this morning Basilius himself gave her good occasion to go beyond
them. For having combed and tricked himself more curiously than any
time forty winters before, coming where Zelmane was, he found her
given over to her musical muses, to the great pleasure of good old
Basilius, who retired himself behind a tree, while she with a most
sweet voice did utter those passionate verses.

 Loved I am, and yet complain of love:
  As loving not, accus’d in love I die.
 When pity most I crave, I cruel prove:
  Still seeking love, love found, as much I fly.
   Burnt in myself, I muse at other’s fire;
  What I call wrong, I do the same and more:
 Barr’d of my will, I have beyond desire;
  I wail for want, and yet am chok’d with store.

 {209}

   This is thy work, thou god for ever blind:
  Though thousands old, a boy entitled still.
 Thus children do the silly birds they find,
  With stroking hurt, and too much cramming kill.
   Yet thus much love, O love, I crave of thee:
   Let me be lov’d, or else not loved be.

Basilius made no great haste from beyond the trees, till he perceived
she had fully ended her music. But then loth to lose the precious
fruit of time, he presented himself unto her, falling down upon both
his knees, and holding up his hands, as the old governess of Danae is
painted, when she suddenly saw the golden shower, “O heavenly woman,
or earthly goddess,” said he, “let not my presence be odious unto you,
nor my humble suit seem of small weight in your ears. Vouchsafe your
eyes to descend upon this miserable old man, whose life hath hitherto
been maintained but to serve as an increase of your beautiful
triumphs. You only have overthrown me, and in my bondage consists my
glory. Suffer not your own work to be despised of you, but look upon
him with pity, whose life serves for your praise.” Zelmane, keeping a
countenance askance she understood him not, told him it became her
evil to suffer such excessive reverence of him, but that it worse
became her to correct him, to whom she owed duty; that the opinion she
had of his wisdom was such as made her esteem greatly of his words;
but that the words themselves sounded so, that she could not imagine
what they might intend. “Intend,” said Basilius, proud that that was
brought in question, “what may they intend but a refreshing of my
soul, and assuaging of my heart, and enjoying those your excellencies,
wherein my life is upheld, and my death threatened?” Zelmane lifting
up her face as if she had received a mortal injury of him, “and is
this the devotion your ceremonies have been bent to?” said she: “is it
the disdain of my estate, or the opinion of my lightness that have
emboldened such base fancies towards me? enjoying quoth you? now
little joy come to them that yield to such enjoying.”

Poor Basilius was so appalled that his legs bowed under him; his eyes
looked as though he would gladly hide himself, and his old blood going
to his heart, a general shaking all over his body possessed him. At
length, with a wan mouth, he was about to give a stammering answer,
when it came into Zelmane’s head by this device, to make her profit of
his folly; and therefore with a relented countenance, thus said unto
him, “Your words, mighty Prince, were unfit either for me to hear, or
you to speak, but yet the large testimony I see of your affection
makes me willing to suppress a great number of errors. Only thus much
I think good {210} to say, that the same words in my lady Philoclea’s
mouth, as from one woman to another, so as there were no other body
by, might have had a better grace, and perchance have found a gentler
receipt.”

Basilius, whose senses by desire were held open, and conceit was by
love quickened, heard scarcely half her answer out, but that, as if
speedy flight might save his life, he turned away, and ran with all
the speed his body would suffer him towards his daughter Philoclea,
whom he found at that time dutifully watching by her mother, and Miso
curiously watching her, having left Mopsa to do the like service to
Pamela. Basilius forthwith calling Philoclea aside, with all the
conjuring words which desire could indite and authority utter,
besought her she would preserve his life, in whom her life was begun,
she would save his grey hairs from rebuke, and his aged mind from
despair; that if she were not cloyed with his company, and that she
thought not the earth over-burdened with him, she would cool his fiery
grief, which was to be done but by her breath: that in fine,
whatsoever he was, he was nothing but what it pleased Zelmane; all the
powers of his spirit depending of her, that if she continued cruel he
could no more sustain his life than the earth remain fruitful in the
sun’s continual absence. He concluded, she should in one payment
requite all his deserts; and that she needed not to disdain any
service, though never so mean, which was warranted by the sacred name
of father. Philoclea more glad than ever she had known herself that
she might, by this occasion, enjoy the private conference of Zelmane,
yet had so sweet a feeling of virtue in her mind, that she would not
suffer a vile colour to be cast over fair thoughts, but with humble
grace answered her father: that there needed neither promise nor
persuasion to her, to make her do her uttermost for her father’s
service; that for Zelmane’s favour, she would in all virtuous sort
seek it towards him: and that as she would not pierce further into his
meaning, than himself should declare, so would she interpret all his
doings to be accomplished in goodness: and therefore desired, if
otherwise it were, that he would not impart it to her, who then should
be forced to begin, by true obedience, a show of disobedience: rather
performing his general commandment, which had ever been to embrace
virtue than any new particular sprung out of passion, and contrary to
the former. Basilius content to take that, since he could have no
more, thinking it a great point, if, by her means, he could get but a
more free access unto Zelmane, allowed her reasons, and took her
proffer thankfully, desiring only a speedy return of comfort.
Philoclea was parting, and Miso straight behind her, like Alecto
following Proserpina. But Basilius forced her to stay, though with
much ado, she being {211} sharp set upon the fulfilling of a shrewd
office in over-looking Philoclea; and said to Basilius that she did as
she was commanded, and could not answer it to Gynecia, if she were any
whit from Philoclea, telling him true, that he did evil to take her
charge from her. But Basilius, swearing he would put out her eyes, if
she stirred a foot to trouble his daughter, gave her a stop for that
while.

So away departed Philoclea, with a new field of fancies for her
travailing mind: for well she saw her father was grown her adverse
party, and yet her fortune such, as she must favour her rival; and the
fortune of that fortune such, as neither that did hurt her, nor any
contrary mean help her.

But she walked but a little on, before she saw Zelmane lying upon a
bank, with her face so bent over Ladon, that, her tears falling into
the water, one might have thought that she began meltingly to be
metamorphosed to the under-running river. But by and by with speech
she made known, as well that she lived, as that she sorrowed. “Fair
streams,” said she, “that do vouchsafe in your clearness to represent
unto me, my blubbered face, let the tribute offer of my tears unto
you, procure your stay a while with me, that I may begin yet at last
to find something that pities me; and that all things of comfort and
pleasure do not fly away from me. But if the violence of your spring
command you to haste away, to pay your duties to your great prince,
the sea, yet carry with you those few words, and let the uttermost
ends of the world know them. A love more clear than yourselves,
dedicated to a love, I fear, more cold than yourselves, with the
clearness lays a night of sorrow upon me, and with the coldness
inflames a world of fire within me.” With that she took a willow
stick, and wrote in a sandy bank those few verses.

 Over those brooks trusting to ease mine eyes,
  (Mine eyes even great in labour with their tears)
 I laid my face; my face ev’n wherein lies
  Clusters of clouds, which no sun ever clears,
   In watery glass my watery eyes I see;
   Sorrows ill eas’d, where sorrows painted be.

 My thoughts imprison’d in my secret woes,
  With flamy breath do issue oft in sound,
 The sound of this strange air no sooner goes,
  But that it does with Echoes’ force rebound;
   And make me hear the plaints I would refrain:
   Thus outwards helps my inward grief maintain.

 {212}

 Now in this sand I would discharge my mind,
  And cast from me part of my burd’nous cares:
 But in the sand my tales foretold I find,
  And see therein how well the writer fares.
   Since, stream, air, sand, mine eyes and ears conspire:
   What hope to quench, where each thing blows the fire?

And as soon as she had written them, a new swarm of thoughts stinging
her mind, she was ready with her feet to give the new-born letters
both death and burial. But Philoclea, whose delight of hearing and
seeing was before a stay from interrupting her, gave herself to be
seen unto her, with such a lightening beauty upon Zelmane, that
neither she could look on, nor would look off. At last Philoclea,
having a little mused how to cut the thread even between her own
hopeless affection and her father’s unbridled hope, with eyes, cheeks,
and lips, whereof each sang their part to make up the harmony of
bashfulness, began to say, “My father, to whom I owe myself;” and
therefore when Zelmane (making a womanish habit to be the armour of
her boldness, giving up her life to the lips of Philoclea, and taking
it again by the sweetness of those kisses) humbly besought her to keep
her speech for a while within the paradise of her mind. For well she
knew her father’s errand, who should soon receive a sufficient answer.
But now she demanded leave not to lose this long sought-for commodity
of time, to ease her heart thus far, that if in her agonies her
destiny was to be condemned by Philoclea’s mouth; at least Philoclea
might know, whom she had condemned. Philoclea easily yielded to grant
her own desire, and so making the green bank the situation, and the
river the prospect of the most beautiful buildings of nature, Zelmane
doubting how to begin, though her thoughts already had run to the end,
with a mind fearing the unworthiness of every word that should be
presented to her ears, at length brought it forth in this manner.

“Most beloved lady, the incomparable excellencies of yourself, waited
on by the greatness of your estate, and the importance of the thing
whereon my life consisted, doth require both many ceremonies before
the beginning, and many circumstances in the uttering my speech, both
bold and fearful. But the small opportunity of envious occasion, by
the malicious eye hateful love doth cast upon me, and the extreme bent
of my affection, which will either break out in words, or break my
heart, compel me not only to embrace the smallest time, but to pass by
the respects due unto you, in respect of your poor caitiff’s life, who
is now, or never to be preserved. I do therefore vow unto you,
hereafter never more to omit all dutiful form, do you only now
vouchsafe to hear the matter {213} of a mind most perplexed, if ever
the sound of love have come to your ears, or if ever you have
understood what force it hath had to conquer the strongest hearts and
change the most settled estates, receive here an example of those
strange tragedies; one, that in himself containeth the particularities
of all those misfortunes, and from henceforth believe that such a
thing may be, since you shall see it is. You shall see, I say, a
living image, and a present story of what love can do when he is bent
to ruin.

“But alas! whither goest thou my tongue? or how doth my heart consent
to adventure the revealing his nearest touching secret? but peace
fear, thou comest too late, when already the harm is taken. Therefore
I say again, O only princess attend here a miserable miracle of
affection. Behold here before your eyes Pyrocles, prince of Macedon,
whom you only have brought to this game of fortune, and unused
Metamorphosis, whom you only have made neglect his country, forget his
father, and lastly forsake to be Pyrocles: the same Pyrocles who, you
heard, was betrayed by being put in a ship, which being burned,
Pyrocles was drowned. O most true presage! for these traitors, my
eyes, putting me into a ship of desire, which daily burneth, those
eyes, I say, which betrayed me, will never leave till they have
drowned me. But be not, be not, most excellent lady, you that nature
hath made to be the load-star of comfort, be not the rock of
shipwreck: you whom virtue hath made the princess of felicity, be not
the minister of ruin: you whom my choice hath made the goddess of my
safety. O let not, let not, from you be poured upon me destruction;
your fair face hath many tokens in it of amazement at my words: think
then what his amazement is, from whence they come, since no words can
carry with them the life of the inward feeling, I desire that my
desire may be weighed in the balances of honour, and let virtue hold
them. For if the highest love in no base person may aspire to grace,
then may I hope your beauty will not be without pity, if otherwise you
be, alas! but let it not be so resolved, yet shall not my death be
comfortless, receiving it by your sentence.”

The joy which wrought into Pygmalion’s mind, while he found his
beloved image was softer and warmer in his folded arms, till at length
it accomplished his gladness with a perfect woman’s shape, still
beautified with the former perfections, was even such, as by each
degree of Zelmane’s words creepingly entered into Philoclea, till her
pleasure was fully made up with the manifesting of his being, which
was such as in hope did overcome hope. Yet doubt would fain have
played his part in her mind and called in question, how she should be
assured that Zelmane was Pyrocles. But love straight stood up and
deposed that a lie could not come from the mouth of Zelmane. Besides,
a certain spark of honour, which rose {214} in her well-disposed mind,
made her fear to be alone with him, with whom alone she desired to be,
withal the other contradictions growing in those minds, which neither
absolutely climb the rock of virtue, nor freely sink into the sea of
vanity, but that spark soon gave place, or at least gave no more light
in her mind than a candle doth in the sun’s presence. But even sick
with a surfeit of joy, and fearful of she knew not what, as he that
newly finds huge treasures, doubts whether he sleep or no; or like a
fearful deer, which then looks most about when he comes to the best
feed, with a shrugging kind of tremor through all her principal parts,
she gave those affectionate words for answer.

“Alas! how painful a thing it is to a divided mind to make a
well-joined answer? how hard it is to bring inward shame to outward
confession? and what handsomeness, trow you, can be observed in that
speech which is made one knows not to whom? Shall I say, ‘O Zelmane’?
alas! your words be against it. Shall I say ‘Prince Pyrocles’? wretch
that I am, your show is manifest against it. But this, this I may well
say; if I had continued as I ought, Philoclea, you had either never
been, or ever been Zelmane: you had either never attempted this
change, set on with hope, or never discovered it, stopped with
despair. But I fear me, my behaviour ill governed, gave you the first
comfort: I fear me, my affection ill hid, hath given you this last
assurance: I fear indeed, the weakness of my government before, made
you think such a mask would be grateful unto me; and my weaker
government since makes you pull off the visor. What should I do then?
shall I seek far-fetched inventions? shall I labour to lay marble
colours over my ruinous thoughts? or rather, though the pureness of my
virgin mind be stained, let me keep the true simplicity of my word.
True it is, alas! too true it is, O Zelmane, for so I love to call
thee, since in that name my love first began, and in the shade of that
name my love shall best lie hidden, that even while so thou wert, what
eye bewitched me I know not, my passions were fitter to desire than to
be desired. Shall I say then, I am sorry, or that my love must be
turned to hate, since thou art turned to Pyrocles? How may that well
be? since when thou wert Zelmane, the despair thou mightest not be
thus did most torment me. Thou hast then the victory, use it with
virtue. Thy virtue won me; with virtue preserve me. Dost thou love me?
keep me then still worthy to be loved.”

Then held she her tongue, and cast down a self-accusing look, finding
that in herself she had, as it were, shot out of the bow of her
affection, a more quick opening of her mind than she minded to have
done. But Pyrocles so carried up with joy that he did not envy the
god’s felicity, presented her with some jewels of right princely
value, as some little tokens of his love and quality: and {215} withal
showed her letters from his father King Euarchus, unto him, which even
in the sea had amongst his jewels been preserved. But little needed
those proofs to one, who would have fallen out with herself rather
than make any contrary conjectures to Zelmane’s speeches; so that with
such embracements, as it seemed their souls desired to meet, and their
hearts to kiss as their mouths did, they passed the promise of
marriage, which fain Pyrocles would have sealed with the chief arms of
his desire, but Philoclea commanded the contrary.

And then at Philoclea’s entreaty, who was willing to purloin all
occasions of remaining with Zelmane, she told her the story of her
life, from the time of their departing from Erona; for the rest she
had already understood of her sister. “For,” said she, “I have
understood how you first, in the company of your noble cousin
Musidorus, parted from Thessalia, and of divers adventures, which with
no more danger than glory you passed through, till your coming to the
succour of the queen Erona; and the end of that war, you might
perceive by myself, I had understood of prince Plangus. But what since
was the course of your doings, until you came, after so many
victories, to make a conquest of poor me, that I know not; the fame
thereof having rather showed it by pieces, than delivered any full
form of it. Therefore, dear Pyrocles, for what can my ears be so
sweetly fed with, as to hear you of you, be liberal unto me of those
things which have made you indeed precious to the world; and now doubt
not to tell of your perils, for since I have you here out of them,
even the remembrance of them is pleasant.”

Pyrocles easily perceived she was content with kindness to put off
occasion of further kindness, wherein love showed himself a cowardly
boy that durst not attend for fear of offending. But rather love
proved himself valiant, that durst with the sword of reverent duty
gain-stand the force of so many enraged desires. But so it was, that
though he knew this discourse was to entertain him from a more
straight parley, yet he durst not but kiss his rod, and gladly make
much of that entertainment which she allotted unto him: and therefore
with a desirous sigh chastening his breast for too much desiring,
“Sweet princess of my life,” said he, “what trophies, what triumph,
what monuments, what histories might ever make my fame yield so sweet
a music to my ears, as that it pleaseth you to lend your mind to the
knowledge of any thing touching Pyrocles, only therefore of value,
because he is your Pyrocles? and therefore grow I now so proud as to
think it worth the hearing, since you vouchsafe to give it the
hearing. Therefore only height of my hope, vouchsafe to know, that
after the death of Tiridates, and settling Erona in her government,
for {216} settled we left her; howsoever since, as I perceived by your
speech the last day, the ungrateful treason of her ill-chosen husband
overthrew her, a thing, in truth, never till this time by me either
heard, or suspected: for who could think, without having such a mind
as Antiphilus, that so great a beauty as Erona’s, indeed excellent,
could not have held his affection? so great goodness could not have
bound gratefulness? and so high advancement could not have satisfied
his ambition? but therefore true it is, that wickedness may well be
compared to a bottomless pit, into which it is far easier to keep
one’s self from falling than being fallen, to give one’s self any stay
from falling infinitely. But for my cousin and me, upon this cause we
parted from Erona.

“Euardes, the brave and mighty prince, whom it was my fortune to kill
in the combat for Erona, had three nephews, sons to a sister of his;
all three set among the foremost ranks of fame for great minds to
attempt, and great force to perform what they did attempt, especially
the eldest, by name Anaxius, to whom all men would willingly have
yielded the height of praise, but that his nature was such as to
bestow it upon himself before any could give it. For of so
unsupportable a pride he was, that where his deeds might well stir
envy, his demeanour did rather breed disdain. And if it be true that
the giants ever made war against heaven, he had been a fit
ensign-bearer for that company. For nothing seemed hard to him, though
impossible; and nothing unjust, while his liking was his justice. Now
he in these wars had flatly refused his aid, because he could not
brook that the worthy prince Plangus was by his cousin Tiridates
preferred before him. For allowing no other weights but the sword and
spear in judging of desert, how much he esteemed himself before
Plangus in that, so much would he have had his allowance in his
service.

“But now that he understood that his uncle was slain by me, I think
rather scorn that any should kill his uncle, than any kindness, an
unused guest to an arrogant soul, made him seek his revenge, I must
confess in manner gallant enough. For he sent a challenge unto me to
meet him at a place appointed, in the confines of the kingdom of
Lycia, where he would prove upon me, that I had by some treachery
overcome his uncle, whom else many hundreds such as I, could not have
withstood. Youth and success made me willing enough to accept any such
bargain, especially because I had heard that your cousin Amphialus,
who for some years hath borne universally the name of the best knight
in the world, had divers times fought with him, and never been able to
master him, but so had left him, that every man thought Anaxius in
that one virtue of courtesy far short of him, in all other his match;
Anaxius still deeming himself for his superior. Therefore {217} to him
I would go, and I would needs go alone, because so I understood for
certain, he was; and, I must confess, desirous to do something without
the company of the incomparable prince Musidorus, because in my heart
I acknowledge that I owed more to his presence than to anything in
myself, whatever before I had done. For of him indeed, as of any
worldly cause, I must grant, as received, whatever there is or may be
good in me. He taught me by word, and best by example, giving me in
him so lively an image of virtue, that ignorance could not cast such a
mist over mine eyes, as not to see, and to love it; and all with such
dear friendship and care, as, O heaven, how can my life ever requite
to him? which made me indeed find in myself such a kind of depending
upon him, as without him I found a weakness, and a mistrustfulness of
myself, as one stayed from his best strength, when at any time I
missed him. Which humour perceiving to over-rule me, I strove against
it: not that I was unwilling to depend upon him in judgment, but by
weakness I would not; which though it held me to him, made me unworthy
of him. Therefore I desired his leave and obtained it, such confidence
he had in me, preferring my reputation before his own tenderness, and
so privately went from him, he determining, as after I knew, in secret
manner, not to be far from the place where we appointed to meet, to
prevent any foul play that might be offered unto me. Full loth was
Erona to let us depart from her, as it were, fore-feeling the harms
which after fell to her. But I, rid fully from those cumbers of
kindness, and half a day’s journey in my way towards Anaxius, met an
adventure, which, though in itself of small importance, I will tell
you at large, because by the occasion thereof I was brought to as
great cumber and danger, as lightly any might escape.

“As I passed through a land, each side whereof was so bordered both
with high timber trees, and copses of far more humble growth, that it
might easily bring a solitary mind to look for no other companions
than the wild burgesses of the forest, I heard certain cries, which,
coming by pauses to mine ears from within the wood of the right hand,
made me well assured by the greatness of the cry, it was the voice of
a man, though it were a very unmanlike voice, so to cry. But making
mine ears my guide, I left not many trees behind me before I saw at
the bottom of one of them a gentleman, bound with many garters hand
and foot, so as well he might tumble and toss, but neither run nor
resist he could. Upon him, like so many eagles upon an ox, were nine
gentlewomen, truly such as one might well enough say, they were
handsome. Each of them held bodkins in their hands, wherewith
continually they pricked him, having been before hand unarmed of any
defence {218} from the waist upward, but only of his shirt: so as the
poor man wept and bled, cried and prayed while they sported themselves
in his pain, and delighted in his prayers as the arguments of their
victory.

“I was moved to compassion, and so much the more that he straight
called to me for succour, desiring me at least to kill him, to deliver
him from those tormentors. But before myself could resolve, much less
any other tell what I would resolve, there came in choleric haste
towards me about seven or eight knights, the foremost of which, willed
me to get away, and not to trouble the ladies while they were taking
their due revenge; but with so over-mastering a manner of pride, as
truly my heart could not brook it; and therefore, answering them, that
how I would have defended him from the ladies I knew not, but from
them I would, I began to combat first with him particularly, and after
his death with the others that had less good manners, jointly. But
such was the end of it, that I kept the field with the death of some,
and flight of others. Insomuch as the women, afraid, what angry
victory would bring forth, ran all away, saving only one, who was so
fleshed in malice that neither during, nor after the fight, she gave
any truce to her cruelty, but still used the little instrument of her
great spite, to the well-witnessed pain of the impatient patient: and
was now about to put out his eyes, which all this while were spared,
because they should do him the discomfort of seeing who prevailed over
him. When I came in, and after much ado brought her to some
conference, for some time it was before she would hearken, more before
she would speak, and most before she would in her speech leave off the
sharp remembrance of her bodkin, but at length when I pulled off my
head-piece, and humbly entreated her pardon, or knowledge why she was
cruel, out of breath more with choler, which increased in his own
exercise, than with the pain she took, much to this purpose, she gave
her grief unto my knowledge.

“‘Gentlemen,’ said she, ‘much it is against my will to forbear any
time the executing of my just revenge upon this naughty creature, a
man in nothing but in deceiving women. But because I see you are
young, and like enough to have the power, if you would have the mind,
to do much more mischief than he, I am content upon this bad subject
to read a lecture to your virtue. This man called Pamphilus, in birth
I must confess is noble, but what is that to him, if it shall be a
stain to his dead ancestors to have left such an offspring, in shape
as you see, not uncomely, indeed the fit mask of his disguised
falsehood, in conversation wittily pleasant, and pleasantly gamesome;
his eyes full of merry simplicity, his words, of hearty
companionableness: and such an {219} one, whose head one would not
think so stayed as to think mischievously; delighted in all such
things, which by imparting the delight to others, makes the user
thereof welcome, as, music, dancing, hunting, feasting, riding, and
such like. And to conclude, such an one, as who can keep him at
arm’s-end, need never wish a better companion. But under these
qualities lies such a poisonous adder, as I will tell you. For by
those gifts of nature and fortune, being in all places acceptable, he
creeps, nay, to say, truly, he flies so into the favour of poor silly
women, that I would be too much ashamed to confess, if I had not
revenge in my hand as well as shame in my cheeks. For his heart being
wholly delighted in deceiving us, we could never be warned, but rather
one bird caught, served for a stale to bring in more. For the more he
got, the more still he showed that he, as it were, gave way to his new
mistress when he betrayed his promises to the former. The cunning of
his flattery, the readiness of his tears, the infiniteness of his
vows, were but among the weakest threads of his net. But the stirring
our own passions, and by the entrance of them, to make himself lord of
our forces, there lay his master’s part of cunning, making us now
jealous, now envious, now proud of what he had, desirous of more; now
giving one the triumph, to see him that was prince of many, subject to
her; now with an estranged look, making her fear the loss of that
mind, which indeed could never be had: never ceasing humbleness and
diligence, till he had embarked us in some such disadvantage that we
could not return dry-shod; and then suddenly a tyrant, but a crafty
tyrant. For so would he use his imperiousness, that we had a
delightful fear, and an awe, which made us loth to lose our hope. And,
which is strangest, when sometimes with late repentance I think of it,
I must confess, even in the greatest tempest of my judgment was I
never driven to think him excellent; and yet so could set my mind,
both to get and keep him, as though therein had laid my felicity: like
them I have seen play at the ball, grow extremely earnest, who should
have the ball, and yet every one knew it was but a ball. But in the
end the bitter farce of the sport was, that we had either our hearts
broken with sorrow, or our estates spoiled with being at his
direction, or our honours for ever lost, partly by our own faults, but
principally by his faulty using of our faults. For never was there man
that could with more scornful eyes behold her at whose feet he had
lately lain, nor with a more unmanlike bravery use his tongue to her
disgrace, which lately had sung sonnets of her praises, being so
naturally inconstant, as I marvel his soul finds not some way to kill
his body, whereto it had been so long united. For so hath he dealt
with us, unhappy fools, as we could never tell whether he made greater
haste after he once liked, to enjoy, or after he once {220} enjoyed,
to forsake. But making a glory of his own shame, it delighted him to
be challenged of unkindness, it was a triumph to him to have his mercy
called for: and he thought the fresh colours of his beauty were
painted in nothing so well as in the ruins of his lovers: yet so far
had we engaged ourselves, unfortunate souls, that we listed not
complain, since our complaints could not but carry the greatest
occasion to ourselves. But every of us, each for herself, laboured all
means how to recover him, while he rather daily sent us companions of
our deceit, than ever returned in any sound and faithful manner. Till
at length he concluded all his wrongs with betrothing himself to one,
I must confess, worthy to be liked if any worthiness might excuse so
unworthy a changeableness, leaving us nothing but remorse for what was
past, and despair of what might follow. Then indeed the common injury
made us all join in fellowship, who till that time had employed our
endeavours one against the other, for we thought nothing was a more
condemning of us, than the justifying of his love to her by marriage:
then despair made fear valiant, and revenge gave shame countenance:
whereupon, we, that you saw here, devised how to get him among us
alone: which he, suspecting no such matter of them whom he had by
often abuses, he thought made tame to be still abused, easily gave us
opportunity to do.

“‘And a man may see, even in this, how soon rulers grow proud, and in
their pride foolish: he came with such an authority among us, as if
the planets had done enough for us, that by us once he had been
delighted. And when we began in courteous manner, one after the other,
to lay his unkindness unto him, he, seeing himself confronted by so
many, like a resolute orator, went not to denial, but to justify his
cruel falsehood, and all with such jests and disdainful passages, that
if the injury could not be made greater, yet were our conceits made
the apter to apprehend it.

“‘Among other of his answers, forsooth, I shall never forget, how he
would prove it was no inconstancy to change from one love to another,
but a great constancy, and contrary, that which we call constancy, to
be most changeable. “For,” said he, “I ever loved my delight, and
delighted always in what was lovely: and wheresoever, I found occasion
to obtain that, I constantly followed it. But these constant fools you
speak of, though their mistress grow by sickness foul, or by fortune
miserable, yet still will love her, and so commit the absurdest
inconstancy that may be, in changing their love from fairness to
foulness, and from loveliness to his contrary; like one not content to
leave a friend, but will straight give over himself, to his mortal
enemy: where I, whom you call inconstant, am ever constant to beauty,
in others, and delight myself.” And so in this jolly scoffing bravery
he went over us all, saying he {221} left one, because she was
over-wayward; another, because she was too soon won; a third, because
she was not merry enough; a fourth, because she was over gamesome; the
fifth, because she was grown with grief subject to sickness; the
sixth, because she was so foolish as to be jealous of him; the
seventh, because she had refused to carry a letter from him to another
that he loved; the eighth, because she was not secret; the ninth,
because she was not liberal: but to me, who am named Dido, and indeed
have met with a false Aeneas: to me I say, O the ungrateful villain,
he could find no other fault to object, but that, perdy, he met with
many fairer.

“‘But when he had thus played the careless prince, we, having those
servants of ours in readiness, whom you lately so manfully overcame,
laid hold of him, beginning at first but that trifling revenge, in
which you found us busy; but meaning afterwards to have mangled him so
as should have lost his credit for ever abusing more. But as you have
made my fellows fly away, so for my part the greatness of his wrong
overshadows, in my judgment, the greatness of any danger. For was it
not enough for him to have deceived me, and through the deceit abused
me, and after the abuse forsaken me, but that he must now, of all the
company, and before all the company, lay want of beauty to my charge?
many fairer, I trow even in your judgment, sir, if your eyes do not
beguile me, not many fairer; and I know, whosoever says the contrary,
there are not many fairer. And of whom should I receive this reproach,
but of him who hath best cause to know there are not many fairer? and
therefore howsoever my fellows pardon his injuries, for my part I will
ever remember, and remember to revenge his scorn of all scorns.’ With
that she to him afresh; and surely would have put out his eyes, who
lay mute for shame, it he did not sometimes cry for fear, if I had not
leapt from my horse and mingling force with entreaty, stayed her fury.

“But while I was persuading her to meekness, comes a number of his
friends, to whom he forthwith cried, that they should kill that woman,
that had thus betrayed and disgraced him. But then I was fain to
forsake the ensign under which I had before served, and to spend my
uttermost force in the protecting of the lady: which so well prevailed
for her, that in the end there was a faithful peace promised of all
sides. And so I leaving her in a place of security, as she thought,
went on my journey towards Anaxius, for whom I was forced to stay two
days in the appointed place, he disdaining to wait for me, till he
were sure I was there.

“I did patiently abide his angry pleasure, till about that space of
time he came, indeed, according to promise, alone: and that I may not
say too little, because he is wont to say too much, like a {222} man
whose courage is apt to climb over any danger. And as soon as ever he
came near me, in fit distance for his purpose, he with much fury, but
with fury skilfully guided, ran upon me, which I, in the best sort I
could, resisted, having kept myself ready for him, because I had
understood that he observed few compliments in matter of arms, but
such as a proud anger did indite unto him. And so, putting our horses
into a full career, we hit each other upon the head with our lances: I
think he felt my blow; for my part, I must confess, I never received
the like: but I think, though my senses were astonished, my mind
forced them to quicken themselves, because I had learned of him how
little favour he is wont to show in any matter of advantage. And
indeed he was turned and coming upon me with his sword drawn, both our
staves having been broken, at that encounter, but I was so ready to
answer him, that truly I know not who gave the first blow. But
whosoever gave the first, was quickly seconded by the second. And
indeed, excellentest lady, I must say true, for a time it was well
fought between us; he undoubtedly being of singular valour, I would
God, it were not abased by his too much loftiness: but as, by the
occasion of the combat, winning and losing ground, we changed places,
his horse, happened to come upon the point of the broken spear, which,
fallen to the ground, chanced to stand upward, so as it lightning upon
his heart the horse died. He driven to dismount, threatened, if I did
not the like, to do as much for my horse as fortune had done for his.
But whether for that, or because I would not be beholden to fortune
for any part of the victory, I descended. So began our foot-fight in
such sort, that we were well entered to blood on both sides, when
there comes by that inconstant Pamphilus, whom I had delivered, easy
to be known, for he was bare-faced, with a dozen armed men after him;
but before him he had Dido, that lady, who had most sharply punished
him, riding upon a palfrey, he following her with most unmanlike
cruelty, beating her with wands he had in his hand, she crying for
sense of pain, or hope of succour: which was so pitiful a sight unto
me, that it moved me to require Anaxius to defer our combat till
another day, and now to perform the duties of knighthood in helping
this distressed lady. But he that disdains to obey anything but his
passion, which he calls his mind, bid me leave off that thought; but
when he had killed me, he would then perhaps, go to her succour. But I
well finding the fight would be long between us, longing in my heart
to deliver the poor Dido, giving him so great a blow as somewhat
stayed him, to term it aright, I flatly ran away from him toward my
horse, who trotting after the company in mine armour I was put to some
pain, but that use made me nimble unto it. But as I followed my horse,
Anaxius followed me; but this proud heart did {223} so disdain that
exercise, that I quickly over-ran him, and overtaken my horse, being,
I must confess, ashamed to see a number of country folks, who happened
to pass thereby, who halloed and hooted after me, as at the arrantest
coward that ever showed his shoulders to his enemy. But when I had
leapt on my horse, with such speedy agility that they all cried, ‘O
see how fear gives him wings,’ I turned to Anaxius, and aloud promised
him to return thither again as soon as I had relieved the injured
lady. But he railing at me, with all the base words angry contempt
could indite; I said no more but ‘Anaxius assure thyself, I neither
fear thy force, nor thy opinion;’ and so using no weapon of a knight
at that time but my spurs, I ran in my knowledge after Pamphilus, but
in all their conceits from Anaxius, which as far as I could hear, I
might well hear testified with such laughters and games, that I was
some few times moved to turn back again.

“But the lady’s misery over-balanced my reputation, so that after her
I went, and with six hours’ hard riding, through so wild places, as it
was rather the cunning of my horse sometimes than of myself, so
rightly to hit the way, I overgat them a little before night, near to
an old ill-favoured castle, the place where I perceived they meant to
perform their unknightly errand. For there they began to strip her of
her clothes, when I came in among them, and running through the first
with a lance, the justness of the cause so enabled me against the
rest, false-hearted in their own wrong doing, that I had in as short
time almost as I had been fighting with only Anaxius, delivered her
from those injurious wretches, most of whom carried news to the other
world, that amongst men secret wrongs are not always left unpunished.
As for Pamphilus, he having once seen, and as it should seem,
remembered me, even from the beginning began to be in the rearward,
and before they had left fighting, he was too far off to give them
thanks for their pains. But when I had delivered to the lady a full
liberty, both in effect and in opinion, for some time it was before
she could assure herself she was out of their hands, who had laid so
vehement apprehensions of death upon her, she then told me, how as she
was returning towards her father’s, weakly accompanied, as too soon
trusting to the falsehood of reconcilement, Pamphilus had set upon her
and, killing those that were with her, carried herself by such force,
and with such manner as I had seen, to this place, where he meant in
cruel and shameful manner to kill her, in the sight of her own father,
to whom he had already sent word of it, that out of his castle window,
for this castle, she said, was his, he might have the prospect of his
only child’s destruction in my coming, whom, she said, he feared as
soon as he knew me by the armour, had not warranted her from that near
approaching cruelty. I was glad I had done so good a deed for a {224}
gentlewoman not unhandsome, whom before I had in like sort helped. But
the night beginning to persuade some retiring place, the gentlewoman,
even out of countenance before she began her speech, much after this
manner invited me to lodge that night with her father.

“‘Sir,’ said she, ‘how much I owe you, can be but abased by words,
since the life I have, I hold it now the second time, of you: and
therefore need not offer service unto you, but only to remember you,
that I am your servant: and I would my being so, might any way yield
any small contentment unto you. Now only I can but desire you to
harbour yourself this night in this castle, because the time requires
it, and in truth this country is very dangerous for murdering thieves,
to trust a sleeping life among them. And yet I must confess that as
the love I bear you makes me thus invite you, so the same love makes
me ashamed to bring you to a place where you shall be so, not spoken
by ceremony, but by truth, miserably entertained.’

“With that she told me, that though she spoke of her father, whom she
named Chremes, she would hide no truth from me; which was in sum, that
he was of all that region the man of greatest possessions and riches,
so was he either by nature, or an evil received opinion, given to
sparing in so unmeasurable sort, that he did not only bar himself from
the delightful, but almost from the necessary use thereof, scarcely
allowing himself fit sustenance of life, rather than he would spend of
those goods for whose sake only he seemed to joy in life. Which
extreme dealing, descending from himself upon her, had driven her to
put herself with a great lady of that country, by which occasion she
had stumbled upon such mischances as were little for the honour either
of her, or her family. But so wise had he showed himself therein, as
while he found his daughter maintained without his cost, he was
content to be deaf to any noise of infamy, which though it had wronged
her much more than she deserved, yet she could not deny but she was
driven thereby to receive more than decent favours. She concluded,
that there at least I should be free from injuries, and should be
assured to her-ward to abound as much in the true causes of welcomes,
as I should find wants of the effects thereof.

“I, who had acquainted myself to measure the delicacy of food and rest
by hunger and weariness, at that time well stored of both, did not
abide long entreaty, but went with her to the castle, which I found of
good strength, having a great moat round about it, the work of a noble
gentleman, of whose unthrifty son he had bought it; the bridge drawn
up, where we were fain to cry a good while before we could have
answer, and to dispute a good while before {225} answer would be
brought to acceptance. At length a willingness, rather than a joy to
receive his daughter whom he had lately seen so near death, and an
opinion brought into his head by course, because he heard himself
called father, rather than any kindness that he found in his own
heart, made him take us in; for my part by that time grown so weary of
such entertainment that no regard of myself, but only the importunity
of his daughter, made me enter. Where I was met with this Chremes, a
driveling old fellow, lean, shaking both of head and hands, already
half earth, and yet then most greedy of earth: who scarcely would give
me thanks for what I had done, for fear, I suppose, that thankfulness
might have an introduction of reward; but with a hollow voice, giving
me a false welcome, I might perceive in his eye to his daughter, that
it was hard to say whether the displeasure of her company did not
overweigh the pleasure of her own coming. But on he brought me into so
bare a house, that it was the picture of miserable happiness, and rich
beggary (served only by a company of rustical villains, full of sweat
and dust, not one of them other than a labourer) in sum, as he counted
it, profitable drudgery; and all preparations both for food and
lodging such as would make one detest niggardness, it is so sluttish a
vice. His talk of nothing but of his poverty, for fear, belike, lest I
should have proved a young borrower. In sum, such a man, as any enemy
would not wish him worse than to be himself. But there that night bid
I the burden of being a tedious guest to a loathsome host;
over-hearing him sometimes bitterly warn his daughter of bringing such
costly mates under his roof, which she grieved at, desired much to
know my name, I think partly of kindness, to remember who had done
something for her, and partly, because she assured herself I was such
a one as would make even his miser-mind contented with that he had
done. And accordingly, she demanded my name and estate, with such
earnestness, that I, whom love had not as then so robbed me of myself,
as to be other than I am, told her directly my name and condition:
whereof she was no more glad than her father, as I might well perceive
by some ill-favoured cheerfulness, which then first began to wrinkle
itself in his face.

