The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
Philoclea, while she might prevent it, she did not feel it, now she
felt it, when it was past preventing; like a river, no rampires being
built against it, till already it have overflowed. For now indeed love
pulled off his mask, and showed his face unto her, and told her
plainly that she was his prisoner. Then needed she no more paint her
face with passions, for passions shone through her face; then her rosy
colour was often increased with extraordinary blushing, and so another
time, perfect whiteness descended to a degree of paleness; now hot,
then cold, desiring she knew not what, nor how, if she knew what. Then
her mind, though too late, by the smart was brought to think of the
disease, and her own proof taught her to know her mother’s mind,
which, as no error gives so strong assault as that which comes armed
in the authority of a parent, so greatly fortified her desires to see
that her mother had the like desires. And the more jealous her mother
was, the more she thought the jewel precious which was with so many
locks guarded. {143} But that prevailing so far, as to keep the two
lovers from private conference, then began she to feel the sweetness
of a lover’s solitariness, when freely with words and gestures, as if
Zelmane were present, she might give passage to her thoughts, and so,
as it were, utter out some smoke of those flames, wherewith else she
was not only burned but smothered. As this night, that going from the
one lodge to the other, by her mother’s commandment, with doleful
gestures and uncertain paces, she did willingly accept the time’s
offer to be a while alone: so that going a little aside into the wood,
where many times before she had delighted to walk, her eyes were
saluted with a tuft of trees, so close set together, that, with the
shade the moon gave through it, it might breed a fearful kind of
devotion to look upon it: but true thoughts of love banished all vain
fancy of superstition. Full well she did both remember and like the
place, for there had she often with their shade beguiled Phoebus of
looking upon her: there had she enjoyed herself often, while she was
mistress of herself and had no other thoughts, but such as might arise
out of quiet senses.
But the principal cause that invited her remembrance was a goodly
white marble stone that should seem had been dedicated in ancient time
to the Sylvan gods, which she finding there a few days before
Zelmane’s coming, had written these words upon it as a testimony of
her mind against the suspicion her captivity made her think she lived
in. The writing was this.
You living powers enclos’d in stately shrine
Of growing trees: you rural Gods that wield
Your scepters here, if to your ears divine
A voice may come, which troubled soul doth yield;
This vow receive, this vow, O Gods, maintain;
My virgin life no spotted thought shall stain.
Thou purest stone; whose pureness doth present
My purest mind; whose temper hard doth show
My temper’d heart; by thee my promise sent
Unto myself let after-livers know,
No fancy mine, nor others’ wrong suspect
Make me, O virtuous shame, thy laws neglect.
O chastity, the chief of heavenly lights,
Which mak’st us most immortal shape to wear,
Hold thou my heart, establish thou my sprites:
To only thee my constant course I bear;
’Till spotless soul unto thy bosom fly.
Such life to lead, such death I vow to die.
{144}
But now that her memory served as an accuser of her change, and that
her own handwriting was there to bear testimony against her fall; she
went in among those few trees, so closed in the tops together, that
they might seem a little chapel: and there might she, by the help of
the moon-light, perceive the goodly stone which served as an altar in
that woody devotion. But neither the light was enough to read the
words, and the ink was already foreworn, and in many places blotted,
which as she perceived, “Alas!” said she, “fair marble, which never
received’st spot but by my writing: well do these blots become a
blotted writer. But pardon her which did not dissemble then, although
she have changed since. Enjoy, enjoy the glory of thy nature, which
can so constantly bear the marks of my inconstancy.” And herewith,
hiding her eyes with her soft hand, there came into her head certain
verses, which if she had had present commodity, she would have
adjoined as a retraction to the other. They were to this effect.
My words, in hope to blaze a stedfast mind,
This marble chose, as of like tempter known:
But lo, my words defac’d my fancies blind,
Blots to the stone, shames to myself I find:
And witness am, how ill agree in one,
A woman’s hand with constant marble stone.
My words full weak, the marble full of might;
My words in store, the marble all alone;
My words black ink, the marble kindly white;
My words unseen, the marble still in sight,
May witness bear, how ill agree in one,
A woman’s hand with constant marble stone.
But seeing she could not see means to join as then this recantation to
the former vow, laying all her fair length under one of the trees, for
a while she did nothing but turn up and down, as if she had hoped to
turn away the fancy that had mastered her, and hid her face, as if she
could have hidden herself from her own fancies. At length with a
whispering note to herself: “O me unfortunate wretch,” said she, “what
poisonous heats be these which thus torment me? how hath the sight of
this strange guest invaded my soul? alas what entrance found this
desire, or what strength had it thus to conquer me?” Then a cloud
passing between her sight and the moon, “O Diana,” said she, “I would
either the cloud that now hides the light of my virtue would as easily
pass away as you will quickly overcome this let, or else that you were
for ever thus darkened to serve for an excuse of my outrageous folly.”
