whether it were they were so divinely surprised, to bring this
whole matter to the destined conclusion, or that the unresistable
force of their sorrows had overthrown the wakeful use of their senses)
were as then possessed with a mutual sleep, yet not forgetting with
viny embracements to give any eye a perfect model of affection. But
Dametas looking with the lamp in his hand, but neither with such a
face nor mind upon these excellent creatures, as Psyche did upon her
unknown lover, and giving every way freedom to his fearful eyes, did
not only perceive it was Zelmane, and therefore much different from
the lady he sought: but that this same Zelmane did more differ from
the Zelmane he and others had ever taken her for, wherein the change
of her apparel chiefly confirmed his opinion; satisfied with that, and
not thinking it good to awake the sleeping lion, he went down again,
taking with him Pyrocles’s sword (wherewith upon his slight under-suit
Pyrocles came only apparelled thither) being sure to leave no weapon
in the chamber, and so making the doors as fast as he could on the
outside, hoping with the revealing of this, as he {530} thought
greater fault, to make his own the less, or at least that this injury
would so fill the king’s head, that he should not have leisure to
chastise his negligence (like a fool, not considering, that the more
rage breeds the crueller punishment), he went first into the king’s
chamber, and not finding him there, he ran down crying with open
mouth, the king was betrayed, and that Zelmane did abuse his daughter.
The noise he made, being a man of no few words, joined to the yelping
sound of Miso, and his unpleasant inheritrix, brought together some
number of the shepherds, to whom he without any regard of reserving it
for the king’s knowledge, spattered out the bottom of his stomach,
swearing by him that he never knew that Zelmane, whom they had taken
all the while to be a woman, was as arrant a man as himself was,
whereof he had seen sufficient signs and tokens, and that he was as
close as a butterfly with the lady Philoclea.
The poor men jealous of their prince’s honour, were ready with weapons
to have entered the lodge; standing yet in some pause, whether it were
not best, first to hear some news from the king himself, when by the
sudden coming of other shepherds, which with astonished looks ran from
the one cry to the other, their griefs were surcharged with the evil
tidings of the king’s death. Turning therefore all their minds and
eyes that way, they ran to the cave where they said he lay dead, the
sun beginning now to send some promises of coming light, making haste,
I think, to be a spectator of the following tragedies. For Basilius
having passed over the night more happy in contemplation than action,
having had his spirits sublimed with the sweet imagination of
embracing the most desired Zelmane, doubting lest the cave’s darkness
might deceive him in the day’s approach, thought it now season to
return to his wedlock-bed, remembering the promises he had made to
Zelmane, to observe true orders towards Gynecia. Therefore departing,
but not departing without bequeathing by a will of words, sealed with
many kisses, a full gift of all his love and life to his misconceived
bedfellow, he went to the mouth of the cave, there to apparel himself;
in which doing, the motion of his joy could not be bridled from
uttering such like words: “Blessed be thou, O night,” said he, “that
hast with thy sweet wings shrouded me in the vale of bliss, it is thou
that art the first gotten child of time, the day hath been but an
usurper upon thy delightful inheritance, thou invitest all living
things to comfortable rest, thou art the stop of strife, and the
necessary truce of approaching battles.” And therewith he sung these
verses to confirm his former praises.
{531}
O night, the ease of care, the pledge of pleasure,
Desire’s best mean, harvest of hearts affected,
The seat of peace, the throne which is erected,
Of human life to be the quiet measure.
Be victor still of Phoebus’ golden treasure,
Who hath our sight with too much sight infected,
Whose light is cause we have our lives neglected,
Turning all nature’s courses to self displeasure.
These stately stars in their now shining faces,
With senseless sleep, and silence wisdom’s mother,
Witness his wrong, which by the help is eased.
Thou art therefore of these our desert places
The sure refuge; by thee and by no other
My soul is blest, sense joy’d, and fortune raised.
And yet further would his joys needs break forth. “O Basilius,” said
he, “the rest of thy time hath been but a dream unto thee; it is now
only thou beginnest to live, now only thou hast entered into the way
of blissfulness. Should fancy of marriage keep me from this paradise?
or opinion of I know not what promise bind me from paying the right
duties to nature and affection? O who would have thought there could
have been such difference betwixt women? Be jealous no more, O
Gynecia, but yield to the pre-eminence of more excellent gifts,
support thyself with such marble pillars as she doth, deck thy breast
with those alabaster bowls that Zelmane doth; then accompanied with
such a title, perhaps thou mayest recover the possession of my
otherwise inclined love. But alas! Gynecia thou canst not show such
evidence, therefore thy plea is vain.” Gynecia heard all this he said,
who had cast about her Zelmane’s garment, wherein she came thither,
and had followed Basilius to the cave entry, full of inward vexation,
betwixt the deadly accusation of her own guiltiness, and the spiteful
doubt she had Zelmane had abused her. But because of the one side,
finding the king did think her to be Zelmane, she had liberty to
imagine it might rather be the king’s own unbridled enterprise, which
had barred Zelmane, than Zelmane’s cunning deceiving of her; and that
of the other, if she should headily seek a violent revenge, her own
honour might be as much interested, as Zelmane endangered; she fell to
this determination: First with fine handling of the king to settle in
him a perfect good opinion of her, and then as she should learn how
things had passed, to take into herself new devised counsel: but this
being her first action, having given unlooked for attendance to the
king, she heard with what partiality he did prefer her to herself, she
saw in him how much fancy doth {532} not only darken reason, but
beguile sense, she found opinion mistress of the lover’s judgment,
which serving as a good lesson to her good conceit, she went out to
Basilius, setting herself in a grave behaviour and stately silence
before him; until he (who at the first thinking her by so much shadow
as he could see to be Zelmane, was beginning his loving ceremonies)
did now being helped by the peeping light wherewith the morning did
overcome the night’s darkness, know her face and his error, which
acknowledging in himself with starting back from her, she thus with a
modest bitterness spoke unto him: “Alas! my Lord, well did your words
decipher your mind, and well be those words confirmed with this
gesture. Very loathsome must that woman be from whom a man hath cause
to go back; and little better liked is that wife, before whom the
husband prefers them he never knew. Alas! hath my faithful observing
my part of duty made you think yourself ever a whit the more exempted?
hath that which should claim gratefulness, been a cause of contempt?
