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Title: The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia

Author: Philip Sidney

Contributor: Richard Bellings
Earl of William Alexander Stirling

Editor: Ernest A. Baker

Release date: May 24, 2023 [eBook #70854]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: George Routledge and Sons,
Ltd., 1907

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70854

Credits: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COUNTESS
OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA ***

THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE’S
ARCADIA
BY
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

WITH THE ADDITIONS OF SIR WILLIAM
ALEXANDER AND RICHARD BELING,

A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR,
AND AN
INTRODUCTION
BY
ERNEST A. BAKER, M.A.

LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, Ltd.
New York: E. P. Dutton & Co.

CONTENTS
EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION
LIFE OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
TESTIMONIES CONCERNING THE AUTHOR
SIDNEY’S DEDICATION
ARCADIA
BOOK I
BOOK II
BOOK III
BOOK IV
BOOK V
BOOK VI (by R. B.)
NOTES

INTRODUCTION
In a broad survey of the early history of English prose fiction three periods
mark themselves out with great distinctness. The later centuries of the
middle ages were the age of romance, when both poet and proseman
worked upon the same mass of legendary material, expanding and
embellishing the current stories in precisely the same spirit, the difference
between prose romance and metrical romance being simply one of
mechanical form. When in the Elizabethan age the literature of tradition
gave way to the literature of invention, a decisive step in advance was
made; but the novel still retained all the essential features of its poetic
ancestry. Then, with the invention of a genuine prose, in the succeeding
epoch, came a revolution. Discarding the romantic spirit, as their
predecessors had abandoned the romantic legends, the first modern
novelists turned themselves to the portrayal and interpretation of actual life,
and the history of realism began. Sir Philip Sidney’s Arcadia holds an
important place in these three stages of gradual evolution, as the type and
culmination of the middle period, the age of poetic invention; how
important in the long history of the genesis, the successive transformations,
and the final development of English fiction, can be realised only by going
back right to the beginnings, when the earliest prose romances took their
rise from the chansons de gestes.
In the exordium of his Apologie for Poetrie, Sidney himself lays stress on
the priority of the poet in the history of literature. Modern research has
found that this rule holds good in the literatures of many more races than
Sidney was able to adduce as examples. From free imagination to realism,
from mythology to science, from sensuous and passionate rhythms to cold,
abstract prose—this is the natural line of progression. And the same course
of development is repeated in the evolution of the various literary species.
The first Hellenic philosophers wrote in hexameters; history began with
epos, and went through the semi-poetic phase of Herodotus before it
emerged in the form of abstract prose and the generalising method of
science with Thucydides. Scientific and technical literature had its birth in

poetry and mythology; and even when it became practical and experimental
maintained for a while the fashions of poetry, and sought the inspiration of
the muse. In the same way, the novel, whose evolution seems to have
culminated in unpoetic days, must have its origins sought in far-off times
when authors wrote instinctively in metre.
Narrative or dramatic poetry and the novel must always of course be very
nearly related together. A poem and a novel, it might be said, are but two
different sorts of fiction. But to make this statement literally true, the word
fiction would have to be interpreted in two different senses. For the
difference between poetry and prose is not simply one of style, but lies in
the circumstance that the imagination of the poet, inspired with emotion and
ideality, appeals directly to imagination, whilst prose addresses the
understanding. The poet merely asks us to imagine; but the prose-writer has
to reason and convince. Writers of such prose fiction as the Elizabethan
novels, and the Greek and Latin novels that arose in the decadence of
classical literature, did not realise that the mind of the reader is reached in
essentially different ways by prose and poetry; that in the one case the
imagination is working on a higher plane, and responding to another kind of
stimulus. Both accordingly produced something that was really neither
prose nor poetry, and both had slight influence on the subsequent
development of the novel. It will be worth while a little later to compare the
Elizabethan novel with this curious product of an earlier age of culture and
decadence. For the novel of Sidney, Lyly, Lodge, and Greene, though it
belongs to the Elizabethan era in time, was not a native growth of that age
of great beginnings, but rather a final and unproductive efflorescence of the
romantic literature that had its roots in times already ancient. Sidney the
critic and interpreter of letters looked back, not forward. He did not discern
the signs around him of the tremendous birth that was commencing, but
would have been proud to be compared with Heliodorus and Longus, and
with Sanazzaro and Montemayor, whom he acclaims as genuine poets,
preaching with seductive eloquence throughout his Apologie the fallacious
doctrine that poetry is the name for all imaginative literature.
The first English examples of fiction in prose were stories from the great
chivalric cycles of Arthur, of Charlemagne, and of Troy and Alexander.
Some of these were written in prose originally, but the majority were
translations, paraphrases, or recensions of metrical narratives. Some were
turned into verse again, and again in that form were the material for further

prose recensions. And throughout these transformations the matter, the
style, and the spirit of the stories underwent hardly any change. It was only
now and then that the versifier gave a rein to imagination in his battles and
pageants; or was hurried by the swing of the metre into bursts of lyricism,
or a more dramatic curtness in the dialogue; or cut short the explication of
motive and plot, which the prose-writer was inclined to elaborate. How well
the prose sufficed to the minstrel converting it into his own idiom may be
seen by comparing such a metrical romance as the Scots poem, Lancelot of
the Laik, with the samples of the French prose story from which it was
translated, in the edition by the Early English Text Society. There is very
little poetical heightening except where the minstrel tacks on a prologue of
his own composing; the rest is but the effect of the paraphraser’s occasional
impulse to change and invent.[1] Certainly these writers were not
embarrassed by any preconceptions of a strict boundary line between prose
and the language of poetry, and the uses for which either was especially
ordained. The traditional themes were handled, in both verse and prose, in
the same traditional manner, and were animated by the same spirit of
romantic adventure.
A change of style is almost invariably the result of a change of thought
and feeling; but no profound mental and moral revolution like that which
underlay the romantic movement of the nineteenth century, was the
occasion for turning the mediaeval romances into prose. When all literary
compositions were intended for singing and recitation, they naturally took a
metrical form; but when books were meant to be read in bower and cloister,
it was left to the writer to choose his vehicle. Thus, while there were true
poets like Chrestien de Troyes and Wolfram von Eschenbach among those
working upon the material of legend, many arrayed themselves in the poetic
vesture without having a spark of divine fire; and the style of many of these
metrical narratives strikes one as too prosaic for the subject, especially if we
base our expectations on Malory, to us the chief exemplar of mediaeval
romance, whose prose, though not in the least resembling in structure that
bastard thing, prose poetry, is thoroughly epical in its stark simplicity, its
sensuous colour, and the haunting suggestion of beauty and ideality. It was
not an age of poetry in the way this can be said of the early period of Greek
literature, when philosophers, historians, and lawgivers spoke in metre
because the muse was in them. Romance is the decadence of poetry; and

while the traditional forms survived, the poetic impulse grew weaker and
weaker.
By Caxton and his successors the prose romances of the age of chivalry
were multiplied and circulated among wider audiences than even those who
listened to the mediaeval jongleur: these were the first popular novels of the
Tudor age, yet they were already getting out of date, inasmuch as they
reflected the manners and the ideals of a bygone period. But there had
arisen on the continent two forms of romance that represent another stage in
the development of fiction; the Spanish chivalric romance typified in
Amadis of Gaul, and the pastoral novel of Sanazzaro and Montemayor. The
three great legendary cycles, no matter how wild and fabulous their later
excursions, always claimed to be a reading of history; each writer was
careful to state his authorities, real or fictitious; and though he added life
and circumstance to his narrative, the substance was put forward and
accepted as history. In Spain romance had begun exactly as in Britain with
poetic chronicles of heroic periods, such as the story of the Cid, round
which gathered in the process of time a vast accretion of anonymous
legend. But in the Amadis, printed in 1508, but current in oral or manuscript
versions for two centuries at least, Spain gave birth to a kind of romance in
which such history even as that in the legendary chronicles had no place.
Amadis himself, it is true, was connected with the Arthuriad by his lineage;
but with this exception, the author or authors let both history and historical
tradition go, and in the various knight-errantries of Amadis gave to their
imaginative powers their full fling. In the beauty of its ladies, the size of its
giants, the valour, constancy, and self-denial of its heroes, the Amadis
eclipses all its rivals; and in the Palmerins and Esplandians that were the
sequel, these exaggerations are carried to even more ridiculous lengths. The
older romances had usually been localised in actual places and countries,
though these were often idealised out of all likeness to reality; but Amadis
and his successors met with their adventures and performed their feats of
arms in a region created by the fancy of their authors. Spenser’s Fairy Land,
and Sidney’s Arcadia were no doubt suggested by this romantic geography.
Pastoral romance had a classical origin, for the Eclogues of Baptista
Mantuanus, pastoral dialogues satirising allegorically the social and moral
vices of the fifteenth century in Italy were avowedly inspired by the bucolic
poetry of his countryman Virgil. Longus also, one of the Greek novelists
already alluded to, had in his Daphnis and Chloe depicted the life of

pastoral simplicity. But if Petrarch, Boccaccio, and others whose works
contained germs of the new movement are left out of account as of minor
importance in this respect, it is accurate enough to say that the modern
pastoral novel began its course with the Arcadia of Jacopo Sanazzaro, a
Neapolitan whose aim it was to refresh the minds of his contemporaries,
weary of a sophisticated and artificial life, with pictures of a simple
existence in fields and woods, the felicities of truth and virtue, and the
sentiment of a pure and refined love. Prose and verse are intermingled in his
book, as they are in the only example of the style accessible to the modern
reader in an English translation, the Galatea of Cervantes. Sanazzaro was
surpassed in interest by his Portuguese imitator, Jorge de Montemayor, the
author of Diana, who added a pathos and a touch of real life to the pastoral,
making a deeper appeal to the imagination of his readers, and securing such
a popularity in England, that his novel was translated in 1583 by
Bartholomew Young. The pastoral novel and the Amadis cycle of romances
were the two direct progenitors of Sidney’s Arcadia, in which the spirit of
knightly heroism and the idyllic atmosphere of a sentimental Utopia are
blended in fairly equal parts.
The pastoral, however, was only a digression in the slow advance of the
English novel towards its goal; and though it furnished perhaps half the
inspiration of Sidney’s romance, it does not bear upon the present theme,
the significance of the Elizabethan novel as represented by the Arcadia in
the evolution of English fiction. The pastoral romance, it should
nevertheless be noted, is more closely allied to poetry than to prose fiction
proper, not merely because it mingles verse with a flowery and emotional
prose, but chiefly because it is an offspring of the free imagination and not
of the study of real life. The pastoral impulse has always been something
factitious and retrograde in the history of literature and art, something
exactly contrary to the return to nature to which Wordsworth gave the
strongest impetus, and which exercised such an enormous effect on the
advance of realism.
The Elizabethan novel, the general characteristics of which are roughly
summed up in the words “poetic invention,” came next to mediaeval
romance in a natural order of succession. It did not bring fiction any nearer
the type conditioned by the laws of expression in strict prose, of the
eighteenth century pattern. In an age of poetry the novel had become more
poetic in style and in attitude to life than it had ever been. The Arcadia and

Euphues have less than the Morte d’Arthur of the real world of men and
women. A superficial view, accordingly, might suggest that with a hybrid
and unfruitful type of art like the poetic novel one line of development
came to an end, especially as we see that Defoe, in the next age, makes an
entirely new beginning, abjuring romance and free imagination, turning
directly to actual experience for his material, and using a homespun style,
as close as he could make it to the speech of everyday life. Yet the semi-
poetic novel represents a definite stage of transition, and it does contain
elements that were to be developed later. The masterpieces of Italian story-
tellers had made their mark upon the Elizabethans, who acquired the art of
constructing a plot, and giving their narratives a beginning, a middle, and an
ending. They showed also a more conscious effort to portray individual
character; and by Lyly the analysis of motive and feeling was carried to a
point that seems to anticipate Richardson. More than this, they came a good
step nearer to reality, although they failed so flagrantly to reproduce the
atmosphere of the real. They chose their subjects from the sphere of human
experience; and they rejected giants, fairies, and witchcraft, together with
the

“Forests and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear,”

which were stock features of the romantic literature; although, on the other
hand, they put wild improbabilities in the place of supernatural marvels, and
revelled in coincidences and disguises almost as incredible as the Celtic
magic of the trouvère.
Sidney the critic expounds in his Apologie for Poetry his view that the
novel of his time and of all anterior times, together indeed with all literature
having an imaginative and idealistic tendency, was comprehended under his
definition of poetry.

“For Xenophon,” says he, “who did imitate so excellently as to
give us the portraiture of a just Empire under the name of Cyrus,
made therein an absolute heroical poem. So did Heliodorus in his
sugared invention of that picture of love in Theagines and Cariclea.
And yet both writ in prose: which I speak to show, that it is not

riming and versing that maketh a poet, no more than a long gowne
maketh an Advocate.”

What his theory of poetry was may be gathered from his description of
the poet, who,

“disdayning to be tied to any such subjection (as the natural rules of
things), lifted up with the vigor of his owne invention, dooth growe
in effect another nature, in making things either better than Nature
bringeth forth, or, quite anewe, formes such as never were in Nature,
as the Heroes, Demigods, Cyclops, Chimeras, Furies, and such like;
so as hee goeth hand in hand with Nature, not inclosed within the
narrow warrant of her gifts, but freely ranging onely within the
Zodiack of his owne wit. Nature never set the earth in so rich
tapestry, as divers Poets have done, neither with so pleasant rivers,
fruitful trees, sweet smelling flowers, nor whatsoever els may make
the too much loved earth more lovely. Her world is brasen, the Poets
only deliver a golden.”

This corresponds to Bacon’s famous account of the nature of poetry, in
the Advancement of Learning:—

“Poesy is a part of learning in measure of words for the most part
restrained, but in all other points extremely licensed, and doth truly
refer to the imagination; which, not being tied to the laws of matter,
may at pleasure join that which nature hath severed, and sever that
which nature hath joined; and so make unlawful matches and
divorces of things; Pictoribus atque poetis, etc. It is taken in two
senses in respect of words and matter. In the first sense it is but a
character of style, and belongeth to arts of speech, and is not
pertinent for the present. In the latter it is (as hath been said) one of
the principal parts of learning, and is nothing else but feigned
history, which may be styled as well in prose as in verse.
“The use of this feigned history hath been to give some shadow of
satisfaction to the mind of man in those points wherein the nature of
things doth deny it, the world being in proportion inferior to the
soul; by reason whereof there is, agreeable to the spirit of man, a
more ample greatness, a more exact goodness, and a more absolute

variety, than can be found in the nature of things. Therefore, because
the acts or events of true history have not that magnitude which
satisfieth the mind of man, poesy feigneth acts and events greater
and more heroical. Because true history propoundeth the successes
and issues of actions not so agreeable to the merits of virtue and
vice, therefore poesy feigns them more just in retribution, and more
according to revealed providence. Because true history representeth
actions and events more ordinary and less interchanged, therefore
poesy endueth them with more rareness, and more unexpected and
alternative variations. So as it appeareth that poesy serveth and
conferreth to magnanimity, morality, and to delectation. And
therefore it was ever thought to have some participation of
divineness, because it doth raise and erect the mind, by submitting
the shows of things to the desires of the mind; whereas reason doth
buckle and bow the mind unto the nature of things. And we see that
by these insinuations and congruities with man’s nature and
pleasure, joined also with the agreement and consort it hath with
music, it hath had access and estimation in rude times and barbarous
regions, where other learning stood excluded.”

These definitions are too broad for poetry, and too narrow for
imaginative literature in general, though that is what they aimed to define. It
was as difficult for Sidney and Bacon as for Aristotle to propound a theory
embracing literary forms that were not yet invented; and furthermore it is
probable that had they witnessed the birth of naturalism in Defoe, or its
ultimate developments in our own age, they would have denied to it the
name of literature or art. But there is no place in such a definition for many
works that neither Sidney nor Bacon would have hesitated to admit, the
novels of George Eliot, for instance, or those of Fielding. Yet a modern
explanation of poetry, that of Newman, would not exclude even such prose
works as these. He says,

“Moreover, by confining the attention to one series of events and
scene of action, it bounds and finishes off the confused luxuriance of
real nature; while, by a skilful adjustment of circumstances, it brings
into sight the connexion of cause and effect, completes the

dependance of the parts one on another, and harmonises the
proportions of the whole.”

A stricter analysis, however, demands of poetry not only a distinctive
mode of conceiving its subject, but a distinctive mode of utterance. If
poetry is the fine art of words, and its aim to give all the sensuous,
emotional, and intellectual delight of which words are capable, it is clear
that Sidney and Bacon gave full weight to only one side of the truth, and
that they included far too much. The poetic novel, to which their definition
applied so aptly, is a case in point, since it was a hybrid and transitional
form, a thing that was just ceasing to be poetry, but had not yet become the
new form of art to which it was the harbinger.
The Arcadia, and the same may be said of the Elizabethan novel
generally, shows its near relationship to poetry in both ways, in its style and
in the purely imaginative nature of the story, the characters, and the life
depicted. In the introduction to Defoe’s Roxana and Moll Flanders,
published in this series, I compared the opening of Defoe’s stories,
Robinson Crusoe, for instance, so definite as to time and place, so particular
in the mention of names and the exact circumstances in which the events
occur, with the beginning of the Arcadia, which carries us at once away in
imagination to a flowery meadow in a land of Arcady that has no existence
save in the fancy of the poets and those under their spell. There is no effort
to make the story credible, or the characters real, by attaching them with the
bands of verisimilitude to the world of familiar things. Musidorus and
Pyrocles, Pamela and Philoclea, Zelmane and Amphialus, are in no way
studies from life, but embodiments of Sidney’s chivalrous energy and thirst
for action, and of the craving for a life of pastoral simplicity and ideal love,
strengthened by his enforced existence amidst the pomps and unrealities of
a court. While he was living in retirement at Wilton, where the Arcadia was
begun, he gave vent to this feeling in the following lines:—

“Well was I while under shade
Oaten reeds me music made,
Striving with my mates in song;
Mixing mirth our songs among.
Greater was the shepherd’s treasure
Than this false, fine, courtly pleasure.”

How strenuous in his nature was the heroic energy that gave the chivalric
strain to his romance, was shown pre-eminently in the closing scenes of his
life, when he roused his uncle Leicester out of his sloth, and sacrificed
himself on the field to a sense of knightly punctilio. It has been said of him
that his whole life was “a true poem, a composition, and pattern of the best
and honourablest things”; and not only in his shepherd Philisides, but in all
the idealisms of courage, knightly faith and honour, and self-denying
affection, that illumine the pages of his Arcadia, and in their splendid deeds
of valour and endurance, he poured out the riches of his own nature, as the
poet puts all that is best in himself into his verse. His purpose in writing the
Arcadia, according to the testimony of his old schoolfellow at Shrewsbury,
Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke, was moral and didactic; but “in all these
creatures of his making his interest and scope was to turn the barren
philosophic precepts into pregnant images of life,” that is, to energize them
with poetry.
The prose naturally begotten of such a poetical conception of the novel is
well illustrated in the following passage, one of those most charged with
humanity and most free from extravagance.

“But the headpiece was no sooner off but that there fell about the
shoulders of the overcome knight the treasure of fair golden hair,
which, with the face, soon known by the badge of excellency,
witnessed that it was Parthenia, the unfortunately virtuous wife of
Argalus; her beauty then, even in despite of the past sorrow, or
coming death, assuring all beholders that it was nothing short of
perfection. For her exceeding fair eyes having with continual
weeping gotten a little redness about them; her roundly, sweetly-
smelling lips a little trembling, as though they kissed her neighbour
death; in her cheeks, the whiteness striving, by little and little, to get
upon the rosiness of them; her neck—a neck indeed of alabaster—
displaying the wound which with most dainty blood laboured to
crown his own beauties; so as here was a river of purest red, there an
island of perfectest white, each giving lustre to the other, with the
sweet countenance, God knows, full of an unaffected languishing;
though these things, to a grossly conceiving sense, might seem
disgraces, yet indeed were they but apparelling beauty in a new
fashion, which all looking upon through the spectacles of pity, did

even increase the lines of her natural fairness, so as Amphialus was
astonished with grief, compassion, and shame, detesting his fortune
that made him unfortunate in victory.”

In the Apologie for Poetry, Sidney condemned Euphuism, Lyly’s new-
fangled speech, which became fashionable in all cultivated circles
immediately upon the publication of Euphues, or the Anatomie of Wit, in
1579; but his own affectations are equally alien from purity of style. Both
were striving after a prose having a richness, a style of ornament, and an
artistic structure, that would furnish some equivalent for the charms to ear
and mind of metrical language. In this they were simply repeating the
attempt of the late Greek and Latin novelists, whose style anticipated many
of the mannerisms of Elizabethan prose, the false antitheses, the word-
jingles, the artificial cadences, and alliteration. Phrases like, “Sine pretio
pretiosae,” “Amores amare coerceas,” “Atra atria Proserpinae,” in the
Golden Ass of Apuleius, are marvellously like the flowers of speech
affected by Sidney and Lyly. The scholiasts used to arrange the prose of this
author in iambic measures, and would no doubt have applied similar tests to
Sidney’s. And the fondness for involved, musical periods, the love of
sensuousness and splendour, are features common to both schools of
writers. Here are two sentences from Apuleius showing precisely the same
effort to maintain the glories of poetry, and the same cloying rhetoric that is
the result in Sidney and his contemporaries:—

“Mirus prorsus homo, immo semideus, vel certe Deus, qui
magnae artis subtilitate tantum efferavit argentum … ut diem suum
sibi domus faciat, licet sole nolente: sic cubicula, sic porticus, sic
ipsae valvae fulgurant.”
“Namque saxum immani magnitudine procerum, et inaccessa
salebritate lubricum, mediis e faucibus lapidis fontes horridos
evomebat: qui statim proni foraminis lacunis editi, perque proclive
delapsi, et angusti canalis exerto contecti tramite, proximam
convallem latenter incidebant.”

Apuleius might very well have written such a sentence as this:—

“Yet the pitiless sword had such pity of so precious an object that
at first it did but hit flatlong. But little availed that, since the lady

falling down astonished withal, the cruel villain forced the sword
with another blow to divorce the fair marriage of the head and
body.”

And in spite of Sidney’s strictures upon the conceits of Euphuism, there
was not much to choose between Lyly and such extravagances as this:—

“Exceedingly sorry for Pamela, but exceedingly exceeding that
exceedingness in fear for Philoclea.”

The fact is, there are bound to be these freaks and extravagances whilst a
style is still in such an inchoate and experimental state as English prose was
in from the time of Malory and Berners, and the other early architects of a
style unfettered by metre, with whom, as Mr John Dover Wilson has shown
in his work on John Lyly, the germs of Euphuism found their way into
English long before Guevara was known in this country, although the
tendency is nearly always attributed to his influence. The writers of this
period could not evolve even a poetic prose without falling into these
pitfalls, for the simple reason that they wrote a century before the principles
of what may be called a normal prose style had been determined. Mr Watts-
Dunton has pointed out that in the present age there is another kind of
poetic prose in process of evolution, a prose “which above all other kinds
holds in suspense the essential qualities of poetry.” Prose to be truly
poetical, he argues, must move far away from the “tremendous perorations
of De Quincey, or the sonorous and highly-coloured descriptions of
Ruskin,” and must no doubt be something very different from what Sidney
and other writers made of Elizabethan prose, noble as their achievement
was.

“It must, in a word, have all the qualities of what we technically
call poetry except metre. We have, indeed, said before that while the
poet’s object is to arouse in the listener an expectancy of caesuric
effects, the great goal before the writer of poetic prose is in the very
opposite direction; it is to make use of the concrete figures and
impassioned diction that are the poet’s vehicle, but at the same time
to avoid the expectancy of metrical bars.”

Such a prose as this must be the very latest product of literary effort. Its
difference from the poetic prose actually evolved in the transitional age
with which we are dealing, is the difference between an art founded on long
experience and many attempts and failures, and above all on a sound
philosophy of aesthetic causes and effects, and the essays of men who were
not yet clear as to the objects they ought to aim at. So uncertain was Sidney
even as to the true genius of English poetry that he was one of the most
ardent members of the “Areopagus,” who endeavoured to reform English
poetry on Italian and classical principles, the results of which attempt may
be appraised in the verses inserted in the Arcadia. The indispensable basis
for a sound poetic prose, if such a thing is feasible, must be a satisfactory
norm of unpoetic prose.
Sidney’s romance did not escape ridicule in his own time; Ben Johnson
parodied Arcadianism in Every Man out of his Humour; Dekker poked fun
at Arcadian and Euphuised gentlewomen in the Gul’s Horne-book; and the
involved and careless construction of the story came in for mild satire in
one of the earliest burlesques of chivalrous and pastoral romances, Sorel’s
Berger Extravagant, which was translated by John Davies of Kidwelly in a
book that may be remembered by its sub-title, the Anti-Romance. The
criticism in the passage following is not particularly acute, but is cited
because few readers of Sidney are likely to come across such a very rare
work as this translation (1648).

“Nor hath England wanted its Arcadia, whereof it is not long
since we have had the translation. I find no more order in that than
in the rest, and there are many things whereof I am not at all
satisfied. At the very beginning you have the complaints of the
shepherds Strephon and Claius upon the departure of Urania,
without telling us who she was, nor whither she went. Now an
author ought never to begin his book but he should mention the
persons principally concerned in the history whose actions he is to
raise up beyond any of the rest; yet this man makes afterward no
more mention of these two shepherds than if he had never named
them; and though he bring them in again at some sports before
Basilius, yet that signifies nothing, since a man finds no period of
their adventures, and that those verses wherein they speak of their
loves are so obscure that they may be taken for the oracles of a

Sybill. It is true that Sir Philip dying young might have left his work
imperfect; but there’s no reason why we should suffer by that
misfortune, and be obliged to take a thing for perfect because it
might have been made so.”

… Thus Clarimond in his “Oration against Poetry, Fables, and
Romances”; Philiris in his “Vindication” replies:—

“As for Sidney’s Arcadia, since it hath crossed the sea to come
and see us, I am sorry Clarimond receives it with such poor
compliments. If he hears nothing of the loves of Strephon and
Claius, he must not quarrel with the author who hath made his book
one of the most excellent in the world. There are discourses of love
and discourses of state so generous and pleasant that I should never
be weary to read them. I should say much in his commendation were
I not in haste to speak of Astraea, which Clarimond brings in next,
and I am very glad to find that book generally esteemed, which
should oblige him to esteem it also.”

Sorel’s Berger Extravagant appeared in 1628. Two French translations of
the Arcadia had already been made, one by Baudoin in 1624, and a second
by D. Geneviefve, Chappelain, the year following. The book was translated
into German in 1629, by Valentinus Theocritus, whose translation was
revised by Martin Opitz, and appeared again in 1643 and 1646.
It would be rash to assert that the Arcadia, not published until 1590,
though circulated widely in manuscript during the preceding decade, had
any influence on the pastorals of Greene and Lodge, who boasted their
adherence to the linguistic fashions set in 1579 by Lyly’s Euphues. It is
enough to observe that these and the Arcadia have many close
resemblances which are proofs of a common ancestry. Robert Greene’s
Pandosto (1588), the original of Shakespeare’s Winter’s Tale, his Menaphon
(1589), and Philomela (1592); and Lodge’s Rosalynde: Euphues’ golden
legacie (1590), whence As you like it was derived, have the Arcadian scenes
and the atmosphere of fairy-land, combined with the same strain of
chivalrous adventure, and the same complicated love-plots as Sidney’s
romance. I venture to quote from Professor Courthope’s History of English

Poetry a passage emphasising the strong feminine interest which was such a
prominent feature in Lyly, Lodge, and Greene, as well as in Sidney.

“But after all, the element in the Arcadia which produced the
greatest effect upon contemporary taste, on account of the dramatic
tendencies of the age, was the one which Sidney derived from his
study of Montemayor. Perhaps the most noticeable feature in the
story is the complete elimination of the magical and supernatural
machinery which formed so important a part of the older romances.
In imitation of Montemayor, Sidney now concentrated the main
interest of his narrative in the complications of the love-plots. The
consequence of this device was to bring the exhibition of female
character into greater prominence. In the old chivalric poetry and
fiction no more than three types of women are represented, the
insipid idol of male worship who shows ‘mercy’ and ‘pity’ to her
lover, according to the regulation pattern of the Cours d’Amour; the
fickle mistress, like Cressida, who is inconstant to one lover, and so
violates the code of chivalry; and the unfaithful wife of the class of
Guinevere and Iseult. The Arcadia, on the other hand, is full of
feminine heroines, martyrs, and monsters, each of whom plays her
own distinct part in the development of the action. There is the ideal
maiden, Pamela or Philoclea, type of lofty virtue, forerunner of the
Clarissas and Belindas of Richardson; the vicious Queen Cecropia
recalling the Phaedras and Sthenobaeas of Greek legend; Gynecia,
the passion-stricken wife of a respectable elderly husband, a
favourite figure in the modern French novel; the clownish Mopsa,
the original, perhaps, of Shakespeare’s Audrey; and, above all, the
representative of adventurous, unhappy, self-sacrificing love in its
various aspects, Helen, Queen of Corinth, Parthenia, and Zelmane,
predecessors of Shakespeare’s Viola, Helena, and Imogen.”

The popularity of the book, rivalling that of Euphues, is illustrated by the
number of editions, of which a list will be given later. Sidney found writers
eager to continue the story, and many imitators. The argument of John
Day’s Ile of Guls (1606) was “a little string or rivolet drawne from the full
streme of the right worthy gentleman, Sir Phillip Sydney’s well knowne
Archadea.” Shirley dramatised many episodes in his Pastorall called the

Arcadia (1640); the story of the dispossessed king of Paphlagonia and his
son is probably the germ of Shakespeare’s episode of Gloucester and his
sons in King Lear, and Mr C. Crawford has found traces of copying in the
Duchess of Malfi and other plays of Webster. The author of the Emblemes,
Francis Quarles, made a long poem out of the story of Argalus and
Parthenia (1622); and other writers linked their compositions to the
popularity and prestige of the Arcadia by using Sidney’s name as their
advertisement, like the author of Sir Philip Sydney’s Ourania (1606), a
philosophical poem dedicated to the Countess of Pembroke, and the Lady
Mary Wroath, a niece of Sidney, who produced a slavish imitation in The
Countess of Montgomerie’s Urania (1621), and made great play with her
pedigree on the title-page. Excerpts and adaptations were published right
down to the late seventeenth century.
The first edition of the Arcadia was published in 1590, four years after
the author’s death. He did not finish the book, which had been begun for the
amusement of his sister, the Countess of Pembroke, while he was in exile
from the court and living at Wilton House, the seat of the Pembrokes. It was
Sidney’s dying request that the manuscript should be destroyed, and the
dedicatory epistle to his sister expresses how little he valued the book as a
literary performance:—

“If you keep it to yourself, or to such friends who will weigh error
in the balance of good-will, I hope for the father’s sake it will be
pardoned, perchance made much of, though in itself it have
deformities. For indeed for severer eyes it is not, being a trifle, and
that triflingly handled.”

The Arcadia was entered in the Register of the Stationer’s Company in
1588, by William Ponsonbie, the publisher of Spenser’s Fairie Queene; and
the first edition saw the light in a thick quarto in 1590. A photo-lithographic
reproduction of this handsome first edition was published in 1891 by Dr
Oskar Sommer, to whose scholarly bibliographical introduction I am
indebted for the following list of the various editions. The fourth and fifth
books, and a portion of the third book (57 pages), were added in the second
edition, in 1593, a folio, by the same publisher. Beyond this, there are few
variations in the text of the two editions. The third edition (1598), also by
Ponsonbie, comprised Sidney’s Sonnets, Astrophel and Stella, and the

Defence of Poesie; and these works were again included in the fourth
edition (misdescribed as the third) by Robert Waldegrave, at Edinburgh, in
1599.[2] Mathew Lownes’ edition (1605), the fifth (miscalled the fourth), is
almost a facsimile reprint of the third; but in the next edition, described on
the title-page as the fourth (1613), we get some new “additions,” but of
small importance compared with those in the seventh (described in the title
as the fifth), published in 1621 at Dublin, which included a “Supplement of
a defect in the third part of this History, by Sir W. Alexander,” which had
been printed separately at Dublin the same year. In the present edition his
supplement begins on page 428 and ends on page 451, where Sir William’s
apologie for the liberty taken is duly quoted. Sir William Alexander of
Menstrie, afterwards Earl of Stirling, was a poet and dramatist, and a
statesman of genius, who died in 1610. He was a friend of Drummond of
Hawthornden. The Dictionary of National Biography states wrongly that he
published this continuation of the third book of the Arcadia in 1613, the
date of the so-called fourth edition, certain copies of which have extracts
from this work inserted. The first London edition, to which Sir William
Alexander’s supplement was added, was the eighth, published in 1623; but
it is doubtful whether the additional matter was really printed as a part of
the volume, or added from the 1621 edition, or some other of which there is
no trace, to the only copy of this issue known to Dr Sommer. The
pagination, at any rate, is in a confused state pointing to this.
The sixth book of the Arcadia by Richard Beling (see infra p. 631), first
published at Dublin, in 1624, was added to the ninth edition, miscalled the
sixth, in 1627. It is not mentioned on the title, but before this new
supplement another title-page is inserted, running as follows, “A Sixth
Booke to the Countesse of Pembrokes Arcadia: written by R. B. of
Lincolnes Inne Esquire. (Sat, si bene; si male, nimium.) London, printed by
H. L. and R. Y. 1628,” thus dating a year later than the title-page proper.
After Beling’s continuation come the Sonnets, the Defence of Poesie,
Astrophel, etc. This edition was reprinted in exact conformity, except that
the new title-page mentions the work of Beling, in 1629; and the five other
seventeenth-century editions, appearing in 1633, 1638, 1655, 1662, and
1674, corresponded exactly in all textual respects but the title-page, except
that in the twelfth, described as the ninth, edition (1638), an alternative
supplement to a defect in the third book is introduced by Mr Ja. Johnstone,
“Scoto-Brit,” and in addition to this the 1655 edition contained the forty-

eight couplets entitled “A Remedie for Loue,” and an alphabetical table, or
clavis, forming an index to the stories in the Arcadia.
Dr Sommer mentions only one edition in the eighteenth century, one in
three volumes containing also the poetical works and the Defence of Poesy,
and described as the fourteenth edition, although fifteen previous editions
have now been enumerated. The title of the first volume is dated 1725, but
the other two volumes bear that of the preceding year, the preliminary
matter of the first not having, apparently, been completed in 1724. This was
a London edition, and Dr Sommer was not aware of another seventeenth
century edition, printed at Dublin in 1739, which was a reproduction of this
one: it bears the imprint, “Dublin: printed by S. Powell, for T. Moore, at
Erasmus’s Head in Dame Street, Bookseller, MDCCXXXIX”; and a copy
has been used in preparing the present edition.
The only edition of the Arcadia in the nineteenth century, with the
exception of the photographic reproduction of the first edition by Dr
Sommer, was published by Sampson Low, Son, and Marston, in 1867, and
was preceded by an introductory essay by Hain Friswell, the author of The
Gentle Life, who says:—

“The principle on which this edition of the Arcadia has been put
through the press perhaps needs some explanation. As the sheets of
MS. left the hands of Sidney, after the first book, or perhaps two,
had been completed, they were transmitted to his sister the Countess
of Pembroke, and some of them mislaid and lost. Hence one great
hiatus supplied by Sir William Alexander, others by R(ichard)
B(eling) and Mr Johnstone. It is also known that the Countess of
Pembroke added to the episodes, adventures, and strange turns, at
least in all the later books. Hence there is to be met with an Arcadian
undergrowth which needs much careful pruning; and this
undertaken, with needful compression, will leave the reader all that
he desires of Sidney’s own. Growing like certain fanciful parasites
upon forest trees, on the books of the Arcadia are certain eclogues
of laboriously-written and fantastical poetry, some in Latin
measures, against which Walpole was right to protest, and anent
which Pope said:—

‘And Sidney’s verse halts ill on Roman feet.’

“These have been boldly removed without any loss, it is believed,
to the romance; lastly, long episodes of no possible use to the book,
which we think have been supplied by other hands than Sidney’s
have, whilst using their very words and phrases, been cut down.
Tedious excrescences have thus been removed, but it is to be hoped
with judgment, so that the reader gets all we think is Sidney’s, and
without curb put upon his utterance.”

In the edition now offered to the student of Elizabethan literature an
opposite method has been adopted. Rather than run any risk of omitting
anything that is Sidney’s, it has been thought advisable to give the whole
Arcadia, excrescences and all, especially as the additions of those who were
fellow-spirits and admirers, and belonged to the same great epoch, cannot
be without their interest to readers in the present age, who may, at any rate,
skip the contributions of Alexander and Beling if they are so minded. The
example of Hain Friswell has been followed, however, so far as the
modernisation of the spelling and punctuation is concerned. “A
Continuation of Sir P. Sidney’s Arcadia written by a young Gentlewoman”
(Mrs A. W. Weames), and published at London, in 1651, and James
Johnstone’s “Supplement to a defect in the Third Book,” which is merely an
alternative to Alexander’s, are not included.
There was a modernised edition of the Arcadia published in 1725, under
the title, “Sir Philip Sidney’s Arcadia, Moderniz’d by Mrs Stanley, London,
Printed in the Year MDCCXXV”; and there were extracts from the book,
like the abstract entitled, “The Famous History of Heroick Acts or the
Honour of Chivalry,” London, 1701; and two versions of the episode of
Argalus and Parthenia, the first, “The Unfortunate Lovers: the History of
Argalus and Parthenia” (fourth edition, 1715), and “The History of Argalus
and Parthenia. Being A Choice Flower Gathered out of Sir Philip Sidney’s
Rare Garden,” c. 1770 and 1780. Dr Grosart included all the poems
occurring in the Arcadia in his edition of “The Complete Poems of Sir
Philip Sidney,” in three volumes, in 1877. Students of our old texts owe an
immense debt to Dr Sommer for the pains and industry lavished on his
sumptuous facsimile editions of Caxton’s Malory and Sidney’s Arcadia, in
both of which the comparison of all the extant readings has been carried out
with microscopic thoroughness, and done once for all.
E. A. B.

January 1907.

THE LIFE OF
Sir PHILIP SIDNEY, Kt.
[From the Dublin edition, 1739.]

This Marcellus of the English nation, Sir Philip Sidney, the short-lived
ornament of his noble family, hath deserved, and, without dispute or envy,
enjoyed, the most exalted praises of his own, and of succeeding ages. The
poets of his time, especially Spenser, reverenced him, not only as a patron,
but a master; and he was almost the only person in any age, I will not
except Mecaenas, that could teach the best rules of poetry, and most freely
reward the performances of poets. He was a man of a sweet nature, of
excellent behaviour, of much, and, withal, of well-digested learning, so that
rarely wit, courage, breeding, and other additional accomplishments of
conversation, have met in so high a degree in any single person.[3]
Sir Henry Sidney, his father, was a man of excellent natural wit, large
heart, sweet conversation; and such a governor as sought not to make an
end of the state in himself, but to plant his own ends in the prosperity of his
country. Witness his sound establishments, both in Wales and Ireland, where
his memory is worthily grateful unto this day.
On the other side, his mother, as she was a woman, by descent, of great
nobility (the Lady Mary, eldest daughter of John Dudley, Duke of
Northumberland), so was she by nature of a large ingenious spirit.[4] He
was born at Penshurst, in the county of Kent, on the 29th day of November,
in the year 1554, and had his Christian name given him by his father, from
King Philip, then lately married to Queen Mary. While he was very young,
he was sent to Christ Church College in Oxford to be improved in all sorts
of learning; where continuing till he was about seventeen years of age under
the tuition of Dr Tho. Thornton, canon of that house, he was, in June 1572,
sent to travel; for on the 24th of August following, when the massacre fell
out at Paris, he was then there, and at that time, as I conceive, he, with other
Englishmen, did fly to the house of the ambassador from the Queen of

England.[5] Thence he went through Lorraine, and by Strasburg and
Heidelburg to Frankfort, in September or October following, where he
settles, is entertained agent for the Duke of Saxony, and an underhand
minister for his own king. Lodged he was in Wechel’s house, the printer of
Frankfort.[6] Here he was accompanied by the famous Hubert Languet;
and in the next spring, 1573, Languet removed to Vienna, where our author
met him again, and stayed with him till September, when he went into
Hungary and those parts. Thence he journeyed into Italy, where he
continued all the winter following, and most of the summer, 1574, and then
he returned into Germany with Languet; and the next spring he returned by
Frankfort, Heidelburg, and Antwerp, home into England, about May 1575.
In the year 1576 he was sent by the Queen to Rodolph, the Emperor, to
condole the death of Maximilian, and also to other princes of Germany; at
which time he caused this inscription to be written under his arms, which he
then hung up in all places where he lodged:—

“Illustrissimi et generosissimi viri
Philipi Sidnaei, Angli,
Pro-regis Hiberniae filii, Comitum Warwici
Et Leicestriae Nepotis, serenissimi
Reginae Angliae ad Caesarem legati.”

The next year, 1577, in his return, he saw that gallant Prince Don John de
Austria, Viceroy of the low countries for the King of Spain, and William,
Prince of Orange; by the former of which, though at first he was lightly
esteemed upon the account of his youth, yet, after some discourse, he found
himself so stricken with him that the beholders wondered to see what
tribute that brave and high-minded prince paid to his worth, giving more
honour and respect to him, in his private capacity, than to the ambassadors
of mighty princes.
In the year 1579 he, though neither magistrate nor counsellor, did show
himself, for several weighty reasons, opposite to the Queen’s matching with
the Duke of Anjou, which he very pithily expressed by a due address of his
humble reasons to her, as may be fully seen in a book called “Cabala” (Part
III., p. 201). The said address was written at the desire of some great
personage—his Uncle Robert, I suppose, Earl of Leicester, upon which a
great quarrel happened between him and Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford.

This, as I conceive, might occasion his retirement from Court next summer,
1580, wherein, perhaps, he wrote that pleasant romance called
“Arcadia.”[7]
In 1581 the treaty of marriage was renewed, and our author, Sidney, with
Fulke Greville,[8] were two of the tilters at the entertainment of the French
Ambassador; and at the departure of the Duke of Anjou from England, in
February of the same year, he attended him to Antwerp.[9]
On the 8th of January 1582 he, with Perigrine Bertie, received the
honour of knighthood from the Queen, and in the beginning of 1585 he
designed an expedition with Sir Francis Drake into America, but being
hindered by the Queen (in whose opinion he was so highly prized that she
thought the Court deficient without him) he was, in October following,
made Governor of Flushing—about that time delivered to the Queen for one
of the cautionary towns—and General of the Horse. In both which places of
great trust his carriage testified to the world his wisdom and valour, with
addition of honour to his country by them; and especially the more, when in
July 1586 he surprised Axil, and preserved the lives and honour of the
English army at the enterprise of Gravelin: so that whereas (through the
fame of his high deserts) he was then, or rather before, in election for the
Crown of Poland, the Queen of England refused to further his advancement,
not out of emulation, but out of fear to lose the jewel of her times. What can
be said more? He was a statesman, soldier, and scholar—a complete master
of matter and language, as his immortal pen shows. His pen and his sword
have rendered him famous enough: he died by the one, and by the other he
will ever live as having been hitherto highly extolled for it by the pens of
princes. This is the happiness of art, that although the sword doth achieve
the honour, yet the arts do record it, and no pen hath made it better known
than his own in that book called “Arcadia.” Certain it is, he was a noble and
matchless gentleman, and it may be justly said, without hyperbole or
fiction, as it was of Cato Uticensis, that “he seemed to be born to that only
which he went about.” His written works are these:—
The Countess of Pembroke’s “Arcadia,”[10] which being the most
celebrated romance that was ever written, was consecrated to his noble,
virtuous, and learned sister Mary, the wife of Henry, Earl of Pembroke,
who, having lived to a very fair age, died in her house in Aldersgate Street,
in London, the 25th of September 1621, whereupon her body was buried in
the cathedral church of Salisbury, among the graves of the Pembrochian

family. This “Arcadia,” though then, and since, it was, and is, taken into the
hands of all ingenious men, and said by one living at, or near, the time when
first published, to be “a book most famous for rich conceits and splendour
of courtly expressions.” This work was first printed in the year 1613 in
quarto; it hath been translated into French, Dutch, and other languages in
1624.
Besides Astrophel and Stella,[11] A Remedy for Love, The Defence of
Poesy,[12] Sonnets, etc., Sir Philip also turned the Psalms of David into
English verse, which are in manuscript in the library of the Earl of
Pembroke at Wilton, curiously bound in a crimson velvet cover, left
thereunto by his sister Mary, Countess of Pembroke.[13]
The following dialogue, composed by our author, was spoken between
two shepherds in a pastoral entertainment before several gentlemen and
ladies at the seat of the noble family above mentioned.

Will. Dick, since we cannot dance, come, let a cheerful voice
Show that we do not grudge at all, when others do rejoice.
Dick. Ah, Will, though I grudge not, I count it feeble glee,
With sight made dim with daily tears, another’s sport to see.
Whoever lambkins saw (yet lambkins love to play)
To play when that their loved dams are stoll’n or gone astray?
If this in them be true, as true in men, think I,
A lustless song, forsooth, thinks he, that hath more lust to cry.
Will. A time there is for all, my mother often says,
When she, with skirts tuck’d very high, with girls at stoolball plays.
When thou hast mind to weep, seek out some smoky room:
Now let those lightsome sights we see, thy darkness overcome.
Dick. What joy the joyful sun gives unto bleared eyes,
That comfort in these sports you like, my mind his comfort tries.
Will. What! is thy bagpipe broke? or are thy lambs miswent?
Thy wallet or thy tar-box lost? or thy new raiment rent?
Dick. I would it were but thus, for thus it were too well.
Will. Thou seest my ears do itch at it; good Dick, thy sorrow tell.
Dick. Hear then, and learn to sigh; a mistress I do serve,
Whose wages make me beg the more, who feeds me till I starve,
Whose livery is such, as most I freeze apparelled most,
And look! so near unto my cure, that I must needs be lost.

Will. What? these are riddles sure; art thou then bound to her?
Dick. Bound as I neither power have, nor would have power to stir.
Will. Who bound thee?
Dick. Love, my lord.
Will. What witnesses thereto?
Dick. Faith in myself, and worth in her, which no proof can undo.
Will. What seal?
Dick. My heart deep graven.
Will. What made the band so
fast?
Dick. Wonder, that by two so black eyes the glittering stars be past.
Will. What keepeth safe thy band?
Dick. Remembrance is the chest
Lock’d fast with knowing that she is of worldly things the best.
Will. Thou late of wages ’plainst: what wages mayst thou have?
Dick. Her heav’nly looks, which more and more do give me cause to
crave.
Will. If wages make you want, what food is that she gives?
Dick. Tear’s drink, sorrow’s meat, wherewith, not I, but in me my
death lives.
Will. What living get you then?
Dick. Disdain; but just disdain:
So have I cause myself to plain, but no cause to complain.
Will. What care takes she for thee?
Dick. Her care is to prevent
My freedom with show of her beams, with virtue my content.
Will. God shield us from such dames. If so our downs be sped
The shepherds will grow lean, I trow, their sheep will be ill fed;
But, Dick, my counsel mark: run from the place of woe;
The arrow being shot from far doth give the smaller blow.
Dick. Good Will, I cannot lack the good advice, before
That foxes leave to steal, because they find they die therefore.
Will. Then, Dick, let us go hence, lest we great folks annoy;
For nothing can more tedious be, than ’plaint in time of joy.
Dick. Oh, hence! O cruel word! which even dogs do hate;
But hence, even hence, I must needs go—such is my dogged fate.

To return again to Sir Philip.
In the year 1586,[14] when that unfortunate stand was made against the
Spaniards before Zutphen, the 22nd of September, while he was getting
upon the third horse, having had two slain under him before, he was
wounded with a musket shot out of the trenches, which broke the bone of
his thigh. The horse he rode upon was rather furiously choleric than bravely
proud, and so forced him to forsake the field, but not his back, as the
noblest and fittest bier to carry a martial commander to his grave. In which
sad progress, passing along by the rest of the army, where his uncle,[15] the
general, was, and, being thirsty with excess of bleeding, he called for drink,
which was presently brought him; but, as he was putting the bottle to his
mouth, he saw a poor soldier carried along, who had eaten his last at the
same feast, ghastly casting up his eyes at the bottle, which Sir Philip
perceiving, took it from his head before he drank, and delivered it to the
poor man, with these words: “Thy necessity is yet greater than mine.” And
when he had pledged this poor soldier, he was presently carried to Arnheim,
where the principal surgeons of the camp attended for him. When they
began to dress his wounds, he, both by way of charge and advice, told them
that, while his strength was yet entire, his body free from fever, and his
mind able to endure, they might freely use their art, cut, and search to the
bottom; but if they should neglect their art, and renew torments in the
declination of nature, their ignorance, or overtenderness, would prove a
kind of tyranny to their friend, and, consequently, a blemish to their
reverend science. With love and care well mixed they began the cure, and
continued it some sixteen days, with such confidence of his recovery as the
joy of their hearts overflowed their discretion, and made them spread the
intelligence of it to the Queen, and all his noble friends here in England,
where it was received, not as private, but public good news.
At the same time Count Hollock was under the care of a most excellent
surgeon for a wound in his throat by a musket shot, yet did he neglect his
own extremity to save his friend, and to that end had sent him to Sir Philip.
This surgeon, notwithstanding, out of love to his master, returning one day
to dress his wound, the Count cheerfully asked him how Sir Philip did? and
he answered, with a heavy countenance, that he was not well. At these
words the worthy prince, as having more sense of his friend’s wound than
his own, cries out: “Away, villain! never see my face again, till thou bring

better news of that man’s recovery, for whose redemption many such as I
were happily lost.”
Now, after the sixteenth day was passed, and the very shoulder-bones of
this delicate patient worn through his skin with constant and obedient
posturing of his body to the surgeon’s art, he, judiciously observing the
pangs his wound stang him with by fits, together with many other
symptoms of decay, few or none of recovery, began rather to submit his
body to these artists than any farther to believe in them. He called the
ministers unto him, who were all excellent men, of divers nations, and
before them made such a confession of Christian faith as no book, but the
heart, can truly and feelingly deliver. Then, calling for his will, and settling
his worldly affairs, the last scene of this tragedy was the parting between
the two brothers: the weaker showing infinite strength in suppressing
sorrow, and the stronger, infinite weakness in expressing of it. And to stop
the natural torrent of affection in both, Sir Philip took his leave, with these
admonishing words: “Love my memory, cherish my friends; their faith to
me may assure you they are honest. But, above all, govern your will and
affections by the will and word of your Creator; in me, beholding the end of
this world, with all her vanities.” And with this farewell, desired the
company to lead him away.
After his death, which happened on the 16th of October, the states of
Zealand became suitors to her majesty and his noble friends, that they might
have the honour of burying his body at the public expense of their
government.[16] This was not permitted; for soon after his body was
brought to Flushing, and, being embarked with great solemnity on the 1st of
November, landed at Tower Wharf on the 6th day of the same month.
Thence it was conveyed to the Minories without Aldgate, where it lay in
state for some time, till his magnificent funeral in St Paul’s Cathedral, the
16th of February following, which, as many princes have not exceeded in
the solemnity, so few have equalled in the sorrow for his loss. He was
buried near to that place which his father-in-law, Sir Francis Walsingham,
had designed (as I have heard) to be entombed in, without any monument or
inscription. King James honoured him with an epitaph of his composition,
and the Muses, both of Oxford and Cambridge, lamenting much for his loss,
composed verses to his memory. Besides, several private persons did also
exercise their fancies upon this occasion; for, so general was the

lamentation, that it was accounted a sin for any gentleman of quality, for
many months after, to appear at court or city in any light or gaudy apparel.
No monument hath since been erected over him, whereof this reason is
assigned, that “He is his own monument, whose memory is eternised in his
writings, and who was born into the world to show unto our age a sample of
ancient virtues.”[17]
He left behind him a daughter named Elizabeth, who was born in 1585.
She married Roger Mannours, Earl of Rutland, but died without issue.[18]
I confess it is commonly reported that Sir Philip,[19] some hours before
his death, enjoined a near friend to consign these his works to the flames,
whereby posterity had been deprived of much pleasure and profit accruing
thereby. What promise his friend returned herein is uncertain; but if he
broke his word to be faithful to the public good, posterity will absolve him,
without doing any penance, for being guilty of such a meritorious offence,
wherewith he hath obliged so many ages. Hear the excellent epigrammatist,
Owen, hereon:—

“Ipse tuam moriens, vel conjuge teste, jubebas
Arcadiam saevis ignibus esse cibum.
Si meruit mortem, quia flammam accendit amoris;
Mergi, non Uri debuit iste liber.
In librum quaecunque cadat sententia; nullâ
Debuit ingenium morte perire tuum.”

As the ancient Egyptians presented secrets under their mystical
hieroglyphics, so that an easy figure was exhibited to the eye, and a higher
notion tendered under it to the judgment, so all the “Arcadia” is a continual
grove of morality, shadowing moral and politic results under the plain and
easy emblems of lovers, so that the reader may be deceived, but not hurt
thereby, when surprised on a sudden to more knowledge than he expected.
I will not here endeavour to offer the reader a key to unfold what persons
were intended under the fictitious denominations: herein must men shoot at
the wild rovers of their own conjectures. And many have forged keys of
their own fancies, all pretended to be the right, though unlike one to
another. But, besides, it is an injury to impose guesses for truths on any
belief; such applications, rather made than meant, are not without
reflections on families, as may justly give distaste. I dare confidently aver

that the wards of this lock are grown so rusty with time that a modern key
will scarce unlock it, seeing in above a hundred years many criticisms of
time, place, and person, wherein the life and lustre of this story did consist,
are utterly lost, and unknown in our age.

Vita Philippi Sidnei.

“Qui dignos ipsi vitâ scripsere libellos
Illorum vitam scribere non opus est.
Sidnei in tumulo est, corpus non vita: Philippi
Producit vitam gloria, longa brevem.”
—Owen.

TESTIMONIES CONCERNING THE
AUTHOR
Gulielmus Camdenus de Praelio inter Anglos et Hispanos prope
Zutphaniam in Geldriâ.

Anno Dom. 1586.

“Ex Anglis pauci desiderati; sed qui instar plurimorum, Sidneius, equo
perfosso dum alterum ascendit, glande femur trajectus,[20] vicesimo quinto
post die, magno sui desiderio bonis relicto, in flore aetatis exspiravit, vix
quatuor menses patri superstes. Cui Leicestrius avunculus in Angliam
reversus, exequias, magno apparatu, et militari ritu, in Templo Sti. Pauli
Londini solvit, Jacobus Rex Scotorum epitaphio parentavit: utraque
Academia lacrymas consecravit, et Novum Oxoniae Collegium
elegantissimum[21] Peplum contexuit. Haec et ampliora viri virtus,
ingenium splendidissimum, eruditio politissima, moresque suavissimi
meruerunt.”

Mr Carew, in his “Survey of Cornwall,” p. 102.

“Being a scholar at Oxford at fourteen years of age, and three years
standing upon a wrong-conceived opinion touching my sufficiency, I was
then called to dispute extempore with the matchless Sir Philip Sidney, in
presence of the Earls of Leicester and Warwick, and divers other great
personages.”[22]

Dr Heylin, in his “Cosmography.”

“Arcadia in Greece is a country whose fitness for pasturage and grazing
hath made it the subject of many worthy and witty discourses, especially

that of Sir Philip Sidney, of whom I cannot but make honourable mention.
A book, which, besides its excellent language, rare contrivances, and
delectable stories, hath in it all the strains of poesy, comprehendeth the
universal art of speaking, and, to them who can discern, and will observe,
affordeth notable rules for demeanour, both private and public.”

Mr Lloyd, in his “State Worthies.”

“His romance was but policy played with Machiavel in jest, and state
maxims sweetened to a courtier’s palate. He writ men as exactly as he
studied them; and discerned humours in the court with the same deep
insight he described them in his book. All were pleased with his ‘Arcadia’
but himself, whose years advanced him so much beyond himself as his parts
did beyond others. He condemned his ‘Arcadia,’ in his more retired
judgment, to the fire, which wise men think will continue to the last
conflagration. It was he whom Queen Elizabeth called her Philip,[23] the
Prince of Orange his master, and whose friendship my Lord Brooks was so
proud of that he would have no other epitaph on his grave than this:—

‘Here lieth Sir Philip Sidney’s friend.’”

Sir William Temple, in his “Essay on Poetry.”

“The true spirit or vein of ancient poetry, under the name of romance,
seems to shine most in Sir Philip Sidney, whom I esteem both the greatest
poet and the noblest genius of any that have left writings behind them, and
published in ours, or any other modern language. A person born capable,
not only of forming the greatest ideas, but of leaving the noblest examples,
if the length of his life had been equal to the excellence of his wit and his
virtues.”

Mr Lee, in his “Dedication of Caesar Borgia.”

To the Right Honourable Philip, Earl of Pembroke and Montgomery.

“My lord,—Your illustrious forefathers and, indeed, all your eminent
relations, have always been of the first-rate nobility, patrons of wit and
arms, magnificently brave, true old stampt Britons, and ever foremost in the
race of glory. Not to unravel half your honourable records, I challenge all
the men of fame to show an equal to the immortal Sidney, even when so
many contemporary worthies flourished. I mean Sir Philip, true rival of
your honour; one that could match your spirit; so most extravagantly great
that he refused to be a king. He was at once a Caesar and a Virgil, the
leading soldier, and the foremost poet. All after this must fail: I have paid
just veneration to his name, and, methinks, the spirit of Shakespear pushed
the commendation.”

Mr Philips, in his “Sixth Pastoral.”

“Full fain, O blest Eliza! would I praise
Thy maiden rule, and Albion’s golden days.
Then gentle Sidney liv’d, the shepherd’s friend;
Eternal blessings on his shade attend!”

[SIDNEY’S DEDICATION]
To
My Dear Lady and Sister,
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.

Here now have you (most dear, and most worthy to be most dear lady!) this
idle work of mine, which, I fear, like the spider’s web, will be thought fitter
to be swept away, than worn to any other purpose. For my part, in very truth
(as the cruel fathers among the Greeks were wont to do to the babes they
would not foster), I could well find in my heart to cast out, in some desert
of forgetfulness, this child, which I am loth to father. But you desired me to
do it, and your desire to my heart is an absolute commandment. Now, it is
done only for you, only to you: if you keep it to yourself, or commend it to
such friends who will weigh errors in the balance of goodwill, I hope, for
the father’s sake, it will be pardoned, perchance, made much of, though in
itself it have deformities. For indeed, for severer eyes it is not, being but a
trifle, and that triflingly handled. Your dear self can best witness the
manner, being done in loose sheets of paper, most of it in your presence; the
rest by sheets sent unto you, as fast as they were done. In sum, a young
head, not so well stayed as I would it were, and shall be when God will,
having many fancies begotten in it, if it had not been in some way
delivered, would have grown a monster, and more sorry might I be that they
came in, than that they gat out. But this chief safety shall be the not walking
abroad; and his chief protection, the bearing the livery of your name, which,
if much goodwill do not deceive me, is worthy to be a sanctuary for a
greater offender. This say I, because I know thy virtue so, and this say I,
because it may be ever so, or, to say better, because it will be ever so. Read
it, then, at your idle times, and the follies your good judgment will find in it
blame not, but laugh at. And so, looking for no better stuff than as in a
haberdasher’s shop, glasses, or feathers, you will continue to love the
writer, who doth exceedingly love you, and most heartily prays you may

long live to be a principal ornament to the family of the Sidneys. Your
loving brother,
PHILIP SIDNEY.

ARCADIA
BOOK I
It was in the time that the earth begins to put on her new apparel against the
approach of her lover, and that the sun, running a most even course,
becomes an indifferent arbiter between the night and the day, when the
hopeless shepherd Strephon was come to the sands, which lie against the
island of Cithera; where viewing the place with a heavy kind of delight, and
sometimes casting his eyes to the isleward, he called his friendly rival the
pastor Claius unto him; and setting first down in his darkened countenance
a doleful copy of what he would speak, “O my Claius,” said he, “hither we
are now come to pay the rent, for which we are so called unto by over-busy
remembrance, remembrance, restless remembrance, which claims not only
this duty of us, but for it will have us forget ourselves. I pray you, when we
were amid our flock, and that of other shepherds some were running after
their sheep, strayed beyond their bounds; some delighting their eyes with
seeing them nibble upon the short and sweet grass; some medicining their
sick ewes; some setting a bell for an ensign of a sheepish squadron; some
with more leisure inventing new games of exercising their bodies, and
sporting their wits; did remembrance grant us any holiday, either for
pastime or devotion, nay either for necessary food, or natural rest, but that
still it forced our thoughts to work upon this place, where we last (alas! that
the word last should so long last) did graze our eyes upon her ever-
flourishing beauty, did it not still cry within us? ‘Ah, you base-minded
wretches!—are your thoughts so deeply bemired in the trade of ordinary
worldings, as for respect of gain some paltry wool may yield you, to let so
much time pass without knowing perfectly her estate, especially in so
troublesome a season; to leave that shore unsaluted from whence you may
see to the island where she dwelleth; to leave those steps unkissed wherein
Urania printed the farewell of all beauty?’
“Well, then, remembrance commanded, we obeyed, and here we find that
as our remembrance came ever clothed unto us in the form of this place, so

this place gives new heat to the fever of our languishing remembrance.
Yonder, my Claius, Urania lighted; the very horse, methought, bewailed to
be so disburdened: and as for thee, poor Claius, when thou wentest to help
her down, I saw reverence and desire so divide thee, that thou didst at one
instant both blush and quake, and instead of bearing her wert ready to fall
down thyself. There she sat, vouchsafing my cloak (then most gorgeous)
under her: at yonder rising of the ground she turned herself, looking back
towards her wonted abode, and because of her parting, bearing much
sorrow in her eyes, the lightsomeness whereof had yet so natural a
cheerfulness that it made even sorrow seem to smile; at that turning she
spake to us all, opening the cherry of her lips, and Lord how greedily mine
ears did feed upon the sweet words she uttered! And here she laid her hand
over thine eyes, when she saw the tears springing in them, as if she would
conceal them from other, and yet herself feel some of thy sorrow. But woe
is me, yonder, yonder, did she put her foot into the boat, at that instant, as it
were, dividing her heavenly beauty between the earth and the sea. But when
she was embarked, did you not mark how the winds whistled and the seas
danced for joy, how the sails did swell with pride, and all because they had
Urania? O Urania, blessed be thou Urania, the sweetest fairness, and fairest
sweetness!”
With that word his voice brake so with sobbing, that he could say no
further; and Claius thus answered:
“Alas my Strephon,” said he, “what needs this score to reckon up only
our losses? What doubt is there, but that the sight of this place doth call our
thoughts to appear at the court of affection, held by that racking steward
remembrance? As well may sheep forget to fear when they spy wolves, as
we can miss such fancies when we see any place made happy by her
treading. Who can choose that saw her, but think where she stayed, where
she walked, where she turned, where she spoke? But what is all this? truly
no more, but as this place served us to think of those things, so those things
serve as places to call to memory more excellent matters. No, no, let us
think with consideration, and consider with acknowledging, and
acknowledge with admiration, and admire with love, and love with joy in
the midst of all woes. Let us in such sort think, I say, that our poor eyes
were so enriched as to behold and our low hearts so exalted as to love a
maid who is such, that as the greatest thing the world can shew is her
beauty, so the least thing that may be praised in her is her beauty. Certainly

as her eye-lids are more pleasant to behold than two white kids climbing up
a fair tree, and browsing on its tenderest branches, and yet are nothing
comparing to the day-shining stars contained in them; and as her breath is
more sweet than a gentle south-west wind, which comes creeping over
flowery fields and shadowed waters in the extreme heat of summer; and yet
is nothing, compared to the honey-flowing speech that breath doth carry: no
more all that our eyes can see of her (though when they have seen her, what
else they shall ever see is but dry stubble after clover-grass) is to be
matched with the flock of unspeakable virtues laid up delightfully in that
best-builded fold. But indeed, as we can better consider the sun’s beauty by
marking how he gilds these waters and mountains than by looking upon his
own face, too glorious for our weak eyes: so it may be our conceits (not
able to bear her sun-staining excellency) will better weigh it by her works
upon some meaner subject employed. And alas, who can better witness that
than we, whose experience is grounded upon feeling? Hath not the only
love of her made us (being silly ignorant shepherds) raise up our thoughts
above the ordinary level of the world, so that great clerks do not disdain our
conference? Hath not the desire to seem worthy in her eyes made us, when
others were sleeping, to sit viewing the course of the heavens; when others
were running at Base[1], to run over learned writings; when others mark
their sheep, we to mark ourselves? Hath not she thrown reason upon our
desires, and, as it were, given eyes unto Cupid? Hath in any but in her love-
fellowship maintained friendship between rivals, and beauty taught the
beholders chastity?”
He was going on with his praises, but Strephon bade him stay and look:
and so they both perceived a thing which floated, drawing nearer and nearer
to the bank; but rather by the favourable working of the sea than by any
self-industry. They doubted a while what it should be till it was cast up even
hard before them, at which time they fully saw that it was a man.
Whereupon running for pity’s sake unto him, they found his hands (as it
should appear, constanter friends to his life than his memory) fast gripping
upon the edge of a square small coffer which lay all under his breast: else in
himself no show of life, so that the board seemed to be but a bier to carry
him to land to his sepulchre. So drew they up a young man of goodly shape,
and well-pleasing favour, that one would think death had in him a lovely
countenance; and that, though he were naked, nakedness was to him an
apparel. That sight increased their compassion, and their compassion called

up their care; so that lifting his feet above his head, making a great deal of
salt water come out of his mouth, they laid him upon some of their
garments, and fell to rub and chafe him, till they brought him to recover
both breath, the servant, and warmth, the companion, of living. At length
opening his eyes, he gave a great groan (a doleful note, but a pleasant ditty,
for by that they found not only life but strength of life in him). They
therefore continued on their charitable office until, his spirits being well
returned, he—without so much as thanking them for their pains—gat up,
and looking round about to the uttermost limits of sight, and crying upon
the name of Pyrocles, nor seeing nor hearing cause of comfort, “What,” said
he, “and shall Musidorus live after Pyrocles’s destruction?”
Therewithal he offered wilfully to cast himself again into the sea: a
strange sight to the shepherds, to whom it seemed that before being in
appearance dead, had yet saved his life, and now coming to his life, should
be a cause to procure his death; but they ran unto him, and pulling him back
(then too feeble for them) by force stickled that unnatural fray.
“I pray you,” said he, “honest men, what such right have you in me, as
not to suffer me to do with myself what I list, and what policy have you to
bestow a benefit where it is counted an injury?”
They hearing him speak in Greek (which was their natural language)
became the more tender-hearted towards him, and considering by his
calling and looking that the loss of some dear friend was great cause of his
sorrow, told him, they were poor men that were bound, by course of
humanity, to prevent so great a mischief; and that they wished him, if
opinion of some body’s perishing bred such desperate anguish in him, that
he should be comforted by his own proof, who had lately escaped as
apparent danger as any might be.
“No, no,” said he, “it is not for me to attend so high a blissfulness: but
since you take care of me, I pray you find means that some barque may be
provided, that will go out of the haven that if it be possible we may find the
body, far, far too precious food for fishes: and for that hire I have within this
casket of value sufficient to content them.”
Claius presently went to a fisherman, and having agreed with him, and
provided some apparel for the naked stranger, he embarked, and the
shepherds with him: and were no sooner gone beyond the mouth of the
haven, but that some way into the sea they might discern, as it were, a stain
of the water’s colour, and by times some sparks and smoke mounting

thereout. But the young man no sooner saw it, but that beating his breast he
cried that there was the beginning of his ruin, entreating them to bend their
course as near unto it as they could; telling, how that smoke was but a small
relique of a great fire which had driven both him and his friend rather to
commit themselves to the cold mercy of the sea than to abide the hot cruelty
of the fire; and that therefore, though they both had abandoned the ship, that
he was (if any were) in that course to be met withal. They steered therefore
as near thitherward as they could: but when they came so near that their
eyes were full masters of the object, they saw a sight full of piteous
strangeness: a ship, or rather the carcase of the ship, or rather some few
bones of the carcase hulling there, part broken, part burned, part drowned:
death having used more than one dart to that destruction. About it floated
great store of very rich things and many chests which might promise no
less. And amidst the precious things were a number of dead bodies, which
likewise did not only testify both elements’ violence, but that the chief
violence was grown of human inhumanity: for their bodies were full of
grisly wounds, and their blood had (as it were) filled the wrinkles of the
sea’s visage; which it seemed the sea would not wash away, that it might
witness that it is not always its fault when we do condemn its cruelty. In
sum, a defeat where the conquered kept both field and spoil: a shipwreck
without storm or ill-footing: and a waste of fire in the midst of the water.
But a little way off they saw the mast, whose proud height now lay along;
like a widow having lost her mate of whom she held her honour: but upon
the mast they saw a young man (at least if he were a man) bearing show of
about eighteen years of age, who sat (as on horse-back) having nothing
upon him but his shirt, which being wrought with blue silk and gold had a
kind of resemblance to the sea: on which the sun (then near his western
home) did shoot some of his beams. His hair (which the young men of
Greece used to wear very long) was stirred up and down with the wind,
which seemed to have a sport to play with it, as the sea had to kiss his feet;
himself full of admirable beauty, set forth by the strangeness both of his
seat and gesture. For, holding his head up full of unmoved majesty he held a
sword aloft with his fair arm, which often he waved about his crown, as
though he would threaten the world in that extremity. But the fishermen,
when they came so near him that it was time to throw out a rope by which
hold they might draw him, their simplicity bred such amazement, and their
amazement such superstition that (assuredly thinking it was some God

begotten between Neptune and Venus that had made all this terrible
slaughter), as they went under sail by him, held up their hands and made
their prayers. Which when Musidorus saw, though he were almost as much
ravished with joy as they with astonishment, he leaped to the mariner, and
took the cord out of his hand, and (saying, “Dost thou live, and art thou
well,” who answered, “Thou canst tell best, since most of my well-being
stands in thee,”) threw it out, but already the ship was passed beyond
Pyrocles: and therefore Musidorus could do no more but persuade the
mariners to cast about again, assuring them that he was but a man, although
of most divine excellencies, and promising great rewards for their pains.
And now they were already come upon the stays; when one of the sailors
descried a galley which came with sails and oars directly in the chase of
them; and straight perceived it was a well-known pirate who hunted not
only for goods but for bodies of men, which he employed either to be his
galley-slaves or to sell at the best market. Which when the matter
understood, he commanded forthwith to set on all the canvas he could and
fly homeward, leaving in that fort poor Pyrocles so near to be rescued. But
what did not Musidorus say, what did he not offer to persuade them to
venture to fight; but fear standing at the gates of their ears, put back all
persuasions: so that he had nothing whatever to accompany Pyrocles but his
eyes, nought to succour him but his wishes. Therefore praying for him, and
casting a long look that way, he saw the galley leave the pursuit of them and
turn to take up the spoils of the other wreck: and lastly he might well see
them lift up the young man; and “alas,” said he to himself, “dear Pyrocles,
shall that body of thine be enchained, shall those victorious hands of thine
be commanded to base offices, shall virtue become a slave to those that be
slaves to viciousness, alas, better had it been thou hadst ended nobly thy
noble days: what death is so evil as unworthy servitude?”
But that opinion soon ceased when he saw the galley setting upon
another ship, which held long and strong fight with her: for then he began
afresh to fear the life of his friend, and to wish well to the pirates whom
before he hated, lest in their ruin he might perish. But the fishermen made
such speed into the haven, that they absented his eyes from beholding the
issue: where being entered, he could not procure neither them, or any other
as then, to put themselves into the sea: so that being so full of sorrow for
being unable to do anything as void of counsel how to do anything, besides
that sickness grew something upon him, the honest shepherds Strephon and

Claius (who being themselves true friends did the more perfectly judge the
justness of his sorrow) advise him that he should mitigate somewhat of his
woe, since he had gotten an amendment in fortune, being come from
assured persuasion of his death to have no cause to despair of his life: as
one that had lamented the death of his sheep should after know they were
but strayed would receive pleasure, though readily he knew not where to
find them.
“Now, Sir,” said they, “thus for ourselves it is; we are in profession but
shepherds, and in this country of Laconia little better than strangers, and
therefore neither in skill nor ability of power greatly to stead you. But what
we can present unto you is this: Arcadia, of which country we are, is but a
little way hence; and even upon the next confines there dwelleth a
gentleman, by name Kalander, who vouchsafest much favour unto us: a
man who for his hospitality is so much haunted that no news stir but comes
to his ears; for his upright dealings so beloved of his neighbours, that he
hath many ever ready to do him their uttermost service; and by the great
goodwill our prince bears him may soon obtain the use of his name and
credit, which hath a principal sway, not only in his own Arcadia, but in all
these countries of Peloponnesus: and (which is worth all) all these things
give him not so much power, as his nature gives him will to benefit: so that
it seems no music is so sweet to his ears as deserved thanks. To him we will
bring you, and there you may recover again your health, without which you
cannot be able to make any diligent search for your friend; and therefore
you must labour for it. Besides, we are sure the comfort of courtesy and
ease of wise counsel shall not be wanting.”
Musidorus (who, besides he was merely unacquainted in the country, had
his wits astonished with sorrow) gave easy consent to that from which he
saw no reason to disagree: and therefore (defraying the mariners with a ring
bestowed upon them) they took their journey together through Laconia;
Claius and Strephon by course carrying his chest for him, Musidorus only
bearing in his countenance evident marks of a sorrowful mind, supported
with a weak body; which they perceiving, and knowing that the violence of
sorrow is not, at the first, to be striven withal (being like a mighty beast,
sooner tamed with following than overthrown by withstanding), they gave
way unto it, for that day and the next; never troubling him, either with
asking questions or finding fault with his melancholy; but rather fitting to
his dolour, dolorous discourses of their own and other folks’ misfortunes.

Which speeches, though they had not a lively entrance to his senses shut up
in sorrow, yet like one half asleep he took hold of much of the matter
spoken unto him, for that a man may say, ere sorrow was aware, they made
his thoughts bear away something else beside his own sorrow, which
wrought so in him, that at length he grew content to mark their speeches,
then to marvel at such wit in shepherds, after to like their company, and
lastly to vouchsafe conference: so that the third day after, in the time that
the morning did strew roses and violets in the heavenly floor against the
coming of the sun, the nightingales (striving one with the other which could
in most dainty variety recount their wrong-caused sorrow) made them put
off their sleep, and rising from under a tree (which that night had been their
pavilion) they went on their journey, which by and by welcomed
Musidorus’s eyes (wearied with the wasted soil of Laconia) with delightful
prospects.
There were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees;
humble valleys whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of
silver rivers; meadows, enamelled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers;
thickets, which, being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so
too by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture
stored with sheep feeding with sober security, while the pretty lambs with
bleating oratory craved the dams’ comfort; here a shepherd’s boy piping, as
though he should never be old; there a young shepherdess knitting, and
withal singing, and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work
and her hands kept time to her voice-music. As for the houses of the country
(for many houses came under their eye) they were all scattered, no two
being one by the other, and yet not so far off as that it barred mutual
succour: a show, as it were, of an accompanable solitariness and of a civil
wildness. “I pray you,” said Musidorus, then first unsealing his long silent
lips: “what countries be these we pass through, which are so divers in show,
the one wanting no store, the other having no store but of want?”
“The country,” answered Claius, “where you were cast ashore and now
are passed through is Laconia, not so poor by the barrenness of the soil
(though in itself not passing fertile) as by a civil war, which being these two
years within the bowels of that estate, between the gentlemen and the
peasants (by them named Helots), hath in this fort as it were disfigured the
face of nature, and made it so unhospitable as now you have found it: the

towns neither of the one side nor the other willingly opening their gates to
strangers, nor strangers willingly entering for fear of being mistaken.
“But this country where now you set your foot is Arcadia: and even hard
by is the house of Kalander, whither we lead you. This country being thus
decked with peace and (the child of peace) good husbandry, these houses
you see so scattered are of men, as we two are, that live upon the
commodity of their sheep; and therefore in the division of the Arcadian
estate are termed shepherds: a happy people, wanting little, because they
desire not much.”
“What cause then,” said Musidorus, “made you venture to leave this
sweet life, and put yourself in yonder unpleasant and dangerous realm?”
“Guarded with poverty,” answered Strephon, “and guided with love.” “But
now,” said Claius, “since it hath pleased you to ask anything of us, whose
baseness is such as the very knowledge is darkness, give us leave to know
something of you, and of the young man you so much lament, that at least
we may be the better instructed to inform Kalander, and he the better know
how to proportion his entertainment.”
Musidorus, according to the agreement between Pyrocles and him to alter
their names answered that he called himself Palladius and his friend
Daiphantus; “but till I have him again,” said he, “I am indeed nothing, and
therefore my story is of nothing; his entertainment (since so good a man he
is) cannot be so low as I account my estate; and in sum, the sum of all his
courtesy may be to help me by some means to seek my friend.”
They perceived he was not willing to open himself further, and therefore
without further questioning brought him to the house; about which they
might see (with fit consideration both of the air, the prospect, and the nature
of the ground) all such necessary additions to a great house as might well
show Kalander knew that provision is the foundation of hospitality and
thrift the fuel of magnificence. The house itself was built of fair and strong
stone, not affecting so much any extraordinary kind of fineness as an
honourable representing of a firm stateliness. The lights, doors and stairs
rather directed to the use of the guest than to the eye of the artificer; and yet
as the one chiefly heeded, so the other not neglected; each place handsome
without curiosity, and homely without loathsomeness; not so dainty as not
to be trod on, nor yet slubbered up with good fellowship; all more lasting
than beautiful, but that the consideration of the exceeding lastingness made
the eye believe it was exceeding beautiful. The servants not so many in

number as cleanly in apparel and serviceable in behaviour, testifying even
in their countenances that their master took as well care to be served as of
them that did serve. One of them was forthwith ready to welcome the
shepherds as men whom though they were poor their master greatly
favoured; and understanding by them that the young man with them was to
be much accounted of, for that they had seen tokens of more than common
greatness, howsoever now eclipsed with fortune, he ran to his master, who
came presently forth, and pleasantly welcoming the shepherds, but
especially applying him to Musidorus, Strephon privately told him all what
he knew of him, and particularly that he found this stranger was loth to be
known.
“No,” said Kalander speaking aloud, “I am no herald to inquire of men’s
pedigrees; it sufficeth me if I know their virtues; which (if this young man’s
face be not a false witness) do better apparel his mind, than you have done
his body.” While he was thus speaking, there came a boy in show like a
merchant’s prentice, who, taking Strephon by the sleeve delivered him a
letter, written jointly both to him and Claius, from Urania, which they no
sooner had read but that with short leave taking of Kalander (who quickly
guessed and smiled at the matter) and once again (though hastily)
recommending the young man unto him, they went away, leaving
Musidorus even loth to part with them, for the good conversation he had
had of them and obligation he accounted himself tied in unto them: and
therefore, they delivering his chest unto him, he opened it, and would have
presented them with two very rich jewels, but they absolutely refused them,
telling him that they were more than enough rewarded in the knowing of
him, and without hearkening unto a reply (like men whose hearts disdained
all desires but one) gat speedily away, as if the letter had brought wings to
make them fly. But by that sight Kalander soon judged that his guest was of
no mean calling; and therefore the more respectfully entertaining him,
Musidorus found his sickness (which the fight, the sea and late travel had
laid upon him) grow greatly, so that, fearing some sudden accident, he
delivered the chest to Kalander, which was full of most precious stones
gorgeously and cunningly set in divers manners, desiring him he would
keep those trifles, and if he died, he would bestow so much of it as was
needful, to find out and redeem a young man, naming himself Daiphantus,
as then in the hands of Laconian pirates.

