The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia 12 – Sidney · Verses Across
Literature · Romance
The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia 12Dorus Zelmane (part 4)
18
Literature · Romance
The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia 12
Dorus Zelmane (part 4)
SidneyEnglish
“‘This old man, whom I lead, was lately rightful prince of this country of Paphlagonia, by the hard-hearted ungratefulness of a son of his, deprived not only of his kingdom, whereof no foreign forces were ever able to spoil him, but of his sight, the riches which nature grants to the poorest creatures: whereby and by other his unnatural dealings, he hath been driven to such griefs, as even now he would have had me to have led him to the top of this rock, thence to cast himself headlong to death, and so would have had me, who received my life of him, to be the worker of his destruction. But noble gentlemen,’ said he, ‘if either of you have a father, and feel what dutiful affection is ingrafted in a son’s heart, let me entreat you to convey this afflicted prince to some place of rest and security: amongst your worthy acts it shall be none of the least, that a king of such might and fame, and so unjustly oppressed, is in any sort by you relieved.’
“But before they could make him answer, his father began to speak. ‘Ah my son,’ said he, ‘how evil an historian are you that leave out the chief knot of all the discourse? my wickedness, my wickedness! and if thou dost it to spare my ears, the only sense now left me proper for knowledge, assure thyself thou dost mistake me: and I take witness of that sun which you see,’ with that he cast up his blind eyes as if he would hunt for light, ‘and wish myself in worse case than I do wish myself, which is as evil as may be, if I speak untruly, that nothing is so welcome to my thoughts as the publishing of my shame. Therefore know, you gentlemen (to whom from my heart I wish that it may not prove some ominous foretoken of misfortune to have met with such a miser as I am) that whatsoever my son, O God, that truth binds me to reproach him with the name of my son, hath said is true. But besides those truths, this also is true, that having had, in lawful marriage, of a mother fit to bear royal children, this son, such a one as partly you see, and better shall know by my short declaration, and so enjoyed the expectations in the world of him, till he was grown to justify their expectations, so as I needed envy no father for the chief comfort of mortality, to leave another one’s-self after me, I was carried by a bastard son of mine, if at least I be bound to believe the words of that base woman my concubine, his mother, first to mislike, then to hate, lastly to destroy, or to do my best to destroy this son, I think you think, undeserving destruction. What ways she used to bring me to it, if I should tell you, I should tediously trouble you with as much poisonous hypocrisy, desperate fraud, smooth malice, hidden ambition, and smiling envy, as in any living person could be harboured: but I list it not; no remembrance of naughtiness delights me but mine own; and methinks, the accusing his traps might in some manner excuse my fault, which certainly I loath to do. But the conclusion is, that I gave order to some servants of mine, whom I thought as apt for such charities as myself, to lead him out into a forest, and there to kill him.
“‘But those thieves, better natured to my son than myself, spared his life, letting him go to learn to live poorly which he did, giving himself to be a private soldier in a country hereby: but as he was ready to be greatly advanced for some noble pieces of service which he did, he heard news of me, who drunk in my affection to that unlawful and unnatural son of mine, suffered myself to be governed by him, that all favours and punishments passed by him, all offices and places of importance distributed to his favourites; so that, ere I was aware, I had left myself nothing but the name of a king, which he shortly weary of too, with many indignities if anything may be called an indignity which was laid upon me, threw me out of my seat, and put out my eyes, and then, proud in his tyranny, let me go, neither imprisoning, nor killing me, but rather delighting to make me feel my misery; misery indeed, if ever there were any; full of wretchedness, fuller of disgrace, and fullest of guiltiness. And as he came to the crown by so unjust means, as unjustly he kept it, by force of stronger soldiers in citadels, the nests of tyranny and murderers of liberty; disarming all his own countrymen, that no man durst show himself a well-willer of mine: to say the truth, I think, few of them being so, considering my cruel folly to my good son, and foolish kindness to my unkind bastard: but if there were any who felt a pity of so great a fall, and had yet any sparks of unslain duty left in them towards me, yet durst they not show it, scarcely with giving me alms at their doors, which yet was the only sustenance of my distressed life, nobody daring to show so much charity as to lend me a hand to guide my dark steps, till this son of mine, God knows, worthy of a more virtuous, and more fortunate father, forgetting my abominable wrongs, not reckoning danger, and neglecting the present good way he was in of doing himself good, came hither to do this kind office you see him perform towards me, to my unspeakable grief; not only because his kindness is a glass even to my blind eyes of my naughtiness, but that above all griefs, it grieves me he should desperately adventure the loss of his well-deserving life for mine that yet owe more to fortune for my deserts, as if he would carry mud in a chest of crystal. For well I know, he that now reigneth, how much soever, and with good reason, he despiseth me, of all men despised; yet he will not let slip any advantage to make away with him, whose just title, ennobled by courage and goodness, may one day shake the seat of a never secure tyranny. And for this cause I craved of him to lead me to the top of this rock, indeed I must confess, with meaning to free him from so serpentine a companion, as I am. But he finding what I purposed, only therein since he was born, showed himself disobedient unto me. And now gentlemen, you have the true story, which I pray you publish to the world, that my mischievous proceedings may be the glory of his filial piety, the only reward now left for so great a merit. And if it may be, let me obtain that of you, which my son denies me: for never was there more pity in saving any than in ending me, both because therein my agony shall end, and so you shall perceive this excellent young man, who else wilfully follows his own ruin.’
“The matter in itself lamentable, lamentably expressed by the old prince, which needed not take to himself the gestures of pity, since his face could not put off the marks thereof, greatly moved the two princes to compassion, which could not stay in such hearts as theirs without seeking remedy. But by and by the occasion was presented: for Plexirtus, so was the bastard called, came thither with forty horse, only of purpose to murder his brother, of whose coming he had soon advertisement, and thought no eyes of sufficient credit in such a matter but his own, and therefore came himself to be actor and spectator. And as soon as he came, not regarding the weak, as he thought, guard but of two men, commanded some of his followers to set their hands to his, in the killing of Leonatus. But the young prince, though not otherwise armed but with a sword, how falsely soever he was dealt with by others, would not betray himself, but bravely drawing it out, made the death of the first that assailed him, warn his fellows to come more warily after him. But then Pyrocles and Musidorus were quickly become parties (so just a defence deserving as much as old friendship) and so did behave them among that company, more injurious than valiant, that many of them lost their lives for their wicked master.
“Yet perhaps had the number of them at last prevailed, if the king of Pontus, lately by them made so, had not come unlooked for to their succour. Who (having had a dream which had fixed his imagination vehemently upon some great danger, presently to follow those two princes, whom he most dearly loved) was come in all haste, following as well as he could their track, with a hundred horses in that country, which he thought, considering who then reigned, a fit place enough to make the stage of any tragedy.
“But then the match had been so ill made for Plexirtus that his ill-led life and worse-gotten honour should have tumbled together to destruction had there not come in Tydeus and Telenor, with forty or fifty in their suite, to the defence of Plexirtus. These two were brothers, of the noblest house of that country, brought up from their infancy with Plexirtus, men of such prowess as not to know fear in themselves, and yet to teach it in others that should deal with them, for they had often made their lives triumph over most terrible dangers, never dismayed, and ever fortunate; and truly no more settled in valour, than disposed to goodness and justice, if either they had lighted on a better friend, or could have learned to make friendship a child, and not the father of virtue. But bringing up, rather than choice, having first knit their minds unto him (indeed crafty enough, either to hide his faults, or never to show them, but when they might pay home) they willingly held out the course, rather to satisfy him than all the world; and rather to be good friends, than good men: so as though they did not like the evil he did, yet they liked him that did the evil: and though not counsellors of the offence, yet protectors of the offender. Now they having heard of this sudden going out with so small a company, in a country full of evil-wishing minds towards him, though they knew not the cause, followed him; till they found him in such case that they were to venture their lives, or else he to lose his, which they did with such force of mind and body, that truly I may justly say, Pyrocles and Musidorus had never till then found any that could make them so well repeat their hardest lesson in the feats of arms. And briefly so they did; that if they overcame not, yet were they not overcome, but carried away that ungrateful master of theirs to a place of security, howsoever the princes laboured to the contrary. But this matter being thus far begun, it became not the constancy of the princes so to leave it; but in all haste making forces both in Pontus, and Phrygia, they had in few days left him but only that one strong place where he was. For, fear having been the only knot that had fastened his people unto him, that once united by a greater force, they all scattered from him, like so many birds whose cage had been broken.
“In which season the blind king, having in the chief city of his realm set the crown upon his son Leonatus’s head, with many tears both of joy and sorrow, setting forth to the whole people his own faults, and his son’s virtue; after he had kissed him, and forced his son to accept honour of him, as of his new-become subject, even in a moment died, as it should seem, his heart broken with unkindness and affliction, stretched so far beyond his limits with this access of comfort that it was able no longer to keep safe his vital spirits. But the new king, having no less lovingly performed all duties to him dead, than alive, pursued on the siege of his unnatural brother, as much for the revenge of his father as the establishing of his own quiet. In which siege truly I cannot but acknowledge the prowess of those two brothers, than whom the princes never found in all their travel, two of greater ability to perform, nor of abler skill for conduct.
“But Plexirtus finding that if nothing else, famine would at last bring him to destruction, thought better by humbleness to creep, where by pride he could not march. For certainly so had Nature formed him, and the exercise of craft conformed him to all turningness of flights, that, though no man had less goodness in his soul than he, no man could better find the places whence arguments might grow of goodness to another; though no man felt less pity, no man could tell better how to stir pity; no man more impudent to deny, where proofs were not manifest; no man more ready to confess with a repenting manner of aggravating his own evil, where denial would but make the fault fouler. Now he took this way, that having gotten a passport for one, that pretended he would put Plexirtus alive into his hands, to speak with the king his brother, he himself (though much against the minds of the valiant brothers, who rather wished to die in brave defence) with a rope about his neck, bare-footed, came to offer himself to the discretion of Leonatus. Where what submission he used, how cunningly in making greater the fault, he made the faultiness the less, how artificially he could set out the torments of his own conscience, with the burdensome cumber he had found of his ambitious desires, how finely seeming to desire nothing but death, as ashamed to live, he begged life in the refusing it, I am not cunning enough to be able to express; but so fell out of it, that though at first sight Leonatus saw him with no other eye than as the murderer of his father, and anger already began to paint revenge in many colours, ere long he had not only gotten pity but pardon; and if not an excuse of the fault past, yet an opinion of a future amendment: while the poor villains (chief ministers of his wickedness, now betrayed by the author thereof) were delivered to many cruel sorts of death; he so handling it, that it rather seemed he had more come into the defence of an unremediable mischief already committed than that they had done it at first by his consent.
“In such sort the princes left these reconciled brothers (Plexirtus in all his behaviour carrying him in far lower degree of service than the ever-noble nature of Leonatus would suffer him) and taking likewise their leaves of their good friend the king of Pontus, who returned to enjoy some benefit, both of his wife and kingdom, they privately went thence, having only with them the two valiant brothers, who would needs accompany them through divers places, they four doing acts more dangerous, though less famous, because they were but private chivalries; till hearing of the fair and virtuous queen Erona of Lycia, besieged by the puissant king of Armenia, they bent themselves to her succour, both because the weaker, and weaker as being a lady, and partly because they heard the king of Armenia had in his company three of the most famous men living, for matters of arms, that were known to be in the world. Whereof one was the prince Plangus whose name was sweetened by your breath, peerless lady, when the last day it pleased you to mention him unto me, the other two were two great princes, though holding of him, Barzanes and Euardes, men of giant-like both hugeness and force; in which two especially, the trust the king had of victory was reposed. And of them, those brothers Tydeus and Telenor, sufficient judges in warlike matters, spoke so high commendations, that the two princes had even a youthful longing to have some trial of their virtue. And therefore as soon as they were entered into Lycia, they joined themselves with them that faithfully served the poor queen, at that time besieged; and ere long animated in such sort their almost overthrown hearts, that they went by force to relieve the town, though they were deprived of a great part of their strength by the parting of the two brothers, who were sent for in all haste to return to their old friend and master Plexirtus, who, willingly hoodwinking themselves from seeing his faults, and binding themselves to believe what he said, often abused the virtue of courage to defend his foul vice of injustice. But now they were sent for to advance a conquest he was about; while Pyrocles and Musidorus pursued the delivery of the queen Erona.”
“I have heard,” said Pamela, “that part of the story of Plangus, when he passed through this country, therefore you may, if you list, pass over that war of Erona’s quarrel, lest if you speak too much of war matters, you should wake Mopsa, which might happily breed a great broil.” He looked, and saw that Mopsa indeed sat swallowing the sleep with open mouth, making such a noise withal, as nobody could lay the stealing of a nap to her charge. Whereupon, willing to use that occasion, he kneeled down, and with humble heartedness, and hearty earnestness printed in his graces; “Alas!” said he, “divine lady, who have wrought such miracles in me, as to make a prince, none of the basest, to think all principalities base in respect of the sheephook which may hold him up in your sight; vouchsafe now at last to hear in direct words my humble suit, while this dragon sleeps that keeps the golden fruit. If in my desire I wish, or in my hopes aspire, or in my imagination fain to myself anything which may be the least spot to that heavenly virtue which shines in all your doings, I pray the eternal powers, that the words I speak may be deadly poisons, while they are in my mouth, and that all my hopes, all my desires, all my imaginations may only work their own confusion. But if love, love of you, love of your virtues, seek only that favour of you, which becometh that gratefulness which cannot misbecome your excellency, O do not--” He would have said further, but Pamela calling aloud Mopsa, she suddenly started up, staggering, and rubbing her eyes, ran first out of the door, and then back to them, before she knew how she went out, or why she came in again: till at length, being fully come to her little self, she asked Pamela why she had called her. For nothing said Pamela, but that ye might hear some tales of your servant’s telling: “and therefore now,” said she, “Dorus go on.”
But as he, who found no so good sacrifice as obedience, was returning to the story of himself, Philoclea came in, and by and by after her, Miso, so as for that time they were fain to let Dorus depart. But Pamela delighted even to preserve in her memory the words of so well a beloved speaker, repeated the whole substance to her sister, till their sober dinner being come and gone, to recreate themselves something, even tired with the noisomeness of Miso’s conversation, they determined to go, while the heat of the day lasted, to bathe themselves, such being the manner of the Arcadian nymphs often to do, in the river of Ladon, and take with them a lute, meaning to delight them under some shadow. But they could not stir, but that Miso, with her daughter Mopsa was after them: and as it lay in their way to pass by the other lodge, Zelmane out of her window espied them, and so stole down after them, which she might the better do, because that Gynecia was sick, and Basilius, that day being his birth-day, according to his manner, was busy about his devotions; and therefore she went after, hoping to find some time to speak with Philoclea: but not a word could she begin, but that Miso would be one of the audience, so that she was driven to recommend thinking, speaking, and all, to her eyes, who diligently performed her trust, till they came to the river’s side, which of all the rivers of Greece had the praise for excellent pureness and sweetness, insomuch as the very bathing in it was accounted exceeding healthful. It ran upon so fine and delicate a ground, as one could not easily judge whether the river did more wash the gravel, or the gravel did purify the river; the river not running forthright, but almost continually winding, as if the lower streams would return to their spring, or that the river had a delight to play with itself. The banks of either side seeming arms of the loving earth that fain would embrace it, and the river a wanton nymph which still would slip from it; either side of the bank being fringed with most beautiful trees, which resisted the sun’s darts from overmuch piercing the natural coldness of the river. There was among the rest a goodly cypress, who bowing her fair head over the water, it seemed she looked into it, and dressed her green locks by that running river.
There the princesses determining to bathe themselves, though it was so privileged a place, upon pain of death, as nobody durst presume to come hither; yet for the more surety, they looked round about, and could see nothing but a water-spaniel, who came down the river, showing that he hunted for a duck, and with a snuffling grace, disdaining that his smelling force could not as well prevail through the water as through the air; and therefore waiting with his eye to see whether he could espy the ducks getting up again, but then a little below them failing of his purpose, he got out of the river, and shaking off the water (as great men do their friends) now he had no further cause to use it, inweeded himself so that the ladies lost the further marking his sportfulness: and inviting Zelmane also to wash herself with them, and she excusing herself with having taken a late cold, they began by piecemeal to take away the eclipsing of their apparel.
Zelmane would have put to her helping hand, but she was taken with such a quivering, that she thought it more wisdom to lean herself to a tree, and look on, while Miso and Mopsa, like a couple of foreswat melters, were getting the pure silver of their bodies out of the ure of their garments. But as the raiments went off to receive kisses of the ground, Zelmane envied the happiness of all, but of the smock was even jealous, and when that was taken away too, and that Philoclea remained, for her Zelmane only marked, like a diamond taken from out of the rock, or rather like the sun getting from under a cloud, and showing his naked beams to the full view, then was the beauty too much for a patient sight, the delight too strong for a stayed conceit, so that Zelmane could not choose but run, to touch, embrace and kiss her. But conscience made her come to herself, and leave Philoclea, who blushing, and withal smiling, making shamefacedness pleasant, and pleasure shamefaced, tenderly moved her feet, unwonted to feel the naked ground, till the touch of the cold water made a pretty kind of shrugging come over her body, like the twinkling of the fairest among the fixed stars. But the river itself gave way unto her, so that she was straight breast high, which was the deepest that thereabout she could be: and when cold Ladon had once fully embraced them, himself was no more so cold to those ladies, but as if his cold complexion had been heated with love, so seemed he to play about every part he could touch.
“Ah sweet, now sweetest Ladon,” said Zelmane, “why dost thou not stay thy course to have more full taste of thy happiness? but the reason is manifest, the upper streams make such haste to have their part of embracing, that the nether, though lothly, must needs give place unto them. O happy Ladon, within whom she is, upon whom her beauty falls, through whom her eye pierceth. O happy Ladon, which art now an unperfect mirror of all perfection, can’st thou ever forget the blessedness of this impression? if thou do, then let thy bed be turned from fine gravel to weeds and mud; if thou do, let some unjust niggards make wares to spoil thy beauty; if thou do, let some greater river fall into thee, to take away the name of Ladon, O! Ladon, happy Ladon, rather slide than run by her, lest thou should’st make her legs slip from her, and then, O happy Ladon, who would then call thee, but the most cursed Ladon?” But as the ladies played then in the water, sometimes striking it with their hands, the water, making lines in his face, seemed to smile at such beating, and with twenty bubbles not to be content to have the picture of their face in large upon him, but he would in each of these bubbles set forth the miniature of them.
But Zelmane, whose sight was gain-said by nothing but the transparent veil of Ladon (like a chamber where a great fire is kept, though the fire be at one stay, yet with the continuance continually hath his heat increased) had the coals of her affection so kindled with wonder, and blown with delight, that now all her parts grudged, that her eyes should do more homage, than they, to the princes of them. Insomuch that taking up the lute, her wit began to be with a divine fury inspired; her voice would in so beloved an occasion second her wit; her hands accorded the lute’s music to the voice; her panting heart danced to the music; while I think her feet did beat the time; while her body was the room where it should be celebrated; her soul the queen which should be delighted. And so together went the utterance and invention, that one might judge, it was Philoclea’s beauty which did speedily write it in her eyes; or the sense thereof, which did word by word indite it in her mind, whereto she, but as an organ, did only lend utterance. The song was to this purpose:
What tongue can her perfection tell,
In whose each part all tongues may dwell?
Her hair fine threads of finest gold,
In curled knots man’s thought to hold:
But that her forehead says, “in me
A whiter beauty you may see”;
Whiter indeed, more white than snow,
Which on cold winter’s face doth grow:
That doth present those even brows,
Whose equal line their angles bows;
Like to the moon when after change
Her horned head abroad doth range:
And arches be two heavenly lids,
Whose wink each bold attempt forbids.
For the black stars those spheres contain,
The matchless pair, even praise doth stain.
No lamp whose light by art is got,
No sun which shines, and seeth not,
Can liken them without all peer,
Save one as much as other clear:
Which only thus unhappy be,
Because themselves they cannot see.
Her cheeks with kindly claret spread,
Aurora-like new out of bed;
Or like the fresh queen-apple’s side,
Blushing at sight of Phoebus’ pride.
Her nose, her chin pure ivory wears:
No purer than the pretty ears.
So that therein appears some blood
Like wine and milk that mingled stood:
In whose incirclets if ye gaze,
Your eyes may tread a lover’s maze.
But with such turns the voice to stray,
No talk untaught can find the way.
The tip no jewel needs to wear;
The tip is jewel of the ear.
But who those ruddy lips can miss,
Which blessed still themselves to kiss?
Rubies, cherries, and roses new,
In worth, in taste, in perfect hue:
Which never part, but that they show
Of precious pearl the double row;
The second-sweetly fenced ward,
Her heavenly-dewed tongue to guard,
Whence never word in vain did flow.
Fair under those doth stately grow,
The handle of this precious work,
The neck in which strange graces lurk.
Such be I think the sumptuous towers,
Which skill doth make in princes’ bowers.
So good assay invites the eye,
A little downward to espy,
The lively clusters of her breasts,
Of Venus’ babe the wanton nests:
Like pommels round of marble clear;
Where azur’d veins well mix’d appear,
With dearest tops of porphyry.
Betwixt these two a way doth lie,
A way more worthy beauty’s fame,
Than that which bears the Milky name.
This leads into the joyous field,
Which only still doth lilies yield:
But lilies such whose native smell,
The Indians’ odors doth excel.
Waist it is called, for it doth waste
Men’s lives, until it be embrac’d.
There may one see, and yet not see
Her ribs in white all armed be,
More white than Neptune’s foamy face,
When struggling rocks he would embrace.
In those delights the wand’ring thought
Might of each side astray be brought,
But that her navel doth unite,
In curious circle busy sight;
A dainty seal of virgin-wax,
Where nothing but impression lacks.
Her belly their glad sight doth fill,
Justly entitled Cupid’s hill.
A hill most fit for such a master,
A spotless mine of alabaster.
Like alabaster fair and sleek,
But soft and supple, satin-like,
In that sweet seat the boy doth sport:
Loth, I must leave his chief resort.
For such a use the world hath gotten,
The best things still must be forgotten.
Yet never shall my song omit
Her thighs for Ovid’s song more fit;
Which flanked with two sugared flanks,
Lift up her stately swelling banks;
That Albion cliffs in whiteness pass;
With haunches smooth as looking-glass.
But bow all knees, now of her knees
My tongue doth tell what fancy sees.
The knots of joy, the gems of love,
Whose motion makes all graces move.
Whose bough incav’d doth yield such sight,
Like cunning painter shadowed white.
The gartring place with child-like sign,
Shows easy print in metal fine.
But then again the flesh doth rise
In her brave calves like crystal skies.
Whose Atlas is a smallest small,
More white than whitest bone of all.
Thereout steals out that round clean foot
This noble cedar’s precious root:
In show and scent pale violets,
Whose step on earth all beauty sets.
But back unto her back, my Muse,
Where Leda’s swan his feathers mews,
Along whose ridge such bones are met,
Like comfits round in marchpane set.
Her shoulders be like to white doves,
Perching within square royal rooves,
Which leaded are with silver skin,
Passing the hate-spot, emerlin.
And thence those arms derived are;
The Phoenix wings are not so rare
For faultless length, and stainless hue.
Ah woe is me, my woes renew.
Now course doth lead me to her hand
Of my first love the fatal band.
Where whiteness doth for ever sit:
Nature herself enamell’d it.
For therewith strange compact doth lie
Warm snow, moist pearl, soft ivory.
There fall those sapphire-coloured brooks,
Which conduit-like with curious crooks,
Sweet islands make in that sweet land,
As for the fingers of the hand,
The bloody shafts of Cupid’s war,
With amethysts they beaded are.
Thus hath each part his beauty’s part:
But how the graces do impart,
To all her limbs a special grace,
Becoming every time and place,
Which doth even beauty beautify,
And most bewitch the wretched eye.
How all this is but a fair inn
Of fairer guests, which dwell therein.
Of whose high praise, and praiseful bliss,
Goodness the pen, and Heaven paper is:
The ink immortal fame doth lend:
As I began, so must I end.
No tongue can her perfection tell,
In whose each part all tongues may dwell.
But as Zelmane was coming to the latter end of her song, she might see the same water-spaniel which before had hunted, come and fetch away one of Philoclea’s gloves, whose fine proportion, showed well what a dainty guest was wont there to be lodged. It was a delight to Zelmane, to see that the dog was therewith delighted, and so let him go a little way withal, who quickly carried it out of sight among certain trees and bushes, which were very close together. But by and by he came again, and amongst the raiment. Miso and Mopsa being preparing sheets against their coming out, the dog lighted of a little book of four or five leaves of paper, and was bearing that away too. But when Zelmane, not knowing what importance it might be of, ran after the dog, who going straight to those bushes, she might see the dog deliver it to a gentleman, who secretly lay there. But she hastily coming in, the gentleman rose up, and with a courteous, though sad, countenance presented himself unto her. Zelmane’s eyes straight willed her mind to mark him, for she thought in herself, she had never seen a man of a more goodly presence, in whom strong making took not away delicacy, nor beauty fierceness: being indeed such a right man-like man, as nature often erring, yet shows she would fain make. But when she had a while, not without admiration, viewed him, she desired him to deliver back the glove and paper, because they were the lady Philoclea’s, telling him withal, that she would not willingly let them know of his close lying in that prohibited place, while they were bathing themselves, because she knew they would be mortally offended withal. “Fair lady,” answered he, “the worst of the complaint is already passed, since I feel of my fault in myself the punishment. But for these things, I assure you, it was my dog’s wanton boldness, not my presumption. With that he gave her back the paper: but for the glove,” said he, “since it is my lady Philoclea’s, give me leave to keep it, since my heart cannot persuade itself to part from it. And I pray you tell the lady, lady indeed of all my desires, that owns it, that I will direct my life to honour this glove with serving her.” “O villain,” cried out Zelmane, maddened with finding an unlooked-for rival, and that he would make her a messenger, “dispatch,” said she, “and deliver it, or by the life of her that owns it, I will make thy soul, though too base a price, pay for it”: and with that drew out her sword, which, Amazon-like, she ever wore about her. The gentleman retired himself into an open place from among the bushes, and then drawing out his too, he offered to deliver it unto her, saying, withal, “God forbid I should use my sword against you, sith, if I be not deceived, you are the same famous Amazon, that both defended my lady’s just title of beauty against the valiant Phalantus, and saved her life in killing the lion, therefore I am rather to kiss your hands, with acknowledging myself bound to obey you.”
But this courtesy was worse than a bastinado to Zelmane: so that again with rageful eyes she bade him defend himself, for no less than his life should answer it. “A hard case,” said he, “to teach my sword that lesson, which hath ever used to turn itself to a shield in a lady’s presence.” But Zelmane hearkening to no more words, began with such witty fury to pursue him with blows and thrusts, that nature and virtue commanded the gentleman to look to his safety. Yet still courtesy, that seemed incorporate in his heart, would not be persuaded by danger to offer any offence, but only to stand upon the best defensive guard he could; sometimes going back, being content in that respect to take on the figure of cowardice; sometimes with strong and well-met wards, sometimes cunning avoidings of his body; and sometimes feigning some blows, which himself pull’d back before they needed to be withstood. And so with play did he a good while fight against the fight of Zelmane, who, more spited with that courtesy, that one that did nothing should be able to resist her, burned away with choler any motions which might grow out of her own sweet disposition, determined to kill him if he fought no better and so redoubling her blows, drove the stranger to no other shift than to ward and go back; at that time seeming the image of innocency against violence. But at length he found, that both in public and private respects, who stands only upon defence, stands upon no defence: for Zelmane seeming to strike at his head, and he going toward it, withal stepped back as he was accustomed: she stopped her blow in the air, and suddenly turning the point, ran full at his breast, so as he was driven with the pommel of his sword, having no other weapon of defence, to beat it down: but the thrust was so strong that he could not so wholly beat it away, but that it met with his thigh, through which it ran. But Zelmane retiring her sword, and seeing his blood, victorious anger was conquered by the before conquering pity; and heartily sorry, and even ashamed with herself she was, considering how little he had done, who well she found could have done more. Insomuch that she said, “Truly I am sorry for your hurt, but yourself gave the cause, both in refusing to deliver the glove, and yet not fighting as I know you could have done. But,” said she, “because I perceive you disdain to fight with a woman, it may be before a year come about, you shall meet with a near kinsman of mine, Pyrocles prince of Macedon, and I give you my word, he for me shall maintain this quarrel against you.” “I would” answered Amphialus, “I had many more such hurts to meet and know that worthy prince, whose virtue I love and admire, though my good destiny hath not been to see his person.”
But as they were so speaking, the young ladies came, to whom, Mopsa, curious in anything but her own good behaviour, having followed and seen Zelmane fighting, had cried, what she had seen, while they were drying themselves: and the water, with some drops, seemed to weep, that it should pass from such bodies. But they careful of Zelmane, assuring themselves that any Arcadian would bear reverence to them, Pamela with a noble mind, and Philoclea with a loving, hastily, hiding the beauties, whereof nature was proud, and they ashamed, they made quick work to come to save Zelmane. But already they found them in talk, and Zelmane careful of his wound. But when they saw him, they knew it was their cousin-german, the famous Amphialus, whom yet with a sweet graced bitterness they blamed for breaking their father’s commandment, especially while themselves were in such sort retired. But he craved pardon, protesting unto them that he had only been to seek solitary places, by an extreme melancholy that had a good while possessed him, and guided to that place by his spaniel, where while the dog hunted in the river, he had withdrawn himself to pacify with sleep his over watched eyes, till a dream waked him, and made him see that whereof he had dreamed, and withal not obscurely signified, that he felt the smart of his own doings. But Philoclea, that was even jealous of herself for Zelmane, would needs have her glove, and not without so mighty a lower as that face could yield. As for Zelmane when she knew it was Amphialus; “Lord Amphialus,” said she, “I have long desired to know you heretofore, I must confess, with more goodwill, but still with honouring your virtue, though I love not your person: and at this time I pray you let us take care of your wound, upon condition you shall hereafter promise that a more knightly combat shall be performed between us.” Amphialus answered in honourable sort, but with such excusing himself, that more and more accused his love to Philoclea, and provoked more hate in Zelmane. But Mopsa had already called certain shepherds not far off, who knew and well observed their limits, to come and help to carry away Amphialus, whose wound suffered him not without danger to strain it: and so he leaving himself with them, departed from them, faster bleeding in his heart than at his wound, which bound up by the sheets, wherewith Philoclea had been wrapped, made him thank the wound, and bless the sword for that favour.
He being gone, the ladies, with merry anger talking, in what naked simplicity their cousin had seen them, returned to the lodge-ward; yet thinking it too early, as long as they had any day, to break off so pleasing a company with going to perform a cumbersome obedience, Zelmane invited them to the little arbour, only reserved for her, which they willingly did: and there sitting, Pamela having a while made the lute in his language show how glad it was to be touched by her fingers, Zelmane delivered up the paper which Amphialus had at first yielded unto her, and seeing written upon the backside of it the complaint of Plangus, remembering what Dorus had told her, and desiring to know how much Philoclea knew of her estate, she took occasion in presenting of it, to ask whether it were any secret or no. “No truly,” answered Philoclea, “it is but even an exercise of my father’s writing, upon this occasion: he was one day, somewhile before your coming hither, walking abroad, having us two with him, almost a mile hence, and crossing a highway, which comes from the city of Megalopolis, he saw this gentleman, whose name is there written, one of the properest and best graced men that ever I saw, being of middle age and of a mean stature. He lay as then under a tree, while his servants were getting fresh post-horses for him. It might seem he was tired with the extreme travel he had taken, and yet not so tired that he forced to take any rest, so hasty he was upon his journey: and withal so sorrowful that the very face thereof was painted in his face, which with pitiful motions, even groans, tears, and passionate talking to himself, moved my father to fall in talk with him, who at first not knowing him, answered him in such a desperate phrase of grief that my father afterward took a delight to set it down in such a form as you see: which if you read, what you doubt of, my sister and I are able to declare unto you, Zelmane willingly opened the leaves, and read it being written dialogue-wise in this manner.”
PLANGUS and BASILIUS
PLANGUS
Alas, how long this pilgrimage doth last?
What greater ills have now the heavens in store,
To couple coming harms with sorrows past?
Long since my voice is hoarse, and throat is sore,
With cries to skies, and courses to the ground,
But more I plain, I feel my woes the more.
Ah, where was first that cruel cunning found,
To frame of earth, a vessel of the mind,
Where it should be to self-destruction bound?
What needed so high spirits, such mansions blind?
Or wrapped in flesh what do they here obtain.
But glorious name of wretched human kind?
Balls to the stars, and thralls to Fortune’s reign;
Turn’d from themselves, infected with their rage,
Where death is fear’d, and life is held with pain,
Like players plac’d to fill a filthy stage,
Where change of thoughts one fool to other shows,
And all but jests, save only sorrow’s rage.
The child feels that, the man that feeling knows,
Which cries first born, the presage of his life,
Where wit but serves, to have true taste of woes.
A shop of shame, a book where blots be rife,
This body is, this body so compos’d,
As in itself to nourish mortal strife:
So divers be the elements dispos’d.
In this weak work, that it can never be
Made uniform to any state repos’d.
Grief only makes his wretched state to see
(Even like a top which nought but whipping moves)
This man, this talking beast, this walking tree,
Grief is the stone which finest judgments proves:
For who grieves not, hath but a blockish brain,
Since cause of grief no cause from life removes.
BASILIUS
How long wilt thou with mournful music stain
The cheerful notes those pleasant places yield,
Where all good haps a perfect state maintain?
PLANGUS
Cursed be good haps, and cursed be they that build
Their hopes on haps, and do not make despair
For all those certain blows the surest shield.
Shall I that saw Erona’s shining hair,
Torn with her hands, and those same hands of snow
With loss of purest blood themselves to tear?
Shall I that saw those breasts, where beauties flow,
Swelling with sighs, made pale with mind’s disease,
And saw those eyes, those suns, such showers to show?
Shall I whose ears her mournful words did seize,
Her words in syrup laid of sweetest breath,
Relent those thoughts which then did so displease?
No, no: despair my daily lesson faith,
And faith, although I seek my life to fly,
Plangus must live to see Erona’s death.
Plangus must live some help for her to try
(Though in despair) for love so forceth me,
Plangus doth live, and shall Erona die?
Erona die? O heaven, if heaven there be,
Hath all thy whirling course so small effect?
Serve all thy starry eyes this shame to see?
Let dolts in haste some altars fair erect
To those high powers, which idly sit above,
And virtue do in greatest need neglect.
BASILIUS
O man, take heed, how thou the gods do move
To causeful wrath, which thou can’st not resist.
Blasphemous words the speaker vain do prove.
Alas while we are wrapped in foggy mist
Of our self-love, so passions do deceive,
We think they hurt, when most they do assist.
To harm us worms should that high justice leave
His nature? nay himself? for so it is.
What glory from our loss can he receive?
But still our dazzled eyes their way do miss,
While that we do at his sweet scourge repine,
The kindly way do beat us on to bliss.
If she must die then hath she passed the line
Of loathsome days, whose loss how can’st thou moan,
That dost so well their miseries define?
But such we are with inward tempest blown
Of winds quite contrary in waves of will:
We moan that lost, which had we did bemoan.
PLANGUS
And shall she die? shall cruel fire spill
Those beams that set so many hearts on fire?
Hath she not force even death with love to kill:
Nay, even cold death inflam’d with hot desire
Her to enjoy where joy itself is thrall,
Will spoil the earth of his most rich attire:
Thus death becomes a rival to us all,
And hopes with foul embracements her to get,
In whose decay virtue’s fair shrine must fall.
O virtue weak, shall death his triumph set
Upon thy spoils, which never should lie waste?
Let death first die; be thou his worthy let.
By what eclipse shall that sun be defac’d?
What mine hath erst thrown down so fair a tower?
What sacrilege hath such a saint disgrac’d?
The world the garden is, she is the flower
That sweetens all the place; she is the guest
Of rarest price, both heaven and earth her bower.
And shall, O me! all this in ashes rest?
Alas if you a Phoenix new will have
Burnt by the sun, she first must build her nest.
But well you know, the gentle sun would save
Such beams so like his own, which might have might
In him the thoughts of Phaeton’s dam to grave,
Therefore, alas, you use vile Vulcan’s spite,
Which nothing spares, to melt that virgin wax,
Which while it is, it is all Asia’s light.
O Mars, for what doth serve thy armed ax?
To let that wit-old beast consume in flames
Thy Venus child, whose beauty Venus lacks?
O Venus, if her praise no envy frames
In thy high mind, get her thy husband’s grace
Sweet speaking oft a currish heart reclaims.
O eyes of mine, where once she saw her face,
Her face which was more lively in my heart:
O brain, where thought of her hath only place;
O hand, which touch’d her hand when we did part;
O lips that kiss’d that hand with my tears spent;
O tongue, then dumb, not daring tell my smart;
O soul, whose love in her is only spent,
What ere you see, think, touch, kiss, speak, or love,
Let all for her, and unto her be bent.
BASILIUS
Thy wailing words do much my spirits move,
They uttered are in such a feeling fashion,
That sorrow’s work against my will I prove.
Methinks I am partaker of thy passion,
And in thy case do glass mine own debility:
Self-guilty folk most prone to feel compassion.
Yet reason faith, “Reason should have ability
To hold those worldly things in such proportion,
As let them come or go with even facility.”
But our desire’s tyrannical extortion
Doth force us there to set our chief delightfulness
Where but a baiting place is all our portion.
But still although we fail of perfect rightfulness,
Seek we to tame those childish superfluities:
Let us not wink though void of purest sightfulness
For what can breed more peevish incongruities,
Than man to yield to female lamentations:
Let us some grammar learn of more congruities.
PLANGUS
If through mine ears pierce any consolations,
By wise discourse, sweet tunes, or poets’ fiction;
If aught I cease those hideous exclamations;
While that my soul, she, lives in affliction;
Then let my life long time on earth maintained be,
To wretched me, the last worst malediction.
Can I that knew her sacred parts, restrained be
From any joy? know fortunes vile displacing her,
In mortal rules let raging woes contained be?
Can I forget, when they in prison placing her,
With swelling heart in spite and due disdainfulness
She lay for dead, till I help’d with unlacing her?
Can I forget from how much mourning painfulness
With diamond in window-glass she grav’d
“Erona die, and end this ugly painfulness”?
Can I forget in how strange phrase she crav’d
That quickly they would her burn, drown or smother,
As if by death she only might be sav’d?
Then let me eke forget one hand from other:
Let me forget that Plangus I am called:
Let me forget I am son to my mother:
But if my memory must thus be thralled
To that strange stroke which conquered all my senses.
Can thoughts still thinking, so rest unappalled?
BASILIUS
Who still doth seek against himself offences,
What pardon can avail? or who employs him
To hurt himself, what shields can be defences?
Woe to poor man; each outward thing annoys him
In divers kinds; yet as he were not filled,
He heaps in outward grief, that most destroys him.
Thus is our thought with pain for thistles tilled:
Thus be our noblest parts dried up with sorrow:
Thus is our mind with too much minding spilled.
One day lays up store of grief for the morrow:
And whose good haps do leave him unprovided,
Condoling cause of friendship he will borrow:
Betwixt the good and shade of good divided,
We pity deem that which but weakness is:
So are we from our high creation slided.
But Plangus, lest I may your sickness miss,
Or rubbing, hurt the sore, I here do end.
The ass did hurt when he did think to kiss.
When Zelmane had read it over, marvelling very much of the speech of Erona’s death, and therefore desirous to know further of it, but more desirous to hear Philoclea speak, “Most excellent lady,” said she, “one may be little the wiser for reading this dialogue, since it neither sets forth what this Plangus is, nor what Erona is, nor what the cause should be which threatens her with death, and him with sorrow; therefore I would humbly crave to understand the particular discourse thereof, because, I must confess, something in my travel I have heard of this strange matter, which I would be glad to find by so sweet an authority confirmed.” “The truth is,” answered Philoclea, “that after he knew my father to be prince of this country, while he hoped to prevail something with him in a great request he made unto him, he was content to open fully the estate both of himself, and of that lady; which with my sister’s help,” said she, “who remembers it better than I, I will declare unto you. And first of Erona, being the chief subject of this discourse, this story, with more tears and exclamations than I list to spend about it, he recounted.”
“Of late there reigned a king in Lydia, who had, for the blessing of his marriage, this only daughter of his, Erona, a princess worthy for her beauty, as much praise, as beauty may be praise-worthy. This princess Erona, being nineteen years of age, seeing the country of Lydia so much devoted to Cupid, as that in every place his naked pictures and images were superstitiously adored (either moved thereunto by the esteeming that it could be no god-head, which could breed wickedness, or the shamefaced consideration of such nakedness) procured so much of her father, as utterly to pull down, and deface all those statutes and pictures: which how terribly he punished, for to that the Lydians impute it, quickly after appeared.
“For she had not lived a year longer, when she was stricken with most obstinate love to a young man but of mean parentage, in her father’s court, named Antiphilus: so mean, as that he was but the son of her nurse, and by that means, without other desert, became known of her. Now so evil could she conceal her fire, and so wilfully persevered she in it that her father offering her the marriage of the great Tiridates, king of Armenia, who desired her more than the joys of heaven, she for Antiphilus’s sake refused it. Many ways her father sought to withdraw her from it, sometimes by persuasions, sometimes by threatenings; once, hiding Antiphilus, and giving her to understand that he was fled the country, lastly, making a solemn execution to be done of another under the name of Antiphilus, whom he kept in prison. But neither she liked persuasions, nor feared threatenings, nor changed for absence: and when she thought him dead, she sought all means, as well by poison as knife, to send her soul, at least to be married in the eternal church with him. This so broke the tender father’s heart, that, leaving things as he found them, he shortly after died. Then forthwith Erona, being seized of the crown, and arming her will with authority, sought to advance her affection to the holy title of matrimony.
“But before she could accomplish all the solemnities, she was overtaken with a war the King Tiridates made upon her, only for her person, towards whom, for her ruin, love had kindled his cruel heart, indeed cruel and tyrannous; for being far too strong in the field, he spared no man, woman, nor child; but, as though there could be found no foil to set forth the extremity of his love, but extremity of hatred, wrote, as it were, the sonnets of his love in the blood, and turned them in the cries of her subjects; although his fair sister Artaxia, who would accompany him in the army, sought all means to appease his fury: till lastly, he besieged Erona in her best city, vowing to win her, or lose his life. And now had he brought her to the point either of a woeful consent, or a ruinous denial, when there came thither, following the course which virtue and fortune led them, two excellent young princes, Pyrocles and Musidorus, the one prince of Macedon, the other of Thessalia: two princes as Plangus said, and he witnessed his saying with sighs and tears, the most accomplished both in body and mind that the sun ever looked upon.” While Philoclea spoke those words; O sweet words, thought Zelmane to herself, which are not only a praise to me, but a praise to praise herself, which out of that mouth issueth.
“Those two princes,” said Philoclea, “as well to help the weaker, especially being a lady as to save a Greek people from being ruined by such whom we call and count barbarous, gathering together such of the honestest Lycians as would venture their lives to succour their princess; giving order by a secret message, they sent into the city that they should issue with all force at an appointed time: they set upon Tiridates’s camp with so well guided a fierceness that being on both sides assaulted, he was like to be overthrown, but that this Plangus, being general of Tiridates’s horsemen, especially aided by the two mighty men Euardes and Barzanes, rescued the footmen, even almost defeated: but yet could not bar the princes, with their succours both of men and victual, to enter the city.
“Which when Tiridates found would make the war long, which length seemed to him worse than a languishing consumption, he made a challenge of three princes in his retinue, against those two princes and Antiphilus: and that thereupon the quarrel should be decided, with compact that neither side should help his fellow, but of whose side the more overcame, with him the victory should remain. Antiphilus (though Erona chose rather to bide the brunt of war, than venture him, yet) could not for shame refuse the offer, especially since the two strangers that had no interest in it, did willingly accept it: besides that, he saw it like enough, that the people, weary of the miseries of war, would rather give him up, if they saw him shrink, than for his sake venture their ruin, considering that the challengers were of far greater worthiness than himself. So it was agreed upon; and against Pyrocles was Euardes king of Bithynia; Barzanes of Hyrcania against Musidorus, two men, that thought the world scarce able to resist them; and against Antiphilus he placed this same Plangus, being his own cousin-german, and son to the king of Iberia. Now so it fell out, that Musidorus slew Barzanes, and Pyrocles Euardes, which victory those princes esteemed above all that ever they had: but of the other side Plangus took Antiphilus prisoner: under which colour, as if the matter had been equal, though indeed it was not, the greater part being overcome of his side, Tiridates continued his war: and to bring Erona to a compelled yielding, sent her word that he would the third morrow after, before the walls of the town, strike off Antiphilus’s head, without his suit in that space were granted, adding, withal, because he had heard of her desperate affection, that, if in the meantime she did herself any hurt, what tortures could be devised should be lain upon Antiphilus.
“Then lo, if Cupid be a god, or that the tyranny of our own thoughts seem as a god unto us: but whatsoever it was then it did set forth the miserableness of his effects; she being drawn to two contraries by one cause (for the love of him commanded her to yield to no other; the love of him commanded her to preserve his life); which knot might well be cut, but untied it could not be. So that love in her passions, like a right make-bate, whispered to both sides arguments of quarrel. ‘What,’ said he, ‘of the one side, dost thou love Antiphilus, O Erona! and shall Tiridates enjoy thy body? With what eyes wilt thou look upon Antiphilus, when he shall know that another possesseth thee? but if thou wilt do it, canst thou do it? canst thou force thy heart? think with thyself, if this man have thee, thou shalt never have more part of Antiphilus than if he were dead. But thus much more, that the affectation shall be still gnawing, and the remorse still present. Death perhaps will cool the rage of thy affection: where thus, thou shalt ever love, and ever lack. Think this beside, if thou marry Tiridates, Antiphilus is so excellent a man that long he cannot be from being in some high place married; can’st thou suffer that too? if another kill him, he doth him the wrong; if thou abuse thy body, thou dost him the wrong. His death is a work of nature, and either now, or at another time he shall die. But it shall be thy work, thy shameful work, which is in thy power to shun, to make him live to see thy faith falsified, and his bed defiled.’ But when love had well kindled that party of her thoughts, then went he to the other side. ‘What,’ said he, ‘O Erona, and is thy love of Antiphilus come to that point, as thou dost now make it a question whether he shall die, or no? O excellent affection, which for too much love will see his head off. Mark well the reasons of the other side, and thou shalt see it is but love of thyself which so disputeth. Thou can’st not abide Tiridates: this is but love of thyself; thou shalt be ashamed to look upon him afterwards; this is but fear of shame, and love of thyself; thou shalt want him as much then; this is but love of thyself: he shall be married; if he be well, why should that grieve thee, but for love of thyself? no, no, pronounce these words if thou can’st, “let Antiphilus die.”’ Then the images of each side stood before her understanding; one time she thought she saw Antiphilus dying, another time she thought Antiphilus saw her by Tiridates enjoyed; twenty times calling for a servant to carry message of yielding, but before he came the mind was altered. She blushed when she considered the effect of granting; she was pale, when she remembered the fruits of denying. For weeping, sighing, wringing her hands, and tearing her hair, were indifferent of both sides. Easily she would have agreed to have broken all disputations with her own death, but that the fear of Antiphilus’s further torments, stayed her. At length, even the evening before the day appointed for his death, the determination of yielding prevailed, especially, growing upon a message of Antiphilus, who with all the conjuring terms he could devise, besought her to save his life, upon any conditions. But she had no sooner sent her messenger to Tiridates, but her mind changed, and she went to the two young princes, Pyrocles and Musidorus, and falling down at their feet, desired them to try some way for her deliverance, showing herself resolved not to over-live Antiphilus, nor yet to yield to Tiridates.
