The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia 9 – Sidney · Verses Across
Literature · Romance
The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia 9Dorus Zelmane (part 1)
18
Literature · Romance
The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia 9
Dorus Zelmane (part 1)
SidneyEnglish
DORUS Lady reserved by the heavens to do pastor’s company honour, Joining your sweet voice to the rural muse of a desert, Here you fully do find the strange operation of love, How to the woods love runs as well as rides to the palace, Neither he bears reverence to a prince, nor pity to a beggar, But, like a point in midst of a circle, is still of a nearness, All to a lesson he draws; neither hills nor caves can avoid him.
ZELMANE Worthy shepherd by my song to myself all favour is happ’ned, That to the sacred Muse my annoys somewhat be revealed, Sacred Muse, who in one contains what nine do in all them. But O happy be you, which safe from fiery reflection Of Phoebus’ violence in shade of sweet Cyparissus, Or pleasant myrtle, may teach the unfortunate Echo In these woods to resound the renowned name of goddess. Happy be you that may to the saint, your only Idea, (Although simply attir’d) your manly affection utter. Happy be those mishaps which justly proportion holding, Give right sound to the ears, and enter aright to the judgment: But wretched be the souls, which veil’d in a contrary subject, How much more we do love, so the less our loves be believed. What skill salveth a sore of wrong infirmity judged? What can justice avail to a man that tells not his own case? You though fears do abash, in you still possible hopes be: Nature against we do seem to rebel, seem fools in a vain suit. But so unheard, condemn’d, kept thence we do seek to abide in, Self-lost in wand’ring, banished that place we do come from, What mean is there alas, we can hope our loss to recover? What place is there left, we may hope our woes to recomfort? Unto the heav’ns? our wings be too short: earth thinks us a burden, Air? we do still with sighs increase: to the fire? we do want none, And yet his outward heat our tears would quench, but an inward Fire no liquor can cool: Neptune’s realm would not avail us. Happy shepherd, with thanks to the Gods, still think to be thankful, That to thy advancement their wisdoms have thee abased.
DORUS Unto the gods with a thankful heart all thanks I do render, That to my advancement their wisdoms have me abased. But yet, alas! O but yet alas! our haps be but hard haps, Which must frame contempt to the fittest purchase of honour. Well may a pastor plain, but alas his plaints be not esteem’d: Silly shepherd’s poor pipe, when his harsh sound testifies anguish, Into the fair looking on, pastime, not passion, enters. And to the woods or brooks, who do make such dreary recital? What be the pangs they bear, and whence those pangs be derived, Pleas’d to receive that name by rebounding answer of Echo, May hope thereby to ease their inward horrible anguish, When trees dance to the pipe, and swift streams stay by the music, Or when an Echo begins unmov’d to sing them a love-song; Say then, what vantage do we get by the trade of a pastor? (Since no estates be so base, but love vouchsafeth his arrow, Since no refuge doth serve from wounds we do carry about us, Since outward pleasures be but halted helps to decayed Souls) Save that daily we may discern what fire we do burn in. Far more happy be you, whose greatness gets a free access; Whose fair bodily gifts are fram’d most lovely to each eye, Virtue you have, of virtue you have left proof to the whole world. And virtue is grateful, with beauty and richness adorn’d. Neither doubt you a whit; time will your passion utter. Hardly remains fire hid where skill is bent to the hiding, But in a mind that would his flames should not be repressed, Nature worketh enough with a small help for the revealing: Give therefore to the Muse great praise, in whose very likeness You do approach to the fruit your only desires be to gather.
ZELMANE First shall fertile grounds not yield increase of a good seed, First the rivers shall cease to repay their floods to the ocean: First may a trusty greyhound transform himself to a tiger. First shall virtue be vice, and beauty be counted a blemish, Ere that I leave with song of praise her praise to solemnize, Her praise, whence to the world all praise hath his only beginning: But yet well I do find each man most wise in his own case. None can speak of a wound with skill, if he have not a wound felt. Great to thee my state seems, thy state is bless’d by my judgment: And yet neither of us great or blest deemeth his own self. For yet (weigh this alas!) great is not great to the greater. What judge you doth a hillock show, by the lofty Olympus? Such my minute greatness, doth seem compar’d to the greatest. When cedars to the ground fall down by the weight of an emmot, Or when a rich ruby’s price be the worth of a walnut, Or to the sun for wonders seem small sparks of a candle: Then by my high cedar, rich ruby, and only shining sun, Virtue, riches, beauties of mine shall great be reputed. Oh, no, no, worthy shepherd, worth can never enter a title, Where proofs justly do teach, thus match’d, such worth to be nought worth: Let not a puppet abuse thy sprite, kings’ crowns do not help them From the cruel headache, nor shoes of gold do the gout heal: And precious couches full oft are shak’d with a fever. If then a bodily ill in a bodily gloze be not hidden, Shall such morning dews be an ease to the heat of a love’s fire?
DORUS O glittering miseries of man, if this be the fortune Of those fortunes’ lulls? so small rests, rest in a kingdom? What marvel tho’ a prince transform himself to a pastor? Come from marble bowers many times the gay harbour of anguish, Unto a silly caban, thought weak, yet stronger against woes. Now by the words I begin, most famous lady, to gather Comfort into my soul, I do find what a blessing Is chanced to my life, that from such muddy abundance Of carking agonies, to states which still be adherent, Destiny keeps me aloof, for if all this state to thy virtue Join’d by thy beauty adorn’d be no means those griefs to abolish: If neither by that help, thou canst climb up thy fancy, Nor yet fancy so dress’d do receive more plausible hearing: Then do I think indeed, that better it is to be private In sorrow’s torments, than, tied to the pomps of a palace, Nurse inward maladies, which have not scope to be breath’d out: But perforce digest all bitter joys of horror In silence, from a man’s own self with company robbed. Better yet do I live, that though by my thoughts I be plunged Into my life’s bondage, yet may I disburden a passion (Oppress’d with ruinous conceits) by the help of an out-cry: Not limited to a whispering note, the lament of a courtier. But sometimes to the woods, sometimes to the heav’n do decipher With bold clamour unheard, unmark’d, what I seek, what I suffer: And when I meet those trees, in the earth’s fair livery clothed, Ease I do feel, such ease as falls to one wholly diseased, For that I find in them part of my state represented. Laurel shows what I seek, by the myrrh is shown how I seek it, Olive paints me the peace that I must aspire to by conquest: Myrtle makes my request; my request is crown’d with a willow. Cypress promiseth help, but a help where comes no recomfort: Sweet juniper saith this, “Though I burn, yet I burn in a sweet fire.” Yew doth make me think what kind of bow the boy holdeth, Which shoots strongly without any noise, and deadly without smart, Fir-trees great and green, fix’d on a high hill but a barren, Like to my noble thoughts, still new, well plac’d to me fruitless.
Fig that yields most pleasant fruits, his shadow is hurtful: Thus be her gifts most sweet, thus more danger to be near her. Now in a palm when I mark, how he doth rise under a burden, And may I not, say then, get up though grief be so weighty? Pine is a mast to a ship, to my ship shall hope for a mast serve. Pine is high, hope is as high, sharp leav’d, sharp, yet be my hopes buds. Elm embrac’d by a vine, embracing fancy reviveth: Poplar changeth his hue from a rising sun to a setting: Thus to my sun do I yield, such looks her beams do afford me. Old aged oak cut down, of new work serves to the building: So my desires by my fear cut down, be the frames of her honour. As he makes spears which shields do resist, her force no repulse takes. Palms do rejoice to be join’d by the match of a male to a female, And shall sensitive things be so senseless as to resist sense? Thus be my thoughts dispers’d, thus thinking nurseth a thinking. Thus both trees and each thing else, be the books of a fancy. But to the cedar, queen of woods, when I left my betear’d eyes, Then do I shape to myself that form which reigns so within me, And think there she doth dwell and hear what plaints I do utter: When that noble top doth nod, I believe she salutes me, When by the wind it maketh a noise, I do think she doth answer. Then kneeling to the ground, oft thus do I speak to that image: Only jewel, O only jewel, which only deservest, That men’s hearts be thy seat, and endless fame be thy servant, O descend for a while, from this great height to behold me, But nought else to behold, else is nought worth the beholding, Save what a work by thyself is wrought: and since I am alter’d Thus by thy work, disdain not that which is by thyself done, In mean caves oft treasure abides, to an hostry a king comes. And so behind foul clouds full oft fair stars do lie hidden.
ZELMANE Hardy shepherd, such as thy merits, such may be her insight Justly to grant thee reward, such envy I hear to thy fortune. But to myself what wish can I make for a salve to my sorrows, Whom both nature seems to debar from means to be helped, And if a mean were found, fortune th’ whole course of it hinders? Thus plagu’d how can I frame to my sore any hope of amendment? Whence may I show to my mind any light of possible escape? Bound, and bound by so noble bands, as loth to be unbound, Jailer I am to myself, prison and pris’ner to mine own self. Yet by my hopes thus plac’d, here fix’d lives all my comfort, That that dear diamond, where wisdom holdeth a sure seat, Whose force had such force so to transform, nay to reform me, Will at length perceive those flames by her beams to be kindled, And will pity the wound festered so strangely within me. O be it so, grant such an event, O gods, that event give, And for a sure sacrifice I do daily oblation offer Of mine own heart, where thoughts be the temple, sight is an altar. But cease worthy shepherd, now cease we to weary the hearers With mournful melodies; for enough our griefs be revealed, If the parties meant our meanings rightly be marked, And sorrows do require some respite unto the senses.
What exclaiming praises Basilius gave to this Eclogue any man may guess that knows love is better than a pair of spectacles to make everything seem greater which is seen through it: and then is never tongue-tied where fit commendation, whereof womankind is so liquorish, is offered unto it. But before any other came in to supply the place, Zelmane having heard some of the shepherds by chance name Strephon and Claius, supposing thereby they had been present, was desirous both to hear them for the fame of their friendly love, and to know them for their kindness towards her best loved friend. Much grieved was Basilius, that any desire of his mistress should be unsatisfied, and therefore to represent them unto her, as well as in their absence it might be, he commanded one Lamon, who had at large set down their country pastimes and first love to Urania, to sing the whole discourse which he did in this manner.
A shepherd’s tale no height of style desires,
To raise in words what in effect is low:
A plaining song plain singing voice requires,
For warbling notes from cheering spirit flow.
I then whose burd’ned breast but thus aspires
Of shepherds two the silly cause to show.
Need not the stately Muse’s help invoke,
For creeping rhymes, which often sighings choke.
But you, O you, that think not tears too dear,
To spend for harms, although they touch you not:
And deign to deem your neighbours’ mischief near,
Although they be of meaner parents got:
You I invite with easy ear’s to hear
The poor-clad truth of love’s wrong-order’d lot.
Who may be glad, be glad you be not such:
Who share in woe, weigh others have as much.
There was (O seldom blessed word of was!)
A pair of friends, or rather one call’d two,
Train’d in the life which no short-bitten grass
In shine or storm must set the clouted shoe:
He, that the other in some years did pass,
And in those gifts that years distribute do,
Was Claius call’d (ah Claius, woeful weight!)
The latter born, yet too soon Strephon height.
Epirus high was honest Claius’s nest,
To Strephon Aeoles’s land first breathing lent:
But east and west were join’d by friendship’s hest.
As Strephon’s ear and heart to Claius bent,
So Claius’s soul did in his Strephon rest.
Still both their flocks flocking together went,
As if they would of owners’ humour be,
As eke their pipes did well, as friends agree.
Claius for skill of herbs and shepherd’s art,
Among the wisest was accounted wise,
Yet not so wise, as of unstained heart:
Strephon was young, yet marked with humble eyes
How elder rul’d their flocks and cur’d their smart,
So that the grave did not his words despise.
Both free of mind, both did clear dealing love,
And both had skill in verse their voice to move.
Their cheerful minds, ’till poison’d was their cheer,
The honest sports of earthly lodging prove;
Now for a clod-like hare in form they peer,
Now bolt and cudgel squirrels’ leap do move:
Now the ambitious lark with mirror clear
They catch, while he (fool!) to himself makes love:
And now at keels they try a harmless chance,
And now their cur they teach to fetch and dance.
When merry May first early calls the morn,
With merry maids a maying they do go:
Then do they pull from sharp and niggard thorn
The plenteous sweets (can sweets so sharply grow?)
Then some green gowns are by the lasses worn
In chastest plays, ’till home they walk arow,
Whilst dance about the may-pole is begun,
When, if need were, they could at Quintain[b1-05] run:
While thus they ran a low, but levell’d race,
While thus they liv’d, this was indeed a life,
With nature pleas’d, content with present case,
Free of proud fears, brave begg’ry, smiling strife,
Of climb-fall court, the envy hatching place:
While those restless desires in great men rise,
To visit so low of folks did much disdain,
This while, though poor, they in themselves did reign.
One day (O day, that shin’d to make them dark!)
