violent refuge, gave him a certain countenance that might show she did
yield to his request, the latter part whereof indeed she meant for his
sake to perform. Neither could they spend more words together: for
Philanax with twenty of the noblest personages of Arcadia after him,
were come into the lodge, Philanax making the rest to stay below, for
the reverence he bare to womanhood, as stilly as he could came up to
the door, and opening it, drew the eyes of these two doleful lovers
upon him. Philoclea closing again for modesty’s sake, within her bed
the riches of her beauties, but Pyrocles took hold of his bar, minding
at least to die, before the excellent Philoclea should receive any
outrage. But Philanax rested a while upon himself, stricken with
admiration at the goodly shape of Pyrocles, whom before he had never
seen, and withal remembering, besides others, the notable act he had
done, when with his courage and eloquence, he had saved Basilius,
perchance the whole state from utter ruin, he felt a kind of relenting
mind towards him. But when that same thought came waited on with the
remembrance of his master’s death, which he by all probabilities
thought he had been of council unto with the queen, compassion turned
to hateful passion, and left in Philanax a strange medley, {550}
betwixt pity and revenge, betwixt liking and abhorring. “O lord,” said
he to himself, “what wonders doth nature in our time to set wickedness
so beautifully garnished? and that which is strangest, out of one
spring to make wonderful effects both of virtue and vice to issue?”
Pyrocles seeing him in such a muse, neither knowing the man, nor the
cause of coming, but assuring himself it was for no good, yet thought
best to begin with him in this sort. “Gentleman,” said he, “what is
the cause of your coming to my lady Philoclea’s chamber? is it to
defend her from such violence as I might go about to offer unto her?
if it be so, truly your coming is vain, for her own virtue hath been a
sufficient resistance; there needs no strength to be added to so
inviolate chastity, the excellency of her mind makes her body
impregnable. Which for my own part I had soon yielded to confess, with
going out of this place, where I found but little comfort being so
disdainfully received, had I not been, I know not by whom presently
upon my coming hither, so locked into this chamber that I could never
escape hence; where I was fettered in the most guilty shame that ever
man was, seeing what a paradise of unspotted goodness, my filthy
thoughts sought to defile. If for that therefore you come, already I
assure you your errand is performed; but if it be to bring me to any
punishment whatsoever, for having undertaken so inexcusable
presumption; truly I bear such an accuser about me in mine own
conscience, that I willingly submit myself unto it. Only thus much let
me demand of you, that you will be a witness unto the king what you
hear me say, and oppose yourself, that neither his sudden fury, nor
any other occasion may offer any hurt to this lady; in whom you see
nature hath accomplished so much that I am fain to lay mine own
faultiness as a foil of her purest excellency. I can say no more, but
look upon her beauty, remember her blood, consider her years, and
judge rightly of her virtues, and I doubt not a gentleman’s mind will
then be a sufficient instructor unto you, in this, I may term it
miserable chance, happened unto her by my unbridled audacity.”
Philanax was content to hear him out, not for any favour he owed him,
but to see whether he would reveal anything of the original cause and
purpose of the king’s death. But finding it so far from that, that he
named Basilius unto him, as supposing him alive, thinking it rather
cunning than ignorance: “Young man,” said he, “whom I have cause to
hate before I have mean to know, you use but a point of skill by
confessing the manifest smaller fault, to be believed hereafter in the
denial of the greater. But for that matter, all passeth to one end,
and hereafter we shall have leisure by torments to seek the truth, if
the love of the truth itself will not bring you unto it. As for my
Lady Philoclea, if it so fall {551} out as you say, it shall be the
more fit for her years, and comely for the great house that she is
come of, that an ill-governed beauty hath not cancelled the rules of
virtue. But howsoever it be, it is not for you to teach an Arcadian
what reverend duty we owe unto any of that progeny. But,” said he,
“come you with me without resistance, for the one cannot avail, and
the other may procure pity.” “Pity!” said Pyrocles, with a bitter
smiling, disdaining with so currish an answer, “no, no, Arcadian, I
can quickly have pity of myself, and would think my life most
miserable, which should be a gift of thine. Only I demand this
innocent lady’s security, which until thou hast confirmed unto me by
an oath, assure thyself the first that lays hands upon her shall leave
his life for a testimony of his sacrilege.” Philanax, with an inward
scorn, thinking it most manifest they were both, he at least, of
council with the king’s death: “Well,” said he, “you speak much to me
of the king: I do here swear unto you, by the love I have ever borne
him, she shall have no worse howsoever it fall out than her own
parents.” “And upon that word of yours I yield,” said the poor
Pyrocles, deceived by him that meant not to deceive him. Then did
Philanax deliver him into the hands of a nobleman in the company,
everyone desirous to have him in his charge, so much did his goodly
presence, wherein true valour shined, breed a delightful admiration in
all the beholders. Philanax himself stayed with Philoclea, to see
whether of her he might learn some disclosing of his former
conclusion. But she, sweet lady, whom first a kindly shamefulness had
separated from Pyrocles, having been left in a more open view than her
modesty would well bear, then the attending her father’s coming, and
studying how to behave herself towards him for both their safeties,
had called her spirits all within her; now that upon a sudden Pyrocles
was delivered out of the chamber from her, at the first she was so
surprised with the extreme stroke of the woeful sight, that, like
those that in their dreams are taken with some ugly vision, they would
fain cry for help but have no force, so remained she a while quite
deprived not only of speech but almost of any other lively action. But
when indeed Pyrocles was quite drawn from her eyes, and that her vital
strength began to return unto her, now not knowing what they did to
Pyrocles, but, according to the nature of love, fearing the worst,
wringing her hands, and letting abundance of tears be the first part
of her eloquence, bending her amber crowned head over her bedside to
the hard-hearted Philanax. “O Philanax, Philanax,” said she, “I know
how much authority you have with my father: there is no man whose
wisdom he so much esteems, nor whose face he so much reposes upon.
Remember how oft you have promised your service unto me, {552} how oft
you have given me occasion to believe that there was no lady in whose
favour you more desired to remain: and if the remembrance be not
unpleasant to your mind, or the rehearsal unfitting for my fortune,
remember there was a time when I could deserve it. Now my chance is
turned, let not your truth turn. I present myself unto you, the most
humble and miserable suppliant living, neither shall my desire be
great: I seek for no more life than I shall be found worthy of. If my
blood may wash away the dishonour of Arcadia, spare it not, although
through me it hath indeed never been dishonoured. My only suit is, you
will be a mean for me, that while I am suffered to enjoy this life, I
may not be separated from him, to whom the gods have joined me, and
that you determine nothing of him more cruelly than you do of me. If
you rightly judge of what hath passed, wherein the gods, that should
have been of our marriage, are witnesses of our innocencies, then
procure, we may live together. But if my father will not so conceive
of us, as the fault, if any were, was united, so let the punishment be
united also.” There was no man that ever loved either his prince, or
anything pertaining to him, with a truer zeal than Philanax did. This
made him, even to the depth of his heart, receive a most vehement
grief, to see his master made as it were more miserable after death.
