IN these pastoral pastimes a great number of days were sent to follow their flying predecessors, while the cup of poison, which was deeply tasted of all this noble company, had left no sinew of theirs without mortally searching into it; yet never manifesting his venomous work till once that, having drawn out the evening to his longest line, no sooner had the night given place to the breaking out of the morning’s light and the sun bestowed his beams upon the tops of the mountains but that the woeful Gynecia (to whom rest was no ease) had left her loathed lodging and gotten herself into the solitary places those deserts were full of, going up and down with such unquiet motions as the grieved and hopeless mind is wont to bring forth. There appeared unto the eyes of her judgement the evils she was like to run into, with ugly infamy waiting upon them; she saw the terrors of her own conscience; she was witness of her long-exercised virtue, which made this vice the fuller of deformity.
The uttermost of the good she could aspire unto was but a fountain of danger; and the least of her dangers was a mortal wound to her vexed spirits; and lastly, no small part of her evils was that she was wise to see her evils. Insomuch that, having a great while cast her countenance ghastly about her, as if she had called all the powers of the whole world to be witness of her wretched estate, at length casting up her watery eyes to heaven: ‘O sun,’ said she, ‘whose unspotted light directs the steps of mortal mankind, art thou not ashamed to impart the clearness of thy presence to such an overthrown worm as I am? O you heavens, which continually keep the course allotted unto you, can none of your influences prevail so much upon the miserable Gynecia as to make her preserve a course so long embraced by her? O deserts, deserts, how fit a guest am I for you, since my heart is fuller of wild ravenous beasts than ever you were! O virtue, how well I see thou wert never but a vain name and no essential thing, which hast thus left thy professed servant when she had most need of thy lovely presence! O imperfect proportion of reason, which can too much foresee, and so little prevent! Alas, alas,’ said she, ‘if there were but one hope for all my pains, or but one excuse for all my faultiness! But, wretch that I am, my torment is beyond all succour, and my ill-deserving doth exceed my ill fortune. For nothing else did my husband take this strange resolution to live so solitary, for nothing else have the winds delivered this strange guest to my country, for nothing else have the destinies reserved my life to this time, but that only I, most wretched I, should become a plague to myself, and a shame to womankind.
Yet if my desire, how unjust so ever it be, might take effect, though a thousand deaths followed it, and every death were followed with a thousand shames, yet should not my sepulchre receive me without some contentment. But alas, sure I am not that Cleophila is such as can answer my love. And if she be, how can I think she will, since this disguising must needs come for some foretaken conceit? And either way, wretched Gynecia, where canst thou find any small ground-plot for hope to dwell upon? No, no, it is Philoclea his heart is set upon (if he be a he); it is my daughter which I have borne to supplant me. But if it be so, the life I have given thee, ungrateful Philoclea, I will sooner with these hands bereave thee of than my birth shall glory she hath bereaved me of my desires. In shame there is no comfort but to be beyond all bounds of shame.’
Having spoken this, she began to make a piteous war with her
fair hair when she might hear not far from her an extremely doleful voice, but so suppressed with a kind of whispering note that she could not conceive the words distinctly. But as a lamentable tune is the sweetest music to a woeful mind, she drew thither near away in hope to find some companion of her misery. And as she paced on, she was stopped with a number of trees so thickly placed together that she was afraid she should with rushing through stop the speech of the lamentable party, which she was so desirous to understand.
And therefore, sitting her down as softly as she could (for she was now in distance to hear), she might first perceive a lute, excellently well played upon, and then the same doleful voice accompanying it with these few verses:
In vain, mine eyes, you labour to amend
With flowing tears your fault of hasty sight;
Since to my heart her shape you so did send
That her I see, though you did lose your light.
In vain, my heart, now you with sight are burned.
With sighs you seek to cool your hot desire;
Since sighs (into mine inward furnace turned)
For bellows serve to kindle more the fire.
Reason in vain (now you have lost my heart)
My head you seek, as to your strongest fort;
Since there mine eyes have played so false a part
That to your strength your foes have sure resort.
And since in vain I find were all my strife,
To this strange death I vainly yield my life.
The ending of the song served but for a beginning of new plaints; as if the mind, oppressed with too heavy a burden of cares, was fain to discharge itself in all manners, and as it were paint out the hideousness of the pain in all sorts of colours. For the woeful person, as if the lute had ill joined to the voice, threw it down to the ground with suchlike words: ‘Alas, poor lute, how much thou art deceived to think that in my miseries thou couldst ease my woes, as in my careless times thou wert wont to please my fancies! The time is changed, my lute, the time is changed; and no more did my joyful mind then receive everything to a joyful consideration than my careful mind now makes each thing taste like the bitter juice of care.
The evil is inward, my lute, the evil is inward; which all thou dost doth serve but to make me think more freely of; and the more I think, the more cause I find of thinking, but less of hoping. The discord of my thoughts, my lute, doth ill agree to the concord of thy sweet strings; therefore, be not ashamed to leave thy master, since he is not afraid to forsake himself.’
And thus much spoken, instead of a conclusion, was closed up
with so hearty a groaning that Gynecia could not refrain to show herself, thinking such griefs could serve fitly for nothing but her own fortune. But as she came into the little arbour of this sorrowful music, her eyes met with the eyes of Cleophila (which was the party that thus had witnessed her sorrow), so that either of them remained confused with a sudden astonishment, Cleophila fearing lest she had heard some part of those sorrows which she had risen up that morning early of purpose to breathe out in secret to herself.
But Gynecia a great while stood still, with a kind of dull amazement, looking steadfastly upon her. At length returning to some use of herself, she began to say to Cleophila that she was sorry she would venture herself to leave her rest, being not altogether healed of her hurt. But as if the opening of her mouth to Cleophila had opened some great flood-gap of sorrow, whereof her heart could not bear the violent issue, she sank to the ground with her hands over her face, crying vehemently: ‘Cleophila, help me! O Cleophila, have pity of me!’
Cleophila ran to her, marvelling what sudden sickness had thus possessed her; and beginning to ask her the cause of her sorrow, and offering her service to be employed by her, Gynecia opening her eyes wildly upon her, pricked with the flames of love and the torments of her own conscience: ‘O Cleophila, Cleophila,’ said she, ‘dost thou offer me physic which art my only poison, or wilt thou do me service which hast already brought me into eternal slavery?’
Cleophila yet more marvelling, and thinking some extreme pain did make her rave, ‘Most excellent lady,’ said she, ‘you were best to retire yourself into your lodging that you the better may pass over this sudden fit.’
‘Retire myself,’ said Gynecia, ‘if I had retired myself into myself when thou (to me unfortunate guest) earnest to draw me from myself, blessed had I been, and no need had I had of thy counsel.
But now, alas, I am forced to fly to thee for succour whom I accuse of all my hurt; and make thee judge of my cause who art the only author of my mischief.’
Cleophila, yet more astonished, ‘Madam,’ said she, ‘whereof do you accuse me that I will not clear myself; or wherein may I stead you that you may not command me?’
‘Alas,’ answered Gynecia, ‘what shall I say more? Take pity of me, O Cleophila, but not as Cleophila, and disguise not with me in words, as I know thou dost in apparel.’
Cleophila was stricken even dead with that word, finding herself discovered. But as she was amazedly thinking what to answer her, they might see old Basilius pass hard by them, without ever seeing them, complaining likewise of love very freshly, and ending his complaint with this song, love having renewed both his invention and voice:
Let not old age disgrace my high desire,
O heav’nly soul in human shape contained.
Old wood inflamed doth yield the bravest fire,
When younger doth in smoke his virtue spend.
Ne let white hairs (which on my face do grow)
Seem to your eyes of a disgraceful hue;
Since whiteness doth present the sweetest show,
Which makes all eyes do honour unto you.
Old age is wise and full of constant truth;
Old age well stayed from ranging humour lives;
Old age hath known whatever was in youth;
Old age o’ercome, the greater honour gives.
And to old age since you yourself aspire,
Let not old age disgrace my high desire.
Which being done, he looked very curiously upon himself, sometimes fetching a little skip, as if he had said his strength had not yet forsaken him. But Cleophila having in this time gotten some leisure to think for an answer, looking upon Gynecia as if she thought she did her some wrong, ‘Madam,’ said she, ‘I am not acquainted with these words of disguising; neither is it the profession of an Amazon; neither are you a party with whom it is to be used. If my service may please you, employ it, so long as you do me no wrong in misjudging of me.’
‘Alas, Cleophila,’ said Gynecia, ‘I perceive you know full little how piercing the eyes are of a true lover. There is no one beam of those thoughts you have planted in me but is able to discern a greater cloud than you do go in. Seek not to conceal yourself further from me, nor force not the passion of love into violent extremities!’
Now was Cleophila brought to an exigent, when the duke, turning his eye that way through the trees, perceived his wife and mistress together; so that, framing the most lovely countenance he could, he came straightway towards them, and at the first word, thanking his wife for having entertained Cleophila, desired her she would now return into the lodge because he had certain matters of state to impart to the lady Cleophila. The duchess, being nothing troubled with jealousy in that point, obeyed the duke’s commandment, full of raging agonies, and determinately bent that, as she would seek all loving means to win Cleophila, so she would stir up terrible tragedies rather than fail of her intent.
But as soon as Basilius was rid of his wife’s presence, falling down on his knees, ‘O lady,’ said he, ‘which have only had the power to stir up again those flames which had so long lain dead in me, see in me the power of your beauty which can make old age come to ask counsel of youth, and a prince unconquered to become a slave to a stranger. And when you see that power of yours, love that at least in me, since it is yours, although of me you see nothing to be loved.’
‘Worthy prince,’ answered Cleophila, taking him up from his kneeling, ‘both your manner and your speech are so strange unto me as I know not how to answer it better than with silence.’
‘If silence please you,’ said the duke, ‘it shall never displease me, since my heart is wholly pledged to obey you. Otherwise, if you would vouchsafe mine ears such happiness as to hear you, they shall but convey your words to such a mind which is with the humblest degree of reverence to receive them.’
‘I disdain not to speak to you, mighty prince,’ said Cleophila, ‘but I disdain to speak to any matter which may bring mine honour into question.’
And therewith, with a brave counterfeited scorn, she departed from the duke, leaving him not so sorry for this short answer as proud in himself that he had broken the matter. And thus did the duke, feeding his mind with these thoughts, pass great time in writing of verses, and making more of himself than he was wont to do; that with a little help he would have grown into a pretty kind of dotage.
But Cleophila, being rid of this loving, but little loved, company, ‘Alas,’ said she, ‘poor Pyrocles, was ever one but I that had received wrong, and could blame nobody; that, having more than I desire, am still in want of that I would? Truly, Love, I must needs say thus much on thy behalf, thou hast employed my love there where all love is deserved; and for recompense hast sent me more love than ever I desired. Yet a child indeed thou showest thyself that thinkest to glut me with quantity, as though therein thou didst satisfy the heart another way dedicated. But what wilt thou do, Pyrocles?
Which way canst thou find to rid thee of these intricate troubles?
To her whom I would be known to, I live in darkness; and to her am revealed from whom I would be most secret. What shield shall I find against the doting love of Basilius and the violent passion of Gynecia? And if that be done, yet how am I the nearer to quench the fire that consumes me? Well, well, sweet Philoclea, my whole confidence must be builded in thy divine spirit, which cannot be ignorant of the cruel wound I have received by you.’
Thus did Cleophila wade betwixt small hopes and huge despairs, whilst in the mean time the sweet Philoclea found strange unwonted motions in herself. And yet the poor soul could neither discern what it was, nor whither the vehemency of it tended. She found a burning affection towards Cleophila; an unquiet desire to be with her; and yet she found that the very presence kindled the desire. And examining in herself the same desire, yet could she not know to what the desire inclined. Sometimes she would compare the love she bare to Cleophila with the natural goodwill she bare to her sister; but she perceived it had another kind of working. Sometimes she would wish Cleophila had been a man, and her brother; and yet, in truth, it was no brotherly love she desired of her. But thus, like a sweet mind not much traversed in the cumbers of these griefs, she would even yield to the burden, rather suffering sorrow to take a full possession than exercising any way her mind how to redress it.
Thus in this one lodge was lodged each sort of grievous passions, while in the other the worthy Dorus was no less tormented, even with the extremest anguish that love at any time can plague the mind withal. He omitted no occasion whereby he might make Pamela see how much extraordinary devotion he bare to her service, and daily withal strave to make himself seem more worthy in her sight; that desert being joined to affection might prevail something in the wise princess. But too well he found that a shepherd’s either service or affection was but considered of as from a shepherd, and the liking limited to that proportion. For indeed Pamela, having had no small stirring of her mind towards him, as well for the goodliness of his shape as for the excellent trial of his courage, had notwithstanding, with a true-tempered virtue, sought all this while to overcome it; and a great mastery, although not without pain, she had wrought with herself. When Dorus saw of the one side that the highest point this service could bring him to should be but to be accounted a good servant, and of the other that, for the suspiciousness of Dametas and Miso, with his young mistress Mopsa, he could never get any piece of time to give Pamela to understand the estate either of himself or affection — for Dametas, according to the right constitution of a dull head, thought no better way to show himself wise than by suspecting everything in his way. Which suspicion Miso, for the shrewdness of her brain, and Mopsa, for a certain unlikely envy she had caught against Pamela’s beauty, were very glad to execute. Insomuch that Dorus was ever kept off, and the fair Pamela restrained to a very unworthy servitude. Dorus, finding his service by this means lightly regarded, his affection despised, and himself unknown, was a great while like them that in the midst of their leap know not where to light. Which in doleful manner, he would oftentimes utter, and make those desert places of counsel in his miseries. But in the end (seeing that nothing is achieved before it be attempted, and that lying still doth never go forward), he resolved to take this mean for the manifesting of his mind — although it should have seemed to have been a way the more to have darkened it: he began to counterfeit the extremest love towards Mopsa that might be; and as for the love, so lively indeed it was in him (although to another subject) that little he needed to counterfeit any notable demonstration of it. He would busily employ himself about her, giving her daily some country tokens, and making store of love songs unto her. Whereby, as he wan Dametas’s heart, who had before borne him a certain rude envy for the favour the duke had lately showed unto him, so likewise did the same make Pamela begin to have the more consideration of him — for indeed so falls it often in the excellent women that even that which they disdain to themselves yet like they not that others should win it from them. But the more she marked the expressing of Dorus’s affection towards Mopsa, the more she thought she found such phrases applied to Mopsa as must needs argue either great ignorance or a second meaning in Dorus; and so to this scanning of him was she now content to fall, whom before she was resolved to banish from her thoughts. As one time among the rest, Mopsa being alone with Pamela, Dorus with a face full of cloudy fancies came suddenly unto them, and taking a harp sang this passionated song:
Since so mine eyes are subject to your sight,
That in your sight they fixed have my brain;
Since so my heart is filled with that light,
That only light doth all my life maintain.
Since in sweet you all goods so richly reign,
That where you are no wished good can want;
Since so your living image lives in me,
That in myself yourself true love doth plant;
How can you him unworthy then decree,
In whose chief part your worths implanted be?
The song being ended, which he had oftentimes broken off in the midst with grievous sighs which overtook every verse he sang, he let fall his harp from him, and casting his eye sometimes upon Mopsa, but settling his sight principally upon Pamela: ‘And is it only the fortune, most beautiful Mopsa,’ said he, ‘of wretched Dorus that fortune must be the measure of his mind? Am I only he that, because I am in misery, more misery must be laid upon me? Must that which should be cause of compassion become an argument of cruelty against me? Alas, excellent Mopsa, consider that a virtuous prince requires the life of his meanest subject, and the heavenly sun disdains not to give light to the smallest worm. O Mopsa, Mopsa, if my heart could be as manifest to you as it is uncomfortable to me, I doubt not the height of my thoughts should well countervail the lowness of my quality. Who hath not heard of the greatness of your estate?
Who sees not that your estate is much excelled with that sweet uniting of all beauties which remaineth and dwelleth with you?
Who knows not that all these are but ornaments of that divine spark within you which, being descended from heaven, could not elsewhere pick out so sweet a mansion? But if you will know what is the bond that ought to knit all these excellencies together, it is a kind mercifulness to such a one as is in soul devoted to those perfections.’
Mopsa (who already had had a certain smackering towards Dorus) stood all this while with her hand sometimes before her face, but most commonly with a certain special grace of her own, wagging her lips and grinning instead of smiling. But all the words he could get of her was (wrying her waist): ‘In faith, you jest with me; you are a merry man indeed!’
But Pamela did not so much attend Mopsa’s entertainment as she marked both the matter Dorus spake and the manner he used in uttering it. And she saw in them both a very unlikely proportion to mistress Mopsa, so that she was contented to urge a little further of him: ‘Master Dorus,’ said the fair Pamela, ‘methinks you blame your fortune very wrongfully, since the fault is not in fortune but in you that cannot frame yourself to your fortune; and as wrongfully you do require Mopsa to so great a disparagement as to her father’s servant, since she is not worthy to be loved that hath not some feeling of her own worthiness.’
Dorus stayed a good while after her words in hope she would have continued her speech, so great a delight he received in hearing her.
But seeing her say no further, with a quaking all over his body, he thus answered her: ‘Lady most worthy of all duty, how falls it out that you in whom all virtue shines will take the patronage of fortune, the only rebellious handmaid against virtue — especially since before your eyes you have a pitiful spectacle of her wickedness, a forlorn creature which must remain not such as I am but such as she makes me, since she must be the balance of worthiness or disparagement? Yet alas, if the condemned man may even at his death have leave to speak, let my mortal wound purchase thus much consideration, since the perfections are such in the party I love as the feeling of them cannot come into any unnoble heart. Shall that heart, which doth not only feel them but hath all the workings of his life placed in them, shall that heart, I say, lifted up to such a height, be counted base? O let not an excellent spirit do itself such wrong as to think where it is placed, embraced, and loved, there can be any unworthiness; since the weakest mist is not easilier driven away by the sun than that is chased away with so high thoughts.’
‘I will not deny,’ answered the gracious Pamela, ‘but that the love you bear to Mopsa hath brought you to the consideration of her virtues, and the consideration may have made you the more virtuous, and so the more worthy. But even that, then, you must confess you have received of her, and so are rather gratefully to thank her than to press any further till you bring something of your own by which to claim it. And truly, Dorus, I must in Mopsa’s behalf say thus much to you: that if her beauties have so overtaken you, it becometh a true love to have your heart more set upon her good than your own, and to bear a tenderer respect to her honour than your satisfaction.’
‘Now, by my halidom, madam,’ said Mopsa, throwing a great
number of sheep’s eyes upon Dorus, ‘you have even touched mine own mind to the quick, forsooth.’
Dorus, finding that the policy he had used had at leastwise
procured thus much happiness unto him as that he might even in his lady’s presence discover the sore which had deeply festered within him, and that she could better conceive his reasons applied to Mopsa than she would have vouchsafed them whilst herself was a party, thought good to pursue on his good beginning using this fit occasion of Pamela’s wit and Mopsa’s ignorance. Therefore with an humble but piercing eye, looking upon Pamela as if he had rather be condemned by her mouth than highly exalted by the other, turning himself to Mopsa, but keeping his eye where it was, ‘Fair Mopsa,’ said he, ‘well do I find by the wise knitting together of your answer that any disputation I can use is as much too weak as I unworthy. I find my love shall be proved no love, without I leave to love, being too unfit a vessel in whom so high thoughts should be engraved. Yet, since the love I bear you hath so joined itself to the best part of my life, as the one cannot depart but that the other will follow, before I seek to obey you in making my last passage, let me know which is my unworthiness, either of mind, estate, or both.’
Mopsa was about to say ‘in neither’, for her heart did even quab with overmuch kindness, when Pamela, with a more favourable countenance than before, finding how apt he was to fall into despair, told him he might therein have answered himself, for besides that it was granted him that the inward feeling of Mopsa’s perfections had greatly beautified his mind, there was none could deny but that his mind and body of themselves deserved great allowance. ‘But Dorus,’ said she, ‘you must so far be master of your love as to consider that since the judgement of the world stands upon matter of fortune, and that the sex of womankind of all other is most bound to have regardful eye to men’s judgements, it is not for us to play the philosophers in seeking out your hidden virtues, since that which in a wise prince would be counted wisdom, in us will be taken for a light-grounded affection; so is not one thing one, done by divers persons.’
There is no man in a burning fever feels so great contentment in cold water greedily received (which, as soon as the drink ceaseth, the heat reneweth) as poor Dorus found his soul refreshed with her sweetly pronounced words, and newly and more violently again inflamed as soon as she had closed up her delightful speech with no less well graced silence. But remembering in himself that as well the soldier dies which stands still as he that gives the bravest onset, and seeing that to the making up of his fortune there wanted nothing so much as the making known of his estate, with a face well witnessing how deeply his soul was possessed, and with the most submissive behaviour that a thralled heart could express, even as if his words had been too thick for his mouth, at length spake to this purpose: ‘Alas, most worthy princess,’ said he, ‘and do not then your own sweet words sufficiently testify that there was never man could have a juster action against filthy fortune than I, since all other things being granted me, her blindness is my only let? O heavenly gods, I would either she had such eyes as were able to discern my deserts, or I were blind not to see the daily cause of my misfortune! But yet,’
said he, ‘most honoured lady, if my miserable speeches have not already cloyed you, and that the very presence of such a wretch become not hateful in your eyes, let me reply thus much further against my mortal sentence by telling you a story which happened in this same country long since (for woes make the shortest time seem long), whereby you shall see that my estate is not so contemptible but that a prince hath been content to take the like upon him, and by that only hath aspired to enjoy a mighty princess.’
Pamela graciously hearkened, and he told his tale in this sort:
‘In the country of Thessalia (alas, why name I that accursed country which brings forth nothing but matters for tragedies? But name it I must); in Thessalia, I say, there was — well may I say there was — a prince. No! no prince, whom bondage wholly possessed, but yet accounted a prince, and named Musidorus. O Musidorus!
Musidorus! But to what serve exclamations where there are no ears to receive the sound? This Musidorus, being yet in the tenderest age, his aged father paid up to nature her last duties, leaving his child to the faith of friends and the proof of time. Death gave him not such pangs as the foresightful care he had of his silly successor. And yet, if in his foresight he could have seen so much, happy was that good prince in his timely departure which barred him from the knowledge of his son’s miseries, which his knowledge could neither have prevented nor relieved. The young Musidorus being thus (as for the first pledge of the destinies’ goodwill) deprived of his principal stay, was yet for some years after (as if the stars would breathe themselves for a greater mischief) lulled up in as much good luck as the heedful love of his doleful mother and the flourishing estate of his country could breed unto him. But when the time now came that misery seemed to be ripe for him, because he had age to know misery, I think there was a conspiracy in all heavenly and earthly things to frame fit occasions to lead him unto it. His people (to whom all foreign matters in foretime were odious) began now to wish in their beloved prince experience by travel. His dear mother (whose eyes were held open only with the joy of looking upon him) did now dispense with the comfort of her widowed life, desiring the same her subjects did, for the increase of her son’s worthiness. And hereto did Musidorus’s own virtue (see how virtue can be a minister to mischief) sufficiently provoke him. For, indeed, thus much I must say for him (although the likeness of our mishaps makes me presume to pattern myself unto him) that well doing was at that time his scope, from which no faint pleasures could withhold him. But the present occasion (which did knit all these together) was his uncle, the king of Macedon, who (having lately before gotten such victories as were beyond expectation) did at this time send both for the prince, his son (brought up together, to avoid the wars, with Musidorus) and for Musidorus himself, that his joy might be the more full having such partakers of it. But, alas, to what a sea of miseries my plaintful tongue doth lead me!’
And thus out of breath, rather with that he thought than with that he said, Dorus stayed his speech till Pamela showing by countenance that such was her pleasure, he thus continued it: ‘These two young princes, to satisfy the king, took their way by sea towards Byzantium, where at that time his court was. But when the conspired heavens had gotten this subject of their wrath upon so fit a place as the sea was, they straight began to breathe out in boisterous winds some part of their malice against him. So that, with the loss of all his navies, he only with the prince, his cousin, were cast aland, far off from the place whither their desires would have guided them. O cruel winds in your unconsiderate rages, why either began you this fury, or why did you not end it in his end? But your cruelty was such as you would spare his life for many deathful torments. To tell you what pitiful mishaps fell to the young prince of Macedon, his cousin, I should too much fill your ears with strange horrors; neither will I stay upon those laboursome adventures, nor loathsome misadventures, to which and through which his fortune and courage conducted him. My speech hasteth itself to come to the full point of all Musidorus’s infortunes. For as we find the most pestilent diseases do gather into themselves all the infirmities with which the body before was annoyed, so did his last misery embrace in the extremity of itself all his former mischiefs. Arcadia, Arcadia was the place prepared to be the stage of his endless overthrow; Arcadia was (alas, well might I say it is) the charmed circle where all his spirits should for ever be enchanted. For here and nowhere else did his infected eyes make his mind know what power heavenly beauty hath to throw it down to hellish agonies. Here, here did he see the Arcadian duke’s eldest daughter; in whom he forthwith placed so all his hopes of joy and joyful parts of his heart, that he left in himself nothing but a maze of longing and a dungeon of sorrow.
But alas, what can saying make them believe whom seeing cannot persuade? Those pains must be felt before they be understood; no outward utterance can command a conceit. Such was as then the state of the duke as it was no time by direct means to seek her; and such was the state of his captived will as he could delay no time of seeking her. In this entangled case, he clothed himself in a shepherd’s weed, that under the baseness of that form he might at least have free access to feed his eyes with that which should at length eat up his heart. In which doing, thus much without doubt he hath manifested: that this estate is not always to be rejected, since under that veil there may be hidden things to be esteemed. And that if he might, with taking on a shepherd’s look, cast up his eyes to the fairest princess nature in that time created, the like, nay the same, desire of mine need no more to be disdained or held for disgraceful.
But now, alas, mine eyes wax dim, my tongue begins to falter, and my heart to want force to help either, with the feeling remembrance I have in what heap of miseries the caitiff prince lay at this time buried. Pardon therefore, most excellent princess, if I cut off the course of my dolorous tale, since (if I be understood) I have said enough for the defence of my baseness. And for that which after might befall to that pattern of ill fortune, the matters are too monstrous for my capacity. His hateful destinies must best declare their own workmanship.’
He ended thus his speech. But withal began to renew his accustomed plaints and humble intercessions to Mopsa, who (having no great battle in her spirit) was almost brought asleep with the sweet delivery of his lamentations. But Pamela (whom liking had made willing to conceive, and natural wisdom able to judge) let no word slip without his due pondering; even love began to revive his flames, which the opinion she had of his meanness had before covered in her. She well found he meant the tale by himself, and that he did under that covert manner make her know the great nobleness of his birth. But no music could with righter accords possess her senses than every passion he expressed had his mutual working in her. Full well she found the lively image of a vehement desire in herself, which ever is apt to receive belief, but hard to ground belief. For as desire is glad to embrace the first show of hope, so by the same nature is desire desirous of a perfect assurance. She did immediately catch hold of his signifying himself to be a prince, and did glad her heart with having a reasonable ground to build her love upon. But straight the longing for assurance made suspicions arise and say unto herself, ‘Pamela, take heed! The sinews of wisdom is to be hard of belief. Who dare place his heart in so great places dare frame his head to as great feignings?’ Dorus, that found his speeches had given alarum to her imaginations, to hold her the longer in them and bring her to a dull yielding-over her forces (as the nature of music is to do), he took up his harp and sang these few verses:
My sheep are thoughts, which I both guide and serve:
Their pasture is fair hills of fruitless love:
On barren sweets they feed, and feeding starve:
I wail their lot, but will not other prove.
My sheephook is wanhope which all upholds:
My weeds, desire, cut out in endless folds.
What wool my sheep shall bear, while thus they live,
In you it is, you must the judgement give.
The music added to the tale, and both fitted to such motions in her as now began again to be awaked, did steal out of the fair eyes of Pamela some drops of tears; although with great constancy she would fain have overmastered at least the show of any such weakness.
At length, with a sigh come up even to her mouth and there stopped:
‘But lord,’ said she, ‘if such were the prince’s burning affection, what could he hope by living here, if it were not to grow purer in the fire like a salamander?’
‘And even so too,’ answered Dorus, ‘but withal perchance (for what cannot love hope?) he hoped to carry away the fire with him.’
‘With him,’ said she, ‘now what could induce a princess to go away with a shepherd?’
‘Principally,’ said he, ‘the virtuous gratefulness for his affection; then, knowing him to be a prince; and lastly, seeing herself in unworthy bondage.’
Pamela found in her conscience such an accusing of secret consent thereto that she thought it safest way to divert the speech, lest in parley the castle might be given up. And therefore, with a gracious closing up of her countenance towards Dorus, she willed Mopsa to take good heed to herself, for her shepherd could speak well. ‘But truly Mopsa,’ said she, ‘if he can prove himself such as he saith (I mean the honest shepherd Menalcas’s brother and heir), I know no reason why a better than you need think scorn of his affectionate suit.’
Mopsa did not love comparisons, but yet, being far spent towards Dorus, she answered Pamela that, for all his quaint speeches, she would keep her honesty close enough. And that, as for the high way of matrimony, she would go never a furlong further till my master, her father, did speak the whole word himself. But ever and anon turning her muzzle towards Dorus, she threw such a prospect upon him as might well have given a surfeit to any light lover’s stomach.
But Dorus, full of inward joy that he had wrought his matters to such a towardness, took out of his bag a very rich jewel, kept among other of his precious things, which because of the device he thought fittest to give. It was an altar of gold, very full of the most esteemed stones, dedicated to Pollux who, because he was made a god for his brother Castor’s virtue, all the honour men did to him seemed to have their final intent to the greater god Castor; about it was written in Roman words, Sic vos non vobis And kneeling down to the fair princess Pamela, he desired her she would in his behalf bestow it upon the cruel-hearted Mopsa who was as then benumbed with joy, seeing so fair a present. Pamela gave it to her, having received into her own mind a great testimony of the giver’s worthiness.
But alas, sweet Philoclea, how hath my pen forgotten thee,
since to thy memory principallyall this long matter is intended.
Pardon the slackness to come to those woes which thou didst cause in others and feel in thyself. The sweet-minded Philoclea was in their degree of well doing to whom the not knowing of evil serveth for a ground of virtue, and hold their inward powers in better temper with an unspotted simplicity than many who rather cunningly seek to know what goodness is than willingly take into themselves the following of it. True it is that that sweet and simple breath of heavenly goodness is the easier to fall because it hath not passed through the worldly wickedness, nor feelingly found the evil that evil carrieth with it. As now the amiable Philoclea, whose eyes and senses had received nothing but according as the natural course of each thing required, whose tender youth had obediently lived under her parents’ behests without the framing (out of her own will) the forechoosing of anything, was suddenly (poor soul) surprised before she was aware that any matter laid hold of her. Neither did she consider that the least gap a sea wins is enough without gainstriving industry to overflow a whole country; but finding a mountain of burning desire to have overwhelmed her heart, and that the fruits thereof, having new won the place, began to manifest themselves with horrible terrors of danger, dishonour and despair, she did suffer her sweet spirits to languish under the heavy weight, thinking it impossible to resist, as she found it deadly to yield. Thus ignorant of her own disease, although (full well) she found herself diseased, her greatest pleasure was to put herself into some lonely place where she might freely feed the humour that did tyrannize within her: as one night that, the moon being full did show herself in her most perfect beauty, the unmatched Philoclea secretly stale from her parents (whose eyes were now so bent upon another subject that the easier she might get her desired advantage); and going with uncertain paces to a little wood, where many times before she had delighted to walk, her rolling eye lighted upon a tuft of trees, so closely set together as with the shade the moon gave through it, it bred a fearful devotion to look upon it. But well did she remember the place, for there had she often defended her face from the sun’s rage, there had she enjoyed herself often while she was mistress of herself and had no other thoughts but such as might arise out of quiet senses. But the principal cause that made her remember it was a fair white marble stone that should seem had been dedicated in ancient time to the sylvan gods; which she finding there a few days before Cleophila’s coming, had written these words upon it as a testimony of her mind against the suspicion she thought she lived in.
The writing was this:
Ye living powers enclosed in stately shrine
Of growing trees, ye rural gods that wield
Your sceptres here, if to your ears divine
A voice may come which troubled soul doth yield,
This vow receive, this vow O gods maintain:
My virgin life no spotted thought shall stain.
Thou purest stone, whose pureness doth present
My purest mind; whose temper hard doth show
My tempered heart; by thee my promise sent
Unto myself let after-livers know.
No fancy mine, nor others’ wrong suspect
Make me, O virtuous Shame, thy laws neglect.
O Chastity, the chief of heav’nly lights,
Which makes us most immortal shape to wear,
Hold thou my heart, establish thou my sprites;
To only thee my constant course I bear.
Till spotless soul unto thy bosom fly,
Such life to lead, such death I vow to die.
But now that her memory served as an accuser of her change, and that her own hand-writing was there to bear testimony of her fall, she went in among the few trees, so closed in the top together as they seemed a little chapel; and there might she by the moonlight perceive the goodly stone which served as an altar in that woody devotion. But neither the light was enough to read the words, and the ink was already foreworn and in many places blotted; which as she perceived, ‘Alas,’ said she, ‘fair marble, which never receivedst spot but by my writing, well do these blots become a blotted writer; but pardon her which did not dissemble then, although she have changed since. Enjoy, and spare not, the glory of thy nature which can so constantly bear the marks of my inconstancy!’ And herewith hiding her eyes awhile with her soft hands, there came into her head certain verses which, if the light had suffered, she would fain presently have adjoined as a retractation to the other. The verses were to this effect:
My words, in hope to blaze my steadfast mind,
This marble chose, as of like temper known:
But lo, my words defaced, my fancies blind,
Blots to the stone, shame to myself I find;
And witness am, how ill agree in one,
A woman’s hand with constant marble stone.
My words full weak, the marble full of might;
My words in store, the marble all alone;
My words black ink, the marble kindly white;
My words unseen, the marble still in sight,
May witness bear, how ill agree in one,
A woman’s hand with constant marble stone.
But seeing she could not see so perfectly as to join this recantation to the former vow, laying all her fair length under one of the trees, for a while the poor soul did nothing but turn up and down and hide her face, as if she had hoped to turn away the fancy that mastered her, or could have hidden herself from her own thoughts. At length with a whispering voice to herself, ‘O me, unfortunate wretch,’ said she, ‘what poisonous heats be these that thus possess me? How hath the sight of this strange guest invaded my soul? Alas, what entrance found this desire; or what strength had it thus to conquer me?’
Then looking to the stars, which had perfectly as then beautified the clear sky, ‘My parents,’ said she, ‘have told me that in these fair heavenly bodies there are great hidden deities which have their working in the ebbing and flowing of our estates. If it be so, then, O ye stars, judge rightly of me; and if I have willingly made myself a prey to fancy’, or if by any idle lusts I framed my heart fit for such an impression, then let this plague daily increase in me till my name be made odious to womankind. But if extreme and unresistible violence have oppressed me, who will ever do any of you sacrifice, O ye stars, if you do not succour me — no, no, you cannot help me; my desire must needs be waited on with shame, and my attempt with danger. And yet are these but childish objections. It is the impossibility that doth torment me; for unlawful desires are punished after the effect of enjoying, but impossible desires are plagued in the desire itself.’ Then would she wish to herself (for even to herself she was ashamed to speak it out in words) that Cleophila might become a young transformed Caeneus. ‘For,’ said she, ‘if she were a man I might either obtain my desire, or have cause to hate for refusal’ — besides the many duties Cleophila did to her assured her Cleophila might well want power, but not will, to please her. In this depth of her muses there passed a cloud betwixt her sight and the moon which took away the present beholding of it. ‘O Diana,’ said Philoclea, ‘I would either the cloud that now hides the light of my virtue would as easily pass away as you will quickly overcome this let; or else that you were for ever thus darkened to serve for a better excuse of my outrageous folly.’ In this diverse sort of strange discourses would she ravingly have remained, but that she perceived by the high climbing of the moon the night was far spent. And therefore, with stealing steps she returned to the lodge where, for all the lateness, she found her father and mother giving a tedious entertainment to Cleophila, oppressed with being loved almost as much as with loving. Basilius, not so wise in covering his passion, would fall to those immoderate praises which the foolish lover ever thinks short of his mistress, although they reach far beyond the heavens; but Gynecia, whom womanly modesty did more outwardly bridle, yet did many times use the advantage of her sex in kissing Cleophila (which did indeed but increase the rage of her inward fury) — both immoderately feeding their eyes with one intention, though by contrary means. But once Cleophila could not stir but that, as if they had been puppets whose motions stood only upon her pleasure, they would with forced steps and gazing looks follow her. Basilius’s mind Gynecia well perceived, and could well have found in her heart to laugh at — if her fortune might have endured mirth. But all Gynecia’s actions were by Basilius interpreted as proceeding from jealousy; Cleophila betwixt both (like the poor child whose father while he beats him will make him believe it is for love, or as the sick man to whom the physician swears the medicine he proffers is of a good taste), their love was hateful, their courtesy troublesome, their presence cause of her absence thence where her heart lived.
Philoclea coming among them made them all perceive it was time to rest their bodies, how little part soever their minds took of it.
And therefore, bringing Cleophila to her chamber, Basilius and Gynecia retired them to theirs, where Basilius being now asleep and all the lights (which naturally keep a cheerfulness in the mind) put out, Gynecia (kneeling up in her bed) began with a soft voice and swollen heart to renew the curses of her birth; and then in a manner embracing her bed, ‘Ah chastest bed of mine,’ said she, ‘which never heretofore couldst accuse me of one defiled thought, how canst thou now receive this disastered changeling? Happy, happy be only they which be not, and thy blessedness only in this respect: thou mayst feel that thou hast no feeling!’ With that she furiously tare off great part of her fair hair: ‘Take here, O forgotten virtue,’ said she, ‘this miserable sacrifice’ — more she would have said, but that Basilius, awaked with the noise, took her in his arms and began to comfort her, the goodman thinking it was all for love of him — which humour, if she would a little have maintained, perchance it might have weakened his new-conceived heats. But he, finding her answers wandering from the purpose, left her to herself, glad the next day to take the advantage of her dead sleep (which her overwatched sorrow had laid upon her) to have the more conference with the afflicted Cleophila who, baited on this fashion by these two lovers, and ever kept from any means to declare herself to Philoclea, was in far harder estate than the pastor Dorus; for he had but to do, in his pursuit, with shepherdish folks who troubled him with a little envious care and affected diligence. But Cleophila was waited on by princes, and watched by the two wakeful eyes of love and jealousy.
But this morning of Gynecia’s sleep, Basilius gave her occasion to go beyond him in this sort. Cleophila thus at one instant both besieged and banished, found in herself a daily increase of her violent desires which, as a river, his current being stopped, doth the more swell, so did her heart, the more impediments she met, the more vehemendy strive to overpass them. The only recreation she could find in all her anguish was to visit sometimes that place where first she was so happy as to see the cause of her unhap. There would she kiss the ground, and thank the trees; bless the air, and do dutiful reverence to everything that she thought did accompany her at the first meeting. But as love, though it be a passion, hath in itself a very active manner of working, so had she in her brain all sorts of invention by which she might come to some satisfaction of it. But still the cumbersome company of her two ill-matched lovers was a cruel bar unto it; till this morning that Basilius, having combed and tricked himself more curiously than any time forty winters before, did find her given over to her muses, which she did express in this song, to the great pleasure of the good old Basilius who retired himself behind a tree, while she with a most sweet voice did utter these passionate verses:
Loved I am, and yet complain of love;
As loving not, accused, 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 others’ fire;
What I call wrong, I do the same, and more;
Barred of my will, I have beyond desire;
I wail for want, and yet am choked with store.
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 loved, or else not loved be.
Basilius made no great haste from behind the tree till he perceived she had fully ended her music; but then, loath 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.’
Cleophila, keeping a countenance askances she understood him
not, told him it became her ill 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 as she could not imagine what they might intend.
‘Intend!,’ said Basilius (almost proud with being asked the
question). ‘Alas,’ said he, ‘what may they intend but a refreshing of my soul, an assuaging of my heat, and enjoying those your excellencies wherein my life is upheld and my death threatened?’
Cleophila, lifting up her face as if she had received a mortal injury of him; ‘And is this the devotion your ceremonies,’ said she, ‘have been bent unto? 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 waxed staring dead, 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 Cleophila, seeing it was now time to make her profit of his folly, with something a relented countenance said unto him: ‘Your words, mighty prince, were unfit either for you to speak or me to hear; 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 to say: that these same words in my lady Philoclea’s mouth, as from one woman to another, might have had a better grace, and perchance have found a gentler receipt. Desire holds the senses open, and a lover’s conceit is very quick.’
Basilius no sooner received this answer but that, as if speedy flight might save his life, he turned without any ceremony away from Cleophila and ran with all speed his body would suffer him towards his fair daughter Philoclea, whom he found at that time watching her mother Gynecia taking such rests as unquiet sleeps and fearful dreams would yield her. Basilius delayed no time, but with all those conjuring prayers which a father’s authority may lay upon an humble child 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 overburdened with him, she would cool his fiery plague, which was to be done but with her breath; that in fine whatsoever he was, he was nothing but what it pleased Cleophila — he lived in her, and all the powers of his spirits depended of her; that if she continued cruel he could no more sustain himself 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 disdain any service, though never so base, which was warranted by the sacred name of a father.
Philoclea more glad than ever she had known herself that she
might by this occasion enjoy the private conference of Cleophila, yet had so sweet a feeling of virtue within her mind that she would not suffer a vile colour to be cast over her high thoughts, but with an humble look and obedient heart answered her father that there needed neither promise nor persuasion unto her to make her do her uttermost for her father’s service; that, for Cleophila’s favour in all virtuous sort, she would 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 should be, 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, that did but desire by her means to have the beginning of a more free access unto Cleophila, allowed her reasons and accepted her service, desiring but a speedy return of comfort. Away departed the most excellent Philoclea with a new field of fancies in her travailed mind; for well she saw her father was now grown her adverse party, and yet her own fortune such as she must needs favour her rival who might have show of hope where herself was out of possibility of help. But as she walked a little on she saw at a river’s side a fair lady whose face was so bent over the river that her flowing tears continually fell into the water, much like as we see in some pleasant gardens costly images are set for fountains, which yield abundance of waters to the delightful streams that run under them.
Newly was Philoclea departed out of the chamber when Gynecia, troubled with a fearful dream, frightfully awaked. The dream was this: it seemed unto her to be in a place full of thorns which so molested her as she could neither abide standing still nor tread safely going forward. In this case she thought Cleophila, being upon a fair hill, delightful to the eye and easy in appearance, called her thither; but thither with much anguish being come, Cleophila was vanished, and she found nothing but a dead body which seeming at the first with a strange smell so to infect her as she was ready to die likewise, within a while the dead body (she thought) took her in his arms and said: ‘Gynecia, here is thy only rest.’ With that she awaked, crying very loud: ‘Cleophila! Cleophila!’ But remembering herself, and seeing her husband by (as a guilty conscience doth more suspect than is suspected), she turned her call and called for Philoclea. Basilius (that God knows knew no reason why he might spare to tell it) told her Philoclea was gone to entertain the lady Cleophila who had long remained in solitary muses. Gynecia, as if she had heard her last doom pronounced against her, with a side look and changing face: ‘O my lord,’ said she, ‘what mean you to suffer these young folks together?’
Basilius 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 mettle than Cleophila that can endanger her.’
‘O but’ — cried out Gynecia; and therewith she stopped. For then indeed did her spirit suffer a right conflict betwixt the force of love and the rage of jealousy. Many times was she about to satisfy the spite of her mind and tell Basilius what, and upon what reasons, she thought Cleophila to be far other than the outward appearance. But those many times were all put back by the manifold forces of her vehement love. Fain she would have barred her daughter’s hap; but loath she was to cut off her own hope. Often she offered to have risen to have broken that which her j ealousy made her imagine, much more than so stolen a leisure could suffer. But Basilius, who had no less desire to taste of his daughter’s labour, would never suffer it, swearing he saw sickness in his wife’s face, and therefore would not the air should have his power over her. Thus did Gynecia eat of her jealousy, pine in her love, and receive kindness nowhere but from the fountain of unkindness.
In the mean time Philoclea saw the doleful lady, and heard her plaint which was uttered in this sort: ‘Fair streams,’ said she, ‘that do vouchsafe in your clearness to represent unto me my blubbered face, stay a little your course, and receive knowledge of my unfortunate fortune; or if the violence of your spring command you to haste away to pay your duties to your great mother the sea, yet carry with you these few words, and let the uttermost ends of the world know them. A love as clear as yourselves, employed to a love (I fear) as cold as yourselves, makes me increase your flood with my tears and continue my tears in your presence.’ With that she took a willow stick and wrote in a sandy bank these verses:
Over these brooks, trusting to ease mine eyes
(Mine eyes e’en great in labour with their tears),
I laid my face (my face wherein there lies
Clusters of clouds which no sun ever clears).
In wat’ry glass my watered eyes I see:
Sorrows ill eased, where sorrows painted be.
My thoughts, imprisoned in my secret woes,
With flamy breath do issue oft in sound:
The sound to this strange air no sooner goes
But that it doth with echo’s force rebound
And make me hear the plaints I would refrain:
Thus outward helps my inward griefs maintain.
Now in this sand I would discharge my mind,
And cast from me part of my burd’nous cares:
But in the sands my pains 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?
Philoclea at the first sight well knew this was Cleophila (for so indeed it was); but as there is nothing more agreeable than a beloved voice, she was well content to hear her words which she thought might with more cause have been spoken by her own mouth. But when Cleophila did both cease to speak and had ended her writing, Philoclea gave herself to be seen unto her, with such a meeting of both their eyes together, with such a mutual astonishment to them both as it well showed each party had enough to do to maintain their vital powers in their due working. At length Philoclea, having a while mused how to wade betwixt her own hopeless affection and her father’s unbridled hope, with blushing cheeks and eyes cast down to the ground, began to say: ‘My father, to whom I owe myself, and therefore must perform all duties unto— ‘, when Cleophila straitly embracing her, and (warranted by a womanly habit) often kissing her, desired her to stay her sweet speech, for well she knew her father’s errand, and 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 this request; and therefore, sitting down together upon the green bank hard by the river, Cleophila long in a deep doubt how to begin (though she had often before thought of it), with panting heart brought it forth in this manner: ‘Most beloved lady, the incomparable worthiness of yourself, joined to the greatness of your estate, and the importance of the thing whereon my life consisteth, doth require both length of time in the beginning and many ceremonies in the uttering my enforced speech. But the small opportunity of envious occasion, with 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 I may obtain, but to lay aside all respects due to yourself in respect of my own life, which is now or never to be preserved. I do therefore vow to you hereafter never more to omit all dutiful forms; do you now only vouchsafe to hear the matters of a most perplexed mind. 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, not only an example of those strange tragedies, but one that in himself hath contained all the particularities of their misfortunes; and from henceforth believe it may be, since you shall see it is. You shall see, I say, a living image and a present story of the best pattern love hath ever showed of his workmanship. But alas, whither goest thou, my tongue; or how doth my heart consent to adventure the revealing my nearest touching secrets? But spare not my speech; here is the author of thy harms, the witness of thy words, and the judge of thy life! Therefore again I say, I say, 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 fall of fortune and unused metamorphosis; whom you only have made neglect his country, forget his father, and lastly forsake himself!
My suit is to serve you, and my end to do you honour. Your fair face hath many marks 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. If the highest love in no base person may bear place in your judgement, then may I hope your beauty will not be without pity. If otherwise you be (alas, but let it never be so) resolved, yet shall not my death be without comfort, receiving it by your sentence.’
The joy which wrought into Pygmalion’s mind while he found his beloved image wax little and little both 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 Cleophila’s words, stealingly entered into Philoclea’s soul, till her pleasure was fully made up with the manifesting of his being, which was such as in hope did overcome hope. Yet did a certain spark of honour arise in her well disposed mind, which bred a starting fear to be now in secret with him in whose presence, notwithstanding, consisted her comfort — such contradictions there must needs grow in those minds which neither absolutely embrace goodness nor freely yield to evil. 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 astonished with a surfeit of joy, and fearful of she knew not what (as he that newly finds much treasure is most subject to doubts), with a shrugging kind of tremor through all her principal parts, she gave these 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 how foolish, trow you, must that answer be which is made one knows not to whom!
Shall I say, “O Cleophila”? 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 well may say: if I had continued as I ought Philoclea, you had either never been or ever been Cleophila; you had either never attempted this change, fed 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. If my castle had not seemed weak, you would never have brought these disguised forces. No, no; I have betrayed myself. It was well seen I was glad to yield before I was assaulted. Alas, what then shall I do? Shall I seek far-fetched inventions? Shall I seek to lay colours over my decayed 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 Cleophila (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 far 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 Cleophila, the despair thou mightst not be thus did then most torment me? Thou hast then the victory; use it now with virtue, since from the steps of virtue my soul is witness to itself it never hath, and pledge to itself it never shall decline no way to make me leave to love thee, but by making me think thy love unworthy of me.’
Pyrocles, so carried up with joy that he did not envy the gods’
felicity, presented her with some jewels of inestimable price as tokens both of his love and quality, and for a conclusion of proof showed her letters from his father, king Euarchus, unto him; which hand she happily knew, as having kept divers which passed betwixt her father and him. There, with many such embracings as it seemed their souls desired to meet and their hearts to kiss as their mouths did, they passed the promise of marriage.
But Gynecia’s restless affection and furious jealousy had by this time prevailed so much with her husband as to come to separate them. O jealousy, the frenzy of wise folks, the well wishing spite and unkind carefulness, the self-punishment for other’s fault and selfmisery in other’s happiness, the sister of envy, daughter of love, and mother of hate, how couldst thou so quickly get thee a seat in the unquiet heart of Gynecia, a lady very fair in her strongest age, known wise and esteemed virtuous? It was thy breeder’s power that planted thee there; it was the inflaming agonies of affection that drew on the fever of thy sickness in such sort that nature gave place.
The growing of her daughter seemed the decay of herself. The
blessings of a mother turned to the curses of a competitor, and the fair face of Philoclea appeared more horrible in her sight than the image of death. Possessed with these devils of love and jealousy, the great and wretched lady Gynecia had rid herself from her tedious husband (who thought now he might freely give her leave to go, hoping his daughter by that time had performed his message) and, as soon as she was alone, with looks strangely cast about her, she began to denounce war to all the works of earth and powers of heaven. But the envenomed heat which lay within her gave her not scope for many words, but (with as much rageful haste as the
Trojan women went to burn Aeneas’s ships) she ran headlongly
towards the place where she guessed her daughter and Qeophila might be together. Yet by the way there came into her mind an old song which she thought did well figure her fortune. The song was this, though her leisure served her not as then to sing it:
With two strange fires of equal heat possessed,
The one of love, the other jealousy,
Both still do work, in neither find I rest;
For both, alas, their strengths 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.
These fires increase, in these I daily burn:
They feed on me, and with my wings do fly:
My lively joys to doleful ashes turn:
Their flames mount up, my powers prostrate lie:
They live in force, I quite consumed die.
One wonder yet far passeth my conceit:
The fuel small, how be the fires so great?
Being come where they were, to the great astonishment of the sweet Philoclea (whose conscience now began to know cause of blushing), for first salutation she gave an eye to her daughter full of the same disdainful scorn which Pallas showed to the poor Arachne that durst contend with her for the prize of well weaving. Yet see, the force of love did so much rule her that, though for Cleophila’s sake she did detest her, yet for Cleophila’s sake she used no harder words to her than to bid her go home and accompany her solitary father.
Then began she to display to Cleophila the storehouse of her
deadly desires, when suddenly the confused rumour of a mutinous multitude gave just occasion to Cleophila to break off any such conference (for well they found they were no friendly voices they heard), and to retire with as much diligence as conveniently they could towards the lodge. Yet before they could win the lodge by twenty paces, they were overtaken by an unruly sort of clowns which, like a violent flood, were carried they themselves knew not whither. But as soon as they came within the compass of blows, like enraged beasts, without respect of their estates or pity of their sex, they ran upon these fair ladies, to show the right nature of a villain, never thinking his estate happy but when he is able to do hurt. Yet so many as they were, so many almost were the minds all knit together only in madness. Some cried ‘take!’, some ‘kill!’, some ‘save!’; but even they that cried ‘save!’ ran for company with them that meant to kill. Everyone commanded, none obeyed. He only seemed to have most pre-eminence that was most rageful. Cleophila, whose virtuous courage was ever awake in her, drawing out her sword, kept a while the villains at a bay while the ladies gat themselves into the lodge, out of which the good old Basilius, having put on an armour long before untried, came to prove his authority among his subjects, or at least to adventure his life with his dear mistress. The ladies in the mean time tremblingly attended the issue of this dangerous adventure. But Cleophila did quickly make them perceive that one eagle is worth a great number of kites. No blow she strake that did not suffice for a full reward of him that received it. Yet at length the many hands would have prevailed against these two, had not the noble shepherd Dorus heard this noise and come to their succour.
Dorus had been upon a fine little hill not far off, in the company of some other shepherds, defending him from the sun’s heat with the shade of a few pleasant myrtle trees, feeding his master’s sheep, practising his new-learned shepherd’s pipe, and singing with great joy for the long-pursued victory he had lately gotten of the gracious Pamela’s favour — victory so far as the promising affection came unto, he having lately (keeping still his disguised manner) opened more plainly both his mind and estate. His song, as the shepherds after recounted it, was this:
Feed on my sheep; my charge, my comfort, feed;
With sun’s approach your pasture fertile grows,
O only sun that such a fruit can breed.
Feed on my sheep, your fair sweet feeding flows,
Each flow’r, each herb, doth to your service yield,
O blessed sun whence all this blessing goes.
Feed on my sheep, possess your fruitful field,
No wolves dare howl, no murrain can prevail,
And from the storms our sweetest sun will shield.
Feed on my sheep, sorrow hath stricken sail,
Enjoy my joys, as you did taste my pain,
While our sun shines no cloudy griefs assail.
Feed on my sheep, your native joys maintain,
Your wool is rich; no tongue can tell my gain.
His song being ended, the young shepherd Philisides at that time in his company, as if Dorus’s joy had been a remembrance to his sorrow, tuning his voice in doleful manner, thus made answer unto him, using the burden of his own words:
Leave off my sheep: it is no time to feed,
My sun is gone, your pasture barren grows,
O cruel sun, thy hate this harm doth breed.
Leave off my sheep, my show’r of tears o’erflows,
Your sweetest flow’rs, your herbs, no service yield,
My sun, alas, from me for ever goes.
Leave off my sheep, my sighs burn up your field,
My plaints call wolves, my plagues in you prevail,
My sun is gone, from storms what shall us shield?
Leave off my sheep, sorrow hath hoised sail,
Wail in my woes, taste of your master’s pain,
My sun is gone, now cloudy griefs assail.
Leave leaving not my mourning to maintain,
You bear no wool, and loss is all my gain.
Before Philisides had finished the last accent of his song, the horrible cries of the mad multitude gave an untimely conclusion to his passionate music. But Dorus had straight represented before the eyes of his careful love the peril wherein his other soul might be.
Therefore, taking no other weapon than his sheephook (which he thought sufficient because it had sufficed to bring him in a towardness of his most redoubted conquest), he gave example to Philisides and some other of the best-minded shepherds to follow him. First he went to Pamela’s lodge, where finding her already close in a strong cave a little way from the lodge, not possible to be entered into by force, with Miso, Mopsa, and Dametas (who would not that time of day have opened the entry to his father), he led his little troop to the other lodge, where he saw Cleophila, having three of that rustic rout dead at her feet, and bathed in the blood of a great number other; but both she and the duke so sore wearied with the excessive number of them that they were but resolved to sell their lives at a dear price, when Dorus coming in, and crying, ‘courage, here is Dorus!’ to his dear friend Cleophila, felled one of them with his sheephook, and taking his bill from him, valiantly seconded by Philisides and the other honest shepherds, made so fair way among them that he wan time for them all to recover the lodge, and to give the rebels a face of wood of the outside The joy Gynecia and Philoclea felt in seeing them safely come in, whom both they loved, and in whom their lives consisted, would have been unspeakable had it not been much kept down with the savage howlings the rascals made without; who now began to seek fire to burn the gates, seeing otherwise they were unlikely to prevail.
But before I tell you what came thereof, methinks it reason you know what raging motion was the beginning of this tumult. Bacchus, they say, was begotten with thunder. I think that made him ever since so full of stir and debate. Bacchus, indeed, it was which sounded the first trumpet of this rude alarum, a manner the Arcadians had to solemnize their prince’s birthdays with banqueting together as largely as the quality of the company could suffer — a barbarous opinion, to think with vice to do honour, or with activity in beastliness to show abundance of love. This custom, being general, was particularly this time of Basilius’s nativity observed by a town near the desert of the two lodges called Phagona. There, being chafed with wine and emboldened with the duke’s absented manner of living, there was no matter their ears had ever heard of that grew not to be a subject of their winy conference. Public affairs were mingled with private grudge; neither was any man thought of wit that did not pretend some cause of mislike. Railing was counted the fruit of freedom, and saying nothing had his uttermost praise in ignorance. At the length the prince’s person fell to be their table-talk; and to speak licentiously of that was a tickling point of courage to them. A proud word did swell in their stomachs, and disdainful reproaches to great persons had put on a shadow of greatness in their base minds. Till at length, the very unbridled use of words having increased fire to their minds (which thought their knowledge notable because they had at all no knowledge to condemn their own want of knowledge), they descended to a direct mislike of the duke’s living from among them. Whereupon it were tedious to write their far-fetched constructions; but the sum was he disdained them, and what were the shows of his estate if their arms maintained him not? Who would call him duke if he had not a people? When certain of them of wretched estates (and worse minds), whose fortunes change could not impair, began to say a strange woman had now possessed their prince and government; Arcadians were too plain-headed to give the prince counsel. What need from henceforward to fear foreign enemies, since they were conquered without stroke striking, their secrets opened, their treasures abused, themselves triumphed over, and never overthrown? If Arcadia grew loathsome in the duke’s sight, why did he not rid himself of the trouble? There would not want those should take so fair a cumber in good part. Since the country was theirs and that the government was an adherent to the country, why should they that needed not be partakers of the danger, be partakers with the cause of the danger?
‘Nay rather,’ said they, ‘let us begin that which all Arcadia will follow. Let us deliver our prince from foreign hands, and ourselves from the want of a prince. Let us be the first to do that which all the rest think. Let it be said the Phagonians are they which are not astonished with vain titles that have their forces but in our forces.
Lastly, to have said and heard so much was as punishable as to have attempted; and to attempt they had the glorious show of commonwealth with them.’
These words being spoken, like a furious storm presently took
hold of their well inclined brains. There needed no drum where each man cried; each spake to other, that spake as fast to him; and the disagreeing sound of so many voices was the only token of their unmeet agreement. Thus was their banquet turned to a battle, their winy mirths to bloody rages, and the happy prayers for the duke to monstrous threatening his estate; the solemnizing his birthday tended to the cause of his funerals. But as rage hath (besides his wickedness) that folly that, the more it seeks to hurt, the less it considers how to be able to hurt, they never weighed how to arm themselves, but took up everything for a weapon that fury offered to their hands: some swords and bills; there were other took pitchforks and rakes, converting husbandry to soldiery. Some caught hold of spits, things serviceable for the lives of men, to be the instruments of their deaths; and there wanted not such which held the same pots wherein they had drunk to the duke’s health to use them (as they could) to his mischief. Thus armed, thus governed, adding fury to fury and increasing rage with running, they went headlong towards the duke’s lodge, no man in his own heart resolved what was the uttermost he would do when he came thither. But as mischief is of such nature that it cannot stand but with strengthening one evil by another, and so multiply in itself till it come to the highest, and then fall with his own weight, so to their minds once past the bounds of obedience more and more wickedness opened itself, and they which first pretended to succour him, then to reform him, now thought no safety to themselves without killing him.
In this mad mood Cleophila’s excellent valour, joined to Basilius, and succoured by the worthy Dorus and his fellow shepherds, made them feel the smart of their folly; till, for last extremity, they sought for unmerciful fire to be their foregoer. Then did the ladies with pitiful shrieks show the deadly fear they had of a present massacre, especially the sweet Philoclea who ever caught hold of Cleophila, so by the folly of love hindering the succour; which succour she desired.
But Cleophila, seeing no way of defence, nor time to deliberate, thought the only mean with extraordinary boldness to overcome boldness, and with danger to avoid danger. And therefore, when they were even ready to put fire, she caused the gate to be opened by Dorus, who stood there ready to do his uttermost for her defence; for all the rest cried to her she should not so adventure her life.
And so, with her sword by her side, ready but not drawn, she issued among them. The blows she had dealt before (though all in general were hasty) made each of them take breath before they brought themselves suddenly over near her; so that she had time to get up to the judgement seat of the duke which, according to the guise of that country, was hard before the court gate. There she paused a while, making sign with her hand unto them that she had something to say would please them. Truly, outward graces are not without their efficacies; the goodliness of her shape, with that quiet magnanimity represented in her face in this uttermost peril, did even fix the eyes of the barbarous people with admiration upon her. And the nature of man is such that, as they leave no rageful violence unattempted while their choler is nourished with resistance, so, when the very subject of their wrath is unlooked-for offered to their hands, it makes them at least take a pause before they determine cruelty. Cleophila (whose wits were not dismayed) quickly spied her coming had bred an alteration; and therefore, meaning to use the advantage of time, and to speak determinately while she might be heard, with a brave unbashed countenance, thus said: ‘An unused thing it is, and I think not heretofore seen, O Arcadians, that a woman should give public counsel to men; a stranger to the country people; and that lastly in such a presence a private person, as I am, should possess the regal throne. But the strangeness of your action makes that used for virtue which your violent necessity imposeth. For certainly a woman may well speak to such men who have forgotten all manly government; a stranger may with reason instruct such subjects that neglect due points of subjection. And is it marvel this place is entered into by another, since your own duke after thirty years’ government dare not show his face to his faithful people? Hear therefore, O Arcadians, and be ashamed! Against whom hath this zealous rage been stirred? Whither have you bent these manful weapons of yours? In this quiet harmless lodge there are harboured no Trojans, your ancient enemies; nor Persians, whom you have in present fear Here lodge none but such as either you have great cause to love, or no cause to hate. But none other most sure it can be: is it I, O Arcadians, against whom your anger is armed? Am I the mark of your vehement quarrel? If it be so, that innocency shall not be a stop for fury; if it be so, that the law of hospitality may not defend a stranger fled to your arms for succour; if lastly it be so, that so many valiant men’s courages can be inflamed to the mischief of one hurtless woman, I refuse not to make my life a sacrifice to your wrath. Exercise in me your indignation, so it go no further. I am content to pay the great favours I have received among you with the usury of my well deserving life. I present it here unto you, O Arcadians, if that may satisfy you, rather than you (called over the world the wise and quiet Arcadians) should be so vain as to attempt that alone which all your country will abhor; than you should show yourselves so ungrateful as to forget the fruit of so many years peaceable government, or so unnatural as not to have any fury overmastered with the holy name of your natural duke. For such a hellish madness, I know, will never enter into your hearts as to attempt anything against his person; which no successor, though never so hateful to him, will, for his own sake, ever leave unpunished.
Neither can your wonted valour be turned to such a baseness as, instead of a duke delivered unto you by so many royal ancestors, to take the tyrannous yoke of your fellow subject, in whom the innate meanness will bring forth ravenous covetousness, and the newness of his estate suspectful cruelty. Imagine what would your enemies more wish unto you than to see you with your own hands overthrow your estate? O what would the first Arcadians, your worthy predecessors, say if they lived at this time and saw their offspring defacing such an excellent monarchy, which they with much labour and blood so wisely established? No, no, your honest hearts will neither so gratify your hateful neighbours, nor so degenerate from your famous ancestors. I see in your countenances, now virtuously settled, nothing but love and duty to him who for your only sakes doth embrace the government. The uncertainty of his estate made you take arms; now you see him well, with the same love lay them down. If now you end, as I know you will, he will take no other account of you but as of a vehement, I must confess over vehement, affection; the only continuance should prove a wickedness. But it is not so; I see very well you began with zeal and will end with reverence.’
The action Cleophila used, with a sweet magnanimity and stately mildness, did so pierce into their hearts (whom the taking of breath had cooled, and leisure had taught doubts) that, instead of roaring cries, there was now heard nothing but a confused muttering whether her saying was to be followed, betwixt doubt to pursue and fear to leave. Glad everyone would have been it had never been begun; but how to end it (each afraid of his companion) they knew not — so much easier it is to inflame than to quench, to tie than to loose knots. But Cleophila, to take an assured possession of their minds which she found began to waver, ‘Loyal Arcadians,’ said she, ‘now do I offer unto you the manifesting of your duties. All those that have taken arms for the duke’s safety, let them turn their backs to the gate with their weapons bent against such as would hurt the sacred person of the duke.’
O weak trust of the many-headed multitude, whom inconstancy
only doth guide at any time to well doing! Let no man lay confidence there where company takes away shame, and each may lay the fault in his fellow. The word no sooner came from Cleophila but that there were shouts of joy, with ‘God save the duke!’; and they with much jollity grown to be the duke’s guard that but then before meant to be his murderers. And, indeed, no ill way it is in such mutinies to give them some occasion of such service as they may think in their own judgements may countervail their trespass. Yet was not this done with such an unity of hearts but that their faces well showed it was but a sheep’s draught, and no thirst of goodwill:
namely some of them who, as they were forwardest in the mischief, could least persuade a pardon to themselves, would fain have made a resistance to the rest. But their fellows, that were most glad to have such a mean to show their loyalty, dispatched most of them with a good rule: that to be leaders in disobedience teacheth ever disobedience to the same leaders. So was this ungracious motion converted into their own bowels, and they by a true judgement grown their own punishers; till the duke promising a general pardon, most part with marks of their folly returned home, saving a few to the number of a dozen, in whom their own naughtiness could suffer no assurance, fled to certain woods not far off, where they kept themselves to see how the pardon should be observed; where feeding wildly upon grass and such other food, drinking only water, they were well disciplined from their drunken riots.
To describe unto you the miserable fear Cleophila’s lovers lived in while she stood at the discretion of those undiscreet rebels, how at every angry countenance any of them made they thought a knife was laid upon their own throat, would require as many words as to make you know how full they were now of unspeakable joy that they saw, besides the safety of their own estates, the same wrought (and safely wrought) by her mean in whom they had placed all their delights. There wanted no embracements, no praises of her virtue, no outward signs of their inward affection. But as they were in the midst of those unfeigned ceremonies, a gittern ill played on, accompanied with a hoarse voice (who seemed to sing maugre the muses, and to be merry in spite of fortune), made them look the way of the ill-noised song. But the song was this:
A hateful cure with hate to heal:
A bloody help with blood to save:
A foolish thing with fools to deal:
Let him be bobbed that bobs will have.
But who by means of wisdom high
Hath saved his charge? It is e’en I.
Let others deck their pride with scars,
And of their wounds make brave lame shows:
First let them die, then pass the stars,
When rotten Fame will tell their blows.
But eye from blade, and ear from cry:
Who hath saved all? It is e’en I.
They had soon perceived it was master Dametas, who came with
no less lifted up countenance than if he had passed over the bellies of all his enemies; so wise a point he thought he had performed in using the natural strength of his cave. But never was it his doing to come so soon thence till the coast were more assuredly clear; for it was a rule with him that after great storms there ever fell a few drops before they be fully finished. But Pamela (who had now experienced how much care doth solicit a lover’s heart) used this occasion of going to her parents — indeed, unquiet till her eye might assure her how her shepherd had gone through the danger. Basilius, with the sight of Pamela, of whom almost his head (otherwise occupied) had lost the wonted remembrance, was suddenly stricken into a devout kind of admiration. And therefore presently commanded his wife and daughters to assist him in a sacrifice he would make to Apollo. ‘For even now,’ said he, ‘do I find the force of his oracle.’
He would not, for all that, reveal the secret thereof; for that no man ever knew of him but his best trusted friend Philanax. But in his mind thus he construed it:
That where the oracle said his elder care should by princely mean be stolen away from him, and yet not lost, it was now performed, since Cleophila had as it were robbed from him the care of his first begotten child; yet was it not lost, since in his heart the ground of it remained. His younger should with nature’s bliss embrace the love of Cleophila, because he had so commanded her for his service to do; yet should it be with as much hate of nature, for being so hateful an opposite to the jealousy he thought her mother had of him. The third was it which most rejoiced him; for now he interpreted the meaning thereof that he should accomplish his unlawful desires with Cleophila, and that after (by the death of Gynecia) she should become his wife. And no less comfort received he of the last point; for that he thought the threatening influence to his estate was in this passed, in respect Cleophila had, as you have heard, possessed his regal throne. Thus the fawning humour of false hope made him take everything to his own best; and such is the selfness of affection that, because his mind ran wholly upon Cleophila, he thought the gods in their oracles did mind nothing but her. These many good successes, as well essential as imaginative, made him grateful to Apollo; and therefore, excluding all the rest saving his wife and daughters (as their manner was when they privately made oblations to their household gods), after sacrifice done, they sang together this their yearly-used hymn:
Apollo great, whose beams the greater world do light,
And in our little world dost clear our inward sight,
Which ever shines, though hid from earth by earthly shade,
Whose lights do ever live, but in our darkness fade;
Thou God, whose youth was decked with spoil of Python’s skin
(So humble knowledge can throw down the snakish sin),
Latona’s son, whose birth in pain and travail long
Doth teach to learn the good what travails do belong;
In travail of our life (a short but tedious space
While brickie hour-glass runs) guide thou our panting race:
Give us foresightful minds; give us minds to obey
What foresight tells; our thoughts upon thy knowledge stay.
Let so our fruits grow up that nature be maintained;
But so our hearts keep down, with vice they be not stained.
Let this assured hold our judgements ever take,
That nothing wins the heav’n but what doth earth forsake.
As soon as he had ended his devotion, the coming thither together of a great number of shepherds (which had followed Dorus to succour him) remembered Basilius to call again for the pastorals; which in this sort was handled.
Here ends the second book or act.