The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia 25 – Sidney · Verses Across
Literature · Romance
The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia 25The Second Eclogues (part 9)
18
Literature · Romance
The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia 25
The Second Eclogues (part 9)
SidneyEnglish
“It is an easy matter,” replied Pamela, “for one who can deceive to dissemble; neither is this a new acquaintance. You might have seen her use that knight who did come in with her, rather kindly than courteously; a preceding friendship overpassing present respects: for where a great familiarity is, no ceremonial duty can be observed.” Then Philoclea, having found her, could hardly restrain the violence of a just laughter. “As for that which you affirm last,” said she, “I cannot deny it: no, I dare assure you, and assure yourself I will assure nothing without assurance, that knight is the man of the world whom Zelmane most dearly loves, and yet I know, that neither would he offer nor she suffer her honour to be wronged, as you imagine.” This last wound was too deep for Pamela to speak after it: so that she, abandoning her heart to throw itself over the rock of unkindness, in danger to be drowned with her own tears, was thus prevented by Philoclea: “Dear sister, and if any word can express more dearness more dear than that, your using me not only as a sister, but as a friend in the highest degree of trust, would make me ashamed to mistrust you, or that you should be beholden to any other than to me for my secret. So might my strangeness justify your unkindness, though you should discover and condemn that which I know you will conceal, perchance approve, and further being by my imparting of it to you, made of the party, ere the report of others make you a judge; be bold my tongue: though my cheeks blush, yet they cover you. Be not ashamed, nay even glory to tell that Zelmane is the prince Pyrocles: he, whom you have heard so oft, yet ever to his honour named; and, to define him unto you more particularly, the friend of Musidorus, over whom with him you are jealous; they lying now in one bed, with no less love than I told you. Why he goes disguised with others, and why I am plain with you I need not tell; you may imagine. One God hath metamorphosed both, the one in a shepherd, the other in a woman; and we only can restore them to themselves, and themselves to the world, that they may grace it with the glory of their actions as they were wont to do.”
Then Philoclea, exchanging estates with her sister, words arrested by thoughts, she became sad, and the other joyful; who thinking herself well revenged of the past scorn, and having a sufficient pledge of her sister’s secrecy, began to complain of their father’s strict using of them, by surmisings of his own minding to mar their fortunes, so that where he should rejoice at such an occasion, if coming to the knowledge thereof, he would not fail to disappoint it, perchance with the ruin of the princes; which would not only prove a particular loss for them, but, which she lamented more, a general loss for all the world; depriving it of these patterns of virtue, who in all their actions did but point out the height of perfection, and encourage others to follow their footsteps in the way of worth. Therefore it behoved them to regard themselves, and seriously to consider a matter of so great importance. Then, both beginning to muse, night did cast the nets of sleep over their eyes, yet could not hinder their earnest thoughts from prosecuting the course of their own fancies: for what they were thinking when waking, they still dreamed when sleeping.
But ere the morning star began to retire, as giving place to a greater light, whose coming, it, as a forerunner, had only warned the world to attend, both awaked complaining of the night’s length, and having with passionate discourses worn away darkness, as weary of them, they arose and hastily apparelled themselves, though not in a curious, yet in a comely manner. Then, with a pretended charity, they would needs go visit the diseased patient, being themselves impatient. A little before their coming, Musidorus being gone to give order for the burial of Philisides, and, at the earnest desire of Pyrocles, of Anaxius, whose valour now had the full praise, from which his own presumption had derogated much whilst he lived: as they approached to his chamber door, they heard Pyrocles preparing his voice for the convoy of a sadly conceived, and weakly delivered song, which they resolved not to interrupt, attending the letter which followed.
More dangerous darts than death, love throws I spy,
Who by experience now know both their wounds:
Death pierc’d me all, yet could not make me die:
Love with a thought me in effect confounds.
The power of death, art sometimes may restrain,
Where love, I find, can never physic find:
Death only plagues the body but with pain,
Where love with pleasure doth torment the mind.
Death still to all alike none free doth leave;
Where partial love shafts but at some doth send:
Death with more mercy kills than love doth save:
Death’s end breeds rest, love never rests to end.
Death doth enlarge, where love imprisons still;
Death forc’d by fates; love willingly doth kill.
As soon as this song was ended, Pamela opened the door, saluting him still (so to disguise her knowledge) by the name of Zelmane; and asked in what estate she was with herself, who returned this answer; “How can I smart having such angels to give me comfort? Or how can I feel pain in their presence, whose faces are heavens of pleasure?” “Since,” said Pamela, “being only unfortunate by falling in our company, the hazard of your life hath procured our liberty, so that accidentally, though far from our intention, we have been the causes of all your trouble, how can we think of your pain, but as of our own? Or have any delight whilst you rest grieved?” “Wonders of worth,” said Zelmane, “I shall ever, whilst I live, reckon for my highest happiness my being honoured by your company; and as for my travels in this, they are by the success abundantly rewarded, since I could aspire to no higher good than I have compassed, having purchased you any contentment.”
Whilst that passionate Zelmane, with an animated fervency, did incorporate her hand with Philoclea’s, whose speaking looks, however some time out of modesty obliquely moving, had a continual revolution about his face; the black knight’s coming in drew Pamela’s spirits from her thoughts to her eyes. A gentleman followed him, directed from Basilius; who after his duty done to the ladies, having shown them that their father and mother were in good health, invited by their enquiring attendants, told how the first, whom prodigal fame had breathed forth with news, hastened by himself, as who carried an acceptable message in hope of benefit or thanks, certified the king how the castle was won, and his daughters delivered by the black knight, who before had put a period to the victories of Amphialus. At this Pamela looking on Musidorus, blushed; and he, though by no gesture betraying his joy, rejoiced, not because he heard himself praised, but because she heard him praised, and that Anaxius in a single combat was killed by Zelmane, she not long over-living the victory.
The king hearing this, who of his gracious nature would rather save one friend than destroy all his enemies, as if the delivery of his daughters had been a matter of small moment, and a gain too light to counterpoise so great a loss, did abandon his soul to the tyranny of sorrow, even more than majesty in a prince, or virtue in affliction, in the balances of reason, would have allowed of such weight. At this Zelmane’s smile was accompanied with Philoclea’s. But when he spoke of Gynecia’s griefs overgrowing the other, they grew pale, being afraid of the fountain from whence her tears did flow, lest it should drown them.
But whilst Gynecia (the messenger insisted) as run mad with anguish, enclosed in a chamber, would suffer none to come unto her; all wondered that her children being safe, a stranger’s death, or her husband’s grief, could weaken the known strength of her mind so much. The next messenger came, being the latter, and thereby the better informed, who sugared the first news with the assurance of Zelmane’s safety. Then the queen coming forth as after a great tempest, the sky of her countenance cleared, looking brighter than before. The king would have come himself here in person, but he was persuaded to send Philanax with a number of chosen men, to receive the castle and ladies; eftsoons being curious to know who cured Zelmane; when it was told him that the knight who won the castle would trust none with that save himself, he was sorry that one of his worth should be put to such trouble, and would needs have an ordinary surgeon sought out to undertake the charge. “In the meantime the queen came and brought out of a box a sovereign balm, which she hath sent by me to be applied to your wounds, fair Zelmane, not doubting but they will quickly become sound if her direction be observed, which is only that you rest and keep yourself quiet from company now, and by the way till she herself may use other remedies. And for this effect she entreats you, miracles of nature, her daughters, to forbear her company during this time: that your example, whose authority abused might embolden the indiscretion of inferiors, may be a law for others: and she assured me that she would by a secret spy learn how she were obeyed in this. Such a care hath she of this sweet lady’s health.”
By the end of this commission well did Zelmane and Philoclea know at whom in particular those general injunctions did only aim. This enjoined abstinence did give Zelmane a surfeit in sorrow, who had rather have continued still infirm, than to have recovered by so cruel a physic. And yet her misery was multiplied when she remembered the cause, whereof this, in respect of that which she did expect, was a slender issue, and but a little fury, sent to afflict her out of that hell of Gynecia’s breast, into whose company she was shortly to enter. Now the black knight, purposing to depart before Philanax arrived, brought his companion, the knight of the pole, as a partner of his victory, to kiss the ladies’ hands extenuating his own part, and preferring his: Those who have true worth in themselves, can never envy it in another. Thereafter advising him privately to have their little company in a readiness, he went with an uncounterfeited reverence, humbling himself before the idol of his soul, to know her will: telling her what he had done, being only done for her, he would attend thanks from no other; neither would he be known till he might be known for hers: and she, her countenance rather lightening courtesy than affection, desired him to return to his old master, and he should be restored to the estate which by his fault he had before justly forfeited; wishing that he would carry himself more moderately hereafter, if he would not incur her indignation, and raise all regard of him out of her memory.
Then Musidorus, as contented as one who had been brought from hell to heaven, with many vehement attestations to win trust with her, and imprecations against himself in case of perjury, wished, if ever his mind were so unhappy as to be surprised by any purpose tending in the least degree to grieve her, that he might never live till it took effect, but die ere it were discovered. And like a wary gamester, who having once advantage is loth to adventure again, willing to seal up his ears with the acceptable sounds which they had received, he took leave, leaving his heart with her, and taking hers with him. Then went he towards Pyrocles, the joy of his heart shining through his face, and acquainted him with his unwilling absenting himself, referring all further conference till their meeting at the arbour. And having in a complimental manner craved, but not desired employment from Philoclea, in any service after the funerals were performed, he marched with his troop away, the most part thinking that he went to meet Philanax: whilst Pamela from a window followed with her eyes, till clouds of dust did bury their object in the air.
Soon after their departure from the castle, about this time, Philanax arrived, who, immediately after he had received the castle in the king’s name, sought for the knight, whose gift, though not given by him, he esteemed it to be. For he, being generously judicious, thought it more fit that princes should defray obligations by rewards, every man being inferior to him to whom he stands indebted, than to be behind with any by being beholden; and hearing that he was gone by public enquiry for him, and praises of him, he witnessed to the world how highly his valour was valued. After he had saluted the princesses, he visited Zelmane, and told her how careful his master was to have those wounds cured, which in his service had been procured, that thereafter he might otherwise express his gratefulness. But Zelmane affirmed that though that blood which was shed had been followed by all the rest of her body; with the king’s former courtesies towards her, the deserving by the recompense was both preceded and exceeded. Then Philanax, loth to strive with deeds in words, desired her, if her health might serve, to provide for her removing with the rest to-morrow, otherwise, that should be done for her which she herself would direct.
Immediately after his departure Zelmane arose; and having apparelled herself, began to walk, not so much to try how she might comport with the intended journey, as that she might pretend any means which might afford her the satisfaction of Philoclea’s presence; where, violently carried by her thoughts, she came soon, but not so soon as she wished, and was wished: where Pamela apart entertaining her thoughts, she thus entered with Philoclea: “Dear love, Oh in what an ocean of troubles doth our estate continually float, yet hath never so much as attained the sight of any secure port. I see that this freedom will but bring us to a greater bondage: we are led from captivity, only to become captives. For where before those senseless walls were thought sufficient to guard us, we shall be watched now by one more jealous than Juno, with more eyes than ever Argus had. I would willingly convey you where I might enjoy you, and you a kingdom: but this, my infirmity first hindered, and the coming of Philanax hath altogether prevented. In the meantime, till for performing of that, a longed for occasion come, I must arm myself against your father’s folly, and your mother’s fury. The one’s might easily be deluded, but the other’s cannot be resisted, but by a show of yielding, which I must cunningly counterfeit: and therefore trust no external show; for whoever have my countenance, you have my heart.” Philoclea’s words were, that she cared not where she went, so it were with him, nor what she did, so it were warranted by his direction, as bent rather to burn her breast, than to let it lodge any thought which durst but doubt of the sufficiency of his intentions, since whatever circle they made, having always for their centre the excellency of his own worth. So parting, as if they had been to go to live in sundry kingdoms; though going to live in one company, night invited them to repose.