And for himself, calling to mind in what sort his life had been
preserved by Philoclea, what time taken by Amphialus, he was like to
suffer a cruel death, there was nothing could have kept him from
falling to all tender pity but the perfect persuasion he had that all
this was joined to the pack of his master’s death, which the
misconceived speech of marriage made him the more believe. Therefore
first muttering to himself such like words: “The violence the
gentleman spoke of, is now turned to marriage: he alleged Mars, but
she speaks of Venus: O unfortunate master! this hath been that fair
devil Gynecia; sent away one of her daughters, prostituted the other,
impoisoned thee, to overthrow the diadem of Arcadia.” But at length
thus unto herself he said: “If your father, Madam, were now to speak
unto, truly there should nobody be found a more ready advocate for you
than myself. For I would suffer this fault, though very great, to be
blotted out of my mind, by your former led life, your benefit towards
myself, and being daughter to such a father. But since among
yourselves you have taken him away, in whom was the only power to have
mercy, you must be clothed in your own working, and look for none
other than that which dead pitiless laws may allot unto you. For my
part, I loved you for your virtue, but now where is that? I loved you
in respect of a private benefit, what is that in comparison of the
public loss? I loved you for your father, unhappy folks you have
robbed the world of him.” These {553} words of her father were so
little understood by the only well-understanding Philoclea, that she
desired him to tell her, what he meant to speak in such dark sort unto
her of her lord and father, whose displeasure was more dreadful unto
her than her punishment: that she was free in her own conscience, she
had never deserved evil of him, no not in this last fact: wherein, if
it pleased him to proceed with patience, he should find her choice had
not been unfortunate. He that saw her words written in the plain table
of her fair face, thought it impossible there should therein be
contained deceit: and therefore so much the more abashed: “Why,” said
he, “Madam, would you have me think, you are not of conspiracy with
the Princess Pamela’s flight, and your father’s death?” With that word
the sweet lady gave a pitiful cry, having straight in her face and
breast abundance of witnesses that her heart was far from any such
abominable consent. “Ah of all sides utterly ruined Philoclea,” said
she, “now indeed I may well suffer all conceit of hope to die in me.
Dear father, where was I that might not do you my last service before,
soon after miserably following you?” Philanax, perceived the
demonstration so lively and true in her that he easily acquitted her
in his heart of that fact, and the more was moved to join with her in
most hearty lamentation. But remembering him, that the burden of the
state, and punishment of his master’s murderers, lay all upon him:
“Well,” said he, “Madam, I can do nothing, without all the states of
Arcadia: what they will determine of you, I know not: for my part your
speeches would much prevail with me, but that I find not how to excuse
your giving over your body to him that for the last proof of his
treason lent his garments to disguise your miserable mother, in the
most vile fact she hath committed. Hard sure will it be to separate
your causes, with whom you have so nearly joined yourself.” “Neither
do I desire it,” said the sweetly weeping Philoclea: “Whatsoever you
determine of him, do that likewise to me, for I know from the fountain
of virtue nothing but virtue could ever proceed, only as you find him
faultless, let him find you favourable, and build not my dishonour
upon surmises.” Philanax, feeling his heart more and more mollifying
unto her, renewed the image of his dead master in his fancy, and using
that for the spurs of his revengeful choler, went suddenly without any
more speech from the desolate lady, to whom now fortune seemed to
threaten unripe death, and undeserved shame among her least evils. But
Philanax leaving good guard upon the lodge, went himself to see the
order of his other prisoners, whom even then as he issued, he found
increased by this unhoped means.
The noble Pamela having delivered over the burden of her fearful
cares, to the natural ease of a well-refreshing sleep, reposed {554}
both mind and body upon the trusted support of her princely shepherd,
when with the braying cries of a rascal company she was robbed of her
quiet, so that at one instant she opened her eyes, and the enraged
Musidorus rose from her, enraged betwixt the doubt, he had what these
men would go about, and the spite he conceived against their
ill-pleasing presence. But the clowns having with their hideous noise
brought them both to their feet, had soon knowledge what guests they
had found, for indeed these were the scummy remnants of those rebels,
whose naughty minds could not trust so much to the goodness of their
prince, as to lay their hangworthy necks upon the constancy of his
promised pardon. Therefore when the rest, who as sheep had but
followed their fellows, so sheepishly had submitted themselves, these
only committed their safety to the thickest part of these desert
woods, who as they were in the constitution of their minds little
better than beasts, so were they apt to degenerate to a beastly kind
of life, having now framed their gluttonish stomachs to have for food
the wild benefits of nature, the uttermost end they had being but to
draw out as much as they could the line of a tedious life. In this
sort vagabonding in those untrodden places, they were guided by the
everlasting justice, using themselves to be punishers of their faults,
and making their own actions the beginning of their chastisements,
unhappily both for him and themselves, to light on Musidorus. Whom as
soon as they saw turned towards them, they full well remembered it was
he, that, accompanied with Basilius, had come to the succour of
Zelmane, and had left among some of them bloody tokens of his valour.
As for Pamela, they had many times seen her. Thus first stirred up
with a rustical revenge against him, and then desire of spoil to help
their miserable wants, but chiefly thinking it was the way to confirm
their own pardon, to bring the princess back unto her father, whom
they were sure he would never have sent so far so slightly accompanied
without any other denouncing of war, set all together upon the worthy
Musidorus. Who being beforehand as much inflamed against them, gave
them so brave a welcome, that the smart of some made the rest stand
further off, crying and prating against him, but like bad curs, rather
barking than closing: he, in the meantime, placing his trembling lady
to one of the pine trees, and so setting himself before her, as might
show the cause of his courage grew in himself, but the effect was only
employed in her defence; the villains that now had a second proof, how
ill-wards they had for such a sword, turned all the course of their
violence into throwing darts and stones, indeed the only way to
overmaster the valour of Musidorus. Who finding them some already
touched, some fall so near his chiefest life Pamela, that in the end
some one or other {555} might hap to do an unsuccourable mischief,
setting all his hope in despair, ran out from his lady among them. Who
straight like so many swine when a hardy mastiff sets upon them,
dispersed themselves. But the first he overtook as he ran away,
carrying his head as far before him, as those manner of runnings are
wont to do, with one blow struck it so clean off, that it falling
betwixt the hands, and the body falling upon it, it made a show as
though the fellow had had great haste to gather up his head again.
Another the speed he made to run for the best game, bare him full butt
against a tree, so that tumbling back with a bruised face, and a
dreadful expectation, Musidorus was straight upon him, and parting
with his sword one of his legs from him, left him to make a roaring
lamentation that his mortar-treading was marred for ever. A third
finding his feet too slow, as well as his hands too weak, suddenly
turned back, beginning to open his lips for mercy. But before he had
well entered a rudely compiled oration, Musidorus’s blade was come
between his jaws into his throat, and so the poor man rested there for
ever with a very evil mouth full of an answer. Musidorus in this
furious chase would have followed some other of these hateful
wretches, but that he heard his lady cry for help, whom three of this
villainous crew had, whilst Musidorus followed their fellows,
compassing about some trees, suddenly come upon and surprised,
threatening to kill her if she cried, and meaning to convey her out of
sight, whilst the prince was making his bloodthirsty chase. But she
that was resolved no worse thing could fall unto her than the being
deprived of him, on whom she had established all her comfort, with a
pitiful cry fetched his eyes unto her: who then thinking so many
weapons thrust into his eyes, as with his eyes he saw bent against
her, made all hearty speed to her succour. But one of them wiser than
his companions, set his dagger to her alabaster throat, swearing if he
threw not away his sword, he would kill her presently. There was never
poor scholar, that having instead of his book some playing toy about
him, did more suddenly cast it from him, at the child-feared presence
of a cruel schoolmaster, than the valiant Musidorus discharged himself
of his only defence, when he saw it stood upon the instant point of
his lady’s life. And holding up his noble hands to so unworthy
audience, “O Arcadians, it is I that have done you the wrong, she is
your princess,” said he, “she never had will to hurt you, and you see
she hath no power. Use your choler upon me that have better deserved
it, do not yourselves the wrong to do her any hurt, which in no time
or place will ever be forgiven you.”
They that yet trusted not to his courtesy, bid him stand further off
from his sword, which he obediently did. So far was love above all
other thoughts in him. Then did they call together the {556} rest of
their fellows, who though they were few, yet according to their
number, possessed many places. And then began these savage senators to
make a consultation what they should do: some wishing to spoil them of
their jewels and let them go on their journey, for that if they
carried them back, they were sure they should have least part of their
prey, others preferring their old homes to anything, desired to bring
them to Basilius as pledges of their surety. And there wanted not
which cried, the safest way was to kill them both; to such an unworthy
thraldom were these great and excellent personages brought. But the
most part resisted to the killing of the princes, foreseeing their
lives would never be safe after such a fact committed: and began to
wish rather the spoil than death of Musidorus: when the villain that
had his leg cut off came crawling towards them, and being helped to
them by one of the company, began with a groaning voice, and a
disfigured face, to demand the revenge of his blood, which since he
had spent with them in their defence, it were no reason he should be
suffered by them to die discontented. The only contentment he required
was, that by their help with his own hands he might put his murderer
to some cruel death: he would fain have cried more against Musidorus,
but that the much loss of blood helped on with this vehemency, choked
up the spirits of his life, leaving him to make betwixt his body and
soul an ill-favoured partition. But they seeing their fellow in that
sort die before their faces, did swell in new mortal rages: all
resolved to kill him, but now only considering what manner of terrible
death they should invent for him. Thus was a while the agreement of
his slaying broken by disagreement of the manner of it; and extremity
of cruelty. At length they were resolved every one to have a piece of
him, and to become all as well hangmen as judges: when Pamela tearing
her hair, and falling down among them, sometimes with all the sort of
humble prayers, mixed with promises of great good turns, which they
knew her state was able to perform, sometimes threatening them, that
if they killed him and not her, she would not only revenge it upon
them, but upon all their wives and children: bidding them consider
that though they might think she was come away in her father’s
displeasure, yet they might be sure he would ever show himself a
father; that the gods would never, if she lived, put her in so base
estate but that she should have ability to plague such as they were:
returning afresh to prayers and promises, and mixing the same again
with threatenings, brought them who were now grown colder in their
fellow’s cause, who was past aggravating the matter with his cries, to
determine with themselves there was no way, but either to kill them
both, or save them both, as for the killing, already they having
answered themselves {557} that that was a way to make them citizens of
the woods for ever, they did in fine conclude they would return them
back again to the king, which they did not doubt would be cause of a
great reward, besides their safety from their fore-deserved
punishment.
Thus having either by fortune or the force of these two lovers’ inward
working virtue, settled their cruel hearts to this gentler course,
they took the two horses, and having set upon them their princely
prisoners, they returned towards the lodge. The villains having decked
all their heads with laurel branches, as thinking they had done a
notable act, singing and shouting, ran by them, in hope to have
brought them the same day again to the king. But the time was so far
spent that they were forced to take up that night’s lodging in the
midst of the woods. Where while the clowns continued their watch about
them, now that the night, according to his dark nature, did add a kind
of desolation to the pensive hearts of these two afflicted lovers,
Musidorus taking the tender hand of Pamela, and bedewing it with his
tears, in this sort gave an issue to the swelling of his heart’s
grief. “Most excellent lady,” said he, “in what case think you am I
with myself, how unmerciful judgments do I lay upon my soul, now that
I know not what god hath so reversed my well-meaning enterprise, that,
instead of doing you that honour which I hoped, and not without reason
hoped, Thessalia should have yielded unto you, am now like to become a
wretched instrument of your discomfort? alas! how contrary an end have
all the inclinations of my mind taken: my faith falls out a treason
unto you, and the true honour I bear you is the field wherein your
dishonour is like to be sown! but I invoke that universal and only
wisdom, which examining the depth of hearts, hath not his judgment
fixed upon the event, to bear testimony with me that my desire, though
in extremest vehemency, yet did not so overcharge my remembrance, but
that as far as man’s will might be extended I sought to prevent all
things that might fall to your hurt. But now that all the evil
fortunes of evil fortune have crossed my best framed intent, I am most
miserable in that, that I cannot only not give you help, but, which is
worst of all, am barred from giving you counsel. For how should I open
my mouth to counsel you in that, wherein by my counsel you are most
undeservedly fallen?” The fair and wise Pamela, although full of cares
of the unhappy turning of this matter, yet seeing the grief of
Musidorus only stirred for her, did so tread down all other motions
with the true force of virtue that she thus answered him, having first
kissed him, which before she had never done, love commanding her,
which doubted how long they should enjoy one another, or of a lively
spark of nobleness, to descend in most favour to one when he is lowest
{558} in affliction. “My dear and ever dear Musidorus,” said she, “a
greater wrong do you to yourself, that will torment you thus with
grief for the fault of fortune. Since a man is bound no further to
himself than to do wisely: chance is only to trouble them that stand
upon chance. But greater is the wrong, at least, if anything that
comes from you may bear the name of wrong, you do unto me, to think me
either so childish as not to perceive your faithful faultlessness, or
perceiving it, so basely disposed as to let my heart be overthrown,
standing upon itself in so unspotted a pureness. Hold for certain,
most worthy Musidorus, it is yourself I love, which can no more be
diminished by these showers of evil hap than flowers are marred with
the timely rains of April. For how can I want comfort that have the
true living comfort of thy unblemished virtue? And how can I want
honour, as long as Musidorus, in whom indeed honour is, doth honour
me? Nothing bred from myself can discomfort me; and fools’ opinions I
will not reckon as dishonour.” Musidorus looking up to the stars, “O
mind of mine!” said he, “the living power of all things, which dost
with all these eyes behold our ever-varying actions, accept into thy
favourable ears this prayer of mine: if I may any longer hold out this
dwelling on the earth, which is called a life, grant me ability to
deserve at this lady’s hands the grace she hath showed unto me: grant
me wisdom to know her wisdom, and goodness so to increase my love of
her goodness, that all mine own chosen desires, be to myself but
second to her determination. Whatsoever I be let it be to her service:
let me herein be satisfied, that for such infinite favours of virtue I
have some way wrought her satisfaction. But if my last time
approacheth, and that I am no longer to be amongst mortal creatures,
make yet my death serve her to some purpose, that hereafter she may
not have cause to repent herself that she bestowed so excellent a mind
upon Musidorus.”
Pamela could not choose but accord the conceit of their fortune to
these passionate prayers, in so much that their constant eyes yielded
some tears, which wiping from her face with Musidorus’s hand, speaking
softly unto him, as if she had feared more anybody should be witness
of her weakness, than of anything else she had said, “You see,” said
she, “my prince and only lord, what you work in me by your too much
grieving for me. I pray you think I have no joy but in you, and if you
fill that with sorrow, what do you leave for me? What is prepared for
us we know not, but that with sorrow we cannot prevent it, we know.
Now let us turn from these things, and think you how you will have me
behave myself towards you in this matter.” Musidorus finding the
authority of her speech confirmed with direct necessity, the {559}
first care came to his mind was of his dear friend and cousin
Pyrocles; with whom long before he had concluded what names they
should bear, if upon any occasion they were forced to give themselves
out for great men, and yet not make themselves fully known. Now
fearing, lest if the princess should name him for Musidorus, the fame
of their two being together would discover Pyrocles; holding her hand
betwixt his hands a good while together: “I did not think, most
excellent princess,” said he, “to have made any further request unto
you, for having been already unto you so unfortunate a suitor, I know
not what modesty can bear any further demand. But the state of one
young man, whom, next to you, far above myself, I love more than all
the world, one worthy of all well-being for the notable constitution
of his mind, and most unworthy to receive hurt by me, whom he doth in
all faith and constancy love, the pity of him only goes beyond all
resolution to the contrary.” Then did he, to the princess’s great
admiration, tell her the whole story as far as he knew of it, and that
when they made the grievous disjunction of their long combination,
they had concluded Musidorus should entitle himself Palladius, prince
of Iberia, and Pyrocles should be Daiphantus of Lycia.
“Now,” said Musidorus, “he keeping a woman’s habit, is to use no other
name than Zelmane; but I that find it best of the one side for your
honour, you went away with a prince, and not with a shepherd; of the
other side, accounting my death less evil than the betraying of that
sweet friend of mine, will take this mean betwixt both, and using the
name of Palladius, if the respect of a prince will stop your father’s
fury, that will serve as well as Musidorus, until Pyrocles’s fortune
being some way established, I may freely give good proof that the
noble country of Thessalia is mine; and if that will not mitigate your
father’s opinion to me-wards, nature, I hope, working in your
excellency, will make him deal well with you: for my part the image of
death is nothing fearful unto me, and this good I shall have reaped by
it, that I shall leave my most esteemed friend in no danger to be
disclosed by me. And besides, since I must confess I am not without a
remorse of her case, my virtuous mother shall not know her son’s
violent death hid under the fame will go of Palladius. But as long as
her years, now of good number, be counted among the living, she may
joy herself with some possibility of my return.” Pamela promising him
upon no occasion ever to name him, fell into extremity of weeping, as
if her eyes had been content to spend all their seeing moistness, now
that there was a speech of the loss of that which they held as their
chiefest light. So that Musidorus was forced to repair her good
counsels with sweet consolations, {560} which continued betwixt them
till it was about midnight, that sleep having stolen into their heavy
senses, and now absolutely commanding in their vital powers, left them
delicately wound one in another’s arms, quietly to wait for the coming
of the morning; which as soon as she appeared to play her part, laden,
as you have heard, with so many well occasioned lamentations, their
lobbish guard, who all night had kept themselves awake, with prating
how valiant deeds they had done when they ran away; and how fair a
death their fellow had died, who at his last gasp sued to be a
hangman, awaked them, and set them upon their horses, to whom the very
shining force of excellent virtue, though in a very harrish subject,
had wrought a kind of reverence in them: Musidorus as he rode among
them, of whom they had no other hold but of Pamela, thinking it want
of a well-squared judgment to leave any means unassayed of saving
their lives, to this purpose spoke to his unseemly guardians, using a
plain kind of phrase to make his speech the more credible.
“My masters,” said he, “there is no man that is wise but hath, in
whatsoever he doth, some purpose whereto he directs his doings, which
so long he follows till he see that either that purpose is not worth
the pains, or that another doing carries with it a better purpose.
That you are wise in what you take in hand, I have to my cost learned;
that makes me desire you tell me what is your end in carrying the
princess and me back to her father.” “Pardon,” said one; “reward,”
cried another. “Well,” said he, “take both, although I know you are so
wise to remember that hardly they both will go together, being of so
contrary a making; for the ground of pardon is an evil, neither any
man pardons but remembers an evil done: the cause of reward is the
opinion of some good act, and whoso rewardeth, that holds the chief
place of his fancy. Now one man of one company, to have the same
consideration of good and evil, but that the conceit of pardoning, if
it be pardoned, will take away the mind of rewarding, is very hard, if
not impossible. For either even in justice will he punish the fault,
as well as reward the desert, or else in mercy balance the one by the
other: so that the not chastising shall be a sufficient satisfying.
Thus then you may see that in your own purpose rests great
uncertainty. But I will grant that by this your deed you shall obtain
your double purpose. Yet consider, I pray you, whether by another
means that may not better be obtained, and then I doubt not your
wisdom will teach you to take hold of the better. I am sure you know,
anybody were better have no need of a pardon than enjoy a pardon; for
as it carries with it the surety of a preserved life, so bears it a
continual note of a deserved death. This therefore, besides the danger
you may run into, my Lady {561} Pamela being the undoubted inheritrix
of this state, if she shall hereafter seek to revenge the wrong done
her shall be continually cast in your teeth, as men dead by the law:
the honester sort will disdain your company, and your children shall
be the more basely reputed of, and you yourselves in every slight
fault hereafter, as men once condemned, aptest to be overthrown. Now
if you will, I doubt not but you will, for you are wise, turn your
course, and guard my Lady Pamela thitherward, whither she was going:
first, you need not doubt to adventure your fortune where she goes,
and there shall you be assured in a country as good and rich as this
is, of the same manners and language to be so far from the conceit of
a pardon, as we both shall be forced to acknowledge we have received
by your means whatsoever we hold dear in this life. And so for reward,
judge you whether it be not more likely, you shall there receive it
where you have done no evil, but singular and undeserved goodness; or
here, where this service of yours shall be diminished by your duty,
and blemished by your former fault. Yes I protest and swear unto you,
by the fair eyes of that lady, there shall no gentleman in all that
country be preferred: you shall have riches, ease, pleasure, and that
which is best to such worthy minds, you shall not be forced to cry
mercy for a good fact. You only, of all the Arcadians shall have the
praise, in continuing in your late valiant attempt, and not be basely
brought under a halter for seeking the liberty of Arcadia.”
