Therude tumult of the Enispians gave occasion to the honest shepherds to begin their pastoral this day with a dance, which they called the skirmish betwixt reason and passion. For seven shepherds, which were named the reasonable shepherds, joined themselves, four of them making a square, and other two going a little wide of either side, like wings for the main battle, and the seventh man foremost, like the forlorn hope, to begin the skirmish. In like order came out the seven appassionated shepherds, all keeping the pace of their foot by their voice, and sundry consorted instruments they held in their arms. And first, the foremost of the reasonable side began to sing:
Reason. Thou rebel vile, come, to thy master yield.
Reason. Thou rebel vile, come, to thy master yield.
And the other that met him answered:
Passion. No, tyrant, no; mine, mine shall be the field.R. Can Reason then a tyrant counted be?P. If Reason will that Passions be not free.R. But Reason will, that Reason govern most.P. And Passion will, that Passion rule the roast.R. Your will is will, but Reason reason is.P. Will hath his will, when Reason’s will doth miss.R. Whom Passion leads, unto his death is bent.P. And let him die, so that he die content.R. By nature you to Reason faith have sworn.P. Not so but fellow like together born.R. Who Passion doth ensue, lives in annoy.P. Who Passion doth forsake, lives void of joy.R. Passion is blind, and treads an unknown trace.P. Reason hath eyes to see his own ill case.
Passion. No, tyrant, no; mine, mine shall be the field.
R. Can Reason then a tyrant counted be?
P. If Reason will that Passions be not free.
R. But Reason will, that Reason govern most.
P. And Passion will, that Passion rule the roast.
R. Your will is will, but Reason reason is.
P. Will hath his will, when Reason’s will doth miss.
R. Whom Passion leads, unto his death is bent.
P. And let him die, so that he die content.
R. By nature you to Reason faith have sworn.
P. Not so but fellow like together born.
R. Who Passion doth ensue, lives in annoy.
P. Who Passion doth forsake, lives void of joy.
R. Passion is blind, and treads an unknown trace.
P. Reason hath eyes to see his own ill case.
Then as they approached nearer, the two of reason’s side, as if they shot at the other, thus sang:
R. Dare Passions then abide in Reason’s light?P. And is not Reason dim with Passion’s might?R. O foolish thing which glory doth destroy!P. O glorious title of a foolish toy!R. Weakness you are, dare you with our strength fight?P. Because our weakness weakeneth all your might.R. O sacred Reason, help our virtuous toils.P. O Passion, pass on feeble Reason’s spoils.R. We with ourselves abide a daily strife.P. We gladly use the sweetness of our life.R. But yet our strife sure peace in end doth breed.P. We now have peace, your peace we do not need.
R. Dare Passions then abide in Reason’s light?
P. And is not Reason dim with Passion’s might?
R. O foolish thing which glory doth destroy!
P. O glorious title of a foolish toy!
R. Weakness you are, dare you with our strength fight?
P. Because our weakness weakeneth all your might.
R. O sacred Reason, help our virtuous toils.
P. O Passion, pass on feeble Reason’s spoils.
R. We with ourselves abide a daily strife.
P. We gladly use the sweetness of our life.
R. But yet our strife sure peace in end doth breed.
P. We now have peace, your peace we do not need.
Then did the two square battles meet, and instead of fighting, embrace one another, singing thus:
R. We are too strong: but Reason seeks no blood.P. Who be too weak, do fain they be too good.R. Though we cannot o’ercome, our cause is just.P. Let us o’ercome, and let us be unjust.R. Yet Passions yield at length to Reason’s stroke.P. What shall we win by taking Reason’s yoke?R. The joys you have shall be made permanent.P. But so we shall with grief learn to repent.R. Repent indeed, but that shall be your bliss.P. How know we that, since present joys we miss?R. You know it not; of Reason therefore know it.P. No Reason yet had ever skill to show it.R. Then let us both to heavenly rules give place.P. Which Passions kill, and Reason do deface.
R. We are too strong: but Reason seeks no blood.
P. Who be too weak, do fain they be too good.
R. Though we cannot o’ercome, our cause is just.
P. Let us o’ercome, and let us be unjust.
R. Yet Passions yield at length to Reason’s stroke.
P. What shall we win by taking Reason’s yoke?
R. The joys you have shall be made permanent.
P. But so we shall with grief learn to repent.
R. Repent indeed, but that shall be your bliss.
P. How know we that, since present joys we miss?
R. You know it not; of Reason therefore know it.
P. No Reason yet had ever skill to show it.
R. Then let us both to heavenly rules give place.
P. Which Passions kill, and Reason do deface.
Then embraced they one another, and came to the king, who framed his praises of them according to Zelmane’s liking; whose unrestrained parts, the mind and eye, had their free course to the delicate Philoclea, whose look was not short in well requiting it, although she knew it was a hateful sight to her jealous mother. But Dicus, that had in this time taken a great liking of Dorus for the good parts he found above his age in him, had a delight to taste the fruits of his wit, though in a subject which he himself most of all other despised; and so entered speech with him in the manner of this following eclogue.
DICUS and DORUSDICUSDorus, tell me, where is thy wonted motion,To make those woods resound thy lamentation?Thy saint is dead, or dead is thy devotion.For who doth hold his love in estimation,To witness that he thinks his thoughts delicious,Thinks to make each thing badge of his sweet passion.DORUSBut what doth make thee Dicus, so suspiciousOf my due faith, which needs must be immutable?Who others’ virtues doubt, themselves are vicious:Not so; although my metal were most mutable,Her beams have wrought therein most fair impression,To such a force some change were nothing suitable.DICUSThe heart well set doth never shun confession;If noble be thy bands, make them notorious;Silence doth seem the mask of base oppression.Who glories in his love, doth make love glorious:But who doth fear, or bideth mute wilfully,Shows, guilty heart doth deem his state opprobrious,Thou then, that fram’st both words and voice most skilfully,Yield to our ears a sweet and sound relation,If love took thee by force, or caught thee guilefully.DORUSIf sunny beams shame heavenly habitation,If three-leav’d grass seem to the sheep unsavory;Then base and sour is love’s most high vocation.Or if sheep’s cries can help the sun’s own bravery,Then may I hope, my pipe may have ability,To help her praise, who decks me in her slavery.No, no; no words ennoble self-nobility,As for your doubts, her voice was it deceived me,Her eye the force beyond all possibility.DICUSThy words well voic’d, well grac’d, had almost heaved me,Quite from myself, to love love’s contemplation;Till of those thoughts thy sudden end bereaved me,Go on therefore, and tell us by what fashion,In thy own proof he gets so strange possessionAnd how possessed he strengthens his invasion.DORUSSight is his root, in thought is his progression,His childhood wonder, prenticeship attention,His youth delight, his age the soul’s oppression,Doubt is his sleep, he waketh in invention,Fancy his food, his clothing is of carefulness;Beauty his book, his play lover’s dissention:His eyes are curious search, but veil’d with warefulness:His wings desire, oft clipped with desperation.Largess his hands could never skill of sparefulness:But how he doth by might, or by persuasionTo conquer, and his conquest how to ratify,Experience doubts, and schools hold disputation.DICUSBut so thy sheep may thy good wishes satisfy,With large increase, and wool of fine perfection,So she thy love, her eyes thy eyes may gratify,As thou wilt give our souls a dear refection,By telling how she was, how now she framed isTo help, or hurt in thee her own infection.DORUSBlest be the name wherewith my mistress named is:Whose wounds are salves, whose yokes please more than pleasure doth:Her stains are beams: virtue the fault she blamed is,The heart, eye, ear, here only find his treasure doth.All numbering arts her endless graces number not:Time, place, life, wit, scarcely her rare gifts measure doth,Is she in rage? so is the sun in summer hot,Yet harvest brings: doth she (alas!) absent herself?The sun is hid; his kindly shadows cumber notBut when to give some grace she doth content herself.O then it shines, then are the heavens distributed,And Venus seems to make up her, she spent herself.Thus then, I say, my mischiefs have contributedA greater good by her divine reflection,My harms to me, my bliss to her attributed.Thus she is framed: her eyes are my direction,Her love my life, her anger my destruction:Lastly, what so she is, that’s my protection.DICUSThy safety sure is wrapped in destruction,For that construction thine own words do bear.A man to fear a woman’s moody eye,Makes reason lie a slave to servile sense,A weak defence where weakness is thy force:So is remorse in folly dearly bought.DORUSIf I had thought to hear blasphemous words,My breast to swords, my soul to hell have soldI rather would, than thus mine ear defileWith words so vile, which viler breath doth breed.O herds take heed; for I a wolf have found,Who hunting round the strongest for to kill,His breast doth fill with earth of others’ woe:And loaden so pulls down, pull’d down destroys.O shepherd boys, eschew those tongues of venom,Which do envenom both the soul and senses;Our best defences are to fly those adders.O tongues like ladders made to climb dishonour,Who judge that honour which hath scope to slander!DICUSDorus you wander far in great reproaches,So love encroaches on your charmed reason,But it is season for to end our singing,Such anger bringing: as for me, my fancyIn sick-man’s frenzy rather takes compassion,Than rage for rage: rather my wish I send to thee,Thou soon may have some help, or change of passion:She oft her looks, the stars her favour bend to thee,Fortune store, nature health, love grant persuasion.A quiet mind none but thyself can lend to thee,Thus I commend to thee all our former love.DORUSWell do I prove, error lies oft in zeal,Yet it is zeal, though error of true heart.Nought could impart such hates to friendly mind,But for to find thy words did her disgrace,Whose only face the little heaven is:Which who doth miss, his eyes are but delusions,Bar’d from their chiefest object of delightfulness,Thrown on this earth, the chaos of confusions;As for thy wish, to my enraged spitefulness,The lovely blow, which rare reward, my prayer is:Thou may’st love her, that I may see thy sightfulness.The quiet mind (whereof myself impairer is,As thou dost think) should most of all disquiet me.Without her love, than any mind who fairer is:Her only cure from surfeit woes can diet me.She holds the balance of my contentation:Her cleared eyes, nought else in storms can quiet me.Nay rather than my ease discontentationShould breed to her, let me for aye dejected beFrom any joy, which might her grief occasion.With so sweet plagues my happy arms infected be:Pain wills me die, yet of death I mortify:For though life irks, in life my loves protected be,Thus for each change my changeless heart I fortify.
DICUS and DORUS
DICUS
Dorus, tell me, where is thy wonted motion,
To make those woods resound thy lamentation?
Thy saint is dead, or dead is thy devotion.
For who doth hold his love in estimation,
To witness that he thinks his thoughts delicious,
Thinks to make each thing badge of his sweet passion.
DORUS
But what doth make thee Dicus, so suspicious
Of my due faith, which needs must be immutable?
Who others’ virtues doubt, themselves are vicious:
Not so; although my metal were most mutable,
Her beams have wrought therein most fair impression,
To such a force some change were nothing suitable.
DICUS
The heart well set doth never shun confession;
If noble be thy bands, make them notorious;
Silence doth seem the mask of base oppression.
Who glories in his love, doth make love glorious:
But who doth fear, or bideth mute wilfully,
Shows, guilty heart doth deem his state opprobrious,
Thou then, that fram’st both words and voice most skilfully,
Yield to our ears a sweet and sound relation,
If love took thee by force, or caught thee guilefully.
DORUS
If sunny beams shame heavenly habitation,
If three-leav’d grass seem to the sheep unsavory;
Then base and sour is love’s most high vocation.
Or if sheep’s cries can help the sun’s own bravery,
Then may I hope, my pipe may have ability,
To help her praise, who decks me in her slavery.
No, no; no words ennoble self-nobility,
As for your doubts, her voice was it deceived me,
Her eye the force beyond all possibility.
DICUS
Thy words well voic’d, well grac’d, had almost heaved me,
Quite from myself, to love love’s contemplation;
Till of those thoughts thy sudden end bereaved me,
Go on therefore, and tell us by what fashion,
In thy own proof he gets so strange possession
And how possessed he strengthens his invasion.
DORUS
Sight is his root, in thought is his progression,
His childhood wonder, prenticeship attention,
His youth delight, his age the soul’s oppression,
Doubt is his sleep, he waketh in invention,
Fancy his food, his clothing is of carefulness;
Beauty his book, his play lover’s dissention:
His eyes are curious search, but veil’d with warefulness:
His wings desire, oft clipped with desperation.
Largess his hands could never skill of sparefulness:
But how he doth by might, or by persuasion
To conquer, and his conquest how to ratify,
Experience doubts, and schools hold disputation.
DICUS
But so thy sheep may thy good wishes satisfy,
With large increase, and wool of fine perfection,
So she thy love, her eyes thy eyes may gratify,
As thou wilt give our souls a dear refection,
By telling how she was, how now she framed is
To help, or hurt in thee her own infection.
DORUS
Blest be the name wherewith my mistress named is:
Whose wounds are salves, whose yokes please more than pleasure doth:
Her stains are beams: virtue the fault she blamed is,
The heart, eye, ear, here only find his treasure doth.
All numbering arts her endless graces number not:
Time, place, life, wit, scarcely her rare gifts measure doth,
Is she in rage? so is the sun in summer hot,
Yet harvest brings: doth she (alas!) absent herself?
The sun is hid; his kindly shadows cumber not
But when to give some grace she doth content herself.
O then it shines, then are the heavens distributed,
And Venus seems to make up her, she spent herself.
Thus then, I say, my mischiefs have contributed
A greater good by her divine reflection,
My harms to me, my bliss to her attributed.
Thus she is framed: her eyes are my direction,
Her love my life, her anger my destruction:
Lastly, what so she is, that’s my protection.
DICUS
Thy safety sure is wrapped in destruction,
For that construction thine own words do bear.
A man to fear a woman’s moody eye,
Makes reason lie a slave to servile sense,
A weak defence where weakness is thy force:
So is remorse in folly dearly bought.
DORUS
If I had thought to hear blasphemous words,
My breast to swords, my soul to hell have sold
I rather would, than thus mine ear defile
With words so vile, which viler breath doth breed.
O herds take heed; for I a wolf have found,
Who hunting round the strongest for to kill,
His breast doth fill with earth of others’ woe:
And loaden so pulls down, pull’d down destroys.
O shepherd boys, eschew those tongues of venom,
Which do envenom both the soul and senses;
Our best defences are to fly those adders.
O tongues like ladders made to climb dishonour,
Who judge that honour which hath scope to slander!
DICUS
Dorus you wander far in great reproaches,
So love encroaches on your charmed reason,
But it is season for to end our singing,
Such anger bringing: as for me, my fancy
In sick-man’s frenzy rather takes compassion,
Than rage for rage: rather my wish I send to thee,
Thou soon may have some help, or change of passion:
She oft her looks, the stars her favour bend to thee,
Fortune store, nature health, love grant persuasion.
A quiet mind none but thyself can lend to thee,
Thus I commend to thee all our former love.
DORUS
Well do I prove, error lies oft in zeal,
Yet it is zeal, though error of true heart.
Nought could impart such hates to friendly mind,
But for to find thy words did her disgrace,
Whose only face the little heaven is:
Which who doth miss, his eyes are but delusions,
Bar’d from their chiefest object of delightfulness,
Thrown on this earth, the chaos of confusions;
As for thy wish, to my enraged spitefulness,
The lovely blow, which rare reward, my prayer is:
Thou may’st love her, that I may see thy sightfulness.
The quiet mind (whereof myself impairer is,
As thou dost think) should most of all disquiet me.
Without her love, than any mind who fairer is:
Her only cure from surfeit woes can diet me.
She holds the balance of my contentation:
Her cleared eyes, nought else in storms can quiet me.
Nay rather than my ease discontentation
Should breed to her, let me for aye dejected be
From any joy, which might her grief occasion.
With so sweet plagues my happy arms infected be:
Pain wills me die, yet of death I mortify:
For though life irks, in life my loves protected be,
Thus for each change my changeless heart I fortify.
When they had ended, to the good pleasing of the assistants, especially of Zelmane, who never forgot to give due commendationsto her friend Dorus, Basilius called for Lamon to end his discourse of Strephon and Claius, wherewith the other day he marked Zelmane to have been exceedingly delighted. But him sickness had stayed from that assembly; which gave occasion to Histor and Damon, two young shepherds, taking upon them the two friendly rivals’ names, to present Basilius with some other of their complaints eclogue-wise, and first with this double Sestine.
STREPHON and CLAIUSSTREPHONYe goat-herd gods, that love the grassy mountains,Ye nymphs that haunt the springs in pleasant valleys,Ye satyrs joy’d with free and quiet forests,Vouchsafe your silent ears to plaining music,Which to my woes give still an early morning,And draws the dolour on till weary evening.CLAIUSO Mercury, foregoer to the evening,O heavenly huntress of the savage mountains,O lovely star, entitled of the morning,While that my voice doth fill those woeful valleys,Vouchsafe your silent ears to plaining music,Which oft hath echo tir’d in secret forests.STREPHONI that was once free burgess of the forests,Where shade from sun, and sports I sought at evening,I that was once esteem’d for pleasant music,Am banish’d now among the monstrous mountainsOf huge despair, and foul affliction’s valleysAm grown a screech-owl to myself each morning.CLAIUSI that was once delighted every morning,Hunting the wild inhabiters of forests:I that was once the music of those valleysSo darken’d am, that all my day is evening,Heart-broken so, that mole hills seem high mountains,And fill the vales with cries instead of music.STREPHONLong since, alas! my deadly swannish musicHath made itself a crier of the morning:And hath with wailing strength climb’d highest mountains.Long since my thoughts more desert be than forests:Long since I see my joys come to their evening,And state thrown down to over-trodden valleys.CLAIUSLong since the happy dwellers of those valleysHave pray’d me leave my strange exclaiming music,Which troubles their day’s work, and joys of evening:Long since I hate the night, more hate the morning:Long since my thoughts chase me like beasts in forests,And make me wish myself laid under mountains.STREPHONMeseems I see the high and stately mountains,Transform themselves to low dejected valleysMeseems I hear in these ill-changed forests,The Nightingales do learn of Owls their music:Meseems I feel the comfort of the morning,Turn’d to the mortal serene of an evening.CLAIUSMeseems I see a filthy cloudy evening,As soon as sun begins to climb the mountains:Meseems I feel a noisome scent, the morningWhen I do smell the flowers of those valleys:Meseems I hear, when I do hear sweet music,The dreadful cries of murder’d men in forests.STREPHONI wish to fire the trees of all those forests,I give the sun a last farewell each evening,I curse the fiddling finders out of music:With envy I do hate the lofty mountains:And with despite despise the humble valleys:I do detest night, evening, day and morning.CLAIUSCurse to myself my prayer is, the morning;My fire is more than can be made with forests;My state more base, than are the basest valleys:I wish no evenings more to see, each evening;Shamed I hate myself in sight of mountains,And stop my ears lest I grow mad with music.STREPHONFor she whose parts maintain’d a perfect music,Whose beauty shin’d more than the blushing morning,Who much did pass in state the stately mountains,In straightness pass’d the cedars of the forests,Hath cast me wretch into eternal evening,By taking her two suns from those dark valleys.CLAIUSFor she, to whom compar’d, the alps are valleys,She, whose least word brings from the spheres their music,At whose approach the sun rose in the evening,Who where she went bare in her forehead morning,Is gone, is gone, from those our spoiled forests,Turning to deserts our best pastur’d mountains.STREPHONThose mountains witness shall, so shall those valleys,Those forests eke, made wretched by our music.CLAIUSOur morning hymn is this, and song at evening.
STREPHON and CLAIUS
STREPHON
Ye goat-herd gods, that love the grassy mountains,
Ye nymphs that haunt the springs in pleasant valleys,
Ye satyrs joy’d with free and quiet forests,
Vouchsafe your silent ears to plaining music,
Which to my woes give still an early morning,
And draws the dolour on till weary evening.
CLAIUS
O Mercury, foregoer to the evening,
O heavenly huntress of the savage mountains,
O lovely star, entitled of the morning,
While that my voice doth fill those woeful valleys,
Vouchsafe your silent ears to plaining music,
Which oft hath echo tir’d in secret forests.
STREPHON
I that was once free burgess of the forests,
Where shade from sun, and sports I sought at evening,
I that was once esteem’d for pleasant music,
Am banish’d now among the monstrous mountains
Of huge despair, and foul affliction’s valleys
Am grown a screech-owl to myself each morning.
CLAIUS
I that was once delighted every morning,
Hunting the wild inhabiters of forests:
I that was once the music of those valleys
So darken’d am, that all my day is evening,
Heart-broken so, that mole hills seem high mountains,
And fill the vales with cries instead of music.
STREPHON
Long since, alas! my deadly swannish music
Hath made itself a crier of the morning:
And hath with wailing strength climb’d highest mountains.
Long since my thoughts more desert be than forests:
Long since I see my joys come to their evening,
And state thrown down to over-trodden valleys.
CLAIUS
Long since the happy dwellers of those valleys
Have pray’d me leave my strange exclaiming music,
Which troubles their day’s work, and joys of evening:
Long since I hate the night, more hate the morning:
Long since my thoughts chase me like beasts in forests,
And make me wish myself laid under mountains.
STREPHON
Meseems I see the high and stately mountains,
Transform themselves to low dejected valleys
Meseems I hear in these ill-changed forests,
The Nightingales do learn of Owls their music:
Meseems I feel the comfort of the morning,
Turn’d to the mortal serene of an evening.
CLAIUS
Meseems I see a filthy cloudy evening,
As soon as sun begins to climb the mountains:
Meseems I feel a noisome scent, the morning
When I do smell the flowers of those valleys:
Meseems I hear, when I do hear sweet music,
The dreadful cries of murder’d men in forests.
STREPHON
I wish to fire the trees of all those forests,
I give the sun a last farewell each evening,
I curse the fiddling finders out of music:
With envy I do hate the lofty mountains:
And with despite despise the humble valleys:
I do detest night, evening, day and morning.
CLAIUS
Curse to myself my prayer is, the morning;
My fire is more than can be made with forests;
My state more base, than are the basest valleys:
I wish no evenings more to see, each evening;
Shamed I hate myself in sight of mountains,
And stop my ears lest I grow mad with music.
STREPHON
For she whose parts maintain’d a perfect music,
Whose beauty shin’d more than the blushing morning,
Who much did pass in state the stately mountains,
In straightness pass’d the cedars of the forests,
Hath cast me wretch into eternal evening,
By taking her two suns from those dark valleys.
CLAIUS
For she, to whom compar’d, the alps are valleys,
She, whose least word brings from the spheres their music,
At whose approach the sun rose in the evening,
Who where she went bare in her forehead morning,
Is gone, is gone, from those our spoiled forests,
Turning to deserts our best pastur’d mountains.
STREPHON
Those mountains witness shall, so shall those valleys,
Those forests eke, made wretched by our music.
CLAIUS
Our morning hymn is this, and song at evening.
But as though all this had been but the taking of a taste of their wailings, Strephon again began this Dizain which was answered unto him in that kind of verse which is called the crown.
STREPHON and CLAIUSSTREPHONI joy in grief, and do detest all joys;Despise delight, am tir’d with thought of ease:I turn my head to all forms of annoys,And with the change of them my fancy please,I study that which may me most displease,And in despite of that displeasure’s might,Embrace that most, that most my soul destroys;Blinded with beams, fell darkness is my sight:Dwell in my ruins, feed with sucking smart,I think from me, not from my woes to part.CLAIUSI think from me not from my woes to part,And loath the time call’d life, nay think that lifeNature to me for torment did impart;Think, my hard haps have blunted death’s sharp knife,Not sparing me, in whom his works be rife:And thinking this, think nature, life and deathPlace sorrow’s triumph on my conquered heart,Whereto I yield, and seek none other breath,But from the scent of some infectious grave:Nor of my fortune ought, but mischief crave.STREPHONNor of my fortune ought but mischief crave,And seek to nourish that, which now containsAll what I am: if I myself will save,Then must I save, what in me chiefly reigns,Which is the hateful web of sorrow’s pains.Sorrow then cherish me, for I am sorrow:No being now, but sorrow I can have:Then deck me as thine own; thy help I borrow,Since thou my riches art, and that thou hastEnough to make a fertile mind lie waste.CLAIUSEnough to make a fertile mind lie waste,Is that huge storm, which pours itself on me:Hailstones of tears, of sighs a monstrous blast,Thunders of cries; lightnings my wild looks be,The darkened heav’n my soul, which nought can see,The flying sprites which trees by roots uptear,Be those despairs which have my hopes quite rased.The difference is; all folks those storms forbear,But I cannot; who then myself should fly,So close unto myself my wrecks do lie.STREPHONSo close unto myself my wrecks do lie,But cause, effect, beginning, and the endAre all in me: what help then can I try?My ship, myself, whose course to love doth bend,Sore beaten doth her mast of comfort spend:Her cable reason, breaks from anchor’d hope:Fancy, her tackling torn away doth fly:Ruin, the wind, hath blown her from her scope:Bruised with waves of cares, but broken isOn rock despair, the burial of my bliss.CLAIUSOn rock despair, the burial of my bliss,I long do plough with plough of deep desire:The seed fast-meaning is, no truth to miss:I harrow it with thoughts, which all conspire,Favour to make my chief and only hire.But woe is me, the year is gone about,And now I fain would reap, I reap but thisHatefully grown, absence new sprung out.So that I see, although my sight impair,Vain is their pain, who labour in despair.STREPHONVain is their pain, who labour in despair.For so did I, when with my angle will,I sought to catch the fish Torpedo fair,Ev’n then despair did hope already kill:Yet fancy would perforce employ his skill,And this hath got; the catcher now is caught.Lam’d with the angle, which itself did bear,And unto death, quite drown’d in dolours, broughtTo death, as then disguis’d in her fair face:Thus, thus, alas, I had my loss in chase.CLAIUSThus, thus, alas, I had my loss in chase,When first that crowned Basilisk I knew;Whose footsteps I with kisses oft did trace,Till by such hap, as I must ever rue,Mine eyes did light upon her shining hue,And hers on me, astonish’d with that sight.Since then my heart did lose his wonted place,Infected so with her sweet poison’s might,That, leaving me for dead, to her it went:But ha! her flight hath her my dead reliques spent.STREPHONBut ah! her flight hath my dead reliques spent,Her flight, from me, from me, though dead to me,Yet living still in her, while her beams lentSuch vital spark, that her mine eyes might see.But now those living lights absented be,Full dead before, now I to dust should fall,But that eternal pains my soul have bent,And keep it still within this body thrall,That thus I must while in this death I dwell,In earthly fetters feel a lasting hell.CLAIUSIn earthly fetters feel a lasting hell,Alas I do; from which to find release,I would the earth, I would the heavens fell:But vain it is to think those pains should cease,Where life is death, and death cannot breed peace.O fair, O only fair, from thee alas,Those foul, most foul disasters to me fell;Since thou from me, O me! O sun did’st pass.Therefore esteeming all good blessings toys,I joy in grief, and do detest all joys.STREPHONI joy in grief, and do detest all joys,But now an end, O Claius, now an end:For even the herbs our hateful music stroys,And from our burning breath the trees do bend.
STREPHON and CLAIUS
STREPHON
I joy in grief, and do detest all joys;
Despise delight, am tir’d with thought of ease:
I turn my head to all forms of annoys,
And with the change of them my fancy please,
I study that which may me most displease,
And in despite of that displeasure’s might,
Embrace that most, that most my soul destroys;
Blinded with beams, fell darkness is my sight:
Dwell in my ruins, feed with sucking smart,
I think from me, not from my woes to part.
CLAIUS
I think from me not from my woes to part,
And loath the time call’d life, nay think that life
Nature to me for torment did impart;
Think, my hard haps have blunted death’s sharp knife,
Not sparing me, in whom his works be rife:
And thinking this, think nature, life and death
Place sorrow’s triumph on my conquered heart,
Whereto I yield, and seek none other breath,
But from the scent of some infectious grave:
Nor of my fortune ought, but mischief crave.
STREPHON
Nor of my fortune ought but mischief crave,
And seek to nourish that, which now contains
All what I am: if I myself will save,
Then must I save, what in me chiefly reigns,
Which is the hateful web of sorrow’s pains.
Sorrow then cherish me, for I am sorrow:
No being now, but sorrow I can have:
Then deck me as thine own; thy help I borrow,
Since thou my riches art, and that thou hast
Enough to make a fertile mind lie waste.
CLAIUS
Enough to make a fertile mind lie waste,
Is that huge storm, which pours itself on me:
Hailstones of tears, of sighs a monstrous blast,
Thunders of cries; lightnings my wild looks be,
The darkened heav’n my soul, which nought can see,
The flying sprites which trees by roots uptear,
Be those despairs which have my hopes quite rased.
The difference is; all folks those storms forbear,
But I cannot; who then myself should fly,
So close unto myself my wrecks do lie.
STREPHON
So close unto myself my wrecks do lie,
But cause, effect, beginning, and the end
Are all in me: what help then can I try?
My ship, myself, whose course to love doth bend,
Sore beaten doth her mast of comfort spend:
Her cable reason, breaks from anchor’d hope:
Fancy, her tackling torn away doth fly:
Ruin, the wind, hath blown her from her scope:
Bruised with waves of cares, but broken is
On rock despair, the burial of my bliss.
CLAIUS
On rock despair, the burial of my bliss,
I long do plough with plough of deep desire:
The seed fast-meaning is, no truth to miss:
I harrow it with thoughts, which all conspire,
Favour to make my chief and only hire.
But woe is me, the year is gone about,
And now I fain would reap, I reap but this
Hatefully grown, absence new sprung out.
So that I see, although my sight impair,
Vain is their pain, who labour in despair.
STREPHON
Vain is their pain, who labour in despair.
For so did I, when with my angle will,
I sought to catch the fish Torpedo fair,
Ev’n then despair did hope already kill:
Yet fancy would perforce employ his skill,
And this hath got; the catcher now is caught.
Lam’d with the angle, which itself did bear,
And unto death, quite drown’d in dolours, brought
To death, as then disguis’d in her fair face:
Thus, thus, alas, I had my loss in chase.
CLAIUS
Thus, thus, alas, I had my loss in chase,
When first that crowned Basilisk I knew;
Whose footsteps I with kisses oft did trace,
Till by such hap, as I must ever rue,
Mine eyes did light upon her shining hue,
And hers on me, astonish’d with that sight.
Since then my heart did lose his wonted place,
Infected so with her sweet poison’s might,
That, leaving me for dead, to her it went:
But ha! her flight hath her my dead reliques spent.
STREPHON
But ah! her flight hath my dead reliques spent,
Her flight, from me, from me, though dead to me,
Yet living still in her, while her beams lent
Such vital spark, that her mine eyes might see.
But now those living lights absented be,
Full dead before, now I to dust should fall,
But that eternal pains my soul have bent,
And keep it still within this body thrall,
That thus I must while in this death I dwell,
In earthly fetters feel a lasting hell.
CLAIUS
In earthly fetters feel a lasting hell,
Alas I do; from which to find release,
I would the earth, I would the heavens fell:
But vain it is to think those pains should cease,
Where life is death, and death cannot breed peace.
O fair, O only fair, from thee alas,
Those foul, most foul disasters to me fell;
Since thou from me, O me! O sun did’st pass.
Therefore esteeming all good blessings toys,
I joy in grief, and do detest all joys.
STREPHON
I joy in grief, and do detest all joys,
But now an end, O Claius, now an end:
For even the herbs our hateful music stroys,
And from our burning breath the trees do bend.
So well were those wailful complaints accorded to the passions of all the princely hearers, while every one made what he heard of another the balance of his own fortune, that they stood a long while stricken in sad and silent consideration of them. Which the old Geron no more marking than condemning in them, desirous to set forth what counsels the wisdom of age had laid up in store against such fancies, as he thought, follies of youth, yet so as it might not appear that his words respected them, bending himself to a young shepherd, named Philisides, who neither had danced nor sung with them, and had all this time lain upon the ground at the foot of a Cypress tree, leaning upon his elbow with so deep a melancholy, that his senses carried to his mind no delight from any of their objects, he struck him upon the shoulder with a right old man’s grace, that will seem livelier than his age will afford him. And thus began unto him this eclogue.
GERON and PHILISIDESGERONUp, up, Philisides, let sorrows go,Who yields to woe, but doth increase his smart.Do not thy heart to plaintful custom bring:But let us sing; sweet tunes do passions ease,An old man hear who would thy fancies raise.PHILISIDESWho minds to please the mind drown’d in annoysWith outward joys, which inly cannot sink,As well may think with oil to cool the fire:Or with desire to make such foe a friend,Who doth his soul to endless malice bend.GERONBut sure an end to each thing time doth give,Though woes now live, at length thy woes must die:Then virtue try, if she can work in theeThat which we see in many time hath wrought,And weakest hearts to constant temper brought.PHILISIDESWho ever taught a skilless man to teach,Or stop a breach that never cannon saw?Sweet virtue’s law bars not a causeful moan.Time shall in one my life and sorrows end,And me perchance your constant temper lend.GERONWhat can amend where physick is refus’d?The wit’s abus’d that will no counsel take.Yet for my sake discover us thy grief.Oft comes relief when most we seem in trap.The stars thy state, fortune may change thy hap.PHILISIDESIf fortune’s lap became my dwelling place,And all the stars conspired to my good,Still were I one, this still should be my case,Ruin’s relique, care’s web, and sorrow’s food:Since she fair fierce to such a state me calls,Whose wit the stars, whose fortune, fortune thralls.GERONAlas what falls are fall’n unto thy mind?That there where thou confessed thy mischief lies,Thy wit dost use still more harms to find.Whom wit makes vain, or blinded with his eyes;What counsel can prevail, or light give light?Since all his force against himself he tries.Then each conceit that enters in his sight,Is made, forsooth, a jurate of his woes:Earth, sea, air, fire, heaven, hell, and ghastly spright.Then cries to senseless things, which neither knowsWhat aileth thee, and if they knew thy mind,Would scorn in man, their king, such feeble shows.Rebel, rebel, in golden fetters bindThis tyrant love; or rather do suppressThose rebel-thoughts, which are thy slaves by kind.Let not a glittering name thy fancy dressIn painted clothes; because they call it love:There is no hate that can thee more oppress.Begin, and half the work is done, to proveBy rising up, upon thyself to stand,And think she is a she, that doth thee move.He water ploughs, and soweth in the sand,And hopes the flickering wind with net to holdWho hath his hopes laid upon woman’s hand.What man is he that hath his freedom sold?Is he a manlike man, doth not know, manHath power that sex with bridle to withhold?A fickle sex, and true in trust to no man,A servant sex soon proud if they be coy’d:And to conclude thy mistress is a woman.PHILISIDESO gods, how long this old fool hath annoy’dMy wearied ears! O gods, yet grant me this,That soon the world of his false tongue be void.O noble age who place their only bliss,In being heard until the hearer die,Uttering a serpent’s mind with a serpent’s hiss.Then who will bear a well-authorized lie(And patience hath) let him go learn of himWhat swarms of virtues did in his youth flySuch hearts of brass, wise heads, and garments trimWere in his days: which heard, one nothing hears,If from his words the falsehood he do skim.And herein most their folly vain appears,That since they still allege, when they were young,It shows they fetch their wit from youthful years,Like beast for sacrifice, where save the tongueAnd belly nought is left: such sure is he,This life-dead man in this old dungeon flung.Old houses are thrown down for new we see:The oldest rams are culled from the flock:No man doth wish his horse should aged be.The ancient oak well makes a fired block:Old men themselves do love young wives to choose:Only fond youth admires a rotten stock.Who once a white long beard, well handle does(As his beard him, he his beard did bare)Though cradle-witted, must not honour lose,O when will men leave off to judge by hair;And think them old that have the oldest mind,With virtue fraught, and full of holy fear!GERONIf that thy face were hid, or I were blind,I yet should know a young man speaketh now,Such wandering reasons in thy speech I find,He is a beast, that beasts use will allow.For proof of man, who sprung of heav’nly fireHath strongest soul when most his reigns do bow.But fondlings fond, know not your own desireLoth to die young, and then you must be old.Fondly blame that to which yourselves aspire.But this light choler that doth make you bold,Rather to wrong than unto just defence,Is past with me, my blood is waxed cold,Thy words, though full of malapert offence,I weigh them not, but still will thee adviseHow thou from foolish love mayest purge thy sense.First think they err, that think them gaily wise,Who well can set a passion out to show:Such sight have they that see with goggling eyes,Passion bears high when puffing wit doth blow.But is indeed a toy, if not a toy,True cause of evils: and cause of causeless woe,If once thou mayest that fancy gloss destroyWithin thyself, thou soon wilt be ashamedTo be a player of thine own annoy.Then let thy mind with better books be tamed.Seek to espy her faults as well as praise,And let thine eyes to other sports be framed.In hunting fearful beasts, do spend some days,Or catch the birds with pit-falls or with lime,Or train the fox that train so crafty lays.Lie but to sleep, and in the early primeSeek skill of herbs in hills, haunt brooks near night,And try with bait how fish will bite sometime.Go graft again and seek to graft them right,Those pleasant plants, those sweet and fruitful treesWhich both the palate and the eyes delight.Cherish the hives of wisely painful bees,Let special care upon thy flock be stayed,Such active mind but seldom passion sees.PHILISIDESHath any man heard what this old man said?Truly not I, who did my thoughts engage,Where all my pains one look of her hath paid.
GERON and PHILISIDES
GERON
Up, up, Philisides, let sorrows go,
Who yields to woe, but doth increase his smart.
Do not thy heart to plaintful custom bring:
But let us sing; sweet tunes do passions ease,
An old man hear who would thy fancies raise.
PHILISIDES
Who minds to please the mind drown’d in annoys
With outward joys, which inly cannot sink,
As well may think with oil to cool the fire:
Or with desire to make such foe a friend,
Who doth his soul to endless malice bend.
GERON
But sure an end to each thing time doth give,
Though woes now live, at length thy woes must die:
Then virtue try, if she can work in thee
That which we see in many time hath wrought,
And weakest hearts to constant temper brought.
PHILISIDES
Who ever taught a skilless man to teach,
Or stop a breach that never cannon saw?
Sweet virtue’s law bars not a causeful moan.
Time shall in one my life and sorrows end,
And me perchance your constant temper lend.
GERON
What can amend where physick is refus’d?
The wit’s abus’d that will no counsel take.
Yet for my sake discover us thy grief.
Oft comes relief when most we seem in trap.
The stars thy state, fortune may change thy hap.
PHILISIDES
If fortune’s lap became my dwelling place,
And all the stars conspired to my good,
Still were I one, this still should be my case,
Ruin’s relique, care’s web, and sorrow’s food:
Since she fair fierce to such a state me calls,
Whose wit the stars, whose fortune, fortune thralls.
GERON
Alas what falls are fall’n unto thy mind?
That there where thou confessed thy mischief lies,
Thy wit dost use still more harms to find.
Whom wit makes vain, or blinded with his eyes;
What counsel can prevail, or light give light?
Since all his force against himself he tries.
Then each conceit that enters in his sight,
Is made, forsooth, a jurate of his woes:
Earth, sea, air, fire, heaven, hell, and ghastly spright.
Then cries to senseless things, which neither knows
What aileth thee, and if they knew thy mind,
Would scorn in man, their king, such feeble shows.
Rebel, rebel, in golden fetters bind
This tyrant love; or rather do suppress
Those rebel-thoughts, which are thy slaves by kind.
Let not a glittering name thy fancy dress
In painted clothes; because they call it love:
There is no hate that can thee more oppress.
Begin, and half the work is done, to prove
By rising up, upon thyself to stand,
And think she is a she, that doth thee move.
He water ploughs, and soweth in the sand,
And hopes the flickering wind with net to hold
Who hath his hopes laid upon woman’s hand.
What man is he that hath his freedom sold?
Is he a manlike man, doth not know, man
Hath power that sex with bridle to withhold?
A fickle sex, and true in trust to no man,
A servant sex soon proud if they be coy’d:
And to conclude thy mistress is a woman.
PHILISIDES
O gods, how long this old fool hath annoy’d
My wearied ears! O gods, yet grant me this,
That soon the world of his false tongue be void.
O noble age who place their only bliss,
In being heard until the hearer die,
Uttering a serpent’s mind with a serpent’s hiss.
Then who will bear a well-authorized lie
(And patience hath) let him go learn of him
What swarms of virtues did in his youth fly
Such hearts of brass, wise heads, and garments trim
Were in his days: which heard, one nothing hears,
If from his words the falsehood he do skim.
And herein most their folly vain appears,
That since they still allege, when they were young,
It shows they fetch their wit from youthful years,
Like beast for sacrifice, where save the tongue
And belly nought is left: such sure is he,
This life-dead man in this old dungeon flung.
Old houses are thrown down for new we see:
The oldest rams are culled from the flock:
No man doth wish his horse should aged be.
The ancient oak well makes a fired block:
Old men themselves do love young wives to choose:
Only fond youth admires a rotten stock.
Who once a white long beard, well handle does
(As his beard him, he his beard did bare)
Though cradle-witted, must not honour lose,
O when will men leave off to judge by hair;
And think them old that have the oldest mind,
With virtue fraught, and full of holy fear!
GERON
If that thy face were hid, or I were blind,
I yet should know a young man speaketh now,
Such wandering reasons in thy speech I find,
He is a beast, that beasts use will allow.
For proof of man, who sprung of heav’nly fire
Hath strongest soul when most his reigns do bow.
But fondlings fond, know not your own desire
Loth to die young, and then you must be old.
Fondly blame that to which yourselves aspire.
But this light choler that doth make you bold,
Rather to wrong than unto just defence,
Is past with me, my blood is waxed cold,
Thy words, though full of malapert offence,
I weigh them not, but still will thee advise
How thou from foolish love mayest purge thy sense.
First think they err, that think them gaily wise,
Who well can set a passion out to show:
Such sight have they that see with goggling eyes,
Passion bears high when puffing wit doth blow.
But is indeed a toy, if not a toy,
True cause of evils: and cause of causeless woe,
If once thou mayest that fancy gloss destroy
Within thyself, thou soon wilt be ashamed
To be a player of thine own annoy.
Then let thy mind with better books be tamed.
Seek to espy her faults as well as praise,
And let thine eyes to other sports be framed.
In hunting fearful beasts, do spend some days,
Or catch the birds with pit-falls or with lime,
Or train the fox that train so crafty lays.
Lie but to sleep, and in the early prime
Seek skill of herbs in hills, haunt brooks near night,
And try with bait how fish will bite sometime.
Go graft again and seek to graft them right,
Those pleasant plants, those sweet and fruitful trees
Which both the palate and the eyes delight.
Cherish the hives of wisely painful bees,
Let special care upon thy flock be stayed,
Such active mind but seldom passion sees.
PHILISIDES
Hath any man heard what this old man said?
Truly not I, who did my thoughts engage,
Where all my pains one look of her hath paid.
Geron was even out of countenance, finding the words, he thought were so wise, win so little reputation at this young man’s hands; and therefore sometimes looking upon an old acquaintance of his called Mastix, one of the repiningest fellows in the world, and that beheld nobody but with a mind of mislike, saying still the world was amiss, but how it should be amended he knew not, sometimes casting his eyes to the ground, even ashamed to see his grey hairs despised, at last he spied his two dogs, whereof the elder was called Melampus, and the younger Lelaps (indeed the jewels he ever had with him) one brawling with another; which occasion he took to restore himself to his countenance, and rating Melampus, he began to speak to his dogs, as if in them a man should find more obedience, than in unbridled young men.
GERON and MASTIXGERONDown, down Melampus, what? your fellow bite?I set you o’er the flock I dearly love,Them to defend, not with yourselves to fight.Do you not think this will the wolves removeFrom former fear, they had of your good minds,When they shall such divided weakness prove?What if Lelaps a better morsel findThan you erst knew? rather take part with himThan jarl: lo, lo, even those how envy blind,And then Lelaps let not pride make thee brim;Because thou hast thy fellow overgone,But thank the cause, thou seest where he is dim.Here Lelaps, here indeed, against the foeOf my good sheep, thou never truce him took:Be as thou art, but be with mine at one.For though Melampus like a wolf do look(For age doth make him of a wolfish hue)Yet have I seen, when like a wolf he shook.Fool that I am, that with my dogs speak grew:Come near good Mastix, ’tis now full twa scoreOf years, alas, since I good Mastix knew.Thou heard’st even now a young man snub me sore,Because I read him, as I would my son.Youth will have will; age must to age therefore.MASTIXWhat marvel if in youth such fault be done,Since that we see our saddest shepherds out,Who have their lesson so long time begun?Quickly secure, and easily in doubt,Either asleep be all, if not assail,Or all abroad if but a cub start out.We shepherds are like them that under sailDo speak high words, when all the coast is clear,Yet to a passenger will bonnet vail.I con thee thank to whom thy dogs be dear,But commonly like curs we them treat,Save when great need of them perforce appear,Then him we kiss, whom late before we beatWith such intemperance, that each way growsHate of the first, contempt of latter feat.And such discord ’twixt greatest shepherds flows,That sport it is to see with how great art,By justice work they their own faults disclose:Like busy boys to win their tutor’s heart.One saith, “he mocks;” another saith “he plays,”The third his lesson missed, till all do smart.As for the rest, how shepherds spend their days,At blow-point, hot-cockles, or else at keels,While, “let us pass our time,” each shepherd says,So small account of time the shepherd feels,And doth not feel, that life is not but time,And when that time is past, death holds his heels;To age thus do they draw their youthful prime,Knowing no more, than what poor trial shows,As fish sure trial hath of muddy slime.This pattern good, unto our children goes,For what they see their parents love or hate,Their first-caught sense prefers to teachers’ blows.Those cocklings cocker’d we bewail too late,When that we see our offspring gaily bent,Women man-wood, and men effeminate.GERONFie man, fie man: what words hath thy tongue lent?Yet thou art mickle worse, than e’er was I,Thy too much zeal, I fear thy brain hath spent,We oft are angrier than the feeble flyFor business, where it appertains him not,Than with the poisonous toads that quiet lie.I pray thee what hath e’er the Parrot got?And yet they say he talks in great men’s bowers;A cage, gilded perchance, is all his lot,Who of his tongue the liquor gladly pours,A good fool call’d with pain perhaps may be:But even for that shall suffer mighty lowers.Let swan’s example siker serve for thee,Who once all birds, in sweetly singing passed,But now to silence turn’d his minstrelsy,For he could sing: but others were defac’d,The Peacock’s pride, the Pie’s pil’d flattery,Cormorant’s glut, Kite’s spoil, Kingfisher’s waste,The Falcon’s fierceness, Sparrow’s lechery,The Cuckoo’s shame, the Goose’s good intent,Even Turtle touch’d he with hypocrisy,And worse of other more, till by assentOf all the birds, but namely those were grieved,Of fowls there call’d was a Parliament:There was the Swan of dignity deprived,And statute made he never should have voice:Since when, I think, he hath in silence lived.I warn thee therefore (since thou may’st have choice)Let not thy tongue become a fiery match;No sword so bites, as that evil tool annoys.Let our unpartial eyes a little watchOur own demean, and soon we wonder shall,That hunting faults, ourselves we did not catch.Into our minds let us a little fall,And we shall find more spots than Leopard’s skin.Then who makes us, such Judges over all?But farewell now, thy fault is no great sin,Come, come my curs, ’tis late I will go in.
GERON and MASTIX
GERON
Down, down Melampus, what? your fellow bite?
I set you o’er the flock I dearly love,
Them to defend, not with yourselves to fight.
Do you not think this will the wolves remove
From former fear, they had of your good minds,
When they shall such divided weakness prove?
What if Lelaps a better morsel find
Than you erst knew? rather take part with him
Than jarl: lo, lo, even those how envy blind,
And then Lelaps let not pride make thee brim;
Because thou hast thy fellow overgone,
But thank the cause, thou seest where he is dim.
Here Lelaps, here indeed, against the foe
Of my good sheep, thou never truce him took:
Be as thou art, but be with mine at one.
For though Melampus like a wolf do look
(For age doth make him of a wolfish hue)
Yet have I seen, when like a wolf he shook.
Fool that I am, that with my dogs speak grew:
Come near good Mastix, ’tis now full twa score
Of years, alas, since I good Mastix knew.
Thou heard’st even now a young man snub me sore,
Because I read him, as I would my son.
Youth will have will; age must to age therefore.
MASTIX
What marvel if in youth such fault be done,
Since that we see our saddest shepherds out,
Who have their lesson so long time begun?
Quickly secure, and easily in doubt,
Either asleep be all, if not assail,
Or all abroad if but a cub start out.
We shepherds are like them that under sail
Do speak high words, when all the coast is clear,
Yet to a passenger will bonnet vail.
I con thee thank to whom thy dogs be dear,
But commonly like curs we them treat,
Save when great need of them perforce appear,
Then him we kiss, whom late before we beat
With such intemperance, that each way grows
Hate of the first, contempt of latter feat.
And such discord ’twixt greatest shepherds flows,
That sport it is to see with how great art,
By justice work they their own faults disclose:
Like busy boys to win their tutor’s heart.
One saith, “he mocks;” another saith “he plays,”
The third his lesson missed, till all do smart.
As for the rest, how shepherds spend their days,
At blow-point, hot-cockles, or else at keels,
While, “let us pass our time,” each shepherd says,
So small account of time the shepherd feels,
And doth not feel, that life is not but time,
And when that time is past, death holds his heels;
To age thus do they draw their youthful prime,
Knowing no more, than what poor trial shows,
As fish sure trial hath of muddy slime.
This pattern good, unto our children goes,
For what they see their parents love or hate,
Their first-caught sense prefers to teachers’ blows.
Those cocklings cocker’d we bewail too late,
When that we see our offspring gaily bent,
Women man-wood, and men effeminate.
GERON
Fie man, fie man: what words hath thy tongue lent?
Yet thou art mickle worse, than e’er was I,
Thy too much zeal, I fear thy brain hath spent,
We oft are angrier than the feeble fly
For business, where it appertains him not,
Than with the poisonous toads that quiet lie.
I pray thee what hath e’er the Parrot got?
And yet they say he talks in great men’s bowers;
A cage, gilded perchance, is all his lot,
Who of his tongue the liquor gladly pours,
A good fool call’d with pain perhaps may be:
But even for that shall suffer mighty lowers.
Let swan’s example siker serve for thee,
Who once all birds, in sweetly singing passed,
But now to silence turn’d his minstrelsy,
For he could sing: but others were defac’d,
The Peacock’s pride, the Pie’s pil’d flattery,
Cormorant’s glut, Kite’s spoil, Kingfisher’s waste,
The Falcon’s fierceness, Sparrow’s lechery,
The Cuckoo’s shame, the Goose’s good intent,
Even Turtle touch’d he with hypocrisy,
And worse of other more, till by assent
Of all the birds, but namely those were grieved,
Of fowls there call’d was a Parliament:
There was the Swan of dignity deprived,
And statute made he never should have voice:
Since when, I think, he hath in silence lived.
I warn thee therefore (since thou may’st have choice)
Let not thy tongue become a fiery match;
No sword so bites, as that evil tool annoys.
Let our unpartial eyes a little watch
Our own demean, and soon we wonder shall,
That hunting faults, ourselves we did not catch.
Into our minds let us a little fall,
And we shall find more spots than Leopard’s skin.
Then who makes us, such Judges over all?
But farewell now, thy fault is no great sin,
Come, come my curs, ’tis late I will go in.
And away with his dogs straight he went, as if he would be sure to have the last word, all the assembly laughing at the lustiness of the old fellow, who departed muttering to himself he had seen more in his days than twenty of them. But Basilius, who never before had heard Philisides, though having seldom appeared to be at those meetings, desired him he would begin some eclogue with some other of the shepherds, according to the accustomed guise. Philisides, though very unwilling, at the king’s commandment offered to sing with Thyrsis. But he directly refused him, seeing he should within few days be married to the fair Kala, and since he had gotten his desire he would sing no more. Then the king willed Philisides to declare the discourse of his own fortunes, unknown to them, as being a stranger in that country; but he prayed the king to pardon him, the time being far too joyful to suffer the rehearsal of his miseries. But to satisfy Basilius some way, he began an eclogue betwixt himself and the Echo, framing his voice so in those desert places, as what words he would have the Echo reply unto, those he would sing higher than the rest; and so kindly framed a disputation betwixt himself and it, which with those Hexameters in the following order he uttered.
PHILISIDES and ECHOFair rocks, goodly rivers, sweet woods, when shall I see peace?Peace.Peace? what bars me my tongue? who is it that comes me so nigh?I.Oh! I do know what guest I have met, it is echo.’Tis Echo.Well met echo, approach: then tell me thy will too.I will too.Echo, what do I get yielding my spirit to my griefs?Griefs.What medicine may I find for a grief that draws me to death?Death.O poisonous medicine! what worse to me can be than it?It.In what state was I then, when I took this deadly disease?Ease.And what manner a mind which had to that humour a vein?Vain.Hath not reason enough vehemence the desire to reprove?Prove.Oft prove I: but what salve, when reason seeks to be gone?One.Oh! what is it? what is it that may be a salve to my love?Love.What do lovers seek for, long seeking for to enjoy?Joy.What be the joys, which for to enjoy they went to the pains?Pains.Then to an earnest love what doth best victory lend?End.End? but I can never end, love will not give me leave?Leave.How be the minds dispos’d that cannot taste thy physick?Sick.Yet say again thy advice for the evils that I told thee?I told thee.Doth th’ infected wretch of his harm th’ extremity know?No.But if he know not his harms, what guides hath he while he be blind?Blind.What blind guides can he have that leans to fancy?A fancy.Can fancies want eyes, or he fall that sleepeth aloft?Oft.What causes first made those torments on me to light?Light.Can then a cause be so light that forceth a man to go die?Aye.Yet tell what light thing I had in me to draw me to die?Eye.Eye-sight made me to yield, but what first pierc’d to my eyes?Eyes.Eyes’ hurters, eyes hurt; but what from them to me falls?Falls.But when I first did fall, what brought most fall to my heart?Art.Art? what can be that art thou dost mean by thy speech?Speech.What be the fruits of speaking art? what grows by the words?Words.O much more than words: those words serv’d more me to bless.Less.Oh when shall I be known, where most to be known I do long?Long.Long be thy woes for such news, but how reck’s she my thoughts?Oughts.Then then what I do gain, since unto her will I do wind?Wind.Wind, tempests, and storms, yet in end what gives she desire?Ire.Silly reward! yet among women hath she of virtue the most.Most.What great name may I give to so heav’nly a woman?A Wo-man.Woe, but seems to me joy, that agrees to my thoughts so.I thought so.Think so, for of my desired bliss it is only the course.Curse.Curs’d be thyself for cursing that which leads me to joys.Toys.What be the sweet creatures where lowly demands be not heard?Hard.What makes them be unkind? speak for th’ hast narrow pry’d?Pride.Whence can pride come there, since springs of beauty be thence?Thence.Horrible is this blasphemy unto the most holy.O lie.Thou liest false echo, their minds as virtue be just.Just.Mock’st thou those diamonds which only be match’d by the gods?Odds.Odds? what an odds is there since them to the heav’ns I prefer?Err.Tell yet again me the names of those fair form’d to do evils?Devils.Devil? if hell such devils do abide, to the hells I do go.Go.
PHILISIDES and ECHO
Fair rocks, goodly rivers, sweet woods, when shall I see peace?Peace.
Peace? what bars me my tongue? who is it that comes me so nigh?I.
Oh! I do know what guest I have met, it is echo.’Tis Echo.
Well met echo, approach: then tell me thy will too.I will too.
Echo, what do I get yielding my spirit to my griefs?Griefs.
What medicine may I find for a grief that draws me to death?Death.
O poisonous medicine! what worse to me can be than it?It.
In what state was I then, when I took this deadly disease?Ease.
And what manner a mind which had to that humour a vein?Vain.
Hath not reason enough vehemence the desire to reprove?Prove.
Oft prove I: but what salve, when reason seeks to be gone?One.
Oh! what is it? what is it that may be a salve to my love?Love.
What do lovers seek for, long seeking for to enjoy?Joy.
What be the joys, which for to enjoy they went to the pains?Pains.
Then to an earnest love what doth best victory lend?End.
End? but I can never end, love will not give me leave?Leave.
How be the minds dispos’d that cannot taste thy physick?Sick.
Yet say again thy advice for the evils that I told thee?I told thee.
Doth th’ infected wretch of his harm th’ extremity know?No.
But if he know not his harms, what guides hath he while he be blind?Blind.
What blind guides can he have that leans to fancy?A fancy.
Can fancies want eyes, or he fall that sleepeth aloft?Oft.
What causes first made those torments on me to light?Light.
Can then a cause be so light that forceth a man to go die?Aye.
Yet tell what light thing I had in me to draw me to die?Eye.
Eye-sight made me to yield, but what first pierc’d to my eyes?Eyes.
Eyes’ hurters, eyes hurt; but what from them to me falls?Falls.
But when I first did fall, what brought most fall to my heart?Art.
Art? what can be that art thou dost mean by thy speech?Speech.
What be the fruits of speaking art? what grows by the words?Words.
O much more than words: those words serv’d more me to bless.Less.
Oh when shall I be known, where most to be known I do long?Long.
Long be thy woes for such news, but how reck’s she my thoughts?Oughts.
Then then what I do gain, since unto her will I do wind?Wind.
Wind, tempests, and storms, yet in end what gives she desire?Ire.
Silly reward! yet among women hath she of virtue the most.Most.
What great name may I give to so heav’nly a woman?A Wo-man.
Woe, but seems to me joy, that agrees to my thoughts so.I thought so.
Think so, for of my desired bliss it is only the course.Curse.
Curs’d be thyself for cursing that which leads me to joys.Toys.
What be the sweet creatures where lowly demands be not heard?Hard.
What makes them be unkind? speak for th’ hast narrow pry’d?Pride.
Whence can pride come there, since springs of beauty be thence?Thence.
Horrible is this blasphemy unto the most holy.O lie.
Thou liest false echo, their minds as virtue be just.Just.
Mock’st thou those diamonds which only be match’d by the gods?Odds.
Odds? what an odds is there since them to the heav’ns I prefer?Err.
Tell yet again me the names of those fair form’d to do evils?Devils.
Devil? if hell such devils do abide, to the hells I do go.Go.
Philisides was commended for the place of his echo; but little did he regard their praises, who had set the foundations of his honour there where he was most despised: and therefore returning again to the train of his desolate pensiveness. Zelmane seeing nobody offer to fill the stage, as if her long restrained conceits did now burst out of prison, she thus, desiring her voice should be accorded to nothing but to Philoclea’s ears, threw down the burden of her mind in Anacreon’s kind of verses.
My muse, what ails this ardorTo blaze my only secrets?Alas it is no gloryTo sing mine own decayed state.Alas it is no comfort,To speak without an answer,Alas it is no wisdomTo show the wound without cure.My muse, what ails this ardor?Mine eyes be dim, my limbs shake,My voice is hoarse, my throat scorch’d,My tongue to this my roof cleaves,My fancy amaz’d, my thoughts dull’d,My heart doth ache, my life faints,My soul begins to take leave.So great a passion all feel,To think a sore so deadlyI should so rashly rip up.My muse, what ails this ardor?If that to sing thou art bent,Go sing the fall of old Thebes,The wars of ugly centaurs,The life, the death of Hector:So may the song be famous:Or if to love thou art bent,Recount the rape of Europa,Adonis’ end, Venus’ net,The sleepy kiss the moon stale:So may the song be pleasant.My muse, what ails this ardor?To blaze my only secrets?Wherein do only flourishThe sorry fruits of anguish.The song thereof a last will,The tunes be cries, the words plaints,The singer is the song’s theme,Wherein no ear can have joy.Nor eye receive due objectNe pleasure here, ne fame gat.My muse, what ails this ardor?“Alas,” she saith “I am thine,So are thy pains my pains too.Thy heated heart my seat isWherein I burn: thy breath isMy voice, too hot to keep in.Besides, lo here the authorOf all thy harms: lo here she,That only can redress thee,Of her will I demand help.”My muse I yield, my muse I sing,But all thy song herein knit.The life we lead is all love:The love we hold is all death,Nor ought I crave to feed life,Nor ought I seek to shun death,But only that my goddess,My life my death do count hers.
My muse, what ails this ardor
To blaze my only secrets?
Alas it is no glory
To sing mine own decayed state.
Alas it is no comfort,
To speak without an answer,
Alas it is no wisdom
To show the wound without cure.
My muse, what ails this ardor?
Mine eyes be dim, my limbs shake,
My voice is hoarse, my throat scorch’d,
My tongue to this my roof cleaves,
My fancy amaz’d, my thoughts dull’d,
My heart doth ache, my life faints,
My soul begins to take leave.
So great a passion all feel,
To think a sore so deadly
I should so rashly rip up.
My muse, what ails this ardor?
If that to sing thou art bent,
Go sing the fall of old Thebes,
The wars of ugly centaurs,
The life, the death of Hector:
So may the song be famous:
Or if to love thou art bent,
Recount the rape of Europa,
Adonis’ end, Venus’ net,
The sleepy kiss the moon stale:
So may the song be pleasant.
My muse, what ails this ardor?
To blaze my only secrets?
Wherein do only flourish
The sorry fruits of anguish.
The song thereof a last will,
The tunes be cries, the words plaints,
The singer is the song’s theme,
Wherein no ear can have joy.
Nor eye receive due object
Ne pleasure here, ne fame gat.
My muse, what ails this ardor?
“Alas,” she saith “I am thine,
So are thy pains my pains too.
Thy heated heart my seat is
Wherein I burn: thy breath is
My voice, too hot to keep in.
Besides, lo here the author
Of all thy harms: lo here she,
That only can redress thee,
Of her will I demand help.”
My muse I yield, my muse I sing,
But all thy song herein knit.
The life we lead is all love:
The love we hold is all death,
Nor ought I crave to feed life,
Nor ought I seek to shun death,
But only that my goddess,
My life my death do count hers.
Basilius, when she had fully ended her song, fell prostrate upon the ground, and thanked the gods they had preserved his life so long as to hear the very music they themselves used in an earthly body. And then with like grace to Zelmane, never left entreating her, till she had, taking a lyre Basilius held for her, sung those Phaleuciacks:
Reason, tell me thy mind, if here be reasonIn this strange violence, to make resistance,Where sweet graces erect the stately bannerOf virtue’s regiment, shining in harnessOf fortune’s diadems, by beauty mustered:Say then reason; I say, what is thy counsel?Her loose hairs be the shot, the breasts the pikes beScouts each motion is, the hands be horsemen,Her lips are the riches the wars to maintain,Where well couched abides a coffer of pearl,Her legs carriage is of all the sweet camp:Say then reason; I say, what is thy counsel?Her cannons be her eyes, mine eyes the walls be,Which at first volley gave too open entry,Nor rampier did abide; my brain was up blown,Undermin’d with a speech, the piercer of thoughts.Thus weakened by myself, no help remaineth;Say then reason: I say, what is thy counsel?And now fame the herald of her true honour,Doth proclaim with a sound made all by men’s mouths,That nature sovereign of earthly dwellers,Commands all creatures to yield obeisanceUnder this, this her own, her only darling.Say then reason; I say what is thy counsel?Reason sighs, but in end he thus doth answer:“Nought can reason avail in heavenly matters.”Thus nature’s diamond receive thy conquest,Thus pure pearl, I do yield my senses and soul,Thus sweet pain, I do yield whate’er I can yield,Reason look to thyself, I serve a goddess.
Reason, tell me thy mind, if here be reason
In this strange violence, to make resistance,
Where sweet graces erect the stately banner
Of virtue’s regiment, shining in harness
Of fortune’s diadems, by beauty mustered:
Say then reason; I say, what is thy counsel?
Her loose hairs be the shot, the breasts the pikes be
Scouts each motion is, the hands be horsemen,
Her lips are the riches the wars to maintain,
Where well couched abides a coffer of pearl,
Her legs carriage is of all the sweet camp:
Say then reason; I say, what is thy counsel?
Her cannons be her eyes, mine eyes the walls be,
Which at first volley gave too open entry,
Nor rampier did abide; my brain was up blown,
Undermin’d with a speech, the piercer of thoughts.
Thus weakened by myself, no help remaineth;
Say then reason: I say, what is thy counsel?
And now fame the herald of her true honour,
Doth proclaim with a sound made all by men’s mouths,
That nature sovereign of earthly dwellers,
Commands all creatures to yield obeisance
Under this, this her own, her only darling.
Say then reason; I say what is thy counsel?
Reason sighs, but in end he thus doth answer:
“Nought can reason avail in heavenly matters.”
Thus nature’s diamond receive thy conquest,
Thus pure pearl, I do yield my senses and soul,
Thus sweet pain, I do yield whate’er I can yield,
Reason look to thyself, I serve a goddess.
Dorus had long he thought kept silence, from saying somewhat which might tend to the glory of her, in whom all glory to his seeming was included, but now he broke it, singing those verses called Asclepiadiks.
O sweet woods the delight of solitariness!O how much I do like your solitariness!Where man’s mind hath a freed considerationOf goodness to receive lovely direction.Where senses do behold th’ order of heav’nly host,And wise thoughts do behold what the creator is:Contemplation here holdeth his only seat:Bounded with no limits, borne with a wing of hope,Climbs even unto the stars, nature is under it.Nought disturbs thy quiet, all to thy service yields,Each sight draws on a thought, thought mother of science:Sweet birds kindly do grant harmony unto thee,Fair trees’ shade is enough fortification,Nor dangers to thyself, if ’t be not in thyself.O sweet woods the delight of solitariness!O how much do I like your solitariness!Here nor treason is hid, veiled in innocence,Nor envy’s snaky eye finds any harbour here,Nor flatterers’ venomous insinuations,Nor coming humourists’ puddled opinions,Nor courteous ruin of proffered usury,Nor time prattled away, cradle of ignorance,Nor causeless duty, nor cumber of arrogance,Nor trifling title of vanity dazzleth us,Nor golden manacles stand for a paradise.Here wrong’s name is unheard; slander a monster is,Keep thy spirit from abuse, here no abuse doth haunt,What man grafts in a tree dissimulation?O sweet woods the delight of solitariness!O how well I do like your solitariness!Yet dear soil, if a soul clos’d in a mansionAs sweet as violets, fair as a lily is,Strait as a cedar, a voice strains the canary birds,Whose shade safely doth hold, danger avoideth her;Such wisdom, that in her lives speculation:Such goodness, that in her simplicity triumphs:Where envy’s snaky eye, winketh or else dieth,Slander wants a pretext, flattery gone beyond:Oh! if such a one have bent to a lonely life,Her steps, glad we receive, glad we receive her eyes.And think not she doth hurt our solitariness,For such company decks such solitariness.
O sweet woods the delight of solitariness!
O how much I do like your solitariness!
Where man’s mind hath a freed consideration
Of goodness to receive lovely direction.
Where senses do behold th’ order of heav’nly host,
And wise thoughts do behold what the creator is:
Contemplation here holdeth his only seat:
Bounded with no limits, borne with a wing of hope,
Climbs even unto the stars, nature is under it.
Nought disturbs thy quiet, all to thy service yields,
Each sight draws on a thought, thought mother of science:
Sweet birds kindly do grant harmony unto thee,
Fair trees’ shade is enough fortification,
Nor dangers to thyself, if ’t be not in thyself.
O sweet woods the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I like your solitariness!
Here nor treason is hid, veiled in innocence,
Nor envy’s snaky eye finds any harbour here,
Nor flatterers’ venomous insinuations,
Nor coming humourists’ puddled opinions,
Nor courteous ruin of proffered usury,
Nor time prattled away, cradle of ignorance,
Nor causeless duty, nor cumber of arrogance,
Nor trifling title of vanity dazzleth us,
Nor golden manacles stand for a paradise.
Here wrong’s name is unheard; slander a monster is,
Keep thy spirit from abuse, here no abuse doth haunt,
What man grafts in a tree dissimulation?
O sweet woods the delight of solitariness!
O how well I do like your solitariness!
Yet dear soil, if a soul clos’d in a mansion
As sweet as violets, fair as a lily is,
Strait as a cedar, a voice strains the canary birds,
Whose shade safely doth hold, danger avoideth her;
Such wisdom, that in her lives speculation:
Such goodness, that in her simplicity triumphs:
Where envy’s snaky eye, winketh or else dieth,
Slander wants a pretext, flattery gone beyond:
Oh! if such a one have bent to a lonely life,
Her steps, glad we receive, glad we receive her eyes.
And think not she doth hurt our solitariness,
For such company decks such solitariness.
The other shepherds were offering themselves to have continued the sports, but the night had so quietly spent the most part of herself among them that the king for that time licensed them to depart. And so bringing Zelmane to her lodging, who would much rather have done the same for Philoclea; of all sides they went to counterfeit a sleep in their beds, for a true one their agonies could not afford them. Yet there they lay, so might they be most solitary for the food of their thoughts, till it was near noon the next day, after which Basilius was to continue his Apollo devotions, and the other to meditate upon their private desires.
[End of Book II]
Thislast day’s danger, having made Pamela’s love discern what a loss it should have suffered if Dorus had been destroyed, bred such tenderness of kindness in her toward him that she could no longer keep love from looking out through her eyes, and going forth in her words, whom before as a close prisoner she had to her heart only committed; so that finding not only by his speeches and letters, but by the pitiful oration of a languishing behaviour, and the easily deciphered character of a sorrowful face, that despair began now to threaten him destruction, she grew content both to pity him, and let him see she pitied him, as well by making her own beautiful beams to thaw away the former iciness of her behaviour, as by entertaining his discourses (whensoever he did use them) in the third person of Musidorus, to so far a degree, that in the end she said that if she had been the princess whom that disguised prince had virtuously loved, she would have requited his faith with faithful affection; finding in her heart that nothing could so heartily love as virtue: with many more words to the same sense of noble favour, and chaste plainness. Which when at the first it made that unexpected bliss shine upon Dorus, he was like one frozen with extremity of cold, overhastily brought to a great fire, rather oppressed than relieved with such a lightning of felicity. But after the strength of nature had made him able to feel the sweetness of joyfulness, that again being a child of passion, and never acquainted with mediocrity, could not set bounds upon his happiness, nor be content to give desire a kingdom, but that it must be an unlimited monarchy. So that the ground he stood upon being over-high in happiness, and slippery through affection, he could not hold himself from falling into such an error, which with sighs blew all comfort out of hisbreast, and washed away all cheerfulness of his cheer with tears. For this favour filling him with hope, hope encouraging his desire, and desire considering nothing but opportunity; one time (Mopsa being called away by her mother, and he left alone with Pamela) the sudden occasion called love, and that never stayed to ask reason’s leave, but made the too much loving Dorus take her in his arms, offering to kiss her, and, as if it were, to establish a trophy of his victory. But she, as if she had been ready to drink a wine of excellent taste and colour, which suddenly she perceived had poison in it, so did she put him away from her, looking first up to heaven, as amazed to find herself so beguiled in him; then laying cruel punishment upon him of angry love, and lowering beauty, showing disdain, and a despising disdain. “Away,” (said she), “unworthy man to love or to be loved. Assure thyself, I hate myself being so deceived; judge then what I do to thee for deceiving me. Let me see thee no more, the only fall of my judgment, and stain of my conscience.” With that she called Mopsa, not staying for any answer (which was no other but a flood of tears) which she seemed not to mark (much less to pity) and chid her for having left her alone.
It was not a sorrow, but it was even a death which then laid hold of Dorus: which certainly at that instant would have killed him, but that the fear to tarry longer in her presence (contrary to her commandment) gave him life to carry himself away from her sight, and to run into the woods, where, throwing himself down at the foot of a tree, he did not fall into lamentation (for that proceeded of pitying) or grieving for himself (which he did no way) but to curses of his life, as one that detested himself. For finding himself not only unhappy, but unhappy after being fallen from all happiness: and to be fallen from all happiness, not by any misconceiving, but by his own fault, and his fault to be done to no other but Pamela; he did not tender his own estate, but despised it, greedily drawing into his mind, all conceits which might more and more torment him. And so remained he two days in the woods, disdaining to give his body food, or his mind comfort, loving in himself nothing but the love of her. And indeed that love only strove with the fury of his anguish, telling it that if it destroyed Dorus, it should also destroy the image of her that lived in Dorus: and when the thought of that was crept in unto him, it began to win of him some compassion to the shrine of that image, and to bewail not for himself (whom he hated) but that so notable a love should perish. Then began he only so far to wish his own good, as that Pamela might pardon him the fault, though not the punishment: and the uttermost height he aspired unto, was that after his death she might yet pity his error andknow that it proceeded of love, and not of boldness. That conceit found such friendship in his thoughts, that at last he yielded, since he was banished her presence, to seek some means by writing to show his sorrow, and testify his repentance. Therefore getting him the necessary instruments of writing, he thought best to counterfeit his hand (fearing that already as she knew his, she would cast it away as soon as she saw it) and to put it in verse, hoping that would draw her on to read the more, choosing the elegiac as fittest for mourning. But never pen did more quakingly perform his office; never was paper more double moistened with ink and tears; never words more slowly married together, and never the Muses more tired than now, with changes and re-changes of his devices: fearing how to end, before he had resolved how to begin, mistrusting each word, condemning each sentence. This word was not significant; that word was too plain; this would not be conceived; the other would be ill-conceived; here sorrow was not enough expressed, there he seemed too much for his own sake to be sorry; this sentence rather showed art than passion, that sentence rather foolishly passionate than forcibly moving. At last, marring with mending, and putting out better than he left, he made an end of it; being ended, was divers times ready to tear it, till his reason assuring him, the more he studied the worse it grew, he folded it up, devoutly invoking good acceptation unto it; and watching his time, when they were all gone one day to dinner, saving Mopsa to the other lodge, stole up into Pamela’s chamber, and in her standish (which first he kissed, and craved of it a safe and friendly keeping) left it there to be seen at her next using her ink (himself returning again to be true prisoner to desperate sorrow) leaving her standish upon her bed’s head, to give her the more occasion to mark it: which also fell out.
For she finding it at her afternoon return in another place than she left it, opened it. But when she saw the letter, her heart gave her from whence it came; and therefore clapping it to again she went away from it as if it had been a contagious garment of an infected person: and yet was not long away, but that she wished she had read it, though she were loth to read it. “Shall I,” said she, “second his boldness so far, as to read his presumptuous letters? And yet,” saith she, “he sees me not now to grow the bolder thereby: and how can I tell whether they be presumptuous?” The paper came from him, and therefore not worthy to be received; and yet the paper she thought was not guilty. At last she concluded, it were not much amiss to look it over, that she might out of his words pick some further quarrel against him. Then she opened it, and threw it away, and took it up again, till (ere she were aware) her eyes would needs read it, containing this matter.
Unto a caitiff wretch, whom long affliction holdeth,And now fully believes help to be quite perished,Grant yet, grant yet a look, to the last moment of his anguish,O you (alas so I find) cause of his only ruin,Dread not a whit (O goodly cruel) that pity may enterInto thy heart by the sight of this Epistle I send:And to refuse to behold of these strange wounds the recital,Lest it might thee allure home to thyself to return(Unto thyself, I do mean those graces dwell so within thee,Gratefulness, sweetness, holy love, hearty regard)Such thing cannot I seek (despair hath giv’n me my answer:Despair most tragical clause to a deadly request)Such thing cannot he hope, that knows thy determinate hardness,Hard like a rich marble: hard, but a fair diamond.Can those eyes, that of eyes drown’d in most hearty flowing tears(Tears and tears of a man? had no return to remorse)Can those eyes now yield to the kind conceit of a sorrow,Which ink only relates, but ne laments, ne replies?Ah, that, that do I not conceive (though that to my bliss were)More than Nestor’s years, more than a King’s diadem.Ah, that, that do I not conceive; to the Heaven when a Mouse climbsThen may I hope to achieve grace of a heavenly Tiger.But, but alas, like a man condemned doth crave to be heard speak,Not that he hopes for amends of the disaster he feels,But finding the approach of death with an inly relenting,Gives an adieu to the world, as to his only delight:Right so my boiling heart, inflam’d with fire of a fair eye,Bubbling out doth breathe signs of his huge dolours:Now that he finds to what end his life and love be reserved,And that he thence must part, where to live only he liv’d.O fair, O fairest, are such the triumphs to thy fairness?Can death beauty become? must I be such monument?Must I be only the mark shall prove that virtue is angry?Shall prove that fierceness can with a white dove abide?Shall to the world appear that faith and love be rewardedWith mortal disdain, bent to unendly revenge.Unto revenge? O sweet, on a wretch wilt thou be revenged?Shall such high planets tend to the loss of a worm?And to revenge who do bend, would in that kind be revengedAs th’ offence was done, and go beyond if he can.All my offence was love: with love then must I be chastened;And with more, by the laws that to revenge do belong.If that love be a fault, more fault, more fault in you to be lovely:Love never had me oppressed, but that I saw to be lov’d.You be the cause that I lov’d: what Reason blameth a shadow,That with a body ’t goes? since by a body it is?If that love you did hate, you should your beauty have hidden:You should those fair eyes have with a veil covered.But fool, fool that I am, those eyes would shine from a dark cave:What veils then do prevail, but to a more miracle?Or those golden locks, those locks which lock me to bondage,Torn you should disperse unto the blasts of a wind.But fool, fool that I am, though I had but a hair of her head found,Ev’n as I am, so I should unto that hair be a thrall.Or with fair hand’s nails (O hand which nails me to this death)You should have your face, since love is ill blemished.O wretch, what do I say? should that fair face be defaced?Should my too-much sight cause so true a sun to be lost?First let Cimmerian darkness be my only habitation:First be mine eyes pull’d out, first be my brain perished,Ere that I should consent to do so excessive a damageUnto the earth, by the hurt of this her heavenly jewel.O not, but such love you say you could have afforded,As might learn temp’rance, void of a rage’s events.O sweet simplicity: from whence should love be so learned?Unto Cupid, that Boy, should a pedant be found?Well, but sulky I was: Reason to my passion yielded,Passion unto my rage, rage to a hasty revenge,But what’s this for a fault, for which such faith be abolished,Such faith, so stainless, inviolate, violent?Shall I not? O may I not thus yet refresh the remembrance,What sweet joys I had once, and what a place I did hold?Shall I not once object, that you, you granted a favourUnto the man, whom now such miseries you award?Bend your thoughts to the dear sweet words which then to me giv’n were,Think what a world is now, think who hath alt’red her heart.What? was I then worthy such good, now worthy such evil?Now fled, then cherished? then so nigh, now so remote?Did not a rosed breath from lips rosy proceeding,Say, that I well should find in what a care I was had?With much more: Now what do I find, but care to abhor me?Care that I sink in grief, care that I live banished?And banished do I live, nor now will seek a recovery,Since so she will, whose will is to me more than a law.If then a man in most ill case may give you a farewell:Farewell, long farewell, all my woe, all my delight.
Unto a caitiff wretch, whom long affliction holdeth,
And now fully believes help to be quite perished,
Grant yet, grant yet a look, to the last moment of his anguish,
O you (alas so I find) cause of his only ruin,
Dread not a whit (O goodly cruel) that pity may enter
Into thy heart by the sight of this Epistle I send:
And to refuse to behold of these strange wounds the recital,
Lest it might thee allure home to thyself to return
(Unto thyself, I do mean those graces dwell so within thee,
Gratefulness, sweetness, holy love, hearty regard)
Such thing cannot I seek (despair hath giv’n me my answer:
Despair most tragical clause to a deadly request)
Such thing cannot he hope, that knows thy determinate hardness,
Hard like a rich marble: hard, but a fair diamond.
Can those eyes, that of eyes drown’d in most hearty flowing tears
(Tears and tears of a man? had no return to remorse)
Can those eyes now yield to the kind conceit of a sorrow,
Which ink only relates, but ne laments, ne replies?
Ah, that, that do I not conceive (though that to my bliss were)
More than Nestor’s years, more than a King’s diadem.
Ah, that, that do I not conceive; to the Heaven when a Mouse climbs
Then may I hope to achieve grace of a heavenly Tiger.
But, but alas, like a man condemned doth crave to be heard speak,
Not that he hopes for amends of the disaster he feels,
But finding the approach of death with an inly relenting,
Gives an adieu to the world, as to his only delight:
Right so my boiling heart, inflam’d with fire of a fair eye,
Bubbling out doth breathe signs of his huge dolours:
Now that he finds to what end his life and love be reserved,
And that he thence must part, where to live only he liv’d.
O fair, O fairest, are such the triumphs to thy fairness?
Can death beauty become? must I be such monument?
Must I be only the mark shall prove that virtue is angry?
Shall prove that fierceness can with a white dove abide?
Shall to the world appear that faith and love be rewarded
With mortal disdain, bent to unendly revenge.
Unto revenge? O sweet, on a wretch wilt thou be revenged?
Shall such high planets tend to the loss of a worm?
And to revenge who do bend, would in that kind be revenged
As th’ offence was done, and go beyond if he can.
All my offence was love: with love then must I be chastened;
And with more, by the laws that to revenge do belong.
If that love be a fault, more fault, more fault in you to be lovely:
Love never had me oppressed, but that I saw to be lov’d.
You be the cause that I lov’d: what Reason blameth a shadow,
That with a body ’t goes? since by a body it is?
If that love you did hate, you should your beauty have hidden:
You should those fair eyes have with a veil covered.
But fool, fool that I am, those eyes would shine from a dark cave:
What veils then do prevail, but to a more miracle?
Or those golden locks, those locks which lock me to bondage,
Torn you should disperse unto the blasts of a wind.
But fool, fool that I am, though I had but a hair of her head found,
Ev’n as I am, so I should unto that hair be a thrall.
Or with fair hand’s nails (O hand which nails me to this death)
You should have your face, since love is ill blemished.
O wretch, what do I say? should that fair face be defaced?
Should my too-much sight cause so true a sun to be lost?
First let Cimmerian darkness be my only habitation:
First be mine eyes pull’d out, first be my brain perished,
Ere that I should consent to do so excessive a damage
Unto the earth, by the hurt of this her heavenly jewel.
O not, but such love you say you could have afforded,
As might learn temp’rance, void of a rage’s events.
O sweet simplicity: from whence should love be so learned?
Unto Cupid, that Boy, should a pedant be found?
Well, but sulky I was: Reason to my passion yielded,
Passion unto my rage, rage to a hasty revenge,
But what’s this for a fault, for which such faith be abolished,
Such faith, so stainless, inviolate, violent?
Shall I not? O may I not thus yet refresh the remembrance,
What sweet joys I had once, and what a place I did hold?
Shall I not once object, that you, you granted a favour
Unto the man, whom now such miseries you award?
Bend your thoughts to the dear sweet words which then to me giv’n were,
Think what a world is now, think who hath alt’red her heart.
What? was I then worthy such good, now worthy such evil?
Now fled, then cherished? then so nigh, now so remote?
Did not a rosed breath from lips rosy proceeding,
Say, that I well should find in what a care I was had?
With much more: Now what do I find, but care to abhor me?
Care that I sink in grief, care that I live banished?
And banished do I live, nor now will seek a recovery,
Since so she will, whose will is to me more than a law.
If then a man in most ill case may give you a farewell:
Farewell, long farewell, all my woe, all my delight.
What this would have wrought in her, she herself could not tell, for, before her reason could moderate the disputation between favour and faultiness, her sister and Miso, called her down to entertain Zelmane, who was come to visit the two sisters, about whom, as about two poles, the sky of beauty was turned: whileGynecia wearied her bed with her melancholy sickness, and made Miso’s shrewdness (who like a spirit set to keep a treasure, barred Zelmane from any further conference) to be the lieutenant of her jealousy; both she and her husband driving Zelmane to such a straight of resolution, either of impossible granting, or dangerous refusing, as the best escape she had was (as much as she could) to avoid their company. So as this day, being the fourth day after the uproar (Basilius being with his sick wife, conferring upon such examinations as Philanax and other of his noblemen had made of this late sedition, all touching Cecropia, with vehement suspicion of giving either flame or fuel unto it) Zelmane came with her body, to find her mind, which was gone long before her, and had gotten his seat in Philoclea, who now with a bashful cheerfulness (as though she were ashamed that she could not choose but be glad) joined with her sister in making much of Zelmane.
And so as they sat devising how to give more feathers to the wings of time, there came to the lodge-door six maids, all in one livery of scarlet petticoats, which were tucked up almost to their knees, the petticoats themselves being in many places garnished with leaves, their legs naked, saving that above the ankles they had little black silk laces, upon which did hang a few silver bells, like which they had a little above their elbows upon their bare arms. Upon their hair they wore garlands of roses and gilliflowers, and the hair was so dressed, as that came again above the garlands, interchanging a mutual covering so that it was doubtful whether the hair dressed the garlands, or the garlands dressed the hair. Their breasts liberal to the eye; the face of the foremost of them in excellency fair; and of the rest lovely, if not beautiful: and beautiful might have been, if they had not suffered greedy Phoebus over-often and hard, to kiss them. Their countenances full of a graceful gravity, so as the gesture match with the apparel, it might seem, a wanton modesty, an enticing soberness. Each of them had an instrument of music in their hands, which comforting their well-pleasing tunes, did charge each ear with unsensibleness that did not lend itself unto them. The music entering alone into the lodge, the ladies were all desirous to see from whence so pleasant a guest was come: and therefore went out together, where before they could take the pains to doubt, much less to ask the question of their quality, the fairest of them (with a gay, but yet discreet demeanour) in this sort spoke to them.
“Most excellent ladies (whose excellencies have power to make cities envy those woods, and solitariness to be accounted the sweetest company) vouchsafe our message your gracious hearing, which as it comes from love, so comes it from lovely persons. The maids of all this coast of Arcadia, understanding the oftenaccess that certain shepherds of those quarters are allowed to have in this forbidden place, and that their rural sports are not disdained of you, have been stirred up with emulation to them, and affection to you, to bring forth something, which might as well breed your contentment: and therefore hoping that the goodness of their intention, and the hurtlessness of their sex, shall excuse the breach of the commandment in coming to this place unsent for, they chose out us to invite both your princely parents, and yourselves to a place in the woods about half a mile hence, where they have provided some such sports, as they trust your gracious acceptations will interpret to be delightful. We have been at the other lodge, but finding them there busied in weightier affairs, our trust is that you will not deny the shining of your eyes upon us.” The ladies stood in some doubt whether they should go or not, lest Basilius might be angry withal: But Miso (that had been at none of the pastorals, and had a great desire to lead her old senses abroad to some pleasure) told them plainly, they should nor will, nor choose, but go thither, and make the honest country people know that they were not so squeamish as folks thought of them. The ladies glad to be warranted by her authority, with a smiling humbleness obeyed her; Pamela only casting a seeking look, whether she could see Dorus (who poor wretch wandered half mad for sorrow in the woods, crying for pardon of her who could not hear him) but indeed was grieved for his absence, having given the wound to him through her own heart. But so the three ladies and Miso went with those six Nymphs, conquering the length of the way with the force of music, leaving only Mopsa behind, who disgraced weeping with her countenance, because her mother would not suffer her to show her new-scoured face among them. But the place appointed, as they thought, met them half in their way, so well were they pleased with the sweet tunes and pretty conversation of their inviters. There found they in the midst of the thickest part of the wood, a little square place, not burdened with trees, but with a board covered and beautified with the pleasantest fruits that sun-burned Autumn could deliver to them. The maids besought the ladies to sit down and taste of the swelling grapes, which seemed great with child of Bacchus: and of the divers coloured plums, which gave the eye a pleasant taste before they came to the mouth. The ladies would not show to scorn their provision, but ate and drank a little of their cool wine, which seemed to laugh for joy to come to such lips.