But Kalander seeing him faint more and more, with careful speed
conveyed him to the most commodious lodging in his house, where being
possessed with an extreme burning fever he continued some while with no
great hope of life; but youth at length got the victory of sickness, so that in
six weeks the excellency of his returned beauty was a credible ambassador
of his health, to the great joy of Kalander, who, as in his time he had by
certain friends of his that dwelt near the sea in Messenia set forth a ship and
a galley to seek and succour Daiphantus, so at home did he omit nothing
which he thought might either profit or gratify Palladius.
For, having found in him (besides his bodily gifts beyond the degree of
admiration) by daily discourses, which he delighted himself to have with
him, a mind of most excellent composition, a piercing wit, quite void of
ostentation, high erected thought seated in a heart of courtesy, an eloquence
as sweet in the uttering as slow to come to the uttering, a behaviour so
noble as gave a majesty to adversity; and all in a man whose age could not
be above one and twenty years; the good old man was even enamoured with
a fatherly love towards him, or rather became his servant by the bonds such
virtue laid upon him; once, he acknowledged himself so to be by the badge
of diligent attendance.
But Palladius having gotten his health, and only staying there to be in
place where he might hear answer of the ships set forth, Kalander one
afternoon led him abroad to a well-arrayed ground he had behind his house,
which he thought to show him before his going as the place himself more
than in any other delighted in. The backside of the house was neither field,
garden nor orchard; or rather it was both field, garden and orchard: for as
soon as the descending of the stairs had delivered them down, they came
into a place cunningly set with trees of the most taste-pleasing fruits: but
scarcely they had taken that into their consideration but that they were
suddenly stept into a delicate green; of each side of the green a thicket, and
behind the thickets again new beds of flowers, which being under the trees
the trees were to them a pavilion, and they to the trees a mosaical floor, so
that it seemed that Art therein would needs be delightful, by counterfeiting
his enemy Error and making order in confusion.
In the midst of all the place was a fair pond whose shaking crystal was a
perfect mirror to all the other beauties, so that it bare show of two gardens;
one in deed, the other in shadows. And in one of the thickets was a fine
fountain made thus: a naked Venus of white marble, wherein the graver had

used such cunning that the natural blue veins of the marble were framed in
fit places to set forth the beautiful veins of her body. At her breast she had
her babe Aeneas, who seemed, having begun to suck, to leave that to look
upon her fair eyes, which smiled at the babe’s folly, meanwhile the breast
running.
Hard by was a house of pleasure built for a summer-retiring place;
whither Kalander leading him he found a square room full of delightful
pictures made by the most excellent workmen of Greece. There was Diana
when Actaeon saw her bathing; in whose cheeks the painter had set such a
colour as was mixed between shame and disdain, and one of her foolish
nymphs, who weeping, and withal lowering, one might see the workman
meant to set forth tears of anger. In another table was Atalanta, the posture
of whose limbs was so lively expressed, that if the eyes were only judges,
as they be the only seers, one would have sworn the very picture had run.
Besides many more, as of Helena, Omphale, Iole: but in none of them all
beauty seemed to speak so much as in a large table, which contained a
comely old man, with a lady of middle-age, but of excellent beauty, and
more excellent would have been deemed, but that there stood between a
young maid, whose wonderfulness took away all beauty from her, but that
which it might seem she gave her back again by her very shadow. And such
difference (being known that it did indeed counterfeit a person living) was
there between her and all the other, though goddesses, that it seemed the
skill of the painter bestowed nothing on the other new beauty, but that the
beauty of her bestowed new skill on the painter. Though he thought
inquisitiveness an uncomely guest he could not choose but ask who she
was, that bearing show of one being indeed could with natural gifts go
beyond the reach of invention. Kalander answered, that it was made by
Philoclea, the younger daughter of his prince, who also with his wife were
contained in that table: the painter meaning to represent the present
condition of the young lady, who stood watched by an over-curious eye of
her parents; and that he would also have drawn her eldest sister, esteemed
her match for beauty, in her shepherdish attire, but that rude clown her
guardian would not suffer it; neither durst he ask leave of the prince, for
fear of suspicion. Palladius perceived that the matter was wrapped up in
some secrecy, and therefore would, for modesty, demand no further; but yet
his countenance could not but with dumb eloquence desire it. Which
Kalander perceiving, “Well,” said he, “my dear guest, I know your mind,

and I will satisfy it: neither will I do it like a niggardly answerer, going no
further than the bounds of the question; but I will discover unto you as well
that wherein my knowledge is common with others as that which by
extraordinary means is delivered unto me; knowing so much in you (though
not long acquainted) that I shall find your ears faithful treasurers.” So then
sitting down in two chairs, and sometimes casting his eye to the picture, he
thus spake:
“This country Arcadia among all the provinces of Greece, hath ever been
had in singular reputation; partly for the sweetness of the air and other
natural benefits, but principally for the well-tempered minds of the people
who (finding that the shining title of glory, so much affected by other
nations, doth indeed help little to the happiness of life) are the only people
which, as by their justice and providence give neither cause nor hope to
their neighbours to annoy, so are they not stirred with false praise to trouble
others’ quiet, thinking it a small reward for the wasting of their own lives in
ravening, that their posterity should long after say they had done so. Even
the Muses seem to approve their good determination by choosing this
country for their chief repairing place, and by bestowing their perfections so
largely here that the very shepherds have their fancies lifted to so high
conceits that the learned of other nations are content both to borrow their
names and imitate their cunning.
“Here dwelleth and reigneth this prince (whose picture you see) by name
Basilius; a prince of sufficient skill to govern so quiet a country, where the
good minds of the former princes had set down good laws, and the well-
bringing up of the people doth serve as a most sure bond to hold them. But
to be plain with you, he excels in nothing so much as the zealous love of his
people, wherein he doth not only pass all his own foregoers but, as I think,
all the princes living. Whereof the cause is, that though he exceed not in the
virtues which get admiration, as depth of wisdom, height of courage, and
largeness of magnificence, yet is he notable in those which stir affection, as
truth of word, meekness, courtesy, mercifulness, and liberality.
“He, being already well stricken in years, married a young princess,
named Gynecia, daughter to the king of Cyprus, of notable beauty, as by her
picture you see: a woman of great wit, and in truth of more princely virtues
than her husband; of most unspotted chastity; but of so working a mind and
so vehement spirits that a man may say, it was happy she took a good
course for otherwise it would have been terrible.

“Of these two are brought into the world two daughters, so beyond
measure excellent in all the gifts allotted to reasonable creatures that we
may think they were born to show that nature is no stepmother to that sex,
how much soever some men (sharp-witted only in evil speaking) have
sought to disgrace them. The elder is named Pamela; by many men not
deemed inferior to her sister: for my part, when I marked them both,
methought there was (if at least such perfections may receive the word of
more) more sweetness in Philoclea but more majesty in Pamela: methought
love played in Philoclea’s eyes, and threatened in Pamela’s; methought
Philoclea’s beauty only persuaded, but so persuaded as all hearts must
yield; Pamela’s beauty used violence, and such violence as no heart could
resist. And it seems that such proportion is between their minds: Philoclea
so bashful, as though her excellencies had stolen into her before she was
aware; so humble, that she will put all pride out of countenance; in sum,
such proceeding as will stir hope but teach hope good manners. Pamela of
high thoughts who avoids not pride with not knowing her excellencies, but
by making that one of her excellencies to be void of pride; her mother’s
wisdom, greatness, nobility, but (if I can guess aright) knit with a more
constant temper. Now then, our Basilius being so publicly happy as to be a
prince, and so happy in that happiness as to be a beloved prince; and so in
his private estate blessed as to have so excellent a wife and so over-
excellent children, hath of late taken a course which yet makes him more
spoken of than all these blessings. For having made a journey to Delphos,
and safely returned, within short space, he brake up his court, and retired
himself, his wife and children, into a certain forest hereby which he called
his desert; wherein (besides an house appointed for stables and lodgings for
certain persons of mean calling who do all household services) he hath
builded two fine lodges: in the one of them himself remains with his
younger daughter Philoclea (which was the cause they three were matched
together in this picture) without having any other creature living in that
lodge with him.
“Which though it be strange, yet not strange as the course he hath taken
with the princess Pamela whom he hath placed in the other lodge: but how
think you accompanied? Truly with none other but one Dametas, the most
arrant doltish clown that I think ever was without the privilege of a bauble,
with his wife Miso and daughter Mopsa, in whom no wit can devise
anything wherein they may pleasure her but to exercise her patience and to

serve for a foil of her perfections. This loutish clown is such that you never
saw so ill-favoured a vizor; his behaviour such that he is beyond the degree
of ridiculous; and for his apparel, even as I would with him: Miso his wife
so handsome a beldam, that only her face and her splay-foot have made her
accused for a witch; only one good point she hath, that she observes
decorum, having a forward mind in a wretched body. Between these two
personages (who never agreed in any humour, but in disagreeing) is issued
forth mistress Mopsa, a fit woman to participate of both their perfections:
but because a pleasant fellow of my acquaintance set forth her praises in
verse, I will only repeat them, and spare mine own tongue, since she goes
for a woman. The verses are these, which I have so often caused to be sung,
that I have them without book.

What length of verse can serve, brave Mopsa’s good to show?
When virtues strange, and beauties such, as no man them may
know:
Thus shrewdly burden’d then, how can my Muse escape?
The Gods must help, and precious things must serve, to shew her
shape,
Like great God Saturn fair, and like fair Venus chaste:
As smooth as Pan, as Juno mild, like Goddess Iris fac’t,
With Cupid she forsees, and goes God Vulcan’s pace:
And for a taste of all these gifts, she steals God Momus’ grace.
Her forehead Jacinth-like, her cheeks of Opal hue,
Her twinkling eyes bedeck’d with Pearl, her lips a Sapphire blue:
Her hair like Crapal stone; her mouth O heav’nly wide!
Her skin like burnished gold, her hands like silver ore untry’d.
As for her parts unknown, which hidden sure are best:
Happy be they which will believe, and never seek the rest.

“Now truly having made these descriptions unto you, methinks you
should imagine that I rather feign some pleasant device than recount a truth
that a prince (not banished from his own wits) could possibly make so
unworthy a choice. But truly (dear guest) so it is that princes (whose doings
have been often smoothed with good success) think nothing so absurd,
which they cannot make honourable. The beginning of his credit was by the
prince’s straying out of the way, one time he hunted, where meeting this

fellow, and asking him the way; and so falling into other questions, he
found some of his answers (as a dog sure, if he could speak, had wit enough
to describe his kennel) not unsensible, and all uttered with such rudeness,
which he interpreted plainness (though there be great difference between
them) that Basilius, conceiving a sudden delight, took him to his court, with
apparent show of his good opinion: where the flattering courtier had no
sooner taken the prince’s mind, but that there were straight reasons to
confirm the prince’s doing, and shadows of virtues found for Dametas. His
silence grew wit, his bluntness integrity, his beastly ignorance virtuous
simplicity, and the prince (according to the nature of great persons, in love
with what he had done himself) fancied that his weakness with his presence
would much be mended. And so like a creature of his own making, he liked
him more and more; and thus having first given him the office of principal
herdsman; lastly, since he took this strange determination, he hath in a
manner put the life of himself and his children into his hands. Which
authority (like too great a sail for so small a boat) doth so oversway poor
Dametas, that, if before he was a good fool in a chamber, he might be
allowed it now in a comedy, so as I doubt me (I fear me indeed) my master
will in the end (with his cost) find that his office is not to make men, but to
use men as men are, no more than a horse will be taught to hunt, or an ass
to manage. But in sooth I am afraid I have given your ears too great a
surfeit with gross discourses of that heavy piece of flesh. But the zealous
grief I conceive to see so great an error in my lord hath made me bestow
more words than I confess so base a subject deserveth.
“Thus much now that I have told you is nothing more than in effect any
Arcadian knows. But what moved him to this strange solitariness hath been
imparted (as I think) but to one person living. Myself can conjecture, and
indeed more than conjecture by this accident that I will tell you: I have an
only son, by name Clitophon, who is now absent, preparing for his own
marriage, which I mean shortly shall be here celebrated. This son of mine
(while the prince kept his court) was of his bed-chamber: now since the
breaking up of thereof returned home, and showed me (among other things
he had gathered) the copy which he had taken of a letter: which when the
prince had read, he had laid in a window, presuming nobody durst look in
his writings: but my son not only took a time to read it, but to copy it. In
truth I blamed Clitophon for the curiosity which made him break his duty in
such a kind, whereby kings’ secrets are subject to be revealed, but since it

was done, I was content to take so much profit as to know it. Now here is
the letter that I ever since, for my good liking, have carried about me: which
before I read unto you, I must tell you from whom it came. It is a nobleman
of his country, named Philanax, appointed by the prince regent, in this time
of his retiring, and most worthy so to be: for, there lives no man whose
excellent wit more simply embraceth integrity, beside his unfeigned love to
his master, wherein never yet any could make question, saving whether he
loved Basilius, or the prince better: a rare temper, while most men either
servilely yield to all appetites, or with an obstinate austerity looking to that
they fancied good, in effect neglect the prince’s person. This then being the
man, whom of all other (and most worthy) the prince chiefly loves, it
should seem (for more than the letter I have not to guess by) that the prince
upon his return from Delphos (Philanax then lying sick) had written unto
him his determination, rising (as evidently appears) upon some oracle he
had there received: whereunto he wrote this answer:

Philanax’s letter to Basilius.
Most redoubted and beloved prince! if as well it had pleased you at
your going to Delphos, as now, to have used my humble service,
both I should in better season, and to better purpose have spoken;
and you (if my speech had prevailed) should have been at this time,
as no way more in danger, so much more in quietness? I would then
have said that wisdom and virtue be the only destinies appointed to
man to follow; whence we ought to seek all our knowledge, since
they be such guides as cannot fail; which, besides their inward
comfort, do lead so direct a way of proceeding, as either prosperity
must ensue; or, if the wickedness of the world should oppress it, it
can never be said that evil happeneth to him who falls accompanied
with virtue: I would then have said the heavenly powers ought to be
reverenced and searched into, and their mercies rather by prayers to
be fought than their hidden counsels by curiosity. These kinds of
sooth-sayings (since they have left us in ourselves sufficient guides)
be nothing but fancy, wherein there must either be vanity, or
infallibleness, and so either not to be respected, or not to be
prevented. But since it is weakness too much to remember what
should have been done, and that your commandment stretched to
know what is to be done, I do (most dear Lord!) with humble

boldness say that the manner of your determination doth in no sort
better please me than the cause of your going. These thirty years you
have so governed this region, that neither your subjects have wanted
justice in you, nor you obedience in them; and your neighbours have
found you so hurtlessly strong, that they thought it better to rest in
your friendship, than to make new trial of your enmity. If this then
have proceeded out of the good constitution of your state, and out of
a wise providence generally to prevent all those things which might
encumber your happiness, why should you now seek new courses,
since your own example comforts you to continue, and that it is to
me most certain (though it please you not to tell me the very words
of the oracle) that yet no destiny nor influence whatsoever can bring
man’s wit to a higher point than wisdom and goodness: why should
you deprive yourself of government for fear of losing your
government, like one that should kill himself for fear of death? Nay,
rather, if this oracle be to be accounted of, arm up your courage the
more against it: for who will stick to him that abandons himself: let
your subjects have you in their eyes, let them see the benefits of
your justice daily more and more, and so much they needs rather
like of present sureties than uncertain changes. Lastly, whether your
time call you to live or die, do both like a prince. Now for your
second resolution, which is to suffer no worthy prince to be a suitor
to either of your daughters, but while you live to keep them both
unmarried, and, as it were, to kill the joy of posterity, which in your
time you may enjoy, moved perchance by a misunderstood oracle?
what shall I say, if the affection of a father to his own children
cannot plead sufficiently against such fancies? once, certain it is, the
God which is God of nature doth never teach unnaturalness; and
even the same mind hold I touching your banishing them from
company, lest I know not what strange loves should follow.
Certainly, Sir, in my ladies, your daughters, nature promiseth
nothing but goodness, and their education by your fatherly care hath
been hitherto such as hath been most fit to restrain all evil, giving
their minds virtuous delights, and not grieving them for want of
well-ruled liberty. Now to fall to a sudden straightening them, what
can it do but argue suspicion? a thing no more unpleasant than
unsure for the preserving of virtue. Leave women’s minds the most

untamed that way of any: see whether a cage can please a bird; or
whether a dog grow not fiercer with tying? what doth jealousy but
stir up the mind to think what it is from which are restrained? for
they are treasures or things of great delight, which men use to hide
for the aptness they have to each man’s fancy: and the thoughts once
awaked to that, harder sure it is to keep those thoughts from
accomplishment than had been before to have kept the mind (which
being the chief part, by this means is defiled) from thinking. Lastly,
for the recommending of so principal a charge of the princess
Pamela (whose mind goes beyond the governing of many thousand
such) to such a person as Dametas is (besides that the thing in itself
is strange) it comes of a very ill ground that ignorance should be the
mother of faithfulness. Oh no, he cannot be good that knows not
why he is good; but stands so far good as his fortune may keep him
unassayed; but coming once to that, his rude simplicity is either
easily changed, or easily deceived: and so grows that to be the last
excuse of his fault, which seemed to have been the foundation of his
faith. Thus far hath your commandment and my zeal drawn me;
which I, like a man in a valley that may discern hills, or like a poor
passenger that may spy a rock, so humbly submit to your gracious
consideration, beseeching you again to stand wholly upon your own
virtue, as the surest way to maintain you in that you are, and to
avoid any evil which may be imagined.

“By the contents of this letter you may perceive, that the cause of all hath
been the vanity which possesseth many who (making a perpetual mansion
of this poor baiting-place of man’s life) are desirous to know the certainty
of things to come, wherein there is nothing so certain as our continual
uncertainty. But what in particular points the oracle was, in faith I know
not, neither (as you may see by one place of Philanax’s letter) he himself
distinctly knew. But this experience shews us that Basilius’s judgment,
corrupted with a prince’s fortune, hath rather heard than followed the wise
(as I take it) counsel of Philanax. For having left the stern of his
government with much amazement to the people, among whom many
strange bruits are received for current, with some appearance of danger in
respect of the valiant Amphialus his nephew, and much envying the
ambitious number of the nobility against Philanax, to see Philanax so

advanced, though (to speak simply) he deserve more than as many of us as
there be in Arcadia: the prince himself hath hidden his head, in such sort as
I told you, not sticking plainly to confess that he means not (while he
breathes) that his daughters shall have any husband, but keep them thus
solitary with him: where he gives no other body leave to visit him at any
time but a certain priest, who being excellent in poetry, he makes him write
out such things as he best likes, he being no less delightful in conversation
than needful for devotion, and about twenty specified shepherds, in whom
(some for eclogues) he taketh greater recreation.
“And now you know as much as myself: wherein if I have held you over-
long, lay hardly the fault upon my old age, which in the very disposition of
it is talkative, whether it be (said he smiling) that nature loves to exercise
that part most, which is least decayed, and that is our tongue, or, that
knowledge being the only thing whereof we poor old men can brag, we
cannot make it known but by utterance: or, that mankind by all means
seeking to eternize himself so much the more, as he is near his end, doth it
not only by the children that come of him, but by speeches and writings
recommended to the memory of hearers and readers. And yet thus much I
will say for myself, that I have not laid these matters either so openly or
largely to any as to yourself: so much (if I much fail not) do I see in you
which makes me both love and trust you.”
“Never may he be old,” answered Palladius, “that doth not reverence that
age, whose heaviness, if it weigh down the frail and fleshly balance, it as
much lifts up the noble and spiritual part; and well might you have alleged
another reason, that their wisdom makes them willing to profit others. And
that have I received of you, never to be forgotten, but with ungratefulness.
But among many strange conceits you told me, which have shewed effects
in your prince, truly even the last, that he should conceive such pleasure in
shepherds’ discourses would not seem the least unto me, saving that you
told me at the first that this country is notable in those wits, and that indeed
myself having been brought not only to this place, but to my life by
Strephon and Claius in their conference found wits as might better become
such shepherds as Homer speaks of, that be governors of people, than such
senators who hold their council in a sheep-cote.”
“For them two (said Kalander), especially Claius, they are beyond the
rest by so much as learning commonly doth add to nature: for, having
neglected their wealth in respect of their knowledge, they have not so much

impaired the meaner, as they bettered the better. Which all notwithstanding,
it is a sport to hear how they impute to love which hath indued their
thoughts (say they) with such a strength. But certainly all the people of this
country, from high to low, are given to those sports of the wit, so as you
would wonder to hear how soon even children will begin to versify. Once,
ordinary it is amongst the meanest sort, to make songs and dialogues in
metre, either love whetting their brain, or long peace having begun it,
example and emulation amending it. Not so much, but the clown Dametas
will stumble sometimes upon some songs that might become a better brain:
but no sort of people are so excellent in that kind as the pastors, for their
living standing but upon the looking to their beasts, they have ease, the
nurse of poetry. Neither are our shepherds such as (I hear) they be in other
countries, but they are the very owners of the sheep, to which either
themselves look, or their children give daily attendance. And then truly, it
would delight you under some tree, or by some river’s side (when two or
three of them meet together) to hear their rural muse, how prettily it will
deliver out, sometimes joys, sometimes lamentations, sometimes
challengings one of the other, sometimes under hidden forms, uttering such
matters as otherwise they durst not deal with. Then have they most
commonly one who judgeth the prize to the best doer, of which they are no
less glad than great princes are of triumphs: and his part is to set down in
writing all that is said, save that it may be his pen with more leisure doth
polish the rudeness of an unthought-on song. Now the choice of all (as you
may well think) either for goodness of voice, or pleasantness of wit, the
prince hath: among whom also there are two or three strangers, who, inward
melancholies having made weary of the world’s eyes, have come to spend
their lives among the country people of Arcadia, and their conversation
being well approved, the prince vouchsafeth them his presence, and not
only by looking on, but by great courtesy and liberality animates the
shepherds the more exquisitely to labour for his good liking. So that there is
no cause to blame the prince for sometimes hearing them; the blame-
worthiness is, that to hear them, he rather goes to solitariness than makes
them come to company. Neither do I accuse my master for advancing a
country-man, Dametas is, since God forbid, but where worthiness is as truly
it is among divers of that fellowship, any outward lowness should hinder
the highest rising; but that he would needs make election of one, the
baseness of whose mind is such, that it sinks a thousand degrees lower than

the basest body could carry the most base fortune: which although it might
be answered for the prince, that it is rather a trust he hath in his simple
plainness than any great advancement, but being chief herdman; yet all
honest hearts feel that the trust of their lord goes beyond all advancement.
But I am ever too long upon him, when he crosseth the way of my speech,
and by the shadow of yonder tower I see it is a fitter time with our supper to
pay the duties we owe to our stomachs, than to break the air with my idle
discourses: and more wit I might have learned of Homer (whom even now
you mentioned) who never entertained either guests or hosts with long
speeches, till the mouth of hunger be thoroughly stopped.” So withal he
rose, leading Palladius through the garden again to the parlour where they
used to sup; Palladius assuring him that he had already been more fed to his
liking than he could be by the skilfullest trencher-men of Media.
But being come to the supping-place, one of Kalander’s servants rounded
in his ear, at which (his colour changing) he retired himself into his
chamber, commanding his men diligently to wait upon Palladius, and to
excuse his absence with some necessary business he had presently to
dispatch: which they accordingly did, for some few days forcing themselves
to let no change appear: but, though they framed their countenances never
so cunningly, Palladius perceived there was some ill-pleasing accident
fallen out. Whereupon, being again set alone at supper, he called to the
steward, and desired him to tell him the matter of his sudden alteration:
who, after some trifling excuses, in the end confessed unto him that his
master had received news that his son before the day of his near marriage,
chanced to be at a battle which was to be fought between the gentlemen of
Lacedaemon and the Helots: who, winning the victory, he was there made
prisoner going to deliver a friend of his taken prisoner by the Helots; that
the poor young gentlemen had offered great ransom for his life; but that the
hate those peasants conceived against all gentlemen was such that every
hour he was to look for nothing but some cruel death, which hitherto had
only been delayed by the captain’s vehement dealing for him, who seemed
to have a heart of more manly pity than the rest. Which loss had stricken the
old gentleman with such sorrow, that, as if abundance of tears did not seem
sufficiently to witness it, he was alone retired, tearing his beard and hair,
and cursing his old age, that had not made his grave to stop his ears from
such advertisements: but that his faithful servants had written in his name to
all his friends, followers, and tenants (Philanax the governor refusing to

deal in it as a private cause, but yet giving leave to seek their best redress,
so as they wronged not the state of Lacedaemon) of whom there were now
gathered upon the frontiers good forces, that he was sure would spend their
lives by any way to redeem or revenge Clitophon. “Now Sir,” said he, “this
is my master’s nature, though his grief be such, as to live is a grief unto
him, and that even his reason is darkened with sorrow; yet the laws of
hospitality (long and holily observed by him) gave still such a sway to his
proceeding that he will no way suffer the stranger lodged under his roof to
receive (as it were) any infection of his anguish, especially you, towards
whom I know not whether his love or admiration be greater.” But Palladius
could scarce hear out his tale with patience, so was his heart torn in pieces
with compassion of the case, liking of Kalander’s noble behaviour, kindness
for his respect to him-ward, and desire to find some remedy, besides the
image of his dearest friend Daiphantus, whom he judged to suffer either
alike or worse fortune. Therefore rising from the board, he desired the
steward to tell him particularly the ground and event of this accident,
because by knowledge of many circumstances, there might perhaps some
way of help be opened. Whereunto the steward easily in this sort
condescended.
“My Lord,” said he, “when our good king Basilius, with better success
than expectation, took to wife (even in his more than decaying years) the
fair young princess Gynecia, there came with her a young lord, cousin-
german to herself, named Argalus, led hither partly with the love and
honour of his noble kinswoman, partly with the humour of youth, which
ever thinks that good, whose goodness he sees not. And in this court he
received so good increase of knowledge, that after some years spent, he so
manifested a most virtuous mind in all his actions, that Arcadia gloried such
a plant was transported unto them, being a gentleman indeed most rarely
accomplished, excellently learned, but without all vain glory: friendly
without factiousness; valiant, so as for my part I think the earth hath no man
that hath done more heroical acts than he; howsoever now of late the fame
flies of the two princes of Thessalia and Macedon, and hath long done of
our noble prince Amphialus, who indeed in our parts is only accounted
likely to match him: but I say for my part, I think no man, for valour of
mind, and ability of body, to be preferred, if equalled to Argalus; and yet so
valiant, as he never durst do anybody injury: in behaviour, some will say,
ever sad, surely sober, and somewhat given to musing, but never

uncourteous; his word ever led by his thought, and always followed by his
deed; rather liberal than magnificent, though the one wanted not, and the
other had ever good choice of the receiver; in sum (for I perceive I shall
easily take a great draught of his praises, whom both I and all this country
love so well) such a man was (and I hope is) Argalus, as hardly the nicest
eye can find a spot in, if the over-vehement constancy of yet spotless
affection may not in hard-wrested constructions be counted a spot: which in
this manner began that work in him, which hath made both him, and itself
in him, over all this country famous. My master’s son Clitophon (whose
loss gives the cause to this discourse, and yet gives me cause to begin with
Argalus, since his loss proceeds from Argalus) being a young gentleman as
of great birth (being our king’s sister’s son) so truly of good nature and one
that can see good and love it, haunted more the company of this worthy
Argalus, than of any other; so as if there were not a friendship (which is so
rare, as it is to be doubted whether it be a thing indeed, or but a word) at
least there was such a liking and friendliness as hath brought forth the
effects which you shall hear. About two years since, it so fell out that he
brought him to a great lady’s house, sister to my master, who had with her
her only daughter, the fair Parthenia, fair indeed (fame, I think, itself not
daring to call any fairer, if it be not Helena, queen of Corinth, and the two
incomparable sisters of Arcadia) and that which made her fairness much the
fairer was, that it was but a fair ambassador of a most fair mind; full of wit,
and a wit which delighted more to judge itself than to shew itself: her
speech being as rare, as precious; her silence without fullness; her modesty
without affectation; her shamefacedness without ignorance: in sum, one that
to praise well, one must first set down with himself what it is to be
excellent: for so she is.
“I think you think that these perfections meeting could not choose but
find one another, and delight in what they found; for likeness of manners is
likely in reason to draw liking with affection; men’s actions do not always
cross with reason: to be short, it did so indeed. They loved, although for a
while the fire thereof (hope’s wings being cut off) were blown by the
bellows of despair upon this occasion.
“There had been a good while before, and so continued, a suitor to this
same lady, a great noble man, though of Laconia, yet near neighbour to
Parthenia’s mother, named Demagoras; a man mighty in riches and power,
and proud thereof, stubbornly stout, loving nobody but himself, and, for his

own delight’s sake, Parthenia: and pursuing vehemently his desire, his
riches had so gilded over all his other imperfections that the old lady
(though contrary to my lord her brother’s mind) had given her consent; and
using a mother’s authority upon her fair daughter had made her yield
thereunto, not because she liked her choice, but because her obedient mind
had not yet taken upon it to make choice. And the day of their assurance
drew near, when my young lord Clitophon brought this noble Argalus,
perchance principally to see so rare a sight, as Parthenia by all well-judging
eyes was judged.
“But though few days were before the time of assurance appointed, yet
love, that saw he had a great journey to make in short time, hasted so
himself that before her word could tie her to Demagoras, her heart hath
vowed her to Argalus with so grateful a receipt in mutual affection that if
she desired above all things to have Argalus, Argalus feared nothing but to
miss Parthenia. And now Parthenia had learned both liking and misliking,
loving and loathing, and out of passion began to take the authority of
judgment; insomuch that when the time came that Demagoras (full of proud
joy) thought to receive the gift of herself; she, with words of resolute
refusal (though with tears showing she was sorry she must refuse) assured
her mother she would first be bedded in her grave than wedded to
Demagoras. The change was no more strange than unpleasant to the mother
who being determinately (lest I should say of a great lady, wilfully) bent to
marry her to Demagoras, tried all ways, which a witty and hard-hearted
mother could use upon so humble a daughter in whom the only resisting
power was love. But the more she assaulted, the more she taught Parthenia
to defend; and the more Parthenia defended, the more she made her mother
obstinate in the assault: who at length finding that Argalus standing between
them, was it that most eclipsed her affection from shining upon Demagoras,
she sought all means how to remove him, so much the more as he
manifested himself an unremovable suitor to her daughter: first by
employing him in as many dangerous enterprises as ever the evil step-
mother Juno recommended to the famous Hercules: but the more his virtue
was tried, the more pure it grew, while all the things she did to overthrow
him, did set him up upon the height of honour; enough to have moved her
heart, especially to a man every way so worthy as Argalus; but the
struggling against all reason, because she would have her will, and shew her
authority in matching her with Demagoras, the more virtuous Argalus was

the more she hated him, thinking herself conquered in his conquests, and
therefore, still employing him in more and more dangerous attempts: in the
meanwhile she used all extremities possible upon her fair daughter to make
her give over herself to her direction. But it was hard to judge whether he in
doing, or she in suffering, shewed greater constancy of affection: for, as to
Argalus the world sooner wanted occasions than he valour to go through
them: so to Parthenia malice sooner ceased than her unchanged patience.
Lastly, by treasons Demagoras and she would have made away with
Argalus, but he with providence and courage so passed over all that the
mother took such a spiteful grief at it that her heart brake withal, and she
died.
“But then Demagoras assuring himself that now Parthenia was her own
she would never be his, and receiving as much by her own determinate
answer, not more desiring his own happiness, than envying Argalus, whom
he saw with narrow eyes, even ready to enjoy the perfection of his desires,
strengthening his conceit with all the mischievous counsels which disdained
love and envious pride could give unto him, the wicked wretch (taking a
time that Argalus was gone to his country to fetch some of his principal
friends to honour the marriage, which Parthenia had most joyfully
consented unto) the wicked Demagoras, I say, desiring to speak with her,
with unmerciful force (her weak arms in vain resisting) rubbed all over her
face a most horrible poison: the effect whereof was such, that never leper
looked more ugly than she did: which done, having his men and horses
ready, departed away in spite of her servants, as ready to revenge as could
be, in such an unexpected mischief. But the abominableness of this fact
being come to my L. Kalander, he made such means, both by our king’s
intercession and his own, that by the king and senate of Lacedaemon,
Demagoras was, upon pain of death, banished the country: who hating the
punishment, where he should have hated the fault, joined himself, with all
the power he could make, unto the Helots, lately in rebellion against that
state: and they (glad to have a man of such authority among them) made
him their general, and under him have committed divers the most
outrageous villanies that a base multitude (full of desperate revenge) can
imagine.
“But within a while after this pitiful fact committed upon Parthenia,
Argalus returned (poor Gentleman!) having her fair image in his heart, and
already promising his eyes the uttermost of his felicity when they (nobody

else daring to tell it him) were the first messengers to themselves of their
own misfortune. I mean not to move passion with telling you the grief of
both, when he knew her, for at first he did not; nor at first knowledge could
possibly have virtue’s aid so ready, as not even weakly to lament the loss of
such a jewel, so much the more, as that skilful men in that art assured it was
unrecoverable: but within a while, truth of love (which still held the first
face in his memory) a virtuous constancy, and even a delight to be constant,
faith given, and inward worthiness shining through the foulest mists, took
so full hold of the noble Argalus, that not only in such comfort which witty
arguments may bestow upon adversity, but even with the most abundant
kindness that an eye-ravished lover can express, he laboured both to drive
the extremity of sorrow from her, and to hasten the celebration of their
marriage: whereunto he unfeignedly shewed himself no less cheerfully
earnest than if she had never been disinherited of that goodly portion which
nature had so liberally bequeathed unto her; and for that cause deferred his
intended revenge upon Demagoras, because he might continually be in her
presence, shewing more humble serviceableness and joy to content her than
ever before.
“But as he gave this rare example, not to be hoped for of any other, but of
another Argalus, so of the other side, she took as strange a course in
affection: for where she desired to enjoy him more than to live yet did she
overthrow both her own desire and his, and in no sort would yield to marry
him: with a strange encounter of love’s affects and effects; that he by an
affection sprung from excessive beauty should delight in horrible foulness;
and she of a vehement desire to have him should kindly build a resolution
never to have him; for truth it is, that so in heart she loved him, as she could
not find in her heart he should be tied to what was unworthy of his
presence.
“Truly, Sir, a very good orator might have a fair field to use eloquence in,
if he did but only repeat the lamentable, and truly affectionate speeches,
while he conjured her by remembrance of her affection, and true oaths of
his own affection, not to make him so unhappy, as to think he had not only
lost her face, but her heart; that her face, when it was fairest, had been but a
marshal to lodge the love of her in his mind, which now was so well placed
that it needed no further help of any outward harbinger; beseeching her,
even with tears, to know that his love was not so superficial as to go no
further than the skin, which yet now to him was most fair since it was hers:

how could he be so ungrateful as to love her the less for that which she had
only received for his sake; that he never beheld it, but therein he saw the
loveliness of her love towards him; protesting unto her that he would never
take joy of his life if he might not enjoy her, for whom principally he was
glad he had life. But (as I heard by one that overheard them) she (wringing
him by the hand) made no other answer but this. ‘My Lord,’ said she, ‘God
knows I love you; if I were princess of the whole world, and had, withal, all
the blessings that ever the world brought forth, I should not make delay to
lay myself and them under your feet; or if I had continued but as I was,
though (I must confess) far unworthy of you, yet would I (with too great a
joy for my heart now to think of) have accepted your vouchsafing me to be
yours, and with faith and obedience would have supplied all other defects.
But first let me be much more miserable than I am ere I match Argalus to
such a Parthenia. Live happy, dear Argalus, I give you full liberty, and I
beseech you to take it; and I assure you I shall rejoice (whatsoever become
of me) to see you so coupled, as may be fit both for your honour and
satisfaction.’ With that she burst out crying and weeping, not able longer to
control herself from blaming her fortune, and wishing her own death.
“But Argalus, with a most heavy heart still pursuing his desire, she fixed
of mind to avoid further intreaty, and to fly all company which (even of
him) grew unpleasant unto her, one night she stole away: but whither as yet
it is unknown or indeed what is become of her.
“Argalus sought her long, and in many places; at length (despairing to
find her, and the more he despaired, the more enraged) weary of his life, but
first determining to be revenged of Demagoras, he went alone disguised
into the chief town held by the Helots, where coming into his presence,
guarded about by many of his soldiers, he could delay his fury no longer for
a fitter time, but setting upon him, in despite of a great many that helped
him, gave him divers mortal wounds, and himself (no question) had been
there presently murdered, but that Demagoras himself desired he might be
kept alive: perchance with intention to feed his own eyes with some cruel
execution to be laid upon him; but death came sooner than he looked for;
yet having had leisure to appoint his successor, a young man, not long
before delivered out of the prison of the king of Lacedaemon, where he
should have suffered death for having slain the king’s nephew, but him he
named, who at that time was absent, making inroads upon the
Lacedaemonians; but being returned, the rest of the Helots, for the great

liking they conceived of that young man, especially because they had none
among themselves to whom the others would yield, were content to follow
Demagoras’s appointment. And well hath it succeeded with them, he having
since done things beyond the hope of the youngest heads; of whom I speak
the rather, because he hath hitherto preserved Argalus alive, under pretence
to have him publicly, and with exquisite torments executed after the end of
these wars, of which they hope for a soon and prosperous issue.
“And he hath likewise hitherto kept my young lord Clitophon alive, who
(to redeem his friend) went with certain other noble men of Laconia, and
forces gathered by them, to besiege this young and new successor: but he
issuing out (to the wonder of all men) defeated the Laconians, slew many of
the noblemen, and took Clitophon prisoner, whom with much ado he
keepeth alive, the Helots being villainously cruel; but he tempereth them so,
sometimes by following their humour, sometimes by striving with it, that
hitherto he hath saved both their lives, but in different estates; Argalus
being kept in a close and hard prison, Clitophon at some liberty. And now,
Sir, though (to say the truth) we can promise ourselves little of their safeties
while they are in the Helots’ hands, I have delivered all I understand
touching the loss of my lord’s son, and the cause thereof: which though it
was not necessary to Clitophon’s case, to be so particularly told, yet the
strangeness of it made me think it would not be unpleasant unto you.”
Palladius thanked him greatly for it, being even passionately delighted
with hearing so strange an accident of a knight so famous over the world as
Argalus, with whom he had himself a long desire to meet: so had fame
poured a noble emulation in him towards him.
But then (well bethinking himself) he called for armour, desiring them to
provide him of horse and guide, and armed all saving the head, he went up
to Kalander, whom he found lying upon the ground, having ever since
banished both sleep and food as enemies to the mourning, which passion
persuaded him was reasonable. But Palladius raised him up, saying unto
him: “No more, no more of this, my L. Kalander; let us labour to find,
before we lament the loss: you know myself miss one, who though he be
not my son, I would disdain the favour of life after him: but while there is a
hope left, let not the weakness of sorrow make the strength of it languish:
take comfort, and good success will follow.” And with those words, comfort
seemed to lighten in his eyes, and in his face and gesture was painted
victory. Once, Kalander’s spirits were so revived withal, that (receiving

some sustenance, and taking a little rest) he armed himself and those few of
his servants he had left unsent, and so himself guided Palladius to the place
upon the frontiers, where already there were assembled between three and
four thousand men, all well disposed (for Kalander’s sake) to abide any
peril: but like men disused with a long peace, more determinate to do than
skilful how to do: lusty bodies, and braver armours; with such courage as
rather grew of despising their enemies, whom they knew not, than of any
confidence for anything which in themselves they knew: but neither
cunning use of their weapons, nor art showed in their marching or
encamping. Which Palladius soon perceiving, he desired to understand (as
much as could be delivered unto him) the estate of the Helots.
And he was answered by a man well acquainted with the affairs of
Laconia, that they were a kind of people who, having been of old freemen
and possessioners, the Lacedaemonians had conquered them, and laid not
only tribute, but bondage upon them, which they had long borne, till of late
the Lacedaemonians, through greediness growing more heavy than they
could bear, and through contempt growing less careful how to make them
bear, they had with a general consent (rather springing by the generalness of
the cause than of any artificial practice) set themselves in arms, and
whetting their courage with revenge, and grounding their resolution upon
despair, they had proceeded with unlooked-for success, having already
taken divers towns and castles, with the slaughter of many of the gentry: for
whom no sex nor age could be accepted for an excuse. And that although at
the first they had fought rather with beastly fury than any soldiery
discipline, practice had now made them comparable to the best of the
Lacedaemonians, and more of late than ever; by reason, first of Demagoras,
a great lord, who had made himself of their party, and since his death, of
another captain they had gotten, who had brought up their ignorance, and
brought down their fury to such a mean of good government, and withal led
them so valorously that (besides the time wherein Clitophon was taken)
they had the better in some other great conflicts: in such wise that the estate
of Lacedaemon had sent unto them, offering peace with most reasonable
and honourable conditions. Palladius having gotten this general knowledge
of the party against whom, as he had already of the party for whom he was
to fight, he went to Kalander, and told him plainly that by plain force there
was small appearance of helping Clitophon; but some device was to be
taken in hand, wherein no less discretion than valour was to be used.

Whereupon, the counsel of the chief men was called, and at last this way
Palladius (who by some experience, but especially by reading histories, was
acquainted with stratagems) invented, and was by all the rest approved, that
all the men there should dress themselves like the poorest sort of the people
in Arcadia, having no banners, but bloody shirts hanged upon long staves,
with some bad bag-pipes instead of drum and fife: their armour they should,
as well as might be, cover, or at least make them look so rustily and ill-
favouredly as might well become such wearers, and this the whole number
should do, saving two hundred of the best chosen gentlemen for courage
and strength, whereof Palladius himself would be one, who should have
their arms chained, and be put in carts like prisoners. This being performed
according to the agreement, they marched on towards the town of
Cardamila where Clitophon was captive; and being come two hours before
sunset within view of the walls, the Helots already descrying their number,
and beginning to sound the alarm, they sent a cunning fellow (so much the
cunninger as that he could mask it under rudeness) who with such a kind of
rhetoric as weeded out all flowers of rhetoric, delivered unto the Helots
assembled together, that they were country-people of Arcadia, no less
oppressed by their lords, and no less desirous of liberty than they, and
therefore had put themselves in the field, and had already (besides a great
number slain) taken nine or ten score gentlemen prisoners, whom they had
there well and fast chained. Now because they had no strong retiring place
in Arcadia, and were not yet of number enough to keep the field against the
prince’s forces, they were come to them for succour; knowing that daily
more and more of their quality would flock unto them, but that in the
meantime, lest their prince should pursue them, or the Lacedaemonian king
and nobility (for the likeness of the cause) fall upon them, they desired that
if there were not room enough for them in the town, that yet they might
encamp under the walls, and for surety have their prisoners (who were such
men as were able to make their peace) kept within the town.
The Helots made but a short consultation, being glad that their contagion
had spread itself into Arcadia, and making account that if the peace did not
fall out between them and their king, that it was the best way to set fire in
all the parts of Greece; besides their greediness to have so many gentlemen
in their hands, in whose ransoms they already meant to have a share; to
which haste of concluding, two things well helped; the one, that their
captain, with the wisest of them, was at that time absent about confirming

or breaking the peace with the state of Lacedaemon: the second, that over-
many good fortunes began to breed a proud recklessness[2] in them;
therefore sending to view the camp, and finding that by their speech they
were Arcadians, with whom they had had no war, never suspecting a private
man’s credit could have gathered such a force, and that all other tokens
witnessed them to be of the lowest calling (besides the chains upon the
gentlemen) they granted not only leave for the prisoners, but for some
others of the company, and to all, that they might harbour under the walls.
So opened they the gates, and received in the carts, which being done, and
Palladius seeing fit time, he gave the sign, and shaking off their chains
(which were made with such art, that though they seemed most strong and
fast, he that wore them might easily loose them) drew their swords hidden
in the carts, and so setting upon the ward, made them to fly either from the
place, or from their bodies, and so give entry to all the force of the
Arcadians before the Helots could make any head to resist them.
But the Helots, being men hardened against dangers, gathered (as well as
they could) together in the market-place, and thence would have given a
shrewd welcome to the Arcadians, but that Palladius (blaming those that
were slow, heartening them that were forward, but especially with his own
example leading them) made such an impression into the squadron of the
Helots that at first the great body of them beginning to shake and stagger, at
length every particular body recommended the protection of his life to his
feet. Then Kalander cried to go to the prison where he thought his son was;
but Palladius wished him (first scouring the streets) to house all the Helots,
and make themselves masters of the gates.
But ere that could be accomplished, the Helots had gotten new heart, and
with divers sorts of shot from corners of streets and house-windows, galled
them; which courage was come unto them by the return of their captain;
who, though he brought not many with him (having dispersed most of his
companies to other of his holds) yet meeting a great number running out of
the gate, not yet possessed by the Arcadians, he made them turn face, and
with banners displayed, his trumpet giveth the loudest testimony he could
of his return; which once heard, the rest of the Helots, which were
otherwise scattered, bent thitherward with a new life of resolution, as if
their captain had been a root, out of which (as into branches) their courage
had sprung. Then began the fight to grow most sharp, and the encounters of
more cruel obstinacy: the Arcadians fighting to keep what they had won;

the Helots to recover what they had lost; the Arcadians as in an unknown
place, having no succour but in their hands; the Helots as in their own
place, fighting for their lives, wives, and children. There was victory and
courage against revenge and despair: safety of both besides being no
otherwise to be gotten, but by destruction.
At length, the left wing of the Arcadians began to lose ground; which
Palladius feeling, he straight thrust himself with his choice band against the
throng that oppressed them with such an overflowing of valour that the
captain of the Helots (whose eyes soon judged of that wherewith
themselves were governed) saw that he alone was worth all the rest of the
Arcadians: which he so wondered at, that it was hard to say whether he
more liked his doings, or misliked the effects of his doings: but determining
that upon that cast the game lay, and disdaining to fight with any other,
fought only to join with him: which mind was no less in Palladius, having
easily marked that he was the first mover of all the other hands. And so
their thoughts meeting in one point, they consented (though not agreed) to
try each other’s fortune: and so drawing themselves to be the uttermost of
the one side, they began a combat, which was so much inferior to the battle
in noise and number, as it was surpassing it in bravery of fighting, and, as it
were, delightful terribleness. Their courage was guided with skill, and their
skill was armed with courage; neither did their hardiness darken their wit,
nor their wit cool their hardiness: both valiant, as men despising death, both
confident, as unwonted to be overcome: yet doubtful by their present
feeling, and respectful by what they had already seen. Their feet steady,
their hands diligent, their eyes watchful, and their hearts resolute. The parts
either not armed, or weakly armed, were well known, and according to the
knowledge should have been sharply visited, but that the answer was as
quick as the objections. Yet some lightning, the smart bred rage, and the
rage bred smart again: till both sides beginning to wax faint, and rather
desirous to die accompanied, than hopeful to live victorious, the captain of
the Helots with a blow, whose violence grew of fury, not of strength, or of
strength proceeding of fury, struck Palladius upon the side of the head, that
he reeled astonished: and withal the helmet fell off, he remaining bare-
headed, but other of the Arcadians were ready to shield him from any harm
might rise of that nakedness.
But little needed it, for his chief enemy, instead of pursuing that
advantage, kneeled down, offering to deliver the pommel of his sword, in

token of yielding; withal speaking aloud unto him, that he thought it more
liberty to be his prisoner, than any other’s general. Palladius standing upon
himself, and misdoubting some craft, and the Helots that were next their
captain, wavering between looking for some stratagem, or fearing treason;
“What,” said the captain, “hath Palladius forgotten the voice of
Daiphantus?”
By that watch-word Palladius knew that it was his only friend Pyrocles,
whom he had lost upon the sea, and therefore both most full of wonder so to
be met, if they had not been fuller of joy than wonder, caused the retreat to
be sounded, Diaphantus by authority, and Palladius by persuasion, to which
helped well the little advantage that was of either side: and that of the
Helots’ party, their captain’s behaviour had made as many amazed as saw or
heard of it: and of the Arcadian side the good old Kalander, striving more
than his old age could achieve, was newly taken prisoner. But indeed the
chief parter of the fray was the night, which with her black arms pulled their
malicious sights one from the other. But he that took Kalander, meant
nothing less than to save him, but only so long, as the captain might learn
the enemies’ secrets, towards whom he led the old gentleman, when he
caused the retreat to be sounded; looking for no other delivery from that
captivity, but by the painful taking away of all pain: when whom should he
see next to the captain (with good tokens how valiantly he had fought that
day against the Arcadians) but his son Clitophon? But now the captain had
caused all the principal Helots to be assembled, as well to deliberate what
they had to do, as to receive a message from the Arcadians, among whom
Palladius’s virtue (besides the love Kalander bare him) having gotten
principal authority, he had persuaded them to seek rather by parley to
recover the father and the son, than by the sword; since the goodness of the
captain assured him that way to speed, and his value (wherewith he was of
old acquainted) made him think any other way dangerous. This therefore
was done in orderly manner, giving them to understand that as they came
but to deliver Clitophon, so offering to leave the footing they already had in
the town, to go away without any further hurt, so that they might have the
father and the son without ransom delivered. Which conditions being heard
and conceived by the Helots, Diaphantus persuaded them without delay to
accept them. “For first,” said he, “since the strife is within our own home, if
you lose, you lose all that in this life can be dear unto you: if you win, it
will be a bloody victory with no profit, but the flattering in ourselves that

same bad humour of revenge. Besides, it is like to stir Arcadia upon us,
which now, by using these persons well, may be brought to some amity.
Lastly, but especially, lest the king and nobility of Laconia (with whom now
we have made a perfect peace) should hope by occasion of this quarrel to
join the Arcadians with them, and so break off the profitable agreement
already concluded: in sum, as in all deliberations (weighing the profit of the
good success with the harm of the evil success) you shall find this way most
safe and honourable.”
The Helots, as much moved by his authority, as persuaded by his reasons,
were content therewith. Whereupon Palladius took order that the Arcadians
should presently march out of town, taking with them their prisoners, while
the night with mutual diffidence might keep them quiet, and ere day came,
they might be well on their way, and so avoid those accidents which in late
enemies, a look, a word, or a particular man’s quarrel might engender. This
being on both sides concluded on, Kalander and Clitophon, who now with
infinite joy did know each other, came to kiss the hands and feet of
Daiphantus: Clitophon telling his father how Daiphantus, not without
danger to himself, had preserved him from the furious malice of the Helots:
and even that day going to conclude the peace (lest in his absence he might
receive some hurt) he had taken him in his company, and given him armour,
upon promise he should take the part of the Helots; which he had in this
fight performed, little knowing that it was against his own father; “But,”
said Clitophon, “here is he, who as a father, hath now begotten me, and, as a
god, hath saved me from many deaths which already laid hold on me,”
which Kalander with tears of joy acknowledged, besides his own
deliverance, only his benefit. But Daiphantus, who loved doing well for
itself and not for thanks, broke off those ceremonies, desiring to know how
Palladius, for so he called Musidorus, was come into that company, and
what his present estate was; whereof receiving a brief declaration of
Kalander, he sent him word by Clitophon that he should not as now come
unto him, because he held himself not so sure a master of the Helots’ minds
that he would adventure him in their power, who was so well known with
an unfriendly acquaintance; but that he desired him to return with Kalander,
whither also he within few days, having dispatched himself of the Helots,
would repair. Kalander would needs kiss his hand again for that promise,
protesting he would esteem his house more blessed than a temple of the
gods, if it had once received him. And then desiring pardon for Argalus,

Diaphantus assured them that he would die but he would bring him (though
till then kept in close prison, indeed for his safety, the Helots being so
animated against him as else he could not have lived) and so taking their
leave of him, Kalander, Clitophon, Palladius, and the rest of the Arcadians
swearing that they would no further in any sort molest the Helots, they
straightway marched out of the town, carrying both their dead and wounded
bodies with them; and by morning were already within the limits of
Arcadia.
The Helots of the other side shutting their gates, gave themselves to bury
their dead, to cure their wounds, and rest their wearied bodies; till (the next
day bestowing the cheerful use of the light upon them) Daiphantus, making
a general convocation spake unto them in this manner: “We are first,” said
he, “to thank the gods, that (further than we had either cause to hope, or
reason to imagine) have delivered us out of this gulf of danger, wherein we
were already swallowed. For all being lost (had they not directed my return
so just as they did), it had been too late to recover that, which being had, we
could not keep. And had I not happened to know one of the principal men
among them, by which means the truce began between us, you may easily
conceive what little reason we have to think but that either by some supply
out of Arcadia, or from the nobility of this country, (who would have made
fruits of wisdom grow out of this occasion) we should have had our power
turned to ruin, our pride to repentance and sorrow. But now, the storm as it
fell, so it ceased: and the error committed, in retaining Clitophon more
hardly than his age or quarrel deserved, becomes a sharply learned
experience, to use, in other times, more moderation.
“Now have I to deliver unto you the conclusion between the kings with
the nobility of Lacedaemon and you; which is in all points as ourselves
desired: as well for that you would have granted, as for the assurance of
what is granted. The towns and forts you presently have, are still left unto
you, to be kept either with, or without garrison, so as you alter not the laws
of the country, and pay such duties as the rest of the Laconians do;
yourselves are made, by public decree, freemen, and so capable both to give
and receive voice in election of magistrates. The distinction of names
between Helots and Lacedaemonians to be quite taken away, and all
indifferently to enjoy both names and privileges of Laconians. Your
children to be brought up with theirs in the Spartan discipline: and so you

(framing yourselves to be good members of that estate) to be hereafter
fellows and no longer servants.
“Which conditions you see, carry in themselves no more contention than
assurance; for this is not a peace which is made with them; but this a piece
by which you are made of them. Lastly a forgetfulness decreed of all what
is past, they showing themselves glad to have so valiant men as you are
joined with them, so that you are to take minds of peace, since the cause of
war is finished; and as you hated them before like oppressors, so now to
love them as brothers; to take care of their estate, because it is yours; and to
labour by virtuous doing, that posterity may not repent your joining. But
now one article only they stood upon, which in the end I with your
commissioners have agreed unto that I should no more tarry here, mistaking
perchance my humour, and thinking me as seditious as I am young; or else
it is the king Amiclas procuring, in respect that it was my ill hap to kill his
nephew Eurileon, but howsoever it be, I have condescended.” “But so will
not we,” cried almost the whole assembly, counselling one another rather to
try the uttermost event than lose him by whom they had been victorious.
But he as well with general orations as particular dealing with the men of
most credit, made them see how necessary it was to prefer such an
opportunity before a vain affection; but could not prevail till openly he
sware that he would (if at any time the Lacedaemonians brake this treaty)
come back again, and be their captain.
So, then, after a few days, setting them in perfect order, he took his leave
of them, whose eyes bade him farewell with tears, and mouths with kissing
the places where he stepped, and after making temples unto him, as to a
demi-god, thinking it beyond the degree of humanity to have a wit so far
over-going his age, and such dreadful terror proceed from so excellent
beauty. But he for his sake obtained free pardon for Argalus, whom also
(upon oath never to bear arms against the Helots) he delivered; and taking
only with him certain principal jewels of his own, he would have parted
alone with Argalus (whose countenance well showed, while Parthenia was
lost, he counted not himself delivered, but that the whole multitude would
needs guard him into Arcadia, where again leaving them all to lament his
departure, he by enquiry got to the well-known house of Kalander. There
was he received with loving joy of Kalander, with joyful love of Palladius,
with humble, though doleful, demeanour of Argalus (whom specially both
he and Palladius regarded with grateful serviceableness of Clitophon) and

honourable admiration of all. For being now well viewed to have no hair on
the face, to witness him a man, who had done acts beyond the degree of a
man, and to look with a certain almost bashful kind of modesty, as if he
feared the eyes of men, who was unmoved by the sight of the most horrible
countenances of death; and as if nature had mistaken her work to have a
Mars’s heart in a Cupid’s body: all that beheld him (and all that might
behold him, did behold him) made their eyes quick messengers to their
mind, that there they had seen the uttermost that in mankind might be seen.
The like wonder Palladius had before stirred, but that Diaphantus, as
younger and newer come, had gotten now the advantage in the moist and
fickle impression of eye-sight. But while all men, saving poor Argalus,
made the joy of their eyes speak for their hearts towards Daiphantus;
fortune (that belike was bid to that banquet, and meant to play the good-
fellow) brought a pleasant adventure among them. It was that as they had
newly dined, there came in to Kalander a messenger, that brought him
word, a young noble lady, near kinswoman to the fair Helen, queen of
Corinth, was come thither, and desired to be lodged in his house. Kalander
(most glad of such an occasion) went out, and all his other worthy guests
with him, saving only Argalus, who remained in his chamber, desirous that
this company were once broken up, that he might go in his solitary quest
after Parthenia. But when they met this lady, Kalander straight thought he
saw his niece Parthenia, and was about in such familiar sort to have spoken
unto her, but she, in grave and honourable manner, giving him to
understand that he was mistaken; he, half ashamed, excused himself with
the exceeding likeness was between them, though indeed it seemed that this
lady was of the more pure and dainty complexion, she said, it might very
well be, having been many times taken one for another. But as soon as she
was brought into the house, before she would rest her, she desired to speak
with Argalus publicly, who she heard was in the house. Argalus came
hastily, and as hastily thought as Kalander had done, with sudden change of
to sorrow. But she, when she had stayed her thoughts with telling them her
name and quality, in this sort spake unto him. “My Lord Argalus,” said she,
“being of late left in the court of queen Helen of Corinth, as chief in her
absence, she being upon some occasion gone thence, there came unto me
the lady Parthenia, so disfigured, as I think Greece hath nothing so ugly to
behold. For my part, it was many days, before, with vehement oaths, and
some good proofs, she could make me think that she was Parthenia. Yet at

last finding certainly it was she, and greatly pitying her misfortune, so much
the more as that all men had even told me, as now you do, of the great
likeness between us, I took the best care I could of her, and of her
understood the whole tragical history of her undeserved adventure: and
therewithal of that most noble constancy in you my lord Argalus, which
whosoever loves not, shows himself to be a hater of virtue, and unworthy to
live in the society of mankind. But no outward cherishing could salve the
inward sore of her mind; but a few days since she died; before her death
earnestly desiring, and persuading me to think of no husband but of you, as
of the only man in the world worthy to be loved. Withal she gave me this
ring to deliver you, desiring you, and by the authority of love commanding
you that the affection you bare her, you should turn to me; assuring you,
that nothing can please her soul more than to see you and me matched
together. Now my lord, though this office be not, perchance, suitable to my
estate nor sex, who should rather look to be desired; yet, an extraordinary
desert requires an extraordinary proceeding, and therefore I am come, with
faithful love built upon your worthiness, to offer myself, and to beseech you
to accept the offer: and if these noble gentlemen present will say it is great
folly, let them withal say, it is great love.” And then she stayed, earnestly
attending Argalus’s answer; who, first making most hearty sighs, doing such
obsequies as he could to Parthenia, thus answered her.
“Madame,” said he, “infinitely am I bound to you, for this no more rare
than noble courtesy; but much bound for the goodness I perceive you
showed to the lady Parthenia (with that the tears ran down his eyes, but he
followed on) and as much as so unfortunate a man, fit to be the spectacle of
misery, can do you a service; determine you have made a purchase of a
slave, while I live, never to fail you. But this great matter you propose unto
me, wherein I am not so blind as not to see what happiness it should be unto
me, excellent lady, know that if my heart were mine to give, you before all
others should have it; but Parthenia’s it is, though dead: there I began, there
I end all matter of affection: I hope I shall not long tarry after her, with
whose beauty if I only had been in love, I should be so with you, who have
the same beauty; but it was Parthenia’s self I loved, and love, which no
likeness can make one, no commandment dissolve, no foulness defile, nor
no death finish.” “And shall I receive,” said she, “such disgrace as to be
refused?” “Noble lady,” said he, “let not that hard word be used; who know

your exceeding worthiness far beyond my desert? but it is only happiness I
refuse, since of the only happiness I could and can desire, I am refused.”
He had scarce spoken those words, when she ran to him and embracing
him, “Why then Argalus,” said she, “take thy Parthenia:” and Parthenia it
was indeed. But because sorrow forbade him too soon to believe, she told
him the truth, with all circumstances: how being parted alone, meaning to
die in some solitary place, as she happened to make her complaint, the
queen Helen of Corinth (who likewise felt her part of miseries) being then
walking alone in that lovely place, heard her, and never left, till she had
known the whole discourse. Which the noble queen greatly pitying, she sent
to her a physician of hers, the most excellent man in the world, in hope he
could help her: which in such sort as they saw he had performed, and the
taking with her one of the queen’s servants, thought yet to make this trial,
whether he would quickly forget his true Parthenia, or no. Her speech was
confirmed by the Corinthian gentlemen, who before had kept her counsel,
and Argalus easily persuaded to what more than ten thousand years of life
he desired: and Kalander would needs have the marriage celebrated in his
house, principally the longer to hold his dear guest, towards whom he was
now, besides his own habits of hospitality, carried with love and duty: and
therefore omitted no service that his wit could invent and power minister.
But no way he saw he could so much pleasure them as by leaving the two
friends alone, who being shrunk aside to the banqueting-house, where the
pictures were; there Palladius recounted unto him, that after they had both
abandoned the burning ship (and either of them taking something under
him, the better to support him to the shore) he knew not how, but either with
over-labouring in the fight, and sudden cold, or the too much receiving of
salt-water, he was past himself: but yet holding fast, as the nature of dying
men is to do, the chest that was under him, he was cast on the sands, where
he was taken up by a couple of shepherds, and by them brought to life
again, and kept from drowning himself, when he despaired of his safety.
How after having failed to take him into the fisher-boat, he had by the
shepherds’ persuasion come to this gentleman’s house; where being
dangerously sick, he had yielded to seek the recovery of health, only for
that he might the sooner go seek the delivery of Pyrocles; to which purpose
Kalander by some friends of his in Messenia, had already set a ship or two
abroad, when this accident of Clitophon’s taking had so blessedly procured
their meeting. Then did he set forth unto him the noble entertainment and

careful cherishing of Kalander towards him, and so upon occasion of the
pictures present, delivered with the frankness of a friend’s tongue, as near
as could be, word by word what Kalander had told him touching the strange
story, with all the particularities belonging, of Arcadia; which did in many
sorts so delight Pyrocles to hear, that he would needs have much of it again
repeated, and was not contented till Kalander himself had answered him
divers questions.
But first at Musidorus’s request, though in brief manner, his mind much
running upon the strange story of Arcadia, he did declare by what course of
adventures he was come to make up their mutual happiness in meeting.
“When, cousin,” said he, “we had stripped ourselves, and were both leaped
into the sea, and swam a little towards the shore, I found, by reason of some
wounds I had, that I should not be able to get the land, and therefore
returned back again to the mast of the ship, where you found me, assuring
myself, that if you came alive to shore, you would seek me; if you were
lost, as I thought it as good to perish as to live, so that place as good to
perish in as another. There I found my sword among some of the shrouds,
wishing, I must confess, if I died, to be found with that in my hand, and
withal waving it about my head, that sailors by might have the better
glimpse of me. There you missing me, I was taken up by pirates, who
putting me under board prisoner, presently set upon another ship and
maintaining a long fight, in the end put them all to the sword. Amongst
whom I might hear them greatly praise one young man, who fought most
valiantly, who (as love is careful, and misfortune subject to doubtfulness) I
thought certainly to be you. And so holding you as dead, from that time to
the time I saw you, in truth I sought nothing more than a noble end, which
perchance made me more hardy than otherwise I would have been. Trial
whereof came within two days after; for the kings of Lacedaemon having
set out some galleys under the charge of one of their nephews, to scour the
sea of the pirates, they met with us, where our captain wanting men, was
driven to arm some of his prisoners, with promise of liberty for well
fighting: among whom I was one; and being boarded by the admiral, it was
my fortune to kill Eurileon the king’s nephew: but in the end they prevailed,
and we were all taken prisoners, I not caring much what became of me
(only keeping the name of Daiphantus, according to the resolution you
know is between us:) but being laid in the jail of Tenaria, with special hate
to me for the death of Eurileon, the popular sort of that town conspired with

the Helots, and so by night opened them the gates; where entering and
killing all of the genteel and rich faction, for honesty-sake brake open all
prisons, and so delivered me: and I, moved with gratefulness, and
encouraged with carelessness of life, so behaved myself in some conflicts
they had within few days, that they barbarously thinking unsensible
wonders of me, as they heard I was hated of the king of Lacedaemon, their
chief captain being slain, as you know, by the noble Argalus (who helped
thereunto by his persuasion) having borne a great affection unto me, and to
avoid the dangerous emulation which grew among the chief, who should
have the place, and also affected, as rather to have a stranger than a
competitor, they elected me (God wot little proud of that dignity;) restoring
unto me such things of mine as being taken first by the pirates, and then by
the Lacedaemonians, they had gotten in the sack of the town. Now being in
it, so good was my success with many victories, that I made a peace for
them, to their own liking, the very day that you delivered Clitophon, whom
I, with much ado, had preserved. And in my peace the king Amiclas of
Lacedaemon would needs have me banished, and deprived of the dignity,
whereunto I was exalted: which (and you may see how much you are bound
to me) for your sake I was content to suffer, a new hope rising in me, that
you were not dead: and so meaning to travel over the world to seek you;
and now here, my dear Musidorus! you have me.” And with that, embracing
and kissing each other, they called Kalander, of whom Daiphantus desired
to hear the full story, which before he had recounted to Palladius, and to see
the letter of Philanax, which he read and well marked.
But within some days after, the marriage between Argalus and the fair
Parthenia being to be celebrated, Daiphantus and Palladius, selling some of
their jewels, furnished themselves of very fair apparel, meaning to do
honour to their loving host, who, as much for their sakes as for the
marriage, set forth each thing in most gorgeous manner. But all the cost
bestowed did not so much enrich, nor all the fine decking so much beautify,
nor all the dainty devices so much delight, as the fairness of Parthenia, the
pearl of all the maids of Mantinea, who as she went to the temple to be
married, her eyes themselves seemed a temple, wherein love and beauty
were married. Her lips, though they were kept close with modest silence,
yet with a pretty kind of natural swelling, they seemed to invite the guests
that looked on them; her cheeks blushing, and withal, when she was spoken
unto, a little smiling, were like roses when their leaves are with a little

breath stirred; her hair being laid at the full length down her back, bare she
was, if the voward failed, yet that would conquer. Daiphantus marking her,
“O Jupiter! (quoth he speaking to Palladius) how happens it, that beauty is
only confined to Arcadia?” But Palladius not greatly attending his speech,
some days were continued in the solemnizing the marriage, with all
conceits that might deliver delight to men’s fancies.
But such a change was grown in Daiphantus that (as if cheerfulness had
been tediousness, and good entertainment were turned to discourtesy) he
would ever get himself alone, though almost when he was in company, he
was alone, so little attention he gave to any that spake unto him: even the
colour and figure of his face began to receive some alteration, which he
shewed little to heed: but every morning early going abroad, either to the
garden, or to some woods towards the desert, it seemed his only comfort
was to be without a comforter. But long it could not be hid from Palladius,
whom true love made ready to mark, and long knowledge able to mark; and
therefore being now grown weary of his abode in Arcadia, having informed
himself fully of the strength and riches of the country, of the nature of the
people, and manner of their laws; and seeing the court could not be visited,
prohibited to all men, but to certain shepherdish people, he greatly desired a
speedy return to his own country, after the many mazes of fortune he had
trodden. But perceiving this great alteration in his friend, he thought first to
break with him thereof, and then to hasten his return; whereto he found him
but smally inclined: whereupon one day taking him alone with certain
graces and countenances, as if he were disputing with the trees, began in
this manner to say unto him.
“A mind well trained and long exercised in virtue, my sweet and worthy
cousin doth not easily change any course it once undertakes, but upon well-
grounded and well-weighed causes; for being witness to itself of its own
inward good, it finds nothing without it of so high a price for which it
should be altered. Even the very countenance and behaviour of such a man
doth shew forth images of the same constancy, by maintaining a right
harmony betwixt it and the inward good, in yielding itself suitable to the
virtuous resolution of the mind. This speech I direct to you, noble friend
Pyrocles, the excellency of whose mind and well chosen course in virtue, if
I do not sufficiently know, having seen such rare demonstrations of it, it is
my weakness, and not your unworthiness: but as indeed I know it, and
knowing it, most dearly love both it and him that hath it, so must I needs

say that since our late coming into this country, I have marked in you, I will
not say an alteration, but a relenting truly, and a slacking of the main career
you had so notably begun and almost performed, and that in such sort, as I
cannot find sufficient reason in my great love toward you how to allow it:
for (to leave off other secreter arguments which my acquaintance with you
makes me easily find) this in effect to any man may be manifest, that
whereas you were wont in all places you came to give yourself vehemently
to the knowledge of those things which might better your mind, to seek the
familiarity of excellent men in learning and soldiery, and lastly, to put all
these things in practice, both by continual wise proceeding, and worthy
enterprises as occasion fell for them; you now leave all these things undone:
you let your mind fall asleep: beside your countenance troubled, which
surely comes not of virtue; for virtue, like the clear heaven, is without
clouds: and lastly, you subject yourself to solitariness, the sly enemy that
doth most separate a man from well doing.”
Pyrocles’s mind was all this while so fixed upon another devotion, that he
no more attentively marked his friend’s discourse than the child that hath
leave to play marks the last part of his lesson; or the diligent pilot in a
dangerous tempest doth attend the unskilful words of a passenger: yet the
very sound having imprinted the general points of his speech in his heart,
pierced with any mislike of so dearly an esteemed friend, and desirous by
degrees to bring him to a gentler consideration of him, with a shame-faced
look (witnessing he rather could not help, than did not know his fault)
answered him to this purpose: “Excellent Musidorus! in the praise you gave
me in the beginning of your speech, I easily acknowledge the force of your
good will unto me; for neither could you have thought so well of me, if
extremity of love had not made your judgment partial, nor could you have
loved me so entirely if you had not been apt to make so great, though
undeserved, judgments of me; and even so much I say to those
imperfections to which, though I have ever through weakness been subject,
yet you by the daily mending of your mind have of late been able to look
into them, which before you could not discern; so that the change you speak
of falls not out by my impairing, but by your bettering. And yet under the
leave of your better judgment, I must needs say thus much (my dear
cousin!) that I find not myself wholly to be condemned because I do not
with continual vehemency follow those knowledges, which you call the
bettering of my mind; for both the mind itself must, like other things,

sometimes be unbent, or else it will be either weakened, or broken, and
these knowledges, as they are of good use, so are they not all the mind may
stretch itself unto: who knows whether I feed not my mind with higher
thoughts? Truly, as I know not all the particularities, so yet I see the bounds
of all these knowledges: but the workings of the mind I find much more
infinite than can be led unto by the eye, or imagined by any that distract
their thoughts without themselves. And in such contemplation, or, as I
think, more excellent, I enjoy my solitariness, and my solitariness
perchance is the nurse of these contemplations. Eagles we see fly alone, and
they are but sheep which always herd together; condemn not therefore my
mind sometimes to enjoy itself; nor blame not the taking of such times as
serve most fit for it. And alas, dear Musidorus! if I be sad who knows better
than you the just causes I have of sadness?” And here Pyrocles suddenly
stopped, like a man unsatisfied in himself, though his wit might well have
served to have satisfied another. And so looking with a countenance as
though he desired he should know his mind without hearing him speak, and
yet desirous to speak, to breathe out some part of his inward evil, sending
again new blood to his face, he continued his speech in this manner: “And
lord, dear cousin,” said he, “doth not the pleasantness of this place carry in
itself sufficient reward for any time lost in it? do you not see how all things
conspire together to make this country a heavenly dwelling? do you not see
the grass, how in colour they excel the emeralds, every one striving to pass
his fellow, and yet they are all kept of an equal height? and see you not the
rest of these beautiful flowers, each of which would require a man’s wit to
know, and his life to express? do not these stately trees seem to maintain
their flourishing old age with the only happiness of their seat, being clothed
with a continual spring, because no beauty here should ever fade? doth not
the air breathe health, which the birds, delightful both to ear and eye, do
daily solemnize with the sweet consent of their voices? is not every echo
thereof a perfect music? And these fresh and delightful brooks how slowly
they slide away, as loth to leave the company of so many things united in
perfection? and with how sweet a murmur they lament their forced
departure? certainly, certainly, cousin, it must needs be that some goddess
inhabiteth this region, who is the soul of this soil: for neither is any less
than a goddess worthy to be shrined in such a heap of pleasures, nor any
less than a goddess could have made it so perfect a plot of the celestial
dwellings.” And so ended with a deep sigh, ruefully[3] casting his eyes

upon Musidorus, as more desirous of pity than pleading. But Musidorus had
all this while held his look fixed upon Pyrocles’s countenance; and with no
less loving attention marked how his words proceeded from him: but in
both these he perceived such strange diversities, that they rather increased
new doubts than gave him ground to settle any judgment: for besides his
eyes sometimes even great with tears, the oft changing of his colour, with a
kind of shaking unsteadiness over all his body, he might see in his
countenance some great determination mixed with fear; and might perceive
in him store of thoughts, rather stirred than digested; his words interrupted
continually with sighs, which served as a burden to each sentence, and the
tenour of his speech, though of his wanted phrase, not knit together to one
constant end, but rather dissolved in itself, as the vehemency of the inward
passion prevailed: which made Musidorus frame his answer nearest to that
humour, which should soonest put out the secret. For having in the
beginning of Pyrocles’s speech, which defended his solitariness, framed in
his mind a reply against it in the praise of honourable action, in showing
that such a kind of contemplation is but a glorious title to idleness; that in
action a man did not only better himself, but benefit others; that the gods
would not have delivered a soul into the body which had arms and legs,
only instruments of doing, but that it were intended the mind should employ
them, and that the mind should best know his own good or evil by practice;
which knowledge was the only way to increase the one, and correct the
other; besides many other arguments, which the plentifulness of the matter
yielded to the sharpness of his wit. When he found Pyrocles leave that, and
fall into such an affected praising of the place, he left it likewise, and joined
with him therein: because he found him in that humour utter more store of
passion; and even thus kindly embracing him, he said, “Your words are
such, noble cousin, so sweetly and strongly handled in the praise of
solitariness, as they would make me likewise yield myself up into it, but
that the same words make me know it is more pleasant to enjoy the
company of him that can speak such words than by such words to be
persuaded to follow solitariness. And even so do I give you leave, sweet
Pyrocles, ever to defend solitariness, so long as to defend it, you ever keep
company. But I marvel at the excessive praises you give to this country; in
truth it is not unpleasant, but yet if you would return into Macedon you
should either see many heavens, or find this no more than earthly. And even
Tempe in my Thessalia (where you and I, to my great happiness, were

brought up together) is nothing inferior unto it. But I think you will make
me see that the vigour of your wit can show itself in any subject: or else you
feed sometimes your solitariness with the conceits of the poets, whose
liberal pens can as easily travel over mountains as molehills, and so like
well-disposed men, set up everything to the highest note; especially, when
they put such words in the mouths of one of these fantastical, mind-infected
people, that children and musicians call ‘Lovers.’” This word “Lover,” did
no less pierce poor Pyrocles, than the right tune of music toucheth him that
is sick of the Tarantula.[4] There was not one part of his body that did not
feel a sudden motion, while his heart with panting seemed to dance to the
sound of that word; yet after some pause (lifting up his eyes a little from the
ground, and yet not daring to place them in the eyes of Musidorus) armed
with the very countenance of the poor prisoner at the bar, whose answer is
nothing but guilty: with much ado he brought forth this question. “And
alas,” said he, “dear cousin, what if I be not so much the poet (the freedom
of whose pen can exercise itself in any thing) as even that miserable subject
of his cunning whereof you speak?” “Now the eternal gods forbid,” mainly
cried out Musidorus, “that ever my ear should be poisoned with so evil
news of you. O let me never know that any base affection should get any
lordship in your thoughts.” But as he was speaking more, Kalander came
and brake off their discourse with inviting them to the hunting of a goodly
stag, which being harboured in a wood thereby, he hoped would make them
good sport, and drive away some part of Daiphantus’s melancholy. They
condescended, and so going to their lodgings, furnished themselves as liked
them, Diaphantus writing a few words which he sealed in a letter against
their return.
Then went they together abroad, the good Kalander entertaining them
with pleasant discoursing, how well he loved the sport of hunting when he
was a young man, how much, in the comparison thereof, he disdained all
chamber-delights, that the fun (how great a journey soever he had to make)
could never prevent him with earliness, nor the moon, with her sober
countenance, dissuade him from watching till midnight for the deer feeding.
“O,” said he, “you will never live to my age, without you keep yourselves
in breath with exercise, and in heart with joyfulness. Too much thinking
doth consume the spirits, and oft it falls out that while one thinks too much
of his doing, he leaves to do the effect of his thinking.” Then spared he not
to remember how much Arcadia was changed since his youth: activity and

good fellowship being nothing in the price it was then held in; but,
according to the nature of the old growing world, still worse and worse.
Then would he tell them stories of such gallants as he had known: and so
with pleasant company beguiled the time’s haste, and shortened the way’s
length, till they came to the side of the wood, where the hounds were in
couples staying their coming, but with a whining accent craving liberty,
many of them in colour and marks so resembling, that it shewed they were
of one kind. The huntsmen handsomely attired in their green liveries as
though they were children of summer, with staves in their hands to beat the
guiltless earth when the hounds were at a fault, and with horns about their
necks to sound an alarm upon a silly fugitive: the hounds were straight
uncoupled, and ere long the stag thought it better to trust to the nimbleness
of his feet than to the slender fortification of his lodging: but even his feet
betrayed him, for howsoever they went, they themselves uttered themselves
to the scent of their enemies, who one taking it of another, and sometimes
believing the wind’s advertisement, sometimes the view of their faithful
counsellors, the huntsmen, with open mouths then denounced war, when the
war was already begun; their cry being composed of so well-sorted mouths,
that any man would perceive therein some kind of proportion, but the
skilful woodmen did find a music. Then delight, and variety of opinion,
drew the horsemen sundry ways, yet cheering their hounds with voice and
horn, kept still, as it were, together. The wood seemed to conspire with
them against his own citizens, dispersing their noise through all his
quarters, and even the nymph Echo left to bewail the loss of Narcissus, and
become a hunter. But the stag was in the end so hotly pursued that, leaving
his flight, he was driven to make courage of despair, and so, turning his
head, made the hounds, with change of speech, to testify that he was at a
bay, as if from hot pursuit of their enemy, they were suddenly come to a
parley.
But Kalander, by his skill of coasting the country, was amongst the first
that came into the besieged deer; whom when some of the younger sort
would have killed with their swords, he would not suffer, but with a cross-
bow sent a death to the poor beast, who with tears showed the unkindness
he took of man’s cruelty.
But by the time that the whole company was assembled, and that the stag
had bestowed himself liberally among them that had killed him, Daiphantus
was missed, for whom Palladius carefully inquiring, no news could be

given him, but by one that said he thought he was returned home; for that
he marked him in the chief of the hunting, take a byway which might lead
to Kalander’s house. That answer for the time satisfying, and they having
performed all duties, as well for the stag’s funeral as the hounds’ triumph,
they returned; some talking of the fatness of the deer’s body; some of the
fairness of his head; some of the hounds’ cunning; some of their speed, and
some of their cry; till coming home, about the time that the candles begin to
inherit the sun’s office, they found Daiphantus was not to be found.
Whereat Palladius greatly marvelling, and a day or two passing, while
neither search nor inquiry could help him to knowledge, at last he lighted
upon the letter which Pyrocles had written before he went a-hunting, and
left in his study among other of his writings: The letter was directed to
Palladius himself, and contained these words:

My only friend! violence of love leads me into such a course,
whereof your knowledge may much more vex you, than help me.
Therefore pardon my concealing it from you, since, if I wrong you,
it is in the respect I bear you. Return into Thessalia, I pray you, as
full of good fortune as I am of desire; and if I live, I will in a short
time follow you; if I die, love my memory.

This was all, and this Palladius read twice or thrice over. “Ah,” said he,
“Pyrocles what means this alteration? what have I deserved of thee to be
thus banished of thy counsels? Heretofore I have accused the sea,
condemned the pirates, and hated my evil fortune that deprived me of thee;
but now thyself is the sea which drowns my comfort; thyself is the pirate
that robs thyself from me; thy own will becomes thy evil fortune.” Then
turned he his thoughts to all forms of guesses that might light upon the
purpose and course of Pyrocles, for he was not so sure by his words that it
was love, as he was doubtful where the love was. One time he thought some
beauty in Laconia had laid hold of his eyes; another time he feared that it
might be Parthenia’s excellency which had broken the bands of all former
resolution; but the more he thought the more he knew not what to think,
armies of objections rising against any accepted opinion.
Then as careful he was what to do himself: at length determined never to
leave seeking him till his search should be either by meeting accomplished,
or by death ended. Therefore (for all the unkindness bearing tender respect

that his friend’s secret determination should be kept from any suspicion in
others) he went to Kalander, and told him that he had received a message
from his friend, by which he understood he was gone back again into
Laconia about some matters greatly importing the poor men, whose
protection he had undertaken, and that it was in any sort fit for him to
follow him, but in such private wise, as not to be known, and that therefore
he would as then bid him farewell; arming himself in a black armour, as
either a badge, or prognostication of his mind, and taking only with him a
good store of money and a few choice jewels, leaving the greatest number
of them, and most of his apparel with Kalander, which he did partly to give
the more cause to Kalander to expect their return, and so to be the less
curiously inquisitive after them—and partly to leave those honourable
thanks unto him for his charge and kindness, which he knew he would not
other way receive. The good old man having neither reason to dissuade nor
hope to persuade, received the things with mind of a keeper, not of an
owner; but, before he went, desired he might have the happiness fully to
know what they were, which, he said, he had ever till then delayed, fearing
to be importune: but now he would not be so much an enemy to his desires
as any longer to imprison them in silence. Palladius told him that the matter
was not so secret but that so worthy a friend deserved the knowledge, and
should have it as soon as he might speak with his friend, without whose
consent (because their promise bound him otherwise) he could not reveal it;
but bade him hold for most assured that if they lived but a while he should
find that they which bore the names of Diaphantus and Palladius would
give him and his cause to think his noble courtesy well employed. Kalander
would press him no further, but desiring that he might have leave to go, or
at least to send his son and servants with him: Palladius brake off all
ceremonies by telling him his case stood so that his greatest favour should
be in making least ado of his parting. Wherewith Kalander knowing it to be
more cumber than courtesy to strive, abstained from further urging him, but
not from hearty mourning the loss of so sweet a conversation.
Only Clitophon by vehement importunity obtained to go with him to
come again to Diaphantus, whom he named and accounted his lord. And in
such private guise departed Palladius, though having a companion to talk
withal, yet talking much more with unkindness. And first they went to
Mantinea; whereof because Parthenia was, he suspected there might be
some cause of his abode. But, finding there no news of him, he went to

Tegea, Ripa, Enispae, Stimphalus, and Phineus, famous for the poisonous
Stygian water, and through all the rest of Arcadia, making their eyes, their
ears, and their tongues serve almost for nothing but that inquiry. But they
could know nothing but that in none of those places he was known. And so
went they, making one place succeed to another in like uncertainty to their
search, many times encountering strange adventures worthy to be registered
in the rolls of fame: but this may not be omitted. As they passed in a
pleasant valley (on either side of which high hills lifted up their beetle-
brows, as if they would overlook the pleasantness of their under-prospect)
they were by the daintiness of the place, and the weariness of themselves,
invited to light from their horses, and pulled off their bits that they might
something refresh their mouths upon the grass (which plentifully grew,
brought up under the care of those well-shading trees), they themselves laid
them down hard by the murmuring music of certain waters which spouted
out of the side of the hills, and in the bottom of the valley made of many
springs a pretty brook, like a commonwealth of many families; but when
they had a while hearkened to the persuasion of sleep, they rose and walked
onward in that shady place till Clitophon espied a piece of armour, and not
far off another piece; and so the sight of one piece teaching him to look for
more, he at length found all, with head-piece and shield, by the device
whereof he straight knew it to be the armour of his cousin, the noble
Amphialus. Whereupon (fearing some inconvenience happened unto him)
he told both his doubt and cause of doubt to Palladius, who, considering
thereof, thought best to make no longer stay, but to follow on, lest
perchance some violence were offered to so worthy a knight, whom the
fame of the world seemed to set in balance with any knight living. Yet with
a sudden conceit, having long borne great honour to the name of
Amphialus, Palladius thought best to take that armour, thinking thereby to
learn by them that should know that armour some news of Amphialus, and
yet not hinder him in the search of Diaphantus too. So he, by the help of
Clitophon, quickly put on that armour, whereof there was no one piece
wanting, though hacked in some places, betraying some fighting not long
since passed. It was something too great, but yet served well enough. And
so, getting on their horses, they travelled but a little way when in the
opening of the mouth of the valley into a fair field they met with a coach
drawn with four milk-white horses, furnished all in black with a black-a-
moor boy upon every horse, they all apparelled in white, the coach itself

very richly furnished in black and white. But before they could come so
near as to discern what was within, there came running upon them above a
dozen horsemen, who cried to them to yield themselves prisoners or else
they should die. But Palladius, not accustomed to grant over the possession
of himself upon so unjust titles, with sword drawn gave them so rude an
answer that divers of them never had breath to reply again: for, being well
backed by Clitophon, and having an excellent horse under him, when he
was overpressed by some he avoided them, and ere the other thought of it,
punished in him his fellow’s faults, and so either with cunning or with
force, or rather with a cunning force, left none of them either living or able
to make his life serve to others’ hurt. Which being done, he approached the
coach, assuring the black boys they should have no hurt, who were else
ready to have run away; and looking in the coach, he found in the one end a
lady of great beauty, and such a beauty as showed forth the beams both of
wisdom and good nature, but all as much darkened as might be, with
sorrow. In the other, two ladies (who by their demeanour showed well they
were but her servants) holding before them a picture in which was a goodly
gentleman whom he knew not, painted, having in their faces a certain
waiting sorrow, their eyes being infected with their mistress’s weeping. But
the chief lady having not so much as once heard the noise of this conflict
(so had sorrow closed up all the entries of her mind, and love tied her
senses to that beloved picture), now the shadow of him falling upon the
picture made her cast up her eye, and seeing the armour which too well she
knew, thinking him to be Amphialus, the lord of her desires (blood coming
more freely into her cheeks, as though it would be bold, and yet there
growing new again pale for fear) with a pitiful look, like one unjustly
condemned. “My Lord Amphialus,” said she, “you have enough punished
me; it is time for cruelty to leave you, and evil fortune me; if not, I pray you
(and to grant my prayer fitter time nor place you cannot have) accomplish
the one even now, and finish the other.” With that, sorrow impatient to be
slowly uttered in her often staying speeches, poured itself so fast into tears,
that Palladius could not hold her longer in error, but pulling off his helmet,
“Madam,” said he, “I perceive you mistake me; I am a stranger in these
parts, set upon without any cause given by me by some of your servants,
whom, because I have in my just defence evil intreated, I came to make my
excuse to you, whom seeing such as I do, I find greater cause why I should
crave pardon of you.” When she saw his face and heard his speech she

looked out of the coach, and seeing her men, some slain, some lying under
their dead horses and striving to get from under them, without making more
account of the matter; “Truly,” said she, “they are well served that durst lift
up their arms against that armour. But, Sir Knight,” said she, “I pray you
tell me, how came you by this armour? for if it be by the death of him that
owned it, then have I more to say unto you.” Palladius assured her it was
not so, telling her the true manner how he found it. “It is like enough,” said
she, “for that agrees with the manner he hath lately used. But I beseech you,
Sir,” said she, “since your prowess hath bereft me of my company, let it yet
so far heal the wounds itself hath given as to guard me to the next town.”
“How great soever my business be, fair lady,” said he, “it shall willingly
yield to so noble a cause: but first, even by the favour you bear to the lord
of this noble armour, I conjure you to tell me the story of your fortune
herein, lest, hereafter, when the image of so excellent a lady in so strange a
plight come before mine eyes, I condemn myself of want of consideration
in not having demanded thus much. Neither ask I it without protestation that
wherein my sword and faith may avail you they shall bind themselves to
your service.” “Your conjuration, fair knight,” said she, “is too strong for
my poor spirit to disobey, and that shall make me (without any other hope,
my ruin being but by one unrelievable) to grant your will herein, and to say
the truth, a strange niceness were it in me to refrain that from the ears of a
person representing so much worthiness, which I am glad even to rocks and
woods to utter. Know you then that my name is Helen, queen by birth, and
hitherto possessed of the fair city and territory of Corinth. I can say no more
of myself but that I am beloved of my people, and may justly say beloved,
since they are content to bear with my absence and folly. But I being left by
my father’s death, and accepted by my people in the highest degree that
country could receive; as soon, or rather, before that my age was ripe for it,
my court quickly swarmed full of suitors: some, perchance, loving my
estate, others my person; but once, I know all of them, however my
possessions were in their heart, my beauty, such as it is, was in their
mouths, many strangers of princely and noble blood, and all of mine own
country, to whom either birth or virtue gave courage to avow so high a
desire.
“Among the rest, or rather, before the rest, was the lord Philoxenus, son
and heir to the virtuous nobleman, Timotheus, which Timotheus was a man
both in power, riches, parentage, and, which passed all these, goodness;

and, which followed all these, love of the people, beyond any of the great
men of my country. Now, this son of his, I must say truly, not unworthy of
such a father, bending himself by all means of serviceableness to me, and
setting forth of himself to win my favour, won thus far of me that in truth I
less misliked him than any of the rest, which, in some proportion, my
countenance delivered unto him. Though, I must confess, it was a very false
ambassador if it delivered at all any affection whereof my heart was utterly
void, I as then esteeming myself born to rule, and thinking foul scorn
willingly to submit myself to be ruled.
“But while Philoxenus in good sort pursued my favour, and perchance
nourished himself with overmuch hope, because he found I did in some sort
acknowledge his virtue; one time among the rest he brought with him a dear
friend of his.” With that she looked upon the picture before her, and straight
sighed, and straight tears flowed, as if the idol of duty ought to be honoured
with such oblations; and then her speech stayed the tale, having brought her
to that look, but that look having quite put her out of her tale.
But Palladius greatly pitying so sweet a sorrow in a lady, whom by fame
he had already known and honoured, besought for her promise sake to put
silence so long unto her moaning till she had recounted the rest of this story.
“Why,” said she, “this is the picture of Amphialus: what need I say more
unto you? What ear is so barbarous but hath heard of Amphialus? Who
follows deeds of arms, but everywhere finds monuments of Amphialus?
Who is courteous, noble, liberal, but he hath the example before his eyes of
Amphialus? Where are all heroical parts but in Amphialus? O Amphialus, I
would thou wert not so excellent, or I would I thought thee not so excellent,
and yet would I not that I would so.” With that she wept again; till he again
soliciting the conclusion of her story: “Then you must,” said she, “know the
story of Amphialus, for his will is my life, his life my history: and indeed in
what can I better employ my lips than in speaking of Amphialus.
“This knight, then, whose figure you see, but whose mind can be painted
by nothing but by their true shape of virtue, is brother’s son to Basilius,
King of Arcadia, and in his childhood esteemed his heir, till Basilius, in his
old years, marrying a young and fair lady, had of her those two daughters,
so famous for their perfection in beauty, which put by their young cousin
from that expectation. Whereupon his mother (a woman of an haughty
heart, being daughter to the King of Argos) either disdaining or fearing that
her son should live under the power of Basilius, sent him to that lord

Timotheus (between whom and her dead husband there had passed straight
bands of mutual hospitality) to be brought up in company with his son
Philoxenus.
“A happy resolution for Amphialus, whose excellent nature was by this
means trained on with as good education as any prince’s son in the world
could have, which otherwise it is thought his mother, far unworthy of such a
son, would not have given him: the good Timotheus no less loving him than
his own son. Well, they grew in years, and shortly occasions fell aptly to try
Amphialus, and all occasions were but steps for him to climb fame by.
Nothing was so hard but his valour overcame; which yet still he so guided
with true virtue that although no man was in our parts spoken of but he for
his manhood, yet, as though therein he excelled himself, he was commonly
called the courteous Amphialus. An endless thing it were for me to tell how
many adventures, terrible to be spoken of, he achieved, what monsters,
what giants, what conquests of countries, sometimes using policy,
sometimes force, but always virtue well followed, and but followed by
Philoxenus, between whom and him so fast a friendship by education was
knit that at last Philoxenus having no greater matter to employ his
friendship in than to win me, therein desired, and had his uttermost
furtherance: to that purpose brought he him to my court, where truly I may
justly witness with him that what his wit could conceive (and his wit can
conceive as far as the limits of reason stretch) was all directed to the setting
forward the suit of his friend Philoxenus: mine ears could hear nothing from
him but touching the worthiness of Philoxenus, and of the great happiness it
would be unto me to have such a husband; with many arguments, which
God knows I cannot well remember, because I did not much believe. For
why should I use many circumstances to come to that where already I am,
and ever while I live must continue? in few words, while he pleaded for
another, he won me for himself: if at least,” with that she sighed, “he would
account it a winning, for his fame had so framed the way to my mind that
his presence, so full of beauty, sweetness and noble conversation, had
entered there before he vouchsafed to call for the keys. O lord, how did my
soul hang at his lips while he spake! O when he in feeling manner would
describe the love of his friend, how well, thought I, doth love between those
lips! when he would with daintiest eloquence stir pity in me toward
Philoxenus, ‘Why sure,’ said I to myself, ‘Helen, be not afraid, this heart
cannot want pity:’ and when he would extol the deeds of Philoxenus, who

indeed had but waited of him therein, alas, thought I, good Philoxenus, how
evil doth it become thy name to be subscribed to his letter? what should I
say? nay, what should I not say (noble knight! who am not ashamed, nay
am delighted, thus to express my own passions?

“Days passed, his eagerness for his friend never decreased, my affection
to him ever increased. At length, in way of ordinary courtesy, I obtained of
him, who suspected no such matter, this his picture, the only Amphialus, I
fear, that I shall ever enjoy; and grown bolder, or madder, or bold with
madness, I discovered my affection unto him. But lord, I shall never forget
how anger and courtesy at one instant appeared in his eyes when he heard
that motion; how with his blush he taught me shame. In sum, he left nothing
unassayed which might disgrace himself to grace his friend, in sweet terms
making me receive a most resolute refusal of himself. But when he found
that his presence did far more persuade for himself than his speech could do
for his friend, he left my court, hoping that forgetfulness, which commonly
waits upon absence, would make room for his friend, to whom he would not
utter thus much, I think, for a kind fear not to grieve him, or perchance,
though he cares little for me, of a certain honourable gratefulness, not yet to
discover so much of my secrets: but, as it should seem, meant to travel into
far countries, until his friend’s affection either ceased or prevailed. But
within a while, Philoxenus came to see how onward the fruits were of his
friend’s labour, when (as in truth I cared not much how he took it) he found
me sitting, beholding this picture, I know not with how affectionate
countenance, but I am sure with a most affectionate mind. I straight found
jealousy and disdain took hold of him, and yet the froward pain of mine
own heart made me so delight to punish him whom I esteemed to be the
chiefest let in my way; that when he with humble gesture, and vehement
speeches sued for my favour, I told him that I would hear him more
willingly if he would speak for Amphialus as well as Amphialus had done
for him: he never answered me, but pale and quaking, went straight away;
and straight my heart misgave me some evil success: and yet, though I had
authority enough to have stayed him (as in these fatal things it falls out that
the high-working powers make second causes unwittingly accessory to their
determinations) I did no further, but sent a footman of mine (whose
faithfulness to me I well knew) from place to place to follow him and bring
me word of his proceedings, which (alas!) have brought forth that which I
fear I must ever rue.
“For he had travelled scarce a day’s journey out of my country, but that,
not far from this place, he overtook Amphialus, who, by succouring a
distressed lady, had been here stayed, and by and by called him to fight with
him, protesting that one of them two should die. You may easily judge how

strange it was to Amphialus, whose heart could accuse itself of no fault but
too much affection toward him, which he, refusing to fight with him, would
fain have made Philoxenus understand, but, as my servant since told me, the
more Amphialus went back, the more he followed, calling him traitor and
coward, yet never telling the cause of this strange alteration. ‘Ah
Philoxenus,’ said Amphialus, ‘I know I am no traitor, and thou well knowest
I am no coward: but I pray thee content thyself with this much, and let this
satisfy thee that I love thee, since I bear thus much of thee.’ But he, leaving
words, drew his sword and gave Amphialus a great blow or two, which, but
for the goodness of his armour, would have slain him: and yet so far did
Amphialus contain himself, stepping aside, and saying to him, ‘Well,
Philoxenus, and thus much villainy am I content to put up, not any longer
for thy sake (whom I have no cause to love since thou dost injure me, and
wilt not tell me the cause) but for thy virtuous father’s sake to whom I am
so much bound, I pray thee go away, and conquer thy own passions and
thou shalt make me soon yield to be thy servant.’ But he would not attend to
his words, but still struck so fiercely at Amphialus that in the end (nature
prevailing above determination) he was fain to defend himself, and withal
so to offend him that by an unlucky blow the poor Philoxenus fell dead at
his feet, having had time only to speak some few words, whereby
Amphialus knew it was for my sake: which when Amphialus saw, he
forthwith gave such tokens of true-felt sorrow that, as my servant said, no
imagination could conceive greater woe. But that by and by an unhappy
occasion made Amphialus pass himself in sorrow: for Philoxenus was but
newly dead, when there comes to the same place the aged and virtuous
Timotheus; who (having heard of his son’s sudden and passionate manner
of parting from my court) had followed him as speedily as he could, but
alas not so speedily but that he found him dead before he could overtake
him. Though my heart be nothing but a stage of tragedies, yet, I must
confess, it is even unable to bear the miserable representation thereof,
knowing Amphialus and Timotheus as I have done. Alas, what sorrow, what
amazement, what shame was in Amphialus when he saw his dear foster-
father find him the killer of his only son? In my heart, I know he wished
mountains had lain upon him to keep him from that meeting. As for
Timotheus, sorrow for his son, and, I think principally, unkindness of
Amphialus so devoured his vital spirits that, able to say no more, but
‘Amphialus, Amphialus, have I?’ he sank to the earth, and presently died.

“But not my tongue, though daily used to complaints, no, nor if my heart,
which is nothing but sorrow, were turned to tongues, durst it undertake to
show the unspeakableness of his grief. But, because this serves to make you
know my fortune, he threw away his armour, even this which you have now
upon you, which at the first sight I vainly hoped he had put on again; and
then, as ashamed of the light, he ran into the thickest of the woods,
lamenting, and even crying out so pitifully that my servant, though of a
fortune not used to much tenderness, could not refrain weeping when he
told it me. He once overtook him; but Amphialus drawing his sword, which
was the only part of his arms, God knows to what purpose, he carried about
him, threatened to kill him if he followed him, and withal bade him deliver
this bitter message, that he well enough found I was the cause of all this
mischief, and that if I were a man, he would go over the world to kill me,
but bade me assure myself that of all creatures in the world he most hated
me. Ah, Sir knight, whose ears I think by this time are tired with the rugged
ways of these misfortunes, now weigh my case, if at least you know what
love is. For this cause have I left my country, putting in hazard how my
people will in time deal by me, adventuring what perils or dishonours might
ensue, only to follow him who proclaimeth hate against me, and to bring
my neck unto him, if that may redeem my trespass, and assuage his fury.
And now, Sir,” said she, “you have your request, I pray you take pains to
guide me to the next town, that there I may gather such of my company
again as your valour hath left me.”
Palladius willingly condescended, but ere they began to go, there came
Clitophon who, having been something hurt by one of them, had pursued
him a good way: at length overtaking him, and ready to kill him, understood
they were servants to the fair queen Helen, and that the cause of this
enterprise was for nothing but to make Amphialus prisoner, whom they
knew their mistress sought; for she concealed her sorrow, nor cause of her
sorrow from nobody. But Clitophon, very sorry for this accident, came back
to comfort the queen, helping such as were hurt in the best sort that he
could, and framing friendly constructions of this rashly undertaken enmity,
when in comes another, till that time unseen, all armed, with his beaver
down, who first looking round about upon the company, as soon as he
espied Palladius, he drew his sword, and making no other prologue, let fly
at him. But Palladius, sorry for so much harm as had already happened,
fought rather to retire and ward, thinking he might be someone that

belonged to the fair queen, whose case in his heart he pitied. Which
Clitophon seeing, stepped between them, asking the new-come knight the
cause of this quarrel, who answered him, that he would kill that thief who
had stolen away his master’s armour, if he did not restore it. With that
Palladius looked upon him and saw that he of the other side had Palladius’s
own armour upon him. “Truly,” said Palladius “if I have stolen this armour,
you did not buy that; but you shall not fight with me upon such a quarrel;
you shall have this armour willingly, which I did only put on to do honour
to the owner.” But Clitophon straight knew by his words and voice that it
was Ismenus, the faithful and diligent page of Amphialus; and, therefore,
telling him that he was Clitophon, and willing him to acknowledge his error
to the other, who deserved all honour, the young gentleman pulled off his
head-piece, and, lighting, went to kiss Palladius’s hands, desiring him to
pardon his folly, caused by extreme grief, which easily might bring forth
anger. “Sweet gentleman,” said Palladius, “you shall only make me this
amends, that you shall carry this your lord’s armour from me to him, and
tell him from an unknown knight, who admires his worthiness, that he
cannot cast a greater mist over his glory than by being so unkind to so
excellent a princess as this queen is.” Ismenus promised he would as soon
as he durst find his master: and with that went to do his duty to the queen,
whom in all these encounters astonishment made hardy: but as soon as she
saw Ismenus, looking to her picture, “Ismenus,” said she, “here is my lord,
where is yours? or come you to bring me some sentence of death from him?
if it be so, welcome be it. I pray you speak, and speak quickly.” “Alas!
Madam,” said Ismenus, “I have lost my lord;” with that tears came into his
eyes, “for as soon as the unhappy combat was concluded, with the death
both of father and son, my master, casting off his armour, went his way,
forbidding me upon pain of death to follow him. Yet divers days I followed
his steps, till lastly I found him, having newly met with an excellent spaniel
belonging to his dead companion Philoxenus. The dog straight fawned on
my master, for old knowledge, but never was there thing more pitiful than
to hear my master blame the dog for loving his master’s murderer, renewing
afresh his complaints with the dumb counsellor, as if they might comfort
one another in their miseries. But my lord having espied me, rose up in such
rage that in truth I feared he would kill me: yet as then he said only, if I
would not displease him, I should not come near him till he sent for me: too
hard a commandment for me to disobey: I yielded, leaving him only waited

on by his dog, and as I think seeking out the most solitary places that this or
any other country can grant him: and I, returning where I had left his
armour, found another instead thereof, and (disdaining I must confess that
any should bear the armour of the best knight living) armed myself therein
to play the fool, as even now I did.” “Fair Ismenus,” said the queen, “a fitter
messenger could hardly be to unfold my tragedy, I see the end, I see my
end.”
With that, sobbing, she desired to be conducted to the next town, where
Palladius left her to be waited on by Clitophon, at Palladius’s earnest
entreaty, who desired alone to take that melancholy course of seeking his
friend; and therefore changing armour again with Ismenus, who went withal
to a castle belonging to his master, he continued his quest for his friend
Daiphantus.
So directed he his course to Laconia, as well among the Helots, as
Spartans: there indeed he found his fame flourishing, his monuments
engraved in marble, and yet more durably in men’s memories; but the
universal lamenting his absented presence, assured him of his present
absence. Thence into the Elean province, to see whether at the Olympian
games there celebrated he might in such concourse bless his eyes with so
desired an encounter: but that huge and sportful assembly grew to him a
tedious loneliness, esteeming nobody found, since Diaphantus was lost.
Afterwards he passeth through Achaia and Sicyonia, to the Corinthians,
proud of their two seas, to learn whether by the straight of that Isthmus it
were possible to know of his passage. But finding every place more dumb
than other to his demands, and remembering that it was late-taken love
which had wrought this new course, he returned again, after two months
travel in vain, to make a fresh search in Arcadia; so much the more as then
first he bethought himself of the picture of Philoclea, which resembling her
he had once loved, might perhaps awake again that sleeping passion. And
having already passed over the greatest part of Arcadia, one day coming
under the side of the pleasant mountain Maenalus, his horse, nothing guilty
of his inquisitiveness, with flat tiring taught him, that discreet stays make
speedy journeys: and therefore lighting down, and unbridling his horse, he
himself went to repose himself in a little wood he saw thereby. Where lying
under the protection of a shady tree, with intention to make forgetting sleep
comfort a sorrowful memory, he saw a sight which persuaded and obtained
of his eyes that they would abide yet a while open. It was the appearing of a

lady, who because she walked with her side toward him, he could not
perfectly see her face, but so much he might see of her, that was a surety for
the rest, that all was excellent.
Well might he perceive the hanging of her hair in fairest quantity, in locks
some curled, and some as it were forgotten, with such a careless care, and
an art so hiding art, that she seemed she would lay them for a pattern,
whether nature simply, or nature helped by cunning, be the more excellent:
the rest whereof was drawn into a coronet of gold richly set with pearl, and
so joined all over with gold wires and covered with feathers of divers
colours that it was not unlike to an helmet, such a glittering show it bare,
and so bravely it was held up from the head. Upon her body she wore a
doublet of sky-coloured satin, covered with plates of gold, and, as it were,
nailed with precious stones, that in it she might seem armed; the nether part
of her garment was full of stuff, and cut after such a fashion that though the
length of it reached to the ankles, yet in her going one might sometimes
discern the small of her leg, which with the foot was dressed in a short pair
of crimson velvet buskins, in some places open, as the ancient manner was,
to show the fairness of the skin. Over all this she wore a certain mantle,
made in such manner, that coming under her right arm and covering most of
that side, it had no fastening on the left side, but only upon the top of her
shoulder, where the two ends met, and were closed together with a very rich
jewel: the device whereof, as he after saw, was this: a Hercules made in
little form, but set with a distaff in his hand, as he once was by Omphale’s
commandment, with a word in Greek, but thus to be interpreted, “Never
more valiant.” On the same side on her thigh she wore a sword, which as it
witnessed her to be an Amazon, or one following that profession, so it
seemed but a needless weapon, since her other forces were without
withstanding. But this lady walked out-right till he might see her enter into
a fine close arbour: it was of trees, whose branches so lovingly interlaced
one the other that it could resist the strongest violence of eye-sight, but she
went into it by a door she opened, which moved him, as warily as he could,
to follow her; and by and by he might hear her sing this song, with a voice
no less beautiful to his ears than her goodliness was full of harmony to his
eyes:

Transform’d in shew, but more transform’d in mind,
I cease to strive with double conquest foil’d:

For, woe is me, my powers all I find
With outward force, and inward treason, spoil’d.
For from without came to mine eyes the blow,
Whereto my inward thoughts did faintly yield:
Both these conspir’d poor reason’s overthrow;
False in myself, thus have I lost the field.
Thus are my eyes still captive to one sight,
Thus all my thoughts are slaves to one thought still:
Thus reason to his servants yields his right,
Thus is my power transformed to your will:
What marvel then, I take a woman’s hue,
Since what I see, think, know, is all but you?

This ditty gave him some suspicion, but the voice gave him almost
assurance who the singer was. And therefore boldly thrusting open the door
and entering into the arbour, he perceived indeed that it was Pyrocles thus
disguised; wherewith not receiving so much joy to have found him as grief
so to have found him, amazedly looking upon him (as Apollo is painted
when he saw Daphne suddenly turned into a laurel) he was not able to bring
forth a word. So that Pyrocles, (who had as much shame as Musidorus had
sorrow) rising to him, would have formed a substantial excuse, but his
insinuation being of blushing, and his division of sighs, his whole oration
stood upon a short narration what was the cause of this metamorphosis. But
by that time Musidorus had gathered his spirits together, and yet casting a
ghastful countenance upon him, as if he would conjure some strange spirit,
he thus spake unto him:
“And is it possible that this is Pyrocles, the only young prince in the
world formed by nature, and framed by education to the true exercise of
virtue? or is it indeed some Amazon that hath counterfeited the face of my
friend in this sort to vex me? for likelier sure I would have thought it that
any outward face might have been disguised than that the face of so
excellent a mind could have been thus blemished. O sweet Pyrocles,
separate yourself a little, if it be possible, from yourself, and let your own
mind look upon your own proceedings; so shall my words be needless, and
you best instructed. See with yourself how fit it will be for you in this your
tender youth, born so great a prince, and of so rare not only expectation, but
proof, desired of your old father, and wanted of your native country, now so

near your home, to divert your thoughts from the way of goodness, to lose,
nay, to abuse your time. Lastly, to overthrow all the excellent things you
have done, which have filled the world with your fame; as if you should
drown your ship in the long desired haven; or, like an ill player, should mar
the last act of his tragedy. Remember, for I know you know it, that if we
will be men the reasonable part of our soul is to have absolute
commandment, against which, if any sensual weakness arise, we are to
yield all our sound forces to the overthrowing of so unnatural a rebellion,
wherein how can we want courage, since we are to deal against so weak an
adversary that in itself is nothing but weakness? nay, we are to resolve that
if reason direct it we must do it; and if we must do it, we will do it: for, to
say ‘I cannot,’ is childish; and ‘I will not,’ womanish. And see how
extremely every way you can endanger your mind; for, to take this
womanish habit, without you frame your behavior accordingly, is wholly
vain: your behaviour can never come kindly from you, but as the mind is
proportioned unto it. So that you must resolve if you will play your part to
any purpose, whatsoever peevish imperfections are in that sex to soften
your heart to receive them, the very first down-step to all wickedness: for
do not deceive yourself, my dear cousin, there is no man suddenly either
excellently good or extremely evil, but grows either as he holds himself up
in virtue, or lets himself slide to viciousness. And let us see what power is
the author of all these troubles; forsooth love, love, a passion, and the basest
and fruitlessest of all passions: fear breedeth wit; anger is the cradle of
courage; joy openeth and enableth the heart; sorrow, as it closeth, so it
draweth it inward to look to the correcting of itself; and so all of them
generally have power towards some good by the direction of reason. But
this bastard Love (for indeed the name of love is most unworthily applied to
so hateful a humour) as it is engendered betwixt lust and idleness, as the
matter it works upon is nothing but a certain base weakness which some
gentle fools call a gentle heart; as his adjoined companions be unquietness,
longings, fond comforts, faint discomforts, hopes, jealousies, ungrounded
rages, causeless yielding, so is the highest end it aspires unto, a little
pleasure with much pain before and great repentance after. But that end,
how endless it runs into infinite evils, were fit enough for the matter we
speak of, but not for your ears, in whom, indeed, there is so much true
disposition to virtue; yet this much of his worthy effects in yourself is to be
seen, that (besides your breaking laws of hospitality with Kalander, and of

friendship with me) it utterly subverts the course of nature in making reason
give place to sense, and man to woman. And truly I think hereupon it first
got the name of love: for indeed the true love hath that excellent nature in it,
that it doth transform the very essence of the lover into the thing loved,
uniting, and as it were, incorporating it with a secret and inward working.
And herein do these kinds of loves imitate the excellent: for, as the love of
heaven makes one heavenly, the love of virtue, virtuous, so doth the love of
the world make one become worldly: and this effeminate love of a woman
doth so womanize a man, that, if he yield to it, it will not only make him an
Amazon, but a launder, a distaff, a spinner, or whatsoever other vile
occupation their idle heads can imagine and their weak hands perform.
Therefore to trouble you no longer with my tedious, but loving words, if
either you remember what you are, what you have been, or what you must
be, if you consider what it is that moved you, or by what kind of creature
you are moved, you shall find the cause so small, the effect so dangerous,
yourself so unworthy to run into the one, or to be driven by the other, that I
doubt not I shall quickly have occasion rather to praise you for having
conquered it, than to give you further counsel how to do it.”
But in Pyrocles this speech wrought no more but that he, who before he
was espied was afraid, after being perceived, was ashamed, now being
hardly rubbed upon, left both fear and shame, and was moved to anger. But
the exceeding goodwill he bore to Musidorus striving with it, he thus partly
to satisfy him, but principally to loose the reins to his own motions, made
him answer: “Cousin! whatsoever good disposition nature hath bestowed
upon me, or however that disposition hath been by bringing up confirmed,
this I must confess, that I am not yet come to that degree of wisdom to think
light of the sex of whom I have my life, since if I be anything, which your
friendship rather finds than I acknowledge, I was, to come to it, born of a
woman, and nursed of a woman. And certainly, for this point of your speech
doth nearest touch me, it is strange to see the unmanlike cruelty of mankind,
who, not content with their tyrannous ambition to have brought the other’s
virtuous patience under them, like childish masters, think their masterhood
nothing without doing injury to them, who, if we will argue by reason, are
framed of nature with the same parts of the mind for the exercise of virtue
as we are. And for example, even this estate of Amazons, which I now for
my greatest honour do seek to counterfeit, doth well witness that if
generally the sweetness of their disposition did not make them see the

vainness of these things which we account glorious, they neither want
valour of mind, nor yet doth their fairness take away their force. And truly
we men, and praisers of men, should remember that if we have such
excellencies, it is reason to think them excellent creatures, of whom we are:
since a kite never brought forth a good flying hawk. But to tell you true, as I
think it superfluous to use any words of such a subject which is so praised
in itself as it needs no praises; so withal, I fear, lest my conceit, not able to
reach unto them, bring forth words which for their unworthiness may be a
disgrace to them I so inwardly honour. Let this suffice that they are capable
of virtue, and virtue, you yourselves say, is to be loved, and I too, truly: but
this I willingly confess, that it likes me much better when I find virtue in a
fair lodging than when I am bound to seek it in an ill-favoured creature, like
a pearl in a dunghill. As for my fault of being an uncivil guest to Kalander,
if you could feel what an inward guest myself am host unto, ye would think
it were excusable, in that I rather perform the duties of an host than the
ceremonies of a guest. And for my breaking the laws of friendship with you,
which I would rather die than effectually do, truly I could find it in my heart
to ask you pardon for it, but that your now handling of me gives me reason
to confirm my former dealing.”
And here Pyrocles stayed, as to breathe himself, having been transported
with a little vehemency, because it seemed him Musidorus had over-bitterly
glanced against the reputation of womankind: but then quieting his
countenance, as well as out of an unquiet mind it might be, he thus
proceeded on: “And poor love,” said he, “dear cousin, is little beholding
unto you, since you are not content to spoil it of the honour of the highest
power of the mind which notable men have attributed unto it; but you deject
it below all other passions, in truth somewhat strangely, since, if love
receive any disgrace, it is by the company of these passions you prefer
before it. For those kinds of bitter objections as that lust, idleness, and a
weak heart should be, as it were, the matter and form of love, rather touch
me, dear Musidorus, than love; but I am good witness of my own
imperfections, and therefore will not defend myself: but herein I must say
you deal contrary to yourself: for if I be so weak, then can you not with
reason stir me up as you did by remembrance of my own virtue; or if indeed
I be virtuous, then must ye confess that love hath his working in a virtuous
heart; and so no doubt hath it, whatsoever I be: for, if we love virtue, in
whom shall we love it but in a virtuous creature? without your meaning be,

I should love this word Virtue, where I see it written in a book. Those
troublesome effects you say it breeds be not the faults of love, but of him
that loves, as an unable vessel to bear such a liquor, like evil eyes not able
to look on the sun; or like a weak brain, soonest overthrown with the best
wine. Even that heavenly love you speak of is accompanied in some hearts
with hopes, griefs, longings, and despairs. And in that heavenly love, since
there are two parts, the one the love itself, the other the excellency of the
thing loved: I, not able at the first leap to frame both in me, do now, like a
diligent workman, make ready the chief instrument and first part of that
great work, which is love itself; which when I have a while practised in this
sort, then you shall see me turn it to greater matters. And thus gently you
may, if it please you, think of me. Neither doubt ye, because I wear a
woman’s apparel, I will be the more womanish, since I assure you, for all
my apparel, there is nothing I desire more than fully to prove myself a man
in this enterprise. Much might be said in my defence, much more for love,
and most of all for that divine creature which hath joined me and love
together. But these disputations are fitter for quiet schools than my troubled
brains, which are bent rather in deeds to perform than in words to defend
the noble desire that possesseth me.” “O lord,” said Musidorus, “how sharp-
witted you are to hurt yourself.” “No,” answered he, “but it is the hurt you
speak of which makes me so sharp-witted.” “Even so,” said Musidorus, “as
every base occupation makes one sharp in that practice and foolish in all the
rest.” “Nay rather,” answered Pyrocles, “as each excellent thing once well-
learned serves for a measure of all other knowledges.” “And is that
become,” said Musidorus, “a measure for other things which never received
measure in itself?” “It is counted without measure,” answered Pyrocles,
“because the workings of it are without measure, but otherwise, in nature it
hath measure, since it hath an end allotted unto it.” The beginning, being so
excellent, I would gladly know the end. “Enjoying,” answered Pyrocles,
with a sigh, “I speak of the end to which it is directed which end ends not,
no sooner than the life.” “Alas! let your own brain disenchant you,” said
Musidorus. “My heart is too far possessed,” said Pyrocles. “But the head
gives you direction, and the heart gives me life,” answered Musidorus.
But Musidorus was so grieved to see his well-beloved friend obstinate, as
he thought, to his own destruction, that it forced him with more than
accustomed vehemency to speak these words. “Well, well,” said he, “you
list to abuse yourself; it was a very white and red virtue, which you could

pick out of a painterly glose of a visage. Confess the truth, and you shall
find the utmost was but beauty, a thing, which though it be in as great
excellency in yourself as may be in any, yet I am sure you make no further
reckoning of it than of an outward fading benefit nature bestowed upon you.
And yet such is your want of a true grounded virtue, which must be like
itself in all points, that what you wisely account a trifle in yourself, you
fondly become a slave unto in another. For my part I now protest I have left
nothing unsaid which my wit could make me know, or my most entire
friendship to you requires of me. I do not beseech you, even for the love
betwixt us, if this other love hath left any in you towards me, and for the
remembrance of your old careful father (if you can remember him that
forgot yourself) lastly, for Pyrocles’ own sake, who is now upon the point of
falling or rising, to purge yourself of this vile infection: otherwise give me
leave to leave off this name of friendship as an idle title of a thing which
cannot be where virtue is not established.”
The length of these speeches before had not so much cloyed Pyrocles,
though he were very impatient of long deliberations, as this last farewell of
him he loved as his own life did wound his soul. For thinking himself
afflicted, he was the apter to conceive unkindness deeply, insomuch that
shaking his head, and delivering some show of tears, he thus uttered his
grief: “Alas!” said he, “Prince Musidorus, how cruelly you deal with me; if
you seek the victory, take it; and, if ye list, the triumph. Have you all the
reason of the world, and with me remain all the imperfections; yet such as I
can no more lay from me, than the crow can be persuaded by the swan to
cast off all his black feathers. But truly you deal with me like a physician
who, seeing his patient in a pestilent fever, should chide him instead of
ministering help, and bid him be sick no more; or rather like such a friend,
that visiting his friend condemned to perpetual prison, and laden with
grievous fetters, should will him to shake off his fetters, or he would leave
him. I am sick, and sick to the death; I am prisoner, neither is there any
redress but by her to whom I am a slave. Now, if you list, leave him that
loves you in the highest degree: but remember ever to carry this with you,
that you abandon your friend in his greatest extremity.”
And herewith the deep wound of his love being rubbed afresh with this
new unkindness, began, as it were, to bleed again in such sort that he was
unable to bear it any longer, but gushing out abundance of tears, and
crossing his arms over his woeful heart, he sunk down to the ground, which

sudden trance went so to the heart of Musidorus, that falling down by him,
and kissing the weeping eyes of his friend, he besought him not to make
account of his speech, which if it had been over-vehement, yet was it to be
borne withal, because it came out of a love much more vehement, that he
had not thought fancy could have received so deep a wound; but now
finding in him the force of it, he would no further contrary it but employ all
his service to medicine it in such sort as the nature of it required. But even
this kindness made Pyrocles the more to melt in the former unkindness,
which his manlike tears well shewed, with a silent look upon Musidorus, as
who should say: “And is it possible that Musidorus should threaten to leave
me?” and this struck Musidorus’s mind and senses so dumb, too, that for
grief being not able to say anything, they rested with their eyes placed one
upon the other, in such sort as might well paint out the true passion of
unkindness to be never aright, but betwixt them that most dearly love.
And thus remained they a time, till at length Musidorus embracing him,
said “And will you thus shake off your friend?” “It is you that shake me
off,” said Pyrocles, “being for my unperfectness unworthy of your
friendship.” “But this,” said Musidorus, “shows you more unperfect to be
cruel to him that submits himself unto you. But since you are unperfect,”
said he, smiling, “it is reason you be governed by us wise and perfect men.
And that authority will I begin to take upon me, with three absolute
commandments: the first, that you increase not your evil with further griefs:
the second, that you love her with all the powers of your mind: and the last
commandment shall be, you command me to do what service I can towards
the attaining of your desires.” Pyrocles’s heart was not so oppressed with
the two mighty passions of love and unkindness but that it yielded to some
mirth at this commandment of Musidorus that he should love, so that
something clearing his face from his former shows of grief: “Well,” said he,
“dear cousin! I see by the well choosing of your commandments that you
are far fitter to be a prince than a counsellor, and therefore I am resolved to
employ all my endeavour to obey you, with this condition, that the
commandments ye command me to lay upon you shall only be, that you
continue to love me, and look upon my imperfections with more affection
than judgment.” “Love you,” said he, “alas! how can my heart be separated
from the true embracing of it without it burst by being too full of it?” “But,”
said he, “let us leave off these flowers of new begun friendship: and now I
pray you again tell me, but tell it me fully, omitting no circumstance, the

story of your affections, both beginning and proceeding, assuring yourself,
that there is nothing so great which I will fear to do for you, nor nothing so
small which I will disdain to do for you. Let me, therefore, receive a clear
understanding, which many times we miss, while those things we account
small, as a speech or a look, are omitted, like as a whole sentence may fail
of his congruity by wanting one particle. Therefore between friends all must
be laid open, nothing being superfluous nor tedious.” “You shall be
obeyed,” said Pyrocles, “and here are we in as fit a place for it as may be;
for this arbour nobody offers to come into but myself, I using it as my
melancholy retiring place, and therefore that respect is borne unto it: yet if
by chance any should come, say that you are a servant sent from the queen
of the Amazons to seek me, and then let me alone for the rest.” So sat they
down, and Pyrocles thus said:
“Cousin!” said he, “then began the fatal overthrow of all my liberty
when, walking among the pictures in Kalander’s house, you yourself
delivered unto me what you had understood of Philoclea, who much
resembling (though I must say much surpassing) the lady Zelmane, whom
so well I loved: there were mine eyes, infected, and at your mouth did I
drink the poison. Yet alas! so sweet was it unto me, that I could not be
contented, till Kalander had made it more and more strong with his
declaration. Which the more I questioned, the more pity I conceived of her
unworthy fortune; and when with pity once my heart was made tender,
according to the aptness of the humour, it received quickly a cruel
impression of that wonderful passion, which to be defined is impossible,
because no words reach to the strange nature of it: they only know it, which
inwardly feel it; it is called love. Yet did I not (poor wretch!) at first know
my disease, thinking it only such a wonted kind of desire to see rare sights,
and my pity to be no other but the fruits of a gentle nature. But even this
arguing with myself came of further thoughts, and the more I argued the
more my thoughts increased. Desirous I was to see the place where she
remained, as though the architecture of the lodges would have been much
for my learning, but more desirous to see herself, to be judge, forsooth, of
the painter’s cunning. For thus at the first did I flatter myself, as though my
wound had been no deeper: but when within short time I came to the degree
of uncertain wishes, and that those wishes grew to unquiet longings, when I
could fix my thoughts upon nothing but that within little varying they
should end with Philoclea; when each thing I saw seemed to figure out

some part of my passions; when even Parthenia’s fair face became a lecture
to me of Philoclea’s imagined beauty; when I heard no word spoken, but
that methought it carried the sound of Philoclea’s name; then indeed, then I
did yield to the burden, finding myself prisoner, before I had leisure to arm
myself: and that I might well, like the spaniel, gnaw upon the chain that ties
him; but I should sooner mar my teeth, than procure liberty: yet I take to
witness the eternal spring of virtue, that I had never read, heard, nor seen
anything: I had never any taste of philosophy, nor inward feeling in myself,
which for a while I did not call to my succour. But, alas! what resistance
was there, when ere long my very reason was, you will say, corrupted, I
must confess, conquered, and that methought even reason did assure me
that all eyes did degenerate from their creation which did not honour such
beauty? nothing in truth could hold any plea with it but the reverend
friendship I bear unto you. For as it went against my heart to break anyway
from you, so did I fear, more than any assault, to break it to you: finding, as
it is indeed, that to a heart fully resolute, counsel is tedious, but
reprehension is loathsome: and that there is nothing more terrible to a guilty
heart, than the eye of a respected friend. This made me determine with
myself, thinking it a less fault in friendship to do a thing without your
knowledge, than against your will, to take this secret course, which conceit
was most builded up in me the last day of my parting and speaking with
you, when upon your speech with me, and my but naming love, when else
perchance I would have gone further, I saw your voice and countenance so
change, as it assured me my revealing it should but purchase your grief with
my cumber, and therefore (dear Musidorus!) even ran away from my well-
known chiding: for having written a letter, which I know not whether you
found or no, and taking my chief jewels with me, while you were in the
midst of your sport, I got a time, as I think, unmarked by any, to steal away
I cared not whither, so I might escape you, and so came I to Ithonia, in the
province of Messenia, where, lying secret, I put this in practice, which
before I had devised. For remembering by Philanax’s letter and Kalander’s
speech, how obstinately Basilius was determined not to marry his
daughters, and therefore fearing lest any public dealing should rather
increase her captivity than further my love; love (the refiner of invention)
had put in my head thus to disguise myself, that under that mask I might, if
it were possible, get access, and what access could bring forth commit to
fortune and industry, determining to bear the countenance of an Amazon.

Therefore in the closest manner I could, naming myself Zelmane, for that
dear lady’s sake, to whose memory I am so much bound, I caused this
apparel to be made, and bringing it near the lodges, which are hard at hand,
by night thus dressed myself, resting till occasion might make me to be
found by them whom I sought; which the next morning happened as well as
mine own plot could have laid it. For after I had run over the whole
pedigree of my thoughts, I gave myself to sing a little, which, as you know,
I ever delighted in, so now especially, whether it be the nature of this clime
to stir up poetical fancies, or rather as I think, of love, whose scope being
pleasure, will not so much as utter his griefs, but in some form of pleasure.
“But I had sung very little, when (as I think, displeased with my bad
music) comes master Dametas with a hedging bill in his hand, chafing and
swearing by the pantoffle of Pallas, and such other oaths as his rustical
bravery could imagine; and when he saw me, I assure you, my beauty was
no more beholding to him than my harmony; for leaning his hands upon his
bill, and his chin upon his hands, with the voice of one that playeth
Hercules in a play, but never had his fancy in his head, the first word he
spake unto me, was, ‘Am not I Dametas? why am not I Dametas?’ He
needed not to name himself, for Kalander’s description had let such a note
upon him as made him very notable unto me; and therefore the height of my
thoughts would not descend so much as to make him answer, but continued
on my inward discourses; which he (perchance witness of his own
unworthiness, and therefore the apter to think himself contemned) took in
so heinous a manner, that standing upon his tiptoes, and staring as if he
would have had a mote pulled out of his eye. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘thou woman
or boy, or both, whatsoever thou be, I tell thee here is no place for thee, here
is no place for thee, get thee gone, I tell thee it is the prince’s pleasure, it is
Dametas’s pleasure.’ I could not choose but smile at him, seeing him look
so like an ape that had newly taken a purgation; yet taking myself with the
manner, spake these words to myself: ‘O spirit,’ said I, ‘of mine, how canst
thou receive any mirth in the midst of thine agonies? and thou mirth, how
darest thou enter into a mind so grown of late thy professed enemy?’ ‘Thy
spirit,’ said Dametas, ‘dost thou think me a spirit? I tell thee I am Basilius’s
officer, and have charge of him and his daughters.’ ‘O only pearl,’ said I
sobbing, ‘that so vile an oyster should keep thee?’ ‘By the comb case of
Diana,’ sware Dametas, ‘this woman is mad: oysters and pearls? dost thou
think I will buy oysters? I tell thee once again, get thee packing,’ and with

that lifted up his bill to hit me with the blunt end of it; but indeed that put
me quite out of my lesson; so that I forgot all Zelmaneship, and drawing out
my sword, the baseness of the villain yet made me stay my hand, and he
(who as Kalander told me, from his childhood ever feared the blade of a
sword) ran back, backward, with his hands above his head at least twenty
paces, gaping and staring with the very grace, I think, of the clowns that by
Latona’s prayers were turned into frogs.
“At length staying, finding himself without the compass of blows, he fell
to a fresh scolding, in such mannerly manner, as might well show he had
passed thro’ the discipline of a tavern; but seeing me walk up and down
without marking what he said, he went his way, as I perceived after, to
Basilius: for within a while he came unto me, bearing indeed shows in his
countenance of an honest and well-minded gentleman, and with as much
courtesy as Dametas with rudeness saluting me: ‘Fair lady,’ said he, ‘it is
nothing strange that such a solitary place as this should receive solitary
persons, but much do I marvel how such a beauty as yours is should be
suffered to be thus alone.’ I, that now knew it was my part to play, looking
with a grave majesty upon him, as if I found in myself cause to be
reverenced. ‘They are never alone,’ said I, ‘that are accompanied with noble
thoughts.’ ‘But those thoughts,’ replied Basilius, ‘cannot in this your
loneliness neither warrant you from suspicion in others, nor defend you
from melancholy in yourself:’ I then showing a mislike that he pressed me
so far; ‘I seek no better warrant,’ said I, ‘than my own conscience, nor no
greater pleasure than my own contentation.’ ‘Yet virtue seeks to satisfy
others,’ said Basilius. ‘Those that be good,’ said I, ‘and they will be
satisfied as long as they see no evil.’ ‘Yet will the best in this country,’ said
Basilius, ‘suspect so excellent beauty being so weakly guarded.’ ‘Then are
the best but stark naught,’ answered I, ‘for open suspecting others, comes of
secret condemning themselves: but in my country, whose manners I am in
all places to maintain and reverence, the general goodness which is
nourished in our hearts makes every one think the strength of virtue in
another, whereof they find the assured foundation in themselves.’ ‘Excellent
lady,’ said he, ‘you praise so greatly, and yet so wisely, your country that I
must needs desire to know what the nest is out of which such birds do fly.’
‘You must first deserve it,’ said I, ‘before you may obtain it.’ ‘And by what
means,’ said Basilius, ‘shall I deserve to know your estate?’ ‘By letting me
first know yours,’ answered I. ‘To obey you,’ said he, ‘I will do it, although

it were so much more reason yours should be known first, as you do
deserve in all points to be preferred. Know you, fair lady, that my name is
Basilius, unworthily lord of this country: the rest, either fame hath already
brought to your ears, or (if it please you to make this place happy by your
presence) at more leisure you shall understand of me.’ I that from the
beginning assured myself it was he, but would not seem I did so, to keep
my gravity the better, making a piece of reverence unto him; ‘Mighty
prince,’ said I, ‘let my not knowing you serve for the excuse of my
boldness, and the little reverence I do you impute to the manner of my
country, which is the invincible land of the Amazons: myself niece to
Senicia, queen thereof, lineally descended of the famous Penthesilea, slain
by the bloody hand of Pyrrhus: I having, in this my youth determined to
make the world see the Amazons’ excellencies, as well in private as in
public virtue, have passed some dangerous adventures in divers countries,
till the unmerciful sea deprived me of my company; so that shipwreck
casting me not far hence, uncertain wandering brought me to this place.’
But Basilius (who now began to taste of that, which since he had swallowed
up, as I will tell you) fell to more cunning intreating my abode, than any
greedy host should use to well-paying passengers. I thought nothing could
shoot righter at the mark of my desires; yet had I learned already so much,
that it was against my womanhood to be forward in my own wishes. And
therefore he (to prove whether intercessions in fitter mouths might better
prevail) commanded Dametas to bring forthwith his wife and daughters
thither; three ladies, although of diverse, yet of excellent beauty.
“His wife in grave matron-like attire, with countenance and gesture
suitable, and of such fairness, being in the strength of her age, as, if her
daughters had not been by, might with just price have purchased
admiration: but they being there, it was enough that the most dainty eye
would think her a worthy mother of such children. The fair Pamela, whose
noble heart I find doth greatly disdain that the trust of her virtue is reposed
in such a lout’s hands as Dametas, had yet, to show an obedience, taken on
shepherdish apparel, which was but of russet-cloth cut after their fashion,
with a straight body, open breasted, the nether part full of plaits, with long
and wide sleeves: but believe me she did apparel her apparel, and with the
preciousness of her body made it most sumptuous. Her hair at the full
length, wound about with gold lace, only by the comparison to show how
far her hair doth excel in colour: betwixt her breasts (which sweetly rose

like two fair mountainets in the pleasant vale of Tempe) there hung a very
rich diamond set but in a black horn; the word I have since read is this, ‘Yet
still myself.’ And thus particularly have I described them because you may
know that mine eyes are not so partial but that I marked them too. But when
the ornament of the earth, the model of heaven, the triumph of nature, the
life of beauty, the queen of love, young Philoclea appeared in her nymph-
like apparel, so near nakedness as one might well discern part of her
perfections, and yet so apparelled as did show she kept best store of her
beauty to herself: her hair (alas too poor a word, why should I not rather
call them her beams) drawn up into a net, able to have caught Jupiter when
he was in the form of an eagle; her body (O sweet body!) covered with a
light taffeta garment, so cut as the wrought smock came through it in many
places, enough to have made your restrained imagination have thought what
was under it: with the cast of her black eyes, black indeed, whether nature
so made them, that we might be the more able to behold and bear their
wonderful shining, or that she, goddess-like, would work this miracle with
herself in giving blackness the price above all beauty. Then, I say, indeed
methought the lilies grew pale for envy; the roses methought blushed to see
sweeter roses in her cheeks; and the apples methought fell down from the
trees to do homage to the apples of her breast; then the clouds gave place,
that the heavens might more freely smile upon her, at the least the clouds of
my thought quite vanished, and my sight, then more clear and forcible than
ever, was so fixed there, that, I imagine, I stood like a well-wrought image
with some life in show but none in practice. And so had I been like enough
to have stayed long time but that Gynecia stepping between my sight and
the only Philoclea, the change of object made me recover my senses, so that
I could with reasonable good manner receive the salutation of her, and of
the Princess Pamela, doing them yet no further reverence than one princess
useth to another. But when I came to the never enough praised Philoclea, I
could not but fall down on my knees, and taking by force her hand, and
kissing it, I must confess with more than womanly ardency, ‘Divine lady,’
said I, ‘let not the world, nor those great princesses, marvel to see me,
contrary to my manner, do this special honour unto you, since all both men
and women, do owe this to the perfection of your beauty.’ But, she blushing
like a fair morning in May at this my singularity, and causing me to rise,
‘Noble lady,’ said she, ‘it is no marvel to see your judgment much mistaken
in my beauty since you begin with so great an error as to do more honour

unto me than to them, to whom I myself owe all service.’ ‘Rather,’
answered I, with a bowed down countenance, ‘that shows the power of your
beauty which forced me to do such an error, if it were an error.’ ‘You are so
well acquainted,’ said she sweetly, most sweetly smiling, ‘with your own
beauty, that it makes you easily fall into the discourse of beauty.’ ‘Beauty in
me?’ (said I, truly sighing) ‘alas! if there be any it is in my eyes, which your
blessed presence hath imparted unto them.’
“But then, as I think Basilius willing her so to do, ‘Well,’ said she, ‘I
must needs confess I have heard that it is a great happiness to be praised of
them that are most praiseworthy: and well I find that you are an invincible
Amazon since you will overcome, though in a wrong matter. But if my
beauty be anything, then let it obtain thus much of you, that you will remain
some while in this company to ease your own travel and our solitariness.’
‘First let me die,’ said I, ‘before any word spoken by such a mouth should
come in vain.’ And thus with some other words of entertaining was my
staying concluded, and I led among them to the lodge; truly a place for
pleasantness, not unfit to flatter solitariness, for, it being set upon such an
unsensible rising of the ground as you are come to a pretty height before
almost you perceive that you ascend, it gives the eye lordship over a good
large circuit, which according to the nature of the country, being diversified
between hills and dales, woods and plains, one place more clear, another
more darksome, it seems a pleasant picture of nature, with lovely
lightsomeness and artificial shadows. The lodge is of a yellow stone, built
in the form of a star, having round about a garden framed into like points;
and beyond the garden ridings cut out, each answering the angles of the
lodge: at the end of one of them is the other smaller lodge, but of like
fashion, where the gracious Pamela liveth; so that the lodge seemeth not
unlike a fair comet, whose tail stretcheth itself to a star of less greatness.
“So Gynecia herself bringing me to my lodging, anon after I was invited
and brought down to sup with them in the garden, a place not fairer in
natural ornaments than artificial inventions, where, in a banqueting-house,
among certain pleasant trees, whose heads seemed curled with the
wrappings about of vine branches, the table was set near to an excellent
water-works; for, by the casting of the water in most cunning manner, it
makes, with the shining of the sun upon it, a perfect rainbow, not more
pleasant to the eye than to the mind, so sensibly to see the proof of the
heavenly Iris. There were birds also made so finely that they did not only

deceive the sight with their figure, but the hearing with their songs, which
the watery instruments made their gorge deliver. The table at which we sat
was round, which being fast to the floor whereon we sat, and that divided
from the rest of the buildings, with turning a vice, which Basilius at first did
to make me sport, the table, and we about the table, did all turn round by
means of water which ran under and carried it about as a mill. But alas!
what pleasure did it to me to make divers times the full circle round about,
since Philoclea, being also set, was carried still in equal distance from me,
and that only my eyes did overtake her? which, when the table was stayed,
and we began to feed, drank much more eagerly of her beauty than my
mouth did of any other liquor. And so was my common sense deceived,
being chiefly bent to her, that as I drank the wine, and withal stole a look on
her, meseemed I tasted her deliciousness. But alas! the one thirst was much
more inflamed than the other quenched. Sometimes my eyes would lay
themselves open to receive all the darts she did throw; sometimes close up
with admiration, as if with a contrary fancy, they would preserve the riches
of that sight they had gotten, or cast my lids as curtains over the image of
beauty her presence had painted in them. True it is, that my reason, now
grown a servant to passion, did yet often tell his master that he should more
moderately use his delight. But he, that of a rebel was become a prince,
disdained almost to allow him the place of a counsellor; so that my senses’
delights being too strong for any other resolution, I did even loose the reins
unto them, hoping that, going for a woman, my looks would pass either
unmarked or unsuspected.
“Now thus I had, as methought, well played my first act, assuring myself
that under that disguisement I should find opportunity to reveal myself to
the owner of my heart. But who would think it possible, though I feel it
true, that in almost eight weeks’ space I have lived here, having no more
company but her parents, and I being a familiar, as being a woman, and
watchful, as being a lover, yet could never find opportunity to have one
minute’s leisure of private conference: the cause whereof is as strange as
the effects are to me miserable. And (alas!) this it is.
“At the first sight that Basilius had of me, I think Cupid having headed
his arrows with my misfortune, he was stricken, taking me to be such as I
profess, with great affection towards me, which since is grown to such a
doting love that till I was fain to get this place sometimes to retire unto
freely, I was even choked with his tediousness. You never saw four score

years dance up and down more lively in a young lover; now, as fine in his
apparel, as if he would make me in love with a cloak, and verse for verse
with the sharpest-witted lover in Arcadia. Do you not think that is a sallet of
wormwood; while mine eyes feed upon the Ambrosia of Philoclea’s beauty?
but this is not all; no, this is not the worst: for he, good man, were easy
enough to be dealt with, but, as I think, love and mischief having made a
wager which should have most power in me, have set Gynecia also on such
a fire toward me, as will never, I fear, be quenched but with my destruction.
For, she being a woman of excellent wit and of strong working thoughts,
whether she suspected me by my over-vehement shows of affection to
Philoclea (which love forced me unwisely to utter, while hope of my mask
foolishly encouraged me) or that she hath taken some other mark of me,
that I am not a woman; or what devil it is hath revealed it unto her, I know
not: but so it is, that all her countenances, words, and gestures are even
miserable portraitures of a desperate affection. Whereby a man may learn
that these avoidings of company do but make the passions more violent
when they meet with fit subjects. Truly it were a notable dumb show of
Cupid’s kingdom, to see my eyes, languishing with over-vehement longing,
direct themselves to Philoclea; and Basilius, as busy about me as a bee, and
indeed as cumbersome, making such vehement suits to me, who neither
could if I would, nor would if I could, help him, while the terrible wit of
Gynecia, carried with the beer of violent love, runs through us all. And so
jealous is she of my love to her daughter that I could never yet begin to
open my mouth to the unevitable Philoclea but that her unwished presence
gave my tale a conclusion before it had a beginning. And surely, if I be not
deceived, I see such shows of liking, and, if I be acquainted with passions,
of almost a passionate liking in the heavenly Philoclea towards me, that I
may hope her ears would not abhor my discourse. And for good Basilius, he
thought it best to have lodged us together, but that the eternal hatefulness of
my destiny made Gynecia’s jealousy stop that, and all other my blessings.
Yet must I confess that one way her love doth me pleasure, for since it was
my foolish fortune, or unfortunate folly, to be known by her, that keeps her
from betraying me to Basilius. And thus, my Musidorus, you have my
tragedy played unto you by myself, which I pray the gods may not indeed
prove a tragedy.” And therewith he ended, making a full point of a hearty
sigh.

Musidorus recommended to his best discourse, all which Pyrocles had
told him. But therein he found such intricateness that he could see no way
to lead him out of the maze; yet perceiving his affection so grounded that
striving against it did rather anger than heal the wound, and rather call his
friendship in question than give place to any friendly counsel: “Well,” said
he, “dear cousin! since it hath pleased the gods to mingle your other
excellencies with this humour of love, yet happy it is, that your love is
employed upon so rare a woman: for certainly a noble cause doth ease
much a grievous case. But as it stands now, nothing vexeth me, as that I
cannot see wherein I can be serviceable unto you.” “I desire no greater
service of you,” answered Pyrocles, “than that you remain secretly in this
country, and sometimes come to this place, either late in the night or early
in the morning, where you shall have my key to enter, because as my
fortune either amends or impairs, I may declare it unto you, and have your
counsel and furtherance: and hereby I will of purpose lead her, that is the
praise, and yet the stain of all womankind, that you may have so good a
view, as to allow my judgment; and as I can get the most convenient time, I
will come unto you; for, though by reason of yonder wood you cannot see
the lodge, it is hard at hand. But now,” said she, “it is time for me to leave
you, and towards evening we will walk out of purpose hitherward, therefore
keep yourself close till that time.” But Musidorus, bethinking himself that
his horse might happen to betray him, thought it best to return for that day
to a village not far off, and dispatching his horse in some sort, the next day
early to come afoot thither, and so to keep that course afterward which
Pyrocles very well liked of. “Now farewell, dear cousin,” said he, “from
me, no more Pyrocles nor Daiphantus now, but Zelmane: Zelmane is my
name, Zelmane is my title, Zelmane is the only hope of my advancement.”
And with that word going out, and seeing that the coast was clear, Zelmane
dismissed Musidorus, who departed as full of care to help his friend as
before he was to dissuade him.
Zelmane returned to the lodge, where (inflamed by Philoclea, watched by
Gynecia, and tired by Basilius) she was like a horse desirous to run, and
miserably spurred, but so short reined as he cannot stir forward. Zelmane
sought occasion to speak with Philoclea; Basilius with Zelmane; and
Gynecia hindered them all. If Philoclea happened to sigh, and sigh she did
often, as if that sigh were to be waited on, Zelmane sighed also, whereto
Basilius and Gynecia soon made up four parts of sorrow. Their affection

increased their conversation, and their conversation increased their
affection. The respect borne bred due ceremonies, but the affection shined
so through them, that the ceremonies seemed not ceremonies. Zelmane’s
eyes were (like children before sweetmeat) eager, but fearful of their ill-
pleasing governors. Time, in one instant, seeming both short and long unto
them: short, in the pleasingness of such presence; long, in the stay of their
desires.
But Zelmane failed not to entice them all many times abroad because she
was desirous her friend Musidorus, near whom of purpose she led them,
might have full sight of them. Sometimes angling to a little river near hand,
which, for the moisture it bestowed upon the roots of flourishing trees, was
rewarded with their shadow. There would they sit down, and pretty wagers
be made between Pamela and Philoclea, which could soonest beguile silly
fishes, while Zelmane protested that the fit prey for them was hearts of
princes. She also had an angle in her hand, but the taker was so taken that
she had forgotten taking. Basilius in the meantime would be the cook
himself of what was so caught, and Gynecia sit still, but with no still
pensiveness. Now she brought them to see a seeled dove, who, the blinder
she was, the higher she strove. Another time a kite, which having a gut
cunningly pulled out of her, and so let fly, caused all the kites in that
quarter, who, as oftentimes the world is deceived, thinking her prosperous
when indeed she was wounded, made the poor kite find that opinion of
riches may well be dangerous.
But these recreations were interrupted by a delight of more gallant show;
for one evening, as Basilius returned from having forced his thoughts to
please themselves in such small conquest, there came a shepherd who
brought him word that a gentleman desired leave to do a message from his
lord unto him. Basilius granted, whereupon the gentleman came, and after
the dutiful ceremonies observed in his master’s name, told him that he was
sent from Phalantus of Corinth to crave licence that, as he had done in many
other courts, so he might in his presence defy all Arcadian knights in the
behalf of his mistress’s beauty who would besides herself in person be
present to give evident proof what his lance should affirm. The conditions
of his challenge were that the defendant should bring his mistress’s picture,
which being set by the image of Artesia, so was the mistress of Phalantus
named, who in six courses should have the better of the other in the
judgment of Basilius, with him both the honours and the pictures should

remain. Basilius (though he had retired himself into that solitary dwelling,
with intention to avoid, rather than to accept any matters of drawing
company, yet because he would entertain Zelmane that she might not think
the time so gainful to him loss to her) granted him to pitch his tent for three
days not far from the lodge, and to proclaim his challenge that what
Arcadian knight, for none else but upon his peril was licensed to come,
would defend what he honoured against Phalantus, should have the like
freedom of access and return.
This obtained and published, Zelmane being desirous to learn what this
Phalantus was, having never known him further than by report of his good
jousting, in so much as he was commonly called, “The fair man of arms”;
Basilius told her that he had had occasion by one very inward with him to
know in part the discourse of his life, which was, that he was a bastard
brother to the fair Helen queen of Corinth, and dearly esteemed of her for
his exceeding good parts, being honourably courteous, and wronglessly
valiant, considerately pleasant in conversation, and an excellent courtier
without unfaithfulness, who, finding his sister’s unpersuadable melancholy,
through the love of Amphialus, had for a time left her court, and gone into
Laconia, where, in the war against the Helots, he had gotten the reputation
of one that both durst and knew. But as it was rather choice than nature that
led him to matters of arms, so as soon as the spur of honour ceased, he
willingly rested in peaceable delights, being beloved in all companies for
his lovely qualities, and, as a man may term it, winning cheerfulness;
whereby to the prince and court of Laconia, none was more agreeable than
Phalantus: and he not given greatly to struggle with his own disposition,
followed the gentle current of it, having a fortune sufficient to content, and
he content with a sufficient fortune. But in that court he saw, and was
acquainted with this Artesia, whose beauty he now defends, became her
servant, said himself, and perchance thought himself her lover. “But
certainly,” said Basilius, “many times it falls out that these young
companions make themselves believe they love at their first liking of a
likely beauty; loving, because they will love for want of other business, not
because they feel indeed that divine power which makes the heart find a
reason in passion, and so, God knows, as inconstantly leave upon the next
chance that beauty casts before them. So therefore taking love upon him
like a fashion, he courted this lady Artesia, who was as fit to pay him in his
own money as might be: for she thinketh she did wrong to her beauty if she

were not proud of it, called her disdain of him chastity, and placed her
honour in little setting by his honouring her, determining never to marry but
him whom she thought worthy of her, and that was one in whom all
worthinesses were harboured. And to this conceit not only nature had bent
her, but the bringing-up she received at by her sister-in-law Cecropia had
confirmed her, who having in her widowhood taken this young Artesia into
her charge, because her father had been a dear friend of her dear husband’s,
had taught her to think that there is no wisdom but in including both heaven
and earth in oneself; and that love, courtesy, gratefulness, friendship, and all
other virtues are rather to be taken on than taken in oneself. And so good a
disciple she found of her that, liking the fruits of her own planting, she was
content if so her son could have liked of it, to have wished her in marriage
to my nephew Amphialus. But I think that desire hath lost some of his heat
since she hath known that such a queen as Helen is, doth offer so great a
price as a kingdom, to buy his favour; for, if I be not deceived in my good
sister Cecropia, she thinks no face so beautiful, as that which looks under a
crown. But Artesia indeed liked well of my nephew Amphialus: For I can
never deem that love, which in haughty hearts proceeds of a desire only to
please, and, as it were, peacock themselves; but yet she hath showed
vehemency of desire that way, I think because all her desires be vehement,
insomuch that she hath both placed her only brother, a fine youth, called
Ismenus, to be his ’squire, and herself is content to wait upon my sister till
she may see the uttermost what she may work in Amphialus; who being of a
melancholy (though, I must say, truly courteous and noble) mind, seems to
love nothing less than love, and of late, having through some adventure, or
inward miscontentment, withdrawn himself from anybody’s knowledge,
where he is; Artesia the easier condescended to go to the court of Laconia,
whither she was sent for by the king’s wife, to whom she is somewhat
allied.
“And there, after the war of the Helots, this knight Phalantus, at least for
tongue-delight, made himself her servant, and she, so little caring as not to
show mislike thereof, was content only to be noted to have a notable
servant. For truly one in my court, nearly acquainted with him, within these
few days made me a pleasant description of their love, while he with
cheerful looks would speak sorrowful words, using the phrase of his
affection in so high a style, that Mercury would not have wooed Venus with
more magnificent eloquence; but else, neither in behaviour, nor action,

accusing in himself any great trouble in mind whether he sped or no. And
she, on the other side, well finding how little it was, and not caring for
more, yet taught him that often it falleth out but a foolish witness to speak
more than one thinks.
“For she made earnest benefit of his jest, forcing him in respect of his
profession to her such services as were both cumbersome and costly unto
him, while he still thought he went beyond her because his heart did not
commit the idolatry. So that lastly, she, I think, having mind to make the
fame of her beauty an orator for her to Amphialus (persuading herself,
perhaps, that it might fall out in him as it doth in some that have delightful
meat before them, and have no stomach to it, before other folks praise it)
she took the advantage one day, upon Phalantus’s unconscionable praising
of her, and certain cast-away vows how much he would do for her sake, to
arrest his word as soon as it was out of his mouth, and by the virtue thereof
to charge him to go with her thro’ all the courts of Greece, and with the
challenge now made to give her beauty the principality over all other.
Phalantus was entrapped, and saw round about him, but could not get out.
Exceedingly perplexed he was, as he confessed to him that told me the tale,
not for doubt he had of himself (for indeed he had little cause, being
accounted, with his lance especially, whereupon the challenge is to be tried
as perfect as any that Greece knoweth) but because he feared to offend his
sister Helen, and withal, as he said, he could not so much believe his love
but that he must think in his heart, whatsoever his mouth affirmed, that both
she, my daughters, and the fair Parthenia (wife to a most noble gentleman,
my wife’s near kinsman) might far better put in their claim for that
prerogative. But his promise had bound him prentice, and therefore it was
now better with willingness to purchase thanks than with a discontented
doing to have the pain and not the reward; and therefore went on as his
faith, rather than love, did lead him. And now hath he already passed the
courts of Laconia, Elis, Argos, and Corinth: And, as many times it happens
that a good pleader makes a bad cause to prevail, so hath his lance brought
captives to the triumph of Artesia’s beauty, such, as though Artesia be
among the fairest, yet in that company were to have the pre-eminence: For
in those courts many knights that had been in other far countries defended
such as they had seen and liked in their travel: But their defence had been
such that they had forfeited the pictures of their ladies to give a forced false
testimony to Artesia’s excellency. And now, lastly, is he come hither, where

he hath leave to try his fortune. But I assure you, if I thought it not in due
and true consideration an injurious service and churlish courtesy to put the
danger of so noble a title in the deciding of such a dangerless combat, I
would make young master Phalantus know that your eyes can sharpen a
blunt lance, and that age, which my gray hairs, only gotten by the loving
care of others, makes seem more than it is, hath not diminished in me the
power to protect an undeniable verity.” With that he bustled up himself, as
though his heart would fain have walked abroad. Zelmane with an inward
smiling gave him outward thanks, desiring him to reserve his force for
worthier causes.
So passing their time according to their wont, they waited for the coming
of Phalantus, who the next morning having already caused his tents to be
pitched near to a fair tree hard by the lodge, had upon the tree made a shield
to be hanged up, which the defendant should strike that would call him to
the maintaining his challenge. The impresa in the shield was a heaven full
of stars, with a speech signifying that it was the beauty which gave the
praise. Himself came in next after a triumphant chariot made of carnation-
velvet, enriched with purple and pearl, wherein Artesia sat, drawn by four
winged horses with artificial flaming mouths and fiery wings, as if she had
newly borrowed them of Phoebus. Before her marched, two after two,
certain footmen pleasantly attired, who between them held one picture after
another of them, that by Phalantus’ well running had lost the prize in the
race of beauty, and at every pace they stayed, turned the pictures to each
side so leisurely that with perfect judgment they might be discerned. The
first that came in, following the order of the time wherein they had been
won, was the picture of Andromana, queen of Iberia, whom a Laconian
knight, having some time, and with special favour, served, though some
years since returned home, with more gratefulness than good fortune
defended. But therein Fortune had borrowed wit; for indeed she was not
comparable to Artesia, not because she was a good deal older, for time had
not yet been able to impoverish her store thereof, but an exceeding red hair
with small eyes, did, like ill companions, disgrace the other assembly of
most commendable beauties.
Next after her was borne the counterfeit of the Princess of Elis, a lady
that taught the beholders no other point of beauty, but this: That as liking is
not always the child of beauty, so whatsoever liketh is beautiful; for in that
visage there was neither majesty, grace, favour, nor fairness; yet she wanted

not a servant that would have made her fairer than the fair Artesia. But he
wrote her praises with his helmet in the dust, and left her picture to be a true
witness of his overthrow, as his running was of her beauty.
After her was the goodly Artaxia, great queen of Armenia, a lady upon
whom nature bestowed and well placed her most delightful colours, and,
withal, had proportioned her without any fault, quickly to be discovered by
the senses, yet altogether seemed not to make up that harmony that Cupid
delights in, the reason whereof might seem a mannish countenance, which
overthrew that lovely sweetness, the noblest power of womankind, far fitter
to prevail by parley than by battle.
Of a far contrary consideration was the representation of her that next
followed, which was Erona queen of Lycia, who though of so brown a hair
as no man should have injured it to have called it black, and that in the
mixture of her cheeks the white did so much overcome the red, tho’ what
was, was very pure, that it came near to paleness, and that her face was a
thought longer than the exact Symetrians perhaps would allow; yet love
played his part so well in every part that it caught hold of the judgment
before it could judge, making it first love, and after acknowledge it fair; for
there was a certain delicacy, which in yielding conquered, and with a pitiful
look made one find cause to crave help himself.
After her came two ladies, of noble, but not of royal birth: The former
was named Baccha, who though very fair, and of a fatness rather to allure,
than to mislike, yet her breasts overfamiliarly laid open, with a made
countenance about her mouth, between simpering and smiling, her head
bowed somewhat down, seemed to languish with over-much idleness, and
with an inviting look cast upward, dissuaded with too much persuading,
while hope might seem to over-run desire.
The other, whose name was written Leucippe, was of a fine daintiness of
beauty, her face carrying in it a sober simplicity, like one that could do
much good and meant no hurt, her eyes having in them such a cheerfulness
as nature seemed to smile in them, though her mouth and cheeks obeyed to
that pretty demureness which the more one marked the more one would
judge the poor soul apt to believe, and therefore the more pity to deceive
her.
Next came the queen of Laconia, one that seemed born in the confines of
beauty’s kingdom: For all her lineaments were neither perfect possessioners

thereof, nor absolute strangers thereto: But she was a queen, and therefore
beautiful.
But she that followed, conquered indeed with being conquered, and
might well have made all the beholders wait upon her triumph, while
herself were led captive. It was the excellently fair queen Helen, whose
jacinth-hair curled by nature, but intercurled by art, like a fine brook
through golden sands, had a rope of fair pearl, which now hiding, now
hidden by the hair, did as it were play at fast and loose each with other,
mutually giving and receiving richness. In her face so much beauty and
favour expressed as, if Helen had not been known, some would rather have
judged it the painter’s exercise to show what he could do than the
counterfeiting of any living pattern; for no fault the most fault-finding wit
could have found, if it were not that to the rest of the body the face was
somewhat too little, but that little was such a spark of beauty as was able to
inflame a world of love; for everything was full of a choice fineness, that if
we wanted anything in majesty it supplied it with increase in pleasure; and
if at the first it struck not with admiration, it ravished with delight. And no
indifferent soul there was, which if it could resist from subjecting itself to
make it his princess, that would not long to have such a playfellow. As for
her attire, it was costly and curious, though the look, fixed with more
sadness than it seemed nature had bestowed to any that knew her fortune,
betrayed that as she used those ornaments not for herself, but to prevail with
another, so she feared that all would not serve. Of a far differing, though
esteemed equal, beauty, was the fair Parthenia, who next waited on
Artesia’s triumph, tho’ far better she might have sat on the throne. For in her
everything was goodly and stately, yet so that it might seem that great-
mindedness was but the ensign-bearer to the humbleness. For her great grey
eye, which might seem full of her own beauty; a large and exceedingly fair
forehead, with all the rest of her face and body cast in the mould of
nobleness, was yet so attired as might show the mistress thought it either
not to deserve, or not to need any exquisite decking, having no adorning but
cleanliness; and so far from all art, that it was full of carelessness, unless
that carelessness itself, in spite of itself, grew artificial. But Basilius could
not abstain from praising Parthenia as the perfect picture of a womanly
virtue and wifely faithfulness, telling withal Zelmane how he had
understood that when in the court of Laconia her pictures maintained by a
certain Sicyonian knight, was lost through want rather of valour than

justice, her husband, the famous Argalus, would in a chafe have gone and
redeemed it with a new trial. But she, more sporting than sorrowing for her
undeserved champion, told her husband she desired to be beautiful in
nobody’s eye but his, and that she would rather mar her face as evil as ever
it was than that it should be a cause to make Argalus put on armour. Then
would Basilius have told Zelmane that which he already knew, of the rare
trial of that coupled affection: but the next picture made their mouths give
place to their eyes.
It was of a young maid which sat pulling out a thorn out of a lamb’s foot,
with her look so attentive upon it, as if that little foot could have been the
circle of her thoughts; her apparel so poor, as it had nothing but the inside to
adorn it; a sheep-hook lying by her with a bottle upon it. But with all that
poverty, beauty played the prince and commanded as many hearts as the
greatest queen there did. Her beauty and her estate made her quickly to be
known to be the fair shepherdess Urania, whom a rich knight called
Lacemon, far in love with her, had unluckily defended.
The last of all in place, because last in the time of her being captive, was
Zelmane, daughter to the King Plexirtus, who at the first sight seemed to
have some resembling of Philoclea, but with more marking, comparing it to
the present Philoclea, who indeed had no paragon but her sister, they might
see it was but such a likeness as an unperfect glass doth give, answerable
enough in some features and colours, but erring in others. But Zelmane
sighing, turning to Basilius, “Alas! Sir,” said she, “here be some pictures
which might better become the tombs of their mistresses than the triumph
of Artesia.” “It is true sweetest lady,” said Basilius, “some of them be dead,
and some other captive; but that hath happened so late, as it may be the
knights that defended their beauty knew not so much: without we will say,
as in some other hearts I know it would fall out, that death itself could not
blot out the image which love hath engraven in them. But divers besides
those,” said Basilius, “hath Phalantus, won, but he leaves the rest, carrying
only such who either for greatness of estate, or of beauty, may justly glorify
the glory of Artesia’s triumph.”
Thus talked Basilius with Zelmane, glad to make any matter subject to
speak of with his mistress, while Phalantus, in this pompous manner,
brought Artesia with her gentlewoman into one tent, by which he had
another, where they both waited who would first strike upon the shield,
while Basilius the judge appointed sticklers and trumpets, to whom the

other should obey. But none that day appeared, nor the next, till already it
had consumed half his allowance of light; but then there came in a knight,
protesting himself as contrary to him in mind, as he was in apparel. For
Phalantus was all in white, having in his bases and caparison embroidered a
waving water, at each side whereof he had nettings cast over, in which were
divers fishes naturally made, and so prettily that as the horse stirred, the
fishes seemed to strive and leap in the net.
But the other knight, by name Nestor, by birth an Arcadian, and in
affection vowed to the fair shepherdess, was all in black, with fire burning
both upon his armour and horse. His impresa in his shield was a fire made
of juniper, with this word, “More easy and more sweet.” But this hot knight
was cooled with a fall, which at the third course he received of Phalantus,
leaving his picture to keep company with the other of the same stamp; he
going away remedilessly chafing at his rebuke. The next was Polycetes,
greatly esteemed in Arcadia for deeds he had done in arms, and much
spoken of for the honourable love he had long borne to Gynecia, which
Basilius himself was content not only to suffer, but to be delighted with, he
carried it in so honourable and open plainness, setting to his love no other
mark than to do her faithful service. But neither her fair picture, nor his fair
running, could warrant him from overthrow, and her from becoming as then
the last of Artesia’s victories, a thing Gynecia’s virtues would little have
reckoned at another time, nor then, if Zelmane had not seen it. But her
champion went away as much discomforted, as discomfited. Then Telamon
for Polixena, and Eurileon for Elpine, and Leon for Zoana, all brave
knights, all fair ladies, with their going down, lifted up the balance of his
praise for activity, and hers for fairness.
Upon whose loss, as the beholders were talking, there comes into the
place where they ran, a shepherd stripling (for his height made him more
than a boy, and his face would not allow him a man) brown of complexion,
whether by nature or by the sun’s familiarity, but very lovely withal, for the
rest so perfect proportioned that nature showed she doth not like men who
slubber up matters of mean account. And well might his proportion be
judged, for he had nothing upon him but a pair of slops, and upon his body
a goat skin which he cast over his shoulder, doing all things with so pretty a
grace that it seemed ignorance could not make him do amiss, because he
had a heart to do well; holding in his right hand a long staff, and so coming
with a look full of amiable fierceness, as in whom choler could not take

away the sweetness, he came towards the king, and making a reverence
(which in him was comely, because it was kindly). “My liege lord,” said he,
“I pray you hear a few words, for my heart will break if I say not my mind
to you: I see here the picture of Urania, which I cannot tell how nor why
these men when they fall down, they say is not so fair as yonder gay
woman. But pray God I may never see my old mother alive, if I think she
be any more matched to Urania, than a goat is to a fine lamb; or than the
dog that keeps our flock at home, is like your white greyhound that pulled
down the stag last day.
“And therefore I pray you let me be dressed as they be, and my heart
gives me I shall tumble him on the earth: for indeed he might as well say
that a cowslip is as white as a lily: or else I care not, let him come with his
great staff, and I with this in my hand, and you shall see what I can do to
him.” Basilius saw it was the fine shepherd Lalus, whom once he had afore
him in pastoral sports, and had greatly delighted in his wit full of pretty
simplicity, and therefore laughing at his earnestness, he bade him be
content, since he saw the pictures of so great queens were fain to follow
their champions’ fortune. But Lalus, even weeping ripe, went among the
rest, longing to see somebody that would revenge Urania’s wrong; and
praying heartily for everybody that ran against Phalantus, then beginning to
feel poverty that he could not set himself to that trial. But by and by, even
when the sun, like a noble heart, began to show his greatest countenance in
his lowest estate, there came in a knight, called Phebilus, a gentleman of
that country, for whom hateful fortune had borrowed the dart of love, to
make him miserable by the sight of Philoclea. For he had even from her
infancy loved her, and was stricken by her before she was able to know
what quiver of arrows her eyes carried; but he loved and despaired, and the
more he despaired, the more he loved. He saw his own worthiness, and
thereby made her excellency have more terrible aspect upon him: he was so
secret therein, as not daring to be open, that to no creature he ever spoke of
it, but his heart made such silent complaints within itself that, while all his
senses were attentive thereto, cunning judges might perceive his mind, so
that he was known to love, though he denied, or rather was the better
known, because he denied it. His armour and his attire was for a sea colour;
his impresa, the fish called Sepia, which being in the net, casts a black ink
about itself, that in the darkness thereof it may escape: his word was, “Not
so.” Philoclea’s picture with almost an idolatrous magnificence was borne

in by him. But straight jealousy was a harbinger for disdain in Zelmane’s
heart, when she saw any but herself should be avowed a champion for
Philoclea, insomuch that she wished his shame, till she saw him shamed.
For at the second course he was stricken quite from out of the saddle, so full
of grief and rage withal that he would fain with the sword have revenged it,
but that being contrary to the order set down, Basilius would not suffer: so
that wishing himself in the bottom of the earth, he went his way, leaving
Zelmane no less angry with his loss than she would have been with his
victory. For if she though before a rival’s praise would have angered her,
her lady’s disgrace did make her much more forget what she then thought,
while that passion reigned so much the more as she saw a pretty blush in
Philoclea’s cheeks betray a modest discontentment. But the night
commanded truce for those sports, and Phalantus, though entreated, would
not leave Artesia, who in no case would come into the house, having, as it
were, sucked of Cecropia’s breath a mortal mislike against Basilius.
But the night, measured by the short ell of sleep, was soon passed over,
and the next morning had given the watchful stars leave to take their rest,
when a trumpet summoned Basilius to play his judge’s part, which he did,
taking his wife and daughters with him; Zelmane having locked her door, so
as they could not trouble her for that time: for already there was a knight in
the field, ready to prove Helen of Corinth had received great injury, both by
the erring judgment of the challenger, and the unlucky weakness of her
former defender. The new knight was quickly known to be Clitophon,
Kalander’s son of Basilius’s sister, by his armour which, all gilt, was so
well handled that it showed like a glittering sand and gravel interlaced with
silver rivers. His device he had put in the picture of Helen which he
defended; it was the Ermion with a speech that signified, “Rather dead than
spotted.” But in that armour since he had parted from Helen, who would no
longer his company, finding him to enter into terms of affection, he had
performed so honourable actions, still seeking for his two friends by the
names of Palladius and Daiphantus, that though his face were covered, his
being was discovered, which yet Basilius, who had brought him up in his
court, would not seem to do, but glad to see the trial of him, of whom he
had heard very well, he commanded the trumpets to sound, to which the
two brave knights obeying, they performed their courses, breaking their six
staves, with so good, both skill in the hitting and grace in the manner, that it
bred some difficulty in the judgment. But Basilius in the end gave sentence

against Clitophon, because Phalantus had broken more staves, upon the
head, and that once Clitophon had received such a blow that he had lost the
reins of his horse with his head well-nigh touching the crupper of the horse.
But Clitophon was so angry with the judgment, wherein he thought he had
received wrong, that he omitted his duty to his prince, and uncle, and
suddenly went his way still in the quest of them, whom as then he had left
seeking, and so yielded the field to the next comer.
Who, coming in about two hours after, was no less marked than all the
rest before, because he had nothing worth the marking. For he had neither
picture nor device, his armour of as old a fashion, besides the rusty
poorness, that it might better seem a monument of his grandfather’s
courage: about his middle he had, instead of bases, a long cloak of silk,
which as unhandsomely, as it needs must, became the wearer, so that all that
looked on, measured his length on the earth already, since he had to meet
one who had been victorious of so many gallants. But he went on towards
the shield, and with a sober grace struck it, but as he let his sword fall upon
it, another knight, all in black, came rustling in, who struck the shield
almost as soon as he, and so strongly that he broke the shield in two: the ill-
apparelled knight, for so the beholders called him, angry with that, as he
accounted, insolent injury to himself, hit him such a sound blow that they
that looked on said it well became a rude arm. The other answered him
again in the same case, so that lances were put to silence, the swords were
so busy.
But Phalantus, angry of this defacing shield, came upon the black knight,
and with the pommel of his sword set fire to his eyes, which presently was
revenged, not only by the black, but the ill-apparelled knight, who
disdained another should enter into his quarrel, so as, who ever saw a
matachin dance to imitate fighting, this was a fight that did imitate the
matachin: for they being but three that fought, everyone had two
adversaries, striking him, who struck the third, and revenging perhaps that
of him which he had received of the other. But Basilius rising himself came
to part them, the stickler’s authority scarcely able to persuade choleric
hearers; and part them he did.
But before he could determine, comes in a fourth, halting on foot, who
complained to Basilius, demanding justice on the black knight, for having
by force taken away the picture of Pamela from him, which in little form he
wore in a tablet, and covered with silk had fastened it to his helmet,

purposing, for want of a bigger, to paragon the little one with Artesia’s
length, not doubting but even in that little quantity, the excellency of that
would shine through the weakness of the other, as the smallest star doth
through the whole element of fire. And by the way he had met with this
black knight, who had, as he said, robbed him of it. The injury seemed
grievous, but when it came fully to be examined, it was found that the
halting knight meeting the other, asking the cause of his going thitherward,
and finding it was to defend Pamela’s divine beauty against Artesia’s, with a
proud jollity commanded him to leave that quarrel only for him, who was
only worthy to enter into it. But the black knight obeying no such
commandments, they fell to such a bickering that he got a halting, and lost
his picture. This understood by Basilius, he told him he was now fitter to
look to his own body than another’s picture, and so, uncomforted therein,
sent him away to learn of Aesculapius that he was not fit for Venus. But
then the question arising, who should be the former against Phalantus, of
the black or the ill-apparelled knight, who now had gotten the reputation of
some sturdy lout, he had so well defended himself; of the one side, was
alleged the having a picture which the other wanted; of the other side, the
first striking the shield, but the conclusion was, that the ill-apparelled knight
should have the precedence, if he delivered the figure of his mistress to
Phalantus, who asking him for it, “Certainly,” said he, “her liveliest picture,
if you could see it, is in my heart, and the best comparison I could make of
her is of the sun and all the other heavenly beauties. But because perhaps all
eyes cannot taste the divinity of her beauty, and would rather be dazzled
than taught by the light, if it be not clouded by some meaner thing, know ye
then, that I defend that same lady, whose image Phebilus so feebly lost
yesternight, and, instead of another, if you overcome me, you shall have me
your slave to carry that image in your mistress’ triumph.” Phalantus easily
agreed to the bargain, which readily he made his own.
But when it came to the trial, the ill-apparelled knight, choosing out the
greatest staves in all the store, at the first course gave his head such a
remembrance that he lost almost his remembrance, he himself receiving the
encounter of Phalantus, without any extraordinary motion; and at the
second, gave him such a counterbuff, that because Phalantus was so perfect
a horseman, as not to be driven from the saddle, the saddle with broken
girths was driven from the horse; Phalantus remaining angry and amazed,

because now being come almost to the last of his promised enterprise, that
disgrace befell him, which he had never before known.
But the victory being by the judges given, and the trumpets witnessed to
the ill-apparelled knight; Phalantus’ disgrace was ingrieved in lieu of
comfort of Artesia, who telling him she never looked for other, bade him
seek some other mistress. He excusing himself, and turning over the fault to
fortune, “Then let that be your ill fortune too,” said she, “that you have lost
me.”
“Nay, truly madam,” said Phalantus, “it shall not be so, for I think the
loss of such a mistress will prove a great gain,” and so concluded, to the
sport of Basilius, to see young folks’ love, that came in masked with so
great pomp, go out with so little constancy. But Phalantus first professing
great service to Basilius for his courteous intermitting his solitary course for
his sake, would yet conduct Artesia to the castle of Cecropia, whither she
desired to go, vowing in himself that neither heart nor mouth love should
ever any more entangle him, and with that resolution he left the company.
Whence all being dismissed (among whom the black knight went away
repining at his luck that had kept him from winning the honour, as he knew
he should have done to the picture of Pamela) the ill-apparelled knight (who
was only desired to stay, because Basilius meant to show him to Zelmane)
pull’d off his helmet, and then was known himself to be Zelmane, who that
morning, as she told, while the others were busy, had stolen out of the
prince’s stable, which was a mile off from the lodge, had gotten a horse,
they knowing it was Basilius’s pleasure she should be obeyed, and
borrowing that homely armour for want of a better, had come upon the spur
to redeem Philoclea’s picture, which, she said, she could not bear, being one
of that little wilderness-company, should be in captivity, if the cunning she
had learned in her country of the noble Amazons, could withstand it; and
under that pretext fain she would have given a secret passport to her
affection. But this act painted at one instant redness in Philoclea’s face, and
paleness in Gynecia’s, but brought forth no other countenances but of
admiration, no speeches but of commendations: all those few, besides love,
thinking they honoured themselves in honouring so accomplished a person
as Zelmane, whom daily they fought with some or other sports to delight;
for which purpose Basilius had, in a house not far off, servants, who though
they came not uncalled, yet at call were ready.

And so many days were spent, and many ways used, while Zelmane was
like one that stood in a tree waiting a good occasion to shoot, and Gynecia a
blancher, which kept the dearest deer from her. But the day being come, on
which according to an appointed course, the shepherds were to assemble
and make their pastoral sports before Basilius, Zelmane, fearing lest many
eyes, and coming divers ways, might hap to espy Musidorus, went out to
warn him thereof.
But before she could come to the arbour, she saw walking from her-ward,
a man in shepherdish apparel, who being in the sight of the lodge, it might
seem he was allowed there. A long cloak he had on, but that cast under his
right arm, wherein he held a sheep hook so finely wrought, that it gave a
bravery to poverty, and his raiments though they were mean, yet received
they handsomeness by the grace of the wearer, though he himself went but a
kind of languishing pace, with his eyes sometimes cast up to heaven as
though his fancies strove to mount higher; sometimes thrown down to the
ground, as if the earth could not bear the burden of his sorrows; at length,
with a lamentable tune, he sung those few verses.

Come shepherd’s weeds, become your master’s mind:
Yield outward show, what inward change he tries:
Nor be abash’d, since such a guest you find,
Whose strongest hope in your weak comfort lies.

Come shepherd’s weeds, attend my woeful cries:
Disuse yourselves from sweet Menalcas’ voice:
For other be those tunes which sorrow ties,
From those clear notes which freely may rejoice.
Then pour out plaint, and in one word say this:
Helpless is plaint, who spoils himself of bliss.

And having ended, he struck himself on the breast, saying, “O miserable
wretch, whither do thy destinies guide thee?” The voice made Zelmane
hasten her pace to overtake him, which having done, she plainly perceived
that it was her dear friend Musidorus; whereat marvelling not a little, she
demanded of him whether the goddess of those woods had such a power to
transform every body, or whether, as in all enterprises else he had done, he
meant thus to match her in this new alteration. “Alas,” said Musidorus,

“what shall I say, who am loth to say, and yet fain would have said? I find
indeed, that all is but lip-wisdom, which wants experience. I now, woe is
me, do try what love can do. O Zelmane, who will resist it must either have
no wit, or put out his eyes: can any man resist his creation? certainly by
love we are made, and to love we are made. Beasts only cannot discern
beauty, and let them be in the roll of beasts that do not honour it.” The
perfect friendship Zelmane bare him, and the great pity she, by good trial,
had of such cases, could not keep her from smiling at him, remembering
how vehemently he had cried out against the folly of lovers; and therefore a
little to punish him, “Why how now dear cousin,” said she, “you that were
last day so high in the pulpit against lovers, are you now become so mean
an auditor? remember that love is a passion, and that a worthy man’s reason
must ever have the masterhood.” “I recant, I recant,” cried Musidorus, and
withal falling down prostrate, “O thou celestial or infernal spirit of love, or
what other heavenly or hellish title thou list to have, for effects of both I
find in myself, have compassion of me and let thy glory be as great in
pardoning them that be submitted to thee as in conquering those that were
rebellious.” “No, no,” said Zelmane, “I see you well enough; you make but
an interlude of my mishaps, and do but counterfeit thus to make me see the
deformity of my passions; but take heed, that this jest do not one day turn to
earnest.” “Now I beseech thee,” said Musidorus, taking her fast by the
hand, “even for the truth of our friendship, of which, if I be not altogether
an unhappy man, thou has some remembrance, and by those secret flames
which I know have likewise nearly touched thee, make no jest of that which
hath so earnestly pierced me through, nor let that be light unto thee, which
is to me so burdenous, that I am not able to bear it.” Musidorus, both in
words and behaviour, did so lively deliver out his inward grief that Zelmane
found indeed he was throughly wounded: but there rose a new jealousy in
her mind, lest it might be with Philoclea, by whom, as Zelmane thought, in
right, all hearts and eyes should be inherited. And therefore desirous to be
cleared of that doubt, Musidorus shortly, as in haste and full of passionate
perplexedness, thus recounted his case unto her.
“The day,” said he, “I parted from you, I being in mind to return to a
town from whence I came hither, my horse being before tired, would scarce
bear me a mile hence, where being benighted, the sight of a candle, I saw a
good way off, guided me to a young shepherd’s house, by name Menalcas,
who seeing me to be a straying stranger, with the right honest hospitality

which seems to be harboured in the Arcadian breasts, and, though not with
curious costliness, yet cleanly sufficiency entertained me; and having by
talk with him found the manner of the country something more in particular
than I had by Kalander’s report, I agreed to sojourn with him in secret,
which he faithfully promised to observe. And so hither to your arbour divers
times repaired, and here by your means had the fight, O that it had never
been so, nay, O that it might ever be so, of the goddess, who in a definite
compass can set forth infinite beauty.” All this while Zelmane was racked
with jealousy. But he went on, “For,” said he, “I lying close, and in truth
thinking of you, and saying thus to myself, ‘O sweet Pyrocles, how art thou
bewitched? where is thy virtue? where is the use of thy reason? how much
am I inferior to thee in that state of mind? and yet know I that all the
heavens cannot bring me such a thraldom.’ Scarcely, think I, had I spoken
this word, when the ladies came forth; at which sight, I think the very words
returned back again to strike my soul; at least, an unmeasurable sting I felt
in myself that I had spoken such words.” “At which sight,” said Zelmane,
not able to bear him any longer. “O,” said Musidorus, “I know your
suspicion; No, no, banish all such fear, it was, it is, and must be Pamela.”
“Then all is safe,” said Zelmane, “proceed dear Musidorus.” “I will not,”
said he, “impute it to my late solitary life, which yet is prone to affections,
nor to the much thinking of you (though that called the consideration of
love into my mind, which before I ever neglected) not to the exaltation of
Venus, nor revenge of Cupid, but even to her, who is the planet, nay, the
goddess, against which the only shield must be my sepulchre. When I first
saw her I was presently stricken, and I (like a foolish child, that when
anything hits him, will strike himself again upon it) would needs look
again, as though I would persuade mine eyes, that they were deceived. But
alas, well have I found, that love to a yielding heart is a king; but to a
resisting, is a tyrant. The more with arguments I shaked the stake, which he
had planted in the ground of my heart, the deeper still it sank into it. But
what mean I to speak of the causes of my love, which is as impossible to
describe, as to measure the back-side of heaven? let this word suffice, I
love.
“And that you may know I do so, it was I that came in black armour to
defend her picture, where I was both prevented and beaten by you. And so, I
that waited here to do you service, have now myself most need of succour.”
“But whereupon got you yourself this apparel?” said Zelmane. “I had

forgotten to tell you,” said Musidorus, “though that were one principal
matter of my speech; so much am I now master of my own mind. But thus it
happened: being returned to Menalcas’ house, full of tormenting desire,
after a while fainting under the weight, my courage stirred up my wit to
seek for some relief before I yielded to perish. At last this came into my
head, that every evening, that I had to no purpose last used my horse and
armour. I told Menalcas, that I was a Thessalian gentleman, who by
mischance having killed a great favourite of the prince of that country, was
pursued so cruelly, that in no place but either by favour or corruption, they
would obtain my destruction, and that therefore I was determined, till the
fury of my persecutors might be assuaged, to disguise myself among the
shepherds of Arcadia, and, if it were possible, to be one of them that were
allowed the prince’s presence, because if the worst should fall that I were
discovered, yet having gotten the acquaintance of the prince, it might
happen to move his heart to protect me. Menalcas, being of an honest
disposition, pitied my case, which my face, thro’ my inward torment, made
credible; and so, I giving him largely for it, let me have this raiment,
instructing me in all particularities, touching himself, or myself, which I
desired to know; yet not trusting so much to his constancy as that I would
lay my life, and life of my life upon it, I hired him to go into Thessalia to a
friend of mine, and to deliver him a letter from me; conjuring him to bring
me as speedy an answer as he could, because it imported me greatly to
know whether certain of my friends did yet possess any favour, whose
intercessions I might use for my restitution. He willingly took my letter,
which being well sealed, indeed contained other matter. For I wrote to my
trusty servant Calodoulus, whom you know as soon as he had delivered the
letter, he should keep him prisoner in his house, not suffering him to have
conference with any body, till he knew my further pleasure, in all other
respects that he should use him as my brother. And is Menalcas gone, and I
here a poor shepherd; more proud of this estate than of any kingdom, so
manifest it is, that the highest point outward things can bring one unto, is
the contentment of the mind, with which no estate; without which, all
estates be miserable. Now have I chosen this day, because, as Menalcas told
me, the other shepherds are called to make their sports, and hope that you
will with your credit find means to get me allowed among them.” “You
need not doubt,” answered Zelmane, “but that I will be your good mistress:
marry, the best way of dealing must be by Dametas, who since his blunt

brain hath perceived some favour the prince doth bear unto me (as without
doubt the most servile flattery is lodged most easily in the grossest capacity,
for their ordinary conceit draweth a yielding to their greater, and then have
they not wit to discern the right degrees of duty) is much more serviceable
unto me, than I can find any cause to wish him. And therefore despair not to
win him, for every present occasion will catch his senses, and his senses are
masters of his silly mind; only reverence him, and reward him, and with
that bridle and saddle you shall well ride him.” “O heaven and earth,” said
Musidorus, “to what a pass are our minds brought that from the right line of
virtue are wried to these crooked shifts? but O love, it is thou that doest it;
thou changest name upon name; thou disguisest our bodies, and disfigurest
our minds. But indeed thou hast reason; for though the ways be foul, the
journey’s end is most fair and honourable.”
“No more sweet Musidorus,” said Zelmane, “of these philosophies; for
here comes the very person of Dametas.” And so he did indeed, with a
sword by his side, a forest-bill on his neck, and a chopping-knife under his
girdle: in which well provided sort, he had ever gone since the fear Zelmane
had put him in. But he no sooner saw her, but with head and arms he laid
his reverence afore her, enough to have made any man forswear all
courtesy. And then in Basilius’s name he did invite her to walk down to the
place where that day they were to have the pastorals.
But when he espied Musidorus to be none of the shepherds allowed in
that place he would fain have persuaded himself to utter some anger, but
that he durst not; yet muttering and champing, as though his cud troubled
him, he gave occasion to Musidorus to come near him, and feign his tale of
his own life: that he was a younger brother of the shepherd Menalcas, by
name Dorus, sent by his father in his tender age to Athens, there to learn
some cunning more than ordinary, that he might be the better liked of the
prince; and that after his father’s death, his brother Menalcas lately gone
thither to fetch him home, was also deceased, where, upon his death, he had
charged him to seek the service of Dametas, and to be wholly and ever
guided by him, as one in whose judgment and integrity the prince had
singular confidence. For token whereof, he gave to Dametas a good sum of
gold in ready coin: which Menalcas had bequeathed unto him, upon
condition he should receive this poor Dorus into his service, that his mind
and manners might grow the better by his daily example. Dametas, that of
all manners of style could best conceive of golden eloquence, being withal

tickled by Musidorus’s praises, had his brain so turned, that he became
slave to that which he that sued to be his servant offered to give him, yet,
for countenance sake, he seemed very squeamish, in respect of the charge
he had of the princess Pamela. But such was the secret operation of the
gold, helped with the persuasion of the Amazon, Zelmane (who said it was
pity so handsome a young man should be anywhere else than with so good
a master) that in the end he agreed (if that day he behaved himself so to the
liking of Basilius, as he might be contented) that then he would receive him
into his service.
And thus went they to the lodge, where they found Gynecia and her
daughters ready to go to the field, to delight themselves there a while until
the shepherds coming: whither also taking Zelmane with them, as they
went, Dametas told them of Dorus, and desired he might be accepted there
that day instead of his brother Menalcas. As for Basilius, he stayed behind
to bring the shepherds, with whom he meant to confer, to breed the better
Zelmane’s liking, which he only regarded, while the other beautiful band
came to the fair field appointed for the shepherdish pastimes. It was indeed
a place of delight; for through the midst of it there ran a sweet brook which
did both hold the eye open with her azure streams, and yet seek to close the
eye with the purling noise it made upon the pebble stones it ran over: the
field itself being set in some places with roses, and in all the rest constantly
preserving a flourishing green: the roses, added such a ruddy show unto it,
as though the field were bashful at his own beauty: about it, as if it had been
to enclose a theatre, grew such sort of trees as either excellency of fruit,
stateliness of growth, continual greenness, or poetical fancies, have made at
any time famous. In most part of which there had been framed by art such
pleasant arbours, that, one answering another, they became a gallery aloft
from tree to tree almost round about, which below gave a perfect shadow; a
pleasant refuge then from the choleric look of Phoebus.
In this place while Gynecia walked hard by them, carrying many unquiet
contentions about her, the ladies sat them down, enquiring divers questions
of the shepherd Dorus; who keeping his eye still upon Pamela, answered
with such a trembling voice, and abashed countenance, and oftentimes so
far from the matter, that it was some sport to the young ladies, thinking it
want of education which made him so discountenanced with unwonted
presence. But Zelmane that saw in him the glass of her own misery, taking
the hand of Philoclea, and with burning kisses setting it close to her lips (as

if it should stand there like a hand in the margin of a book, to note some
saying worthy to be marked) began to speak those words: “O love, since
thou art so changeable in men’s estates, how art thou so constant in their
torments?” when suddenly there came out of a wood a monstrous lion, with
a she-bear not far from him, of a little less fierceness, which, as they
guessed, having been hunted in forests far off, were by chance come thither,
where before such beast had never been seen. Then care, not fear, or fear,
not for themselves, altered something the countenances of the two lovers;
but so, as any man might perceive, was rather an assembling of powers,
than dismayedness of courage. Philoclea no sooner espied the lion, but, that
obeying the commandment of fear, she leaped up, and ran to the lodge-
ward, as fast as her delicate legs could carry her, while Dorus drew Pamela
behind a tree, where she stood quaking like a partridge on which the hawk
is even ready to seize. But the lion, seeing Philoclea run away, bent his race
to her-ward, and was ready to seize himself on the prey when Zelmane (to
whom danger then was a cause of dreadlessness, all the composition of her
elements being nothing but fiery) with swiftness of desire crossed him, and
with force of affection struck him such a blow upon his chine, that she
opened all his body: wherewith the valiant beast turning her with open jaws,
she gave him such a thrust through his breast, that all the lion could do, was
with his paw to tear off the mantle and sleeve of Zelmane with a little
scratch, rather than a wound, his death-blow having taken away the effect of
his force: but therewithal he fell down, and gave Zelmane leisure to take off
his head, to carry it for a present to her lady Philoclea, who all this while,
not knowing what was done behind her, kept on her course like Arethusa
when she ran from Alpheus; her light apparel being carried up with the
wind, that much of those beauties she would at another time have willingly
hidden, was presented to the sight of the twice wounded Zelmane. Which
made Zelmane not follow her over-hastily, lest she should too soon deprive
herself of that pleasure, but carrying the lion’s head in her hand, did not
fully overtake her till they came to the presence of Basilius. Neither were
they long there, but that Gynecia came thither also, who had been in such a
trance of musing that Zelmane was fighting with the lion, before she knew
of any lion’s coming: but then affection resisting, and the soon ending of the
fight preventing all extremity of fear she marked Zelmane’s fighting: and
when the lion’s head was off, as Zelmane ran after Philoclea, so she could
not find in her heart but run after Zelmane: so that it was a new sight

Fortune had prepared to those woods, to see those great personages thus run
one after the other, each carried forward with an inward violence; Philoclea
with such fear that she thought she was still in the lion’s mouth; Zelmane
with an eager and impatient delight; Gynecia with wings of love, flying she
neither knew nor cared to know whither. But now being all come before
Basilius, amazed with this sight, and fear having such possession in the fair
Philoclea that her blood durst not yet come to her face to take away the
name of paleness from her most pure whiteness, Zelmane kneeled down
and presented the lion’s head unto her: “Only lady,” said she, “here see you
the punishment of that unnatural beast, which contrary to his own kind
would have wronged prince’s blood, guided with such traitorous eyes, as
durst rebel against your beauty.” “Happy am I, and my beauty both
(answered the sweet Philoclea then blushing, for fear had bequeathed his
room to his kinsman bashfulness) that you, excellent Amazon, were there to
teach him good manners.” “And even thanks to that beauty,” answered
Zelmane, “which can give an edge to the bluntest swords.”
There Philoclea told her father how it had happened; but as she had
turned her eyes in her tale to Zelmane she perceived some blood upon
Zelmane’s shoulder, so that starting with the lovely grace and pity she
showed it to her father and mother, who, as the nurse sometimes with over-
much kissing may forget to give the babe suck, so had they with too much
delighting, in beholding and praising Zelmane, left off to mark whether she
needed succour. But then they ran both unto her, like a father and mother to
an only child, and, though Zelmane assured them it was nothing, would
needs see it, Gynecia having skill in chirurgery, an art in those days much
esteemed because it served to virtuous courage, which even ladies would,
ever with the contempt of cowards, seem to cherish. But looking upon it
(which gave more inward bleeding wounds to Zelmane, for she might
sometimes feel Philoclea’s touch while she helped her mother) she found it
was indeed of no importance; yet applied she a precious balm unto it of
power to heal a greater grief.
But even then, and not before, they remembered Pamela, and therefore
Zelmane, thinking of her friend Dorus, was running back to be satisfied,
when they might all see Pamela coming between Dorus and Dametas,
having in her hand the paw of a bear, which the shepherd Dorus had newly
presented unto her, desiring her to accept it, as of such a beast, which
though she deserved death for her presumption, yet was her wit to be

esteemed, since she could make so sweet a choice. Dametas for his part
came piping and dancing, the merriest man in a parish: but when he came
so near as he might be heard of Basilius, he would needs break through his
ears with this joyful song of their good success.

Now thanked be the great god Pan,
Which thus preserves my loved life:
Thanked be I that keep a man,
Who ended hath this bloody strife:
For if my Man must praises have,
What then must I, that keep the knave?

For as the Moon the eye doth please,
With gentle beams not hurting sight:
Yet hath sir Sun the greatest praise,
Because from him doth come her light:
So if my man must praises have,
What then must I, that keep the knave?

Being all now come together, and all desirous to know each other’s
adventures, Pamela’s noble heart would needs gratefully make known the
valiant means of her safety, which, directing her speech to her mother, she
did in this manner: “As soon,” said she, “as ye were all run away, and that I
hoped to be in safety, there came out of the same woods a horrible foul bear,
which (fearing belike to deal while the lion was present as soon as he was
gone) came furiously towards the place where I was, and this young
shepherd left alone by me, I truly (not guilty of any wisdom, which since
they lay to my charge, because they say it is the best refuge against that
beast, but even pure fear bringing forth that effect of wisdom) fell down flat
on my face, needing not counterfeit being dead, for indeed I was little
better. But this young shepherd with a wonderful courage, having no other
weapon but that knife you see, standing before the place where I lay, so
behaved himself that the first sight I had, when I thought myself already
near Charon’s ferry, was the shepherd showing me his bloody knife in token
of victory.” “I pray you (said Zelmane speaking to Dorus, whose valour she
was careful to have manifested) in what sort, so ill weaponed, could you
achieve this enterprise?” “Noble lady,” said Dorus, “the manner of those

beasts fighting with any man, is to stand up upon their hinder feet, and so
this did, and being ready to give me a shrewd embracement, I think the god
Pan, ever careful of the chief blessing of Arcadia, guided my hand so just to
the heart of the beast that neither she could once touch me nor (which is the
only matter in this worthy remembrance) breed any danger to the princess.
For my part, I am rather, with all subjected humbleness, to thank her
excellencies, since the duty thereunto gave me heart to save myself than to
receive thanks for a deed which was her only aspiring.” And this Dorus
spoke, keeping affection as much as he could back from coming into his
eyes and gestures. But Zelmane, that had the same character in her heart,
could easily decipher it, and therefore to keep him the longer in speech,
desired to understand the conclusion of the matter, and how the honest
Dametas was escaped. “Nay,” said Pamela, “none shall take that office from
myself, being so much bound to him as I am for my education.” And with
that word, scorn borrowing the countenance of mirth, somewhat she smiled,
and thus spoke on: “When,” said she, “Dorus made me assuredly perceive
that all cause of fear was passed, the truth is, I was ashamed to find myself
alone with this shepherd, and therefore looking about me, if I could see
anybody, at length we both perceived the gentle Dametas, lying with his
head and breast as far as he could thrust himself into a bush, drawing up his
legs as close unto him as he could: for, like a man of a very kind nature,
soon to take pity on himself, he was fully resolved not to see his own death.
And when this shepherd pushed him, bidding him to be of good cheer, it
was a great while ere we could persuade him that Dorus was not the bear, so
that he was fain to pull him out by the heels, and show him the beast as
dead as he could wish it: which, you may believe me, was a very joyful
sight unto him. But then he forgot all courtesy, for he fell upon the beast,
giving it many a manful wound, swearing by much, it was not well such
beasts should be suffered in a commonwealth. And then my governor, as
full of joy, as before of fear, came dancing and singing before, as even now
you saw him.” “Well, well,” said Basilius, “I have not chosen Dametas for
his fighting, nor for his discoursing but for his plainness and honesty, and
therein I know he will not deceive me.” But then he told Pamela (not so
much because she should know it, as because he would tell it) the
wonderful act Zelmane had performed, which Gynecia likewise spoke of,
both in such extremity of praising, as was easy to be seen, the construction
of their speech might best be made by the grammar rules of affection.

Basilius told with what a gallant grace she ran with the lion’s head in her
hand, like another Pallas with the spoils of Gorgon. Gynecia swore she saw
the very face of the young Hercules killing the Nemean lion; and all with a
grateful assent confirmed the same praises; only poor Dorus (though of
equal desert, yet not proceeding of equal estate) should have been less
forgotten, had not Zelmane again with great admiration begun to speak of
him; asking whether it were the fashion or no in Arcadia that shepherds
should perform such valorous enterprises.
This Basilius, having the quick sense of a lover, took, as though his
mistress had given him a secret reprehension, that he had not showed more
gratefulness to Dorus; and therefore as nimbly as he could, enquired of his
estate, adding promise of great rewards, among the rest, offering to him, if
he would exercise his courage in soldiery, he would commit some charge
unto him under his lieutenant Philanax. But Dorus, whose ambition climbed
by another stair, having first answered touching his estate that he was
brother to the shepherd Menalcas, who among other was wont to resort to
the prince’s presence, and excused his going to soldiery by the unaptness he
found in himself that way, he told Basilius that his brother in his last
testament had willed him to serve Dametas, and therefore, for due
obedience thereunto, he would think his service greatly rewarded if he
might obtain by that means to live in the sight of the prince and yet practice
his own chosen vocation. Basilius, liking well his goodly shape and
handsome manner, charged Dametas to receive him like a son into his
house, saying, that his valour, and Dametas’s truth would be good bulwarks
against such mischiefs, as, he sticked not to say, were threatened to his
daughter Pamela.
Dametas, no whit out of countenance with all that had been said, because
he had no worse to fall into than his own, accepted Dorus; and withal telling
Basilius that some of the shepherds were come, demanded in what place he
would see their sports, who first was curious to know whether it were not
more requisite for Zelmane’s hurt to rest than sit up at those pastimes: and
she, that felt no wound but one, earnestly desired to have the pastorals.
Basilius commanded it should be at the gate of the lodge, where the throne
of the prince being, according to the ancient manner, he made Zelmane sit
between him and his wife therein, who thought herself between drowning
and burning, and the two young ladies of either side the throne, and so
prepared their eyes and ears to be delighted by the shepherds.

But, before all of them were assembled to begin their sports, there came a
fellow who being out of breath, or seeming so to be for haste, with humble
hastiness told Basilius, that his mistress, the lady Cecropia, had sent him to
excuse the mischance of her beast ranging in that dangerous sort, being
happened by the folly of the keeper, who thinking himself able to rule them,
had carried them abroad, and so was deceived: whom yet, if Basilius would
punish for it, she was ready to deliver. Basilius made no other answer, but
that his mistress, if she had any more such beasts, should cause them to be
killed: and then he told his wife and Zelmane of it, because they should not
fear those woods, as though they harboured such beasts where the like had
never been seen. But Gynecia took a further conceit of it, mistrusting
greatly Cecropia, because she had heard much of the devilish wickedness of
her heart, and that particularly she did her best to bring up her son
Amphialus, being brother’s son to Basilius, to aspire to the crown as next
heir male after Basilius, and therefore saw no reason but that she might
conjecture, it proceeded rather of some mischievous practice, than of
misfortune. Yet did she only utter her doubt to her daughters, thinking, since
the worst was past, she would attend a further occasion, lest overmuch haste
might seem to proceed of the ordinary mislike between sisters-in-law only
they marvelled that Basilius looked no further into it, who, good man,
thought so much of his late conceived commonwealth, that all other matters
were but digressions unto him. But the shepherds were ready, and with well
handling themselves, called their senses to attend their pastimes.
Basilius, because Zelmane so would have it, used the artificial day of
torches, to lighten the sports their invention could minister: and because
many of the shepherds were but newly come, he did in a gentle manner
chastise their negligence, with making them, for that night the torch bearers;
and the others he willed with all freedom of speech and behaviour to keep
their accustomed method, which while they prepared to do, Dametas, who
much disdained, since his late authority, all his old companions, brought his
servant Dorus in good acquaintance and allowance of them, and himself
stood like a director over them, with nodding, gaping, winking, or
stamping, showing how he did like or mislike those things he did not
understand. The first sports the shepherds showed were full of such leaps
and gambols as being according to the pipe which they bore in their
mouths, even as they danced, made a right picture of their chief god Pan,
and his companions the Satyrs. Then would they cast away their pipes, and

holding hand in hand dance as it were in a brawl, by the only cadence of
their voices, which they would use in singing some short couplets, whereto
the one half beginning, the other half should answer as the one half, saying:

We love, and have our loves rewarded.

The other would answer,

We love, and are no whit regarded.

The first again,

We find most sweet affection’s snare.

With like tune it should be as in a choir sent back again,

That sweet, but sour, despairful care.

A third time likewise thus:

Who can despair, whom hope doth bear?

The answer,

And who can hope that feels despair?

Then joining all their voices, and dancing a faster measure, they would
conclude with some such words:

As without breath no pipe doth move,
No music kindly without love.

Having thus varied both their song and dances into divers sorts of
inventions, their last sport was, one of them to provoke another to a more
large expressing of his passions: which Thyrsis (accounted one of the best
singers amongst them) having marked in Dorus’s dancing, no less good
grace and handsome behaviour than extreme tokens of a troubled mind,
began first with his pipe, and then with his voice, thus to challenge Dorus,
and was by him answered in the under-written sort.

THE FIRST ECLOGUES

THYRSIS and DORUS

THYRSIS
Come Dorus, come, let songs thy sorrows signify,
And if for want of use thy mind ashamed is,
That very shame with love’s high title dignify.
No style is held for base where love well named is:
Each ear sucks up the words a true-love scattereth,
And plain speech oft, than quaint phrase better framed is.

DORUS
Nightingales seldom sing, the pie still chattereth,
The wood cries most, before it thoroughly kindled be,
Deadly wounds inward bleed, each slight sore mattereth.
Hardly they heard, which by good hunters singled be:
Shallow brooks murmur most, deep, silent slide away,
Nor true-love, his love with others mingled be.

THYRSIS
If thou wilt not be seen, thy face go hide away,
Be none of us, or else maintain our fashion:
Who frowns at others’ feasts, doth better bide away.
But if thou hast a love, in that love’s passion,
I challenge thee by show of her perfection,
Which of us two deserveth most compassion.

DORUS
Thy challenge great, but greater my protection:
Sing then, and see (for now thou hast inflamed me)
Thy health too mean a match for my infection.
No, though the heaven’s for high attempts have blamed me,
Yet high is my attempt. O Muse historify
Her praise, whose praise to learn your skill hath framed me.

THYRSIS
Muse hold your peace, but thou my god Pan glorify
My Kala’s gifts, who with all good gifts filled is.
Thy pipe, O Pan, shall help, though I sing sorrily.
A heap of sweets she is, where nothing spilled is;
Who though she be no Bee, yet full of honey is:
A Lily-field, with plough of Rose which tilled is:
Mild as a lamb, more dainty than a coney is:
Her eyes my eye-sight is, her conversation
More glad to me than to a miser money is.
What coy account she makes of estimation?
How nice to touch? how all her speeches poised be?
A nymph thus turned, but mended in translation.

DORUS
Such Kala is: but ah my fancies raised be
In one, whose name to name were high presumption,
Since virtue’s all, to make her title pleased be.
O happy gods, which by inward assumption
Enjoy her soul, in body’s fair possession,
And keep it join’d, fearing your seat’s consumption.
How oft with rain of tears skies make confession,
Their dwellers wrapt with sight of her perfection,
From heav’nly throne to her heav’n use digression?
Of best things then what world shall yield confection
To liken her? deck yours with your comparison:
She is herself of best things the collection.

THYRSIS
How oft my doleful sire cry’d to me, “Tarry son,”
When first he spied my love! how oft he said to me,
“Thou art no soldier fit for Cupid’s garrison?
My son keep this, that my long toil hath laid to me:
Love well thine own, methinks wool’s whiteness passeth all:
I never found long love such wealth hath paid to me.”
This wind he spent: but when my Kala glasseth all
My sight in her fair limbs, I then assure myself,

Not rotten sheep, but high crowns she surpasseth all.
Can I be poor, that her gold hair procure myself?
Want I white wool, whose eyes her white skin garnished?
’Till I get her, shall I to keep inure myself?

DORUS
How oft, when reason saw, love of her harnessed
With armour of my heart, he cried, “O vanity!
To set a pearl in steel so meanly varnished?
Look to thyself, reach not beyond humanity.
Her mind, beams, state, far from the weak wings banished;
And love which lover hurts is inhumanity.”
Thus reason said: but she came, reason vanished;
Her eyes so mastering me, that such objection
Seem’d but to spoil the food of thoughts long famished.
Her peerless height my mind to high erection
Draws up; and if hope-failing end life’s pleasure,
Of fairer death how can I make election?

THYRSIS
Once my well-waiting eyes espy’d my treasure,
With sleeves turn’d up, loose hair, and breasts enlarged,
Her father’s corn, moving her fair limbs, measure.
“O,” cried I, “if so mean work be discharged:
Measure my case how by thy beauty’s filling,
With seed of woes my heart brim-full is charg’d.
Thy father bids thee save, and chides for spilling;
Save then my soul, spill not my thoughts well heap’d,
No lovely praise was ever got by killing.”
Those bold words she did bear, this fruit I reaped,
That she whose look alone might make me blessed,
Did smile on me, and then away she leaped.

DORUS
Once, O sweet once, I saw with dread oppressed
Her whom I dread, so that with prostrate lying
Her length, the earth in love’s chief clothing dressed,

I saw that riches fall, and fell a crying:
“Let not dead earth enjoy so dear a cover,
But deck therewith my soul for your sake dying:
Lay all your fear upon your fearful lover:
Shine eyes on me that both our lives be guarded;
So I your sight, you shall yourselves recover.”
I cry’d, and was with open eyes rewarded:
But straight they fled summon’d by cruel honour,
Honour, the cause desert is not regarded.

THYRSIS
This maid, thus made for joys, O Pan! bemoan her,
That without love she spends her years of love:
So fair a field would well become an owner.
And if enchantment can a hard heart move,
Teach me what circle may acquaint her sprite,
Affection’s charms in my behalf to prove.
The circle is my, round about her, sight,
The power I will invoke dwells in her eyes:
My charm should be, she haunt me day and night.

DORUS
Far other case, O Muse, my sorrow tries,
Bent to such one in whom myself must say,
Nothing can mend one point that in her lies.
What circle then in so rare force bears sway?
Whose sprite all sprites can foil, raise, damn, or save:
No charm holds her, but well possess she may,
Possess she doth, and makes my soul her slave,
My eyes the bands, my thoughts the fatal knot.
No thrall like them that inward bondage have.

THYRSIS
Kala, at length conclude my ling’ring lot:
Disdain me not, although I be not fair,
Who is an heir of many hundred sheep,
Doth beauties keep which never sun can burn,

Nor storms do turn: fairness serves oft to wealth,
Yet all my health I place in your good will:
Which if you will, O do, bestow on me
Such as you see; such still you shall me find,
Constant and kind, my sheep your food shall breed,
Their wool your weed, I will you music yield
In flow’ry field; and as the day begins
With twenty gins we will the small birds take,
And pastimes make, as nature things hath made.
But when in shade we meet of myrtle boughs,
Then love allows our pleasures to enrich,
The thought of which doth pass all worldly pelf.

DORUS
Lady yourself whom neither name I dare,
And titles are but spots to such a worth,
Here plaints come forth from dungeon of my mind,
The noblest kind rejects not others’ woes.
I have no shows of wealth: my wealth is you,
My beauties hue your beams, my health your deeds;
My mind for weeds your virtue’s livery wears.
My food is tears, my tunes lamenting yield,
Despair my field, the flowers spirit’s wars:
My day new cares, my gins my daily sight,
In which do light small birds of thoughts o’erthrown:
My pastimes none: time passeth on my fall:
Nature made all, but me of dolours made,
I find no shade, but where my sun doth burn:
No place to turn; without, within it fries:
Nor help by life or death, who living dies.

THYRSIS
But if my Kala thus my suit denies,
Which so much reason bears:
Let crows pick out mine eyes, which too much saw.
If she still hate love’s law,
My earthly mould doth melt in wat’ry tears.

DORUS
My earthly mould doth melt in wat’ry tears,
And they again resolve
To air of sighs, sighs to the heart fire turn,
Which doth to ashes burn.
Thus doth my life within itself dissolve.

THYRSIS
Thus doth my life within itself dissolve
That I grow like the beast,
Which bears the bit a weaker force doth guide,
Yet patient must abide.
Such weight it hath, which once is full possess’d.

DORUS
Such weight it hath, which once is full possess’d,
That I become a vision,
Which hath in others held his only being,
And lives in fancy’s seeing,
O wretched state of man in self-division!

THYRSIS
O wretched state of man in self-division!
O well thou say’st! a feeling declaration!
Thy tongue hath made, of Cupid’s deep incision.
But now hoarse voice, doth fail this occupation,
And others long to tell their loves’ condition:
Of singing thou hast got the reputation.

DORUS
Of singing thou hast got the reputation,
Good Thyrsis mine, I yield to thy ability;
My heart doth seek another estimation.
But ah, my Muse, I would thou had’st facility
To work my Goddess so by thy invention,
On me to cast those eyes where shine nobility:
Seen and unknown; heard, but without attention.

Dorus did so well in answering Thyrsis that everyone desired to hear him
sing something alone. Seeing therefore a lute lying under the Princess
Pamela’s feet, glad to have such an errand to approach her, he came, but
came with a dismayed grace, all his blood stirred betwixt fear and desire,
and playing upon it with such sweetness, as everybody wondered to see
such skill in a shepherd, he sung unto it with a sorrowing voice, these
elegiac verses:

DORUS
Fortune, Nature, Love, long have contended about me,
Which should most miseries cast on a worm that I am,
Fortune thus gan say, “Misery and misfortune is all one,
And of misfortune, Fortune hath only the gift
With strong foes on land, on sea with contrary tempests,
Still do I cross this wretch, what so he taketh in hand.”
“Tush, tush,” said Nature, “this is all but a trifle, a man’s self
Gives haps or mishaps, even as he ordereth his heart.
But so his humour I frame, in a mould of choler adusted,
That the delights of life shall be to him dolorous.”
Love smiled, and thus said: “Want join’d to desire is unhappy:
But if he nought do desire, what can Heraclitus ail?
None but I work by desire: by desire have I kindled in his soul
Infernal agonies into a beauty divine:
Where thou poor nature left’st all thy due glory, to Fortune
Her virtue’s sovereign, Fortune a vassal of hers.”
Nature abash’d went back: Fortune blush’d: yet she replied
thus:
“And even in that love shall I reserve him a spite.”
Thus, thus, alas! woeful by Nature, unhappy by Fortune,
But most wretched I am, now Love awakes my desire.

Dorus when he had sung this, having had all the while a free beholding of
the fair Pamela (who could well have spared such honour; and defended the
assault he gave unto her face with bringing a fair stain of shamefacedness
unto it) let fall his arms, and remained so fastened in his thoughts as if
Pamela had grafted him there to grow in continual imagination. But
Zelmane espying it, and fearing he should too much forget himself, she

came to him, and took out of his hand the lute, and laying fast hold of
Philoclea’s face with her eyes, she sung these sapphics, speaking as it were
to her own hope:

If mine eyes can speak to do hearty errand,
Or mine eyes’ language she do hap to judge of,
So that eyes’ message be of her received,
Hope we do live yet.
But if eyes fail then, when I most do need them,
Or if eyes’ language be not unto her known,
So that eyes’ message do return rejected,
Hope we do both die.
Yet dying, and dead, do we sing her honour;
So becomes our tombs monuments of our praise;
So becomes our loss the triumph of her gain;
Hers be the glory.
If the spheres senseless do yet hold a music,
If the swan’s sweet voice be not heard, but as death,
If the mute timber when it hath the life lost
Yieldeth a lute’s tune.
Are then human lives privileg’d so meanly,
As that hateful death can abridge them of power
With the vow of truth to record to all worlds
That we be her spoils?
Thus not ending, ends the due praise of her praise:
Fleshly veil consumes; but a soul hath his life,
Which is held in love; love it is, that hath join’d
Life to this our soul.
But if eyes can speak to hearty errand,
Or mine eyes’ language she doth hap to judge of,
So that eyes’ message be of her received
Hope we do live yet.

Great was the pleasure of Basilius, and greater would have been
Gynecia’s but that she found too well it was intended to her daughter. As for
Philoclea, she was sweetly ravished withal. When Dorus, desiring in a
secret manner to speak of their cases, as perchance the parties intended

might take some light of it, making low reverence to Zelmane, began this
provoking song in Hexameter verse unto her. Whereunto she soon finding
whether his words were directed, in like tune and verse, answered as
followeth:

DORUS ZELMANE

DORUS
Lady reserved by the heavens to do pastor’s company honour,
Joining your sweet voice to the rural muse of a desert,
Here you fully do find the strange operation of love,
How to the woods love runs as well as rides to the palace,
Neither he bears reverence to a prince, nor pity to a beggar,
But, like a point in midst of a circle, is still of a nearness,
All to a lesson he draws; neither hills nor caves can avoid him.

ZELMANE
Worthy shepherd by my song to myself all favour is happ’ned,
That to the sacred Muse my annoys somewhat be revealed,
Sacred Muse, who in one contains what nine do in all them.
But O happy be you, which safe from fiery reflection
Of Phoebus’ violence in shade of sweet Cyparissus,
Or pleasant myrtle, may teach the unfortunate Echo
In these woods to resound the renowned name of goddess.
Happy be you that may to the saint, your only Idea,
(Although simply attir’d) your manly affection utter.
Happy be those mishaps which justly proportion holding,
Give right sound to the ears, and enter aright to the judgment:
But wretched be the souls, which veil’d in a contrary subject,
How much more we do love, so the less our loves be believed.
What skill salveth a sore of wrong infirmity judged?
What can justice avail to a man that tells not his own case?
You though fears do abash, in you still possible hopes be:
Nature against we do seem to rebel, seem fools in a vain suit.
But so unheard, condemn’d, kept thence we do seek to abide in,
Self-lost in wand’ring, banished that place we do come from,
What mean is there alas, we can hope our loss to recover?

What place is there left, we may hope our woes to recomfort?
Unto the heav’ns? our wings be too short: earth thinks us a
burden,
Air? we do still with sighs increase: to the fire? we do want none,
And yet his outward heat our tears would quench, but an inward
Fire no liquor can cool: Neptune’s realm would not avail us.
Happy shepherd, with thanks to the Gods, still think to be
thankful,
That to thy advancement their wisdoms have thee abased.

DORUS
Unto the gods with a thankful heart all thanks I do render,
That to my advancement their wisdoms have me abased.
But yet, alas! O but yet alas! our haps be but hard haps,
Which must frame contempt to the fittest purchase of honour.
Well may a pastor plain, but alas his plaints be not esteem’d:
Silly shepherd’s poor pipe, when his harsh sound testifies
anguish,
Into the fair looking on, pastime, not passion, enters.
And to the woods or brooks, who do make such dreary recital?
What be the pangs they bear, and whence those pangs be derived,
Pleas’d to receive that name by rebounding answer of Echo,
May hope thereby to ease their inward horrible anguish,
When trees dance to the pipe, and swift streams stay by the
music,
Or when an Echo begins unmov’d to sing them a love-song;
Say then, what vantage do we get by the trade of a pastor?
(Since no estates be so base, but love vouchsafeth his arrow,
Since no refuge doth serve from wounds we do carry about us,
Since outward pleasures be but halted helps to decayed Souls)
Save that daily we may discern what fire we do burn in.
Far more happy be you, whose greatness gets a free access;
Whose fair bodily gifts are fram’d most lovely to each eye,
Virtue you have, of virtue you have left proof to the whole world.
And virtue is grateful, with beauty and richness adorn’d.
Neither doubt you a whit; time will your passion utter.
Hardly remains fire hid where skill is bent to the hiding,

But in a mind that would his flames should not be repressed,
Nature worketh enough with a small help for the revealing:
Give therefore to the Muse great praise, in whose very likeness
You do approach to the fruit your only desires be to gather.

ZELMANE
First shall fertile grounds not yield increase of a good seed,
First the rivers shall cease to repay their floods to the ocean:
First may a trusty greyhound transform himself to a tiger.
First shall virtue be vice, and beauty be counted a blemish,
Ere that I leave with song of praise her praise to solemnize,
Her praise, whence to the world all praise hath his only
beginning:
But yet well I do find each man most wise in his own case.
None can speak of a wound with skill, if he have not a wound
felt.
Great to thee my state seems, thy state is bless’d by my judgment:
And yet neither of us great or blest deemeth his own self.
For yet (weigh this alas!) great is not great to the greater.
What judge you doth a hillock show, by the lofty Olympus?
Such my minute greatness, doth seem compar’d to the greatest.
When cedars to the ground fall down by the weight of an emmot,
Or when a rich ruby’s price be the worth of a walnut,
Or to the sun for wonders seem small sparks of a candle:
Then by my high cedar, rich ruby, and only shining sun,
Virtue, riches, beauties of mine shall great be reputed.
Oh, no, no, worthy shepherd, worth can never enter a title,
Where proofs justly do teach, thus match’d, such worth to be
nought worth:
Let not a puppet abuse thy sprite, kings’ crowns do not help them
From the cruel headache, nor shoes of gold do the gout heal:
And precious couches full oft are shak’d with a fever.
If then a bodily ill in a bodily gloze be not hidden,
Shall such morning dews be an ease to the heat of a love’s fire?

DORUS
O glittering miseries of man, if this be the fortune

Of those fortunes’ lulls? so small rests, rest in a kingdom?
What marvel tho’ a prince transform himself to a pastor?
Come from marble bowers many times the gay harbour of
anguish,
Unto a silly caban, thought weak, yet stronger against woes.
Now by the words I begin, most famous lady, to gather
Comfort into my soul, I do find what a blessing
Is chanced to my life, that from such muddy abundance
Of carking agonies, to states which still be adherent,
Destiny keeps me aloof, for if all this state to thy virtue
Join’d by thy beauty adorn’d be no means those griefs to abolish:
If neither by that help, thou canst climb up thy fancy,
Nor yet fancy so dress’d do receive more plausible hearing:
Then do I think indeed, that better it is to be private
In sorrow’s torments, than, tied to the pomps of a palace,
Nurse inward maladies, which have not scope to be breath’d out:
But perforce digest all bitter joys of horror
In silence, from a man’s own self with company robbed.
Better yet do I live, that though by my thoughts I be plunged
Into my life’s bondage, yet may I disburden a passion
(Oppress’d with ruinous conceits) by the help of an out-cry:
Not limited to a whispering note, the lament of a courtier.
But sometimes to the woods, sometimes to the heav’n do decipher
With bold clamour unheard, unmark’d, what I seek, what I suffer:
And when I meet those trees, in the earth’s fair livery clothed,
Ease I do feel, such ease as falls to one wholly diseased,
For that I find in them part of my state represented.
Laurel shows what I seek, by the myrrh is shown how I seek it,
Olive paints me the peace that I must aspire to by conquest:
Myrtle makes my request; my request is crown’d with a willow.
Cypress promiseth help, but a help where comes no recomfort:
Sweet juniper saith this, “Though I burn, yet I burn in a sweet
fire.”
Yew doth make me think what kind of bow the boy holdeth,
Which shoots strongly without any noise, and deadly without
smart,
Fir-trees great and green, fix’d on a high hill but a barren,

Like to my noble thoughts, still new, well plac’d to me fruitless.
Fig that yields most pleasant fruits, his shadow is hurtful:
Thus be her gifts most sweet, thus more danger to be near her.
Now in a palm when I mark, how he doth rise under a burden,
And may I not, say then, get up though grief be so weighty?
Pine is a mast to a ship, to my ship shall hope for a mast serve.
Pine is high, hope is as high, sharp leav’d, sharp, yet be my hopes
buds.
Elm embrac’d by a vine, embracing fancy reviveth:
Poplar changeth his hue from a rising sun to a setting:
Thus to my sun do I yield, such looks her beams do afford me.
Old aged oak cut down, of new work serves to the building:
So my desires by my fear cut down, be the frames of her honour.
As he makes spears which shields do resist, her force no repulse
takes.
Palms do rejoice to be join’d by the match of a male to a female,
And shall sensitive things be so senseless as to resist sense?
Thus be my thoughts dispers’d, thus thinking nurseth a thinking.
Thus both trees and each thing else, be the books of a fancy.
But to the cedar, queen of woods, when I left my betear’d eyes,
Then do I shape to myself that form which reigns so within me,
And think there she doth dwell and hear what plaints I do utter:
When that noble top doth nod, I believe she salutes me,
When by the wind it maketh a noise, I do think she doth answer.
Then kneeling to the ground, oft thus do I speak to that image:
Only jewel, O only jewel, which only deservest,
That men’s hearts be thy seat, and endless fame be thy servant,
O descend for a while, from this great height to behold me,
But nought else to behold, else is nought worth the beholding,
Save what a work by thyself is wrought: and since I am alter’d
Thus by thy work, disdain not that which is by thyself done,
In mean caves oft treasure abides, to an hostry a king comes.
And so behind foul clouds full oft fair stars do lie hidden.

ZELMANE
Hardy shepherd, such as thy merits, such may be her insight
Justly to grant thee reward, such envy I hear to thy fortune.

But to myself what wish can I make for a salve to my sorrows,
Whom both nature seems to debar from means to be helped,
And if a mean were found, fortune th’ whole course of it hinders?
Thus plagu’d how can I frame to my sore any hope of
amendment?
Whence may I show to my mind any light of possible escape?
Bound, and bound by so noble bands, as loth to be unbound,
Jailer I am to myself, prison and pris’ner to mine own self.
Yet by my hopes thus plac’d, here fix’d lives all my comfort,
That that dear diamond, where wisdom holdeth a sure seat,
Whose force had such force so to transform, nay to reform me,
Will at length perceive those flames by her beams to be kindled,
And will pity the wound festered so strangely within me.
O be it so, grant such an event, O gods, that event give,
And for a sure sacrifice I do daily oblation offer
Of mine own heart, where thoughts be the temple, sight is an
altar.
But cease worthy shepherd, now cease we to weary the hearers
With mournful melodies; for enough our griefs be revealed,
If the parties meant our meanings rightly be marked,
And sorrows do require some respite unto the senses.

What exclaiming praises Basilius gave to this Eclogue any man may
guess that knows love is better than a pair of spectacles to make everything
seem greater which is seen through it: and then is never tongue-tied where
fit commendation, whereof womankind is so liquorish, is offered unto it.
But before any other came in to supply the place, Zelmane having heard
some of the shepherds by chance name Strephon and Claius, supposing
thereby they had been present, was desirous both to hear them for the fame
of their friendly love, and to know them for their kindness towards her best
loved friend. Much grieved was Basilius, that any desire of his mistress
should be unsatisfied, and therefore to represent them unto her, as well as in
their absence it might be, he commanded one Lamon, who had at large set
down their country pastimes and first love to Urania, to sing the whole
discourse which he did in this manner.

A shepherd’s tale no height of style desires,

To raise in words what in effect is low:
A plaining song plain singing voice requires,
For warbling notes from cheering spirit flow.
I then whose burd’ned breast but thus aspires
Of shepherds two the silly cause to show.
Need not the stately Muse’s help invoke,
For creeping rhymes, which often sighings choke.
But you, O you, that think not tears too dear,
To spend for harms, although they touch you not:
And deign to deem your neighbours’ mischief near,
Although they be of meaner parents got:
You I invite with easy ear’s to hear
The poor-clad truth of love’s wrong-order’d lot.
Who may be glad, be glad you be not such:
Who share in woe, weigh others have as much.
There was (O seldom blessed word of was!)
A pair of friends, or rather one call’d two,
Train’d in the life which no short-bitten grass
In shine or storm must set the clouted shoe:
He, that the other in some years did pass,
And in those gifts that years distribute do,
Was Claius call’d (ah Claius, woeful weight!)
The latter born, yet too soon Strephon height.
Epirus high was honest Claius’s nest,
To Strephon Aeoles’s land first breathing lent:
But east and west were join’d by friendship’s hest.
As Strephon’s ear and heart to Claius bent,
So Claius’s soul did in his Strephon rest.
Still both their flocks flocking together went,
As if they would of owners’ humour be,
As eke their pipes did well, as friends agree.
Claius for skill of herbs and shepherd’s art,
Among the wisest was accounted wise,
Yet not so wise, as of unstained heart:
Strephon was young, yet marked with humble eyes
How elder rul’d their flocks and cur’d their smart,
So that the grave did not his words despise.

Both free of mind, both did clear dealing love,
And both had skill in verse their voice to move.
Their cheerful minds, ’till poison’d was their cheer,
The honest sports of earthly lodging prove;
Now for a clod-like hare in form they peer,
Now bolt and cudgel squirrels’ leap do move:
Now the ambitious lark with mirror clear
They catch, while he (fool!) to himself makes love:
And now at keels they try a harmless chance,
And now their cur they teach to fetch and dance.
When merry May first early calls the morn,
With merry maids a maying they do go:
Then do they pull from sharp and niggard thorn
The plenteous sweets (can sweets so sharply grow?)
Then some green gowns are by the lasses worn
In chastest plays, ’till home they walk arow,
Whilst dance about the may-pole is begun,
When, if need were, they could at Quintain[5] run:
While thus they ran a low, but levell’d race,
While thus they liv’d, this was indeed a life,
With nature pleas’d, content with present case,
Free of proud fears, brave begg’ry, smiling strife,
Of climb-fall court, the envy hatching place:
While those restless desires in great men rise,
To visit so low of folks did much disdain,
This while, though poor, they in themselves did reign.
One day (O day, that shin’d to make them dark!)
While they did ward sun-beams with shady bay,
And Claius taking for his youngling cark,
(Lest greedy eyes to them might challenge lay)
Busy with ochre did their shoulders mark,
(His mark a pillar was devoid of stay,
As bragging that free of all passions’ moan,
Well might he others bear, but lean to none:)
Strephon with leafy twigs of laurel tree,
A garland made on temples for to wear,
For he then chosen was, the dignity

Of village lord, that Whitsuntide to bear:
And full, poor fool, of boyish bravery,
With triumph’s shows would show he nought did fear.
But fore-accounting oft makes builders miss:
They found, they felt, they had no lease of bliss.
For ere that either had his purpose done,
Behold, beholding well it doth deserve,
They saw a maid who thitherward did run,
To catch her Sparrow which from her did swerve,
As she a black-silk cap on him begun
To set for foil of his milk-white to serve,
She chirping ran, he peeping flew away,
’Till hard by them both he and she did stay.
Well for to see, they kept themselves unseen,
And saw this fairest maid of fairer mind:
By fortune mean; in nature born a queen,
How well apaid she was her bird to find:
How tenderly her tender hands between
In ivory cage she did the micher bind:
How rosy moist’ned lips about his beak
Moving, she seem’d at once to kiss, and speak.
Chast’ned but thus, and thus his lesson taught,
The happy wretch she put into her breast,
Which to their eyes the bowels of Venus brought,
For they seem’d made even of sky metal best,
And that the bias of her blood was wrought.
Betwixt them two the peeper took his nest,
Where snugging well he well appear’d content,
So to have done amiss, so to be shent.
This done, but done with captive-killing grace,
Each motion seeming shot from beauty’s bow,
With length laid down, she deck’d the lovely place.
Proud grew the grass that under her did grow,
The trees spread out their arms to shade her face,
But she on elbow lean’d, with sighs did show
No grass, no trees, nor yet her sparrow might
The long-perplexed mind breed long delight.

She troubled was (alas that it might be!)
With tedious brawlings of her parents dear,
Who would have her in will and word agree
To wed Antaxius their neighbour near.
A herdman rich, of much account was he,
In whom no evil did reign, nor good appear.
In some such one she lik’d not his desire,
Fain would be free, but dreadeth parents’ ire.
Kindly (sweet soul!) she did unkindness take
That bagged baggage of a miser’s mud,
Should price of her, as in a market, make;
But gold can gild a rotten piece of wood;
To yield she found her noble heart to ache,
To strive she fear’d how it with virtue stood,
Thus doubtings clouds o’ercasting heav’nly brain,
At length in rows of kiss-cheeks tears they rain.
Cupid the wag, that lately conquer’d had
Wise counsellors, stout captains, puissant kings,
And tied them fast to lead his triumph had,
Glutted with them, now plays with meanest things:
So oft in feasts with costly changes clad
To crammed maws a sprat new stomach brings.
So lords with sport of stag and heron full,
Sometimes we see small birds from nests do pull.
So now for prey those shepherds two he took,
Whose metal stiff he knew he could not bend
With hear-say pictures, or a window-look;
With one good dance, or letter finely penn’d
That were in court a well proportion’d hook,
Where piercing wits do quickly apprehend,
Their senses rude plain objects only move,
And so must see great cause before they love.
Therefore love arm’d in her now takes the field,
Making her beams his bravery and might:
Her hands which pierc’d the soul’s sev’n double shield,
Were now his darts leaving his wonted fight.
Brave crest to him her scorn gold hair did yield,

His complete harness was her purest white.
But fearing lest all white might seem too good,
In cheeks and lips the tyrant threatens blood.
Besides this force, within her eyes he kept
A fire, to burn the prisoners he gains,
Whose boiling heart increased as she wept:
For ev’n in forge, cold water fire maintains.
Thus proud and fierce unto the hearts he stepp’d
Of them poor souls: and cutting reason’s reins,
Made them his own before they had it wist.
But if they had, could sheep-hooks thus resist?
Claius straight felt, and groaned at the blow,
And call’d, now wounded, purpose to his aid:
Strephon, fond boy, delighted did not know
That it was love that shin’d in shining maid:
But lick’rous, poison’d, fain to her would go,
If him new learned manners had not stay’d.
For then Urania homeward did arise,
Leaving in pain their well-fed hungry eyes.
She went, they stay’d, or rightly for to say,
She stay’d with them, they went in thought with her:
Claius indeed would fain have pull’d away
This mote from out his eye, this inward bur,
And now proud rebel ’gan for to gainsay
The lesson which but late he learn’d too far:
Meaning with absence to refresh the thought
To which her presence such a fever brought.
Strephon did leap with joy and jollity,
Thinking it just more therein to delight,
Than in good dog, fair field, or shading tree.
So have I seen trim-books in velvet dight,
With golden leaves, and painted babery
Of silly boys, please unacquainted sight:
But when the rod began to play his part,
Fain would, but could not, fly from golden smart.
He quickly learn’d Urania was her name,
And straight, for failing, grav’d it in his heart:

He knew her haunt, and haunted in the same,
And taught his sheep her sheep in food to thwart,
Which soon as it did hateful question frame,
He might on knees confess his faulty part,
And yield himself unto her punishment,
While nought but game, the self-hurt wanton meant.
Nay, even unto her home he oft would go,
Where bold and hurtless many play he tries,
Her parents liking well it should be so,
For simple goodness shined in his eyes.
There did he make her laugh in spite of woe,
So as good thoughts of him in all arise,
While into none doubt of his love did sink,
For not himself to be in love did think.
But glad desire, his late embosom’d guest
Yet but a babe, with milk of sight he nurst
Desire the more he suck’d, more sought the breast,
Like dropsy-folk still drink to be a thirst,
’Till one fair ev’n an hour ere sun did rest,
Who then in lion’s cave did enter first,
By neighbours pray’d she went abroad thereby,
At Barley-break[6] her sweet swift foot to try.
Never the earth on his round shoulders bare
A maid train’d up from high or low degree,
That in her doings better could compare
Mirth with respect, from words with courtesy,
A careless comliness with comely care.
Self-guard with mildness, sport with majesty:
Which made her yield to deck this shepherd’s band,
And still, believe me, Strephon was at hand.
Afield they go, where many lookers be,
And thou seek-sorrow Claius them among:
Indeed thou said’st it was thy friend to see
Strephon, whose absence seem’d unto thee long,
While most with her he less did keep with thee.
No, no, it was in spite of wisdom’s song
Which absence wish’d: love play’d a victor’s part:

The heav’n-love load-stone drew thy iron heart.
Then couples there, be straight allotted there,
They of both ends the middle two do fly,
They two that in mid-place, hell called were,
Must strive with waiting foot, and watching eye
To catch of them, and them to hell to bear,
That they, as well as they, hell may supply:
Like some which seek to salve their blotted name
With others’ blot, ’till all do taste of shame.
There may you see, soon as the middle two
Do coupled towards either couple make,
They false and fearful do their hands undo,
Brother his brother, friend doth friend forsake,
Heeding himself, cares not how fellow do,
But of a stranger mutual help doth take:
As perjur’d cowards in adversity
With sight of fear, from friends, to friend, do fly.
These sports shepherds devis’d such faults to show.
Geron, though old, yet gamesome, kept one end
With Cosma, for whose love Pas passed in woe.
Fair Nous with Pas the lot to hell did send:
Pas thought it hell, while he was Cosma fro.
At other end Uran did Strephon lend
Her happy making hand, of whom one look
From Nous and Cosma all their beauty took.
The play began: Pas durst not Cosma chase,
But did intend next bout with her to meet,
So he with Nous to Geron turn’d their race,
With whom to join, fast ran Urania sweet:
But light legg’d Pas had got the middle space.
Geron strove hard, but aged were his feet,
And therefore finding force now faint to be,
He thought gray hairs afforded subtlety.
And so when Pas’s hand reached him to take,
The fox on knees and elbows tumbled down;
Pas could not stay, but over him did rake,
And crown’d the earth with his first touching crown:

His heels grown proud did seem at heav’n to shake,
But Nous that slipp’d from Pas, did catch the clown.
So laughing all, yet Pas to ease some dell
Geron with Uran were condemn’d to hell.
Cosma this while to Strephon safely came,
And all to second Barley-break are bent:
The two in hell did toward Cosma frame;
Who should to Pas, but they would her prevent.
Pas mad with fall, and madder with the shame,
Most mad with beams which we thought Cosma sent,
With such mad haste he did to Cosma go,
That to her breast he gave a noisome blow.
She quick, and proud, and who did Pas despise,
Up with her fist, and took him on the face,
“Another time,” quoth she, “become more wise.”
Thus Pas did kiss her hand with little grace,
And each way luckless, yet in humble guise
Did hold her fast for fear of more disgrace,
While Strephon might with pretty Nous have met,
But all this while another course be set.
For as Urania after Cosma ran;
He ravished with sight how gracefully
She mov’d her limbs, and drew the aged man,
Left Nous to coast the loved beauty nigh:
Nous cry’d and chaf’d, but he no other can.
’Till Uran seeing Pas to Cosma fly,
And Strephon single, turn’d after him:
Strephon so chas’d did seem in milk to swim.
He ran, but ran with eye o’er shoulder cast,
More marking her, than how himself did go,
Like Numid lions by the hunters chas’d,
Though they do fly, yet backwardly do glow
With proud aspect, disdaining greatest haste:
What rage in them, that love in him did show.
But God gives them instinct the man to shun,
And he by law of Barley-break must run.
But as his heat with running did augment,

Much more his sight increas’d his hot desire:
So is in her the best of nature spent,
The air her sweet race mov’d doth blow the fire,
Her feet be pursuivants from Cupid sent,
With whose fine steps all loves and joys conspire.
The hidden beauties, seem’d in wait to lie,
To down proud hearts that would not willing die.
That, fast he fled from her he follow’d sore,
Still shunning Nous to lengthen pleasing race,
’Till that he spied old Geron could no more,
Than did he stack his love-instructed pace.
So that Uran, whose arm old Geron bore,
Laid hold on him with most lay-holding grace.
So caught, him seem’d he caught of joys the bell,
And thought it heav’n so to be drawn to hell:
To hell he goes, and Nous with him must dwell,
Nous sware it was no right; for his default
Who would be caught, that she should go to hell:
But so she must. And now the third assault
Of Barley-break among the six befell,
Pas Colma match’d, yet angry with his fault,
The other end Geron with guard:
I think you think Strephon bent thitherward.
Nous counsell’d Strephon Geron to pursue,
For he was old, and easy would be caught:
But he drew her as love his fancy drew,
And so to take the gem Urania sought,
While Geron old came safe to Cosma true,
Though him to meet at all she stirred nought.
For Pas, whether it were for fear or love,
Mov’d not himself, nor suffer’d her to move.
So they three did together idly stay,
While dear Uran, whose course was Pas to meet,
(He staying thus) was fain abroad to stray
With larger round, to shun the following feet.
Strephon, whose eyes on her back parts did play,
With love drawn on so fast with pace unmeet,

Drew dainty Nous, that she not able so
To run, brake forth his hands, and let him go,
He single thus hop’d soon with her to be,
Who nothing earthly, but of fire and air,
Though with soft legs did run as fast as he.
He thrice reach’d, thrice deceiv’d, when her to bear
He hopes, with dainty turns she doth him flee.
So on the Downs we see, near Wilton fair,
A hasten’d hare from greedy greyhound go,
And past all hope his chaps to frustrate so.
But this strange race more strange conceits did yield;
Who victor seem’d, was to his ruin brought:
Who seem’d o’erthrown was mistress of the field:
She fled, and took; he followed and was caught.
She have I heard to pierce pursuing shield,
By parents train’d the Tartars wild are taught,
With shafts shot out from their back-turned bow.
But ah! her darts did far more deeply go.
As Venus’s bird, the white, swift, lovely Dove,
(O happy Doves that are compar’d to her!)
Doth on her wings her utmost swiftness prove,
Finding the gripe of Falcon fierce not furr:
So did Uran: the nar, the swifter move,
(Yet beauty still as fast as she did stir)
’Till with long race dear she was breathless brought,
And then the Phoenix feared to be caught.
Among the rest that there did take delight
To see the sports of double shining day:
And did the tribute of their wond’ring sight
To nature’s heir, the fair Urania pay,
I told you Claius was the hapless wight,
Who earnest found what they accounted play.
He did not there do homage of his eyes,
But on his eyes his heart did sacrifice.
With gazing looks, short sighs, unsettled feet,
He stood, but turn’d, as Gyrosol, to sun:
His fancies still did her in half-way meet,

His soul did fly as she was seen to run.
In sum, proud Boreas never ruled fleet
(Who Neptune’s web on danger’s distaff spun)
With greater power, than she did make them wend
Each way, as she that ages praise, did bend.
’Till ’spying well, she well nigh weary was,
And surely taught by his love-open eye,
His eye, that ev’n did mark her trodden grass,
That she would fain the catch of Strephon fly,
Giving his reason passport for to pass
Whither it would, so it would let him die;
He that before shunn’d her, to shun such harms:
Now runs, and takes her in his clipping arms.
For with pretence from Strephon her to guard,
He met her full, but full of warefulness,
Within bow’d-bosom well for her prepar’d,
When Strephon cursing his own backwardness,
Came to her back, and so with double ward
Imprison’d her who both them did possess
As heart-bound slaves: and happy then embrace
Virtue’s proof, fortune’s victor, beauty’s place.
Her race did not her beauty’s beams augment,
For, they were ever in the best degree,
But yet a setting forth it someway lent,
As rubies lustre when they rubbed be.
The dainty dew on face and body went
As on sweet flowers, when morning’s drops we see.
Her breath then short, seem’d loth from home to pass,
Which more it mov’d, the more it sweeter was.
Happy, O happy! if they so might bide
To see their eyes, with how true humbleness,
They looked down to triumph over pride:
With how sweet sauce she blam’d their sauciness,
To feel the panting heart, which through her side,
Did beat their hands, which durst so near to press,
To see, to feel, to hear, to taste, to know
More, than besides her, all the earth could show.

But never did Medea’s golden weed
On Creon’s child his poison sooner throw,
Than those delights through all their sinews breed,
A creeping serpent like of mortal woe,
’Till she broke from their arms (although indeed
Going from them, from them she could not go)
And fare-welling the flock, did homeward wend,
And so that even the Barley-break did end.
It ended, but the other woe began,
Began at least to be conceiv’d as woe,
For then wise Claius found no absence can
Help him who can no more her sight forego.
He found man’s virtue is but part of man,
And part must follow where whole man doth go.
He found that reason’s self now reasons found
To fasten knots, which fancy first had bound.
So doth he yield, so takes he on his yoke,
Not knowing who did draw with him therein;
Strephon, poor youth, because he saw no smoke,
Did not conceive what fire he had within:
But after this to greater rage it broke,
’Till of his life it did full conquest win,
First killing mirth, then banishing all rest,
Filling his eyes with tears, with sighs his breast,
Then sports grow pains, all talking tedious:
On thoughts he feeds, his looks their figure change,
The day seems long, but night is odious,
No sleeps, but dreams; no dreams, but visions strange,
’Till finding still his evil increasing thus,
One day he with his flock abroad did range:
And coming where he hop’d to be alone,
Thus on a hillock set, he made his moan:
“Alas! what weights are these that load my heart!
I am as dull as winter-starved sheep,
Tir’d as a jade in over-laden cart,
Yet thoughts do fly, though I can scarcely creep.
All visions seem, at every bush I start:

Drowsy am I, and yet can rarely sleep.
Sure I bewitched am, it is even that,
Late near a cross, I met an ugly cat.
For, but by charms, how fall these things on me,
That from those eyes, where heav’nly apples been,
Those eyes, which nothing like themselves can see,
Of fair Urania, fairer than a green,
Proudly bedeck’d in April’s livery,
A shot unheard gave me a wound unseen;
He was invincible that hurt me so,
And none invisible, but spirits can go.
When I see her, my sinews shake for fear,
And yet, dear soul, I know she hurteth none:
Amid my flock with woe my voice I tear,
And, but bewitch’d, who to his flock would moan?
Her cherry lips, milk hands, and golden hair
I still do see, though I be still alone.
Now make me think that there is not a fiend,
Who hid in angel’s shape my life would end.
The sports wherein I wonted to do well,
Come she, and sweet the air with open breast,
Then so I fail, when most I would do well,
That at my so amaz’d my fellows jest:
Sometimes to her news of myself to tell
I go about, but then is all my best
Wry words, and stammering, or else doltish dumb;
Say then, can this but of enchantment come?
Nay each thing is bewitched to know my case:
The Nightingales for woe their songs refrain:
In river as I look’d my pining face,
As pin’d a face as mine I saw again,
The courteous mountains griev’d at my disgrace
Their snowy hair tear off in melting pain.
And now the dropping trees do weep for me,
And now fair evenings blush my shame to see.
But you my pipe whilom my chief delight,
’Till strange delight, delight to nothing wear,

And you my flock, care of my careful sight,
While I was I, and so had cause to care:
And thou my dog, whose truth and valiant might
Made wolves, not inward wolves, my ewes to spare.
Go you not from your master in his woe,
Let it suffice that he himself forego.
For though like wax this magic makes me waste,
Or like a lamb, whose Dam away is set,
(Stolen from her young by Thieves’ unchosing haste)
He treble baa’s for help, but none can get,
Though thus, and worse, though now I am at last,
Of all the games that here ere now I met,
Do you remember still you once were mine,
’Till mine eyes had their curse from blessed eye.
Be you with me while I unheard do cry,
While I do score my losses on the wind,
While I in heart my will write ere I die.
In which, by will, my will and wits I bind,
Still to be hers, about her aye to fly.
As this same sprite about my fancies blind
Doth daily haunt, but so, that mine become
As much more loving, as less cumbersome.
Alas! a cloud hath overcast mine eyes:
And yet I see her shine amid the cloud.
Alas! of ghosts I hear the ghastly cries:
Yet there, meseems, I hear her singing loud.
This song she sings in most commanding wise:
‘Come shepherd’s boy, let now thy heart be bow’d
To make itself to my least look a slave:
Leave sleep, leave all, I will no piecing have.’
I will, I will, alas, alas, I will:
Wilt thou have more? more have, if more I be.
Away ragg’d rams, care I what murrain kill?
Our shrieking pipe, made of some witched tree:
Go bawling cur, thy hungry maw go fill
On your foul flock, belonging not to me.”
With that his dog he henc’d, his flock he curs’d,

With that, yet kissed first, his pipe he burst.
This said, this done, he rose, even tir’d with rest,
With heart as careful, as with careless grace,
With shrinking legs, but with a swelling breast,
With eyes which threat’ned they would drown his face.
Fearing the worst, not knowing what were best,
And giving to his sight a wand’ring race,
He saw behind a bush where Claius sat:
His well-known friend, but yet his unknown mate.
Claius the wretch, who lately yielden was
To bear the bonds which time nor wit could break,
(With blushing soul at sight of judgment’s glass,
While guilty thoughts accus’d his reason weak)
This morn alone to lovely walk did pass,
Within himself of her dear self to speak,
’Till Strephon’s plaining voice him nearer drew,
Where by his words his self-like case he knew.
For hearing him so oft with words of woe
Urania name, whose force he knew so well,
He quickly knew what witchcraft gave the blow,
Which made his Strephon think himself in hell.
Which when he did in perfect image show
To his own wit, thought upon thought, did swell,
Breeding huge storms within his inward part,
Which thus breath’d out, with earth-quake of his heart.

As Lamon would have proceeded, Basilius knowing, by the wasting of
the torches that the night also was far wasted, and withal remembering
Zelmane’s hurt, asked her whether she thought it not better to reserve the
complaint of Claius till another day. Which she, perceiving the song had
already worn out much time, and not knowing when Lamon would end,
being even now stepping over to a new matter, though much delighted with
what was spoken, willingly agreed unto. And so of all sides they went to
recommend themselves to the elder brother of death.

[End of Book I]

ARCADIA
BOOK II
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