Is the being mother of Pamela become an odious name unto you? if my
life hitherto led have not avoided suspicion, if my violated truth to
you be deserving of any punishment, I refuse not to be chastised with
the most cruel torment of your displeasure; I refuse not misery,
purchased by mine own merit. Hard I must needs say (although till now
I never thought I should have had cause to say) is the destiny of
womankind, the trial of whose virtue must stand upon the loving of
them that employ all their industry not to be beloved. If Zelmane’s
young years had not had so much gravity hidden under a youthful face,
as your gray hairs have been but the vizor of unfitting youthfulness,
your vicious mind had brought some fruits of repentance, and Gynecia
might then have been with much more right so basely despised.”
Basilius, that was more ashamed to see himself overtaken, than Vulcan
was, when with much cunning he proved himself a cuckold, began to make
certain extravagant excuses: but the matter in itself hardly brooking
any purgation, with the suddenness of the time, which barred any good
conjoined invention, made him sometimes allege one thing, to which by
and by, he would bring in a contrary, one time with flat denial,
another time with mitigating the fault; now brave, then humble, use
such a stammering defensive that Gynecia, the violence of whose sore
indeed ran another way, was content thus to fasten up the last stitch
of her anger. “Well, well, my Lord,” said she, “it shall well become
you to govern yourself, as you may be fit rather to direct me than to
be judged of me, and rather to be a wise master of me, that an
unskilful pleader before me. Remember the wrong you have done, is not
only to me, but to your children whom you {533} had of me: to your
country, when they shall find they are commanded by him that cannot
command his own indecent appetites: lastly, to yourself, since with
these pains you do but build up a house of shame to dwell in: if from
those movable goods of nature (wherewith, in my first youth my royal
parents bestowed me upon you) bearing you children, and increase of
years have withdrawn me, consider I pray you that as you are the cause
of the one, so in the other, time hath not left to work his
never-failing effects in you. Truly, truly, Sir, very untimely are
these fires in you; it is time for us both to let reason enjoy his due
sovereignty. Let us not plant anew those weeds, which by nature’s
course are content to fade.”
Basilius that would rather than his life the matter had been ended,
the best rhetoric he had, was flat demanding pardon of her, swearing
it was the very force of Apollo’s destiny which had carried him thus
from his own bias; but that now like as far travellers were taught to
love their own country, he had such a lesson without book, of
affection unto her, as he would repay the debt of this error with the
interest of a great deal more true honour than ever before he had done
her. “Neither am I to give pardon to you, my Lord,” said she, “nor you
to bear honour to me. I have taken this boldness for the unfeigned
love I owe unto you, to deliver my sorrow unto you; much more for the
care I have of your well-doing, than for any other self-fancy. For
well I know that by your good estate my life is maintained, neither,
if I would, can I separate myself from your fortune. For my part
therefore I claim nothing but that which may be safest for yourself;
my life, will, honour, and whatsoever else, shall be but a shadow of
that body.” How much Basilius’s own shame had found him culpable, and
had already even in soul read his own condemnation, so much did this
unexpected mildness of Gynecia captive his heart unto her, which
otherwise perchance would have grown to a desperate carelessness.
Therefore embracing her, and confessing that her virtue shined in his
vice, he did even with a true resolved mind vow unto her, that as long
as he, unworthy of her, did live, she should be the furthest and only
limit of his affection. He thanked the destinies that had wrought her
honour out of his shame, and that made his own striving to go amiss,
to be the best means ever after to hold him in the right path. Thus
reconciled to Basilius’s great contentation, who began something to
mark himself in his own doings his hard hap guided his eye to the cup
of gold wherein Gynecia had put the liquor meant for Zelmane, and
having failed of that guest, was now carrying it home again. But he
whom perchance sorrow, perchance some long disaccustomed pains, had
made extremely thirsty, took it out of her hands, although she {534}
directly told him both of whom she had it, what the effect of it was,
and the little proof she had seen thereof: hiding nothing from him,
but that she meant to minister it to another patient. But the king,
whose belly had no ears, and much drought kept from the desiring a
taster, finding it not unpleasant to his palate, drank it almost off,
leaving very little to cover the cup’s bottom. But within a while that
from his stomach the drink had delivered to his principal veins his
noisome vapours, first with a painful stretching, and forced yawning,
then with a dark yellowness dying his skin, and a cold deadly sweat
principally about his temples, his body by natural course longing to
deliver his heavy burden to his earthly dam, wanting force in his
knees, which utterly abandoned him, with a heavy fall gave some proof
whether the operation of that unknown potion tended. For, with
pang-like groans, and ghastly turning of his eyes, immediately all his
limbs stiffened, and his eyes fixed, he having had time to declare his
case only in these words: “O Gynecia, I die; have care.” Of what, or
how much further he would have spoken, no man can tell: For Gynecia
having well perceived the changing of his colour, and those other evil
signs, yet had not looked for such a sudden overthrow, but rather had
bethought herself what was best for him, when she suddenly saw the
matter come to that period, coming to him, and neither with any cries
getting a word of him, nor with any other possible means, able to
bring any living action from him; the height of all ugly sorrows did
so horribly appear before her amazed mind, that at the first it did
not only distract all power of speech from her, but almost wit to
consider, remaining as it were quick buried in a grave of miseries.
Her painful memory had straight filled her with the true shapes of all
the fore-past mischiefs; her reason began to cry out against the
filthy rebellion of sinful sense, and to tear itself with anguish for
having made so weak a resistance, her conscience a terrible witness of
the inward wickedness, still nourishing this debateful fire; her
complaint now not having an end to be directed unto, from something to
disburthen sorrow, but a necessary downfall of inward wretchedness.
She saw the rigour of the laws was like to lay a shameful death upon
her, which being for that action undeserved, made it the more
insupportable, and yet in depth of her soul most deserved, made it
more miserable. At length, letting her tongue go as dolorous thoughts
guided it, she thus with lamentable demeanour spoke:
“O bottomless pit of sorrow, in which I cannot contain myself, having
the firebrands of all furies within me, still falling, and yet by the
infiniteness of it never fallen. Neither can I rid myself, being
fettered with the everlasting consideration of it. For {535} whither
should I recommend the protection of my dishonored fall? to the earth?
it hath no life, and waits to be increased by the relics of my shamed
carcass: to men? who are always cruel in their neighbour’s faults, and
make others’ overthrow become the badge of their ill-masked virtue? to
the heavens? O unspeakable torment of conscience, which dare not look
unto them. No sin can enter there, O there is no receipt for polluted
minds. Whither then wilt thou lead this captive of thine, O snaky
despair! Alas, alas, was this the free-holding power that accursed
poison hath granted unto me, that to be held the surer it should
deprive life? was this the folding in mine arms promised, that I
should fold nothing but a dead body, O mother of mine what a dreadful
suck have you given me? O Philoclea, Philoclea, well hath my mother
revenged upon me my unmotherly hating of thee. O Zelmane, to whom yet,
lest any misery should fail me, remain some sparks of my detestable
love, if thou hast, as now alas! now my mind assures me thou hast,
deceived me, there is a fair stage prepared for thee, to see the
tragical end of thy hated lover.” With that word there flowed out two
rivers of tears out of her fair eyes, which before were dry, the
remembrance of her other mischiefs being dried up in a furious fire of
self detestation, love only, according to the tempter of it, melting
itself into those briny tokens of passion. Then turning her eyes again
upon the body, she remembered a dream she had had some nights before,
wherein thinking herself called by Zelmane, passing a troublesome
passage; she found a dead body which told her there should be her only
rest: This no sooner caught hold of her remembrance, than she
determined with herself, it was a direct vision of her fore-appointed
end, took a certain resolution to embrace death, as soon as it should
be offered unto her, and no way seek the prolonging of her annoyed
life. And therefore kissing the cold face of Basilius; “And even so
will I rest,” said she, “and join this faulty soul of mine to thee, if
so much the angry gods will grant me.”
As she was in this plight, the sun now climbing over the horizon; the
first shepherds came by, who seeing the king in that case, and hearing
the noise Dametas made of the Lady Philoclea, ran with the doleful
tidings of Basilius’s death unto him, who presently with all his
company came to the cave’s entry, where the king’s body lay; Dametas
for his part more glad for the hope he had of his private escape, than
sorry for the public loss of his country received for a prince not to
be misliked. But in Gynecia nature prevailed above judgment, and the
shame she conceived to be taken in that order, overcame for that
instant the former resolution; so that as soon as she saw the foremost
of the pastoral troop, the wretched princess ran to have hid her face
in the next woods; but with such {536} a mind, that she knew not
almost herself what she could wish to be the ground of her safety.
Dametas that saw her run away in Zelmane’s upper raiment, and judging
her to be so, thought certainly all the spirits in hell were come to
play a tragedy in these woods, such strange change he saw every way.
The king dead at the cave’s mouth; the queen, as he thought, absent;
Pamela fled away with Dorus; his wife and Mopsa in divers frenzies.
But of all other things Zelmane conquered his capacity, suddenly from
a woman grown to a man; and from a locked chamber gotten before him
into the fields, which he gave the rest quickly to understand; for
instead of doing anything as the exigent required, he began to make
circles, and all those fanatical defences that he had ever heard were
fortification against devils. But the other shepherds who hath both
better wits, and more faith, forthwith divided themselves, some of
them running after Gynecia, and esteeming her running away a great
condemnation of her own guiltiness: others going to their prince, to
see what service was left for them, either in recovery of his life, or
honouring his death. They that went after the queen, had soon
overtaken her, in whom now the first fears were staid, and the
resolution to die had repossessed his place in her mind. But when they
saw it was the queen, to whom besides the obedient duty they owed to
her state, they had always carried a singular love, for her courteous
liberalities, and other wise and virtuous parts, which had filled all
that people with affection and admiration. They were all suddenly
stopped, beginning to ask pardon for their following her in that sort;
and desiring her to be their good lady, as she had ever been. But the
queen, who now thirsted to be rid of herself, whom she hated above all
things; with such an assured countenance as they have, who already
have dispensed with shame and digested the sorrows of death, she thus
said unto them, “Continue, continue, my friends; your doing is better
than your excusing; the one argues assured faith, the other want of
assurance. If you loved your prince, when he was able and willing to
do you much good, which you could not then requite to him; do you now
publish your gratefulness, when it shall be seen to the world, there
are no hopes left to lead you unto it. Remember, remember you have
lost Basilius, a prince to defend you, a father to care for you, a
companion in your joys, a friend in your wants. And if you loved him,
show you hate the author of his loss. It is I, faithful Arcadians,
that have spoiled the country of their protector. I, none but I, was
the minister of his unnatural end. Carry therefore my blood in your
hands, to testify your own innocency, neither spare for my title’s
sake, but consider it was he that so entitled me. And if you think of
any benefits by my means, think {537} with it that I was but the
instrument and he the spring. What, stay ye, shepherds, whose great
shepherd is gone? you need not fear a woman, reverence your lord’s
murderer, nor hath pity of her, who hath no pity of herself.”
With this she presented her fair neck to some by name, others by
signs, desiring them to do justice to the world, duty to their good
king, honour to themselves, and favour to her. The poor men looked one
upon the other, unused to be arbiters in princes’ matters, and being
now fallen into a great perplexity, between a prince dead, and a
princess alive. But once for them she might have gone whither she
would, thinking it a sacrilege to touch her person, when she finding
she was not a sufficient orator to persuade her own death by their
hands; “Well,” said she, “it is but so much more time of misery; for
my part, I will not give my life so much pleasure from henceforward as
to yield to his desire of his own choice of death; since all the rest
is taken away, yet let me excel in misery. Lead me therefore whither
you will; only happy, because I cannot be more wretched.” But neither
so much would the honest shepherds do, but rather with many tears
bemoaned this increase of their former loss, till she was fain to lead
them with a very strange spectacle, either that a princess should be
in the hands of shepherds, or a prisoner should direct her guardians:
lastly, before either witness or accuser, a lady condemn herself to
death. But in such moanful march they went towards the other
shepherds, who in the meantime had left nothing unassayed to revive
the king, but all was bootless: and their sorrow increased the more
they had suffered any hopes vainly to arise. Among other trials they
made to know at least the cause of his end, having espied the unhappy
cup, they gave the little liquor that was left to a dog of Dametas, in
which within a short time it wrought the like effect; although Dametas
did so much to recover him, that for very love of his life he dashed
out his brains. But now altogether, and having Gynecia among them,
who, to make herself the more odious, did continually record to their
minds the access of their loss, they yielded themselves over to all
those forms of lamentation, that doleful images do imprint in the
honest, but over-tender hearts; especially when they think the rebound
of the evil falls to their own smart. Therefore after the ancient
Greek manner, some of them remembering the nobility of his birth,
continued by being like his ancestors; others his shape, which though
not excellent, yet favour and pity drew all things now to the highest
point; others his peaceable government, the thing which most pleaseth
men, resolved to live of their own; others his liberality, which
though it cannot light upon all men, yet all men naturally hoping it
may {538} be, they make it a most amiable virtue. Some calling in
question the greatness of his power, which increased the comparison to
see the present change, having a doleful memory how he had tempered it
with such familiar courtesy among them, that they did more feel the
fruits than see the pomps of his greatness, all with one consent
giving him the sacred titles of good, just, merciful, the father of
the people, the life of his country, they ran about his body, tearing
their beards and garments; some sending their cries to heaven, others
inventing particular howling music; many vowing to kill themselves at
the day of his funeral, generally giving a true testimony that men are
loving creatures when injuries put them not from their natural course:
and how easy a thing it is for a prince by succession, deeply to sink
into the souls of his subjects, a more lively monument than Mausolus’s
tomb. But as with such hearty lamentation, they dispersed among those
words their resounding shrieks, the sun, the perfectest mark of time,
having now gotten up two hours’ journey in his daily changing circle,
their voice helped with the only answering echo, came to the ears of
the faithful and worthy gentleman Philanax: who at that time was
coming to visit the king, accompanied with divers of the worthy
Arcadian lords, who with him had invited the place adjoining for the
more assurance of Basilius’s solitariness, a thing after the late
mutiny he had usually done: and since the princess’s return more
diligently continued; which having now likewise performed, thinking it
as well his duty to see the king, as of a good purpose, being so near,
to receive his further direction: accompanied as above-said he was
this morning coming unto him, when these unpleasant voices gave his
mind an uncertain presage of his near approaching sorrow. For by and
by he saw the body of his dearly esteemed prince, and heard Gynecia’s
lamenting: not such as the turtle-like dove is wont to make for the
over-soon loss of her only beloved mate, but with cursings of her
life, detesting her own wickedness, seeming only therefore not to
desire death, because she would not show a love of anything. The
shepherds, especially Dametas, knowing him to be the second person in
authority, gave forthwith relation unto him, what they knew and had
proved of this dolorous spectacle, besides the other accidents of his
children. But he principally touched with his master’s loss, lighting
from his horse with a heavy cheer, came and kneeled down by him,
where, finding he could do no more than the shepherds had for his
recovery, the constancy of his mind, surprised before he might call
together his best rules, could not refrain such like words. “Ah dear
master,” said he, “what change it hath pleased the Almighty justice to
work in this place. How soon, not to your loss, who having lived long
to nature, {539} and to time longer by your well-deserved glory, but
longest of all in the eternal mansion you now possess. But how soon I
say to our ruin, have you left the frail bark of your estate? O that
the words I in most faithful duty delivered unto you, when you first
entered this solitary course might have wrought as much persuasion in
you, as they sprang from truth in me, perchance your servant Philanax
should not now have cause in your loss to bewail his own overthrow.”
And therewith taking himself: “And indeed evil fitteth it me,” said
he, “to let go my heart to womanish complaints, since my prince being
undoubtedly well, it rather shows love of myself, which makes me
bewail mine own loss. No, the true love must be proved in the honour
of your memory, and that must be showed with seeking just revenge upon
your unjust and unnatural enemies, and far more honourable it will be
for your tomb to have the blood of your murderers sprinkled upon it
than the tears of your friends. And if your soul look down upon this
miserable earth, I doubt not it had much rather your death were
accompanied with well-deserved punishment of the causers of it, than
with the heaping on it more sorrows with the end of them, to whom you
vouchsafed your affection: let them lament that have woven the web of
lamentation; let their own deaths make them cry out for your death,
that were the authors of it.” Therewith carrying manful sorrow and
vindicative resolution in his face, he rose up, so looking on the poor
guiltless princess transported with an unjust justice, that his eyes
were sufficient heralds for him, to denounce a mortal hatred. She,
whom furies of love, firebrands of her conscience, shame of the world,
with the miserable loss of her husband, towards whom now the disdain
of herself bred more love; with the remembrance of her vision,
wherewith she resolved assuredly the gods had appointed that shameful
end to be her resting place, had set her mind to no other way but to
death, used such like speeches, to Philanax, as she had before to the
shepherds; willing him not to look upon her as a woman, but a monster;
not as a queen, but as a traitor to his prince; not as Basilius’s
wife, but as Basilius’s murderer. She told how the world required at
his hands, the just demonstration of his friendship; if he now forgot
his king, he should show he had never loved but his fortune: like
those vermin that suck of the living blood, and leave the body as soon
as it is dead; poor queen needlessly seeking to kindle him, who did
most deadly detest her, which he uttered in this bitter answer.