These words in their minds, who did nothing for any love of goodness,
but only as their senses presented greater shows of profit, began to
make them waver, and some to clap their hands and scratch their heads,
and swear it was the best way. Others that would seem wiser than the
rest, to capitulate what tenements they should have, what subsidies
they should pay; others to talk of their wives, in doubt whether it
were best to send for them, or to take new where they went: most, like
fools, not readily thinking what was next to be done, but imagining
what cheer they would make when they came there, one or two of the
last discoursers beginning to turn their faces towards the woods which
they had left. But being now come within the plain, near to the
lodges, unhappily they espied a troop of horsemen. But then their
false hearts had quickly, for the present fear, forsaken their last
hopes: and therefore keeping on the way toward the lodge, with songs
and cries of joy, the horsemen, who were some of them Philanax had
sent out to the search of Pamela, came galloping unto them, marvelling
who they were that in such a general mourning durst sing joyful tunes,
and in so public a ruin wear the laurel token of victory. And that
which seemed strangest, they might see two among them unarmed like
prisoners, but riding like captains. {562} But when they came nearer,
they perceived the one was a lady, and the Lady Pamela. Then glad they
had by hap found that which they so little hoped to meet withal,
taking these clowns, who first resisted them, for the desire they had
to be the deliverers of the two excellent prisoners, learning that
they were of those rebels which had made the dangerous uproar, as well
under colour to punish that, as this their last withstanding them, but
indeed their principal cause being, because they themselves would have
the only praise of their own quest, they suffered not one of them to
live. Marry three of the stubbornest of them they left their bodies
hanging upon the trees, because their doing might carry the likelier
form of judgment. Such an unlooked-for end did the life of justice
work for the naughty-minded wretches, by subjects to be executed, that
would have executed princes: and to suffer that without law, which by
law they had deserved. And thus these young folks twice prisoners,
before any due arrest, delivered of their jailors, but not of their
jail, had rather change than respite of misery; these soldiers that
took them with very few words of entertainment, hasting to carry them
to their lord Philanax, to whom they came, even as he, going out of
the Lady Philoclea’s chamber, had overtaken Pyrocles, whom before he
had delivered to the custody of a nobleman of that country. When
Pyrocles, led towards his prison, saw his friend Musidorus, with the
noble Lady Pamela in that unexpected sort returned, his grief, if any
grief were in a mind which had placed everything according to his
natural worth, was very much augmented; for besides some small hope he
had, if Musidorus had once been clear of Arcadia, by his dealing and
authority to have brought his only gladsome desires to a good issue:
the hard estate of his friend did no less, nay rather more vex him
than his own. For so indeed it is ever found, where valour and
friendship are perfectly coupled in one heart; the reason being that
the resolute man having once digested in his judgment the worst
extremity of his own case, and having either quite expelled or at
least repelled all passion which ordinarily follows an overthrown
fortune, not knowing his friend’s mind so well as his own, nor with
what patience he brooks his case, which as it were the material cause
of making a man happy or unhappy, doubts whether his friend accounts
not himself more miserable, and so indeed be more lamentable. But as
soon as Musidorus was brought by the soldiers near unto Philanax,
Pyrocles not knowing whether ever after he should be suffered to see
his friend, and determining there could be no advantage by dissembling
a not-knowing of him, leaped suddenly from their hands that held him,
and passing, with a strength strengthened with a true affection,
through them that encompassed Musidorus, he embraced {563} him as fast
as he could in his arms. And kissing his cheeks, “O my Palladius,”
said he, “let not our virtue now abandon us; let us prove our minds
are no slaves to fortune, but in adversity can triumph over
adversity.” “Dear Daiphantus,” answered Musidorus, seeing by his
apparel his being a man was revealed, “I thank you for this best care
of my best part: but fear not, I have kept too long company with you
to want now a thorough determination of these things; I well know,
there is nothing evil but within us, the rest is either natural or
accidental.” Philanax, finding them of so near acquaintance, began
presently to examine them apart: but such resolution he met with in
them, that by no such means he could learn further than it pleased
them to deliver. So that he thought best to put them both in one
place, with espial of their words and behaviour, that way to sift out
the more of these surpassed mischiefs. And for that purpose gave them
both unto the nobleman, who before had the custody of Pyrocles, by
name Sympathus, leaving a trusty servant of his own to give diligent
watch to what might pass betwixt them. No man that hath ever passed
through the school of affection, needs doubt what a tormenting grief
it was to the noble Pamela, to have the company of him taken from her,
to whose virtuous company she had bound her life. But weighing with
herself, it was fit for her honour, till her doings were clearly
manifested, that they should remain separate, kept down the rising
tokens of grief; showing passion in nothing but her eyes, which
accompanied Musidorus even unto the tent, whither he and Pyrocles were
led. Then, with a countenance more princely than she was wont,
according to the wont of highest hearts, like the palm tree striving
most upwards, when he is most burdened, she commanded Philanax to
bring her to her father and mother, that she might render them an
account of her doings. Philanax showing a sullen kind of reverence
unto her, as a man that honoured her as his master’s heir, but much
misliked her for her, in his conceit, dishonourable proceedings, told
her what was past, rather to answer her, than that he thought she was
ignorant of it. But her good spirit did presently suffer a true
compassionate affliction of those hard adventures, which, with
crossing her arms, looking a great while upon the ground, with those
eyes which let fall many tears, she well declared. But in the end,
remembering how necessary it was for her, not to lose herself in such
an extremity, she strengthened her well-created heart, and stoutly
demanded Philanax, what authority then they had to lay hands on her
person, who being the undoubted heir, was then the lawful princess of
that kingdom? Philanax answered, her grace knew the ancient laws of
Arcadia bare, she was to have no sway of government till she came to
one and twenty years of {564} age, or were married. “And married I
am,” replied the wise princess, “therefore I demand your due
allegiance.” “The gods forbid,” said Philanax, “Arcadia should be a
dowry of such marriages.” Besides, he told her all the states of her
country were evil satisfied touching her father’s death, which
likewise according to the statutes of Arcadia, was even that day to be
judged of, before the body were removed to receive his princely
funeral. After that passed, she should have such obedience, as by the
laws were due unto her, desiring God she would show herself better in
public government than she had done in private. She would have spoken
to the gentlemen and people gathered about her, but Philanax fearing
lest thereby some commotion might arise, or at least a hinderance of
executing his master’s murderers, which he longed after more than
anything, hasted her up to the lodge, where her sister was, and there
was a chosen company of soldiers to guard the place, left her with
Philoclea, Pamela protesting they laid violent hands on her, and that
they entered into rebellious attempts against her. But high time it
was for Philanax so to do, for already was all the whole multitude
fallen into confused and dangerous divisions.
There was a notable example, how great dissipations monarchical
government is subject unto. For now their prince and guide had left
them, they had not experience to rule, and had not whom to obey.
Public matters had ever been privately governed, so that they had no
lively taste what was good for themselves. But everything was either
vehemently desireful, or extremely terrible. Neighbours’ invasions,
civil dissention, cruelty of the coming prince, and whatsoever in
common sense carries a dreadful show, was in all men’s heads, but in
few how to prevent: hearkening on every rumour, suspecting everything,
condemning them whom before they had honoured, making strange and
impossible tales of the king’s death, while they thought themselves in
danger, wishing nothing but safety; as soon as persuasion of safety
took them, desiring further benefits, as amendment of fore-passed
faults, which faults notwithstanding none could tell either the
grounds or effects of, all agreeing in the universal names of liking
or misliking, but of what in especial points, infinitely disagreeing.
Altogether like a falling steeple, the parts whereof, as windows,
stones, and pinnacles were well, but the whole mass ruinous. And this
was the general cause of all, wherein notwithstanding was an extreme
medley of diversified thoughts, the great men looking to make
themselves strong by factions, the gentlemen some bending to them,
some standing upon themselves, some desirous to overthrow those few
which they thought were over them; the soldiers desirous of trouble,
as the nurse of spoil, and not much unlike to {565} them though in
another way, were all the needy sort, the rich fearful, the wise
careful. This composition of conceits brought forth a dangerous
tumult, which yet would have been more dangerous, but that it had so
many parts that nobody well knew against whom chiefly to oppose
themselves. For some there were that cried to have the state altered,
and governed no more by a prince; marry, in the alteration, many would
have the Lacedaemonian government of a few chosen senators, others the
Athenian, where the people’s voice held the chief authority. But these
were rather the discoursing sort of men, than the active, being a
matter more in imagination than practice. But they that went nearest
to the present case, as in a country that knew no government without a
prince, were they that strove whom they should make. Whereof a great
number there were that would have the Princess Pamela presently to
enjoy it: some disdaining that she had as it were abandoned her own
country, inclining more to Philoclea; and there wanted not of them,
which wished Gynecia were delivered, and made regent till Pamela were
worthily married. But great multitudes there were, which having been
acquainted with the just government of Philanax, meant to establish
him as lieutenant of the state; and these were the most popular sort,
who judged by the commodities they felt. But the principal men in
honour and might, who had long before envied his greatness with
Basilius, did much more spurn against any such preferment of him. For
yet before their envy had some kind of breathing out his rancour, by
laying his greatness as a fault to the prince’s judgment, who showed
in Dametas he might easily be deceived in men’s value: but now if the
prince’s choice, by so many mouths should be confirmed, what could
they object to so rightly esteemed an excellency, they therefore were
disposed sooner to yield to any thing than to his raising; and were
content, for to cross Philanax, to stop those actions, which otherwise
they could not but think good. Philanax himself as much hindered by
those that did immoderately honour him, which brought both more envy
and suspicion upon him, as by them that did manifestly resist him:
but, standing only upon a constant desire of justice, and a clear
conscience went forward stoutly in the action of his master’s revenge,
which he thought himself particularly bound to. For the rest, as the
ordering of the government, he accounted himself but as one wherein
notwithstanding he would employ all his loyal endeavour.
But among the noblemen, he that most openly set himself against him
was named Timautus, a man of middle age, but of extreme ambition, as
one that had placed his uttermost good in greatness, thinking small
difference by what means he came by it. {566} Of commendable wit, if
he had not made it a servant to unbridled desires. Cunning to creep
into men’s favours, which he prized only as they were serviceable unto
him. He had been brought up in some soldiery, which he knew how to set
out with more than deserved ostentation. Servile, though envious, to
his betters: and no less tyrannically minded to them he had advantage
of. Counted revengeful, but indeed measuring both revenge and reward,
as the party might either help or hurt him. Rather shameless than
bold, and yet more bold in practice than in personal adventures. In
some, a man that could be as evil as he listed, and listed as much as
any advancement might thereby be gotten. As for virtue he counted it
but a school-name. He even at the first assembling together, finding
the great stroke Philanax carried among the people, thought it his
readiest way of ambition to join with him: which though his pride did
hardly brook, yet the other vice carrying with it a more apparent
object prevailed over the weaker, so that with those liberal
protestations of friendship, which men that care not for their word
are wont to bestow, he offered unto him the choice in marriage of
either the sisters, so he would likewise help him to the other, and
make such a partition of the Arcadian estate. Wishing him that since
he loved his master, because he was his master, which showed the love
began in himself, he should rather now occasion was presented seek his
own good substantially than affect the smoke of a glory by showing an
untimely fidelity to him that could not reward it: and have all the
fruit he could get, in men’s opinions, which would be as divers as
many; few agreeing to yield him due praise of his true heart. But
Philanax, who had limited his thoughts in that he esteemed good, to
which he was neither carried by the vain tickling of uncertain fame,
nor from which he would be transported by enjoying anything, whereto
the ignorant world gives the excellent name of goods, with great
mislike of his offer, he made him so peremptory an answer, not without
threatening, if he found him foster any such fancy, that Timautus went
with an inward spite from him, whom before he had never loved: and
measuring all men’s marches by his own pace, rather thought it some
further fetch of Philanax, as that he would have all to himself alone,
than was any way taken with the lovely beauty of his virtue, whose
image he had so quite defaced in his own soul that he had left himself
no eyes to behold it, but stayed waiting fit opportunity to execute
his desires both for himself and against Philanax, which by the
bringing back of Pamela, the people being divided into many motions,
which both with murmuring noises, and putting themselves in several
troops, they well showed, he thought apt time was laid before him, the
waters being, as the proverb saith, {567} troubled, and so the better
for his fishing. Therefore going among the chiefest lords, whom he
knew principally to repine at Philanax, and making a kind of
convocation of them, he inveighed against his proceeding, drawing
everything to the most malicious interpretation, that malice itself
could instruct him to do. He said, it was season for them to look to
such a weed, that else would over-grow them all. It was not now time
to consult of the dead, but of the living: since such a sly wolf was
entered among them, that could make justice the cloak of tyranny, and
love of his late master the destruction of his now being children. “Do
you not see,” said he, “how far his corruption hath stretched, that he
hath such a number of rascals’ voices to declare him lieutenant, ready
to make him prince, but that he instructs them, matters are not yet
ripe for it? as for us, because we are too rich to be bought, he
thinks us the fitter to be killed. Hath Arcadia bred no man but
Philanax? is she become a stepmother to all the rest, and hath given
all her blessings to Philanax? or if there be men amongst us, let us
show we disdain to be servants to a servant. Let us make him know we
are far worthier not to be slaves than he to be a master. Think you he
hath made such haste in these matters to give them over to another
man’s hand? think you he durst become the jailor of his princess, but
either meaning to be her master, or her murderer? and all this for the
dear goodwill, forsooth, he bears to the king’s memory, whose
authority as he abused in his life, so he would now persevere to abuse
his name after his death. O notable affection, for the love of the
father to kill the wife and disinherit the children! O single-minded
modesty, to aspire to no less than to the princely diadem, no, no, he
hath veered all this while, but to come the sooner to his affected
end. But let us remember what we be, in quality his equals, in number
far before him: let us deliver the queen and our natural princesses,
and leave them no longer under his authority, whose proceedings would
rather show that he himself had been the murderer of the king, than a
fit guardian of his posterity.”
These words pierced much into the minds already inclined that way,
insomuch that most part of the nobility confirmed Timautus’s speech,
and were ready to execute it: when Philanax came among them, and with
a constant, but reverent behaviour, desired them they would not
exercise private grudges in so common a necessity. He acknowledged
himself a man, and a faulty man: to the clearing or satisfying of
which, he would at all times submit himself; since his end was to
bring all things to an upright judgment, it should evil fit him to fly
the judgment. “But,” said he, “my lords, let not Timautus’s railing
speech, who whatsoever he finds evil in his own soul can with ease lay
it upon another, make me lose {568} your good favour. Consider that
all well-doing stands so in the middle betwixt his two contrary evils
that it is a ready matter to cast a slanderous shade upon the most
approved virtues. Who hath an evil tongue, can call severity cruelty,
and faithful diligence, diligent ambition. But my end is not to excuse
myself, nor to accuse him: for both those hereafter will be time
enough. There is neither of us, whose purging or punishing may so much
import to Arcadia. Now I request you, for your own honour’s sake, and
require you by the duty you owe to this estate, that you do presently,
according to the laws, take in hand the chastisement of our master’s
murderers, and laying order for the government by whomsoever it be
done, so it be done, and justly done, I am satisfied. My labour hath
been to frame things so that you might determine; now it is in you to
determine. For my part, I call the heavens to witness, the care of my
heart stands to repay that, wherein both I and most of you were tied
to that prince, with whom all my love of worldly action is dead.”
As Philanax was speaking his last words there came one running to him
with open mouth and fearful eyes, telling him that there was a great
number of the people which were bent to take the young men out of
Sympathus’s hands, and as it should seem by their acclamations, were
like enough to proclaim them princes. “Nay,” said Philanax, speaking
aloud, and looking with a just anger upon the noblemen, “it is no
season to hear Timautus’s idle slanders while strangers become our
lords, and Basilius’s murderers sit in his throne. But whosoever is a
true Arcadian let him follow me.” With that he went toward the place
he heard of, followed by those that had ever loved him, and some of
the noblemen. Some other remaining with Timautus, who in the meantime
was conspiring by strong hands to deliver Gynecia, of whom the weakest
guard was had. But Philanax, where he went found them all in an
uproar, which thus was fallen out. The greatest multitude of people
that were come to the death of Basilius, were the Mantineans, as being
the nearest city to the lodges. Among these the chief man both in
authority and love was Kalander, he that not long before had been host
to the two princes; whom though he knew not so much as by name, yet
besides the obligation he stood bound to them in for preserving the
lives of his son and nephew, their noble behaviour had bred such love
in his heart towards them that both with tears he parted from them
when they left him, under promise to return, and did keep their jewels
and apparel as the relics of two demi-gods. Among others he had
entered the prison and seen them, which forthwith so invested his
soul, both with sorrow and desire to help them, whom he tendered as
his children, that calling his neighbours the Mantineans unto {569}
him, he told them all the praises of these two young men, swearing he
thought the gods had provided for them better than they themselves
could have imagined. He willed them to consider that when all was done
Basilius’s children must enjoy the state, who since they had chosen,
and chosen so that all the world could not mend their choice, why
should they resist God’s doing, and their princess’s pleasure? this
was the only way to purchase quietness without blood, where otherwise
they should at one instant crown Pamela with a crown of gold, and a
dishonoured title? which whether ever she would forget, he thought it
fit for them to weigh: “Such,” said he, “heroical greatness shines in
their eyes, such an extraordinary majesty in all their actions, as
surely either fortune by parentage, or nature in creation, hath made
them princes. And yet a state already we have, we need but a man, who
since he is presented unto you by the heavenly providence, embraced by
our undoubted princess, worthy for their youth of compassion, for
their beauty of admiration, for their excellent virtue to be monarchs
of the world; shall we not be content with our own bliss? shall we put
out our eyes because another man cannot see? or rather like some men,
when too much good happens unto them, they think themselves in a dream
and have not spirits to taste their own goods? No, no, my friends,
believe me, I am so impartial, that I know not their names, but so
overcome with their virtue that I shall then think the destinies have
ordained a perpetual flourishing to Arcadia, when they shall allot
such a governor unto it.”
This spoken by a grave man in years, great in authority, near allied
to the prince, and known honest, prevailed so with all the Mantineans,
that with one voice they ran to deliver the two princes. But Philanax
came in time to withstand them, both sides standing in arms, and
rather wanting a beginning than minds to enter into a bloody conflict.
Which Philanax foreseeing, thought best to remove the prisoners
secretly, and if need were, rather without form of justice to kill
them, than against justice, as he thought, to have them usurp the
state. But there again arose a new trouble. For Sympathus, the
nobleman that kept them, was so stricken in compassion with their
excellent presence, that as he would not falsify his promise to
Philanax to give them liberty so yet would he not yield them to
himself, fearing he would do them violence. Thus tumult upon tumult
arising, the sun, I think, weary to see their discords had already
gone down to his western lodging. But yet to know what the poor
shepherds did, who were the first discriers of these matters, will not
to some ears perchance be a tedious digression.
THE FOURTH ECLOGUES
{570}
The shepherds finding no place for them in these garboils, to which
their quiet hearts, whose highest ambition was in keeping themselves
up in goodness, had at all no aptness, retired themselves from among
the clamorous multitude: and as sorrow desires company, went up
together to the western side of an hill, whose prospect extended it so
far that they might well discern many of Arcadia’s beauties. And there
looking upon the sun’s as then declining race, the poor men sat
pensive of their present miseries, as if they found a weariness of
their woeful words: till at last good old Geron, who as he had longest
tasted the benefits of Basilius’s government, so seemed to have a
special feeling of the present loss, wiping his eyes and long white
beard, bedewed with great drops of tears, began in this sort to
complain: “Alas! poor sheep,” said he, “which hitherto have enjoyed
your fruitful pasture in such quietness, as your wool among other
things hath made this country famous, your best days are now past: now
you must become the victual of an army, and perchance an army of
foreign enemies, you are now not only to fear home-wolves, but alien
lions: now, I say, now that our right Basilius is deceased. Alas!
sweet pastures, shall soldiers that know not how to use you, possess
you? shall they that cannot speak the Arcadian language be lords over
your shepherds? for alas with good cause may we look for any evil,
since Basilius our only strength is taken from us.”
To that all the other shepherds present uttered pitiful voices,
especially the very born Arcadians. For as for the other, though
humanity moved them to pity human cases, especially in a prince under
whom they had found a refuge of their miseries, and justice equally
administered, yet could they not so naturally feel the lively touch of
sorrow. Nevertheless, of that number one Agelastus notably noted among
them as well for his skill in poetry as for an austerely maintained
sorrowfulness, wherewith he seemed to despise the works of nature,
framing an universal complaint in that universal mischief, uttered it
in this Sestine.
Since wailing is a bud of causeful sorrow,
Since sorrow is the follower of evil fortune,
Since no evil fortune equals public damage;
Now prince’s loss hath made our damage public,
Sorrow pay we to thee the rights of nature,
And inward grief seal up with outward wailing.
{571}
Why should we spare our voice from endless wailing,
Who justly make our hearts the seat of sorrow?
In such a case where it appears that nature
Doth add her force unto the sting of fortune:
Choosing alas, this our theatre public,
Where they would leave trophies of cruel damage.
Then, since such powers conspired unto our damage
(Which may be known, but never help with wailing)
Yet let us leave a monument in public
Of willing tears, torn hairs, and cries of sorrow,
For lost, lost is by blow of cruel fortune
Arcadia’s gem, the noblest child of nature.
O nature doting old, O blind dead nature,
How hast thou torn thyself, sought thine own damage
In granting such a scope to filthy fortune,
By thy imp’s loss to fill the world with wailing.
Cast thy step-mother eyes, upon our sorrow,
Public our loss: so, see, thy shame is public.
O that we had, to make our woes more public,
Seas in our eyes, and brazen tongues by nature,
A yelling voice, and hearts compos’d of sorrow,
Breath made of flames, wits knowing naught but damage,
Our sports murd’ring ourselves, our musics wailing,
Our studies fixed upon the falls of fortune.
No, no, our mischief grows in this vile fortune,
That private pains cannot breathe out in public
The furious inward griefs with hellish wailing:
But forced are to burden feeble nature
With secret sense of our eternal damage,
And sorrow feed, feeding our souls with sorrow.
Since sorrow then concluded all our fortune,
With all our deaths show we this damage public:
His nature fears to die who lives still wailing.
It seemed that this complaint of Agelastus had awaked the spirits of
the Arcadians, astonished before with the exceedingness of sorrow. For
he had scarcely ended when divers of them offered to follow his
example in bewailing the general loss of that country which had been
as well a nurse to strangers as a mother to Arcadians. Among the rest
one accounted good in that kind, and made the better by the true
feeling of sorrow, roared out a song of lamentation, which, as well as
might be, was gathered up in this form:
{572}
Since that to death is gone the shepherd high,
Who most the silly shepherd’s pipe did prize,
Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.
And you O trees, if any life there lies
In trees, now through your porous barks receive
The strange resound of these my causeful cries:
And let my breath upon your branches cleave,
My breath distinguished into words of woe,
That so I may signs of my sorrow leave.
But if among yourselves some one tree grow,
That aptest is to figure misery,
Let it embassage bear your griefs to show,
The weeping myrrh I think will not deny
Her help to this, this justest cause of plaint.
Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.
And thou, poor earth, whom fortune doth attaint,
In nature’s name to suffer such a harm,
As for to lose thy gem, and such a saint,
Upon thy face let coaly ravens swarm:
Let all the sea thy tears accounted be;
Thy bowels will all killing metals arm.
Let gold now rust, let diamonds waste in thee:
Let pearls be wan with woe their dam doth bear!
Thyself henceforth the light do never see,
And you, O flowers, which sometimes princes wear,
Tell these strange alt’rings you did hap to try,
Of princes’ loss yourselves for tokens rear.
Lily in mourning black thy whiteness die:
O Hyacinth let “Ai” be on thee still,
Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.
O Echo, all these woods with roaring fill,
And do not only mark the accents last,
But all, for all reach out my wailful will:
One Echo to another Echo cast
Sound of my griefs, and let it never end,
Till that it hath all words and waters passed,
Nay to the heav’ns your just complaining send,
And stay the stars’ inconstant constant race,
Till that they do unto our dolours bend:
And ask the reason of that special grace,
That they which have no lives should live so long,
And virtuous souls so soon should lose their place?
Ask, if in great men good men do so throng,
That he for want of elbow-room must die?
Or if that they be scant, if this be wrong?
{573}
Did Wisdom this our wretched time espy
In one true chest to rob all virtue’s treasure?
Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.
And if that any counsel you to measure
Your doleful tunes, to them still plaining say,
“To well felt grief plaint is the only pleasure.”
O light of sun, which is entitled day:
O well thou dost that thou no longer bidest;
For mourning night her black weeds may display,
O Phoebus with good cause thy face thou hidest,
Rather than have thy all-beholding eye
Fouled with this sight, while thou thy chariot guidest,
And well methinks becomes this vaulty sky
A stately tomb to cover him deceased.
Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.
O Philomela with thy breast oppressed
By shame and grief, help, help me to lament
Such cursed harms as cannot be redressed.
Or if thy mourning notes be fully spent,
Then give a quiet ear unto my plaining:
For I to teach the world complaint am bent.
You dimmy clouds, which well employ your staining.
This cheerful air with your obscured cheer,
Witness your woeful tears with daily raining.
And if, O sun, thou ever didst appear,
In shape, which by man’s eye might be perceived:
Virtue is dead, now set thy triumph here.
Now set thy triumph in this world, bereaved
Of what was good, where now no good doth lie:
And by the pomp our loss will be conceived,
O notes of mine yourselves together tie:
With too much grief methinks you are dissolved.
Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.
Time ever old, and young is still revolved
Within itself, and never tasteth end:
But mankind is for aye to nought resolved,
The filthy snake her aged coat can mend,
And getting youth again, in youth doth flourish:
But unto man age ever death doth send,
The very trees with grafting we can cherish,
So that we can long time produce their time:
But man which helpeth them, helpless must perish.
Thus, thus the minds which over all do climb,
When they by years’ experience get best graces,
Must finish then by death’s detested crime.
{574}
We last short while, and build long lasting places:
Ah let us all against foul nature cry:
We nature’s works do help, she us defaces;
For how can nature unto this reply:
That she her child, I say, her best child killeth?
Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.
Alas methinks my weakened voice but spilleth
The vehement course of his just lamentation:
Methinks, my sound no place with sorrow filleth.
I know not I, but once in detestation
I have myself, and all what life containeth,
Since death on virtue’s fort hath made invasion
One word of woe another after traineth:
Nor do I care how rude by my invention,
So it be seen what sorrow in me reigneth.
O elements, by whose, men say, contention,
Our bodies be in living power maintained,
Was this man’s death the fruit of your dissention?
O physic’s power, which some say, hath restrained
Approach of death, alas, thou helpest meagrely,
When once one is for Atropos distrained,
Great be physicians’ brags, but aid is beggarly,
When rooted moisture fails or groweth dry,
They leave off all, and say, death comes too eagerly.
They are but words therefore that men do buy
Of any, since god Aesculapius ceased,
Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.
Justice, justice is now, alas, oppressed:
Bountifulness hath made his last conclusion:
Goodness for best attire in dust is dressed.
Shepherds bewail your uttermost confusion;
And see by this picture to you presented,
Death is our home, life is but a delusion,
For see, alas, who is from you absented,
Absented? nay I say for ever banished
For such as were to die for him contented?
Out of her sight in turn of hand is vanished
Shepherd of shepherds, whose well settled order
Private with wealth, public with quiet garnished
While he did live, far, far was all disorder,
Example more prevailing than direction,
Far was home-strife, and far was foe from border,
His life a law, his look a full correction:
As in his health we healthful were preserved,
So in his sickness grew our sure infection.
His death our death. But ah, my muse hath swerved,
{575}
For such deep plaint as should such woes descry,
Which he of us for ever hath deserved.
The style of heavy heart can never fly
So high, as should make such a pain notorious:
Cease Muse therefore: thy dart O death apply,
And farewell prince, whom goodness hath made glorious.
Many were ready to have followed this course, but the day was so
wasted, that only this rhyming Sestine delivered by one of great
account among them, could obtain favour to be heard.
Farewell, O sun, Arcadia’s clearest light:
Farewell, O pearl, the poor man’s plenteous treasure.
Farewell, O golden staff, the weak man’s might:
Farewell, O joy, the joyful’s only pleasure.
Wisdom, farewell, the skill-less man’s direction:
Farewell with thee, farewell all our affection.
For what place now is left for our affection,
Now that of purest lamp is quench’d the light.
Which to our darkened minds was best direction?
Now that the mine is lost of all our treasure?
Now death hath swallowed up our worldly pleasure,
We orphans made, void of all public might?
Orphans indeed, depriv’d of father’s might:
For he our father was in all affection,
In our well-doing placing all his pleasure,
Still studying how to us to be a light.
As well he was in peace a safest treasure:
In war his wit and word was our direction.
Whence, whence, alas, shall we seek our direction?
When that we fear our hateful neighbours’ might,
Who long have gap’d to get Arcadian’s treasure.
Shall we now find a guide of such affection,
Who for our sakes will think all travel light,
And make his pain to keep us safe, his pleasure?
No, no, for ever gone is all our pleasure;
For ever wand’ring from all good direction;
For ever blinded of our clearest light;
For ever lamed of our sured might;
For ever banish’d from well-plac’d affection;
For ever robb’d of all our royal treasure.
Let tears for him therefore be all our treasure,
And in our wailing naming him our pleasure:
{576}
Let hating of ourselves be our affection,
And unto death bend still our thoughts’ direction:
Let us against ourselves employ our might,
And putting out our eyes seek we our light.
Farewell our light, farewell our spoiled treasure:
Farewell our might, farewell our daunted pleasure:
Farewell direction, farewell all affection.
The night began to cast her dark canopy over them, and they, even
weary with their woes, bended homewards, hoping by sleep, forgetting
themselves, to ease their present dolours, when they were met with a
troop of twenty horse, the chief of which asking them for the king,
and understanding the hard news, thereupon stayed among them expecting
the return of a messenger, whom with speed he dispatched to Philanax.
[End of Book IV]
ARCADIA