Chapter XIX: Book II: {121} (10)

DORUS
If I had thought to hear blasphemous words,
My breast to swords, my soul to hell have sold
I rather would, than thus mine ear defile
With words so vile, which viler breath doth breed.
O herds take heed; for I a wolf have found,
Who hunting round the strongest for to kill,
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His breast doth fill with earth of others’ woe:
And loaden so pulls down, pull’d down destroys.
O shepherd boys, eschew those tongues of venom,
Which do envenom both the soul and senses;
Our best defences are to fly those adders.
O tongues like ladders made to climb dishonour,
Who judge that honour which hath scope to slander!

DICUS
Dorus you wander far in great reproaches,
So love encroaches on your charmed reason,
But it is season for to end our singing,
Such anger bringing: as for me, my fancy
In sick-man’s frenzy rather takes compassion,
Than rage for rage: rather my wish I send to thee,
Thou soon may have some help, or change of passion:
She oft her looks, the stars her favour bend to thee,
Fortune store, nature health, love grant persuasion.
A quiet mind none but thyself can lend to thee,
Thus I commend to thee all our former love.

DORUS
Well do I prove, error lies oft in zeal,
Yet it is zeal, though error of true heart.
Nought could impart such hates to friendly mind,
But for to find thy words did her disgrace,
Whose only face the little heaven is:
Which who doth miss, his eyes are but delusions,
Bar’d from their chiefest object of delightfulness,
Thrown on this earth, the chaos of confusions;
As for thy wish, to my enraged spitefulness,
The lovely blow, which rare reward, my prayer is:
Thou may’st love her, that I may see thy sightfulness.
The quiet mind (whereof myself impairer is,
As thou dost think) should most of all disquiet me.
Without her love, than any mind who fairer is:
Her only cure from surfeit woes can diet me.
She holds the balance of my contentation:
Her cleared eyes, nought else in storms can quiet me.
Nay rather than my ease discontentation
Should breed to her, let me for aye dejected be
From any joy, which might her grief occasion.
With so sweet plagues my happy arms infected be:
Pain wills me die, yet of death I mortify:
For though life irks, in life my loves protected be,
Thus for each change my changeless heart I fortify.

When they had ended, to the good pleasing of the assistants, especially of Zelmane, who never forgot to give due commendations {282} to her friend Dorus, Basilius called for Lamon to end his discourse of Strephon and Claius, wherewith the other day he marked Zelmane to have been exceedingly delighted. But him sickness had stayed from that assembly; which gave occasion to Histor and Damon, two young shepherds, taking upon them the two friendly rivals’ names, to present Basilius with some other of their complaints eclogue-wise, and first with this double Sestine.

STREPHON and CLAIUS

STREPHON
Ye goat-herd gods, that love the grassy mountains,
Ye nymphs that haunt the springs in pleasant valleys,
Ye satyrs joy’d with free and quiet forests,
Vouchsafe your silent ears to plaining music,
Which to my woes give still an early morning,
And draws the dolour on till weary evening.

CLAIUS
O Mercury, foregoer to the evening,
O heavenly huntress of the savage mountains,
O lovely star, entitled of the morning,
While that my voice doth fill those woeful valleys,
Vouchsafe your silent ears to plaining music,
Which oft hath echo tir’d in secret forests.

STREPHON
I that was once free burgess of the forests,
Where shade from sun, and sports I sought at evening,
I that was once esteem’d for pleasant music,
Am banish’d now among the monstrous mountains
Of huge despair, and foul affliction’s valleys
Am grown a screech-owl to myself each morning.

CLAIUS
I that was once delighted every morning,
Hunting the wild inhabiters of forests:
I that was once the music of those valleys
So darken’d am, that all my day is evening,
Heart-broken so, that mole hills seem high mountains,
And fill the vales with cries instead of music.

STREPHON
Long since, alas! my deadly swannish music
Hath made itself a crier of the morning:
And hath with wailing strength climb’d highest mountains.
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Long since my thoughts more desert be than forests:
Long since I see my joys come to their evening,
And state thrown down to over-trodden valleys.

CLAIUS
Long since the happy dwellers of those valleys
Have pray’d me leave my strange exclaiming music,
Which troubles their day’s work, and joys of evening:
Long since I hate the night, more hate the morning:
Long since my thoughts chase me like beasts in forests,
And make me wish myself laid under mountains.

STREPHON
Meseems I see the high and stately mountains,
Transform themselves to low dejected valleys
Meseems I hear in these ill-changed forests,
The Nightingales do learn of Owls their music:
Meseems I feel the comfort of the morning,
Turn’d to the mortal serene of an evening.

CLAIUS
Meseems I see a filthy cloudy evening,
As soon as sun begins to climb the mountains:
Meseems I feel a noisome scent, the morning
When I do smell the flowers of those valleys:
Meseems I hear, when I do hear sweet music,
The dreadful cries of murder’d men in forests.

STREPHON
I wish to fire the trees of all those forests,
I give the sun a last farewell each evening,
I curse the fiddling finders out of music:
With envy I do hate the lofty mountains:
And with despite despise the humble valleys:
I do detest night, evening, day and morning.

CLAIUS
Curse to myself my prayer is, the morning;
My fire is more than can be made with forests;
My state more base, than are the basest valleys:
I wish no evenings more to see, each evening;
Shamed I hate myself in sight of mountains,
And stop my ears lest I grow mad with music.

STREPHON
For she whose parts maintain’d a perfect music,
Whose beauty shin’d more than the blushing morning,
Who much did pass in state the stately mountains,
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In straightness pass’d the cedars of the forests,
Hath cast me wretch into eternal evening,
By taking her two suns from those dark valleys.

CLAIUS
For she, to whom compar’d, the alps are valleys,
She, whose least word brings from the spheres their music,
At whose approach the sun rose in the evening,
Who where she went bare in her forehead morning,
Is gone, is gone, from those our spoiled forests,
Turning to deserts our best pastur’d mountains.

STREPHON
Those mountains witness shall, so shall those valleys,
Those forests eke, made wretched by our music.

CLAIUS
Our morning hymn is this, and song at evening.

But as though all this had been but the taking of a taste of their wailings, Strephon again began this Dizain which was answered unto him in that kind of verse which is called the crown.

STREPHON and CLAIUS

STREPHON
I joy in grief, and do detest all joys;
Despise delight, am tir’d with thought of ease:
I turn my head to all forms of annoys,
And with the change of them my fancy please,
I study that which may me most displease,
And in despite of that displeasure’s might,
Embrace that most, that most my soul destroys;
Blinded with beams, fell darkness is my sight:
Dwell in my ruins, feed with sucking smart,
I think from me, not from my woes to part.

CLAIUS
I think from me not from my woes to part,
And loath the time call’d life, nay think that life
Nature to me for torment did impart;
Think, my hard haps have blunted death’s sharp knife,
Not sparing me, in whom his works be rife:
And thinking this, think nature, life and death
Place sorrow’s triumph on my conquered heart,
Whereto I yield, and seek none other breath,
But from the scent of some infectious grave:
Nor of my fortune ought, but mischief crave.

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STREPHON
Nor of my fortune ought but mischief crave,
And seek to nourish that, which now contains
All what I am: if I myself will save,
Then must I save, what in me chiefly reigns,
Which is the hateful web of sorrow’s pains.
Sorrow then cherish me, for I am sorrow:
No being now, but sorrow I can have:
Then deck me as thine own; thy help I borrow,
Since thou my riches art, and that thou hast
Enough to make a fertile mind lie waste.

CLAIUS
Enough to make a fertile mind lie waste,
Is that huge storm, which pours itself on me:
Hailstones of tears, of sighs a monstrous blast,
Thunders of cries; lightnings my wild looks be,
The darkened heav’n my soul, which nought can see,
The flying sprites which trees by roots uptear,
Be those despairs which have my hopes quite rased.
The difference is; all folks those storms forbear,
But I cannot; who then myself should fly,
So close unto myself my wrecks do lie.

STREPHON
So close unto myself my wrecks do lie,
But cause, effect, beginning, and the end
Are all in me: what help then can I try?
My ship, myself, whose course to love doth bend,
Sore beaten doth her mast of comfort spend:
Her cable reason, breaks from anchor’d hope:
Fancy, her tackling torn away doth fly:
Ruin, the wind, hath blown her from her scope:
Bruised with waves of cares, but broken is
On rock despair, the burial of my bliss.

CLAIUS
On rock despair, the burial of my bliss,
I long do plough with plough of deep desire:
The seed fast-meaning is, no truth to miss:
I harrow it with thoughts, which all conspire,
Favour to make my chief and only hire.
But woe is me, the year is gone about,
And now I fain would reap, I reap but this
Hatefully grown, absence new sprung out.
So that I see, although my sight impair,
Vain is their pain, who labour in despair.

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STREPHON
Vain is their pain, who labour in despair.
For so did I, when with my angle will,
I sought to catch the fish Torpedo fair,
Ev’n then despair did hope already kill:
Yet fancy would perforce employ his skill,
And this hath got; the catcher now is caught.
Lam’d with the angle, which itself did bear,
And unto death, quite drown’d in dolours, brought
To death, as then disguis’d in her fair face:
Thus, thus, alas, I had my loss in chase.

CLAIUS
Thus, thus, alas, I had my loss in chase,
When first that crowned Basilisk I knew;
Whose footsteps I with kisses oft did trace,
Till by such hap, as I must ever rue,
Mine eyes did light upon her shining hue,
And hers on me, astonish’d with that sight.
Since then my heart did lose his wonted place,
Infected so with her sweet poison’s might,
That, leaving me for dead, to her it went:
But ha! her flight hath her my dead reliques spent.

STREPHON
But ah! her flight hath my dead reliques spent,
Her flight, from me, from me, though dead to me,
Yet living still in her, while her beams lent
Such vital spark, that her mine eyes might see.
But now those living lights absented be,
Full dead before, now I to dust should fall,
But that eternal pains my soul have bent,
And keep it still within this body thrall,
That thus I must while in this death I dwell,
In earthly fetters feel a lasting hell.

CLAIUS
In earthly fetters feel a lasting hell,
Alas I do; from which to find release,
I would the earth, I would the heavens fell:
But vain it is to think those pains should cease,
Where life is death, and death cannot breed peace.
O fair, O only fair, from thee alas,
Those foul, most foul disasters to me fell;
Since thou from me, O me! O sun did’st pass.
Therefore esteeming all good blessings toys,
I joy in grief, and do detest all joys.

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STREPHON
I joy in grief, and do detest all joys,
But now an end, O Claius, now an end:
For even the herbs our hateful music stroys,
And from our burning breath the trees do bend.

So well were those wailful complaints accorded to the passions of all the princely hearers, while every one made what he heard of another the balance of his own fortune, that they stood a long while stricken in sad and silent consideration of them. Which the old Geron no more marking than condemning in them, desirous to set forth what counsels the wisdom of age had laid up in store against such fancies, as he thought, follies of youth, yet so as it might not appear that his words respected them, bending himself to a young shepherd, named Philisides, who neither had danced nor sung with them, and had all this time lain upon the ground at the foot of a Cypress tree, leaning upon his elbow with so deep a melancholy, that his senses carried to his mind no delight from any of their objects, he struck him upon the shoulder with a right old man’s grace, that will seem livelier than his age will afford him. And thus began unto him this eclogue.

GERON and PHILISIDES

GERON
Up, up, Philisides, let sorrows go,
Who yields to woe, but doth increase his smart.
Do not thy heart to plaintful custom bring:
But let us sing; sweet tunes do passions ease,
An old man hear who would thy fancies raise.

PHILISIDES
Who minds to please the mind drown’d in annoys
With outward joys, which inly cannot sink,
As well may think with oil to cool the fire:
Or with desire to make such foe a friend,
Who doth his soul to endless malice bend.

GERON
But sure an end to each thing time doth give,
Though woes now live, at length thy woes must die:
Then virtue try, if she can work in thee
That which we see in many time hath wrought,
And weakest hearts to constant temper brought.

PHILISIDES
Who ever taught a skilless man to teach,
Or stop a breach that never cannon saw?
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Sweet virtue’s law bars not a causeful moan.
Time shall in one my life and sorrows end,
And me perchance your constant temper lend.

GERON
What can amend where physick is refus’d?
The wit’s abus’d that will no counsel take.
Yet for my sake discover us thy grief.
Oft comes relief when most we seem in trap.
The stars thy state, fortune may change thy hap.

PHILISIDES
If fortune’s lap became my dwelling place,
And all the stars conspired to my good,
Still were I one, this still should be my case,
Ruin’s relique, care’s web, and sorrow’s food:
Since she fair fierce to such a state me calls,
Whose wit the stars, whose fortune, fortune thralls.

GERON
Alas what falls are fall’n unto thy mind?
That there where thou confessed thy mischief lies,
Thy wit dost use still more harms to find.
Whom wit makes vain, or blinded with his eyes;
What counsel can prevail, or light give light?
Since all his force against himself he tries.
Then each conceit that enters in his sight,
Is made, forsooth, a jurate of his woes:
Earth, sea, air, fire, heaven, hell, and ghastly spright.
Then cries to senseless things, which neither knows
What aileth thee, and if they knew thy mind,
Would scorn in man, their king, such feeble shows.
Rebel, rebel, in golden fetters bind
This tyrant love; or rather do suppress
Those rebel-thoughts, which are thy slaves by kind.
Let not a glittering name thy fancy dress
In painted clothes; because they call it love:
There is no hate that can thee more oppress.
Begin, and half the work is done, to prove
By rising up, upon thyself to stand,
And think she is a she, that doth thee move.
He water ploughs, and soweth in the sand,
And hopes the flickering wind with net to hold
Who hath his hopes laid upon woman’s hand.
What man is he that hath his freedom sold?
Is he a manlike man, doth not know, man
Hath power that sex with bridle to withhold?
A fickle sex, and true in trust to no man,
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A servant sex soon proud if they be coy’d:
And to conclude thy mistress is a woman.

PHILISIDES
O gods, how long this old fool hath annoy’d
My wearied ears! O gods, yet grant me this,
That soon the world of his false tongue be void.
O noble age who place their only bliss,
In being heard until the hearer die,
Uttering a serpent’s mind with a serpent’s hiss.
Then who will bear a well-authorized lie
(And patience hath) let him go learn of him
What swarms of virtues did in his youth fly
Such hearts of brass, wise heads, and garments trim
Were in his days: which heard, one nothing hears,
If from his words the falsehood he do skim.
And herein most their folly vain appears,
That since they still allege, when they were young,
It shows they fetch their wit from youthful years,
Like beast for sacrifice, where save the tongue
And belly nought is left: such sure is he,
This life-dead man in this old dungeon flung.
Old houses are thrown down for new we see:
The oldest rams are culled from the flock:
No man doth wish his horse should aged be.
The ancient oak well makes a fired block:
Old men themselves do love young wives to choose:
Only fond youth admires a rotten stock.
Who once a white long beard, well handle does
(As his beard him, he his beard did bare)
Though cradle-witted, must not honour lose,
O when will men leave off to judge by hair;
And think them old that have the oldest mind,
With virtue fraught, and full of holy fear!

GERON
If that thy face were hid, or I were blind,
I yet should know a young man speaketh now,
Such wandering reasons in thy speech I find,
He is a beast, that beasts use will allow.
For proof of man, who sprung of heav’nly fire
Hath strongest soul when most his reigns do bow.
But fondlings fond, know not your own desire
Loth to die young, and then you must be old.
Fondly blame that to which yourselves aspire.
But this light choler that doth make you bold,
Rather to wrong than unto just defence,
Is past with me, my blood is waxed cold,
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Thy words, though full of malapert offence,
I weigh them not, but still will thee advise
How thou from foolish love mayest purge thy sense.
First think they err, that think them gaily wise,
Who well can set a passion out to show:
Such sight have they that see with goggling eyes,
Passion bears high when puffing wit doth blow.
But is indeed a toy, if not a toy,
True cause of evils: and cause of causeless woe,
If once thou mayest that fancy gloss destroy
Within thyself, thou soon wilt be ashamed
To be a player of thine own annoy.
Then let thy mind with better books be tamed.
Seek to espy her faults as well as praise,
And let thine eyes to other sports be framed.
In hunting fearful beasts, do spend some days,
Or catch the birds with pit-falls or with lime,
Or train the fox that train so crafty lays.
Lie but to sleep, and in the early prime
Seek skill of herbs in hills, haunt brooks near night,
And try with bait how fish will bite sometime.
Go graft again and seek to graft them right,
Those pleasant plants, those sweet and fruitful trees
Which both the palate and the eyes delight.
Cherish the hives of wisely painful bees,
Let special care upon thy flock be stayed,
Such active mind but seldom passion sees.

PHILISIDES
Hath any man heard what this old man said?
Truly not I, who did my thoughts engage,
Where all my pains one look of her hath paid.

Geron was even out of countenance, finding the words, he thought were so wise, win so little reputation at this young man’s hands; and therefore sometimes looking upon an old acquaintance of his called Mastix, one of the repiningest fellows in the world, and that beheld nobody but with a mind of mislike, saying still the world was amiss, but how it should be amended he knew not, sometimes casting his eyes to the ground, even ashamed to see his grey hairs despised, at last he spied his two dogs, whereof the elder was called Melampus, and the younger Lelaps (indeed the jewels he ever had with him) one brawling with another; which occasion he took to restore himself to his countenance, and rating Melampus, he began to speak to his dogs, as if in them a man should find more obedience, than in unbridled young men.

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GERON and MASTIX

GERON
Down, down Melampus, what? your fellow bite?
I set you o’er the flock I dearly love,
Them to defend, not with yourselves to fight.
Do you not think this will the wolves remove
From former fear, they had of your good minds,
When they shall such divided weakness prove?
What if Lelaps a better morsel find
Than you erst knew? rather take part with him
Than jarl: lo, lo, even those how envy blind,
And then Lelaps let not pride make thee brim;
Because thou hast thy fellow overgone,
But thank the cause, thou seest where he is dim.
Here Lelaps, here indeed, against the foe
Of my good sheep, thou never truce him took:
Be as thou art, but be with mine at one.
For though Melampus like a wolf do look
(For age doth make him of a wolfish hue)
Yet have I seen, when like a wolf he shook.
Fool that I am, that with my dogs speak grew:
Come near good Mastix, ’tis now full twa score
Of years, alas, since I good Mastix knew.
Thou heard’st even now a young man snub me sore,
Because I read him, as I would my son.
Youth will have will; age must to age therefore.

MASTIX
What marvel if in youth such fault be done,
Since that we see our saddest shepherds out,
Who have their lesson so long time begun?
Quickly secure, and easily in doubt,
Either asleep be all, if not assail,
Or all abroad if but a cub start out.
We shepherds are like them that under sail
Do speak high words, when all the coast is clear,
Yet to a passenger will bonnet vail.
I con thee thank to whom thy dogs be dear,
But commonly like curs we them treat,
Save when great need of them perforce appear,
Then him we kiss, whom late before we beat
With such intemperance, that each way grows
Hate of the first, contempt of latter feat.
And such discord ’twixt greatest shepherds flows,
That sport it is to see with how great art,
By justice work they their own faults disclose:
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Like busy boys to win their tutor’s heart.
One saith, “he mocks;” another saith “he plays,”
The third his lesson missed, till all do smart.
As for the rest, how shepherds spend their days,
At blow-point, hot-cockles, or else at keels,
While, “let us pass our time,” each shepherd says,
So small account of time the shepherd feels,
And doth not feel, that life is not but time,
And when that time is past, death holds his heels;
To age thus do they draw their youthful prime,
Knowing no more, than what poor trial shows,
As fish sure trial hath of muddy slime.
This pattern good, unto our children goes,
For what they see their parents love or hate,
Their first-caught sense prefers to teachers’ blows.
Those cocklings cocker’d we bewail too late,
When that we see our offspring gaily bent,
Women man-wood, and men effeminate.

GERON
Fie man, fie man: what words hath thy tongue lent?
Yet thou art mickle worse, than e’er was I,
Thy too much zeal, I fear thy brain hath spent,
We oft are angrier than the feeble fly
For business, where it appertains him not,
Than with the poisonous toads that quiet lie.
I pray thee what hath e’er the Parrot got?
And yet they say he talks in great men’s bowers;
A cage, gilded perchance, is all his lot,
Who of his tongue the liquor gladly pours,
A good fool call’d with pain perhaps may be:
But even for that shall suffer mighty lowers.
Let swan’s example siker serve for thee,
Who once all birds, in sweetly singing passed,
But now to silence turn’d his minstrelsy,
For he could sing: but others were defac’d,
The Peacock’s pride, the Pie’s pil’d flattery,
Cormorant’s glut, Kite’s spoil, Kingfisher’s waste,
The Falcon’s fierceness, Sparrow’s lechery,
The Cuckoo’s shame, the Goose’s good intent,
Even Turtle touch’d he with hypocrisy,
And worse of other more, till by assent
Of all the birds, but namely those were grieved,
Of fowls there call’d was a Parliament:
There was the Swan of dignity deprived,
And statute made he never should have voice:
Since when, I think, he hath in silence lived.
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I warn thee therefore (since thou may’st have choice)
Let not thy tongue become a fiery match;
No sword so bites, as that evil tool annoys.
Let our unpartial eyes a little watch
Our own demean, and soon we wonder shall,
That hunting faults, ourselves we did not catch.
Into our minds let us a little fall,
And we shall find more spots than Leopard’s skin.
Then who makes us, such Judges over all?
But farewell now, thy fault is no great sin,
Come, come my curs, ’tis late I will go in.

And away with his dogs straight he went, as if he would be sure to have the last word, all the assembly laughing at the lustiness of the old fellow, who departed muttering to himself he had seen more in his days than twenty of them. But Basilius, who never before had heard Philisides, though having seldom appeared to be at those meetings, desired him he would begin some eclogue with some other of the shepherds, according to the accustomed guise. Philisides, though very unwilling, at the king’s commandment offered to sing with Thyrsis. But he directly refused him, seeing he should within few days be married to the fair Kala, and since he had gotten his desire he would sing no more. Then the king willed Philisides to declare the discourse of his own fortunes, unknown to them, as being a stranger in that country; but he prayed the king to pardon him, the time being far too joyful to suffer the rehearsal of his miseries. But to satisfy Basilius some way, he began an eclogue betwixt himself and the Echo, framing his voice so in those desert places, as what words he would have the Echo reply unto, those he would sing higher than the rest; and so kindly framed a disputation betwixt himself and it, which with those Hexameters in the following order he uttered.

PHILISIDES and ECHO

Fair rocks, goodly rivers, sweet woods, when shall I see peace?
_Peace._
Peace? what bars me my tongue? who is it that comes me so nigh? _I._
Oh! I do know what guest I have met, it is echo. _’Tis Echo._
Well met echo, approach: then tell me thy will too. _I will too._
Echo, what do I get yielding my spirit to my griefs? _Griefs._
What medicine may I find for a grief that draws me to death? _Death._
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O poisonous medicine! what worse to me can be than it? _It._
In what state was I then, when I took this deadly disease? _Ease._
And what manner a mind which had to that humour a vein? _Vain._
Hath not reason enough vehemence the desire to reprove? _Prove._
Oft prove I: but what salve, when reason seeks to be gone? _One._
Oh! what is it? what is it that may be a salve to my love? _Love._
What do lovers seek for, long seeking for to enjoy? _Joy._
What be the joys, which for to enjoy they went to the pains? _Pains._
Then to an earnest love what doth best victory lend? _End._
End? but I can never end, love will not give me leave? _Leave._
How be the minds dispos’d that cannot taste thy physick? _Sick._
Yet say again thy advice for the evils that I told thee? _I told
thee._
Doth th’ infected wretch of his harm th’ extremity know? _No._
But if he know not his harms, what guides hath he while he be blind?
_Blind._
What blind guides can he have that leans to fancy? _A fancy._
Can fancies want eyes, or he fall that sleepeth aloft? _Oft._
What causes first made those torments on me to light? _Light._
Can then a cause be so light that forceth a man to go die? _Aye._
Yet tell what light thing I had in me to draw me to die? _Eye._
Eye-sight made me to yield, but what first pierc’d to my eyes? _Eyes._
Eyes’ hurters, eyes hurt; but what from them to me falls? _Falls._
But when I first did fall, what brought most fall to my heart? _Art._
Art? what can be that art thou dost mean by thy speech? _Speech._
What be the fruits of speaking art? what grows by the words? _Words._
O much more than words: those words serv’d more me to bless. _Less._
Oh when shall I be known, where most to be known I do long? _Long._
Long be thy woes for such news, but how reck’s she my thoughts?
_Oughts._
Then then what I do gain, since unto her will I do wind? _Wind._
Wind, tempests, and storms, yet in end what gives she desire? _Ire._
Silly reward! yet among women hath she of virtue the most. _Most._
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What great name may I give to so heav’nly a woman? _A Wo-man._
Woe, but seems to me joy, that agrees to my thoughts so. _I thought
so._
Think so, for of my desired bliss it is only the course. _Curse._
Curs’d be thyself for cursing that which leads me to joys. _Toys._
What be the sweet creatures where lowly demands be not heard? _Hard._
What makes them be unkind? speak for th’ hast narrow pry’d? _Pride._
Whence can pride come there, since springs of beauty be thence?
_Thence._
Horrible is this blasphemy unto the most holy. _O lie._
Thou liest false echo, their minds as virtue be just. _Just._
Mock’st thou those diamonds which only be match’d by the gods? _Odds._
Odds? what an odds is there since them to the heav’ns I prefer? _Err._
Tell yet again me the names of those fair form’d to do evils?
_Devils._
Devil? if hell such devils do abide, to the hells I do go. _Go._

Philisides was commended for the place of his echo; but little did he regard their praises, who had set the foundations of his honour there where he was most despised: and therefore returning again to the train of his desolate pensiveness. Zelmane seeing nobody offer to fill the stage, as if her long restrained conceits did now burst out of prison, she thus, desiring her voice should be accorded to nothing but to Philoclea’s ears, threw down the burden of her mind in Anacreon’s kind of verses.

My muse, what ails this ardor To blaze my only secrets? Alas it is no glory To sing mine own decayed state. Alas it is no comfort, To speak without an answer, Alas it is no wisdom To show the wound without cure.

My muse, what ails this ardor? Mine eyes be dim, my limbs shake, My voice is hoarse, my throat scorch’d, My tongue to this my roof cleaves, My fancy amaz’d, my thoughts dull’d, My heart doth ache, my life faints, My soul begins to take leave. So great a passion all feel, To think a sore so deadly I should so rashly rip up.

My muse, what ails this ardor? If that to sing thou art bent, Go sing the fall of old Thebes, The wars of ugly centaurs, The life, the death of Hector: So may the song be famous: Or if to love thou art bent, Recount the rape of Europa, Adonis’ end, Venus’ net, The sleepy kiss the moon stale: So may the song be pleasant.

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My muse, what ails this ardor? To blaze my only secrets? Wherein do only flourish The sorry fruits of anguish. The song thereof a last will, The tunes be cries, the words plaints, The singer is the song’s theme, Wherein no ear can have joy. Nor eye receive due object Ne pleasure here, ne fame gat.

My muse, what ails this ardor? “Alas,” she saith “I am thine, So are thy pains my pains too. Thy heated heart my seat is Wherein I burn: thy breath is My voice, too hot to keep in. Besides, lo here the author Of all thy harms: lo here she, That only can redress thee, Of her will I demand help.”

My muse I yield, my muse I sing, But all thy song herein knit. The life we lead is all love: The love we hold is all death, Nor ought I crave to feed life, Nor ought I seek to shun death, But only that my goddess, My life my death do count hers.

Basilius, when she had fully ended her song, fell prostrate upon the ground, and thanked the gods they had preserved his life so long as to hear the very music they themselves used in an earthly body. And then with like grace to Zelmane, never left entreating her, till she had, taking a lyre Basilius held for her, sung those Phaleuciacks:

Reason, tell me thy mind, if here be reason In this strange violence, to make resistance, Where sweet graces erect the stately banner Of virtue’s regiment, shining in harness Of fortune’s diadems, by beauty mustered: Say then reason; I say, what is thy counsel?

Her loose hairs be the shot, the breasts the pikes be Scouts each motion is, the hands be horsemen, Her lips are the riches the wars to maintain, Where well couched abides a coffer of pearl, Her legs carriage is of all the sweet camp: Say then reason; I say, what is thy counsel?

Her cannons be her eyes, mine eyes the walls be, Which at first volley gave too open entry, Nor rampier did abide; my brain was up blown, Undermin’d with a speech, the piercer of thoughts. Thus weakened by myself, no help remaineth; Say then reason: I say, what is thy counsel?

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And now fame the herald of her true honour, Doth proclaim with a sound made all by men’s mouths, That nature sovereign of earthly dwellers, Commands all creatures to yield obeisance Under this, this her own, her only darling. Say then reason; I say what is thy counsel?

Reason sighs, but in end he thus doth answer: “Nought can reason avail in heavenly matters.” Thus nature’s diamond receive thy conquest, Thus pure pearl, I do yield my senses and soul, Thus sweet pain, I do yield whate’er I can yield, Reason look to thyself, I serve a goddess.

Dorus had long he thought kept silence, from saying somewhat which might tend to the glory of her, in whom all glory to his seeming was included, but now he broke it, singing those verses called Asclepiadiks.

O sweet woods the delight of solitariness! O how much I do like your solitariness! Where man’s mind hath a freed consideration Of goodness to receive lovely direction. Where senses do behold th’ order of heav’nly host, And wise thoughts do behold what the creator is: Contemplation here holdeth his only seat: Bounded with no limits, borne with a wing of hope, Climbs even unto the stars, nature is under it. Nought disturbs thy quiet, all to thy service yields, Each sight draws on a thought, thought mother of science: Sweet birds kindly do grant harmony unto thee, Fair trees’ shade is enough fortification, Nor dangers to thyself, if ’t be not in thyself.

O sweet woods the delight of solitariness! O how much do I like your solitariness! Here nor treason is hid, veiled in innocence, Nor envy’s snaky eye finds any harbour here, Nor flatterers’ venomous insinuations, Nor coming humourists’ puddled opinions, Nor courteous ruin of proffered usury, Nor time prattled away, cradle of ignorance, Nor causeless duty, nor cumber of arrogance, Nor trifling title of vanity dazzleth us, Nor golden manacles stand for a paradise. Here wrong’s name is unheard; slander a monster is, Keep thy spirit from abuse, here no abuse doth haunt, What man grafts in a tree dissimulation?

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O sweet woods the delight of solitariness! O how well I do like your solitariness! Yet dear soil, if a soul clos’d in a mansion As sweet as violets, fair as a lily is, Strait as a cedar, a voice strains the canary birds, Whose shade safely doth hold, danger avoideth her; Such wisdom, that in her lives speculation: Such goodness, that in her simplicity triumphs: Where envy’s snaky eye, winketh or else dieth, Slander wants a pretext, flattery gone beyond: Oh! if such a one have bent to a lonely life, Her steps, glad we receive, glad we receive her eyes. And think not she doth hurt our solitariness, For such company decks such solitariness.

The other shepherds were offering themselves to have continued the sports, but the night had so quietly spent the most part of herself among them that the king for that time licensed them to depart. And so bringing Zelmane to her lodging, who would much rather have done the same for Philoclea; of all sides they went to counterfeit a sleep in their beds, for a true one their agonies could not afford them. Yet there they lay, so might they be most solitary for the food of their thoughts, till it was near noon the next day, after which Basilius was to continue his Apollo devotions, and the other to meditate upon their private desires.

[End of Book II]

ARCADIA