The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia 28 – Sidney · Verses Across
Literature · Romance
The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia 28The Third Eclogues (part 1)
18
Literature · Romance
The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia 28
The Third Eclogues (part 1)
SidneyEnglish
Thyrsis not with many painted words nor falsified promises had won the consent of his beloved Kala, but with a true and simple making her know he loved her, not forcing himself beyond his reach to buy her affection, but giving her such pretty presents, as neither could weary him with the giving, nor shame her for the taking. Thus, the first strawberries he could find, were ever in a clean washed dish, sent to Kala; thus posies of the spring flowers were wrapped up in a little green silk, and dedicated to Kala’s breasts; thus sometimes his sweetest cream, sometimes the best cakebread his mother made, were reserved for Kala’s taste. Neither would he stick to kill a lamb when she would be content to come over the way unto him. But then lo, how the house was swept, and rather no fire than any smoke left to trouble her. Then love songs were not dainty, when she would hear them, and as much mannerly silence, when she would not: in going to church great worship to Kala. So that all the parish said, never a maid they knew so well waited on: and when dancing was about the may-pole, nobody taken out but she, and he after a leap or two to show her his own activity, would frame all the rest of his dancing only to grace her. As for her father’s sheep, he had no less care of them than his own: so that she might play her as she would, warranted with Thyrsis’s carefulness. But if he spied Kala favoured any one of the flock more than his fellows, then that was cherished: shearing him so (when shorn he must be) as might most become him: but while the wood was on, wrapped within it some verses, wherein Thyrsis had a special gift, and making the innocent beast his unweeting messenger. Thus constantly continuing, though he were none of the fairest, at length he won Kala’s heart, the honestest wench in all those quarters. And so with consent of both parents, without which neither Thyrsis would ask, nor Kala grant, their marrying day was appointed, which because it fell out in this time I think it shall not be impertinent, to remember a little our shepherds, while the other great persons, are either sleeping or otherwise troubled. Thyrsis’s marriage-time once known, there needed no inviting of the neighbours in that valley, for so well was Thyrsis beloved, that they were all ready to do him credit, neither yet came they like harpies to devour him; but one brought a fat pig, the other a tender kid, the third a great goose; as for cheese, milk and butter, were the gossips’ presents. Thither came of strange shepherds only the melancholy Philisides; for the virtuous Corydon had long since left off all joyful solemnities. And as for Strephon and Claius, they had lost their mistress, which put them into such extreme sorrows, as they could scarcely abide the light of the day, much less the eyes of men. But of the Arcadian born shepherds, thither came good old Geron, young Histor, though unwilling, and upright Dicus, merry Pas, and jolly Nico. As for Dametas, they durst not presume, his pride was such, to invite him, and Dorus they found might not be spared. And thereunder a bower was made of boughs, for Thyrsis’s house was not able to receive them, every one placed according to his age. The women, for such was the manner of the country, kept together to make good cheer among themselves, from which otherwise a certain painful modesty restrains them, and there might the sadder matrons give good counsel to Kala, who poor fool wept for fear of that she desired. But among the shepherds was all honest liberty, no fear of dangerous telltales, who hunt greater preys, nor indeed minds in them to give telltales any occasion, but one questioning with another of the manuring his ground, and governing his flock, the highest point they reached to, was, to talk of the holiness of marriage; to which purpose, as soon as their sober dinner was ended, Dicus instead of thanks, sung this song, with a clear voice and cheerful countenance.
Let mother earth now deck herself in flowers,
To see her offspring, seek a good increase,
Where justest love doth vanquish Cupid’s powers,
And war of thoughts is swallowed up in peace,
Which never may decrease,----
But like the turtles fair,
Live one in two, a well-united pair;
Which that no chance may stain,----
O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.
O Heav’n awake, show forth thy stately face,
Let not these slumbering clouds thy beauties hide,
But with thy cheerful presence help to grace
The honest bridegroom and the bashful bride,
Whose loves may ever bide,----
Like to the elm and vine,
With mutual embracements them to twine;
In which delightful pain,----
O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.
Ye Muses all which chaste affects allow,
And have to Thyrsis showed your secret skill,
To this chaste love your sacred favours bow,
And so to him and her your gifts distil,
That they all vice may kill.----
And like to lilies pure,----
May please all eyes, and spotless may endure,
Where that all bliss may reign,----
O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.
Ye nymphs which in the water’s empire have,
Since Thyrsis’ music oft doth yield your praise,
Grant to the thing which we for Thyrsis crave,
Let one time, but long first, close up their days.
One grave their bodies seize:----
And like two rivers sweet,
When they, thought divers, do together meet,
One stream both streams contain:
O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.
Pan, father Pan the God of silly sheep,
Whose care is cause that they in number grow,
Have much more care of them than them do keep,
Since from these good the other’s good doth flow,
And make their issue show----
In number like the herd
Of younglings, which thyself with love hast rear’d;
Or like the drops of rain.
O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.
Virtue, if not a God, yet God’s chief part,
Be thou their knot of this their open vow,
That still he be her head, she be his heart;
He lean to her, she unto him do bow:
Each other still allow:----
Like oak and mistletoe,
Her strength from him, his praise from her do grow;
In which most lovely train,----
O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.
But thou foul Cupid, sire to lawless lust,
Be thou far hence with thy impoison’d dart,
Which though of glitt’ring gold, shall here take rust.
Where simple love, which chasteness doth impart,
Avoids thy hurtful art,----
Not needing charming skill,
Such minds with sweet affections for to fill,
Which being pure and plain,----
O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.
All churlish words, shrewd answers, crabbed looks,
All privateness, self-seeking, inward spite,
All waywardness, which nothing kindly brooks,
All strife for toys, and claiming master’s right.
Be hence, aye put to flight:
All stirring husband’s hate
’Gainst neighbour’s good for womanish debate,
Be fled as things most vain,----
O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.
All peacock pride, and fruits of peacock’s pride,
Longing to be with loss of substance gay,
With wretchlessness what may thy house betide,
So that you may on higher slippers stay,
For ever hence away:----
Yet let not sluttery
The sink of filth, be counted housewifery;
But keeping wholesome mean,----
O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.
But above all, away vile jealousy,
The evil of evils, just cause to be unjust,
How can he love suspecting treachery?
How can she love where love cannot win trust?
Go snake, hide thee in dust,----
Nay dare once show thy face,
Where open hearts do hold so constant place,
That they thy sting restrain,----
O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.
The earth is deck’d with flowers, the heav’ns display’d,
Muses grant gifts, nymphs long and joined life,
Pan store of babes, virtue their thoughts well staid,
Cupid’s lust gone, and gone is bitter strife,
Happy Man, happy Wife,----
No pride shall them oppress,
Nor yet shall yield to loathsome sluttishness,
And jealousy is slain:----
For Hymen will their coupled joys maintain.
“Truly Dicus,” said Nico, “although thou didst not grant me the prize the last day, when undoubtedly I won it, yet must I needs say thou for thy part hast sung well and thriftily.” Pas straight desired all the company they would bear witness that Nico had once in his life spoken wise: “For,” said he, “I will tell it his Father, who will be a glad man when he hears such news.” “Very true,” said Nico, “but indeed so would not thine in like case, for he would look thou should’st live but one hour longer than a discreet word wandered out of thy mouth.” “And I pray thee,” said Pas, “gentle Nico, tell me, what mischance it was that brought thee to taste so fine a meat?” “Marry goodman blockhead,” said Nico, “because he speaks against jealousy, the filthy traitor to true affection, and yet disguising itself in the raiment of love.” “Sentences, sentences,” cried Pas. “Alas, how ripe witted these young folks be nowadays but well counselled shall that husband be, when this man comes to exhort him not to be jealous.” “And so shall he,” answered Nico, “for I have seen a fresh example, though it be not very fit to be known.” “Come, come,” said Pas, “be not so squeamish, I know thou longest more to tell it than we to hear it.” But for all his words, Nico, would not bestow his voice, till he was generally entreated of all the rest. And then with a merry marriage-look he sung this following discourse, for with a better grace he could sing than tell.
A neighbour mine not long ago there was,
But nameless he, for blameless he shall be,
That married had a trick and bonny lass,
As in a summer day a man might see:
But he himself a foul unhandsome groom,
And far unfit to hold so good a room.
Now whether moved with self-unworthiness,
Or with her beauty fit to make a prey;
Fell jealousy did so his brain oppress,
That if he absent were but half a day,
He guessed the worst (you wot what is the worst)
And in himself new doubting causes nurst.
While thus he feared the silly innocent,
Who yet was good, because she knew none ill,
Unto his house a jolly shepherd went,
To whom our prince did bear a great good will;
Because in wrestling, and in a pastoral,
He far did pass the rest of shepherds all.
And therefore he a courtier was be-named,
And as a courtier was with cheer received
(For they have tongues to make a poor man blamed,
If he to them his duty misconceived)
And for this courtier should well like his table,
The good man bade his wife be serviceable.
And so she was, and all with good intent;
But few days past when she good manner used;
But that her husband thought her service bent
To such an end as he might be abased.
Yet like a coward fearing stranger’s pride,
He made the simple wench his wrath abide;
With chumpish looks, hard words, and secret nips,
Grumbling at her when she his kindness sought.
Asking her how she tasted courtier’s lips,
He forced her to think that which she never thought.
In fine, he made her guess, there was some sweet,
In that which he so fear’d that she should meet.
When once this entered was in woman’s heart,
And that it had inflamed a new desire,
There rested then to play a woman’s part;
Fuel to seek, and not to quench the fire,
But (for his jealous eye she well did find)
She studied cunning how the same to blind.
And thus she did. One day to him she came,
And, though against his will, on him she leaned:
And out gan cry, “Ah well away for shame,
If you help not, our wedlock will be stained.”
The good man starting, asked what her did move?
She sigh’d and said, “The bad guest sought her love.”
He little looking that she should complain
Of that, whereto he fear’d she was inclin’d:
Bussing her oft, and in his heart full fain,
He did demand what remedy to find,
How they might get that guest from them to wend,
And yet the prince that lov’d him not offend.
“Husband,” quoth she, “go to him by and by,
And tell him you do find I do him love:
And therefore pray him that of courtesy
He will absent himself, lest he should move
A young girl’s heart, to that were shame for both
Whereto you know his honest heart were loath.
“Thus shall you show that him you do not doubt,
And as for me, sweet husband, I must bear;”
Glad was the man when he heard her out,
And did the same, although with mickle fear.
For fear he did, lest he the young man might
In choler put, with whom he would not fight.
The courtly shepherd much aghast at this,
Not seeing erst such token in the wife,
Though full of scorn, would not his duty miss,
Knowing that ill become a household strife,
Did go his way, but sojourn’d near thereby,
That yet the ground thereof he might espy.
The wife thus having settled husband’s brain,
Who would have sworn his spouse Diana was,
Watched when she a further point might gain,
Which little time did fitly bring to pass.
For to the court her man was called by name;
Whither he needs must go for fear of blame.
Three days before that he must sure depart,
She written had, but in a hand disguised,
A letter such, which might from either part,
Seem to proceed, so well it was devised.
She seal’d it first, then she the sealing brake,
And to her jealous husband did it take.
With weeping eyes (her eyes she taught to weep)
She told him that the courtier had it sent:
“Alas,” quoth she, “thus woman’s shame doth creep.”
The good man read on both sides the content,
It title had, “Unto my only love”:
Subscription was, “Yours most, if you will prove.”
Th’ epistle self such kind of words it had;
“My sweetest joy, the comfort of my sprite,
So may thy flocks increase thy dear heart glad,
So may each thing e’en as thou wishest light,
As thou wilt deign to read, and gently read
This mourning ink in which my heart doth bleed.
“Long have I lov’d, alas thou worthy art,
Long have I lov’d, alas love craveth love,
Long have I lov’d thyself, alas my heart
Doth break, now tongue unto thy name doth move;
And think not that thy answer answer is,
But that it is my doom of bale or bliss.
“The jealous wretch must now to court be gone;
Ne can he fail, for prince hath for him sent:
Now is the time we may be here alone,
And give a long desire a sweet content.
Thus shall you both reward a lover true,
And eke revenge his wrong suspecting you.”
And this was all, and this the husband read
With chafe enough, till she him pacified:
Desiring that no grief in him be bred,
Now that he had her words so truly tried:
But that he would to him the letter show,
That with his fault be might her goodness know.
That straight was done with many a boist’rous threat,
That to the king he would his sin declare;
But now the courtier gan to smell the feat,
And with some words which showed little care:
He stayed until the good man was departed,
Then gave he him the blow which never smarted.
Thus may you see the jealous wretch was made
The pander of the thing he most did fear.
Take heed therefore, how you ensue that trade,
Lest the same marks of jealousy you bear.
For sure, no jealousy can that prevent,
Whereto two parties once be full content.
“Behold,” said Pas, “a whole dicker of wit: he had picked out such a tale with intention to keep a husband from jealousy, which was enough to make a sanctified husband jealous, to see subtilities so much in the feminine gender. But,” said he, “I will strike Nico dead, with the wise words that shall flow out of my gorge.” And without further entreaty thus sang:
Who doth desire that chaste his wife should be,
First be he true, for truth doth truth deserve:
Then such be he, as she his worth may see,
And one man still credit with her preserve.
Not toying kind, nor causelessly unkind,
Not stirring thoughts, nor yet denying right,
Not spying faults, nor in plain errors blind,
Never hard hand, nor ever reins too light.
As far from want, as far from vain expense
(The one doth force, the latter doth entice)
Allow good company, but keep from thence
All filthy mouths that glory in their vice.
This done, thou hast no more, but leave the rest,
To virtue, fortune, time and woman’s breast.
“Well concluded,” said Nico, “when he hath done all, he leaves the matter to his wife’s discretion. Now whensoever thou marriest, let her discretion deck thy head with Actaeon’s ornament.” Pas was so angry with his wish, being indeed towards marriage, that they might perchance have fallen to buffets, but that Dicus desired Philisides, who as a stranger sat among them, revolving in his mind all the tempests of evil fortune he had passed, that he would do so much grace to the company, as to sing one of his country songs. Philisides, knowing it no good manners to be squeamish of his coming, having put himself into their company, without further study began to utter that, wherewith his thoughts were then, as always, most busied: and to show what a stranger he was to himself, spoke of himself, as of a third person in this sort:
The lad Philisides
Lay by a river’s side.
In flow’ry field a gladder eye to please;
His pipe was at his foot,
His lambs were him beside,
A widow turtle near on bared root
Sat wailing without boot.
Each thing both sweet and sad
Did draw his boiling brain
To think, and think with pain
Of Mira’s beams, eclips’d by absence bad,
And thus, with eyes made dim
With tears, he said, or sorrow said for him:
“O earth, once answer give,
So may thy stately grace
By north, or south still rich adorned live,
So Mira long may be
On thy then blessed face
Whose foot doth set a heav’n on cursed thee,
I ask, now answer me:
If th’ author of thy bliss,
Phoebus, that shepherd high,
Do turn from thee his eye,
Doth not thyself, when he long absent is,
Like rogue, all ragged go,
And pine away with daily wasting woe?
Tell me you wanton brook,
So may your sliding race
Shun loathed loving banks with cunning crook:
So in you ever new
Mira may look her face,
And make you fair with shadow of her hue:
So when to pay your due
To mother sea you come,
She chid you not for stay,
Nor beat you for your play,
Tell me if your diverted springs become
Absented quite from you,
Are you not dried? can you yourselves renew?
Tell me you flowers fair,
Cowslip and columbine,
So may you make this wholesome spring-time air
With you embraced lie,
And lately thence untwine:
But with dewdrops engender children high:
So may you never die,
But pull’d by Mira’s hand,
Dress bosom hers, or head.
Or scatter on her bed,
Tell me, if husband spring-time leave your land,
When he from you is sent,
Whither not you, languish’d with discontent?
Tell me, my silly pipe,
So may thee still betide,
A cleanly cloth thy moistness for to wipe:
So may the cherries red
Of Mira’s lips divide
Their sugared selves to kiss thy happy head:
So may her ears be led
Her ears where music lives,
To hear and not despise
Thy lyric-liring cries;
Tell, if that breath, which thee thy sounding gives.
Be absent far from thee,
Absent alone canst thou then piping be?
Tell me my lamb of gold,
So may’st thou long abide
The day well fed, the night in faithful fold:
So grow thy wool of note,
In time that richly dy’d
It may be part of Mira’s petticoat,
Tell me, if wolves the throat
Have caught of thy dear dam,
Or she from thee be stay’d,
Or thou from her be stray’d,
Canst thou poor lamb, become another’s lamb?
Or rather till you die,
Still for thy dam, with baa-waymenting cry?
Tell me, O turtle true,
So may no fortune breed
To make thee nor thy better-loved rue:
So may thy blessings swarm,
That Mira may thee feed
With hand and mouth; with laps and breaks keep warm:
Tell me of greedy arm,
Do fondly take away
With traitor lime the one
The other left alone:
Tell me poor wretch, parted from wretched prey
Disdain not you the green,
Wailing till death, shun you not to be seen?
Earth, brook, flow’rs, pipe, lamb, dove,
Say all and I with them,
‘Absence is death or worse, to them that love.’
So I unlucky lad
Whom hills from her do hem,
What fits me now but tears, and sighings sad?
O fortune too too bad,
I rather would my sheep
Th’adst killed with a stroke,
Burnt Caban, lost my cloak,
Then want one hour those eyes which my joys keep.
Oh! what doth wailing win?
Speech without end had better not begin.
My song climb thou the wind,
Which Holland sweet now gently sendeth in,
That on his wings the level thou may’st find
To hit, but kissing hit
Her ears the weights of wit.
If thou know not for whom thy master dies,
These marks shall make thee wise:
She is the herdess fair that shines in dark,
And gives her kids no food, but willow’s bark.”
This said, at length he ended.
His oft sigh-broken ditty,
Then raise, but raise no legs with faintness bended,
With skin in sorrow died,
With face the plot of pity,
With thoughts, which thoughts their own tormentors tried.
He rose, and straight espied
His ram, who to recover
The ewe another loved,
With him proud battle proved.
He envied such a death in sight of lover,
And always westward eyeing,
More envied Phoebus for his western flying.
The whole company would gladly have taken this occasion of requesting Philisides in plainer sort to discover unto them his estate. Which he willing to prevent, as knowing the relation thereof more fit for funerals than the time of a marriage, began to sing this song he had learned before he had ever subjected his thoughts to acknowledge no master, but a mistress.
As I my little flock on Ister bank
(A little flock; but well my pipe they couth)
Did piping lead, the sun already sank
Beyond our world, and ere I got my booth,
Each thing with mantle black the night doth sooth;
Saving the glow-worm which would courteous be
Of that small light oft watching shepherds see.
The welkin had full niggardly enclosed
In coffer of dim clouds his silver groats,
Ycleped stars; each thing to rest disposed,
The caves, were full, the mountains void of goats
The bird’s eye clos’d; closed their chirping notes.
As for the nightingale, wood music’s king:
It August was, he deign’d not then to sing.
Amid my sheep, though I saw naught to fear,
Yet (for I nothing saw) I feared sore;
Then found I which thing is a charge to bear,
As for my sheep I dreaded mickle more
Than ever for myself since I was bore.
I sat me down: for see to go he could.
And sang unto my sheep lest stray they should.
The song I sang old Lanquet had me taught,
Lanquet, the shepherd best swift Ister knew,
For clerkly read, and hating what is naught,
For faithful heart, clean hands, and mouth as true:
With sweet skill my skilless youth he drew,
To have a feeling taste of him that fits
Beyond the heaven, far more beyond your wits.
He said the music best thilk power pleased
Was jump concord between our wit and will;
Where highest notes to godliness are raised,
And lowest sink not down to jot of ill:
With old true tales he wont mine ears to fill.
How shepherds did of yore, how now they thrive,
Spoiling their flock, or while ’twixt them they strive.
He liked me, but pitied lustful youth:
His good strong staff my slipp’ry years upbore:
He still hop’d well because I loved truth:
Till forc’d to part with heart and eyes e’en sore,
To worthy Corydon he gave me o’er,
But thus in oak’s true shade recounted be,
Which now in night’s deep shade sheep heard of me.
Such manner time there was (what time I not)
When all this earth, this dam or mould of ours
Was only won’d with such as beasts begot:
Unknown as then were they that builded towers:
The cattle wild, or tame, in nature’s bowers
Might freely roam, or rest, as seemed them:
Man was not man their dwellings in to hem.
The beasts had sure some beastly policy:
For nothing can endure where order n’is.
For once the lion by the lamb did lie,
The fearful hind the leopard did kiss.
Hurtless was tiger’s paw, and serpent’s hiss.
This think I well the beasts with courage clad,
Like senators a harmless empire had.
At which whether the others did repine,
For envy harb’reth most in feeblest hearts
Or that they all to changing did incline,
As e’en in beasts their dams leave changing parts
The multitude to Jove a suit imparts,
With neighing, blaying, braying, and barking,
Roaring and howling for to have a king.
A king, in language theirs they said they would:
(For then their language was a perfect speech)
The birds likewise with chirps, and puing could
Cackling, and chatt’ring that of Jove beseech.
Only the owl still warn’d them not to seech
So hastily that which they would repent;
But saw they would, and he to deserts went.
Jove wisely said (for wisdom wisely says)
O beasts, take heed what you of me desire.
Rulers will think all things made them to please,
And soon forget the swink due to their hire:
But since you will, part of my heav’nly fire,
I will you lend; the rest yourselves must give,
That it both seen and felt may with you live.
Full glad they were, and took the naked spright,
Which straight the earth clothed in his clay:
The lion heart; the ounce gave active might;
The horse, good shape; the sparrow, lust to play;
Nightingale, voice, enticing songs to say.
Elephant gave a perfect memory:
And parrot, ready tongue, that to apply.
The fox gave craft; the dog gave flattery:
Ass patience; the mole, a working thought;
Eagle, high look; wolf, secret cruelty:
Monkey, sweet breath; the cow, her fair eyes brought;
The ermine, whitest skin, spotted with nought;
The sheep, mild seeming face; climbing, the bear.
The stag did give the harm eschewing fear.
The hare, her sleights; the cat, his melancholy;
Ant, industry; and coney, skill to build;
Cranes, order; storks, to be appearing holy;
Chameleon, ease to change; duck, ease to yield:
Crocodile, tears, which might be falsely spill’d:
Ape, great thing gave, though he did mowing stand,
The instrument of instruments, the hand.
Each other beast likewise his present brings:
And but thy dread their prince they ought should want,
They all consented were to give him wings:
And aye more awe towards him for to plant,
To their own work this privilege they grant,
That from thenceforth to all eternity,
No beast should freely speak, but only he.
Thus man was made; thus man their lord became:
Who at the first, wanting, or biding pride,
He did to beasts’ best use his cunning frame
With water drink, herbs meat, and naked hide.
And fellow like let his dominion slide;
Not in his sayings, saying “I,” but “we”;
As if he meant his lordship common be.
But when his seat so rooted he had found,
That they now skill’d not how from him to wend;
Then gain in guiltless earth full many a wound,
Iron to seek, which ’gainst itself should bend,
To tear the bowels, that good corn should send,
But yet the common dam none did bemoan;
Because, though hurt, they never heard her groan.
Then ’gan the factions in the beasts to breed;
Where helping weaker sort, the nobler beasts
(As tigers, leopards, bears, and lions’ seed)
Disdain’d with this, in deserts sought their rests:
Where famine ravin taught their hungry chests,
That craftily he forc’d them to do ill,
Which being done, he afterwards would kill.
For murders done, which never erst was seen,
By those great beasts, as for the weaker’s good,
He chose themselves his guarders for to been.
’Gainst those of might, of whom in fear they stood,
As horse, and dog, not great, but gentle blood:
Blithe were the common cattle of the field,
Tho’ when they saw their foe’n of greatness kill’d.
But they or spent, or made of slender might,
Then quickly did the meaner cattle find,
The great beams gone, the house on shoulder’s light:
For by and by the horse fair bits did bind:
The dog was in a collar taught his kind.
As for the gentle birds like case might rue,
When falcon they, and goss-hawk saw in mew.
Worst fell to smallest birds, and meanest herd,
Whom now his own, full like his own he used.
Yet first but wool, or feathers off he tear’d:
And when they were well us’d to be abused:
For hungry teeth their flesh with teeth he bruised:
At length for glutton taste he did them kill:
At last for sport their silly lives did spill.
But yet, O man, rage not beyond thy need:
Deem it not glory to swell in tyranny.
Thou art of blood, joy not to see things bleed:
Thou fearest death: think they are loth to die.
A plaint of guiltless hurt doth pierce the sky.
And you poor beasts in patience bide your hell,
Or know your strengths, and then you shall do well.
Thus did I sing and pipe eight sullen hours
To sheep, whom love, not knowledge, made to hear,
Now fancy’s fits, now fortune’s baleful flowers:
But then I homeward call’d my lambkins dear;
For to my dimmed eyes began to appear
The night grown old, her black head waxen grey,
Sure shepherd’s sign, that morn should soon fetch day.
According to the nature of divers ears, divers judgments soon followed: some praising his voice, others his words fit to frame a pastoral style, others the strangeness of the tale, and scanning what he should mean by it. But old Geron, who had borne him a grudge ever since in one of their eclogues he had taken him up over-bitterly, took hold of this occasion to make his revenge, and said, he never saw a thing worse proportioned, than to bring in a tale of he knew not what beasts at such a sport-meeting, when rather some song of love, or matter for joyful melody was to be brought forth. “But,” said he, “this is the right conceit of young men, who think then they speak wiseliest, when they cannot understand themselves.” But little did the melancholic shepherd regard either his dispraises, or the other’s praises, who had set the foundation of his honour there, where he was most despised. And therefore he returning again to the train of his desolate pensiveness, Geron invited Histor to answer him in eclogue-wise; who indeed having been long in love with the fair Kala, and now by Lalus over-gone, was grown into a detestation of marriage. But thus it was.
GERON and HISTOR
GERON
In faith, good Histor, long is your delay,
From holy marriage, sweet and surest mean:
Our foolish lust in honest rules to stay,
I pray you do to Lalus’ sample lean:
Thou seest how frisk, and jolly now he is,
That last day seem’d, he could not chew a bean.
Believe me man, there is no greater bliss,
Than is the quiet joy of loving wife:
Which whoso wants, half of himself doth miss.
Friend without change, playfellow without strife,
Food without fullness, counsel without pride,
Is this sweet doubling of our single life.
HISTOR
No doubt, to whom so good chance did betide,
As for to find a pasture strewed with gold,
He were a fool if there he did not bide.
Who would not have a Phoenix if he could:
The humming wasp if it had not a sting,
Before all flies the wasp accept I would;
But this bad world, few golden fields doth bring;
Phoenix but one, of crows we millions have.
The wasp seems gay, but is a cumbrous thing.
If many Kala’s our Arcadia gave,
Lalus’ example I would soon ensue,
And think, I did myself from sorrow save.
But of such wives we find a slender crew;
Shrewdness so stirs, pride so puffs up the heart,
They seldom ponder what to them is due.
With meagre looks, as if they still did smart
Puling or whimpering, or else scolding flat,
Make home more pain than following of the cart.
Either dull silence, or eternal chat;
Still contrary to what her husband says;
If he do praise the dog, she likes the cat.
Austere she is, when he would honest plays;
And gamesome then, when he thinks on his sheep,
She bids him go, and yet from journey stays,
She war doth ever with his kinsfolk keep,
And makes them fremb’d, who friends by nature are,
Envying shallow toys with malice deep.
And if forsooth there come some new found ware,
The little coin his sweating brows have got,
Must go for that if for her lowers he care:
Or else; Nay faith, mine is the luckiest lot,
That ever fell to honest woman yet:
No wife but I hath such a man, god wot:
Such is their speech, who be of sober wit:
But, who do let their tongues show well their rage,
Lord, what bywords they speak, what spite they spit?
The house is made a very loathsome cage,
Wherein the bird doth never sing, but cry.
With such a will as nothing can assuage.
Dearly their servants do their wages buy,
Revil’d for each small fault, sometimes for none:
They better live that in a jail do lie
Let other fouler sports away be blown,
For I seek not their shame, but still methinks
A better life it is to live alone.
GERON
Who for such fickle fear from virtue shrinks,
Shall in his life embrace no worthy thing:
No mortal man the cup of surety drinks.
The heav’ns do not good haps in handfuls bring,
But let us pick our good from out much bad:
That still our little world may know his king.
But certainly so long we may be glad,
While that we do what nature doth require,
And for th’ event we never ought be sad.
Man oft is plagu’d with air, is burnt with fire,
In water drown’d, in earth his burial is:
And shall we not therefore their use desire?
Nature above all things requireth this,
That we our kind do labour to maintain:
Which drawn-out line doth hold all human bliss.
Thy father justly may of thee complain
If thou do not repay his deeds for thee,
In granting unto him a grandsire’s gain.
Thy Commonwealth may rightly grieved be,
Which must by this immortal be preserved,
If thus thou murder thy posterity.
His very being he hath not deserved,
Who for a self-conceit will that forbear,
Whereby that being, aye must be, conserved.
And God forbid women such cattle were
As you paint them: but well in you I find,
No man doth speak aright who speaks in fear,
Who only sees the ill is worse than blind.
These fifty winters married have I been;
And yet find no such faults in womankind.
I have a wife worthy to be a queen,
So well she can command, and yet obey:
In ruling of a house so well she’s seen.
And yet in all this time betwixt us twa,
We wear our double yoke of such content,
That never passed foul word, I dare well say:
But these are your love toys, which still are spent
In lawless games, and love not as you should,
But with much study learn late to repent.
How well last day before our prince you could
Blind Cupid’s works with wonder testify?
Yet now the root of him abase you would.
Go to, go to, and Cupid now apply,
To that where thou thy Cupid may’st avow,
And thou shalt find in women virtues lie,
Sweet supple minds which soon to wisdom bow
Where they by wisdom’s rule directed are,
And are not forc’d fond thraldom to allow.
As we to get are fram’d, so they to spare:
We made for pain, our pains they made to cherish:
We care abroad, and they of home have care,
O Histor, seek within thyself to flourish:
Thy house by thee must live, or else be gone:
And then who shall the name of Histor nourish?
Riches of children pass a prince’s throne;
Which touch the father’s heart with secret joy,
When without shame he saith, “These be mine own.”
Marry therefore, for marriage will destroy
Those passions which to youthful head do climb,
Mothers and nurses of all vain annoy.
HISTOR
Perchance I will, but now methinks it time
To go unto the bride, and use this day,
To speak with her while freely speak we may.
He spoke these words with such affection, as a curious eye might easily have perceived he liked Thyrsis’ fortune better than he loved his person. But then indeed did all arise, and went to the women, where spending all the day, and good part of the night in dancing, carolling and wassailing; lastly, they left Thyrsis, where he long desired to be left, and with many unfeigned thanks returned every man to his home. But some of them having to cross the way of the two lodges, might see a lady making doleful lamentation over a body which seemed dead unto them. But methinks Dametas cries unto me, if I come not the sooner to comfort him, he will leave off his golden work, that hath already cost him so much labour and longing.
[End of Book III]
ARCADIA
BOOK IV
The almighty wisdom evermore delighting to show the world that by unlikeliest means greatest matters may come to conclusion; that human reason may be the more humbled, and more willingly give place to divine providence; as at the first it brought in Dametas to play a part in this royal pageant, so having continued him still an actor, now that all things were grown ripe for an end, made his folly the instrument of revealing that which far greater cunning had sought to conceal. For so it fell out that Dametas having spent the whole day in breaking up the cumbersome work of the pastor Dorus, and feeling in all his labour no pain so much as that his hungry hopes received any stay, having with the price of much sweat and weariness gotten up the huge stone, which he thought should have such a golden lining, the good man in the great bed that stone had made, found nothing but these two verses written upon a broad piece of vellum.
Who hath his hire, hath well his labour plac’d;
Earth thou didst seek, and store of Earth thou hast.
What an inward discontentment it was to master Dametas, to find his hope of wealth turned to poor verses, for which he never cared much, nothing can describe, but either the feeling in one’s self the state of such a mind Dametas had, or at least the bethinking what was Midas’s fancy, when after the great pride he conceived to be made judge between the Gods, he was rewarded with the ornament of an ass’s ears. Yet the deep apprehension he had received of such riches, could not so suddenly lose the colour that had so thoroughly dyed his thick brain, but that he turned and tossed the poor bowels of the innocent earth, till the coming on of the night, and the tediousness of his fruitless labour made him content rather to exercise his discontentation at home than there. But forced he was, his horse being otherwise burdened with digging instruments, to return as he came, most part of the way on foot, with such grudging lamentations as a nobler mind would, but more nobly, make for the loss of his mistress. For so far had he fed his foolish soul with the expectation of that which he reputed felicity, that he no less accounted himself miserable, than if he had fallen from such an estate his fancy had embraced. So then home again went Dametas, punished in conceit, as in conceit he had erred, till he found himself there from a fancied loss fallen to essential misery: for entering into his house three hours before night, instead of the lightsome countenance of Pamela, which gave such an inward decking to that lodge, as proudest palaces might have cause to envy it, and of the grateful conversation of Dorus, whose witty behaviour made that loneliness to seem full of good company, instead of the loud scolding of Miso, and the busy rumbling up and down of Mopsa, which though they were so short, as quite contrary to the others’ praiseworthiness, yet were they far before them in filling of a house, he found nothing but a solitary darkness, which as naturally it breeds a kind of irksome ghastfulness, so it was to him a most present terror, remembering the charge he had left behind, which he well knew imported no less than his life unto him.
Therefore lighting a candle, there was no place a mouse could have dwelled in but that he with quaking diligence sought into. But when he saw he could see nothing of that he most cared for, then became he the right pattern of a wretch dejected with fear: for crying and howling, knocking his head to the wall, he began to make pitiful complaints, where nobody could hear him: and, with too much dread he should not recover her, leave all consideration how to recover her. But at length looking like a she-goat when she casts her kid, for very sorrow he took in his own behalf, out of the lodge he went running as hard as he could, having now received the very form of hanging into his consideration. Thus running, as a man that would gladly have run from himself, it was his foolish fortune to espy, by the glimmering light the moon did then yield him, one standing aloft among the boughs of a fair ash. He that would have asked counsel at that time of a dog, cast up his face, as if his tooth had been drawing; and with much bending his sight, perceived it was Mopsa, fitly seated there for her wit and dignity. There, I will not say with joy, for how could he taste of joy, whose imagination was fallen from a palace to the gallows? But yet with some refreshing of comfort, in hopes he should learn better tidings of her, he began to cry out, “O Mopsa, my beloved chicken, here am I thine own father Dametas, never in such a towardness of hanging if thou canst not help me.” But never a word could his eloquence procure of Mopsa, who indeed was there attending for greater matters. This was yet a new burden to poor Dametas, who thought all the world was conspiring against him, and therefore with a silly choler he began another tune. “Thou vile Mopsa,” said he, “now the vengeance of my fatherly curse overthwart thee if though do not straightways answer me.” But neither blessing nor cursing could prevail. Mopsa, who was now great with child with the expectation of her may-game hopes did long to be delivered with the third time of being named.
Which by and by followed, for Dametas rubbing his elbow, stamping and whining, seeing neither of these take place, he began to throw stones at her, and withal to conjure her by the name of hellish Mopsa. But when he had named her the third time, no chime can more suddenly follow the striking of a clock, than she verily thinking it was the god that used her father’s voice, throwing her arms abroad, and not considering that she was muffled upon so high a tree, came fluttering down like a hooded hawk, likely enough to have broken her neck but that the tree full of boughs tossed her from one bough to another, and lastly, well bruised, brought her to receive an unfriendly salutation of the earth. Dametas, as soon as she was down, came running to her, and finding her so close wrapt, pulled off the scarlet cloak, in good time for her, for with the soreness of the fall, if she had not had breath given her, she had delivered a foolish soul to Pluto.
But when Dametas began afresh to desire his daughter not to forget the pains he had taken for her in her childhood, which he was sure she could remember, and to tell where Pamela was. “O good Apollo,” said Mopsa, “if ever thou didst bear love to Phaeton’s mother let me have a king to my husband.” “Alas, what speakest thou of Phaeton?” said Dametas. “If by thy circumspect means I find not out Pamela, thy father will be hanged to-morrow.” “It is no matter though he be hanged,” answered Mopsa, “do but thou make Dorus a king, and let him be my husband, good Apollo, for my courage doth much prick me toward him.” “Ah Mopsa,” cried out Dametas, “where is thy wit? Dost thou not know thy father? How hast thou forgotten thyself?” “I do not ask wit of thee, mine own God,” said she, “but I see thou wouldst have me remember my father, and indeed forget myself. No, no, a good husband.” “Thou shalt have thy fill of husbands,” said Dametas, “and do but answer me my question.” “O I thank thee,” said Mopsa, “with all my heart heartily, but let them be all kings.” Dametas seeing no other way prevail, fell down on his knees, “Mopsa, Mopsa,” said he, “do not thus cruelly torment me; I am already wretched enough, alas! either help me, or tell me thou canst not.” She that would not be behind Apollo in courtesy, kneeled down on the other side; “I will never leave tormenting thee,” said Mopsa, “until thou hast satisfied my longing; but I will proclaim thee a promise-breaker, that even Jupiter shall hear it.” “Now by the fostering thou hast received in this place, save my life,” said Dametas. “Now by the fair ash,” answered Mopsa, “where thou didst receive so great a good turn, grant post haste to my burning fancy.” “O where is Pamela?” said Dametas. “O a lusty husband,” said Mopsa.
Dametas, who now verily assured himself his daughter was mad, began utterly to despair of his life; and therefore amazedly catching her in his arms, to see whether he could bring her to herself, he felt the weight of a great cudgel light upon his shoulder, and for the first greeting he knew his wife Miso’s voice, by the calling him ribald villain, and asking him whether she could not serve his turn as well as Charita? For Miso having, according to Dorus’s counsel, gone to Mantinea, and there harboured herself in an old acquaintance’s house of hers, as soon as ten of the clock had stricken (where she had remained closely all that while, I think with such an amiable cheer, as when jealous Juno sat cross-legged to hinder the child-birth of her husband’s love) with open mouth she went to the magistrate appointed over such matters, and there, with the most scolding invective, her rage rather than eloquence could bring forth, she required his aid to take Dametas, who had left his duty to the king and his daughter, to commit adultery in the house of Charita’s uncle, in the Oudemian Street. But neither was the name of Charita remembered, nor any such street known. Yet such was the general mislike all men had of Dametas’s unworthy advancement, that every man was glad to make himself a minister of that which might redound to his shame; and therefore, with panic cries and laughters, there was no suspected place in all the city but was searched for under the title of Dametas, Miso ever foremost, encouraging them with all the shameful blazings of his demeanour, increasing the sport of hunting her husband, with her diligent barking, till at length, having done both him and herself as much infamous shame as such a tongue in such an action might perform, in the end not being able to find a thing that was not, to her mare again she went, having neither suspicion nor rage anything mitigated. But, leaving behind her a sufficient comedy of her tragical fancies, away homeward she came, imputing the not finding her husband, to any chance rather than to his innocency.
For her heart being apt to receive and nourish a bitter thought, it had so swallowed up a determinate condemnation, that in the very anatomy of her spirits one should have found nothing but devilish disdain, and hateful jealousy. In this sort grunting out her mischievous spite, she came by the tree, even as Dametas was making that ill-understood intercession to his foolish Mopsa. As soon as she heard her husband’s voice, she verily thought she had her play; and therefore stealing from her mare as softly as she could, she came creeping and halting behind him, even as he (thinking his daughter’s little wits had quite left her great noll) began to take her in his arms, thinking perchance her feeling sense might call her mind’s parts unto her. But Miso, who saw nothing but through the choler of revengeful anger, established upon the fore-judgment of his trespass, undoubtedly resolving that Mopsa was Charita, Dorus had told her of, mumping out her hoarse chafe, she gave him the wooden salutation you heard of; Dametas, that was not so sensible in anything as in blows, turned up his blubbered face like a great lout new whipped: “Alas! thou woman,” said he, “what hath thy poor husband deserved to have his own ill luck loaden with displeasure? Pamela is lost, Pamela is lost.” Miso still holding on the course of her former fancy, “What tellest thou me, naughty varlet, of Pamela; Dost thou think that doth answer me for abusing the laws of marriage? Have I brought thee children, have I been a true wife unto thee, to be despised in mine old age?” And ever among she would sauce her speeches with such bastinadoes, that poor Dametas began now to think, that either a general madding was fallen, or else that all this was but a vision. But as for visions the smart of the cudgel put out of his fancy; and therefore again turning to his wife, not knowing what in the world she meant, “Miso,” said he, “hereafter thou mayest examine me, do but now tell me what is become of Pamela.” “I will first examine this drab,” said she, and withal let fall her staff as hard as she could upon Mopsa, still taking her for Charita.
But Mopsa that was already angry, thinking that she had hindered her from Apollo, leaped up and caught her by the throat, like to have strangled her, but that Dametas from a condemned man was fain to become a judge, and part this fray, such a picture of rude discord, where each was out with the other two. And then getting the opportunity of their falling out to hold himself in surety, who was indeed the veriest coward of the three, he renewed his earnest demand of them.
But it was a sport to see, how the former conceits Dorus had printed in their imaginations, kept still such dominion in them, that Miso, though now she found and felt it was her daughter Mopsa, yet did Charita continually pass through her thoughts, which she uttered with such crabbed questions to Dametas, that he not possibly conceiving any part of her doubt, remained astonished, and the astonishment increased her doubt. And as for Mopsa, as first she did assuredly take him to be Apollo, and thought her mother’s coming did but mar the bargain: so now much talking to and fro had delivered so much light into the misty mould of her capacity, as to know him to be her father. Yet remained there such footsteps of the foretaken opinion that she thought verily her father and mother were hasted thither to get the first wish. And therefore to whatsoever they asked of her, she would never answer, but embracing the tree, as if she feared it had been running away, “Nay,” says she, “I will have the first wish, for I was here first;” which they understood no more than Dametas did what Miso meant by Charita; till at length with much urging them, being indeed better able to persuade both, than to meet hand to hand with either, he prevailed so much with them, as to bring them into the lodge to see what loss their negligence had suffered. Then indeed the near neighbourhood they bare to themselves, made them leave other toys, and look into what dangerous plight they were all fallen, as soon as the king should know his daughter’s escape. And as for the women, they began afresh to enter into their brawling, whether were in the fault. But Dametas, who did fear that among his other evils, the thunderbolt of that storm would fall upon his shoulders, slipped away from them, but with so maugre a cheer, as might much sooner engender laughter than pity. “O true Arcadia,” would he say (tearing his hair and beard, and sometime for too much woe, making unwieldy former-faults) “how darest thou bear upon thee such a felonious traitor as I am? And, you false-hearted trees, why would you make no noise to make her ungracious departure known? Ah Pamela, Pamela, how often when I brought thee in fine poesies of all coloured flowers, wouldst thou clap me on the cheek, and say thou wouldst be one day even with me? Was this thy meaning, to bring me to an even pair of gallows? ah ill-taught Dorus, that camest hither to learn good manners of me? did I ever teach thee to make thy master sweat out his heart for nothing, and in the meantime to run away with thy mistress? O my dun cow, I did think some evil was towards me ever since the last day thou didst run away from me, and held up thy tail so pitifully: did I not see an eagle kill a cuckoo, which was a plain foretoken unto me, Pamela should be my destruction? O wise Miso, if I durst say it to thy face, why didst thou suspect thy husband that loveth a piece of cheese better than a woman? and thou little Mopsa, that shall inherit the shame of thy father’s death, was it time for thee to climb trees, which should so shortly be my best burial? O that I could live without death, or die before I were aware! O heart, why hast thou no hands at commandment to dispatch thee? O hands, why want you a heart to kill this villain?” In this sort did he inveigh against everything, sometimes thinking to run away, while it was yet night: but he that had included all the world within his sheep-cote, thought that worse than any death; sometime for dread of hanging he meant to hang himself; finding, as indeed it is, that fear is far more painful to cowardice, than death to a true courage.
But his fingers were nothing nimble in that action, and anything was let enough thereto, he being a true lover of himself without any rival. But, lastly, guided by a far greater constellation than his own, he remembered to search the other lodge, where it might be Pamela that night had retired herself. So thither with trembling hams he carried himself; but employing his double key, which the king for special credit had unworthily bestowed upon him, he found all the gates so barred, that his key could not prevail, saving only one trap door which went down into the vault by the cellar, which as it was unknown of Pyrocles, so had he left it unregarded. But Dametas, that ever knew the buttery better than any other place, got in that way, and passing softly to Philoclea’s chamber, where he thought most likely to find Pamela; the door being left open, he entered in, and by the light of the lamp he might discern one on the bed by her; which although he took to be Pamela, yet thinking no surety enough in a matter touching his neck, he went hard to the bedside of these unfortunate lovers, who at that time being not much before the break of day (whether it were they were so divinely surprised, to bring this whole matter to the destined conclusion, or that the unresistable force of their sorrows had overthrown the wakeful use of their senses) were as then possessed with a mutual sleep, yet not forgetting with viny embracements to give any eye a perfect model of affection. But Dametas looking with the lamp in his hand, but neither with such a face nor mind upon these excellent creatures, as Psyche did upon her unknown lover, and giving every way freedom to his fearful eyes, did not only perceive it was Zelmane, and therefore much different from the lady he sought: but that this same Zelmane did more differ from the Zelmane he and others had ever taken her for, wherein the change of her apparel chiefly confirmed his opinion; satisfied with that, and not thinking it good to awake the sleeping lion, he went down again, taking with him Pyrocles’s sword (wherewith upon his slight under-suit Pyrocles came only apparelled thither) being sure to leave no weapon in the chamber, and so making the doors as fast as he could on the outside, hoping with the revealing of this, as he thought greater fault, to make his own the less, or at least that this injury would so fill the king’s head, that he should not have leisure to chastise his negligence (like a fool, not considering, that the more rage breeds the crueller punishment), he went first into the king’s chamber, and not finding him there, he ran down crying with open mouth, the king was betrayed, and that Zelmane did abuse his daughter. The noise he made, being a man of no few words, joined to the yelping sound of Miso, and his unpleasant inheritrix, brought together some number of the shepherds, to whom he without any regard of reserving it for the king’s knowledge, spattered out the bottom of his stomach, swearing by him that he never knew that Zelmane, whom they had taken all the while to be a woman, was as arrant a man as himself was, whereof he had seen sufficient signs and tokens, and that he was as close as a butterfly with the lady Philoclea.
The poor men jealous of their prince’s honour, were ready with weapons to have entered the lodge; standing yet in some pause, whether it were not best, first to hear some news from the king himself, when by the sudden coming of other shepherds, which with astonished looks ran from the one cry to the other, their griefs were surcharged with the evil tidings of the king’s death. Turning therefore all their minds and eyes that way, they ran to the cave where they said he lay dead, the sun beginning now to send some promises of coming light, making haste, I think, to be a spectator of the following tragedies. For Basilius having passed over the night more happy in contemplation than action, having had his spirits sublimed with the sweet imagination of embracing the most desired Zelmane, doubting lest the cave’s darkness might deceive him in the day’s approach, thought it now season to return to his wedlock-bed, remembering the promises he had made to Zelmane, to observe true orders towards Gynecia. Therefore departing, but not departing without bequeathing by a will of words, sealed with many kisses, a full gift of all his love and life to his misconceived bedfellow, he went to the mouth of the cave, there to apparel himself; in which doing, the motion of his joy could not be bridled from uttering such like words: “Blessed be thou, O night,” said he, “that hast with thy sweet wings shrouded me in the vale of bliss, it is thou that art the first gotten child of time, the day hath been but an usurper upon thy delightful inheritance, thou invitest all living things to comfortable rest, thou art the stop of strife, and the necessary truce of approaching battles.” And therewith he sung these verses to confirm his former praises.