Then looking to the stars, which had perfectly as then beautified the
{145} clear sky: “My parents,” said she, “have told me that in those
fair heavenly bodies there are great hidden deities, which have their
working in the ebbing and flowing of our estates. If it be so, then, O
you stars! judge rightly of me, and if I have with wicked intent made
myself a prey to fancy, or if by any idle lusts I framed my heart fit
for such an impression, then let this plague daily increase in me,
till my name be made odious to womankind. But if extreme and
unresistable violence have oppressed me, who will ever do any of you
sacrifice, O you stars, if you do not succour me? No, no, you will not
help me. No, no, you cannot help me: sin must be the mother, and shame
the daughter of my affection. And yet are these but childish
objections, simple Philoclea, it is the impossibility that doth
torment me: for, unlawful desires are punished after the effect of
enjoying; but impossible desires are punished in the desire itself. O
then, O ten times unhappy that I am, since wherein all other hope
kindleth love, in me despair should be the bellows of my affection:
and of all despairs the most miserable, which is drawn from
impossibility. The most covetous man longs not to get riches out of a
ground which never can bear anything; why? because it is impossible.
The most ambitious wight vexeth not his wits to climb into heaven;
why? because it is impossible. Alas! then, O love, why dost thou in
thy beautiful sampler set such a work for my desire to take out, which
is as much impossible? and yet alas! why do I thus condemn my fortune
before I hear what she can say for herself? what do I, silly wench,
know what love hath prepared for me? do I not think my mother, as
well, at least as furiously as myself, love Zelmane? and should I be
wiser than my mother? either she sees a possibility in that which I
see impossible, or else impossible loves need not misbecome me. And do
I not see Zelmane, who doth not think a thought which is not first
weighed by wisdom and virtue, doth not she vouchsafe to love me with
like order? I see it, her eyes depose it to be true; what then? and if
she can love poor me, shall I think scorn to love such a woman as
Zelmane? away then all vain examinations of why and how. Thou lovest
me, most excellent Zelmane, and I love thee:” and with that, embracing
the very ground whereon she lay, she said to herself, for even to
herself she was ashamed to speak it out in words, “O my Zelmane,
govern and direct me, for I am wholly given over unto thee.”
In this depth of muses and divers sorts of discourses, would she
ravingly have remained, but that Dametas and Miso, who were round
about to seek her, understanding she was come to their lodge that
night, came hard by her; Dametas saying that he would not deal in
other body’s matters, but for his part he did not like that maids
should once stir out of their father’s houses, but if it {146} were to
milk a cow, or save a chicken from a kite’s foot, or some such other
matter of importance. And Miso swearing that if it were her daughter
Mopsa, she would give her a lesson for walking so late that should
make her keep within doors for one fortnight. But their jangling made
Philoclea rise, and pretending as though she had done it but to sport
with them, went with them, after she had willed Miso to wait upon her
mother to the lodge; where, being now accustomed by her parent’s
discipline as well as her sister to serve herself, she went alone up
to Pamela’s chamber, where, meaning to delight her eyes, and joy her
thoughts with the sweet conversation of her beloved sister, she found
her, though it were in the time that the wings of night doth blow
sleep most willingly into mortal creatures, sitting in a chair, lying
backward, with her head almost over the back of it, and looking upon a
wax-candle which burnt before her; in one hand holding a letter, in
the other her handkerchief, which had lately drunk up the tears of her
eyes, leaving instead of them crimson circles, like red flakes in the
element when the weather is hottest; which Philoclea finding, for her
eyes had learned to know the badges of sorrow, she earnestly entreated
to know the cause thereof that either she might comfort, or accompany
her doleful humour. But Pamela, rather seeming sorry that she had
perceived so much, than willing to open any further; “O my Pamela,”
said Philoclea, “who are to me a sister in nature, a mother in
counsel, a princess by the law of our country, and, which name
methinks of all other is the dearest, a friend by my choice and your
favour, what means this banishing me from your counsels? do you love
your sorrow so well as to grudge me part of it? or do you think I
shall not love a sad Pamela so well as a joyful? or be my ears
unworthy, or my tongue suspected? What is it, my sister, that you
should conceal from your sister, yea and servant Philoclea?” Those
words won no further of Pamela, but that telling her they might talk
better as they lay together, they impoverished their clothes to enrich
their bed, which for that night might well scorn the shrine of Venus:
and their cherishing one another with dear, though chaste
embracements, with sweet though cold kisses, it might seem that love
was come to play him there without dart, or that weary of his own
fires, he was there to refresh himself between their sweet breathing
lips.
But Philoclea earnestly again entreated Pamela to open her grief: who,
drawing the curtain that the candle might not complain of her
blushing, was ready to speak: but the breath, almost formed into
words, was again stopped by her and turned into sighs. But at last, “I
pray you,” said she, sweet Philoclea, “let us talk of some other
thing: and tell me whether you did ever see anything so amended as our
pastoral sports be since that Dorus came {147} hither?” O love, how