BOOK II

{121}

In these pastoral times a great number of days were sent to follow their flying predecessors, while the cup of poison (which was deeply tasted of the noble company) had left no sinew of theirs without mortally searching into it; yet never manifesting his venomous work, till once, that the night (parting away angry that she could distil no more sleep into the eyes of lovers) had no sooner given place to the breaking out of the morning light, and the sun bestowed his beams upon the tops of the mountains, but that the woeful Gynecia, to whom rest was no ease, had left her loathed lodging, and gotten herself into the solitary places, those deserts were full of going up and down with such unquiet motions, as a grieved and hopeless mind is wont to bring forth. There appeared unto the eyes of her judgment the evils she was like to run into, with ugly infamy waiting upon them: she felt the terrors of her own conscience; she was guilty of a long exercised virtue, which made his vice the fuller of deformity. The uttermost of the good she could aspire unto was a mortal wound to her vexed spirits: and lastly, no small part of her evils was that she was wise to see her evils. Insomuch, that having a great while thrown her countenance ghastly about her (as if she had called all the powers of the world to be witnesses of her wretched estate) at length casting up her watery eyes to heaven: “O sun,” said she, “whose unspotted light directs the steps of mortal mankind, art thou not ashamed to impart the clearness of thy presence to such a dust-creeping worm as I am? O ye heavens, which continually keep the course allotted unto you, can none of your influences prevail so much upon the miserable Gynecia, as to make her preserve a course so long embraced by her? O deserts, deserts, how fit a guest am I for you, since my heart can people you with wild ravenous beasts, which in you are {122} wanting? O virtue, where dost thou hide thyself? what hideous thing is this which doth eclipse thee? Or is it true that thou wert never but a vain name, and no essential thing, which hast thus left thy professed servant, when she had most need of thy lovely presence? O imperfect proportion of reason which can too much foresee and too little prevent?” “Alas! alas!” said she, “if there were but one hope for all my pains, or but one excuse for all my faultiness! But wretch that I am, my torment is beyond all succour, and my evil deserving doth exceed my evil fortune. For nothing else did my husband take this strange resolution to live so solitary: for nothing else have the winds delivered this strange guest to my country: for nothing else have the destinies reserved my life to this time, but that only I, most wretched I, should become a plague to myself and a shame to womankind. Yet if my desire, how unjust soever it be, might take effect, though a thousand deaths followed it, and every death were followed with a thousand shames, yet should not my sepulchre receive me without some contentment. But alas! though sure I am that Zelmane is such as can answer my love, yet as sure I am that this disguising must needs come for some foretaken conceit: and then wretched Gynecia where canst thou find any small ground-plot for hope to dwell upon? no, no, it is Philoclea his heart is set upon; it is my daughter I have borne to supplant me. But if it be so, the life I have given thee, ungrateful Philoclea, I will sooner with these hands bereave thee of than my birth shall glory she hath bereaved me of my desires: in shame there is no comfort, but to be beyond all bounds of shame.”

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

In vain mine eyes you labour to amend With flowing tears your fault of hasty sight: Since to my heart her shape you did so send, That her I see, though you did lose your light. {123} In vain my heart, now you with sight are burn’d, With sighs you seek to cool your hot desire: Since sighs, into mine inward furnace turn’d, For bellows serve to kindle more the fire. Reason in vain, now you have lost my heart, My head you seek, as to your strongest fort: Since there mine eyes have play’d so false a part, That to your strength your foes have sure resort. Then since in vain I find were all my strife, To this strange death I vainly yield my life.

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

And thus much spoke, instead of a conclusion, was closed up with so hearty a groaning that Gynecia could not refrain to show herself, thinking such griefs could serve fitly for nothing but her own fortune. But as she came into the little arbour of this sorrowful music, her eyes met with the eyes of Zelmane, which was the party that thus had indited herself of misery, so that either of them remained confused with a sudden astonishment, Zelmane fearing lest she had heard some part of those complaints, which she had risen up that morning early of purpose to breathe out in secret to herself. But Gynecia a great while stood still with a kind of dull amazement, looking steadfastly upon her; at length returning to some use of herself, she began to ask Zelmane what cause carried her so early abroad? But, as if the opening of her mouth to Zelmane had opened some great flood-gate of sorrow, whereof her heart could not abide the violent issue, she sunk to the ground, with her hands over her face, crying vehemently, “Zelmane help me, O Zelmane have pity on me.” Zelmane ran to her, marvelling {124} what sudden sickness had thus possessed her, and beginning to ask her the cause of her pain, and offering her service to be employed by her; Gynecia opening her eyes wildly upon her, pricked with the flames of love and the torments of her own conscience; “O Zelmane, Zelmane,” said she, “dost thou offer my physic, which art my only poison? or wilt thou do me service, which hast already brought me into eternal slavery?” Zelmane then knowing well at what mark she shot, yet loth to enter into it: “Most excellent lady,” said she, “you were best retire yourself into your lodging that you the better may pass this sudden fit.” “Retire myself?” said Gynecia, “If I had retired myself into myself, when thou to me, unfortunate guest, camest to draw me from myself, blessed had I been, and no need had I had of this counsel. But now alas! I am forced to fly to thee for succour, whom I accuse of all my hurt, and make thee judge of my cause, who art the only author of my mischief.” Zelmane the more astonished, the more she understood her; “Madam,” said she, “whereof do you accuse me that I will not clear myself? or wherein may I stead you that you may not command me?” “Alas!” answered Gynecia, “what shall I say more? take pity on me, O Zelmane, but not as Zelmane, and disguise not with me in words, as I know thou dost in apparel.” Zelmane was much troubled with that word, finding herself brought to this strait. But as she was thinking what to answer her, they might see old Basilius pass hard by them without ever seeing them, complaining likewise of love very freshly, and ending his complaint with this song, love having renewed both his invention and voice.

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

Which being done he looked very curiously upon himself, sometimes fetching a little skip as if he had said his strength had not yet forsaken him: but Zelmane having in this time {125} gotten some leisure to think for an answer, looking upon Gynecia as if she thought she did her some wrong: “Madam,” said she, “I am not acquainted with those words of disguising, neither is it the profession of an Amazon, neither are you a party with whom it is to be used: if my service may please you, employ it, so long as you do me no wrong in misjudging of me.” “Alas! Zelmane,” said Gynecia, “I perceive you know full little how piercing the eyes are of a true lover: there is no one beam of those thoughts you have planted in me but is able to discern a greater cloud than you do go in. Seek not to conceal yourself further from me, nor force not the passion of love into violent extremities.” Now was Zelmane brought to an exigent, when the king turning his eyes that way through the trees, perceived his wife and mistress together, so that framing the most lovely countenance he could, he came straightway towards them, and at the first word, thanking his wife for having entertained Zelmane, desired her she would now return into the lodge, because he had certain matters of estate to impart to the Lady Zelmane. The queen, being nothing troubled with jealousy in that point, obeyed the king’s commandment, full of raging agonies, and determinately bent that as she would seek all loving means to win Zelmane, so she would stir up terrible tragedies rather than fail of her intent. And so went she from them to the lodge-ward with such a battle in her thoughts, and so deadly an overthrow given to her best resolutions that even her body, where the field was fought, was oppressed withal, making a languishing sickness wait upon the triumph of passion, which the more it prevailed in her, the more it made her jealousy watchful, both over her daughter and Zelmane, having ever one of them intrusted to her own eyes.

But as soon as Basilius was rid of his wife’s presence, falling down on his knees, “O lady,” said he, “which hast only had the power to stir up again those flames which had so long lain dead in me, see in me the power of your beauty, which can make old age come to ask counsel of youth, and a prince unconquered to become a slave to a stranger: and when you see that power of yours, love that at least in me, since it is yours, although of me you see nothing to be loved.” “Worthy prince” (answered Zelmane, taking him up from his kneeling) “both your manner and your speech are so strange unto me that I know not how to answer it better than with silence.” “If silence please you,” said the king, “it shall never displease me, since my heart is wholly pledged to obey you, otherwise, if you would vouchsafe mine ears such happiness as to hear you, they shall convey your words to such a mind as will with the humblest degree of reverence receive them.” “I disdain not to speak to you, mighty prince,” {126} said Zelmane, “but I disdain to speak of any matter which may bring my honour into question”: and therewith, with a brave counterfeited scorn she departed from the king, leaving him not so sorry for his short answer as proud in himself that he had broken the matter. And thus did the king, feeding his mind with those thoughts, pass great time in writing verses, and making more of himself than he was wont to do, that, with a little help, he would have grown into a pretty kind of dotage.

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

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

But Zelmane’s coming saved Dorus from further chiding. {127} And so she beginning to speak with him of the number of his master’s sheep, and which province of Arcadia bare the finest wool, drew him on to follow her in such country-discourses; till, being out of Dametas’s hearing, with such vehemency of passion, as though her heart would climb into her mouth to take her tongue’s office, she declared unto him upon what briars the roses of her affections grew; how time still seemed to forget her, bestowing no one hour of comfort upon her; she remaining still in one plight of ill fortune, saving so much worse as continuance of evil doth in itself increase evil. “Alas, my Dorus,” said she, “thou seest how long and languishingly the weeks are passed over since our last talking. And yet I am the same, miserable I, that I was, only stronger in longing, and weaker in hoping.” Then fell she to so pitiful a declaration of the insupportableness of her desires that Dorus’s ears, not able to show what wounds that discourse gave unto them, procured his eyes with tears to give testimony how much they suffered for her suffering; till passion, a most cumbersome guest to itself, made Zelmane, the sooner to shake it off, earnestly entreat Dorus that he also, with like freedom of discourse, would bestow a map of his little world upon her that she might see whether it were troubled with such unhabitable climes of cold despairs and hot rages as hers was.

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

“Alas,” said he, “dear cousin, that it hath pleased the high power to throw us to such an estate as the only intercourse of our true friendship must be a bartering of miseries: for my part, I must confess, indeed, that from a huge darkness of sorrows I am crept, I cannot say to a lightsomeness, but, to a certain dawning, or rather peeping out of some possibility of comfort: but woe is me; so far from the mark of my desires, that I rather think it such a light as comes through a small hole to a dungeon that the miserable caitiff may the better remember the light of which he is deprived, or, like a scholar who is only come to that degree of knowledge to find himself utterly ignorant: but thus stands it with me. After that by your means I was exalted to serve in yonder blessed lodge, for a while I had, in the furnace of my agonies, this refreshing that, because of the service I had done in killing of the bear, it pleased the princess, in whom indeed stateliness shines through courtesy, to let fall some gracious look upon me: sometimes to see my exercise, sometime to hear my songs. For my part, my heart would not suffer me to omit any occasion whereby I might make the incomparable Pamela see how much extraordinary {128} devotion I bare to her service: and withal strove to appear more worthy in her sight, that small desert, joined to so great affection, might prevail something in the wisest lady. But too well, alas! I found that a shepherd’s service was but considered of as from a shepherd, and the acceptation limited to no further proportion than of a good servant. And when my countenance had once given notice that there lay affection under it, I saw straight, majesty, sitting in the throne of beauty, draw forth such a sword of just disdain that I remained as a man thunderstruck, not daring, no not able to behold that power. Now to make my estate known, seemed again impossible, by reason of the suspiciousness of Dametas, Miso and my young mistress Mopsa: for Dametas, according to the constitution of a dull head, thinks no better way to show himself wise than by suspecting everything in his way, which suspicion Miso, for the hoggish shrewdness of her brain, and Mopsa (for a very unlikely envy she hath stumbled upon against the princess’s unspeakable beauty) were very glad to execute: so that I (finding my service by this means lightly regarded, my affection despised, and myself unknown) remained no fuller of desire than void of counsel how to come to my desire; which, alas! if these trees could speak, they might well witness, for many times have I stood here, bewailing myself unto them, many times have I, leaning to yonder palm, admired the blessedness of it, that it could bear love without sense of pain; many times, when my master’s cattle came hither to chew their cud in this fresh place, I might see the young bull testify his love? but how? with proud looks and joyfulness. ‘O wretched mankind,’ said I then to myself, ‘in whom wit, which should be the governor of his welfare, becomes the traitor to his blessedness: these beasts, like children to nature, inherit her blessings quietly; we like bastards are laid abroad, even as fondlings, to be trained up by grief and sorrow. Their minds grudge not at their bodies’ comfort, nor their senses are letted from enjoying their objects; we have the impediments of honour, and the torments of conscience.’ Truly in such cogitations I have sometimes so long stood that methought my feet began to grow into the ground, with such a darkness and heaviness of mind, that I might easily have been persuaded to have resigned over my very essence. But love (which one time lay burdens, another time giveth wings) when I was at the lowest of my downward thoughts, pulled up my heart to remember, that nothing is achieved before it be throughly attempted, and that lying still, doth never go forward; and that therefore it was time, now or never, to sharpen my invention, to pierce through the hardness of this enterprise, never ceasing to assemble all my conceits, one after another, how to manifest both my mind and {129} estate, till at last I lighted and resolved on this way, which yet perchance you will think was a way rather to hide it. I began to counterfeit the extremest love towards Mopsa that might be; and as for the love, so lively it was indeed within me, although to another subject, that little I needed to counterfeit any notable demonstrations of it; and so making a contrariety the place of my memory, in her foulness I beheld Pamela’s fairness, still looking on Mopsa, but thinking on Pamela, as if I saw my sun shine in a puddled water: I cried out of nothing but Mopsa, to Mopsa my attendance was directed; to Mopsa the best fruits I could gather were brought; to Mopsa it seemed still that mine eyes conveyed my tongue: so that Mopsa was my saying; Mopsa was my singing; Mopsa (that is only suitable in laying a foul complexion upon a filthy favour, setting forth both in sluttishness) she was the load-star of my life; she the blessing of mine eyes; she the overthrow of my desires, and yet the recompense of my overthrow; she the sweetness of my heart, even sweetening the death which her sweetness drew upon me. In sum, whatsoever I thought of Pamela, that I said of Mopsa; whereby as I got my master’s goodwill, who before spited me, fearing lest I should win the princess’s favour from him, so did the same make the princess the better content to allow me her presence: whether indeed it were that a certain spark of noble indignation did rise in her not to suffer such a baggage to win away anything of hers, how meanly soever she reputed of it, or rather, as I think, my words being so passionate, and shooting so quite contrary from the marks of Mopsa’s worthiness, she perceived well enough whither they were directed; and therefore being so masked, she was contented as a sport of wit to attend them: whereupon one day determining to find some means to tell, as of a third person, the tale of mine own love and estate, finding Mopsa, like a cuckoo by a nightingale, alone with Pamela, I came in unto them, and with a face, I am sure, full of cloudy fancies, took a harp and sung this song:

Since so mine eyes are subject to your sight, That in your sight they fixed have my brain: Since so my heart is filled with that light, That only light doth all my life maintain.

Since in sweet you, all goods so richly reign, That where you are, no wished good can want Since so your living image lives in me, That in myself yourself true love doth plant: How can you him unworthy then decree, In whose chief part your worths implanted be?

{130}

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

“But the ever pleasing Pamela (that well found the comedy would be marred if she did not help Mopsa to her part), was content to urge a little further of me. ‘Master Dorus,’ said the fair Pamela, ‘methinks you blame your fortune very wrongfully, since the fault is not in fortune but in you that cannot frame yourself to your fortune, and as wrongfully do require Mopsa to so great a disparagement as to her father’s servant, since she is not worthy to be loved that hath not some feeling of her own worthiness.’ I stayed a good while after her words, in hopes she would have continued her speech, so great a delight I received in hearing her, but seeing her say no further, with a quaking all over my body, I thus answered her: ‘Lady, most worthy of all duty how falls it out that you, in whom all virtues shine, will take the patronage of fortune, the only rebellious handmaid against virtue; especially, since before your eyes you have a pitiful spectacle of her wickedness, a forlorn creature, which must remain not such as I am, but such as she makes me, since she must be {131} the balance of worthiness or disparagement. Yet alas! if the condemned man, even at his death, have leave to speak, let my mortal wound purchase thus much consideration; since the perfections are such in the party I love, as the feeling of them cannot come into any unnoble heart, shall that heart, which doth not only feel them, but hath all the working of his life placed in them, shall that heart, I say, lifted up to such a height, be counted base? O let not an excellent spirit do itself such wrong as to think where it is placed, embraced and loved, there can be any unworthiness, since the weakest mist is not easier driven away by the sun than that is chased away with so high thoughts.’ ‘I will not deny,’ answered the gracious Pamela, ‘but that the love you bear to Mopsa, hath brought you to the consideration of her virtues, and that consideration may have made you the more virtuous, and so the more worthy: but even that then, you must confess, you have received of her, and so are rather gratefully to thank her, than to press any further, till you bring something of your own, whereby to claim it. And truly Dorus, I must in Mopsa’s behalf say thus much to you, that if her beauties have so overtaken you, it becomes a true lover to have your heart more set upon her good than your own, and to bear a tenderer respect to her honour than your satisfaction.’ ‘Now by my hallidame, madam,’ said Mopsa, throwing a great number of sheep’s eyes upon me, ‘you have even touched mine own mind to the quick, forsooth.’

“I finding that the policy that I had used had at leastwise produced thus much happiness unto me, as that I might, even in my lady’s presence, discover the sore which had deeply festered within me, and that she could better conceive my reasons applied to Mopsa, than she would have vouchsafed them, whilst herself was a party, thought good to pursue on my good beginning, using this fit occasion of Pamela’s wit, and Mopsa’s ignorance. Therefore with an humble piercing eye, looking upon Pamela as if I had rather been condemned by her mouth than highly exalted by the other, turning myself to Mopsa, but keeping mine eye where it was: ‘Fair Mopsa,’ said I, ‘well do I find by the wise knitting together of your answer that any disputation I can use is as much too weak, as I unworthy. I find my love shall be proved no love, without I leave to love, being too unfit a vessel in whom so high thoughts should be engraven. Yet since the love I bear you hath so joined itself to the best part of my life, as the one cannot depart but that the other will follow, before I seek to obey you in making my last passage, let me know which is my unworthiness, either of mind, estate, or both?’ Mopsa was about to say, in neither; for her heart I think tumbled with overmuch kindness, when {132} Pamela with a more favourable countenance than before, finding how apt I was to fall into despair, told me I might therein have answered myself, for besides that it was granted me that the inward feeling of Mopsa’s perfections had greatly beautified my mind, there was none could deny but that my mind and body deserved great allowance. ‘But Dorus,’ said she, ‘you must be so far master of your love, as to consider that since the judgment of the world stands upon matter of fortune, and that the sex of womankind of all other is most bound to have regardful eye to men’s judgments, it is not for us to play the philosophers in seeking out your hidden virtues, since that which in a wise prince would be counted wisdom, in us will be taken for a light grounded affection: so is not one thing, one done by divers persons.’

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

“‘In the country of Thessalia (alas! why name I that accursed country which brings forth nothing but matters of tragedy? but name it I must) in Thessalia, I say, there was (well may I say {133} there was) a prince, no, no prince, whom bondage wholly possessed, but yet accounted a prince, and named Musidorus. O Musidorus, Musidorus! But to what serve exclamations, where there are no ears to receive the sound? This Musidorus being yet in the tenderest age, his worthy father payed to nature, with a violent death, her last duties, leaving his child to the faith of his friends, and the proof of time: death gave him not such pangs as the foresightful care he had of his silly successor. And yet if in his foresight he could have seen so much, happy was that good prince in his timely departure which barred him from the knowledge of his son’s miseries, which his knowledge could neither have prevented nor relieved. The young Musidorus (being thus, as for the first pledge of the destinies goodwill, deprived of his principal stay) was yet for some years after, as if the stars would breathe themselves for a greater mischief, lulled up in as much good luck as the heedful love of his doleful mother, and the flourishing estate of his country could breed unto him.

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

“‘And hereto did Musidorus’s own virtue, see how virtue can be a minister to mischief, sufficiently provoke him; for indeed thus much must I say for him, although the likeness of our mishaps makes me presume to pattern myself unto him, that well-doing was at that time his scope, from which no faint pleasure could withhold him. But the present occasion which did knit all this together, was his uncle the king of Macedon who, having lately before gotten such victories as were beyond expectation, did at this time send both for the prince his son (brought up together, to avoid the wars, with Musidorus); and for Musidorus himself, that his joy might be the more full, having such partakers of it. But alas! to what a sea of miseries my plaintful tongue doth lead me?’ and thus out of breath, rather with that I thought than that I said, I stayed my speech, till Pamela showing by countenance that such was her pleasure, I thus continued it: ‘These two young princes, to satisfy the king, took their way by sea, towards Thrace, whether they would needs go with a navy to succour him, he being at that time before Byzantium with a mighty army besieging it, where at that time his court was. But when the conspired heavens had {134} gotten this subject of their wrath upon so fit place as the sea was, they straight began to breathe out in boisterous winds some part of their malice against him, so that with the loss of all his navy, he only with the prince his cousin, were cast aland far off from the place whither their desires would have guided them. O cruel winds, in your unconsiderate rages, why either began you this fury, or why did you not end it in his end? but your cruelty was such, as you would spare his life for many deathful torments. To tell you what pitiful mishaps fell to the young prince of Macedon his cousin, I should too much fill your ears with strange horrors; neither will I stay upon those laboursome adventures, nor loathsome misadventures to which, and through which his fortune and courage conducted him; my speech hasteneth itself to come to the full point of Musidorus’s misfortunes. For, as we find the most pestilent diseases do gather in themselves all the infirmities with which the body before was annoyed, so did his last misery embrace in extremity of itself all his former mischiefs. Arcadia; Arcadia was the place prepared to be the stage of his endless overthrow; Arcadia was, alas! well might I say it is, the charmed circle where all his spirits for ever should be enchanted. For here, and nowhere else, did his infected eyes make his mind know what power heavenly beauty had to throw it down to hellish agonies. Here, here did he see the Arcadian king’s eldest daughter, in whom he forthwith placed so all his hopes of joy, and joyful parts of his heart that he left in himself nothing but a maze of longing, and a dungeon of sorrow. But alas! what can saying make them believe, whom seeing cannot persuade? those pains must be felt before they can be understood; no outward utterance can command a conceit. Such was as then the state of the king, as it was no time by direct means to seek her. And such was the state of his captivated will as he could delay no time of seeking her.

“‘In this entangled cause, he clothed himself in a shepherd’s weed, that under the baseness of that form, he might at last have free access to feed his eyes with that which should at length eat up his heart. In which doing, thus much without doubt he hath manifested that this estate is not always to be rejected, since under that veil there may be hidden things to be esteemed. And if he might with taking on a shepherd’s look cast up his eyes to the fairest princess nature in that time created, the like, nay the same desire of mine need no more to be disdained, or held for disgraceful. But now alas! mine eyes wax dim, my tongue begins to falter, and my heart to want force to help either, with the feeling remembrance I have, in what heap of miseries the caitiff prince lay at this time buried. Pardon therefore most excellent princess, if I cut off the course of my dolorous tale, since, if I be understood, {135} I have said enough for the defence of my baseness, and for that which after might befall to that pattern of ill fortune, the matters are too monstrous for my capacity, his hateful destinies must best declare their own workmanship.’

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

“‘And therefore,’ said I, ‘most divine lady, he justly was thus to argue against such suspicions, that the prince might easily by those parties be satisfied, that upon that wreck such a one was {136} taken up, and therefore that Plangus might well err, who knew not of any one’s taking up: again that he that was so preserved brought good tokens to be one of the two, chief of that wrecked company: which two, since Plangus knew to be Musidorus and Pyrocles, he must needs be one of them, although, as I said, upon a fore-taken vow, he was otherwise at that time called. Besides, the princess must needs judge that no less than a prince durst undertake such an enterprise, which, though he might get the favour of the princess, he could never defend with less than a prince’s power, against the force of Arcadia. Lastly, said he, for a certain demonstration, he presumed to show unto the princess a mark he had on his face, as I might,’ said I, ‘show this of my neck to the rare Mopsa:’ and, withal, showed my neck to them both, where, as you know, there is a red spot bearing figure, as they tell me, of a lion’s paw, that she may ascertain herself, that I am Menalcas’ brother. ‘And so did he, beseeching her to send someone she might trust into Thessalia, secretly to be advertised, whether the age, the complexion, and particularly that notable sign, did not fully agree with their prince Musidorus.’ ‘Do you not know further,’ said she, with a settled countenance not accusing any kind of inward motion, ‘of that story?’ ‘Alas, no,’ said I, ‘for even here the historiographer stopped, saying, the rest belonged to astrology.’ And therewith, thinking her silent imaginations began to work upon somewhat to mollify them, as the nature of music is to do, and, withal, to show what kind of shepherd I was, I took up my harp, and sang these few verses:

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

“And then, partly to bring Mopsa again to the matter, lest she should too much take heed to our discourses, but principally, if it were possible to gather some comfort out of her answers, I kneeled down to the princess, and humbly besought her to move Mopsa in my behalf, that she would unarm her noble heart of that steely resistance against the sweet blows of love: that since all her parts were decked with some particular ornament; her face with beauty, her head with wisdom, her eyes with majesty, her countenance with gracefulness, her lips with loveliness, her tongue with victory, that she would make her heart the throne of pity, being the most {137} excellent raiment of the most excellent part. Pamela without show either of favour or disdain, either of heeding or neglecting what I had said, turned her speech to Mopsa, and with such a voice and action, as might show she spoke of a matter which little did concern her; ‘Take heed to yourself,’ said she, Mopsa, ‘for your shepherd can speak well: but truly, if he do fully prove himself such as he saith, I mean, the honest shepherd Menalcas’s brother and heir, I know no reason why you should think scorn of him.’ Mopsa though, in my conscience, she were even then far spent towards me, yet she answered her, that for all my quaint speeches, she would keep her honesty close enough, and that, as for the way of matrimony, she would step never a foot further till my master, her father, had spoken the whole word himself, no she would not. But ever and anon turning her muzzle towards me, she threw such a prospect upon me as might well have given a surfeit to any weak lover’s stomach. But, lord, what a fool am I, to mingle that drivel’s speeches among my noble thoughts! but because she was an actor in this tragedy, to give you a full knowledge, and to leave nothing that I can remember, unrepeated.

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

“Mopsa was benumbed with joy when the princess gave it her: but in the princess I could find no apprehension of what I either said or did, but with a calm carelessness letting each thing slide (just as we do by their speeches who neither in matter nor person do anyway belong unto us) which kind of cold temper, mix’d with that lightening of her natural majesty, is of all others most terrible unto me: for yet if I found she contemned me, I would desperately labour both in fortune and virtue to overcome it; if she only misdoubted me I were in heaven; for quickly I would bring sufficient assurance; lastly, if she hated me, yet I should know what passion to deal with; and either with infiniteness of desert I would take away the fuel from that fire; or if nothing would serve, then I would give her my heart’s blood to quench it. But this cruel quietness, neither retiring to mislike, nor proceeding {138} to favour; gracious, but gracious still after one manner; all her courtesies, having this engraven in them that what is done, is for virtue’s sake, not for the parties, ever keeping her course like the sun, who neither for our praises nor curses will spur or stop his horses. This, I say, heavenliness of hers, for howsoever my misery is, I cannot but so entitle it, is so impossible to reach unto that I almost begin to submit myself to the tyranny of despair, not knowing any way of persuasion, where wisdom seems to be unsensible. I have appeared to her eyes like myself, by a device I used with my master, persuading him that we two might put on certain rich apparel I had provided, and so practice something on horseback before Pamela, telling him, it was apparel I had gotten for playing well the part of a king in a tragedy at Athens: my horse indeed was it I had left at Menalcas’s house, and Dametas got one by friendship out of the prince’s stable. But howsoever I show, I am no base body, all I do is but to beat a rock and get foam.”

But as Dorus was about to tell further, Dametas (who came whistling, and counting upon his fingers how many load of hay seventeen fat oxen eat up in a year) desired Zelmane from the king that she would come into the lodge where they stayed for her. “Alas!” said Dorus, taking his leave, “the sum is this, that you may well find you have beaten your sorrow against such a wall, which, with the force of a rebound, may well make your sorrow stronger.” But Zelmane turning her speech to Dametas, “I shall grow,” said she, “skilful in country matters if I have often conference with your servant.” “In sooth,” answered Dametas with a graceless scorn, “the lad may prove well enough, if he over soon think not too well of himself, and will bear away that he heareth of his elders.” And therewith as they walked to the other lodge, to make Zelmane find she might have spent her time better with him, he began with a wild method to run over all the art of husbandry, especially employing his tongue about well dunging of a field, while poor Zelmane yielded her ears to those tedious strokes, not warding them so much as with any one answer, till they came to Basilius and Gynecia, who attended for her in a coach to carry her abroad to see some sports prepared for her. Basilius and Gynecia, sitting in the one end, placed her at the other, with her left side to Philoclea. Zelmane was moved in her mind to have kissed their feet for the favour of so blessed a seat, for the narrowness of the coach made them join from the foot to the shoulders very close together, the truer touch whereof though it were barred by their envious apparel, yet as a perfect magnet, though but in an ivory box, will through the box send forth his embracing virtue to a beloved needle, so this imparadised neighbourhood made Zelmane’s soul cleave unto her, both through {139} the ivory case of her body and the apparel which did overcloud it. All the blood of Zelmane’s body stirring in her, as wine will do when sugar is hastily put into it, seeking to suck the sweetness of the beloved guest: her heart like a lion new imprisoned, seeing him that restrains his liberty before the grate, not panting, but striving violently, if it had been possible, to have leaped into the lap of Philoclea. But Dametas, even then proceeding from being master of a cart, to be doctor of a coach, not a little proud in himself that his whip at that time guided the rule of Arcadia, drove the coach, the cover whereof was made with such joints that as they might, to avoid the weather, pull it up close when they listed, so when they would they might put each end down and remain as discovered and open sighted as on horseback, till upon the side of the forest they had both greyhounds, spaniels, and hounds, whereof the first might seem the lords, the second the gentlemen, and the last the yeoman of dogs; a cast of merlins there was besides, which, flying of a gallant height over certain bushes, would beat the birds that rose down into the bushes, as falcons will do wild-fowl over a river. But the sport which for that day Basilius would principally show to Zelmane, was the mounty at a heron, which getting up on his waggling wings with pain, till he was come to some height (as though the air next to the earth were not fit for his great body to fly through) was now grown to diminish the sight of himself, and to give example to great persons that the higher they be the less they should show; when a gyrfalcon was cast off after her, who straight spying where the prey was, fixing her eye with desire, and guiding her wing by her eye, used no more strength than industry. For as a good builder to a high tower will not make his stair upright, but winding almost the full compass about, that the steepness be the more unsensible, so she, seeing the towering of her pursued chase, went circling and compassing about, rising so with the less sense of rising, and yet finding that way scantly serve the greediness of her haste, as an ambitious body will go far out of the direct way to win to a point of height which he desires; so would she, as it were, turn tail to the heron, and fly out quite another way, but all was to return in a higher pitch, which once gotten, she would either beat with cruel assaults the heron, who now was driven to the best defence of force, since flight would not serve, or else clasping with him, come down together, to be parted by the over-partial beholders.

Divers of which flights Basilius showing to Zelmane, thus was the riches of the time spent, and the day deceased before it was thought of, till night like a degenerating successor made his departure the better remembered. And therefore, so constrained, they willed Dametas to drive homeward, who, half sleeping, half {140} musing about the mending of a wine-press, guided the horses so ill that the wheel coming over a great stub of a tree, it overturned the coach. Which though it fell violently upon the side where Zelmane and Gynecia sat, yet for Zelmane’s part, she would have been glad of the fall which made her bear the sweet burden of Philoclea, but that she feared she might receive some hurt. But indeed neither she did, nor any of the rest, by reason they kept their arms and legs within the coach, saving Gynecia, who with the only bruise of the fall, had her shoulder put out of joint, which, though by one of the falconers cunning it was set well again, yet with much pain was she brought to the lodge; and pain, fetching his ordinary companion, a fever, with him, drove her to entertain them both in her bed.

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

The sweet minded Philoclea was in their degree of well-doing, to whom the not knowing of evil serveth for a ground of virtue, and hold their inward powers in better form with an unspotted simplicity, than many who rather cunningly seek to know what goodness is than willingly take into themselves the following of it. But as that sweet and simple breath of heavenly goodness is the easier to be altered because it hath not passed through the worldly wickedness, nor feelingly found the evil that evil carries with it, so now the lady Philoclea (whose eyes and senses had received nothing, but according as the natural course of each thing required; whose tender youth had obediently lived under her parents behests, without framing out of her own will the fore-choosing of any thing) when now she came to a point wherein her judgment was to be practised in knowing faultiness by his first {141} tokens, she was like a young fawn who, coming in the wind of the hunters, doth not know whether it be a thing or not to be eschewed; whereof at this time she began to get a costly experience. For after that Zelmane had a while lived in the lodge with her, and that her only being a noble stranger had bred a kind of heedful attention; her coming to that lonely place, where she had nobody but her parents, a willingness of conversation; her wit and behaviour a liking and silent admiration; at length the excellency of her natural gifts, joined with the extreme shows she made of most devout honouring Philoclea (carrying thus, in one person, the only two bands of goodwill, loveliness and lovingness) brought forth in her heart a yielding to a most friendly affection; which when it had gotten so full possession of the keys of her mind that it would receive no message from her senses without that affection were the interpreter, then straight grew an exceeding delight still to be with her, with an unmeasurable liking of all that Zelmane did: matters being so turned in her, that where at first liking her manners did breed goodwill, now goodwill became the chief cause of liking her manners: so that within a while Zelmane was not prized for her demeanour, but the demeanour was prized because it was Zelmane’s. Then followed that most natural effect of conforming herself to that which she did like, and not only wishing to be herself such another in all things but to ground an imitation upon so much an esteemed authority, so that the next degree was to mark all Zelmane’s doings, speeches, and fashions, and to take them into herself as a pattern of worthy proceeding. Which when once it was enacted, not only by the commonality of passions, but agreed unto by her most noble thoughts, and that reason itself, not yet experienced in the issues of such matters, had granted his royal assent, then friendship, a diligent officer, took care to see the statute thoroughly observed. Then grew on that not only she did imitate the soberness of her countenance, the gracefulness of her speech, but even their particular gestures, so that as Zelmane did often eye her, she would often eye Zelmane; and as Zelmane’s eyes would deliver a submissive, but vehement desire in their look, she, though as yet she had not the desire in her, yet should her eyes answer in like piercing kindness of a look. Zelmane, as much as Gynecia’s jealousy would suffer, desired to be near Philoclea; Philoclea, as much as Gynecia’s jealousy would suffer, desired to be near Zelmane. If Zelmane took her hand, and softly strained it, she also, thinking the knots of friendship ought to be mutual, would, with a sweet fastness, show she was loth to part from it. And if Zelmane sighed, she should sigh also; when Zelmane was sad, she deemed it wisdom, and therefore she would be sad too. {142} Zelmane’s languishing countenance with crossed arms, and sometimes cast up eyes, she thought to have an excellent grace, and therefore she also willingly put on the same countenance, till at the last, poor soul, ere she were aware, she accepted not only the badge, but the service; not only the sign, but the passion signified. For whether it were that her wit in continuance did find that Zelmane’s friendship was full of impatient desire, having more than ordinary limits, and therefore she was content to second Zelmane, though herself knew not the limits, or that in truth, true love, well considered, hath an infective power, at last she fell in acquaintance with love’s harbinger, wishing; first she would wish that they two might live all their lives together, like two of Diana’s nymphs. But that wish she thought not sufficient, because she knew there would be more nymphs besides them, who also would have their part in Zelmane. Then would she wish that she were her sister, that such a natural band might make her more special to her, but against that, she considered, that, though being her sister, if she happened to be married she should be robbed of her. Then grown bolder she would wish either herself, or Zelmane, a man, that there might succeed a blessed marriage between them. But when that wish had once displayed his ensign in her mind, then followed whole squadrons of longings, that so it might be with a main battle of mislikings and repinings against their creation, that so it was not. Then dreams by night began to bring more unto her than she durst wish by day, whereout waking did make her know herself the better by the image of those fancies. But as some diseases when they are easy to be cured, they are hard to be known, but when they grow easy to be known, they are almost impossible to be cured, so the sweet Philoclea, while she might prevent it, she did not feel it, now she felt it, when it was past preventing; like a river, no rampires being built against it, till already it have overflowed. For now indeed love pulled off his mask, and showed his face unto her, and told her plainly that she was his prisoner. Then needed she no more paint her face with passions, for passions shone through her face; then her rosy colour was often increased with extraordinary blushing, and so another time, perfect whiteness descended to a degree of paleness; now hot, then cold, desiring she knew not what, nor how, if she knew what. Then her mind, though too late, by the smart was brought to think of the disease, and her own proof taught her to know her mother’s mind, which, as no error gives so strong assault as that which comes armed in the authority of a parent, so greatly fortified her desires to see that her mother had the like desires. And the more jealous her mother was, the more she thought the jewel precious which was with so many locks guarded. {143} But that prevailing so far, as to keep the two lovers from private conference, then began she to feel the sweetness of a lover’s solitariness, when freely with words and gestures, as if Zelmane were present, she might give passage to her thoughts, and so, as it were, utter out some smoke of those flames, wherewith else she was not only burned but smothered. As this night, that going from the one lodge to the other, by her mother’s commandment, with doleful gestures and uncertain paces, she did willingly accept the time’s offer to be a while alone: so that going a little aside into the wood, where many times before she had delighted to walk, her eyes were saluted with a tuft of trees, so close set together, that, with the shade the moon gave through it, it might breed a fearful kind of devotion to look upon it: but true thoughts of love banished all vain fancy of superstition. Full well she did both remember and like the place, for there had she often with their shade beguiled Phoebus of looking upon her: there had she enjoyed herself often, while she was mistress of herself and had no other thoughts, but such as might arise out of quiet senses.

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

You living powers enclos’d in stately shrine Of growing trees: you rural Gods that wield Your scepters here, if to your ears divine A voice may come, which troubled soul doth yield; This vow receive, this vow, O Gods, maintain; My virgin life no spotted thought shall stain.

Thou purest stone; whose pureness doth present My purest mind; whose temper hard doth show My temper’d heart; by thee my promise sent Unto myself let after-livers know, No fancy mine, nor others’ wrong suspect Make me, O virtuous shame, thy laws neglect.

O chastity, the chief of heavenly lights, Which mak’st us most immortal shape to wear, Hold thou my heart, establish thou my sprites: To only thee my constant course I bear; ’Till spotless soul unto thy bosom fly. Such life to lead, such death I vow to die.

{144}

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

My words, in hope to blaze a stedfast mind, This marble chose, as of like tempter known: But lo, my words defac’d my fancies blind, Blots to the stone, shames to myself I find: And witness am, how ill agree in one, A woman’s hand with constant marble stone.

My words full weak, the marble full of might; My words in store, the marble all alone; My words black ink, the marble kindly white; My words unseen, the marble still in sight, May witness bear, how ill agree in one, A woman’s hand with constant marble stone.

But seeing she could not see means to join as then this recantation to the former vow, laying all her fair length under one of the trees, for a while she did nothing but turn up and down, as if she had hoped to turn away the fancy that had mastered her, and hid her face, as if she could have hidden herself from her own fancies. At length with a whispering note to herself: “O me unfortunate wretch,” said she, “what poisonous heats be these which thus torment me? how hath the sight of this strange guest invaded my soul? alas what entrance found this desire, or what strength had it thus to conquer me?” Then a cloud passing between her sight and the moon, “O Diana,” said she, “I would either the cloud that now hides the light of my virtue would as easily pass away as you will quickly overcome this let, or else that you were for ever thus darkened to serve for an excuse of my outrageous folly.” Then looking to the stars, which had perfectly as then beautified the {145} clear sky: “My parents,” said she, “have told me that in those fair heavenly bodies there are great hidden deities, which have their working in the ebbing and flowing of our estates. If it be so, then, O you stars! judge rightly of me, and if I have with wicked intent made myself a prey to fancy, or if by any idle lusts I framed my heart fit for such an impression, then let this plague daily increase in me, till my name be made odious to womankind. But if extreme and unresistable violence have oppressed me, who will ever do any of you sacrifice, O you stars, if you do not succour me? No, no, you will not help me. No, no, you cannot help me: sin must be the mother, and shame the daughter of my affection. And yet are these but childish objections, simple Philoclea, it is the impossibility that doth torment me: for, unlawful desires are punished after the effect of enjoying; but impossible desires are punished in the desire itself. O then, O ten times unhappy that I am, since wherein all other hope kindleth love, in me despair should be the bellows of my affection: and of all despairs the most miserable, which is drawn from impossibility. The most covetous man longs not to get riches out of a ground which never can bear anything; why? because it is impossible. The most ambitious wight vexeth not his wits to climb into heaven; why? because it is impossible. Alas! then, O love, why dost thou in thy beautiful sampler set such a work for my desire to take out, which is as much impossible? and yet alas! why do I thus condemn my fortune before I hear what she can say for herself? what do I, silly wench, know what love hath prepared for me? do I not think my mother, as well, at least as furiously as myself, love Zelmane? and should I be wiser than my mother? either she sees a possibility in that which I see impossible, or else impossible loves need not misbecome me. And do I not see Zelmane, who doth not think a thought which is not first weighed by wisdom and virtue, doth not she vouchsafe to love me with like order? I see it, her eyes depose it to be true; what then? and if she can love poor me, shall I think scorn to love such a woman as Zelmane? away then all vain examinations of why and how. Thou lovest me, most excellent Zelmane, and I love thee:” and with that, embracing the very ground whereon she lay, she said to herself, for even to herself she was ashamed to speak it out in words, “O my Zelmane, govern and direct me, for I am wholly given over unto thee.”

In this depth of muses and divers sorts of discourses, would she ravingly have remained, but that Dametas and Miso, who were round about to seek her, understanding she was come to their lodge that night, came hard by her; Dametas saying that he would not deal in other body’s matters, but for his part he did not like that maids should once stir out of their father’s houses, but if it {146} were to milk a cow, or save a chicken from a kite’s foot, or some such other matter of importance. And Miso swearing that if it were her daughter Mopsa, she would give her a lesson for walking so late that should make her keep within doors for one fortnight. But their jangling made Philoclea rise, and pretending as though she had done it but to sport with them, went with them, after she had willed Miso to wait upon her mother to the lodge; where, being now accustomed by her parent’s discipline as well as her sister to serve herself, she went alone up to Pamela’s chamber, where, meaning to delight her eyes, and joy her thoughts with the sweet conversation of her beloved sister, she found her, though it were in the time that the wings of night doth blow sleep most willingly into mortal creatures, sitting in a chair, lying backward, with her head almost over the back of it, and looking upon a wax-candle which burnt before her; in one hand holding a letter, in the other her handkerchief, which had lately drunk up the tears of her eyes, leaving instead of them crimson circles, like red flakes in the element when the weather is hottest; which Philoclea finding, for her eyes had learned to know the badges of sorrow, she earnestly entreated to know the cause thereof that either she might comfort, or accompany her doleful humour. But Pamela, rather seeming sorry that she had perceived so much, than willing to open any further; “O my Pamela,” said Philoclea, “who are to me a sister in nature, a mother in counsel, a princess by the law of our country, and, which name methinks of all other is the dearest, a friend by my choice and your favour, what means this banishing me from your counsels? do you love your sorrow so well as to grudge me part of it? or do you think I shall not love a sad Pamela so well as a joyful? or be my ears unworthy, or my tongue suspected? What is it, my sister, that you should conceal from your sister, yea and servant Philoclea?” Those words won no further of Pamela, but that telling her they might talk better as they lay together, they impoverished their clothes to enrich their bed, which for that night might well scorn the shrine of Venus: and their cherishing one another with dear, though chaste embracements, with sweet though cold kisses, it might seem that love was come to play him there without dart, or that weary of his own fires, he was there to refresh himself between their sweet breathing lips.

But Philoclea earnestly again entreated Pamela to open her grief: who, drawing the curtain that the candle might not complain of her blushing, was ready to speak: but the breath, almost formed into words, was again stopped by her and turned into sighs. But at last, “I pray you,” said she, sweet Philoclea, “let us talk of some other thing: and tell me whether you did ever see anything so amended as our pastoral sports be since that Dorus came {147} hither?” O love, how far thou seest with blind eyes? Philoclea had straight found her, and therefore to draw out more: “Indeed,” said she, “I have often wondered to myself how such excellencies could be in so mean a person, but belike fortune was afraid to lay her treasures where they should be stained with so many perfections, only I marvel how he can frame himself to hide so rare gifts under such a block as Dametas.” “Ah,” said Pamela, “if you knew the cause, but no more do I neither; and to say the truth: but lord, how are we fallen to talk of this fellow? and yet indeed if you were sometimes with me to mark him while Dametas reads his rustic lecture unto him how to feed his beasts before noon, where to shade them in the extreme heat, how to make the manger handsome for his oxen, when to use the goad, and when the voice; giving him rules of a herdman, though he pretend to make him a shepherd, to see all the while with what a grace, which seems to set a crown upon his base estate, he can descend to those poor matters, certainly you would: but to what serves this? no doubt we were better sleep than talk of those idle matters.” “Ah my Pamela,” said Philoclea, “I have caught you; the constancy of your wit was not wont to bring forth such disjointed speeches: you love, dissemble no further.” “It is true,” said Pamela, “now you have it; and with less ado should, if my heart could have thought those words suitable for my mouth. But indeed, my Philoclea, take heed: for I think virtue itself is no armour of proof against affection. Therefore learn by my example.” Alas! thought Philoclea to herself, your shears come too late to clip the bird’s wings that already is flown away. But then Pamela, being once set in the stream of her love, went away amain, withal telling her how his noble qualities had drawn her liking towards him; but yet ever weighing his meanness, and so held continually in due limits; till seeking many means to speak with her, and ever kept from it, as well because she shunn’d it, seeing and disdaining his mind, as because of her jealous jailors, he had at length used the finest policy that might be in counterfeiting love to Mopsa, and saying to Mopsa whatsoever he would have her know; and in how passionate manner he had told his own tale in a third person, making poor Mopsa believe, that it was a matter fallen out many ages before. “And in the end, because you shall know my tears come not neither of repentance nor misery, who, think you, is my Dorus fallen out to be? even the Prince Musidorus, famous over all Asia for his heroical enterprises, of whom you remember how much good the stranger Plangus told my father; he not being drowned, as Plangus thought, though his cousin Pyrocles indeed perished. Ah my sister, if you had heard his words, or seen his gestures when he made me know what, and {148} to whom his love was, you would have matched in yourself those two rarely matched together, pity and delight. Tell me dear sister, for the gods are my witnesses I desire to do virtuously, can I without the detestable stain of ungratefulness abstain from loving him, who (far exceeding the beautifulness of his shape with the beautifulness of his mind, and the greatness of his estate with the greatness of his acts) is content so to abase himself, as to become Dametas’s servant for my sake? you will say, how know I him to be Musidorus, since the handmaid of wisdom is slow of belief? that consideration did not want in me; for the nature of desire itself is no easier to receive belief, than it is hard to ground belief. For as desire is glad to embrace the first show of comfort, so is desire desirous of perfect assurance, and that have I had of him, not only by necessary arguments to any of common sense, but by sufficient demonstrations. Lastly, he would have me send to Thessalia, but truly I am not as now in mind to do my honourable love so much wrong as so far to suspect him: yet poor soul, knows he no other, but that I do both suspect, neglect, yea, and detest him. For every day he finds one way or other to set forth himself unto me, but all are rewarded with like coldness of acceptation.

“A few days since, he and Dametas had furnished themselves very richly to run at the ring before me. O how mad a sight it was to see Dametas, like rich tissue furred with lamb-skins? but O how well it did with Dorus, to see with what a grace he presented himself before me on horseback, making majesty wait upon humbleness? how at the first, standing still with his eyes bent upon me, as though his motions were chained to my look, he so stayed till I caused Mopsa bid him do something upon his horse: which no sooner said, but, with a kind rather of quick gesture than show of violence, you might see him come towards me, beating the ground in so due time that no dancer can observe better measure. If you remember the ship we saw once when the sea went high upon the coast of Argos, so went the beast. But he, as if centaur-like he had been one piece with the horse, was no more moved than one with the going of his own legs, and in effect so did he command him as his own limbs; for tho’ he had both spurs and wand, they seemed rather marks of sovereignty than instruments of punishment, his hand and leg, with most pleasing grace, commanding without threatening, and rather remembering than chastising; at least if sometimes he did it was so stolen as neither our eyes could discern it nor the horse with any change did complain of it: he ever going so just with the horse, either forth-right or turning that it seemed he borrowed the horse’s body, so he lent the horse his mind. In the turning one might perceive the bridle-hand something gently stir: but indeed {149} so gently that it did rather distil virtue than use violence. Himself, which methinks is strange, showing at one instant both steadiness and nimbleness; sometimes making him turn close to the ground, like a cat, when scratchingly she wheels about after a mouse; sometimes with a little more rising before, now like a raven leaping from ridge to ridge, then like one of Dametas’s kids bound over the hillocks, and all so done, as neither the lusty kind showed any roughness, nor the easier any idleness; but still like a well-obeyed master, whose beck is enough for a discipline, ever concluding each thing he did with his face to me-wards, as if thence came not only the beginning but ending of his motions. The sport was to see Dametas, how he was tossed from the saddle to the mane of the horse, and thence to the ground, giving his gay apparel almost as foul an outside as it had an inside. But as before he had ever said, he wanted but horse and apparel to be as brave a courtier as the best, so now bruised with proof, he proclaimed it a folly for a man of wisdom to put himself under the tuition of a beast, so as Dorus was fain alone to take the ring. Wherein truly at least my womanish eyes could not discern, but that taking his staff from his thigh, the descending it a little down, the getting of it up into the rest, the letting of the point fall, and taking the ring, was but all one motion, at least, if they were divers motions, they did so stealingly slip one into another that the latter part was ever in hand before the eye could discern the former was ended. Indeed Dametas found fault that he showed no more strength in shaking of his staff, but to my conceit the fine cleanness of bearing it was exceeding delightful.

“But how delightful soever it was, my delight might well be in my soul, but it never went to look out of the window to do him any comfort. But how much more I found reason to like him, the more I set all the strength of mine to suppress it, or at least to conceal it. Indeed I must confess, that as some physicians have told me, that when one is cold outwardly, he is not inwardly, so truly the cold ashes laid upon my fire did not take the nature of fire from it. Full often hath my breast swollen with keeping my sighs imprisoned; full often have the tears I drove back from mine eyes, turned back to drown my heart. But alas! what did that help poor Dorus? whose eyes, being his diligent intelligencers, could carry unto him no other news, but discomfortable. I think no day passed but by some one invention he would appear unto me to testify his love. One time he danced the matachin dance in armour, O with what a graceful dexterity! I think to make me see that he had been brought up in such exercises: another time he persuaded his master, to make my time seem shorter, in manner of a dialogue, to play Priamus, while he played Paris. Think, {150} sweet Philoclea, what a Priamus we had: but truly, my Paris was a Paris, and more than a Paris: who, while in a savage apparel, with naked neck, arms, and legs, he made love to Oenone, you might well see by his changed countenance and true tears, that he felt the part he played. Tell me, sweet Philoclea, did you ever see such a shepherd? tell me, did you ever hear of such a prince? and then tell me if a small or unworthy assault have conquered me. Truly I would hate my life, if I thought vanity led me. But since my parents deal so cruelly with me, it is time for me to trust something to my own judgment. Yet hitherto have my looks been as I told you, which continuing after many of those his fruitless trials, have wrought such change in him as I tell you true,” with that word she laid her hand upon her quaking side, “I do not a little fear him. See what a letter this is,” then drew she the curtain, and took the letter from under her pillow, “which to-day, with an afflicted humbleness, he delivered me, pretending before Mopsa that I should read it unto her to mollify, forsooth, her iron stomach.” With that she read the letter, containing thus much:

Most blessed paper, which shalt kiss that hand, whereto all blessedness is in nature a servant, do not yet disdain to carry with thee the woeful words of a miser now despairing: neither be afraid to appear before her, bearing the base title of the sender. For no sooner shall that divine hand touch thee, but that thy baseness shall be turned to most high preferment. Therefore mourn boldly my ink; for while she looks upon you, your blackness will shine: cry out boldly my lamentation; for while she reads you, your cries will be music. Say then, O happy messenger of a most unhappy message, that the too soon born, and too late dying creature, which dares not speak, no not look, no not scarcely think, as from his miserable self, unto her heavenly highness, only presumes to desire thee, in the time that her eyes and voice do exalt thee, to say, and in this manner to say; not from him, O no, that were not fit, but of him, thus much unto her sacred judgment: O you, the only honour to women, to men the only admiration, you that being armed by love, defy him that armed you, in this high estate wherein you have placed me, yet let me remember him to whom I am bound for bringing me to your presence; and let me remember him, who, since he is yours, how mean soever he be, it is reason you have an account of him. The wretch, yet your wretch, though with languishing steps, runs fast to his grave; and will you suffer a temple, how poorly built soever, but yet a temple of your deity, to be razed? but he dieth: it is most true, he dieth: and he in whom you live, to obey you, dieth. Whereof though he plain, he doth not complain: for it is a harm, but no wrong, which he hath received. He dies, because in woeful language all his senses tell him, that such is your pleasure: since you will not that he live, alas, alas, what followeth of the most ruined {151} Dorus, but his end? end then, evil destined Dorus, end; and end thou woeful letter, end; for it sufficeth her wisdom to know, that her heavenly will shall be accomplished.

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

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

But the darkness of sorrow overshadowing her mind, as the night did her eyes, they were both content to hide themselves under the wings of sleep, till the next morning had almost lost his name, before the two sweet sleeping sisters awaked from dreams, which flattered them with more comfort than their waking could, or would consent unto. For then they were called up by Miso, who, having been with Gynecia, had received commandment to be continually with her daughters, and particularly not to let Zelmane and Philoclea have any private conference but that she should be present to hear what passed: Miso having now her authority increased, but came with scowling eyes to deliver a slavering good morrow to the two ladies, telling them it was a shame for them to mar their complexions, yea and conditions too, with long lying abed; and that when she was of their age, she trowed, she would have made a handkerchief by that time a-day. The two sweet princesses with a smiling silence answered her entertainment, and, obeying her direction, covered their dainty beauties with the glad {152} clothes. But as soon as Pamela was ready, and sooner she was than her sister, of the agony of Dorus’s giving a fit to herself, which the words of his letter, lively imprinted in her mind, still remembered her of, she called to Mopsa, and willed her to fetch Dorus to speak with her; because, she said, she would take further judgment of him before she would move Dametas to grant her in marriage unto him: Mopsa, as glad as of sweetmeat to go of such an errand, quickly returned with Dorus to Pamela, who intended both by speaking with him to give some comfort to his passionate heart, and withal to hear some part of his life past, which although fame had already delivered unto her, yet she desired in more particular certainties to have it from so beloved an historian. Yet the sweetness of virtue’s disposition, jealous, even over itself, suffered her not to enter abruptly into questions of Musidorus, whom she was half ashamed she did love so well, and more than half sorry she could love no better, but thought best first to make her talk arise of Pyrocles, and his virtuous father: which thus she did.

“Dorus,” said she, “you told me the last day that Plangus was deceived in that he affirmed the prince Musidorus was drowned, but, withal, you confessed his cousin Pyrocles perished, of whom certainly in that age there was a great loss, since, as I have heard, he was a young prince, of whom all men expected as much as man’s power could bring forth, and yet virtue promised for him their expectation should not be deceived.” “Most excellent lady,” said Dorus, “no expectation in others, nor hope in himself could aspire to a higher mark than to be thought worthy to be praised by your judgment, and made worthy to be praised by your mouth. But most sure it is, that as his fame could by no means get so sweet and noble an air to fly in, as in your breath, so could not you, leaving yourself aside, find in the world a fitter subject of commendation; as noble as a long succession of royal ancestors, famous and famous for victories, could make him; of shape most lovely, and yet of mind more lovely, valiant, courteous, wise, what should I say more? sweet Pyrocles, excellent Pyrocles, what can my words but wrong thy perfections, which I would to God in some small measure thou had’st bequeathed to him that ever must have thy virtues in admiration, that, masked at least in them, I might have found some more gracious acceptation?” With that he imprisoned his look for a while upon Mopsa, who thereupon fell into a very wide smiling. “Truly,” said Pamela, “Dorus I like well your mind that can raise itself out of so base a fortune as yours is, to think of the imitating so excellent a prince as Pyrocles was. Who shoots at the mid-day sun, though he be sure he shall never hit the mark, yet as sure he is, he shall shoot higher {153} than who aims but at a bush. But I pray you, Dorus,” said she, “tell me, since I perceive you are well acquainted with that story, what prince was that Euarchus father to Pyrocles, of whom so much fame goes, for his rightly royal virtues, or by what ways he got that opinion. And then so descend to the causes of his sending first away from him, and then to him for that excellent son of his, with the discourse of his life and loss: and therein you may, if you list, say something of that same Musidorus his cousin, because they going together, the story of Pyrocles, which I only desire, may be the better understood.”

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

“This king left orphan both of father and mother, whose father and grandfather likewise had died young, he found his estate, when he came to the age which allowed his authority, so disjointed even in the noblest and strongest limbs of government that the {154} name of a king was grown even odious to the people, his authority having been abused by those great lords and little kings, who in those between-times of reigning, by unjust favouring those that were partially theirs, and oppressing them that would defend their liberty against them, had brought in, by a more felt than seen manner of proceeding, the worst kind of Oligarchy; that is, when men are governed indeed by a few, and yet are not taught to know what those few be to whom they should obey.

“For they having the power of kings, but not the nature of kings, used the authority as men do their farms, of which they see within a year they shall go out; making the king’s sword strike whom they hated, the king’s purse reward whom they loved; and, which is worst of all, making the royal countenance serve to undermine the royal sovereignty. For the subjects could taste no sweeter fruits of having a king than grievous taxation to serve vain purposes; laws made rather to find faults than to prevent faul