“And then, partly to bring Mopsa again to the matter, lest she should too much take heed to our discourses, but principally, if it were possible to gather some comfort out of her answers, I kneeled down to the princess, and humbly besought her to move Mopsa in my behalf, that she would unarm her noble heart of that steely resistance against the sweet blows of love: that since all her parts were decked with some particular ornament; her face with beauty, her head with wisdom, her eyes with majesty, her countenance with gracefulness, her lips with loveliness, her tongue with victory, that she would make her heart the throne of pity, being the mostexcellent raiment of the most excellent part. Pamela without show either of favour or disdain, either of heeding or neglecting what I had said, turned her speech to Mopsa, and with such a voice and action, as might show she spoke of a matter which little did concern her; ‘Take heed to yourself,’ said she, Mopsa, ‘for your shepherd can speak well: but truly, if he do fully prove himself such as he saith, I mean, the honest shepherd Menalcas’s brother and heir, I know no reason why you should think scorn of him.’ Mopsa though, in my conscience, she were even then far spent towards me, yet she answered her, that for all my quaint speeches, she would keep her honesty close enough, and that, as for the way of matrimony, she would step never a foot further till my master, her father, had spoken the whole word himself, no she would not. But ever and anon turning her muzzle towards me, she threw such a prospect upon me as might well have given a surfeit to any weak lover’s stomach. But, lord, what a fool am I, to mingle that drivel’s speeches among my noble thoughts! but because she was an actor in this tragedy, to give you a full knowledge, and to leave nothing that I can remember, unrepeated.
“Now the princess being about to withdraw herself from us, I took a jewel made in the figure of a crab-fish, which, because it looks one way and goes another, I thought it did fitly pattern out my looking to Mopsa, but bending to Pamela: the word about it was, ‘By force, not choice;’ and still kneeling, besought the princess that she would vouchsafe to give it Mopsa, and with the blessedness of her hand to make acceptable unto her that toy which I had found following of late an acquaintance of mine at the plough. ‘For,’ said I, ‘as the earth was turned up, the ploughshare lighted upon a great stone; we pull’d that up, and so found both that and some other pretty things which we had divided betwixt us.’
“Mopsa was benumbed with joy when the princess gave it her: but in the princess I could find no apprehension of what I either said or did, but with a calm carelessness letting each thing slide (just as we do by their speeches who neither in matter nor person do anyway belong unto us) which kind of cold temper, mix’d with that lightening of her natural majesty, is of all others most terrible unto me: for yet if I found she contemned me, I would desperately labour both in fortune and virtue to overcome it; if she only misdoubted me I were in heaven; for quickly I would bring sufficient assurance; lastly, if she hated me, yet I should know what passion to deal with; and either with infiniteness of desert I would take away the fuel from that fire; or if nothing would serve, then I would give her my heart’s blood to quench it. But this cruel quietness, neither retiring to mislike, nor proceedingto favour; gracious, but gracious still after one manner; all her courtesies, having this engraven in them that what is done, is for virtue’s sake, not for the parties, ever keeping her course like the sun, who neither for our praises nor curses will spur or stop his horses. This, I say, heavenliness of hers, for howsoever my misery is, I cannot but so entitle it, is so impossible to reach unto that I almost begin to submit myself to the tyranny of despair, not knowing any way of persuasion, where wisdom seems to be unsensible. I have appeared to her eyes like myself, by a device I used with my master, persuading him that we two might put on certain rich apparel I had provided, and so practice something on horseback before Pamela, telling him, it was apparel I had gotten for playing well the part of a king in a tragedy at Athens: my horse indeed was it I had left at Menalcas’s house, and Dametas got one by friendship out of the prince’s stable. But howsoever I show, I am no base body, all I do is but to beat a rock and get foam.”
But as Dorus was about to tell further, Dametas (who came whistling, and counting upon his fingers how many load of hay seventeen fat oxen eat up in a year) desired Zelmane from the king that she would come into the lodge where they stayed for her. “Alas!” said Dorus, taking his leave, “the sum is this, that you may well find you have beaten your sorrow against such a wall, which, with the force of a rebound, may well make your sorrow stronger.” But Zelmane turning her speech to Dametas, “I shall grow,” said she, “skilful in country matters if I have often conference with your servant.” “In sooth,” answered Dametas with a graceless scorn, “the lad may prove well enough, if he over soon think not too well of himself, and will bear away that he heareth of his elders.” And therewith as they walked to the other lodge, to make Zelmane find she might have spent her time better with him, he began with a wild method to run over all the art of husbandry, especially employing his tongue about well dunging of a field, while poor Zelmane yielded her ears to those tedious strokes, not warding them so much as with any one answer, till they came to Basilius and Gynecia, who attended for her in a coach to carry her abroad to see some sports prepared for her. Basilius and Gynecia, sitting in the one end, placed her at the other, with her left side to Philoclea. Zelmane was moved in her mind to have kissed their feet for the favour of so blessed a seat, for the narrowness of the coach made them join from the foot to the shoulders very close together, the truer touch whereof though it were barred by their envious apparel, yet as a perfect magnet, though but in an ivory box, will through the box send forth his embracing virtue to a beloved needle, so this imparadised neighbourhood made Zelmane’s soul cleave unto her, both throughthe ivory case of her body and the apparel which did overcloud it. All the blood of Zelmane’s body stirring in her, as wine will do when sugar is hastily put into it, seeking to suck the sweetness of the beloved guest: her heart like a lion new imprisoned, seeing him that restrains his liberty before the grate, not panting, but striving violently, if it had been possible, to have leaped into the lap of Philoclea. But Dametas, even then proceeding from being master of a cart, to be doctor of a coach, not a little proud in himself that his whip at that time guided the rule of Arcadia, drove the coach, the cover whereof was made with such joints that as they might, to avoid the weather, pull it up close when they listed, so when they would they might put each end down and remain as discovered and open sighted as on horseback, till upon the side of the forest they had both greyhounds, spaniels, and hounds, whereof the first might seem the lords, the second the gentlemen, and the last the yeoman of dogs; a cast of merlins there was besides, which, flying of a gallant height over certain bushes, would beat the birds that rose down into the bushes, as falcons will do wild-fowl over a river. But the sport which for that day Basilius would principally show to Zelmane, was the mounty at a heron, which getting up on his waggling wings with pain, till he was come to some height (as though the air next to the earth were not fit for his great body to fly through) was now grown to diminish the sight of himself, and to give example to great persons that the higher they be the less they should show; when a gyrfalcon was cast off after her, who straight spying where the prey was, fixing her eye with desire, and guiding her wing by her eye, used no more strength than industry. For as a good builder to a high tower will not make his stair upright, but winding almost the full compass about, that the steepness be the more unsensible, so she, seeing the towering of her pursued chase, went circling and compassing about, rising so with the less sense of rising, and yet finding that way scantly serve the greediness of her haste, as an ambitious body will go far out of the direct way to win to a point of height which he desires; so would she, as it were, turn tail to the heron, and fly out quite another way, but all was to return in a higher pitch, which once gotten, she would either beat with cruel assaults the heron, who now was driven to the best defence of force, since flight would not serve, or else clasping with him, come down together, to be parted by the over-partial beholders.
Divers of which flights Basilius showing to Zelmane, thus was the riches of the time spent, and the day deceased before it was thought of, till night like a degenerating successor made his departure the better remembered. And therefore, so constrained, they willed Dametas to drive homeward, who, half sleeping, halfmusing about the mending of a wine-press, guided the horses so ill that the wheel coming over a great stub of a tree, it overturned the coach. Which though it fell violently upon the side where Zelmane and Gynecia sat, yet for Zelmane’s part, she would have been glad of the fall which made her bear the sweet burden of Philoclea, but that she feared she might receive some hurt. But indeed neither she did, nor any of the rest, by reason they kept their arms and legs within the coach, saving Gynecia, who with the only bruise of the fall, had her shoulder put out of joint, which, though by one of the falconers cunning it was set well again, yet with much pain was she brought to the lodge; and pain, fetching his ordinary companion, a fever, with him, drove her to entertain them both in her bed.
But neither was the fever of such impatient heat, as the inward plague-sore of her affection, nor the pain half so noisome, as the jealousy she conceived of her daughter Philoclea, lest this time of her sickness might give apt occasion to Zelmane, whom she misdoubted. Therefore she called Philoclea to her, and though it were late in the night, commanded her in her ear to go to the other lodge, and send Miso to her, with whom she would speak, and she to lie with her sister Pamela. The meanwhile Gynecia kept Zelmane with her, because she would be sure she should be out of the lodge before she licensed Zelmane. Philoclea, not skill’d in any thing better than obedience, went quietly down, and the moon then full, not thinking scorn to be a torch-bearer to such beauty, guided her steps, whose motions bear a mind which bare in itself far more stirring motions. And alas! sweet Philoclea, how hath my pen till now forgot thy passions, since to thy memory principally all this long matter is intended? pardon the slackness to come to those woes, which, having caused in others, thou didst feel in thyself.
The sweet minded Philoclea was in their degree of well-doing, to whom the not knowing of evil serveth for a ground of virtue, and hold their inward powers in better form with an unspotted simplicity, than many who rather cunningly seek to know what goodness is than willingly take into themselves the following of it. But as that sweet and simple breath of heavenly goodness is the easier to be altered because it hath not passed through the worldly wickedness, nor feelingly found the evil that evil carries with it, so now the lady Philoclea (whose eyes and senses had received nothing, but according as the natural course of each thing required; whose tender youth had obediently lived under her parents behests, without framing out of her own will the fore-choosing of any thing) when now she came to a point wherein her judgment was to be practised in knowing faultiness by his firsttokens, she was like a young fawn who, coming in the wind of the hunters, doth not know whether it be a thing or not to be eschewed; whereof at this time she began to get a costly experience. For after that Zelmane had a while lived in the lodge with her, and that her only being a noble stranger had bred a kind of heedful attention; her coming to that lonely place, where she had nobody but her parents, a willingness of conversation; her wit and behaviour a liking and silent admiration; at length the excellency of her natural gifts, joined with the extreme shows she made of most devout honouring Philoclea (carrying thus, in one person, the only two bands of goodwill, loveliness and lovingness) brought forth in her heart a yielding to a most friendly affection; which when it had gotten so full possession of the keys of her mind that it would receive no message from her senses without that affection were the interpreter, then straight grew an exceeding delight still to be with her, with an unmeasurable liking of all that Zelmane did: matters being so turned in her, that where at first liking her manners did breed goodwill, now goodwill became the chief cause of liking her manners: so that within a while Zelmane was not prized for her demeanour, but the demeanour was prized because it was Zelmane’s. Then followed that most natural effect of conforming herself to that which she did like, and not only wishing to be herself such another in all things but to ground an imitation upon so much an esteemed authority, so that the next degree was to mark all Zelmane’s doings, speeches, and fashions, and to take them into herself as a pattern of worthy proceeding. Which when once it was enacted, not only by the commonality of passions, but agreed unto by her most noble thoughts, and that reason itself, not yet experienced in the issues of such matters, had granted his royal assent, then friendship, a diligent officer, took care to see the statute thoroughly observed. Then grew on that not only she did imitate the soberness of her countenance, the gracefulness of her speech, but even their particular gestures, so that as Zelmane did often eye her, she would often eye Zelmane; and as Zelmane’s eyes would deliver a submissive, but vehement desire in their look, she, though as yet she had not the desire in her, yet should her eyes answer in like piercing kindness of a look. Zelmane, as much as Gynecia’s jealousy would suffer, desired to be near Philoclea; Philoclea, as much as Gynecia’s jealousy would suffer, desired to be near Zelmane. If Zelmane took her hand, and softly strained it, she also, thinking the knots of friendship ought to be mutual, would, with a sweet fastness, show she was loth to part from it. And if Zelmane sighed, she should sigh also; when Zelmane was sad, she deemed it wisdom, and therefore she would be sad too.Zelmane’s languishing countenance with crossed arms, and sometimes cast up eyes, she thought to have an excellent grace, and therefore she also willingly put on the same countenance, till at the last, poor soul, ere she were aware, she accepted not only the badge, but the service; not only the sign, but the passion signified. For whether it were that her wit in continuance did find that Zelmane’s friendship was full of impatient desire, having more than ordinary limits, and therefore she was content to second Zelmane, though herself knew not the limits, or that in truth, true love, well considered, hath an infective power, at last she fell in acquaintance with love’s harbinger, wishing; first she would wish that they two might live all their lives together, like two of Diana’s nymphs. But that wish she thought not sufficient, because she knew there would be more nymphs besides them, who also would have their part in Zelmane. Then would she wish that she were her sister, that such a natural band might make her more special to her, but against that, she considered, that, though being her sister, if she happened to be married she should be robbed of her. Then grown bolder she would wish either herself, or Zelmane, a man, that there might succeed a blessed marriage between them. But when that wish had once displayed his ensign in her mind, then followed whole squadrons of longings, that so it might be with a main battle of mislikings and repinings against their creation, that so it was not. Then dreams by night began to bring more unto her than she durst wish by day, whereout waking did make her know herself the better by the image of those fancies. But as some diseases when they are easy to be cured, they are hard to be known, but when they grow easy to be known, they are almost impossible to be cured, so the sweet Philoclea, while she might prevent it, she did not feel it, now she felt it, when it was past preventing; like a river, no rampires being built against it, till already it have overflowed. For now indeed love pulled off his mask, and showed his face unto her, and told her plainly that she was his prisoner. Then needed she no more paint her face with passions, for passions shone through her face; then her rosy colour was often increased with extraordinary blushing, and so another time, perfect whiteness descended to a degree of paleness; now hot, then cold, desiring she knew not what, nor how, if she knew what. Then her mind, though too late, by the smart was brought to think of the disease, and her own proof taught her to know her mother’s mind, which, as no error gives so strong assault as that which comes armed in the authority of a parent, so greatly fortified her desires to see that her mother had the like desires. And the more jealous her mother was, the more she thought the jewel precious which was with so many locks guarded.But that prevailing so far, as to keep the two lovers from private conference, then began she to feel the sweetness of a lover’s solitariness, when freely with words and gestures, as if Zelmane were present, she might give passage to her thoughts, and so, as it were, utter out some smoke of those flames, wherewith else she was not only burned but smothered. As this night, that going from the one lodge to the other, by her mother’s commandment, with doleful gestures and uncertain paces, she did willingly accept the time’s offer to be a while alone: so that going a little aside into the wood, where many times before she had delighted to walk, her eyes were saluted with a tuft of trees, so close set together, that, with the shade the moon gave through it, it might breed a fearful kind of devotion to look upon it: but true thoughts of love banished all vain fancy of superstition. Full well she did both remember and like the place, for there had she often with their shade beguiled Phoebus of looking upon her: there had she enjoyed herself often, while she was mistress of herself and had no other thoughts, but such as might arise out of quiet senses.
But the principal cause that invited her remembrance was a goodly white marble stone that should seem had been dedicated in ancient time to the Sylvan gods, which she finding there a few days before Zelmane’s coming, had written these words upon it as a testimony of her mind against the suspicion her captivity made her think she lived in. The writing was this.
You living powers enclos’d in stately shrineOf growing trees: you rural Gods that wieldYour scepters here, if to your ears divineA voice may come, which troubled soul doth yield;This vow receive, this vow, O Gods, maintain;My virgin life no spotted thought shall stain.Thou purest stone; whose pureness doth presentMy purest mind; whose temper hard doth showMy temper’d heart; by thee my promise sentUnto myself let after-livers know,No fancy mine, nor others’ wrong suspectMake me, O virtuous shame, thy laws neglect.O chastity, the chief of heavenly lights,Which mak’st us most immortal shape to wear,Hold thou my heart, establish thou my sprites:To only thee my constant course I bear;’Till spotless soul unto thy bosom fly.Such life to lead, such death I vow to die.
You living powers enclos’d in stately shrine
Of growing trees: you rural Gods that wield
Your scepters here, if to your ears divine
A voice may come, which troubled soul doth yield;
This vow receive, this vow, O Gods, maintain;
My virgin life no spotted thought shall stain.
Thou purest stone; whose pureness doth present
My purest mind; whose temper hard doth show
My temper’d heart; by thee my promise sent
Unto myself let after-livers know,
No fancy mine, nor others’ wrong suspect
Make me, O virtuous shame, thy laws neglect.
O chastity, the chief of heavenly lights,
Which mak’st us most immortal shape to wear,
Hold thou my heart, establish thou my sprites:
To only thee my constant course I bear;
’Till spotless soul unto thy bosom fly.
Such life to lead, such death I vow to die.
But now that her memory served as an accuser of her change, and that her own handwriting was there to bear testimony against her fall; she went in among those few trees, so closed in the tops together, that they might seem a little chapel: and there might she, by the help of the moon-light, perceive the goodly stone which served as an altar in that woody devotion. But neither the light was enough to read the words, and the ink was already foreworn, and in many places blotted, which as she perceived, “Alas!” said she, “fair marble, which never received’st spot but by my writing: well do these blots become a blotted writer. But pardon her which did not dissemble then, although she have changed since. Enjoy, enjoy the glory of thy nature, which can so constantly bear the marks of my inconstancy.” And herewith, hiding her eyes with her soft hand, there came into her head certain verses, which if she had had present commodity, she would have adjoined as a retraction to the other. They were to this effect.
My words, in hope to blaze a stedfast mind,This marble chose, as of like tempter known:But lo, my words defac’d my fancies blind,Blots to the stone, shames to myself I find:And witness am, how ill agree in one,A woman’s hand with constant marble stone.My words full weak, the marble full of might;My words in store, the marble all alone;My words black ink, the marble kindly white;My words unseen, the marble still in sight,May witness bear, how ill agree in one,A woman’s hand with constant marble stone.
My words, in hope to blaze a stedfast mind,
This marble chose, as of like tempter known:
But lo, my words defac’d my fancies blind,
Blots to the stone, shames to myself I find:
And witness am, how ill agree in one,
A woman’s hand with constant marble stone.
My words full weak, the marble full of might;
My words in store, the marble all alone;
My words black ink, the marble kindly white;
My words unseen, the marble still in sight,
May witness bear, how ill agree in one,
A woman’s hand with constant marble stone.
But seeing she could not see means to join as then this recantation to the former vow, laying all her fair length under one of the trees, for a while she did nothing but turn up and down, as if she had hoped to turn away the fancy that had mastered her, and hid her face, as if she could have hidden herself from her own fancies. At length with a whispering note to herself: “O me unfortunate wretch,” said she, “what poisonous heats be these which thus torment me? how hath the sight of this strange guest invaded my soul? alas what entrance found this desire, or what strength had it thus to conquer me?” Then a cloud passing between her sight and the moon, “O Diana,” said she, “I would either the cloud that now hides the light of my virtue would as easily pass away as you will quickly overcome this let, or else that you were for ever thus darkened to serve for an excuse of my outrageous folly.” Then looking to the stars, which had perfectly as then beautified theclear sky: “My parents,” said she, “have told me that in those fair heavenly bodies there are great hidden deities, which have their working in the ebbing and flowing of our estates. If it be so, then, O you stars! judge rightly of me, and if I have with wicked intent made myself a prey to fancy, or if by any idle lusts I framed my heart fit for such an impression, then let this plague daily increase in me, till my name be made odious to womankind. But if extreme and unresistable violence have oppressed me, who will ever do any of you sacrifice, O you stars, if you do not succour me? No, no, you will not help me. No, no, you cannot help me: sin must be the mother, and shame the daughter of my affection. And yet are these but childish objections, simple Philoclea, it is the impossibility that doth torment me: for, unlawful desires are punished after the effect of enjoying; but impossible desires are punished in the desire itself. O then, O ten times unhappy that I am, since wherein all other hope kindleth love, in me despair should be the bellows of my affection: and of all despairs the most miserable, which is drawn from impossibility. The most covetous man longs not to get riches out of a ground which never can bear anything; why? because it is impossible. The most ambitious wight vexeth not his wits to climb into heaven; why? because it is impossible. Alas! then, O love, why dost thou in thy beautiful sampler set such a work for my desire to take out, which is as much impossible? and yet alas! why do I thus condemn my fortune before I hear what she can say for herself? what do I, silly wench, know what love hath prepared for me? do I not think my mother, as well, at least as furiously as myself, love Zelmane? and should I be wiser than my mother? either she sees a possibility in that which I see impossible, or else impossible loves need not misbecome me. And do I not see Zelmane, who doth not think a thought which is not first weighed by wisdom and virtue, doth not she vouchsafe to love me with like order? I see it, her eyes depose it to be true; what then? and if she can love poor me, shall I think scorn to love such a woman as Zelmane? away then all vain examinations of why and how. Thou lovest me, most excellent Zelmane, and I love thee:” and with that, embracing the very ground whereon she lay, she said to herself, for even to herself she was ashamed to speak it out in words, “O my Zelmane, govern and direct me, for I am wholly given over unto thee.”
In this depth of muses and divers sorts of discourses, would she ravingly have remained, but that Dametas and Miso, who were round about to seek her, understanding she was come to their lodge that night, came hard by her; Dametas saying that he would not deal in other body’s matters, but for his part he did not like that maids should once stir out of their father’s houses, but if itwere to milk a cow, or save a chicken from a kite’s foot, or some such other matter of importance. And Miso swearing that if it were her daughter Mopsa, she would give her a lesson for walking so late that should make her keep within doors for one fortnight. But their jangling made Philoclea rise, and pretending as though she had done it but to sport with them, went with them, after she had willed Miso to wait upon her mother to the lodge; where, being now accustomed by her parent’s discipline as well as her sister to serve herself, she went alone up to Pamela’s chamber, where, meaning to delight her eyes, and joy her thoughts with the sweet conversation of her beloved sister, she found her, though it were in the time that the wings of night doth blow sleep most willingly into mortal creatures, sitting in a chair, lying backward, with her head almost over the back of it, and looking upon a wax-candle which burnt before her; in one hand holding a letter, in the other her handkerchief, which had lately drunk up the tears of her eyes, leaving instead of them crimson circles, like red flakes in the element when the weather is hottest; which Philoclea finding, for her eyes had learned to know the badges of sorrow, she earnestly entreated to know the cause thereof that either she might comfort, or accompany her doleful humour. But Pamela, rather seeming sorry that she had perceived so much, than willing to open any further; “O my Pamela,” said Philoclea, “who are to me a sister in nature, a mother in counsel, a princess by the law of our country, and, which name methinks of all other is the dearest, a friend by my choice and your favour, what means this banishing me from your counsels? do you love your sorrow so well as to grudge me part of it? or do you think I shall not love a sad Pamela so well as a joyful? or be my ears unworthy, or my tongue suspected? What is it, my sister, that you should conceal from your sister, yea and servant Philoclea?” Those words won no further of Pamela, but that telling her they might talk better as they lay together, they impoverished their clothes to enrich their bed, which for that night might well scorn the shrine of Venus: and their cherishing one another with dear, though chaste embracements, with sweet though cold kisses, it might seem that love was come to play him there without dart, or that weary of his own fires, he was there to refresh himself between their sweet breathing lips.
But Philoclea earnestly again entreated Pamela to open her grief: who, drawing the curtain that the candle might not complain of her blushing, was ready to speak: but the breath, almost formed into words, was again stopped by her and turned into sighs. But at last, “I pray you,” said she, sweet Philoclea, “let us talk of some other thing: and tell me whether you did ever see anything so amended as our pastoral sports be since that Dorus camehither?” O love, how far thou seest with blind eyes? Philoclea had straight found her, and therefore to draw out more: “Indeed,” said she, “I have often wondered to myself how such excellencies could be in so mean a person, but belike fortune was afraid to lay her treasures where they should be stained with so many perfections, only I marvel how he can frame himself to hide so rare gifts under such a block as Dametas.” “Ah,” said Pamela, “if you knew the cause, but no more do I neither; and to say the truth: but lord, how are we fallen to talk of this fellow? and yet indeed if you were sometimes with me to mark him while Dametas reads his rustic lecture unto him how to feed his beasts before noon, where to shade them in the extreme heat, how to make the manger handsome for his oxen, when to use the goad, and when the voice; giving him rules of a herdman, though he pretend to make him a shepherd, to see all the while with what a grace, which seems to set a crown upon his base estate, he can descend to those poor matters, certainly you would: but to what serves this? no doubt we were better sleep than talk of those idle matters.” “Ah my Pamela,” said Philoclea, “I have caught you; the constancy of your wit was not wont to bring forth such disjointed speeches: you love, dissemble no further.” “It is true,” said Pamela, “now you have it; and with less ado should, if my heart could have thought those words suitable for my mouth. But indeed, my Philoclea, take heed: for I think virtue itself is no armour of proof against affection. Therefore learn by my example.” Alas! thought Philoclea to herself, your shears come too late to clip the bird’s wings that already is flown away. But then Pamela, being once set in the stream of her love, went away amain, withal telling her how his noble qualities had drawn her liking towards him; but yet ever weighing his meanness, and so held continually in due limits; till seeking many means to speak with her, and ever kept from it, as well because she shunn’d it, seeing and disdaining his mind, as because of her jealous jailors, he had at length used the finest policy that might be in counterfeiting love to Mopsa, and saying to Mopsa whatsoever he would have her know; and in how passionate manner he had told his own tale in a third person, making poor Mopsa believe, that it was a matter fallen out many ages before. “And in the end, because you shall know my tears come not neither of repentance nor misery, who, think you, is my Dorus fallen out to be? even the Prince Musidorus, famous over all Asia for his heroical enterprises, of whom you remember how much good the stranger Plangus told my father; he not being drowned, as Plangus thought, though his cousin Pyrocles indeed perished. Ah my sister, if you had heard his words, or seen his gestures when he made me know what, andto whom his love was, you would have matched in yourself those two rarely matched together, pity and delight. Tell me dear sister, for the gods are my witnesses I desire to do virtuously, can I without the detestable stain of ungratefulness abstain from loving him, who (far exceeding the beautifulness of his shape with the beautifulness of his mind, and the greatness of his estate with the greatness of his acts) is content so to abase himself, as to become Dametas’s servant for my sake? you will say, how know I him to be Musidorus, since the handmaid of wisdom is slow of belief? that consideration did not want in me; for the nature of desire itself is no easier to receive belief, than it is hard to ground belief. For as desire is glad to embrace the first show of comfort, so is desire desirous of perfect assurance, and that have I had of him, not only by necessary arguments to any of common sense, but by sufficient demonstrations. Lastly, he would have me send to Thessalia, but truly I am not as now in mind to do my honourable love so much wrong as so far to suspect him: yet poor soul, knows he no other, but that I do both suspect, neglect, yea, and detest him. For every day he finds one way or other to set forth himself unto me, but all are rewarded with like coldness of acceptation.
“A few days since, he and Dametas had furnished themselves very richly to run at the ring before me. O how mad a sight it was to see Dametas, like rich tissue furred with lamb-skins? but O how well it did with Dorus, to see with what a grace he presented himself before me on horseback, making majesty wait upon humbleness? how at the first, standing still with his eyes bent upon me, as though his motions were chained to my look, he so stayed till I caused Mopsa bid him do something upon his horse: which no sooner said, but, with a kind rather of quick gesture than show of violence, you might see him come towards me, beating the ground in so due time that no dancer can observe better measure. If you remember the ship we saw once when the sea went high upon the coast of Argos, so went the beast. But he, as if centaur-like he had been one piece with the horse, was no more moved than one with the going of his own legs, and in effect so did he command him as his own limbs; for tho’ he had both spurs and wand, they seemed rather marks of sovereignty than instruments of punishment, his hand and leg, with most pleasing grace, commanding without threatening, and rather remembering than chastising; at least if sometimes he did it was so stolen as neither our eyes could discern it nor the horse with any change did complain of it: he ever going so just with the horse, either forth-right or turning that it seemed he borrowed the horse’s body, so he lent the horse his mind. In the turning one might perceive the bridle-hand something gently stir: but indeedso gently that it did rather distil virtue than use violence. Himself, which methinks is strange, showing at one instant both steadiness and nimbleness; sometimes making him turn close to the ground, like a cat, when scratchingly she wheels about after a mouse; sometimes with a little more rising before, now like a raven leaping from ridge to ridge, then like one of Dametas’s kids bound over the hillocks, and all so done, as neither the lusty kind showed any roughness, nor the easier any idleness; but still like a well-obeyed master, whose beck is enough for a discipline, ever concluding each thing he did with his face to me-wards, as if thence came not only the beginning but ending of his motions. The sport was to see Dametas, how he was tossed from the saddle to the mane of the horse, and thence to the ground, giving his gay apparel almost as foul an outside as it had an inside. But as before he had ever said, he wanted but horse and apparel to be as brave a courtier as the best, so now bruised with proof, he proclaimed it a folly for a man of wisdom to put himself under the tuition of a beast, so as Dorus was fain alone to take the ring. Wherein truly at least my womanish eyes could not discern, but that taking his staff from his thigh, the descending it a little down, the getting of it up into the rest, the letting of the point fall, and taking the ring, was but all one motion, at least, if they were divers motions, they did so stealingly slip one into another that the latter part was ever in hand before the eye could discern the former was ended. Indeed Dametas found fault that he showed no more strength in shaking of his staff, but to my conceit the fine cleanness of bearing it was exceeding delightful.
“But how delightful soever it was, my delight might well be in my soul, but it never went to look out of the window to do him any comfort. But how much more I found reason to like him, the more I set all the strength of mine to suppress it, or at least to conceal it. Indeed I must confess, that as some physicians have told me, that when one is cold outwardly, he is not inwardly, so truly the cold ashes laid upon my fire did not take the nature of fire from it. Full often hath my breast swollen with keeping my sighs imprisoned; full often have the tears I drove back from mine eyes, turned back to drown my heart. But alas! what did that help poor Dorus? whose eyes, being his diligent intelligencers, could carry unto him no other news, but discomfortable. I think no day passed but by some one invention he would appear unto me to testify his love. One time he danced the matachin dance in armour, O with what a graceful dexterity! I think to make me see that he had been brought up in such exercises: another time he persuaded his master, to make my time seem shorter, in manner of a dialogue, to play Priamus, while he played Paris. Think,sweet Philoclea, what a Priamus we had: but truly, my Paris was a Paris, and more than a Paris: who, while in a savage apparel, with naked neck, arms, and legs, he made love to Oenone, you might well see by his changed countenance and true tears, that he felt the part he played. Tell me, sweet Philoclea, did you ever see such a shepherd? tell me, did you ever hear of such a prince? and then tell me if a small or unworthy assault have conquered me. Truly I would hate my life, if I thought vanity led me. But since my parents deal so cruelly with me, it is time for me to trust something to my own judgment. Yet hitherto have my looks been as I told you, which continuing after many of those his fruitless trials, have wrought such change in him as I tell you true,” with that word she laid her hand upon her quaking side, “I do not a little fear him. See what a letter this is,” then drew she the curtain, and took the letter from under her pillow, “which to-day, with an afflicted humbleness, he delivered me, pretending before Mopsa that I should read it unto her to mollify, forsooth, her iron stomach.” With that she read the letter, containing thus much:
Mostblessed paper, which shalt kiss that hand, whereto all blessedness is in nature a servant, do not yet disdain to carry with thee the woeful words of a miser now despairing: neither be afraid to appear before her, bearing the base title of the sender. For no sooner shall that divine hand touch thee, but that thy baseness shall be turned to most high preferment. Therefore mourn boldly my ink; for while she looks upon you, your blackness will shine: cry out boldly my lamentation; for while she reads you, your cries will be music. Say then, O happy messenger of a most unhappy message, that the too soon born, and too late dying creature, which dares not speak, no not look, no not scarcely think, as from his miserable self, unto her heavenly highness, only presumes to desire thee, in the time that her eyes and voice do exalt thee, to say, and in this manner to say; not from him, O no, that were not fit, but of him, thus much unto her sacred judgment: O you, the only honour to women, to men the only admiration, you that being armed by love, defy him that armed you, in this high estate wherein you have placed me, yet let me remember him to whom I am bound for bringing me to your presence; and let me remember him, who, since he is yours, how mean soever he be, it is reason you have an account of him. The wretch, yet your wretch, though with languishing steps, runs fast to his grave; and will you suffer a temple, how poorly built soever, but yet a temple of your deity, to be razed? but he dieth: it is most true, he dieth: and he in whom you live, to obey you, dieth. Whereof though he plain, he doth not complain: for it is a harm, but no wrong, which he hath received. He dies, because in woeful language all his senses tell him, that such is your pleasure: since you will not that he live, alas, alas, what followeth of the most ruinedDorus, but his end? end then, evil destined Dorus, end; and end thou woeful letter, end; for it sufficeth her wisdom to know, that her heavenly will shall be accomplished.
Mostblessed paper, which shalt kiss that hand, whereto all blessedness is in nature a servant, do not yet disdain to carry with thee the woeful words of a miser now despairing: neither be afraid to appear before her, bearing the base title of the sender. For no sooner shall that divine hand touch thee, but that thy baseness shall be turned to most high preferment. Therefore mourn boldly my ink; for while she looks upon you, your blackness will shine: cry out boldly my lamentation; for while she reads you, your cries will be music. Say then, O happy messenger of a most unhappy message, that the too soon born, and too late dying creature, which dares not speak, no not look, no not scarcely think, as from his miserable self, unto her heavenly highness, only presumes to desire thee, in the time that her eyes and voice do exalt thee, to say, and in this manner to say; not from him, O no, that were not fit, but of him, thus much unto her sacred judgment: O you, the only honour to women, to men the only admiration, you that being armed by love, defy him that armed you, in this high estate wherein you have placed me, yet let me remember him to whom I am bound for bringing me to your presence; and let me remember him, who, since he is yours, how mean soever he be, it is reason you have an account of him. The wretch, yet your wretch, though with languishing steps, runs fast to his grave; and will you suffer a temple, how poorly built soever, but yet a temple of your deity, to be razed? but he dieth: it is most true, he dieth: and he in whom you live, to obey you, dieth. Whereof though he plain, he doth not complain: for it is a harm, but no wrong, which he hath received. He dies, because in woeful language all his senses tell him, that such is your pleasure: since you will not that he live, alas, alas, what followeth of the most ruinedDorus, but his end? end then, evil destined Dorus, end; and end thou woeful letter, end; for it sufficeth her wisdom to know, that her heavenly will shall be accomplished.
“O my Philoclea, is he a person to write those words? and are those words lightly to be regarded? but if you had seen when with trembling hand he had delivered it how he went away, as if he had been but the coffin that carried himself to his sepulchre. Two times, I must confess, I was about to take courtesy into mine eyes, but both times the former resolution stopped the entry of it, so that he departed without obtaining any further kindness. But he was no sooner out of the door; but that I looked to the door kindly, and truly the fear of him ever since hath put me into such perplexity, as now you found me.” “Ah my Pamela,” said Philoclea, “leave sorrow. The river of your tears will soon lose his fountain; it is in your hand as well to stitch up his life again, as it was before to rent it.” And so, though with self-grieved mind, she comforted her sister, till sleep came to bathe himself in Pamela’s fair weeping eyes.
Which when Philoclea found, wringing her hands, “O me,” said she, “indeed the only subject of the destinies’ displeasure, whose greatest fortunateness is more unfortunate than my sister’s greatest unfortunateness. Alas! she weeps because she would be no sooner happy; I weep, because I can never be happy; her tears flow from pity, mine from being too far lower than the reach of pity: Yet do I not envy thee, dear Pamela, I do not envy thee, only I could wish that being thy sister in nature I were not so far off akin in fortune.”
But the darkness of sorrow overshadowing her mind, as the night did her eyes, they were both content to hide themselves under the wings of sleep, till the next morning had almost lost his name, before the two sweet sleeping sisters awaked from dreams, which flattered them with more comfort than their waking could, or would consent unto. For then they were called up by Miso, who, having been with Gynecia, had received commandment to be continually with her daughters, and particularly not to let Zelmane and Philoclea have any private conference but that she should be present to hear what passed: Miso having now her authority increased, but came with scowling eyes to deliver a slavering good morrow to the two ladies, telling them it was a shame for them to mar their complexions, yea and conditions too, with long lying abed; and that when she was of their age, she trowed, she would have made a handkerchief by that time a-day. The two sweet princesses with a smiling silence answered her entertainment, and, obeying her direction, covered their dainty beauties with the gladclothes. But as soon as Pamela was ready, and sooner she was than her sister, of the agony of Dorus’s giving a fit to herself, which the words of his letter, lively imprinted in her mind, still remembered her of, she called to Mopsa, and willed her to fetch Dorus to speak with her; because, she said, she would take further judgment of him before she would move Dametas to grant her in marriage unto him: Mopsa, as glad as of sweetmeat to go of such an errand, quickly returned with Dorus to Pamela, who intended both by speaking with him to give some comfort to his passionate heart, and withal to hear some part of his life past, which although fame had already delivered unto her, yet she desired in more particular certainties to have it from so beloved an historian. Yet the sweetness of virtue’s disposition, jealous, even over itself, suffered her not to enter abruptly into questions of Musidorus, whom she was half ashamed she did love so well, and more than half sorry she could love no better, but thought best first to make her talk arise of Pyrocles, and his virtuous father: which thus she did.
“Dorus,” said she, “you told me the last day that Plangus was deceived in that he affirmed the prince Musidorus was drowned, but, withal, you confessed his cousin Pyrocles perished, of whom certainly in that age there was a great loss, since, as I have heard, he was a young prince, of whom all men expected as much as man’s power could bring forth, and yet virtue promised for him their expectation should not be deceived.” “Most excellent lady,” said Dorus, “no expectation in others, nor hope in himself could aspire to a higher mark than to be thought worthy to be praised by your judgment, and made worthy to be praised by your mouth. But most sure it is, that as his fame could by no means get so sweet and noble an air to fly in, as in your breath, so could not you, leaving yourself aside, find in the world a fitter subject of commendation; as noble as a long succession of royal ancestors, famous and famous for victories, could make him; of shape most lovely, and yet of mind more lovely, valiant, courteous, wise, what should I say more? sweet Pyrocles, excellent Pyrocles, what can my words but wrong thy perfections, which I would to God in some small measure thou had’st bequeathed to him that ever must have thy virtues in admiration, that, masked at least in them, I might have found some more gracious acceptation?” With that he imprisoned his look for a while upon Mopsa, who thereupon fell into a very wide smiling. “Truly,” said Pamela, “Dorus I like well your mind that can raise itself out of so base a fortune as yours is, to think of the imitating so excellent a prince as Pyrocles was. Who shoots at the mid-day sun, though he be sure he shall never hit the mark, yet as sure he is, he shall shoot higherthan who aims but at a bush. But I pray you, Dorus,” said she, “tell me, since I perceive you are well acquainted with that story, what prince was that Euarchus father to Pyrocles, of whom so much fame goes, for his rightly royal virtues, or by what ways he got that opinion. And then so descend to the causes of his sending first away from him, and then to him for that excellent son of his, with the discourse of his life and loss: and therein you may, if you list, say something of that same Musidorus his cousin, because they going together, the story of Pyrocles, which I only desire, may be the better understood.”
“Incomparable lady,” said he, “your commandment doth not only give me the will, but the power to obey you; such influence hath your excellency. And first, for that famous king Euarchus, he was, at this time you speak of, king of Macedon, a kingdom, which in older time had such a sovereignty over all the provinces of Greece that even the particular kings therein did acknowledge, with more or less degrees of homage, some kind of fealty thereunto: as among the rest, even this now most noble, and by you ennobled, kingdom of Arcadia. But he, when he came to his crown finding by his latter ancestors either negligence, or misfortune that in some ages many of those duties had been intermitted would never stir up old titles, how apparent soever, whereby the public peace, with the loss of many not guilty souls, should be broken; but contenting himself to guide that ship, wherein the heavens had placed him, showed no less magnanimity in dangerless despising than others in dangerous affecting the multiplying of kingdoms: for the earth hath since borne enough bleeding witnesses that it was no want of true courage. Who as he was most wise to see what was best, and most just in the performing what he saw, and temperate in abstaining from anything anyway contrary, so think I, no thought can imagine a greater heart to see and contemn danger, where danger would offer to make any wrongful threatening upon him. A prince, that indeed especially measured his greatness by his goodness: and if for anything he loved greatness it was because therein he might exercise his goodness. A prince of a goodly aspect, and the more goodly by a grave majesty, wherewith his mind did deck his outward graces; strong of body, and so much the stronger, that he by a well-disciplined exercise taught it both to do, and suffer. Of age so as he was above fifty years, when his nephew Musidorus took on such shepherdish apparel for the love of the world’s paragon, as I now wear.
“This king left orphan both of father and mother, whose father and grandfather likewise had died young, he found his estate, when he came to the age which allowed his authority, so disjointed even in the noblest and strongest limbs of government that thename of a king was grown even odious to the people, his authority having been abused by those great lords and little kings, who in those between-times of reigning, by unjust favouring those that were partially theirs, and oppressing them that would defend their liberty against them, had brought in, by a more felt than seen manner of proceeding, the worst kind of Oligarchy; that is, when men are governed indeed by a few, and yet are not taught to know what those few be to whom they should obey.
“For they having the power of kings, but not the nature of kings, used the authority as men do their farms, of which they see within a year they shall go out; making the king’s sword strike whom they hated, the king’s purse reward whom they loved; and, which is worst of all, making the royal countenance serve to undermine the royal sovereignty. For the subjects could taste no sweeter fruits of having a king than grievous taxation to serve vain purposes; laws made rather to find faults than to prevent faults: the court of a prince rather deemed as a privileged place of the unbridled licentiousness than as the abiding of him, who as a father should give a fatherly example unto his people. Hence grew a very dissolution of all estates, while the great men, by the nature of ambition never satisfied, grew factious among themselves: and the underlings glad indeed to be underlings to them they hated least, to preserve them from such they hated most. Men of virtue suppressed, lest the shining should discover the others’ filthiness; and at length virtue itself almost forgotten, when it had no hopeful end whereunto to be directed; old men long nusled in corruption, scorning them that would seek reformation, young men were fault-finding, but very faulty, and so given to new-fangleness both of manners, apparel, and each thing else, by the custom of self-guilty evil, glad to change, though oft for worse; merchandise abused, and so towns decayed for want of just and natural liberty; offices even of judging souls, sold; public defences neglected; and in sum, left too long I trouble you, all awry, and, which wried it to the most wry course of all, wit abused, rather to feign reason why it should be amiss, than how it should be amended.
“In this, and a much worse plight than it is fit to trouble your excellent ears withal, did the king Euarchus find his estate when he took upon him the regiment, which, by reason of the long stream of abuse, he was forced to establish by some even extreme severity, not so much for the very faults themselves, which he rather sought to prevent than to punish, as for the faulty ones, who, strong even in their faults, scorned his youth, and could not learn to digest that the man which they so long had used to mask their own appetites, should now be the reducer of them into order. But so soon as some few, but indeed notable examples, had thundered a duty intothe subjects’ hearts, he soon showed, no baseness of suspicion, nor the basest baseness of envy, could any whit rule such a ruler. But then shined forth indeed all love among them, when an awful fear engendered by justice, did make that love most lovely: his first and principal care being to appear unto his people such as he would have them be, and to be such as he appeared; making his life the example of his laws, and his laws as it were his axioms arising out of his deeds. So that within small time he won a singular love in his people, and ingraffed singular confidence. For how could they choose but love him, whom they found so truly to love them? he even in reason disdaining, that they that have charge of beasts, should love their charge and care for them; and that he that was to govern the most excellent creature, should not love so noble a charge. And, therefore, where most princes, seduced by flattery to build upon false grounds of government, make themselves, as it were, another thing from the people, and so count it gain what they get from them and, as it were two counter-balances, that their estate goes highest when the people goes lowest, by a fallacy of argument thinking themselves most kings when the subject is most basely subjected, he contrariwise, virtuously and wisely acknowledging that he with his people made all but one politic body, whereof himself was the head, even so cared for them as he would for his own limbs, never restraining their liberty, without it stretched to licentiousness, nor pulling from them their goods, which they found were not employed to the purchase of a greater good; but in all his actions showing a delight in their welfare, brought that to pass, that, while by force he took nothing, by their love he had all. In sum, peerless princess, I might as easily set down the whole art of government as to lay before your eyes the picture of his proceedings. But in such sort he flourished in the sweet comfort of doing much good, when, by an occasion of leaving his country, he was forced to bring forth his virtue of magnanimity, as before he had done of justice.
“He had only one sister, a lady, least I should too easily all to partial praises of her, of whom it may be justly said, that she was no unfit branch to the noble stock whereof she was come. Her he had given in marriage to Dorilaus prince of Thessalia, not so much to make a friendship, as to confirm the friendship between their posterity, which between them, by the likeness of virtue, had been long before made: for certainly, Dorilaus could need no amplifier’s mouth for the highest point of praise.” “Who hath not heard,” said Pamela, “of the valiant, wise, and just Dorilaus, whose unripe death doth yet, so many years since, draw tears from virtuous eyes; and indeed, my father is wont to speak of nothing with greater admiration, than of the notable friendship, a rare thingin princes, more rare between princes, that so holily was observed to the last of those two excellent men. But,” said she, “go on I pray you.”
“Dorilaus,” said he, “having married his sister, had his marriage in short time blest, for so are folk wont to say, how unhappy soever the children after grow, with a son, whom they named Musidorus, of whom I must needs first speak before I come to Pyrocles, because as he was born first, so upon his occasion grew, as I may say accidentally, the other’s birth. For scarcely was Musidorus made partaker of this oft-blinding light, when there were found numbers of soothsayers who affirmed strange and incredible things should be performed by that child; whether the heavens at that time listed to play with ignorant mankind, or that flattery be so presumptuous as even at times to borrow the face of divinity. But certainly, so did the boldness of their affirmation accompany the greatness of what they did affirm, even descending to particularities, what kingdoms he should overcome, that the king of Phrygia, who over-superstitiously thought himself touched in the matter, sought by force to destroy the infant, to prevent his after expectations: because a skilful man, having compared his nativity with the child, so told him. Foolish man, either vainly fearing what was not to be feared, or not considering that if it were a work of the superior powers, the heavens at length are never children. But so he did, and by the aid of the kings of Lydia and Crete, joining together their armies, invaded Thessalia, and brought Dorilaus to some behind-hand of fortune, when his faithful friend and brother Euarchus came so mightily to his succour, that with some interchanging changes of fortune, they begat of a just war, the best child, Peace. In which time Euarchus made a cross marriage also with Dorilaus’s sister, and shortly left her with child of the famous Pyrocles, driven to return to the defence of his own country, which in his absence, helped with some of the ill-contented nobility, the mighty king of Thrace, and his brother king of Pannonia, had invaded. The success of those wars was too notable to be unknown to your ears, to which it seems all worthy fame hath glory to come unto. But there was Dorilaus, valiantly requiring his friend’s help, in a great battle deprived of life, his obsequies being no more solemnized by the tears of his partakers than the blood of his enemies; with so piercing a sorrow to the constant heart of Euarchus that the news of his son’s birth could lighten his countenance with no show of comfort, although all the comfort that might be in a child, truth itself in him forthwith delivered. For what fortune only soothsayers foretold of Musidorus, that all men might see prognosticated in Pyrocles, both heavens and earth giving tokens of the coming forth of an heroical virtue. Thesenate house of the planets was at no time so set for the decreeing of perfection in a man, as at that time all folks skilful therein did acknowledge: only love was threatened, and promised to him, and so to his cousin, as both the tempest and haven of his best years. But as death may have prevented Pyrocles, so unworthiness must be the death of Musidorus.
“But the mother of Pyrocles, shortly after her childbirth dying, was cause that Euarchus recommended the care of his only son to his sister, doing it the rather because the war continued in cruel heat, betwixt him and those ill neighbours of his. In which meantime those young princes, the only comforters of that virtuous widow, grew on so that Pyrocles taught admiration to the hardest conceits: Musidorus, perchance because among his subjects, exceedingly beloved; and by the good order of Euarchus, well performed by his sister, they were so brought up that all the sparks of virtue which nature had kindled in them were so blown to give forth their uttermost heat, that, justly it may be affirmed, they inflamed the affections of all that knew them. For almost before they could perfectly speak, they began to receive conceits not unworthy of the best speakers; excellent devices being used, to make even their sports profitable; images of battles and fortifications being then delivered to their memory, which after, their stronger judgments might dispense, the delight of tales being converted to the knowledge of all the stories of worthy princes, both to move them to do nobly, and teach them how to do nobly; the beauty of virtue still being set before their eyes, and that taught them with far more diligent care than grammatical rules, their bodies exercised in all abilities, both of doing and suffering, and their minds acquainted by degrees with dangers; and in sum, all bent to the making up of princely minds: no servile fear used towards them, nor any other violent restraint, but still as to princes: so that a habit of commanding was naturalized in them, and therefore the further from tyranny: nature having done so much for them in nothing, as that it made them lords of truth, whereon all the other goods were builded.
“Among which nothing I so much delight to recount, as the memorable friendship that grew betwixt the two princes, such as made them more like than the likeness of all other virtues, and made them more near one to the other than the nearness of their blood could aspire unto; which I think grew the faster, and the faster was tied between them by reason that Musidorus being older by three or four years, it was neither so great a difference in age as did take away the delight in society, and yet by the difference there was taken away the occasion of childish contentions, till they had both passed over the humour of such contentions. ForPyrocles bare reverence full of love to Musidorus, and Musidorus had a delight full of love in Pyrocles. Musidorus, what he had learned either for body or mind, would teach it to Pyrocles; and Pyrocles was so glad to learn of none as of Musidorus: till Pyrocles, being come to sixteen years of age, he seemed so to over-run his age in growth, strength, and all things following it, that not Musidorus, no nor any man living, I think, could perform any action, either on horse, or foot, more strongly, or deliver that strength more nimbly, or become the delivery more gracefully, or employ all more virtuously. Which may well seem wonderful: but wonders are no wonders in a wonderful subject.
“At which time, understanding that the king Euarchus, after so many years of war, and the conquest of all Pannonia, and almost Thrace, had now brought the conclusion of all to the siege of Byzantium, to the raising of which siege, great forces were made, they would needs fall to the practice of those virtues which they before learned. And therefore the mother of Musidorus nobly yielding over her own affects to her children’s good, for a mother she was in affect to them both, the rather that they might help her beloved brother, they break off all delays, which Musidorus for his part thought already had devoured too much of his good time, but that he had once granted a boon, before he knew what it was, to his dear friend Pyrocles, that he would never seek the adventures of arms until he might go with him, which having fast bound his heart, a true slave to faith, he had bid a tedious delay of following his own humour for his friend’s sake, till now being both sent for by Euarchus, and finding Pyrocles able every way to go through with that kind of life, he was as desirous for his sake as for his own, to enter into it. So therefore preparing a navy, that they might go like themselves, and not only bring the comfort of their presence, but of their power, to their dear parent Euarchus, they recommended themselves to the sea, leaving the shore of Thessalia full of tears and vows, and were received thereon with so smooth and smiling a face, as if Neptune had as then learned falsely to fawn on princes. The wind was like a servant, waiting behind them so just, that they might fill the sails as they listed; and the best sailors showing themselves less covetous of his liberality, so tempered it that they all kept together like a beautiful flock, which so well could obey their master’s pipe: without sometimes, to delight the princes’ eyes, some two or three of them would strive, who could, either by the cunning of well spending the wind’s breath, or by the advantageous building of their moving houses, leave their fellows behind them in the honour of speed: while the two princes had leisure to see the practice of that, which before they had learned by books: to consider the art of catching thewind prisoner, to no other end, but to run away with it; to see how beauty and use can so well agree together, that of all the trinkets, wherewith they are attired, there is not one but serves to some necessary purpose. And, O lord! to see the admirable power and noble effects of love, whereby the seeming insensible loadstone, with a secret beauty, holding the spirit of iron in it, can draw that hard-hearted thing unto it, and like a virtuous mistress, not only make it bow itself, but with it make it aspire to so high a love as of the heavenly poles, and thereby to bring forth the noblest deeds that the children of the earth can boast of. And so the princes delighting their conceits with confirming their knowledge, seeing wherein the sea-discipline differed from land-service, they had for a day, and almost a whole night, as pleasing entertainment as the falsest heart could give to him he means worst to.
“But by that the next morning began a little to make a gilded show of a good meaning, there arose even with the sun, a veil of dark clouds before his face, which, shortly, like ink poured into water, had blacked over all the face of heaven, preparing as it were a mournful stage for a tragedy to be played on. For forthwith the winds began to speak louder, and, as in a tumultuous kingdom, to think themselves fittest instruments of commandment; and blowing whole storms of hail and rain upon them, they were sooner in danger, than they could almost bethink themselves of change. For then the traitorous sea began to swell in pride against the afflicted navy, under which, while the heaven favoured them, it had lain so calmly, making mountains of itself, over which the tossed and tottering ship should climb, to be straight carried down again to a pit of hellish darkness; with such cruel blows against the sides of the ship that, which way soever it went, was still in his malice, that there was left neither power to stay nor way to escape. And shortly had it so dissevered the loving company, which the day before had tarried together, that most of them never met again, but were swallowed up in his never satisfied mouth. Some indeed, as since was known, after long wandering, returned into Thessalia, others recovered Byzantium, and served Euarchus in his war. But in the ship wherein the princes were, now left as much alone as proud lords be when fortune fails them, though they employed all industry to save themselves, yet what they did was rather for duty to nature than hope to escape so ugly a darkness as if it would prevent the night’s coming, usurped the day’s right: which accompanied sometimes with thunders, always with horrible noises of the chafing winds, made the masters and pilots so astonished that they knew not how to direct, and if they knew, they could scarcely, when they directed, hear their own whistle. For the sea strove with the winds which should be louder,and the shrouds of the ship, with a ghastful noise to them that were in it, witnessed that their ruin was the wager of the others’ contention, and the heaven roaring out thunders the more amazed them, as having those powers for enemies. Certainly there is no danger carries with it more horror than that which grows in those floating kingdoms. For that dwelling place is unnatural to mankind, and then the terribleness of the continual motion, the desolation of the far-being from comfort, the eye and the ear having ugly images ever before it, doth still vex the mind, even when it is best armed against it. But thus the day passed, if that might be called day, while the cunningest mariners were so conquered by the storm that they thought it best with stricken sails to yield to be governed by it: the valiantest feeling inward dismayedness, and yet the fearfullest ashamed fully to show it, seeing that the princes, who were to part from the greatest fortunes, did in their countenances accuse no point of fear, but encouraging them to do what might be done, putting their hands to every most painful office, taught them at one instant to promise themselves the best, and yet to despise the worst. But so were they carried by the tyranny of the wind, and the treason of the sea all that night, which the older it was, the more wayward it showed itself towards them: till the next morning, known to be a morning better by the hour-glass than by the day’s clearness, having run fortune so blindly, as itself ever was painted, lest the conclusion should not answer to the rest of the play, they were driven upon a rock, which, hidden with those outrageous waves, did, as it were, closely dissemble his cruel mind, till with an unbelieved violence, but to them that have tried it, the ship ran upon it, and seeming willinger to perish than to have her course stayed, redoubled her blows, till she had broken herself in pieces, and as it were, tearing out her own bowels to feed the sea’s greediness, lest nothing within it but despair of safety and expectation of a loathsome end. There was to be seen the divers manner of minds in distress: some sat upon the top of the poop weeping and wailing, till the sea swallowed them; some one more able to abide death than fear of death, cut his own throat to prevent drowning; some prayed: and there wanted not of them which cursed, as if the heavens could not be more angry than they were. But a monstrous cry begotten of many roaring voices, was able to infect with fear a mind that had not prevented it with the power of reason.
