The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
solitary places, those deserts were full of going up and down with
such unquiet motions, as a grieved and hopeless mind is wont to bring
forth. There appeared unto the eyes of her judgment the evils she was
like to run into, with ugly infamy waiting upon them: she felt the
terrors of her own conscience; she was guilty of a long exercised
virtue, which made his vice the fuller of deformity. The uttermost of
the good she could aspire unto was a mortal wound to her vexed
spirits: and lastly, no small part of her evils was that she was wise
to see her evils. Insomuch, that having a great while thrown her
countenance ghastly about her (as if she had called all the powers of
the world to be witnesses of her wretched estate) at length casting up
her watery eyes to heaven: “O sun,” said she, “whose unspotted light
directs the steps of mortal mankind, art thou not ashamed to impart
the clearness of thy presence to such a dust-creeping worm as I am? O
ye heavens, which continually keep the course allotted unto you, can
none of your influences prevail so much upon the miserable Gynecia, as
to make her preserve a course so long embraced by her? O deserts,
deserts, how fit a guest am I for you, since my heart can people you
with wild ravenous beasts, which in you are {122} wanting? O virtue,
where dost thou hide thyself? what hideous thing is this which doth
eclipse thee? Or is it true that thou wert never but a vain name, and
no essential thing, which hast thus left thy professed servant, when
she had most need of thy lovely presence? O imperfect proportion of
reason which can too much foresee and too little prevent?” “Alas!
alas!” said she, “if there were but one hope for all my pains, or but
one excuse for all my faultiness! But wretch that I am, my torment is
beyond all succour, and my evil deserving doth exceed my evil fortune.
For nothing else did my husband take this strange resolution to live
so solitary: for nothing else have the winds delivered this strange
guest to my country: for nothing else have the destinies reserved my
life to this time, but that only I, most wretched I, should become a
plague to myself and a shame to womankind. Yet if my desire, how
unjust soever it be, might take effect, though a thousand deaths
followed it, and every death were followed with a thousand shames, yet
should not my sepulchre receive me without some contentment. But alas!
though sure I am that Zelmane is such as can answer my love, yet as
sure I am that this disguising must needs come for some foretaken
conceit: and then wretched Gynecia where canst thou find any small
ground-plot for hope to dwell upon? no, no, it is Philoclea his heart
is set upon; it is my daughter I have borne to supplant me. But if it
be so, the life I have given thee, ungrateful Philoclea, I will sooner
with these hands bereave thee of than my birth shall glory she hath
bereaved me of my desires: in shame there is no comfort, but to be
beyond all bounds of shame.”
Having spoken thus, she began to make a piteous war in her fair hair;
when she might hear, not far from her, an extremely doleful voice, but
so suppressed with a kind of whispering note that she could not
conceive the words distinctly. But, as a lamentable tune is the
sweetest music to a woeful mind, she drew thither near-way in hope to
find some companion of her misery; and as she paced on, she was
stopped with a number of trees, so thickly placed together that she
was afraid she should, with rushing through, stop the speech of the
lamentable party which she was so desirous to understand: and
therefore sitting her down as softly as she could, for she was now in
distance to hear, she might first perceive a lute excellently well
played upon, and then the same doleful voice accompanying it with
these verses:
In vain mine eyes you labour to amend
With flowing tears your fault of hasty sight:
Since to my heart her shape you did so send,
That her I see, though you did lose your light.
{123}
In vain my heart, now you with sight are burn’d,
With sighs you seek to cool your hot desire:
Since sighs, into mine inward furnace turn’d,
For bellows serve to kindle more the fire.
Reason in vain, now you have lost my heart,
My head you seek, as to your strongest fort:
Since there mine eyes have play’d so false a part,
That to your strength your foes have sure resort.
Then since in vain I find were all my strife,
To this strange death I vainly yield my life.
The ending of the song served but for a beginning of new plaints, as
if the mind, oppressed with too heavy a burden of cares, was fain to
discharge itself of all sides, and, as it were, paint out the
hideousness of the pain in all sorts of colours. For the woeful
person, as if the lute had evil joined with the voice, threw it to the
ground with such like words: “Alas, poor lute! how much art thou
deceived to think that in my miseries thou could’st ease my woes, as
in my careless times thou wast wont to please my fancies? The time is
changed, my lute, the time is changed; and no more did my joyful mind
then receive everything to a joyful consideration, than my careful
mind now makes each thing taste the bitter juice of care. The evil is
inward, my lute, the evil is inward; which all thou dost, doth serve
but to make me think more freely of. And alas! what is then thy
harmony, but the sweet meats of sorrow? the discord of my thoughts, my
lute, doth ill agree to the concord of thy strings, therefore be not
ashamed to leave thy master, since he is not afraid to forsake
himself.”
