Chapter II: Introduction: {vii} (2)

_Will._ Dick, since we cannot dance, come, let a cheerful voice Show that we do not grudge at all, when others do rejoice. _Dick._ Ah, Will, though I grudge not, I count it feeble glee, With sight made dim with daily tears, another’s sport to see. Whoever lambkins saw (yet lambkins love to play) To play when that their loved dams are stoll’n or gone astray? If this in them be true, as true in men, think I, A lustless song, forsooth, thinks he, that hath more lust to cry. _Will._ A time there is for all, my mother often says, When she, with skirts tuck’d very high, with girls at stoolball plays. When thou hast mind to weep, seek out some smoky room: Now let those lightsome sights we see, thy darkness overcome. _Dick._ What joy the joyful sun gives unto bleared eyes, That comfort in these sports you like, my mind his comfort tries. _Will._ What! is thy bagpipe broke? or are thy lambs miswent? Thy wallet or thy tar-box lost? or thy new raiment rent? _Dick._ I would it were but thus, for thus it were too well. _Will._ Thou seest my ears do itch at it; good Dick, thy sorrow tell. _Dick._ Hear then, and learn to sigh; a mistress I do serve, Whose wages make me beg the more, who feeds me till I starve, Whose livery is such, as most I freeze apparelled most, And look! so near unto my cure, that I must needs be lost. _Will._ What? these are riddles sure; art thou then bound to her? _Dick._ Bound as I neither power have, nor would have power to stir. _Will._ Who bound thee? _Dick._ Love, my lord. _Will._ What witnesses thereto? _Dick._ Faith in myself, and worth in her, which no proof can undo. _Will._ What seal? _Dick._ My heart deep graven. _Will._ What made the band so fast? _Dick._ Wonder, that by two so black eyes the glittering stars be past. _Will._ What keepeth safe thy band? _Dick._ Remembrance is the chest Lock’d fast with knowing that she is of worldly things the best. _Will._ Thou late of wages ’plainst: what wages mayst thou have? _Dick._ Her heav’nly looks, which more and more do give me cause to crave. _Will._ If wages make you want, what food is that she gives? _Dick._ Tear’s drink, sorrow’s meat, wherewith, not I, but in me my death lives. _Will._ What living get you then? _Dick._ Disdain; but just disdain: So have I cause myself to plain, but no cause to complain. _Will._ What care takes she for thee? {xxxii} _Dick._ Her care is to prevent My freedom with show of her beams, with virtue my content. _Will._ God shield us from such dames. If so our downs be sped The shepherds will grow lean, I trow, their sheep will be ill fed; But, Dick, my counsel mark: run from the place of woe; The arrow being shot from far doth give the smaller blow. _Dick._ Good Will, I cannot lack the good advice, before That foxes leave to steal, because they find they die therefore. _Will._ Then, Dick, let us go hence, lest we great folks annoy; For nothing can more tedious be, than ’plaint in time of joy. _Dick._ Oh, hence! O cruel word! which even dogs do hate; But hence, even hence, I must needs go--such is my dogged fate.

To return again to Sir Philip.

In the year 1586,[i14] when that unfortunate stand was made against the Spaniards before Zutphen, the 22nd of September, while he was getting upon the third horse, having had two slain under him before, he was wounded with a musket shot out of the trenches, which broke the bone of his thigh. The horse he rode upon was rather furiously choleric than bravely proud, and so forced him to forsake the field, but not his back, as the noblest and fittest bier to carry a martial commander to his grave. In which sad progress, passing along by the rest of the army, where his uncle,[i15] the general, was, and, being thirsty with excess of bleeding, he called for drink, which was presently brought him; but, as he was putting the bottle to his mouth, he saw a poor soldier carried along, who had eaten his last at the same feast, ghastly casting up his eyes at the bottle, which Sir Philip perceiving, took it from his head before he drank, and delivered it to the poor man, with these words: “Thy necessity is yet greater than mine.” And when he had pledged this poor soldier, he was presently carried to Arnheim, where the principal surgeons of the camp attended for him. When they began to dress his wounds, he, both by way of charge and advice, told them that, while his strength was yet entire, his body free from fever, and his mind able to endure, they might freely use their art, cut, and search to the bottom; but if they should neglect their art, and renew torments in the declination of nature, their ignorance, or overtenderness, would prove a kind of tyranny to their friend, and, {xxxiii} consequently, a blemish to their reverend science. With love and care well mixed they began the cure, and continued it some sixteen days, with such confidence of his recovery as the joy of their hearts overflowed their discretion, and made them spread the intelligence of it to the Queen, and all his noble friends here in England, where it was received, not as _private_, but _public_ good news.

At the same time Count Hollock was under the care of a most excellent surgeon for a wound in his throat by a musket shot, yet did he neglect his own extremity to save his friend, and to that end had sent him to Sir Philip. This surgeon, notwithstanding, out of love to his master, returning one day to dress his wound, the Count cheerfully asked him how Sir Philip did? and he answered, with a heavy countenance, that he was not well. At these words the worthy prince, as having more sense of his friend’s wound than his own, cries out: “Away, villain! never see my face again, till thou bring better news of that man’s recovery, for whose redemption many such as I were happily lost.”

Now, after the sixteenth day was passed, and the very shoulder-bones of this delicate patient worn through his skin with constant and obedient posturing of his body to the surgeon’s art, he, judiciously observing the pangs his wound stang him with by fits, together with many other symptoms of decay, few or none of recovery, began rather to submit his body to these artists than any farther to believe in them. He called the ministers unto him, who were all excellent men, of divers nations, and before them made such a confession of Christian faith as no book, but the heart, can truly and feelingly deliver. Then, calling for his will, and settling his worldly affairs, the last scene of this tragedy was the parting between the two brothers: the weaker showing infinite strength in suppressing sorrow, and the stronger, infinite weakness in expressing of it. And to stop the natural torrent of affection in both, Sir Philip took his leave, with these admonishing words: “Love my memory, cherish my friends; their faith to me may assure you they are honest. But, above all, govern your will and affections by the will and word of your Creator; in me, beholding the end of this world, with all her vanities.” And with this farewell, desired the company to lead him away.

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After his death, which happened on the 16th of October, the states of Zealand became suitors to her majesty and his noble friends, that they might have the honour of burying his body at the public expense of their government.[i16] This was not permitted; for soon after his body was brought to Flushing, and, being embarked with great solemnity on the 1st of November, landed at Tower Wharf on the 6th day of the same month. Thence it was conveyed to the Minories without Aldgate, where it lay in state for some time, till his magnificent funeral in St Paul’s Cathedral, the 16th of February following, which, as many princes have not exceeded in the solemnity, so few have equalled in the sorrow for his loss. He was buried near to that place which his father-in-law, Sir Francis Walsingham, had designed (as I have heard) to be entombed in, without any monument or inscription. King James honoured him with an epitaph of his composition, and the Muses, both of Oxford and Cambridge, lamenting much for his loss, composed verses to his memory. Besides, several private persons did also exercise their fancies upon this occasion; for, so general was the lamentation, that it was accounted a sin for any gentleman of quality, for many months after, to appear at court or city in any light or gaudy apparel.

No monument hath since been erected over him, whereof this reason is assigned, that “He is his own monument, whose memory is eternised in his writings, and who was born into the world to show unto our age a sample of ancient virtues.”[i17]

He left behind him a daughter named Elizabeth, who was born in 1585. She married Roger Mannours, Earl of Rutland, but died without issue.[i18]

I confess it is commonly reported that Sir Philip,[i19] some hours before his death, enjoined a near friend to consign these his works to the flames, whereby posterity had been deprived of much pleasure and profit accruing thereby. What promise his friend returned herein is uncertain; but if he broke his word to be faithful to the public good, posterity will absolve him, without doing any penance, for being guilty of such a {xxxv} meritorious offence, wherewith he hath obliged so many ages. Hear the excellent epigrammatist, Owen, hereon:--

“Ipse tuam moriens, vel conjuge teste, jubebas
Arcadiam saevis ignibus esse cibum.
Si meruit mortem, quia flammam accendit amoris;
Mergi, non Uri debuit iste liber.
In librum quaecunque cadat sententia; nullâ
Debuit ingenium morte perire tuum.”

As the ancient Egyptians presented secrets under their mystical hieroglyphics, so that an easy figure was exhibited to the eye, and a higher notion tendered under it to the judgment, so all the “Arcadia” is a continual grove of morality, shadowing moral and politic results under the plain and easy emblems of lovers, so that the reader may be deceived, but not hurt thereby, when surprised on a sudden to more knowledge than he expected.

I will not here endeavour to offer the reader a key to unfold what persons were intended under the fictitious denominations: herein must men shoot at the wild rovers of their own conjectures. And many have forged keys of their own fancies, all pretended to be the right, though unlike one to another. But, besides, it is an injury to impose guesses for truths on any belief; such applications, rather made than meant, are not without reflections on families, as may justly give distaste. I dare confidently aver that the wards of this lock are grown so rusty with time that a modern key will scarce unlock it, seeing in above a hundred years many criticisms of time, place, and person, wherein the life and lustre of this story did consist, are utterly lost, and unknown in our age.

Vita Philippi Sidnei.

“Qui dignos ipsi vitâ scripsere libellos
Illorum vitam scribere non opus est.
Sidnei in tumulo est, corpus non vita: Philippi
Producit vitam gloria, longa brevem.”
--Owen.

TESTIMONIES CONCERNING THE AUTHOR

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Gulielmus Camdenus de Praelio inter Anglos et Hispanos prope Zutphaniam in Geldriâ.

Anno Dom. 1586.

“Ex Anglis pauci desiderati; sed qui instar plurimorum, Sidneius, equo perfosso dum alterum ascendit, glande femur trajectus,[i20] vicesimo quinto post die, magno sui desiderio bonis relicto, in flore aetatis exspiravit, vix quatuor menses patri superstes. Cui Leicestrius avunculus in Angliam reversus, exequias, magno apparatu, et militari ritu, in Templo Sti. Pauli Londini solvit, Jacobus Rex Scotorum epitaphio parentavit: utraque Academia lacrymas consecravit, et Novum Oxoniae Collegium elegantissimum[i21] Peplum contexuit. Haec et ampliora viri virtus, ingenium splendidissimum, eruditio politissima, moresque suavissimi meruerunt.”

Mr Carew, in his “Survey of Cornwall,” p. 102.

“Being a scholar at Oxford at fourteen years of age, and three years standing upon a wrong-conceived opinion touching my sufficiency, I was then called to dispute extempore with the matchless Sir Philip Sidney, in presence of the Earls of Leicester and Warwick, and divers other great personages.”[i22]

Dr Heylin, in his “Cosmography.”

“Arcadia in Greece is a country whose fitness for pasturage {xxxvii} and grazing hath made it the subject of many worthy and witty discourses, especially that of Sir Philip Sidney, of whom I cannot but make honourable mention. A book, which, besides its excellent language, rare contrivances, and delectable stories, hath in it all the strains of poesy, comprehendeth the universal art of speaking, and, to them who can discern, and will observe, affordeth notable rules for demeanour, both private and public.”

Mr Lloyd, in his “State Worthies.”

“His romance was but policy played with Machiavel in jest, and state maxims sweetened to a courtier’s palate. He writ men as exactly as he studied them; and discerned humours in the court with the same deep insight he described them in his book. All were pleased with his ‘Arcadia’ but himself, whose years advanced him so much beyond himself as his parts did beyond others. He condemned his ‘Arcadia,’ in his more retired judgment, to the fire, which wise men think will continue to the last conflagration. It was he whom Queen Elizabeth called her Philip,[i23] the Prince of Orange his master, and whose friendship my Lord Brooks was so proud of that he would have no other epitaph on his grave than this:--

‘Here lieth Sir Philip Sidney’s friend.’”

Sir William Temple, in his “Essay on Poetry.”

“The true spirit or vein of ancient poetry, under the name of romance, seems to shine most in Sir Philip Sidney, whom I esteem both the greatest poet and the noblest genius of any that have left writings behind them, and published in ours, or any other modern language. A person born capable, not only of forming the greatest ideas, but of leaving the noblest examples, if the length of his life had been equal to the excellence of his wit and his virtues.”

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Mr Lee, in his “Dedication of Caesar Borgia.”

_To the Right Honourable Philip, Earl of Pembroke and Montgomery._

“My lord,--Your illustrious forefathers and, indeed, all your eminent relations, have always been of the first-rate nobility, patrons of wit and arms, magnificently brave, true old stampt Britons, and ever foremost in the race of glory. Not to unravel half your honourable records, I challenge all the men of fame to show an equal to the immortal Sidney, even when so many contemporary worthies flourished. I mean Sir Philip, true rival of your honour; one that could match your spirit; so most extravagantly great that he refused to be a king. He was at once a Caesar and a Virgil, the leading soldier, and the foremost poet. All after this must fail: I have paid just veneration to his name, and, methinks, the spirit of Shakespear pushed the commendation.”

Mr Philips, in his “Sixth Pastoral.”

“Full fain, O blest Eliza! would I praise Thy maiden rule, and Albion’s golden days. Then gentle Sidney liv’d, the shepherd’s friend; Eternal blessings on his shade attend!”

[SIDNEY’S DEDICATION]

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To My Dear Lady and Sister, THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.

Here now have you (most dear, and most worthy to be most dear lady!) this idle work of mine, which, I fear, like the spider’s web, will be thought fitter to be swept away, than worn to any other purpose. For my part, in very truth (as the cruel fathers among the Greeks were wont to do to the babes they would not foster), I could well find in my heart to cast out, in some desert of forgetfulness, this child, which I am loth to father. But you desired me to do it, and your desire to my heart is an absolute commandment. Now, it is done only for you, only to you: if you keep it to yourself, or commend it to such friends who will weigh errors in the balance of goodwill, I hope, for the father’s sake, it will be pardoned, perchance, made much of, though in itself it have deformities. For indeed, for severer eyes it is not, being but a trifle, and that triflingly handled. Your dear self can best witness the manner, being done in loose sheets of paper, most of it in your presence; the rest by sheets sent unto you, as fast as they were done. In sum, a young head, not so well stayed as I would it were, and shall be when God will, having many fancies begotten in it, if it had not been in some way delivered, would have grown a monster, and more sorry might I be that they came in, than that they gat out. But this chief safety shall be the not walking abroad; and his chief protection, the bearing the livery of your name, which, if much {xl} goodwill do not deceive me, is worthy to be a sanctuary for a greater offender. This say I, because I know thy virtue so, and this say I, because it may be ever so, or, to say better, because it will be ever so. Read it, then, at your idle times, and the follies your good judgment will find in it blame not, but laugh at. And so, looking for no better stuff than as in a haberdasher’s shop, glasses, or feathers, you will continue to love the writer, who doth exceedingly love you, and most heartily prays you may long live to be a principal ornament to the family of the Sidneys. Your loving brother,

PHILIP SIDNEY.

ARCADIA