“But the causes of their joys were far different; for as the shepherd
and the butcher both may look upon one sheep with pleasing conceits,
but the shepherd with mind to profit himself by preserving, the
butcher with killing him, so she rejoiced to find that mine own
benefits had made me to be her friend, who was a prince of such
greatness, and lovingly rejoiced. But his joy grew, as I to my danger
after perceived, by the occasion of the queen Artaxia’s setting my
head to sale for having slain her brother Tiridates, which being the
sum of an hundred thousand crowns, to {226} whosoever brought me alive
into her hands, that old wretch, who had over-lived all good nature,
though he had lying idly by him much more than that, yet above all
things loving money, for money’s own sake, determined to betray me, so
well deserving of him, for to have that which he was determined never
to use. And so knowing that the next morning I was resolved to go to
the place where I had left Anaxius, he sent in all speed to a captain
of a garrison near by, which though it belonged to the king of Iberia,
yet knowing the captain’s humour to delight so in riotous spending,
that he cared not how he came by the means to maintain it, doubted not
that to be half with him in the gain, he would play his quarter part
in the treason. And therefore that night agreeing of the fittest
places where they might surprise me in the morning, the old caitiff
was grown so ceremonious, that he would needs accompany me some miles
in my way, a sufficient token to me, if nature had made me apt to
suspect; since a churl’s courtesy rarely comes, but either for gain or
falsehood. But I suffered him to stumble into that point of good
manners: to which purpose he came out with all his clowns, horsed upon
such cart-jades, and so furnished, as in good faith I thought with
myself, if that were thrift, I wish none of my friends or subjects
ever to thrive. As for his daughter, the gentle Dido, she would also,
but in my conscience with a far better mind, prolong the time of
farewell, as long as he.

“And so we went on together: he so old in wickedness, that he could
look me in the face, and freely talk with me, whose life he had
already contracted for: till coming into the falling of a way which
led us into a place, of each side whereof men might easily keep
themselves undiscovered, I was encompassed suddenly by a great troop
of enemies, both of horse and foot, who willed me to yield myself to
the queen Artaxia. But they could not have used worse eloquence to
have persuaded my yielding than that; I knowing the little goodwill
Artaxia bare me. And therefore making necessity and justice my best
sword and shield, I used the other weapons I had as well as I could; I
am sure to the little ease of a good number, who trusting to their
number more than to their valour, and valuing money higher than
equity, felt that guiltiness is not always with ease oppressed. As for
Chremes, he withdrew himself, so gilding his wicked conceits with his
hope of gain, that he was content to be a beholder how I should be
taken to make his prey.

“But I was grown so weary that I supported myself more with anger than
strength, when the most excellent Musidorus came to my succour, who
having followed my trace as well as he could, after he found I had
left the fight with Anaxius, came to the niggard’s castle, where he
found all burned and spoiled by the {227} country people, who bare
mortal hatred to that covetous man, and now took the time when the
cattle was left almost without guard, to come in and leave monuments
of their malice therein: which Musidorus not staying either to
further, or impeach, came upon the spur after me, because with one
voice many told him, that if I were in his company, it was for no good
meant unto me, and in this extremity found me. But when I saw that
cousin of mine, methought my life was doubled, and where I before
thought of a noble death, I now thought of a noble victory. For who
can fear that hath Musidorus by him? who, what he did there for me,
how many he killed, not stranger for the number than for the strange
blows wherewith he sent them to a well-deserved death, might well
delight me to speak of, but I should so hold you too long in every
particular. But in truth, there if ever, and ever, if ever any man,
did Musidorus show himself second to none in able valour.

“Yet what the unmeasurable excess of their number would have done in
the end, I know not, but the trial thereof was cut off by the
chanceable coming thither of the king of Iberia, that same father of
the worthy Plangus, whom it hath pleased you sometimes to mention,
who, not yielding over to old age his country delights, especially of
hawking, was at that time following a merlin, brought to see this
injury offered unto us, and having great numbers of courtiers waiting
upon him, was straight known by the soldiers that assaulted us, to be
their king, and so most of them withdrew themselves.

“He, by his authority, knowing of the captain’s own constrained
confession, what was the motive of this mischievous practice;
misliking much such violence should be offered in his country to men
of our rank, but chiefly disdaining it should be done in respect of
his niece, whom, I must confess wrongfully, he hated, because he
interpreted that her brother and she had maintained his son Plangus
against him, caused the captain’s head presently to be stricken off,
and the old bad Chremes to be hanged, though truly for my part, I
earnestly laboured for his life, because I had eaten of his bread. But
one thing was notable for a conclusion of his miserable life, that
neither the death of his daughter, who, alas! poor gentlewoman, was by
chance slain among his clowns, while she over-boldly for her weak sex
sought to hold them from me, nor yet his own shameful end was so much
in his mouth as he was led to execution, as the loss of his goods, and
burning of his house which often, with more laughter than tears of the
hearers, he made pitiful exclamations upon.

“This justice thus done, and we delivered, the king indeed, in royal
sort invited us to his court, not far thence: in all point
entertaining us so, as truly I must ever acknowledge a beholdingness
{228} unto him; although the stream of it fell out not to be so sweet
as the spring. For after some days being there, curing ourselves of
such wounds as we had received, while I, causing diligent search to be
made for Anaxius, could learn nothing, but that he was gone out of the
country, boasting in every place how he had made me run away, we were
brought to receive the favour of acquaintance with the Queen
Andromana, whom the princess Pamela did in so lively colours describe
the last day, as still methinks the figure thereof possesseth mine
eyes, confirmed by the knowledge myself had.

“And therefore I shall need the less to make you know what kind of
woman she was; but this only, that first with the reins of affection,
and after with the very use of directing, she had made herself so
absolute a master of her husband’s mind, that a while he would not,
and after, he could not tell how to govern without being governed by
her: but finding an ease in not understanding, let loose his thoughts
wholly to pleasure, entrusting to her the entire conduct of all his
royal affairs. A thing that may luckily fall out to him that hath the
blessing to match with some heroical-minded lady. But in him it was
neither guided by wisdom, nor followed by fortune, but thereby was
slipped insensibly into such an estate that he lived at her indiscreet
discretion: all his subjects having by some years learned so to hope
for good, and fear of harm, only from her, that it should have needed
a stronger virtue than his to have unwound so deeply an entered vice.
So that either not striving, because he was contented, or contented
because he would not strive, he scarcely knew what was done in his own
chamber, but as it pleased her instruments to frame the relation.

“Now we being brought known unto her, the time that we spent in curing
some very dangerous wounds, after once we were acquainted, and
acquainted we were sooner than ourselves expected, she continually
almost haunted us, till, and it was not long a doing, we discovered a
most violent bent of affection, and that so strangely that we might
well see an evil mind in authority doth not only follow the sway of
the desires already within it, but frames to itself new desires, not
before thought of. For, with equal ardour she affected us both; and so
did her greatness disdain shamefacedness that she was content to
acknowledge it to both. For, having many times torn the veil of
modesty, it seemed, for a last delight, that she delighted in infamy,
which often she had used to her husband’s shame, filling all men’s
ears, but his, with his reproach; while he, hoodwinked with kindness,
least of all men knew who struck him. But her first decree was, by
setting forth her beauties, truly in nature not to be misliked, but as
much advanced to the eye as abased to the judgment by art, thereby to
{229} bring us, as willingly caught fishes, to bite at her bait. And
thereto had she that scutcheon of her desires supported by certain
badly diligent ministers, who often cloyed our ears with her praises,
and would needs teach us a way of felicity by seeking her favour. But
when she found that we were as deaf to them as dumb to her, then she
listed no longer stay in the suburbs of her foolish desires, but
directly entered upon them, making herself an impudent suitor,
authorizing herself very much with making us see that all favour and
power in that realm so depended upon her, as now, being in her hands,
we were either to keep or lose our liberty at her discretion; which
yet awhile she so tempered, as that we might rather suspect than she
threaten. But when our wounds grew so as that they gave us leave to
travel, and that she found we were purposed to use all means we could
to depart thence, she, with more and more importunateness, craved,
which in all good manners was either of us to be desired, or not
granted. Truly, most fair and every way excellent lady, you would have
wondered to have seen how before us she would confess the contention
in her own mind between that lovely, indeed most lovely brownness of
Musidorus’s face, and this colour of mine, which she, in the
deceivable style of affection would entitle beautiful: but her eyes
wandered like a glutton at a feast, from the one to the other; and how
her words would begin half of the sentence to Musidorus, and end the
other half to Pyrocles, not ashamed, seeing the friendship between us,
to desire either of us to be a mediator to the other, as if we should
have played one request at tennis between us: and often wishing that
she might be the angle where the lines of our friendship might meet,
and be the knot which might tie our hearts together. Which proceeding
of hers I do the more largely set before you, most dear lady, because
by the foil thereof, you may see the nobleness of my desire to you and
the warrantableness of your favour to me.”

At that Philoclea smiled with a little nod. “But,” said Pyrocles,
“when she perceived no hope by suit to prevail, then, persuaded by the
rage of affection, and encouraged by daring to do anything, she found
means to have us accused to the King, as though we went about some
practice to overthrow him in his own state, which, because of the
strange successes we had had in the kingdoms of Phrygia, Pontus and
Galatia, seemed not unlikely to him, who, but skimming anything that
came before him, was disciplined to leave the thorough-handling of all
to his gentle wife, who forthwith caused us to be put in prison,
having, while we slept, deprived us of our arms: a prison, indeed
injurious, because a prison, but else well testifying affection,
because in all respects as commodious as a prison might be: and indeed
so placed, as she might at all hours, {230} not seen by many, though
she cared not much how many had seen her, come unto us. Then fell she
to sauce her desires with threatenings, so that we were in a great
perplexity, restrained to so unworthy a bondage, and yet restrained by
love, which I cannot tell how, in noble minds, by a certain duty,
claims an answering. And how much that love might move us, so much,
and more that faultiness of her mind removed us; her beauty being
balanced by her shamelessness. But that which did, as it were, tie us
in a captivity, was, that to grant had been wickedly injurious to him
that had saved our lives; and to accuse a lady that loved us, of her
love unto us, we esteemed almost as dishonourable: and but by one of
those ways we saw no likelihood of going out of that place, where the
words would be injurious to your ears, which would express the manner
of her suit: while yet many times earnestness dyed her cheeks with the
colour of shamefacedness, and wanton languishing borrowed of her eyes
the down-cast look of modesty. But we in the meantime far from loving
her, and often assuring her that we would not so recompense her
husband’s saving of our lives; to such a ridiculous degree of trusting
her, she had brought him, that she caused him to send us word, that
upon our lives we should do whatsoever she commanded us: good man not
knowing any other but that all her pleasures were directed to the
preservation of his estate. But when that made us rather pity than
obey his folly, then fell she to servile entreating us, as though
force could have been the school of love, or that an honest courage
would not rather strive against, than yield to injury. All which yet
could not make us accuse her, though it made us almost pine away for
spite to lose any of our time in so troublesome an idleness.

“But while we were thus full of weariness of what was past, and doubt
of what was to follow, love, that I think in the course of my life
hath a sport sometimes to poison me with roses, sometimes to heal me
with wormwood, brought forth a remedy unto us: which though it helped
me out of that distress, alas, the conclusion was such that I must
ever while I live think it worse than a wreck so to have been
preserved. This king by his queen had a son of tender age, but of
great expectation, brought up in the hope of themselves, and already
acceptation of the inconstant people, as successor of his father’s
crown, whereof he was as worthy, considering his parts, as unworthy in
respect of the wrong was thereby done against the most noble Plangus,
whose great deserts now either forgotten, or ungratefully remembered;
all men set their sails with the favourable wind, which blew on the
fortune of this young prince, perchance not in their hearts, but
surely in their mouths, now giving Plangus, {231} who some years
before was their only champion, the poor comfort of calamity, pity.
This youth therefore accounted prince of that region, by name
Palladius, did with vehement affection love a young lady brought up in
his father’s court, called Zelmane, daughter to that mischievously
unhappy prince Plexirtus, of whom already I have, and sometimes must
make, but never honourable mention, left there by her father, because
of the intricate changeableness of his estate, he, by the mother’s
side, being half brother to this queen Andromana, and therefore the
willinger committing her to her care. But as love, alas! doth not
always reflect itself, so fell it out that this Zelmane, though truly
reason there was enough to love Palladius, yet could not ever persuade
her heart to yield thereunto: with that pain to Palladius, as they
feel that feel an unloved love. Yet loving indeed, and therefore
constant, he used still the intercession of diligence and faith, ever
hoping, because he would not put himself into that hell to be
hopeless: until the time of our being come, and captived there,
brought forth this end, which truly deserves of me a further degree of
sorrow than tears.

“Such was therein my ill destiny, that this young lady Zelmane, like
some unwisely liberal, that more delight to give presents than pay
debts, she chose, alas more the pity, rather to bestow her love, so
much undeserved as not desired, upon me, than to recompense him, whose
love, besides many other things, might seem, even in the court of
honour, justly to claim it of her. But so it was; alas that so it was!
whereby it came to pass, that as nothing doth more naturally follow
this cause than care to preserve, and benefit doth follow unfeigned
affection, she felt with me what I felt of my captivity, and straight
laboured to redress my pain, which was her pain; which she could do by
no better means than by using the help therein of Palladius, who, true
lover considering what, and not why, in all her commandments; and
indeed she concealing from him her affection, which she entitled,
compassion, immediately obeyed to employ his uttermost credit to
relieve us; which though as great as a beloved son with a mother,
faulty otherwise, but not hard-hearted toward him, yet it could not
prevail to procure us liberty. Wherefore he sought to have that by
practice which he could not by prayer. And so being allowed often to
visit us, for indeed our restraints were more or less, according as
the ague of her passion was either in the fit or intermission, he used
the opportunity of a fit time thus to deliver us.

“The time of the marrying that queen was, every year, by the extreme
love of her husband, and the serviceable love of the courtiers, made
notable by some public honours, which did, as it were, proclaim to the
world, how dear she was to that people. {232} Among other, none was
either more grateful to the beholders, or more noble in itself, than
jousts, both with sword and lance, maintained for seven nights
together; wherein that nation doth so excel, both for comeliness and
ableness, that from neighbour-countries they ordinarily come, some to
strive, some to learn, some to behold.

“This day it happened that divers famous knights came thither from the
court of Helen Queen of Corinth; a lady whom fame at that time was so
desirous to honour that she borrowed all men’s mouths to join with the
sound of her trumpet. For as her beauty hath won the prize from all
women that stand in degree of comparison, for as for the two sisters
of Arcadia, they are far beyond all conceit of comparison, so hath her
government been such as hath been no less beautiful to men’s judgments
than her beauty to the eyesight. For being brought by right of birth,
a woman, a young woman, a fair woman, to govern a people in nature
mutinously proud, and always before so used to hard governors, that
they knew not how to obey without the sword were drawn, could she for
some years so carry herself among them, that they found cause in the
delicacy of her sex, of admiration, not of contempt: and which was not
able, even in the time that many countries about her were full of
wars, which for old grudges to Corinth were thought still would
conclude there, yet so handled she the matter, that the threatened
ever smarted in the threateners; she using so strange, and yet so well
succeeding a temper that she made her people by peace warlike; her
courtiers by sports, learned; her ladies by love, chaste. For by
continual martial exercises without blood, she made them perfect in
that bloody art. Her sports were such as carried riches of knowledge
upon the stream of delight: and such the behaviour both of herself and
her ladies, as builded their chastity not upon waywardness, but choice
of worthiness: so as it seemed that court to have been the
marriage-place of love and virtue, and that herself was a Diana
apparelled in the garments of Venus. And this which fame only
delivered unto me, for yet I have never seen her, I am the willinger
to speak of to you, who, I know, know her better, being your near
neighbour, because you may see by her example, in herself wise, and of
others beloved, that neither folly is the cause of vehement love, nor
reproach the effect. For never, I think, was there any woman that with
more unremovable determination gave herself to the counsel of love,
after she had once set before her mind the worthiness of your cousin
Amphialus, and yet is neither her wisdom doubted of, nor honour
blemished. For, O God, what doth better become wisdom, than to discern
what is worthy the loving? what more agreeable to goodness, than to
love it so {233} discerned? and what to greatness of heart, than to be
constant in it once loved? but at that time that love of hers was not
so publicly known as the death of Philoxenus, and her search of
Amphialus hath made it: but then seemed to have such leisure to send
thither divers choice knights of her court, because they might bring
her, at least the knowledge, perchance the honour of that triumph.
Wherein so they behaved themselves, that for three days they carried
the prize; which being come from so far a place to disgrace her
servants, Palladius, who himself had never used arms, persuaded the
queen Andromana to be content for the honour sake of her court, to
suffer us two to have our horse and armour, that he with us might
undertake the recovery of their lost honour; which she granted, taking
our oath to go no further than her son, nor ever to abandon him. Which
she did not more for saving him, than keeping us: and yet not
satisfied with our oath, appointed a band of horsemen to have an eye
that we should not go beyond appointed limits. We were willing to
gratify the young prince, who, we saw, loved us. And so the fourth day
of that exercise we came into the field: where, I remember, the manner
was, that the forenoon they should run a tilt, one after the other;
the afternoon in a broad field in manner of a battle, till either the
strangers, or that country knights won the field.

“The first that ran was a brave knight, whose device was to come in
all chained, with a nymph leading him. Against him came forth an
Iberian, whose manner of entering was with bagpipes instead of
trumpets; a shepherd’s boy before him for a page, and by him a dozen
apparelled like shepherds for the fashion, though rich in stuff, who
carried his lances, which though strong to give a lancely blow indeed,
yet so were they coloured with hooks near the mourn, that they
prettily represented sheephooks. His own furniture was dressed over
with wool, so enriched with jewels artificially placed, that one would
have thought it a marriage between the lowest and the highest. His
impresa was a sheep marked with pitch, with those words, ‘Spotted to
be known.’ And because I may tell you out his conceit, though that
were not done, till the running of that time was ended, before the
ladies’ departure from the windows, among whom there was one, they
say, that was the Star whereby his course was only directed, the
shepherds attending upon Philisides went among them, and sang an
eclogue; one of them answering another, while the other shepherds
pulling out recorders, which possessed the place of pipes, accorded
their music to the others’ voice. The eclogue had great praise: I only
remember six verses, while having questioned one with the other of
their fellow-shepherd’s sudden growing a man of arms, and the cause of
his doing, they thus said:

{234}

 Me thought some staves he miss’d: if so, not much amiss;
 For where he most would hit, he ever yet did miss.
 One said he broke a cross; full well it so might be:
 For never was there man more crossly crossed than he.
 But most cried, ‘O well broke’; O fool full gaily blest:
 Where failing is a shame, and breaking is his best.

“Thus I have digressed, because his manner liked me well, but when he
began to run against Lelius, it had near grown, though great love had
ever been betwixt them, to a quarrel. For Philisides breaking his
staves with great commendation, Lelius, who was known to be second to
none in the perfection of that art, ran ever over his head, but so
finely to the skilful eyes, that one might well see he showed more
knowledge in missing, than others did in hitting. For if so gallant a
grace his staff came swimming close over the crest of the helmet, as
if he would represent the kiss, and not the stroke of Mars. But
Philisides was much moved with it, while he thought Lelius would show
a contempt of his youth: till Lelius, who therefore would satisfy him,
because he was his friend, made him know that to such bondage he was
for so many courses tied by her, whose disgraces to him were graced by
her excellency, and whose injuries he could never otherwise return,
than honours.

“But so by Lelius’s willing missing was the odds of the Iberian side,
and continued so in the next by the excellent running of a knight,
though fostered so by the Muses, as many times the very rustic people
left both their delights and profits to hearken to his songs, yet
could he so well perform all armed sports, as if he had never had any
other pen than a lance in his hand. He came in like a wild man, but
such a wildness as showed his eyesight had tamed him, full of withered
leaves, which though they fell not, still threatened falling. His
impresa was a mill-horse still bound to go in one circle; with those
words, ‘Data fata secutus.’ But after him the Corinthian knights
absolutely prevailed, especially a great nobleman of Corinth, whose
device was to come without any device, all in white like a new knight,
as indeed he was, but so new, as his newness shamed most of the
others’ long exercise. Then another, from whose tent I remember a bird
was made fly, with such art to carry a written embassage among the
ladies, that one might say, if a live bird, how so taught? if a dead
bird, how so made? then he, who hidden, man and horse in a great
figure lively representing the Phoenix, the fire took so artificially
as it consumed the bird, and left him to rise as it were, out of the
ashes thereof. Against whom was the fine frozen knight, frozen in
despair; but his armour so naturally representing ice, and all his
{235} furniture so lively answering thereto, as yet did I never see
anything that pleased me better.

“But the delight at those pleasing sights have carried me too far into
an unnecessary discourse. Let it then suffice, most excellent lady!
that you know, the Corinthians that morning in the exercise, as they
had done the days before, had the better; Palladius neither suffering
us nor himself, to take in hand the party till the afternoon, when we
were to fight in troops, not differing otherwise from earnest, but
that the sharpness of the weapons was taken away. But in the trial,
Palladius, especially led by Musidorus, and somewhat aided by me,
himself truly behaving himself nothing like a beginner, brought the
honour to rest itself that night on the Iberian side, and the next
day, both morning and afternoon being kept by our party. He, that saw
the time fit for the delivery he intended, called unto us to follow
him, which we both bound by oath, and willing by goodwill, obeyed, and
so the guard not daring to interrupt us, he commanding passage, we
went after him upon the spur, to a little house in a forest near by;
which he thought would be the fittest resting place, till we might go
further from his mother’s fury, whereat he was no less angry and
ashamed, than desirous to obey Zelmane.

“But his mother, as I learned since, understanding by the guard her
son’s conveying us away, forgetting her greatness, and resigning
modesty to more quiet thoughts, flew out from her place, and cried to
be accompanied, for she herself would follow us. But what she did,
being rather with vehemency of passion that conduct of reason, made
her stumble while she ran, and by her own confusion hinder her own
desires. For so impatiently she commanded, as a good while nobody knew
what she commanded, so as we had gotten so far the start, as to be
already past the confines of her kingdom before she overtook us: and
overtake us she did in the kingdom of Bithynia, not regarding shame,
or danger of having entered into another’s dominions, but, having with
her about threescore horsemen, straight commanded to take us alive,
and not to regard her son’s threatening therein, which they attempted
to do, first by speech, and then by force. But neither liking their
eloquence, nor fearing their might, we esteemed few words in a just
defence, able to resist many unjust assaulters. And so Musidorus’s
incredible valour, beating down all lets, made both me, and Palladius,
so good way, that we had little to do to overcome weak wrong.

“And now had we the victory in effect without blood, when Palladius,
heated with the fight, and angry with his mother’s fault, so pursued
our assailers, that one of them, who as I heard since, had before our
coming been a special minion of Andromana’s, and {236} hated us for
having dispossessed him of her heart, taking him to be one of us, with
a traitorous blow slew his young prince, who falling down before our
eyes, whom he especially had delivered; judge, sweetest lady, whether
anger might not be called justice in such a case: once, so it wrought
in us, that many of his subjects’ bodies we left there dead, to wait
on him more faithfully to the other world.

“All this while disdain, strengthened by the fury of a furious love,
made Andromana stay to the last of the combat; and when she saw us
light down to see what help we might do to the helpless Palladius, she
came running madly unto us, then no less threatening, when she had no
more power to hurt. But when she perceived it was her only son that
lay hurt, and that his hurt was so deadly, as that already his life
had lost the use of reasonable, and almost sensible part, then only
did misfortune lay his own ugliness upon her fault, and make her see
what she had done, and to what she was come; especially finding in us
rather detestation than pity, considering the loss of that young
prince, and resolution presently to depart, which still she laboured
to stay. But deprived of all comfort, with eyes full of death, she ran
to her son’s dagger, and before we were aware of it, who else would
have stayed it, struck herself a mortal wound. But then her love,
though not her person, awaked pity in us, and I went to her, while
Musidorus laboured about Palladius. But the wound was past the cure of
a better surgeon than myself, so as I could but receive some few of
her dying words, which were cursings of her ill-set affection, and
wishing unto me many crosses and mischances in my love, whensoever I
should love, wherein I fear, and only fear that her prayer is from
above granted. But the noise of this fight, and issue thereof being
blazed by the country people to some noblemen thereabouts; they came
thither, and finding the wrong offered us, let us go on our journey,
we having recommended those royal bodies unto them to be conveyed to
the king of Iberia.”

With that Philoclea seeing the tears stand in his eyes with
remembrance of Palladius, but much more of that which thereupon grew,
she would needs drink a kiss from those eyes, and he suck another from
her lips; whereat she blushed, and yet kissed him again to hide her
blushing, which had almost brought Pyrocles into another discourse,
but that she with so sweet a rigour forbade him, that he durst not
rebel, though he found it a great war to keep that peace, but was fain
to go on in his story; but so she absolutely bade him, and he durst
not know how to disobey.

“So,” said he, “parting from that place before the sun had much abased
himself of his greatest height, we saw sitting upon the dry sands,
which yielded, at that time, a very hot reflection, a fair {237}
gentlewoman, whose gesture accused her of much sorrow, and every way
showed she cared not what pain she put her body to, since the better
part, her mind, was laid under so much agony: and so was she dulled,
withal, that we could come so near as to hear her speeches, and yet
she not perceive the hearers of her lamentation. But well we might
understand her at times say, ‘Thou doest kill me with thy unkind
falsehood: and it grieves me not to die, but it grieves me that thou
art the murderer: neither doth mine own pain so much vex me, as thy
error. For God knows, it would not trouble me to be slain for thee,
but much it torments me to be slain by thee; thou art untrue,
Pamphilus, thou art untrue, and woe is me therefore. How oft did’st
thou swear unto me that the sun should lose his light, and the rocks
run up and down like little kids, before thou would’st falsify thy
faith to me? sun therefore put out thy shining, and rocks run mad for
sorrow; for Pamphilus is false. But alas! the sun keeps his light,
though thy faith be darkened; the rocks stand still, though thou
change like a weather-cock. O fool that I am, that thought I could
grasp water, and bind the wind. I might well have known thee by
others, but I would not; and rather wished to learn poison by drinking
it myself, while my love helped thy words to deceive me. Well, yet I
would thou had’st made a better choice when though did’st forsake thy
unfortunate Leucippe. But it is no matter, Baccha, thy new mistress,
will revenge my wrongs. But do not Baccha, let Pamphilus live happy,
though I die.’

“And much more to such like phrase she spoke, but that I, who had
occasion to know something of that Pamphilus, stepped to comfort her:
and though I could not do that, yet I got thus much knowledge of her,
that this being the same Leucippe, to whom the unconstant Pamphilus
had betrothed himself, which had moved the other ladies to such
indignation as I told you: neither her worthiness, which in truth was
great, nor his own suffering for her, which is wont to endear
affection, could fetter his fickleness, but that before his marriage
day appointed, he had taken to wife that Baccha, of whom she
complained, one that in divers places I had heard before placed, as
the most impudently unchaste woman of all Asia, and withal of such an
imperiousness therein, that she would not stick to employ them whom
she made unhappy with her favour, to draw more companions of their
folly: in the multitude of whom she did no less glory, than a captain
would do of being followed by brave soldiers: waywardly proud; and
therefore bold, because extremely faulty: and yet having no good thing
to redeem both these, and other unlovely parts, but a little beauty,
disgraced with wandering eyes, and unweighed speeches, yet had
Pamphilus, for her, left Leucippe, and withal, {238} left his faith;
Leucippe, of whom one look, in a clear judgment, would have been more
acceptable than all her kindnesses so prodigally bestowed. For myself,
the remembrance of his cruel handling Dido, joined to this, stirred me
to seek some revenge upon him, but that I thought it should be again
for him to lose his life, being so matched: and therefore, leaving him
to be punished by his own election, we conveyed Leucippe to a house
thereby, dedicated to Vestal nuns, where she resolved to spend all her
years, which her youth promised should be many, in bewailing the
wrong, and yet praying for the wrong-doer.

“But the next morning, we, having striven with the sun’s earliness,
were scarcely beyond the prospect of the high turrets of that
building, when there overtook us a young gentleman, for so he seemed
to us: but indeed, sweet lady, it was the fair Zelmane, Plexirtus’s
daughter, whom unconsulting affection, unfortunately born to me-wards,
had made borrow so much of her natural modesty, as to leave her more
decent raiments, and taking occasion of Andromana’s tumultuous
pursuing us, had apparelled herself like a page, with a pitiful
cruelty cutting off her golden hair, leaving nothing, but the short
curls, to cover that noble head, but that she wore upon it a fair
headpiece, a shield at her back, and a lance in her hand, else
disarmed. Her apparel of white, wrought upon with broken knots, her
horse, fair and lusty; which she rid so, as might show a fearful
boldness, daring to do that which she knew that she knew not how to
do: and the sweetness of her countenance did give such a grace to what
she did that it did make handsome the unhandsomeness, and make the eye
force the mind to believe that there was a praise in that
unskilfulness. But she straight approached me, and with few words,
which borrowed the help of her countenance to make themselves
understood, she desired me to accept her into my service, telling me
she was a nobleman’s son of Iberia, her name Diaphantus, who having
seen what I had done in that court, had stolen from her father, to
follow me. I enquired the particularities of the manner of Andromana’s
following me, which by her I understood, she hiding nothing but her
sex from me. And still methought I had seen that face, but the great
alteration of her fortune, made her far distant from my memory: but
liking very well the young gentleman, such I took her to be, admitted
this Diaphantus about me, who well showed there is no service like
his, that serves because he loves. For though born of princes’ blood,
brought up with tenderest education, unapt to service, because a
woman, and full of thoughts, because in a strange estate, yet love
enjoined such diligence, that no apprentice, no, no bondslave could
ever be by fear more ready at all commandments than that young {239}
princess was. How often, alas! did her eyes say unto me that they
loved? and yet, I not looking for such a matter, had not my conceit
open to understand them: how often would she come creeping to me,
between gladness to be near me, and fear to offend me? truly I
remember, that then I marvelled to see her receive my commandments
with sighs, and yet do them with cheerfulness: sometimes answering me
in such riddles, as then I thought a childish inexperience, but since
returning to my remembrance they have come more clear unto my
knowledge: and pardon me, only dear lady, that I use many words, for
her affection to me, deserves of me an affectionate speech.

“But in such sort did she serve me in that kingdom of Bithynia, for
two months space: in which time we brought to good end a cruel war
long maintained between the king of Bithynia and his brother. For my
excellent cousin, and I, dividing ourselves to either side, found
means, after some trial we had made of ourselves, to get such credit
with them, as we brought them to as great peace between themselves as
love toward us for having made the peace. Which done, we intended to
return through the kingdom of Galatia, called Thrace, to ease the care
of our father and mother, who, we were sure, first with the shipwreck,
and then with the other dangers we daily passed, should have little
rest in their thoughts till they saw us. But we were not entered into
that kingdom, when by the noise of a great fight we were guided to a
pleasant valley, which like one of those circuses, which in great
cities somewhere doth give a pleasant spectacle of running horses, so
of either side, stretching itself in a narrow length, was it hemmed in
by woody hills, as if indeed nature had meant therein to make a place
for beholders. And there we beheld one of the cruellest fights between
two knights that ever hath adorned the most martial story. So as I
must confess, a while we stood bewondered, another while delighted
with the rare beauty thereof; till seeing such streams of blood, as
threatened a drowning of life, we galloped toward them to part them.
But we were prevented by a dozen armed knights, or rather villains,
who using this time of their extreme feebleness, altogether set upon
them. But common danger broke off particular discord, so that, though
with a dying weakness, with a lively courage they resisted, and by our
help drove away, or slew those murdering attemptors: among whom we
happened to take alive the principal. But going to disarm those two
excellent knights, we found, with no less wonder to us than
astonishment to themselves, that they were the two valiant, and indeed
famous brothers, Tydeus and Telenor, whose adventure, as afterward we
made that ungracious wretch confess, had thus fallen out.

{240}

“After the noble prince Leonatus had by his father’s death, succeeded
in the kingdom of Galatia, he forgetting all former injuries, had
received that naughty Plexirtus into a strange degree of favour, his
goodness being as apt to be deceived, as the other’s craft was to
deceive; till by plain proof, finding that the ungrateful man went
about to poison him, yet would he not suffer his kindness to be
overcome, not by justice itself; but calling him to him, used words to
this purpose; ‘Plexirtus,’ said he, ‘this wickedness is found by thee;
no good deeds of mine have been able to keep it down in thee: all men
counsel me to take away thy life, likely to bring forth nothing but as
dangerous as wicked effects; but I cannot find it in my heart,
remembering what father’s son thou art: but since it is the violence
of ambition which perchance pulls thee from thine own judgment, I will
see whether the satisfying that, may quiet the ill-working of thy
spirits. Not far hence is the great city of Trebizond; which, with the
territory about it, anciently pertained unto this crown; now unjustly
possessed, and as unjustly abused by those who have neither title to
hold it, nor virtue to rule it. To the conquest of that for thyself I
will lend thee force, and give thee my right: go therefore, and, with
less unnaturalness glut thy ambition there; and that done, if it be
possible, learn virtue.’

“Plexirtus, mingling foresworn excuses with false-meant promises,
gladly embraced the offer: and hastily sending back for those two
brothers, who at that time were with us succouring the gracious queen
Erona, by their virtue chiefly, if not only, obtained the conquest of
that goodly dominion. Which indeed, done by them, gave them such an
authority, that though he reigned, they in effect ruled, most men
honouring them because they only deserved honour, and many thinking
therein to please Plexirtus, considering how much he was bound unto
them: while they likewise, with a certain sincere boldness of
self-warranting friendship, accepted all openly and plainly, thinking
nothing should ever by Plexirtus be thought too much in them, since
all they were was his.

“But he, who by the rules of his own mind, could construe no other end
of men’s doings but self-seeking, suddenly feared what they could do,
and as suddenly suspected what they would do, and as suddenly hated
them, as having both might and mind to do. But dreading their power,
standing so strongly in their own valour, and others’ affection, he
durst not take open way against them, and as hard it was to take a
secret, they being so continually followed by the best, and every way
ablest of that region: and therefore used this devilish slight which I
will tell you, not doubting, most wicked man, to turn their own
friendship toward him to {241} their own destruction. He, knowing that
they well knew there was no friendship between him and the new king of
Pontus, never since he succoured Leonatus, and us, to his overthrow,
gave them to understand, that of late there had passed secret defiance
between them, to meet privately at a place appointed. Which though not
so fit a thing for men of their greatness, yet was his honour so
engaged, as he could not go back. Yet feigning to find himself weak,
by some counterfeit infirmity, the day drawing near, he requested each
of them to go in his stead, making either of them swear to keep the
matter secret, even each from other, delivering the self-same
particularities to both; but that he told Tydeus, the king would meet
him in a blue armour; and Telenor that it was a black armour: and with
wicked subtlety, as if it had been so appointed, caused Tydeus to take
a black armour, and Telenor a blue; appointing them ways how to go, so
that he knew they should not meet till they came to the place
appointed, where each promised to keep silence, lest the king should
discover it was not Plexirtus; and there in a wait had he laid those
murderers, that who overlived the other should by them be dispatched:
he not daring trust no more than those with that enterprise, and yet
thinking them too few till themselves, by themselves, were weakened.

“This we learned chiefly by the chief of those way-beaters, after the
death of those two worthy brothers, whose love was no less than their
valour: but well we might find much thereof by their pitiful
lamentation, when they knew their mismeeting, and saw each other, in
despite of the surgery we could do unto them, striving who should run
fastest to the goal of death: each bewailing the other, and more dying
in the other, than in himself; cursing their own hands for doing, and
their breasts for not sooner suffering; detesting their
unfortunately-spent time in having served so ungrateful a tyrant, and
accusing their folly in having believed he could faithfully love, who
did not love faithfulness; wishing us to take heed how we placed our
goodwill upon any other ground than proof of virtue: since length of
acquaintance, mutual secrecies, nor heat of benefits could bind a
savage heart; no man being good to other, that is not good in himself.
Then, while any hope was, beseeching us to leave the care of him that
besought, and only look to the other. But when they found by
themselves, and us, no possibility, they desired to be joined; and so
embracing and craving that pardon each of other which they denied to
themselves, they gave us a most sorrowful spectacle of their death;
leaving few in the world behind them, their matches in anything, if
they had soon enough known the ground and limits of friendship. But
with woeful hearts we caused those bodies to {242} be conveyed to the
next town of Bithynia, where we learning thus much, as I have told
you, caused the wicked historian to conclude his story with his own
well-deserved death.

“But then, I must tell you, I found such woeful countenances in
Daiphantus, that I could not much marvel, finding them continue beyond
the first assault of pity, how the case of strangers, for further I
did not conceive, could so deeply pierce. But the truth indeed is,
that partly with the shame and sorrow she took of her father’s
faultiness, partly with the fear that the hate I conceived against
him, would utterly disgrace her in my opinion, whensoever I should
know her, so vehemently perplexed her, that her fair colour decayed,
and daily and hastily grew into the very extreme working of
sorrowfulness, which oft I sought to learn, and help. But she as
fearful as loving, still concealed it: and so decaying still more and
more in the excellency of her fairness, but that whatsoever weakness
took away, pity seemed to add: yet still she forced herself to wait on
me with such care and diligence, as might well show had been taught in
no other school but love.

“While we, returning again to embark ourselves for Greece, understood
that the mighty Otanes, brother to Barzanes, slain by Musidorus in the
battle of the six princes, had entered upon the kingdom of Pontus,
partly upon the pretences he had to the crown, but principally,
because he would revenge upon him whom he knew we loved, the loss of
his brother, thinking, as indeed he had cause, that wheresoever we
were, hearing of his extremity, we would come to relieve him; in spite
whereof he doubted not to prevail, not only upon the confidence of his
own virtue and power, but especially because he had in his company two
mighty giants, sons to a couple whom we slew in the same realm; they
having been absent at their father’s death, and now returned,
willingly entered into his service, hating more than he, both us and
that king of Pontus. We therefore with all speed went thitherward, but
by the way this fell out, which whensoever I remember without sorrow,
I must forget withal, all humanity.

“Poor Diaphantus fell extreme sick, yet would needs conquer the
delicacy of her constitution, and force herself to wait on me: till
one day going toward Pontus, we met one who in great haste went
seeking for Tydeus and Telenor, whose death as yet was not known unto
the messenger; who, being their servant, and knowing how dearly they
loved Plexirtus, brought them word, how since their departing,
Plexirtus was in present danger of a cruel death, if by the
valiantness of one of the best knights of the world, he were not
rescued: we enquired no further of the matter, being glad he should
now to his loss find what an unprofitable treason it had been unto
him, to dismember himself of two such friends, {243} and so let the
messenger part, not sticking to make him know his master’s destruction
by the falsehood of Plexirtus.

“But the grief of that, finding a body already brought to the last
degree of weakness, so overwhelmed the little remnant of the spirits
left in Daiphantus, that she fell suddenly into deadly swoonings;
never coming to herself, but that withal she returned to make most
pitiful lamentations; most strange unto us, because we were far from
guessing the ground thereof. But finding her sickness such as began to
print death in her eyes, we made all haste possible to convey her to
the next town: but before we could lay her on a bed, both we, and she
might find in herself, that the harbingers of over-hasty death had
prepared his lodging in that dainty body, which she undoubtedly
feeling, with a weak cheerfulness showed comfort therein, and then
desiring us both to come near her, and that nobody else might be
present; with pale, and yet, even in paleness, lovely lips: ‘Now or
never, and never indeed but now it is time for me,’ said she, ‘to
speak: and I thank death which gives me leave to discover that, the
suppressing whereof perchance hath been the sharpest spur that hath
hasted my race to this end. Know then my lords, and especially you my
lord and master Pyrocles, that your page Daiphantus is the unfortunate
Zelmane, who for your sake caused my, as unfortunate, lover and cousin
Palladius, to leave his father’s court, and consequently, both him and
my aunt, his mother, to lose their lives. For your sake myself have
become, of a princess, a page, and for your sake have put off the
apparel of a woman, and, if you judge not more mercifully, the
modesty.’ We were amazed at her speech, and then had, as it were, new
eyes given us to perceive that which before had been a present
stranger to our minds: for indeed forthwith we knew it to be the face
of Zelmane, whom before we had known in the court of Iberia. And
sorrow and pity laying her pain upon me, I comforted her the best I
could by the tenderness of goodwill, pretending indeed better hope
than I had of her recovery.

“But she that had inward ambassadors from the tyrant that shortly
would oppress her: ‘No, my dear master,’ said she, ‘I neither hope nor
desire to live. I know you would never have loved me,’ and with that
word she wept, ‘nor, alas! had it been reason you should, considering
many ways my unworthiness. It sufficeth me that the strange course I
have taken, shall to your remembrance witness my love; and yet this
breaking of my heart, before I would discover my pain will make you, I
hope, think that I was not altogether unmodest. Think of me so, dear
master, and that thought shall be my life;’ and with that
languishingly looking upon me; ‘and I pray you,’ said she, ‘even by
those dying eyes of {244} mine, which are only sorry to die because
they shall lose your sight, and by those polled locks of mine which,
while they were long, were the ornament of my sex, now in their short
curls, the testimony of my servitude, and by the service I have done
you, which God knows hath been full of love, think of me after my
death with kindness, though you cannot with love. And whensoever ye
shall make any other lady happy with your well-placed affection, if
you tell her my folly, I pray you speak of it, not with scorn, but
with pity.’ I assure you, dear princess, of my life (for how could it
be otherwise) her words and her manner, with the lively consideration
of her love, so pierced me, that though I had divers griefs before,
yet methought I never felt till then how much sorrow infeebleth all
resolution: for I could not choose but yield to the weakness of
abundant weeping; in truth with such grief, that I could willingly at
that time have changed lives with her.

“But when she saw my tears, ‘O God,’ said she, ‘how largely am I
recompensed for my losses? why then,’ said she, ‘I may take boldness
to make some requests unto you.’ I besought her to do, vowing the
performance, though my life were the price thereof. She showed great
joy. ‘The first,’ said she, ‘is this, that you will pardon my father
the displeasure you have justly received against him, and for this
once succour him out of the danger wherein he is: I hope he will
amend: and I pray you, whensoever you remember him to be the faulty
Plexirtus, remember withal that he is Zelmane’s father. The second is,
that when you come once into Greece, you will take unto yourself this
name, though unlucky, of Daiphantus, and vouchsafe to be called by it:
for so shall I be sure you shall have cause to remember me, and let it
please your noble cousin to be called Palladius, that I may do that
right to that poor prince, that his name yet may live upon the earth
in so excellent a person: and so between you, I trust sometimes your
unlucky page shall be, perhaps with a sigh, mentioned; lastly, let me
be buried here obscurely, not suffering my friends to know my fortune
(till, when you are safely returned to your own country) you cause my
bones to be conveyed thither, and, laid I beseech you, in some place
where yourself vouchsafe sometimes to resort.’ Alas! small petitions
for such a suitor; which yet she so earnestly craved that I was fain
to swear the accomplishment. And then kissing me, and often desiring
me not to condemn her of lightness, in mine arms, she delivered her
pure soul to the purest place, leaving me as full of agony as
kindness, pity, and sorrow could make an honest heart. For I must
confess for true, that if my stars had not only reserved me for you,
there else perhaps I might have loved, and, which had been most
strange, begun my love after death: whereof let it be the less marvel,
because somewhat {245} she did resemble you, though as far short of
your perfection as herself dying, was of herself flourishing: yet
something there was, which, when I saw a picture of yours, brought
again her figure into my remembrance, and made my heart as apt to
receive the wound, as the power of your beauty with unresistable force
to pierce.

“But we in woeful, and yet private, manner burying her, performed her
commandment: and then enquiring of her father’s estate, certainly
learned that he was presently to be succoured, or by death to pass the
need of succour. Therefore we determined to divide ourselves; I,
according to my vow, to help him, and Musidorus toward the king of
Pontus, who stood in no less need than immediate succour: and even
ready to depart one from the other, there came a messenger from him,
who after some enquiry found us, giving us to understand that he,
trusting upon us two, had appointed the combat between him and us,
against Otanes and the two giants. Now the day was so accorded, as it
was impossible for me both to succour Plexirtus, and be there, where
my honour was not only so far engaged, but, by the strange working of
unjust fortune, I was to leave the standing by Musidorus, whom better
than myself I loved, to go save him, whom for just causes, I hated.
But my promise given, and given to Zelmane, and to Zelmane dying,
prevailed more with me than my friendship to Musidorus, though
certainly I may affirm, nothing had so great rule in my thoughts as
that. But my promise carried me the easier, because Musidorus himself
would not suffer me to break it. And so with heavy minds, more careful
each of other’s success than of our own, we parted; I toward the
place, where I understood Plexirtus was prisoner to an ancient lord,
absolutely governing a goodly castle, with a large territory about it,
whereof he acknowledged no other sovereign but himself, whose hate to
Plexirtus grew for a kinsman of his whom he maliciously had murdered,
because in the time that he reigned in Galatia, he found him apt to
practice for the restoring of his virtuous brother Leonatus. This old
knight still thirsting for revenge, used as the way to it a policy,
which this occasion, I will tell you prepared for him. Plexirtus in
his youth had married Zelmane’s mother, who dying of that only
childbirth, he a widower and not yet a king, haunted the court of
Armenia, where, as he was cunning to win favour, he obtained great
good liking of Artaxia; which he pursued: till, being called home by
his father, he falsely got his father’s kingdom: and then neglected
his former love: till, thrown out of that by our means, before he was
deeply rooted in it, and by and by again placed in Trebizond,
understanding that Artaxia by her brother’s death was become queen of
Armenia, he was hotter {246} than ever in that pursuit, which being
understood by this old knight, he forged such a letter, as might be
written from Artaxia, entreating his present, but very private, repair
thither, giving him faithful promise of present marriage: a thing far
from her thought, having faithfully and publicly protested that she
would never marry any, but some such prince who would give sure proof
that by his means we were destroyed. But he no more witty to frame,
than blind to judge hopes, bit hastily at the bait, and in private
manner posted toward her, but by the way he was met by this knight,
far better accompanied, who quickly laid hold of him, and condemned
him to a death, cruel enough, if anything may be both cruel and just.
For he caused him to be kept in a miserable prison, till a day
appointed, at which time he would deliver him to be devoured by a
monstrous beast of most ugly shape, armed like a rhinoceros, as strong
as an elephant, as fierce as a lion, as nimble as a leopard, and as
cruel as a tiger; whom he having kept in a strong place, from the
first youth of it, now thought no fitter match than such a beastly
monster with a monstrous tyrant; proclaiming yet withal, that if any
so well loved him as to venture their lives against his beast for him,
if they overcame, he should be saved: not caring how many they were,
such confidence he had in that monstrous strength, but especially
hoping to entrap thereby the great courages of Tydeus and Telenor,
whom he no less hated, because they had been principal instruments of
the other’s power.

“I dare say, if Zelmane had known what danger I should have passed,
she would rather have let her father to perish, than me to have bidden
that adventure. But my word was past; and truly the hardness of the
enterprise was not so much a bit as a spur unto me, knowing well that
the journey of high honour lies not in plain ways. Therefore going
thither, and taking sufficient security that Plexirtus should be
delivered if I were victorious, I undertook the combat: and to make
short, excellent lady, and not to trouble your ears with recounting a
terrible matter, so was my weakness blessed from above that, without
dangerous wounds, I slew that monster, which hundreds durst not
attempt; to so great admiration of many, who from a safe place might
look on that there was order given, to have the fight both by
sculpture and picture, celebrated in most parts of Asia. And the old
nobleman so well liked me that he loved me; only bewailing my virtue
had been employed to save a worse monster than I killed: whom yet,
according to faith given, he delivered, and accompanied me to the
kingdom of Pontus, whither I would needs in all speed go, to see
whether it were possible for me, if perchance the day had been
delayed, to come to the combat: but that, before I came, had been thus
finished.

{247}

“The virtuous Leonatus understanding two so good friends of his were
to be in that danger, would perforce be one himself; where he did
valiantly, and so did the king of Pontus. But the truth is, that both
they being sore hurt, the incomparable Musidorus finished the combat
by the death of both the giants, and the taking of Otanes prisoner. To
whom as he gave his life, so he got a noble friend, for so he gave his
word to be, and he is well known to think himself greater in being
subject to that, than in the greatness of his principality.

“But thither, understanding of our being there, flocked great
multitudes of many great persons, and even of princes, especially
those whom we had made beholding unto us: as, the kings of Phrygia,
Bithynia, with those two hurt of Pontus and Galatia, and Otanes the
prisoner, by Musidorus set free; and thither came Plexirtus of
Trebizond, and Antiphilus then king of Lycia; with as many more great
princes, drawn either by our reputation, or by willingness to
acknowledge themselves obliged unto us for what we had done for the
others. So as in those parts of the world, I think, in many hundreds
of years there was not seen so royal an assembly, where nothing was
let pass to do us the highest honours; which such persons, who might
command both purses and inventions, could perform: all from all sides
bringing unto us right royal presents, which we, to avoid both
unkindness and importunity, liberally received; and not content
therewith, would needs accept as from us their crowns, and acknowledge
to hold them of us: with many other excessive honours, which would not
suffer the measure of this short leisure to describe unto you.

“But we quickly aweary thereof, hasted to Greece-ward, led thither
partly with the desire of our parents, but hastened principally
because I understood that Anaxius with open mouth of defamation had
gone thither to seek me, and was now come to Peloponnesus, where from
court to court he made enquiry of me, doing yet himself so noble deeds
as might hap to authorize an ill opinion of me. We therefore suffered
but short delays, desiring to take this country in our way, so
renowned over the world that no prince could pretend height, nor
beggar lowness, to bar him from the sound thereof: renowned indeed,
not so much for the ancient praises attributed thereunto, as for the
having in it Argalus and Amphialus, two knights of such rare prowess,
as we desired especially to know, and yet by far, not so much for
that, as without suffering of comparison for the beauty of you and
your sister, which makes all indifferent judges that speak thereof,
account this country as a temple of deities. But those causes indeed
moving us to come by this land, we embarked ourselves in the next
port, whither all those princes (saving Antiphilus, who {248}
returned, as he pretended, not able to tarry longer from Erona)
conveyed us. And there found we a ship most royally furnished by
Plexirtus, who had made all things so proper, as well for our defence,
as ease, that all the other princes greatly commended him for it, who
seeming a quite altered man, had nothing but repentance in his eyes,
friendship in his gesture, and virtue in his mouth: so that we, who
had promised the sweet Zelmane to pardon him, now not only forgave,
but began to favour, persuading ourselves with a youthful credulity
that perchance things were not so evil as we took them, and as it
were, desiring our own memory that it might be so. But so were we
licensed from those princes, truly not without tears, especially of
the virtuous Leonatus, who with the king of Pontus would have come
with us, but that we, in respect of the one’s young wife, and both
their new settled kingdoms, would not suffer it. Then would they have
sent whole fleets to guard us; but we that desired to pass secretly
into Greece, made them leave that motion when they found that more
ships than one would be displeasing unto us. But so committing
ourselves unto the uncertain discretion of the wind, we (then
determining as soon as we came to Greece to take the names of
Daiphantus and Palladius, as well for our own promises to Zelmane, as
because we desired to come unknown into Greece) left the Asian shore
full of princely persons, who even upon their knees recommended our
safeties to the devotion of their chief desires, among whom none had
been so officious, though I dare affirm, all quite contrary to his
unfaithfulness, as Plexirtus.

“And so having failed almost two days, looking for nothing, but when
we might look upon the land, a grave man, whom we had seen of great
trust with Plexirtus, and was sent as our principal guide, came unto
us, and with a certain kind manner mixed with shame, and repentance,
began to tell us that he had taken such a love unto us, considering
our youth and fame, that though he were a servant, and a servant of
such trust about Plexirtus, as that he had committed unto him even
those secrets of his heart, which abhorred all other knowledge, yet he
rather chose to reveal at this time a most pernicious counsel, than by
concealing it bring to ruin those whom he could not choose but honour.
So went he on, and told us, that Plexirtus (in hope thereby to have
Artaxia, endowed with the great kingdom of Armenia, to his wife) had
given him order, when we were near Greece, to find some opportunity to
murder us, bidding him to take us asleep, because he had seen what we
could do waking. ‘Now, Sirs,’ said he, ‘I would rather a thousand
times lose my life than have my remembrance, while I live, poisoned
with such a mischief: and therefore if it were only I, that knew
herein the king’s order, then should my disobedience {249} be a
warrant of your safety. But to one more,’ said he, ‘namely the captain
of the ship, Plexirtus hath opened so much touching the effect of
murdering you, though I think laying the cause rather upon an old
grudge, than his hope of Artaxia. And myself, before the consideration
of your excellencies had drawn love and pity into my mind, imparted it
to such, as I thought fittest for such a mischief: therefore I wish
you to stand upon your guard, assuring you that what I can do for your
safety, you shall see, if it come to the push, by me performed.’ We
thanked him, as the matter indeed deserved, and from that time would
no more disarm ourselves, nor the one sleep without his friend’s eyes
waked for him; so that it delayed the going forward of their bad
enterprise, while they thought it rather chance, than providence,
which made us so behave ourselves.

“But when we came within half a day’s sailing of the shore, so that
they saw it was speedily, or not at all to be done; then, and I
remember it was about the first watch in the night, came the captain
and whispered the counsellor in the ear: but he, as it would seem,
dissuaded him from it: the captain, who had been a pirate from his
youth, and often blooded in it, with a loud voice swore that if
Plexirtus bade him, he would not stick to kill God himself. And
therewith called his mates, and in the King’s name willed them to take
us alive or dead, encouraging them with the spoil of us, which he
said, and indeed was true, would yield many exceeding rich jewels. But
the counsellor, according to his promise, commanded them they should
not commit such a villainy, protesting that he would stand between
them and the king’s anger therein. Wherewith the captain enraged:
‘Nay,’ said he, ‘then we must begin with this traitor himself,’ and
therewith gave him a sore blow upon the head, who honestly did the
best he could to revenge himself.

“But then we knew it time rather to encounter, than wait for mischief.
And so against the captain we went, who straight was environed with
most part of the soldiers and mariners. And yet the truth is, there
were some, whom either the authority of the counsellor, doubt of the
king’s mind, or liking of us, made draw their swords of our side, so
that quickly it grew a most confused fight. For the narrowness of the
place, the darkness of time, and the uncertainty in such a tumult how
to know friends from foes, made the rage of the swords rather guide
than be guided by their masters. For my cousin and me, truly I think
we never performed less in any place, doing no other hurt than the
defence of ourselves, and succouring them who came, for it, drove us
to: for not discerning perfectly, who were for, or against us, we
thought it less evil to spare a foe, than spoil a friend. But from the
highest {250} to the lowest part of the ship there was no place left,
without cries of murdering, and murdered persons. The captain I
happened a while to fight withal, but was driven to part with him by
hearing the cry of the counsellor, who received a mortal wound,
mistaken of one of his own side.

“Some of the wiser would call to parley, and wish peace: but while the
words of peace were in their mouths, some of their evil auditors gave
them death for their hire. So that no man almost could conceive hope
of living, but by being last alive: and therefore every one was
willing to make himself room, by dispatching almost any other: so that
the great number in the ship was reduced to exceeding few, when of
those few the most part weary of those troubles, leapt into the boat,
which was fast to the ship; but while they that were first were
cutting off the rope that tied it, others came leaping in so
disorderly that they drowned both the boat and themselves.

“But while even in that little remnant, like the children of Cadmus,
we continued still to slay one another, a fire, which, whether by the
desperate malice of some, or intention to separate, or accidentally,
while all things were cast up and down, it should seem had taken a
good while before, but never heeded of us; who only thought to
preserve or revenge, now violently burst out in many places and began
to master the principal parts of the ship. Then necessity made us see,
that a common enemy sets one at a civil war: for that little all we
are, as if we had been waged by some man to quench a fire, straight
went to resist that furious enemy by all art and labour: but it was
too late, for already it did embrace and devour from the stern to the
waist of the ship: so as labouring in vain, we were driven to get up
to the prow of the ship, by the work of nature seeking to preserve
life as long as we could; while truly it was a strange and ugly sight
to see so huge a fire, as it quickly grew to be in the sea; and in the
night, as if it had come to light as to death. And by and by it had
burned off the mast, which all this while had proudly borne the sail,
the wind, as might seem, delighted to carry fire and blood in his
mouth, but now it fell overboard, and the fire growing nearer us, it
was not only terrible in respect of what we were to attend, but
insupportable through the heat of it.

“So that we were constrained to bide it no longer, but disarming and
stripping ourselves, and laying ourselves upon such things as we
thought might help our swimming to the land, too far for our strength
to bear us, my cousin and I threw ourselves into the sea. But I had
swam a very little way when I felt, by reason of a wound I had, that I
should not be able to abide the travel: and therefore seeing the mast,
whose tackling had been burnt off, float {251} clear from the ship, I
swam unto it, and getting on it, I found mine own sword, which by
chance, when I threw it away, caught by a piece of canvas, had hung to
the mast. I was glad because I loved it well, but gladder, when I saw
at the other end the captain of the ship, and of all this mischief,
who having a long pike, belike had borne himself up with that till he
had set himself upon the mast. But when I perceived him, ‘Villain,’
said I, ‘dost thou think to over-live so many honest men whom thy
falsehood hath brought to destruction?’ with that bestriding the mast,
I got by little and little towards him after such a manner as boys are
wont, if ever you saw that sport, when they ride the wild mare. And he
perceiving my intention, like a fellow that had much more courage than
honesty, set himself to resist: but I had in short space gotten within
him, and, giving him a sound blow, sent him to feed fishes. But there
myself remained, until by pirates I was taken up, and among them again
taken prisoner, and brought into Laconia.”

“But what,” said Philoclea, “became of your cousin Musidorus?” “Lost,”
said Pyrocles. “Ah, my Pyrocles,” said Philoclea, “I am glad I have
taken you. I perceive you lovers do not always say truly: as though I
knew not your cousin Dorus the shepherd?” “Life of my desires,” said
Pyrocles, “what is mine, even to my soul, is yours, but the secret of
my friend is not mine. But if you know so much, then I may truly say,
he is lost since he is no more his own. But I perceive your noble
sister and you are great friends, and well doth it become you so to
be.” “But go forward, dear Pyrocles, I long to hear out till your
meeting me: for there to me-ward is the best part of your story.” “Ah
sweet Philoclea,” said Pyrocles, “do you think I can think so precious
leisure as this well spent in talking? are your eyes a fit book, think
you, to read a tale upon? is my love quiet enough to be an historian?
dear princess, be gracious unto me.” And then he fain would have
remembered to have forgot himself. But she with a sweetly disobeying
grace, desired him that her desire once for ever might serve, that no
spot might disgrace that love which shortly she hoped should be to the
world warrantable. Fain he would not have heard, till she threatened
anger; and then the poor lover durst not, because he durst not. “Nay,
I pray thee, dear Pyrocles,” said she, “let me have my story.” “Sweet
princess,” said he, “give my thoughts a little respite: and if it
please you, since this time must be so spoiled, yet it shall suffer
the less harm if you vouchsafe to bestow your voice, and let me know
how the good queen Erona was betrayed into such danger, and why
Plangus sought me. For indeed I should pity greatly any mischance
fallen to that princess.” “I will,” said Philoclea, smiling, “so you
{252} give me your word your hands shall be quiet auditors.” “They
shall,” said he, “because subject.”

Then began she to speak, but with so pretty and delightful a majesty,
when she set her countenance to tell the matter, that Pyrocles could
not choose but rebel so far as to kiss her. She would have pulled her
head away, and spoke, but while she spoke, he kissed, and it seemed he
fed upon her words; but she got away. “How will you have your
discourse,” said she, “without you let my lips alone?” He yielded, and
took her hand. “On this,” said he, “will I revenge my wrong;” and so
began to make much of that hand, when her tale, and his delight were
interrupted by Miso, who taking her time, while Basilius’s back was
turned, came unto them, and told Philoclea, she deserved she knew what
for leaving her mother, being evil at ease, to keep company with
strangers. But Philoclea telling her that she was there by her
father’s commandment, she went away muttering that though her back and
her shoulders and her neck were broken, yet as long as her tongue
would wag, it should do her errand to her mother; and so went up to
Gynecia, who was at that time miserably vexed with this manner of
dream. It seemed unto her to be in a place full of thorns, which so
molested her that she could neither abide standing still, nor tread
safely going forward. In this case she thought Zelmane being upon a
fair hill, delightful to the eye, and easy in appearance, called her
thither, whither with such anguish being come, Zelmane was vanished
and she found nothing but a dead body like unto her husband, which
seeming at the first with a strange smell to infect her, as she was
ready likewise within a while to die; the dead body, she thought, took
her in his arms, and said, “Gynecia, leave all, for here is thy only
rest.”

With that she awaked, crying very loud, “Zelmane, Zelmane.”

But remembering herself, and seeing Basilius by (her guilty conscience
more suspecting than being suspected) she turned her call, and called
for Philoclea. Miso forthwith like a valiant shrew, looking at
Basilius, as though she would speak though she died for it, told
Gynecia that her daughter had been a whole hour together in secret
talk with Zelmane. “And,” said she, “for my part I could not be heard,
your daughters are brought up in such awe, though I told her of your
pleasure sufficiently.” Gynecia as if she had heard her last doom
pronounced against her, with a side look and changed countenance, “O
my lord,” said she, “what mean you to suffer those young folks
together?” Basilius, that aimed nothing at the mark of her suspicion,
smiling, took her in his arms: “Sweet wife,” said he, “I thank you for
your care of your child; but they must be youths of other metal than
Zelmane that can endanger her.” “O but----,” cried Gynecia, and
therewith {253} she stayed, for then indeed she did suffer a right
conflict betwixt the force of love, and rage of jealousy. Many times
was she about to satisfy the spite of her mind, and tell Basilius how
she knew Zelmane to be far otherwise than the outward appearance. But
those many times were all put back by the manifold objections of her
vehement love. Fain she would have barred her daughter’s hap, but loth
she was to cut off her own hope. But now, as if her life had been set
upon a wager of quick rising, as weak as she was, she got up; though
Basilius (with a kindness flowing only from the fountain of
unkindness, being indeed desirous to win his daughter as much time as
might be) was loth to suffer it, swearing he saw sickness in her face,
and therefore was loth she should adventure the air.

But the great and wretched lady Gynecia, possessed with those devils
of love and jealousy, did rid herself from her tedious husband: and
taking nobody with her, going toward them; “O jealousy,” said she,
“the frenzy of wise folks, the well-wishing spite, and unkind
carefulness, the self-punishment for other’s faults, and self-misery
in other’s happiness, the cousin of envy, daughter of love, and mother
of hate, how could’st thou so quietly get thee a seat in the unquiet
heart of Gynecia! Gynecia,” said she sighing, “thought wise and once
virtuous! alas! it is thy breeder’s power which plants thee there: it
is the flaming agony of affection, that works the chilling access of
thy fever, in such sort, that nature gives place; the growing of my
daughter seems the decay of myself; the blessings of a mother turn to
the curses of a competitor; and the fair face of Philoclea appears
more horrible in my sight than the image of death.” Then remembered
she this song, which she thought took a right measure of her present
mind.

 With two strange fires of equal heat possessed,
  The one of love, the other of jealousy,
 Both still do work, in neither I find rest:
  For both, alas, their strength together tie:
 The one aloft doth hold, the other high.
   Love wakes the jealous eye, lest thence it moves:
   The jealous eye, the more it looks it loves.

 Those fires increase; in those I daily burn,
  They feed on me, and with my wings do fly:
 My lovely joys to doleful ashes turn:
  Their flames mount up, my prayers prostrate lie;
 They live in force; I quite consumed die.
   One wonder yet far passes my conceit,
   The fuel small; how be the fires so great?

{254}

But her unleisured thoughts ran not over the ten first words; but
going with a pace not so much too fast for her body, as slow for her
mind, she found them together, who after Miso’s departure had left
their tale, and determined what to say to Basilius. But full abashed
was poor Philoclea, whose conscience now began to know cause of
blushing, for first salutation, receiving an eye from her mother, full