THE dangerous division of men’s minds, the ruinous renting of all estates, had now brought Arcadia to feel the pangs of uttermost peril (such convulsions never coming but that the life of that government draws near his necessary period), when to the honest and wise Philanax, equally distracted betwixt desire of his master’s revenge and care of the state’s establishment, there came (unlookedfor) a Macedonian gentleman who in short but pithy manner delivered unto him that the renowned Euarchus, king of Macedon, having made a long and tedious journey to visit his old friend and confederate the duke Basilius, was now come within half a mile of the lodges, where having understood by certain shepherds the sudden death of their prince, had sent unto him (of whose authority and faith he had good knowledge) desiring him to advertise him in what security he might rest there for that night; where willingly he would (if safely he might) help to celebrate the funerals of his ancient companion and ally; adding he need not doubt, since he had brought but twenty in his company, he would be so unwise as to enter into any forcible attempt with so small force.
Philanax (having entertained the gentleman as well as in the midst of so many tumults he could), pausing a while with himself, considering how it should not only be unjust and against the law of nations not well to receive a prince whom goodwill had brought among them, but in respect of the greatness of his might very dangerous to give him any cause of due offence, remembering withal the excellent trials of his equity which made him more famous than his victories, he thought he might be the fittest instrument to redress the ruins they were in, since his goodness put him without suspicion and his greatness beyond envy. Yet weighing how hard many heads were to be bridled, and that in this monstrous confusion such mischief might be attempted of which late repentance should after be but a simple remedy, he judged best first to know how the people’s minds would sway to this determination. Therefore, desiring the gentleman to return to the king his master and to beseech him (though with his pains) to stay for an hour or two where he was till he had set things in better order to receive him, he himself went first to the noblemen, then to Kerxenus and the principal Mantineans who were most opposite unto him, desiring them that, as the night had most blessedly stayed them from entering into civil blood, so they would be content in the night to assemble the people together to hear some news which he was to deliver unto them. There is nothing more desirous of novelties than a man that fears his present fortune. Therefore they, whom mutual diffidence made doubtful of their utter destruction, were quickly persuaded to hear of any new matter which might alter at least, if not help, the nature of their fear; namely the chiefest men who, as they had most to lose so were most jealous of their own case, and were already grown as weary to be followers of Timautus’s ambition as before they were enviers of Philanax’s worthiness. As for Kerxenus and Sympathus, as in the one a virtuous friendship had made him seek to advance, in the other a natural commiseration had made him willing to protect, the two excellent (though unfortunate) prisoners, so were they not against this convocation; for having nothing but just desires in them, they did not mistrust the justifying of them. Only Timautus laboured to have withdrawn them from this assembly, saying it was time to stop their ears from the ambitious charms of
Philanax:
‘Let them first deliver Gynecia and her daughters,’ said he, ‘which were fit persons to hear, and then they might begin to speak; that this was but Philanax’s cunning, to link broil upon broil, because he might avoid the answering of his trespasses which, as he had long intended so had he prepared coloured speeches to disguise them.’
But as his words expressed rather a violence of rancour than any just ground of accusation so pierced they no further than to some partial ears; the multitude yielding good attention to what Philanax would propose unto them, who (like a man whose best building was a well framed conscience), neither with plausible words nor fawning countenance, but even with the grave behaviour of a wise father whom nothing but love makes to chide, he thus said unto them:
‘I have,’ said he, ‘a great matter to deliver unto you, and thereout am I to make a greater demand of you. But truly, such hath this late proceeding been of yours that I know not what is not to be demanded of you. Methinks I may have reason to require of you, as men are wont among pirates, that the life at least of him that never hurt you may be safe. Methinks I am not without appearance of cause, as if you were cyclops or cannibals, to desire that our prince’s body (which hath thirty years maintained us in a flourishing peace) be not torn in pieces or devoured among you, but may be suffered to yield itself (which never was defiled with any of your bloods) to the natural rest of the earth. Methinks not as to Arcadians, renowned for your faith to prince and love of country, but as to sworn enemies of this sweet soil, I am to desire you that at least, if you will have strangers to your princes, yet you will not deliver the seigniory of this goodly dukedom to your noble duke’s murderers.
Lastly I have reason, as if I had to speak to madmen, to desire you to be good to yourselves; for, before God, what either barbarous violence or unnatural folly hath not this day had his seat in your minds, and left his footsteps in your actions? But in truth I love you too well to stand long displaying your faults; I would you yourselves did forget them, so you did not fall again into them. For my part I had much rather be an orator of your praises. But now, if you will suffer attentive judgement and not fore-judging passion to be the weigher of my words, I will deliver unto you what a blessed mean the heavens have sent unto you, if you list to embrace it. I think there is none among you so young either in years or understanding but hath heard the true fame of that just prince, Euarchus, king of Macedon — a prince with whom our late master did ever hold most perfect alliance. He, even he, is this day come, having but twenty horse with him, within two miles of this place, hoping to have found the virtuous Basilius alive, but now willing to do honour to his death. Surely, surely, the heavenly powers have in so full a time bestowed him on us to unite our disunions. For my part, therefore, I wish that, since among ourselves we cannot agree in so manifold partialities, we do put the ordering of all these things into his hands, as well touching the obsequies of the duke, the punishment of his death, as the marriage and crowning of our princess. He is, both by experience and wisdom, taught how to direct his greatness such as no man can disdain to obey him, his equity such as no man need to fear him; lastly, as he hath all these qualities to help so hath he (though he would) no force to hurt. If, therefore, you so think good, since our laws bear that our prince’s murder be chastised before his murdered body be buried, we may invite him to sit tomorrow in the judgement seat; after which done, you may proceed to the burial.’
When Philanax first named Euarchus’s landing there was a
muttering murmur among the people, as though in that ill-ordered weakness of theirs he had come to conquer their country. But when they understood he had so small a retinue, whispering one with another and looking who should begin to confirm Philanax’s proposition, at length Sympathus was the first that allowed it, then the rest of the noblemen; neither did Kerxenus strive, hoping so excellent a prince could not but deal graciously with two such young men; whose authority, joined to Philanax, all the popular sort followed. Timautus, still blinded with his own ambitious haste, not remembering factions are no longer to be trusted than the factious may be persuaded it is for their own good, would needs strive against the stream, exclaiming against Philanax that now he showed who it was that would betray his country to strangers. But well he found that who is too busy in the foundation of a house may pull the building about his ears; for the people, already tired with their own divisions (of which his clampering had been a principal nurse), and beginning now to espy a haven of rest, hated anything that should hinder them from it. And so asked one another whether this were not he whose evil tongue no man could escape; whether it were not Timautus that made the first mutinous oration to strengthen the troubles; whether Timautus, without their consent, had not gone about to deliver Gynecia. And thus inflaming one another against him, they threw him out of the assembly, and after pursued him with stones and staves; so that, with loss of one of his eyes, sore wounded and beaten, he was fain to fly to Philanax’s feet for the succour of his life — giving a true lesson that vice itself is forced to seek the sanctuary of virtue. For Philanax, who hated his evil but not his person, and knew that a just punishment might by the manner be unjustly done, remembering withal that, although herein the people’s rage might have hit right enough, yet if it were nourished in this, no man knew to what extremities it might extend itself, with earnest dealing and employing the uttermost of his authority, he did protect the trembling Timautus. And then having taken a general oath that they should, in the nonage of the princess, or till these things were settled, yield full obedience to Euarchus, so far as were not prejudicial to the laws, customs, and liberties of Arcadia; and having taken a particular oath of Sympathus that the prisoners should be kept close, without conference to any man, he himself, honourably accompanied with a great number of torches, went to the king Euarchus, whom he found taking his rest under a tree with no more affected pomps than as a man that knew, howsoever he was exalted, the beginning and end of his body was earth.
But first it were fit to be known what cause moved this puissant prince to come in this sort to Arcadia. Euarchus did not further exceed his meanest subject with the greatness of his fortune than he did surmount the greatness of his fortune with the greatness of his mind; in so much that those things which oftentimes the best sort think rewards of virtue, he held them not at so high price, but esteemed them servants to well doing, the reward of virtue being in itself; on which his inward love was so fixed that it never was dissolved into other desires, but keeping his thoughts true to themselves, was neither beguiled with the painted gloss of pleasure nor dazzled with the false light of ambition. This made the line of his actions straight and always like itself, no worldly thing being able to shake the constancy of it; which, among many other times, yielded some proof of itself when Basilius, the mightiest prince of Greece next to Euarchus, did so suddenly without the advice or allowance of his subjects, without either good show of reasonable cause, or good provision for likely accidents, in the sight of the world put himself from the world, as a man that not only unarmed himself but would make his nakedness manifest. This measured by the minds of most princes, even those whom great acts have entitled with the holy name of virtue, would have been thought a sufficient cause (where such opportunity did offer so great a prey into their hands) to have sought the enlarging of their dominions, wherein they falsely put the more or less felicity of an estate. But Euarchus, that had conceived what is evil in itself no respect can make good, and never forgot his office was to maintain the Macedonians in the exercise of goodness and happy enjoying their natural lives, never used war (which is maintained with the cost and blood of the subject) but when it was to defend their right whereon their well being depended. For this reckoning he made: how far soever he extended himself, neighbours he must have; and therefore, as he kept in peace time a continual discipline of war, and at no time would suffer injury, so he did rather stand upon a just moderation of keeping his own in good and happy case than, multiplying desire upon desire, seeking one enemy after another, put both his honour and people’s safety in the continual dice of fortune. So that, having this advantage of Basilius’s country laid open unto him, instead of laying an unjust gripe upon it (which yet might have been beautified with the noble name of conquest), he straight considered the universal case of Greece deprived by this means of a principal pillar. He weighed and pitied the pitiful case of the Arcadian people, who were in worse case than if death had taken away their prince. For so yet their necessity would have placed someone to the helm; now a prince being, and not doing like a prince, keeping and not exercising the place, they were in so much more evil case as they could not provide for their evil. He saw the Asiatics of the one side, the Latins of the other, gaping for any occasion to devour Greece, which was no way to be prevented but by their united strength, and strength most to be maintained by maintaining their principal instruments. These rightly wise and temperate considerations moved Euarchus to take this laboursome journey, to see whether by his authority he might withdraw Basilius from this burying himself alive, and to return again to employ his old years in doing good, the only happy action of man’s life. Neither was he without a consideration in himself to provide the marriage of Basilius’s two daughters for his son and nephew against their return, the tedious expectation of which, joined with the fear of their miscarrying (having been long without hearing any news from them), made him the willinger to ease that part of melancholy with changing the objects of his wearied senses and visiting his old and well approved acquaintance. So, having left his country for the short time of his absence in very perfect state, and having thoroughly settled his late conquests, taking with him a good number of galleys to waft him in safety to the Arcadian shore, he sailed with a prosperous wind to a port not far from Mantinea; where landing no more with him but the small company you have heard of, and going towards the desert, he understood to his great grief the news of the prince’s death, and waited in that sort for his safe conduct, till Philanax came; who, as soon as he was in sight of him, lighting from his horse, presented himself unto him in all those humble behaviours which not only the great reverence of the party but the conceit of one’s own misery is wont to frame. Euarchus rase up unto him with so gracious a countenance as the goodness of his mind had long exercised him unto, careful so much more to descend in all courtesies as he saw him bear a low representation of his afflicted state. But to Philanax, as soon as by near looking on him he might perfectly behold him, the gravity of his countenance and years not much unlike to his late deceased but ever beloved master, brought his form so lively into his memory, and revived so all the thoughts of his wonted joys with him, that instead of speaking to Euarchus, he stood a while like a man gone a far journey from himself, calling as it were with his mind an account of his losses, imagining that his pain needed not if nature had not been violently stopped of her own course, and casting more loving than wise conceits what a world this would have been if this sudden accident had not interrupted it. And so far strayed he into this raving melancholy that his eyes, nimbler than his tongue, let fall a flood of tears, his voice being stopped with extremity of sobbing — so much had his friendship carried him to Basilius that he thought no age was timely for his death. But at length, taking the occasion of his own weeping, he thus did speak to Euarchus:
‘Let not my tears, most worthily renowned prince, make my presence unpleasant or my speech unmarked of you; for the justness of the cause takes away any blame of weakness in me, and the affinity that the same beareth to your greatness seems even lawfully to claim pity in you: a prince, of a prince’s fall; a lover of justice, of a most unjust violence. And give me leave, excellent Euarchus, to say it: I am but the representer of all the late flourishing Arcadia, which now with my eyes doth weep, with my tongue doth complain, with my knees doth lay itself at your feet which never have been unready to carry you to the virtuous protecting of innocents.
Imagine, vouchsafe to imagine, most wise and good king, that here is before your eyes the pitiful spectacle of a most dolorously ending tragedy, wherein I do but play the part of all this now miserable province which, being spoiled of her guide, doth lie like a ship without a pilot, tumbling up and down in the uncertain waves, till it either run itself upon the rock of self-division or be overthrown by the stormy wind of foreign force. Arcadia, finding herself in these desolate terms, doth speak, and I speak for her, to thee not vainly, puissant prince, that since now she is not only robbed of the natural support of her lord but so suddenly robbed that she hath not breathing time to stand for her safety; so unfortunately that it doth appal their minds, though they had leisure; and so mischievously that it doth exceed both the suddenness and infortunateness of it.
Thou wilt lend thine arms unto her, and as a man take compassion of mankind, as a virtuous man chastise most abominable vice, and as a prince protect a people which all have with one voice called for thy goodness, thinking that, as thou art only able, so thou art fully able, to redress their imminent ruins. They do, therefore, with as much confidence as necessity, fly unto you for succour. They lay themselves open to you — to you, I mean yourself, such as you have ever been; that is to say, one that hath always had his determinations bounded with equity. They only reserve the right to Basilius’s blood, the manner to the ancient prescribing of their laws; for the rest, without exception, they yield over unto you as to the elected protector of this dukedom, which name and office they beseech you, till you have laid a sufficient foundation of tranquillity, to take upon you. The particularities, both of their statutes and demands, you shall presently after understand. Now only I am to say unto you that this country falls to be a fair field to prove whether the goodly tree of your virtue will live in all soils. Here, I say, will be seen whether either fear can make you short or the lickerousness of dominion make you beyond justice. And I can for conclusion say no more but this: you must think, upon my words and your answer depend not only the quiet but the lives of so many thousand, which for their ancient confederacy in this their extreme necessity desire neither the expense of your treasure nor hazard of your subjects but only the benefit of your wisdom, whose both glory and increase stands in the exercising of it.’
The sum of this request was utterly unlooked-for of Euarchus,
which made him the more diligent in marking his speech, and after his speech take the greater pause for a perfect resolution. For, as of the one side he thought nature required nothing more of him than that he should be a help to them of like creation, and had his heart no whit commanded with fear, thinking his life well passed, having satisfied the tyranny of time with the course of many years, the expectation of the world with more than expected honour, lastly the tribute due to his own mind with the daily offering of most virtuous actions, so of the other he weighed the just reproach that followed those who easily enter into other folk’s business with the opinion might be conceived love of seigniory rather than of justice had made him embark himself thus into a matter nothing appertaining unto him. But in the end, wisdom being an essential and not an opinionate thing, made him rather bend to what was in itself good than what by evil minds might be judged not good. And therein did see that, though that people did not belong unto him, yet doing good (which is enclosed within no terms of people or place) did belong unto him. To this, the secret assurance of his own worthiness (which, although it be never so well clothed in modesty, yet always lives in the worthiest minds) did much push him forward, saying unto himself: the treasure of those inward gifts he had were bestowed by the gods upon him to be beneficial and not idle. On which determination resting, and yet willing before he waded any further to examine well the depth of the other’s proffer, he thus, with that well appeased gesture unpassionate nature bestoweth upon mankind, made answer to Philanax’s most urgent petition:
‘Although long experience hath made me know all men (and so princes, which be but men) to be subject to infinite casualties, the very constitution of our lives remaining in continual change, yet the affairs of this country, or at least my meeting so jumply with them, makes me even abashed with the strangeness of it. With much pain I am come hither to see my long-approved friend, and now I find if I will see him, I must see him dead; after for mine own security I seek to be warranted mine own life. And here am I suddenly appointed to be a judge of other men’s lives. Though a friend to him, yet am I a stranger to the country; and now of a stranger you would suddenly make a director. I might object to your desire my weakness, which age perhaps hath wrought both in mind and body, and justly I may pretend the necessity of mine own country, to which, as I am by all true rules more nearly tied so can it not long bear the delay of my absence. But though I would and could dispense with these difficulties, what assurance can I have of the people’s will, which having so many circles of imaginations can hardly be enclosed in one point?
Who knows a people that knows not a sudden opinion makes them hope, which hope, if it be not answered, they fall to hate, choosing and refusing, erecting and overthrowing, according as the presentness of any fancy carries them? Even this their hasty drawing to me makes me think they may be as hastily withdrawn from me; for it is but one ground of inconstancy soon to take or soon to leave. It may be they have heard of Euarchus more than cause; their own eyes will be perhaps more curious judges. Out of hearsay they may have builded many conceits which I cannot, perchance will not, perform.
Then will undeserved repentance be a greater shame and injury unto me than their undeserved proffer is honour. And to conclude, I must be fully informed how the patient is minded before I can promise to undertake the cure.’
Philanax was not of the modern minds who make suitors magistrates, but did ever think the unwilling worthy man was fitter than the undeserving desirer. Therefore the more Euarchus drew back, the more he found in him that the cunningest pilot doth most dread the rocks, the more earnestly he pursued his public request unto him.
He desired him not to make any weak excuses of his weakness, since so many examples had well proved his mind was strong to overpass the greatest troubles, and his body strong enough to obey his mind; and that, so long as they were joined together, he knew Euarchus would think it no wearisome exercise to make them vessels of virtuous actions. The duty to his country he acknowledged, which as he had so settled as it was not to fear any sudden alteration so, since it did want him, as well it might endure a fruitful as an idle absence. As for the doubt he conceived of the people’s constancy in this their election, he said it was such a doubt as all human actions are subject unto; yet as much as in politic matters (which receive not geometrical certainties) a man may assure himself, there was evident likelihood to be conceived of the continuance both in their unanimity and his worthiness, whereof the one was apt to be held and the other to hold, joined to the present necessity, the firmest band of mortal minds. In sum, he alleged so many reasons to Euarchus’s mind (already inclined to enter into any virtuous action) that he yielded to take upon himself the judgement of the present cause, so as he might find indeed that such was the people’s desire out of judgement and not faction. Therefore, mounting on their horses, they hasted to the lodges, where they found, though late in the night, the people wakefully watching for the issue of Philanax’s ambassade, no man thinking the matter would be well done without he had his voice in it, and each deeming his own eyes the best guardians of his throat in that unaccustomed tumult. But when they saw Philanax return, having on his right hand the king Euarchus, on whom now they had placed the greatest burden of their fears, with joyful shouts and applauding acclamations, they made him and the world quickly know that one man’s sufficiency is more available than ten thousand’s multitude — so ill balanced be the extremities of popular minds, and so much natural imperiousness there rests in a well formed spirit. For, as if Euarchus had been born of the princely blood of Arcadia, or that long and well acquainted proof had engrafted him in their community, so flocked they about this stranger, most of them already from dejected fears rising to ambitious considerations who should catch the first hold of his favour; and then from those crying welcomes to babbling one with another, some praising Philanax for his well succeeding pains, others liking Euarchus’s aspect, and as they judged his age by his face, so judging his wisdom by his age. Euarchus passed through them like a man that did neither disdain a people nor yet was anything tickled with their flatteries, but always holding his own, a man might read a constant determination in his eyes. And in that sort dismounting among them, he forthwith demanded the convocation to be made, which accordingly was done with as much order and silence as it might appear Neptune had not more force to appease the rebellious wind than the admiration of an extraordinary virtue hath to temper a disordered multitude. He, being raised up upon a place more high than the rest where he might be best understood, in this sort spake unto them:
‘I understand,’ said he, ‘faithful Arcadians, by my lord Philanax that you have with one consent chosen me to be the judge of the late evils happened, orderer of the present disorders, and finally protector of this country till therein it be seen what the customs of Arcadia require.’
He could say no further, being stopped with a general cry that so it was, giving him all the honourable titles and happy wishes they could imagine. He beckoned unto them for silence, and then thus again proceeded:
‘Well,’ said he, ‘how good choice you have made, the attending must be in you, the proof in me. But because it many times falls out we are much deceived in others, we being the first to deceive ourselves, I am to require you not to have an overshooting expectation of me — the most cruel adversary of all honourable doings — nor promise yourselves wonders out of a sudden liking. But remember I am a man; that is to say, a creature whose reason is often darkened with error. Secondly, that you will lay your hearts void of foretaken opinions, else whatsoever I do or say will be measured by a wrong rule, like them that have the yellow jaundice, everything seeming yellow unto them. Thirdly, whatsoever debates have risen among you may be utterly extinguished, knowing that even among the best men are diversities of opinions, which are no more in true reason to breed hatred than one that loves black should be angry with him that is clothed in white; for thoughts and conceits are the very apparel of the mind. Lastly, that you do not easily judge of your judge; but since you will have me to command, think it is your part to obey.
And in reward of this, I will promise and protest unto you that to the uttermost of my skill, both in the general laws of nature, especially of Greece, and particularly of Arcadia (wherein I must confess I am not unacquainted), I will not only see the past evils duly punished, and your weal hereafter established, but for your defence in it, if need shall require, I will employ the forces and treasures of mine own country. In the mean time, this shall be the first order I will take: that no man, under pain of grievous punishment name me by any other name but protector of Arcadia; for I will not leave any possible colour to any of my natural successors to make claim to this, which by free election you have bestowed upon me. And so I vow unto you to depose myself of it as soon as the judgement is passed, the duke buried, and his lawful successor appointed. For the first whereof (I mean the trying which be guilty of the duke’s death and these other heinous trespasses), because your customs require such haste, I will no longer delay it than till tomorrow, as soon as the sun shall give us fit opportunity. You may, therefore, retire yourselves to your rest, that you may be the readier to be present at these so great important matters.’
With many allowing tokens was Euarchus’s speech heard; who now by Philanax (that took the principal care of doing all due services unto him) was offered a lodging made ready for him (the rest of the people, as well as the small commodity of that place would suffer, yielding their weary heads to sleep), when, lo, the night, thoroughly spent in these mixed matters, was for that time banished the face of the earth. And Euarchus, seeing the day begin to disclose his comfortable beauties, desiring nothing more than to join speed with justice, willed Philanax presently to make the judgement-place be put in order; and as soon as the people (who yet were not fully dispersed) might be brought together, to bring forth the prisoners and the duke’s body, which the manner was should in such cases be held in sight, though covered with black velvet, until they that were accused to be the murderers were quitted or condemned — whether the reason of the law were to show the more grateful love to their prince, or by that spectacle the more to remember the judge of his duty. Philanax (who now thought in himself he approached to the just revenge he so much desired) went with all care and diligence to perform his charge.
But first it shall be well to know how the poor and princely prisoners passed this tedious night. There was never tyrant exercised his rage with more grievous torments upon any he most hated than the afflicted Gynecia did crucify her own soul, after the guiltiness of her heart was surcharged with the suddenness of her husband’s death; for although that effect came not from her mind, yet her mind being evil, and the effect evil, she thought the justice of God had for the beginning of her pains coupled them together. This incessantly boiled in her breast, but most of all when, Philanax having closely imprisoned her, she was left more freely to suffer the firebrands of her own thoughts; especially when it grew dark and had nothing left by her but a little lamp, whose small light to a perplexed mind might rather yield fearful shadows than any assured sight. Then began the heaps of her miseries to weigh down the platform of her judgement; then began despair to lay his ugly claws upon her. She began to fear the heavenly powers she was wont to reverence, not like a child but like an enemy. Neither kept she herself from blasphemous repining against her creation. ‘O gods,’ would she cry out, ‘why did you make me to destruction? If you love goodness, why did you not give me a good mind? Or if I cannot have it without your gift, why do you plague me? Is it in me to resist the mightiness of your power?’ Then would she imagine she saw strange sights, and that she heard the cries of hellish ghosts. Then would she screech out for succour; but no man coming unto her, she would fain have killed herself, but knew not how. At some times again the very heaviness of her imaginations would close up her senses to a little sleep; but then did her dreams become her tormentors. One time it would seem unto her Philanax was haling her by the hair of the head, and having put out her eyes, was ready to throw her into a burning furnace. Another time she would think she saw her husband making the complaint of his death to Pluto, and the magistrates of that infernal region contending in great debate to what eternal punishment they should allot her. But long her dreaming would not hold but that it would fall upon Cleophila, to whom she would think she was crying for mercy, and that he did pass away by her in silence without any show of pitying her mischief. Then waking out of a broken sleep, and yet wishing she might ever have slept, new forms (but of the same miseries) would seize her mind. She feared death, and yet desired death. She had passed the uttermost of shame, and yet shame was one of her cruellest assaulters. She hated Pyrocles as the original of her mortal overthrow, and yet the love she had conceived to him had still a high authority in her passions. ‘O Cleophila,’ would she say (not knowing how near he himself was to as great a danger), ‘now shalt thou glut thy eyes with the dishonoured death of thy enemy — enemy (alas, enemy), since so thou hast well showed thou wilt have me account thee. Couldst thou not as well have given me a determinate denial, as to disguise thy first disguising with a double dissembling? Perchance if I had been utterly hopeless, the virtue was once in me might have called together his forces, and not have been led captive to this monstrous thraldom of punished wickedness.’ Then would her own knowing of good inflame anew the rage of despair, which becoming an unresisted lord in her breast, she had no other comfort but in death, which yet she had in horror when she thought of. But the wearisome detesting of herself made her long for the day’s approach, at which time she determined to continue her former course in acknowledging anything which might hasten her end; wherein, although she did not hope for the end of her torments (feeling already the beginning of hell-agonies), yet (according to the nature of pain, the present being most intolerable) she desired to change that, and put to adventure the ensuing. And thus rested the restless Gynecia.
No less sorrowful, though less rageful, were the minds of the princess Pamela and the lady Philoclea, whose only advantages were that they had not consented to so much evil, and so were at greater peace with themselves; and that they were not left alone, but might mutually bear part of each other’s woes. For when Philanax, not regarding Pamela’s princely protestations, had by force left her under guard with her sister, and that the two sisters were matched as well in the disgraces of fortune as they had been in the best beauties of nature, those things that till then bashfulness and mistrust had made them hold reserved one from the other, now fear (the underminer of all determinations) and necessity (the victorious rebel of all laws) forced them interchangeably to lay open; their passions, then so swelling in them as they would have made auditors of stones rather than have swallowed up in silence the choking adventures were fallen unto them. Truly, the hardest hearts which have at any time thought woman’s tears to be a matter of slight compassion (imagining that fair weather will quickly after follow), would now have been mollified, and been compelled to confess that, the fairer a diamond is, the more pity it is it should receive a blemish; although no doubt their faces did rather beautify sorrow than sorrow could darken that which even in darkness did shine.
But after they had, so long as their other afflictions would suffer them, with doleful ceremonies bemoaned their father’s death, they sat down together, apparelled as their misadventures had found them — Pamela in her journeying weeds, now converted to another use; Philoclea only in her nightgown, which she thought should be the raiment both of her marriage and funerals. But when the excellent creatures had, after much panting with their inward travail, gotten so much breathing power as to make a pitiful discourse one to the other what had befallen them, and that, by the plain comparing the case they were in, they thoroughly found that their griefs were not more like in regard of themselves than like in respect of the subject (the two princes, as Pamela had learned of Musidorus, being so minded as they would ever make both their fortunes one), it did more unite, and so strengthen, their lamentation, seeing the one could not any way be helped by the other, but rather the one could not be miserable but that it must necessarily make the other miserable also. That, therefore, was the first matter their sweet mouths delivered, the declaring the passionate beginning, troublesome proceeding, and dangerous ending, their never ending loves had passed; and when at any time they entered into the praises of the young princes, too long it would have exercised their tongues but that their memory forthwith warned them the more praiseworthy they were, the more at that time they were worthy of lamentation. Then again to crying and wringing of hands, and then anew as unquiet grief sought each corner to new discourses; from discourses to wishes; from wishes to prayers — especially the tender Philoclea who, as she was in years younger and had never lifted up her mind to any opinion of sovereignty, so was she apter to yield to her misfortune, having no stronger debates in her mind than a man may say a most witty childhood is wont to nourish, as to imagine with herself why Philanax and the other noblemen should deal so cruelly by her that had never deserved evil of any of them; and how they could find in their hearts to imprison such a personage as she did figure Pyrocles, whom she thought all the world was bound to love as well as she did. But Pamela, although endued with a virtuous mildness, yet the knowledge of herself, and what was due unto her, made her heart full of a stronger disdain against her adversity; so that she joined the vexation for her friend with the spite to see herself, as she thought, rebelliously detained, and mixed desirous thoughts to help with revengeful thoughts if she could not help. And as in pangs of death the stronger heart feels the greater torment, because it doth the more resist to his oppressor, so her mind, the nobler it was set (and had already embraced the higher thoughts), so much more it did repine; and the more it repined, the more helpless wounds it gave unto itself. But when great part of the night was passed over the doleful music of these sweet ladies’ complaints, and that leisure (though with some strife) had brought Pamela to know that an eagle when she is in a cage must not think to do like an eagle, remembering with themselves that it was likely the next day the lords would proceed against those they had imprisoned, they employed the rest of the night in writing unto them, with such earnestness as the matter required, but in such styles as the state of their thoughts was apt to fashion.
In the mean time Pyrocles and Musidorus were recommended to so strong a guard as they might well see it was meant they should pay no less price than their lives for the getting out of that place, which they like men indeed (fortifying courage with the true rampire of patience) did so endure as they did rather appear governors of necessity than servants to fortune; the whole sum of their thoughts resting upon the safety of their ladies and their care one for the other, wherein (if at all) their hearts did seem to receive some softness. For sometimes Musidorus would feel such a motion to his friend and his unworthy case that he would fall into such kind speeches: ‘My Pyrocles,’ would he say, ‘how unhappy may I think Thessalia that hath been as it were the middle way to this evil state of yours. For if you had not been there brought up, the sea should not have had this power thus to sever you from your dear father. I have therefore (if complaints do at any time become a man’s heart) most cause to complain, since my country, which received the honour of Pyrocles’ education, should be a step to his overthrow — if human chances can be counted an overthrow to him that stands upon virtue.’
‘O excellent Musidorus,’ answered Pyrocles, ‘how do you teach me rather to fall out with myself and my fortune, since by you I have received all good, you only by me this affliction. To you and your virtuous mother I in my tenderest years, and father’s greatest troubles, was sent for succour. There did I learn the sweet mysteries of philosophy. There had I your lively example to confirm that which I learned. There, lastly, had I your friendship which no unhappiness can ever make me say but that hath made me happy. Now see how my destiny (the gods know, not my will) hath rewarded you. My father sends for you away out of your land, whence, but for me, you had not come. What after followed, you know; it was my love, not yours, which first stayed you here. And therefore, if the heavens ever held a just proportion, it were I, and not you, that should feel the smart.’
‘O blame not the heavens, sweet Pyrocles,’ said Musidorus, ‘as their course never alters, so is there nothing done by the unreachable ruler of them, but hath an everlasting reason for it. And to say the truth of those things, we should deal ungratefully with nature if we should be forgetful receivers of her good gifts, and so diligent auditors of the chances we like not. We have lived, and have lived to be good to ourselves and others. Our souls (which are put into the stirring earth of our bodies) have achieved the causes of their hither coming. They have known, and honoured with knowledge, the cause of their creation. And to many men (for in this time, place, and fortune, it is lawful for us to speak gloriously) it hath been behoveful that we should live. Since, then, eternity is not to be had in this conjunction, what is to be lost by the separation but time? Which, since it hath his end, when that is once come, all what is past is nothing; and by the protracting, nothing gotten but labour and care. Do not me, therefore, that wrong (who something in years, but much in all other deserts, am fitter to die than you) as to say you have brought me to any evil, since the love of you doth overbalance all bodily mischiefs; and those mischiefs be but mischiefs to the baser minds too much delighted with the kennel of this life. Neither will I any more yield to my passion of lamenting you, which howsoever it might agree to my exceeding friendship, surely it would nothing to your exceeding virtue.’
‘Add this to your noble speech, my dear cousin,’ said Pyrocles, ‘that if we complain of this our fortune, or seem to ourselves faulty in having one hurt the other, we show a repentance of the love we bear to those matchless creatures, or at least a doubt it should be over dearly bought, which for my part (and so dare I answer for you) I call all the gods to witness, I am so far from that no shame, no torment, no death, would make me forgo the least part of the inward honour, essential pleasure, and living life I have enjoyed in the presence of the faultless Philoclea.’
‘Take the pre-eminence in all things but in true loving,’ answered Musidorus, ‘for the confession of that no death shall get of me.’
‘Of that,’ answered Pyrocles, soberly smiling, ‘I perceive we shall have a debate in the other world — if, at least, there remain anything of remembrance in that place.’
‘I do not think the contrary,’ said Musidorus, ‘although you know it is greatly held that with the death of body and senses (which are not only the beginning but dwelling and nourishing of passions, thoughts, and imaginations), they failing, memory likewise fails (which riseth only out of them), and then is there left nothing but the intellectual part or intelligence which, void of all moral virtues (which stand in the mean of perturbations) doth only live in the contemplative virtue and power of the omnipotent God (the soul of souls and universal life of this great work); and therefore is utterly void from the possibility of drawing to itself these sensible considerations.’
‘Certainly,’ answered Pyrocles, ‘I easily yield that we shall not know one another, and much less these past things, with a sensible or passionate knowledge; for the cause being taken away, the effect follows. Neither do I think we shall have such a memory as now we have, which is but a relic of the senses, or rather a print the senses have left of things past in our thoughts; but it shall be a vital power of that very intelligence which, as while it was here it held the chief seat of our life, and was as it were the last resort to which of all our knowledges the highest appeal came, and so by that means was never ignorant of our actions (though many times rebelliously resisted, always with this prison darkened), so much more being free of that prison, and returning to the life of all things, where all infinite knowledge is, it cannot but be a right intelligence (which is both his name and being) of things both present and past, though void of imagining to itself anything, but even grown like to his creator, hath all things with a spiritual knowledge before it. The difference of which is as hard for us to conceive as it had been for us when we were in our mothers’ wombs to comprehend (if anybody could have told us) what kind of light we now in this life see, what kind of knowledge we now have. Yet now we do not only feel our present being but we conceive what we were before we were born; though remembrance make us not do it, but knowledge. And though we are utterly without any remorse of any misery we might then suffer, even such and much more odds shall there be at that second delivery of ours when, void of sensible memory or memorative passion, we shall not see the colours but lives of all things that have been or can be; and shall, as I hope, know our friendship, though exempt from the earthly cares of friendship, having both united it and ourselves in that high and heavenly love of the unquenchable light.’
As he had ended his speech, Musidorus, looking with a heavenly joy upon him, sang this song unto him he had made before love turned his muse to another subject.
Since nature’s works be good, and death doth serve
As nature’s work, why should we fear to die?
Since fear is vain but when it may preserve,
Why should we fear that which we cannot fly?
Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears,
Disarming human minds of native might;
While each conceit an ugly figure bears,
Which were not ill, well viewed in reason’s light.
Our owly eyes, which dimmed with passions be,
And scarce discern the dawn of coming day,
Let them be cleared, and now begin to see
Our life is but a step in dusty way.
Then let us hold the bliss of peaceful mind,
Since this we feel, great loss we cannot find.
Thus did they, like quiet swans, sing their own obsequies, and virtuously enable their minds against all extremities which they did think would fall upon them, especially resolving that the first care they would have should be, by taking the fault upon themselves, to clear the two ladies, of whose case (as of nothing else that had happened) they had not any knowledge; although their friendly host, the honest gentleman Kerxenus, seeking all means how to help them, had endeavoured to speak with them and to make them know who should be their judge. But the curious servant of Philanax forbad him the entry upon pain of death; for so it was agreed upon that no man should have any conference with them for fear of new tumults, in so much that Kerxenus was constrained to retire himself, having yet obtained thus much: that he would deliver unto the two princes their apparel and jewels, which being left with him at Mantinea (wisely considering that their disguised weeds, which were all as then they had, saving a certain mean raiment Philanax had cast upon Pyrocles, would make them more odious in the sight of the judges), he had that night sent for, and now brought unto them. They accepted their own with great thankfulness, knowing from whence it came, and attired themselves in it against the next day; which being indeed rich and princely, they accordingly determined to maintain the names of Palladius and Timopyrus (as before it is mentioned).
Then gave they themselves to consider in what sort they might defend their causes (for they thought it no less vain to wish death than cowardly to fear it), till something before morning, a small slumber taking them, they were by and by after called up to come to the answer of no less than their lives imported.
But in this sort was the judgement ordered: as soon as the morning had taken a full possession of the element, Euarchus called unto him Philanax, and willed him to draw out into the midst of the green (before the chief lodge) the throne of judgement seat in which Basilius was wont to sit, and according to their customs was ever carried with the prince. For Euarchus did wisely consider the people to be naturally taken with exterior shows far more than with inward consideration of the material points; and therefore in this new entry into so entangled a matter he would leave nothing which might be either an armour or ornament unto him; and in these pompous ceremonies he well knew a secret of government much to consist.
That was performed by the diligent Philanax; and therein Euarchus did sit himself, all clothed in black, with the principal men who could in that suddenness provide themselves of such mourning raiments, the whole people commanded to keep an orderly silence of each side, which was duly observed of them, partly for the desire they had to see a good conclusion of these matters, and partly stricken with admiration as well at the grave and princely presence of Euarchus as at the greatness of the cause which was then to come in question. As for Philanax, Euarchus would have done him the honour to sit by him, but he excused himself, desiring to be the accuser of the prisoners in his master’s behalf; and therefore, since he made himself a party, it was not convenient for him to sit in the judicial place.
Then was it a while deliberated whether the two young ladies should be brought forth in open presence. But that was stopped by Philanax, whose love and faith did descend from his master to his children, and only desired the smart should light upon the others whom he thought guilty of his death and dishonour, alleging for this that neither wisdom would they should be brought in presence of the people, which might thereupon grow to new uproars, nor justice required they should be drawn to any shame, till somebody accused them. And as for Pamela, he protested the laws of Arcadia would not allow any judgement of her, although she herself were to determine nothing till age or marriage enabled her.
Then, the duke’s body being laid upon a table just before Euarchus, and all covered over with black, the prisoners (namely the duchess and two young princes) were sent for to appear in the protector’s name (which name was the cause they came not to knowledge how near a kinsman was to judge of them, but thought him to be some nobleman chosen by the country in this extremity — so extraordinary a course had the order of the heavens produced at this time that both nephew and son were not only prisoners but unknown to their uncle and father, who of many years had not seen them, and Pyrocles was to plead for his life before that throne, in which throne lately before he had saved the duke’s life).
But first was Gynecia led forth in the same weeds that the day and night before she had worn, saving that, instead of Cleophila’s garment, in which she was found, she had cast on a long cloak which reached to the ground, of russet coarse cloth, with a poor felt hat which almost covered all her face, most part of her goodly hair (on which her hands had laid many a spiteful hold), so lying upon her shoulders as a man might well see had no artificial carelessness; her eyes down on the ground of purpose not to look on Pyrocles’ face, which she did not so much shun for the unkindness she conceived of her own overthrow as for the fear those motions at this short time of her life should be revived which she had with the passage of infinite sorrows mortified. Great was the compassion the people felt to see their princess’s estate and beauty so deformed by fortune and her own desert, whom they had ever found a lady most worthy of all honour. But by and by the sight of the other two prisoners drew most of the eyes to that spectacle.
Pyrocles came out, led by Sympathus, clothed after the Greek manner in a long coat of white velvet reaching to the small of his leg, with great buttons of diamonds all along upon it. His neck, without any collar, not so much as hidden with a ruff, did pass the whiteness of his garments, which was not much in fashion unlike to the crimson raiment our knights of the order first put on. On his feet he had nothing but slippers which, after the ancient manner, were tied up by certain laces which were fastened under his knee, having wrapped about (with many pretty knots) his naked leg. His fair auburn hair (which he ware in great length, and gave at that time a delightful show with being stirred up and down with the breath of a gentle wind) had nothing upon it but a white ribbon, in those days used for a diadem, which rolled once or twice about the uppermost part of his forehead, fell down upon his back, closed up at each end with the richest pearl were to be seen in the world. After him followed another nobleman, guiding the noble Musidorus who had upon him a long cloak after the fashion of that which we call the apostle’s mantle, made of purple satin — not that purple which we now have, and is but a counterfeit of the Gaetulian purple (which yet was far the meaner in price and estimation), but of the right Tyrian purple (which was nearest to a colour betwixt our murrey and scarlet). On his head (which was black and curled) he ware a Persian tiara all set down with rows of so rich rubies as they were enough to speak for him that they had to judge of no mean personage.
In this sort, with erected countenances, did these unfortunate princes suffer themselves to be led, showing aright by the comparison of them and Gynecia how to diverse persons compassion is diversely to be stirred. For as to Gynecia, a lady known of great estate and greatly esteemed, the more miserable representation was made of her sudden ruin, the more men’s hearts were forced to bewail such an evident witness of weak humanity; so to these men, not regarded because unknown, but rather (besides the detestation of their fact) hated as strangers, the more they should have fallen down in an abject semblance, the more, instead of compassion, they should have gotten contempt; but therefore were to use (as I may term it) the more violence of magnanimity, and so to conquer the expectation of the lookers with an extraordinary virtue. And such effect, indeed, it wrought in the whole assembly, their eyes yet standing as it were in balance to whether of them they should most direct their sight.
Musidorus was in stature so much higher than Pyrocles as commonly is gotten by one year’s growth; his face, now beginning to have some tokens of a beard, was composed to a kind of manlike beauty; his colour was of a well pleasing brownness; and the features of it such as they carried both delight and majesty; his countenance severe, and promising a mind much given to thinking; Pyrocles of a pure complexion, and of such a cheerful favour as might seem either a woman’s face on a boy or an excellent boy’s face in a woman; his look gentle and bashful, which bred the more admiration having showed such notable proofs of courage. Lastly, though both had both, if there were any odds, Musidorus was the more goodly and Pyrocles the more lovely. But as soon as Musidorus saw himself so far forth led among the people that he knew to a great number of them his voice should be heard, misdoubting their intention to the princess Pamela (of which he was more careful than of his own life), even as he went (though his leader sought to interrupt him), he thus with a loud voice spake unto them:
‘And is it possible, O Arcadians,’ said he, ‘that you can forget the natural duty you owe to your princess Pamela? Hath this soil been so little beholding to her noble ancestors? Hath so long a time rooted no surer love in your hearts to that line? Where is that faith to your prince’s blood, which hath not only preserved you from all dangers heretofore but hath spread your fame to all the nations in the world?
Where is that justice the Arcadians were wont to flourish in, whose nature is to render to everyone his own? Will you now keep the right from your prince who is the only giver of judgement, the key of justice, and life of your laws? Do you hope in a few years to set up such another race, which nothing but length of time can establish? Will you reward Basilius’s children with ungratefulness, the very poison of manhood? Will you betray your long-settled reputation with the foul name of traitors? Is this your mourning for your duke’s death: to increase his loss with his daughters’ misery?
Imagine your prince do look out of the heavens unto you; what do you think he could wish more at your hands than that you do well by his children? And what more honour, I pray you, can you do to his obsequies than to satisfy his soul with a loving memory, as you do his body with an unfelt solemnity? What have you done with the princess Pamela? Pamela, the just inheritrix of this country; Pamela, whom this earth may be happy that it shall be hereafter said she was born in Arcadia; Pamela, in herself your ornament, in her education your foster child, and every way your only princess; what account can you render to yourselves of her? Truly, I do not think that you all know what is become of her, so soon may a diamond be lost, so soon may the fairest light in the world be put out. But look, look unto it! O Arcadians, be not wilfully robbed of your greatest treasure! Make not yourselves ministers to private ambitions, who do but use yourselves to put on your own yokes! Whatsoever you determine of us (who I must confess are but strangers), yet let not Basilius’s daughters be strangers unto you. Lastly, howsoever you bar her from her public sovereignty (which if you do, little may we hope for equity where rebellion reigns), yet deny not that child’s right unto her, that she may come and do the last duties to her father’s body. Deny not that happiness (if in such a case there be any happiness) to your late duke, that his body may have his last touch of his dearest child.’
With suchlike broken manner of questions and speeches was Musidorus desirous, as much as in passing by them he could, to move the people to tender Pamela’s fortune. But at length, by that they came to the judgement place, both Sympathus and his guider had greatly satisfied him, with the assurance they gave him, that this assembly of people had neither meaning nor power to do any hurt to the princess, whom they all acknowledged as their sovereign lady; but that the custom of Arcadia was such, till she had more years, the state of the country to be guided by a protector, under whom he and his fellow were to receive their judgement. That eased Musidorus’s heart of his most vehement care, when he found his beloved lady to be out of danger. But Pyrocles, as soon as the duchess of the one side, he and Musidorus of the other, were stayed before the face of their judge (having only for their bar the table on which the duke’s body lay), being nothing less vexed with the doubt of Philoclea than Musidorus was for Pamela, in this sort with a lowly behaviour, and only then like a suppliant, he spake to the protector:
‘Pardon me, most honoured judge,’ said he, ‘that uncommanded I begin my speech unto you, since both to you and me these words of mine shall be most necessary. To you, having the sacred exercise of justice in your hand, nothing appertains more properly than truth nakedly and freely set down. To me, being environed round about with many dangerous calamities, what can be more convenient than at least to be at peace with myself in having discharged my conscience in a most behoveful verity. Understand therefore, and truly understand, that the lady Philoclea (to whose unstained virtue it hath been my unspeakable misery that my name should become a blot), if she be accused, is most unjustly accused, of any dishonourable fact which by my means she may be thought to have yielded unto.
Whatsoever hath been done hath been my violence, which notwithstanding could not prevail against her chastity. But whatsoever hath been informed, was my force; and I attest the heavens, to blaspheme which I am not now in fit time, that so much as my coming into her chamber was wholly unwitting unto her. This your wisdom may withal consider: if I would lie, I would lie for mine own behoof.
I am not so old as to be weary of myself, but the very sting of my inward knowledge, joined with the consideration I must needs have what an infinite loss it should be to all those who love goodness in good folks if so pure a child of virtue should wrongfully be destroyed, compels me to use my tongue against myself, and receive the burden of what evil was upon my own doing. Look therefore with pitiful eyes upon so fair beams, and that misfortune which by me hath fallen unto her. Help to repair it with your public judgement; since whosoever deals cruelly with such a creature shows himself a hater of mankind and an envier of the world’s bliss. And this petition I make even in the name of justice: that before you proceed further against us, I may know how you conceive of her noble, though unfortunate, action; and what judgement you will make of it.’
He had not spoken his last word when all the whole people, both of great and low estate, confirmed with an united murmur Pyrocles’
demand, longing, for the love generally was borne Philoclea, to know what they might hope of her. Euarchus, though neither regarding a prisoner’s passionate prayer nor bearing over-plausible ears to a many-headed motion, yet well enough content to win their liking with things in themselves indifferent, he was content first to seek as much as might be of Philoclea’s behaviour in this matter; which being cleared by Pyrocles and but weakly gainsaid by Philanax (who had framed both his own and Dametas’s evidence most for her favour), yet finding by his wisdom that she was not altogether faultless, he pronounced she should all her life long be kept prisoner among certain women of religion like the vestal nuns, so to repay the touched honour of her house with well observing a strict profession of chastity. Although this were a great prejudicating of Pyrocles’
case, yet was he exceedingly joyous of it, being assured of his lady’s life, and in the depth of his mind not sorry that, what end soever he had, none should obtain the after-enjoying that jewel whereon he had set his life’s happiness.
After it was by public sentence delivered what should be done with the sweet Philoclea (the laws of Arcadia bearing that what was appointed by the magistrates in the nonage of the prince could not afterwards be repealed), Euarchus (still using to himself no other name but protector of Arcadia) commanded those that had to say against the duchess Gynecia to proceed, because both her estate required she should be first heard and also for that she was taken to be the principal in the greatest matter they were to judge of.
Philanax incontinently stepped forth, and showing in his greedy eyes that he did thirst for her blood, began a well thought-on discourse of her (in his judgement) execrable wickedness. But Gynecia, standing up before the judge, casting abroad her arms, with her eyes hidden under the breadth of her unseemly hat, laying open in all her gestures the despairful affliction to which all the might of her reason was converted, with suchlike words stopped Philanax as he was entering into his invective oration:
‘Stay, stay, Philanax,’ said she, ‘do not defile thy honest mouth with those dishonourable speeches thou art about to utter against a woman, now most wretched, lately thy mistress! Let either the remembrance how great she was move thy heart to some reverence, or the seeing how low she is stir in thee some pity. It may be truth doth make thee deal untruly, and love of justice frames unjustice in thee. Do not therefore (neither shalt thou need) tread upon my desolate ruins, Thou shalt have that thou seekest, and yet shalt not be the oppressor of her who cannot choose but love thee for thy singular faith to thy master. I do not speak this to procure mercy, or to prolong my life. No, no, I say unto you, I will not live; but I am only loath my death should be engrieved with any wrong thou shouldst do unto me. I have been too painful a judge over myself to desire pardon in others’ judgement. I have been too cruel an executioner of mine own soul to desire that execution of justice should be stayed for me. Alas, they that know how sorrow can rent the spirits, they that know what fiery hells are contained in a selfcondemning mind, need not fear that fear can keep such a one from desiring to be separated from that which nothing but death can separate! I therefore say to thee, O just judge, that I, and only I, was the worker of Basilius’s death. They were these hands that gave unto him that poisonous potion that hath brought death to him and loss to Arcadia. It was I, and none but I, that hastened his aged years to an unnatural end, and that have made all this people orphans of their royal father. I am the subject that have killed my prince. I am the wife that have murdered my husband. I am a degenerate woman, an undoer of this country, a shame of my children. What couldst thou have said more, O Philanax? And all this I grant. There resteth, then, nothing else to say, but that I desire you you will appoint quickly some to rid me of my life, rather than these hands which else are destinied unto it; and that indeed it may be done with such speed as I may not long die in this life which I have in so great horror.’
With that, she crossed her arms and sat down upon the ground, attending the judge’s answer. But a great while it was before anybody could be heard speak, the whole people concurring in a lamentable cry; so much had Gynecia’s words and behaviour stirred their hearts to a doleful compassion. Neither, in truth, could most of them in their judgements tell whether they should be more sorry for her fault or her misery, for the loss of her estate or loss of her virtue. But most were most moved with that which was under their eyes, the sense most subject to pity. But at length the reverent awe they stood in of Euarchus brought them to a silent waiting his determination; who having well considered the abomination of the fact, attending more the manifest proof of so horrible a trespass, confessed by herself, and proved by others, than anything relenting to those tragical phrases of hers (apter to stir a vulgar pity than his mind which hated evil in what colours soever he found it), having conferred a while with the principal men of the country and demanded their allowance, he definitively gave this sentence:
‘That whereas, both in private and public respects, this woman had most heinously offended (in private, because marriage being the most holy conjunction that falls to mankind, out of which all families, and so consequently all societies, do proceed, which not only by community of goods but community of children is to knit the minds in a most perfect union which whoso breaks dissolves all humanity, no man living free from the danger of so near a neighbour, she had not only broken it but broken it with death, and the most pretended death that might be; in public respect, the prince’s person being in all monarchal governments the very knot of the people’s welfare and light of all their doings, to which they are not only in conscience but in necessity bound to be loyal, she had traitorously empoisoned him, neither regarding her country’s profit, her own duty, nor the rigour of the laws); that therefore, as well for the due satisfaction to eternal justice and accomplishment of the Arcadian statutes as for the everlasting example to all wives and subjects, she should presently be conveyed to close prison, and there be kept with such food as might serve to sustain her alive until the day of her husband’s burial; at which time she should be buried quick in the same tomb with him, that so his murder might be a murder to herself, and she forced to keep company with the body from which she had made so detestable a severance; and lastly death might redress their disjoined conjunction of marriage.’
His judgement was received of the whole assembly as not with disliking so with great astonishment, the greatness of the matter and person as it were overpressing the might of their conceits. But when they did set it to the beam with the monstrousness of her ugly misdeed, they could not but yield in their hearts there was no overbalancing. As for Gynecia, who had already settled her thoughts not only to look but long for this event, having in this time of her vexation found a sweetness in the rest she hoped by death, with a countenance witnessing she had beforehand so passed through all the degrees of sorrow that she had no new look to figure forth any more, rose up and offered forth her fair hands to be bound or led as they would, being indeed troubled with no part of this judgement but that her death was, as she thought, long delayed. They that were appointed for it conveyed her to the place she was in before, where the guard was relieved and the number increased to keep her more sure for the time of her execution. None of them all that led her, though most of them were such whose hearts had been long hardened with the often-exercising such offices, being able to bar tears from their eyes and other manifest tokens of compassionate sorrow — so goodly a virtue is a resolute constancy that even in ill-deservers it seems that party might have been notably well deserving. Thus the excellent lady Gynecia, having passed five and thirty years of her age even to admiration of her beautiful mind and body, and having not in her own knowledge ever spotted her soul with any wilful vice but her inordinate love of Cleophila, was brought, first by the violence of that ill-answered passion, and then by the despairing conceit she took of the judgement of God in her husband’s death and her own fortune, purposely to overthrow herself, and confirm by a wrong confession that abominable shame which, with her wisdom, joined to the truth, perhaps she might have refelled.
Then did Euarchus ask Philanax whether it were he that would charge the two young prisoners, or that some other should do it, and he sit according to his estate as an assistant in the judgement.
Philanax told him, as before he had done, that he thought no man could lay manifest the naughtiness of those two young men with so much either truth or zeal as himself, and therefore he desired he might do this last service to his faithfully beloved master as to prosecute the traitorous causers of his death and dishonour; which being done, for his part, he meant to give up all dealing in public affairs, since that man was gone who had made him love them.
Philanax thus being ready to speak, the two princes were commanded to tell their names; who answered, according to their agreement, that they were Timopyrus, despota of Lycia, and Palladius, prince of Caria. Which when they had said, they demanded to know by what authority they could judge of them, since they were not only foreigners, and so not born under their laws, but absolute princes, and therefore not to be touched by laws. But answer was presently made them that Arcadia laws were to have their force upon any were found in Arcadia, since strangers have scope to know the customs of a country before they put themselves in it, and when they once are entered, they must know that what by many was made must not for one be broken, and so much less for a stranger, as he is to look for no privilege in that place to which in time of need his service is not to be expected. As for their being princes, whether they were so or no, the belief stood but in their own words, which they had so diversely falsified as they did not deserve belief. But whatsoever they were, Arcadia was to acknowledge them but as private men, since they were neither by magistracy nor alliance to the princely blood to claim anything in that region. Therefore, if they had offended (which now by the plaintiff and their defence was to be judged) against the laws of nations, by the laws of nations they were to be chastised; if against the peculiar ordinances of the province, those peculiar ordinances were to lay hold of them.
The princes stood a while upon that, demanding leisure to give perfect knowledge of their greatness. But when they were answered that in the case of a prince’s death the law of that country had ever been that immediate trial should be had, they were forced to yield, resolved that in those names they would as much as they could cover the shame of their royal parentage, and keep as long as might be (if evil were determined against them) the evil news from their careful kinsfolk. Wherein the chief man they considered was Euarchus, whom the strange and secret working of justice had brought to be the judge over them — in such a shadow or rather pit of darkness the wormish mankind lives that neither they know how to foresee nor what to fear, and are but like tennis balls tossed by the racket of the higher powers. Thus, both sides ready, it was determined, because their causes were separate, first Philanax should be heard against Pyrocles (whom they termed Timopyrus), and that heard, the other’s cause should follow, and so receive together such judgement as they should be found to have deserved.
But Philanax, that was even short-breathed at the first with the extreme vehemency he had to speak against them, stroking once or twice his forehead, and wiping his eyes (which either wept, or he would at that time have them seem to weep), looking first upon Pyrocles as if he had proclaimed all hatefulness against him, humbly turning to Euarchus (who with quiet gravity showed great attention), he thus began his oration:
‘That which all men who take upon them to accuse another are wont to desire, most worthy protector, to have: many proofs of many faults in them they seek to have condemned; that is to me in this present action my greatest cumber and annoyance. For the number is so great, and the quality so monstrous, of the enormities this wretched young man hath committed that neither I in myself can tell where to begin (my thoughts being confused with the horrible multitude of them), neither do I think your virtuous ears will be able to endure the report of them, but will rather imagine you hear some tragedy invented of the extremity of wickedness than a just recital of a wickedness indeed committed. For such is the disposition of the most sincere judgements that, as they can believe mean faults and such as man’s nature may slide into so, when they pass to a certain degree — nay, when they pass all degrees of unspeakable naughtiness — then find they in themselves a hardness to give credit that human creatures can so from all humanity be transformed. But in myself, the strength of my faith to my dead master will help the weakness of my memory; in you, your excellent love of justice will force you to vouchsafe attention. And as for the matter, it is so manifest, so pitiful evidences lie before your eyes of it, that I shall need to be but a brief recounter, and no rhetorical enlarger, of this most harmful mischief. I will, therefore, in as few words as so huge a trespass can be contained, deliver unto you the sum of this miserable fact, leaving out a great number particular tokens of his naughtiness, and only touching the essential points of this doleful case.
This man, whom to begin withal I know not how to name, since being come into this country unaccompanied like a lost pilgrim, from a man grew a woman, from a woman a ravisher of women, thence a prisoner, and now a prince; but this Timopyrus, this Cleophila, this what you will (for any shape or title he can take upon him that hath no restraint of shame), having understood the solitary life my late master lived, and considering how open he had laid himself to any traitorous attempt, for the first mask of his falsehood disguised himself like a woman (which, being the more simple and hurtless sex, might easier hide his subtle harmfulness), and presenting himself to my master (the most courteous prince that lived), was received of him with so great graciousness as might have bound not only any grateful mind, but might have mollified any enemy’s rancour. But this venomous serpent, admitted thus into his bosom, as contagion will easily find a fit body for it, so had he quickly fallen into so near acquaintance with this naughty woman, whom even now you have most justly condemned, that this was her right hand; she saw with no eyes but his, nor seemed to have any life but in him, so glad she was to find one more cunning than herself in covering wickedness with a modest veil. What is to be thought passed betwixt two such virtuous creatures, whereof the one hath confessed murder and the other rape, I leave to your wise consideration. For my heart hastens to the miserable point of Basilius’s murder, for the executing of which with more facility this young nymph of Diana’s bringing up feigned certain rites she had to perform — so furious an impiety had carried him from all remembrance of goodness that he did not only not fear the gods, as the beholders and punishers of so ungodly a villainy, but did blasphemously use their sacred holy name as a minister unto it.
And forsooth a cave hereby was chosen for the temple of his devotions, a cave of such darkness as did prognosticate he meant to please the infernal powers; for there this accursed caitiff upon the altar of falsehood sacrificed the life of the virtuous Basilius. By what means he trained him thither, alas, I know not; for if I might have known it, either my life had accompanied my master, or this fellow’s death had preserved him. But this may suffice: that in the mouth of the cave where this traitor had his lodging and chapel, when already master shepherd, his companion, had conveyed away the undoubted inheritrix of this country, was Gynecia found by the dead corpse of her husband newly empoisoned, apparelled in the garments of the young lady, and ready, no question, to have fled to some place according to their consort, but that she was by certain honest shepherds arrested. While in the mean time, because there should be left no revenger of this bloody mischief, this noble Amazon was violently gotten into the chamber of the lady Philoclea where, by the mingling of her shame with his misdeed, he might enforce her to be the accessary to her father’s death; and under the countenance of her and her sister (against whom they knew we would not rebel), seize as it were with one gripe into their treacherous hands the regiment of this mighty province. But the almighty eye prevented him of the end of his mischief by using a villain, Dametas’s hand, to enclose him in there, where with as much fortification as in a house could be made he thought himself in most security.
Thus see you, most just judge, a short and simple story of the infamous misery fallen to this country — indeed infamous, since by an effeminate man we should suffer a greater overthrow than our mightiest enemies have been ever able to lay upon us. And that all this which I have said is most manifest, as well of the murdering of Basilius as the ravishing of Philoclea (for those two parts I establish of my accusation), who is of so incredulous a mind, or rather who will so stop his eyes from seeing a thing clearer than the light, as not to hold for assured so palpable a matter? For (to begin with his most cruel misdeed) is it to be imagined that Gynecia (a woman, though wicked, yet witty) would have attempted and achieved an enterprise no less hazardous than horrible without having some counsellor in the beginning and some comforter in the performing? Had she, who showed her thoughts were so overruled with some strange desire as, in despite of God, nature, and womanhood, to execute that in deeds which in words we cannot hear without trembling? Had she, I say, no practice to lead her unto it? Or had she a practice without conspiracy? Or could she conspire without somebody to conspire with? And if one were, who so likely as this, to whom she communicated, I am sure, her mind; the world thinks, her body? Neither let her words, taking the whole fault upon herself, be herein anything available. For to those persons who have vomitted out of their souls all remnants of goodness there rests a certain pride in evil, and having else no shadow of glory left them, they glory to be constant in iniquity; and that, God knows, must be held out to the last gasp without revealing their accomplices, as thinking great courage is declared in being neither afeard of the gods nor ashamed of the world. But let Gynecia’s action die with herself. What can all the earth answer for his coming hither? Why alone, if he be a prince?
How so richly jewelled, if he be not a prince? Why then a woman, if now a man? Why now Timopyrus, if then Cleophila? Was all this play for nothing? Or if it had an end, what end but the end of my dear master? Shall we doubt so many secret conferences with Gynecia, such feigned favour to the over-soon beguiled Basilius, a cave made a lodging, and the same lodging made a temple of his religion, lastly such changes and traverses as a quiet poet could scarce fill a poem withal, were directed to any less scope than to this monstrous murder? O snaky ambition which can wind thyself in so many figures to slide thither thou desirest to come! O corrupted reason of mankind that can yield to deform thyself with so filthy desires! And O hopeless be those minds whom so unnatural desires do not with their own ugliness sufficiently terrify! But yet even of favour let us grant him thus much more as to fancy that in these foretold things fortune might be a great actor perchance to an evil end, yet to a less evil end all these entangled devices were intended.
But I beseech your ladyship, my lady Timopyrus, tell me what
excuse can you find for the changing your lodging with the duchess that very instant she was to finish her execrable practice? How can you cloak the lending of your cloak unto her? Was all that by chance too? Had the stars sent such an influence unto you as you should be just weary of your lodging and garments when our prince was destinied to the slaughter? What say you to this, O shameful and shameless creature, fit indeed to be the dishonour of both sexes?
But alas, I spend too many words in so manifest and so miserable a matter. They must be four wild horses (which according to our laws are the executioners of men which murder our prince) which must decide this question with you.
Yet see, so far had my zeal to my beloved prince transported me that I had almost forgotten my second part and his second abomination, I mean his violence offered (I hope but offered) to the lady Philoclea, wherewith (as if it had well become his womanhood) he came braving to the judgement seat; indeed, our laws appoint not so cruel a death (although death too) for this fact as for the other.
But whosoever well weighs it shall find it sprung out of the same fountain of mischievous naughtiness: the killing of the father, dishonouring the mother, and ravishing the child. Alas, could not so many benefits received of my prince, the justice of nature, the right of hospitality, be a bridle to thy lust, if not to thy cruelty? Or if thou hadst (as surely thou hast) a heart recompensing goodness with hatred, could not his death (which is the last of revenges) satisfy thy malice, but thou must heap upon it the shame of his daughter?
Were thy eyes so stony, thy breast so tigerish, as the sweet and beautiful shows of Philoclea’s virtue did not astonish thee? O woeful Arcadia, to whom the name of this mankind courtesan shall ever be remembered as a procurer of thy greatest loss! But too far I find my passion, yet honest passion, hath guided me. The case is every way too too much unanswerable. It resteth in you, O excellent protector, to pronounce judgement; which, if there be hope that such a young man may prove profitable to the world, who in the first exercise of his own determinations far passed the arrantest strumpet in luxuriousness, the cunningest forger in falsehood; a player in disguising, a tiger in cruelty, a dragon in ungratefulness, let him be preserved like a jewel to do greater mischief. If his youth be not more defiled with treachery than the eldest man’s age, let, I say, his youth be some cause of compassion. If he have not every way sought the overthrow of human society, if he have done anything like a prince, let his naming himself a prince breed a reverence to his base wickedness.
If he have not broken all laws of hospitality, and broken them in the most detestable degree that can be, let his being a guest be a sacred protection of his more than savage doings. Or if his whorish beauty have not been as the highway of his wickedness, let the picture drawn upon so poisonous a wood be reserved to show how greatly colours can please us. But if it is as it is, what should I say more — a very spirit of hellish naughtiness? If his act be to be punished, and his defiled person not to be pitied, then restore unto us our prince by duly punishing his murderers; for then we shall think him and his name to live when we shall see his killers to die. Restore to the excellent Philoclea her honour by taking out of the world her dishonour; and think that at this day in this matter are the eyes of the world upon you, whether anything can sway your mind from a true administration of justice. Alas, though I have much more to say, I can say no more; for my tears and sighs interrupt my speech and force me to give myself over to my private sorrow.’
Thus, when Philanax had uttered the uttermost of his malice, he made sorrow the cause of his conclusion. But while Philanax was in the course of his speech, and did with such bitter reproaches defame the princely Pyrocles, it was well to be seen his heart was unused to bear such injuries, and his thoughts such as could arm themselves better against anything than shame. For sometimes blushing, his blood with diverse motions coming and going, sometimes closing his eyes and laying his hand over them, sometimes again giving such a look to Philanax as might show he assured himself he durst not so have spoken if they had been in indifferent place, with some impatience he bare the length of his oration; which being ended, with as much modest humbleness to the judge as despiteful scorn to the accuser, with words to this purpose he defended his honour:
‘My accuser’s tale may well bear witness with me, most rightful judge, in how hard a case, and environed with how many troubles, I may esteem myself. For if he (who shows his tongue is not unacquainted with railing) was in an agony in the beginning of his speech with the multitude of matters he had to lay unto me (wherein notwithstanding the most evil could fall unto him was that he should not do so much evil as he would), how cumbered do you think may I acknowledge myself who, in things no less importing than my life, must be mine own advocate, without leisure to answer or foreknowledge what should be objected? In things, I say, promoted with so cunning a confusion as, having mingled truths with falsehoods, surmises with certainties, causes of no moment with matters capital, scolding with complaining, I can absolutely neither grant nor deny. Neither can I tell whether I come hither to be judged, or before judgement to be punished, being compelled to bear such unworthy words, far more grievous than any death unto me. But since the form of this government allows such tongue-liberty unto him, I will pick as well as I can out of his invective those few points which may seem of some purpose in the touching of me, hoping that, as by your easy hearing of me you will show that though you hate evil yet you wish men may prove themselves not evil, so in that he hath said you will not weigh so much what he hath said as what he hath proved, remembering that truth is simple and naked, and that if he had guided himself under that banner, he needed not out of the way have sought so vile and false disgracings of me, enough to make the untruest accusation believed. I will, therefore, using truth as my best eloquence, repeat unto you as much as I know in this matter; and then, by the only clearness of the discourse, your wisdom, I know, will find the difference betwixt cavilling supposition and direct declaration.
This prince Palladius and I being inflamed with love (a passion far more easily reprehended than refrained) to the two peerless daughters of Basilius, and understanding how he had secluded himself from the world, that like princes there was no access unto him, we disguised ourselves in such forms as might soonest bring us to the revealing of our affections. The prince Palladius had such event of his doings that, with Pamela’s consent, he was to convey her out of the thraldom she lived in, to receive the subjection of a greater people than her own, until her father’s consent might be obtained. My fortune was more hard, for I bare no more love to the chaste Philoclea than Basilius, deceived in my sex, showed to me, insomuch that by his importunacy I could have no time to assail the constant rock of the pure Philoclea’s mind, till this policy I found:
taking (under colour of some devotions) my lodging to draw Basilius thither with hope to enjoy me, which likewise I revealed to the duchess, that she might keep my place, and so make her husband see his error, while I in the mean time being delivered of them both, and having locked so the doors as I hoped the immaculate Philoclea should be succourless, my attempt was such as even now I confessed, and I made prisoner there, I know not by what means, when being repelled by her divine virtue, I would fainest have escaped.
Here have you the thread to guide you in the labyrinth this man of his tongue had made so monstrous. Here see you the true discourse which he (mountebank fashion) doth make so wide a mouth over.
Here may you conceive the reason why the duchess had my garment, because in her going to the cave in the moonshine night she might be taken for me, which he useth as the knot of all his wise assertions; so that, as this double-minded fellow’s accusation was double, double likewise my answer must perforce be to the murder of Basilius and violence offered to the inviolate Philoclea. For the first, O heavenly gods, who would have thought any mouth could have been found so immodest as to have opened so slight proofs of so horrible matters? His first argument is a question: who would imagine that Gynecia would accomplish such an act without some accessaries; and if any, who but I? Truly, I am so far from imagining anything that, till I saw these mourning tokens, and heard Gynecia’s confession, I never imagined the duke was dead. And for my part, so vehemently and more like the manner of passionate than guilty folks, I see the duchess prosecute herself, that I think condemnation may go too hastily over her, considering the unlikelihood, if not impossibility, her wisdom and virtue so long nourished should in one moment throw down itself to the uttermost end of wickedness.
But whatsoever she hath done (which, as I say, I never believed), yet how unjustly should that aggravate my fault? She found abroad, I within doors (for, as for the wearing my garment, I have told you the cause); she seeking, as you say, to escape, I locking myself in a house; without perchance the conspiracy of one poor stranger might greatly enable her attempt, or the fortification of the lodge (as the trim man alleged) might make me hope to resist all Arcadia. And see how injuriously he seeks to draw from me my chiefest clearing by preventing the credit of her words wherewith she hath wholly taken the fault upon herself. An honest and unpartial examiner! — her words may condemn her, but may not absolve me. Thus, void of all probable allegation, the craven crows upon my affliction, not leaving out any evil that ever he hath felt in his own soul to charge my youth withal. But who can look for a sweeter breath out of such a stomach, or for honey from so filthy a spider? What should I say more? If in so inhuman a matter (which he himself confesseth sincerest judgements are loathest to believe), and in the severest law, proofs clearer than the sun are required, his reasons are only the scum of a base malice, my answers most manifest, shining in their own truth.
If there remain any doubt of it (because it stands betwixt his affirming and my denial), I offer, nay I desire, and humbly desire, I may be granted the trial by combat — by combat; wherein, let him be armed, and me in my shirt. I doubt not justice will be my shield, and his heart will show itself as faint as it is false.
Now come I to the second part of my offence, towards the young lady, which I confess, and for her sake heartily lament. But in fine I offered force to her; love offered more force to me. Let her beauty be compared to my years, and such effects will be found no miracles.
But since it is thus, as it is, and that justice teacheth us not to love punishment, but to fly to it for necessity, the salve of her honour (I mean as the world will take it, for else in truth it is most untouched) must be my marriage and not my death, since the one stops all mouths, the other becomes a doubtful fable. This matter requires no more words, and your experience, I hope, in these cases shall need no more. For myself, methinks I have showed already too much love of my life to bestow so many. But certainly it hath been love of truth which could not bear so unworthy falsehood, and love of justice that would brook no wrong to myself nor other, and makes me now even in that respect to desire you to be moved rather with pity at a just cause of tears than with the bloody tears this crocodile spends, who weeps to procure death and not to lament death. It will be no honour to Basilius’s tomb to have guiltless blood sprinkled upon it, and much more may a judge overweigh himself in cruelty than in clemency. It is hard, but it is excellent where it is found: a right knowledge when correction is necessary, when grace doth more avail. For my own respect, if I thought in wisdom I had deserved death, I would not desire life; for I know nature will condemn me to die, though you do not, and longer I would not wish to draw this breath than I may keep myself unspotted of any horrible crime.
Only I cannot, nor ever will, deny the love of Philoclea, whose violence wrought violent effects in me.’
With that he finished his speech, casting up his eyes to the judge, and crossing his hands, which he held on their length before him, declaring a resolute patience in whatsoever should be done with him.
Philanax, like a watchful adversary, curiously marked all that he said, saving that in the beginning he was interrupted by two letters were brought him from the princess Pamela and the lady Philoclea, who having all that night considered and bewailed their estate, careful for their mother likewise, of whom they could never think so much evil. But considering with themselves that she assuredly should have so due trial by the laws as either she should not need their help or should be past their help, they looked to that which nearliest touched them, and each wrate in this sort for him in whom their lives’ joy consisted:
The humble-hearted Philoclea wrate much after this manner:
‘My lords, what you will determine of me is to me uncertain, but what I have determined of myself I am most certain of; which is no longer to enjoy my life than I may enjoy him for husband whom the gods for my highest glory have bestowed upon me. Those that judge him, let them execute me. Let my throat satisfy their hunger of murder; for, alas, what hath he done that had not his original in me?
Look upon him, I beseech you, with indifferency, and see whether in those eyes all virtue shines not; see whether that face could hide a murderer. Take leisure to know him, and then yourselves will say it hath been too great an inhumanity to suspect such excellency.
Are the gods, think you, deceived in their workmanship? Artificers will not use marble but to noble uses. Should those powers be so overshot as to frame so precious an image of their own, but to honourable purposes? O speak with him, O hear him, O know him, and become not the putters-out of the world’s light! Hope you to joy my father’s soul with hurting him he loved above all the world?
Shall a wrong suspicion make you forget the certain knowledge of those benefits this house hath received by him? Alas, alas, let not Arcadia for his loss be accursed of the whole earth and of all posterity! He is a great prince. I speak unto you that which I know, for I have seen most evident testimonies. Why should you hinder my advancement? Who, if I have passed my childhood hurtless to any of you, if I have refused nobody to do what good I could, if have often mitigated my father’s anger, ever sought to maintain his favour towards you, nay if I have held you all as fathers and brothers unto me, rob me not of more than my life comes unto, tear not that which is inseparably joined to my soul. But if he rest misliked of you (which, O God, how can it be?), yet give him to me. Let me have him; you know I pretend no right to your state. Therefore it is but a private petition I make unto you. Or if you be hard-heartedly bent to appoint otherwise (which, O sooner let me die than know), then, to end as I began, let me by you be ordered to the same end, without for more cruelty you mean to force Philoclea to use her own hands to kill one of your duke’s children.’
Pamela’s letter (which she meant to send with her sister’s to the general assembly of the Arcadian nobility — for so closely they were kept as they were utterly ignorant of the new-taken orders) was thus framed:
‘In such a state, my lords, you have placed me as I can neither write nor be silent. For how can I be silent, since you have left me nothing but my solitary words to testify my misery? And how should I write (for as for speech I have none but my gaoler that can hear me), who neither can resolve what to write nor to whom to write?
What to write is as hard for me to say as what I may not write, so little hope have I of any success, and so much hath no injury been left undone to me-wards. To whom to write, where may I learn, since yet I wot not how to entitle you? Shall I call you my sovereigns?
Set down your laws that I may do you homage. Shall I fall lower, and name you my fellows? Show me, I beseech you, the lord and master over us. But shall Basilius’s heir name herself your princess?
Alas, I am your prisoner. But whatsoever I be, or whatsoever you be, O all you beholders of these doleful lines, this do I signify unto you, and signify it with a heart that shall ever remain in that opinion: the good or evil you do to the excellent prince was taken with me, and after by force from me, I will ever impute it as either way done to my own person. He is a prince and worthy to be my husband, and so is he my husband by me worthily chosen. Believe it, believe it; either you shall be traitors for murdering of me or, if you let me live, the murderers of him shall smart as traitors. For what do you think I can think? Am I so childish as not to see wherein you touch him you condemn me? Can his shame be without my reproach? No, nor shall be, since nothing he hath done that I will not avow. Is this the comfort you bring me in my father’s death, to make me fuller of shame than sorrow? Would you do this if it were not with full intention to prevent my power with slaughter? And so do, I pray you. It is high time for me to be weary of my life too long led, since you are weary of me before you have me. I say again, I say it infinitely unto you, I will not live without him, if it be not to revenge him. Either do justly in saving both, or wisely in killing both. If I be your princess, I command his preservation. If but a private person, then are we both to suffer. I take all truth to witness he hath done no fault but in going with me. Therefore, to conclude; in judging him, you judge me. Neither conceive with yourselves the matter you treat is the life of a stranger (though even in that name he deserved pity), nor of a shepherd (to which estate love of me made such a prince descend); but determine most assuredly the life that is in question is of Pamela, Basilius’s daughter.’
Many blots had the tears of these sweet ladies made in their letters, which many times they had altered, many times torn, and written anew, ever thinking something either wanted or were too much, or would offend, or (which was worst) would breed denial.
But at last the day warned them to dispatch; which they accordingly did, and calling one of their guard (for nobody else was suffered to come near them), with great entreaty they requested him that he would present them to the principal noblemen and gentlemen together, for they had more confidence in the numbers’ favour than in any one, upon whom they would not lay the lives they held so precious. But the fellow, trusty to Philanax (who had placed him there), delivered them both to him (what time Pyrocles began to speak); which he suddenly opened, and seeing to what they tended by the first words, was so far from publishing them (whereby he feared, in Euarchus’s just mind, either the princesses might be endangered or the prisoners preserved, of which choice he knew not which to think the worst) that he would not himself read them over, doubting his own heart might be mollified, so bent upon revenge.
Therefore utterly suppressing them, he lent a spiteful ear to Pyrocles, and as soon as he had ended, with a very willing heart desired Euarchus he might accept the combat, although it would have framed but ill with him, Pyrocles having never found any match near him besides Musidorus.
But Euarchus made answer: since bodily strength is but a servant to the mind, it were very barbarous and preposterous that force should be made judge over reason.
Then would he also have replied in words unto him, but Euarchus (who knew what they could say was already said), taking their arguments into his mind, commanded him to proceed against the other prisoner, and that then he would sentence them both together.
Philanax, nothing the milder for Pyrocles’ purging himself, but rather (according to the nature of arguing, especially when it is bitter) so much the more vehement, entered thus into his speech against Musidorus, being so overgone with rage that he forgot in this oration his precise method of oratory:
‘Behold, most noble protector, to what a state Arcadia is come, since such manner of men may challenge in combat the faithfullest of the nobility, and having merited the shamefullest of all deaths, dare name in marriage the princesses of this country. Certainly, my masters, I must say you were much out of taste if you had not rather enjoy such ladies than be hanged. But the one you have as much deserved as you have dishonoured the other. But now my speech must be directed to you, good master Dorus, who with Pallas’ help, pardie, are lately grown Palladius. Too much, too much, this sacred seat of justice grants unto such a fugitive bondslave who, instead of these examinations, should be made confess with a whip that which a halter should punish. Are not you he, sir, whose sheephook was prepared to be our sceptre, in whom lay the knot of all this tragedy? Or else, perchance, they that should gain little by it were dealers in the murder; you only (that had provided the fruits for yourself) knew nothing of it, knew nothing. Hath thy companion here infected thee with such impudency as even in the face of the world to deny that which all the world perceiveth? The other pleads ignorance, and you, I doubt not, will allege absence. But he was ignorant when he was hard by, and you had framed your absence just against the time the act should be committed — so fit a lieutenant he knew he had left of his wickedness that for himself his safest mean was to convey away the lady of us all, who once out of the country, he knew we would come with olive branches of intercession unto her, and fall at his feet to beseech him to leave keeping of sheep and vouchsafe the tyrannizing over us. For to think they are princes, as they say (although in our laws it behoves them nothing), I see at all no reason. These jewels certainly with their disguising sleights they have pilfered in their vagabonding race. And think you such princes should be so long without some followers after them? Truly, if they be princes, it manifestly shows their virtues such as all their subjects are glad to be rid of them. But be they as they are, for we are to consider the matter and not the men. Basilius’s murder hath been the cause of their coming. Basilius’s murder they have most treacherously brought to pass. Yet that, I doubt not, you will deny as well as your fellow. But how will you deny the stealing away of the princess of this province, which is no less than treason? So notably hath the justice of the gods provided for the punishing of these malefactors as, if it were possible men would not believe the certain evidences of their principal mischief, yet have they discovered themselves sufficiently for their most just overthrow. I say, therefore (to omit my chief matter of the duke’s death), this wolvish shepherd, this counterfeit prince, hath traitorously, contrary to his allegiance (having made himself a servant and subject) attempted the depriving this country of our natural princess; and therefore by all right must receive the punishment of traitors. This matter is so assured as he himself will not deny it, being taken and brought back in the fact. This matter is so odious in nature, so shameful to the world, so contrary to all laws, so hurtful to us, so false in him, as if I should stand further in declaring or defacing it, I should either show great doubts in your wisdom or in your justice. Therefore I will transfer my care upon you, and attend, to my learning and comfort, the eternal example you will leave to all mankind of disguisers, falsifiers, adulterers, ravishers, murderers, and traitors.’
Musidorus, while Philanax was speaking against his cousin and him, had looked round about him, to see whether by any means he might come to have caught him in his arms, and have killed him — so much had his disgracing words filled his breast with rage. But perceiving himself so guarded as he should rather show a passionate act than perform his revenge, his hand trembling with desire to strike, and all the veins in his face swelling, casting his eyes over the judgement seat:
‘O gods,’ said he, ‘and have you spared my life to bear these injuries of such a drivel? Is this the justice of this place, to have such men as we are submitted not only to apparent falsehood but most shameful reviling? But mark, I pray you, the ungratefulness of the wretch; how utterly he hath forgotten the benefits both he and all this country hath received of us. For if ever men may remember their own noble deeds, it is then when their just defence and others’
unjust unkindness doth require it. Were not we the men that killed the wild beasts which otherwise had killed the princesses if we had not succoured them? Consider, if it please you, where had been Timopyrus’s rape, or my treason, if the sweet beauties of the earth had then been devoured? Either think them now dead, or remember they live by us. And yet full often this telltale can acknowledge the loss they should have by their taking away, while maliciously he overpasseth who were their preservers. Neither let this be spoken of me as if I meant to balance this evil with that good, for I must confess that saving of such creatures was rewarded in the act itself, but only to manifest the partial jangling of this vile pickthank. But if we be traitors, where was your fidelity, O only tongue-valiant gentleman, when not only the young princesses but the duke himself was defended from uttermost peril, partly by me, but principally by this excellent young man’s both wisdom and valour?
Were we that made ourselves against hundreds of armed men openly the shields of his life like secretly to be his empoisoners? Did we then show his life to be dearer to us than our own because we might after rob him of his life, to die shamefully? Truly, truly, master orator, whosoever hath hired you to be so busy in their matters who keep honester servants than yourself, he should have bid you in so many railings bring some excuse for yourself why in the greatest need of your prince, to whom you pretend a miraculous goodwill, you were not then as forward to do like a man yourself, or at least to accuse them that were slack in that service. But commonly they use their feet for their defence, whose tongue is their weapon. Certainly, a very simple subtlety it had been in us to repose our lives in the daughters when we had killed the father. But as this gentleman thinks to win the reputation of a copious talker by leaving nothing unsaid which a filthy mind can imagine, so think I (or else all words are vain) that to wisemen’s judgement our clearness in the duke’s death is sufficiently notorious. But at length, when the merchant hath set out his gilded baggage, lastly he comes to some stuff of importance, and saith I conveyed away the princess of this country.
And is she indeed your princess? I pray you, then, whom should I wait of else but her that was my mistress by my professed vow, and princess over me while I lived in this soil? Ask her why she went; ask not me why I served her. Since accounting me as a prince you have not to do with me, taking me as her servant, then take withal that I must obey her. But you will say I persuaded her to fly away.
Certainly I will for no death deny it, knowing to what honour I should bring her from the thraldom, by such fellows’ counsel as you, she was kept in. Shall persuasion to a prince grow treason against a prince? It might be error in me, but falsehood it could not be, since I made myself partaker of whatsoever I wished her unto.
Who will ever counsel his king if his counsel be judged by the event, and if he be not found wise shall therefore be thought wicked?
But if I be a traitor, I hope you will grant me a correlative to whom I shall be the traitor; for the princess (against whom treasons are considered), I am sure, will avow my faithfulness, without you will say that I am a traitor to her because I left the country, and a traitor to the country because I went with her. Here do I leave out my just excuses of love’s force; which, as thy narrow heart hath never had noble room enough in it to receive, so yet those manlike courages that by experience know how subject the virtuous minds are to love a most virtuous creature (witnessed to be such by the most excellent gifts of nature) will deem it a venial trespass to seek the satisfaction of honourable desires — honourable even in the curiousest points of honour, whereout there can no disgrace nor disparagement come unto her. Therefore, O judge, who I hope dost know what it is to be a judge, that your end is to preserve and not to destroy mankind, that laws are not made like lime twigs or nets to catch everything that toucheth them, but rather like sea marks to avoid the shipwrack of ignorant passengers, since that our doing in the extremest interpretation is but a human error, and that of it you may make a profitable event (we being of such estate as their parents would not have misliked the affinity), you will not, I trust, at the persuasion of this brabbler burn your house to make it clean, but like a wise father turn even the fault of your children to any good that may come of it, since that is the fruit of wisdom and end of all judgements.’
While this matter was thus handling, a silent and, as it were, astonished attention possessed all the people; a kindly compassion moved the noble gentleman Sympathus; but as for Kerxenus, everything was spoken either by or of his dear guests moved an effect in him: sometimes tears, sometimes hopeful looks, sometimes whispering persuasions in their ears that stood by him, to seek the saving the two young princes. But the general multitude waited the judgement of Euarchus who, showing in his face no motions either at the one’s or other’s speech, letting pass the flowers of rhetoric and only marking whither their reasons tended, having made the question to be asked of Gynecia (who continued to take the whole fault upon herself), and having caused Dametas with Miso and Mopsa (who by Philanax’s order had been held in most cruel prison) to make a full declaration how much they knew of these past matters, and then gathering as assured satisfaction to his own mind as in that case he could, not needing to take leisure for that whereof a long practice had bred a well grounded habit in him, with a voice and gesture directed to the universal assembly, in this form pronounced sentence:
‘This weighty matter, whereof presently we are to determine, doth at the first consideration yield two important doubts: the first, whether these men be to be judged; the second, how they are to be judged. The first doubt ariseth because they give themselves out for princes absolute, a sacred name and to which any violence seems to be an impiety; for how can any laws (which are the bonds of all human society) be observed if the lawgivers and law rulers be not held in an untouched admiration? But hereto although already they have been sufficiently answered, yet thus much again I may repeat unto you: that whatsoever they be or be not, here they be no princes, since betwixt prince and subject there is as necessary a relation as between father and son, and as there is no man a father but to his child, so is not a prince a prince but to his own subjects. Therefore is not this place to acknowledge in them any principality, without it should at the same time by a secret consent confess subjection. Yet hereto may be objected that the universal civility, the law of nations (all mankind being as it were coinhabiters or world citizens together), hath ever required public persons should be of all parties especially regarded, since not only in peace but in war, not only princes but heralds and trumpets are with great reason exempted from injuries.
This point is true, but yet so true as they that will receive the benefit of a custom must not be the first to break it, for then can they not complain if they be not helped by that which they themselves hurt.
If a prince do acts of hostility without denouncing war, if he break his oath of amity, or innumerable such other things contrary to the law of arms, he must take heed how he fall into their hands whom he so wrongeth, for then is courtesy the best custom he can claim; much more these men who have not only left to do like princes but to be like princes, not only entered into Arcadia, and so into the Arcadian orders, but into domestical services, and so by making themselves private deprived themselves of respect due to their public calling. For no proportion it were of justice that a man might make himself no prince when he would do evil, and might anew create himself a prince when he would not suffer evil. Thus, therefore, by all laws of nature and nations, and especially by their own putting themselves out of the sanctuary of them, these young men cannot in justice avoid the judgement, but like private men must have their doings either cleared, excused, or condemned.
‘There resteth, then, the second point: how to judge well. And that must undoubtedly be done, not by a free discourse of reason and skill of philosophy, but must be tied to the laws of Greece and municipal statutes of this dukedom. For although out of them these came, and to them must indeed refer their offspring, yet because philosophical discourses stand in the general consideration of things, they leave to every man a scope of his own interpretation; where the laws, applying themselves to the necessary use, fold us within assured bounds, which once broken, man’s nature infinitely rangeth. Judged therefore they must be, and by your laws judged.
Now the action offereth itself to due balance betwixt the accuser’s twofold accusation and their answer accordingly applied, the questions being, the one of a fact simply, the other of the quality of a fact. To the first they use direct denial, to the second qualification and excuse. They deny the murder of the duke, and against mighty presumptions bring forth some probable answers, which they do principally fortify with the duchess’s acknowledging herself only culpable. Certainly, as in equality of conjectures we are not to take hold of the worst, but rather to be glad we may find any hope that mankind is not grown monstrous (being undoubtedly less evil a guilty man should escape than a guiltless perish), so if in the rest they be spotless, then is this no further to be remembered. But if they have aggravated these suspicions with new evils, then are those suspicions so far to show themselves as to cause the other points to be thoroughly examined and with less favour weighed; since this no man can deny: they have been accidental, if not principal, causes of the duke’s death.
‘Now, then, we are to determine of the other matters which are laid to them, wherein they do not deny the fact but deny, or at least diminish, the fault. But first I may remember (though it were not first alleged by them) the services they had before done, truly honourable and worthy of great reward, but not worthy to countervail with a following wickedness. Reward is proper to well doing, punishment to evil doing, which must not be confounded no more than good and evil are to be mingled. Therefore it hath been determined in all wisdoms that no man, because he hath done well before, should have his present evils spared, but rather so much the more punished, as having showed he knew how to be good, would against his knowledge be naught. The fact, then, is nakedly without passion or partiality to be viewed. Wherein, he that terms himself Timopyrus denies not he offered violence to the lady Philoclea, an act punished by all the Grecian laws with being thrown down from a high tower to the earth — a death which doth no way exceed the proportion of the trespass; for nothing can be imagined more unnatural than by force to take that which, being holily used, is the root of humanity, the beginning and maintaining of living creatures, whereof the confusion must needs be a general ruin. And since the wickedness of lust is by our decrees punished by death, though both consent, much more is he whose wickedness so overflows as he will compel another to be wicked.
‘The other young man confesseth he persuaded the princess Pamela to fly her country, and accompanied her in it — without all question a ravishment no less than the other; for, although he ravished her not from herself, yet he ravished her from him that owed her, which was her father. This kind is chastised by the loss of the head, as a most execrable theft; for if they must die who steal from us our goods, how much more they who steal from us that for which we gather our goods. And if our laws have it so in the private persons, much more forcible are they to be in princes’ children, where one steals as it were the whole state and well being of that people, tied by the secret of a long use to be governed by none but the next of that blood. Neither let any man marvel our ancestors have been so severe in these cases, since the example of the Phoenician Europa, but especially of the Grecian Helen hath taught them what destroying fires have grown of such sparkles.
And although Helen was a wife and this but a child, that booteth not, since the principal cause of marrying wives is that we may have children of our own.
‘But now let us see how these young men (truly for their persons worthy of pity, if they had rightly pitied themselves) do go about to mitigate the vehemency of their errors. Some of their excuses are common to both, some peculiar only to him that was the shepherd; both remember the force of love, and as it were the mending up of the matter by their marriage. If that unbridled desire which is entitled love might purge such a sickness as this, surely we should have many loving excuses of hateful mischiefs. Nay rather, no mischief should be committed that should not be veiled under the name of love. For as well he that steals might allege the love of money, he that murders the love of revenge, he that rebels the love of greatness, as the adulterer the love of a woman; since they do in all speech affirm they love that which an ill-governed passion maketh them to follow. But love may have no such privilege. That sweet and heavenly uniting of the minds, which properly is called love, hath no other knot but virtue; and therefore if it be a right love, it can never slide into any action that is not virtuous. The other, and indeed more effectual, reason is that they may be married unto them, and so honourably redress the dishonour of them whom this matter seemeth most to touch. Surely, if the question were what were convenient for the parties, and not what is just in the neverchanging justice, there might be much said in it. But herein we must consider that the laws look how to prevent by due examples that such things be not done, and not how to salve such things when they are done. For if the governors of justice shall take such a scope as to measure the foot of the law by a show of conveniency, and measure that conveniency not by the public society but by that which is fittest for them which offend, young men, strong men, and rich men shall ever find private conveniences how to palliate such committed disorders as to the public shall not only be inconvenient but pestilent. The marriage perchance might be fit for them, but very unfit were it to the state to allow a pattern of such procurations of marriage. And thus much do they both allege. Further goes he that went with the princess Pamela, and requireth the benefit of a counsellor, who hath place of free persuasion, and the reasonable excuse of a servant, that did but wait of his mistress. Without all question, as counsellors have great cause to take heed how they advise anything directly opposite to the form of that present government, especially when they do it simply without public allowance, so yet is this case much more apparent; since neither she was an effectual princess, her father being then alive, and though he had been dead, she not come to the years of authority, nor he her servant in such manner to obey her, but by his own preferment first belonging to Dametas, and then to the duke, and therefore, if not by Arcadia laws, yet by household orders, bound to have done nothing without his agreement. Thus, therefore, since the deeds accomplished by these two are both abominable and inexcusable, I do in the behalf of justice, and by the force of Arcadia laws pronounce that Timopyrus shall be thrown out of a high tower to receive his death by his fall; Palladius shall be beheaded: the time, before sunset; the place, in Mantinea; the executioner, Dametas. Which office he shall execute all the days of his life, for his beastly forgetting the careful duty he owed to his charge.’
This said, he turned himself to Philanax and two of the other
noblemen, commanding them to see the judgement presently performed. Philanax, more greedy than any hunter of his prey, went straight to lay hold of the excellent prisoners who, casting a farewell look one upon the other, represented in their faces as much unappalled constancy as the most excellent courage can deliver in outward graces. Yet if at all there were any show of change in them, it was that Pyrocles was something nearer to bashfulness, and Musidorus to anger, both overruled by reason and resolution. But as with great number of armed men Philanax was descending unto them, and that Musidorus was beginning to say something in Pyrocles’ behalf, behold Kerxenus that with arms cast abroad and open mouth came crying to Euarchus, holding a stranger in his hand that cried much more than he, desiring they might be heard speak before the prisoners were removed. Even the noble gentleman Sympathus aided them in it, and taking such as he could command, stopped Philanax betwixt entreaty and force from carrying away the princes until it were heard what new matters these men did bring. So again mounting to the tribunal, they hearkened to the stranger’s vehement speech, or rather appassionate exclaiming.
But first you will be content to know what he was, and what cause and mean brought him thither. It is not, I hope, forgotten how in the first beginning of Musidorus’s love, when in despite of his best-grounded determinations he became a slave to affection, how leaving the place of his eye-infection, he met with the shepherd Menalcas, by the help of whose raiment he advanced himself to that estate which he accounted most high because it might be serviceable to that fancy which he had placed most high in his mind; and how, lest by his presence his purpose might be revealed, he hired him to go into Thessalia, writing by him to a trusty servant of his that he should arrest him until he knew his further pleasure. Menalcas faithfully performed his errand, and was as faithfully imprisoned by Kalodoulus, for such was the gentleman’s name to whom Musidorus directed him. But as Kalodoulus performed the first part of his duty in doing the commandment of his prince, so was he with abundance of sincere loyalty extremely perplexed when he understood of Menalcas the strange disguising of his beloved master. For as the acts he and his cousin Pyrocles had done in Asia and Egypt had filled all the ears of the Thessalians and Macedonians with no less joy than admiration, so was the fear of their loss no less grievous unto them when by the noise of report they understood of their lonely committing themselves to the sea, the issue of which they had yet no way learned. But now that by Menalcas he perceived where he was, guessing the like of Pyrocles, comparing the unusedness of this act with the unripeness of their age, seeing in general conjecture they could do it for nothing that might not fall out dangerous, he was somewhile troubled with himself what to do, betwixt doubt of their hurt and doubt of their displeasure. Lastly he resolved his safest and honestest way was to reveal it to the king Euarchus, that both his authority might prevent any damage, and under his wings he himself might remain safe. Thitherward, therefore, he went. But being come to the city of Pella, where he had heard the king lay, he found him not long before departed towards Arcadia. This made him, with all the speed he could, follow Euarchus, as well to advertise him, if need were, as to do his prince service in his uncle’s thither coming. And so it happened that, being even this day come to Mantinea, and as warily as he could inquiring after Euarchus, he straight received a strange rumour of these things, but so uncertainly as popular reports carry so rare accidents. But this by all men he was willed: to seek out Kerxenus, a great gentleman of that country, who would soonest satisfy him of all those occurrents. Thus instructed, he came even about the midst of Euarchus’s judgement to the desert, where seeing great multitudes, and hearing unknown names of Palladius and Timopyrus, and not able to press to the place where Euarchus sat, he inquired for Kerxenus, and was soon brought unto him, partly because he was generally known unto all men, and partly because he had withdrawn himself from the press when he perceived by Euarchus’s words whither they tended, not being able to endure his guests’ condemnation. He inquired forthwith of Kerxenus the cause of the assembly, and whether he had heard of Euarchus. Who with many tears made a doleful recital unto him, both of the amazon and shepherd, setting forth their natural graces, and lamenting their pitiful undoing. But his description made Kalodoulus immediately know the shepherd was his duke, and so judging the other to be Pyrocles, and speedily communicating it to Kerxenus, who he saw did favour their case, they brake the press with astonishing every man with their cries. And being come to Euarchus, Kalodoulus fell at his feet, telling him those he had judged were his own son and nephew, the one the comfort of Macedon, the other the only stay of Thessalia, with many suchlike words, but as from a man that assured himself in that matter he should need small speech; while Kerxenus made it known to all men what the prisoners were. To whom he cried they should salute their father, and joy in the good hap the gods had sent them; who were no less glad than all the people amazed at the strange event of these matters. Even Philanax’s own revengeful heart was mollified when he saw how from diverse parts in the world so near kinsmen should meet in such a necessity; and withal the fame of Pyrocles and Musidorus greatly drew him to a compassionate conceit, and had already unclothed his face of all show of malice.
But Euarchus stayed a good while upon himself, like a valiant man that should receive a notable encounter, being vehemently stricken with the fatherly love of so excellent children, and studying with his best reason what his office required. At length, with such a kind of gravity as was near to sorrow, he thus uttered his mind:
‘I take witness of the immortal gods,’ said he, ‘O Arcadians, that what this day I have said hath been out of my assured persuasion what justice itself and your just laws require. Though strangers then to me, I had no desire to hurt them; but leaving aside all considerations of the persons, I weighed the matter which you committed into my hands with my most unpartial and furthest reach of reason, and thereout have condemned them to lose their lives, contaminated with so many foul breaches of hospitality, civility, and virtue. Now, contrary to all expectation, I find them to be mine only son and nephew; such upon whom you see what gifts nature hath bestowed; such who have so to the wonder of the world heretofore behaved themselves as might give just cause to the greatest hopes that in an excellent youth may be conceived; lastly, in few words, such in whom I placed all my mortal joys, and thought myself now near my grave to recover a new life. But, alas, shall justice halt, or shall she wink in one’s cause which had lynx’s eyes in another’s? Or rather, shall all private respects give place to that holy name? Be it so, be it so.
Let my grey hairs be laid in the dust with sorrow. Let the small remnant of my life be to me an inward and outward desolation, and to the world a gazing stock of wretched misery. But never, never, let sacred rightfulness fall. It is immortal, and immortally ought to be preserved. If rightly I have judged, then rightly have I judged mine own children, unless the name of a child should have force to change the never-changing justice. No, no, Pyrocles and Musidorus, I prefer you much before my life, but I prefer justice as far before you. While you did like yourselves, my body should willingly have been your shield; but I cannot keep you from the effects of your own doing. Nay, I cannot in this case acknowledge you for mine; for never had I shepherd to my nephew, nor never had woman to my son. Your vices have degraded you from being princes, and have disannulled your birthright. Therefore, if there be anything left in you of princely virtue, show it in constant suffering that your unprincely dealing hath purchased unto you. For my part, I must tell you, you have forced a father to rob himself of his children.
Do you, therefore, O Philanax, and you my other lords of this country, see the judgement be rightly performed in time, place, and manner as before appointed.’
With that, though he would have refrained them, a man might
perceive the tears drop down his long white beard, which moved not only Kalodoulus and Kerxenus to roaring lamentations, but all the assembly dolefully to record that pitiful spectacle. Philanax himself could not abstain from great shows of pitying sorrow, and manifest withdrawing from performing the king’s commandment. But Musidorus, having the hope of his safety and recovering of the princess Pamela (which made him most desire to live) so suddenly dashed, but especially moved for his dear Pyrocles, for whom he was ever resolved his last speech should be, and stirred up with rage of unkindness, he thus spake:
‘Enjoy thy bloody conquest, tyrannical Euarchus,’ said he, ‘for neither is convenient the title of a king to a murderer, nor the remembrance of kindred to a destroyer of his kindred. Go home and glory that it hath been in thy power shamefully to kill Musidorus.
Let thy flattering orators dedicate crowns of laurel unto thee, that the first of thy race thou hast overthrown a prince of Thessalia.
But for me, I hope the Thessalians are not so degenerate from their ancestors but that they will revenge my injury and their loss upon thee. I hope my death is no more unjust to me than it shall be bitter to thee. Howsoever it be, my death shall triumph over thy cruelty.
Neither as now would I live to make my life beholding unto thee.
But if thy cruelty hath not so blinded thy eyes that thou canst not see thine own hurt, if thy heart be not so devilish as thou hast no power but to torment thyself, then look upon this young Pyrocles with a manlike eye, if not with a pitiful. Give not occasion to the whole earth to say “see how the gods have made the tyrant tear his own bowels”. Examine the eyes and voices of all this people, and what all men see, be not blind in thine own case. Look, I say, look upon him in whom the most curious searcher is able to find no fault but that he is thy son. Believe it, thy own subjects will detest thee for robbing them of such a prince, in whom they have right as well as thyself.’
Some more words to that purpose he would have spoken, but Pyrocles (who oft had called to him) did now fully interrupt him, desiring him not to do him the wrong to give his father ill words before him, willing him to consider it was their own fault and not his unjustice; and withal to remember their resolution of well suffering all accidents, which this impatience did seem to vary from. And then kneeling down with all humbleness, he took the speech in this order to Euarchus:
‘If my daily prayers to the almighty gods had so far prevailed as to have granted me the end whereto I have directed my actions, I should rather have been now a comfort to your mind than an example of your justice, rather a preserver of your memory by my life than a monument of your judgement by my death. But since it hath pleased their unsearchable wisdoms to overthrow all the desires I had to serve you, and make me become a shame unto you, since the last obedience I can show you is to die, vouchsafe yet, O father (if my fault have not made me altogether unworthy so to term you), vouchsafe, I say, to let the few and last words your son shall ever speak not to be tedious unto you. And if the remembrance of my virtuous mother (who once was dear unto you) may bear any sway with you, if the name of Pyrocles have at any time been pleasant, let one request of mine (which shall not be for my own life) be graciously accepted of you. What you owe to justice is performed in my death.
A father to have executed his only son will leave a sufficient example for a greater crime than this. My blood will satisfy the highest point of equity. My blood will satisfy the hardest hearted of this country.
O save the life of this prince; that is the only all I will with my last breath demand of you. With what face will you look upon your sister when, in reward of nourishing me in your greatest need, you take away, and in such sort take away, that which is more dear to her than all the world, and is the only comfort wherewith she nourisheth her old age? O give not such an occasion to the noble Thessalians for ever to curse the match that their prince did make with the Macedonian blood. By my loss there follows no public loss, for you are to hold the seat, and to provide yourself perchance of a worthier successor. But how can you, or all the earth, recompense the damage that poor Thessalia shall sustain, who sending out (whom otherwise they would no more have spared than their own eyes) their prince to you, and you requesting to have him, by you he should thus dishonourably be extinguished? Set before you, I beseech you, the face of that miserable people when no sooner shall the news come that you have met your nephew but withal they shall hear that you have beheaded him. How many tears they shall spend, how many complaints they shall make, so many just execrations will light upon you. And take heed, O father (for since my death answers my fault while I live I may call upon that dear name), lest seeking too precise a course of justice, you be not thought most unjust in weakening your neighbour’s mighty estate by taking away their only pillar.
In me, in me, this matter began; in me, let it receive his ending.
Assure yourself, no man will doubt your severe observing the laws when it shall be known Euarchus hath killed Pyrocles. But the time of my ever farewell approacheth. If you do think my death sufficient for my fault, and do not desire to make my death more miserable than death, let these dying words of him that was once your son pierce your ears. Let Musidorus live, and Pyrocles shall live in him, and you shall not want a child.’
‘A child’, cried out Musidorus, ‘to him that kills Pyrocles!’
With that again he fell to entreat for Pyrocles, and Pyrocles as fast for Musidorus, each employing his wit how to show himself most worthy to die, to such an admiration of all the beholders that most of them, examining the matter by their own passions, thought Euarchus (as often extraordinary excellencies, not being rightly conceived, do rather offend than please) an obstinate-hearted man, and such a one, who being pitiless, his dominion must needs be insupportable. But Euarchus, that felt his own misery more than they, and yet loved goodness more than himself, with such a sad assured behaviour as Cato killed himself withal, when he had heard the uttermost of that their speech tended unto, he commanded again they should be carried away, rising up from the seat (which he would much rather have wished should have been his grave), and looking who would take the charge, whereto everyone was exceeding backward.
But as this pitiful matter was entering into, those that were next the duke’s body might hear from under the velvet wherewith he was covered a great voice of groaning; whereat every man astonished, and their spirits, appalled with these former miseries, apt to take any strange conceit. When they might perfectly perceive the body stir, then some began to fear spirits, some to look for a miracle, most to imagine they knew not what. But Philanax and Kerxenus, whose eyes honest love (though to diverse parties) held most attentive, leapt to the table, and putting off the velvet cover, might plainly discern, with as much wonder as gladness, that the duke lived.
Which how it fell out in few words shall be declared.
So it was that the drink he had received was neither (as Gynecia first imagined) a love potion nor (as it was after thought) a deadly poison, but a drink made by notable art, and as it was thought not without natural magic, to procure for thirty hours such a deadly sleep as should oppress all show of life. The cause of the making of this drink had first been that a princess of Cyprus, grandmother to Gynecia, being notably learned (and yet not able with all her learning to answer the objections of Cupid), did furiously love a young nobleman of her father’s court, who fearing the king’s rage, and not once daring either to attempt or accept so high a place, she made that sleeping drink, and found means by a trusty servant of hers (who of purpose invited him to his chamber) to procure him, that suspected no such thing, to receive it. Which done, he no way able to resist, was secretly carried by him into a pleasant chamber in the midst of a garden she had of purpose provided for this enterprise, where that space of time pleasing herself with seeing and cherishing of him, when the time came of the drink’s end of working (and he more astonished than if he had fallen from the clouds), she bade him choose either then to marry her, and to promise to fly away with her in a bark she had made ready, or else she would presently cry out, and show in what place he was, with oath he was come thither to ravish her. The nobleman in these straits, her beauty prevailed; he married her and escaped the realm with her, and after many strange adventures were reconciled to the king, her father, after whose death they reigned. But she, gratefully remembering the service that drink had done her, preserved in a bottle (made by singular art long to keep it without perishing) great quantity of it, with the foretold inscription. Which wrong interpreted by her daughter-in-law, the queen of Cyprus, was given by her to Gynecia at the time of her marriage; and the drink, finding an old body of Basilius, had kept him some hours longer in the trance than it would have done a younger.
But a good while it was before good Basilius could come again to himself. In which time Euarchus (more glad than of the whole world’s monarchy to be rid of his miserable magistracy, which even in justice he was now to surrender to the lawful prince of that country) came from the throne unto him, and there with much ado made him understand how these intricate matters had fallen out.
Many garboils passed through his fancy before he could be persuaded Cleophila was other than a woman. At length, remembering the oracle, which now indeed was accomplished (not as before he had imagined), considering all had fallen out by the highest providence, and withal weighing in all these matters his own fault had been the greatest, the first thing he did was with all honourable pomp to send for Gynecia (who, poor lady, thought she was leading forth to her living burial), and (when she came) to recount before all the people the excellent virtue was in her, which she had not only maintained all her life most unspotted but now was content so miserably to die to follow her husband. He told them how she had warned him to take heed of that drink. And so, with all the exaltings of her that might be, he publicly desired her pardon for those errors he had committed. And so kissing her, left her to receive the most honourable fame of any princess throughout the world, all men thinking (saving only Pyrocles and Philoclea who never bewrayed her) that she was the perfect mirror of all wifely love. Which though in that point undeserved, she did in the remnant of her life duly purchase with observing all duty and faith, to the example and glory of Greece — so uncertain are mortal judgements, the same person most infamous and most famous, and neither justly.
Then with princely entertainment to Euarchus, and many kind words to Pyrocles (whom still he dearly loved, though in a more virtuous kind), the marriage was concluded, to the inestimable joy of Euarchus (towards whom now Musidorus acknowledged his fault), betwixt these peerless princes and princesses; Philanax for his singular faith ever held dear of Basilius while he lived, and no less of Musidorus who was to inherit that dukedom, and therein confirmed to him and his the second place of that province, with great increase of his living to maintain it; which like proportion he used to Kalodoulus in Thessalia. Sympathus, Euarchus took with him into
Macedon, and there highly advanced him. But as for Kerxenus, Pyrocles (to whom his father in his own time gave the whole kingdom of Thrace) held him always about him, giving him in pure gift the great city of Abdera.
But the solemnities of these marriages, with the Arcadian pastorals full of many comical adventures happening to those rural lovers, the strange story of the fair queens Artaxia of Persia and Erona of Lydia, with the prince Plangus’s wonderful chances, whom the latter had sent to Pyrocles, and the extreme affection Amasis, king of Egypt, bare unto the former, the shepherdish loves of Menalcas with Kalodoulus’s daughter, and the poor hopes of the poor Philisides in the pursuit of his affections, the strange continuance of Klaius’s and Strephon’s desire, lastly the son of Pyrocles named Pyrophilus, and Melidora the fair daughter of Pamela by Musidorus, who even at their birth entered into admirable fortunes, may awake some other spirit to exercise his pen in that wherewith mine is already dulled.
The last book or act.