The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
her sword, and seeing his blood, victorious anger was conquered by the
before conquering pity; and heartily sorry, and even ashamed with
herself she was, considering how little he had done, who well she
found could have done more. Insomuch that she said, “Truly I am sorry
for your hurt, but yourself gave the cause, both in refusing to
deliver the glove, and yet not fighting as I know you could have done.
But,” said she, “because I perceive you disdain to fight with a woman,
it may be before a year come about, you shall meet with a near kinsman
of mine, Pyrocles prince of Macedon, and I give you my word, he for me
shall maintain this quarrel against you.” “I would” answered
Amphialus, “I had many more such hurts to meet and know that worthy
prince, whose virtue I love and admire, though my good destiny hath
not been to see his person.”
But as they were so speaking, the young ladies came, to whom, Mopsa,
curious in anything but her own good behaviour, having followed and
seen Zelmane fighting, had cried, what she had seen, while they were
drying themselves: and the water, with some drops, seemed to weep,
that it should pass from such bodies. But they careful of Zelmane,
assuring themselves that any Arcadian would bear reverence to them,
Pamela with a noble mind, and Philoclea with a loving, hastily, hiding
the beauties, whereof nature was proud, and they ashamed, they made
quick work to come to save Zelmane. But already they found them in
talk, and Zelmane careful of his wound. But when they saw him, they
knew it was their cousin-german, the famous Amphialus, whom yet with a
sweet graced bitterness they blamed for breaking their father’s
commandment, especially while themselves were in such sort retired.
But he craved pardon, protesting unto them that he had only been to
seek solitary places, by an extreme melancholy that had a good while
possessed him, and guided to that place by his spaniel, where while
the dog hunted in the river, he had withdrawn himself to pacify with
sleep his over watched eyes, till a dream waked him, and made him see
that whereof he had dreamed, and withal not obscurely signified, that
he felt the smart of his {186} own doings. But Philoclea, that was
even jealous of herself for Zelmane, would needs have her glove, and
not without so mighty a lower as that face could yield. As for Zelmane
when she knew it was Amphialus; “Lord Amphialus,” said she, “I have
long desired to know you heretofore, I must confess, with more
goodwill, but still with honouring your virtue, though I love not your
person: and at this time I pray you let us take care of your wound,
upon condition you shall hereafter promise that a more knightly combat
shall be performed between us.” Amphialus answered in honourable sort,
but with such excusing himself, that more and more accused his love to
Philoclea, and provoked more hate in Zelmane. But Mopsa had already
called certain shepherds not far off, who knew and well observed their
limits, to come and help to carry away Amphialus, whose wound suffered
him not without danger to strain it: and so he leaving himself with
them, departed from them, faster bleeding in his heart than at his
wound, which bound up by the sheets, wherewith Philoclea had been
wrapped, made him thank the wound, and bless the sword for that
favour.
He being gone, the ladies, with merry anger talking, in what naked
simplicity their cousin had seen them, returned to the lodge-ward; yet
thinking it too early, as long as they had any day, to break off so
pleasing a company with going to perform a cumbersome obedience,
Zelmane invited them to the little arbour, only reserved for her,
which they willingly did: and there sitting, Pamela having a while
made the lute in his language show how glad it was to be touched by
her fingers, Zelmane delivered up the paper which Amphialus had at
first yielded unto her, and seeing written upon the backside of it the
complaint of Plangus, remembering what Dorus had told her, and
desiring to know how much Philoclea knew of her estate, she took
occasion in presenting of it, to ask whether it were any secret or no.
“No truly,” answered Philoclea, “it is but even an exercise of my
father’s writing, upon this occasion: he was one day, somewhile before
your coming hither, walking abroad, having us two with him, almost a
mile hence, and crossing a highway, which comes from the city of
Megalopolis, he saw this gentleman, whose name is there written, one
of the properest and best graced men that ever I saw, being of middle
age and of a mean stature. He lay as then under a tree, while his
servants were getting fresh post-horses for him. It might seem he was
tired with the extreme travel he had taken, and yet not so tired that
he forced to take any rest, so hasty he was upon his journey: and
withal so sorrowful that the very face thereof was painted in his
face, which with pitiful motions, even groans, tears, and passionate
talking to himself, moved my {187} father to fall in talk with him,
who at first not knowing him, answered him in such a desperate phrase
of grief that my father afterward took a delight to set it down in
such a form as you see: which if you read, what you doubt of, my
sister and I are able to declare unto you, Zelmane willingly opened
the leaves, and read it being written dialogue-wise in this manner.”
PLANGUS and BASILIUS
PLANGUS
Alas, how long this pilgrimage doth last?
What greater ills have now the heavens in store,
To couple coming harms with sorrows past?
Long since my voice is hoarse, and throat is sore,
With cries to skies, and courses to the ground,
But more I plain, I feel my woes the more.
Ah, where was first that cruel cunning found,
To frame of earth, a vessel of the mind,
Where it should be to self-destruction bound?
What needed so high spirits, such mansions blind?
Or wrapped in flesh what do they here obtain.
But glorious name of wretched human kind?