And thus much spoke, instead of a conclusion, was closed up with so
hearty a groaning that Gynecia could not refrain to show herself,
thinking such griefs could serve fitly for nothing but her own
fortune. But as she came into the little arbour of this sorrowful
music, her eyes met with the eyes of Zelmane, which was the party that
thus had indited herself of misery, so that either of them remained
confused with a sudden astonishment, Zelmane fearing lest she had
heard some part of those complaints, which she had risen up that
morning early of purpose to breathe out in secret to herself. But
Gynecia a great while stood still with a kind of dull amazement,
looking steadfastly upon her; at length returning to some use of
herself, she began to ask Zelmane what cause carried her so early
abroad? But, as if the opening of her mouth to Zelmane had opened some
great flood-gate of sorrow, whereof her heart could not abide the
violent issue, she sunk to the ground, with her hands over her face,
crying vehemently, “Zelmane help me, O Zelmane have pity on me.”
Zelmane ran to her, marvelling {124} what sudden sickness had thus
possessed her, and beginning to ask her the cause of her pain, and
offering her service to be employed by her; Gynecia opening her eyes
wildly upon her, pricked with the flames of love and the torments of
her own conscience; “O Zelmane, Zelmane,” said she, “dost thou offer
my physic, which art my only poison? or wilt thou do me service, which
hast already brought me into eternal slavery?” Zelmane then knowing
well at what mark she shot, yet loth to enter into it: “Most excellent
lady,” said she, “you were best retire yourself into your lodging that
you the better may pass this sudden fit.” “Retire myself?” said
Gynecia, “If I had retired myself into myself, when thou to me,
unfortunate guest, camest to draw me from myself, blessed had I been,
and no need had I had of this counsel. But now alas! I am forced to
fly to thee for succour, whom I accuse of all my hurt, and make thee
judge of my cause, who art the only author of my mischief.” Zelmane
the more astonished, the more she understood her; “Madam,” said she,
“whereof do you accuse me that I will not clear myself? or wherein may
I stead you that you may not command me?” “Alas!” answered Gynecia,
“what shall I say more? take pity on me, O Zelmane, but not as
Zelmane, and disguise not with me in words, as I know thou dost in
apparel.” Zelmane was much troubled with that word, finding herself
brought to this strait. But as she was thinking what to answer her,
they might see old Basilius pass hard by them without ever seeing
them, complaining likewise of love very freshly, and ending his
complaint with this song, love having renewed both his invention and
voice.
Let not old age disgrace my high desire;
O heavenly soul in human shape contain’d:
Old wood inflam’d doth yield the bravest fire,
When younger doth in smoke his virtue spend,
Nay let white hairs which on my face do grow
Seem to your eyes of a disgraceful hue,
Since whiteness doth present the sweetest show,
Which makes all eyes do homage unto you.
Old age is wise, and full of constant truth;
Old age well stayed, from ranging humour lives:
Old age hath known whatever was in youth:
Old age o’ercome, the greater honour gives.
And to old age since you yourself aspire,
Let not old age disgrace my high desire.
Which being done he looked very curiously upon himself, sometimes
fetching a little skip as if he had said his strength had not yet
forsaken him: but Zelmane having in this time {125} gotten some
leisure to think for an answer, looking upon Gynecia as if she thought
she did her some wrong: “Madam,” said she, “I am not acquainted with
those words of disguising, neither is it the profession of an Amazon,
neither are you a party with whom it is to be used: if my service may
please you, employ it, so long as you do me no wrong in misjudging of
me.” “Alas! Zelmane,” said Gynecia, “I perceive you know full little
how piercing the eyes are of a true lover: there is no one beam of
those thoughts you have planted in me but is able to discern a greater
cloud than you do go in. Seek not to conceal yourself further from me,
nor force not the passion of love into violent extremities.” Now was
Zelmane brought to an exigent, when the king turning his eyes that way
through the trees, perceived his wife and mistress together, so that
framing the most lovely countenance he could, he came straightway
towards them, and at the first word, thanking his wife for having
entertained Zelmane, desired her she would now return into the lodge,
because he had certain matters of estate to impart to the Lady
Zelmane. The queen, being nothing troubled with jealousy in that
point, obeyed the king’s commandment, full of raging agonies, and
determinately bent that as she would seek all loving means to win
Zelmane, so she would stir up terrible tragedies rather than fail of
her intent. And so went she from them to the lodge-ward with such a
battle in her thoughts, and so deadly an overthrow given to her best
resolutions that even her body, where the field was fought, was
oppressed withal, making a languishing sickness wait upon the triumph
of passion, which the more it prevailed in her, the more it made her
jealousy watchful, both over her daughter and Zelmane, having ever one
of them intrusted to her own eyes.
But as soon as Basilius was rid of his wife’s presence, falling down
on his knees, “O lady,” said he, “which hast only had the power to
stir up again those flames which had so long lain dead in me, see in
me the power of your beauty, which can make old age come to ask
counsel of youth, and a prince unconquered to become a slave to a
stranger: and when you see that power of yours, love that at least in
me, since it is yours, although of me you see nothing to be loved.”
“Worthy prince” (answered Zelmane, taking him up from his kneeling)
“both your manner and your speech are so strange unto me that I know
not how to answer it better than with silence.” “If silence please
you,” said the king, “it shall never displease me, since my heart is
wholly pledged to obey you, otherwise, if you would vouchsafe mine