The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
the most cursed Ladon?” But as the ladies played then in the water,
sometimes striking it with their hands, the water, making lines in his
face, seemed to smile at such beating, and with twenty bubbles not to
be content to have the picture of their face in large {180} upon him,
but he would in each of these bubbles set forth the miniature of them.
But Zelmane, whose sight was gain-said by nothing but the transparent
veil of Ladon (like a chamber where a great fire is kept, though the
fire be at one stay, yet with the continuance continually hath his
heat increased) had the coals of her affection so kindled with wonder,
and blown with delight, that now all her parts grudged, that her eyes
should do more homage, than they, to the princes of them. Insomuch
that taking up the lute, her wit began to be with a divine fury
inspired; her voice would in so beloved an occasion second her wit;
her hands accorded the lute’s music to the voice; her panting heart
danced to the music; while I think her feet did beat the time; while
her body was the room where it should be celebrated; her soul the
queen which should be delighted. And so together went the utterance
and invention, that one might judge, it was Philoclea’s beauty which
did speedily write it in her eyes; or the sense thereof, which did
word by word indite it in her mind, whereto she, but as an organ, did
only lend utterance. The song was to this purpose:
What tongue can her perfection tell,
In whose each part all tongues may dwell?
Her hair fine threads of finest gold,
In curled knots man’s thought to hold:
But that her forehead says, “in me
A whiter beauty you may see”;
Whiter indeed, more white than snow,
Which on cold winter’s face doth grow:
That doth present those even brows,
Whose equal line their angles bows;
Like to the moon when after change
Her horned head abroad doth range:
And arches be two heavenly lids,
Whose wink each bold attempt forbids.
For the black stars those spheres contain,
The matchless pair, even praise doth stain.
No lamp whose light by art is got,
No sun which shines, and seeth not,
Can liken them without all peer,
Save one as much as other clear:
Which only thus unhappy be,
Because themselves they cannot see.
Her cheeks with kindly claret spread,
Aurora-like new out of bed;
Or like the fresh queen-apple’s side,
Blushing at sight of Phoebus’ pride.
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Her nose, her chin pure ivory wears:
No purer than the pretty ears.
So that therein appears some blood
Like wine and milk that mingled stood:
In whose incirclets if ye gaze,
Your eyes may tread a lover’s maze.
But with such turns the voice to stray,
No talk untaught can find the way.
The tip no jewel needs to wear;
The tip is jewel of the ear.
But who those ruddy lips can miss,
Which blessed still themselves to kiss?
Rubies, cherries, and roses new,
In worth, in taste, in perfect hue:
Which never part, but that they show
Of precious pearl the double row;
The second-sweetly fenced ward,
Her heavenly-dewed tongue to guard,
Whence never word in vain did flow.
Fair under those doth stately grow,
The handle of this precious work,
The neck in which strange graces lurk.
Such be I think the sumptuous towers,
Which skill doth make in princes’ bowers.
So good assay invites the eye,
A little downward to espy,
The lively clusters of her breasts,
Of Venus’ babe the wanton nests:
Like pommels round of marble clear;
Where azur’d veins well mix’d appear,
With dearest tops of porphyry.
Betwixt these two a way doth lie,
A way more worthy beauty’s fame,
Than that which bears the Milky name.
This leads into the joyous field,
Which only still doth lilies yield:
But lilies such whose native smell,
The Indians’ odors doth excel.
Waist it is called, for it doth waste
Men’s lives, until it be embrac’d.
There may one see, and yet not see
Her ribs in white all armed be,
More white than Neptune’s foamy face,
When struggling rocks he would embrace.
In those delights the wand’ring thought
Might of each side astray be brought,
But that her navel doth unite,
In curious circle busy sight;
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A dainty seal of virgin-wax,
Where nothing but impression lacks.
Her belly their glad sight doth fill,
Justly entitled Cupid’s hill.
A hill most fit for such a master,
A spotless mine of alabaster.
Like alabaster fair and sleek,
But soft and supple, satin-like,
In that sweet seat the boy doth sport:
Loth, I must leave his chief resort.
For such a use the world hath gotten,
The best things still must be forgotten.
Yet never shall my song omit
Her thighs for Ovid’s song more fit;
Which flanked with two sugared flanks,
Lift up her stately swelling banks;
That Albion cliffs in whiteness pass;
With haunches smooth as looking-glass.
But bow all knees, now of her knees
My tongue doth tell what fancy sees.
The knots of joy, the gems of love,
Whose motion makes all graces move.
Whose bough incav’d doth yield such sight,
Like cunning painter shadowed white.
The gartring place with child-like sign,
Shows easy print in metal fine.
But then again the flesh doth rise
In her brave calves like crystal skies.
Whose Atlas is a smallest small,
More white than whitest bone of all.
Thereout steals out that round clean foot
This noble cedar’s precious root:
In show and scent pale violets,
Whose step on earth all beauty sets.
But back unto her back, my Muse,
Where Leda’s swan his feathers mews,
Along whose ridge such bones are met,
Like comfits round in marchpane set.
Her shoulders be like to white doves,
Perching within square royal rooves,
Which leaded are with silver skin,
Passing the hate-spot, emerlin.
And thence those arms derived are;
The Phoenix wings are not so rare
For faultless length, and stainless hue.
Ah woe is me, my woes renew.
Now course doth lead me to her hand
Of my first love the fatal band.
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Where whiteness doth for ever sit:
Nature herself enamell’d it.
For therewith strange compact doth lie
Warm snow, moist pearl, soft ivory.
There fall those sapphire-coloured brooks,
Which conduit-like with curious crooks,
Sweet islands make in that sweet land,
As for the fingers of the hand,
The bloody shafts of Cupid’s war,
With amethysts they beaded are.
Thus hath each part his beauty’s part:
But how the graces do impart,
To all her limbs a special grace,
Becoming every time and place,
Which doth even beauty beautify,
And most bewitch the wretched eye.
How all this is but a fair inn
Of fairer guests, which dwell therein.
Of whose high praise, and praiseful bliss,
Goodness the pen, and Heaven paper is:
The ink immortal fame doth lend:
As I began, so must I end.
No tongue can her perfection tell,
In whose each part all tongues may dwell.
But as Zelmane was coming to the latter end of her song, she might see
the same water-spaniel which before had hunted, come and fetch away
one of Philoclea’s gloves, whose fine proportion, showed well what a
dainty guest was wont there to be lodged. It was a delight to Zelmane,
to see that the dog was therewith delighted, and so let him go a
little way withal, who quickly carried it out of sight among certain
trees and bushes, which were very close together. But by and by he
came again, and amongst the raiment. Miso and Mopsa being preparing
sheets against their coming out, the dog lighted of a little book of
four or five leaves of paper, and was bearing that away too. But when
Zelmane, not knowing what importance it might be of, ran after the
dog, who going straight to those bushes, she might see the dog deliver
it to a gentleman, who secretly lay there. But she hastily coming in,
the gentleman rose up, and with a courteous, though sad, countenance
presented himself unto her. Zelmane’s eyes straight willed her mind to
mark him, for she thought in herself, she had never seen a man of a
more goodly presence, in whom strong making took not away delicacy,
nor beauty fierceness: being indeed such a right man-like man, as
nature often erring, yet shows she would fain make. But when she had a
while, not without admiration, viewed him, she desired him to deliver
back the glove and paper, {184} because they were the lady
Philoclea’s, telling him withal, that she would not willingly let them
know of his close lying in that prohibited place, while they were
bathing themselves, because she knew they would be mortally offended
withal. “Fair lady,” answered he, “the worst of the complaint is
already passed, since I feel of my fault in myself the punishment. But
for these things, I assure you, it was my dog’s wanton boldness, not
my presumption. With that he gave her back the paper: but for the
glove,” said he, “since it is my lady Philoclea’s, give me leave to
keep it, since my heart cannot persuade itself to part from it. And I
pray you tell the lady, lady indeed of all my desires, that owns it,
that I will direct my life to honour this glove with serving her.” “O
villain,” cried out Zelmane, maddened with finding an unlooked-for
rival, and that he would make her a messenger, “dispatch,” said she,
“and deliver it, or by the life of her that owns it, I will make thy
soul, though too base a price, pay for it”: and with that drew out her
sword, which, Amazon-like, she ever wore about her. The gentleman
retired himself into an open place from among the bushes, and then
drawing out his too, he offered to deliver it unto her, saying,
withal, “God forbid I should use my sword against you, sith, if I be
not deceived, you are the same famous Amazon, that both defended my
lady’s just title of beauty against the valiant Phalantus, and saved
her life in killing the lion, therefore I am rather to kiss your
hands, with acknowledging myself bound to obey you.”
But this courtesy was worse than a bastinado to Zelmane: so that again
with rageful eyes she bade him defend himself, for no less than his
life should answer it. “A hard case,” said he, “to teach my sword that
lesson, which hath ever used to turn itself to a shield in a lady’s
presence.” But Zelmane hearkening to no more words, began with such
witty fury to pursue him with blows and thrusts, that nature and
virtue commanded the gentleman to look to his safety. Yet still
courtesy, that seemed incorporate in his heart, would not be persuaded
by danger to offer any offence, but only to stand upon the best
defensive guard he could; sometimes going back, being content in that
respect to take on the figure of cowardice; sometimes with strong and
well-met wards, sometimes cunning avoidings of his body; and sometimes
feigning some blows, which himself pull’d back before they needed to
be withstood. And so with play did he a good while fight against the
fight of Zelmane, who, more spited with that courtesy, that one that
did nothing should be able to resist her, burned away with choler any
motions which might grow out of her own sweet disposition, determined
to kill him if he fought no better and so redoubling her blows, drove
the stranger to no other shift than to {185} ward and go back; at that
time seeming the image of innocency against violence. But at length he
found, that both in public and private respects, who stands only upon
defence, stands upon no defence: for Zelmane seeming to strike at his
head, and he going toward it, withal stepped back as he was
accustomed: she stopped her blow in the air, and suddenly turning the
point, ran full at his breast, so as he was driven with the pommel of
his sword, having no other weapon of defence, to beat it down: but the
thrust was so strong that he could not so wholly beat it away, but
that it met with his thigh, through which it ran. But Zelmane retiring