Balls to the stars, and thralls to Fortune’s reign;
Turn’d from themselves, infected with their rage,
Where death is fear’d, and life is held with pain,
Like players plac’d to fill a filthy stage,
Where change of thoughts one fool to other shows,
And all but jests, save only sorrow’s rage.
The child feels that, the man that feeling knows,
Which cries first born, the presage of his life,
Where wit but serves, to have true taste of woes.
A shop of shame, a book where blots be rife,
This body is, this body so compos’d,
As in itself to nourish mortal strife:
So divers be the elements dispos’d.
In this weak work, that it can never be
Made uniform to any state repos’d.
Grief only makes his wretched state to see
(Even like a top which nought but whipping moves)
This man, this talking beast, this walking tree,
Grief is the stone which finest judgments proves:
For who grieves not, hath but a blockish brain,
Since cause of grief no cause from life removes.
BASILIUS
How long wilt thou with mournful music stain
The cheerful notes those pleasant places yield,
Where all good haps a perfect state maintain?
{188}
PLANGUS
Cursed be good haps, and cursed be they that build
Their hopes on haps, and do not make despair
For all those certain blows the surest shield.
Shall I that saw Erona’s shining hair,
Torn with her hands, and those same hands of snow
With loss of purest blood themselves to tear?
Shall I that saw those breasts, where beauties flow,
Swelling with sighs, made pale with mind’s disease,
And saw those eyes, those suns, such showers to show?
Shall I whose ears her mournful words did seize,
Her words in syrup laid of sweetest breath,
Relent those thoughts which then did so displease?
No, no: despair my daily lesson faith,
And faith, although I seek my life to fly,
Plangus must live to see Erona’s death.
Plangus must live some help for her to try
(Though in despair) for love so forceth me,
Plangus doth live, and shall Erona die?
Erona die? O heaven, if heaven there be,
Hath all thy whirling course so small effect?
Serve all thy starry eyes this shame to see?
Let dolts in haste some altars fair erect
To those high powers, which idly sit above,
And virtue do in greatest need neglect.
BASILIUS
O man, take heed, how thou the gods do move
To causeful wrath, which thou can’st not resist.
Blasphemous words the speaker vain do prove.
Alas while we are wrapped in foggy mist
Of our self-love, so passions do deceive,
We think they hurt, when most they do assist.
To harm us worms should that high justice leave
His nature? nay himself? for so it is.
What glory from our loss can he receive?
But still our dazzled eyes their way do miss,
While that we do at his sweet scourge repine,
The kindly way do beat us on to bliss.
If she must die then hath she passed the line
Of loathsome days, whose loss how can’st thou moan,
That dost so well their miseries define?
But such we are with inward tempest blown
Of winds quite contrary in waves of will:
We moan that lost, which had we did bemoan.
{189}
PLANGUS
And shall she die? shall cruel fire spill
Those beams that set so many hearts on fire?
Hath she not force even death with love to kill:
Nay, even cold death inflam’d with hot desire
Her to enjoy where joy itself is thrall,
Will spoil the earth of his most rich attire:
Thus death becomes a rival to us all,
And hopes with foul embracements her to get,
In whose decay virtue’s fair shrine must fall.
O virtue weak, shall death his triumph set
Upon thy spoils, which never should lie waste?
Let death first die; be thou his worthy let.
By what eclipse shall that sun be defac’d?
What mine hath erst thrown down so fair a tower?
What sacrilege hath such a saint disgrac’d?
The world the garden is, she is the flower
That sweetens all the place; she is the guest
Of rarest price, both heaven and earth her bower.
And shall, O me! all this in ashes rest?
Alas if you a Phoenix new will have
Burnt by the sun, she first must build her nest.
But well you know, the gentle sun would save
Such beams so like his own, which might have might
In him the thoughts of Phaeton’s dam to grave,
Therefore, alas, you use vile Vulcan’s spite,
Which nothing spares, to melt that virgin wax,
Which while it is, it is all Asia’s light.
O Mars, for what doth serve thy armed ax?
To let that wit-old beast consume in flames
Thy Venus child, whose beauty Venus lacks?
O Venus, if her praise no envy frames
In thy high mind, get her thy husband’s grace
Sweet speaking oft a currish heart reclaims.
O eyes of mine, where once she saw her face,
Her face which was more lively in my heart:
O brain, where thought of her hath only place;
O hand, which touch’d her hand when we did part;
O lips that kiss’d that hand with my tears spent;
O tongue, then dumb, not daring tell my smart;
O soul, whose love in her is only spent,
What ere you see, think, touch, kiss, speak, or love,
Let all for her, and unto her be bent.
BASILIUS
Thy wailing words do much my spirits move,
They uttered are in such a feeling fashion,
{190}
That sorrow’s work against my will I prove.
Methinks I am partaker of thy passion,
And in thy case do glass mine own debility:
Self-guilty folk most prone to feel compassion.
Yet reason faith, “Reason should have ability
To hold those worldly things in such proportion,
As let them come or go with even facility.”
But our desire’s tyrannical extortion
Doth force us there to set our chief delightfulness
Where but a baiting place is all our portion.