ARCADIA BOOK I (continued 2)

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: