The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
vehement love. Fain she would have barred her daughter’s hap, but loth
she was to cut off her own hope. But now, as if her life had been set
upon a wager of quick rising, as weak as she was, she got up; though
Basilius (with a kindness flowing only from the fountain of
unkindness, being indeed desirous to win his daughter as much time as
might be) was loth to suffer it, swearing he saw sickness in her face,
and therefore was loth she should adventure the air.
But the great and wretched lady Gynecia, possessed with those devils
of love and jealousy, did rid herself from her tedious husband: and
taking nobody with her, going toward them; “O jealousy,” said she,
“the frenzy of wise folks, the well-wishing spite, and unkind
carefulness, the self-punishment for other’s faults, and self-misery
in other’s happiness, the cousin of envy, daughter of love, and mother
of hate, how could’st thou so quietly get thee a seat in the unquiet
heart of Gynecia! Gynecia,” said she sighing, “thought wise and once
virtuous! alas! it is thy breeder’s power which plants thee there: it
is the flaming agony of affection, that works the chilling access of
thy fever, in such sort, that nature gives place; the growing of my
daughter seems the decay of myself; the blessings of a mother turn to
the curses of a competitor; and the fair face of Philoclea appears
more horrible in my sight than the image of death.” Then remembered
she this song, which she thought took a right measure of her present
mind.
With two strange fires of equal heat possessed,
The one of love, the other of jealousy,
Both still do work, in neither I find rest:
For both, alas, their strength together tie:
The one aloft doth hold, the other high.
Love wakes the jealous eye, lest thence it moves:
The jealous eye, the more it looks it loves.
Those fires increase; in those I daily burn,
They feed on me, and with my wings do fly:
My lovely joys to doleful ashes turn:
Their flames mount up, my prayers prostrate lie;
They live in force; I quite consumed die.
One wonder yet far passes my conceit,
The fuel small; how be the fires so great?
{254}
But her unleisured thoughts ran not over the ten first words; but
going with a pace not so much too fast for her body, as slow for her
mind, she found them together, who after Miso’s departure had left
their tale, and determined what to say to Basilius. But full abashed
was poor Philoclea, whose conscience now began to know cause of
blushing, for first salutation, receiving an eye from her mother, full
of the same disdainful scorn which Pallas showed to poor Arachne that
durst contend with her for the price of well weaving: yet did the
force of love so much rule her that, though for Zelmane’s sake she did
detest her, yet for Zelmane’s sake she used no harder words to her
than to bid her go home, and accompany her solitary father.
Then began she to display to Zelmane the store-house of her deadly
desires, when suddenly the confused rumour of a mutinous multitude
gave just occasion to Zelmane to break off any such conference, for
well she found they were not friendly voices they heard, and to retire
with as much diligence as conveniently they could towards the lodge.
Yet before they could win the lodge by twenty paces, they were
overtaken by an unruly sort of clowns, and other rebels, which like a
violent flood, were carried, they themselves knew not whither. But as
soon as they came within perfect discerning those ladies, like enraged
beasts, without respect of their estates, or pity of their sex, they
began to run against them, as right villains thinking ability to do
hurt to be a great advancement; yet so many as they were, so many
almost were their minds, all knit together only in madness. Some
cried, “take;” some, “kill;” some, “save.” But even they that cried
“save,” ran for company with them that meant to kill. Everyone
commanded, none obeyed, he only seemed chief captain, that was most
rageful.
Zelmane, whose virtuous courage was ever awake, drew out her sword,
which upon those ill-armed churls giving as many wounds as blows, and
as many deaths almost as wounds, lightning courage, and thundering
smart upon them, kept them at a bay, while the two ladies got
themselves into the lodge, out of the which Basilius, having put on an
armour long untried, came to prove his authority among his subjects,
or at least, to adventure his life with his dear mistress, to whom he
brought a shield, while the ladies trembling attended by the issue of
this dangerous adventure. But Zelmane made them perceive the odds
between an eagle and a kite, with such nimble steadiness, and assured
nimbleness, that while one was running back for fear, his fellow had
her sword in his guts.
And by and by was her heart and her help well increased by the coming
in of Dorus, who having been making of hurdles for {255} his master’s
sheep, heard the horrible cries of this mad multitude, and having
straight represented before the eyes of his careful love, the peril
wherein the soul of his soul might be, he went to Pamela’s lodge, but
found her in a cave hard by, with Mopsa and Dametas, who at that time
would not have opened the entry to his father. And therefore leaving
them there, as in a place safe, both for being strong and unknown, he
ran as the noise guided him. But when he saw his friend in such danger
among them, anger and contempt, asking no counsel but of courage, made
him run among them, with no other weapon but his sheep-hook, and with
that overthrowing one of the villains, took away a two-hand sword from
him, and withal helped him from ever being ashamed of losing it. Then
lifting up his brave head, and flashing terror into their faces, he
made arms and legs go complain to the earth, how evil their masters
had kept them. Yet the multitude still growing, and the very killing
wearying them, fearing lest in long fight they should be conquered
with conquering, they drew back towards the lodge; but drew back in
such sort, that still their terror went forward like a valiant
mastiff, whom, when his master pulls back by the tail from the bear,
with whom he had already interchanged a hateful embracement, though
his pace be backward, his gesture is forward, his teeth and his eyes
threatening more in the retiring than they did in the advancing: so
guided they themselves homeward, never stepping step backward, but
that they proved themselves masters of the ground where they stepped.
Yet among the rebels there was a dapper fellow, a tailor by
occupation, who fetching his courage only from their going back, began
to bow his knees, and very fencer-like to draw near to Zelmane. But as
he came within her distance, turning his sword very nicely about his
crown, Basilius, with a side blow, struck off his nose, he (being
suitor to a seamster’s daughter, and therefore not a little grieved
for such a disgrace) stooped down, because he had heard that if it
were fresh put to, it would cleave on again. But as his hand was on
the ground to bring his nose to his head, Zelmane with a blow sent his
head to his nose. That saw a butcher, a butcherly chuff indeed, who
that day was sworn brother to him in a cup of wine, and lifted up a
great leaver, calling Zelmane all the vile names of a butcherly
eloquence. But she letting slip the blow of the leaver, hit him so
surely upon the side of the face that she left nothing but the nether
jaw, where the tongue still wagged, as willing to say more if his
master’s remembrance had served. “O!” said a miller that was half
drunk, “see the luck of a good-fellow,” and with that word ran with a
pitchfork at Dorus; but the nimbleness of the wine carried his head so
fast that it made it {256} over-run his feet, so that he fell withal
just between the legs of Dorus, who setting his foot on his neck,
though he offered two milch kine and four fat hogs for his life,
thrust his sword quite through, from one ear to the other; which took
it very unkindly, to feel such news before they heard of them, instead
of hearing, to be put to such feeling. But Dorus, leaving the miller
to vomit his soul out in wine and blood, with his two-hand sword
struck off another quite by the waist, who the night before had
dreamed he was grown a couple, and, interpreting it that he should be
married, had bragged of his dream that morning among his neighbours.
But that blow astonished quite a poor painter, who stood by with a
pike in his hands. This painter was to counterfeit the skirmish
between the Centaurs and Lapithes, and had been very desirous to see
some notable wounds, to be able the more lively to express them; and
this morning, being carried by the stream of this company, the foolish
fellow was even delighted to see the effect of blows. But this last,
happening near him, so amazed him that he stood stock still, while
Dorus, with a turn of his sword, struck off both his hands. And so the
painter returned, well skilled in wounds, but with never a hand to
perform his skill.
In this manner they recovered the lodge, and gave the rebels a face of
wood of the outside. But they then, though no more furious, yet more
outrageous when they saw no resister, went about with pickaxe to the
wall, and fire to the gate, to get themselves entrance. Then did the
two ladies mix fear with love, especially Philoclea, who ever caught
hold of Zelmane, so, by the folly of love, hindering the succour which
she desired. But Zelmane seeing no way of defence, nor time to
deliberate (the number of those villains still increasing, and their
madness still increasing with their number) thought it the only means,
to go beyond their expectation with an unused boldness, and with
danger to avoid danger, and therefore opened again the gates; and
Dorus and Basilius standing ready for her defence, she issued again
among them. The blows she had dealt before, though all in general were
hasty, made each of them in particular take breath, before they
brought them suddenly over-near her, so that she had time to get up to
the judgment-seat of the prince, which, according to the guess of that
country, was before the court gate. There she paused a while, making
sign with her hand unto them, and withal, speaking aloud that she had
something to say unto them that would please them. But she was
answered a while with nothing but shouts and cries; and some beginning
to throw stones at her, not daring to approach her. But at length a
young farmer, who might do most among the country sort, and was caught
in a little affection towards Zelmane, hoping by his kindness to have
some {257} good of her, desired them if they were honest men, to hear
the woman speak. “Fie fellows, fie,” said he, “what will all the maids
in our town say if so many tall men shall be afraid to hear a fair
wench? I swear unto you, by no little ones, I had rather give my team
of oxen than we should show ourselves so uncivil wights. Besides, I
tell you true, I have heard it of old men counted wisdom, to hear
much, and say little.” His sententious speech so prevailed, that the
most part began to listen. Then she, with such efficacy of
gracefulness, and such a quiet magnanimity represented in her face in
this uttermost peril, that the more the barbarous people looked, the
more it fixed their looks upon her, in this sort began unto them.
“It is no small comfort unto me,” said she, “having to speak something
unto you for your own behoofs, to find that I have to deal with such a
people, who show indeed in themselves the right nature of valour:
which as it leaves no violence unattempted, while the choler is
nourished with resistance, so when the subject of their wrath doth of
itself unlooked-for offer itself into their hands, it makes them at