“Madam,” said he, “you do well to hate yourself, for you cannot hate a
worse creature; and though we feel enough your hellish disposition,
yet we need not doubt you are of counsel to yourself of much worse
than we know. But now fear not; {540} you shall not long be cumbered
with being guided by so evil a soul; therefore prepare yourself, that
if it be possible you may deliver up your spirit so much purer, as you
more wash your wickedness with repentance.” Then having presently
given order for the bringing from Mantinea, a great number of tents;
for the receipt of the principal Arcadians: the manner of that country
being, that where the king died, there should be orders taken for the
country’s government, and in the place any murder was committed, the
judgment should be given there, before the body was buried, both
concurring in this matter, and already great part of the nobility
being arrived, he delivered the queen to a gentleman of great trust;
and as for Dametas, taking from him the keys of both the lodges,
calling him the moth of his king’s estate, and only spot of his
judgment, he caused him, with his wife and daughter, to be fettered up
in as many chains and clogs as they could bear, and every third hour
to be cruelly whipped, till the determinate judgment should be given
of all these matters. That done, having sent already at his coming, to
all the quarters of the country to seek Pamela, although with small
hope of overtaking them, he himself went well accompanied to the
lodge, where the two unfortunate lovers were attending a cruel
conclusion of their long, painful, and late most painful affection.
Dametas’s clownish eyes, having been the only discoverers of
Pyrocles’s stratagem, had no sooner taken a full view of them, which
in some sights would rather have bred anything, than an accusing mind,
and locked the door upon these two young folks, now made prisoners for
love, as before they had been prisoners to love; but that immediately
upon his going down, whether with noise Dametas made, or with the
creeping in of the light, or rather that as extreme grief had procured
his sleep, so extreme care had measured his sleep, giving his senses
very early salve to come to themselves, Pyrocles awaked, and being up,
the first evil handful he had of the ill case wherein he was, was the
seeing himself deprived of his sword, from which he had never
separated himself in any occasion, and even that night first by the
king’s bed, and then there had laid it, as he thought safe: putting
great part of the trust of his well-doing in his own courage so armed.
For indeed the confidence in one’s self is the chief nurse of
magnanimity, which confidence notwithstanding doth not leave the care
of necessary furnitures for it: and therefore of all the Grecians,
Homer doth ever make Achilles the best armed. But that, as I say, was
the first ill token: but by and by he perceived he was a prisoner
before any arrest: for the door which he had left open was made so
fast of the outside, that for all the force he could employ unto it,
he could not undo Dametas’s doing; then {541} went he to the windows,
to see if that way there were any escape for him and his dear lady.
But as vain he found all his employment there, not having might to
break out but only one bar; wherein notwithstanding he strained his
sinews to the uttermost: and that he rather took out to use for other
service, than for any possibility he had to escape; for even then it
was that Dametas having gathered together the first coming shepherds,
did blabber out what he had found in the lady Philoclea’s chamber.
Pyrocles markingly hearkened to all that Dametas said, whose voice and
mind acquaintance had taught him sufficiently to know. But when he
assuredly perceived that his being with the Lady Philoclea was fully
discovered: and by the folly or malice, or rather malicious folly of
Dametas, her honour therein touched in the highest degree: remembering
withal the cruelty of the Arcadian laws, which without exception did
condemn all to death who were found, as Dametas reported of them, in
act of marriage, without solemnity of marriage, assuring himself,
besides the law, the king and the queen would use so much the more
hate against their daughter, as they had found themselves sotted by
him in the pursuit of their love. Lastly, seeing they were not only in
the way of death, but fitly incaged for death, looking with a hearty
grief upon the honour of love, the fellowless Philoclea, whose
innocent soul now enjoying his own goodness did little know the danger
of his ever fair, then sleeping harbour, his excellent wit
strengthened with virtue, but guided by love, had soon described to
himself a perfect vision of their present condition, wherein having
presently cast a resolute reckoning of his own part of the misery, not
only the chief but sole burden of his anguish consisted in the
unworthy case, which was like to fall upon the best deserving
Philoclea. He saw the misfortune, not the mismeaning of his work, was
like to bring that creature to end, in whom the world, as he thought,
did begin to receive honour: he saw the weak judgment of man would
condemn that as death deserving vice in her, which had in troth never
broken the bonds of a true living virtue: and how oft his eye turned
to his attractive adamant, so often did an unspeakable horror strike
his noble heart to consider so unripe years, so faultless a beauty,
the mansion of so pure goodness, should have her youth so untimely cut
off, her natural perfections so unnaturally consumed, her virtue
rewarded with shame: sometimes he would accuse himself of negligence,
that had not more curiously looked to all the house-entries, and yet
could he not imagine the way Dametas was gotten in: and to call back
what might have been, to a man of wisdom and courage, carries but a
vain shadow of discourse; sometimes he could not choose but with a
dissolution of his inward might lamentably {542} consider with what
face he might look upon his, till then, joy Philoclea, when the next
light waking should deliver unto her, should perchance be the last of
her hurtless life. And that the first time she should bend her
excellent eyes upon him, she should see the accursed author of her
dreadful end, and even this consideration more than any other, did so
set itself in his well-disposed mind, that dispersing his thoughts to
all the ways that might be of her safety, finding a very small
discourse in so narrow limits of time and place, at length in many
difficulties he saw none bear any likelihood for her life, but his
death. For then he thought it would fall out, that when they found his
body dead, having no accuser but Dametas, as by his speech he found
there was not, it might justly appear that either Philoclea in
defending her honour, or else he himself in despairing of achieving,
had left his carcass proof of his intent, but witness of her
clearness. Having a small while stayed upon the greatness of his
resolution, and looked to the furthest of it: “Be it so,” said the
valiant Pyrocles, “never life for better cause, nor to better end was
bestowed; for if death be to follow this doing, which no death of mine
could make me leave undone, who is to die so justly as myself? and if
I must die, who can be so fit executioners as mine own hands, which as
they were accessories to the doing, so in killing me they shall suffer
their own punishment?” but then arose there a new impediment; for
Dametas having carried away anything which he thought might hurt as
tender a man as himself, he could find no fit instrument which might
give him a final dispatch: at length making the more haste, least his
lady should awake, taking the iron bar, which being sharper somewhat
at the one end than the other, he hoped, joined to his willing
strength, might break off the feeble thread of mortality. “Truly,”
said he, “fortune thou hast well preserved mine enemy, that will grant
me no fortune but to be unfortunate, nor let me have an easy passage
now I am to trouble thee no more. But,” said he, “O bar blessed in
that thou hast done service to the chamber of the paragon of life,
since thou couldst not help me to make a perfecter escape, yet serve
my turn I pray thee, that I may escape from myself,” therewithal yet
once looking to fetch the last repass of his eyes, and now again
transported with the pitiful case he left her in, kneeling down he
thus prayed.
“O great maker and great ruler of this world,” said he, “to Thee do I
sacrifice this blood of mine, and suffer, Lord, the errors of my youth
to pass away therein, and let not the soul by Thee made, and ever
bending unto Thee, be now rejected of Thee, neither be offended that I
do abandon this body, to the government of which Thou hadst placed me,
without Thy leave; since how can I know {543} but that Thy
unsearchable mind is I should so do, since Thou hast taken from me all
means longer to abide in it? and since the difference stands but in a
short time of dying, Thou that hast taken from me all means longer to
abide in it? and since the difference stands but in a short time of
dying, Thou that hast framed my soul inclined to do good, how can I in
this small space of mine benefit so much all the human kind, as in
preserving Thy perfectest workmanship, their chiefest honour? O
justice itself, howsoever thou determinest of me, let this excellent
innocency not be oppressed? let my life pay her loss, O Lord give me
some sign that I may die with this comfort.” (And paused a little as
if he had hoped for some token) “and whensoever to the eternal
darkness of the earth she doth follow me, let our spirits possess one
place, and let them be more happy in that uniting.” With that word
striking the bar upon his heart-side, with all the force he had, and
falling withal upon it to give the thorougher passage, the bar in
troth was too blunt to do the effect, although it pierced his skin,
and bruised his ribs very sore, so that his breath was almost past
him. But the noise of his fall drove away sleep from the quiet senses
of the dear Philoclea, whose sweet soul had an early salutation of a
deadly spectacle unto her, with so much more astonishment, as the
falling asleep but a little before she had retired herself from the
utmost point of woefulness, and saw now again before her eyes the most
cruel enterprise that human nature can undertake, without discerning
any cause thereof. But the lively print of her affection had soon
taught her not to stay long upon deliberation in so urgent a
necessity; therefore getting with speed her weak, though well accorded
limbs, out of her sweetened bed, as when jewels are hastily pulled out
of some rich coffer, she spared not the nakedness of her tender feet,
but I think borne as fast with desire as fear carried Daphne, she came
running to Pyrocles, and finding his spirits something troubled with
the fall, she put by the bar that lay close to him, and straining him
in her most beloved embracements: “My comfort, my joy, my life,” said
she, “what haste have you to kill your Philoclea with the most cruel
torment that ever lady suffered? Do you not yet persuade yourself that
any hurt of yours is a death unto me; and that your death should be my
hell. Alas! if any sudden mislike of me, for other cause I see none,
have caused you to loathe yourself; if any fault or defect of mine
hath bred this terrible rage in you, rather let me suffer the
bitterness of it, for so shall the deserver be punished, mankind
preserved from such a ruin, and I for my part shall have that comfort,
that I die by the noblest hand that ever drew sword.” Pyrocles,
grieved with his fortune, that he had not in one instant cut off all
such deliberation, thinking his life only reserved to be bound to be
the {544} unhappy newsteller: “Alas,” said he, “my only star, why do
you this wrong to God, yourself, and me, to speak of faults in you?