While they did ward sun-beams with shady bay,
And Claius taking for his youngling cark,
(Lest greedy eyes to them might challenge lay)
Busy with ochre did their shoulders mark,
(His mark a pillar was devoid of stay,
As bragging that free of all passions’ moan,
Well might he others bear, but lean to none:)
Strephon with leafy twigs of laurel tree,
A garland made on temples for to wear,
For he then chosen was, the dignity
Of village lord, that Whitsuntide to bear:
And full, poor fool, of boyish bravery,
With triumph’s shows would show he nought did fear.
But fore-accounting oft makes builders miss:
They found, they felt, they had no lease of bliss.
For ere that either had his purpose done,
Behold, beholding well it doth deserve,
They saw a maid who thitherward did run,
To catch her Sparrow which from her did swerve,
As she a black-silk cap on him begun
To set for foil of his milk-white to serve,
She chirping ran, he peeping flew away,
’Till hard by them both he and she did stay.
Well for to see, they kept themselves unseen,
And saw this fairest maid of fairer mind:
By fortune mean; in nature born a queen,
How well apaid she was her bird to find:
How tenderly her tender hands between
In ivory cage she did the micher bind:
How rosy moist’ned lips about his beak
Moving, she seem’d at once to kiss, and speak.
Chast’ned but thus, and thus his lesson taught,
The happy wretch she put into her breast,
Which to their eyes the bowels of Venus brought,
For they seem’d made even of sky metal best,
And that the bias of her blood was wrought.
Betwixt them two the peeper took his nest,
Where snugging well he well appear’d content,
So to have done amiss, so to be shent.
This done, but done with captive-killing grace,
Each motion seeming shot from beauty’s bow,
With length laid down, she deck’d the lovely place.
Proud grew the grass that under her did grow,
The trees spread out their arms to shade her face,
But she on elbow lean’d, with sighs did show
No grass, no trees, nor yet her sparrow might
The long-perplexed mind breed long delight.
She troubled was (alas that it might be!)
With tedious brawlings of her parents dear,
Who would have her in will and word agree
To wed Antaxius their neighbour near.
A herdman rich, of much account was he,
In whom no evil did reign, nor good appear.
In some such one she lik’d not his desire,
Fain would be free, but dreadeth parents’ ire.
Kindly (sweet soul!) she did unkindness take
That bagged baggage of a miser’s mud,
Should price of her, as in a market, make;
But gold can gild a rotten piece of wood;
To yield she found her noble heart to ache,
To strive she fear’d how it with virtue stood,
Thus doubtings clouds o’ercasting heav’nly brain,
At length in rows of kiss-cheeks tears they rain.
Cupid the wag, that lately conquer’d had
Wise counsellors, stout captains, puissant kings,
And tied them fast to lead his triumph had,
Glutted with them, now plays with meanest things:
So oft in feasts with costly changes clad
To crammed maws a sprat new stomach brings.
So lords with sport of stag and heron full,
Sometimes we see small birds from nests do pull.
So now for prey those shepherds two he took,
Whose metal stiff he knew he could not bend
With hear-say pictures, or a window-look;
With one good dance, or letter finely penn’d
That were in court a well proportion’d hook,
Where piercing wits do quickly apprehend,
Their senses rude plain objects only move,
And so must see great cause before they love.
Therefore love arm’d in her now takes the field,
Making her beams his bravery and might:
Her hands which pierc’d the soul’s sev’n double shield,
Were now his darts leaving his wonted fight.
Brave crest to him her scorn gold hair did yield,
His complete harness was her purest white.
But fearing lest all white might seem too good,
In cheeks and lips the tyrant threatens blood.
Besides this force, within her eyes he kept
A fire, to burn the prisoners he gains,
Whose boiling heart increased as she wept:
For ev’n in forge, cold water fire maintains.
Thus proud and fierce unto the hearts he stepp’d
Of them poor souls: and cutting reason’s reins,
Made them his own before they had it wist.
But if they had, could sheep-hooks thus resist?
Claius straight felt, and groaned at the blow,
And call’d, now wounded, purpose to his aid:
Strephon, fond boy, delighted did not know
That it was love that shin’d in shining maid:
But lick’rous, poison’d, fain to her would go,
If him new learned manners had not stay’d.
For then Urania homeward did arise,
Leaving in pain their well-fed hungry eyes.
She went, they stay’d, or rightly for to say,
She stay’d with them, they went in thought with her:
Claius indeed would fain have pull’d away
This mote from out his eye, this inward bur,
And now proud rebel ’gan for to gainsay
The lesson which but late he learn’d too far:
Meaning with absence to refresh the thought
To which her presence such a fever brought.
Strephon did leap with joy and jollity,
Thinking it just more therein to delight,
Than in good dog, fair field, or shading tree.
So have I seen trim-books in velvet dight,
With golden leaves, and painted babery
Of silly boys, please unacquainted sight:
But when the rod began to play his part,
Fain would, but could not, fly from golden smart.
He quickly learn’d Urania was her name,
And straight, for failing, grav’d it in his heart:
He knew her haunt, and haunted in the same,
And taught his sheep her sheep in food to thwart,
Which soon as it did hateful question frame,
He might on knees confess his faulty part,
And yield himself unto her punishment,
While nought but game, the self-hurt wanton meant.
Nay, even unto her home he oft would go,
Where bold and hurtless many play he tries,
Her parents liking well it should be so,
For simple goodness shined in his eyes.
There did he make her laugh in spite of woe,
So as good thoughts of him in all arise,
While into none doubt of his love did sink,
For not himself to be in love did think.
But glad desire, his late embosom’d guest
Yet but a babe, with milk of sight he nurst
Desire the more he suck’d, more sought the breast,
Like dropsy-folk still drink to be a thirst,
’Till one fair ev’n an hour ere sun did rest,
Who then in lion’s cave did enter first,
By neighbours pray’d she went abroad thereby,
At Barley-break[b1-06] her sweet swift foot to try.
Never the earth on his round shoulders bare
A maid train’d up from high or low degree,
That in her doings better could compare
Mirth with respect, from words with courtesy,
A careless comliness with comely care.
Self-guard with mildness, sport with majesty:
Which made her yield to deck this shepherd’s band,
And still, believe me, Strephon was at hand.
Afield they go, where many lookers be,
And thou seek-sorrow Claius them among:
Indeed thou said’st it was thy friend to see
Strephon, whose absence seem’d unto thee long,
While most with her he less did keep with thee.
No, no, it was in spite of wisdom’s song
Which absence wish’d: love play’d a victor’s part:
The heav’n-love load-stone drew thy iron heart.
Then couples there, be straight allotted there,
They of both ends the middle two do fly,
They two that in mid-place, hell called were,
Must strive with waiting foot, and watching eye
To catch of them, and them to hell to bear,
That they, as well as they, hell may supply:
Like some which seek to salve their blotted name
With others’ blot, ’till all do taste of shame.
There may you see, soon as the middle two
Do coupled towards either couple make,
They false and fearful do their hands undo,
Brother his brother, friend doth friend forsake,
Heeding himself, cares not how fellow do,
But of a stranger mutual help doth take:
As perjur’d cowards in adversity
With sight of fear, from friends, to friend, do fly.
These sports shepherds devis’d such faults to show.
Geron, though old, yet gamesome, kept one end
With Cosma, for whose love Pas passed in woe.
Fair Nous with Pas the lot to hell did send:
Pas thought it hell, while he was Cosma fro.
At other end Uran did Strephon lend
Her happy making hand, of whom one look
From Nous and Cosma all their beauty took.
The play began: Pas durst not Cosma chase,
But did intend next bout with her to meet,
So he with Nous to Geron turn’d their race,
With whom to join, fast ran Urania sweet:
But light legg’d Pas had got the middle space.
Geron strove hard, but aged were his feet,
And therefore finding force now faint to be,
He thought gray hairs afforded subtlety.
And so when Pas’s hand reached him to take,
The fox on knees and elbows tumbled down;
Pas could not stay, but over him did rake,
And crown’d the earth with his first touching crown:
His heels grown proud did seem at heav’n to shake,
But Nous that slipp’d from Pas, did catch the clown.
So laughing all, yet Pas to ease some dell
Geron with Uran were condemn’d to hell.
Cosma this while to Strephon safely came,
And all to second Barley-break are bent:
The two in hell did toward Cosma frame;
Who should to Pas, but they would her prevent.
Pas mad with fall, and madder with the shame,
Most mad with beams which we thought Cosma sent,
With such mad haste he did to Cosma go,
That to her breast he gave a noisome blow.
She quick, and proud, and who did Pas despise,
Up with her fist, and took him on the face,
“Another time,” quoth she, “become more wise.”
Thus Pas did kiss her hand with little grace,
And each way luckless, yet in humble guise
Did hold her fast for fear of more disgrace,
While Strephon might with pretty Nous have met,
But all this while another course be set.
For as Urania after Cosma ran;
He ravished with sight how gracefully
She mov’d her limbs, and drew the aged man,
Left Nous to coast the loved beauty nigh:
Nous cry’d and chaf’d, but he no other can.
’Till Uran seeing Pas to Cosma fly,
And Strephon single, turn’d after him:
Strephon so chas’d did seem in milk to swim.
He ran, but ran with eye o’er shoulder cast,
More marking her, than how himself did go,
Like Numid lions by the hunters chas’d,
Though they do fly, yet backwardly do glow
With proud aspect, disdaining greatest haste:
What rage in them, that love in him did show.
But God gives them instinct the man to shun,
And he by law of Barley-break must run.
But as his heat with running did augment,
Much more his sight increas’d his hot desire:
So is in her the best of nature spent,
The air her sweet race mov’d doth blow the fire,
Her feet be pursuivants from Cupid sent,
With whose fine steps all loves and joys conspire.
The hidden beauties, seem’d in wait to lie,
To down proud hearts that would not willing die.
That, fast he fled from her he follow’d sore,
Still shunning Nous to lengthen pleasing race,
’Till that he spied old Geron could no more,
Than did he stack his love-instructed pace.
So that Uran, whose arm old Geron bore,
Laid hold on him with most lay-holding grace.
So caught, him seem’d he caught of joys the bell,
And thought it heav’n so to be drawn to hell:
To hell he goes, and Nous with him must dwell,
Nous sware it was no right; for his default
Who would be caught, that she should go to hell:
But so she must. And now the third assault
Of Barley-break among the six befell,
Pas Colma match’d, yet angry with his fault,
The other end Geron with guard:
I think you think Strephon bent thitherward.
Nous counsell’d Strephon Geron to pursue,
For he was old, and easy would be caught:
But he drew her as love his fancy drew,
And so to take the gem Urania sought,
While Geron old came safe to Cosma true,
Though him to meet at all she stirred nought.
For Pas, whether it were for fear or love,
Mov’d not himself, nor suffer’d her to move.
So they three did together idly stay,
While dear Uran, whose course was Pas to meet,
(He staying thus) was fain abroad to stray
With larger round, to shun the following feet.
Strephon, whose eyes on her back parts did play,
With love drawn on so fast with pace unmeet,
Drew dainty Nous, that she not able so
To run, brake forth his hands, and let him go,
He single thus hop’d soon with her to be,
Who nothing earthly, but of fire and air,
Though with soft legs did run as fast as he.
He thrice reach’d, thrice deceiv’d, when her to bear
He hopes, with dainty turns she doth him flee.
So on the Downs we see, near Wilton fair,
A hasten’d hare from greedy greyhound go,
And past all hope his chaps to frustrate so.
But this strange race more strange conceits did yield;
Who victor seem’d, was to his ruin brought:
Who seem’d o’erthrown was mistress of the field:
She fled, and took; he followed and was caught.
She have I heard to pierce pursuing shield,
By parents train’d the Tartars wild are taught,
With shafts shot out from their back-turned bow.
But ah! her darts did far more deeply go.
As Venus’s bird, the white, swift, lovely Dove,
(O happy Doves that are compar’d to her!)
Doth on her wings her utmost swiftness prove,
Finding the gripe of Falcon fierce not furr:
So did Uran: the nar, the swifter move,
(Yet beauty still as fast as she did stir)
’Till with long race dear she was breathless brought,
And then the Phoenix feared to be caught.
Among the rest that there did take delight
To see the sports of double shining day:
And did the tribute of their wond’ring sight
To nature’s heir, the fair Urania pay,
I told you Claius was the hapless wight,
Who earnest found what they accounted play.
He did not there do homage of his eyes,
But on his eyes his heart did sacrifice.
With gazing looks, short sighs, unsettled feet,
He stood, but turn’d, as Gyrosol, to sun:
His fancies still did her in half-way meet,
His soul did fly as she was seen to run.
In sum, proud Boreas never ruled fleet
(Who Neptune’s web on danger’s distaff spun)
With greater power, than she did make them wend
Each way, as she that ages praise, did bend.
’Till ’spying well, she well nigh weary was,
And surely taught by his love-open eye,
His eye, that ev’n did mark her trodden grass,
That she would fain the catch of Strephon fly,
Giving his reason passport for to pass
Whither it would, so it would let him die;
He that before shunn’d her, to shun such harms:
Now runs, and takes her in his clipping arms.
For with pretence from Strephon her to guard,
He met her full, but full of warefulness,
Within bow’d-bosom well for her prepar’d,
When Strephon cursing his own backwardness,
Came to her back, and so with double ward
Imprison’d her who both them did possess
As heart-bound slaves: and happy then embrace
Virtue’s proof, fortune’s victor, beauty’s place.
Her race did not her beauty’s beams augment,
For, they were ever in the best degree,
But yet a setting forth it someway lent,
As rubies lustre when they rubbed be.
The dainty dew on face and body went
As on sweet flowers, when morning’s drops we see.
Her breath then short, seem’d loth from home to pass,
Which more it mov’d, the more it sweeter was.
Happy, O happy! if they so might bide
To see their eyes, with how true humbleness,
They looked down to triumph over pride:
With how sweet sauce she blam’d their sauciness,
To feel the panting heart, which through her side,
Did beat their hands, which durst so near to press,
To see, to feel, to hear, to taste, to know
More, than besides her, all the earth could show.
But never did Medea’s golden weed
On Creon’s child his poison sooner throw,
Than those delights through all their sinews breed,
A creeping serpent like of mortal woe,
’Till she broke from their arms (although indeed
Going from them, from them she could not go)
And fare-welling the flock, did homeward wend,
And so that even the Barley-break did end.
It ended, but the other woe began,
Began at least to be conceiv’d as woe,
For then wise Claius found no absence can
Help him who can no more her sight forego.
He found man’s virtue is but part of man,
And part must follow where whole man doth go.
He found that reason’s self now reasons found
To fasten knots, which fancy first had bound.
So doth he yield, so takes he on his yoke,
Not knowing who did draw with him therein;
Strephon, poor youth, because he saw no smoke,
Did not conceive what fire he had within:
But after this to greater rage it broke,
’Till of his life it did full conquest win,
First killing mirth, then banishing all rest,
Filling his eyes with tears, with sighs his breast,
Then sports grow pains, all talking tedious:
On thoughts he feeds, his looks their figure change,
The day seems long, but night is odious,
No sleeps, but dreams; no dreams, but visions strange,
’Till finding still his evil increasing thus,
One day he with his flock abroad did range:
And coming where he hop’d to be alone,
Thus on a hillock set, he made his moan:
“Alas! what weights are these that load my heart!
I am as dull as winter-starved sheep,
Tir’d as a jade in over-laden cart,
Yet thoughts do fly, though I can scarcely creep.
All visions seem, at every bush I start:
Drowsy am I, and yet can rarely sleep.
Sure I bewitched am, it is even that,
Late near a cross, I met an ugly cat.
For, but by charms, how fall these things on me,
That from those eyes, where heav’nly apples been,
Those eyes, which nothing like themselves can see,
Of fair Urania, fairer than a green,
Proudly bedeck’d in April’s livery,
A shot unheard gave me a wound unseen;
He was invincible that hurt me so,
And none invisible, but spirits can go.
When I see her, my sinews shake for fear,
And yet, dear soul, I know she hurteth none:
Amid my flock with woe my voice I tear,
And, but bewitch’d, who to his flock would moan?
Her cherry lips, milk hands, and golden hair
I still do see, though I be still alone.
Now make me think that there is not a fiend,
Who hid in angel’s shape my life would end.
The sports wherein I wonted to do well,
Come she, and sweet the air with open breast,
Then so I fail, when most I would do well,
That at my so amaz’d my fellows jest:
Sometimes to her news of myself to tell
I go about, but then is all my best
Wry words, and stammering, or else doltish dumb;
Say then, can this but of enchantment come?
Nay each thing is bewitched to know my case:
The Nightingales for woe their songs refrain:
In river as I look’d my pining face,
As pin’d a face as mine I saw again,
The courteous mountains griev’d at my disgrace
Their snowy hair tear off in melting pain.
And now the dropping trees do weep for me,
And now fair evenings blush my shame to see.
But you my pipe whilom my chief delight,
’Till strange delight, delight to nothing wear,
And you my flock, care of my careful sight,
While I was I, and so had cause to care:
And thou my dog, whose truth and valiant might
Made wolves, not inward wolves, my ewes to spare.
Go you not from your master in his woe,
Let it suffice that he himself forego.
For though like wax this magic makes me waste,
Or like a lamb, whose Dam away is set,
(Stolen from her young by Thieves’ unchosing haste)
He treble baa’s for help, but none can get,
Though thus, and worse, though now I am at last,
Of all the games that here ere now I met,
Do you remember still you once were mine,
’Till mine eyes had their curse from blessed eye.
Be you with me while I unheard do cry,
While I do score my losses on the wind,
While I in heart my will write ere I die.
In which, by will, my will and wits I bind,
Still to be hers, about her aye to fly.
As this same sprite about my fancies blind
Doth daily haunt, but so, that mine become
As much more loving, as less cumbersome.
Alas! a cloud hath overcast mine eyes:
And yet I see her shine amid the cloud.
Alas! of ghosts I hear the ghastly cries:
Yet there, meseems, I hear her singing loud.
This song she sings in most commanding wise:
‘Come shepherd’s boy, let now thy heart be bow’d
To make itself to my least look a slave:
Leave sleep, leave all, I will no piecing have.’
I will, I will, alas, alas, I will:
Wilt thou have more? more have, if more I be.
Away ragg’d rams, care I what murrain kill?
Our shrieking pipe, made of some witched tree:
Go bawling cur, thy hungry maw go fill
On your foul flock, belonging not to me.”
With that his dog he henc’d, his flock he curs’d,
With that, yet kissed first, his pipe he burst.
This said, this done, he rose, even tir’d with rest,
With heart as careful, as with careless grace,
With shrinking legs, but with a swelling breast,
With eyes which threat’ned they would drown his face.
Fearing the worst, not knowing what were best,
And giving to his sight a wand’ring race,
He saw behind a bush where Claius sat:
His well-known friend, but yet his unknown mate.
Claius the wretch, who lately yielden was
To bear the bonds which time nor wit could break,
(With blushing soul at sight of judgment’s glass,
While guilty thoughts accus’d his reason weak)
This morn alone to lovely walk did pass,
Within himself of her dear self to speak,
’Till Strephon’s plaining voice him nearer drew,
Where by his words his self-like case he knew.
For hearing him so oft with words of woe
Urania name, whose force he knew so well,
He quickly knew what witchcraft gave the blow,
Which made his Strephon think himself in hell.
Which when he did in perfect image show
To his own wit, thought upon thought, did swell,
Breeding huge storms within his inward part,
Which thus breath’d out, with earth-quake of his heart.
As Lamon would have proceeded, Basilius knowing, by the wasting of the torches that the night also was far wasted, and withal remembering Zelmane’s hurt, asked her whether she thought it not better to reserve the complaint of Claius till another day. Which she, perceiving the song had already worn out much time, and not knowing when Lamon would end, being even now stepping over to a new matter, though much delighted with what was spoken, willingly agreed unto. And so of all sides they went to recommend themselves to the elder brother of death.
[End of Book I]
ARCADIA
BOOK II
In these pastoral times a great number of days were sent to follow their flying predecessors, while the cup of poison (which was deeply tasted of the noble company) had left no sinew of theirs without mortally searching into it; yet never manifesting his venomous work, till once, that the night (parting away angry that she could distil no more sleep into the eyes of lovers) had no sooner given place to the breaking out of the morning light, and the sun bestowed his beams upon the tops of the mountains, but that the woeful Gynecia, to whom rest was no ease, had left her loathed lodging, and gotten herself into the solitary places, those deserts were full of going up and down with such unquiet motions, as a grieved and hopeless mind is wont to bring forth. There appeared unto the eyes of her judgment the evils she was like to run into, with ugly infamy waiting upon them: she felt the terrors of her own conscience; she was guilty of a long exercised virtue, which made his vice the fuller of deformity. The uttermost of the good she could aspire unto was a mortal wound to her vexed spirits: and lastly, no small part of her evils was that she was wise to see her evils. Insomuch, that having a great while thrown her countenance ghastly about her (as if she had called all the powers of the world to be witnesses of her wretched estate) at length casting up her watery eyes to heaven: “O sun,” said she, “whose unspotted light directs the steps of mortal mankind, art thou not ashamed to impart the clearness of thy presence to such a dust-creeping worm as I am? O ye heavens, which continually keep the course allotted unto you, can none of your influences prevail so much upon the miserable Gynecia, as to make her preserve a course so long embraced by her? O deserts, deserts, how fit a guest am I for you, since my heart can people you with wild ravenous beasts, which in you are wanting? O virtue, where dost thou hide thyself? what hideous thing is this which doth eclipse thee? Or is it true that thou wert never but a vain name, and no essential thing, which hast thus left thy professed servant, when she had most need of thy lovely presence? O imperfect proportion of reason which can too much foresee and too little prevent?” “Alas! alas!” said she, “if there were but one hope for all my pains, or but one excuse for all my faultiness! But wretch that I am, my torment is beyond all succour, and my evil deserving doth exceed my evil fortune. For nothing else did my husband take this strange resolution to live so solitary: for nothing else have the winds delivered this strange guest to my country: for nothing else have the destinies reserved my life to this time, but that only I, most wretched I, should become a plague to myself and a shame to womankind. Yet if my desire, how unjust soever it be, might take effect, though a thousand deaths followed it, and every death were followed with a thousand shames, yet should not my sepulchre receive me without some contentment. But alas! though sure I am that Zelmane is such as can answer my love, yet as sure I am that this disguising must needs come for some foretaken conceit: and then wretched Gynecia where canst thou find any small ground-plot for hope to dwell upon? no, no, it is Philoclea his heart is set upon; it is my daughter I have borne to supplant me. But if it be so, the life I have given thee, ungrateful Philoclea, I will sooner with these hands bereave thee of than my birth shall glory she hath bereaved me of my desires: in shame there is no comfort, but to be beyond all bounds of shame.”
Having spoken thus, she began to make a piteous war in her fair hair; when she might hear, not far from her, an extremely doleful voice, but so suppressed with a kind of whispering note that she could not conceive the words distinctly. But, as a lamentable tune is the sweetest music to a woeful mind, she drew thither near-way in hope to find some companion of her misery; and as she paced on, she was stopped with a number of trees, so thickly placed together that she was afraid she should, with rushing through, stop the speech of the lamentable party which she was so desirous to understand: and therefore sitting her down as softly as she could, for she was now in distance to hear, she might first perceive a lute excellently well played upon, and then the same doleful voice accompanying it with these verses:
In vain mine eyes you labour to amend
With flowing tears your fault of hasty sight:
Since to my heart her shape you did so send,
That her I see, though you did lose your light.
In vain my heart, now you with sight are burn’d,
With sighs you seek to cool your hot desire:
Since sighs, into mine inward furnace turn’d,
For bellows serve to kindle more the fire.
Reason in vain, now you have lost my heart,
My head you seek, as to your strongest fort:
Since there mine eyes have play’d so false a part,
That to your strength your foes have sure resort.
Then since in vain I find were all my strife,
To this strange death I vainly yield my life.
The ending of the song served but for a beginning of new plaints, as if the mind, oppressed with too heavy a burden of cares, was fain to discharge itself of all sides, and, as it were, paint out the hideousness of the pain in all sorts of colours. For the woeful person, as if the lute had evil joined with the voice, threw it to the ground with such like words: “Alas, poor lute! how much art thou deceived to think that in my miseries thou could’st ease my woes, as in my careless times thou wast wont to please my fancies? The time is changed, my lute, the time is changed; and no more did my joyful mind then receive everything to a joyful consideration, than my careful mind now makes each thing taste the bitter juice of care. The evil is inward, my lute, the evil is inward; which all thou dost, doth serve but to make me think more freely of. And alas! what is then thy harmony, but the sweet meats of sorrow? the discord of my thoughts, my lute, doth ill agree to the concord of thy strings, therefore be not ashamed to leave thy master, since he is not afraid to forsake himself.”
And thus much spoke, instead of a conclusion, was closed up with so hearty a groaning that Gynecia could not refrain to show herself, thinking such griefs could serve fitly for nothing but her own fortune. But as she came into the little arbour of this sorrowful music, her eyes met with the eyes of Zelmane, which was the party that thus had indited herself of misery, so that either of them remained confused with a sudden astonishment, Zelmane fearing lest she had heard some part of those complaints, which she had risen up that morning early of purpose to breathe out in secret to herself. But Gynecia a great while stood still with a kind of dull amazement, looking steadfastly upon her; at length returning to some use of herself, she began to ask Zelmane what cause carried her so early abroad? But, as if the opening of her mouth to Zelmane had opened some great flood-gate of sorrow, whereof her heart could not abide the violent issue, she sunk to the ground, with her hands over her face, crying vehemently, “Zelmane help me, O Zelmane have pity on me.” Zelmane ran to her, marvelling what sudden sickness had thus possessed her, and beginning to ask her the cause of her pain, and offering her service to be employed by her; Gynecia opening her eyes wildly upon her, pricked with the flames of love and the torments of her own conscience; “O Zelmane, Zelmane,” said she, “dost thou offer my physic, which art my only poison? or wilt thou do me service, which hast already brought me into eternal slavery?” Zelmane then knowing well at what mark she shot, yet loth to enter into it: “Most excellent lady,” said she, “you were best retire yourself into your lodging that you the better may pass this sudden fit.” “Retire myself?” said Gynecia, “If I had retired myself into myself, when thou to me, unfortunate guest, camest to draw me from myself, blessed had I been, and no need had I had of this counsel. But now alas! I am forced to fly to thee for succour, whom I accuse of all my hurt, and make thee judge of my cause, who art the only author of my mischief.” Zelmane the more astonished, the more she understood her; “Madam,” said she, “whereof do you accuse me that I will not clear myself? or wherein may I stead you that you may not command me?” “Alas!” answered Gynecia, “what shall I say more? take pity on me, O Zelmane, but not as Zelmane, and disguise not with me in words, as I know thou dost in apparel.” Zelmane was much troubled with that word, finding herself brought to this strait. But as she was thinking what to answer her, they might see old Basilius pass hard by them without ever seeing them, complaining likewise of love very freshly, and ending his complaint with this song, love having renewed both his invention and voice.
Let not old age disgrace my high desire;
O heavenly soul in human shape contain’d:
Old wood inflam’d doth yield the bravest fire,
When younger doth in smoke his virtue spend,
Nay let white hairs which on my face do grow
Seem to your eyes of a disgraceful hue,
Since whiteness doth present the sweetest show,
Which makes all eyes do homage unto you.
Old age is wise, and full of constant truth;
Old age well stayed, from ranging humour lives:
Old age hath known whatever was in youth:
Old age o’ercome, the greater honour gives.
And to old age since you yourself aspire,
Let not old age disgrace my high desire.
Which being done he looked very curiously upon himself, sometimes fetching a little skip as if he had said his strength had not yet forsaken him: but Zelmane having in this time gotten some leisure to think for an answer, looking upon Gynecia as if she thought she did her some wrong: “Madam,” said she, “I am not acquainted with those words of disguising, neither is it the profession of an Amazon, neither are you a party with whom it is to be used: if my service may please you, employ it, so long as you do me no wrong in misjudging of me.” “Alas! Zelmane,” said Gynecia, “I perceive you know full little how piercing the eyes are of a true lover: there is no one beam of those thoughts you have planted in me but is able to discern a greater cloud than you do go in. Seek not to conceal yourself further from me, nor force not the passion of love into violent extremities.” Now was Zelmane brought to an exigent, when the king turning his eyes that way through the trees, perceived his wife and mistress together, so that framing the most lovely countenance he could, he came straightway towards them, and at the first word, thanking his wife for having entertained Zelmane, desired her she would now return into the lodge, because he had certain matters of estate to impart to the Lady Zelmane. The queen, being nothing troubled with jealousy in that point, obeyed the king’s commandment, full of raging agonies, and determinately bent that as she would seek all loving means to win Zelmane, so she would stir up terrible tragedies rather than fail of her intent. And so went she from them to the lodge-ward with such a battle in her thoughts, and so deadly an overthrow given to her best resolutions that even her body, where the field was fought, was oppressed withal, making a languishing sickness wait upon the triumph of passion, which the more it prevailed in her, the more it made her jealousy watchful, both over her daughter and Zelmane, having ever one of them intrusted to her own eyes.
But as soon as Basilius was rid of his wife’s presence, falling down on his knees, “O lady,” said he, “which hast only had the power to stir up again those flames which had so long lain dead in me, see in me the power of your beauty, which can make old age come to ask counsel of youth, and a prince unconquered to become a slave to a stranger: and when you see that power of yours, love that at least in me, since it is yours, although of me you see nothing to be loved.” “Worthy prince” (answered Zelmane, taking him up from his kneeling) “both your manner and your speech are so strange unto me that I know not how to answer it better than with silence.” “If silence please you,” said the king, “it shall never displease me, since my heart is wholly pledged to obey you, otherwise, if you would vouchsafe mine ears such happiness as to hear you, they shall convey your words to such a mind as will with the humblest degree of reverence receive them.” “I disdain not to speak to you, mighty prince,” said Zelmane, “but I disdain to speak of any matter which may bring my honour into question”: and therewith, with a brave counterfeited scorn she departed from the king, leaving him not so sorry for his short answer as proud in himself that he had broken the matter. And thus did the king, feeding his mind with those thoughts, pass great time in writing verses, and making more of himself than he was wont to do, that, with a little help, he would have grown into a pretty kind of dotage.
But Zelmane being rid of this loving, but little loved company, “Alas!” said she, “poor Pyrocles, was there ever one, but I, that had received wrong, and could blame nobody? that having more than I desire, am still in want of what I would? truly, love, I must needs say thus much on my behalf; thou hast employed my love there, where all love is deserved; and for recompense hast sent me more love than ever I desired. But what wilt thou do Pyrocles? which way canst thou find to rid thee of thy intricate troubles? to her whom I would be known to, I live in darkness; and to her am revealed from whom I would be most secret. What shift shall I find against the diligent love of Basilius? what shield against the violent passions of Gynecia? and if that be done, yet how am I the nearer to quench the fire that consumes me? Well, well, sweet Philoclea, my whole confidence must be builded in thy divine spirit which cannot be ignorant of the cruel wound I have received by you.”
But as sick folks when they are alone think company would relieve them, and yet having company do find it noisome, changing willingly outward objects, when indeed the evil is inward, so poor Zelmane was no more weary of Basilius, than she was of herself when Basilius was gone: and ever the more, the more she turned her eyes to become her own judges. Tired therewith, she longed to meet her friend Dorus that upon the shoulders of friendship she might lay the burden of sorrow, and therefore went toward the other lodge, where among certain beeches she found Dorus, apparelled in flannel, with a goat’s-skin cast upon him and a garland of laurel mix’d with cypress leaves on his head, waiting on his master Dametas, who at that time was teaching him how with his sheep-hook to catch a wanton lamb, and how with the same to cast a little clod at any one that strayed out of company. And while Dorus was practising, one might see Dametas holding his hand under his girdle behind him, nodding from the waist upwards, and swearing he never knew man go more awkwardly to work, and that they might talk of book-learning what they would, but for his part he never saw more unfeaty fellows than great clerks were.
But Zelmane’s coming saved Dorus from further chiding. And so she beginning to speak with him of the number of his master’s sheep, and which province of Arcadia bare the finest wool, drew him on to follow her in such country-discourses; till, being out of Dametas’s hearing, with such vehemency of passion, as though her heart would climb into her mouth to take her tongue’s office, she declared unto him upon what briars the roses of her affections grew; how time still seemed to forget her, bestowing no one hour of comfort upon her; she remaining still in one plight of ill fortune, saving so much worse as continuance of evil doth in itself increase evil. “Alas, my Dorus,” said she, “thou seest how long and languishingly the weeks are passed over since our last talking. And yet I am the same, miserable I, that I was, only stronger in longing, and weaker in hoping.” Then fell she to so pitiful a declaration of the insupportableness of her desires that Dorus’s ears, not able to show what wounds that discourse gave unto them, procured his eyes with tears to give testimony how much they suffered for her suffering; till passion, a most cumbersome guest to itself, made Zelmane, the sooner to shake it off, earnestly entreat Dorus that he also, with like freedom of discourse, would bestow a map of his little world upon her that she might see whether it were troubled with such unhabitable climes of cold despairs and hot rages as hers was.
And so walking under a few palm-trees (which being loving in her own nature seemed to give their shadow the willinglier because they held discourse of love) Dorus thus entered to the description of his fortune.
“Alas,” said he, “dear cousin, that it hath pleased the high power to throw us to such an estate as the only intercourse of our true friendship must be a bartering of miseries: for my part, I must confess, indeed, that from a huge darkness of sorrows I am crept, I cannot say to a lightsomeness, but, to a certain dawning, or rather peeping out of some possibility of comfort: but woe is me; so far from the mark of my desires, that I rather think it such a light as comes through a small hole to a dungeon that the miserable caitiff may the better remember the light of which he is deprived, or, like a scholar who is only come to that degree of knowledge to find himself utterly ignorant: but thus stands it with me. After that by your means I was exalted to serve in yonder blessed lodge, for a while I had, in the furnace of my agonies, this refreshing that, because of the service I had done in killing of the bear, it pleased the princess, in whom indeed stateliness shines through courtesy, to let fall some gracious look upon me: sometimes to see my exercise, sometime to hear my songs. For my part, my heart would not suffer me to omit any occasion whereby I might make the incomparable Pamela see how much extraordinary devotion I bare to her service: and withal strove to appear more worthy in her sight, that small desert, joined to so great affection, might prevail something in the wisest lady. But too well, alas! I found that a shepherd’s service was but considered of as from a shepherd, and the acceptation limited to no further proportion than of a good servant. And when my countenance had once given notice that there lay affection under it, I saw straight, majesty, sitting in the throne of beauty, draw forth such a sword of just disdain that I remained as a man thunderstruck, not daring, no not able to behold that power.
Now to make my estate known, seemed again impossible, by reason of the suspiciousness of Dametas, Miso and my young mistress Mopsa: for Dametas, according to the constitution of a dull head, thinks no better way to show himself wise than by suspecting everything in his way, which suspicion Miso, for the hoggish shrewdness of her brain, and Mopsa (for a very unlikely envy she hath stumbled upon against the princess’s unspeakable beauty) were very glad to execute: so that I (finding my service by this means lightly regarded, my affection despised, and myself unknown) remained no fuller of desire than void of counsel how to come to my desire; which, alas! if these trees could speak, they might well witness, for many times have I stood here, bewailing myself unto them, many times have I, leaning to yonder palm, admired the blessedness of it, that it could bear love without sense of pain; many times, when my master’s cattle came hither to chew their cud in this fresh place, I might see the young bull testify his love? but how? with proud looks and joyfulness. ‘O wretched mankind,’ said I then to myself, ‘in whom wit, which should be the governor of his welfare, becomes the traitor to his blessedness: these beasts, like children to nature, inherit her blessings quietly; we like bastards are laid abroad, even as fondlings, to be trained up by grief and sorrow. Their minds grudge not at their bodies’ comfort, nor their senses are letted from enjoying their objects; we have the impediments of honour, and the torments of conscience.’ Truly in such cogitations I have sometimes so long stood that methought my feet began to grow into the ground, with such a darkness and heaviness of mind, that I might easily have been persuaded to have resigned over my very essence.
But love (which one time lay burdens, another time giveth wings) when I was at the lowest of my downward thoughts, pulled up my heart to remember, that nothing is achieved before it be throughly attempted, and that lying still, doth never go forward; and that therefore it was time, now or never, to sharpen my invention, to pierce through the hardness of this enterprise, never ceasing to assemble all my conceits, one after another, how to manifest both my mind and estate, till at last I lighted and resolved on this way, which yet perchance you will think was a way rather to hide it. I began to counterfeit the extremest love towards Mopsa that might be; and as for the love, so lively it was indeed within me, although to another subject, that little I needed to counterfeit any notable demonstrations of it; and so making a contrariety the place of my memory, in her foulness I beheld Pamela’s fairness, still looking on Mopsa, but thinking on Pamela, as if I saw my sun shine in a puddled water: I cried out of nothing but Mopsa, to Mopsa my attendance was directed; to Mopsa the best fruits I could gather were brought; to Mopsa it seemed still that mine eyes conveyed my tongue: so that Mopsa was my saying; Mopsa was my singing; Mopsa (that is only suitable in laying a foul complexion upon a filthy favour, setting forth both in sluttishness) she was the load-star of my life; she the blessing of mine eyes; she the overthrow of my desires, and yet the recompense of my overthrow; she the sweetness of my heart, even sweetening the death which her sweetness drew upon me.
In sum, whatsoever I thought of Pamela, that I said of Mopsa; whereby as I got my master’s goodwill, who before spited me, fearing lest I should win the princess’s favour from him, so did the same make the princess the better content to allow me her presence: whether indeed it were that a certain spark of noble indignation did rise in her not to suffer such a baggage to win away anything of hers, how meanly soever she reputed of it, or rather, as I think, my words being so passionate, and shooting so quite contrary from the marks of Mopsa’s worthiness, she perceived well enough whither they were directed; and therefore being so masked, she was contented as a sport of wit to attend them: whereupon one day determining to find some means to tell, as of a third person, the tale of mine own love and estate, finding Mopsa, like a cuckoo by a nightingale, alone with Pamela, I came in unto them, and with a face, I am sure, full of cloudy fancies, took a harp and sung this song:
