The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
kneeling down even where she stood, she thus said.
“O all-seeing light, and eternal life of all things, to whom nothing
is either so great that it may resist, or so small that it is
contemned: look upon my misery with Thine eye of mercy, and let Thine
infinite power vouchsafe to limit out some proportion of deliverance
unto me, as to Thee shall seem most convenient. Let not injury, O
Lord, triumph over me, and let my faults by Thy hand be corrected, and
make not mine unjust enemy the minister of Thy justice. But yet, my
God, if in Thy wisdom, this be the aptest chastisement for my
unexcusable folly, if this low bondage be fittest for my over-high
desires; if the pride of my not enough humble heart, be thus to be
broken, O Lord, I yield unto Thy will, and joyfully embrace what
sorrow Thou wilt have me suffer. Only thus much let me crave of Thee,
let my craving, O Lord, be accepted of Thee (since even that proceeds
from Thee) let me crave, even by the noblest title, which in my
greatest affliction I may give myself, that I am Thy creature, and by
Thy goodness, which is Thyself, that Thou wilt suffer some beam of Thy
majesty so to shine into my mind, that it may still depend confidently
upon Thee. Let calamity be the exercise, but not the overthrow of my
virtue: let their power prevail, but prevail not to destruction: let
my greatness be their prey: let my pain be the sweetness of their
revenge: let them (if so it seem good unto Thee) vex me with more and
more punishment. But, O Lord, let never their wickedness have such a
hand, but that I may carry {323} a pure mind in a pure body!” and
pausing awhile, “And, O most gracious Lord,” said she, “whatever
becomes of me, preserve the virtuous Musidorus.”
The other part Cecropia might well hear; but this latter prayer for
Musidorus, her heart held it, as so jewel-like a treasure that it
would scarce trust her own lips withal. But this prayer sent to heaven
from so heavenly a creature, with such a fervent grace as if devotion
had borrowed her body to make of itself a most beautiful
representation; with her eyes so lifted to the skyward that one would
have thought they had begun to fly thitherward to take their place
among their fellow stars; her naked hands raising up their whole
length, and as it were, kissing one another, as if the right had been
the picture of zeal, and the left of humbleness, which both united
themselves to make their suits more acceptable. Lastly, all her senses
being rather tokens than instruments of her inward motions, altogether
had so strange a working power, that even the hard-hearted wickedness
of Cecropia, if it found not a love of that goodness, yet it felt an
abashment at that goodness, and if she had not a kindly remorse, yet
had she an irksome accusation of her own naughtiness; so that she was
put from the bias of her fore-intended lesson. For well she found
there was no way at that time to take that mind but with some, at
least, image of virtue; and what the figure thereof was, her heart
knew not.
Yet did she prodigally spend her uttermost eloquence, leaving no
argument unprovided which might with any force invade her excellent
judgment; the justness of the request being but for marriage; the
worthiness of the suitor: then her own present fortune: fortune, which
should not only have amendment, but felicity: besides falsely making
her believe that her sister would think herself happy if now she might
have his love, which before she contemned: and obliquely touching,
what danger it should be for her if her son should accept Philoclea in
marriage, and so match the next heir apparent, she being in his power:
yet plentifully perjuring how extremely her son loved her, and
excusing the little shows he made of it, with the dutiful respect he
bare unto her; and taking upon herself that she restrained him, since
she found she could set no limits to his passions. And as she did to
Philoclea, so did she to her, with the tribute of gifts seek to bring
her mind into servitude: and all other means, that might either
establish a beholdingness, or at least awake a kindness; doing it so,
that by reason of their imprisonment, one sister knew not how the
other was wooed but each might think that only she was sought. But if
Philoclea with sweet and humble dealing did avoid their assaults, she
with the majesty of virtue did beat them off.
{324}
But this day their speech was the sooner broken off, by reason that he
who stood as watch upon the top of the Keep[b3-03] did not only see a
great dust rise (which the earth sent up as if it would strive to have
clouds as well as the air) but might spy sometimes, especially when
the dust (wherein the naked wind did apparel itself) was carried aside
from them, the shining of armour; like flashing of lightning,
wherewith the clouds did seem to be with child, which the sun gilding
with his beams it gave a sight delightful to any but to them that were
to abide the terror. But the watch gave a quick alarm to the soldiers
within whom practice already having prepared, began each, with
unabashed hearts, or at least countenances, to look to their charge,
or obedience which was allotted unto them.
Only Clinias and Amphialus did exceed the bounds of mediocrity, the
one in his natural coldness of cowardice, the other in heat of
courage. For Clinias (who was bold only in busy whisperings, and even
in that whisperingness rather, indeed, confident in his cunning that
it should not be betrayed than any way bold, if ever it should be
betrayed) now that the enemy gave a dreadful aspect unto the castle,
his eyes saw no terror, nor ear heard any martial sound but that they
multiplied the hideousness of it to his matted mind. Before their
coming he had many times felt a dreadful expectation, but yet his mind
(that was willing to ease itself of the burden of fear) did sometimes
fain unto itself possibility of let, as the death of Basilius, the
discord of the nobility, and, when other cause failed him, the nature
of chance served as a cause unto him, and sometimes the hearing other
men speak valiantly, and the quietness of his unassailed senses would
make himself believe that he durst do something. But now, that present
danger did display itself unto his eye, and that a dangerous doing
must be the only mean to prevent the danger of suffering, one that had
marked him would have judged that his eyes would have run into him,
and his soul out of him, so unkindly did either take a scent of
danger. He thought the lake was too shallow, and the walls too thin:
he misdoubted each man’s treason, and conjectured every possibility of
misfortune, not only forecasting likely perils, but such as all the
planets together could scarcely have conspired: and already began to
arm himself, though it was determined he should tarry within doors;
and while he armed himself, imagined in what part of the vault he
would hide himself if the enemies won the castle. Desirous he was that
everybody should do valiantly but himself; and therefore was afraid to
show his fear, but for very fear would have hid his fear, lest it
should discomfort others: but the more he sought {325} to disguise it,
the more the unsuitableness of a weak broken voice to high brave
words, and of a pale shaking countenance, to a gesture of animating,
did discover him.
But quite contrarily Amphialus, who, before the enemies came, was
careful, providently diligent, and not sometimes without doubting of
the issue, now the nearer danger approached (like the light of a
glow-worm) the less still it seemed: and now his courage began to boil
in choler, and with such impatience to desire to pour out both upon
the enemy, that he issued presently into certain boats he had of
purpose, and carrying with him some choice men, went to the fortress
he had upon the edge of the lake, which he thought would be the first
thing that the enemy would attempt, because it was a passage, which
commanding all that side of the country, and being lost, would stop
victuals, or other supply that might be brought into the castle: and
in that fortress having some force of horsemen, he issued out with two
hundred horse and five hundred footmen; ambushed his footmen in the
falling of a hill, which was over-shadowed with a wood; he with his
horsemen went a quarter of a mile further; aside hand of which he
might perceive the many troops of the enemy who came but to take view
where best to encamp themselves.
But as if the sight of the enemy had been a magnet-stone to his
courage, he could not contain himself, but showing his face to the
enemy, and his back to his soldiers, used that action as his only
oration, both of denouncing war to the one, and persuading help from
the other. Who faithfully following an example of such authority, they
made the earth to groan under their furious burden, and the enemies to
begin to be angry with them, whom in particular they knew not. Among
whom there was a young man, youngest brother to Philanax, whose face
as yet did not betray his sex with so much as show of hair; of a mind
having no limits of hope, not knowing why to fear; full of jollity in
conversation, and lately grown a lover. His name was Agenor, of all
that army the most beautiful: who having ridden in sportful
conversation among the foremost, all armed, saving that his beaver was
up, to have his breath in more freedom, seeing Amphialus come a pretty
way before his company, neither staying the commandment of the
captain, nor reckoning whether his face were armed, or no, set spurs
to his horse, and with youthful bravery casting his staff about his
head, put it then into his rest, as careful of comely carrying it as
if the mark had been but a ring, and the lookers-on ladies. But
Amphialus’s lance was already come to the last of his descending line,
and began to make the full point of death against the head of this
young gentleman; when Amphialus perceiving his youth and beauty,
compassion so rebated the edge of choler that he spared {326} that
fair nakedness, and let his staff fall to Agenor’s vampalt[b3-04]: so
that both with brave breaking should hurtlessly have performed that
match, but that the pitiless lance of Amphialus (angry with being
broken) with an unlucky counterbuff, full of unsparing splinters,
lighted upon that face, far fitter for the combats of Venus, giving
not only a sudden, but a foul death, leaving scarcely any tokens of
his former beauty; but his hands abandoning the reins, and his thighs
the saddle, he fell sideward from the horse. Which sight coming to
Leontius, a dear friend of his, who in vain had lamentably cried unto
him to stay when he saw him begin his career; it was hard to say
whether the pity of the one, or revenge against the other held as then
the sovereignty in his passions. But while he directed his eye to his
friend, and his hand to his enemy, so wrongly consorted a power could
not resist the ready minded force of Amphialus, who perceiving his
ill-directed direction against him, so paid him his debt before it was
lent, that he also fell to the earth, only happy that one place and
one time did finish both their loves and lives together.
But by this time there had been a furious meeting of either side:
whether after the terrible salutation of warlike noise, the shaking of
hands was with sharp weapons: some lances according to the metal they
met and skill of the guider, did stain themselves in blood; some flew
up in pieces, as if they would threaten heaven because they failed on
earth. But their office was quickly inherited, either by (the prince
of weapons) the sword, or by some heavy mace, or biting axe; which
hunting still the weakest chase, sought ever to light there where
smallest resistance might worse prevent mischief. The clashing of