ARCADIA BOOK III (continued 6)

Now in the meanwhile, the divided Dorus, long divided between love and friendship, and now for his love divided from his friend, though indeed without prejudice of friendship’s loyalty, which doth never bar the mind from his free satisfaction: yet still a cruel judge over himself, thought he was some ways faulty, and applied his mind how to amend it with a speedy and behoveful return. But then was his first study, how to get away, whereto already he had Pamela’s consent confirmed and concluded under the name of Mopsa in her own presence: Dorus taking this way, that whatsoever he would have of Pamela he would ask her, whether in such a case it were not best for Mopsa so to behave herself, in that sort making Mopsa’s envy an instrument of that she did envy. So having passed over his first and most feared difficulty, he busied his spirits how to come to the harvest of his desires, whereof he had so fair a show. And thereunto (having gotten leave for some days of his master Dametas, who now accounted him as his son-in-law) he roamed round about the desert, to find some unknown way that might bring him to the next seaport, as much as might be out of all course of other passengers: which all very well succeeding him, and he having hired a barque for his life’s traffic, and provided horses to carry her thither, returned homeward, now come to the last point of his care, how to go beyond the loathsome watchfulness of these three uncomely companions, and therein did wisely consider how they were to be taken with whom he was to deal, remembering that in the particularities of everybody’s mind and fortune, there are particular advantages, by which they are to be held. The muddy mind of Dametas he found most easily stirred with covetousness. The cursed mischievous heart of Miso, most apt to be tickled with jealousy, as whose rotten brain could think well of nobody. But young mistress Mopsa, who could open her eyes upon nothing that did not all to be-wonder her, he thought curiosity the fittest bait for her. And first for Dametas, Dorus having employed a whole day’s work, about a ten mile off from the lodge, quite contrary way to that he meant to take with Pamela, in digging and opening the ground under an ancient oak that stood there, in such sort as he might longest hold Dametas’s greedy hopes in some show of comfort, he came to his master with a countenance mixed between cheerfulness and haste, and taking him by the right hand, as if he had a great matter of secrecy to reveal unto him: “Master,” said he, “I did never think that the gods had appointed my mind freely brought up to have so longing a desire to serve you, but that they minded thereby to bring some extraordinary fruit to one so beloved of them as your honesty makes me think you are. This binds me even in conscience to disclose that which I persuade myself is allotted unto you, that your fortune may be of equal balance with your deserts.” He said no further, because he would let Dametas play upon the bit a while, who not understanding what his words intended, yet well finding they carried no evil news, was so much the more desirous to know the matter, as he had free scope to imagine what measure of good hap himself would. Therefore putting off his cap to him, which he never had done before, and assuring him he should have Mopsa, though she had been all made of cloth of gold, he besought Dorus not to hold him long in hope, for that he found a thing his heart was not able to bear. “Master,” answered Dorus, “you have so satisfied me with promising me the utmost of my desired bliss, that if my duty bound me not, I were in it sufficiently rewarded. To you therefore shall my good hap be converted, and the fruit of my labour dedicated.” Therewith he told him, how under an ancient oak (the place he made him easily understand by sufficient marks he gave to him) he had found digging but a little depth, scatteringly lying a great number of rich medals, and that, piercing further into the ground he had met with a great stone, which, by the hollow sound it yielded, seemed to be the cover of some greater vault, and upon it a box of cypress, with the name of the valiant Aristomenes, graven upon it: and that within the box he found certain verses, which signified that some depth again under that all his treasures lay hidden, what time for the discord fell out in Arcadia, he lived banished. Therewith he gave Dametas certain medals of gold he had long kept about him, and asked him, because it was a thing much to be kept secret, and a matter one man in twenty hours might easily perform, whether he would have him go and seek the bottom of it, which he refrained to do till he knew his mind, promising he would faithfully bring him what he found, or else that he himself would do it, and be the first beholder of that comfortable spectacle; no man need doubt which part Dametas would choose, whose fancy had already devoured all this great riches, and even now began to grudge at a partner, before he saw his own share. Therefore taking a strong jade, laden with spades and mattocks, which he meant to bring back otherwise laden, he went in all speed thitherward, taking leave of nobody, only desiring Dorus he would look well to the princess Pamela, promising him mountains of his own labour, which nevertheless he little meant to perform, like a fool, not considering, that no man is to be moved with part, that neglects the whole. Thus away went Dametas, having already made an image in his fancy, what palaces he would build, how sumptuously he would fare, and among all other things imagined what money to employ in making coffers to keep his money; his ten miles seemed twice so many leagues, and yet contrary to the nature of it, though it seemed long, it was not wearisome. Many times he cursed his horse’s want of consideration, that in so important a matter would make no greater speed: many times he wished himself the back of an ass to help to carry away the new sought riches (an unfortunate wisher, for if he had as well wished the head, it had been granted him). At length being come to the tree, which he hoped should bear so golden acorns, down went all his instruments, and forthwith to the renting up of the hurtless earth, where by and by he was caught with the lime of a few promised medals, which was so perfect a pawn unto him of his further expectation that he deemed a great number of hours well employed in groping further into it, which with logs and great stones was made as cumbersome as might be, till at length, with sweaty brow, he came to the great stone. A stone, God knows, full unlike to the cover of a monument, but yet there was the cypress box with “Aristomenes” graven upon it, and these verses written in it.

A banish’d man, long barr’d from his desire

By inward lets, of them his state possessed,

Hid here his hopes, by which he might aspire

To have his harms with wisdom’s help redressed.

Seek then and see what man esteemeth best,

All is but this, this is our labour’s hire:

Of this we live, in this we find our rest;

Who holds this fast no greater wealth require,

Look further then, so shalt thou find at least,

A bait most fit for hungry minded guest.

He opened the box, and to his great comfort read them, and with fresh courage went about to lift up that stone. But in the meantime, ere Dametas was half-a-mile gone to the treasure-ward, Dorus came to Miso, whom he found sitting in the chimney’s end, babbling to herself, and showing by all her gestures that she was loathsomely weary of the world, not for any hope of a better life, but finding no one good, neither in mind nor body, whereout she might nourish a quiet thought, having long since hated each thing else, began now to hate herself. Before this sweet humoured dame Dorus set himself, and framed towards her such a smiling countenance, as might seem to be mixed between a tickled mirth and a forced pity. Miso, to whom cheerfulness in others was ever a sauce of envy in herself, took quickly mark of his behaviour, and with a look full of forworn spite: “Now the devil,” said she, “take these villains that can never leave grinning, because I am not so fair as mistress Mopsa, to see how this skipjack looks at me.” Dorus, that had the occasion he desired, “Truly mistress,” answered he, “my smiling is not at you, but at them that are from you, and indeed I must needs a little accord my countenance with others’ sport.” And therewithal took her in his arms, and rocking her to and fro, “In faith mistress,” said he, “it is high time for you to bid us good night for ever, since others can possess your place in your own time.” Miso, that was never void of malice enough to suspect the uttermost evil, to satisfy a further shrewdness, took on a present mildness, and gently desired him to tell her what he meant; “For,” said she, “I am like enough to be knavishly dealt with by that churl my husband.” Dorus fell off from the matter again, as if he had meant no such thing, till by much refusing her entreaty, and vehemently stirring up her desire to know, he had strengthened a credit in her to that he should say. And then with a formal countenance, as if the conscience of the case had touched himself. “Mistress,” said he, “I am much perplexed in mine own determination, for my thoughts do ever will me to do honestly, but my judgment fails me what is honest, betwixt the general rule, that entrusted secrecies are holily to be deserved, and the particular exception, that the dishonest secrecies are to be revealed; especially there, where by revealing they may either be prevented, or at least amended. Yet in this balance your judgment weighs me down, because I have confidence in it, that you will use what you know moderately, and rather take such faults as advantage to your own good desert, than by your bitter using it be contented to be revenged on others with your own harms. So it is, mistress,” said he, “that yesterday driving my sheep up to the stately hill which lifts his head over the fair city of Mantinea, I happened upon the side of it, in a little falling of the ground, which was a rampier against the sun’s rage, to perceive a young maid, truly of the finest stamp of beauty; and that which made her beauty the more admirable, there was at all no art added to the helping of it: for her apparel was but such as shepherds’ daughters are wont to wear; and as for her hair, it hung down at free liberty of his goodly length, but that sometimes falling before the clear stars of her sight, she was forced to put it behind her ears, and so open again the treasures of her perfection, which that for a while had in part hidden. In her lap there lay a shepherd so wrapped up in that well-liked place, that I could discern no piece of his face, but as mine eyes were intent in that, her angel-like voice struck mine ears with this song.

My true love hath my heart, and I have his,

By just exchange, one for the other giv’n:

I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;

There never was a bargain better driv’n.

His heart in me, keeps me and him in one,

My heart in him, his thoughts and senses guide:

He loves my heart, for once it was his own,

I cherish his, because in me it bides.

His heart his wound received from my sight:

My heart was wounded with his wounded heart,

For as from me, on him his hurt did light;

So still me thought in me his heart did smart:

Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,

My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

“But as if the shepherd that lay before her had been organs, which were only to be blown by her breath, she had no sooner ended with the joining her sweet lips together, but that he recorded to her music this rural poesy.

O words which fall like summer dew on me,

O breath more sweet, than is the growing bean;

O tongue in which all honeyed liquors be,

O voice that doth the thrush in shrillness strain;

Do you say still, this is her promise due,

That she is mine, as I to her am true.

Gay hair, more gay than straw when harvest lies,

Lips red and plump, as cherry’s ruddy side,

Eyes fair and great like fair great ox’s eyes;

O breast in which two white sheep swell in pride:

Join you with me, to seal this promise due,

That she be mine, as I to her am true.

But thou white skin, as white as curds well pressed,

So smooth as sleek stone, like it smooths each part:

And thou dear flesh, as soft as wool new dressed,

And yet as hard as brawn, made hard by art:

First four but say, next four their saying seal,

But you must pay the gage of promis’d weal.

“And with the conclusion of his song he embraced her about the knees. ‘O sweet Charita,’ said he, ‘when shall I enjoy the rest of my toiling thoughts; and when shall your blissful promise, now due, be verified with just performance?’ With that I drew nearer to them and saw, for now he had lifted up his face to glass himself in her fair eyes, that it was my master Dametas”; but here Miso interrupted his tale with railing at Dametas, with all those exquisite terms, which I was never good scold enough to imagine. But Dorus, as if he had been much offended with her impatiency, would proceed no further till she had vowed more stillness: “For,” said he, “if the first drum thus chafe you, what will you be when it comes to the blows.” Then he told her, how after many familiar entertainments betwixt them, Dametas, laying before her his great credit with the king, and withal giving her very fair presents, with promise of much more, had at length concluded together to meet that night at Mantinea in the Oudemian Street, at Charita’s uncle’s house, about ten of the clock. After which bargain Dametas had spied Dorus, and, calling him to him, had with great bravery told him all his good hap, willing him in any case to return to the old witch Miso; “for so indeed, mistress of liveliness, and not of ill-will, he termed you, and to make some honest excuse of his absence. ‘For,’ said he, kissing Charita, ‘if thou didst know what a life I lead with that drivel, it would make thee even of pity receive me into thy only comfort.’ ‘Now mistress,’ said he, ‘exercise your discretion, which if I were well assured of, I would wish you to go yourself to Mantinea, and (lying secret in some one of your gossip’s houses till the time appointed come) so may you find them together, and using mercy reform my master from his evil ways.’”

There had nothing more enraged Miso than the praises Dorus gave to Charita’s beauty, which made her jealousy swell the more with the poison of envy. And that being increased with the presents she heard Dametas had given her, which all seemed torn out of her bowels, her hollow eyes yielded such wretched looks, as one might well think Pluto at that time might have had her soul, very good, cheap. But when the fire of spite had fully caught hold of all her inward parts, then whosoever would have seen the picture of Alecto, or with what manner of countenance Medea killed her own children, needed but take Miso for the full satisfaction of that point of his knowledge. She that could before scarce go but supported by crutches, now flew about the house, borne up by the wings of anger; there was no one sort of mortal revenge that had ever come to her ears, but presented itself now to her gentle mind. At length with few words, for her words were choked up with the rising of her revengeful heart, she ran down, and with her own hands saddled a mare of hers; a mare that seven years before had not been acquainted with the saddle, and so to Mantinea she went, casting with herself how she might couple shame with the punishment of her accursed husband: but the person is not worthy in whose passion I should too long stand.

Therefore now must I tell you that mistress Mopsa, who was the last party Dorus was to practice his cunning withal, was at the parting of her parents attending upon the princess Pamela, whom, because she found to be placed in her father’s house, she knew it was for suspicion the king had of her. This made Mopsa with a right base nature, which joys to see any hard hap happen to them they deem happy, grow proud over her, and use great ostentation of her own diligence, in prying curiously into each thing that Pamela did. Neither is there anything sooner overthrows a weak heart than opinion of authority, like too strong a liquor for so feeble a glass; which joined itself to the humour of envying Pamela’s beauty, so far that oft she would say to herself, if she had been born a princess as well as Pamela, her perfections then should have been as well seen as Pamela’s. With this manner of woman, and placed in these terms, had Dorus to play his last part, which he would have quickly dispatched in tying her up in such a manner that she should little have hindered his enterprise. But that the virtuous Pamela, when she saw him so minded, by countenance absolutely forbid it, resolutely determining she would not leave behind her any token of wrong: since the wrong done to herself was the best excuse of her escape: so that Dorus was compelled to take her in the manner he first thought of, and accordingly Pamela sitting musing at the strange attempt she had condescended unto, and Mopsa hard by her (looking in a glass with very partial eyes) Dorus put himself between them, and casting up his face to the top of the house, struggling all over his body, and stamping sometimes upon the ground, gave Mopsa occasion (who was as busy as a bee to know anything) to ask her lover Dorus what ailed him, that made him use so strange a behaviour: he, as if his spirits had been ravished with some supernatural contemplation, stood still mute, sometimes rubbing his forehead, sometimes starting in himself, that he set Mopsa in such an itch of inquiry that she would have offered her maidenhead, rather than be long kept from it. Dorus not yet answering to the purpose, still keeping his amazement: “O Hercules,” said he, “resolve me in this doubt. A tree to grant one’s wishes! Is this the cause of the king’s solitary life? which part shall I take? happy in either, unhappy because I cannot know which were my best hap.” These doubtful self-speeches, made Mopsa yet in a further longing of knowing the matter: so that the pretty pig, laying her sweet burden about his neck, “My Dorus,” said she, “tell me these words, or else I know not what will befall me, honey Dorus, tell them me.” Dorus having stretched her mind upon a right last: “Extremely loved Mopsa,” said he, “the matters be so great, as my heart fails me in the telling them: but since you hold the greatest seat in it, it is reason your desire should add life unto it.” Therewith he told her a far-fetched tale; how that many millions of years before, Jupiter fallen out with Apollo, had thrown him out of heaven, taking from him the privilege of a god. So that poor Apollo was fain to lead a very miserable life, unacquainted to work, and never used to beg, that in this order having in time learned to be Admetus’s herdsman, he had upon occasion of fetching a certain breed of beasts out of Arcadia, come to that very desert, where wearied with travel, and resting himself in the boughs of a pleasant ash tree, which stood a little off from the lodge, he had with pitiful complaints, gotten his father Jupiter’s pardon, and so from that tree was received again to his golden sphere. But having that right nature of a god, never to be ungrateful, to Admetus he had granted a double life: and because that tree was the chapel of his prosperous prayers, he had given it this quality, that whatsoever of such estate, and in such manner as he then was, sat down in that tree, they should obtain whatsoever they wished. This Basilius having understood by the oracle, was the only cause which had made him try, whether framing himself to the state of an herdsman, he might have the privilege of wishing only granted to that degree; but that having often in vain attempted it, because indeed he was not such, he had now opened the secret to Dametas, making him swear he should wish according to his direction. “But because,” said Dorus, “Apollo was at that time with extreme grief, muffled round about his face, with a scarlet cloak Admetus had given him, and because they that must wish, must be muffled in like sort, and with like stuff, my master Dametas is gone I know not whither, to provide him a scarlet cloak, and to-morrow doth appoint to return with it. My mistress, I cannot tell how, having gotten some inkling of it, is trudged to Mantinea, to get herself a cloak before him, because she would have the first wish. My master at his parting, of great trust told me this secret, commanding me to see nobody should climb that tree. But now Mopsa,” said he, “I have here the like cloak of mine own, and am not so very a fool, as though I keep his commandments in others, to bar myself. I rest only extremely perplexed, because having nothing in the world I wish for, but the enjoying you and your favour, I think it a much pleasanter conquest to come to it by your own consent, than to have it by such a charming force as this is. Now therefore choose, since have you I will, in what sort I shall have you.” But never child was so desirous of a gay puppet, as Mopsa was to be in the tree, and therefore without squeamishness, promising all he would, she conjured him by all her precious loves that she might have the first possession of the wishing tree, assuring him that for the enjoying her, he would never need to climb far. Dorus, to whom time was precious, made no great ceremonies with her; but helping her up to the top of the tree, from whence likewise she could ill come down without help, he muffled her round about the face, so truly, that she herself could not undo it. And so he told her the manner was, she should hold her mind in continual devotion to Apollo, without making at all any noise, till at the farthest within twelve hours’ space, she should hear a voice call her by name three times, and that till the third time she must in no wise answer; “and then you shall not need to doubt your coming down, for at that time,” said he, “be sure to wish wisely, and in what shape soever he come unto you, speak boldly unto him, and your wish shall have as certain effects as I have a desire to enjoy your sweet love.” In this plight did he leave Mopsa, resolved in her heart to be the greatest lady in the world, and never after to feed on worse than frumenty.

Thus Dorus having delivered his hands of his three tormentors, took speedily the benefit of his device, and mounting the gracious Pamela upon a fair horse he had provided for her, he thrust himself forthwith into the wildest part of the desert, where he had left marks to guide him from place to place to the next seaport, disguising her very fitly with scarfs; although he rested assured he should meet that way with nobody, till he came to his bark, into which he meant to enter by night. But Pamela, who all this while transported with desire and troubled with fear, had never free scope of judgment to look with perfect consideration into her own enterprise, but even by the laws of love, had bequeathed the care of herself upon him, to whom she had given herself; now that the pang of desire, with evident hope was quieted, and most part of the fear passed, reason began to renew his shining in her heart, and make her see herself in herself; and weigh with what wings she flew out of her country; and upon what ground she built so strong a determination. But love, fortified with her lover’s presence, kept still his own in her heart; so that as they rode together, with her hand upon her faithful servant’s shoulder, suddenly casting her bashful eyes to the ground, and yet binding herself towards him (like the client that commits the cause of all his worth to a well-trusted advocate) from a mild spirit said unto him these sweetly delivered words: “Prince Musidorus, for so my assured hope is I may justly call you, since with no other my heart would ever have yielded to go; and if so I do not rightly term you, all other words are as bootless, as my deeds miserable, and I as unfortunate, as you wicked, my prince Musidorus, I say now that the vehement shows of your faithful love towards me have brought my mind to answer it in so due a proportion, that contrary to all general rules of reason, I have laid in you my estate, my life, my honour: it is your part to double your former care, and make me see your virtue no less in preserving, than in obtaining: and your faith to be a faith as much in freedom, as bondage. Tender now your own workmanship, and so govern your love towards me, that I may still remain worthy to be loved. Your promise you remember, which here by the eternal givers of virtue I conjure you to observe, let me be your own as I am, but by no unjust conquest; let not our joys which ought ever to last, be stained in our own consciences, let no shadow of repentance steal into the sweet consideration of our mutual happiness; I have yielded to be your wife, stay then till the time that I may rightly be so; let no other defiled name burden my heart, what should I more say? if I have chosen well, all doubt is past, since your action only must determine, whether I have done virtuously or shamefully in following you.”

Musidorus, that had more abundance of joy in his heart than Ulysses had what time with his own industry he stole the fatal Palladium, imagined to be the only relic of Troy’s safety, taking Pamela’s hand, and many times kissed it. “What I am,” said he, “the gods I hope will shortly make your own eyes judge; and of my mind towards you, the meantime shall be my pledge unto you; your contentment is dearer to me than mine own, and therefore doubt not of his mind, whose thoughts are so thralled unto you, as you are to bend or slack them as it shall seem best unto you. You do wrong to yourself, to make any doubt that a base estate could ever undertake so high an enterprise or a spotted mind be able to behold your virtues. Thus much only I confess, I can never do, to make the world see you have chosen worthily, since all the world is not worthy of you.” In such delightful discourses, kept they on their journey, maintaining their hearts in that right harmony of affection, which doth interchangeable deliver each to other the secret workings of their souls, till with the unusual travel, the princess being weary, they alighted down in a fair thick wood, which did entice them with the pleasantness of it to take their rest there. It was all of pine trees, whose broad heads meeting together, yielded a perfect shade to the ground, where their bodies gave a spacious and pleasant room to walk in, they were set in so perfect an order that every way the eye being full, yet no way was stopped. And even in the midst of them, were there many sweet springs which did lose themselves upon the face of the earth. Here Musidorus drew out such provisions of fruits and other cates, as he had brought for that day’s repast, and laid it down upon the fair carpet of the green grass. But Pamela had much more pleasure to walk under those trees, making in their barks pretty knots, which tied together the names of Musidorus and Pamela, sometimes intermixedly changing them, to Pammidorus and Musimela, with twenty other flowers of her travelling fancies, which had bound themselves to a greater restraint than they could without much pain well endure: and to one tree more beholding to her than the rest, she entrusted the treasure of her thoughts in these verses:

Do not disdain, O straight up-raised pine,

That wounding thee, my thoughts in thee I grave:

Since that my thoughts as straight as straightness thine,

No smaller wound, alas! far deeper have.

Deeper engraved, which salve nor time can save,

Giv’n to my heart, by my forewounded eyne:

Thus cruel to myself how canst thou crave

My inward hurt should spare thy outward rine?

Yet still fair tree, lift up thy stately line,

Live long, and long witness my chosen part,

Which barr’d desires, barr’d by myself, impart,

And in this growing-bark grow verses mine.

My heart my word, my word hath giv’n my heart;

The giver giv’n from gift shall never part.

Upon a root of the tree, that the earth had left something barer than the rest, she wrote this couplet:

Sweet root say thou, the root of my desire

Was virtue clad in constant love’s attire.

Musidorus, seeing her fancies drawn up to such pleasant contemplations, accompanied her in them, and made the trees as well bear badges of his passions, as this song engraved in them did testify:

You goodly pines, which still with brave ascent,

In nature’s pride your heads to heav’nward heave;

Though you besides such graces earth hath lent,

Of some late grace a greater grace receive.

By her who was (O blessed you) content

With her fair hand, your tender barks to cleave,

And so by you (O blessed you) hath sent,

Such piercing words as no thoughts else conceive.

Yet yield your grant, a baser hand may leave

His thoughts in you, where so sweet thoughts were spent,

For how would you the mistress’s thoughts bereave

Of waiting thoughts all to her service meant.

Nay higher thoughts (though thralled thoughts) I call

My thoughts then hers, who first your rind did rent:

Than hers, to whom my thoughts a lonely thrall

Rising from low, are to the highest bent;

Where hers, whom worth makes highest over all

Coming from her, cannot but downward fall.

While Pamela sitting her down under one of them, and making a poesy of the fair undergrowing flowers, filled Musidorus’s ears with the heavenly sound of her music, which before he had never heard, so that it seemed unto him a new assault given to the castle of his heart, already conquered: which to signify, and withal reply to her sweet notes, he sung in a kind of still, but ravishing tune, a few verses: her song was this, and his reply follows.

PAMELA

Like divers flowers, whose divers beauties serve

To deck the earth with his well-coloured weed,

Though each of them, his private form preserve,

Yet joining forms one sight of beauty breed.

Right so my thoughts, whereon my heart I feed:

Right so my inward parts, and outward glass,

Though each possess a divers working kind;

Yet all well knit to one fair end do pass:

That he to whom these sundry gifts I bind,

All what I am, still one, his own, do find.

MUSIDORUS

All what you are still one, his own to find,

You that are born to be the world’s eye;

What were it else but to make each thing blind:

And to the sun with waxen wings to fly.

No, no, such force with my small force to try,

Is not my skill, or reach of mortal mind:

Call me but yours, my title is most high:

Hold me most yours, then my long suit is sign’d.

You none can claim but you yourself aright,

For you do pass yourself, in virtue’s might.

So both are yours: I bound with gaged heart:

You only yours, too far beyond desert.

In this virtuous wantonness, suffering their minds to descend to each tender enjoying their united thoughts, Pamela having tasted of the fruits, and growing extreme sleepy, having been long kept from it with the perplexity of her dangerous attempt, laying her head in his lap, was invited by him to sleep with these softly uttered verses:

Look up, fair lids, the treasure of my heart,

Preserve those beams, this age’s only light:

To her sweet sense, sweet sleep some ease impart,

Her sense too weak to bear her spirit’s might.

And while, O sleep, thou closest up her sight,

Her sight where love did forge his fairest dart,

O harbour all her parts in easeful plight:

Let no strange dream make her fair body start.

But, O dream, if thou wilt not depart

In this rare subject from thy common right:

But wilt thyself in such a seat delight,

Then take my shape, and play a lover’s part:

Kiss her from me, and say unto her sprite,

Till her eyes shine, I live in darkest night.

The sweet Pamela was brought into a sweet sleep with this song, which gave Musidorus opportunity at leisure to behold her excellent beauties. He thought her fair forehead was a field where all his fancies fought, and every hair of her head seemed a strong chain that tied him. Her fairer lids then hiding her fairer eyes, seemed unto him sweet boxes of mother-of-pearl, rich in themselves, but containing in them far richer jewels. Her cheeks with their colour most delicately mixed, would have entertained his eyes some while, but that the roses of her lips, whose separating was wont to be accompanied with most wise speeches, now by force drew his sight to mark how prettily they lay one over the other, uniting their divided beauties: and through them the eye of his fancy delivered to his memory the lying, as in ambush, under her lips of those armed ranks, all armed in most pure white, and keeping the most precise order of military discipline. And lest this beauty might seem the picture of some excellent artificer, forth there stole a soft breath, carrying good testimony of her inward sweetness: and so stealing it came out, as it seemed loath to leave his contentful mansion, but that it hoped to be drawn in again to that well-closed paradise, which did so tyrannize over Musidorus’s effects, that he was compelled to put his face as low to hers, as he could, sucking the breath with such joy that he did determine in himself there had been no life to a Chameleon’s if he might be suffered to enjoy that food. But long he was not suffered, being within a while interrupted by the coming of a company of clownish villains, armed with divers sorts of weapons, and for the rest both in face and apparel so forewasted that they seemed to bear a great conformity with the savages; who, miserably in themselves, taught to increase their mischiefs in other bodies’ harms, came with such cries that they both awaked Pamela, and made Musidorus turn unto them full of a most violent rage, with the look of a she-tiger when her whelps are stolen away.

But Zelmane, whom I left in the cave hardly bestead, having both great wits and stirring passions to deal with, makes me lend her my pen a while to see with what dexterity she could put by her dangers. For having in one instant both to resist rage, and go beyond wisdom, being to deal with a lady that had her wits awake in everything but in helping her own hurt, she saw now no other remedy in her case, but to qualify her rage with hope, and to satisfy her wit with plainness: Yet lest too abrupt falling into it, should yield too great advantage unto her, she thought good to come to it by degrees with this kind of insinuation. “Your wise, but very dark speeches, most excellent lady, are woven up in so intricate a manner that I know not how to proportion mine answer unto them: so are your prayers mixed with threats, and so is the show of your love hidden with the name of revenge, the natural effect of mortal hatred; you seem displeased with the opinion you have of my disguising, and yet if I be not disguised, you must needs be much more displeased. Hope then, the only succour of perplexed minds, being quite cut off, you desire my affection, and yet you yourself think my affection already bestowed. Your pretend cruelty, before you have the subjection, and are jealous of keeping that which as yet you have not gotten. And that which is strangest in your jealousy, is both the injustice of it, in being loth that should come to your daughter, which you deem good; and the vainness, since you two are so in divers respects, that there is no necessity one of you should fall to be a bar to the other. For neither, if I be such as you fancy, can I marry you, which must needs be the only end I can aspire to in her: neither need the marrying of her keep me from a grateful consideration, how much you honour me in the love you vouchsafe to bear me.” Gynecia, to whom the fearful agonies she still lived in made any small reproval sweet, did quickly find her words falling to a better way of comfort, and therefore, with a mind ready to show nothing could make it rebellious against Zelmane but too extreme tyranny, she thus said: “Alas, too much beloved Zelmane, the thoughts are but overflowings of the mind, and the tongue is but a servant of the thoughts; therefore marvel not that my words suffer contrarieties, since my mind doth hourly suffer in itself whole armies of mortal adversaries. But, alas, if I had the use of mine own reason, then should I not need, for want of it, to find myself in this desperate mischief: but because my reason is vanished, so have I likewise no power to correct my unreasonableness. Do you therefore accept the protection of my mind which hath no other resting place, and drive it not, by being unregarded, to put itself into unknown extremities. I desire but to have my affection answered, and to have a right reflection of my love in you. That granted, assure yourself mine own love will easily teach me to seek your contentment; and make me think my daughter a very mean price to keep still in mine eyes the food of my spirits. But take heed that contempt drive me not into despair, the most violent cause of that miserable effect.”

Zelmane who already saw some fruit of her last determined fancy, so far as came to a mollifying of Gynecia’s rage, seeing no other way to satisfy suspicion which was held open with the continual pricks of love, resolved now with plainness to win trust, which trust she might after deceive with a greater subtlety. Therefore looking upon her with a more relenting grace than ever she had done before, pretending a great bashfulness before she could come to confess such a fault, she thus said unto her: “Most worthy lady, I did never think till now, that pity of another could make me betray myself, nor that the sound of words could overthrow any wise body’s determination. But your words, I think, have charmed me, and your grace bewitched me. Your compassion makes me open my heart to you, and leave unharboured my own thoughts; for proof of it, I will disclose my greatest secret, which well you might suspect, but never know, and so have your wandering hope in a more painful wilderness, being neither way able to be lodged in a perfect resolution. I will, I say, unwrap my hidden estate, and after make you judge of it, perchance director. The truth is, I am a man: nay, I will say further to you, I am born a prince. And to make up your mind in a thorough understanding of me since I came to this place, I may not deny I have had some sprinkling of I know not what good liking to my lady Philoclea. For how could I ever imagine the heavens would have rained down so much of your favour upon me, and of that side there was a show of possible hope, the most comfortable counsellor of love. The cause of this my changed attire, was a journey two years ago I made among the Amazons, where, having sought to try my unfortunate valour, I met not one in all the country but what was too hard for me, till in the end, in the presence of their queen Marpesia, I hoping to prevail against her, challenged an old woman of fourscore years, to fight on horseback to the uttermost with me. Who having overthrown me, for the saving of my life, made me swear I should go like an unarmed Amazon, till the coming of my beard did, with the discharge of my oath deliver me of that bondage.”

Here Zelmane ended, not coming to a full conclusion, because she would see what it wrought in Gynecia’s mind, having in her speech sought to win a belief of her, and, if it might be, by disgrace of herself to diminish Gynecia’s affection. For the first it had much prevailed: but Gynecia, whose end of loving her was not her fighting, neither could her love, too deeply grounded, receive diminishment; and besides, she had seen herself sufficient proofs of Zelmane’s admirable prowess. Therefore slightly passing over that point of her feigned dishonour, but taking good hold of the confessing her manly sex, with the shamefaced look of that suitor, who having already obtained much, is yet forced by want to demand more, put forth her sorrowful suit in these words: “The gods,” said she, “reward thee for thy virtuous pity of my over-laden soul, who yet hath received some breath of comfort, by finding thy confession to maintain some possibility of my languishing hope. But alas! as they who seek to enrich themselves by mineral industry, the first labour is to find the mine, which to their cheerful comfort being found, if after any unlooked for stop, or casual impediment keep them from getting the desired ore, they are so much the more grieved, as the late conceived hope adds torment to their former want. So falls it out with me happy or hapless woman, as it pleaseth you to ordain, who am now either to receive some guerdon of my most woeful labours, or to return into a more wretched darkness, having had some glimmering of my blissful sun. O Zelmane, tread not upon a soul that lies under your foot: let not the abasing of myself make me more base in your eyes, but judge of me according to that I am, and have been, and let my errors be made excusable by the immortal name of love.” With that, under a feigned rage, tearing her clothes, she discovered some parts of her fair body, which if Zelmane’s heart had not been so fully possessed that there was no place left for any new guest, no doubt it would have yielded to that gallant assault. But Zelmane so much the more arming her determination, as, she saw such force threatened, yet still remembering she must wade betwixt constancy and courtesy, embracing Gynecia, and once or twice kissing her, “Dear lady,” said she, “he were a great enemy to himself, that would refuse such an offer, in the purchase of which a man’s life were blessedly bestowed. Nay, how can I ever yield due recompense for so excessive a favour? but having nothing to give you but myself, take that: I must confess a small but a very free gift: what other affection so ever I have had shall give place to as great perfection, working besides upon the bond of gratefulness. The gods forbid I should be so foolish as not to see, or so wicked, as not to remember, how much my small deserts are over-balanced by your unspeakable goodness. Nay, happy may I well account my mishap among the Amazons, since that dishonour hath been so true a path to my greatest honour, and the changing of my outward raiment hath clothed my mind in such inward contention. Take therefore, noble lady, as much comfort to your heart, as the full commandment of me can yield you: wipe your fair eyes, and keep them for nobler services. And now I will presume thus much to say unto you, that you make much of yourself for my sake, that my joys of my new obtained riches may be accomplished in you. But let us leave this place, lest you be too long missed, and henceforward quiet your mind from any further care, for I will now, to my too much joy, take the charge upon me, within few days to work your satisfaction, and my felicity.” Thus much she said, and withal led Gynecia out of the cave, for well she saw the boiling mind of Gynecia did easily apprehend the fitness of that lonely place. But indeed this direct promise of a short space, joined with the cumbersome familiarness of womankind, I mean modesty, stayed so Gynecia’s mind that she took thus much at that present for good payment, remaining with a painful joy, and a wearisome kind of comfort, not unlike to the condemned prisoner, whose mind still running upon the violent arrival of his death, hears that his pardon is promised, but not yet signed. In this sort they both issued out of that obscure mansion: Gynecia already half persuaded in herself, O weakness of human conceit, that Zelmane’s affection was turned towards her. For such, alas! we are all, in such a mould are we cast, that with the too much love we bear ourselves, being first our own flatterers, we are easily hooked with others’ flattery, we are easily persuaded of others’ love.

But Zelmane, who had now to play her prize, seeing no way things could long remain in that state, and now finding her promise had tied her trial to a small compass of time, began to throw her thoughts into each corner of her invention, how she might achieve her life’s enterprise: for well she knew deceit cannot otherwise be maintained but by deceit: and how to deceive such heedful eyes, and how to satisfy, and yet not satisfy such hopeful desires, it was no small skill. But both their thoughts were called from themselves with the sight of Basilius, who then lying down by his daughter Philoclea, upon the fair, though natural, bed of green grass, seeing the sun what speed he made to leave our west to do his office in the other hemisphere, his inward muses made him in his best music, sing this Madrigal.

Why dost thou haste away

O Titan fair, the giver of the day?

It is not to carry news

To western wights, what stars in east appear?

Or dost thou think that here

Is left a sun, whose beams thy place may use?

Yet stay and well peruse,

What be her gifts, that make her equal thee,

Bend all thy light to see

In earthly clothes enclos’d a heavenly spark:

Thy running course cannot such beauties mark.

No, no, thy motions be

Hastened from us with bar of shadow dark,

Because that thou the author of our sight

Disdain’st we see thee stain’d with others’ light.

And having ended; “Dear Philoclea,” said he, “sing something that may divert my thoughts from the continual task of their ruinous harbour:” she, obedient to him, and not unwilling to disburden her secret passion, made her sweet voice be heard in these words.

O stealing time, the subject of delay

(Delay, the rack of unrestrain’d desire)

What strange design hast thou my hopes to stay,

My hopes which do but to mine own aspire?

Mine own? O word on whose sweet sound doth prey

My greedy soul, with gripe of inward fire:

Thy title great I justly challenge may,

Since in such phrase his faith he did attire.

O time, become the chariot of my joys,

As thou drawest on, so let my bliss draw near,

Each moment lost, part of my hap destroys.

Thou art the father of occasion dear:

Join with thy son to ease my long annoys,

In speedy help, thank-worthy things appear.

Philoclea broke off her song as soon as her mother with Zelmane came near unto them, rising up with a kindly bashfulness, being not ignorant of the spite her mother bare her, and stricken with the sight of that person, whose love made all those troubles seem fair flowers of her dearest garland, nay, rather all those troubles made the love increase. For as the arrival of enemies makes a town to fortify itself as ever after it remains stronger, so that a man may say, enemies were no small cause of the town’s strength: so to a mind once fixed in a well-pleased determination, who hopes by annoyance to overthrow it, does but teach it to knit together all his best grounds, and so perchance of a chanceable purpose, make an unchangeable resolution. But no more did Philoclea see the wonted signs of Zelmane’s affection towards her, she thought she saw another light in her eyes, with a bold and careless look upon her, which was wont to be dazzled with her beauty; and the framing of her courtesies rather ceremonious than affectionate, and that which worst liked her, was, that it proceeded with such quiet settledness, that it rather threatened a full purpose than any sudden passion. She found her behaviour bent altogether to her mother, and presumed in herself she discerned the well-acquainted face of his fancies now turned to another subject. She saw her mother’s worthiness, and too well knew her affection. These joining their divers working powers together in her mind, but yet a prentice in the painful mystery of passions, brought Philoclea into a new traverse of her thoughts, and made her keep her careful look the more attentive upon Zelmane’s behaviour, who indeed, though with much pain, and condemning herself to commit a sacrilege against the sweet saint that lived in her inmost temple, yet strengthening herself in it; being the surest way to make Gynecia bite of her other baits, did so quite over-rule all wonted shows of love to Philoclea, and convert them to Gynecia, that the part she played did work in both a full and lively persuasion: to Gynecia, such excessive comfort, as the being preferred to a rival doth deliver to swelling desire, but to the delicate Philoclea, whose calm thoughts were unable to nourish any strong debate, it gave so stinging a hurt, that, fainting under the force of her inward torment, she withdrew herself to the lodge, and there, weary of supporting her own burden, cast herself upon her bed, suffering her sorrow to melt itself into abundance of tears; at length closing her eyes, as if each thing she saw was a picture of her mishap, and turning upon her heart-side, which, with vehement panting did summon her to consider her fortune, she thus bemoaned herself.

“Alas! Philoclea, is this the price of all thy pains? is this the reward of thy given-way liberty? hath too much yielding bred cruelty? or can too great acquaintance make me held for a stranger? hath the choosing of a companion made me left alone; or doth granting desire, cause the desire to be neglected? alas! despised Philoclea, why didst thou not hold thy thoughts in their simple course, and content thyself with the love of thine own virtue, which would never have betrayed thee? Ah, silly fool, didst thou look for truth in him that with his own mouth confessed his falsehood? for plain proceeding in him that still goes disguised? They say the falsest men will yet bear outward shows of a pure mind. But he that even outwardly bears the badge of treachery, what hells of wickedness must needs in the depth be contained? But O wicked mouth of mine, how darest thou thus blaspheme the ornament of the earth, the vessel of all virtue? O wretch that I am, that will anger the gods in dispraising their most excellent work: O no, no, there was no fault but in me, that could ever think so high eyes would look so low, or so great perfections would stain themselves with my unworthiness. Alas! why could I not see I was too weak a band to tie so heavenly an heart? I was not fit to limit the infinite course of his wonderful destinies. Was it ever like that upon only Philoclea his thoughts should rest? Ah silly fool, that couldst please thyself with so impossible an imagination! an universal happiness is to flow from him. How was I so inveigled to hope, I might be the mark of such a mind? He did thee no wrong, O Philoclea, he did thee no wrong, it was thy weakness to fancy the beams of the sun should give light to no eyes but to thine! And yet, O Prince Pyrocles, for whom I may well begin to hate myself, but can never leave to love thee, what triumph canst thou make of this conquest? What spoils wilt thou carry away of this my undeserved overthrow? could thy force find out no fitter field than the feeble mind of a poor maid, who at the first sight did wish thee all happiness? Shall it be said, the mirror of mankind hath been employed to destroy a hurtless gentlewoman? O Pyrocles, Pyrocles, let me yet call thee before the judgment of thy virtue, let me be accepted for a plaintiff in cause which concerns my life: what need hadst thou to arm thy face with the enchanting mask of thy painted passions? what need hadst thou to fortify thy excellencies with so exquisite a cunning, in making our own arts betray us? what needest thou descend so far from thy incomparable worthiness, as to take on the habit of weak womankind. Was all this to win the undefended castle of a friend, which being won, thou wouldst after raze? Could so small a cause allure thee? or did not so unjust a cause stop thee? O me, what say I more? this is my case, my love hates me, virtue deals wickedly with me, and he does me wrong, whose doings I can never account a wrong.” With that the sweet lady turning herself upon her weary bed she happily saw a lute, upon the belly of which Gynecia had written this song, what time Basilius imputed her jealous motions to proceed of the doubt she had of his untimely loves. Under which veil she, contented to cover her never ceasing anguish, had made the lute a monument of her mind, which Philoclea had never much marked, till now the fear of a competitor more stirred her, than before the care of a mother. The verses were these:

My lute within thyself thy tunes enclose,

Thy mistress’s song is now a sorrow’s cry,

Her hand benumb’d with fortune’s daily blows,

Her mind amaz’d can neither’s help apply.

Wear these my words as mourning weeds of woes,

Black ink becomes the state wherein I die,

And though my moans be not in music bound,

Of written griefs, yet be the silent ground.

The world doth yield such ill-consorted shows,

With circled course, which no wise stay can try,

That childish stuff which knows not friends from foes,

(Better despis’d) bewonder gazing eye.

Thus noble gold, down to the bottom goes,

When worthless cork, aloft doth floating lie.

Thus in thyself least strings are loudest found,

And lowest stops do yield the highest sound.

Philoclea read them, and throwing down the lute, “Is this the legacy you have bequeathed me, O kind mother of mine?” said she, “did you bestow the light upon me for this? or did you bear me to be the author of my burial? a trim purchase you have made of your own shame, robbed your daughter to ruin yourself? the birds unreasonable, yet use so much reason, as to make nests for their tender young ones; my cruel mother turns me out of mine own harbour; alas, plaint boots not, for my case can receive no help; for who should give me help? shall I fly to my parents? they are my murderers: shall I go to him, who already being won and lost, must needs have killed all pity? alas! I can bring no new intercessions; he knows already what I am is his. Shall I come home again to myself? O me, contemned wretch; I have given away myself.” With that the poor soul beat her breast, as if that had been guilty of her faults, neither thinking of revenge, nor studying for remedy, but, sweet creature, gave grief a free dominion, keeping her chamber a few days after, not needing to feign herself sick, feeling even in her soul the pangs of extreme pain.

But little did Gynecia reck that, neither when she saw her go away from them, neither when she after found that sickness made her hide her fair face, so much had fancy prevailed against nature. But O you that have ever known, how tender to every motion love makes the lover’s heart, how he measures all his joys upon her contentment: and doth with respectful eye hang his behaviour upon her eyes: judge I pray you now of Zelmane’s troubled thoughts when she saw Philoclea, with an amazed kind of sorrow, carry away her sweet presence, and easily found, so happy a conjecture unhappy affection hath, that her demeanour was guilty of that trespass. There was never foolish soft-hearted mother, that, forced to beat her child, did weep first for his pains, and doing that she was loth to do, did repent before she began, did find half that motion in her weak mind that Zelmane did, now that she was forced by reason to give an outward blow to her passions, and for the lending of a small time, to seek the usury of her desires. The unkindness she conceived Philoclea might conceive, did wound her soul, each tear she doubted she spent, drowned all her comfort. Her sickness was a death unto her. Often would she speak to the image of Philoclea, which lived and ruled in the highest of her inward part, and use vehement oaths, and protestations unto her; that nothing should ever falsify the free chosen vow she had made. Often would she desire her, that she would look well to Pyrocles’s heart, for as for her she had no more interest in it to bestow it any way: “Alas!” would she say, “only Philoclea hast thou not so much feeling of thine own force as to know no new conqueror can prevail against thy conquests? Was ever any dazzled with the moon that used his eyes to the beams of the sun? Is he carried away with a greedy desire of acorns that hath had his senses ravished with a garden of most delightful fruits? O Philoclea, Philoclea, be thou but as merciful a princess to my mind as thou art a true possessor, and I shall have as much cause of gladness, as thou hast no cause of misdoubting? O no, no, when a man’s own heart is the gage of his debt, when a man’s own thoughts are willing witnesses to his promise; lastly, when a man is the jailor over himself; there is little doubt of breaking credit, and less doubt of such an escape.”

In this combat of Zelmane’s doubtful imaginations, in the end reason, well-backed with the vehement desire to bring her matter soon to the desired haven, did over-rule the boiling of her inward kindness, though as I say with such a manifest strife, that both Basilius and Gynecia’s well-waiting eyes, had marked her muses had laboured in deeper subjects than ordinary: which she likewise perceiving they had perceived, awaking herself out of those thoughts, and principally caring how to satisfy Gynecia, whose judgment and passion she stood most in regard of, bowing her head to her attentive ears. “Madam,” said she, “with practice of my thoughts, I have found out a way, by which your contentment shall draw on my happiness.” Gynecia delivering in her face as thankful a joyfulness as her heart could hold, said, “It was then time to retire themselves to their rest, for what with riding abroad the day before, and late sitting up for eclogues, their bodies had dearly purchased that night’s quiet.” So went they home to their lodge, Zelmane framing of both sides bountiful measures of loving countenances to either’s joy, and neither’s jealousy, to the special comfort of Basilius, whose weaker bowels were straight full with the least liquor of hope. So that still holding her by the hand, and sometimes tickling it, he went by her with the most gay conceits that ever had entered his brains, growing now so hearted in his resolution that he little respected Gynecia’s presence. But with a lustier note than wonted, clearing his voice, and cheering his spirits, looking still upon Zelmane, whom now the moon did beautify with her shining almost at the full, as if her eyes had been his song-book, he did the message of his mind in singing these verses.

When two suns do appear,

Some say it doth betoken wonders near,

As prince’s loss or change:

Two gleaming suns of splendour like I see,

And seeing feel in me

Of prince’s heart quite lost the ruin strange.

But now each where doth range

With ugly cloak the dark envious night:

Who full of guilty spite,

Such living beams should her black seat assail,

Too weak for them our weaker sight doth veil.

“No,” says fair moon, “my light

Shall bar that wrong, and though it not prevail

Like to my brother’s rays, yet those I send

Hurt not the face, which nothing can amend.”

And by that time being come to the lodge, and visited the sweet Philoclea, with much less than natural care of the parents, and much less than wanted kindness of Zelmane, each party full fraught with diversly working fancies, made their pillows weak props of their over-laden heads. Yet of all other were Zelmane’s brain most turmoiled, troubled with love both active and passive; and lastly, and especially with care, how to use her short limited time to the best purpose, by some wise and happy diverting her two lovers’ unwelcome desires. Zelmane having had the night, her only counsellor in the busy enterprise she was to undertake, and having all that time mused, and yet not fully resolved, how she might join prevailing with preventing, was offended with the day’s bold entry into her chamber, as if he had now by custom grown an assured bringer of evil news. Which she taking a cittern to her, did lay to Aurora’s charge, with these well-sung verses:

Aurora now thou showest thy blushing light,

Which oft to hope lays out a guileful bait,

That trusts in time to find the way aright,

To ease those pains, which on desire do wait.

Blush on for shame: that still with thee do light

On pensive souls (instead of restful bait)

Care upon care (instead of doing right)

To over pressed breasts, more grievous weight.

As oh! myself, whose woes are never light

(Tied to the stake of doubt) strange passion’s bait.

While thy known course observing nature’s right,

Stirs me to think what dangers lie in wait,

For mischiefs great, day after day doth show,

Make me still fear, thy fair appearing show.

“Alas!” said she, “am I not run into a strange gulf, that am fain for love to hurt her I love? and because I detest the others, to please them I detest? O only Philoclea, whose beauty is matched with nothing but with the unspeakable beauty of thy fairest mind, if thou didst see upon what rack my tormented soul is set, little would you think I had any scope now to leap to any new change.” With that with hasty hands she got herself up, turning her sight to everything, as if change of objects might help her invention. So went she again to the cave, where forthwith it came into her head that should be the fittest place to perform her exploit, of which she had now a kind of confused conceit, although she had not set down in her fancy, the meeting with each particularity that might fall out. But as the painter doth at the first but show a rude proportion of the thing he imitates, which after with more curious hand he draws to the representing each lineament, so had her thoughts, beating about it continually, received into them a ground-plot of her device, although she had not in each part shaped it according to a full determination. But in this sort having early visited the morning’s beauty in those pleasant deserts, she came to the king and queen, and told them that for the performance of certain country devotions, which only were to be exercised in solitariness, she did desire their leave she might for a few days lodge herself in the cave, the fresh sweetness of which did greatly delight her in that hot country; and that for that small space they would not otherwise trouble themselves in visiting her, but at such times as she would come to wait upon them, which should be every day at certain hours; neither should it be long, she would desire this privileged absence of them. They, whose minds had already taken out that lesson, perfectly to yield a willing obedience to all her desires, with consenting countenance made her soon see her pleasure was a law unto them. Both indeed inwardly glad of it, Basilius hoping that her dividing herself from them, might yet give him some fitter occasion of coming in secret to her, whose favourable face had lately strengthened his fainting courage. But Gynecia of all other most joyous, holding herself assured that this was but a prologue to the play she had promised her.

Thus both flattering themselves with diversly grounded hopes, they rang a bell, which served to call certain poor women which ever lay in cabins not far off, to do the household services of both lodges, and never came to either but being called for, and commanded them to carry forthwith Zelmane’s bed and furniture of her chamber into the pleasant cave, and to deck it up as finely as it was possible for them, that their soul’s rest might rest her body to her best pleasing manner: that was with all diligence performed of them, and Zelmane already in possession of her new-chosen lodging; where she like one of Vesta’s nuns, entertained herself for a few days in all show of straightness, yet once a day coming to her duty to the king and queen, in whom the seldomness of the sight increased the more unquiet longing, though somewhat qualified, as her countenance was decked to either of them with more comfort than wonted; especially to Gynecia, who seeing her, wholly neglected her daughter Philoclea, had now promised herself a full possession of Zelmane’s heart, still expecting the fruit of the happy and hoped for invention. But both she and Basilius kept such a continual watch about the precincts of the cave, that either of them was a bar to the other from having any secret communing with Zelmane.

While in the meantime the sweet Philoclea forgotten of her father, despised of her mother, and in appearance left of Zelmane, had yielded up her soul to be a prey to sorrow and unkindness, not with raging conceit of revenge, as had passed through the wise and stout heart of her mother, but with a kindly meekness taking upon her the weight of her own woes, and suffering them to have so full a course, as it did exceedingly weaken the estate of her body; as well for which cause, as for that she could not see Zelmane, without expressing, more than she would, how far now her love was imprisoned in extremity of sorrow, she bound herself first to the limits of her own chamber, and after (grief breeding sickness) of her bed. But Zelmane having now a full liberty to cast about every way how to bring her conceived attempt to a desired success, was oft so perplexed with the manifold difficulty of it, that sometimes she would resolve by force to take her away, though it were with the death of her parents, sometimes to go away with Musidorus, and bring both their forces, so to win her. But lastly, even the same day that Musidorus by feeding the humour of his three loathsome guardians, had stolen away the princess Pamela (whether it were that love meant to match them every way, or that her friend’s example had helped her invention, or that indeed Zelmane forbare to practise her device till she found her friend had passed thro’ his): the same day, I say, she resolved on a way to rid out of the lodge her two cumbersome lovers, and in the night to carry away Philoclea: whereunto she was assured her own love no less than her sister’s, would easily win her consent; hoping that although their abrupt parting had not suffered her to demand of Musidorus which way he meant to direct his journey; yet either they should by some good fortune find him; or if that course failed, yet they might well recover some town of the Helots, near the frontiers of Arcadia, who being newly again up in arms against the nobility, she knew would be as glad of her presence, as she of their protection. Therefore having taken order for all things requisite for their going, and first put on a slight under-suit of man’s apparel, which before for such purposes she had provided, she curiously trimmed herself to the beautifying of her beauties, that being now at her last trial she might come unto it in her bravest armour. And so putting on that kind of mild countenance, which doth encourage the looker on to hope for a gentle answer, according to her received manner, she left the pleasant darkness of her melancholy cave, to go take her dinner of the King and Queen, and give unto them both a pleasant food of seeing the owner of their desires. But even as the Persians were anciently wont to leave no rising-sun unsaluted, but as his fair beams appeared clearer unto them, would they more heartily rejoice, laying upon them a great foretoken of their following fortune: so was there no time that Zelmane encountered their eyes with her beloved presence, but that it bred a kind of burning devotion in them, yet so much the more gladding their greedy souls, as her countenance was cleared with more favour unto them; which now being determinately framed to the greatest descent of kindness, it took such hold of her unfortunate lovers, that like children about a tender father from a long voyage returned, with lovely childishness hang about him, and yet with simple fear measure by his countenance, how far he accepts their boldness, so were these now thrown into so serviceable an affection, that the turning of Zelmane’s eyes was a strong stern enough to all their motions, winding no way but as the enchanting force of it guided them. But having made a light repast of the pleasant fruits of that country, interlarding their food with such manner of general discourses as lovers are wont to cover their passion, when respect of a third person keeps them from plain particulars, at the earnest entreaty of Basilius, Zelmane first saluting the Muses with a base viol hung hard by her, sent this ambassage in versified music to both her ill-requited lovers.

Beauty hath force to catch the human sight;

Sight doth bewitch the fancy evil awaked,

Fancy we feel includes all passion’s might,

Passion rebell’d oft reason’s strength hath shaked.

No wonder then, though sight my sight did taint,

And though thereby my fancy was infected,

Though, yoked so, my mind with sickness faint,

Had reason’s weight for passion’s ease rejected.

But now the fit is past; and time hath giv’n

Leisure to weigh what due desert requireth.

All thoughts so sprung, are from their dwelling driv’n,

And wisdom to his wonted seat aspireth;

Crying in me: “Eye-hopes deceitful prove;

Things rightly priz’d: love is the band of love.”

And after her song with an affected modesty she threw down her eye, as if the conscience of a secret grant her inward mind made, and suddenly cast a bashful veil over her. Which Basilius finding, and thinking now was the time to urge his painful petition, beseeching his wife with more careful eye to accompany his sickly daughter Philoclea, being rid for that time of her; who was content to grant him any scope, that she might after have the like freedom; with a gesture governed by the force of his passions, making his knees best supporters, he thus said unto her: “If either,” said he, “O lady of my life, my deadly pangs could bear delay, or that this were the first time the same were manifested unto you, I would now but maintain still the remembrance of my misfortune, without urging any further reward, than time and pity might procure for me. But, alas! since my martyrdom is no less painful than manifest, and that I no more feel the miserable danger, than you know the assured truth thereof, why should my tongue deny his service to my heart? Why should I fear the breath of my words, who daily feel the flame of your works? Embrace in your sweet consideration, I beseech you, the misery of my case, acknowledge yourself to be the cause, and think it is reason for you to redress the effects. Alas! let no certain imaginative rules whose truth stands but upon opinion, keep so wise a mind from gratefulness and mercy, whose never failing laws nature hath planted in us. I plainly lay my death unto you, the death of him that loves you, the death of him whose life you may save; say your absolute determination, for hope itself is a pain, while it is over-mastered with fear; and if you do resolve to be cruel, yet is the speediest condemnation, as in evils, most welcome.” Zelmane, who had fully set to herself the train she should keep, yet knowing that who soonest means to yield, doth well to make the bravest parley, keeping countenance aloft; “Noble prince,” said she, “your words are too well couched to come out of a restless mind, and thanked be the Gods, your face threatens no danger of death. These are but those swelling speeches which give the uttermost name to every trifle, which all were worth nothing, if they were not enamelled with the goodly outside of love. Truly love were very unlovely if it were half so deadly, as you lovers, still living, term it. I think well it may have a certain childish vehemency, which for the time to one desire will engage all the soul, so long as it lasteth. But with what impatience you yourself show, who confess the hope of it a pain, and think your own desire so unworthy that you would fain be rid of it; and so with over-much love sue hard for a hasty refusal.” “A refusal!” cried out Basilius, amazed with all, but pierced with the last, “Now assure yourself whensoever you use that word definitively it will be the undoubted doom of my approaching death. And then shall your own experience know in me, how soon the spirits dried up with anguish leave the performance of their ministry, whereupon our life dependeth. But alas! what a cruelty is this, not only to torment but to think the torment slight? The terriblest tyrants would say by no man they killed, he died not; nor by no man they punished, that he escaped free: for of all other, there is least hope of mercy where there is no acknowledging of the pain; and with like cruelty are my words breathed out from a flamy heart, accounted as messengers of a quiet mind. If I speak nothing I choke myself, and am in no way of relief; if simply, neglected: if confusedly, not understood: if by the bending together all my inward powers, they bring forth any lively expressing of that they truly feel, that is a token, forsooth, the thoughts are at too much leisure. Thus is silence desperate, folly punished, and wit suspected: but indeed it is vain to try any more, for words can bind no belief. Lady, I say, determine of me, I must confess I cannot bear this battle in my mind, and therefore let me soon know what I may account of myself; for it is a hell of dolours when the mind still in doubt for want of resolution, can make no resistance.”

“Indeed,” answered Zelmane, “if I should grant to your request, I should show an example in myself that I esteem the holy band of chastity to be but an imaginative rule, as you termed it, and not the truest observance of nature, the most noble commandment that mankind can have over themselves, as indeed both learning teacheth, and inward feeling assureth. But first shall Zelmane’s grave become her marriage bed, before my soul shall consent to his own shame, before I will leave a mark in myself of an unredeemable trespass. And yet must I confess that if ever my heart were stirred, it hath been with the manifest and manifold shows of the misery you live in for me. For in truth so it is, nature gives not to us her degenerate children any more general precept than one to help the other, one to feel a true compassion of the other’s mishap. But yet if I were never so contented to speak with you (for further, never, O Basilius, never look for at my hands) I know not how you can avoid your wife’s jealous attendance but that her suspicion shall bring my honour into question.” Basilius, whose small sails the least wind did fill, was forthwith as far gone into a large promising himself his desire, as before he was stricken down with a threatened denial. And therefore bending his brows, as though he were not a man to take the matter as he had done; “What,” said he, “shall my wife become my mistress? Think you not that thus much time hath taught me to rule her? I will mew the gentlewoman till she have cast all her feathers if she rouse herself against me.” And with that he walked up and down, nodding his head, as though they mistook him much that thought he was not his wife’s master. But Zelmane now seeing it was time to conclude: “Of your wisdom and manhood,” said she, “I doubt not, but that sufficeth not me, for both they can hardly tame a malicious tongue, and impossibly bar the freedom of thought, which be the things that must be only witnesses of honour or judges of dishonour. But that you may see I do not set light your affection, if to-night after your wife be assuredly asleep, whereof by your love I conjure you to have a most precise care, you will steal handsomely to the cave unto me, there do I grant you as great proportion as you will take of free conference with me, ever remembering you seek no more, for so shall you but deceive yourself, and for ever lose me.”

Basilius, who was old enough to know that women are wont to not appoint secret night meetings for the purchasing of land, holding himself already an undoubted possessor of his desires, kissing her hand, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, as if the greatness of the benefit did go beyond all measure of thanks, said no more, lest stirring of more words might bring forth some, perhaps, contrary matter. In which trance of joy Zelmane went from him, saying she would leave him to the remembrance of their appointment, and for her, she would go visit the Lady Philoclea, into whose chamber being come, keeping still her late taken-on gravity, and asking her how she did, rather in the way of dutiful honour than in any special affection, with extreme inward anguish to them both, she turned from her, and taking the Queen Gynecia, led her into a bay window of the same chamber, determining in herself, not to utter to so excellent a wit as Gynecia had, the uttermost point of her pretended device, but to keep the clause of it for the last instant, when the shortness of the time should not give her spirits leisure to look into all those doubts that easily enter to an open invention. But with smiling eyes, and with a delivered over grace, feigning as much love to her, as she did counterfeit little love to Philoclea, she began with more credible, than eloquent speech, to tell her, that with much consideration of a matter so nearly importing her own fancy, and Gynecia’s honour, she had now concluded that the night following should be the fittest time for the joining together their several desires, what time sleep should perfectly do his office upon the king her husband, and that the one should come to the other into the cave: which place as it was the first receipt of their promised love, so it might have the first honour of the due performance. That the cause why those few days past, she had not sought the like, was, lest the new change of her lodging might make the king more apt to mark any sudden event; which now the use of it would take out of his mind. “And therefore most excellent lady,” said she, “there resteth nothing, but that quickly after supper, you train up the king to visit his daughter Philoclea, and then feigning yourself not well at ease, by your going to bed, draw him not long to be after you. In the meantime I will be gone home to my lodging, where I will attend you, with no less devotion, but as I hope with better fortune than Thisbe did the too much loving, and too much loved Pyramus.” The blood that quickly came into Gynecia’s fair face, was the only answer she made, but that one might easily see, contentment and consent were both to the full in her; which she did testify with the wringing Zelmane fast by the hand, closing her eyes, and letting her head fall, as if she would give her to know, she was not ignorant of her fault, although she were transported with the violence of her evil.

