To strive to lessen the greatness of the attempt, were to take away the glory of the action. To add to Sir Philip Sidney, I know is rashness; a fault pardonable in me, if custom might as well excuse the offence, as youth may prescribe in offending in this kind. That he should undergo that burthen, whose mother-tongue differs as much from this language, as Irish from English, augments the danger of the enterprise, and gives your expectation, perhaps, an assurance what the event must be. Yet, let no man judge wrongfully of my endeavours: I have added a limb to Apelles’s picture; but my mind never entertained such vain hopes, to think it of perfection sufficient to delude the eyes of the most vulgar, with the likeness in the workmanship. No, no, I do not follow Pythagoras’s opinion of transmigration: I am well assured divine Sidney’s soul is not infused into me, whose judgment was only able to finish what his invention was only worthy to undertake. For this, courteous reader, let it suffice I place Sir Philip Sidney’s desert (even in mine own esteem) as far beyond my endeavours, as the most fault-finding censor can imagine this essay of mine to come short of his Arcadia. Vale.

R. B.

ARCADIA BOOK VI

633

[This Sixth Book was written in the Year 1633.]

What changes in fortune the princes of Macedon and Thessaly have passed, together with what event the uncertain actions of so blind a goddess have been crowned, they may remember, whose ears have been fed with the eloquent story, written by the never-enough renowned Sir Philip Sidney.

Basilius, therefore, having beheld with the eye of success, the accomplishment of his misinterpreted oracle, hastened (together with Euarchus) to his court of Mantinea; where the infinite assembly, and the public sacrifices of his subjects, did well witness what joy did possess their hearts, whose eyes were restored to the sight of long eclipsed sovereignty. Fame, also, proud to be the messenger of such royal news, had soon (with speedy flight) passed the limits of Arcadia, so that in few days the court was filled with foreign princes, whom either the tie of a long observed league of amity, or a nearness in blood to Basilius, at such a time, brought thither to congratulate with him, or were such, whose honour-thirsty minds hunted after occasions to make known their acts in chivalry.

And now was the marriage-day come, when Pamela, attired in the stately ornament of beauteous majesty, led by the constant forwardness of a virtuous mind, waited on by the many thoughts of his fore-past crosses in her love, which now made up a perfect harmony in the pleasing discord of endeared affection, was brought to church; whom, soon after, her sister Philoclea (being in the same degree of happiness, clad in the bashful innocency of an unspotted soul, guided by the shame-faced desire of her Pyrocles’s satisfaction, attended on by many graces of a mild cheerfulness) followed; both equally admired, both equally looked on.

634

The temple (whereto in triumph beauty and majesty were led prisoners by the famous sisters) was a fit dwelling-place for the Arcadian deities, fenced from the sun and winds’ too free access, by many ranks of even-grown, even-set trees, near which, in divided branches, ran two clear streams, whose sweet murmur (as they tumbled over their bed of pebble stones) did much adorn the religious solitariness of that place. And, that nothing should be wanting that might set forth the careful judgment of the builder, it was seated in such a near distance from the palace, as might not presently bury the gloriousness of the show, nor cloy the beholders with the tediousness of the sight. In the way, on both hands, were many altars, on which the crowned entrails of the much-promising sacrifices were laid. At the door the two sisters were received by as many virgins, attired in a white lawn livery, with garlands on their heads of lilies and roses intermixed, holding in their left hands a pair of pigeons, the grateful offering to the queen of love. Soon after, the accustomed rites in the Arcadian nuptials being ended, the King and Euarchus, with the rest of the princes, returned unto a stately palace, sumptuously furnished, where both art and nature seemed to be at variance, whether should bestow most ornaments to enrich so rare a work: seated where the earth did rise a little (as proud to be the supporter of so curious a building) by means whereof, the sight had freedom to overlook a large territory, where the green level of the Arcadian plains, beautified by the intercourse of many forests, represented the delightful mixture of a civil wilderness. The building of marble, where, whether the art in carving into many forms the in vain resisting hardness of the stone, the cunning in knitting these disjointed members, or the invention in contriving their several rooms, did excel, was hard to be judged of.

The inside also might well be the inner part of so glorious an outside; for, besides the well-matched largeness of the rooms, and lightsome pleasantness of the windows, it was all hung with the choice rareness of far-fetched arras, in which the ingenious workman, with the curious pencil of his little needle, had limned the dumb records of revived antiquity. Here did he present the memorable siege of Thebes, where the ruins of her walls seemed yet to hang, and make the beholders fear the downfall of the lively stones. There you might see how cunningly he had expressed the constrained flight of the Trojan prince, and the cruel sacrifice of enraged Dido’s love. Nor was the story of Scylla forgotten, who there stood before Minos, with the present of her father’s fatal hair; while you might perceive, by his bent brows and disdainful countenance, the just reward of her unnatural attempt. With these and others, wherein cost and invention strove 635 for the mastery, were the hangings adorned; yet these many stories did so stealingly succeed each other that the most curious observer’s eye (though his admiration might dwell on each piece) could find no cause of stay until he had overlooked them all. But neither these, nor what art or nature could have added, did set forth so much the palace, as the graceful presence of the Arcadian sisters; whose beauties, till now, of long time had borne a part with their troubled minds, in a sweet pilgrimage to a happy event; and therefore at this present, so far disburdened of those thoughts, as it was to be settled in the most desired enjoying of unspeakable bliss, the imagination would needs persuade, if it were possible, were bettered.

Dinner being set and ended, while the knights (who, to honour that day with tilting, and to show what they dared and could effect in the service, as they thought, of unresistable beauties) were putting on their armour, there entered the hall a page, who, with submissive humbleness, told the King, he was sent from his master, the naked knight, who desired there to be received as a challenger, to eternize, as the justness of his cause required, the famous memory of his deceased mistress Helen, the Queen of Corinth. Basilius, much pitying the before-unheard death of so excellent a queen, willed the page to relate the circumstance, which being strange in itself, and of so great a subject, wrought a passionate willingness in the hearers to be attentive.

“After that fortune,” said he, “had bestowed, by the conquest of Amphialus, at Cecropia’s castle, the victory on his adversary the black knight, this queen (having long time, by the command of love, her inward tyrant, made all Greece a stage for her wandering passions) at length went thither, where the end of her search was the beginning of her sorrows. Finding the curtains of eternal night ready to close up his eyes, who (in the voyage her affection made) had alway been the port she steered to; yet hoping she knew not what, that if perhaps Proserpine should meet in Elysium his departed soul, she would in mere compassion of her sorrow, send it back to reinhabit her ancient seat; she carried the life little-desiring body, to Corinth, where, at that time, lived an aged man, by name Artelio, one whose fortunate experience in desperate cures had made famous. Him, by the powerful command of his queen, and the humble tears of a still-mistrusting lover, she conjures to employ the uttermost of his skill in preserving him in whom she lived. Some time there was ere his vital spirits, almost now proved strangers to their wonted mansion, would accept the tie of hospitality; but when the hand of art had taught them courtesy, and that each sense, though faintly, did exercise his charge, Amphialus, returning to himself, from that sweet ignorance of cares 636 wherein he lived, began to question, in what estate the castle was against the besiegers? thinking he had always been there; when Helen entered the room with a countenance where beauty appeared through the clouds of care and fear of his danger: Her, the double and deeply wounded patient (bearing still about him the inward picture of Philoclea, whom long I have heard, in vain he loved) thought to be the same saint, the remembrance of whom returned, together with his wandering soul, from which it was inseparable. Now, therefore, with a languishing look (the true herald of what he suffered) ‘Lady,’ said he, ‘though the welcome harbinger of a near-following death hath provided this body (while it was mine, alway devoted to your service) as a lodging for his master an ever-certain guest, yet when I pass to the Elysian plains (if any memory there remain of this world of comfort you now vouchsafe, heaven knows! your faithful, though unfortunate servant) I shall never cease to pay the eternal tribute of thanks to well-deserving death, who, with his presence brings the happiness in life denied me.’

“The Queen with a pensive silence, sorrowing she stood to act the counterfeit of her rival, and still desirous to enjoy the sweet speech of her revived Amphialus, was like a passenger, whom the loud command of the rough winds had forced to wander through the unevenness of the deep-furrowed seas, now in sight of land, equally distracted between the desire to leave his unnatural habitation, where each wave seems to be the proud messenger of destruction, and fear to approach it, being jealous of his hard entertainment on the rocky shore: thus did she continue (fixed in a doubtful imagination) loth to interrupt his pleasing speech, and more than grieved he meant not her whom he spoke to, until Amphialus (strengthening his newly recovered senses with the conceited presence of Philoclea) found his error, and then, with a look on his mistaken object (which he could not make disdainful, because his happy thoughts had once adored it for Philoclea) he suddenly fell into a deadly trance, whereat Helen (feelingly suffering in his danger) ran to him, and bedewing his even then lovely face with the loving oblation of her many tears, she together poured forth the most passionate plaints that love could invent, or grief utter; so as a while, this accident overthrowing the fabric of her half-built comfort with the suddenness of so unlooked-for an assault, constrained her (with bemoaning his case) to forget the care of his safety; but being withdrawn by her servants, the indisposition of her body, caused her a while to entertain in bed the fever of her affectionate sorrow.

“In the meantime, Amphialus, by the skilful care of Artelio, was again brought to enjoy that, whose loss he would account his 637 chiefest happiness; and faintly withdrawing the cover that obscured his weak sight, and settling his look upon Artelio, ‘Father,’ said he, ‘if you felt the inward agonies of my tormented soul, as you see the desperate state of my low-brought body, I assure myself you would not be so inhuman, there to employ your endeavours, where, when they have wrought their effect, they serve only to confirm the memory of fore-passed calamity, with the growing apprehension of future misfortune. But since my destinies have so set down, that the whole course of my life should be inevitably disastrous, I must think my tragedy is not yet acted; though what worse than hath befallen me cannot be imagined, or what may be kept in store (more than I have passed), far exceeds my apprehension, though not my expectation.’

“Here he began to run over his unfortunate love to Philoclea, the killing of Parthenia, his overthrow in the encounter with the black knight; inserting many more disgraces, which the most envious of his glory, would not have cast as aspersions on his well-known fame. Thus, with the thought that fate (whose working he could not limit) had reserved him for more mischief, he suffered his wounds to be cured; and soon after, walking one evening, as his manner was, in the garden, he chose a time, as he thought unespied by any, to convey himself through a back-door, and there finding his horse (which his page had brought by his appointment) he rode away, whither he knew not, and not much cared, so he might leave her, whose affection deserved a more courteous farewell. But alas! when she heard of his going, what tongue is able to express her sorrow, in whom the equally tormenting passions of grief and despair were lifted to their uttermost height?

“Two days, since the departure of Amphialus, posted away, striving in vain to overtake their irrecoverable fellows, and now the third was come, to be a prologue to the following tragedy: when Helen (slacking the violent course of her incessant plaints) gave occasion to her servants to be less mistrustful of her actions, thinking that time began to wear away her sorrows. But she (as by the event was gathered) using this as a policy to rid herself of the cumber of careful attendance, when (now her truce, in show, with sorrow, and the restraint of her plaints had wrought the effect she desired) taking her trusty servant Mylama with her, and leaving a letter with Lada (whom, besides Mylama, she only trusted with this secret) which, upon the first knowledge of her flight, should be given to Drenus the chief of her council; wherein she excused her secret stealing away, by a vow passed to Apollo, in such manner to go a pilgrimage to Delphos; she put herself on her journey, having an army of passions for her convoy, led by love, 638 and waited on by desire, in hope of what she knew was hopeless; yet often checking her despairing foresight with such unlikely possibilities as affection (upon these occasions) is wont to supply.

“Many days she had not wandered (changing places, to renew her companions in sorrow) when coming into a pleasant valley, where of each side, many trees (in the green-leaved mantle of their summer livery) did apparel two neighbour mountains, where some sunburnt sapless pines, by the advantage of the ground (like little-deserving, in themselves, birth-only ennobled men) overtopped the straight upraised cedar, the stock of self-begun honour. Through this flowery plain ran a many-headed crystal current that did indent the earth as it smoothly glided by, to make the obligation of friendship between them more firm; and where, it fame-like, increased by travel, there (as it was the natural) so, it seemed to have been the politic body of the state of springs, such was the constant care of the fountain magistrates, and such the well-agreeing union of the watery commons. Here she stayed (invited by solitariness, the best repose for wearied sorrow) yet giving no respite to her mind, she spoke nothing but Amphialus, or of Amphialus. ‘O Amphialus!’ did she say, and to this invocation the flattering nymph (that always seconds what is spoken) did join the like of her own; and Helen delighted to hear the sound of so sweet a name beaten back upon her, for a time sealed up her lips, listening (with attentive silence) what echo would have further said. But she (who of all the powers of a reasonable soul, only had a memory and a tongue only serviceable for that use) together gave over to reflect her borrowed language, expecting (with like stillness) her further speech. But Helen, not able longer to restrain the overflow of her panting heart, began to cry out, ‘Unkind Amphialus!’ This also did the echo repeat. But she hearing by the rebound of the words, Amphialus accused. ‘Discourteous nymph,’ said she, ‘and how is Amphialus unkind? Can the harmony of such excellence admit so foul a fault to bear a part with his virtues? Yet, woe is me! he is unkind. Could his hard heart else suffer this love of his (which I only name because it is the only part worth naming in me) thus long unregarded? Could not my crown (crowned in being a foot-stool to Amphialus) have purchased some respect? Alas! no: how could unhappy Helen expect the Fates reserved so great a blessing in store for her?’

“She had not long debated the reasons of her misfortune, when Rinatus (the only brother to Timotheus, but younger by many years) chanced to pass that way. A man on whom fame had bestowed, and deservingly, the name of valiant; yet of disposition so mischievously cruel, and ambitiously proud, that where his deeds might well have claimed so great an honour, there his 639 conditions (as well weighed) brought a reproachful burden to the balance of his reputation. He (his father dying young, and unwilling to dismember his estate, and unable otherwise to satisfy the hopes of his son’s ambition) hearing of the wars of Laconia, went thither; where soon he purchased the opinion of a man resolute to undertake, and fortunate to execute what he had undertaken: and serving under Eborbas (chief commander for the king) because of the sympathy of humours between them (whereby nature did insinuate for Rinatus, and taught him flattery without dissimulation) he grew great in his favour. Soon after this, Eborbas in a conflict between him and the Helots being mortally wounded, yet in death, careful of the welfare of his country, recommended this Rinatus (partly for his good liking of him, but principally for his experience in wars, and well-seconded judgment) to the king, who, though with some opposition (the country-men repining at his, a stranger’s advancement) after trusty Eborbas’s death, preferred him to the same place. His discharge of which, outwent so far the envy of the jealous noblemen, that well might their king and they, in the death of the valiant Eborbas, deplore the loss of a private man, but must confess that this watchful care and undaunted well-ordered courage, did survive in this their general.

“In this esteem he had scarce lived a year, when, hearing of his brother and nephew’s death, together with his undoubted right to the large territory which his brother in his life-time had enjoyed, he, notwithstanding, continued in the charge to which he was lately advanced: framing in his conceit his new-acquired greatness but as a step to climb the sovereignty of Laconia: which being elective, he thought the easier to be compassed, having by his bounteous affability gained the hearts of the soldiers, and being already possessed of the chief forts (the best strength of the country) wherein he had placed such who had their devotions linked to his will, because they owed him the benefit of their creation. But finding the accomplishment of these practices to depend upon the death of the king, which, his youth promised was unlikely soon to happen, and fearful to draw on the discovery of his practices by seeking any secret means to make him away, whom the watchful eye of dutiful observance did warrant secure from any traitorous plots, he solicits the King to dispense with his presence, who (seeing the ground of his journey to be the just cause of his long-deferred revenge for Timotheus his brother, and Philoxenus his nephew’s death, now a peace was lately concluded with the Helots, and therefore his absence the more excusable) upon condition of a speedy return, though unwilling, yet for his satisfaction, grants his request: who now on his journey, 640 and having in his way to cross this valley, met the unfortunate queen, whom, though her habit might disguise, her words (overheard) did assure Rinatus his willingness to believe that she was the same she so often spoke herself to be, the unfortunate Helen.

“Awhile he stood doubtful of the person, awhile amazed at so fortunate an encounter, and a long time perplexed what punishment his revenge would judge fit for (the conceited heinousness of) his brother and nephew’s death. At length the Queen (now first withdrawing her thoughts from that object whereto affection, in sweetest contemplation, had bound them, and suffering her mind, before retired within itself, now to be informed by her servant’s sense) seeing this stranger near her, began, as her manner was, to find by enquiry what he knew of Amphialus. ‘Wicked woman,’ replied Rinatus, ‘the all-seeing justice hath now delivered thee to receive fit punishment for Philoxenus’s and Timotheus’s death,’ and using no more words, presently caused her to be mounted on horseback, prolonging her life to make her death more miserable. Thus far hath Mylama discovered, who, poor lady, was there left, most cruelly beaten, to be the reporter of Rinatus’s revenge, and her mistress’s hard hap.

“The last act of this tragedy, my master had the fortune to know, by one of trust and great esteem in the court of Laconia, to which Rinatus had conveyed Helen, where, for a time, she was honourably entertained, finding no want but of command and liberty; the king, belike fearing the power of the wronged Corinthians, preserving her as a sure card for a dead lift. But when he understood that one Tenarus (a man apt to practice innovations, and at this time able, when the many-headed multitude wanted the awful presence of their sovereign) took upon him the government, pretending a title to the crown, as descended from those, from whom Helen’s ancestors, as he alleged, had traitorously forced it, then did the tyrant of Laconia, finding the way secure for his mischievous practice, vehemently importuned by Rinatus, and urged forward by the politic wickedness of his own desire to pleasure the new king, secretly cause Helen to be poisoned: Such was the end of this great queen, justly beloved of all who heard the fame of her virtues, and therefore justly to be deplored of all who hear the unredeemable loss of so many perfections.”

Basilius, and the rest of the princes, were much moved with so tragical a story, especially Musidorus, who (in search of Pyrocles) having the fortune to see her, could witness, that though fame had borrowed all men’s mouths to proclaim her many excellencies, yet it was far from doing right to her desert. But 641 this was no fit lodging for pity to dwell in, where joy had so great a command. The messenger therefore being permitted to part, with free leave for his master to enter the lists, judges were appointed, and the challenge proclaimed.

The challenger understanding of the King’s liking of his demand, came forth of his pavilion, with armour so lively representing nakedness, wounded in many places (where the staunchless blood, in the course the workman had allotted it, seemed to drop destruction) that many thought a madness had possessed him (so unarmed, so wounded) to present himself in such a trial, where a surer defence, and a sounder body were more needful. Before him went six, as savages, bearing the lances for his first courses; who coming within distance to be heard, did sing these following verses.

Then one of them, reaching him a lance, he began his course against Tyro Prince of Andria, famous for his constant love to the fair Lydia, now married, and Queen of Epire, and ever fortunate in the course of his adventures: but here his fortune gave place to virtue, or rather joined with her to assist the naked knight; for, at the third encounter, he was put beside his saddle, much bruised in body, and no less afflicted in mind.

The next that supplied his place, was Pausanias, a Macedonian, one, who in his late wars had done Euarchus faithful service, and now, thinking to be as successful in this enterprise, had put on armour to do honour to his mistress: but his first course compelled him to acknowledge he was deceived, seeing himself fall so short of his expectation.

To him succeeded Nicanor, a Corinthian knight, advanced by the new king, one extremely confident of himself, because never tried, and now very forward, fearing to be prevented of the honour, for which already, in conceit, he had triumphed at Corinth with the great applause of the people, and the good liking of the king. But the naked knight, at second course, cut off both his life and imagined trophy: for, couching his lance, and allotting it in his course a just descent, rightly levelled by his well-judging experience, it met with Nicanor’s sight, and passing thorough that weak 642 resistance, it pierced his right eye, and with it his brain, so that Nicanor fell down, forgetful both of his forethought fame and following reproach. With this adventure the tilting that day ended; the sun with loose rays, posting to his western home, and the naked knight retired himself to his pavilion, whence he sent his page, who, humbly, for his master, entreated, that his unwillingness to be known should excuse the omission of his duty to the king.

Thus that night drew on, which to them who enjoyed delight, seemed to have put on all her sails to be the speedier in passing over. But far other was the naked knight’s apprehension: he (who made her ugly darkness a pattern of the sorrow his afflicted soul endured) thought she was becalmed in the sea of his misfortune. At length Phoebus, weary of his importunity, made haste to distribute his grateful light to his care-tired senses; and he as soon embracing the smallest show of comfort, put on his armour. About two hours after, the judges being set, and Basilius and Euarchus (with the rest of the court) present, Leonatus, the young King of Pontus (who had been there to acknowledge his beholdingness to them whom he was deservingly bound to) took the field. His armour was of a dark colour, through which many flames seemed to break out, as when the clouds, great in labour with exhalations, at length gave way to their more violent power: his three first courses promised a more happy event than fortune meant he should enjoy, for (having performed them with a well-ordered firmness in his seat, and a moving constancy in the carriage of his lance, to the great delight of the beholders) the fourth time he was dismounted; whose disgrace Pyrocles was ready to revenge, but he was, by a secret look from Philoclea, commanded the contrary. Then Telamon, Phelauceas and Diremus felt, with little advantage in fortune, the like success.

Thus, most part of that morning, the naked knight, with little resistance, had the best against all comers, which most of the lookers-on, with public acclamation, did testify, but he having given over the use of himself to sorrow, sometimes by the careless shaking of his head, did let them know, they burdened his desert with the unpleasing weight of his praise; and staying a while on horseback, he expected the next adventurer, with such a demeanour of himself, that (though it did accuse him of much grief) could not conceal the grace of his stately presence. But when he saw none ready to take the field, with an humble bend taking his leave of the king, he softly trotted towards his tent, not so much to repose his body, as to give a quiet way to the assaults of his mind. At length, when all the beholders’ expectations were almost wearied, there entered the lists a lady, attended only by one page, who 643 having alighted, presently went towards the place where Basilius sat, where first kneeling, then taking away a black scarf (which grief had hired to join with herself, in eclipsing the excellent feature of a most fair face) she began to speak; but Basilius and Gynecia hastily ran to embrace Helen Queen of Corinth, for this was she. Great was the joy of her revived presence, and great the desire to know the means of her safety. But she (accounting these gratulations cumbersome, and the relation of her adventures tedious) fixing her watery eyes on Basilius: “Great king, I am,” said she, “that unfortunate Helen, sometime Queen of Corinth, now both deprived of crown and kingdom by Tenarus. Yet why should I mention this, as fit to be inserted among my greatest misfortunes? The cause why now I come, is my care of Amphialus’s safety, in whom I live, to whose disdain I have vowed the tribute of my constant love. He (alas! why should I live to speak it?) not long since following the course of his adventures, came to Amasia, where he was made prisoner, and carried to Dunalbus prince of that country, whose brother it was Amphialus’s fortune to kill in rescue of a lady, to whom he would have offered dishonourable violence. These news came to mine ears (to add more to many miseries) at that time when I chanced to be at Delphos, pouring forth my heartiest devotions for my most beloved, my most unkind Amphialus: but the pitying God, either to stay my hands from the execution they intended (but to what end might that be? that God knows; for no time can unbend my affection) or, as heaven grant it may be, in commiseration of my case, thus comforted me:

Helen, return; a naked knight shall find Rest for thy hopes, and quiet to thy mind.

“Thus far have I wandered, led by that divine promise, in pursuit of such a one: But nowhere can I find a happy event to confirm that oracle; yet dare I not despair, having so high a warrant; nor hope, having so bad success.”

“You are fortunately come,” said the King, “This knight, whose skill in arms hath made your well-deserving virtues famous, may be that man pointed out by the finger of heaven, to release Amphialus, who both in name and armour represents a naked knight.” “O no,” said the Queen, “it cannot be expected that Apollo, would leave so plain a way for us to track out the footsteps of his obscure mysteries.” “Madam,” replied Basilius (having first placed her in a chair by him) “the all-seeing providence, with whom the ends of all things are present, is sometimes pleased to cast forth the emblem of our destinies, so strangely hidden in the covert of ambiguous words, that, doubtless, 644 it serves to beget nothing but matters of distrust, and labyrinths of errors, where the imagination a thousand ways may be led astray; of this you have a present proof, confirmed by my experience. And sometimes the same justice unfolds the secret of our fate, and plainly lets us know the mystery of our fortune; yet even that plainness, to the curious search of our still-mistrusting brain, becomes a reason sufficient to enforce us to a contrary belief. This last, I think (if, in the interpretation of an oracle, my opinion may be received) is that mean, whereby Apollo both reveals and hides the author of Amphialus’s freedom.”

This said, he sends presently for the naked knight, who as soon obeying the king’s command, as he was completely armed, came before him; to whom Basilius cheerfully told (as glad to be the reporter of good news to him, whose prowess in arms deservingly gained much of his good opinion) of Helen’s being there, together with her desire to employ him in an action the heavens had also interested him in. “What is it,” replied the naked knight, “that, without such a command, I would not endeavour to accomplish for my most dear Helen?” And then, with excess of comfort and astonishment, his weak limbs were ready to give over the support of his joy-burdened body; but, being upheld by Musidorus, who stood next him, his overcharged spirits had time to recollect themselves.

The Queen gathering comfort from his promise, and seeing fair likelihood of the oracle’s accomplishment, with the oratory of love, who thinks no words but his own able to express his mind, began in this manner: “Sir, ill-fortune my awful governess, as in the most of my actions she is pleased to keep a hard hand over me, so in this (distrustful belike of my willingness) she forces me to repeat my wonted lesson of receiving courtesies without power of requital; making one undeserved favour from you become a cause of further beholdingness to you: But the glory that follows your good success in this adventure (the best spur to set forward brave spirits to noble actions) hath almost assured me that the love you profess, and a distressed lady’s cause, need not join petitioners in a request your virtue must be willing to grant. The reward of your victory, is the releasing of Amphialus, of whom I may speak, and the world with me, all praise-worthy things.” “Madam,” replied the naked knight, “I thought the gods could not have favoured me more than in giving you respite of life, and me power to be serviceable to you: but when I consider the end I must employ my endeavours to, it buries my conceited happiness in the grave of a certain misfortune. Shall I labour to preserve that monster of men, whose story (if the world will needs read) contains nothing but a volume of disasters, and a vain 645 discourse of a few adventures cast upon him by the blindness of chance? Shall I hazard my life for him, against whom, had I lives innumerable, I would venture them all? Shall I live to make another happy in your favour, and cross mine own desires? No, madam, I will sooner leave my blood here before you, as a testimony that fear hath no interest in my disobedience to your command, than I will make my after-life, truly miserable in the burden of a hopeless affection.” To this the Queen awhile in tears, as if her eyes strove to speak for her, made a silent answer; but when her sighs had breathed forth the over-charge of her breast, first she kneeled, then faintly said: “O eternal president of this court of cares, when will thy just pity commiserate my distress! Alas, Sir, what new way have the gods found to vent their malice on me! have I made disdain my only mishap, and must now affection towards me be another undeserved misfortune? Behold, Sir, and, if you can, with pity, a Queen born to command a suppliant at your feet, begging what goodness solicits you to grant, release Amphialus: and if your jealousy thinks he hath too much interest in my love, restore him to the world that wants him, I will vow a virgin’s life.” “Stay, virtuous Queen,” replied the naked knight, and lifting up his beaver, “receive,” said he, “thou best of women! the overjoyed Amphialus.”

The Queen, as when the ocean swells with the rage of a tempest, if on a sudden these blasts be appeased, yet the proud waves, mindful of their fore-passed injury, and indisposed to so speedy a reconcilement, some while retain the rough remembrance of the winds’ malice, so were her thoughts, before moved by the storm of despair, though now she had cause of contented quiet, on a sudden, incapable of so unlooked-for a happiness, first doubt, then amazement, lastly excess of joy, by succession, were admitted to the helm of her distressed heart. But when joy had once got to be the steersman, his want of practice (by his long absence from that employment) soon brought a confusion; here the warm tears of sorrow, there the cold drops of a present comfort, did strive whether should show itself most officious in drowning her pale blushing cheeks: At length they both, no longer able to resist this powerful invasion of their minds, as by mutual consent, fell the one entwined in the other’s arms, and made the earth happy in bearing such matchless lovers. But their senses being soon restored to their wonted function, after some passionate words (to which their eyes and touch of their hands gave the life of expression) Amphialus, divided into many minds by the turbulent working of his thoughts, turning towards his uncle, with his eyes fixed on the ground, stood with the grace of a man condemned, who having led a loathsome life in an ugly dungeon, is now 646 brought to a freedom of looking upon the open air, yet sees the day is but a taper to light him to his execution. Of the one side he was brought from the hell of despair, wherein he lived in the assurance of Helen’s death, to the certainty of her life and presence; of the other, what was his treason to his uncle to expect, but an infamous death, and a divorce from his new-born happiness. The shame also of a crime so foul as his rebellion, was not the least torment to his mind, unwillingly beaten from a settled course of virtue by Cecropia’s practices. At length, when these thoughts, that almost overcame all the powers of life in him, were themselves overcome by his resolution, casting himself at Basilius’s feet, thus said: “Great Sir, if treason in a subject, and unnaturalness in a nephew, be punishable, here you have before you a fit exercise for your justice, I am that subject whose rebellion interrupted the contented quiet of my King’s solitary life, and brought him to behold the bloody tragedy of a civil dissention in his divided state: I am that nephew, whom a wilful disobedience made a traitor to the nearness of his blood. Hither did I come, Orestes-like, tormented by the inward fright of my guilty conscience, with my blood to wash away (if good fortune, in the defence of the cause I undertook, would draw death upon me) the stains of such unpardonable faults; but now that I have found what I least looked for (and then he cast a side-look on Helen) for her, I confess, I should desire to live, if your just indignation might find mercy for so heinous offences, which I will not strive to mitigate, however justly I may; for I would think such faults ill-excused with which, to ease myself, I must have burdened my nearest friends.”

Basilius, first graciously lifting him from the ground: “Nephew,” replied he, “did I retain the memory of your youthful oversights, this your virtuous acknowledgment were sufficient to bear them away; but long since I have buried in oblivion the thought of your rashness because I knew (by what after happened) that the gods had made you an instrument to work their ends; it were injury therefore to question his actions, whose will was not his own, being over-ruled by their all-commanding decree. No, nephew, I do not only pardon these transgressions, but freely also do resign all such possessions as your father held in Arcadia, taken from you in the last war, and now in the hands of Philanax. Live happy in your choice, I shall be proud of our alliance with the crown of Corinth, and shall rejoice to see the succession continue in our blood.” This said, he led him to Gynecia, then to Euarchus, but when he came to Musidorus: “This, nephew, is that black knight,” said he, “who at your last meeting gave such evident proof of his unconquerable valour; this is Musidorus the Prince of Thessalia, 647 whom the gods have bestowed as a blessing on my daughter Pamela.” Amphialus, now assured by the king’s speech, unto whose hand the honour of his conquest had fallen (for doubt had long tormented him that, some baser hand had reaped the glory of his victory). “Prince Musidorus,” said he, “my hard success in our last encounter much perplexed me; not that my confidence of myself was lifted to such an arrogant presumption to think my strength and skill in arms matchless, but that it grieved me, an unknown knight (one, whom the world might think had concealed his name, lest, together with him, his bad fortune in trials of that kind might be discovered) should have the better of me. But now, that I know to whose lot my victory hath fallen, I do not only bring an excuse, but an honour from the worthiness of the conqueror.”

“Courteous Amphialus,” replied the Prince, “whose side the advantage of fortune did then incline to, if it may be determined, with greater reason, and more desert, should the honour be given you, than bestowed on me; but, however, such trial I then made of your manhood that, hereafter, I shall desire to be of your part.” “Worthy Prince,” said Amphialus, “your virtue will always choose to be of the weaker side.” And so turning to Philoclea, “Divine lady,” said he, “in your excellent choice of the famous Pyrocles, you have (besides the happiness gained to yourself, for which the world may envy you) showed me the way to my best hopes, by grafting my affection in the stock of my Helen’s constancy.” “Dear cousin,” replied Philoclea, “I am glad it was in my power, and your good fortune, so much to better your choice in so excellent a remove:” And so, casting a bashful look towards Pyrocles: “Sir,” said she, “we may join in thanksgiving. This is my cousin, whose virtuous disposition during our imprisonment was our safest defence against my Aunt Cecropia’s cruelty.” “I do acknowledge it,” said Pyrocles, “and besides this favour, in which we have a common interest, Sir, I must crave pardon for a wound given you at such a time when, belike, you made patience your only defence.”

Amphialus stood with his eyes fixed on Pyrocles, for his memory supplied him with a confused remembrance of such a face: Zelmane he could not take him to be, her sex and this change, at their first birth, destroyed these apprehensions. Pyrocles, his heart swore he was not, whose youth and beauty, God wot! were no fit livery for such achievements as the world famed him for. Thus awhile he continued, troubled with the uncertainty of conjectures, until Pyrocles (happily conceiving the cause of his amazement) stopped his further admiration by letting him know that the then Zelmane was the now Pyrocles. Whereat Amphialus, 648 as one newly waked out of a dream, cried out, “Anaxius, Anaxius,” said he, “’twas the Prince of Macedon (not a woman) overcame thee. Wheresoever thy soul be, let it keep this time festival as the birthday of thy glory.” And so, after mutual embraces, together with the rest of the princes, they entered the palace, where, when they were seated, the eyes of all the company were set on the Queen of Corinth, longing to know the story of her strange fortune; now a queen, then a prisoner; now alive, then dead; which she, at Basilius’s entreaty, with a majesty which her fortune could not change, because it was innate, thus declared.

“Great Sir! that I was made prisoner by Rinatus, and by him carried to Laconia, fame, together with the news of my supposed death, belike hath brought you; the rest, since you esteem worthy your hearing, I shall esteem worthy my relation. There yet governs, and then did, among the nobility of Laconia, one Creton, a man elected to the crown rather to recompense the desert of his ancestors, than for his own virtues, beloved and borne with for the same reason; such an everlasting monument of itself, can goodness leave to posterity. To him when I was brought, my guilt and my guilty self, with the best oratory Rinatus had, was made known, who, with vehement importunity, desired that my speedy punishment, as my fault, should be terrible. The king answered, though he found his demands reasonable, and such to which he was sure there could be no opposition made, yet he thought it fit the nobility should be acquainted with so weighty a cause before he proceeded further in it, and so, for this time (being committed to the charge of Pertinax, chamberlain to the king) I was dismissed. The next day, the council being sent for, my cause ran the hazard of many opinions; some thought it fit I should die; and though justice, said they, might not dispense with such severity, yet it was fit to please Rinatus, one who had deserved well, and had the power, if otherwise he were dealt with, to revenge his injury. Others, the more in number, and esteemed the wiser, because the King held with them, opposed this sentence, alleging, so inconsiderate an act might call the safety of Laconia in question; ‘For,’ said they, ‘shall we think the Corinthians so degenerate, that, being justly incensed against us they will not endeavour to revenge the death of their prince, in the shade of whose reign they enjoy that peace and plenty their neighbours envy them for? And if they stir in it, what people is so barbarous, whom the justness of their cause will not procure into the society of this war? See then if a private man’s satisfaction be to be compared to these ensuing dangers? No, let her live, and when the gods do otherwise dispose of her, let her death come without the ruin of Laconia.’ This determined, a new doubt arose, how I should be disposed of. 649 They that before thought it expedient I should die, now that opinion was put by, concluded that it was best to send me to Corinth, with an honourable convoy, so to tie them by a perpetual bond of gratitude, to be their friends whom they so much feared to be their enemies; the rest, to gratify the King, whose affection they perceived to lean that way, and well assured it was an advice too profitable to be rejected that gained a kingdom, though his promise after the queen’s death (who, not long before, left him a widower) had been passed to Lemnia, a fair and virtuous lady, daughter to my keeper Pertinax, yet they wished, if so he pleased, my crown might win me to his bed, little doubting but I had thought it an egregious felicity to be so graced. The King, after many protractions, at length, as if he were wrought to it by a desire to satisfy the nobility rather than self-will, declares his mind to be directed by them; which, once known, behold! the flattery of the court began to fawn upon me; who more observed? who more admired? Only Rinatus, much impatient of this my greatness in court, uttered some words in choler, which made known, by a further inquiry, a conspiracy of his against the king, so that soon after (the rather to give me, whom they studied to please, satisfaction) he was beheaded.

“But long it was not before fortune, neither constant to my happy adversity, nor adverse felicity, had brought thither (sent by the usurper Tenarus) a wise, but wicked instrument, whom he called his ambassador, who laboured, by the policy of his high-reaching brain, and the secret practices of his undermining gold, so far for his master’s ends, that now, in an instant, the still-changing face of court-respect began to frown upon me: my death was decreed, and until the time were appointed for it, myself made a close prisoner in my accustomed gaol. But the King, chiefly moved with the hope of my crown, and drawn by a self-conceit of liking to my sorrow, which, perhaps, had a sympathy with his melancholy, wouldst needs continue the suit of his affection to me, though he durst not interpose his over-ruled authority for my liberty. Thus, for a time, did I live, accompanied by some few whom the king might trust with his intents, he, in show, courting his first love Lemnia, and making that a pretence to come private to her father’s house near adjoining to court. But indeed, as at that time he could have no reason to dissemble with me, this kindness came another way; which Lemnia suspecting, and being as far gone in affection to this double-dealing king, as he was in the profession of a little-regarded love to me, her watchful eye soon found the advantage of a happy opportunity to hear himself speak his own deceit, with such a heart-burning vehemency that Lemnia (who had placed herself, unknown to either of us, behind the 650 hangings) scarce could suppress her entry to play a part in our comedy of affection. But to his demands truth answered for me plainly that death, in whose expectation I lived, would be far more pleasing than the marriage he thought so reasonable; adding withal to my speech much of Lemnia’s praise, which she deserved, to instruct his eyes that indeed were blind in his choice.

“But when he parted, vowing to be severe in my punishment, unless I resolved better at his next coming, behold Lemnia, with tears in her eyes, fell at my feet, and when she saw amazement in my looks, with a kind bashfulness, taking my hand, and rising with that help: ‘Virtuous lady,’ said she, ‘if ever you have been acquainted with the tyranny of all-commanding affection, to that judge I appeal, who (though courtesy and good manners oppose him) will find my fault excusable. This man, who in your presence hath been the trumpet of his own inconstancy, first with the vehement protestation of his sincere affection, won me in gratefulness to meet him, in recompense of his unknown dissimulation, if such then it were; and now with the good liking of the state, were the solemnities appointed for our marriage, when your arrival crossed those hopes, and drew his thoughts to their natural temper of unstayedness. But since I have found, by this fortunate unmannerliness, your answers so resolutely opposed to his demands, henceforth I vow to work your freedom, or bring myself to perish with you.’ Her fault found an easy pardon at the tribunal she appealed to—I thanked her, as there was good cause, for her desire of my good; only I wished, if my freedom could not be procured without danger to her, she should not heap miseries upon me by joining herself a companion in my disasters. She comforts me with the hope of a better event, and to bring her intention to a wished success, she wins my unwillingness to show some favour to the king: which next day I did, having placed Lemnia where she had placed herself the day before, to be a witness to our conference; for otherwise, perhaps, her love this second time might have egged her suspicion, already prone that way, to the distrust of a practice betwixt us. And happy was this forced dissimulation; for the King, not long before his coming to me, had received advertisement that the usurper of Corinth had levied an army, and set forth many ships to invade Laconia, making the delay of my promised execution the pretence of this war; which being also known, they (who, together with this foreign enemy, feared the rebellion of the Helots, who always lay in wait for an opportunity of such advantage) now, more than ever, began to solicit the King to satisfy so potent an enemy in so just a demand. The King, well weighing the imminent dangers that were to be prevented by my death, and seeing the little 651 comfort he did enjoy by the prolonging of my life (likely every day to increase my obstinacy, being none of those lovers that would die for his disdaining mistress) was ready to deliver me over as a sacrifice for the state and country, when, behold! his sails were filled with self-opinion of my favour. Borne up, therefore, with the wings of hope, he returns to court, where love (or some indulgent fate) inspired this project into his head; he calls the nobility, and after a long narration of the mischiefs that hung over Laconia, he desires their advice for prevention. They, glad that the only opposer, as they thought, of their designs, would have recourse to their directions, in that cause wherein they were jealous of his partaking after a flattering insinuation (the common exordium to men of his place) they concluded that it was fit Helen should die. ‘I doubt it not,’ said he (nor was it to that end I sought your counsel) ‘that the necessity of the times, the welfare of our person, and the preservation of our estate required her death; but it much perplexed me, that our fame should bleed with her, or that the world should say the threats of the King of Corinth had enforced us to behead her whom lately we were to take to wife. ’Twas this, my lords, that caused my misinterpreted resolution to hang in suspense; for this I have turned my invention into all forms, and now, behold, I have found an even way to lead me between the perils of a threatened war, and the ill-bought quiet of an ignominious peace. My will is she be brought to court (for Pertinax’s house I think not convenient for this project) and placed here, with such about her as I know most trusty in such a secret; then, that her keepers, at farthest within two days, poison her; which done, we will give it out she died of a disease; and to confirm this opinion in the vulgar, we will honour her death with such funeral pomp as the state of her life required. Thus shall our cause of dissention with Corinth be taken away, and we freed from that imputation the world might justly lay upon us.’ The nobility, with silent admiration, began to applaud what he had determined, chiefly Pertinax, who, making the common cause his pretence, laboured by all means to confirm a resolution so necessary for his daughter Lemnia’s happiness.

“The King having dismissed the council, acquaints me with these his proceedings, setting forth, with no mean pride, the pregnancy of his own wit, who had found a way to over-reach such grey-bearded dotards: ‘For,’ said he, ‘you shall that night when you are thought to be poisoned be conveyed hence (by two of chiefest trust about me) unto my castle of Nicos; then will I cause a statue, formed to your proportion, to be coffined up, on which, forsooth, my grave council shall solemnly wait, and perform the obsequies in that ceremony requisite; meantime you shall live, 652 and live beloved of him who hath undergone this dangerous enterprise, and will do many more to endear his affection to you. And when the limbs of this disjointed state be set again, you shall be restored to be yourself, and to enjoy this crown of Laconia so much envied you: till when, I lock these projects in the closet of your secrecy.’

“The good King was scarce gone from me when I made Lemnia of counsel with me, who, seeing the fitness of the time, seeing my journey to Nicos was to be performed in the night, and the easy execution of so dangerless an enterprise, my guard being only two of the King’s servants, she gives in charge to a sufficient number of such whom she knew faithful to her, to meet them mid way, and after they had well beaten my convoy, to discharge them of the suspicion of their consenting to the fact, to carry me to the next seaport, where there staid a ship bound for Delphos, to which I needs would bend my course. This being resolved upon, the lady (equally troubled with the care of my safety and the loss of my presence) wept many tears, which I confess, had been ingratitude in me not to second; so as a while sorrow seemed to have flown thither to bathe herself in our eyes: but love, at length, in both of one another’s good, had well near claimed this passion, when the guard appointed by the King, was come and ready to carry me to court. But why should I, great sir, any longer stay you in a story, whose tediousness I am well assured hath tired you? Know therefore, that this means of my safety was as fortunately executed as happily contrived: the King not once daring to send to seek me, lest he should by that discover his own craft used in this dangerous deluding of the Laconian noblemen.

“But I was scarce a month absent, when he, whose eyes held the reins of his constancy, the object being removed, married (as it was before determined) the beauteous Lemnia, who, now in possession of his love, sticked not to make known to him this whole matter, which otherwise in her behalf I was bound to keep secret. Thus, Sir, if my desire to obey your commands hath made the story of my misfortunes tedious, you may excuse me, since all is done for your satisfaction.”

“Fair Queen,” replied Basilius, “the sweetly-delivered strangeness of the story would still ravish the hearers with a desire of a further cause of attentiveness, did not a greater desire in us, who know your virtues, hasten to hear the end of your much pitied distress.” And so, calling Amphialus to him, having agreed on the day of marriage between the Queen and him, they all arose; for now their appetites (growing jealous of the satisfaction their minds received by the former discourse) began to solicit them in the behalf of their stomachs.

653

After dinner, when most of the company began to imp the wings of time with the feathers of several recreations, Amphialus and Helen privately went together into an arbour in the garden, where, first with tears, the common apology of overjoyed affection, they speak their minds in silence, their panting hearts, as they embraced, with mutual desire, beating their envious garments that gave them not leave to meet. At length Helen, gracefully shaking her head as if she would shake away the drops that, like the morning-dew on full ripe cherries, hung on her rosy cheeks: “O Amphialus!” said she, and then kissed him, as loth to leave so perfect a sentence without a comma; “I will not say you were unkind, but—,” and there with his lips (loth, loth, belike, to accuse him) she closed up her speech. “My sole happiness!” replied Amphialus, softly wringing her hand, “though the foulness of my fault be no fit subject for her to speak of who breathes nothing but goodness, yet I want not an accuser: my soul sets forth my ingratitude; nor can I yet conceive how mercy can be so far removed from justice, as to find a pardon from my offence: But you have given it, and, if it be any requital, it shall be my after-life’s study to love and honour your virtues, as it was hitherto to offend you.” “It is fit therefore,” said Helen, with the counterfeit settledness of majesty, “we impose a penance upon you for your oversight, and this it shall be, that henceforth you neither speak nor think of that you account your fault: and to help you in obeying my commands, I must entreat you to keep your mind and tongue, for a time, busied in telling me what befell you in your travels since our being at Corinth; and do it not so niggardly, as if you meant to conceal what fame hath so largely blown abroad: yet, if you were exposed at any time to much danger, dwell not there too long, lest I forget I have you here.”

“Most dear lady,” said Amphialus, “to conform my speech to your last request would make me disobedient to your first command. Shall I begin with my departure from you? alas! at what time should I more employ my memory and speech in discovery of my faulty self than now? But I see your eyes begin to take anger into them; I will no longer insist on mine own accusation.

“Know therefore, most constant lady, that, accompanied only with Fidutio my page, when I had passed the limits of your dominion, at that time of day when the high-mounted sun makes least shadows, wearied with travel, and desirous of some shelter from the sun’s violent rays, I laid myself under the protection of an olive tree, thinking to set my mutinous thoughts at peace, but it would not be: these outward signs could not appease the fury of an inward enemy. Thus I lay, dearly purchasing the little 654 ease of my body with the affliction of mind, until mine ears, like faithful servants, desirous to end this dissention between their master and himself, caused all the powers of my mind to join in attentiveness; and mine eyes, loth to be outgone in such good offices, did look that way from whence the noise came; where I might discern six men armed, on horseback, carry a fair lady with them, whose tears and out-cries well showed her indisposition to that journey. This sight moved compassion in me, and pity brought a desire to help her distress, but my horse (divining, belike, my intent, and unwilling to leave his food) could by no means be taken; so that, mad with anger, I began to repeat over all the misfortunes that ever had befallen me, to let this know it wanted no fellows, when there came posting that way, one whom by his haste I guessed to have been of the company gone before. Of whom I entreated to know what fault could be so heinous that might take away the name of injury from so unmanly a violence as they offered to so beauteous a lady: But he, with a scornful silence, smiled, and would be gone; and so, perhaps, he might, had not the narrowness of the way, and his courteous horse that would not tread upon me, compelled him to stay. Whereat his anger burst forth into these threats: ‘Villain!’ said he, ‘thy want of armour shall not excuse thee from a death wilfully drawn upon thee; and though there be no glory, there will be satisfaction in thy overthrow.’ Then, drawing his horse a little back, he alighted, and without further complement, ran towards me: But his fury brought him too hastily to his death, for thinking, belike, his threatening mouth was able to defend itself, he forgot to put by my sword that by good fortune lay in his way, and so justly his death entered at his mouth, whose life I think was in his tongue. At his fall Fidutio came in, who helping to fit on the armour, of which we had disfurnished this unserviceable knight, I mounted on his horse, that seemed to have regarded my haste more than mine own, and riding on the spur, I overtook my company, for so they would needs make themselves, saluting me by the name of my friend Satibarsis. But the better observance soon put them out of that opinion. So that guessing (indeed rightly) that I had killed Satibarsis, and by that means got his armour, without desire to be further than by their own conjecture satisfied, they joined all hands in his revenge. But the lady’s cause was just, whose rescue I came to, and the all-seeing providence that would not see justice over-laid, fought for me. And now five of them had either received their well deserved payment of death, or were kept by their wounds from further opposition, when the sixth, who all this while had held the lady, and looked on, seeing my hand (whose weakness had left such 655 precedents of the effects of a good cause) now set against him alone, took his prisoner by the hair, and with his sword gave her a deep wound in the neck. That inhuman act would have given desire to the most barbarous, and power of revenge to the most cowardly: but he, as if he meant to save me a labour, making haste that their warm blood should meet, with the same sword runs himself through, dying as just a judge as he was a traitorous offender. Amazement would have fixed mine eyes upon him, but the lady’s wound brought them to her succour. Experience on myself, made me skilful, and my fair patient officious, so that tying up the wound, for some time I staunched the blood; she, in the meantime, with her watery eyes bent toward heaven, heartily praying for my good fortune, and many times thanking her destiny, that, with her death, had ended the miseries of her ever-dying life. When I had done comforting her, as I thought, with my opinion of her safety, I entreated to know her name, and the cause of this injury done to her. ‘No, no,’ replied she, ‘courteous stranger, the comfort of my near-coming death (in spite of the torment the memory of my most wretched life puts me to) brings this cheerfulness I now present in my looks: and though the least delay of my end is accompanied with a world of sorrows, yet I am glad, for satisfaction of your demand, my breath is a while preserved.

“‘My name is Leaucade, the only daughter to Count Brunio, a man of large possessions in this country, whom, you may well think, because in expectation of his lands, many sued for, and those not of the meanest esteem: but my carelessness of love had taught me such a carriage, that further than of the favour of my courtesy (of which they did all indifferently partake) none could boast. And this, till about a year since, was my daily practice, disdaining (as most that have not known it do) so ridiculous a passion as I then esteemed love. At which time this Fluento, whose happy hand hath done us both right, came to my father’s court. A neighbour prince, with whom (for encroaching upon the bounds of his territory) my father hath had much dissention. But a reconcilement being made between them, and both alike thinking the best means to persevere in amity were to have us two joined in marriage; without my knowledge (as if it were fit I should be a stranger to their proceeding) determine of the match. But, alas! Sir, at this time I was so far from being at their dispose, that I was not at mine own: for love (I think keeping mischief until it were ripe for me) had presented a gentleman to mine eyes, by birth noble, whose ancestors, all to his father, being men of known virtue in the country, were admitted to the prime offices of the kingdom. But he taking a pride to be unthrifty, and little esteeming these public 656 employments, lavished exceedingly both his fame and patrimony; yet it seemed he only made away his estate to purchase goodness for his child: such a son he was father to, so rare, so excellent. His name was Persidas;’ and at that word the tears gushed forth in such abundance that it seemed her blood had changed his course and colour to run forth at the sluices of her eyes: ‘Alas! Sir, what shall I say of him? or who, from Leaucade, will believe the desert of Persidas? But, alas! if they deserve no credit that love him, in this country you must hear nothing of him; the knowledge of his person, and the love of his virtues, being things inseparable. In him begun this tragedy, in me it ends: for when my father and Fluento had drawn their agreement to a head, then, and not before, he thought it time, he said, to let me know my happiness.’ And thus, finding me alone, he breaks the matter to me: ‘Dear child, I have, ever since the death of your virtuous mother (though much importuned by many) reserved you to these years unmarried, because your content should be of counsel with me in your choice: and happy was this delay for the honour of our house; for, behold! Fluento makes his fortunes serviceable to your will: Prince Fluento, daughter, whose powerful greatness the neighbour potentates stand in awe of: him I have won for you, and so forward we be that this day-fortnight he is to take you to wife.’ ‘Father,’ said I, ‘that your wisdom hath deferred my marriage hitherto to give me the comfort of election, my obedience, my only requital, shall be the same it ever was to you: and yet I wonder, that having attained to these years, when my judgment in my choice may be received, you will exclude me from the end for which I was so long reserved; just like a physician that telleth his patient he hath brought a potion to cure him, yet says he must by no means take it. I must be married to Prince Fluento, and yet your meaning is, I should have liberty to choose; as if this enforcement destroyed not my freedom of election. That he is a man, beyond all respects, as you praise him, fit for your estate, I may well grant you, but that he is unfit for your daughter, I am privileged to say.’ At this, his severe look, before he spoke, began to lay before me my obedience: and when he had walked two or three turns in the room, ‘Daughter, daughter,’ said he, ‘I never thought you were so wilful! Where, I pray you, is there a match fit for your birth, if not Fluento? Beware, beware, you do not give your posterity just cause to curse you, that denied them so great, so good a father.’ I answered that I thought it were too tender a respect of children, whom perhaps I might not have, or should not enjoy, to choose for them, and not a husband for myself, and too senseless a feeling of the honour of my house, to wrong myself to do my birth right. Then kneeling on my knees, 657 ‘Sir,’ said I, ‘solicit me no more, I have not power to grant.’ He hastily, when it was scarce delivered, snatched this word: ‘And why not power to grant?’ said he. ‘Because Persidas is the anchor-hold of my life and love.’ ‘Persidas!’ cried out my father, ‘Now all misfortune fall thick upon me, shall my means help to make up a bankrupt in his estate? Accursed be my fate that gave me life to hear it. Persidas! Why, sure it cannot be.’ ‘Sir,’ said I, ‘if my love were not far past, my desperate presumption would not bring a truth, much less an untruth, to move your anger. And if those after hopes have not clean compelled you to forget you are my father, have pity on me? If so, I crave the trial of the law.’ This last request (after conference with Fluento) finding my obstinacy, he condescended to. But because, I perceive, Sir, you are a stranger here, and that the knowledge of this law doth much concern the story of my present mishap, I will make it known to you.

“This kingdom of Argos, wherein you are, was governed not long since by Phenissa, a woman worthy to have come to that place by election if nature had not bestowed it upon her by descent from her famous ancestors. This queen (that you may see we want not the precedent of greatness to excuse affection) in her father’s life-time, though by him she was promised to Deoxippus, the tyrant of Syracusa, was enamoured of one Eumenes, governor (for the Lacedaemonians) of the island and city of Delphos. And when it well might be thought the king’s death, and her succession, had taken away the restraint of her will, yet she, growing less willing when she was most powerful, like a horse that finding the reins hang loose upon him begins to stay his fury; so she, though by this change she had not received any slackness into her affection, began to tender the cause of her country that lay open to the invasion of her proud enemy Deoxippus, if so she would have made him. Preferring therefore now this common respect, before her private satisfaction, as she had done her obedience in her father’s life-time before her love, she buries herself in the grave of Deoxippus’s loathsome bed.

“When the unexpected news of Phenissa’s marriage came to the ears of her faithful lover Eumenes, his passion (as Agamemnon’s at the death of Iphigenia) can best be expressed in silence, all the wild furies that distracted grief could gather, being summoned to the siege of his soon-overthrown heart: hastily thereupon to the temple his mad passion bears him, where, casting himself at the feet of Apollo, ‘Unjust god!’ said he, ‘have I for this thy ungratefulness given up the offerings of my daily prayers? But if I wrong thy name, show thy justice in revenging my death.’ Whereat, transported with violence of sorrow, running his head 658 against the altar, his bloody brains flew forth of their battered lodging. Soon after, the contagion of a most pestilent air brought such a plague among the Argians, that many daily felt the fury of the gods revenging indignation: amongst whom, the King and Queen (reserved, belike, the more to be punished in their subjects’ calamity) after the desolation of their well-peopled country, both in one day, by the same infection, ended their lives and government; wherewith this mortality ceased, as hitting now at length the mark it aimed at.

“The few remnant of the nobility sent to Delphos to know what fault of theirs had brought these miseries upon their country? Where, being informed of what was past, Apollo advised them to provide, that no such mischief should after happen. They, well weighing whence it arose, being fully satisfied by the oracle, enact this law: that neither private nor public respect should detain a virgin from revealing her love; and if her friends, or parents, think another than she hath chosen more fit for her, the combat between the two shall determine the god’s pleasure. How unwilling I was to hazard my Persidas in this trial, love, that bleeds in the thought of a danger, can best assure you: but his earnestness that it might be so, and the hard constraint that it could not be otherwise, won me to it.

“The day therefore being appointed, Fluento (upon whom fame the flatterer of greatness had pinned the opinion of valour) entered the lists, mounted on a bay courser, whose armour all over represented a green plain, through which ran little rivulets of blood that sprang from the wounds of many centaurs dispersed over all the field. In his shield he bore the counterfeit of Hercules and Deianira, with these words, ‘Endeared by Conquest.’ From him my Persidas drew the eyes and hearts of all the company; his horse was a fiery sorrel; his armour like the azure sky, curiously spotted with many stars (whose glimpse the well set diamonds, by reflection of the sun, represented) showed as if night had flown thither to end, in that assembly, some controversy between her and her brother. In his shield he caused Andromeda and Perseus to be engraven, with these words, ‘Never too dearly bought.’ ‘But I must hasten to the event,’ said she; ‘for long I find you may not enjoy your historian: Know, therefore, that my Persidas, contenting himself only with the victory, when he might have taken (woe is me that he was so merciful!) Fluento’s life, was accepted by my father for his son-in-law; good fortune, as I then thought, changing my husband, and not my day of marriage. In the meantime Fluento, repining at this disgrace, and desirous, even now upon the basest terms to be revenged, plotted a treachery unheard-of against him. This morning, having before heard we 659 were to hunt in this forest, Fluento (with that company your valour hath brought to their deserved ends) lay in wait for us; and when myself and my Persidas (Count Brunio my father, and the rest, having followed the chase) were left alone, behold these bloody villains, coming unawares upon him, with many wounds, sent his soul to that place whither mine (hoping to find a more lasting union in that life than our loves hath done in this) doth also hasten.’ And with this word, her dull languishing eyes began to roll as if they strove to reserve motion in spite of death: yet, raising herself a little, her love found breath to say this, ‘Let me be buried by my Persidas!’ and so grasping my hand, as it were, to put me in mind of her last words, alas! she dies.

“But many tears I could not have bestowed as obsequies upon her, when some of her father’s train, who by chance crossing that way where Persidas lay dead, guided by Fidutio (who, with their helps, had now taken my horse) came to this place; to whom when I had related all what I learned from Leaucade of Persidas’s death, together with her last will, we all joined hands in carrying her to the next village; whither also certain of their fellows (whom they had left behind to that end) conveyed the body of Persidas; from whence, soon after, Count Brunio (having begged of grief a little respite of life to fulfil his daughter’s testament) brought them both with all funeral pomp to his chief city Coniga, where he caused a stately tomb to be built for them, on which this epitaph was engraven,

“Leaving the woeful kingdom of Argos, no better accompanied than with Fidutio, yet better guarded by Satibarsis’s armour, my sorrow, I think, that bore infection with it, made all places where I came, fit stages for tragedies: for, descending into a green valley, where, of each side the rocky mountains threatened the humble earth with the frowns of their downcast brows, I might see a young man leaning with both hands on his sword, breathing as over-toiled with labour, and round about him four or five cast prostrate at his feet, who were dead, or thought their counterfeiting so to be, would prove their best defence against this young man’s fury. But the clashing of my armour had no sooner made known my approach, than he came running towards me, uttering words whereby I might gather his quarrel to me brought the excuse of mistake with it. Not to draw on therefore his misconceived opinion, that his breathless companions did witness would be 660 dangerous for me; ‘Sir,’ replied I, ‘I am so far from maintaining their cause, whose revenge upon a lone man, being so many, mine own eyes do persuade me was injurious, that had I come at the beginning of your fight (though this event shows I should but have robbed you of part of the honour of this action) I would have joined myself to you.’

“‘Alas! Sir,’ said he, ‘to oppose yourself against me (though it were the more unjust) would be the more secure way, for what you see is but a fore-runner of a certain destruction soon at hand. Leave me therefore, courteous sir, and seek for safety: death to me is so grateful that I envy you should be a partner in so great a gain. But it were a fault unpardonable, to have abandoned the most accomplished man that ever mine eyes before that time, beheld.’ My resolution therefore, though hard against his will, must have prevailed with him: so that entreating to know the cause of his former fight, and further doubt, I found his courtesy as forward in the relation of his own danger as it was obstinate in the care of my safety.

“‘Sir,’ said he, ‘seeing my story will be but a heap of misfortunes, I shall do well to lay the foundation myself, than whom the sun looks not upon a more miserable creature: My name is Cariclio, nephew, by his brother Castor, to the King of Natolia, brought up in my youth in the good opinion of my uncle, and the great expectation of many; fortune, then belike, proroguing my miseries until a more serious age should make me more sensible of them: which time had no sooner brought on, but that my ill fate, to train me up for the burden of the mischief that was prepared for me, began by little and little to make me acquainted with the course I was to run; first taking away my father, whose virtuous age deserved (if that may be thought a recompense for desert) a longer time in this life: When he was dead, and that the slippery steps of my rash youth wanted the stay of his fatherly advice, presently (not knowing what one man’s hands I should put the reins of my then unbridled youth into, and yet well seeing I might not trust myself with mine own government) I chose many friends; and being by nature given to hate pride, to eschew a vice so loathsome (thinking it might not be done otherwise) I began to affect popularity. But I had scarce lived thus a twelve-month, when my cousin the King’s son, a young man, who (besides the hope of succession, for which the courtiers did adore him) had nothing more than ordinary in him, grew suspicious of my practices, as he termed them: to which humour (besides the mistrust of his own little desert) his sycophants, the bellows of this fire, did daily add further causes to increase his jealousy. But seeing the discovery of his suspicion would little please the king, 661 who ever since the death of my father had doubled his care upon me; he was compelled to dissemble a good liking towards me. In meantime a truce, made for some few years with the Duke of Amasia, being expired, the war grew hot on both sides. At length, after the trial of many changes in fortune, necessity meditating peace between them, myself being given as a hostage for performance of certain conditions of my uncle’s part, a perpetual league was concluded on: ’Twas now, and not before, mischief began to unmask herself, and take a pride to grow terrible. There was at court, during my abode there, attending upon the Duchess, a lady, by name Alcida, whose many excellencies won as many hearts as she had beholders, nature making her beauty and shape but the most fair cabinet of a far fairer mind. To her, mine eyes at first sight gave up my heart, with so unfortunate an encounter in affection, that this surrender was but a mutual exchange, she having, in a merciful gratefulness, fixed her love on mine. But her parentage, though not base, was so mean in respect of my birth, that thence whole armies of afflictions did invade my mind, equally distracted between my desire to enjoy this my best of happiness and fear of my uncle’s displeasure, on whom this match (for his care and love of me) I was sure would draw on an untimely death. But before I could determine a doubt of so great consequence, the conditions of the league being faithfully performed, I was safely, at a day prefixed, sent back to Natolia, desirous, even in my soul desirous, I am sure, rather by their breach of covenant to have hazarded my life, than thus cruelly to be taken away from her presence, who, far beyond my life, was most dear to me. Soon after my return, the King, as if the gods had stayed him to see the quiet of his state, now that was brought to pass, worn with age, and much broken with travel and care in his last wars, left his kingdom to his degenerate son and successor, who had no sooner seized upon the government, but, meaning to begin his reign with an admirable act of policy, now his power was unrestrained, limits me to the absence from my country, declaring my blood for ever incapable of succession: and not content with this, to such a height his undeserved malice to me was raised, that he dealt with some bad ministers of his wickedness, secretly to make me away. To prevent therefore what was plotted against me, disguising myself, I hastily fled away, and making use of necessity, to further my affection, I put myself into the service of a nobleman here in the court of Amasia, easily remaining undiscovered, among them who would sooner fall out with their eyes than believe that the greatness wherein they lately had seen me, could admit so great a change: by mean whereof, I enjoyed the presence of my Alcida, whose constancy, neither time, nor absence (the mothers of 662 affection) nor what is more, this my change in fortune, could alter.

“‘Thus, while I lived in this happiness of servitude, Mermidon (brother to the Duke) having commanded, with fortunate success, against the Dacians, returned to court, where seeing this lady, he became enamoured of her, to no other end than to satisfy his lust: and thinking, at first (because he was in good esteem with himself) she would have strained her modesty to sue for the acceptance of a present so grateful to him, a while he was silent; but when he perceived the vanity of his fruitless expectation, and found that this delay increased the fury of his passion, dispensing with the majesty he had taken on, he began to make known his love to her (for such a title did he give to so base a desire) forgetting not withal to tell her that to excuse her modesty he had first spoken her wishes. But the virtuous Alcida, loathing as much the thought of such a sin, as she loved the memory of me, together with a resolute denial, let him know how base his mind was that made so injurious a request. Whereat Mermidon, because this answer came unexpected, was so much the more amazed. But bringing arguments from his late practice in the war, he began to think his honour would be the greater, if, after long resistance, he did surprise a well-defended fort: and therefore daily, both by rich gifts, the base enamel of affection, and many promises (which, to win the more upon her, were sent by one of her own sex, who, if example might move her, could tell of such a precedent in herself) did he seek to undermine her resolution. Meantime, my constant Alcida, seeing the intemperance of Mermidon’s lust to bring threats of force with it, not daring to speak with me, because our conference began to be suspected, sent me a letter to hasten her carrying away, appointing this the fatal place of our meeting.

“‘I much rejoiced to be so near my happiness, the rather that since our last conference, I received intelligence that my young cousin of Natolia being made away by one whom he had raised to an undeserved height in his favour, the country was in great distress by the factious ambition of the nobility, and that the best affected to the state, much desired my presence. But these means, how well soever, as I thought, conducing to my happiness, by the unmercifulness of my hard destiny were prevented, as one of those, whom it was my fortune to kill, at his death revealed: for Mermidon having intercepted the messenger, mad with rage to find his hopes crossed by so mean a man as he took me to be, having again sealed up the letter, he caused it to be delivered, and determining to be revenged, sent these men to apprehend me, himself intending to follow presently, leading with him my dearest Alcida, whom, in my presence (to add a glory to the execrableness of the offence) 663 he means to ravish. And now, Sir, you have heard,’ said he, ‘of my birth and fortune, till this time (when, I am well assured, my end is near at hand) kept secret.’

“He scarce had closed up this lamentable story with a hearty sigh, the compendious abridgment of his sufferings, when we might discern Mermidon, with twenty more (so distrustful is treachery though there be no cause to fear) make towards us: but that sight, together with the thought of Alcida’s distress, was a signal sufficient for Cariclio to begin his unequal encounter, so as, like a she-tiger, who, at her return to her cave, finds her little ones to be stolen, with a wild fury, breathing nothing but destruction, he runs amongst them, making way for my willingness to second his attempt. Awhile, the justice of the cause, and Cariclio’s valour (to which the glory is only due) with the death of many, did hold the victory in an equal balance: At length, the multitude of our assailants made injury the stronger, bringing to a death much to be pitied, so incomparable a man at arms as was Cariclio; yet, not before he had, in the sight of Alcida, sent Mermidon to be his harbinger at Charon’s ferry. And when by his death the only stay and support of the fight was removed, if sometimes my desire of revenge made good the ground Cariclio had bequeathed me; alas! how could I long resist without him? Know therefore, excellent lady, that, here I was made prisoner, and, together with Alcida, carried back to court; though I call Cariclio’s ghost to witness, I sought all means to join myself, even in death, a companion to his virtues. The solemnity intended for our execution, and the preparation of new forms of torment for us that had been parties in the murder of the Duke’s brother, won some lingering days of life to the inward torture of our expectation: In meantime the everlasting providence, that by changing the intentions and dooms of men, will let them know there is a power beyond theirs, sent an unexpected mean to help our distress.

“Plangus, the famous Prince of Iberia, at this time making haste with a few, such as virtue had joined partners in his cause, and taking into his army such of Euarchus’s soldiers, as in a tempest at sea were driven to Byzantium, to the succour of Erona (whose story you cannot be ignorant of) and being to pass through Amasia, sent to the Duke to demand a thorough-fare for his soldiers. But he, who of long time had observed an inviolable league with the Armenians, knowing the pretence of this war, and despising the weakness of those few Plangus led with him, not only denied his request, but, gathering a great power of soldiers (whom since his last wars he had kept in garrison in his frontier towns) meant, with the overthrow of her ungrateful nephew, to gratify Artaxia, and her ill-chosen husband Plexirtus. But the excellent Plangus (than 664 whom this age shows not, for conduct in war, a better general) with the well-ordering those few resolute troops, and skilful industry in choice of advantages, in two set battles put him to the worst; after which, the Duke not able to reinforce his weakened power, put himself, with the relics of his late overthrow, into his chief city, wherein we were prisoners; to which Plangus, finding no other resistance, with wonderful celerity followed him: and though the town by nature and art, for site and fortification were thought impregnable, yet being defended but by such, who, by their own loss, held a too superstitious opinion of the enemies, it was soon forced by Plangus’s victorious troops, who believed the success of nothing impossible to which their ever-fortunate captain would lead them. With the sack of this city (wherein he took the Duke, with his son, prisoners) Plangus having enriched his soldiers with the booty, and his own fame by the speediness of the conquest, not able to assure the country to his devotion, otherwise than by dismembering his army, and delaying his chief ends, moved with a necessary clemency, having first received six months’ pay for his soldiers, and the Duke’s son a hostage, to bar his desire of revenge (making Alcida and myself, to secure our freedoms, companions in his travel) he leaves the Amasians to their former government.

“Many days’ journey we had not been in our way to Armenia, when the good Alcida, by the inward working of her thoughts, began to find the burden of her grief too heavy for her, which when the dullness of her ever-watery eyes, and the paleness of her cheeks had betrayed to us, we carried her to a monastery near adjoining, dedicated to Diana, and much famed for the strictness of virgins’ orders that be attendants on the goddess her ceremonies, where having recommended her to the governess of the house, alas! I left her, bound, even by the greatest tie of gratefulness, to follow him whom I owe my life to.

“These former accidents, most dear lady, together with the excellent Plangus’s company, in whom sorrow was drawn to the life, made me reflect upon my ungrateful self, and consider how cruel I had been to you, whose desert passed my best endeavours of requital; so that (far engaged to the memory of your virtues) thenceforth the thought of my most dear Helen, won my heart to a most passionate affection.”

The Queen at this interrupted his speech, with this answer: “My Amphialus, they who follow examples in their actions are to match rightly what they are to do, and what they see done. Leaucade, Alcida, and Erona might justly claim the reward of love, but Helen (whose desert was far short) could expect but disdain.” “Disdain!” said Amphialus, “you renew a punishment your mercy did once forgive.” And here, with tears in his eyes, 665 he would have kneeled to beg a further pardon; but Helen, kissing away the burden his eyes went with, made as much haste to prevent his suit with the like of her own; so that a friendly composition being made (as it well might be where both were parties, and both judges in one cause) the Queen got the continuance of the story (which Amphialus would put off to another time) to boot; and then, willing to discharge himself of the debt he owed for so good a bargain, he thus began.

“Madam, though my memory be a continued record of much sorrow, yet, among the many stories grief hath engraven in me, there is none, compared with the disaster of Plangus and Erona, that deserves compassion: Know therefore, my only happiness, that Plangus having received advertisement how the nobleman, unto whose faithful custody Erona (upon the accord between him and Artaxia) was delivered, being hardly besieged by Plexirtus, and brought to an extremity by famine, had yielded to a composition that if within five days he was not succoured, he must deliver the castle, Plangus therefore over-running the fame of his coming with his presence, the fifth night was near Plexirtus’s camp, where (by one of the enemies whom his scouts had taken) he was informed that late that evening, the keys of the city and fort were given up to Plexirtus, but that he deferred his entry till morning, leaving the next gate to the camp open that all night his officers might prepare a magnificent triumph for him. As for Erona, he would determine nothing of her until he had received the honour due to his victory. At this news Plangus, causing the reporter to be safely kept, and giving to his wearied soldiers some time to refresh themselves after the toil endured in their last day’s travel, an hour before day (rightly imagining the air was then apt to disperse a dull sleepiness among Plexirtus’s careless soldiers) he calls his troops together, and setting before them the easiness of the victory, the riches of the camp, and the necessity of the time, he did encourage them with the repetition of their former conquest in Amasia, the justness of their cause, and the fame of their enterprise; and then presently disposing of them for his most advantage, he sets upon his enemy, who dreamed of nothing but security. But what should I fright you, most dear lady, with the particulars of this fight; it will suffice you to know that Plangus (doing things in his own person past the power of expression) made a bloody slaughter among them. Some few there were that escaped—among whom Plexirtus (fortune being always indulgent to mischief) found in the speed of his horse a dishonourable safeguard for his wretched life. This tumult being soon perceived by the citizens (whom sorrow made watchful, and the well-known treacheries of Plexirtus, suspicious) they as soon imagined this was a practice of 666 his, contrary to his faith given, to sack the town. This once conceived, it seemed by the hideous cries and confused lamentations, that, as sorrow had put on the vizard of night to make grief ugly, so black night had borrowed the mouth of sorrow to implore compassion. The people leaving their walls and houses, ran to their temples and altars, offering up, as they thought, their last devotions to their gods. Nor did this mistake bring forth the effect of mistrust only in the city; the camp had likewise this fear added to their present misfortune; for Plexirtus’s soldiers (like satyrs, frightened with the sound of the horn themselves blow) thinking the vanguard of the enemy had entered the town, and caused this confusion, durst not venture to make themselves masters of it; but between both, unable to determine of a mean of safety, stood fixed in a stupid irresolution.

“Meantime Aurora, weary of aged Titan’s bed, began to warn Phoebe of her brother’s approach, when Erona who had set down in her settled judgment, a death worthy the greatness of her birth, now first giving ear to the cries of the citizens, and misdoubting the same false measure they expected, and not long after, hearing a man armed coming up the stairs to her lodging, she took a poisoned cup, long before for that end prepared, and making haste lest she should be made a present to the proud conqueror the wicked Plexirtus, she drank more than half, when her eyes met with the eyes of Plangus, who, unfortunate gentleman! desirous to be the messenger to Erona of Erona’s freedom, had made this haste. The sight of Plangus stayed her full draught a while; but, unable to satisfy herself how he might come thither, she began to imagine that it was the force of the poison which dimmed her eyes, and placed the character of Plangus (ever present to her mind) upon each object. With this thought she was ready to begin again, when Plangus, falling at her feet, let her know the event of so many dangers undergone for her: whereat Erona being much astonished, lifting him up from the ground, thus said: ‘Prince Plangus, you come in a fit time to receive a hearty welcome, and as hearty a farewell. What I mean by this leave-taking, alas! you will too soon know: Now suffer me, only at such a time when the end will assure you I did not flatter, speak a few words I would have you believe; yet I am sorry, for your sake, I have practised such a mean to work a belief in you: True it is, most excellent Plangus (nor let that truth accuse me of inconstancy) that since the death of Antiphilus, whose memory even at this time is dear to me, though at first the excess of sorrow had closed up my mind from the thought of a second choice; yet, enforced by your desert, and to reward mine own love in rewarding your desires, I was resolved to satisfy you, and make myself 667 happy; but my envious fate, finding the times fit to cause me to despair, hath made yourself the instrument to bar our hopes for ever.’ ‘Dear Erona,’ replied the Prince, ‘what may there now be that the most partial judgment can equal to the excess of content Plangus enjoys in the welfare of his free and loving Erona? for this I have paid the merciful heavens the tribute of my vows and tears: to this harbour, through the sea of grief (having embarked my careful love in the ship of my desire) I have always bent my course; and shall I now, when my wishes be at anchor in so secure a haven, fear fortune? No, no, most dear lady, you are the life and being of what I only esteem happy.’ ‘Alas! Plangus,’ said the sweet Erona, ‘the testimonies of your love have been so many that I fear (and only fear) they who have heard your undeserved affection, and are not present at this my dying protestation, will for ever record, together with my want of judgment, my injury to your virtues.’ ‘Your dying protestation!’ said Plangus, ‘affright not my soul with such heavy news. Long may you live; the Fates must be indulgent to your youth and beauty.’ ‘And perhaps,’ said she, ‘so they might, had not myself hastened Clotho to cut in two the half-spun thread of my life.’ And then she let him know how (to prevent the tortures and disgraces Artaxia’s indignation had prepared for her, seeing the city brought to that desperate state in which he found it, and thinking himself to have been an officer sent by Plexirtus to bring her before him) she had poisoned herself. Plangus at these last words, with a fixed look upon Erona, as if his eyes would for ever dwell there, indenting his hands, and suffering them to fall down, or rather not able to stay them, sinks to the ground, and was a while happy in this excess of sorrow that made him senseless of all sorrow. Erona would have forced herself to help him, but this sight (joined with the inward working of the poison) constrained her to bear him company in his happy forgetfulness of his misfortunes. But when, by the help of her women, her senses were restored, and that my endeavours wrought the same effect on Plangus, as if this had been but grief’s dumb show: ‘Alas! excellent Prince,’ said she, ‘what unexpected effects hath the speech of my death brought forth; and yet though I were silent, I believe the deadly signs in mine eyes, this trembling in my full-swollen veins, and the often set and rise of the blood in my cheeks, would express it. But, my Plangus, should you, whom the world is proud of, take it so to heart? Erona loves you; why so may a more deserving lady: Yet, Plangus, remember me, and it will be the best part of my soul’s life to live in your memory.’ Then, taking his hand, and placing it on her heart, that now proudly began to beat the loud alarm of death, ‘Feel here,’ said she, ‘the battery is begun, and this fort is abandoned of all the 668 powers of life, only my desire to be with you, desperately a while keeps the breach. But, O my Plangus!—’ and at that word death closed up in eternal silence her tongue, that yet still moved as loth to leave her speech imperfect.

“It was a desperate grief, and wild passion, that seized upon the heart of the poor Plangus. ‘Accursed earth!’ did he say, ‘how darest thou support the burden of these many mischiefs cast by the spiteful heavens into this sink of misery? ’Twas I, Erona, brought an untimely set to thy sun-shine of goodness; and do the heavens mean I should breathe that have so much wronged them? What do they do? Will they hear me speak that killed Erona? But they would have me live, to torture me with the memory of my guilt. No, no, I will prevent their project; that were a punishment fit for an ill-meant offence, not an unfortunate.’ And with these words, drawing his sword, and lifting up his bases, he would have run himself through the belly, but I stayed his hand from so unmanly, as I then alleged it, a violence, forcing (with the remembrance of our friendship, and my much prevailing tears) the sword, but not his resolution from him. Then did I begin to allege all that I thought in reason might remove him from this purpose; for well I might see in the unappalled stayedness of his countenance, the greatness of some determination. To all my objections, for a time, his eyes gave a more heedful attention than did his ears; but when I came to call his valour in question, whose unspotted memory hitherto, I said, this last inconsiderate act would accuse of a little firm constancy in bearing the changes of fortune; ‘Alas!’ said he, ‘and will you, my friend, be cruel to me? Is it certain, Amphialus, that it well becomes that courage you would have in your friend, to bear an equal temper both in the frowns and smiles of fortune? And is it not as certain that when the malice of heaven hath joined with fortune in producing a monstrous effect, there cannot be left in man so infinite a power of suffering which he dare oppose to such unlimited works? No, I will not, giant-like, bandy against the gods; such is their will; I must die.’ Then leading me softly over to Erona, as if he would persuade me the violence of passion had not been his guide to this resolution: ‘See Amphialus,’ said he, ‘this is she whom you would have me to live after; what can mine eyes, now she is gone, desire to look on! Erona, a woman, could die for Plangus, and would you have me wrong mankind with a greater fear of death, or my love with a less desire to die?’ This said (but with a countenance that promised no suddenness in the execution, especially to me who was master of his sword, his only offensive weapon) behold! with a downcast look, which sorrow excused, though deceit had then, I am sure, put it on for further mischief, 669 and such a pace as used slowness to the same end, he approached the window, where the remains of Erona’s intercepted draught, appointed by the destinies to be fatal to them both, stood in a gilt cup: This he hastily takes, and as hastily drinks off. I, all confused, pale and trembling, as if the poison had wrought its effect in me, made, alas! too slow speed to him. But Plangus (now first presenting an unfeigned cheerfulness in his looks, as if this draught had given him life) kneeling near Erona: ‘Divine soul,’ said he, ‘if confidence in thy Plangus’s constancy makes thee hover near this sacred mansion of thine to see the end of his sufferings, O stay awhile, and bear me with thee; thy presence, when I appear before Radamanth, will be a countenance to my cause.’ Then turning himself to me, ‘Amphialus, revenge, Amphialus, Erona’s death upon the wicked Plexirtus; his blood will be the best sacrifice to my ghost. Lead the army to Byzantium and restore the Amasian hostage.’ Then putting his trembling lips to the pale lips of Erona, he coldly kissed away his life.

“What my sorrow was, to be a looker on these tragedies, these tears, even at the remembrance of that time, may testify; yet leaving the bodies to be embalmed with the nobleman, who, in her life-time, had been faithful to Erona, dissembling the death of Plangus, lest it should work an innovation among the soldiers, with some choice troops of light horsemen, I followed Plexirtus, who, posting to court, had received advertisement from thence, how Arguto (the admirable engine by whom he wrought much mischief) being lately fallen from the faith vowed to his practices, had revealed to Artaxia the purpose his master had to dispatch her out of his way, since now he had a son by her to whom he might be guardian, esteeming it more content to be great alone than to share the royalties of her own kingdom with Artaxia. These news made his flight as dangerous as would be his stay; but when he understood (for the heavens had made this the rendezvous where his misfortunes should meet) that the Princes of Thessaly and Macedon, of whom his treacheries were to expect their just reward, did live, and should be happy in the addition of Arcadia to their greatness; that Leonatus had seized upon his seigniories in Trebizond for his treason to Pyrocles and Musidorus, of which not long before he had gloriously boasted; that there was no new form of dissimulation left, to which, in this extremity, he might have recourse: O then the ugliness of his guilty conscience, that until this time had made peace with his wickedness, presented before him the progress of his ill-spent days, drawn to life in the colours of despair: now his father, now his friends, Tydeus and Telenor were summoned by his soul to make party against him. In this fright he continued all that day, 670 which scarce was time sufficient for him to read over his misdeeds, and when the silent night, drawn in her ebon chariot, had spread her curtains to hide her brother’s face, Plexirtus, glad to see her flatter his mind in this likeness of darkness, resolved, by despair, that the gods wanted mercy for his faults, and well-assured men had less, he secretly went into a garden, to which a back-door from his chamber led him; where, loathing as much to die, as wishing he were dead, he spent some time in execrations on himself. At length, tying a cord (newly taken out of his bed) to the stump of an elder tree that stood with such convenience as if it would invite him to that exercise, he slipped into his death, easing the earth until morning of the burden of so detestable a wretch.

“But when the day appeared, and made known his death, the magistrates of the town, striving who could be best-sighted in the discovery of the murder, hoping to have the reward of their diligence from the Queen Artaxia, soon found out, as a man to be most suspected, the messenger come from court, whom Plexirtus had, till late in the night, kept in his chamber, to know of him the particulars of Arguto’s revolt. This fellow, because none more likely in the wild form of their popular justice, was to die a thousand manner of deaths; but he making just protestations of his innocency, being questioned what occasion he had so long to stay the last night with the king if not for that end, he plainly let them know what Arguto discovered, which he then reported to Plexirtus. The many-headed multitude called not the truth much in question of what they heard, but with the same violence as before, everyone, in this also thinking to gratify the queen, ran to as uncertain a form of execution on the dead as they did before to a judgment of the living; first they stripped the body naked, then dragged it through the streets; now they open his belly and suffer his guts to mark forth his progress, doing many more indignities to him who had deserved many more. I much rejoiced to hear Plexirtus had been so just to himself; yet I determined to join Erona’s revenge on Artaxia to Plexirtus’s judgment on himself; but her an untimely death had freed from my revenge, for taking to the heart Plexirtus’s treacheries, and her brother Tyridates’s unrevenged death, she calmly gave herself over to a life-oppressing grief, leaving her kingdom and young son to the care of Salindor, whom she appointed protector during the minority.

“Returning, therefore, somewhat grieved that both Plangus and Erona’s death without my help had been revenged, I conveyed the bodies to Lycia, where the sumptuousness of their tombs shows their estates, and their everlasting fame their ever-living virtues. 671 From hence I would have parted private, but remembering Plangus’s last will, I passed through Amasia, restoring his son to the Duke, and coming to Byzantium, I gave up my charge into the hands of Lisantus a Macedonian, leaving the soldiers full of hearty sorrow for the death of Plangus their general.

“Soon after, hearing of your death, and resolved to sacrifice my blood to your memory, to disengage myself of some part of my faultiness, leaving Fidutio in Thrace, lest by him I should be discovered, disguising myself in an armour, fitly, as I thought, presenting the massacre of my naked heart; passing the court of Elis and Argos, and, lastly, coming hither, I met (what should I more say?) with thee my Helen, reserved to be a blessing beyond what most I could desire.”

And so, with a sincere servency, kissing her hand, they both walked towards the palace, where, having ended supper, where Basilius and Euarchus, with the rest, expected a mask prepared for them; the Queen of Corinth let them know what she had heard of Plangus and Erona, together with Plexirtus’s deserved end, and the death of Artaxia. The audience greatly pitied their fortunes, especially Pyrocles, who much grieved to hear of Plangus’s death, for the love he bore his virtues, and was no less troubled at Plexirtus’s mischance, for his dear servant Zelmane’s sake. But the entry of the maskers caused him to put over those thoughts to more solitariness, his eye being fed with dainty variety of representations, and his ears with most harmonious well-agreeing music, to which the footing kept so good time, that doubtful it was whether the music conformed itself to the life of their motion, or the masters their motion to the music’s liveliness. But night (masked in these sports) crept on undiscovered; and though Pyrocles and Musidorus at other times would dispense with the length of the sports, yet now, in respect of the armfuls of joy they were to expect in bed, they thought them tedious; which once perceived, their dances were sooner at an end than was intended.

Thus days and nights passed over, as if they had no other sphere than delight to move in; and the appointed time for Amphialus’s marriage was at hand, to which Basilius invited the shepherds, both to change their daily pleasures, as also to show Euarchus that though a greater cause had moved him to the solitary course of life by him embraced, yet the wits of Arcadia, and the pleasantness of their harmless life, might have drawn him to that retiredness.

The Eclogues

672

Kalodulus now minded to marry his daughter, and uncertain whether he should bestow her on the contended young Arcadian Menalcas, or the much having, much wanting Thessalian Corydon, who both were then present, hearing of this summons; puts over their cause to be determined by Basilius; and Strephon and Claius, no less desirous to bring Urania’s name to court, joined themselves to the rest. Nor was Agelastus wanting, who, not for a mistress, but, Heraclitus-like, thinking man was made to mourn, and repining at the vanity of greatness, had maintained a religious sorrow. No sooner was the company set, and that their silence began to proclaim their expectation, but Strephon, who, before his coming, had prepared an Epithalamium, began thus to sing.

Amphialus thanked Strephon for his hearty wishes; but he had scarce ended, when Claius, looking upon him with as sour a countenance as their friendship could allow, thus said:

673

Then Claius pausing a while, with crossed arms and a downcast look, began again these following verses to Strephon, whom he spoke to as representing the person of sorrow.

674

When they ended, Musidorus (in whose memory their courtesy to him, had engraven a beholdingness) forgot not to approve what they had said. But the audience had little time to determine whether they deserved what the Prince thought them worthy of, when Corydon, who longed to hear the debate between him and Menalcas, for Kalodulus’s daughter, ended, clapping him on the shoulder, thus said:

676

Corydon, inwardly out of countenance to hear his own words bite so sore upon him, would have shrunk away, but hoping he had found a judge whom the cause concerned stood a while to attend what Basilius would have said. But the King put it over to Musidorus, who (glad to find an occasion to pleasure Menalcas, his first master in the practice of a shepherd’s life) thus ended it.

“Corydon,” said he, “could I as well lop away some of your over-grown years, to make your match with Kalodulus’s daughter equal, as I can add to Menalcas’s state, I would, for a time, suspend my judgment: for readily I know not whether of you two deserves best: but in the one, my power seconds my will; as in the other, my will over-goes my power. Kalodulus’s daughter I therefore adjudge to Menalcas, and I will make him worthy of her, the rather, that I know his rash youth would impatiently bear a repulse, where your experience (when it reflects upon itself), with more discretion may consider she was but a woman.” Glad was Menalcas to speed so well: nor was Corydon displeased, because the Prince, as he conceived, had entertained a good opinion of his wisdom. Thus, when they ended, Pyrocles, who marked Agelastus’s silent pensiveness, desired to hear him disburden his mind of the thoughts that brought him to so deep a study: thinking that Agelastus stood fixed, with the eye of his mind cast upon the beauty of some fair mistress: but he, who thought of nothing less, thus answered his expectation.

Then looking round upon the princes, as if by their survey he were again enabled to speak, he thus said:

When Agelastus ended, the company might see a man who seemed to be misfortune’s herald, with a rope about his neck, make towards the Queen of Corinth, and cast himself at her feet. They, thinking it had been some shepherdish invention, expected awhile the conceit of it: but approaching, after a time, nearer to him, they might discern it was Tenarus the usurper of Corinth, 678 who, hearing of the Queen’s welfare, and her happy marriage to Amphialus (finding in his own practice for the crown the Corinthians aptness to embrace change, and considering the powerfulness of his enemies) had come thither, in the basest form of humbleness to set a belief upon his submission. Him the Queen (because he was a suitor on her marriage-day) pardoned, and restored to his possessions, forfeited by his treason to the crown; only she caused his liberty to be restrained until her going to Corinth, whither, after she had taken leave of Basilius, and the rest of the royal company, she took her journey; making Amphialus, within a year after her departure, a happy father of a much-promising son, whom they named Heleamphialus. Euarchus also, soon after, with his son Pyrocles and Philoclea, and his nephew Musidorus, together with Pamela (who was desirous both to accompany her sister, and to see her mother of Thessaly) parted from Mantinea; leaving Basilius and Gynecia, when they had accompanied them to the frontiers of Arcadia, to the happy quiet of their after-life.

Finis

Endnotes

Introduction Notes

[i01] The French prose says simply that King Arthur was at Carlisle: the poem takes twenty verses to tell how “When Titan with his lusty heat had made his court for twenty days in Aries, and all with divers hues had apparelled the fields and branches … in this time the worthy conqueror, Arthur, who had the flower of all the chivalry of this world pertaining to his crown, so passing were his knightes in renown, was at Carlisle, etc.” Then the prose records that the king went one morning early into the woods to hunt. This the verse expands into ten lines describing the hunt. In another place the French says, “Et quant il fut entre en la bataille il fist sonner ses busines tant que tout en retentissoit.” This the Scots turns into,

The Black Knight says, “Seigneurs, vous estes tous amys du roy. Or y perra comment vous le ferez.” This is the sole foundation for thirty-one lines in the Scots poem, including a response from his followers that is not in the prose. The Scot uses his material freely, translating faithfully when a mere pedestrian course was sufficient, letting himself go when his imagination was aroused. He is more vivid and circumstantial in narrative, fuller and more sensuous in description. Take the following; French, “Et fut a leur venue le chevalier noir mis a terre; Et aussi les six compaignons qui toute jour avoyent este pres de luy;” Scots,

A good deal of this expansion is obviously occasioned by the demands of metre and rhyme.

[i02] Mr H. R. Plomer, in an interesting paper contributed to the Library, vol. i. (New Series), pp. 195–205, shows that this was a pirated edition; and perhaps the same is the case with the Dublin edition of 1739, mentioned below.

[i03] See Wood’s “Athen. Oxon.,” fol. p. 226.

[i04] See his “Life,” written by Sir Fulke Greville, Kt. Lord Brook. Printed Ann. 1652, 8vo, p. 5.

[i05] Wood, ut supra.

[i06] See his “Life,” ut supra, p. 8.

[i07] See Wood, p. 227.

[i08] Annal. Camdeni, sub. Ann. 1581.

[i09] Ibid. Ann. 1582.

[i10] Published 1590 (Ibid. i. 324).

[i11] First printed, 1591.

[i12] First printed, 1595.

[i13] See Wood, ut supra.

[i14] See his “Life,” ut supra, p. 142 et seq.

[i15] Sir Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester.

[i16] See his “Life,” ut supra, p. 165.

[i17] Camd. Brit. in Kent.

[i18] See Wood, ut supra.

[i19] See his “Life,” prefixed to the last edition folio.

[i20] Viz. 16th October 1586.

[i21] The title of the Oxford verses published upon the death of our author.

[i22] We cannot fix the date, nor on what occasion this great appearance of nobility was then at Oxford, only that the Earl of Leicester was high chancellor of that University.

[i23] In opposition to Philip of Spain.