“But the princes, using the passions of fearing evil, and desiring to escape only to serve the rule of virtue, not to abandon one’s self, leaped to a rib of the ship, which broken from his fellows, floated with more likelihood to do service than any other limb of that ruinous body; upon which they had gotten already two brethrenwell known servants of theirs; and straight they four were carried out of sight, in that huge rising of the sea, from the rest of the ship. But the piece they were on sinking by little and little under them, not able to support the weight of so many, the brethren, the elder whereof was Leucippus, the younger Nelsus, showed themselves right faithful and grateful servants unto them: grateful, I say, for this cause: those two gentlemen had been taken prisoners in the great war the king of Phrygia made upon Thessalia, in the time of Musidorus’s infancy, and having been sold into another country, though peace fell after between those realms, could not be delivered because of their valour known, but for a far greater sum than either all their friends were able, or the dowager willing to make, in respect of the great expenses herself and people had been put to in those wars, and so had they remained in prison about thirteen years, when the two young princes, hearing speeches of their good deserts, found means both by selling all the jewels they had of a great price, and by giving under their hands great estates when they should come to be kings, which promises their virtue promised for them should be kept, to get so much treasure as redeemed them from captivity. This remembered, and kindly remembered by those two brothers, perchance helped by a natural duty to their princes’ blood, they willingly left hold of the board, committing themselves to the sea’s rage, and even when they meant to die, themselves praying for the princes’ lives. It is true, that neither the pain nor danger, so moved the princes’ hearts as the tenderness of that loving part, far from glory, having so few lookers on; far from hope of reward, since themselves were sure to perish.
“But now of all the royal navy they lately had, they had left but one little piece of one ship, whereon they kept themselves, in all truth having interchanged their cares, while either cared for other, each comforting and counselling how to labour for the better, and to abide the worse. But so fell it out, that as they were carried by the tide which there, seconded by the storm, ran exceeding swiftly, Musidorus seeing, as he thought, Pyrocles not well upon the board, as he would with his right hand have helped him on better, he had no sooner unfastened his hold but that a wave forcibly spoiled his weaker hand of hold, and so for a time parted those friends, each crying to the other; but the noise of the sea drowned their farewell. But Pyrocles, then careless of death, if it had come by any means but his own, was shortly brought out of the sea’s fury to the land’s comfort, when in my conscience I know that comfort was but bitter unto him: and bitter indeed it fell out even in itself to be unto him.
“For being cast on land much bruised and beaten both with thesea’s hard farewell, and the shore’s rude welcome; and even almost deadly tired with the length of his uncomfortable labour, as he was walking up to discover somebody, to whom he might go for relief, there came straight running unto him certain, who, as it was after known, by appointment watched, with many others, in divers places along the coast, who laid hands on him, and without either questioning with him, or showing will to hear him, like men fearful to appear curious, or which was worse, having no regard to the hard plight he was in, being so wet and weak, they carried him some miles thence to a house of a principal officer of that country. Who with no more civility (though with much more business than those under fellows had showed) began in captious manner to put interrogatories unto him. To which, he unused to such entertainment, did shortly and plainly answer, what he was and how he came thither. But that no sooner known, with numbers of armed men to guard him (for mischief, not from mischief) he was sent to the king’s court, which as then was not above a day’s journey off, with letters from that officer, containing his own serviceable diligence in discovering so great a personage, adding withal more than was true of his conjectures, because he would endear his own service.
“This country whereon he fell was Phrygia, and it was to the king thereof to whom he was sent, a prince of a melancholy constitution both of body and mind; wickedly sad, ever musing of horrible matters, suspecting, or rather condemning all men of evil, because his mind had no eye to spy goodness: and therefore accusing Sycophants, of all men, did best sort to his nature; but therefore not seeming Sycophants, because of no evil they said, they could bring any new or doubtful thing unto him, but such as already he had been apt to determine, so as they came but as proofs of his wisdom: fearful, and never secure, while the fear he had figured in his own mind had any possibility of event. A toad-like retiredness, and closeness of mind; nature teaching the odiousness of poison, and the danger of odiousness. Yet while youth lasted in him, the exercises of that age, and his humour, not yet fully discovered, made him something the more frequentable, and less dangerous. But after that years began to come on with some, though more seldom, shows of a bloody nature, and that the prophecy of Musidorus’s destiny came to his ears (delivered unto him, and received of him with the hardest interpretation, as though his subjects did delight in the hearing thereof). Then gave he himself indeed to the full current of his disposition, especially after the war of Thessalia, wherein, though in truth wrongly, he deemed his unsuccess proceeded of their unwillingness to have him prosper: and then thinking himself contemned(knowing no countermine against contempt, but terror) began to let nothing pass which might bear the colour of a fault without sharp punishment: and when he wanted faults, excellency grew a fault! and it was sufficient to make one guilty, that he had power to be guilty. And as there is no humour, to which impudent poverty cannot make itself serviceable, so were there enough of those of desperate ambition, who would build their houses upon others’ ruins, which after should fall by like practices. So as a servitude came mainly upon that poor people, whose deeds were not only punished, but words corrected, and even thoughts by some mean or other pulled out of them; while suspicion bred the mind of cruelty, and the effects of cruelty stirred up a new cause of suspicion. And in this plight, full of watchful fearfulness, did the storm deliver sweet Pyrocles to the stormy mind of that tyrant; all men that did such wrong to so rare a stranger, whose countenance deserved both pity and admiration, condemning themselves as much in their hearts, as they did brag in their faces.
“But when this bloody king knew what he was, and in what order he and his cousin Musidorus (so much of him feared) were come out of Thessalia, assuredly thinking, because ever thinking the worst, that those forces were provided against him; glad of the perishing, as he thought, of Musidorus, determined in public sort to put Pyrocles to death. For having quite lost the way of nobleness, he strove to climb to the height of terribleness; and thinking to make all men adread, to make such one an enemy who would not spare, not fear to kill so great a prince; and lastly, having nothing in him why to make him his friend, he thought he would take him away from being his enemy. The day was appointed, and all things prepared for that cruel blow, in so solemn an order, as if they would set forth tyranny in most gorgeous decking. The princely youth, of invincible valour, yet so unjustly subjected to such outrageous wrong, carrying himself in all his demeanour, so constantly abiding extremity, that one might see it was the cutting away of the greatest hope of the world, and destroying virtue in his sweetest growth.
“But so it fell out, that his death was prevented by a rare example of friendship in Musidorus, who, being almost drowned, had been taken up by a fisherman belonging to the kingdom of Bithynia: and being there, and understanding the full discourse (as fame was very prodigal of so notable an accident) in what case Pyrocles was: learning withal that his hate was far more to him than to Pyrocles, he found means to acquaint himself with a nobleman of that country, to whom largely discovering what he was, he found him a most fit instrument to effectuate his desire. For this nobleman had been one, who in many wars had served Euarchus,and had been so mind-stricken by the beauty of virtue in that noble king that, though not born his subject, he ever professed himself his servant. His desire therefore to him was to keep Musidorus in a strong castle of his, and then to make the king of Phrygia understand, that if he would deliver Pyrocles, Musidorus would willingly put himself into his hands, knowing well, that how thirsty soever he was of Pyrocles’s blood, he would rather drink that of Musidorus.