No, no, most faultless, most perfect lady, it is your excellency that
makes me hasten my desired end; it is the right I owe to the general
nature, that, though against private nature, makes me seek the
preservation of all that she hath done in this age, let me, let me
die. There is no way to save life, most worthy to be conserved, than
that my death be your clearing.” Then did he with far more pain and
backward loathness, than the so near killing himself was, but yet
driven with necessity to make her yield to that he thought was her
safety, make her a short but pithy discourse, what he had heard by
Dametas’s speeches, confirming the rest with a plain demonstration of
their imprisonment. And then sought he a new means of stopping his
breath; but that by Philoclea’s labour, above her force, he was stayed
to hear her. In whom a man might perceive what a small difference in
the working there is, betwixt a simple voidness of evil and a judicial
habit of virtue. For she, not with an unshaken magnanimity, wherewith
Pyrocles weighed and despised death, but with an innocent guiltiness,
not knowing why she should fear to deliver her unstained soul to God,
helped with the true loving of Pyrocles, which made her think no life
without him, did almost bring her mind to as quiet attending all
accidents, as the unmastered virtue of Pyrocles. Yet having with a
pretty paleness, which did leave milken lines upon her rosy cheeks,
paid a little duty to human fear, taking the prince by his hand, and
kissing the wound he had given himself: “O the only life of my life,
and if it fall out so, the comfort of my death,” said she, “far, far
from you be the doing of me such wrong as to think I will receive my
life as a purchase of your death, but well may you make my death so
much more miserable, as it shall anything be delayed after my only
felicity. Do you think I can account of the moment of death, like the
unspeakable afflictions my soul should suffer, so oft as I call
Pyrocles to my mind, which should be as oft as I breathed? Should
these eyes guide my steps, that had seen your murderer? Should these
hands feed me, that had not hindered such a mischief? Should this
heart remain within me, at every pant to count the continual clock of
my miseries? O no, if die we must, let us thank death, he hath not
divided so true a union. And truly, my Pyrocles, I have heard my
father and other wise men say that the killing of one’s self is but a
false colour of true courage, proceeding rather of a fear of a further
evil, either of torment or shame. For if it were not respecting the
harm, that would likewise make him not respect what might be done unto
him: and hope, being of all other the most contrary thing to fear;
this being an utter banishment of hope, it seems to {545} receive his
ground in fear. Whatsoever, would they say, comes out of despair,
cannot bear the title of valour, which should be lifted up to such a
height, that holding all things under itself, it should be able to
maintain his greatness even in the midst of miseries. Lastly, they
would say, God had appointed us captains of these our bodily forts,
which without treason to that majesty, were never to be delivered over
till they were re-demanded.”
Pyrocles, who had that for a law unto him, not to leave Philoclea in
anything unsatisfied, although he still remained in his former
purpose, and knew that time would grow short for it, yet hearing no
noise, the shepherds being as then run to Basilius, with settled and
humble countenance, as a man that should have spoken of a thing that
did not concern himself, bearing even in his eyes sufficient shows,
that it was nothing but Philoclea’s danger which did anything burden
his heart, far stronger than fortune, having with vehement embracings
of her got yet some fruit of his delayed end, he thus answered the
wise innocency of Philoclea. “Lady, most worthy not only of life, but
to be the very life of all things; the more notable demonstrations you
make of love so far beyond my desert, with which it pleaseth you to
overcome fortune, in making me happy: the more am I, even in course of
humanity, to leave that love’s force which I neither can nor will
leave, bound to seek requital’s witness, that I am not ungrateful to
do which, the infiniteness of your goodness being such as I cannot
reach unto it, yet doing all I can, and paying my life, which is all I
have, though it be far, without measure, short of your desert, yet
shall I not die in debt to mine own duty. And truly, the more
excellent arguments you made, to keep me from this passage, imagined
far more terrible than it is, the more plainly it makes me to see what
reason I have, to prevent the loss not only of Arcadia, but all the
face of the earth should receive, if such a tree, which even in his
first spring, doth not only bear most beautiful blossoms, but most
rare fruit, should be so untimely cut off. Therefore, O most truly
beloved lady, to whom I desire for both our goods that these may be my
last words, give me your consent even out of that wisdom which must
needs see, that, besides your unmatched betterness, which perchance
you will not see, it is fitter one die than both. And since you have
sufficiently showed you love me, let me claim by that love you will be
content rather to let me die contentedly than wretchedly, rather with
a clear and joyful conscience than with desperate condemnation in
myself, that I, accursed villain, should be the means of banishing
from the sight of men the true example of virtue. And because there is
nothing left me to be imagined, which I so much desire, as that the
memory of Pyrocles may ever have an allowed place in your wise
judgment, I am {546} content to draw so much breath longer, as by
answering the sweet objections you alleged, may bequeath, as I think,
a right conceit unto you, that this my doing is out of judgment, and
not sprung of passion. Your father, you say, was wont to say, that
this like action doth more proceed of fear of further evil or shame
than of a true courage: truly first, they put a very guessing case,
speaking of them who can never after come to tell with what mind they
did it. And as for my part, I call the immortal truth to witness that
no fear of torment can appal me; who know it is but diverse manners of
apparelling death; and have long learned to set bodily pain but in the
second form of my being. And as for shame, how can I be ashamed of
that for which my well meaning conscience will answer for me to God,
and your unresistable beauty to the world? But to take that argument
in his own force, and grant it done for avoiding of further pain or
dishonour: (for as for the name of fear, it is but an odious title of
a passion, given to that which true judgment performeth) grant, I say,
it is to shun a worse case, and truly I do not see but that true
fortitude, looking into all human things with a persisting resolution,
carried away neither with wonder of pleasing things, nor astonishment
of the unpleasant, doth not yet deprive itself of the discerning the
difference of evil, but rather is the only virtue, which with an
assured tranquility shuns the greater by valiantly entering into the
less. Thus for his country’s safety he will spend his life, for the
saving of a limb he will not niggardly spare his goods; for the saving
of all his body he will not spare the cutting off a limb, where indeed
the weak-hearted man will rather die than see the face of a surgeon,
who might with as good reason say, that the constant man abides the
painful surgery for fear of a further evil: but he is content to wait
for death itself, but neither is true; for neither had the one any
fear, but a well-chosen judgment: nor the other hath any contentment,
but only fear, and not having a heart actively to perform a matter of
pain, is forced passively to abide a greater damage. For to do,
requires a whole heart; to suffer falleth easiliest in the broken
minds. And if in bodily torment thus, much more in shame, wherein
since valour is a virtue, and virtue is ever limited, we must not run
so infinitely as to think the valiant man is willingly to suffer
anything, since the very suffering of some things is a certain proof
of want of courage. And if anything unwillingly, among the chiefest
may shame go; for if honour be to be held dear, his contrary is to be
abhorred, and that not for fear, but of a true election. For which is
the less inconvenient, either the loss of some years more or less
(when once we know our lives be not immortal) or the submitting
ourselves to each unworthy misery which the foolish world may {547}
lay upon us? as for their reason, that fear is contrary to hope,
neither do I defend fear, nor much yield to the authority of hope, to
either of which great inclining shows but a feeble reason which must
be guided by his servants; and who builds not upon hope, shall fear no
earthquake of despair. Their last alleging of the heavenly powers, as
it bears the greatest name, so it is the only thing that at all breeds
any combat in my mind, and yet I do not see but that if God had made
us masters of anything, it is of our own lives out of which, without
doing wrong to anybody, we are to issue at our own pleasure. And the
same argument would as much prevail to say we should for no necessity
lay away from us any of our joints, since they being made of Him,
without His warrant we should not depart from them; or if that may be,
for a greater cause we may pass to a greater degree. And if we be
lieutenants of God in this little castle, do you not think we must
take warning of Him to give over our charge when He leaves us
unprovided of good means to tarry in it?” “No certainly do I not,”
answered the sorrowful Philoclea, “since it is not for us to appoint
that mighty majesty what time He will help us; the uttermost instant
is scope enough for Him to revoke everything to one’s own desire. And
therefore to prejudicate His determination is but a doubt of goodness
in Him Who is nothing but goodness. But when indeed He doth either by
sickness, or outward force lay death upon us, then are we to take
knowledge that such is His pleasure, and to know that all is well that
He doth. That we should be masters of ourselves, we can show at all no
title nor claim; since neither we made ourselves, nor bought
ourselves, we can stand upon no other right but His gift, which He
must limit as it pleaseth Him. Neither is there any proportion betwixt
the loss of any other limb, and that, since the one bends to the
preserving of all, the other to the destruction of all; the one takes
not away the mind from the actions for which it is placed in the
world, the other cuts off all possibility of his working. And truly my
most dear Pyrocles, I must needs protest unto you, that I cannot think
your defence even in rules of virtue sufficient. Sufficient and
excellent it were, if the question were of two outward things, wherein
a man might by nature’s freedom determine, whether he would prefer
shame to pain; present smaller torment, to greater following, or no.
But to this, besides the comparison of the matter’s valour, there is
added of the one part a direct evil doing, which maketh the balance of
that side too much unequal; since a virtuous man without any respect,
whether the grief be less or more, is never to do that which he cannot
assure himself is allowable before the everliving rightfulness; but
rather is to think honours or shames which stand in other men’s true
or false judgments, pains or not pains, which {548} yet never approach
our souls, to be nothing in regard of an unspotted conscience. And
these reasons do I remember, I have heard good men bring in, that
since it hath not his ground in an assured virtue, it proceeds rather
of some other disguised passion.”
Pyrocles was not so much persuaded as delighted, by her well-conceived
and sweetly pronounced speeches: but when she had closed her pitiful
discourse, and as it were sealed up her delightful lips, with the
moistness of her tears, which followed still one another like a
precious rope of pearl, now thinking it high time: “Be it as you say,”
said he, “most virtuous beauty, in all the rest, but never can God
himself persuade me that Pyrocles’s life is not well lost, for to
preserve the most admirable Philoclea. Let that be, if it be possible,
written on my tomb, and I will not envy Codrus’s honour.” With that he
would again have used the bar, meaning if that failed, to leave his
brains upon the wall, when Philoclea now brought to that she most
feared, kneeled down unto him, and embracing so his legs, that without
hurting her (which for nothing he would have done) he could not rid
himself from her, she did with all the conjuring words, which the
authority of love may lay, beseech him he would not now so cruelly
abandon her, he would not leave her comfortless in that misery to
which he had brought her. That then indeed she would even in her soul
accuse him to have most foully betrayed her; that then she would have
cause to curse the time that ever the name of Pyrocles came to her
ears, which otherwise no death could make her do. “Will you leave me,”
said she, “not only dishonoured, as supposed unchaste with you, but as
a murderer of you? Will you give mine eyes such a picture of hell,
before my near approaching death, as to see the murdered body of him I
love more than all the lives nature can give?” With that she swore by
the highest cause of all devotions, that if he did persevere in that
cruel resolution, she would, though untruly, not only confess to her
father that with her consent this act had been committed, but if that
would not serve (after she had pulled out her own eyes made accursed
by such a sight) she would give herself so terrible a death, as she
might think the pain of it would countervail the never dying pain of
her mind. “Now therefore kill yourself to crown this virtuous action
with infamy: kill yourself to make me, whom you say you love, as long
as I after live, change my loving admiration of you to a detestable
abhorring your name. And so indeed you shall have the end you shoot
at: for instead of one death, you shall give me a thousand, and yet in
the meantime, deprive me of the help God may send me.” Pyrocles, even
over-weighed with her so wisely uttered affection, finding her
determination so fixed that his end should but deprive them both of a
present contentment, and not {549} avoid a coming evil (as a man that
ran not into it by a sudden qualm of passion, but by a true use of
reason, preferring her life to his own) now that wisdom did manifest
unto him that way would not prevail, he retired himself with as much
tranquility from it as before he had gone unto it. Like a man that had
set the keeping or leaving of the body as a thing without himself, and
so had thereof a freed and untroubled consideration. Therefore
throwing away the bar from him, and taking her up from the place,
where he thought the consummating of all beauties, very worthily lay,
suffering all his senses to devour up their chiefest food, which he
assured himself they should shortly after for ever be deprived of:
“Well,” said he, “most dear lady, whose contentment I prefer before
mine own, and judgment esteem more than mine own, I yield unto your
pleasure. The gods send you have not won your own loss. For my part
they are my witnesses that I think I do more at your commandment in
delaying my death than another would in bestowing his life. But now,”
said he, “as thus far I have yielded unto you, so grant me in
recompense thus much again, that I may find your love in granting, as
you have found your authority in obtaining. My humble suit is, you
will say I came in by force into your chamber, for so am I resolved
now to affirm, and that will be the best for us both, but in no case
name my name that, whatsoever come of me, my house be not
dishonoured.”