But in this triple agreement did the day seem tedious of all sides, till his never erring course had given place to the night’s succession: and the supper by each hand hasted, was with no less speed ended, when Gynecia presenting a heavy sleepiness in her countenance, brought up both Basilius and Zelmane to see Philoclea, still keeping her bed, and far more sick in mind than body, and more grieved than comforted with any such visitation. Thence Zelmane wishing easeful rest to Philoclea, did seem to take that night’s leave of this princely crew, when Gynecia likewise seeming somewhat diseased, desired Basilius to stay a while with his daughter, while she recommended her sickness to her bed’s comfort, indeed desirous to determine again of the manner of her stealing away; to no less comfort to Basilius, who the sooner she was asleep, the sooner hoped to come by his long pursued prey. Thus both were bent to deceive each other, and to take the advantage of either other’s disadvantage. But Gynecia having taken Zelmane into her bed-chamber, to speak a little with her of their sweet determination; Zelmane upon a sudden, as though she had never thought of it before. “Now the Gods forbid,” said she, “so great a lady as you are should come to me; or that I should leave it to the hands of fortune, if by either the ill-governing of your passion, or your husband’s sudden waking, any danger might happen unto you: no, if there be any superiority in the points of true love, it shall be yours; if there be any danger, since myself am the author of this device, it is reason it should be mine. Therefore do you but leave with me the keys of the gate, and upon yourself take my upper garment, that if any of Dametas’s house see you they may think you be myself, and I will presently lie down in your place, so muffled for your supposed sickness, as the king shall nothing know me. And then as soon as he is asleep, will I, as it much better becomes me, wait upon you. But if the uttermost of mischiefs should happen, I can assure you the king’s life shall sooner pay for it than your honour.” And with the ending of her words she threw off her mantle, not giving Gynecia any space to take the full image of this new change into her fancy. But seeing no ready objection against it in her heart, and knowing that there was no time then to stand long disputing; besides remembering the giver was to order the manner of his gift, yielded quickly to this conceit, indeed not among the smallest causes tickled thereunto by a certain wanton desire that her husband’s deceit might be the more notable. In this sort did Zelmane nimbly disarraying herself, possess Gynecia’s place hiding her head in such a close manner, as grievous and over watched sickness is wont to invite to itself the solace of sleep. And of the other side the queen putting on Zelmane’s outmost apparel, went first into her closet, there quickly to beautify herself with the best and sweetest night-deckings. But there casting an hasty eye over her precious things, which ever since Zelmane’s coming, her head otherwise occupied, had left unseen, she happened to see a bottle of gold, upon which down along were graved these verses:

Let him drink this, whom long in arms to fold

Thou dost desire, and with free power to hold.

She remembered the bottle, for it had been kept of long time by the kings of Cyprus, as a thing of rare virtue, and given to her by her mother, when she being very young married to her husband of much greater age, her mother persuaded it was of property to force love with love effects, had made a precious present of it to this her beloved child, though it had been received rather by tradition to have such a quality than by any approved experiment. This Gynecia (according to the common disposition, not only, though especially of wives, but of all other kinds of people, not to esteem much one’s own, but to think the labour lost employed about it) had never cared to give her husband, but suffered his affection to run according to his own scope. But now that love of her particular choice had awakened her spirits, and perchance the very unlawfulness of it had a little blown the coal, among her other ornaments with glad mind she took most part of this liquor, putting it into a fair cup all set with diamonds: for what dares not love undertake armed with the night, and provoked with lust? And thus down she went to the cave-ward, guided only by the moon’s fair shining, suffering no other thought to have any familiarity with her brains, but that which did present under her a picture of her approaching contentment. She that had long disdained this solitary life her husband had entered into, now wished it much more solitary, so she might only obtain the private presence of Zelmane. She that before would not have gone so far, especially by night, and to so dark a place, now took a pride in the same courage, and framed in her mind a pleasure out of the pain itself. Thus with thick doubled paces she went to the cave, receiving to herself, for her first contentment, the only lying where Zelmane had done; whose pillow she kissed a thousand times, for having born the print of that beloved head. And so keeping with panting heart her travelling fancies so attentive that the wind could stir nothing, but that she stirred herself, as if it had been the space of the longed for Zelmane, she kept her side of the bed, descending only and cherishing the other side with her arms, till after a while waiting, counting with herself how many steps were betwixt the lodge and the cave, and of accusing Zelmane of more curious stay than needed, she was visited with an unexpected guest.

For Basilius, after his wife was departed to her feigned repose, as long as he remained with his daughter, to give his wife time of unreadying herself, it was easily seen it was a very thorny abode he made there: and the discourses with which he entertained his daughter, not unlike to those of earnest players, when in the midst of their game, trifling questions be put unto them, his eyes still looking about, and himself still changing places, beginning to speak of a thing, and breaking it off before it were half done. To any speech Philoclea ministered unto him, with a sudden starting and casting up his head, made an answer far out of all grammar; a certain deep musing, and by and by out of it: uncertain motions, unstayed graces. Having borne out the limit of a reasonable time, with as much pain as might be, he came darkling into his chamber, forcing himself to tread as softly as he could. But the more curious he was, the more he thought everything creaked under him; and his mind being out of the way with another thought, and his eyes not serving his turn in that dark place, each coffer or cupboard he met, one saluted his shins, another his elbows; sometimes ready in revenge to strike them again with his face. Till at length, fearing his wife were not fully asleep, he came lifting up the clothes as gently as I think poor Pan did, when, instead of Ioles’s bed, he came into the rough embracing of Hercules; and laying himself down, as tenderly as a new bride, rested a while with a very open ear, to mark each breath of his supposed wife. And sometimes he himself would yield a long-fetched sigh, as though that had been a music to draw on another to sleep, till within a very little while, with the other party’s well-counterfeit sleep, who was as willing to be rid of him as he was to be gone thence, assuring himself he left all safe there, in the same order stole out again, and putting on his night gown, with much groping and scrambling he got himself out of the little house, and then did the moonlight serve to guide his feet. Thus, with a great deal of pain, did Basilius go to her whom he fled, and with much cunning left the person for whom he had employed all his cunning. But when Basilius was once gotten, as he thought, into a clear coast, what joy he then made, how each thing seemed vile in his sight, in comparison of his fortune, how far already he deemed himself in the chief towers of his desires, it were tedious to tell: once his heart could not choose but yield this song, as a fairing of his contentment.

Get hence, foul grief, the canker of the mind:

Farewell complaint, the miser’s only pleasure.

Away vain cares, by which few men do find

Their sought-for treasure.

Ye helpless sighs, blow out your breath to nought,

Tears drown yourselves, for woe, your cause is wasted;

Thought, think to end, too long the fruit of thought

My mind hath tasted.

But thou, sure hope, tickle my leaping heart:

Comfort, step thou in place of wonted sadness,

Fore-felt desire, begin to favour part

Of coming gladness.

Let voice of sighs into clear music run;

Eyes, let your tears with gazing now be mended,

Instead of thought, true pleasure be begun,

And never ended.

Thus imagining as then with himself, his joys so held him up, that he never touched ground. And like a right old beaten soldier, that knew well enough the greatest captains do never use long orations, when it comes to the very point of execution, as soon as he was gotten into the cave, to the joyful, though silent, expectation of Gynecia, come close to the bed, never recking his promise to look for nothing but conference, he leaped in that side reserved for a more welcome guest. And laying his loving’st hold upon Gynecia: “O Zelmane,” said he, “embrace in your favour this humble servant of yours: hold within me my heart, which pants to leave his master to come unto you.” In what case poor Gynecia was, when she knew the voice, and felt the body of her husband, fair ladies, it is better to know by imagination than experience. For straight was her mind assaulted, partly with the being deprived of her unquenched desire, but principally with the doubt that Zelmane had betrayed her to her husband, besides the renewed sting of jealousy, what in the meantime might befall her daughter. But of the other side her love with a fixed persuasion she had taught her to seek all reason of hopes. And therein thought best before discovering of herself, to mark the behaviour of her husband; who, both in deeds and words still using her, as taking her to be Zelmane, made Gynecia hope that this might be Basilius’s own enterprise, which Zelmane had not stayed, lest she should discover the matter which might be performed at another time. Which hope accompanied with Basilius’s manner of dealing, he being at that time fuller of livelier fancies than many years before he had been, besides the remembrance of her daughter’s sickness, and late strange countenance betwixt her and Zelmane, all coming together into her mind, which was loth to condemn itself of an utter overthrow, made her frame herself, not truly with a sugared joy, but with a determinate patience to let her husband think he had found a very gentle and supple-minded Zelmane; which he good man making full reckoning of, did melt in as much gladness as she was oppressed with divers ungrateful burdens.