Arcadia Book II (part 1)

In these pastoral times a great number of days were sent to follow their flying predecessors, while the cup of poison (which was deeply tasted of the noble company) had left no sinew of theirs without mortally searching into it; yet never manifesting his venomous work, till once, that the night (parting away angry that she could distil no more sleep into the eyes of lovers) had no sooner given place to the breaking out of the morning light, and the sun bestowed his beams upon the tops of the mountains, but that the woeful Gynecia, to whom rest was no ease, had left her loathed lodging, and gotten herself into the solitary places, those deserts were full of going up and down with such unquiet motions, as a grieved and hopeless mind is wont to bring forth. There appeared unto the eyes of her judgment the evils she was like to run into, with ugly infamy waiting upon them: she felt the terrors of her own conscience; she was guilty of a long exercised virtue, which made his vice the fuller of deformity. The uttermost of the good she could aspire unto was a mortal wound to her vexed spirits: and lastly, no small part of her evils was that she was wise to see her evils. Insomuch, that having a great while thrown her countenance ghastly about her (as if she had called all the powers of the world to be witnesses of her wretched estate) at length casting up her watery eyes to heaven: “O sun,” said she, “whose unspotted light directs the steps of mortal mankind, art thou not ashamed to impart the clearness of thy presence to such a dust-creeping worm as I am? O ye heavens, which continually keep the course allotted unto you, can none of your influences prevail so much upon the miserable Gynecia, as to make her preserve a course so long embraced by her? O deserts, deserts, how fit a guest am I for you, since my heart can people you with wild ravenous beasts, which in you are wanting? O virtue, where dost thou hide thyself? what hideous thing is this which doth eclipse thee? Or is it true that thou wert never but a vain name, and no essential thing, which hast thus left thy professed servant, when she had most need of thy lovely presence? O imperfect proportion of reason which can too much foresee and too little prevent?” “Alas! alas!” said she, “if there were but one hope for all my pains, or but one excuse for all my faultiness! But wretch that I am, my torment is beyond all succour, and my evil deserving doth exceed my evil fortune. For nothing else did my husband take this strange resolution to live so solitary: for nothing else have the winds delivered this strange guest to my country: for nothing else have the destinies reserved my life to this time, but that only I, most wretched I, should become a plague to myself and a shame to womankind. Yet if my desire, how unjust soever it be, might take effect, though a thousand deaths followed it, and every death were followed with a thousand shames, yet should not my sepulchre receive me without some contentment. But alas! though sure I am that Zelmane is such as can answer my love, yet as sure I am that this disguising must needs come for some foretaken conceit: and then wretched Gynecia where canst thou find any small ground-plot for hope to dwell upon? no, no, it is Philoclea his heart is set upon; it is my daughter I have borne to supplant me. But if it be so, the life I have given thee, ungrateful Philoclea, I will sooner with these hands bereave thee of than my birth shall glory she hath bereaved me of my desires: in shame there is no comfort, but to be beyond all bounds of shame.”

Having spoken thus, she began to make a piteous war in her fair hair; when she might hear, not far from her, an extremely doleful voice, but so suppressed with a kind of whispering note that she could not conceive the words distinctly. But, as a lamentable tune is the sweetest music to a woeful mind, she drew thither near-way in hope to find some companion of her misery; and as she paced on, she was stopped with a number of trees, so thickly placed together that she was afraid she should, with rushing through, stop the speech of the lamentable party which she was so desirous to understand: and therefore sitting her down as softly as she could, for she was now in distance to hear, she might first perceive a lute excellently well played upon, and then the same doleful voice accompanying it with these verses:

In vain mine eyes you labour to amend
With flowing tears your fault of hasty sight:
Since to my heart her shape you did so send,
That her I see, though you did lose your light.
In vain my heart, now you with sight are burn’d,
With sighs you seek to cool your hot desire:
Since sighs, into mine inward furnace turn’d,
For bellows serve to kindle more the fire.
Reason in vain, now you have lost my heart,
My head you seek, as to your strongest fort:
Since there mine eyes have play’d so false a part,
That to your strength your foes have sure resort.
Then since in vain I find were all my strife,
To this strange death I vainly yield my life.

The ending of the song served but for a beginning of new plaints, as if the mind, oppressed with too heavy a burden of cares, was fain to discharge itself of all sides, and, as it were, paint out the hideousness of the pain in all sorts of colours. For the woeful person, as if the lute had evil joined with the voice, threw it to the ground with such like words: “Alas, poor lute! how much art thou deceived to think that in my miseries thou could’st ease my woes, as in my careless times thou wast wont to please my fancies? The time is changed, my lute, the time is changed; and no more did my joyful mind then receive everything to a joyful consideration, than my careful mind now makes each thing taste the bitter juice of care. The evil is inward, my lute, the evil is inward; which all thou dost, doth serve but to make me think more freely of. And alas! what is then thy harmony, but the sweet meats of sorrow? the discord of my thoughts, my lute, doth ill agree to the concord of thy strings, therefore be not ashamed to leave thy master, since he is not afraid to forsake himself.”

And thus much spoke, instead of a conclusion, was closed up with so hearty a groaning that Gynecia could not refrain to show herself, thinking such griefs could serve fitly for nothing but her own fortune. But as she came into the little arbour of this sorrowful music, her eyes met with the eyes of Zelmane, which was the party that thus had indited herself of misery, so that either of them remained confused with a sudden astonishment, Zelmane fearing lest she had heard some part of those complaints, which she had risen up that morning early of purpose to breathe out in secret to herself. But Gynecia a great while stood still with a kind of dull amazement, looking steadfastly upon her; at length returning to some use of herself, she began to ask Zelmane what cause carried her so early abroad? But, as if the opening of her mouth to Zelmane had opened some great flood-gate of sorrow, whereof her heart could not abide the violent issue, she sunk to the ground, with her hands over her face, crying vehemently, “Zelmane help me, O Zelmane have pity on me.” Zelmane ran to her, marvelling what sudden sickness had thus possessed her, and beginning to ask her the cause of her pain, and offering her service to be employed by her; Gynecia opening her eyes wildly upon her, pricked with the flames of love and the torments of her own conscience; “O Zelmane, Zelmane,” said she, “dost thou offer my physic, which art my only poison? or wilt thou do me service, which hast already brought me into eternal slavery?” Zelmane then knowing well at what mark she shot, yet loth to enter into it: “Most excellent lady,” said she, “you were best retire yourself into your lodging that you the better may pass this sudden fit.” “Retire myself?” said Gynecia, “If I had retired myself into myself, when thou to me, unfortunate guest, camest to draw me from myself, blessed had I been, and no need had I had of this counsel. But now alas! I am forced to fly to thee for succour, whom I accuse of all my hurt, and make thee judge of my cause, who art the only author of my mischief.” Zelmane the more astonished, the more she understood her; “Madam,” said she, “whereof do you accuse me that I will not clear myself? or wherein may I stead you that you may not command me?” “Alas!” answered Gynecia, “what shall I say more? take pity on me, O Zelmane, but not as Zelmane, and disguise not with me in words, as I know thou dost in apparel.” Zelmane was much troubled with that word, finding herself brought to this strait. But as she was thinking what to answer her, they might see old Basilius pass hard by them without ever seeing them, complaining likewise of love very freshly, and ending his complaint with this song, love having renewed both his invention and voice.

Let not old age disgrace my high desire;
O heavenly soul in human shape contain’d:
Old wood inflam’d doth yield the bravest fire,
When younger doth in smoke his virtue spend,
Nay let white hairs which on my face do grow
Seem to your eyes of a disgraceful hue,
Since whiteness doth present the sweetest show,
Which makes all eyes do homage unto you.
Old age is wise, and full of constant truth;
Old age well stayed, from ranging humour lives:
Old age hath known whatever was in youth:
Old age o’ercome, the greater honour gives.
And to old age since you yourself aspire,
Let not old age disgrace my high desire.

Which being done he looked very curiously upon himself, sometimes fetching a little skip as if he had said his strength had not yet forsaken him: but Zelmane having in this time gotten some leisure to think for an answer, looking upon Gynecia as if she thought she did her some wrong: “Madam,” said she, “I am not acquainted with those words of disguising, neither is it the profession of an Amazon, neither are you a party with whom it is to be used: if my service may please you, employ it, so long as you do me no wrong in misjudging of me.” “Alas! Zelmane,” said Gynecia, “I perceive you know full little how piercing the eyes are of a true lover: there is no one beam of those thoughts you have planted in me but is able to discern a greater cloud than you do go in. Seek not to conceal yourself further from me, nor force not the passion of love into violent extremities.” Now was Zelmane brought to an exigent, when the king turning his eyes that way through the trees, perceived his wife and mistress together, so that framing the most lovely countenance he could, he came straightway towards them, and at the first word, thanking his wife for having entertained Zelmane, desired her she would now return into the lodge, because he had certain matters of estate to impart to the Lady Zelmane. The queen, being nothing troubled with jealousy in that point, obeyed the king’s commandment, full of raging agonies, and determinately bent that as she would seek all loving means to win Zelmane, so she would stir up terrible tragedies rather than fail of her intent. And so went she from them to the lodge-ward with such a battle in her thoughts, and so deadly an overthrow given to her best resolutions that even her body, where the field was fought, was oppressed withal, making a languishing sickness wait upon the triumph of passion, which the more it prevailed in her, the more it made her jealousy watchful, both over her daughter and Zelmane, having ever one of them intrusted to her own eyes.

But as soon as Basilius was rid of his wife’s presence, falling down on his knees, “O lady,” said he, “which hast only had the power to stir up again those flames which had so long lain dead in me, see in me the power of your beauty, which can make old age come to ask counsel of youth, and a prince unconquered to become a slave to a stranger: and when you see that power of yours, love that at least in me, since it is yours, although of me you see nothing to be loved.” “Worthy prince” (answered Zelmane, taking him up from his kneeling) “both your manner and your speech are so strange unto me that I know not how to answer it better than with silence.” “If silence please you,” said the king, “it shall never displease me, since my heart is wholly pledged to obey you, otherwise, if you would vouchsafe mine ears such happiness as to hear you, they shall convey your words to such a mind as will with the humblest degree of reverence receive them.” “I disdain not to speak to you, mighty prince,” said Zelmane, “but I disdain to speak of any matter which may bring my honour into question”: and therewith, with a brave counterfeited scorn she departed from the king, leaving him not so sorry for his short answer as proud in himself that he had broken the matter. And thus did the king, feeding his mind with those thoughts, pass great time in writing verses, and making more of himself than he was wont to do, that, with a little help, he would have grown into a pretty kind of dotage.

But Zelmane being rid of this loving, but little loved company, “Alas!” said she, “poor Pyrocles, was there ever one, but I, that had received wrong, and could blame nobody? that having more than I desire, am still in want of what I would? truly, love, I must needs say thus much on my behalf; thou hast employed my love there, where all love is deserved; and for recompense hast sent me more love than ever I desired. But what wilt thou do Pyrocles? which way canst thou find to rid thee of thy intricate troubles? to her whom I would be known to, I live in darkness; and to her am revealed from whom I would be most secret. What shift shall I find against the diligent love of Basilius? what shield against the violent passions of Gynecia? and if that be done, yet how am I the nearer to quench the fire that consumes me? Well, well, sweet Philoclea, my whole confidence must be builded in thy divine spirit which cannot be ignorant of the cruel wound I have received by you.”

But as sick folks when they are alone think company would relieve them, and yet having company do find it noisome, changing willingly outward objects, when indeed the evil is inward, so poor Zelmane was no more weary of Basilius, than she was of herself when Basilius was gone: and ever the more, the more she turned her eyes to become her own judges. Tired therewith, she longed to meet her friend Dorus that upon the shoulders of friendship she might lay the burden of sorrow, and therefore went toward the other lodge, where among certain beeches she found Dorus, apparelled in flannel, with a goat’s-skin cast upon him and a garland of laurel mix’d with cypress leaves on his head, waiting on his master Dametas, who at that time was teaching him how with his sheep-hook to catch a wanton lamb, and how with the same to cast a little clod at any one that strayed out of company. And while Dorus was practising, one might see Dametas holding his hand under his girdle behind him, nodding from the waist upwards, and swearing he never knew man go more awkwardly to work, and that they might talk of book-learning what they would, but for his part he never saw more unfeaty fellows than great clerks were.

But Zelmane’s coming saved Dorus from further chiding. And so she beginning to speak with him of the number of his master’s sheep, and which province of Arcadia bare the finest wool, drew him on to follow her in such country-discourses; till, being out of Dametas’s hearing, with such vehemency of passion, as though her heart would climb into her mouth to take her tongue’s office, she declared unto him upon what briars the roses of her affections grew; how time still seemed to forget her, bestowing no one hour of comfort upon her; she remaining still in one plight of ill fortune, saving so much worse as continuance of evil doth in itself increase evil. “Alas, my Dorus,” said she, “thou seest how long and languishingly the weeks are passed over since our last talking. And yet I am the same, miserable I, that I was, only stronger in longing, and weaker in hoping.” Then fell she to so pitiful a declaration of the insupportableness of her desires that Dorus’s ears, not able to show what wounds that discourse gave unto them, procured his eyes with tears to give testimony how much they suffered for her suffering; till passion, a most cumbersome guest to itself, made Zelmane, the sooner to shake it off, earnestly entreat Dorus that he also, with like freedom of discourse, would bestow a map of his little world upon her that she might see whether it were troubled with such unhabitable climes of cold despairs and hot rages as hers was.

And so walking under a few palm-trees (which being loving in her own nature seemed to give their shadow the willinglier because they held discourse of love) Dorus thus entered to the description of his fortune.

“Alas,” said he, “dear cousin, that it hath pleased the high power to throw us to such an estate as the only intercourse of our true friendship must be a bartering of miseries: for my part, I must confess, indeed, that from a huge darkness of sorrows I am crept, I cannot say to a lightsomeness, but, to a certain dawning, or rather peeping out of some possibility of comfort: but woe is me; so far from the mark of my desires, that I rather think it such a light as comes through a small hole to a dungeon that the miserable caitiff may the better remember the light of which he is deprived, or, like a scholar who is only come to that degree of knowledge to find himself utterly ignorant: but thus stands it with me. After that by your means I was exalted to serve in yonder blessed lodge, for a while I had, in the furnace of my agonies, this refreshing that, because of the service I had done in killing of the bear, it pleased the princess, in whom indeed stateliness shines through courtesy, to let fall some gracious look upon me: sometimes to see my exercise, sometime to hear my songs. For my part, my heart would not suffer me to omit any occasion whereby I might make the incomparable Pamela see how much extraordinary devotion I bare to her service: and withal strove to appear more worthy in her sight, that small desert, joined to so great affection, might prevail something in the wisest lady. But too well, alas! I found that a shepherd’s service was but considered of as from a shepherd, and the acceptation limited to no further proportion than of a good servant. And when my countenance had once given notice that there lay affection under it, I saw straight, majesty, sitting in the throne of beauty, draw forth such a sword of just disdain that I remained as a man thunderstruck, not daring, no not able to behold that power. Now to make my estate known, seemed again impossible, by reason of the suspiciousness of Dametas, Miso and my young mistress Mopsa: for Dametas, according to the constitution of a dull head, thinks no better way to show himself wise than by suspecting everything in his way, which suspicion Miso, for the hoggish shrewdness of her brain, and Mopsa (for a very unlikely envy she hath stumbled upon against the princess’s unspeakable beauty) were very glad to execute: so that I (finding my service by this means lightly regarded, my affection despised, and myself unknown) remained no fuller of desire than void of counsel how to come to my desire; which, alas! if these trees could speak, they might well witness, for many times have I stood here, bewailing myself unto them, many times have I, leaning to yonder palm, admired the blessedness of it, that it could bear love without sense of pain; many times, when my master’s cattle came hither to chew their cud in this fresh place, I might see the young bull testify his love? but how? with proud looks and joyfulness. ‘O wretched mankind,’ said I then to myself, ‘in whom wit, which should be the governor of his welfare, becomes the traitor to his blessedness: these beasts, like children to nature, inherit her blessings quietly; we like bastards are laid abroad, even as fondlings, to be trained up by grief and sorrow. Their minds grudge not at their bodies’ comfort, nor their senses are letted from enjoying their objects; we have the impediments of honour, and the torments of conscience.’ Truly in such cogitations I have sometimes so long stood that methought my feet began to grow into the ground, with such a darkness and heaviness of mind, that I might easily have been persuaded to have resigned over my very essence. But love (which one time lay burdens, another time giveth wings) when I was at the lowest of my downward thoughts, pulled up my heart to remember, that nothing is achieved before it be throughly attempted, and that lying still, doth never go forward; and that therefore it was time, now or never, to sharpen my invention, to pierce through the hardness of this enterprise, never ceasing to assemble all my conceits, one after another, how to manifest both my mind and estate, till at last I lighted and resolved on this way, which yet perchance you will think was a way rather to hide it. I began to counterfeit the extremest love towards Mopsa that might be; and as for the love, so lively it was indeed within me, although to another subject, that little I needed to counterfeit any notable demonstrations of it; and so making a contrariety the place of my memory, in her foulness I beheld Pamela’s fairness, still looking on Mopsa, but thinking on Pamela, as if I saw my sun shine in a puddled water: I cried out of nothing but Mopsa, to Mopsa my attendance was directed; to Mopsa the best fruits I could gather were brought; to Mopsa it seemed still that mine eyes conveyed my tongue: so that Mopsa was my saying; Mopsa was my singing; Mopsa (that is only suitable in laying a foul complexion upon a filthy favour, setting forth both in sluttishness) she was the load-star of my life; she the blessing of mine eyes; she the overthrow of my desires, and yet the recompense of my overthrow; she the sweetness of my heart, even sweetening the death which her sweetness drew upon me. In sum, whatsoever I thought of Pamela, that I said of Mopsa; whereby as I got my master’s goodwill, who before spited me, fearing lest I should win the princess’s favour from him, so did the same make the princess the better content to allow me her presence: whether indeed it were that a certain spark of noble indignation did rise in her not to suffer such a baggage to win away anything of hers, how meanly soever she reputed of it, or rather, as I think, my words being so passionate, and shooting so quite contrary from the marks of Mopsa’s worthiness, she perceived well enough whither they were directed; and therefore being so masked, she was contented as a sport of wit to attend them: whereupon one day determining to find some means to tell, as of a third person, the tale of mine own love and estate, finding Mopsa, like a cuckoo by a nightingale, alone with Pamela, I came in unto them, and with a face, I am sure, full of cloudy fancies, took a harp and sung this song:

Since so mine eyes are subject to your sight,
That in your sight they fixed have my brain:
Since so my heart is filled with that light,
That only light doth all my life maintain.
Since in sweet you, all goods so richly reign,
That where you are, no wished good can want
Since so your living image lives in me,
That in myself yourself true love doth plant:
How can you him unworthy then decree,
In whose chief part your worths implanted be?

“The song being ended, which I had often broken off in the midst with grievous sighs which overtook every verse I sung, I let fall my harp from me, and casting mine eye sometimes upon Mopsa, but settling my sight principally upon Pamela. ‘And is it the only fortune, most beautiful Mopsa,’ said I, ‘of wretched Dorus that fortune must be the measure of his mind? am I only he, that because I am in misery more misery must be laid upon me? must that which should be cause of compassion become an argument of cruelty against me? alas! excellent Mopsa, consider that a virtuous prince requires the life of his meanest subject, and the heavenly sun disdains not to give light to the smallest worm. O Mopsa, Mopsa, if my heart could be as manifest to you, as it is uncomfortable to me, I doubt not the height of my thoughts should well countervail the lowness of my quality. Who hath not heard of the greatness of your estate? who seeth not that your estate is much excelled with that sweet uniting of all beauties which remaineth and dwelleth with you? who knows not that all these are but ornaments of that divine spark within you which, being descended from heaven, could not elsewhere pick out so sweet a mansion? but if you will know what is the band that ought to knit all these excellencies together, it is a kind mercifulness to such a one as is in his soul devoted to those perfections.’ Mopsa, who already had had a certain smackring towards me, stood all this while with her hands sometimes before her face, but most commonly with a certain special grace of her own, wagging her lips, and grinning instead of smiling: but all the words I could get of her was, wrying her waist, and thrusting out her chin, ‘in faith you jest with me: you are a merry man indeed.’

“But the ever pleasing Pamela (that well found the comedy would be marred if she did not help Mopsa to her part), was content to urge a little further of me. ‘Master Dorus,’ said the fair Pamela, ‘methinks you blame your fortune very wrongfully, since the fault is not in fortune but in you that cannot frame yourself to your fortune, and as wrongfully do require Mopsa to so great a disparagement as to her father’s servant, since she is not worthy to be loved that hath not some feeling of her own worthiness.’ I stayed a good while after her words, in hopes she would have continued her speech, so great a delight I received in hearing her, but seeing her say no further, with a quaking all over my body, I thus answered her: ‘Lady, most worthy of all duty how falls it out that you, in whom all virtues shine, will take the patronage of fortune, the only rebellious handmaid against virtue; especially, since before your eyes you have a pitiful spectacle of her wickedness, a forlorn creature, which must remain not such as I am, but such as she makes me, since she must be the balance of worthiness or disparagement. Yet alas! if the condemned man, even at his death, have leave to speak, let my mortal wound purchase thus much consideration; since the perfections are such in the party I love, as the feeling of them cannot come into any unnoble heart, shall that heart, which doth not only feel them, but hath all the working of his life placed in them, shall that heart, I say, lifted up to such a height, be counted base? O let not an excellent spirit do itself such wrong as to think where it is placed, embraced and loved, there can be any unworthiness, since the weakest mist is not easier driven away by the sun than that is chased away with so high thoughts.’ ‘I will not deny,’ answered the gracious Pamela, ‘but that the love you bear to Mopsa, hath brought you to the consideration of her virtues, and that consideration may have made you the more virtuous, and so the more worthy: but even that then, you must confess, you have received of her, and so are rather gratefully to thank her, than to press any further, till you bring something of your own, whereby to claim it. And truly Dorus, I must in Mopsa’s behalf say thus much to you, that if her beauties have so overtaken you, it becomes a true lover to have your heart more set upon her good than your own, and to bear a tenderer respect to her honour than your satisfaction.’ ‘Now by my hallidame, madam,’ said Mopsa, throwing a great number of sheep’s eyes upon me, ‘you have even touched mine own mind to the quick, forsooth.’

“I finding that the policy that I had used had at leastwise produced thus much happiness unto me, as that I might, even in my lady’s presence, discover the sore which had deeply festered within me, and that she could better conceive my reasons applied to Mopsa, than she would have vouchsafed them, whilst herself was a party, thought good to pursue on my good beginning, using this fit occasion of Pamela’s wit, and Mopsa’s ignorance. Therefore with an humble piercing eye, looking upon Pamela as if I had rather been condemned by her mouth than highly exalted by the other, turning myself to Mopsa, but keeping mine eye where it was: ‘Fair Mopsa,’ said I, ‘well do I find by the wise knitting together of your answer that any disputation I can use is as much too weak, as I unworthy. I find my love shall be proved no love, without I leave to love, being too unfit a vessel in whom so high thoughts should be engraven. Yet since the love I bear you hath so joined itself to the best part of my life, as the one cannot depart but that the other will follow, before I seek to obey you in making my last passage, let me know which is my unworthiness, either of mind, estate, or both?’ Mopsa was about to say, in neither; for her heart I think tumbled with overmuch kindness, when Pamela with a more favourable countenance than before, finding how apt I was to fall into despair, told me I might therein have answered myself, for besides that it was granted me that the inward feeling of Mopsa’s perfections had greatly beautified my mind, there was none could deny but that my mind and body deserved great allowance. ‘But Dorus,’ said she, ‘you must be so far master of your love, as to consider that since the judgment of the world stands upon matter of fortune, and that the sex of womankind of all other is most bound to have regardful eye to men’s judgments, it is not for us to play the philosophers in seeking out your hidden virtues, since that which in a wise prince would be counted wisdom, in us will be taken for a light grounded affection: so is not one thing, one done by divers persons.’

“There is no man in a burning fever feels so great contentment in cold water greedily received (which as soon as the drink ceaseth, the rage reneweth) as poor I found my soul refreshed with her sweetly pronounced words; and newly and more violently again inflamed as soon as she had enclosed up her delightful speech with no less well graced silence. But remembering in myself that as well the soldier dieth which standeth still as he that gives the bravest onset, and seeing that to the making up of my fortune there wanted nothing so much as the making known of mine estate, with a face well witnessing how deeply my soul was possessed, and with the most submissive behaviour that a thralled heart could express, even as my words had been too thick for my mouth, at length spoke to this purpose: ‘Alas, most worthy Princess,’ said I, ‘and do not then your own sweet words sufficiently testify that there was never man could have a juster action against filthy fortune than I, since all things being granted me, her blindness is my only let? O heavenly God, I would either she had such eyes as were able to discern my desires, or were blind not to see the daily cause of my misfortune. But yet,’ said I, ‘most honoured lady, if my miserable speeches have not already cloyed you, and that the very presence of such a wretch become not hateful in your eyes, let me reply thus much further against my mortal sentence, by telling you a story which happened in this same country long since, for woes make the shortest time seem long, whereby you shall see that my estate is not so contemptible, but that a prince hath been content to take the like upon him, and by that only hath aspired to enjoy a mighty princess.’ Pamela graciously harkened, and I told my tale in this sort.

“‘In the country of Thessalia (alas! why name I that accursed country which brings forth nothing but matters of tragedy? but name it I must) in Thessalia, I say, there was (well may I say there was) a prince, no, no prince, whom bondage wholly possessed, but yet accounted a prince, and named Musidorus. O Musidorus, Musidorus! But to what serve exclamations, where there are no ears to receive the sound? This Musidorus being yet in the tenderest age, his worthy father payed to nature, with a violent death, her last duties, leaving his child to the faith of his friends, and the proof of time: death gave him not such pangs as the foresightful care he had of his silly successor. And yet if in his foresight he could have seen so much, happy was that good prince in his timely departure which barred him from the knowledge of his son’s miseries, which his knowledge could neither have prevented nor relieved. The young Musidorus (being thus, as for the first pledge of the destinies goodwill, deprived of his principal stay) was yet for some years after, as if the stars would breathe themselves for a greater mischief, lulled up in as much good luck as the heedful love of his doleful mother, and the flourishing estate of his country could breed unto him.

“‘But when the time now came that misery seemed to be ripe for him, because he had age to know misery, I think there was a conspiracy in all heavenly and earthly things to frame fit occasions to lead him unto it. His people, to whom all foreign matters in foretime were odious, began to wish in their beloved prince, experience by travel: his dear mother, whose eyes were held open only with the joy of looking upon him, did now dispense with the comfort of her widowed life, desiring the same her subjects did, for the increase of her son’s worthiness.

“‘And hereto did Musidorus’s own virtue, see how virtue can be a minister to mischief, sufficiently provoke him; for indeed thus much must I say for him, although the likeness of our mishaps makes me presume to pattern myself unto him, that well-doing was at that time his scope, from which no faint pleasure could withhold him. But the present occasion which did knit all this together, was his uncle the king of Macedon who, having lately before gotten such victories as were beyond expectation, did at this time send both for the prince his son (brought up together, to avoid the wars, with Musidorus); and for Musidorus himself, that his joy might be the more full, having such partakers of it. But alas! to what a sea of miseries my plaintful tongue doth lead me?’ and thus out of breath, rather with that I thought than that I said, I stayed my speech, till Pamela showing by countenance that such was her pleasure, I thus continued it: ‘These two young princes, to satisfy the king, took their way by sea, towards Thrace, whether they would needs go with a navy to succour him, he being at that time before Byzantium with a mighty army besieging it, where at that time his court was. But when the conspired heavens had gotten this subject of their wrath upon so fit place as the sea was, they straight began to breathe out in boisterous winds some part of their malice against him, so that with the loss of all his navy, he only with the prince his cousin, were cast aland far off from the place whither their desires would have guided them. O cruel winds, in your unconsiderate rages, why either began you this fury, or why did you not end it in his end? but your cruelty was such, as you would spare his life for many deathful torments. To tell you what pitiful mishaps fell to the young prince of Macedon his cousin, I should too much fill your ears with strange horrors; neither will I stay upon those laboursome adventures, nor loathsome misadventures to which, and through which his fortune and courage conducted him; my speech hasteneth itself to come to the full point of Musidorus’s misfortunes. For, as we find the most pestilent diseases do gather in themselves all the infirmities with which the body before was annoyed, so did his last misery embrace in extremity of itself all his former mischiefs. Arcadia; Arcadia was the place prepared to be the stage of his endless overthrow; Arcadia was, alas! well might I say it is, the charmed circle where all his spirits for ever should be enchanted. For here, and nowhere else, did his infected eyes make his mind know what power heavenly beauty had to throw it down to hellish agonies. Here, here did he see the Arcadian king’s eldest daughter, in whom he forthwith placed so all his hopes of joy, and joyful parts of his heart that he left in himself nothing but a maze of longing, and a dungeon of sorrow. But alas! what can saying make them believe, whom seeing cannot persuade? those pains must be felt before they can be understood; no outward utterance can command a conceit. Such was as then the state of the king, as it was no time by direct means to seek her. And such was the state of his captivated will as he could delay no time of seeking her.

“‘In this entangled cause, he clothed himself in a shepherd’s weed, that under the baseness of that form, he might at last have free access to feed his eyes with that which should at length eat up his heart. In which doing, thus much without doubt he hath manifested that this estate is not always to be rejected, since under that veil there may be hidden things to be esteemed. And if he might with taking on a shepherd’s look cast up his eyes to the fairest princess nature in that time created, the like, nay the same desire of mine need no more to be disdained, or held for disgraceful. But now alas! mine eyes wax dim, my tongue begins to falter, and my heart to want force to help either, with the feeling remembrance I have, in what heap of miseries the caitiff prince lay at this time buried. Pardon therefore most excellent princess, if I cut off the course of my dolorous tale, since, if I be understood, I have said enough for the defence of my baseness, and for that which after might befall to that pattern of ill fortune, the matters are too monstrous for my capacity, his hateful destinies must best declare their own workmanship.’

“Thus having delivered my tale in this perplexed manner, to the end the princess might judge that he meant himself, who spoke so feelingly; her answer was both strange, and in some respect comfortable. For would you think it? she hath heard heretofore of us both by means of the valiant prince Plangus, and particularly of our casting away, which she (following mine own style) thus delicately brought forth: ‘You have told,’ said she, ‘Dorus, a pretty tale, but you are much deceived in the latter end of it. For the Prince Musidorus with his cousin Pyrocles did both perish upon the coast of Laconia, as a noble gentleman called Plangus, who was well acquainted with the history, did assure my father.’ O how that speech of hers did pour joys in my heart! O blessed name, thought I, of mine, since thou hast been in that tongue, and passed through those lips, though I can never hope to approach them. ‘As for Pyrocles,’ said I, ‘I will not deny it, but that he is perished:’ (which I said lest sooner suspicion might arise of your being here than yourself would have it) and yet affirmed no lie unto her, since I only said, I would not deny it. ‘But for Musidorus,’ said I, ‘I perceive indeed you have either heard or read the story of that unhappy prince; for this was the very objection which that peerless princess did make unto him, when he sought to appear such as he was before her wisdom: and thus I have read it fair written in the certainty of my knowledge, he might answer her, that indeed the ship wherein he came, by a treason was perished: and therefore that Plangus might easily be deceived, but that he himself was cast upon the coast of Laconia, where he was taken up by a couple of shepherds, who lived in those days famous; for that both loving one fair maid, they yet remained constant friends; one of whose songs not long since was sung before you by the shepherd Lamon, and brought by them to a nobleman’s house near Mantinea, whose son had, a little before his marriage, been taken prisoner, and by the help of this prince Musidorus, though naming himself by another name, was delivered.’ Now these circumlocutions I did use, because of the one side I knew the princess would know well the parties I meant; and of the other, if I should have named Strephon, Claius, Kalander and Clitophon, perhaps it would have rubb’d some conjecture into the heavy head of mistress Mopsa.

“‘And therefore,’ said I, ‘most divine lady, he justly was thus to argue against such suspicions, that the prince might easily by those parties be satisfied, that upon that wreck such a one was taken up, and therefore that Plangus might well err, who knew not of any one’s taking up: again that he that was so preserved brought good tokens to be one of the two, chief of that wrecked company: which two, since Plangus knew to be Musidorus and Pyrocles, he must needs be one of them, although, as I said, upon a fore-taken vow, he was otherwise at that time called. Besides, the princess must needs judge that no less than a prince durst undertake such an enterprise, which, though he might get the favour of the princess, he could never defend with less than a prince’s power, against the force of Arcadia. Lastly, said he, for a certain demonstration, he presumed to show unto the princess a mark he had on his face, as I might,’ said I, ‘show this of my neck to the rare Mopsa:’ and, withal, showed my neck to them both, where, as you know, there is a red spot bearing figure, as they tell me, of a lion’s paw, that she may ascertain herself, that I am Menalcas’ brother. ‘And so did he, beseeching her to send someone she might trust into Thessalia, secretly to be advertised, whether the age, the complexion, and particularly that notable sign, did not fully agree with their prince Musidorus.’ ‘Do you not know further,’ said she, with a settled countenance not accusing any kind of inward motion, ‘of that story?’ ‘Alas, no,’ said I, ‘for even here the historiographer stopped, saying, the rest belonged to astrology.’ And therewith, thinking her silent imaginations began to work upon somewhat to mollify them, as the nature of music is to do, and, withal, to show what kind of shepherd I was, I took up my harp, and sang these few verses:

My sheep are thoughts, which I both guide and serve,
Their pasture is fair hills of fruitless love:
On barren sweets they feed, and feeding starve:
I wail their lot, but will not other prove.
My sheep-hook is wan hope, which all upholds:
My weeds, desire, cut out in endless folds.
What wool my sheep shall bear, whiles thus they live,
In you it is, you must the judgment give.

“And then, partly to bring Mopsa again to the matter, lest she should too much take heed to our discourses, but principally, if it were possible to gather some comfort out of her answers, I kneeled down to the princess, and humbly besought her to move Mopsa in my behalf, that she would unarm her noble heart of that steely resistance against the sweet blows of love: that since all her parts were decked with some particular ornament; her face with beauty, her head with wisdom, her eyes with majesty, her countenance with gracefulness, her lips with loveliness, her tongue with victory, that she would make her heart the throne of pity, being the most excellent raiment of the most excellent part. Pamela without show either of favour or disdain, either of heeding or neglecting what I had said, turned her speech to Mopsa, and with such a voice and action, as might show she spoke of a matter which little did concern her; ‘Take heed to yourself,’ said she, Mopsa, ‘for your shepherd can speak well: but truly, if he do fully prove himself such as he saith, I mean, the honest shepherd Menalcas’s brother and heir, I know no reason why you should think scorn of him.’ Mopsa though, in my conscience, she were even then far spent towards me, yet she answered her, that for all my quaint speeches, she would keep her honesty close enough, and that, as for the way of matrimony, she would step never a foot further till my master, her father, had spoken the whole word himself, no she would not. But ever and anon turning her muzzle towards me, she threw such a prospect upon me as might well have given a surfeit to any weak lover’s stomach. But, lord, what a fool am I, to mingle that drivel’s speeches among my noble thoughts! but because she was an actor in this tragedy, to give you a full knowledge, and to leave nothing that I can remember, unrepeated.

“Now the princess being about to withdraw herself from us, I took a jewel made in the figure of a crab-fish, which, because it looks one way and goes another, I thought it did fitly pattern out my looking to Mopsa, but bending to Pamela: the word about it was, ‘By force, not choice;’ and still kneeling, besought the princess that she would vouchsafe to give it Mopsa, and with the blessedness of her hand to make acceptable unto her that toy which I had found following of late an acquaintance of mine at the plough. ‘For,’ said I, ‘as the earth was turned up, the ploughshare lighted upon a great stone; we pull’d that up, and so found both that and some other pretty things which we had divided betwixt us.’

“Mopsa was benumbed with joy when the princess gave it her: but in the princess I could find no apprehension of what I either said or did, but with a calm carelessness letting each thing slide (just as we do by their speeches who neither in matter nor person do anyway belong unto us) which kind of cold temper, mix’d with that lightening of her natural majesty, is of all others most terrible unto me: for yet if I found she contemned me, I would desperately labour both in fortune and virtue to overcome it; if she only misdoubted me I were in heaven; for quickly I would bring sufficient assurance; lastly, if she hated me, yet I should know what passion to deal with; and either with infiniteness of desert I would take away the fuel from that fire; or if nothing would serve, then I would give her my heart’s blood to quench it. But this cruel quietness, neither retiring to mislike, nor proceeding to favour; gracious, but gracious still after one manner; all her courtesies, having this engraven in them that what is done, is for virtue’s sake, not for the parties, ever keeping her course like the sun, who neither for our praises nor curses will spur or stop his horses. This, I say, heavenliness of hers, for howsoever my misery is, I cannot but so entitle it, is so impossible to reach unto that I almost begin to submit myself to the tyranny of despair, not knowing any way of persuasion, where wisdom seems to be unsensible. I have appeared to her eyes like myself, by a device I used with my master, persuading him that we two might put on certain rich apparel I had provided, and so practice something on horseback before Pamela, telling him, it was apparel I had gotten for playing well the part of a king in a tragedy at Athens: my horse indeed was it I had left at Menalcas’s house, and Dametas got one by friendship out of the prince’s stable. But howsoever I show, I am no base body, all I do is but to beat a rock and get foam.”

But as Dorus was about to tell further, Dametas (who came whistling, and counting upon his fingers how many load of hay seventeen fat oxen eat up in a year) desired Zelmane from the king that she would come into the lodge where they stayed for her. “Alas!” said Dorus, taking his leave, “the sum is this, that you may well find you have beaten your sorrow against such a wall, which, with the force of a rebound, may well make your sorrow stronger.” But Zelmane turning her speech to Dametas, “I shall grow,” said she, “skilful in country matters if I have often conference with your servant.” “In sooth,” answered Dametas with a graceless scorn, “the lad may prove well enough, if he over soon think not too well of himself, and will bear away that he heareth of his elders.” And therewith as they walked to the other lodge, to make Zelmane find she might have spent her time better with him, he began with a wild method to run over all the art of husbandry, especially employing his tongue about well dunging of a field, while poor Zelmane yielded her ears to those tedious strokes, not warding them so much as with any one answer, till they came to Basilius and Gynecia, who attended for her in a coach to carry her abroad to see some sports prepared for her. Basilius and Gynecia, sitting in the one end, placed her at the other, with her left side to Philoclea. Zelmane was moved in her mind to have kissed their feet for the favour of so blessed a seat, for the narrowness of the coach made them join from the foot to the shoulders very close together, the truer touch whereof though it were barred by their envious apparel, yet as a perfect magnet, though but in an ivory box, will through the box send forth his embracing virtue to a beloved needle, so this imparadised neighbourhood made Zelmane’s soul cleave unto her, both through the ivory case of her body and the apparel which did overcloud it. All the blood of Zelmane’s body stirring in her, as wine will do when sugar is hastily put into it, seeking to suck the sweetness of the beloved guest: her heart like a lion new imprisoned, seeing him that restrains his liberty before the grate, not panting, but striving violently, if it had been possible, to have leaped into the lap of Philoclea. But Dametas, even then proceeding from being master of a cart, to be doctor of a coach, not a little proud in himself that his whip at that time guided the rule of Arcadia, drove the coach, the cover whereof was made with such joints that as they might, to avoid the weather, pull it up close when they listed, so when they would they might put each end down and remain as discovered and open sighted as on horseback, till upon the side of the forest they had both greyhounds, spaniels, and hounds, whereof the first might seem the lords, the second the gentlemen, and the last the yeoman of dogs; a cast of merlins there was besides, which, flying of a gallant height over certain bushes, would beat the birds that rose down into the bushes, as falcons will do wild-fowl over a river. But the sport which for that day Basilius would principally show to Zelmane, was the mounty at a heron, which getting up on his waggling wings with pain, till he was come to some height (as though the air next to the earth were not fit for his great body to fly through) was now grown to diminish the sight of himself, and to give example to great persons that the higher they be the less they should show; when a gyrfalcon was cast off after her, who straight spying where the prey was, fixing her eye with desire, and guiding her wing by her eye, used no more strength than industry. For as a good builder to a high tower will not make his stair upright, but winding almost the full compass about, that the steepness be the more unsensible, so she, seeing the towering of her pursued chase, went circling and compassing about, rising so with the less sense of rising, and yet finding that way scantly serve the greediness of her haste, as an ambitious body will go far out of the direct way to win to a point of height which he desires; so would she, as it were, turn tail to the heron, and fly out quite another way, but all was to return in a higher pitch, which once gotten, she would either beat with cruel assaults the heron, who now was driven to the best defence of force, since flight would not serve, or else clasping with him, come down together, to be parted by the over-partial beholders.

Divers of which flights Basilius showing to Zelmane, thus was the riches of the time spent, and the day deceased before it was thought of, till night like a degenerating successor made his departure the better remembered. And therefore, so constrained, they willed Dametas to drive homeward, who, half sleeping, half musing about the mending of a wine-press, guided the horses so ill that the wheel coming over a great stub of a tree, it overturned the coach. Which though it fell violently upon the side where Zelmane and Gynecia sat, yet for Zelmane’s part, she would have been glad of the fall which made her bear the sweet burden of Philoclea, but that she feared she might receive some hurt. But indeed neither she did, nor any of the rest, by reason they kept their arms and legs within the coach, saving Gynecia, who with the only bruise of the fall, had her shoulder put out of joint, which, though by one of the falconers cunning it was set well again, yet with much pain was she brought to the lodge; and pain, fetching his ordinary companion, a fever, with him, drove her to entertain them both in her bed.

But neither was the fever of such impatient heat, as the inward plague-sore of her affection, nor the pain half so noisome, as the jealousy she conceived of her daughter Philoclea, lest this time of her sickness might give apt occasion to Zelmane, whom she misdoubted. Therefore she called Philoclea to her, and though it were late in the night, commanded her in her ear to go to the other lodge, and send Miso to her, with whom she would speak, and she to lie with her sister Pamela. The meanwhile Gynecia kept Zelmane with her, because she would be sure she should be out of the lodge before she licensed Zelmane. Philoclea, not skill’d in any thing better than obedience, went quietly down, and the moon then full, not thinking scorn to be a torch-bearer to such beauty, guided her steps, whose motions bear a mind which bare in itself far more stirring motions. And alas! sweet Philoclea, how hath my pen till now forgot thy passions, since to thy memory principally all this long matter is intended? pardon the slackness to come to those woes, which, having caused in others, thou didst feel in thyself.

The sweet minded Philoclea was in their degree of well-doing, to whom the not knowing of evil serveth for a ground of virtue, and hold their inward powers in better form with an unspotted simplicity, than many who rather cunningly seek to know what goodness is than willingly take into themselves the following of it. But as that sweet and simple breath of heavenly goodness is the easier to be altered because it hath not passed through the worldly wickedness, nor feelingly found the evil that evil carries with it, so now the lady Philoclea (whose eyes and senses had received nothing, but according as the natural course of each thing required; whose tender youth had obediently lived under her parents behests, without framing out of her own will the fore-choosing of any thing) when now she came to a point wherein her judgment was to be practised in knowing faultiness by his first tokens, she was like a young fawn who, coming in the wind of the hunters, doth not know whether it be a thing or not to be eschewed; whereof at this time she began to get a costly experience. For after that Zelmane had a while lived in the lodge with her, and that her only being a noble stranger had bred a kind of heedful attention; her coming to that lonely place, where she had nobody but her parents, a willingness of conversation; her wit and behaviour a liking and silent admiration; at length the excellency of her natural gifts, joined with the extreme shows she made of most devout honouring Philoclea (carrying thus, in one person, the only two bands of goodwill, loveliness and lovingness) brought forth in her heart a yielding to a most friendly affection; which when it had gotten so full possession of the keys of her mind that it would receive no message from her senses without that affection were the interpreter, then straight grew an exceeding delight still to be with her, with an unmeasurable liking of all that Zelmane did: matters being so turned in her, that where at first liking her manners did breed goodwill, now goodwill became the chief cause of liking her manners: so that within a while Zelmane was not prized for her demeanour, but the demeanour was prized because it was Zelmane’s. Then followed that most natural effect of conforming herself to that which she did like, and not only wishing to be herself such another in all things but to ground an imitation upon so much an esteemed authority, so that the next degree was to mark all Zelmane’s doings, speeches, and fashions, and to take them into herself as a pattern of worthy proceeding. Which when once it was enacted, not only by the commonality of passions, but agreed unto by her most noble thoughts, and that reason itself, not yet experienced in the issues of such matters, had granted his royal assent, then friendship, a diligent officer, took care to see the statute thoroughly observed. Then grew on that not only she did imitate the soberness of her countenance, the gracefulness of her speech, but even their particular gestures, so that as Zelmane did often eye her, she would often eye Zelmane; and as Zelmane’s eyes would deliver a submissive, but vehement desire in their look, she, though as yet she had not the desire in her, yet should her eyes answer in like piercing kindness of a look. Zelmane, as much as Gynecia’s jealousy would suffer, desired to be near Philoclea; Philoclea, as much as Gynecia’s jealousy would suffer, desired to be near Zelmane. If Zelmane took her hand, and softly strained it, she also, thinking the knots of friendship ought to be mutual, would, with a sweet fastness, show she was loth to part from it. And if Zelmane sighed, she should sigh also; when Zelmane was sad, she deemed it wisdom, and therefore she would be sad too. Zelmane’s languishing countenance with crossed arms, and sometimes cast up eyes, she thought to have an excellent grace, and therefore she also willingly put on the same countenance, till at the last, poor soul, ere she were aware, she accepted not only the badge, but the service; not only the sign, but the passion signified. For whether it were that her wit in continuance did find that Zelmane’s friendship was full of impatient desire, having more than ordinary limits, and therefore she was content to second Zelmane, though herself knew not the limits, or that in truth, true love, well considered, hath an infective power, at last she fell in acquaintance with love’s harbinger, wishing; first she would wish that they two might live all their lives together, like two of Diana’s nymphs. But that wish she thought not sufficient, because she knew there would be more nymphs besides them, who also would have their part in Zelmane. Then would she wish that she were her sister, that such a natural band might make her more special to her, but against that, she considered, that, though being her sister, if she happened to be married she should be robbed of her. Then grown bolder she would wish either herself, or Zelmane, a man, that there might succeed a blessed marriage between them. But when that wish had once displayed his ensign in her mind, then followed whole squadrons of longings, that so it might be with a main battle of mislikings and repinings against their creation, that so it was not. Then dreams by night began to bring more unto her than she durst wish by day, whereout waking did make her know herself the better by the image of those fancies. But as some diseases when they are easy to be cured, they are hard to be known, but when they grow easy to be known, they are almost impossible to be cured, so the sweet Philoclea, while she might prevent it, she did not feel it, now she felt it, when it was past preventing; like a river, no rampires being built against it, till already it have overflowed. For now indeed love pulled off his mask, and showed his face unto her, and told her plainly that she was his prisoner. Then needed she no more paint her face with passions, for passions shone through her face; then her rosy colour was often increased with extraordinary blushing, and so another time, perfect whiteness descended to a degree of paleness; now hot, then cold, desiring she knew not what, nor how, if she knew what. Then her mind, though too late, by the smart was brought to think of the disease, and her own proof taught her to know her mother’s mind, which, as no error gives so strong assault as that which comes armed in the authority of a parent, so greatly fortified her desires to see that her mother had the like desires. And the more jealous her mother was, the more she thought the jewel precious which was with so many locks guarded. But that prevailing so far, as to keep the two lovers from private conference, then began she to feel the sweetness of a lover’s solitariness, when freely with words and gestures, as if Zelmane were present, she might give passage to her thoughts, and so, as it were, utter out some smoke of those flames, wherewith else she was not only burned but smothered. As this night, that going from the one lodge to the other, by her mother’s commandment, with doleful gestures and uncertain paces, she did willingly accept the time’s offer to be a while alone: so that going a little aside into the wood, where many times before she had delighted to walk, her eyes were saluted with a tuft of trees, so close set together, that, with the shade the moon gave through it, it might breed a fearful kind of devotion to look upon it: but true thoughts of love banished all vain fancy of superstition. Full well she did both remember and like the place, for there had she often with their shade beguiled Phoebus of looking upon her: there had she enjoyed herself often, while she was mistress of herself and had no other thoughts, but such as might arise out of quiet senses.

But the principal cause that invited her remembrance was a goodly white marble stone that should seem had been dedicated in ancient time to the Sylvan gods, which she finding there a few days before Zelmane’s coming, had written these words upon it as a testimony of her mind against the suspicion her captivity made her think she lived in. The writing was this.

You living powers enclos’d in stately shrine
Of growing trees: you rural Gods that wield
Your scepters here, if to your ears divine
A voice may come, which troubled soul doth yield;
This vow receive, this vow, O Gods, maintain;
My virgin life no spotted thought shall stain.
Thou purest stone; whose pureness doth present
My purest mind; whose temper hard doth show
My temper’d heart; by thee my promise sent
Unto myself let after-livers know,
No fancy mine, nor others’ wrong suspect
Make me, O virtuous shame, thy laws neglect.
O chastity, the chief of heavenly lights,
Which mak’st us most immortal shape to wear,
Hold thou my heart, establish thou my sprites:
To only thee my constant course I bear;
’Till spotless soul unto thy bosom fly.
Such life to lead, such death I vow to die.

But now that her memory served as an accuser of her change, and that her own handwriting was there to bear testimony against her fall; she went in among those few trees, so closed in the tops together, that they might seem a little chapel: and there might she, by the help of the moon-light, perceive the goodly stone which served as an altar in that woody devotion. But neither the light was enough to read the words, and the ink was already foreworn, and in many places blotted, which as she perceived, “Alas!” said she, “fair marble, which never received’st spot but by my writing: well do these blots become a blotted writer. But pardon her which did not dissemble then, although she have changed since. Enjoy, enjoy the glory of thy nature, which can so constantly bear the marks of my inconstancy.” And herewith, hiding her eyes with her soft hand, there came into her head certain verses, which if she had had present commodity, she would have adjoined as a retraction to the other. They were to this effect.

My words, in hope to blaze a stedfast mind,
This marble chose, as of like tempter known:
But lo, my words defac’d my fancies blind,
Blots to the stone, shames to myself I find:
And witness am, how ill agree in one,
A woman’s hand with constant marble stone.
My words full weak, the marble full of might;
My words in store, the marble all alone;
My words black ink, the marble kindly white;
My words unseen, the marble still in sight,
May witness bear, how ill agree in one,
A woman’s hand with constant marble stone.

But seeing she could not see means to join as then this recantation to the former vow, laying all her fair length under one of the trees, for a while she did nothing but turn up and down, as if she had hoped to turn away the fancy that had mastered her, and hid her face, as if she could have hidden herself from her own fancies. At length with a whispering note to herself: “O me unfortunate wretch,” said she, “what poisonous heats be these which thus torment me? how hath the sight of this strange guest invaded my soul? alas what entrance found this desire, or what strength had it thus to conquer me?” Then a cloud passing between her sight and the moon, “O Diana,” said she, “I would either the cloud that now hides the light of my virtue would as easily pass away as you will quickly overcome this let, or else that you were for ever thus darkened to serve for an excuse of my outrageous folly.” Then looking to the stars, which had perfectly as then beautified the clear sky: “My parents,” said she, “have told me that in those fair heavenly bodies there are great hidden deities, which have their working in the ebbing and flowing of our estates. If it be so, then, O you stars! judge rightly of me, and if I have with wicked intent made myself a prey to fancy, or if by any idle lusts I framed my heart fit for such an impression, then let this plague daily increase in me, till my name be made odious to womankind. But if extreme and unresistable violence have oppressed me, who will ever do any of you sacrifice, O you stars, if you do not succour me? No, no, you will not help me. No, no, you cannot help me: sin must be the mother, and shame the daughter of my affection. And yet are these but childish objections, simple Philoclea, it is the impossibility that doth torment me: for, unlawful desires are punished after the effect of enjoying; but impossible desires are punished in the desire itself. O then, O ten times unhappy that I am, since wherein all other hope kindleth love, in me despair should be the bellows of my affection: and of all despairs the most miserable, which is drawn from impossibility. The most covetous man longs not to get riches out of a ground which never can bear anything; why? because it is impossible. The most ambitious wight vexeth not his wits to climb into heaven; why? because it is impossible. Alas! then, O love, why dost thou in thy beautiful sampler set such a work for my desire to take out, which is as much impossible? and yet alas! why do I thus condemn my fortune before I hear what she can say for herself? what do I, silly wench, know what love hath prepared for me? do I not think my mother, as well, at least as furiously as myself, love Zelmane? and should I be wiser than my mother? either she sees a possibility in that which I see impossible, or else impossible loves need not misbecome me. And do I not see Zelmane, who doth not think a thought which is not first weighed by wisdom and virtue, doth not she vouchsafe to love me with like order? I see it, her eyes depose it to be true; what then? and if she can love poor me, shall I think scorn to love such a woman as Zelmane? away then all vain examinations of why and how. Thou lovest me, most excellent Zelmane, and I love thee:” and with that, embracing the very ground whereon she lay, she said to herself, for even to herself she was ashamed to speak it out in words, “O my Zelmane, govern and direct me, for I am wholly given over unto thee.”

In this depth of muses and divers sorts of discourses, would she ravingly have remained, but that Dametas and Miso, who were round about to seek her, understanding she was come to their lodge that night, came hard by her; Dametas saying that he would not deal in other body’s matters, but for his part he did not like that maids should once stir out of their father’s houses, but if it were to milk a cow, or save a chicken from a kite’s foot, or some such other matter of importance. And Miso swearing that if it were her daughter Mopsa, she would give her a lesson for walking so late that should make her keep within doors for one fortnight. But their jangling made Philoclea rise, and pretending as though she had done it but to sport with them, went with them, after she had willed Miso to wait upon her mother to the lodge; where, being now accustomed by her parent’s discipline as well as her sister to serve herself, she went alone up to Pamela’s chamber, where, meaning to delight her eyes, and joy her thoughts with the sweet conversation of her beloved sister, she found her, though it were in the time that the wings of night doth blow sleep most willingly into mortal creatures, sitting in a chair, lying backward, with her head almost over the back of it, and looking upon a wax-candle which burnt before her; in one hand holding a letter, in the other her handkerchief, which had lately drunk up the tears of her eyes, leaving instead of them crimson circles, like red flakes in the element when the weather is hottest; which Philoclea finding, for her eyes had learned to know the badges of sorrow, she earnestly entreated to know the cause thereof that either she might comfort, or accompany her doleful humour. But Pamela, rather seeming sorry that she had perceived so much, than willing to open any further; “O my Pamela,” said Philoclea, “who are to me a sister in nature, a mother in counsel, a princess by the law of our country, and, which name methinks of all other is the dearest, a friend by my choice and your favour, what means this banishing me from your counsels? do you love your sorrow so well as to grudge me part of it? or do you think I shall not love a sad Pamela so well as a joyful? or be my ears unworthy, or my tongue suspected? What is it, my sister, that you should conceal from your sister, yea and servant Philoclea?” Those words won no further of Pamela, but that telling her they might talk better as they lay together, they impoverished their clothes to enrich their bed, which for that night might well scorn the shrine of Venus: and their cherishing one another with dear, though chaste embracements, with sweet though cold kisses, it might seem that love was come to play him there without dart, or that weary of his own fires, he was there to refresh himself between their sweet breathing lips.

