The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
each corner of her invention, how she might achieve her life’s
enterprise: for well she knew deceit cannot otherwise be maintained
but by deceit: and how to deceive such heedful eyes, and how to
satisfy, and yet not satisfy such hopeful desires, it was no small
skill. But both their thoughts were called from themselves with the
sight of Basilius, who then lying down by his daughter Philoclea, upon
the fair, though natural, bed of green grass, seeing the sun what
speed he made to leave our west {479} to do his office in the other
hemisphere, his inward muses made him in his best music, sing this
Madrigal.
Why dost thou haste away
O Titan fair, the giver of the day?
It is not to carry news
To western wights, what stars in east appear?
Or dost thou think that here
Is left a sun, whose beams thy place may use?
Yet stay and well peruse,
What be her gifts, that make her equal thee,
Bend all thy light to see
In earthly clothes enclos’d a heavenly spark:
Thy running course cannot such beauties mark.
No, no, thy motions be
Hastened from us with bar of shadow dark,
Because that thou the author of our sight
Disdain’st we see thee stain’d with others’ light.
And having ended; “Dear Philoclea,” said he, “sing something that may
divert my thoughts from the continual task of their ruinous harbour:”
she, obedient to him, and not unwilling to disburden her secret
passion, made her sweet voice be heard in these words.
O stealing time, the subject of delay
(Delay, the rack of unrestrain’d desire)
What strange design hast thou my hopes to stay,
My hopes which do but to mine own aspire?
Mine own? O word on whose sweet sound doth prey
My greedy soul, with gripe of inward fire:
Thy title great I justly challenge may,
Since in such phrase his faith he did attire.
O time, become the chariot of my joys,
As thou drawest on, so let my bliss draw near,
Each moment lost, part of my hap destroys.
Thou art the father of occasion dear:
Join with thy son to ease my long annoys,
In speedy help, thank-worthy things appear.
Philoclea broke off her song as soon as her mother with Zelmane came
near unto them, rising up with a kindly bashfulness, being not
ignorant of the spite her mother bare her, and stricken with the sight
of that person, whose love made all those troubles seem fair flowers
of her dearest garland, nay, rather all those troubles made the love
increase. For as the arrival of enemies makes a town to fortify itself
as ever after it remains stronger, so that {480} a man may say,
enemies were no small cause of the town’s strength: so to a mind once
fixed in a well-pleased determination, who hopes by annoyance to
overthrow it, does but teach it to knit together all his best grounds,
and so perchance of a chanceable purpose, make an unchangeable
resolution. But no more did Philoclea see the wonted signs of
Zelmane’s affection towards her, she thought she saw another light in
her eyes, with a bold and careless look upon her, which was wont to be
dazzled with her beauty; and the framing of her courtesies rather
ceremonious than affectionate, and that which worst liked her, was,
that it proceeded with such quiet settledness, that it rather
threatened a full purpose than any sudden passion. She found her
behaviour bent altogether to her mother, and presumed in herself she
discerned the well-acquainted face of his fancies now turned to
another subject. She saw her mother’s worthiness, and too well knew
her affection. These joining their divers working powers together in
her mind, but yet a prentice in the painful mystery of passions,
brought Philoclea into a new traverse of her thoughts, and made her
keep her careful look the more attentive upon Zelmane’s behaviour, who
indeed, though with much pain, and condemning herself to commit a
sacrilege against the sweet saint that lived in her inmost temple, yet
strengthening herself in it; being the surest way to make Gynecia bite
of her other baits, did so quite over-rule all wonted shows of love to
Philoclea, and convert them to Gynecia, that the part she played did
work in both a full and lively persuasion: to Gynecia, such excessive
comfort, as the being preferred to a rival doth deliver to swelling
desire, but to the delicate Philoclea, whose calm thoughts were unable
to nourish any strong debate, it gave so stinging a hurt, that,
fainting under the force of her inward torment, she withdrew herself
to the lodge, and there, weary of supporting her own burden, cast
herself upon her bed, suffering her sorrow to melt itself into
abundance of tears; at length closing her eyes, as if each thing she
saw was a picture of her mishap, and turning upon her heart-side,
which, with vehement panting did summon her to consider her fortune,
she thus bemoaned herself.
“Alas! Philoclea, is this the price of all thy pains? is this the
reward of thy given-way liberty? hath too much yielding bred cruelty?
