The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
disgrace, which lately had sung sonnets of her praises, being so
naturally inconstant, as I marvel his soul finds not some way to kill
his body, whereto it had been so long united. For so hath he dealt
with us, unhappy fools, as we could never tell whether he made greater
haste after he once liked, to enjoy, or after he once {220} enjoyed,
to forsake. But making a glory of his own shame, it delighted him to
be challenged of unkindness, it was a triumph to him to have his mercy
called for: and he thought the fresh colours of his beauty were
painted in nothing so well as in the ruins of his lovers: yet so far
had we engaged ourselves, unfortunate souls, that we listed not
complain, since our complaints could not but carry the greatest
occasion to ourselves. But every of us, each for herself, laboured all
means how to recover him, while he rather daily sent us companions of
our deceit, than ever returned in any sound and faithful manner. Till
at length he concluded all his wrongs with betrothing himself to one,
I must confess, worthy to be liked if any worthiness might excuse so
unworthy a changeableness, leaving us nothing but remorse for what was
past, and despair of what might follow. Then indeed the common injury
made us all join in fellowship, who till that time had employed our
endeavours one against the other, for we thought nothing was a more
condemning of us, than the justifying of his love to her by marriage:
then despair made fear valiant, and revenge gave shame countenance:
whereupon, we, that you saw here, devised how to get him among us
alone: which he, suspecting no such matter of them whom he had by
often abuses, he thought made tame to be still abused, easily gave us
opportunity to do.
“‘And a man may see, even in this, how soon rulers grow proud, and in
their pride foolish: he came with such an authority among us, as if
the planets had done enough for us, that by us once he had been
delighted. And when we began in courteous manner, one after the other,
to lay his unkindness unto him, he, seeing himself confronted by so
many, like a resolute orator, went not to denial, but to justify his
cruel falsehood, and all with such jests and disdainful passages, that
if the injury could not be made greater, yet were our conceits made
the apter to apprehend it.
“‘Among other of his answers, forsooth, I shall never forget, how he
would prove it was no inconstancy to change from one love to another,
but a great constancy, and contrary, that which we call constancy, to
be most changeable. “For,” said he, “I ever loved my delight, and
delighted always in what was lovely: and wheresoever, I found occasion
to obtain that, I constantly followed it. But these constant fools you
speak of, though their mistress grow by sickness foul, or by fortune
miserable, yet still will love her, and so commit the absurdest
inconstancy that may be, in changing their love from fairness to
foulness, and from loveliness to his contrary; like one not content to
leave a friend, but will straight give over himself, to his mortal
enemy: where I, whom you call inconstant, am ever constant to beauty,
in others, and delight myself.” And so in this jolly scoffing bravery
he went over us all, saying he {221} left one, because she was
over-wayward; another, because she was too soon won; a third, because
she was not merry enough; a fourth, because she was over gamesome; the
fifth, because she was grown with grief subject to sickness; the
sixth, because she was so foolish as to be jealous of him; the
seventh, because she had refused to carry a letter from him to another
that he loved; the eighth, because she was not secret; the ninth,
because she was not liberal: but to me, who am named Dido, and indeed
have met with a false Aeneas: to me I say, O the ungrateful villain,
he could find no other fault to object, but that, perdy, he met with
many fairer.
“‘But when he had thus played the careless prince, we, having those
servants of ours in readiness, whom you lately so manfully overcame,
laid hold of him, beginning at first but that trifling revenge, in
which you found us busy; but meaning afterwards to have mangled him so
as should have lost his credit for ever abusing more. But as you have
made my fellows fly away, so for my part the greatness of his wrong
overshadows, in my judgment, the greatness of any danger. For was it
not enough for him to have deceived me, and through the deceit abused
me, and after the abuse forsaken me, but that he must now, of all the
company, and before all the company, lay want of beauty to my charge?
many fairer, I trow even in your judgment, sir, if your eyes do not
beguile me, not many fairer; and I know, whosoever says the contrary,
there are not many fairer. And of whom should I receive this reproach,
but of him who hath best cause to know there are not many fairer? and
therefore howsoever my fellows pardon his injuries, for my part I will
ever remember, and remember to revenge his scorn of all scorns.’ With
that she to him afresh; and surely would have put out his eyes, who
lay mute for shame, it he did not sometimes cry for fear, if I had not
leapt from my horse and mingling force with entreaty, stayed her fury.
“But while I was persuading her to meekness, comes a number of his
friends, to whom he forthwith cried, that they should kill that woman,
that had thus betrayed and disgraced him. But then I was fain to
forsake the ensign under which I had before served, and to spend my
uttermost force in the protecting of the lady: which so well prevailed
for her, that in the end there was a faithful peace promised of all
sides. And so I leaving her in a place of security, as she thought,
went on my journey towards Anaxius, for whom I was forced to stay two
days in the appointed place, he disdaining to wait for me, till he
were sure I was there.