But Philoclea earnestly again entreated Pamela to open her grief: who, drawing the curtain that the candle might not complain of her blushing, was ready to speak: but the breath, almost formed into words, was again stopped by her and turned into sighs. But at last, “I pray you,” said she, sweet Philoclea, “let us talk of some other thing: and tell me whether you did ever see anything so amended as our pastoral sports be since that Dorus came hither?” O love, how far thou seest with blind eyes? Philoclea had straight found her, and therefore to draw out more: “Indeed,” said she, “I have often wondered to myself how such excellencies could be in so mean a person, but belike fortune was afraid to lay her treasures where they should be stained with so many perfections, only I marvel how he can frame himself to hide so rare gifts under such a block as Dametas.” “Ah,” said Pamela, “if you knew the cause, but no more do I neither; and to say the truth: but lord, how are we fallen to talk of this fellow? and yet indeed if you were sometimes with me to mark him while Dametas reads his rustic lecture unto him how to feed his beasts before noon, where to shade them in the extreme heat, how to make the manger handsome for his oxen, when to use the goad, and when the voice; giving him rules of a herdman, though he pretend to make him a shepherd, to see all the while with what a grace, which seems to set a crown upon his base estate, he can descend to those poor matters, certainly you would: but to what serves this? no doubt we were better sleep than talk of those idle matters.” “Ah my Pamela,” said Philoclea, “I have caught you; the constancy of your wit was not wont to bring forth such disjointed speeches: you love, dissemble no further.” “It is true,” said Pamela, “now you have it; and with less ado should, if my heart could have thought those words suitable for my mouth. But indeed, my Philoclea, take heed: for I think virtue itself is no armour of proof against affection. Therefore learn by my example.” Alas! thought Philoclea to herself, your shears come too late to clip the bird’s wings that already is flown away. But then Pamela, being once set in the stream of her love, went away amain, withal telling her how his noble qualities had drawn her liking towards him; but yet ever weighing his meanness, and so held continually in due limits; till seeking many means to speak with her, and ever kept from it, as well because she shunn’d it, seeing and disdaining his mind, as because of her jealous jailors, he had at length used the finest policy that might be in counterfeiting love to Mopsa, and saying to Mopsa whatsoever he would have her know; and in how passionate manner he had told his own tale in a third person, making poor Mopsa believe, that it was a matter fallen out many ages before. “And in the end, because you shall know my tears come not neither of repentance nor misery, who, think you, is my Dorus fallen out to be? even the Prince Musidorus, famous over all Asia for his heroical enterprises, of whom you remember how much good the stranger Plangus told my father; he not being drowned, as Plangus thought, though his cousin Pyrocles indeed perished. Ah my sister, if you had heard his words, or seen his gestures when he made me know what, and to whom his love was, you would have matched in yourself those two rarely matched together, pity and delight. Tell me dear sister, for the gods are my witnesses I desire to do virtuously, can I without the detestable stain of ungratefulness abstain from loving him, who (far exceeding the beautifulness of his shape with the beautifulness of his mind, and the greatness of his estate with the greatness of his acts) is content so to abase himself, as to become Dametas’s servant for my sake? you will say, how know I him to be Musidorus, since the handmaid of wisdom is slow of belief? that consideration did not want in me; for the nature of desire itself is no easier to receive belief, than it is hard to ground belief. For as desire is glad to embrace the first show of comfort, so is desire desirous of perfect assurance, and that have I had of him, not only by necessary arguments to any of common sense, but by sufficient demonstrations. Lastly, he would have me send to Thessalia, but truly I am not as now in mind to do my honourable love so much wrong as so far to suspect him: yet poor soul, knows he no other, but that I do both suspect, neglect, yea, and detest him. For every day he finds one way or other to set forth himself unto me, but all are rewarded with like coldness of acceptation.

“A few days since, he and Dametas had furnished themselves very richly to run at the ring before me. O how mad a sight it was to see Dametas, like rich tissue furred with lamb-skins? but O how well it did with Dorus, to see with what a grace he presented himself before me on horseback, making majesty wait upon humbleness? how at the first, standing still with his eyes bent upon me, as though his motions were chained to my look, he so stayed till I caused Mopsa bid him do something upon his horse: which no sooner said, but, with a kind rather of quick gesture than show of violence, you might see him come towards me, beating the ground in so due time that no dancer can observe better measure. If you remember the ship we saw once when the sea went high upon the coast of Argos, so went the beast. But he, as if centaur-like he had been one piece with the horse, was no more moved than one with the going of his own legs, and in effect so did he command him as his own limbs; for tho’ he had both spurs and wand, they seemed rather marks of sovereignty than instruments of punishment, his hand and leg, with most pleasing grace, commanding without threatening, and rather remembering than chastising; at least if sometimes he did it was so stolen as neither our eyes could discern it nor the horse with any change did complain of it: he ever going so just with the horse, either forth-right or turning that it seemed he borrowed the horse’s body, so he lent the horse his mind. In the turning one might perceive the bridle-hand something gently stir: but indeed so gently that it did rather distil virtue than use violence. Himself, which methinks is strange, showing at one instant both steadiness and nimbleness; sometimes making him turn close to the ground, like a cat, when scratchingly she wheels about after a mouse; sometimes with a little more rising before, now like a raven leaping from ridge to ridge, then like one of Dametas’s kids bound over the hillocks, and all so done, as neither the lusty kind showed any roughness, nor the easier any idleness; but still like a well-obeyed master, whose beck is enough for a discipline, ever concluding each thing he did with his face to me-wards, as if thence came not only the beginning but ending of his motions. The sport was to see Dametas, how he was tossed from the saddle to the mane of the horse, and thence to the ground, giving his gay apparel almost as foul an outside as it had an inside. But as before he had ever said, he wanted but horse and apparel to be as brave a courtier as the best, so now bruised with proof, he proclaimed it a folly for a man of wisdom to put himself under the tuition of a beast, so as Dorus was fain alone to take the ring. Wherein truly at least my womanish eyes could not discern, but that taking his staff from his thigh, the descending it a little down, the getting of it up into the rest, the letting of the point fall, and taking the ring, was but all one motion, at least, if they were divers motions, they did so stealingly slip one into another that the latter part was ever in hand before the eye could discern the former was ended. Indeed Dametas found fault that he showed no more strength in shaking of his staff, but to my conceit the fine cleanness of bearing it was exceeding delightful.

“But how delightful soever it was, my delight might well be in my soul, but it never went to look out of the window to do him any comfort. But how much more I found reason to like him, the more I set all the strength of mine to suppress it, or at least to conceal it. Indeed I must confess, that as some physicians have told me, that when one is cold outwardly, he is not inwardly, so truly the cold ashes laid upon my fire did not take the nature of fire from it. Full often hath my breast swollen with keeping my sighs imprisoned; full often have the tears I drove back from mine eyes, turned back to drown my heart. But alas! what did that help poor Dorus? whose eyes, being his diligent intelligencers, could carry unto him no other news, but discomfortable. I think no day passed but by some one invention he would appear unto me to testify his love. One time he danced the matachin dance in armour, O with what a graceful dexterity! I think to make me see that he had been brought up in such exercises: another time he persuaded his master, to make my time seem shorter, in manner of a dialogue, to play Priamus, while he played Paris. Think, sweet Philoclea, what a Priamus we had: but truly, my Paris was a Paris, and more than a Paris: who, while in a savage apparel, with naked neck, arms, and legs, he made love to Oenone, you might well see by his changed countenance and true tears, that he felt the part he played. Tell me, sweet Philoclea, did you ever see such a shepherd? tell me, did you ever hear of such a prince? and then tell me if a small or unworthy assault have conquered me. Truly I would hate my life, if I thought vanity led me. But since my parents deal so cruelly with me, it is time for me to trust something to my own judgment. Yet hitherto have my looks been as I told you, which continuing after many of those his fruitless trials, have wrought such change in him as I tell you true,” with that word she laid her hand upon her quaking side, “I do not a little fear him. See what a letter this is,” then drew she the curtain, and took the letter from under her pillow, “which to-day, with an afflicted humbleness, he delivered me, pretending before Mopsa that I should read it unto her to mollify, forsooth, her iron stomach.” With that she read the letter, containing thus much:

Most blessed paper, which shalt kiss that hand, whereto all blessedness is in nature a servant, do not yet disdain to carry with thee the woeful words of a miser now despairing: neither be afraid to appear before her, bearing the base title of the sender. For no sooner shall that divine hand touch thee, but that thy baseness shall be turned to most high preferment. Therefore mourn boldly my ink; for while she looks upon you, your blackness will shine: cry out boldly my lamentation; for while she reads you, your cries will be music. Say then, O happy messenger of a most unhappy message, that the too soon born, and too late dying creature, which dares not speak, no not look, no not scarcely think, as from his miserable self, unto her heavenly highness, only presumes to desire thee, in the time that her eyes and voice do exalt thee, to say, and in this manner to say; not from him, O no, that were not fit, but of him, thus much unto her sacred judgment: O you, the only honour to women, to men the only admiration, you that being armed by love, defy him that armed you, in this high estate wherein you have placed me, yet let me remember him to whom I am bound for bringing me to your presence; and let me remember him, who, since he is yours, how mean soever he be, it is reason you have an account of him. The wretch, yet your wretch, though with languishing steps, runs fast to his grave; and will you suffer a temple, how poorly built soever, but yet a temple of your deity, to be razed? but he dieth: it is most true, he dieth: and he in whom you live, to obey you, dieth. Whereof though he plain, he doth not complain: for it is a harm, but no wrong, which he hath received. He dies, because in woeful language all his senses tell him, that such is your pleasure: since you will not that he live, alas, alas, what followeth of the most ruined Dorus, but his end? end then, evil destined Dorus, end; and end thou woeful letter, end; for it sufficeth her wisdom to know, that her heavenly will shall be accomplished.

“O my Philoclea, is he a person to write those words? and are those words lightly to be regarded? but if you had seen when with trembling hand he had delivered it how he went away, as if he had been but the coffin that carried himself to his sepulchre. Two times, I must confess, I was about to take courtesy into mine eyes, but both times the former resolution stopped the entry of it, so that he departed without obtaining any further kindness. But he was no sooner out of the door; but that I looked to the door kindly, and truly the fear of him ever since hath put me into such perplexity, as now you found me.” “Ah my Pamela,” said Philoclea, “leave sorrow. The river of your tears will soon lose his fountain; it is in your hand as well to stitch up his life again, as it was before to rent it.” And so, though with self-grieved mind, she comforted her sister, till sleep came to bathe himself in Pamela’s fair weeping eyes.

Which when Philoclea found, wringing her hands, “O me,” said she, “indeed the only subject of the destinies’ displeasure, whose greatest fortunateness is more unfortunate than my sister’s greatest unfortunateness. Alas! she weeps because she would be no sooner happy; I weep, because I can never be happy; her tears flow from pity, mine from being too far lower than the reach of pity: Yet do I not envy thee, dear Pamela, I do not envy thee, only I could wish that being thy sister in nature I were not so far off akin in fortune.”

But the darkness of sorrow overshadowing her mind, as the night did her eyes, they were both content to hide themselves under the wings of sleep, till the next morning had almost lost his name, before the two sweet sleeping sisters awaked from dreams, which flattered them with more comfort than their waking could, or would consent unto. For then they were called up by Miso, who, having been with Gynecia, had received commandment to be continually with her daughters, and particularly not to let Zelmane and Philoclea have any private conference but that she should be present to hear what passed: Miso having now her authority increased, but came with scowling eyes to deliver a slavering good morrow to the two ladies, telling them it was a shame for them to mar their complexions, yea and conditions too, with long lying abed; and that when she was of their age, she trowed, she would have made a handkerchief by that time a-day. The two sweet princesses with a smiling silence answered her entertainment, and, obeying her direction, covered their dainty beauties with the glad clothes. But as soon as Pamela was ready, and sooner she was than her sister, of the agony of Dorus’s giving a fit to herself, which the words of his letter, lively imprinted in her mind, still remembered her of, she called to Mopsa, and willed her to fetch Dorus to speak with her; because, she said, she would take further judgment of him before she would move Dametas to grant her in marriage unto him: Mopsa, as glad as of sweetmeat to go of such an errand, quickly returned with Dorus to Pamela, who intended both by speaking with him to give some comfort to his passionate heart, and withal to hear some part of his life past, which although fame had already delivered unto her, yet she desired in more particular certainties to have it from so beloved an historian. Yet the sweetness of virtue’s disposition, jealous, even over itself, suffered her not to enter abruptly into questions of Musidorus, whom she was half ashamed she did love so well, and more than half sorry she could love no better, but thought best first to make her talk arise of Pyrocles, and his virtuous father: which thus she did.

“Dorus,” said she, “you told me the last day that Plangus was deceived in that he affirmed the prince Musidorus was drowned, but, withal, you confessed his cousin Pyrocles perished, of whom certainly in that age there was a great loss, since, as I have heard, he was a young prince, of whom all men expected as much as man’s power could bring forth, and yet virtue promised for him their expectation should not be deceived.” “Most excellent lady,” said Dorus, “no expectation in others, nor hope in himself could aspire to a higher mark than to be thought worthy to be praised by your judgment, and made worthy to be praised by your mouth. But most sure it is, that as his fame could by no means get so sweet and noble an air to fly in, as in your breath, so could not you, leaving yourself aside, find in the world a fitter subject of commendation; as noble as a long succession of royal ancestors, famous and famous for victories, could make him; of shape most lovely, and yet of mind more lovely, valiant, courteous, wise, what should I say more? sweet Pyrocles, excellent Pyrocles, what can my words but wrong thy perfections, which I would to God in some small measure thou had’st bequeathed to him that ever must have thy virtues in admiration, that, masked at least in them, I might have found some more gracious acceptation?” With that he imprisoned his look for a while upon Mopsa, who thereupon fell into a very wide smiling. “Truly,” said Pamela, “Dorus I like well your mind that can raise itself out of so base a fortune as yours is, to think of the imitating so excellent a prince as Pyrocles was. Who shoots at the mid-day sun, though he be sure he shall never hit the mark, yet as sure he is, he shall shoot higher than who aims but at a bush. But I pray you, Dorus,” said she, “tell me, since I perceive you are well acquainted with that story, what prince was that Euarchus father to Pyrocles, of whom so much fame goes, for his rightly royal virtues, or by what ways he got that opinion. And then so descend to the causes of his sending first away from him, and then to him for that excellent son of his, with the discourse of his life and loss: and therein you may, if you list, say something of that same Musidorus his cousin, because they going together, the story of Pyrocles, which I only desire, may be the better understood.”

“Incomparable lady,” said he, “your commandment doth not only give me the will, but the power to obey you; such influence hath your excellency. And first, for that famous king Euarchus, he was, at this time you speak of, king of Macedon, a kingdom, which in older time had such a sovereignty over all the provinces of Greece that even the particular kings therein did acknowledge, with more or less degrees of homage, some kind of fealty thereunto: as among the rest, even this now most noble, and by you ennobled, kingdom of Arcadia. But he, when he came to his crown finding by his latter ancestors either negligence, or misfortune that in some ages many of those duties had been intermitted would never stir up old titles, how apparent soever, whereby the public peace, with the loss of many not guilty souls, should be broken; but contenting himself to guide that ship, wherein the heavens had placed him, showed no less magnanimity in dangerless despising than others in dangerous affecting the multiplying of kingdoms: for the earth hath since borne enough bleeding witnesses that it was no want of true courage. Who as he was most wise to see what was best, and most just in the performing what he saw, and temperate in abstaining from anything anyway contrary, so think I, no thought can imagine a greater heart to see and contemn danger, where danger would offer to make any wrongful threatening upon him. A prince, that indeed especially measured his greatness by his goodness: and if for anything he loved greatness it was because therein he might exercise his goodness. A prince of a goodly aspect, and the more goodly by a grave majesty, wherewith his mind did deck his outward graces; strong of body, and so much the stronger, that he by a well-disciplined exercise taught it both to do, and suffer. Of age so as he was above fifty years, when his nephew Musidorus took on such shepherdish apparel for the love of the world’s paragon, as I now wear.

“This king left orphan both of father and mother, whose father and grandfather likewise had died young, he found his estate, when he came to the age which allowed his authority, so disjointed even in the noblest and strongest limbs of government that the name of a king was grown even odious to the people, his authority having been abused by those great lords and little kings, who in those between-times of reigning, by unjust favouring those that were partially theirs, and oppressing them that would defend their liberty against them, had brought in, by a more felt than seen manner of proceeding, the worst kind of Oligarchy; that is, when men are governed indeed by a few, and yet are not taught to know what those few be to whom they should obey.

“For they having the power of kings, but not the nature of kings, used the authority as men do their farms, of which they see within a year they shall go out; making the king’s sword strike whom they hated, the king’s purse reward whom they loved; and, which is worst of all, making the royal countenance serve to undermine the royal sovereignty. For the subjects could taste no sweeter fruits of having a king than grievous taxation to serve vain purposes; laws made rather to find faults than to prevent faults: the court of a prince rather deemed as a privileged place of the unbridled licentiousness than as the abiding of him, who as a father should give a fatherly example unto his people. Hence grew a very dissolution of all estates, while the great men, by the nature of ambition never satisfied, grew factious among themselves: and the underlings glad indeed to be underlings to them they hated least, to preserve them from such they hated most. Men of virtue suppressed, lest the shining should discover the others’ filthiness; and at length virtue itself almost forgotten, when it had no hopeful end whereunto to be directed; old men long nusled in corruption, scorning them that would seek reformation, young men were fault-finding, but very faulty, and so given to new-fangleness both of manners, apparel, and each thing else, by the custom of self-guilty evil, glad to change, though oft for worse; merchandise abused, and so towns decayed for want of just and natural liberty; offices even of judging souls, sold; public defences neglected; and in sum, left too long I trouble you, all awry, and, which wried it to the most wry course of all, wit abused, rather to feign reason why it should be amiss, than how it should be amended.

“In this, and a much worse plight than it is fit to trouble your excellent ears withal, did the king Euarchus find his estate when he took upon him the regiment, which, by reason of the long stream of abuse, he was forced to establish by some even extreme severity, not so much for the very faults themselves, which he rather sought to prevent than to punish, as for the faulty ones, who, strong even in their faults, scorned his youth, and could not learn to digest that the man which they so long had used to mask their own appetites, should now be the reducer of them into order. But so soon as some few, but indeed notable examples, had thundered a duty into the subjects’ hearts, he soon showed, no baseness of suspicion, nor the basest baseness of envy, could any whit rule such a ruler. But then shined forth indeed all love among them, when an awful fear engendered by justice, did make that love most lovely: his first and principal care being to appear unto his people such as he would have them be, and to be such as he appeared; making his life the example of his laws, and his laws as it were his axioms arising out of his deeds. So that within small time he won a singular love in his people, and ingraffed singular confidence. For how could they choose but love him, whom they found so truly to love them? he even in reason disdaining, that they that have charge of beasts, should love their charge and care for them; and that he that was to govern the most excellent creature, should not love so noble a charge. And, therefore, where most princes, seduced by flattery to build upon false grounds of government, make themselves, as it were, another thing from the people, and so count it gain what they get from them and, as it were two counter-balances, that their estate goes highest when the people goes lowest, by a fallacy of argument thinking themselves most kings when the subject is most basely subjected, he contrariwise, virtuously and wisely acknowledging that he with his people made all but one politic body, whereof himself was the head, even so cared for them as he would for his own limbs, never restraining their liberty, without it stretched to licentiousness, nor pulling from them their goods, which they found were not employed to the purchase of a greater good; but in all his actions showing a delight in their welfare, brought that to pass, that, while by force he took nothing, by their love he had all. In sum, peerless princess, I might as easily set down the whole art of government as to lay before your eyes the picture of his proceedings. But in such sort he flourished in the sweet comfort of doing much good, when, by an occasion of leaving his country, he was forced to bring forth his virtue of magnanimity, as before he had done of justice.

“He had only one sister, a lady, least I should too easily all to partial praises of her, of whom it may be justly said, that she was no unfit branch to the noble stock whereof she was come. Her he had given in marriage to Dorilaus prince of Thessalia, not so much to make a friendship, as to confirm the friendship between their posterity, which between them, by the likeness of virtue, had been long before made: for certainly, Dorilaus could need no amplifier’s mouth for the highest point of praise.” “Who hath not heard,” said Pamela, “of the valiant, wise, and just Dorilaus, whose unripe death doth yet, so many years since, draw tears from virtuous eyes; and indeed, my father is wont to speak of nothing with greater admiration, than of the notable friendship, a rare thing in princes, more rare between princes, that so holily was observed to the last of those two excellent men. But,” said she, “go on I pray you.”

“Dorilaus,” said he, “having married his sister, had his marriage in short time blest, for so are folk wont to say, how unhappy soever the children after grow, with a son, whom they named Musidorus, of whom I must needs first speak before I come to Pyrocles, because as he was born first, so upon his occasion grew, as I may say accidentally, the other’s birth. For scarcely was Musidorus made partaker of this oft-blinding light, when there were found numbers of soothsayers who affirmed strange and incredible things should be performed by that child; whether the heavens at that time listed to play with ignorant mankind, or that flattery be so presumptuous as even at times to borrow the face of divinity. But certainly, so did the boldness of their affirmation accompany the greatness of what they did affirm, even descending to particularities, what kingdoms he should overcome, that the king of Phrygia, who over-superstitiously thought himself touched in the matter, sought by force to destroy the infant, to prevent his after expectations: because a skilful man, having compared his nativity with the child, so told him. Foolish man, either vainly fearing what was not to be feared, or not considering that if it were a work of the superior powers, the heavens at length are never children. But so he did, and by the aid of the kings of Lydia and Crete, joining together their armies, invaded Thessalia, and brought Dorilaus to some behind-hand of fortune, when his faithful friend and brother Euarchus came so mightily to his succour, that with some interchanging changes of fortune, they begat of a just war, the best child, Peace. In which time Euarchus made a cross marriage also with Dorilaus’s sister, and shortly left her with child of the famous Pyrocles, driven to return to the defence of his own country, which in his absence, helped with some of the ill-contented nobility, the mighty king of Thrace, and his brother king of Pannonia, had invaded. The success of those wars was too notable to be unknown to your ears, to which it seems all worthy fame hath glory to come unto. But there was Dorilaus, valiantly requiring his friend’s help, in a great battle deprived of life, his obsequies being no more solemnized by the tears of his partakers than the blood of his enemies; with so piercing a sorrow to the constant heart of Euarchus that the news of his son’s birth could lighten his countenance with no show of comfort, although all the comfort that might be in a child, truth itself in him forthwith delivered. For what fortune only soothsayers foretold of Musidorus, that all men might see prognosticated in Pyrocles, both heavens and earth giving tokens of the coming forth of an heroical virtue. The senate house of the planets was at no time so set for the decreeing of perfection in a man, as at that time all folks skilful therein did acknowledge: only love was threatened, and promised to him, and so to his cousin, as both the tempest and haven of his best years. But as death may have prevented Pyrocles, so unworthiness must be the death of Musidorus.

“But the mother of Pyrocles, shortly after her childbirth dying, was cause that Euarchus recommended the care of his only son to his sister, doing it the rather because the war continued in cruel heat, betwixt him and those ill neighbours of his. In which meantime those young princes, the only comforters of that virtuous widow, grew on so that Pyrocles taught admiration to the hardest conceits: Musidorus, perchance because among his subjects, exceedingly beloved; and by the good order of Euarchus, well performed by his sister, they were so brought up that all the sparks of virtue which nature had kindled in them were so blown to give forth their uttermost heat, that, justly it may be affirmed, they inflamed the affections of all that knew them. For almost before they could perfectly speak, they began to receive conceits not unworthy of the best speakers; excellent devices being used, to make even their sports profitable; images of battles and fortifications being then delivered to their memory, which after, their stronger judgments might dispense, the delight of tales being converted to the knowledge of all the stories of worthy princes, both to move them to do nobly, and teach them how to do nobly; the beauty of virtue still being set before their eyes, and that taught them with far more diligent care than grammatical rules, their bodies exercised in all abilities, both of doing and suffering, and their minds acquainted by degrees with dangers; and in sum, all bent to the making up of princely minds: no servile fear used towards them, nor any other violent restraint, but still as to princes: so that a habit of commanding was naturalized in them, and therefore the further from tyranny: nature having done so much for them in nothing, as that it made them lords of truth, whereon all the other goods were builded.

“Among which nothing I so much delight to recount, as the memorable friendship that grew betwixt the two princes, such as made them more like than the likeness of all other virtues, and made them more near one to the other than the nearness of their blood could aspire unto; which I think grew the faster, and the faster was tied between them by reason that Musidorus being older by three or four years, it was neither so great a difference in age as did take away the delight in society, and yet by the difference there was taken away the occasion of childish contentions, till they had both passed over the humour of such contentions. For Pyrocles bare reverence full of love to Musidorus, and Musidorus had a delight full of love in Pyrocles. Musidorus, what he had learned either for body or mind, would teach it to Pyrocles; and Pyrocles was so glad to learn of none as of Musidorus: till Pyrocles, being come to sixteen years of age, he seemed so to over-run his age in growth, strength, and all things following it, that not Musidorus, no nor any man living, I think, could perform any action, either on horse, or foot, more strongly, or deliver that strength more nimbly, or become the delivery more gracefully, or employ all more virtuously. Which may well seem wonderful: but wonders are no wonders in a wonderful subject.

“At which time, understanding that the king Euarchus, after so many years of war, and the conquest of all Pannonia, and almost Thrace, had now brought the conclusion of all to the siege of Byzantium, to the raising of which siege, great forces were made, they would needs fall to the practice of those virtues which they before learned. And therefore the mother of Musidorus nobly yielding over her own affects to her children’s good, for a mother she was in affect to them both, the rather that they might help her beloved brother, they break off all delays, which Musidorus for his part thought already had devoured too much of his good time, but that he had once granted a boon, before he knew what it was, to his dear friend Pyrocles, that he would never seek the adventures of arms until he might go with him, which having fast bound his heart, a true slave to faith, he had bid a tedious delay of following his own humour for his friend’s sake, till now being both sent for by Euarchus, and finding Pyrocles able every way to go through with that kind of life, he was as desirous for his sake as for his own, to enter into it. So therefore preparing a navy, that they might go like themselves, and not only bring the comfort of their presence, but of their power, to their dear parent Euarchus, they recommended themselves to the sea, leaving the shore of Thessalia full of tears and vows, and were received thereon with so smooth and smiling a face, as if Neptune had as then learned falsely to fawn on princes. The wind was like a servant, waiting behind them so just, that they might fill the sails as they listed; and the best sailors showing themselves less covetous of his liberality, so tempered it that they all kept together like a beautiful flock, which so well could obey their master’s pipe: without sometimes, to delight the princes’ eyes, some two or three of them would strive, who could, either by the cunning of well spending the wind’s breath, or by the advantageous building of their moving houses, leave their fellows behind them in the honour of speed: while the two princes had leisure to see the practice of that, which before they had learned by books: to consider the art of catching the wind prisoner, to no other end, but to run away with it; to see how beauty and use can so well agree together, that of all the trinkets, wherewith they are attired, there is not one but serves to some necessary purpose. And, O lord! to see the admirable power and noble effects of love, whereby the seeming insensible loadstone, with a secret beauty, holding the spirit of iron in it, can draw that hard-hearted thing unto it, and like a virtuous mistress, not only make it bow itself, but with it make it aspire to so high a love as of the heavenly poles, and thereby to bring forth the noblest deeds that the children of the earth can boast of. And so the princes delighting their conceits with confirming their knowledge, seeing wherein the sea-discipline differed from land-service, they had for a day, and almost a whole night, as pleasing entertainment as the falsest heart could give to him he means worst to.

“But by that the next morning began a little to make a gilded show of a good meaning, there arose even with the sun, a veil of dark clouds before his face, which, shortly, like ink poured into water, had blacked over all the face of heaven, preparing as it were a mournful stage for a tragedy to be played on. For forthwith the winds began to speak louder, and, as in a tumultuous kingdom, to think themselves fittest instruments of commandment; and blowing whole storms of hail and rain upon them, they were sooner in danger, than they could almost bethink themselves of change. For then the traitorous sea began to swell in pride against the afflicted navy, under which, while the heaven favoured them, it had lain so calmly, making mountains of itself, over which the tossed and tottering ship should climb, to be straight carried down again to a pit of hellish darkness; with such cruel blows against the sides of the ship that, which way soever it went, was still in his malice, that there was left neither power to stay nor way to escape. And shortly had it so dissevered the loving company, which the day before had tarried together, that most of them never met again, but were swallowed up in his never satisfied mouth. Some indeed, as since was known, after long wandering, returned into Thessalia, others recovered Byzantium, and served Euarchus in his war. But in the ship wherein the princes were, now left as much alone as proud lords be when fortune fails them, though they employed all industry to save themselves, yet what they did was rather for duty to nature than hope to escape so ugly a darkness as if it would prevent the night’s coming, usurped the day’s right: which accompanied sometimes with thunders, always with horrible noises of the chafing winds, made the masters and pilots so astonished that they knew not how to direct, and if they knew, they could scarcely, when they directed, hear their own whistle. For the sea strove with the winds which should be louder, and the shrouds of the ship, with a ghastful noise to them that were in it, witnessed that their ruin was the wager of the others’ contention, and the heaven roaring out thunders the more amazed them, as having those powers for enemies. Certainly there is no danger carries with it more horror than that which grows in those floating kingdoms. For that dwelling place is unnatural to mankind, and then the terribleness of the continual motion, the desolation of the far-being from comfort, the eye and the ear having ugly images ever before it, doth still vex the mind, even when it is best armed against it. But thus the day passed, if that might be called day, while the cunningest mariners were so conquered by the storm that they thought it best with stricken sails to yield to be governed by it: the valiantest feeling inward dismayedness, and yet the fearfullest ashamed fully to show it, seeing that the princes, who were to part from the greatest fortunes, did in their countenances accuse no point of fear, but encouraging them to do what might be done, putting their hands to every most painful office, taught them at one instant to promise themselves the best, and yet to despise the worst. But so were they carried by the tyranny of the wind, and the treason of the sea all that night, which the older it was, the more wayward it showed itself towards them: till the next morning, known to be a morning better by the hour-glass than by the day’s clearness, having run fortune so blindly, as itself ever was painted, lest the conclusion should not answer to the rest of the play, they were driven upon a rock, which, hidden with those outrageous waves, did, as it were, closely dissemble his cruel mind, till with an unbelieved violence, but to them that have tried it, the ship ran upon it, and seeming willinger to perish than to have her course stayed, redoubled her blows, till she had broken herself in pieces, and as it were, tearing out her own bowels to feed the sea’s greediness, lest nothing within it but despair of safety and expectation of a loathsome end. There was to be seen the divers manner of minds in distress: some sat upon the top of the poop weeping and wailing, till the sea swallowed them; some one more able to abide death than fear of death, cut his own throat to prevent drowning; some prayed: and there wanted not of them which cursed, as if the heavens could not be more angry than they were. But a monstrous cry begotten of many roaring voices, was able to infect with fear a mind that had not prevented it with the power of reason.

“But the princes, using the passions of fearing evil, and desiring to escape only to serve the rule of virtue, not to abandon one’s self, leaped to a rib of the ship, which broken from his fellows, floated with more likelihood to do service than any other limb of that ruinous body; upon which they had gotten already two brethren well known servants of theirs; and straight they four were carried out of sight, in that huge rising of the sea, from the rest of the ship. But the piece they were on sinking by little and little under them, not able to support the weight of so many, the brethren, the elder whereof was Leucippus, the younger Nelsus, showed themselves right faithful and grateful servants unto them: grateful, I say, for this cause: those two gentlemen had been taken prisoners in the great war the king of Phrygia made upon Thessalia, in the time of Musidorus’s infancy, and having been sold into another country, though peace fell after between those realms, could not be delivered because of their valour known, but for a far greater sum than either all their friends were able, or the dowager willing to make, in respect of the great expenses herself and people had been put to in those wars, and so had they remained in prison about thirteen years, when the two young princes, hearing speeches of their good deserts, found means both by selling all the jewels they had of a great price, and by giving under their hands great estates when they should come to be kings, which promises their virtue promised for them should be kept, to get so much treasure as redeemed them from captivity. This remembered, and kindly remembered by those two brothers, perchance helped by a natural duty to their princes’ blood, they willingly left hold of the board, committing themselves to the sea’s rage, and even when they meant to die, themselves praying for the princes’ lives. It is true, that neither the pain nor danger, so moved the princes’ hearts as the tenderness of that loving part, far from glory, having so few lookers on; far from hope of reward, since themselves were sure to perish.

“But now of all the royal navy they lately had, they had left but one little piece of one ship, whereon they kept themselves, in all truth having interchanged their cares, while either cared for other, each comforting and counselling how to labour for the better, and to abide the worse. But so fell it out, that as they were carried by the tide which there, seconded by the storm, ran exceeding swiftly, Musidorus seeing, as he thought, Pyrocles not well upon the board, as he would with his right hand have helped him on better, he had no sooner unfastened his hold but that a wave forcibly spoiled his weaker hand of hold, and so for a time parted those friends, each crying to the other; but the noise of the sea drowned their farewell. But Pyrocles, then careless of death, if it had come by any means but his own, was shortly brought out of the sea’s fury to the land’s comfort, when in my conscience I know that comfort was but bitter unto him: and bitter indeed it fell out even in itself to be unto him.

“For being cast on land much bruised and beaten both with the sea’s hard farewell, and the shore’s rude welcome; and even almost deadly tired with the length of his uncomfortable labour, as he was walking up to discover somebody, to whom he might go for relief, there came straight running unto him certain, who, as it was after known, by appointment watched, with many others, in divers places along the coast, who laid hands on him, and without either questioning with him, or showing will to hear him, like men fearful to appear curious, or which was worse, having no regard to the hard plight he was in, being so wet and weak, they carried him some miles thence to a house of a principal officer of that country. Who with no more civility (though with much more business than those under fellows had showed) began in captious manner to put interrogatories unto him. To which, he unused to such entertainment, did shortly and plainly answer, what he was and how he came thither. But that no sooner known, with numbers of armed men to guard him (for mischief, not from mischief) he was sent to the king’s court, which as then was not above a day’s journey off, with letters from that officer, containing his own serviceable diligence in discovering so great a personage, adding withal more than was true of his conjectures, because he would endear his own service.

“This country whereon he fell was Phrygia, and it was to the king thereof to whom he was sent, a prince of a melancholy constitution both of body and mind; wickedly sad, ever musing of horrible matters, suspecting, or rather condemning all men of evil, because his mind had no eye to spy goodness: and therefore accusing Sycophants, of all men, did best sort to his nature; but therefore not seeming Sycophants, because of no evil they said, they could bring any new or doubtful thing unto him, but such as already he had been apt to determine, so as they came but as proofs of his wisdom: fearful, and never secure, while the fear he had figured in his own mind had any possibility of event. A toad-like retiredness, and closeness of mind; nature teaching the odiousness of poison, and the danger of odiousness. Yet while youth lasted in him, the exercises of that age, and his humour, not yet fully discovered, made him something the more frequentable, and less dangerous. But after that years began to come on with some, though more seldom, shows of a bloody nature, and that the prophecy of Musidorus’s destiny came to his ears (delivered unto him, and received of him with the hardest interpretation, as though his subjects did delight in the hearing thereof). Then gave he himself indeed to the full current of his disposition, especially after the war of Thessalia, wherein, though in truth wrongly, he deemed his unsuccess proceeded of their unwillingness to have him prosper: and then thinking himself contemned (knowing no countermine against contempt, but terror) began to let nothing pass which might bear the colour of a fault without sharp punishment: and when he wanted faults, excellency grew a fault! and it was sufficient to make one guilty, that he had power to be guilty. And as there is no humour, to which impudent poverty cannot make itself serviceable, so were there enough of those of desperate ambition, who would build their houses upon others’ ruins, which after should fall by like practices. So as a servitude came mainly upon that poor people, whose deeds were not only punished, but words corrected, and even thoughts by some mean or other pulled out of them; while suspicion bred the mind of cruelty, and the effects of cruelty stirred up a new cause of suspicion. And in this plight, full of watchful fearfulness, did the storm deliver sweet Pyrocles to the stormy mind of that tyrant; all men that did such wrong to so rare a stranger, whose countenance deserved both pity and admiration, condemning themselves as much in their hearts, as they did brag in their faces.

“But when this bloody king knew what he was, and in what order he and his cousin Musidorus (so much of him feared) were come out of Thessalia, assuredly thinking, because ever thinking the worst, that those forces were provided against him; glad of the perishing, as he thought, of Musidorus, determined in public sort to put Pyrocles to death. For having quite lost the way of nobleness, he strove to climb to the height of terribleness; and thinking to make all men adread, to make such one an enemy who would not spare, not fear to kill so great a prince; and lastly, having nothing in him why to make him his friend, he thought he would take him away from being his enemy. The day was appointed, and all things prepared for that cruel blow, in so solemn an order, as if they would set forth tyranny in most gorgeous decking. The princely youth, of invincible valour, yet so unjustly subjected to such outrageous wrong, carrying himself in all his demeanour, so constantly abiding extremity, that one might see it was the cutting away of the greatest hope of the world, and destroying virtue in his sweetest growth.

“But so it fell out, that his death was prevented by a rare example of friendship in Musidorus, who, being almost drowned, had been taken up by a fisherman belonging to the kingdom of Bithynia: and being there, and understanding the full discourse (as fame was very prodigal of so notable an accident) in what case Pyrocles was: learning withal that his hate was far more to him than to Pyrocles, he found means to acquaint himself with a nobleman of that country, to whom largely discovering what he was, he found him a most fit instrument to effectuate his desire. For this nobleman had been one, who in many wars had served Euarchus, and had been so mind-stricken by the beauty of virtue in that noble king that, though not born his subject, he ever professed himself his servant. His desire therefore to him was to keep Musidorus in a strong castle of his, and then to make the king of Phrygia understand, that if he would deliver Pyrocles, Musidorus would willingly put himself into his hands, knowing well, that how thirsty soever he was of Pyrocles’s blood, he would rather drink that of Musidorus.

“The nobleman was loth to preserve one by the loss of another, but time urging resolution, the importunity of Musidorus, which showed a mind not to over-live Pyrocles, with the affection he bare to Euarchus, so prevailed, that he carried this strange offer of Musidorus, which by the tyrant was greedily accepted.

“And so upon security of both sides, they were interchanged: where I may not omit the work of friendship in Pyrocles, who both in speech and countenance to Musidorus, well showed that he thought himself injured and not relieved by him; asking him what he had ever seen in him, why he could not bear the extremities of mortal accidents as well as any man? and why he should envy him the glory of suffering death for his friend’s cause, and, as it were, rob him of his own possession? but in that notable contention (where the conquest must be the conqueror’s destruction, and safety the punishment of the conquered) Musidorus prevailed because he was a more welcome prey to the unjust king; and a cheerfully going towards, as Pyrocles went frowardly fromward his death, he was delivered to the king, who could not be enough sure of him, without he fed his own eyes upon one whom he had begun to fear, as soon as the other began to be.

“Yet because he would in one act both make ostentation of his own felicity, into whose hands his most feared enemy was fallen, and withal cut off such hopes from his suspected subjects, when they should know certainly he was dead, with much more skilful cruelty, and horrible solemnity he caused each thing to be prepared for his triumph of tyranny. And so the day being come, he was led forth by many armed men who often had been the fortifiers of wickedness, to the place of execution, where coming with a mind comforted in that he had done such service to Pyrocles, this strange encounter he had.

“The excelling Pyrocles was no sooner delivered by the king’s servants to a place of liberty than he bent his wit and courage, and what would they not bring to pass? how either to deliver Musidorus, or to perish with him. And finding he could get in that country no forces sufficient by force to rescue him to bring himself to die with him, little hoping of better event, he put himself in poor raiment, and by the help of some few crowns he took of that nobleman, who full of sorrow, though not knowing the secret of his intent, suffered him to go in such order from him, he, even he, born to the greatest expectation, and of the greatest blood that any prince might be, submitted himself to be servant to the executioner that should put to death Musidorus: a far notabler proof of his friendship, considering the height of his mind, than any death could be. That bad officer not suspecting him, being arrayed fit for such an estate, and having his beauty hidden by many foul spots he artificially put upon his face, gave him leave not only to wear a sword himself, but to bear his sword prepared for the justified murder. And so Pyrocles taking his time, when Musidorus was upon the scaffold, separated somewhat from the rest, as allowed to say something, he stepped unto him, and putting the sword into his hand, not bound, a point of civility the officers used towards him because they doubted no such enterprise, ‘Musidorus,’ said he, ‘die nobly.’ In truth never man between joy before knowledge what to be glad of, and fear after considering his case, had such a confusion of thoughts, as I had, when I saw Pyrocles so near me.” But with that Dorus blushed, and Pamela smiled, and Dorus the more blushed at her smiling, and she the more smiled at his blushing, because he had, with the remembrance of that plight he was in, forgotten in speaking of himself to use the third person.

But Musidorus turned again her thoughts from his cheeks to his tongue in this sort: “But,” said he, “when they were with swords in hands, not turning backs one to the other, for there they knew was no place of defence, but making it a preservation in not hoping to be preserved, and now acknowledging themselves subject to death, meaning only to do honour to their princely birth, they flew amongst them all, for all were enemies, and had quickly either with flight or death, left none upon the scaffold to annoy them, wherein Pyrocles, the excellent Pyrocles, did such wonders beyond belief, as was able to lead Musidorus to courage, though he had been born a coward. But indeed just rage and desperate virtue did such effects, that the popular sort of the beholders began to be almost superstitiously amazed, as at effects beyond mortal power. But the king with angry threatenings from out a window, where he was not ashamed the world should behold him a beholder, commanded his guard and the rest of his soldiers to hasten their death. But many of them lost their bodies to lose their souls, when the princes grew almost so weary, as they were ready to be conquered with conquering.

“But as they were still fighting with weak arms and strong hearts, it happened that one of the soldiers, commanded to go up after his fellows against the princes, having received a light hurt, more wounded in his heart, went back with as much diligence as he came up with modesty: which another of his fellows seeing, to pick a thank of the king, struck him upon the face, reviling him that so accompanied, he would run away from so few. But he, as many times it falls out, only valiant, when he was angry, in revenge thrust him through: which with his death was straight revenged by a brother of his, and that again requited by a fellow of the others. There began to be a great tumult amongst the soldiers: which seen, and not understood by the people, used to fears, but not used to be bold in them, some began to cry treason; and that voice straight multiplying itself, the king, O the cowardice of a guilty conscience, before any man set upon him, fled away. Where with a bruit, either by art or some well-meaning men, or by some chance, as such things often fall out by, ran from one to the other that the king was slain: wherewith certain young men of the bravest minds, cried with a loud voice, ‘Liberty,’ and encouraging the other citizens to follow them, set upon the guard and soldiers as chief instruments of tyranny: and quickly aided by the princes, they had left none of them alive, nor any other in the city, who they thought had in any sort set his hand to the work of their servitude, and, god knows, by the blindness of rage, killing many guiltless persons, either for affinity to the tyrant, or enmity to the tyrant-killers. But some of the wiser, seeing that a popular license is indeed the many-headed tyranny, prevailed with the rest to make Musidorus their chief: choosing one of them, because princes, to defend them; and him, because elder and most hated of the tyrant, and by him to be ruled: whom forthwith they lifted up, Fortune, I think smiling at her work therein, that a scaffold of execution should grow to a scaffold of coronation.

“But by and by there came news of more certain truth, that the king was not dead, but fled to a strong castle of his near hand, where he was gathering forces in all speed possible to suppress this mutiny. But now they had run themselves too far out of breath, to go back again to the same career; and too well they knew the sharpness of his memory to forget such an injury; therefore learning virtue of necessity, they continued resolute to obey Musidorus, who seeing what forces were in the city, with them issued against the tyrant, while they were in this heat, before practices might be used to deliver them, and with them met the king, who likewise hoping little to prevail by time, knowing and finding his people’s hate, met him with little delay in the field where himself was slain by Musidorus, after he had seen his only son, a prince of great courage and beauty, but fostered up in blood by his naughty father, slain by the hand of Pyrocles. This victory obtained with great and truly not undeserved honour to the two princes, the whole estates of the country with one consent, gave the crown and all other marks of sovereignty to Musidorus, desiring nothing more than to live under such a government as they promised themselves of him.

“But he, thinking it a greater greatness to give a kingdom, than get a kingdom, understanding that there was left of the blood royal, and next to the succession, an aged gentleman of approved goodness, who had gotten nothing by his cousin’s power but danger from him, and odiousness for him, having passed his time in modest secrecy, and as much from intermeddling in matters of government, as the greatness of his blood would suffer him, did, after having received the full power to his own hand, resign all to the nobleman; but with such conditions, and cautions of the conditions, as might assure the people, with as much assurance as worldly matters bear, that not only that governor, of whom indeed they looked for of good, but the nature of the government, should be no way apt to decline to tyranny.

“This doing set forth no less the magnificence than the other act did his magnanimity; so that greatly praised of all, and justly beloved of the new king, who in all both words and behaviour protested himself their tenant and liegeman, they were drawn thence to revenge those two servants of theirs, of whose memorable faith, I told you, most excellent princess, in willingly giving themselves to be drowned for their sakes: but drowned indeed they were not, but got with painful swimming upon a rock, from whence, after being come as near famishing as before drowning, the weather breaking up, they were brought to the mainland of Bithynia, the same country upon which Musidorus also was fallen, but not in so lucky a place.

“For they were brought to the king of the country, a tyrant also not through suspicion, greediness or revengefulness, as he of Phrygia, but, as I may term it, of a wanton cruelty: inconstant in his choice of friends, or rather never having a friend but a play-fellow; of whom when he was weary, he could not otherwise rid himself than by killing them; giving sometimes prodigally, not because he loved them to whom he gave, but because he lusted to give; punishing, not so much for hate or anger, as because he felt not the smart of punishment; delighted to be flattered, at first for those virtues which were not in him, at length making his vices virtues worthy the flattering; with like judgment glorying, when he had happened to do a thing well, as when he had performed some notable mischief.

“He chanced at that time, for indeed long time none lasted with him, to have next in use about him a man of the most envious disposition that, I think, ever infected the air with his breath; whose eyes could not look right upon any happy man, nor ears bear the burden of anybody’s praise; contrary to the natures of all other plagues, plagued with others’ well being; making happiness the ground of his unhappiness, and good news the argument of his sorrow: in sum, a man whose favour no man could win, but by being miserable. And so because those two faithful servants of theirs came in miserable sort to that court, he was apt enough at first to favour them; and the king understanding of their adventure, wherein they had showed so constant a faith unto their lords, suddenly falls to take a pride in making much of them, extolling them with infinite praises, and praising himself in his heart, in that he praised them. And by and by where they made great courtiers, and in the way of minions, when advancement, the most mortal offence to envy, stirred up their former friend to overthrow his own work in them; taking occasion upon the knowledge, newly come to the court, of the late death of the king of Phrygia destroyed by their two lords, who having been a near kinsman to this prince of Pontus, by this envious counsellor, partly with suspicion of practice, partly with glory of, in part, revenging his cousin’s death, the king was suddenly turned, and every turn with him was a down-fall, to lock them up in prison, as servants to his enemies, whom before he had never known, nor, till that time one of his own subjects had entertained and dealt for them, did ever take heed of. But now earnest in every present humour, and making himself brave in his liking, he was content to give them just cause of offence, when they had power to make just revenge. Yet did the princes send unto him before they entered into war, desiring their servants’ liberty. But he, swelling in their humbleness like a bubble blown up with a small breath broken with a great, forgetting, or never knowing humanity, caused their heads to be stricken off, by the advice of his envious counsellor, who now hated them so much the more, as he foresaw their happiness in having such, and so fortunate masters, and sent them with unroyal reproaches to Musidorus and Pyrocles, as if they had done traitorously, and not heroically in killing his tyrannical cousin.

“But that injury went beyond all degree of reconcilement, so that they making forces in Phrygia, a kingdom wholly at their commandment, by the love of the people, and gratefulness of the king, they entered his country; and wholly conquering it, with such deeds as at least fame said were excellent, took the king, and by Musidorus’s commandment, Pyrocles’s heart more inclining to pity, he was slain upon the tomb of their two true servants; which they caused to be made for them with royal expenses, and notable workmanship to preserve their dead lives. For his wicked servant he should have felt the like, or worse, but that his heart broke even to death with the beholding the honour done to their dead carcasses. There might Pyrocles quietly have enjoyed that crown, by all the desire of that people, most of whom had revolted unto him, but he finding a sister of the late king’s, a fair and well esteemed lady, looking for nothing more, than to be oppressed with her brother’s ruins, gave her in marriage to the nobleman his father’s old friend, and endowed with them the crown of that kingdom. And not content with those public actions of princely, and as it were, governing virtue, they did, in that kingdom and some other near about, divers acts of particular trials, more famous because more perilous. For in that time those regions were full both of cruel monsters, and monstrous men, all which in short time by private combats they delivered the countries of.

“Among the rest, two brothers of huge both greatness and force, therefore commonly called giants, who kept themselves in a castle seated upon the top of a rock, impregnable, because there was no coming unto it but by one narrow path where one man’s force was able to keep down an army. Those brothers had a while served the king of Pontus, and in all his affairs, especially of war, whereunto they were only apt, they had showed, as unconquered courage, so a rude faithfulness: being men indeed by nature apter to the faults of rage than of deceit; not greatly ambitious, more than to be well and uprightly dealt with; rather impatient of injury, than delighted with more than ordinary courtesies; and in injuries more sensible of smart or loss than of reproach or disgrace. Those men being of this nature, and certainly jewels to a wise man, considering what indeed wonders they were able to perform, yet were discarded by that worthy prince, after many notable deserts, as not worthy the holding, which was the more evident to them because it suddenly fell from an excess of favour, which, many examples having taught them, never stopped his race till it came to an headlong overthrow: they full of rage, retired themselves unto this castle: where thinking nothing juster than revenge, nor more notable than the effects of anger, that, according to the nature, full of inward bravery and fierceness, scarcely in the glass of reason, thinking itself fair but when it is terrible, they immediately gave themselves to make all the country about them subject to that king, to smart for their lord’s folly, not caring how innocent they were, but rather thinking the more innocent they were, the more it testified their spite, which they desired to manifest. And with use of evil, growing more and more evil, they took delight in slaughter, and pleased themselves in making others’ wrack the effect of their power: so that where in the time that they obeyed a master, their anger was a serviceable power of the mind to do public good, so now unbridled, and blind judge of itself, it made wickedness violent, and praised itself in excellency of mischief, almost to the ruin of the country, not greatly regarded by their careless and loveless king. Till now those princes finding them so fleshed in cruelty as not to be reclaimed, secretly undertook the matter alone: for accompanied they would not have suffered them to have mounted; and so those great fellows scornfully receiving them, as foolish birds fallen into their net, it pleased the eternal justice to make them suffer death by their hands: and so they were manifoldly acknowledged the savers of that country.

“It were the part of a very idle orator to set forth the numbers of well-devised honours done unto them, but as high honour is not only gotten and born by pain and danger, but must be nursed by the like, or else vanisheth as soon as it appears to the world, so the natural hunger thereof, which was in Pyrocles suffered him not to account a resting seat of that, which either riseth or falleth, but still to make one occasion beget another, whereby his doings might send his praise to others’ mouths to rebound again true contentment to his spirit. And therefore having well established those kingdoms under good governors, and rid them by their valour of such giants and monsters, as before-time armies were not able to subdue, they determined in unknown order to see more of the world, and to employ those gifts, esteemed rare in them, to the good of mankind; and therefore would themselves, understanding that the king Euarchus was passed all the cumber of his war, go privately to seek exercises of their virtue, thinking it not so worthy to be brought to heroical effects by fortune or necessity, like Ulysses and Aeneas, as by one’s own choice and working. And so went they away from very unwilling people to leave them, making time haste itself to be a circumstance of their honour, and one place witness to another of the truth of their doings. For scarcely were they out of the confines of Pontus, but that as they rode alone armed, for alone they went, one serving the other, they met an adventure, which though not so notable for any great effect they performed, yet worthy to be remembered for the unused examples therein, as well of true natural goodness as of wretched ungratefulness.

“It was in the kingdom of Galatia, the season being, as in the depth of winter, very cold and as then suddenly grown to so extreme and foul a storm, that never any winter, I think, brought forth a fouler child: so that the princes were even compelled by the hail, that the pride of the wind blew into their faces, to seek some shrouding place, which a certain hollow rock offering unto them, they made it their shield against the tempest’s fury. And so staying there, till the violence thereof was passed, they heard the speech of a couple, who not perceiving them, being hid within that rude canopy, held a strange and pitiful disputation, which made them step out, yet in such sort as they might see unseen. There they perceived an aged man, and a young, scarcely come to the age of a man, both poorly arrayed, extremely weather-beaten; the old man blind, and the young man leading him; and yet through all those miseries, in both there seemed to appear a kind of nobleness, not suitable to that affliction. But the first words they heard, were those of the old man. ‘Well Leonatus,’ said he, ‘since I cannot persuade thee to lead me to that which should end my grief and my trouble, let me now entreat thee to leave me: fear not, my misery cannot be greater than it is, and nothing doth become me but misery: fear not the danger of my blind steps, I cannot fall worse than I am: and do not I pray thee, do not obstinately continue to infect thee with my wretchedness: but fly, fly from this region only worthy of me.’ ‘Dear father,’ answered he, ‘do not take away from me the only remnant of my happiness: while I have power to do you service, I am not wholly miserable.’ ‘Ah my son,’ said he, and with that he groaned, as if sorrow strove to break his heart, ‘how evil fits it me to have such a son? and how much doth thy kindness upbraid my wickedness?’ Those doleful speeches, and some others to like purpose, well showing they had not been born to the fortune they were in, moved the princes to go out unto them, and ask the younger what they were? ‘Sirs,’ answered he with a good grace, and made the more agreeable by a certain noble kind of piteousness, ‘I see well you are strangers that know not our misery, so well here known that no man dare know but that we must be miserable. Indeed our state is such, as though nothing is so needful unto us as pity, yet nothing is more dangerous unto us than to make ourselves so known as may stir pity: but your presence promiseth that cruelly shall not over-run hate, and if it did, in truth our state is sunk below the degree of fear.

“‘This old man, whom I lead, was lately rightful prince of this country of Paphlagonia, by the hard-hearted ungratefulness of a son of his, deprived not only of his kingdom, whereof no foreign forces were ever able to spoil him, but of his sight, the riches which nature grants to the poorest creatures: whereby and by other his unnatural dealings, he hath been driven to such griefs, as even now he would have had me to have led him to the top of this rock, thence to cast himself headlong to death, and so would have had me, who received my life of him, to be the worker of his destruction. But noble gentlemen,’ said he, ‘if either of you have a father, and feel what dutiful affection is ingrafted in a son’s heart, let me entreat you to convey this afflicted prince to some place of rest and security: amongst your worthy acts it shall be none of the least, that a king of such might and fame, and so unjustly oppressed, is in any sort by you relieved.’

“But before they could make him answer, his father began to speak. ‘Ah my son,’ said he, ‘how evil an historian are you that leave out the chief knot of all the discourse? my wickedness, my wickedness! and if thou dost it to spare my ears, the only sense now left me proper for knowledge, assure thyself thou dost mistake me: and I take witness of that sun which you see,’ with that he cast up his blind eyes as if he would hunt for light, ‘and wish myself in worse case than I do wish myself, which is as evil as may be, if I speak untruly, that nothing is so welcome to my thoughts as the publishing of my shame. Therefore know, you gentlemen (to whom from my heart I wish that it may not prove some ominous foretoken of misfortune to have met with such a miser as I am) that whatsoever my son, O God, that truth binds me to reproach him with the name of my son, hath said is true. But besides those truths, this also is true, that having had, in lawful marriage, of a mother fit to bear royal children, this son, such a one as partly you see, and better shall know by my short declaration, and so enjoyed the expectations in the world of him, till he was grown to justify their expectations, so as I needed envy no father for the chief comfort of mortality, to leave another one’s-self after me, I was carried by a bastard son of mine, if at least I be bound to believe the words of that base woman my concubine, his mother, first to mislike, then to hate, lastly to destroy, or to do my best to destroy this son, I think you think, undeserving destruction. What ways she used to bring me to it, if I should tell you, I should tediously trouble you with as much poisonous hypocrisy, desperate fraud, smooth malice, hidden ambition, and smiling envy, as in any living person could be harboured: but I list it not; no remembrance of naughtiness delights me but mine own; and methinks, the accusing his traps might in some manner excuse my fault, which certainly I loath to do. But the conclusion is, that I gave order to some servants of mine, whom I thought as apt for such charities as myself, to lead him out into a forest, and there to kill him.

“‘But those thieves, better natured to my son than myself, spared his life, letting him go to learn to live poorly which he did, giving himself to be a private soldier in a country hereby: but as he was ready to be greatly advanced for some noble pieces of service which he did, he heard news of me, who drunk in my affection to that unlawful and unnatural son of mine, suffered myself to be governed by him, that all favours and punishments passed by him, all offices and places of importance distributed to his favourites; so that, ere I was aware, I had left myself nothing but the name of a king, which he shortly weary of too, with many indignities if anything may be called an indignity which was laid upon me, threw me out of my seat, and put out my eyes, and then, proud in his tyranny, let me go, neither imprisoning, nor killing me, but rather delighting to make me feel my misery; misery indeed, if ever there were any; full of wretchedness, fuller of disgrace, and fullest of guiltiness. And as he came to the crown by so unjust means, as unjustly he kept it, by force of stronger soldiers in citadels, the nests of tyranny and murderers of liberty; disarming all his own countrymen, that no man durst show himself a well-willer of mine: to say the truth, I think, few of them being so, considering my cruel folly to my good son, and foolish kindness to my unkind bastard: but if there were any who felt a pity of so great a fall, and had yet any sparks of unslain duty left in them towards me, yet durst they not show it, scarcely with giving me alms at their doors, which yet was the only sustenance of my distressed life, nobody daring to show so much charity as to lend me a hand to guide my dark steps, till this son of mine, God knows, worthy of a more virtuous, and more fortunate father, forgetting my abominable wrongs, not reckoning danger, and neglecting the present good way he was in of doing himself good, came hither to do this kind office you see him perform towards me, to my unspeakable grief; not only because his kindness is a glass even to my blind eyes of my naughtiness, but that above all griefs, it grieves me he should desperately adventure the loss of his well-deserving life for mine that yet owe more to fortune for my deserts, as if he would carry mud in a chest of crystal. For well I know, he that now reigneth, how much soever, and with good reason, he despiseth me, of all men despised; yet he will not let slip any advantage to make away with him, whose just title, ennobled by courage and goodness, may one day shake the seat of a never secure tyranny. And for this cause I craved of him to lead me to the top of this rock, indeed I must confess, with meaning to free him from so serpentine a companion, as I am. But he finding what I purposed, only therein since he was born, showed himself disobedient unto me. And now gentlemen, you have the true story, which I pray you publish to the world, that my mischievous proceedings may be the glory of his filial piety, the only reward now left for so great a merit. And if it may be, let me obtain that of you, which my son denies me: for never was there more pity in saving any than in ending me, both because therein my agony shall end, and so you shall perceive this excellent young man, who else wilfully follows his own ruin.’

“The matter in itself lamentable, lamentably expressed by the old prince, which needed not take to himself the gestures of pity, since his face could not put off the marks thereof, greatly moved the two princes to compassion, which could not stay in such hearts as theirs without seeking remedy. But by and by the occasion was presented: for Plexirtus, so was the bastard called, came thither with forty horse, only of purpose to murder his brother, of whose coming he had soon advertisement, and thought no eyes of sufficient credit in such a matter but his own, and therefore came himself to be actor and spectator. And as soon as he came, not regarding the weak, as he thought, guard but of two men, commanded some of his followers to set their hands to his, in the killing of Leonatus. But the young prince, though not otherwise armed but with a sword, how falsely soever he was dealt with by others, would not betray himself, but bravely drawing it out, made the death of the first that assailed him, warn his fellows to come more warily after him. But then Pyrocles and Musidorus were quickly become parties (so just a defence deserving as much as old friendship) and so did behave them among that company, more injurious than valiant, that many of them lost their lives for their wicked master.

“Yet perhaps had the number of them at last prevailed, if the king of Pontus, lately by them made so, had not come unlooked for to their succour. Who (having had a dream which had fixed his imagination vehemently upon some great danger, presently to follow those two princes, whom he most dearly loved) was come in all haste, following as well as he could their track, with a hundred horses in that country, which he thought, considering who then reigned, a fit place enough to make the stage of any tragedy.

“But then the match had been so ill made for Plexirtus that his ill-led life and worse-gotten honour should have tumbled together to destruction had there not come in Tydeus and Telenor, with forty or fifty in their suite, to the defence of Plexirtus. These two were brothers, of the noblest house of that country, brought up from their infancy with Plexirtus, men of such prowess as not to know fear in themselves, and yet to teach it in others that should deal with them, for they had often made their lives triumph over most terrible dangers, never dismayed, and ever fortunate; and truly no more settled in valour, than disposed to goodness and justice, if either they had lighted on a better friend, or could have learned to make friendship a child, and not the father of virtue. But bringing up, rather than choice, having first knit their minds unto him (indeed crafty enough, either to hide his faults, or never to show them, but when they might pay home) they willingly held out the course, rather to satisfy him than all the world; and rather to be good friends, than good men: so as though they did not like the evil he did, yet they liked him that did the evil: and though not counsellors of the offence, yet protectors of the offender. Now they having heard of this sudden going out with so small a company, in a country full of evil-wishing minds towards him, though they knew not the cause, followed him; till they found him in such case that they were to venture their lives, or else he to lose his, which they did with such force of mind and body, that truly I may justly say, Pyrocles and Musidorus had never till then found any that could make them so well repeat their hardest lesson in the feats of arms. And briefly so they did; that if they overcame not, yet were they not overcome, but carried away that ungrateful master of theirs to a place of security, howsoever the princes laboured to the contrary. But this matter being thus far begun, it became not the constancy of the princes so to leave it; but in all haste making forces both in Pontus, and Phrygia, they had in few days left him but only that one strong place where he was. For, fear having been the only knot that had fastened his people unto him, that once united by a greater force, they all scattered from him, like so many birds whose cage had been broken.

“In which season the blind king, having in the chief city of his realm set the crown upon his son Leonatus’s head, with many tears both of joy and sorrow, setting forth to the whole people his own faults, and his son’s virtue; after he had kissed him, and forced his son to accept honour of him, as of his new-become subject, even in a moment died, as it should seem, his heart broken with unkindness and affliction, stretched so far beyond his limits with this access of comfort that it was able no longer to keep safe his vital spirits. But the new king, having no less lovingly performed all duties to him dead, than alive, pursued on the siege of his unnatural brother, as much for the revenge of his father as the establishing of his own quiet. In which siege truly I cannot but acknowledge the prowess of those two brothers, than whom the princes never found in all their travel, two of greater ability to perform, nor of abler skill for conduct.

“But Plexirtus finding that if nothing else, famine would at last bring him to destruction, thought better by humbleness to creep, where by pride he could not march. For certainly so had Nature formed him, and the exercise of craft conformed him to all turningness of flights, that, though no man had less goodness in his soul than he, no man could better find the places whence arguments might grow of goodness to another; though no man felt less pity, no man could tell better how to stir pity; no man more impudent to deny, where proofs were not manifest; no man more ready to confess with a repenting manner of aggravating his own evil, where denial would but make the fault fouler. Now he took this way, that having gotten a passport for one, that pretended he would put Plexirtus alive into his hands, to speak with the king his brother, he himself (though much against the minds of the valiant brothers, who rather wished to die in brave defence) with a rope about his neck, bare-footed, came to offer himself to the discretion of Leonatus. Where what submission he used, how cunningly in making greater the fault, he made the faultiness the less, how artificially he could set out the torments of his own conscience, with the burdensome cumber he had found of his ambitious desires, how finely seeming to desire nothing but death, as ashamed to live, he begged life in the refusing it, I am not cunning enough to be able to express; but so fell out of it, that though at first sight Leonatus saw him with no other eye than as the murderer of his father, and anger already began to paint revenge in many colours, ere long he had not only gotten pity but pardon; and if not an excuse of the fault past, yet an opinion of a future amendment: while the poor villains (chief ministers of his wickedness, now betrayed by the author thereof) were delivered to many cruel sorts of death; he so handling it, that it rather seemed he had more come into the defence of an unremediable mischief already committed than that they had done it at first by his consent.

“In such sort the princes left these reconciled brothers (Plexirtus in all his behaviour carrying him in far lower degree of service than the ever-noble nature of Leonatus would suffer him) and taking likewise their leaves of their good friend the king of Pontus, who returned to enjoy some benefit, both of his wife and kingdom, they privately went thence, having only with them the two valiant brothers, who would needs accompany them through divers places, they four doing acts more dangerous, though less famous, because they were but private chivalries; till hearing of the fair and virtuous queen Erona of Lycia, besieged by the puissant king of Armenia, they bent themselves to her succour, both because the weaker, and weaker as being a lady, and partly because they heard the king of Armenia had in his company three of the most famous men living, for matters of arms, that were known to be in the world. Whereof one was the prince Plangus whose name was sweetened by your breath, peerless lady, when the last day it pleased you to mention him unto me, the other two were two great princes, though holding of him, Barzanes and Euardes, men of giant-like both hugeness and force; in which two especially, the trust the king had of victory was reposed. And of them, those brothers Tydeus and Telenor, sufficient judges in warlike matters, spoke so high commendations, that the two princes had even a youthful longing to have some trial of their virtue. And therefore as soon as they were entered into Lycia, they joined themselves with them that faithfully served the poor queen, at that time besieged; and ere long animated in such sort their almost overthrown hearts, that they went by force to relieve the town, though they were deprived of a great part of their strength by the parting of the two brothers, who were sent for in all haste to return to their old friend and master Plexirtus, who, willingly hoodwinking themselves from seeing his faults, and binding themselves to believe what he said, often abused the virtue of courage to defend his foul vice of injustice. But now they were sent for to advance a conquest he was about; while Pyrocles and Musidorus pursued the delivery of the queen Erona.”

“I have heard,” said Pamela, “that part of the story of Plangus, when he passed through this country, therefore you may, if you list, pass over that war of Erona’s quarrel, lest if you speak too much of war matters, you should wake Mopsa, which might happily breed a great broil.” He looked, and saw that Mopsa indeed sat swallowing the sleep with open mouth, making such a noise withal, as nobody could lay the stealing of a nap to her charge. Whereupon, willing to use that occasion, he kneeled down, and with humble heartedness, and hearty earnestness printed in his graces; “Alas!” said he, “divine lady, who have wrought such miracles in me, as to make a prince, none of the basest, to think all principalities base in respect of the sheephook which may hold him up in your sight; vouchsafe now at last to hear in direct words my humble suit, while this dragon sleeps that keeps the golden fruit. If in my desire I wish, or in my hopes aspire, or in my imagination fain to myself anything which may be the least spot to that heavenly virtue which shines in all your doings, I pray the eternal powers, that the words I speak may be deadly poisons, while they are in my mouth, and that all my hopes, all my desires, all my imaginations may only work their own confusion. But if love, love of you, love of your virtues, seek only that favour of you, which becometh that gratefulness which cannot misbecome your excellency, O do not—” He would have said further, but Pamela calling aloud Mopsa, she suddenly started up, staggering, and rubbing her eyes, ran first out of the door, and then back to them, before she knew how she went out, or why she came in again: till at length, being fully come to her little self, she asked Pamela why she had called her. For nothing said Pamela, but that ye might hear some tales of your servant’s telling: “and therefore now,” said she, “Dorus go on.”

But as he, who found no so good sacrifice as obedience, was returning to the story of himself, Philoclea came in, and by and by after her, Miso, so as for that time they were fain to let Dorus depart. But Pamela delighted even to preserve in her memory the words of so well a beloved speaker, repeated the whole substance to her sister, till their sober dinner being come and gone, to recreate themselves something, even tired with the noisomeness of Miso’s conversation, they determined to go, while the heat of the day lasted, to bathe themselves, such being the manner of the Arcadian nymphs often to do, in the river of Ladon, and take with them a lute, meaning to delight them under some shadow. But they could not stir, but that Miso, with her daughter Mopsa was after them: and as it lay in their way to pass by the other lodge, Zelmane out of her window espied them, and so stole down after them, which she might the better do, because that Gynecia was sick, and Basilius, that day being his birth-day, according to his manner, was busy about his devotions; and therefore she went after, hoping to find some time to speak with Philoclea: but not a word could she begin, but that Miso would be one of the audience, so that she was driven to recommend thinking, speaking, and all, to her eyes, who diligently performed her trust, till they came to the river’s side, which of all the rivers of Greece had the praise for excellent pureness and sweetness, insomuch as the very bathing in it was accounted exceeding healthful. It ran upon so fine and delicate a ground, as one could not easily judge whether the river did more wash the gravel, or the gravel did purify the river; the river not running forthright, but almost continually winding, as if the lower streams would return to their spring, or that the river had a delight to play with itself. The banks of either side seeming arms of the loving earth that fain would embrace it, and the river a wanton nymph which still would slip from it; either side of the bank being fringed with most beautiful trees, which resisted the sun’s darts from overmuch piercing the natural coldness of the river. There was among the rest a goodly cypress, who bowing her fair head over the water, it seemed she looked into it, and dressed her green locks by that running river.

There the princesses determining to bathe themselves, though it was so privileged a place, upon pain of death, as nobody durst presume to come hither; yet for the more surety, they looked round about, and could see nothing but a water-spaniel, who came down the river, showing that he hunted for a duck, and with a snuffling grace, disdaining that his smelling force could not as well prevail through the water as through the air; and therefore waiting with his eye to see whether he could espy the ducks getting up again, but then a little below them failing of his purpose, he got out of the river, and shaking off the water (as great men do their friends) now he had no further cause to use it, inweeded himself so that the ladies lost the further marking his sportfulness: and inviting Zelmane also to wash herself with them, and she excusing herself with having taken a late cold, they began by piecemeal to take away the eclipsing of their apparel.

Zelmane would have put to her helping hand, but she was taken with such a quivering, that she thought it more wisdom to lean herself to a tree, and look on, while Miso and Mopsa, like a couple of foreswat melters, were getting the pure silver of their bodies out of the ure of their garments. But as the raiments went off to receive kisses of the ground, Zelmane envied the happiness of all, but of the smock was even jealous, and when that was taken away too, and that Philoclea remained, for her Zelmane only marked, like a diamond taken from out of the rock, or rather like the sun getting from under a cloud, and showing his naked beams to the full view, then was the beauty too much for a patient sight, the delight too strong for a stayed conceit, so that Zelmane could not choose but run, to touch, embrace and kiss her. But conscience made her come to herself, and leave Philoclea, who blushing, and withal smiling, making shamefacedness pleasant, and pleasure shamefaced, tenderly moved her feet, unwonted to feel the naked ground, till the touch of the cold water made a pretty kind of shrugging come over her body, like the twinkling of the fairest among the fixed stars. But the river itself gave way unto her, so that she was straight breast high, which was the deepest that thereabout she could be: and when cold Ladon had once fully embraced them, himself was no more so cold to those ladies, but as if his cold complexion had been heated with love, so seemed he to play about every part he could touch.

“Ah sweet, now sweetest Ladon,” said Zelmane, “why dost thou not stay thy course to have more full taste of thy happiness? but the reason is manifest, the upper streams make such haste to have their part of embracing, that the nether, though lothly, must needs give place unto them. O happy Ladon, within whom she is, upon whom her beauty falls, through whom her eye pierceth. O happy Ladon, which art now an unperfect mirror of all perfection, can’st thou ever forget the blessedness of this impression? if thou do, then let thy bed be turned from fine gravel to weeds and mud; if thou do, let some unjust niggards make wares to spoil thy beauty; if thou do, let some greater river fall into thee, to take away the name of Ladon, O! Ladon, happy Ladon, rather slide than run by her, lest thou should’st make her legs slip from her, and then, O happy Ladon, who would then call thee, but the most cursed Ladon?” But as the ladies played then in the water, sometimes striking it with their hands, the water, making lines in his face, seemed to smile at such beating, and with twenty bubbles not to be content to have the picture of their face in large upon him, but he would in each of these bubbles set forth the miniature of them.

But Zelmane, whose sight was gain-said by nothing but the transparent veil of Ladon (like a chamber where a great fire is kept, though the fire be at one stay, yet with the continuance continually hath his heat increased) had the coals of her affection so kindled with wonder, and blown with delight, that now all her parts grudged, that her eyes should do more homage, than they, to the princes of them. Insomuch that taking up the lute, her wit began to be with a divine fury inspired; her voice would in so beloved an occasion second her wit; her hands accorded the lute’s music to the voice; her panting heart danced to the music; while I think her feet did beat the time; while her body was the room where it should be celebrated; her soul the queen which should be delighted. And so together went the utterance and invention, that one might judge, it was Philoclea’s beauty which did speedily write it in her eyes; or the sense thereof, which did word by word indite it in her mind, whereto she, but as an organ, did only lend utterance. The song was to this purpose:

What tongue can her perfection tell,
In whose each part all tongues may dwell?
Her hair fine threads of finest gold,
In curled knots man’s thought to hold:
But that her forehead says, “in me
A whiter beauty you may see”;
Whiter indeed, more white than snow,
Which on cold winter’s face doth grow:
That doth present those even brows,
Whose equal line their angles bows;
Like to the moon when after change
Her horned head abroad doth range:
And arches be two heavenly lids,
Whose wink each bold attempt forbids.
For the black stars those spheres contain,
The matchless pair, even praise doth stain.
No lamp whose light by art is got,
No sun which shines, and seeth not,
Can liken them without all peer,
Save one as much as other clear:
Which only thus unhappy be,
Because themselves they cannot see.
Her cheeks with kindly claret spread,
Aurora-like new out of bed;
Or like the fresh queen-apple’s side,
Blushing at sight of Phoebus’ pride.
Her nose, her chin pure ivory wears:
No purer than the pretty ears.
So that therein appears some blood
Like wine and milk that mingled stood:
In whose incirclets if ye gaze,
Your eyes may tread a lover’s maze.
But with such turns the voice to stray,
No talk untaught can find the way.
The tip no jewel needs to wear;
The tip is jewel of the ear.
But who those ruddy lips can miss,
Which blessed still themselves to kiss?
Rubies, cherries, and roses new,
In worth, in taste, in perfect hue:
Which never part, but that they show
Of precious pearl the double row;
The second-sweetly fenced ward,
Her heavenly-dewed tongue to guard,
Whence never word in vain did flow.
Fair under those doth stately grow,
The handle of this precious work,
The neck in which strange graces lurk.
Such be I think the sumptuous towers,
Which skill doth make in princes’ bowers.
So good assay invites the eye,
A little downward to espy,
The lively clusters of her breasts,
Of Venus’ babe the wanton nests:
Like pommels round of marble clear;
Where azur’d veins well mix’d appear,
With dearest tops of porphyry.
Betwixt these two a way doth lie,
A way more worthy beauty’s fame,
Than that which bears the Milky name.
This leads into the joyous field,
Which only still doth lilies yield:
But lilies such whose native smell,
The Indians’ odors doth excel.
Waist it is called, for it doth waste
Men’s lives, until it be embrac’d.
There may one see, and yet not see
Her ribs in white all armed be,
More white than Neptune’s foamy face,
When struggling rocks he would embrace.
In those delights the wand’ring thought
Might of each side astray be brought,
But that her navel doth unite,
In curious circle busy sight;
A dainty seal of virgin-wax,
Where nothing but impression lacks.
Her belly their glad sight doth fill,
Justly entitled Cupid’s hill.
A hill most fit for such a master,
A spotless mine of alabaster.
Like alabaster fair and sleek,
But soft and supple, satin-like,
In that sweet seat the boy doth sport:
Loth, I must leave his chief resort.
For such a use the world hath gotten,
The best things still must be forgotten.
Yet never shall my song omit
Her thighs for Ovid’s song more fit;
Which flanked with two sugared flanks,
Lift up her stately swelling banks;
That Albion cliffs in whiteness pass;
With haunches smooth as looking-glass.
But bow all knees, now of her knees
My tongue doth tell what fancy sees.
The knots of joy, the gems of love,
Whose motion makes all graces move.
Whose bough incav’d doth yield such sight,
Like cunning painter shadowed white.
The gartring place with child-like sign,
Shows easy print in metal fine.
But then again the flesh doth rise
In her brave calves like crystal skies.
Whose Atlas is a smallest small,
More white than whitest bone of all.
Thereout steals out that round clean foot
This noble cedar’s precious root:
In show and scent pale violets,
Whose step on earth all beauty sets.
But back unto her back, my Muse,
Where Leda’s swan his feathers mews,
Along whose ridge such bones are met,
Like comfits round in marchpane set.
Her shoulders be like to white doves,
Perching within square royal rooves,
Which leaded are with silver skin,
Passing the hate-spot, emerlin.
And thence those arms derived are;
The Phoenix wings are not so rare
For faultless length, and stainless hue.
Ah woe is me, my woes renew.
Now course doth lead me to her hand
Of my first love the fatal band.
Where whiteness doth for ever sit:
Nature herself enamell’d it.
For therewith strange compact doth lie
Warm snow, moist pearl, soft ivory.
There fall those sapphire-coloured brooks,
Which conduit-like with curious crooks,
Sweet islands make in that sweet land,
As for the fingers of the hand,
The bloody shafts of Cupid’s war,
With amethysts they beaded are.
Thus hath each part his beauty’s part:
But how the graces do impart,
To all her limbs a special grace,
Becoming every time and place,
Which doth even beauty beautify,
And most bewitch the wretched eye.
How all this is but a fair inn
Of fairer guests, which dwell therein.
Of whose high praise, and praiseful bliss,
Goodness the pen, and Heaven paper is:
The ink immortal fame doth lend:
As I began, so must I end.
No tongue can her perfection tell,
In whose each part all tongues may dwell.

But as Zelmane was coming to the latter end of her song, she might see the same water-spaniel which before had hunted, come and fetch away one of Philoclea’s gloves, whose fine proportion, showed well what a dainty guest was wont there to be lodged. It was a delight to Zelmane, to see that the dog was therewith delighted, and so let him go a little way withal, who quickly carried it out of sight among certain trees and bushes, which were very close together. But by and by he came again, and amongst the raiment. Miso and Mopsa being preparing sheets against their coming out, the dog lighted of a little book of four or five leaves of paper, and was bearing that away too. But when Zelmane, not knowing what importance it might be of, ran after the dog, who going straight to those bushes, she might see the dog deliver it to a gentleman, who secretly lay there. But she hastily coming in, the gentleman rose up, and with a courteous, though sad, countenance presented himself unto her. Zelmane’s eyes straight willed her mind to mark him, for she thought in herself, she had never seen a man of a more goodly presence, in whom strong making took not away delicacy, nor beauty fierceness: being indeed such a right man-like man, as nature often erring, yet shows she would fain make. But when she had a while, not without admiration, viewed him, she desired him to deliver back the glove and paper, because they were the lady Philoclea’s, telling him withal, that she would not willingly let them know of his close lying in that prohibited place, while they were bathing themselves, because she knew they would be mortally offended withal. “Fair lady,” answered he, “the worst of the complaint is already passed, since I feel of my fault in myself the punishment. But for these things, I assure you, it was my dog’s wanton boldness, not my presumption. With that he gave her back the paper: but for the glove,” said he, “since it is my lady Philoclea’s, give me leave to keep it, since my heart cannot persuade itself to part from it. And I pray you tell the lady, lady indeed of all my desires, that owns it, that I will direct my life to honour this glove with serving her.” “O villain,” cried out Zelmane, maddened with finding an unlooked-for rival, and that he would make her a messenger, “dispatch,” said she, “and deliver it, or by the life of her that owns it, I will make thy soul, though too base a price, pay for it”: and with that drew out her sword, which, Amazon-like, she ever wore about her. The gentleman retired himself into an open place from among the bushes, and then drawing out his too, he offered to deliver it unto her, saying, withal, “God forbid I should use my sword against you, sith, if I be not deceived, you are the same famous Amazon, that both defended my lady’s just title of beauty against the valiant Phalantus, and saved her life in killing the lion, therefore I am rather to kiss your hands, with acknowledging myself bound to obey you.”

But this courtesy was worse than a bastinado to Zelmane: so that again with rageful eyes she bade him defend himself, for no less than his life should answer it. “A hard case,” said he, “to teach my sword that lesson, which hath ever used to turn itself to a shield in a lady’s presence.” But Zelmane hearkening to no more words, began with such witty fury to pursue him with blows and thrusts, that nature and virtue commanded the gentleman to look to his safety. Yet still courtesy, that seemed incorporate in his heart, would not be persuaded by danger to offer any offence, but only to stand upon the best defensive guard he could; sometimes going back, being content in that respect to take on the figure of cowardice; sometimes with strong and well-met wards, sometimes cunning avoidings of his body; and sometimes feigning some blows, which himself pull’d back before they needed to be withstood. And so with play did he a good while fight against the fight of Zelmane, who, more spited with that courtesy, that one that did nothing should be able to resist her, burned away with choler any motions which might grow out of her own sweet disposition, determined to kill him if he fought no better and so redoubling her blows, drove the stranger to no other shift than to ward and go back; at that time seeming the image of innocency against violence. But at length he found, that both in public and private respects, who stands only upon defence, stands upon no defence: for Zelmane seeming to strike at his head, and he going toward it, withal stepped back as he was accustomed: she stopped her blow in the air, and suddenly turning the point, ran full at his breast, so as he was driven with the pommel of his sword, having no other weapon of defence, to beat it down: but the thrust was so strong that he could not so wholly beat it away, but that it met with his thigh, through which it ran. But Zelmane retiring her sword, and seeing his blood, victorious anger was conquered by the before conquering pity; and heartily sorry, and even ashamed with herself she was, considering how little he had done, who well she found could have done more. Insomuch that she said, “Truly I am sorry for your hurt, but yourself gave the cause, both in refusing to deliver the glove, and yet not fighting as I know you could have done. But,” said she, “because I perceive you disdain to fight with a woman, it may be before a year come about, you shall meet with a near kinsman of mine, Pyrocles prince of Macedon, and I give you my word, he for me shall maintain this quarrel against you.” “I would” answered Amphialus, “I had many more such hurts to meet and know that worthy prince, whose virtue I love and admire, though my good destiny hath not been to see his person.”

But as they were so speaking, the young ladies came, to whom, Mopsa, curious in anything but her own good behaviour, having followed and seen Zelmane fighting, had cried, what she had seen, while they were drying themselves: and the water, with some drops, seemed to weep, that it should pass from such bodies. But they careful of Zelmane, assuring themselves that any Arcadian would bear reverence to them, Pamela with a noble mind, and Philoclea with a loving, hastily, hiding the beauties, whereof nature was proud, and they ashamed, they made quick work to come to save Zelmane. But already they found them in talk, and Zelmane careful of his wound. But when they saw him, they knew it was their cousin-german, the famous Amphialus, whom yet with a sweet graced bitterness they blamed for breaking their father’s commandment, especially while themselves were in such sort retired. But he craved pardon, protesting unto them that he had only been to seek solitary places, by an extreme melancholy that had a good while possessed him, and guided to that place by his spaniel, where while the dog hunted in the river, he had withdrawn himself to pacify with sleep his over watched eyes, till a dream waked him, and made him see that whereof he had dreamed, and withal not obscurely signified, that he felt the smart of his own doings. But Philoclea, that was even jealous of herself for Zelmane, would needs have her glove, and not without so mighty a lower as that face could yield. As for Zelmane when she knew it was Amphialus; “Lord Amphialus,” said she, “I have long desired to know you heretofore, I must confess, with more goodwill, but still with honouring your virtue, though I love not your person: and at this time I pray you let us take care of your wound, upon condition you shall hereafter promise that a more knightly combat shall be performed between us.” Amphialus answered in honourable sort, but with such excusing himself, that more and more accused his love to Philoclea, and provoked more hate in Zelmane. But Mopsa had already called certain shepherds not far off, who knew and well observed their limits, to come and help to carry away Amphialus, whose wound suffered him not without danger to strain it: and so he leaving himself with them, departed from them, faster bleeding in his heart than at his wound, which bound up by the sheets, wherewith Philoclea had been wrapped, made him thank the wound, and bless the sword for that favour.

He being gone, the ladies, with merry anger talking, in what naked simplicity their cousin had seen them, returned to the lodge-ward; yet thinking it too early, as long as they had any day, to break off so pleasing a company with going to perform a cumbersome obedience, Zelmane invited them to the little arbour, only reserved for her, which they willingly did: and there sitting, Pamela having a while made the lute in his language show how glad it was to be touched by her fingers, Zelmane delivered up the paper which Amphialus had at first yielded unto her, and seeing written upon the backside of it the complaint of Plangus, remembering what Dorus had told her, and desiring to know how much Philoclea knew of her estate, she took occasion in presenting of it, to ask whether it were any secret or no. “No truly,” answered Philoclea, “it is but even an exercise of my father’s writing, upon this occasion: he was one day, somewhile before your coming hither, walking abroad, having us two with him, almost a mile hence, and crossing a highway, which comes from the city of Megalopolis, he saw this gentleman, whose name is there written, one of the properest and best graced men that ever I saw, being of middle age and of a mean stature. He lay as then under a tree, while his servants were getting fresh post-horses for him. It might seem he was tired with the extreme travel he had taken, and yet not so tired that he forced to take any rest, so hasty he was upon his journey: and withal so sorrowful that the very face thereof was painted in his face, which with pitiful motions, even groans, tears, and passionate talking to himself, moved my father to fall in talk with him, who at first not knowing him, answered him in such a desperate phrase of grief that my father afterward took a delight to set it down in such a form as you see: which if you read, what you doubt of, my sister and I are able to declare unto you, Zelmane willingly opened the leaves, and read it being written dialogue-wise in this manner.”

PLANGUS and BASILIUS

PLANGUS

Alas, how long this pilgrimage doth last?
What greater ills have now the heavens in store,
To couple coming harms with sorrows past?
Long since my voice is hoarse, and throat is sore,
With cries to skies, and courses to the ground,
But more I plain, I feel my woes the more.
Ah, where was first that cruel cunning found,
To frame of earth, a vessel of the mind,
Where it should be to self-destruction bound?
What needed so high spirits, such mansions blind?
Or wrapped in flesh what do they here obtain.
But glorious name of wretched human kind?
Balls to the stars, and thralls to Fortune’s reign;
Turn’d from themselves, infected with their rage,
Where death is fear’d, and life is held with pain,
Like players plac’d to fill a filthy stage,
Where change of thoughts one fool to other shows,
And all but jests, save only sorrow’s rage.
The child feels that, the man that feeling knows,
Which cries first born, the presage of his life,
Where wit but serves, to have true taste of woes.
A shop of shame, a book where blots be rife,
This body is, this body so compos’d,
As in itself to nourish mortal strife:
So divers be the elements dispos’d.
In this weak work, that it can never be
Made uniform to any state repos’d.
Grief only makes his wretched state to see
(Even like a top which nought but whipping moves)
This man, this talking beast, this walking tree,
Grief is the stone which finest judgments proves:
For who grieves not, hath but a blockish brain,
Since cause of grief no cause from life removes.

BASILIUS

How long wilt thou with mournful music stain
The cheerful notes those pleasant places yield,
Where all good haps a perfect state maintain?

PLANGUS

Cursed be good haps, and cursed be they that build
Their hopes on haps, and do not make despair
For all those certain blows the surest shield.
Shall I that saw Erona’s shining hair,
Torn with her hands, and those same hands of snow
With loss of purest blood themselves to tear?
Shall I that saw those breasts, where beauties flow,
Swelling with sighs, made pale with mind’s disease,
And saw those eyes, those suns, such showers to show?
Shall I whose ears her mournful words did seize,
Her words in syrup laid of sweetest breath,
Relent those thoughts which then did so displease?
No, no: despair my daily lesson faith,
And faith, although I seek my life to fly,
Plangus must live to see Erona’s death.
Plangus must live some help for her to try
(Though in despair) for love so forceth me,
Plangus doth live, and shall Erona die?
Erona die? O heaven, if heaven there be,
Hath all thy whirling course so small effect?
Serve all thy starry eyes this shame to see?
Let dolts in haste some altars fair erect
To those high powers, which idly sit above,
And virtue do in greatest need neglect.

BASILIUS

O man, take heed, how thou the gods do move
To causeful wrath, which thou can’st not resist.
Blasphemous words the speaker vain do prove.
Alas while we are wrapped in foggy mist
Of our self-love, so passions do deceive,
We think they hurt, when most they do assist.
To harm us worms should that high justice leave
His nature? nay himself? for so it is.
What glory from our loss can he receive?
But still our dazzled eyes their way do miss,
While that we do at his sweet scourge repine,
The kindly way do beat us on to bliss.
If she must die then hath she passed the line
Of loathsome days, whose loss how can’st thou moan,
That dost so well their miseries define?
But such we are with inward tempest blown
Of winds quite contrary in waves of will:
We moan that lost, which had we did bemoan.

PLANGUS

And shall she die? shall cruel fire spill
Those beams that set so many hearts on fire?
Hath she not force even death with love to kill:
Nay, even cold death inflam’d with hot desire
Her to enjoy where joy itself is thrall,
Will spoil the earth of his most rich attire:
Thus death becomes a rival to us all,
And hopes with foul embracements her to get,
In whose decay virtue’s fair shrine must fall.
O virtue weak, shall death his triumph set
Upon thy spoils, which never should lie waste?
Let death first die; be thou his worthy let.
By what eclipse shall that sun be defac’d?
What mine hath erst thrown down so fair a tower?
What sacrilege hath such a saint disgrac’d?
The world the garden is, she is the flower
That sweetens all the place; she is the guest
Of rarest price, both heaven and earth her bower.
And shall, O me! all this in ashes rest?
Alas if you a Phoenix new will have
Burnt by the sun, she first must build her nest.
But well you know, the gentle sun would save
Such beams so like his own, which might have might
In him the thoughts of Phaeton’s dam to grave,
Therefore, alas, you use vile Vulcan’s spite,
Which nothing spares, to melt that virgin wax,
Which while it is, it is all Asia’s light.
O Mars, for what doth serve thy armed ax?
To let that wit-old beast consume in flames
Thy Venus child, whose beauty Venus lacks?
O Venus, if her praise no envy frames
In thy high mind, get her thy husband’s grace
Sweet speaking oft a currish heart reclaims.
O eyes of mine, where once she saw her face,
Her face which was more lively in my heart:
O brain, where thought of her hath only place;
O hand, which touch’d her hand when we did part;
O lips that kiss’d that hand with my tears spent;
O tongue, then dumb, not daring tell my smart;
O soul, whose love in her is only spent,
What ere you see, think, touch, kiss, speak, or love,
Let all for her, and unto her be bent.

BASILIUS

Thy wailing words do much my spirits move,
They uttered are in such a feeling fashion,
That sorrow’s work against my will I prove.
Methinks I am partaker of thy passion,
And in thy case do glass mine own debility:
Self-guilty folk most prone to feel compassion.
Yet reason faith, “Reason should have ability
To hold those worldly things in such proportion,
As let them come or go with even facility.”
But our desire’s tyrannical extortion
Doth force us there to set our chief delightfulness
Where but a baiting place is all our portion.
But still although we fail of perfect rightfulness,
Seek we to tame those childish superfluities:
Let us not wink though void of purest sightfulness
For what can breed more peevish incongruities,
Than man to yield to female lamentations:
Let us some grammar learn of more congruities.

PLANGUS

If through mine ears pierce any consolations,
By wise discourse, sweet tunes, or poets’ fiction;
If aught I cease those hideous exclamations;
While that my soul, she, lives in affliction;
Then let my life long time on earth maintained be,
To wretched me, the last worst malediction.
Can I that knew her sacred parts, restrained be
From any joy? know fortunes vile displacing her,
In mortal rules let raging woes contained be?
Can I forget, when they in prison placing her,
With swelling heart in spite and due disdainfulness
She lay for dead, till I help’d with unlacing her?
Can I forget from how much mourning painfulness
With diamond in window-glass she grav’d
“Erona die, and end this ugly painfulness”?
Can I forget in how strange phrase she crav’d
That quickly they would her burn, drown or smother,
As if by death she only might be sav’d?
Then let me eke forget one hand from other:
Let me forget that Plangus I am called:
Let me forget I am son to my mother:
But if my memory must thus be thralled
To that strange stroke which conquered all my senses.
Can thoughts still thinking, so rest unappalled?

BASILIUS

Who still doth seek against himself offences,
What pardon can avail? or who employs him
To hurt himself, what shields can be defences?
Woe to poor man; each outward thing annoys him
In divers kinds; yet as he were not filled,
He heaps in outward grief, that most destroys him.
Thus is our thought with pain for thistles tilled:
Thus be our noblest parts dried up with sorrow:
Thus is our mind with too much minding spilled.
One day lays up store of grief for the morrow:
And whose good haps do leave him unprovided,
Condoling cause of friendship he will borrow:
Betwixt the good and shade of good divided,
We pity deem that which but weakness is:
So are we from our high creation slided.
But Plangus, lest I may your sickness miss,
Or rubbing, hurt the sore, I here do end.
The ass did hurt when he did think to kiss.

When Zelmane had read it over, marvelling very much of the speech of Erona’s death, and therefore desirous to know further of it, but more desirous to hear Philoclea speak, “Most excellent lady,” said she, “one may be little the wiser for reading this dialogue, since it neither sets forth what this Plangus is, nor what Erona is, nor what the cause should be which threatens her with death, and him with sorrow; therefore I would humbly crave to understand the particular discourse thereof, because, I must confess, something in my travel I have heard of this strange matter, which I would be glad to find by so sweet an authority confirmed.” “The truth is,” answered Philoclea, “that after he knew my father to be prince of this country, while he hoped to prevail something with him in a great request he made unto him, he was content to open fully the estate both of himself, and of that lady; which with my sister’s help,” said she, “who remembers it better than I, I will declare unto you. And first of Erona, being the chief subject of this discourse, this story, with more tears and exclamations than I list to spend about it, he recounted.”

“Of late there reigned a king in Lydia, who had, for the blessing of his marriage, this only daughter of his, Erona, a princess worthy for her beauty, as much praise, as beauty may be praise-worthy. This princess Erona, being nineteen years of age, seeing the country of Lydia so much devoted to Cupid, as that in every place his naked pictures and images were superstitiously adored (either moved thereunto by the esteeming that it could be no god-head, which could breed wickedness, or the shamefaced consideration of such nakedness) procured so much of her father, as utterly to pull down, and deface all those statutes and pictures: which how terribly he punished, for to that the Lydians impute it, quickly after appeared.

“For she had not lived a year longer, when she was stricken with most obstinate love to a young man but of mean parentage, in her father’s court, named Antiphilus: so mean, as that he was but the son of her nurse, and by that means, without other desert, became known of her. Now so evil could she conceal her fire, and so wilfully persevered she in it that her father offering her the marriage of the great Tiridates, king of Armenia, who desired her more than the joys of heaven, she for Antiphilus’s sake refused it. Many ways her father sought to withdraw her from it, sometimes by persuasions, sometimes by threatenings; once, hiding Antiphilus, and giving her to understand that he was fled the country, lastly, making a solemn execution to be done of another under the name of Antiphilus, whom he kept in prison. But neither she liked persuasions, nor feared threatenings, nor changed for absence: and when she thought him dead, she sought all means, as well by poison as knife, to send her soul, at least to be married in the eternal church with him. This so broke the tender father’s heart, that, leaving things as he found them, he shortly after died. Then forthwith Erona, being seized of the crown, and arming her will with authority, sought to advance her affection to the holy title of matrimony.

“But before she could accomplish all the solemnities, she was overtaken with a war the King Tiridates made upon her, only for her person, towards whom, for her ruin, love had kindled his cruel heart, indeed cruel and tyrannous; for being far too strong in the field, he spared no man, woman, nor child; but, as though there could be found no foil to set forth the extremity of his love, but extremity of hatred, wrote, as it were, the sonnets of his love in the blood, and turned them in the cries of her subjects; although his fair sister Artaxia, who would accompany him in the army, sought all means to appease his fury: till lastly, he besieged Erona in her best city, vowing to win her, or lose his life. And now had he brought her to the point either of a woeful consent, or a ruinous denial, when there came thither, following the course which virtue and fortune led them, two excellent young princes, Pyrocles and Musidorus, the one prince of Macedon, the other of Thessalia: two princes as Plangus said, and he witnessed his saying with sighs and tears, the most accomplished both in body and mind that the sun ever looked upon.” While Philoclea spoke those words; O sweet words, thought Zelmane to herself, which are not only a praise to me, but a praise to praise herself, which out of that mouth issueth.

“Those two princes,” said Philoclea, “as well to help the weaker, especially being a lady as to save a Greek people from being ruined by such whom we call and count barbarous, gathering together such of the honestest Lycians as would venture their lives to succour their princess; giving order by a secret message, they sent into the city that they should issue with all force at an appointed time: they set upon Tiridates’s camp with so well guided a fierceness that being on both sides assaulted, he was like to be overthrown, but that this Plangus, being general of Tiridates’s horsemen, especially aided by the two mighty men Euardes and Barzanes, rescued the footmen, even almost defeated: but yet could not bar the princes, with their succours both of men and victual, to enter the city.

“Which when Tiridates found would make the war long, which length seemed to him worse than a languishing consumption, he made a challenge of three princes in his retinue, against those two princes and Antiphilus: and that thereupon the quarrel should be decided, with compact that neither side should help his fellow, but of whose side the more overcame, with him the victory should remain. Antiphilus (though Erona chose rather to bide the brunt of war, than venture him, yet) could not for shame refuse the offer, especially since the two strangers that had no interest in it, did willingly accept it: besides that, he saw it like enough, that the people, weary of the miseries of war, would rather give him up, if they saw him shrink, than for his sake venture their ruin, considering that the challengers were of far greater worthiness than himself. So it was agreed upon; and against Pyrocles was Euardes king of Bithynia; Barzanes of Hyrcania against Musidorus, two men, that thought the world scarce able to resist them; and against Antiphilus he placed this same Plangus, being his own cousin-german, and son to the king of Iberia. Now so it fell out, that Musidorus slew Barzanes, and Pyrocles Euardes, which victory those princes esteemed above all that ever they had: but of the other side Plangus took Antiphilus prisoner: under which colour, as if the matter had been equal, though indeed it was not, the greater part being overcome of his side, Tiridates continued his war: and to bring Erona to a compelled yielding, sent her word that he would the third morrow after, before the walls of the town, strike off Antiphilus’s head, without his suit in that space were granted, adding, withal, because he had heard of her desperate affection, that, if in the meantime she did herself any hurt, what tortures could be devised should be lain upon Antiphilus.

“Then lo, if Cupid be a god, or that the tyranny of our own thoughts seem as a god unto us: but whatsoever it was then it did set forth the miserableness of his effects; she being drawn to two contraries by one cause (for the love of him commanded her to yield to no other; the love of him commanded her to preserve his life); which knot might well be cut, but untied it could not be. So that love in her passions, like a right make-bate, whispered to both sides arguments of quarrel. ‘What,’ said he, ‘of the one side, dost thou love Antiphilus, O Erona! and shall Tiridates enjoy thy body? With what eyes wilt thou look upon Antiphilus, when he shall know that another possesseth thee? but if thou wilt do it, canst thou do it? canst thou force thy heart? think with thyself, if this man have thee, thou shalt never have more part of Antiphilus than if he were dead. But thus much more, that the affectation shall be still gnawing, and the remorse still present. Death perhaps will cool the rage of thy affection: where thus, thou shalt ever love, and ever lack. Think this beside, if thou marry Tiridates, Antiphilus is so excellent a man that long he cannot be from being in some high place married; can’st thou suffer that too? if another kill him, he doth him the wrong; if thou abuse thy body, thou dost him the wrong. His death is a work of nature, and either now, or at another time he shall die. But it shall be thy work, thy shameful work, which is in thy power to shun, to make him live to see thy faith falsified, and his bed defiled.’ But when love had well kindled that party of her thoughts, then went he to the other side. ‘What,’ said he, ‘O Erona, and is thy love of Antiphilus come to that point, as thou dost now make it a question whether he shall die, or no? O excellent affection, which for too much love will see his head off. Mark well the reasons of the other side, and thou shalt see it is but love of thyself which so disputeth. Thou can’st not abide Tiridates: this is but love of thyself; thou shalt be ashamed to look upon him afterwards; this is but fear of shame, and love of thyself; thou shalt want him as much then; this is but love of thyself: he shall be married; if he be well, why should that grieve thee, but for love of thyself? no, no, pronounce these words if thou can’st, “let Antiphilus die.”’ Then the images of each side stood before her understanding; one time she thought she saw Antiphilus dying, another time she thought Antiphilus saw her by Tiridates enjoyed; twenty times calling for a servant to carry message of yielding, but before he came the mind was altered. She blushed when she considered the effect of granting; she was pale, when she remembered the fruits of denying. For weeping, sighing, wringing her hands, and tearing her hair, were indifferent of both sides. Easily she would have agreed to have broken all disputations with her own death, but that the fear of Antiphilus’s further torments, stayed her. At length, even the evening before the day appointed for his death, the determination of yielding prevailed, especially, growing upon a message of Antiphilus, who with all the conjuring terms he could devise, besought her to save his life, upon any conditions. But she had no sooner sent her messenger to Tiridates, but her mind changed, and she went to the two young princes, Pyrocles and Musidorus, and falling down at their feet, desired them to try some way for her deliverance, showing herself resolved not to over-live Antiphilus, nor yet to yield to Tiridates.

“They that knew not what she had done in private, prepared that night accordingly: and as sometimes it falls out that what is inconstancy seems cunning, so did this change indeed stand in as good stead as a witty dissimulation. For it made the king as reckless as them diligent, so that in the dead time of the night, the princes issued out of the town; with whom she would needs go, either to die herself, or rescue Antiphilus, having no armour, or weapon, but affection. And I cannot tell you how, or by what device, though Plangus at large described it, the conclusion was, the wonderful valour of the two princes so prevailed, that Antiphilus was succoured, and the king slain. Plangus was then the chief man left in the camp; and therefore seeing no other remedy, conveyed in safety into her country Artaxia, now Queen of Armenia, who with true lamentations, made known to the world that her new greatness did no way comfort her in respect of her brother’s loss, whom she studied by all means possible to revenge upon every one of the occasioners, having, as she thought, overthrown her brother by a most abominable treason. Insomuch, that being at home she proclaimed great rewards to any private man, and herself in marriage to any prince that would destroy Pyrocles and Musidorus. But thus was Antiphilus redeemed, and, though against the consent of all her nobility, married to Erona; in which case the two Greek princes, being called away by another adventure, left them.

“But now methinks, as I have read some poets, who when they intend to tell some horrible matter, they bid men shun the hearing of it, so if I do not desire you to stop your ears from me, yet may I well desire a breathing time, before I am to tell the execrable treason of Antiphilus that brought her to this misery, and withal wish you all, that from all mankind indeed you stop your ears. O most happy were we, if we did set our loves one upon another.” And as she spake that word, her cheeks in red letters writ more than her tongue did speak. “And therefore since I have named Plangus, I pray you, sister,” said she, “help me with the rest, for I have held the stage long enough; and if it please you to make his fortune known, as I have done Erona’s, I will after take heart again to go on with his falsehood; and so between us both, my Lady Zelmane shall understand both the cause and parties of this lamentation.” “Nay, I beshrew me then,” said Miso, “I will none of that, I promise you, as long as I have the government, I will first have my tale, and then my Lady Pamela, my Lady Zelmane, and my daughter Mopsa (for Mopsa was then returned from Amphialus) may draw cuts, and the shortest cut speak first. For I tell you, and this may be suffered, when you are married, you will have first and last word of your husbands.”

The ladies laughed to see with what an eager earnestness she looked, having threatened not only in her ferret eyes, but while she spoke her nose seeming to threaten her chin, and her shaking limbs one to threaten another. But there was no remedy, they must obey, and Miso, sitting on the ground with her knees up, and her hands upon her knees, tuning her voice with many a quavering cough, thus discoursed unto them. “I tell you true,” said she, “whatsoever you think of me, you will one day be as I am; and I, simple though I sit here, thought once my penny as good silver, as some of you do: and if my father had not played the hasty fool, it is no lie I tell you, I might have had another-gains husband than Dametas. But let that pass, God amend him; and yet I speak it not without good cause. You are full in your tittle-tattlings of Cupid, here is Cupid and there is Cupid. I will tell you now what a good old woman told me, what an old wise man told her, what a great learned clerk told him, and gave it him in writing: and here I have it in my prayer-book.” “I pray you,” said Philoclea, “let us see it and read it.” “No haste, but good,” said Miso, “you shall first know how I came by it. I was a young girl of seven and twenty years old, and I could not go through the street of our village, but I might hear the young men talk: O the pretty little eyes of Miso: O the fine thin lips of Miso: O the goodly fat hands of Miso: besides, how well a certain wrying in my neck became me. Then the one would wink with one eye, and the other cast daisies at me. I must confess, seeing so many amorous, it made me set up my peacock’s tail with the highest. Which when this good old woman perceived, O the good old woman, well may the bones rest of the good old woman, she called me to her into her house. I remember full well it stood in the lane as you go to the barber’s shop; all the town knew her, there was a great loss of her: she called me to her, and taking first a sop of wine to comfort her heart, it was of the same wine that comes out of Candia, which we pay so dear for now-a-days, and in that good world was very good cheap, she called me to her: ‘Minion,’ said she, indeed I was a pretty one in those days, though I say it, ‘I see a number of lads that love you, well,’ said she, ‘I say no more; do you know what love is?’ With that she brought me into a corner, where there was painted a foul fiend I trow, for he had a pair of horns like a bull, his feet cloven, as many eyes upon his body as my grey mare hath dapples, and for all the world so placed. This monster sat like a hangman upon a pair of gallows; in his right hand he was painted holding a crown of laurel; in his left hand a purse of money; and out of his mouth hung a lace of two fair pictures of a man and a woman, and such a countenance he showed as if he would persuade folks by those allurements to come thither and be hanged. I, like a tender-hearted wench, shrieked out for fear of the devil: ‘Well,’ said she, ‘this same is even love; therefore do what thou list with all those fellows one after another, and it recks not much what they do to thee, so it be in secret; but upon my charge, never love none of them.’ ‘Why mother,’ said I, ‘could such a thing come from the belly of fair Venus? for a few days before, our priest, between him and me, had told me the whole story of Venus.’ ‘Tush,’ said she, ‘they are all deceived;’ and therewith gave me this book which she said a great maker of ballads had given to an old painter, who, for a little pleasure, had bestowed both book and picture of her. ‘Read there,’ said she, ‘and thou shalt see that his mother was a cow, and the false Argus his father.’ And so she gave me this book, and there now you may read it.” With that the remembrance of the good old woman, made her make such a face to weep, as if it were not sorrow, it was the carcass of sorrow that appeared there. But while her tears came out, like rain falling upon dirty furrows, the latter end of her prayer-book was read among these ladies, which contained this:

Poor Painters oft with silly Poets join,
To fill the world with strange but vain conceits:
One brings the stuff, the other stamps the coin,
Which breeds nought else but glosses of deceits.
Thus painters Cupid paint, thus poets do
A naked god, blind, young, with arrows two.
Is he a god that ever flies the light:
Or naked he, disguis’d in all untruth?
If he be blind, how hitteth he so right?
How is he young that tam’d old Phoebus’ youth?
But arrows two, and tipped with gold or lead?
Some hurt, accuse a third with horny head.
No, nothing so; an old false knave he is,
By Argus got on Io, then a cow:
What time for her Juno her Jove did miss,
And charge of her to Argus did allow.
Mercury kill’d his false sire for this act,
His dam a beast was pardon’d beastly fact.
With father’s death and mother’s guilty shame,
With Jove’s disdain of such a rival’s seed:
The wretch compell’d a runagate became,
And learn’d what ill a miser-state doth breed:
To lie, to steal, to pry, and to accuse,
Nought in himself each other to abuse.
Yet bears he still his parents’ stately gifts,
A horned head, cloven feet, and thousand eyes,
Some gazing still, some winking wily shifts,
Whose long large ears, where never rumour dies.
His horned head doth seem the heaven to spite,
His cloven foot doth never tread aright.
Thus half a man, with man he daily haunts,
Cloth’d in the shape which soonest may deceive:
Thus half a beast, each beastly vice he plants,
In those weak hearts that his advice receive.
He prowls each place still in new colours decked,
Sucking one’s ill, another to infect.
To narrow breasts, he comes all wrapped in gain:
To swelling hearts he shines in honour’s fire:
To open eyes all beauties he doth rain;
Creeping to each with flattering of desire.
But for that love is worst which rules the eyes,
Thereon his name, there his chief triumph lies.
Millions of years this old drivel Cupid lives,
While still more wretch, more wicked he doth prove.
Till now at length that Jove him office gives
(At Juno’s suit, who much did Argus love)
In this our world a hangman for to be
Of all those fools, that will have all they see.

The ladies made sport at the description and story of Cupid. But Zelmane could scarce suffer those blasphemies, as she took them, to be read, but humbly besought Pamela she should perform her sister’s request of the other part of the story. “Noble lady,” answered she, beautifying her face with a sweet smiling, and the sweetness of her smiling with the beauty of her face, “since I am born a prince’s daughter, let me not give example of disobedience. My governess will have us draw cuts, and therefore I pray you let us do so: and so perhaps it will light upon you to entertain this company with some story of your own; and it is reason our ears should be willinger to hear, as your tongue is abler to deliver.” “I will think,” answered Zelmane, “excellent princess, my tongue of some value if it can procure your tongue thus much to favour me.” But Pamela pleasantly persisting to have fortune their judge, they set hands, and Mopsa (though at the first for squeamishness going up and down with her head like a boat in a storm,) put to her golden gols among them, and blind fortune, that saw not the colour of them, gave her the pre-eminence: and so being her time to speak, wiping her mouth, as there was good cause, she thus tumbled into her matter.

“In time past,” said she, “there was a king, the mightiest man in all his country, that had by his wife the fairest daughter that ever ate pap. Now this king did keep a great house, that everybody might come and take their meat freely. So one day as his daughter was sitting in her window, playing upon a harp as sweet as any rose, and combing her head with a comb all of precious stones, there came in a knight into the court, upon a goodly horse, one hair of gold, and the other of silver; and so the knight casting up his eyes to the window, did fall into such love with her, that he grew not worth the bread he ate; till many a sorry day going over his head, with daily diligence and griefly groans, he won her affection, so that they agreed to run away together. And so in May, when all true hearts rejoice, they stole out of the castle without staying so much as for their breakfast. Now forsooth, as they went together, often fall to kissing one another, the knight told her, he was brought up among the water-nymphs, who had so bewitched him that if he were ever ask’d his name, he must presently vanish away, and therefore charged her upon his blessing, never to ask him what he was, not whether he would. And so a great while she kept his commandment; till once, passing through a cruel wilderness, as dark as pitch, her mouth so watered, that she could not choose but ask him the question. And then, he making the grievousest complaints that would have melted a tree to have heard them, vanish’d quite away: and she lay down, casting forth as pitiful cries as any shriek-owl. But having lain so, wet by the rain, and burnt by the sun, five days and five nights, she got up and went over many a high hill, and many a deep river, till she came to an aunt’s house of hers, and came and cried to her for help: and she for pity gave her a nut, and bid her never open her nut till she was come to the extremest misery that ever tongue could speak of; and so she went, and she went, and never rested the evening, where she went in the morning, till she came to a second aunt, and she gave her another nut.”

“Now good Mopsa,” said the sweet Philoclea, “I pray thee at my request keep this tale till my marriage-day, and I promise thee that the best gown I wear that day shall be thine.” Mopsa was very glad of that bargain, especially that it should grow a festival tale: so that Zelmane, who desired to find the uttermost what these ladies understood touching herself, and having understood the danger of Erona, of which before she had never heard, purposing with herself, as soon as this pursuit she now was in was brought to any effect, to succour her, entreated again, that she might know as well the story of Plangus, as of Erona. Philoclea referred it to her sister’s perfecter remembrance, who with so sweet a voice, and so winning a grace, as in themselves were of most forcible eloquence to procure attention, in this manner to their earnest request soon condescended.

“The father of this prince Plangus as yet lives, and is king of Iberia: a man, if the judgment of Plangus may be accepted, of no wicked nature, nor willingly doing evil, without himself mistake the evil, seeing it disguised under some form of goodness. This prince being married at the first to a princess, who both from her ancestors, and in herself was worthy of him, by her had this son Plangus. Not long after whose birth, the queen, as though she had performed the message for which she was sent into the world, returned again unto her maker. The king, sealing up all thoughts of love under the image of her memory, remained a widower many years after; recompensing the grief of that disjoining from her, in conjoining in himself both a fatherly and motherly care toward her only child Plangus, who being grown to man’s age, as our own eyes may judge, could not but fertilely requite his father’s fatherly education.

“This prince, while yet the errors in his nature were excused by the greenness of his youth which took all the fault upon itself, loved a private man’s wife of the principal city of that kingdom, if that may be called love, which he rather did take into himself willingly than by which he was taken forcibly. It sufficeth that the young man persuaded himself he loved her: she being a woman beautiful enough, if it be possible, that the only outside can justly entitle a beauty. But finding such a chase as only fled to be caught, the young prince brought his affection with her to that point, which ought to engrave remorse in her heart, and to paint shame upon her face. And so possessed he his desire without any interruption; he constantly favouring her, and she thinking that the enamelling of a prince’s name, might hide the spots of a broken wedlock. But as I have seen one that was sick of a sleeping disease could not be made wake, but with pinching of him, so out of his sinful sleep his mind, unworthy so to be lost, was not to be called to itself, but by a sharp accident. It fell out, that his many times leaving of the court, in undue times, began to be noted; and, as prince’s ears be manifold, from one to another came unto the king, who, careful of his only son, sought and found by his spies, the necessary evil servants to a king, what it was, whereby he was from his better delights so diverted. Whereupon, the king, to give his fault the greater blow, used such means by disguising himself, that he found them, her husband being absent, in her house together, which he did to make them the more feelingly ashamed of it. And that way he took, laying threatenings upon her, and upon him reproaches. But the poor young prince, deceived with that young opinion, that if it be ever lawful to lie, it is for one’s lover, employed all his wit to bring his father into a better opinion. And because he might bend him from that, as he counted it, crooked conceit of her, he wrested him, as much as he could possibly, to the other side, not sticking with prodigal protestations to set forth her chastity; not denying his own attempt, but thereby the more extolling her virtue. His sophistry prevailed, his father believed, and so believed, that ere long, though he were already stepped into the winter of his age, he found himself warm in those desires which were in his son far more excusable. To be short, he gave himself over unto it, and, because he would avoid the odious comparison of a young rival, sent away his son with an army, to the subduing of a province lately rebelled against him, which he knew could not be less work than of three or four years. Wherein he behaved himself so worthily, as even to this country the fame thereof came, long before his own coming: while yet his father had a speedier success, but in a far more unnobler conquest. For while Plangus was away, the old man, growing only in age and affection, followed his suit with all means of unhonest servants, large promises, and each thing else that might help to countervail his own unloveliness.

“And she, whose husband about that time died, forgetting the absent Plangus, or at least not hoping of him to obtain so aspiring a purpose, left no art unused, which might keep the line from breaking, whereat the fish was already taken, not drawing him violently, but letting him play himself upon the hook which he had so greedily swallowed. For, accompanying her mourning garments with a doleful countenance, yet neither forgetting handsomeness in her mourning garments, nor sweetness in her doleful countenance, her words were ever seasoned with sighs, and any favour she showed, bathed in tears, that affection might see cause of pity, and pity might persuade cause of affection. And being grown skilful in his humours, she was no less skilful in applying his humours; never suffering his fear to fall to despair, nor his hope to hasten to an assurance: she was content he should think that she loved him; and a certain stolen look should sometimes, as though it were against her will, betray it: but if thereupon he grew bold, he straight was encountered with a mask of virtue. And that which seemeth most impossible unto me, for as near as I can repeat it, as Plangus told it, she could not only sigh when she would, as all can do, and weep when she would, as, they say, some can do; but, being most impudent in her heart, she could when she would, teach her cheeks blushing, and make shamefacedness the cloak of shamelessness. In sum, to leave out many particularities, which he recited, she did not only use so the spur that his desire ran on, but so the bit, that it ran on even in such a career as she would have it; that within a while the king, seeing with no other eyes but such as she gave him, and thinking on no other thoughts but such as she taught him; having at first liberal measures of favours, then shortened of them, when most his desire was inflamed, he saw no other way but marriage to satisfy his longing, and her mind, as he thought, loving, but chastely loving: so that by the time Plangus returned from being notably victorious over the rebels, he found his father not only married, but already a father of a son and a daughter by this woman. Which though Plangus, as he had every way just cause, was grieved at; yet did his grief never bring forth either contemning of her or repining at his father. But she, who besides that was grown a mother, and a step-mother, did read in his eyes her own fault, and made his conscience her guiltiness, thought still that his presence carried her condemnation; so much the more, as that she, unchastely attempting his wonted fancies, found, for the reverence of his father’s bed, a bitter refusal, which breeding rather spite than shame in her, or if it were a shame, a shame not of the fault, but of the repulse, she did not only, as hating him, thirst for a revenge, but, as fearing harm from him, endeavoured to do harm unto him. Therefore did she try the uttermost of her wicked wit, how to overthrow him in the foundation of his strength, which was in the favour of his father: which because she saw strong both in nature and desert, it required the more cunning how to undermine it. And therefore, shunning the ordinary trade of hireling Sycophants, she made her praises of him to be accusations; and her advancing him to be his ruin. For first, with words, nearer admiration than liking, she would extol his excellencies, the goodliness of his shape, the power of his wit, the valiantness of his courage, the fortunateness of his successes, so as the father might find in her a singular love towards him: nay she shunned not to kindle some few sparks of jealousy in him: thus having gotten an opinion in his father that she was far from meaning mischief to the son, then fell she to praise him with no less vehemency of affection, but with much more cunning of malice. For then she sets forth the liberty of his mind, the high flying of his thoughts, the fitness in him to bear rule, the singular love the subjects bear him, that it was doubtful whether his wit were greater in winning their favours, or his courage in employing their favours; that he was not born to live a subject life, each action of his bearing in it majesty; such a kingly entertainment, such a kingly magnificence, such a kingly heart for enterprises; especially remembering those virtues, which in a successor are no more honoured by the subjects than suspected of the princes. Then would she, by putting off objections, bring in objections to her husband’s head, already infected with suspicion. ‘Nay,’ would she say, ‘I dare take it upon my death, that he is no such son, as many like might have been, who loved greatness so well as to build their greatness upon their father’s ruin. Indeed ambition, like love, can abide no lingering, and ever urgeth on his own successes; hating nothing, but what may stop them. But the gods forbid, we should ever once dream of any such thing in him, who perhaps might be content that you and the world should know what he can do: but the more power he hath to hurt, the more admirable is his praise, that he will not hurt.’ Then ever remembering to strengthen the suspicion of his estate with private jealousy of her love, doing him excessive honour when he was in presence, and repeating his pretty speeches and graces in his absence, besides, causing him to be employed in all such dangerous matters, as either he should perish in them, or, if he prevailed, they should increase his glory, which she made a weapon to wound him; until she found that suspicion began already to speak for itself, and that her husband’s ears were grown hungry of rumours, and his eyes prying into every accident.

“Then took she help to her of a servant near about her husband, whom she knew to be of a hasty ambition, and such a one, who, wanting true sufficiency to raise him, would make a ladder of any mischief. Him she useth to deal more plainly in alleging causes of jealousy, making him know the fittest times when her husband already was stirred that way. And so they two, with divers ways, nourished one humour, like musicians, that singing divers parts, make one music. He sometimes with fearful countenance would desire the king to look to himself, for that all the court and city were full of whisperings and expectation of some sudden change, upon what ground himself knew not. Another time he would counsel the king to make much of his son, and hold his favour, for that it was too late now to keep him under. Now seeming to fear himself, because, he said, Plangus loved none of them that were great about his father. Lastly, breaking with him directly, making a sorrowful countenance, and an humble gesture bear false witness for his true meaning, that he found not only soldiery, but people weary of his government, and all their affection bent upon Plangus; both he and the queen concurring in strange dreams, and each thing else, that in a mind already perplexed might breed astonishment: so that within a while, all Plangus’s actions began to be translated into the language of suspicion. Which though Plangus found, yet could he not avoid, even contraries being driven to draw one yoke of argument. If he were magnificent, he spent much with an aspiring intent, if he spared, he heaped much with an aspiring intent; if he spoke courteously, he angled the people’s hearts; if he were silent, he mused upon some dangerous plot. In sum, if he could have turned himself to as many forms as Proteus, every form should have been made hideous.

“But so it fell out, that a mere trifle gave them occasion of further proceeding. The king one morning, going to a vineyard that lay along the hill whereupon his castle stood: he saw a vine-labourer, that finding a bough broken, took a branch of the same bough for want of another thing and tied it about the place broken. The king asking the fellow what he did, ‘Marry,’ said he, ‘I make the son bind the father.’ This word, finding the king already superstitious through suspicion, amazed him straight, as a presage of his own fortune, so that, returning and breaking with his wife how much he misdoubted his estate; she made such gainsaying answers as while they strove, strove to be overcome. But even while the doubts most boiled, she thus nourished them.

“She under-hand dealt with the principal men of that country, that at the great parliament, which was then to be held, they should in the name of all the estates persuade the king, being now stepped deeply into old age, to make Plangus his associate in government with him, assuring them that not only she would join with them, but that the father himself would take it kindly, charging them not to acquaint Plangus withal, for that perhaps it might be harmful unto him, if the king should find that he were a party. They (who thought they might do it, not only willingly, because they loved him; and truly, because such indeed was the mind of the people; but safely, because she who ruled the king, was agreed thereto) accomplished her counsel; she indeed keeping promise of vehement persuading the same: which the more she and they did, the more she knew her husband would fear, and hate the cause of his fear. Plangus found this, and humbly protested against such desire or will to accept. But the more he protested, the more his father thought he dissembled, accounting his integrity to be but a cunning face of falsehood: and therefore delaying the desire of his subjects, attended some fit occasion to lay hands upon his son, which his wife brought thus to pass.

“She caused the same minister of hers to go unto Plangus, and, enabling his words with great show of faith, and endearing them with desire of secrecy, to tell him, that he found his ruin conspired by his stepmother, with certain of the noblemen of that country, the king himself giving his consent, and that few days should pass before the putting it in practice; withal discovering the very truth indeed, with what cunning his step-mother had proceeded. This agreeing with Plangus his own opinion, made him give the better credit; yet not so far, as to fly out of his country, according to the naughty fellow’s persuasion, but to attend, and to see further. Whereupon the fellow, by the direction of his mistress, told him one day, that the same night, about one of the clock, the king had appointed to have his wife, and those noblemen together to deliberate of their manner of proceeding against Plangus, and therefore offered him, that if himself would agree, he would bring him into a place where he should hear all that passed and so have the more reason both to himself and to the world, to seek his safety. The poor Plangus, being subject to that only disadvantage of honest hearts, credulity, was persuaded by him; and arming himself, because of his late going, was closely conveyed into the place appointed. In the meantime, his step-mother, making all her gestures cunningly counterfeit a miserable affliction, she lay almost grovelling on the floor of her chamber, not suffering anybody to comfort her, until they calling for her husband, and he held off with long enquiry, at length she told him, even almost crying out of every word, that she was weary of her life, since she was brought to that plunge, either to conceal her husband’s murder, or accuse her son, who had ever been more dear than a son unto her. Then with many interruptions and exclamations she told him, that her son Plangus, soliciting her in the old affection between them, had besought her to put to her helping hand to the death of the king, assuring her that, though all the laws in the world were against it, he would marry her when he were king.

“She had not fully said thus much, with many pitiful digressions, when in comes the same fellow that brought Plangus: and running himself out of breath, fell at the king’s feet, beseeching him to save himself, for that there was a man with a sword drawn in the next room. The king affrighted, went out, and called his guard, who entering the place, found indeed Plangus with his sword in his hand, but not naked, yet standing suspiciously enough to one already suspicious. The king, thinking he had put up his sword because of the noise, never took leisure to hear his answer, but made him prisoner, meaning the next morning to put him to death in the market-place.

“But the day had no sooner opened the eyes and ears of his friends and followers, but that there was a little army of them who came, and by force delivered him; although numbers on the other side, abused with the fine framing of their report, took arms for the king. But Plangus, though he might have used the force of his friends to revenge his wrong, and get the crown, yet the natural love of his father, and hate to make their suspicion seem just, caused him rather to choose a voluntary exile than to make his father’s death the purchase of his life: and therefore went he to Tiridates, whose mother was his father’s sister, living in his court eleven or twelve years, ever hoping by his intercession, and his own desert, to recover his father’s grace. At the end of which time, the war of Erona happened, which my sister, with the cause thereof, discoursed unto you.

“But his father had so deeply engraven the suspicion in his heart that he thought his flight rather to proceed of a fearful guiltiness than of an humble faithfulness, and therefore continued his hate with such vehemency that he did even hate his nephew Tiridates, and afterwards his niece Artaxia, because in his court he received countenance, leaving no means unattempted of destroying his son; among other, employing that wicked servant of his, who undertook to empoison him. But his cunning disguised him not so well but that the watchful servants of Plangus did discover him, whereupon the wretch was taken, and, before his well-deserved execution, by tortures forced to confess the particularities of this, which in general I have told you.

“Which confession authentically set down, though Tiridates with solemn embassage sent to the king, wrought no effect. For the king having put the reins of the government into his wife’s hand, never did so much as read it, but sent it straight by her to be considered. So as they rather heaped more hatred on Plangus, for the death of their servant. And now finding, that his absence, and their reports, had much diminished the wavering people’s affection towards Plangus, with advancing fit persons for faction, and granting great immunities to the commons, they prevailed so far as to cause the son of the second wife, called Palladius, to be proclaimed successor, and Plangus quite excluded: so that Plangus was driven to continue his serving Tiridates, as he did in the war against Erona, and brought home Artaxia, as my sister told you; when Erona by the treason of Antiphilus——”

But at that word she stopped. For Basilius, not able longer to abide their absence, came suddenly among them, and with smiling countenance, telling Zelmane he was afraid she had stolen away his daughters, invited them to follow the sun’s counsel in going then to their lodging, for indeed the sun was ready to set. They yielded, Zelmane meaning some other time to understand the story of Antiphilus’s treason, and Erona’s danger, whose cause she greatly tendered. But Miso had no sooner espied Basilius, but as spitefully as her rotten voice could utter, she set forth the sauciness of Amphialus. But Basilius only attended what Zelmane’s opinion was, who though she hated Amphialus, yet the nobility of her courage prevailed over it, and she desired he might be pardoned that youthful error, considering the reputation he had to be one of the best knights in the world; so as hereafter he governed himself, as one remembering his fault. Basilius giving the infinite terms of praises to Zelmane’s both valour in conquering, and pitifulness in pardoning, commanded no more words to be made of it, since such he thought was her pleasure.

So brought he them up to visit his wife, where, between her and him, the poor Zelmane received a tedious entertainment; oppressed with being loved, almost as much, as with loving. Basilius not so wise in covering his passion, could make his tongue go almost no other pace, but to run into those immoderate praises which the foolish lover thinks short of his mistress, though they reach far beyond the heavens. But Gynecia, whom womanly modesty did more outwardly bridle, yet did sometimes use the advantage of her sex in kissing Zelmane, as she sat upon her bed-side by her, which was but still more and more sweet incense to cast upon the fire wherein her heart was sacrificed. Once Zelmane could not stir, but that, as if they had been poppets, whose motion stood only upon her pleasure, Basilius with serviceable steps, Gynecia with greedy eyes, would follow her. Basilius’s mind Gynecia well knew, and could have found in her heart to laugh at, if mirth could have born any proportion with her fortune. But all Gynecia’s actions were interpreted by Basilius, as proceeding from jealously of his amorousness. Zelmane betwixt both, like the poor child, whose father, while he beats him, will make him believe it is for love; or like the sick man, to whom the physician swears the ill-tasting wallowish medicine he proffers is of a good taste: their love was hateful, their courtesy troublesome, their presence cause of her absence thence, where not only her light, but her life consisted. Alas! thought she to herself, dear Dorus, what odds is there between thy destiny and mine? For thou hast to do, in thy pursuit but with shepherdish folks, who trouble thee with a little envious care, and affected diligence; but I, besides that I have now Miso, the worst of thy devils, let loose upon me, am waited on by princes, and watched by the two wakeful eyes of love and jealousy. Alas! incomparable Philoclea, thou ever seest me, but dost never see me as I am: thou hearest willingly all that I dare say, and I dare not say that which were most fit for thee to hear. Alas! who ever but I was imprisoned in liberty, and banished being still present? to whom but me have lovers been jailors, and honour a captivity?

But the night coming on with her silent steps upon them, they parted each from other, if at least they could be parted, of whom every one did live in another, and went about to flatter sleep in their beds, that disdained to bestow itself liberally upon such eyes, which by their will would ever be looking, and in least measure upon Gynecia. Who, when Basilius after long tossing was gotten asleep, and the cheerful comfort of the lights removed from her, kneeling up in her bed, began with a soft voice, and swollen heart, to renew the curses of her birth; and then in a manner embracing her bed: “Ah chastest bed of mine,” said she, “which never heretofore could’st accuse me of one defiled thought, how can’st thou now receive this disastered changeling? happy, happy, be they only which be not; and thy blessedness only in this respect thou mayest feel that thou hast no feeling.” With that she furiously tore off great part of her fair hair: “Take care, O forgotten virtue,” said she, “this miserable sacrifice; while my soul was clothed with modesty, that was a comely ornament: now why should nature crown that head, which is so wicked, as her only desire is she cannot be enough wicked?” more she would have said, but that Basilius, awaked with the noise, took her in his arms, and began to comfort her, the good man thinking it was all for a jealous love of him, which humour if she would a little have maintained, perchance it might have weakened his new-conceived fancies. But he, finding her answers wandering from the purpose, left her to herself (glad the next morning to take the advantage of a sleep, which a little before day overwatched with sorrow, her tears had as it were sealed up in her eyes) to have the more conference with Zelmane, who baited on this fashion by those two lovers, and ever kept from any mean to declare herself, found in herself a daily increase of her violent desires; like a river, the more swelling, the more his current is stopped.

The chief recreation she could find in her anguish, was sometime to visit that place, where first she was so happy as to see the cause of her unhap. There would she kiss the ground, and thank the trees, bless the air, and do dutiful reverence to everything that she thought did accompany her at their first meeting: then return again to her inward thoughts; sometimes despair darkening all her imaginations, sometimes the active passion of love cheering and clearing her invention, how to unbar that cumbersome hindrance of her two ill-matched lovers. But this morning Basilius himself gave her good occasion to go beyond them. For having combed and tricked himself more curiously than any time forty winters before, coming where Zelmane was, he found her given over to her musical muses, to the great pleasure of good old Basilius, who retired himself behind a tree, while she with a most sweet voice did utter those passionate verses.

Loved I am, and yet complain of love:
As loving not, accus’d in love I die.
When pity most I crave, I cruel prove:
Still seeking love, love found, as much I fly.
Burnt in myself, I muse at other’s fire;
What I call wrong, I do the same and more:
Barr’d of my will, I have beyond desire;
I wail for want, and yet am chok’d with store.
This is thy work, thou god for ever blind:
Though thousands old, a boy entitled still.
Thus children do the silly birds they find,
With stroking hurt, and too much cramming kill.
Yet thus much love, O love, I crave of thee:
Let me be lov’d, or else not loved be.

Basilius made no great haste from beyond the trees, till he perceived she had fully ended her music. But then loth to lose the precious fruit of time, he presented himself unto her, falling down upon both his knees, and holding up his hands, as the old governess of Danae is painted, when she suddenly saw the golden shower, “O heavenly woman, or earthly goddess,” said he, “let not my presence be odious unto you, nor my humble suit seem of small weight in your ears. Vouchsafe your eyes to descend upon this miserable old man, whose life hath hitherto been maintained but to serve as an increase of your beautiful triumphs. You only have overthrown me, and in my bondage consists my glory. Suffer not your own work to be despised of you, but look upon him with pity, whose life serves for your praise.” Zelmane, keeping a countenance askance she understood him not, told him it became her evil to suffer such excessive reverence of him, but that it worse became her to correct him, to whom she owed duty; that the opinion she had of his wisdom was such as made her esteem greatly of his words; but that the words themselves sounded so, that she could not imagine what they might intend. “Intend,” said Basilius, proud that that was brought in question, “what may they intend but a refreshing of my soul, and assuaging of my heart, and enjoying those your excellencies, wherein my life is upheld, and my death threatened?” Zelmane lifting up her face as if she had received a mortal injury of him, “and is this the devotion your ceremonies have been bent to?” said she: “is it the disdain of my estate, or the opinion of my lightness that have emboldened such base fancies towards me? enjoying quoth you? now little joy come to them that yield to such enjoying.”

Poor Basilius was so appalled that his legs bowed under him; his eyes looked as though he would gladly hide himself, and his old blood going to his heart, a general shaking all over his body possessed him. At length, with a wan mouth, he was about to give a stammering answer, when it came into Zelmane’s head by this device, to make her profit of his folly; and therefore with a relented countenance, thus said unto him, “Your words, mighty Prince, were unfit either for me to hear, or you to speak, but yet the large testimony I see of your affection makes me willing to suppress a great number of errors. Only thus much I think good to say, that the same words in my lady Philoclea’s mouth, as from one woman to another, so as there were no other body by, might have had a better grace, and perchance have found a gentler receipt.”

Basilius, whose senses by desire were held open, and conceit was by love quickened, heard scarcely half her answer out, but that, as if speedy flight might save his life, he turned away, and ran with all the speed his body would suffer him towards his daughter Philoclea, whom he found at that time dutifully watching by her mother, and Miso curiously watching her, having left Mopsa to do the like service to Pamela. Basilius forthwith calling Philoclea aside, with all the conjuring words which desire could indite and authority utter, besought her she would preserve his life, in whom her life was begun, she would save his grey hairs from rebuke, and his aged mind from despair; that if she were not cloyed with his company, and that she thought not the earth over-burdened with him, she would cool his fiery grief, which was to be done but by her breath: that in fine, whatsoever he was, he was nothing but what it pleased Zelmane; all the powers of his spirit depending of her, that if she continued cruel he could no more sustain his life than the earth remain fruitful in the sun’s continual absence. He concluded, she should in one payment requite all his deserts; and that she needed not to disdain any service, though never so mean, which was warranted by the sacred name of father. Philoclea more glad than ever she had known herself that she might, by this occasion, enjoy the private conference of Zelmane, yet had so sweet a feeling of virtue in her mind, that she would not suffer a vile colour to be cast over fair thoughts, but with humble grace answered her father: that there needed neither promise nor persuasion to her, to make her do her uttermost for her father’s service; that for Zelmane’s favour, she would in all virtuous sort seek it towards him: and that as she would not pierce further into his meaning, than himself should declare, so would she interpret all his doings to be accomplished in goodness: and therefore desired, if otherwise it were, that he would not impart it to her, who then should be forced to begin, by true obedience, a show of disobedience: rather performing his general commandment, which had ever been to embrace virtue than any new particular sprung out of passion, and contrary to the former. Basilius content to take that, since he could have no more, thinking it a great point, if, by her means, he could get but a more free access unto Zelmane, allowed her reasons, and took her proffer thankfully, desiring only a speedy return of comfort. Philoclea was parting, and Miso straight behind her, like Alecto following Proserpina. But Basilius forced her to stay, though with much ado, she being sharp set upon the fulfilling of a shrewd office in over-looking Philoclea; and said to Basilius that she did as she was commanded, and could not answer it to Gynecia, if she were any whit from Philoclea, telling him true, that he did evil to take her charge from her. But Basilius, swearing he would put out her eyes, if she stirred a foot to trouble his daughter, gave her a stop for that while.

So away departed Philoclea, with a new field of fancies for her travailing mind: for well she saw her father was grown her adverse party, and yet her fortune such, as she must favour her rival; and the fortune of that fortune such, as neither that did hurt her, nor any contrary mean help her.

But she walked but a little on, before she saw Zelmane lying upon a bank, with her face so bent over Ladon, that, her tears falling into the water, one might have thought that she began meltingly to be metamorphosed to the under-running river. But by and by with speech she made known, as well that she lived, as that she sorrowed. “Fair streams,” said she, “that do vouchsafe in your clearness to represent unto me, my blubbered face, let the tribute offer of my tears unto you, procure your stay a while with me, that I may begin yet at last to find something that pities me; and that all things of comfort and pleasure do not fly away from me. But if the violence of your spring command you to haste away, to pay your duties to your great prince, the sea, yet carry with you those few words, and let the uttermost ends of the world know them. A love more clear than yourselves, dedicated to a love, I fear, more cold than yourselves, with the clearness lays a night of sorrow upon me, and with the coldness inflames a world of fire within me.” With that she took a willow stick, and wrote in a sandy bank those few verses.

Over those brooks trusting to ease mine eyes,
(Mine eyes even great in labour with their tears)
I laid my face; my face ev’n wherein lies
Clusters of clouds, which no sun ever clears,
In watery glass my watery eyes I see;
Sorrows ill eas’d, where sorrows painted be.
My thoughts imprison’d in my secret woes,
With flamy breath do issue oft in sound,
The sound of this strange air no sooner goes,
But that it does with Echoes’ force rebound;
And make me hear the plaints I would refrain:
Thus outwards helps my inward grief maintain.
Now in this sand I would discharge my mind,
And cast from me part of my burd’nous cares:
But in the sand my tales foretold I find,
And see therein how well the writer fares.
Since, stream, air, sand, mine eyes and ears conspire:
What hope to quench, where each thing blows the fire?

And as soon as she had written them, a new swarm of thoughts stinging her mind, she was ready with her feet to give the new-born letters both death and burial. But Philoclea, whose delight of hearing and seeing was before a stay from interrupting her, gave herself to be seen unto her, with such a lightening beauty upon Zelmane, that neither she could look on, nor would look off. At last Philoclea, having a little mused how to cut the thread even between her own hopeless affection and her father’s unbridled hope, with eyes, cheeks, and lips, whereof each sang their part to make up the harmony of bashfulness, began to say, “My father, to whom I owe myself;” and therefore when Zelmane (making a womanish habit to be the armour of her boldness, giving up her life to the lips of Philoclea, and taking it again by the sweetness of those kisses) humbly besought her to keep her speech for a while within the paradise of her mind. For well she knew her father’s errand, who should soon receive a sufficient answer. But now she demanded leave not to lose this long sought-for commodity of time, to ease her heart thus far, that if in her agonies her destiny was to be condemned by Philoclea’s mouth; at least Philoclea might know, whom she had condemned. Philoclea easily yielded to grant her own desire, and so making the green bank the situation, and the river the prospect of the most beautiful buildings of nature, Zelmane doubting how to begin, though her thoughts already had run to the end, with a mind fearing the unworthiness of every word that should be presented to her ears, at length brought it forth in this manner.

“Most beloved lady, the incomparable excellencies of yourself, waited on by the greatness of your estate, and the importance of the thing whereon my life consisted, doth require both many ceremonies before the beginning, and many circumstances in the uttering my speech, both bold and fearful. But the small opportunity of envious occasion, by the malicious eye hateful love doth cast upon me, and the extreme bent of my affection, which will either break out in words, or break my heart, compel me not only to embrace the smallest time, but to pass by the respects due unto you, in respect of your poor caitiff’s life, who is now, or never to be preserved. I do therefore vow unto you, hereafter never more to omit all dutiful form, do you only now vouchsafe to hear the matter of a mind most perplexed, if ever the sound of love have come to your ears, or if ever you have understood what force it hath had to conquer the strongest hearts and change the most settled estates, receive here an example of those strange tragedies; one, that in himself containeth the particularities of all those misfortunes, and from henceforth believe that such a thing may be, since you shall see it is. You shall see, I say, a living image, and a present story of what love can do when he is bent to ruin.

“But alas! whither goest thou my tongue? or how doth my heart consent to adventure the revealing his nearest touching secret? but peace fear, thou comest too late, when already the harm is taken. Therefore I say again, O only princess attend here a miserable miracle of affection. Behold here before your eyes Pyrocles, prince of Macedon, whom you only have brought to this game of fortune, and unused Metamorphosis, whom you only have made neglect his country, forget his father, and lastly forsake to be Pyrocles: the same Pyrocles who, you heard, was betrayed by being put in a ship, which being burned, Pyrocles was drowned. O most true presage! for these traitors, my eyes, putting me into a ship of desire, which daily burneth, those eyes, I say, which betrayed me, will never leave till they have drowned me. But be not, be not, most excellent lady, you that nature hath made to be the load-star of comfort, be not the rock of shipwreck: you whom virtue hath made the princess of felicity, be not the minister of ruin: you whom my choice hath made the goddess of my safety. O let not, let not, from you be poured upon me destruction; your fair face hath many tokens in it of amazement at my words: think then what his amazement is, from whence they come, since no words can carry with them the life of the inward feeling, I desire that my desire may be weighed in the balances of honour, and let virtue hold them. For if the highest love in no base person may aspire to grace, then may I hope your beauty will not be without pity, if otherwise you be, alas! but let it not be so resolved, yet shall not my death be comfortless, receiving it by your sentence.”

The joy which wrought into Pygmalion’s mind, while he found his beloved image was softer and warmer in his folded arms, till at length it accomplished his gladness with a perfect woman’s shape, still beautified with the former perfections, was even such, as by each degree of Zelmane’s words creepingly entered into Philoclea, till her pleasure was fully made up with the manifesting of his being, which was such as in hope did overcome hope. Yet doubt would fain have played his part in her mind and called in question, how she should be assured that Zelmane was Pyrocles. But love straight stood up and deposed that a lie could not come from the mouth of Zelmane. Besides, a certain spark of honour, which rose in her well-disposed mind, made her fear to be alone with him, with whom alone she desired to be, withal the other contradictions growing in those minds, which neither absolutely climb the rock of virtue, nor freely sink into the sea of vanity, but that spark soon gave place, or at least gave no more light in her mind than a candle doth in the sun’s presence. But even sick with a surfeit of joy, and fearful of she knew not what, as he that newly finds huge treasures, doubts whether he sleep or no; or like a fearful deer, which then looks most about when he comes to the best feed, with a shrugging kind of tremor through all her principal parts, she gave those affectionate words for answer.

“Alas! how painful a thing it is to a divided mind to make a well-joined answer? how hard it is to bring inward shame to outward confession? and what handsomeness, trow you, can be observed in that speech which is made one knows not to whom? Shall I say, ‘O Zelmane’? alas! your words be against it. Shall I say ‘Prince Pyrocles’? wretch that I am, your show is manifest against it. But this, this I may well say; if I had continued as I ought, Philoclea, you had either never been, or ever been Zelmane: you had either never attempted this change, set on with hope, or never discovered it, stopped with despair. But I fear me, my behaviour ill governed, gave you the first comfort: I fear me, my affection ill hid, hath given you this last assurance: I fear indeed, the weakness of my government before, made you think such a mask would be grateful unto me; and my weaker government since makes you pull off the visor. What should I do then? shall I seek far-fetched inventions? shall I labour to lay marble colours over my ruinous thoughts? or rather, though the pureness of my virgin mind be stained, let me keep the true simplicity of my word. True it is, alas! too true it is, O Zelmane, for so I love to call thee, since in that name my love first began, and in the shade of that name my love shall best lie hidden, that even while so thou wert, what eye bewitched me I know not, my passions were fitter to desire than to be desired. Shall I say then, I am sorry, or that my love must be turned to hate, since thou art turned to Pyrocles? How may that well be? since when thou wert Zelmane, the despair thou mightest not be thus did most torment me. Thou hast then the victory, use it with virtue. Thy virtue won me; with virtue preserve me. Dost thou love me? keep me then still worthy to be loved.”

Then held she her tongue, and cast down a self-accusing look, finding that in herself she had, as it were, shot out of the bow of her affection, a more quick opening of her mind than she minded to have done. But Pyrocles so carried up with joy that he did not envy the god’s felicity, presented her with some jewels of right princely value, as some little tokens of his love and quality: and withal showed her letters from his father King Euarchus, unto him, which even in the sea had amongst his jewels been preserved. But little needed those proofs to one, who would have fallen out with herself rather than make any contrary conjectures to Zelmane’s speeches; so that with such embracements, as it seemed their souls desired to meet, and their hearts to kiss as their mouths did, they passed the promise of marriage, which fain Pyrocles would have sealed with the chief arms of his desire, but Philoclea commanded the contrary.

And then at Philoclea’s entreaty, who was willing to purloin all occasions of remaining with Zelmane, she told her the story of her life, from the time of their departing from Erona; for the rest she had already understood of her sister. “For,” said she, “I have understood how you first, in the company of your noble cousin Musidorus, parted from Thessalia, and of divers adventures, which with no more danger than glory you passed through, till your coming to the succour of the queen Erona; and the end of that war, you might perceive by myself, I had understood of prince Plangus. But what since was the course of your doings, until you came, after so many victories, to make a conquest of poor me, that I know not; the fame thereof having rather showed it by pieces, than delivered any full form of it. Therefore, dear Pyrocles, for what can my ears be so sweetly fed with, as to hear you of you, be liberal unto me of those things which have made you indeed precious to the world; and now doubt not to tell of your perils, for since I have you here out of them, even the remembrance of them is pleasant.”

Pyrocles easily perceived she was content with kindness to put off occasion of further kindness, wherein love showed himself a cowardly boy that durst not attend for fear of offending. But rather love proved himself valiant, that durst with the sword of reverent duty gain-stand the force of so many enraged desires. But so it was, that though he knew this discourse was to entertain him from a more straight parley, yet he durst not but kiss his rod, and gladly make much of that entertainment which she allotted unto him: and therefore with a desirous sigh chastening his breast for too much desiring, “Sweet princess of my life,” said he, “what trophies, what triumph, what monuments, what histories might ever make my fame yield so sweet a music to my ears, as that it pleaseth you to lend your mind to the knowledge of any thing touching Pyrocles, only therefore of value, because he is your Pyrocles? and therefore grow I now so proud as to think it worth the hearing, since you vouchsafe to give it the hearing. Therefore only height of my hope, vouchsafe to know, that after the death of Tiridates, and settling Erona in her government, for settled we left her; howsoever since, as I perceived by your speech the last day, the ungrateful treason of her ill-chosen husband overthrew her, a thing, in truth, never till this time by me either heard, or suspected: for who could think, without having such a mind as Antiphilus, that so great a beauty as Erona’s, indeed excellent, could not have held his affection? so great goodness could not have bound gratefulness? and so high advancement could not have satisfied his ambition? but therefore true it is, that wickedness may well be compared to a bottomless pit, into which it is far easier to keep one’s self from falling than being fallen, to give one’s self any stay from falling infinitely. But for my cousin and me, upon this cause we parted from Erona.

“Euardes, the brave and mighty prince, whom it was my fortune to kill in the combat for Erona, had three nephews, sons to a sister of his; all three set among the foremost ranks of fame for great minds to attempt, and great force to perform what they did attempt, especially the eldest, by name Anaxius, to whom all men would willingly have yielded the height of praise, but that his nature was such as to bestow it upon himself before any could give it. For of so unsupportable a pride he was, that where his deeds might well stir envy, his demeanour did rather breed disdain. And if it be true that the giants ever made war against heaven, he had been a fit ensign-bearer for that company. For nothing seemed hard to him, though impossible; and nothing unjust, while his liking was his justice. Now he in these wars had flatly refused his aid, because he could not brook that the worthy prince Plangus was by his cousin Tiridates preferred before him. For allowing no other weights but the sword and spear in judging of desert, how much he esteemed himself before Plangus in that, so much would he have had his allowance in his service.

“But now that he understood that his uncle was slain by me, I think rather scorn that any should kill his uncle, than any kindness, an unused guest to an arrogant soul, made him seek his revenge, I must confess in manner gallant enough. For he sent a challenge unto me to meet him at a place appointed, in the confines of the kingdom of Lycia, where he would prove upon me, that I had by some treachery overcome his uncle, whom else many hundreds such as I, could not have withstood. Youth and success made me willing enough to accept any such bargain, especially because I had heard that your cousin Amphialus, who for some years hath borne universally the name of the best knight in the world, had divers times fought with him, and never been able to master him, but so had left him, that every man thought Anaxius in that one virtue of courtesy far short of him, in all other his match; Anaxius still deeming himself for his superior. Therefore to him I would go, and I would needs go alone, because so I understood for certain, he was; and, I must confess, desirous to do something without the company of the incomparable prince Musidorus, because in my heart I acknowledge that I owed more to his presence than to anything in myself, whatever before I had done. For of him indeed, as of any worldly cause, I must grant, as received, whatever there is or may be good in me. He taught me by word, and best by example, giving me in him so lively an image of virtue, that ignorance could not cast such a mist over mine eyes, as not to see, and to love it; and all with such dear friendship and care, as, O heaven, how can my life ever requite to him? which made me indeed find in myself such a kind of depending upon him, as without him I found a weakness, and a mistrustfulness of myself, as one stayed from his best strength, when at any time I missed him. Which humour perceiving to over-rule me, I strove against it: not that I was unwilling to depend upon him in judgment, but by weakness I would not; which though it held me to him, made me unworthy of him. Therefore I desired his leave and obtained it, such confidence he had in me, preferring my reputation before his own tenderness, and so privately went from him, he determining, as after I knew, in secret manner, not to be far from the place where we appointed to meet, to prevent any foul play that might be offered unto me. Full loth was Erona to let us depart from her, as it were, fore-feeling the harms which after fell to her. But I, rid fully from those cumbers of kindness, and half a day’s journey in my way towards Anaxius, met an adventure, which, though in itself of small importance, I will tell you at large, because by the occasion thereof I was brought to as great cumber and danger, as lightly any might escape.

“As I passed through a land, each side whereof was so bordered both with high timber trees, and copses of far more humble growth, that it might easily bring a solitary mind to look for no other companions than the wild burgesses of the forest, I heard certain cries, which, coming by pauses to mine ears from within the wood of the right hand, made me well assured by the greatness of the cry, it was the voice of a man, though it were a very unmanlike voice, so to cry. But making mine ears my guide, I left not many trees behind me before I saw at the bottom of one of them a gentleman, bound with many garters hand and foot, so as well he might tumble and toss, but neither run nor resist he could. Upon him, like so many eagles upon an ox, were nine gentlewomen, truly such as one might well enough say, they were handsome. Each of them held bodkins in their hands, wherewith continually they pricked him, having been before hand unarmed of any defence from the waist upward, but only of his shirt: so as the poor man wept and bled, cried and prayed while they sported themselves in his pain, and delighted in his prayers as the arguments of their victory.

“I was moved to compassion, and so much the more that he straight called to me for succour, desiring me at least to kill him, to deliver him from those tormentors. But before myself could resolve, much less any other tell what I would resolve, there came in choleric haste towards me about seven or eight knights, the foremost of which, willed me to get away, and not to trouble the ladies while they were taking their due revenge; but with so over-mastering a manner of pride, as truly my heart could not brook it; and therefore, answering them, that how I would have defended him from the ladies I knew not, but from them I would, I began to combat first with him particularly, and after his death with the others that had less good manners, jointly. But such was the end of it, that I kept the field with the death of some, and flight of others. Insomuch as the women, afraid, what angry victory would bring forth, ran all away, saving only one, who was so fleshed in malice that neither during, nor after the fight, she gave any truce to her cruelty, but still used the little instrument of her great spite, to the well-witnessed pain of the impatient patient: and was now about to put out his eyes, which all this while were spared, because they should do him the discomfort of seeing who prevailed over him. When I came in, and after much ado brought her to some conference, for some time it was before she would hearken, more before she would speak, and most before she would in her speech leave off the sharp remembrance of her bodkin, but at length when I pulled off my head-piece, and humbly entreated her pardon, or knowledge why she was cruel, out of breath more with choler, which increased in his own exercise, than with the pain she took, much to this purpose, she gave her grief unto my knowledge.

“‘Gentlemen,’ said she, ‘much it is against my will to forbear any time the executing of my just revenge upon this naughty creature, a man in nothing but in deceiving women. But because I see you are young, and like enough to have the power, if you would have the mind, to do much more mischief than he, I am content upon this bad subject to read a lecture to your virtue. This man called Pamphilus, in birth I must confess is noble, but what is that to him, if it shall be a stain to his dead ancestors to have left such an offspring, in shape as you see, not uncomely, indeed the fit mask of his disguised falsehood, in conversation wittily pleasant, and pleasantly gamesome; his eyes full of merry simplicity, his words, of hearty companionableness: and such an one, whose head one would not think so stayed as to think mischievously; delighted in all such things, which by imparting the delight to others, makes the user thereof welcome, as, music, dancing, hunting, feasting, riding, and such like. And to conclude, such an one, as who can keep him at arm’s-end, need never wish a better companion. But under these qualities lies such a poisonous adder, as I will tell you. For by those gifts of nature and fortune, being in all places acceptable, he creeps, nay, to say, truly, he flies so into the favour of poor silly women, that I would be too much ashamed to confess, if I had not revenge in my hand as well as shame in my cheeks. For his heart being wholly delighted in deceiving us, we could never be warned, but rather one bird caught, served for a stale to bring in more. For the more he got, the more still he showed that he, as it were, gave way to his new mistress when he betrayed his promises to the former. The cunning of his flattery, the readiness of his tears, the infiniteness of his vows, were but among the weakest threads of his net. But the stirring our own passions, and by the entrance of them, to make himself lord of our forces, there lay his master’s part of cunning, making us now jealous, now envious, now proud of what he had, desirous of more; now giving one the triumph, to see him that was prince of many, subject to her; now with an estranged look, making her fear the loss of that mind, which indeed could never be had: never ceasing humbleness and diligence, till he had embarked us in some such disadvantage that we could not return dry-shod; and then suddenly a tyrant, but a crafty tyrant. For so would he use his imperiousness, that we had a delightful fear, and an awe, which made us loth to lose our hope. And, which is strangest, when sometimes with late repentance I think of it, I must confess, even in the greatest tempest of my judgment was I never driven to think him excellent; and yet so could set my mind, both to get and keep him, as though therein had laid my felicity: like them I have seen play at the ball, grow extremely earnest, who should have the ball, and yet every one knew it was but a ball. But in the end the bitter farce of the sport was, that we had either our hearts broken with sorrow, or our estates spoiled with being at his direction, or our honours for ever lost, partly by our own faults, but principally by his faulty using of our faults. For never was there man that could with more scornful eyes behold her at whose feet he had lately lain, nor with a more unmanlike bravery use his tongue to her disgrace, which lately had sung sonnets of her praises, being so naturally inconstant, as I marvel his soul finds not some way to kill his body, whereto it had been so long united. For so hath he dealt with us, unhappy fools, as we could never tell whether he made greater haste after he once liked, to enjoy, or after he once enjoyed, to forsake. But making a glory of his own shame, it delighted him to be challenged of unkindness, it was a triumph to him to have his mercy called for: and he thought the fresh colours of his beauty were painted in nothing so well as in the ruins of his lovers: yet so far had we engaged ourselves, unfortunate souls, that we listed not complain, since our complaints could not but carry the greatest occasion to ourselves. But every of us, each for herself, laboured all means how to recover him, while he rather daily sent us companions of our deceit, than ever returned in any sound and faithful manner. Till at length he concluded all his wrongs with betrothing himself to one, I must confess, worthy to be liked if any worthiness might excuse so unworthy a changeableness, leaving us nothing but remorse for what was past, and despair of what might follow. Then indeed the common injury made us all join in fellowship, who till that time had employed our endeavours one against the other, for we thought nothing was a more condemning of us, than the justifying of his love to her by marriage: then despair made fear valiant, and revenge gave shame countenance: whereupon, we, that you saw here, devised how to get him among us alone: which he, suspecting no such matter of them whom he had by often abuses, he thought made tame to be still abused, easily gave us opportunity to do.

“‘And a man may see, even in this, how soon rulers grow proud, and in their pride foolish: he came with such an authority among us, as if the planets had done enough for us, that by us once he had been delighted. And when we began in courteous manner, one after the other, to lay his unkindness unto him, he, seeing himself confronted by so many, like a resolute orator, went not to denial, but to justify his cruel falsehood, and all with such jests and disdainful passages, that if the injury could not be made greater, yet were our conceits made the apter to apprehend it.

“‘Among other of his answers, forsooth, I shall never forget, how he would prove it was no inconstancy to change from one love to another, but a great constancy, and contrary, that which we call constancy, to be most changeable. “For,” said he, “I ever loved my delight, and delighted always in what was lovely: and wheresoever, I found occasion to obtain that, I constantly followed it. But these constant fools you speak of, though their mistress grow by sickness foul, or by fortune miserable, yet still will love her, and so commit the absurdest inconstancy that may be, in changing their love from fairness to foulness, and from loveliness to his contrary; like one not content to leave a friend, but will straight give over himself, to his mortal enemy: where I, whom you call inconstant, am ever constant to beauty, in others, and delight myself.” And so in this jolly scoffing bravery he went over us all, saying he left one, because she was over-wayward; another, because she was too soon won; a third, because she was not merry enough; a fourth, because she was over gamesome; the fifth, because she was grown with grief subject to sickness; the sixth, because she was so foolish as to be jealous of him; the seventh, because she had refused to carry a letter from him to another that he loved; the eighth, because she was not secret; the ninth, because she was not liberal: but to me, who am named Dido, and indeed have met with a false Aeneas: to me I say, O the ungrateful villain, he could find no other fault to object, but that, perdy, he met with many fairer.

“‘But when he had thus played the careless prince, we, having those servants of ours in readiness, whom you lately so manfully overcame, laid hold of him, beginning at first but that trifling revenge, in which you found us busy; but meaning afterwards to have mangled him so as should have lost his credit for ever abusing more. But as you have made my fellows fly away, so for my part the greatness of his wrong overshadows, in my judgment, the greatness of any danger. For was it not enough for him to have deceived me, and through the deceit abused me, and after the abuse forsaken me, but that he must now, of all the company, and before all the company, lay want of beauty to my charge? many fairer, I trow even in your judgment, sir, if your eyes do not beguile me, not many fairer; and I know, whosoever says the contrary, there are not many fairer. And of whom should I receive this reproach, but of him who hath best cause to know there are not many fairer? and therefore howsoever my fellows pardon his injuries, for my part I will ever remember, and remember to revenge his scorn of all scorns.’ With that she to him afresh; and surely would have put out his eyes, who lay mute for shame, it he did not sometimes cry for fear, if I had not leapt from my horse and mingling force with entreaty, stayed her fury.

“But while I was persuading her to meekness, comes a number of his friends, to whom he forthwith cried, that they should kill that woman, that had thus betrayed and disgraced him. But then I was fain to forsake the ensign under which I had before served, and to spend my uttermost force in the protecting of the lady: which so well prevailed for her, that in the end there was a faithful peace promised of all sides. And so I leaving her in a place of security, as she thought, went on my journey towards Anaxius, for whom I was forced to stay two days in the appointed place, he disdaining to wait for me, till he were sure I was there.

“I did patiently abide his angry pleasure, till about that space of time he came, indeed, according to promise, alone: and that I may not say too little, because he is wont to say too much, like a man whose courage is apt to climb over any danger. And as soon as ever he came near me, in fit distance for his purpose, he with much fury, but with fury skilfully guided, ran upon me, which I, in the best sort I could, resisted, having kept myself ready for him, because I had understood that he observed few compliments in matter of arms, but such as a proud anger did indite unto him. And so, putting our horses into a full career, we hit each other upon the head with our lances: I think he felt my blow; for my part, I must confess, I never received the like: but I think, though my senses were astonished, my mind forced them to quicken themselves, because I had learned of him how little favour he is wont to show in any matter of advantage. And indeed he was turned and coming upon me with his sword drawn, both our staves having been broken, at that encounter, but I was so ready to answer him, that truly I know not who gave the first blow. But whosoever gave the first, was quickly seconded by the second. And indeed, excellentest lady, I must say true, for a time it was well fought between us; he undoubtedly being of singular valour, I would God, it were not abased by his too much loftiness: but as, by the occasion of the combat, winning and losing ground, we changed places, his horse, happened to come upon the point of the broken spear, which, fallen to the ground, chanced to stand upward, so as it lightning upon his heart the horse died. He driven to dismount, threatened, if I did not the like, to do as much for my horse as fortune had done for his. But whether for that, or because I would not be beholden to fortune for any part of the victory, I descended. So began our foot-fight in such sort, that we were well entered to blood on both sides, when there comes by that inconstant Pamphilus, whom I had delivered, easy to be known, for he was bare-faced, with a dozen armed men after him; but before him he had Dido, that lady, who had most sharply punished him, riding upon a palfrey, he following her with most unmanlike cruelty, beating her with wands he had in his hand, she crying for sense of pain, or hope of succour: which was so pitiful a sight unto me, that it moved me to require Anaxius to defer our combat till another day, and now to perform the duties of knighthood in helping this distressed lady. But he that disdains to obey anything but his passion, which he calls his mind, bid me leave off that thought; but when he had killed me, he would then perhaps, go to her succour. But I well finding the fight would be long between us, longing in my heart to deliver the poor Dido, giving him so great a blow as somewhat stayed him, to term it aright, I flatly ran away from him toward my horse, who trotting after the company in mine armour I was put to some pain, but that use made me nimble unto it. But as I followed my horse, Anaxius followed me; but this proud heart did so disdain that exercise, that I quickly over-ran him, and overtaken my horse, being, I must confess, ashamed to see a number of country folks, who happened to pass thereby, who halloed and hooted after me, as at the arrantest coward that ever showed his shoulders to his enemy. But when I had leapt on my horse, with such speedy agility that they all cried, ‘O see how fear gives him wings,’ I turned to Anaxius, and aloud promised him to return thither again as soon as I had relieved the injured lady. But he railing at me, with all the base words angry contempt could indite; I said no more but ‘Anaxius assure thyself, I neither fear thy force, nor thy opinion;’ and so using no weapon of a knight at that time but my spurs, I ran in my knowledge after Pamphilus, but in all their conceits from Anaxius, which as far as I could hear, I might well hear testified with such laughters and games, that I was some few times moved to turn back again.

“But the lady’s misery over-balanced my reputation, so that after her I went, and with six hours’ hard riding, through so wild places, as it was rather the cunning of my horse sometimes than of myself, so rightly to hit the way, I overgat them a little before night, near to an old ill-favoured castle, the place where I perceived they meant to perform their unknightly errand. For there they began to strip her of her clothes, when I came in among them, and running through the first with a lance, the justness of the cause so enabled me against the rest, false-hearted in their own wrong doing, that I had in as short time almost as I had been fighting with only Anaxius, delivered her from those injurious wretches, most of whom carried news to the other world, that amongst men secret wrongs are not always left unpunished. As for Pamphilus, he having once seen, and as it should seem, remembered me, even from the beginning began to be in the rearward, and before they had left fighting, he was too far off to give them thanks for their pains. But when I had delivered to the lady a full liberty, both in effect and in opinion, for some time it was before she could assure herself she was out of their hands, who had laid so vehement apprehensions of death upon her, she then told me, how as she was returning towards her father’s, weakly accompanied, as too soon trusting to the falsehood of reconcilement, Pamphilus had set upon her and, killing those that were with her, carried herself by such force, and with such manner as I had seen, to this place, where he meant in cruel and shameful manner to kill her, in the sight of her own father, to whom he had already sent word of it, that out of his castle window, for this castle, she said, was his, he might have the prospect of his only child’s destruction in my coming, whom, she said, he feared as soon as he knew me by the armour, had not warranted her from that near approaching cruelty. I was glad I had done so good a deed for a gentlewoman not unhandsome, whom before I had in like sort helped. But the night beginning to persuade some retiring place, the gentlewoman, even out of countenance before she began her speech, much after this manner invited me to lodge that night with her father.

“‘Sir,’ said she, ‘how much I owe you, can be but abased by words, since the life I have, I hold it now the second time, of you: and therefore need not offer service unto you, but only to remember you, that I am your servant: and I would my being so, might any way yield any small contentment unto you. Now only I can but desire you to harbour yourself this night in this castle, because the time requires it, and in truth this country is very dangerous for murdering thieves, to trust a sleeping life among them. And yet I must confess that as the love I bear you makes me thus invite you, so the same love makes me ashamed to bring you to a place where you shall be so, not spoken by ceremony, but by truth, miserably entertained.’

“With that she told me, that though she spoke of her father, whom she named Chremes, she would hide no truth from me; which was in sum, that he was of all that region the man of greatest possessions and riches, so was he either by nature, or an evil received opinion, given to sparing in so unmeasurable sort, that he did not only bar himself from the delightful, but almost from the necessary use thereof, scarcely allowing himself fit sustenance of life, rather than he would spend of those goods for whose sake only he seemed to joy in life. Which extreme dealing, descending from himself upon her, had driven her to put herself with a great lady of that country, by which occasion she had stumbled upon such mischances as were little for the honour either of her, or her family. But so wise had he showed himself therein, as while he found his daughter maintained without his cost, he was content to be deaf to any noise of infamy, which though it had wronged her much more than she deserved, yet she could not deny but she was driven thereby to receive more than decent favours. She concluded, that there at least I should be free from injuries, and should be assured to her-ward to abound as much in the true causes of welcomes, as I should find wants of the effects thereof.

“I, who had acquainted myself to measure the delicacy of food and rest by hunger and weariness, at that time well stored of both, did not abide long entreaty, but went with her to the castle, which I found of good strength, having a great moat round about it, the work of a noble gentleman, of whose unthrifty son he had bought it; the bridge drawn up, where we were fain to cry a good while before we could have answer, and to dispute a good while before answer would be brought to acceptance. At length a willingness, rather than a joy to receive his daughter whom he had lately seen so near death, and an opinion brought into his head by course, because he heard himself called father, rather than any kindness that he found in his own heart, made him take us in; for my part by that time grown so weary of such entertainment that no regard of myself, but only the importunity of his daughter, made me enter. Where I was met with this Chremes, a driveling old fellow, lean, shaking both of head and hands, already half earth, and yet then most greedy of earth: who scarcely would give me thanks for what I had done, for fear, I suppose, that thankfulness might have an introduction of reward; but with a hollow voice, giving me a false welcome, I might perceive in his eye to his daughter, that it was hard to say whether the displeasure of her company did not overweigh the pleasure of her own coming. But on he brought me into so bare a house, that it was the picture of miserable happiness, and rich beggary (served only by a company of rustical villains, full of sweat and dust, not one of them other than a labourer) in sum, as he counted it, profitable drudgery; and all preparations both for food and lodging such as would make one detest niggardness, it is so sluttish a vice. His talk of nothing but of his poverty, for fear, belike, lest I should have proved a young borrower. In sum, such a man, as any enemy would not wish him worse than to be himself. But there that night bid I the burden of being a tedious guest to a loathsome host; over-hearing him sometimes bitterly warn his daughter of bringing such costly mates under his roof, which she grieved at, desired much to know my name, I think partly of kindness, to remember who had done something for her, and partly, because she assured herself I was such a one as would make even his miser-mind contented with that he had done. And accordingly, she demanded my name and estate, with such earnestness, that I, whom love had not as then so robbed me of myself, as to be other than I am, told her directly my name and condition: whereof she was no more glad than her father, as I might well perceive by some ill-favoured cheerfulness, which then first began to wrinkle itself in his face.

“But the causes of their joys were far different; for as the shepherd and the butcher both may look upon one sheep with pleasing conceits, but the shepherd with mind to profit himself by preserving, the butcher with killing him, so she rejoiced to find that mine own benefits had made me to be her friend, who was a prince of such greatness, and lovingly rejoiced. But his joy grew, as I to my danger after perceived, by the occasion of the queen Artaxia’s setting my head to sale for having slain her brother Tiridates, which being the sum of an hundred thousand crowns, to whosoever brought me alive into her hands, that old wretch, who had over-lived all good nature, though he had lying idly by him much more than that, yet above all things loving money, for money’s own sake, determined to betray me, so well deserving of him, for to have that which he was determined never to use. And so knowing that the next morning I was resolved to go to the place where I had left Anaxius, he sent in all speed to a captain of a garrison near by, which though it belonged to the king of Iberia, yet knowing the captain’s humour to delight so in riotous spending, that he cared not how he came by the means to maintain it, doubted not that to be half with him in the gain, he would play his quarter part in the treason. And therefore that night agreeing of the fittest places where they might surprise me in the morning, the old caitiff was grown so ceremonious, that he would needs accompany me some miles in my way, a sufficient token to me, if nature had made me apt to suspect; since a churl’s courtesy rarely comes, but either for gain or falsehood. But I suffered him to stumble into that point of good manners: to which purpose he came out with all his clowns, horsed upon such cart-jades, and so furnished, as in good faith I thought with myself, if that were thrift, I wish none of my friends or subjects ever to thrive. As for his daughter, the gentle Dido, she would also, but in my conscience with a far better mind, prolong the time of farewell, as long as he.

“And so we went on together: he so old in wickedness, that he could look me in the face, and freely talk with me, whose life he had already contracted for: till coming into the falling of a way which led us into a place, of each side whereof men might easily keep themselves undiscovered, I was encompassed suddenly by a great troop of enemies, both of horse and foot, who willed me to yield myself to the queen Artaxia. But they could not have used worse eloquence to have persuaded my yielding than that; I knowing the little goodwill Artaxia bare me. And therefore making necessity and justice my best sword and shield, I used the other weapons I had as well as I could; I am sure to the little ease of a good number, who trusting to their number more than to their valour, and valuing money higher than equity, felt that guiltiness is not always with ease oppressed. As for Chremes, he withdrew himself, so gilding his wicked conceits with his hope of gain, that he was content to be a beholder how I should be taken to make his prey.

“But I was grown so weary that I supported myself more with anger than strength, when the most excellent Musidorus came to my succour, who having followed my trace as well as he could, after he found I had left the fight with Anaxius, came to the niggard’s castle, where he found all burned and spoiled by the country people, who bare mortal hatred to that covetous man, and now took the time when the cattle was left almost without guard, to come in and leave monuments of their malice therein: which Musidorus not staying either to further, or impeach, came upon the spur after me, because with one voice many told him, that if I were in his company, it was for no good meant unto me, and in this extremity found me. But when I saw that cousin of mine, methought my life was doubled, and where I before thought of a noble death, I now thought of a noble victory. For who can fear that hath Musidorus by him? who, what he did there for me, how many he killed, not stranger for the number than for the strange blows wherewith he sent them to a well-deserved death, might well delight me to speak of, but I should so hold you too long in every particular. But in truth, there if ever, and ever, if ever any man, did Musidorus show himself second to none in able valour.

“Yet what the unmeasurable excess of their number would have done in the end, I know not, but the trial thereof was cut off by the chanceable coming thither of the king of Iberia, that same father of the worthy Plangus, whom it hath pleased you sometimes to mention, who, not yielding over to old age his country delights, especially of hawking, was at that time following a merlin, brought to see this injury offered unto us, and having great numbers of courtiers waiting upon him, was straight known by the soldiers that assaulted us, to be their king, and so most of them withdrew themselves.

“He, by his authority, knowing of the captain’s own constrained confession, what was the motive of this mischievous practice; misliking much such violence should be offered in his country to men of our rank, but chiefly disdaining it should be done in respect of his niece, whom, I must confess wrongfully, he hated, because he interpreted that her brother and she had maintained his son Plangus against him, caused the captain’s head presently to be stricken off, and the old bad Chremes to be hanged, though truly for my part, I earnestly laboured for his life, because I had eaten of his bread. But one thing was notable for a conclusion of his miserable life, that neither the death of his daughter, who, alas! poor gentlewoman, was by chance slain among his clowns, while she over-boldly for her weak sex sought to hold them from me, nor yet his own shameful end was so much in his mouth as he was led to execution, as the loss of his goods, and burning of his house which often, with more laughter than tears of the hearers, he made pitiful exclamations upon.

“This justice thus done, and we delivered, the king indeed, in royal sort invited us to his court, not far thence: in all point entertaining us so, as truly I must ever acknowledge a beholdingness unto him; although the stream of it fell out not to be so sweet as the spring. For after some days being there, curing ourselves of such wounds as we had received, while I, causing diligent search to be made for Anaxius, could learn nothing, but that he was gone out of the country, boasting in every place how he had made me run away, we were brought to receive the favour of acquaintance with the Queen Andromana, whom the princess Pamela did in so lively colours describe the last day, as still methinks the figure thereof possesseth mine eyes, confirmed by the knowledge myself had.