The next morning being saluted by the trumpet’s sounds, and all ready to remove, they were quickly transported over the lake; and as quickly, when landed, mounted by the provident care of Philanax, to finish their journey. But ere they came two or three miles off the lodges, Basilius met them, who embraced his daughters; not that he would go first to them, but that he would be last with Zelmane, whom he had kissed with his eyes, ere his lips were drawn from his daughters. And as soon as he had shown as much affection, encountering her, as his state before so many would permit: he said, that notwithstanding her countenance was the treasure in the world whereof he was most covetous, yet it grieved him that another should be so happy as to have procured her liberty rather than himself; and that it was his purpose, as a private adventurer, to have manifested his affection, fighting as a knight, not as a king, for her delivery.
Zelmane replying, that it had been against all reason, that so great a prince, on whom the lives of so many did depend, should have been hazarded for the life of one whose fall could extend no further than to her own ruin: “Your ruin,” said he, “I wish that mine were first; for it could not but follow after. And do not think that the black knight, or any other durst do more for you than I: yet such is the miserable estate of us kings, that we cannot prove men, but are compelled to move in our own sphere.”
The journey’s end cutting off their discourse, Gynecia was waiting on their alighting, and having first duty--tyrannizing over affection--carelessly kissed Pamela, disdainfully Philoclea, and vehemently Zelmane, thereafter enquiring of her wounds, thanks (though bestowing nothing defraying much) were courteously returned for the balm which was sent; she protesting that if no other thing could help, she would pull out her own heart, when Basilius interrupted them, coming to have lightened his heart, by burdening his body with his mistress’s alighting.
Dametas came starting and leaping like a giddy kid to meet with Pamela; and as soon as she was alighted, for the first salutation, told her how much she was beholden to him, having shown his manhood and goodwill as much as the best fellow in these bounds could have done, swearing that he had ventured more for her than he would do for all the world again, and for his own life too; “Aye,” quoth he, “and when my man Dorus durst not be seen, who was thought a brave fellow, yet he feigned a business far from the noise of war, to seek sheep; but the truth is, to hide himself, whilst my deeds made all our army laugh for joy: so that during all that time of trouble, which I tremble yet to think upon, I never heard of him, till even now he sent me word by a shepherd, whom he met on the way, that he had found the ewes which had strayed, with great difficulty, and was driving them at leisure, for fear they should miscarry. But when he comes, I promise I will make his cowardice be known for leaving me, when I would fain have left myself for fear.” “O but,” said Pamela, “you must not be offended, though every man be not so stout as you are; he may be an evil soldier, but yet a good shepherd: and I hope you keep him that he may keep sheep, not that he may kill men.” “Now in good faith,” said he, “I see you are not changed, for you were ever wise, and so you do continue still. I may well chide the fellow, but I will not beat him.”
Then all entering the lodge with Basilius, though the supper was ready, Gynecia would dress Zelmane’s wounds first, and Basilius would see them dressed; so by his despised importunateness restraining the torrent of Gynecia’s passions, which would but burst forth more furiously thereafter. This freeing Zelmane’s ears at that time, was but a relief to her, as they find who expel poison by counterpoison, she being as weary of him, as afraid of the other.
Then sitting down to the supper, more curious of a surfeit to their eyes, than for their sustenance to the rest of the body: the eyes of Basilius were ever feeding on the face of Zelmane with a fearful earnestness, save sometimes when they were constrained to retire by the violence of his wife’s looks, thinking that they with a jealous anger had upbraided his error, which she, otherwise busied, had never so much as observed. The one of her eyes was settled like a fixed star on Zelmane, the other like a wandering comet threatening confusion where it shined, strayed betwixt Zelmane, and her daughter Philoclea, watching and chastising with her look her stolen looks. Zelmane’s languishing lights made the table envied, whilst her dejected looks did only bless it, as scorning to look on any, since she might not look where she liked. Philoclea chained by thoughts to Zelmane, did imitate her being pensive, because she was pensive: yet like a cunning painter, who having fully fed his eyes with the affected object, turns back within himself, that his imagination may engrave it the more exactly within his memory, she would sometimes with a thievishly adventurous look spy Zelmane’s gesture, that she might the better counterfeit it in her countenance. As for Pamela, she kept her accustomed majesty, being absent where she was, and present where she was not. Then, the supper being ended, after some ambiguous speeches, which might, for fear of being mistaken, be taken in two senses, or else were altogether estranged from the speaker’s mind; speaking as in a dream, not what they thought, but what they would be thought to think: everyone retired to the lodge where they had used afore to lie; Basilius having first invited them the next morning to see a pastoral represented by the ordinary shepherds, to congratulate their prosperous return.
* * *[b3-09]
After that Basilius, according to the oracle’s promise, had received home his daughters, and settled himself again in his solitary course and accustomed company, there passed not many days ere the now fully recomforted Dorus, having waited a time of Zelmane’s walking alone towards her little arbour took leave of his master Dametas’s husbandry to follow her. Near whereunto overtaking her, and sitting down together among the sweet flowers, whereof that place was very plentiful, under the pleasant shade of a broad leaved sycamore, they recounted one to another their strange pilgrimage of passions, omitting nothing which open hearted friendship is wont to lay forth, where there is cause to communicate both joys and sorrows, for indeed there is no sweeter taste of friendship than the coupling of souls in this mutuality, either of condoling or comforting; where the oppressed mind finds itself not altogether miserable, since it is sure of one which is feelingly sorry for his misery: and the joyful spends not his joy, either alone, or there where it may be envied; but may freely send it to such a well-grounded object, from whence he shall be sure to receive a sweet reflection of the same joy, and, as in a clear mirror of sincere goodwill, see a lively picture of his own gladness. But after much discourse on either part, Dorus, his heart scarce serving him to come to the point whereunto his then coming had been wholly directed, as loth in the kindest sort to discover to his friend his own unkindness, at length, one word emboldening another, made known to Zelmane, how Pamela upon his vehement oath to offer no force unto her, till he had invested her in the duchy of Thessalia, had condescended to his stealing her away to the next seaport.
That besides the strange humours she saw her father more and more falling into, and unreasonable restraint of her liberty, whereof she knew no cause but light-grounded jealousies, added to the hate of that manner of life, and confidence she had in his virtue, the chiefest reason had won her to this was the late danger she stood in of losing him, the like whereof, not unlike to fall if this course were continued, she chose rather to die than again to undergo. That now they waited for nothing else but some fit time for their escape, by the absence of their three loathsome companions, in whom folly engendered suspicion. “And therefore now,” said Dorus, “my dear cousin, to whom nature began my friendship, education confirmed it, and virtue hath made it eternal; here have I discovered the very foundation whereupon my life is built: be you the judge betwixt me and my fortune. The violence of love is not unknown to you, and I know my case shall never want pity in your consideration. How all the joys of my heart do leave me, in thinking I must for a time be absent from you, the eternal truth is witness unto me, I know I should not so sensibly feel the pangs of my last departure. But this enchantment of my restless desire hath such authority in myself above myself, that I am become a slave unto it, I have no more freedom in mine own determination. My thoughts are now all bent how to carry away my burdenous bliss. Yet, most beloved cousin, rather than you should think I do herein violate that holy band of true friendship wherein I unworthy am knit unto you, command me stay. Perchance the force of your commandment may work such impression into my heart that no reason of mine own can imprint into it. For the gods forbid, the foul word of abandoning Pyrocles might ever be objected to the faithful Musidorus.
But if you can spare my presence, whose presence no way serves you, and by the division of those two lodges is not oft with you: nay, if you can think my absence may, as it shall, stand you in stead, by bringing such an army hither, as shall make Basilius, willing or unwilling, to know his own hap, in granting you Philoclea, then I will cheerfully go about this my most desired enterprise, and shall think the better half of it already achieved, being begun in the fortunate hour of my friend’s contentment.”
These words, as they were not knit together with such a constant course of flowing eloquence as Dorus was wont to use, so was his voice interrupted with sighs, and his countenance with interchanging colour dismayed. So much his own heart did find him faulty to unbend any way the continual use of their dear friendship. But Zelmane, who had all this while gladly hearkened to the other tidings of their friends happy success, when this last determination of Dorus struck her attentive ears, she stayed a great while oppressed with a dead amazement. There came straight before her mind, made tender with woes, the images of her own fortune, her tedious longings, her causes to despair, the cumbersome folly of Basilius, the enraged jealousy of Gynecia, herself a prince without retinue; a man annoyed with the troubles of womankind, loathsomely loved, and dangerously loving. And now for the perfecting of all, her friend to be taken away by himself, to make the loss the greater by the unkindness. But within a while she resolutely passed over all inward objections; and preferring her friend’s profit to her own desire, with a quiet, but heavy look, she thus answered him: “If I bear thee this love, virtuous Musidorus, for mine own sake, and that our friendship grew, because I, for my part, might rejoice to enjoy such a friend, I should now so thoroughly feel my own loss, that I should call the heavens and earth to witness how cruelly you rob me of my greatest comfort, measuring the breach of friendship by mine own passion. But because indeed I love thee for thyself, and in my judgment judge of thy worthiness to be loved, I am content to build my pleasure upon thy comfort, and then will I deem my hap in friendship great when I shall see thee, whom I love, happy. Let me be only sure thou lovest me still, the only price of true affection: go therefore on, worthy Musidorus, with the guide of virtue and service of fortune. Let thy love be loved, thy desires prosperous, thy escape safe, and thy journey easy. Let everything yield his help to thy desert, for my part absence shall not take thee from mine eyes, nor affliction shall bar me from gladding in thy good, nor a possessed heart shall keep thee from the place it hath for ever allotted unto thee.”
Dorus would fain have replied again, to have made a liberal confession that Zelmane had of her side the advantage of well-performing friendship: but partly his own grief of parting from one he loved so dearly, partly the kind care in what state she should leave Zelmane, bred such a conflict in his mind, that many times he wished he had either never attempted, or never revealed his secret enterprise. But Zelmane, who had now looked to the utmost of it, and established her mind upon an assured determination: “My only friend,” said she, “since to so good towardness your courteous destinies have conducted you, let not a ceremonial consideration of our mutual love be a bar unto it. I joy in your presence, but I joy more in your good: that friendship brings forth the fruits of enmity which prefers his own tenderness before his friend’s damage. For my part, my greatest grief herein shall be, I can be no further serviceable unto you.” “O Zelmane,” said Dorus, with his eyes even covered with water, “I did not think so soon to have displayed my determination unto you, but to have made my way first in your loving judgment. But alas! as your sweet disposition drew me so far, so doth it now strengthen me in it. To you therefore be the due commendation given; who can conquer me in love, and love in wisdom. As for me, then shall goodness turn to evil, and ungratefulness be the token of a true heart, when Pyrocles shall not possess a principal seat in my soul, when the name of Pyrocles shall not be held of me in devout reverence.”
They would never have come to the cruel instant of parting, nor to the ill-faring word of farewell, had not Zelmane seen afar off the old Basilius, who having performed a sacrifice to Apollo, for his daughters’, but principally for his mistress’s happy return, had since been everywhere to seek her. And now being come within compass of discerning her, he began to frame the loveliest countenance he could, stroking up his legs, setting his beard in due order, and standing bolt upright. “Alas!” said Zelmane, “behold an evil fore-token of your sorrowful departure. Yonder see I one of my furies, which doth daily vex me, farewell, farewell my Musidorus, the gods make fortune to wait on thy virtues, and make me wade through this lake of wretchedness.” Dorus burst out into a flood of tears, wringing her fast by the hand. “No, no,” said he, “I go blindfold whither the course of my ill hap carries me: for now, too late, my heart gives me this our separating can never be prosperous. But if I live, attend me here shortly with an army.” Thus both apparelled with the grievous renting of their first combination, having first resolved with themselves that whatsoever fell upon them, they should never upon any occasion utter their names, for the conserving the honour of their royal parentage, but keep the names of Daiphantus and Palladius, as before had been agreed between them, they took divers ways: Dorus to the lodge-ward, where his heavy eyes might be something refreshed; Zelmane towards Basilius, saying to herself, with a scornful smiling, “Yet hath not my friendly fortune deprived me of a pleasant companion.” But he, having with much search come to her presence, doubt and desire bred a great quarrel in his mind. For his former experience had taught him to doubt; and true feeling of love made doubts dangerous, but the working of his desire had ere long won the field. And therefore, with the most submissive manner his behaviour could yield, “O goddess,” said he, “towards whom I have the greatest feeling of religion, be not displeased at some show of devotion I have made to Apollo, since he, if he knew anything, knows that my heart bears far more awful reverence to yourself, than to his, or any other the like deity.” “You will ever be deceived in me,” answered Zelmane; “I will make myself no competitor with Apollo, neither can blasphemies to him be duties to me.” With that Basilius took out of his bosom certain verses he had written, and kneeling down, presented them to her. They contained this:
Phoebus, farewell, a sweeter saint I serve,
The high conceits, thy heav’nly wisdom’s breed,
My thoughts forget: my thoughts which never swerve
From her in whom is sown their freedom’s seed,
And in whose eyes my daily doom I read.
Phoebus, farewell, a sweeter saint I serve,
Thou art far off, thy kingdom is above;
She heav’n on earth with beauties doth preserve,
Thy beams I like, but her clear rays I love:
Thy force I fear, her force I still do prove.
Phoebus yield up thy title in my mind;
She doth possess, thy image is defac’d,
But if thy rage some brave revenge will find,
On her, who hath in me thy temple raz’d,
Employ thy might, that she my fires may taste,
And how much more her worth surmounteth thee,
Make her as much more base by loving me.
“This is my hymn to you,” said he, “not left me by my ancestors, but begun in myself. The temple wherein it is daily sung is my soul; and the sacrifice I offer to you withal is all whatsoever I am.” Zelmane, who ever thought she found in his speeches the ill taste of a medicine, and the operation of a poison, would have suffered a disdainful look to have been the only witness of her good acceptation but that Basilius began afresh to lay before her many pitiful prayers and in the end to conclude that he was fully of opinion it was only the unfortunateness of that place that hindered the prosperous course of his desires. And therefore since the hateful influence, which made him embrace this solitary life was now passed over him, as he doubted not the judgment of Philanax would agree with his, and his late mishaps had taught him how perilous it was to commit a prince’s state to a place so weakly guarded, he was now inclined to return to his palace in Mantinea, and there he hoped he should be better able to show how much he desired to make all he had hers: with many other such honey words, which my pen grows almost weary to set down. This indeed nearly pierced Zelmane: for the good beginning she had obtained of Philoclea made her desire to continue the same trade, till the more perfecting of her desires; and to come to any public place she did deadly fear, lest her mask by many eyes might the sooner be discovered, and so her hopes stopped, and the state of her joys endangered. Therefore a while she rested, musing at the daily changing labyrinth of her own fortune, but in herself determined it was her only best to keep him there, and with favours to make him love the place where the favours were received, as disgraces had made him apt to change the soil.
Therefore, casting a kind of corner-look upon him, “It is truly said,” said she, “that age cooleth the blood. How soon, good man, you are terrified before you receive any hurt? Do you not know that daintiness is kindly unto us? And that hard obtaining, is the excuse of woman’s granting? Yet speak I not as though you were like to obtain, or I to grant. But because I would not have you imagine I am to be won by courtly vanities, or esteem a man the more because he hath handsome men to wait on him, when he is afraid to live without them.” You might have seen Basilius humbly swell, and, with a lowly look, stand upon his tiptoes; such diversity her words delivered unto him. “O Hercules,” answered he, “Basilius afraid? Or his blood cold that boils in such a furnace? Care I who is with me while I enjoy your presence? Or is any place good or bad to me, but as it pleaseth you to bless or curse it? O let me be but armed in your good grace, and I defy whatsoever there is or can be against me. No, no, your love is forcible, and my age is not without vigour.”
Zelmane thought it not good for his stomach to receive a surfeit of too much favour, and therefore thinking he had enough for the time to keep him from any sudden removing, with a certain gracious bowing down of her head towards him, she turned away, saying she would leave him at this time to see how temperately he could use so bountiful a measure of her kindness. Basilius, that thought every drop a flood that bred any refreshment, durst not further press her, but with ancient modesty left her to the sweet repast of her own fancies. Zelmane, as soon as he was departed, went toward Pamela’s lodge in hope to have seen her friend Dorus, to have pleased herself with another painful farewell, and further to have taken some advice with him touching her own estate, whereof before sorrow had not suffered her to think. But being come even near the lodge, she saw the mouth of a cave, made as it should seem by nature in despite of art, so fitly did the rich growing marble serve to beautify the vault of the first entry. Under foot the ground seemed mineral, yielding such a glistering show of gold in it as they say the river Tagus carries in his sandy bed. The cave framed out into many goodly spacious rooms, such as self-liking men have with long and learned delicacy found out the most easeful: there ran through it a little sweet river, which had left the face of the earth to drown herself for a small way in this dark but pleasant mansion. The very first show of the place enticed the melancholy mind of Zelmane, to yield herself over there to the flood of her own thoughts. And therefore, sitting down in the first entry of the cave’s mouth, with a song she had lately made, she gave a doleful way to her bitter affects, and sung to this effect:
Since that the stormy rage of passions dark
(Of passions dark, made dark by beauty’s light)
With rebel force, hath clos’d in dungeon dark
My mind, ere now led forth by reason’s light.
Since all the things which give mine eyes their light.
Do foster still the fruits of fancies dark:
So that the windows of my inward light
Do serve to make my inward powers dark.
Since, as I say, both mind and senses dark
Are hurt, not help’d, with piercing of the light:
While that the light may show the horrors dark,
But cannot make resolved darkness light:
I like this place, where at the least the dark
May keep my thoughts from thought of wonted light.
Instead of an instrument, her song was accompanied with the wringing of her hands, the closing of her weary eyes, and even sometimes cut off with the swelling of her sighs, which did not suffer the voice to have his free and native passage. But, as she was a while musing upon her song, raising up her spirits, which were something fallen into the weakness of lamentation, considering solitary complaints do no good to him whose help stands without himself, she might afar off first hear a whispering sound, which seemed to come from the inmost part of the cave, and being kept together with the close hollowness of the place, had, as in a trunk, the more liberal access to her ears, and by and by she might perceive the same voice deliver itself into musical tunes, and with a base Lyra give forth this song:
Hark, plaintful ghosts, infernal furies, hark
Unto my woes the hateful heavens do send,
The heavens conspir’d to make my vital spark
A wretched wreck, a glass of ruin’s end.
Seeing, alas, so mighty powers bend
Their ireful shot against so weak a mark,
Come cave, become my grave, come death, and lend
Receipt to me, within thy bosom dark.
For what is life to daily dying mind,
Where, drawing breath, I suck the air of woe:
Where too-much sight makes all the body blind,
And highest thoughts downward most headlong throw?
Thus then my form, and thus my state I find,
Death wrapp’d in flesh, to living grave assign’d.
And pausing but a little, with mournful melody it continued this octave:
Like those sick folks in whom strange humours flow,
Can taste no sweets, the sower only please,
So to my mind, while passions daily grow,
Whose fiery chains, upon his freedom seize;
Joys strangers seem, I cannot bide their show,
Nor brook aught else but well-acquainted woe.
Bitter griefs taste best, pain is my ease,
Sick to the death, still loving my disease.
“O Venus,” said Zelmane, “who is this so well acquainted with me, that can make so lively a portraiture of my miseries? It is surely the spirit appointed to have care of me, which doth now, in this dark place, bear part with the complaint of his unhappy charge. For if it be so, that the heavens have at all times a measure of their wrathful harms, surely so many have come to my blissless lot that the rest of the world hath too small a portion to make with cause so wailful a lamentation. But,” said she, “whatsoever thou be, I will seek thee out, for thy music well assures me we are at least-hand fellow-prentices to one ungracious master.” So rose she and went, guiding herself by the still plaining voice, till she saw upon a stone a little wax-light set, and under it a piece of paper, with these verses very lately, as it should seem, written in it:
How is my sun, whose beams are shining bright,
Become the cause of my dark ugly night?
Or how do I, captiv’d in this dark plight,
Bewail the case, and in the cause delight?
My mangled mind huge horrors still do fright,
With sense possessed, and claim’d by reason’s right:
Betwixt which two in me I have this fight:
Where who so wins, I put myself to flight.
Come cloudy fears, close up my dazzled sight,
Sorrows suck up the marrow of my might,
Due sighs blow out all sparks of joyful light,
Tire on despair upon my tired spright.
An end, an end, my dull’d pen cannot write,
Nor maz’d head think, nor falt’ring tongue recite.
And hard underneath the sonnet were these words written:
This cave is dark, but it had never light.
This wax doth waste itself, yet painless dies.
These words are full of woes, yet feel they none.
I darkened am, who once had clearest sight.
I waste my heart, which still new torments tries.
I plain with cause, my woes are all mine own.
No Cave, no wasting wax, no words of grief,
Can hold, show, tell my pains without relief.
She did not long stay to read the words, for not far off from the stone she might discern in a dark corner, a lady lying with her face so prostrate upon the ground that she could neither know nor be known. But, as the general nature of man is desirous of knowledge, and sorrow especially glad to find fellows, she went, as softly as she could convey her feet, near unto her, where she heard these words come with vehement sobbings from her. “O darkness,” said she, “which dost lightsomely, methinks, make me see the picture of my inward darkness: since I have chosen thee to be the secret witness of my sorrows, let me receive a false receipt in thee; and esteem them not tedious, but, if it be possible, let the uttering them be some discharge to my over-laden breast. Alas! sorrow, now thou hast the full sack of my conquered spirits, rest thyself awhile, and set not still new fire to thy own spoils: O accursed reason, how many eyes thou hast to see thy evils, and how dim, nay blind thou art in perceiving them? Forlorn creature that I am! I would I might be freely wicked, since wickedness doth prevail: but the footsteps of my overtrodden virtue lie still as bitter accusations against me. I am divided in myself, how can I stand? I am overthrown in myself, who shall raise me? Vice is but a nurse of new agonies, and the virtue I am divorced from, makes the hateful comparison the more manifest. No, no, virtue, either I never had but a shadow of thee, or thou thyself are but a shadow. For how is my soul abandoned? How are all my powers laid waste? My desire is pained because it cannot hope, and if hope came, his best should be but mischief. O strange mixture of human minds; only so much good left, as to make us languish in our own evils. Ye infernal furies, for it is too late for me to awake my dead virtue, or to place my comfort in the angry gods, ye infernal furies, I say, aid one that dedicates herself unto you; let my rage be satisfied, since the effect of it is fit for your service. Neither be afraid to make me too happy, since nothing can come to appease the smart of my guilty conscience, I desire but to assuage the sweltering of my hellish longing dejected Gynecia.”
Zelmane no sooner heard the name of Gynecia, but that, with a cold sweat all over her, as if she had been ready to tread upon a deadly stinging adder, she would have withdrawn herself, but her own passion made her yield more unquiet motions than she had done in coming. So that she was perceived, and Gynecia suddenly risen up, for indeed it was Gynecia, gotten into the cave, the same cave wherein Dametas had safely kept Pamela in the late uproar, to pass her pangs, with change of places. And as her mind ran still upon Zelmane, her piercing lover’s eye had soon found it was she. And seeing in her countenance to fly away, she fell down at her feet, and catching fast hold of her: “Alas!” said she, “whither, or from whom dost thou fly away? The savagest beasts are won with service, and there is no flint but may be mollified: how is Gynecia so unworthy in thine eyes? or whom cannot abundance of love make worthy? O think not that cruelty, or ungratefulness can flow from a good mind! O weigh, alas! weigh with thyself the new effects of this mighty passion, that I, unfit for my estate, uncomely for my sex, must become a suppliant at thy feet! By the happy woman that bare thee, by all the joys of thy heart, and success of thy desire, I beseech thee turn thyself to some consideration of me, and rather show pity in now helping me, than in too late repenting my death, which hourly threatens me.” Zelmane imputing it to one of her continual mishaps, thus to have met with this lady, with a full weary countenance; “Without doubt, Madam,” said she, “where the desire is such as may be obtained, and the party well deserving as yourself, it must be a great excuse that may well colour a denial: but when the first motion carries with it a direct impossibility, then must the only answer be, comfort without help, and sorrow to both parties; to you not obtaining, to me not able to grant.” “O,” said Gynecia, “how good leisure you have to frame these scornful answers? Is Gynecia thus to be despised? Am I so vile a worm in your sight? No, no, trust to it hard-hearted tiger, I will not be the only actor of this tragedy: since I must fall, I will press down some others with my ruins; since I must burn, my spiteful neighbours shall feel my fire. Dost thou not perceive that my diligent eyes have pierced through the cloudy mask of thy disguisement? Have I not told thee, O fool (if I were not much more fool) that I knew thou wouldst abuse us with thy outward show? wilt thou still attend the rage of love in a woman’s heart? The girl, thy well-chosen mistress, perchance shall defend thee when Basilius shall know how thou hast sotted his mind with falsehood, and falsely sought the dishonour of his house. Believe it, believe it, unkind creature, I will end my miseries with a notable example of revenge, and that accursed cradle of mine shall feel the smart of my wound, thou of thy tyranny, and lastly (I confess) myself of mine own work.”
Zelmane that had long before doubted herself to be discovered by her, and now plainly finding it was, as the proverb saith, like them that hold the wolf by the ears, bitten while they hold, and slain if they loose. If she held her off in these wonted terms, she saw rage would make her love work the effects of hate; to grant unto her, her heart was so bound upon Philoclea, it had been worse than a thousand deaths. Yet found she it was necessary for her to come to a resolution, for Gynecia’s sore could bide no leisure, and once discovered, besides the danger of Philoclea, her desires should be for ever utterly stopped. She remembered withal the words of Basilius, how apt he was to leave this life, and return to his court, a great bar to her hopes. Lastly, she considered Dorus’s enterprise might bring some strange alteration of this their well-liked fellowship. So that encompassed with these instant difficulties, she bent her spirits to think of a remedy, which might at once both save her from them, and serve her to the accomplishment of her only pursuit. Lastly, she determined thus, that there was no way but to yield to the violence of their desires, since striving did the more chafe them. And that following their own current, at length of itself it would bring her to the other side of her burning desires.
Now in the meanwhile, the divided Dorus, long divided between love and friendship, and now for his love divided from his friend, though indeed without prejudice of friendship’s loyalty, which doth never bar the mind from his free satisfaction: yet still a cruel judge over himself, thought he was some ways faulty, and applied his mind how to amend it with a speedy and behoveful return. But then was his first study, how to get away, whereto already he had Pamela’s consent confirmed and concluded under the name of Mopsa in her own presence: Dorus taking this way, that whatsoever he would have of Pamela he would ask her, whether in such a case it were not best for Mopsa so to behave herself, in that sort making Mopsa’s envy an instrument of that she did envy. So having passed over his first and most feared difficulty, he busied his spirits how to come to the harvest of his desires, whereof he had so fair a show. And thereunto (having gotten leave for some days of his master Dametas, who now accounted him as his son-in-law) he roamed round about the desert, to find some unknown way that might bring him to the next seaport, as much as might be out of all course of other passengers: which all very well succeeding him, and he having hired a barque for his life’s traffic, and provided horses to carry her thither, returned homeward, now come to the last point of his care, how to go beyond the loathsome watchfulness of these three uncomely companions, and therein did wisely consider how they were to be taken with whom he was to deal, remembering that in the particularities of everybody’s mind and fortune, there are particular advantages, by which they are to be held. The muddy mind of Dametas he found most easily stirred with covetousness. The cursed mischievous heart of Miso, most apt to be tickled with jealousy, as whose rotten brain could think well of nobody. But young mistress Mopsa, who could open her eyes upon nothing that did not all to be-wonder her, he thought curiosity the fittest bait for her.
And first for Dametas, Dorus having employed a whole day’s work, about a ten mile off from the lodge, quite contrary way to that he meant to take with Pamela, in digging and opening the ground under an ancient oak that stood there, in such sort as he might longest hold Dametas’s greedy hopes in some show of comfort, he came to his master with a countenance mixed between cheerfulness and haste, and taking him by the right hand, as if he had a great matter of secrecy to reveal unto him: “Master,” said he, “I did never think that the gods had appointed my mind freely brought up to have so longing a desire to serve you, but that they minded thereby to bring some extraordinary fruit to one so beloved of them as your honesty makes me think you are. This binds me even in conscience to disclose that which I persuade myself is allotted unto you, that your fortune may be of equal balance with your deserts.” He said no further, because he would let Dametas play upon the bit a while, who not understanding what his words intended, yet well finding they carried no evil news, was so much the more desirous to know the matter, as he had free scope to imagine what measure of good hap himself would. Therefore putting off his cap to him, which he never had done before, and assuring him he should have Mopsa, though she had been all made of cloth of gold, he besought Dorus not to hold him long in hope, for that he found a thing his heart was not able to bear. “Master,” answered Dorus, “you have so satisfied me with promising me the utmost of my desired bliss, that if my duty bound me not, I were in it sufficiently rewarded. To you therefore shall my good hap be converted, and the fruit of my labour dedicated.”
Therewith he told him, how under an ancient oak (the place he made him easily understand by sufficient marks he gave to him) he had found digging but a little depth, scatteringly lying a great number of rich medals, and that, piercing further into the ground he had met with a great stone, which, by the hollow sound it yielded, seemed to be the cover of some greater vault, and upon it a box of cypress, with the name of the valiant Aristomenes, graven upon it: and that within the box he found certain verses, which signified that some depth again under that all his treasures lay hidden, what time for the discord fell out in Arcadia, he lived banished. Therewith he gave Dametas certain medals of gold he had long kept about him, and asked him, because it was a thing much to be kept secret, and a matter one man in twenty hours might easily perform, whether he would have him go and seek the bottom of it, which he refrained to do till he knew his mind, promising he would faithfully bring him what he found, or else that he himself would do it, and be the first beholder of that comfortable spectacle; no man need doubt which part Dametas would choose, whose fancy had already devoured all this great riches, and even now began to grudge at a partner, before he saw his own share. Therefore taking a strong jade, laden with spades and mattocks, which he meant to bring back otherwise laden, he went in all speed thitherward, taking leave of nobody, only desiring Dorus he would look well to the princess Pamela, promising him mountains of his own labour, which nevertheless he little meant to perform, like a fool, not considering, that no man is to be moved with part, that neglects the whole. Thus away went Dametas, having already made an image in his fancy, what palaces he would build, how sumptuously he would fare, and among all other things imagined what money to employ in making coffers to keep his money; his ten miles seemed twice so many leagues, and yet contrary to the nature of it, though it seemed long, it was not wearisome.
Many times he cursed his horse’s want of consideration, that in so important a matter would make no greater speed: many times he wished himself the back of an ass to help to carry away the new sought riches (an unfortunate wisher, for if he had as well wished the head, it had been granted him). At length being come to the tree, which he hoped should bear so golden acorns, down went all his instruments, and forthwith to the renting up of the hurtless earth, where by and by he was caught with the lime of a few promised medals, which was so perfect a pawn unto him of his further expectation that he deemed a great number of hours well employed in groping further into it, which with logs and great stones was made as cumbersome as might be, till at length, with sweaty brow, he came to the great stone. A stone, God knows, full unlike to the cover of a monument, but yet there was the cypress box with “Aristomenes” graven upon it, and these verses written in it.
A banish’d man, long barr’d from his desire
By inward lets, of them his state possessed,
Hid here his hopes, by which he might aspire
To have his harms with wisdom’s help redressed.
Seek then and see what man esteemeth best,
All is but this, this is our labour’s hire:
Of this we live, in this we find our rest;
Who holds this fast no greater wealth require,
Look further then, so shalt thou find at least,
A bait most fit for hungry minded guest.
He opened the box, and to his great comfort read them, and with fresh courage went about to lift up that stone. But in the meantime, ere Dametas was half-a-mile gone to the treasure-ward, Dorus came to Miso, whom he found sitting in the chimney’s end, babbling to herself, and showing by all her gestures that she was loathsomely weary of the world, not for any hope of a better life, but finding no one good, neither in mind nor body, whereout she might nourish a quiet thought, having long since hated each thing else, began now to hate herself. Before this sweet humoured dame Dorus set himself, and framed towards her such a smiling countenance, as might seem to be mixed between a tickled mirth and a forced pity. Miso, to whom cheerfulness in others was ever a sauce of envy in herself, took quickly mark of his behaviour, and with a look full of forworn spite: “Now the devil,” said she, “take these villains that can never leave grinning, because I am not so fair as mistress Mopsa, to see how this skipjack looks at me.” Dorus, that had the occasion he desired, “Truly mistress,” answered he, “my smiling is not at you, but at them that are from you, and indeed I must needs a little accord my countenance with others’ sport.” And therewithal took her in his arms, and rocking her to and fro, “In faith mistress,” said he, “it is high time for you to bid us good night for ever, since others can possess your place in your own time.” Miso, that was never void of malice enough to suspect the uttermost evil, to satisfy a further shrewdness, took on a present mildness, and gently desired him to tell her what he meant; “For,” said she, “I am like enough to be knavishly dealt with by that churl my husband.” Dorus fell off from the matter again, as if he had meant no such thing, till by much refusing her entreaty, and vehemently stirring up her desire to know, he had strengthened a credit in her to that he should say. And then with a formal countenance, as if the conscience of the case had touched himself. “Mistress,” said he, “I am much perplexed in mine own determination, for my thoughts do ever will me to do honestly, but my judgment fails me what is honest, betwixt the general rule, that entrusted secrecies are holily to be deserved, and the particular exception, that the dishonest secrecies are to be revealed; especially there, where by revealing they may either be prevented, or at least amended. Yet in this balance your judgment weighs me down, because I have confidence in it, that you will use what you know moderately, and rather take such faults as advantage to your own good desert, than by your bitter using it be contented to be revenged on others with your own harms. So it is, mistress,” said he, “that yesterday driving my sheep up to the stately hill which lifts his head over the fair city of Mantinea, I happened upon the side of it, in a little falling of the ground, which was a rampier against the sun’s rage, to perceive a young maid, truly of the finest stamp of beauty; and that which made her beauty the more admirable, there was at all no art added to the helping of it: for her apparel was but such as shepherds’ daughters are wont to wear; and as for her hair, it hung down at free liberty of his goodly length, but that sometimes falling before the clear stars of her sight, she was forced to put it behind her ears, and so open again the treasures of her perfection, which that for a while had in part hidden. In her lap there lay a shepherd so wrapped up in that well-liked place, that I could discern no piece of his face, but as mine eyes were intent in that, her angel-like voice struck mine ears with this song.