“I did patiently abide his angry pleasure, till about that space of
time he came, indeed, according to promise, alone: and that I may not
say too little, because he is wont to say too much, like a {222} man
whose courage is apt to climb over any danger. And as soon as ever he
came near me, in fit distance for his purpose, he with much fury, but
with fury skilfully guided, ran upon me, which I, in the best sort I
could, resisted, having kept myself ready for him, because I had
understood that he observed few compliments in matter of arms, but
such as a proud anger did indite unto him. And so, putting our horses
into a full career, we hit each other upon the head with our lances: I
think he felt my blow; for my part, I must confess, I never received
the like: but I think, though my senses were astonished, my mind
forced them to quicken themselves, because I had learned of him how
little favour he is wont to show in any matter of advantage. And
indeed he was turned and coming upon me with his sword drawn, both our
staves having been broken, at that encounter, but I was so ready to
answer him, that truly I know not who gave the first blow. But
whosoever gave the first, was quickly seconded by the second. And
indeed, excellentest lady, I must say true, for a time it was well
fought between us; he undoubtedly being of singular valour, I would
God, it were not abased by his too much loftiness: but as, by the
occasion of the combat, winning and losing ground, we changed places,
his horse, happened to come upon the point of the broken spear, which,
fallen to the ground, chanced to stand upward, so as it lightning upon
his heart the horse died. He driven to dismount, threatened, if I did
not the like, to do as much for my horse as fortune had done for his.
But whether for that, or because I would not be beholden to fortune
for any part of the victory, I descended. So began our foot-fight in
such sort, that we were well entered to blood on both sides, when
there comes by that inconstant Pamphilus, whom I had delivered, easy
to be known, for he was bare-faced, with a dozen armed men after him;
but before him he had Dido, that lady, who had most sharply punished
him, riding upon a palfrey, he following her with most unmanlike
cruelty, beating her with wands he had in his hand, she crying for
sense of pain, or hope of succour: which was so pitiful a sight unto
me, that it moved me to require Anaxius to defer our combat till
another day, and now to perform the duties of knighthood in helping
this distressed lady. But he that disdains to obey anything but his
passion, which he calls his mind, bid me leave off that thought; but
when he had killed me, he would then perhaps, go to her succour. But I
well finding the fight would be long between us, longing in my heart
to deliver the poor Dido, giving him so great a blow as somewhat
stayed him, to term it aright, I flatly ran away from him toward my
horse, who trotting after the company in mine armour I was put to some
pain, but that use made me nimble unto it. But as I followed my horse,
Anaxius followed me; but this proud heart did {223} so disdain that
exercise, that I quickly over-ran him, and overtaken my horse, being,
I must confess, ashamed to see a number of country folks, who happened
to pass thereby, who halloed and hooted after me, as at the arrantest
coward that ever showed his shoulders to his enemy. But when I had
leapt on my horse, with such speedy agility that they all cried, ‘O
see how fear gives him wings,’ I turned to Anaxius, and aloud promised
him to return thither again as soon as I had relieved the injured
lady. But he railing at me, with all the base words angry contempt
could indite; I said no more but ‘Anaxius assure thyself, I neither
fear thy force, nor thy opinion;’ and so using no weapon of a knight
at that time but my spurs, I ran in my knowledge after Pamphilus, but
in all their conceits from Anaxius, which as far as I could hear, I
might well hear testified with such laughters and games, that I was
some few times moved to turn back again.
“But the lady’s misery over-balanced my reputation, so that after her
I went, and with six hours’ hard riding, through so wild places, as it
was rather the cunning of my horse sometimes than of myself, so
rightly to hit the way, I overgat them a little before night, near to
an old ill-favoured castle, the place where I perceived they meant to
perform their unknightly errand. For there they began to strip her of
her clothes, when I came in among them, and running through the first
with a lance, the justness of the cause so enabled me against the
rest, false-hearted in their own wrong doing, that I had in as short
time almost as I had been fighting with only Anaxius, delivered her
from those injurious wretches, most of whom carried news to the other
world, that amongst men secret wrongs are not always left unpunished.
As for Pamphilus, he having once seen, and as it should seem,
remembered me, even from the beginning began to be in the rearward,
and before they had left fighting, he was too far off to give them
thanks for their pains. But when I had delivered to the lady a full
liberty, both in effect and in opinion, for some time it was before
she could assure herself she was out of their hands, who had laid so
vehement apprehensions of death upon her, she then told me, how as she
was returning towards her father’s, weakly accompanied, as too soon
trusting to the falsehood of reconcilement, Pamphilus had set upon her
and, killing those that were with her, carried herself by such force,
and with such manner as I had seen, to this place, where he meant in
cruel and shameful manner to kill her, in the sight of her own father,
to whom he had already sent word of it, that out of his castle window,
for this castle, she said, was his, he might have the prospect of his
only child’s destruction in my coming, whom, she said, he feared as