The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
unlikeliest means greatest matters may come to conclusion; that human
reason may be the more humbled, and more willingly give place to
divine providence; as at the first it brought in Dametas to play a
part in this royal pageant, so having continued him still an actor,
now that all things were grown ripe for an end, made his folly the
instrument of revealing that which far greater cunning had sought to
conceal. For so it fell out that Dametas having spent the whole day in
breaking up the cumbersome work of the pastor Dorus, and feeling in
all his labour no pain so much as that his hungry hopes received any
stay, having with the price of much sweat and weariness gotten up the
huge stone, which he thought should have such a golden lining, the
good man in the great bed that stone had made, found nothing but these
two verses written upon a broad piece of vellum.
Who hath his hire, hath well his labour plac’d;
Earth thou didst seek, and store of Earth thou hast.
What an inward discontentment it was to master Dametas, to find his
hope of wealth turned to poor verses, for which he never cared much,
nothing can describe, but either the feeling in one’s self the state
of such a mind Dametas had, or at least the bethinking what was
Midas’s fancy, when after the great pride he conceived to be made
judge between the Gods, he was rewarded with the ornament of an ass’s
ears. Yet the deep apprehension he had received of such riches, could
not so suddenly lose the colour that had so thoroughly dyed his thick
brain, but that he turned and tossed the poor bowels of the innocent
earth, till the {524} coming on of the night, and the tediousness of
his fruitless labour made him content rather to exercise his
discontentation at home than there. But forced he was, his horse being
otherwise burdened with digging instruments, to return as he came,
most part of the way on foot, with such grudging lamentations as a
nobler mind would, but more nobly, make for the loss of his mistress.
For so far had he fed his foolish soul with the expectation of that
which he reputed felicity, that he no less accounted himself
miserable, than if he had fallen from such an estate his fancy had
embraced. So then home again went Dametas, punished in conceit, as in
conceit he had erred, till he found himself there from a fancied loss
fallen to essential misery: for entering into his house three hours
before night, instead of the lightsome countenance of Pamela, which
gave such an inward decking to that lodge, as proudest palaces might
have cause to envy it, and of the grateful conversation of Dorus,
whose witty behaviour made that loneliness to seem full of good
company, instead of the loud scolding of Miso, and the busy rumbling
up and down of Mopsa, which though they were so short, as quite
contrary to the others’ praiseworthiness, yet were they far before
them in filling of a house, he found nothing but a solitary darkness,
which as naturally it breeds a kind of irksome ghastfulness, so it was
to him a most present terror, remembering the charge he had left
behind, which he well knew imported no less than his life unto him.
Therefore lighting a candle, there was no place a mouse could have
dwelled in but that he with quaking diligence sought into. But when he
saw he could see nothing of that he most cared for, then became he the
right pattern of a wretch dejected with fear: for crying and howling,
knocking his head to the wall, he began to make pitiful complaints,
where nobody could hear him: and, with too much dread he should not
recover her, leave all consideration how to recover her. But at length
looking like a she-goat when she casts her kid, for very sorrow he
took in his own behalf, out of the lodge he went running as hard as he
could, having now received the very form of hanging into his
consideration. Thus running, as a man that would gladly have run from
himself, it was his foolish fortune to espy, by the glimmering light
the moon did then yield him, one standing aloft among the boughs of a
fair ash. He that would have asked counsel at that time of a dog, cast
up his face, as if his tooth had been drawing; and with much bending
his sight, perceived it was Mopsa, fitly seated there for her wit and
dignity. There, I will not say with joy, for how could he taste of
joy, whose imagination was fallen from a palace to the gallows? But
yet with some refreshing of comfort, in hopes he should learn better
tidings of her, he began to cry out, {525} “O Mopsa, my beloved
chicken, here am I thine own father Dametas, never in such a
towardness of hanging if thou canst not help me.” But never a word
could his eloquence procure of Mopsa, who indeed was there attending
for greater matters. This was yet a new burden to poor Dametas, who
thought all the world was conspiring against him, and therefore with a
silly choler he began another tune. “Thou vile Mopsa,” said he, “now
the vengeance of my fatherly curse overthwart thee if though do not
straightways answer me.” But neither blessing nor cursing could
prevail. Mopsa, who was now great with child with the expectation of
her may-game hopes did long to be delivered with the third time of
being named. Which by and by followed, for Dametas rubbing his elbow,
stamping and whining, seeing neither of these take place, he began to
throw stones at her, and withal to conjure her by the name of hellish
Mopsa. But when he had named her the third time, no chime can more
suddenly follow the striking of a clock, than she verily thinking it
was the god that used her father’s voice, throwing her arms abroad,
and not considering that she was muffled upon so high a tree, came
fluttering down like a hooded hawk, likely enough to have broken her
neck but that the tree full of boughs tossed her from one bough to
another, and lastly, well bruised, brought her to receive an
unfriendly salutation of the earth. Dametas, as soon as she was down,
came running to her, and finding her so close wrapt, pulled off the
scarlet cloak, in good time for her, for with the soreness of the
fall, if she had not had breath given her, she had delivered a foolish
soul to Pluto.
But when Dametas began afresh to desire his daughter not to forget the
pains he had taken for her in her childhood, which he was sure she
could remember, and to tell where Pamela was. “O good Apollo,” said
Mopsa, “if ever thou didst bear love to Phaeton’s mother let me have a
king to my husband.” “Alas, what speakest thou of Phaeton?” said
Dametas. “If by thy circumspect means I find not out Pamela, thy
father will be hanged to-morrow.” “It is no matter though he be
hanged,” answered Mopsa, “do but thou make Dorus a king, and let him
be my husband, good Apollo, for my courage doth much prick me toward
him.” “Ah Mopsa,” cried out Dametas, “where is thy wit? Dost thou not
know thy father? How hast thou forgotten thyself?” “I do not ask wit
of thee, mine own God,” said she, “but I see thou wouldst have me
remember my father, and indeed forget myself. No, no, a good husband.”
“Thou shalt have thy fill of husbands,” said Dametas, “and do but
answer me my question.” “O I thank thee,” said Mopsa, “with all my
heart heartily, but let them be all kings.” Dametas seeing no other
{526} way prevail, fell down on his knees, “Mopsa, Mopsa,” said he,
“do not thus cruelly torment me; I am already wretched enough, alas!
either help me, or tell me thou canst not.” She that would not be
behind Apollo in courtesy, kneeled down on the other side; “I will
never leave tormenting thee,” said Mopsa, “until thou hast satisfied
my longing; but I will proclaim thee a promise-breaker, that even
Jupiter shall hear it.” “Now by the fostering thou hast received in
this place, save my life,” said Dametas. “Now by the fair ash,”
answered Mopsa, “where thou didst receive so great a good turn, grant
post haste to my burning fancy.” “O where is Pamela?” said Dametas. “O
a lusty husband,” said Mopsa. Dametas, who now verily assured himself
his daughter was mad, began utterly to despair of his life; and
therefore amazedly catching her in his arms, to see whether he could
bring her to herself, he felt the weight of a great cudgel light upon
his shoulder, and for the first greeting he knew his wife Miso’s
voice, by the calling him ribald villain, and asking him whether she
could not serve his turn as well as Charita? For Miso having,
according to Dorus’s counsel, gone to Mantinea, and there harboured
herself in an old acquaintance’s house of hers, as soon as ten of the
clock had stricken (where she had remained closely all that while, I
think with such an amiable cheer, as when jealous Juno sat
cross-legged to hinder the child-birth of her husband’s love) with
open mouth she went to the magistrate appointed over such matters, and
there, with the most scolding invective, her rage rather than
eloquence could bring forth, she required his aid to take Dametas, who
had left his duty to the king and his daughter, to commit adultery in
the house of Charita’s uncle, in the Oudemian Street. But neither was
the name of Charita remembered, nor any such street known. Yet such
was the general mislike all men had of Dametas’s unworthy advancement,
that every man was glad to make himself a minister of that which might
redound to his shame; and therefore, with panic cries and laughters,
there was no suspected place in all the city but was searched for
under the title of Dametas, Miso ever foremost, encouraging them with
all the shameful blazings of his demeanour, increasing the sport of
hunting her husband, with her diligent barking, till at length, having
done both him and herself as much infamous shame as such a tongue in
such an action might perform, in the end not being able to find a
thing that was not, to her mare again she went, having neither
suspicion nor rage anything mitigated. But, leaving behind her a
sufficient comedy of her tragical fancies, away homeward she came,
imputing the not finding her husband, to any chance rather than to his
innocency. For her heart being apt to receive and nourish a bitter
thought, it had so swallowed {527} up a determinate condemnation, that
in the very anatomy of her spirits one should have found nothing but
devilish disdain, and hateful jealousy. In this sort grunting out her
mischievous spite, she came by the tree, even as Dametas was making
that ill-understood intercession to his foolish Mopsa. As soon as she
heard her husband’s voice, she verily thought she had her play; and
therefore stealing from her mare as softly as she could, she came
creeping and halting behind him, even as he (thinking his daughter’s
little wits had quite left her great noll) began to take her in his
arms, thinking perchance her feeling sense might call her mind’s parts
unto her. But Miso, who saw nothing but through the choler of
revengeful anger, established upon the fore-judgment of his trespass,
undoubtedly resolving that Mopsa was Charita, Dorus had told her of,
mumping out her hoarse chafe, she gave him the wooden salutation you
heard of; Dametas, that was not so sensible in anything as in blows,
turned up his blubbered face like a great lout new whipped: “Alas!
thou woman,” said he, “what hath thy poor husband deserved to have his
own ill luck loaden with displeasure? Pamela is lost, Pamela is lost.”
Miso still holding on the course of her former fancy, “What tellest
thou me, naughty varlet, of Pamela; Dost thou think that doth answer
me for abusing the laws of marriage? Have I brought thee children,
have I been a true wife unto thee, to be despised in mine old age?”
And ever among she would sauce her speeches with such bastinadoes,
that poor Dametas began now to think, that either a general madding
was fallen, or else that all this was but a vision. But as for visions