or can too great acquaintance make me held for a stranger? hath the
choosing of a companion made me left alone; or doth granting desire,
cause the desire to be neglected? alas! despised Philoclea, why didst
thou not hold thy thoughts in their simple course, and content thyself
with the love of thine own virtue, which would never have betrayed
thee? Ah, silly fool, didst thou look for truth in him that with his
own mouth confessed {481} his falsehood? for plain proceeding in him
that still goes disguised? They say the falsest men will yet bear
outward shows of a pure mind. But he that even outwardly bears the
badge of treachery, what hells of wickedness must needs in the depth
be contained? But O wicked mouth of mine, how darest thou thus
blaspheme the ornament of the earth, the vessel of all virtue? O
wretch that I am, that will anger the gods in dispraising their most
excellent work: O no, no, there was no fault but in me, that could
ever think so high eyes would look so low, or so great perfections
would stain themselves with my unworthiness. Alas! why could I not see
I was too weak a band to tie so heavenly an heart? I was not fit to
limit the infinite course of his wonderful destinies. Was it ever like
that upon only Philoclea his thoughts should rest? Ah silly fool, that
couldst please thyself with so impossible an imagination! an universal
happiness is to flow from him. How was I so inveigled to hope, I might
be the mark of such a mind? He did thee no wrong, O Philoclea, he did
thee no wrong, it was thy weakness to fancy the beams of the sun
should give light to no eyes but to thine! And yet, O Prince Pyrocles,
for whom I may well begin to hate myself, but can never leave to love
thee, what triumph canst thou make of this conquest? What spoils wilt
thou carry away of this my undeserved overthrow? could thy force find
out no fitter field than the feeble mind of a poor maid, who at the
first sight did wish thee all happiness? Shall it be said, the mirror
of mankind hath been employed to destroy a hurtless gentlewoman? O
Pyrocles, Pyrocles, let me yet call thee before the judgment of thy
virtue, let me be accepted for a plaintiff in cause which concerns my
life: what need hadst thou to arm thy face with the enchanting mask of
thy painted passions? what need hadst thou to fortify thy excellencies
with so exquisite a cunning, in making our own arts betray us? what
needest thou descend so far from thy incomparable worthiness, as to
take on the habit of weak womankind. Was all this to win the
undefended castle of a friend, which being won, thou wouldst after
raze? Could so small a cause allure thee? or did not so unjust a cause
stop thee? O me, what say I more? this is my case, my love hates me,
virtue deals wickedly with me, and he does me wrong, whose doings I
can never account a wrong.” With that the sweet lady turning herself
upon her weary bed she happily saw a lute, upon the belly of which
Gynecia had written this song, what time Basilius imputed her jealous
motions to proceed of the doubt she had of his untimely loves. Under
which veil she, contented to cover her never ceasing anguish, had made
the lute a monument of her mind, which Philoclea had never much
marked, till now the fear of a competitor more stirred her, than
before the care of a mother. {482} The verses were these:
My lute within thyself thy tunes enclose,
Thy mistress’s song is now a sorrow’s cry,
Her hand benumb’d with fortune’s daily blows,
Her mind amaz’d can neither’s help apply.
Wear these my words as mourning weeds of woes,
Black ink becomes the state wherein I die,
And though my moans be not in music bound,
Of written griefs, yet be the silent ground.
The world doth yield such ill-consorted shows,
With circled course, which no wise stay can try,
That childish stuff which knows not friends from foes,
(Better despis’d) bewonder gazing eye.
Thus noble gold, down to the bottom goes,
When worthless cork, aloft doth floating lie.
Thus in thyself least strings are loudest found,
And lowest stops do yield the highest sound.
Philoclea read them, and throwing down the lute, “Is this the legacy
you have bequeathed me, O kind mother of mine?” said she, “did you
bestow the light upon me for this? or did you bear me to be the author
of my burial? a trim purchase you have made of your own shame, robbed
your daughter to ruin yourself? the birds unreasonable, yet use so
much reason, as to make nests for their tender young ones; my cruel
mother turns me out of mine own harbour; alas, plaint boots not, for
my case can receive no help; for who should give me help? shall I fly
to my parents? they are my murderers: shall I go to him, who already
being won and lost, must needs have killed all pity? alas! I can bring
no new intercessions; he knows already what I am is his. Shall I come
home again to myself? O me, contemned wretch; I have given away
myself.” With that the poor soul beat her breast, as if that had been
guilty of her faults, neither thinking of revenge, nor studying for
remedy, but, sweet creature, gave grief a free dominion, keeping her
chamber a few days after, not needing to feign herself sick, feeling
even in her soul the pangs of extreme pain.
But little did Gynecia reck that, neither when she saw her go away
from them, neither when she after found that sickness made her hide
her fair face, so much had fancy prevailed against nature. But O you
that have ever known, how tender to every motion love makes the
lover’s heart, how he measures all his joys upon her contentment: and
doth with respectful eye hang his behaviour upon her eyes: judge I
pray you now of Zelmane’s troubled thoughts when she saw Philoclea,
with an amazed kind of sorrow, {483} carry away her sweet presence,
and easily found, so happy a conjecture unhappy affection hath, that
her demeanour was guilty of that trespass. There was never foolish
soft-hearted mother, that, forced to beat her child, did weep first
for his pains, and doing that she was loth to do, did repent before
she began, did find half that motion in her weak mind that Zelmane
did, now that she was forced by reason to give an outward blow to her
passions, and for the lending of a small time, to seek the usury of
her desires. The unkindness she conceived Philoclea might conceive,
did wound her soul, each tear she doubted she spent, drowned all her
comfort. Her sickness was a death unto her. Often would she speak to
the image of Philoclea, which lived and ruled in the highest of her
inward part, and use vehement oaths, and protestations unto her; that
nothing should ever falsify the free chosen vow she had made. Often
would she desire her, that she would look well to Pyrocles’s heart,
for as for her she had no more interest in it to bestow it any way: