Chapter XXII: Book III: {299} (3)

Now was our heavenly vault deprived of the light, With sun’s depart: and now the darkness of the night, Did light those beamy stars which greater light did dark: Now each thing that enjoy’d that fiery quick’ning spark (Which life is call’d) were mov’d their spirits to repose, And wanting use of eyes, their eyes began to close; A silence sweet each where with one consent embrac’d (A music sweet to one in careful musing plac’d) And mother earth, now clad in mourning weeds, did breathe A dull desire to kiss the image of our death: When I, disgraced wretch, not wretched then did give My senses such relief, as they which quiet live, Whose brains boil not in woes, nor breasts with beatings ache, With nature’s praise are wont in safest home to take. Far from my thoughts was aught, where to their minds aspire Who under courtly pomps do hatch a base desire. Free all my powers were from those captivating snares, Which heav’nly purest gifts defile with muddy cares. Nay could my soul itself accuse of such a fault, As tender conscience might with furious pangs assault. But like the feeble flower, whose stalk cannot sustain His weighty top, his top downward doth drooping lean: Or as the silly bird in well-acquainted nest Doth hide his head with cares, but only to rest: So I in simple course, and unentangled mind, Did suffer drowsy lids mine eyes, then clear, to blind; And laying down mine head, did nature’s rule observe, They first their youth forgot, then fancies lost their force; Till deadly sleep at length possess’d my living corpse. A living corpse I lay: but ah my wakeful mind (Which made of heav’nly stuff, no mortal change doth blind) Flew up with freer wings of fleshly bondage free; And having plac’d my thoughts, my thoughts thus placed me. Methought, nay sure I was, I was in fairest wood, Of Samothea land, a land which whilom stood An honour to the world, while honour was their end, And while their line of years they did in virtue spend. But there I was, and there my calmy thoughts I fed On nature’s sweet repast, as healthful senses led. Her gifts my study was, her beauty were my sport, My work her works to know, her dwelling my resort. Those lamps of heav’nly fire to fixed motion bound, The ever turning spheres, the never moving ground; What essence dest’ny hath, if fortune be or no; Whence our immortal souls to mortal earth do flow: What life it is, and how that all these lives do gather, With outward maker’s force, or like an inward father. {333} Such thoughts, methought, I thought, and strain’d my single mind, Then void of nearer care, the depth of things to find, When lo with hugest noise, such noise a tower makes When it blown down with wind, a fall of ruin takes, Or, such a noise it was, as highest thunders send, Or cannons thunder-like, all shot together lend. The moon asunder rent, whereout with sudden fall (More swift than falcon’s stoop to feeding falconer’s call) There came a chariot fair, by doves and sparrows guided, Whose storm-like course stay’d not till hard by me it bided. I wretch astonished was, and thought the deathful doom, Of heaven, of earth, of hell, of time and place was come. But straight there issued forth two ladies, ladies sure They seemed to me, on whom did wait a virgin pure. Strange were the ladies’ weeds, yet more unfit than strange. The first with clothes tucked up, as nymphs in woods do range, Tucked up even with the knees with bow and arrows pressed: Her right arm naked was, discovered was her breast. But heavy was her pace, and such a meagre cheer, As little hunting mind, God knows, did there appear. The other had with art, more than our women know, As stuff meant for the sale, set out to glaring show, A wanton woman’s face, and with curl’d knots had twin’d Her hair, which by the help of painter’s cunning shin’d, When I such guests did see come out of such a house, The mountains great with child, I thought brought forth a mouse, But walking forth, the first thus to the second said, “Venus come on.” Said she, “Diana you are obey’d.” Those names abash’d me much, when those great names I heard: Although their fame (meseem’d) from truth had greatly jarr’d. As I thus musing stood, Diana call’d to her The waiting nymph, a nymph that did excel as far All things that erst I saw, as orient pearls exceed That which their mother hight, or else their silly seed, Indeed a perfect hew, indeed a sweet consent, Of all those graces’ gifts the heavens have ever lent. And so she was attir’d, as one that did not prize Too much her peerless parts, nor yet could them despise. But call’d, she came apace; apace, wherein did move The band of beauty’s all, the little world of love. And bending humbled eyes (O eyes the sun of sight) She waited mistress’s will; who thus disclos’d her spright; “Sweet Mira mine,” quoth she, “the pleasure of my mind, In whom of all my rules the perfect proof I find; To only thee, thou seest, we grant this special grace Us to attend, in this most private time and place. Be silent therefore now, and so be silent still Of that thou seest; close up in secret not thy will.” {334} She answered was with look, and well-perform’d behest: And Mira I admir’d; her shape sunk in my breast. But thus with ireful eyes, and face that shook with spite Diana did begin, “What mov’d me to invite, Your presence, sister dear, first to my moony sphere, And hither now, vouchsafe to take with willing ear. I know full well you know, what discord long hath reign’d Betwixt us two; how much that discord foul hath stain’d Both our estates, while each the other did deprave, Proof speaks too much to us, that feeling trial have, Our names are quite forgot, our temples are defac’d; Our offerings spoil’d, our priests from priesthood are displac’d. Is this the fruit of strife? those thousand churches high, Those thousand altars fair now in the dust to lie? In mortal minds, our minds but planets’ names preserve; No knees once bowed, forsooth, for them they say we serve. Are we their servants grown? no doubt a noble stay: Celestial powers to worms, Jove’s children serve to clay. But such they say we be: this praise our discord bred, While we for mutual spite, a striving passion fed. But let us wiser be; and what foul discord brake, So much more strong again let fastest concord make, Our years do it require; you see we both do feel The weak’ning work of time’s for ever whirling wheel. Although we be divine, our grandsire Saturn is With age’s force decay’d, yet once the heaven was his. And now before we seek by wise Apollo’s skill, Our young years to renew, for so he saith he will, Let us a perfect peace between us two resolve; Which least the ruinous want of government dissolve, Let one the princess be, to her the other yield: For vain equality is but contention’s field. And let her have the gifts that should in both remain; In her let beauty both, and chasteness fully reign. So as if I prevail, you give your gifts to me, If you, on you I lay what in my office be. Now resteth only this, which of us two is she, To whom precedence shall of both accorded be, For that, so that you like, hereby doth lie a youth,” (She beckoned unto me) “as yet of spotless truth; Who may this doubt discern: for better wit, then lot, Becometh us: in us fortune determines not. This crown of amber fair,” (an amber crown she held) “To worthiest let him give, when both he hath beheld: And be it as he saith.” Venus was glad to hear Such proffer made, which she well show’d with smiling cheer, As though she were the same, as when by Paris’ doom She had chief goddesses in beauty overcome. {335} And smirkly thus gan say, “I never sought debate, Diana dear, my mind to love and not to hate Was ever apt: but you my pastimes did despise. I never spited you, but thought you overwise. Now kindness proferr’d is, none kinder is than I; And so most ready am this mean of peace to try; And let him be our judge: the lad doth please me well.” Thus both did come to me, and both began to tell; For both together spoke, each loath to be behind, That they by solemn oath their deities would bind, To stand unto my will, their will they made me know I that was first aghast, when first I saw their show; Now bolder wax’d, wax’d proud, that I such sway must bear; For near acquaintance doth diminish reverent fear. And having bound them fast by Styx, they should obey To all what I decreed, did thus my verdict say. “How ill both you can rule, well hath your discord taught; Nay yet for ought I see, your beauties merit ought. To yonder Nymph therefore” (to Mira I did point) “The crown above you both for ever I appoint.” I would have spoken out; but out they both did cry; “Fie, fie, what have we done? ungodly rebel, fie. But now we needs must yield, to that our oaths require.” “Yet thou shalt not go free,” quoth Venus. “Such a fire Her beauty kindle shall within thy foolish mind, That thou full oft shall wish thy judging eyes were blind.” “Nay then,” Diana said, “the chasteness I will give, In ashes of despair, though burnt, shall make thee live.” “Nay thou,” said both, “shalt see such beams shine in her face, That thou shalt never dare seek help of wretched case.” And with that cursed curse away to heaven they fled, First having all their gifts upon fair Mira spread. The rest I cannot tell; for therewithal I wak’d, And found with deadly fear that all my sinews shak’d. Was it a dream? O dream, how hast thou wrought in me, That I things erst unseen should first in dreaming see? And thou, O traitor sleep, made for to be our rest; How hast thou fram’d the pain wherewith I am oppress’d? O coward Cupid, thus dost thou thy honour keep, Unarm’d, alas! unwarn’d to take a man asleep?

Laying not only the conquest, but the heart of the conqueror at her feet. But she receiving him after her wonted sorrowful, but otherwise unmoved, manner, it made him think his good success was but as a pleasant monument of a doleful burial: Joy itself seeming bitter unto him, since it agreed not to her taste.

Therefore, still craving his mother’s help to persuade her, he himself sent for Philanax unto him, whom he had not only long {336} hated but now had his hate greatly increased by the death of his squire Ismenus. Besides, he had made him as one of the chief causes that moved him to this rebellion, and therefore was inclined, to colour the better his action, and the more to embrew the hands of his accomplices by making them guilty of such a trespass, in some formal sort to cause him to be executed, being also greatly egged thereunto by his mother, and some other, who long had hated Philanax; only because he was more worthy than they to be loved.

But while that deliberation was handled, according rather to the humour, than the reason of each speaker; Philoclea coming to the knowledge of the hard plight wherein Philanax stood, she desired one of the gentlewomen appointed to wait upon her to go in her name and beseech Amphialus, that, if the love of her had any power of persuasion in his mind, he would lay no further punishment than imprisonment upon Philanax. This message was delivered even as Philanax was entering to the presence of Amphialus, coming, according to the warning was given him, to receive judgment of death. But when he, with manful resolution, attended the fruit of such a tyrannical sentence, thinking it wrong, but no harm to him that should die in so good a cause; Amphialus turned quite the form of his pretended speech, and yielded him humble thanks that by his means he had come to that happiness, as to receive a commandment of his lady: and therefore he willingly gave him liberty to return in safety whither he would, quitting him not only of all former grudge, but assuring him that he would be willing to do him any friendship and service: only desiring thus much of him, that he would let him know the discourse and intent of Basilius’s proceeding.

“Truly, my Lord,” answered Philanax, “if there were any such, known to me, secret in my master’s counsel, as that the revealing thereof, might hinder his good success, I should loathe the keeping of my blood with the loss of my faith, and would think the just name of a traitor a hard purchase of a few years’ living. But since it is so, that my master hath indeed no way of privy practice; but means openly and forcibly to deal against you, I will not stick, in few words, to make your required declaration.” Then told he him in what a maze of amazement, both Basilius and Gynecia were when they missed their children and Zelmane. Sometimes apt to suspect some practice of Zelmane, because she was a stranger; sometimes doubting some relic of the late mutiny, which doubt was rather increased than anywise satisfied, by Miso, who, being found almost dead for hunger by certain country people, brought home word with what cunning they were trained out, and with what violence they were carried away. But that within a few {337} days they came to knowledge where they were by Amphialus’s own letters sent abroad to procure confederates in his attempts; that Basilius’s purpose was never to leave the siege of the town till he had taken it, and revenged the injury done unto him. That he meant rather to win it by time and famine, than by force of assault; knowing how valiant men he had to deal withal in the town: that he had sent orders that supplies of soldiers, pioneers, and all things else necessary, should daily be brought unto him: so as, “My Lord,” said Philanax, “let me now, having received my life by your grace, let me give you your life and honour by my counsel; protesting unto you, that I cannot choose but love you, being my master’s nephew; and that I wish you well in all causes but this. You know his nature is as apt to forgive as his power is able to conquer. Your fault past is excusable, in that love persuaded, and youth was persuaded. Do not urge the effects of angry victory, but rather seek to obtain that constantly by courtesy, which you can never assuredly enjoy by violence.”

One might easily have seen in the cheer of Amphialus that disdainful choler would fain have made the answer for him, but the remembrance of Philoclea served for forcible barriers between anger, and angry effects: so as he said no more, but that he would not put him to the trouble to give him any further counsel, but that he might return, if he listed, presently. Philanax glad to receive an uncorrupted liberty, humbly accepted his favourable convoy out of the town; and so departed, not visiting the princesses, thinking it might be offensive to Amphialus, and no way fruitful to them, who were no way, but by force, to be rescued.

The poor ladies, indeed, not suffered either to meet together, or to have conference with any other, but such as Cecropia had already framed, to sing all their songs to her tune, she herself omitting no day, and catching hold of every occasion to move forward her son’s desire, and remove their own resolutions; using the same arguments to the one sister, as to the other; determining that whom she could win first, the other should, without her son’s knowledge, by poison be made away. But though the reasons were the same to both, yet the handling was diverse, according as she saw their humours to prepare a more or less aptness of apprehension. This day having long speech to Philoclea, amplifying not a little the great dutifulness her son had shown in delivering Philanax; of whom she could get no answer, but a silence sealed up in virtue, and so sweetly graced, as that in one instant it carried with it both resistance and humbleness: Cecropia threatening in herself to run a more rugged race with her, went to her sister Pamela, who that day having wearied herself with reading, and with the height of her heart disdaining to keep company with any {338} of the gentlewomen appointed to attend her, whom she accounted her jailors, was working upon a purse certain roses and lilies, as by the fineness of the work, one might see she had borrowed her wits of the sorrow that then owed them, and lent them wholly to that exercise. For the flowers she had wrought carried such life in them that the cunningest painter might have learned of her needle, which with so pretty a manner made his careers to and fro through the cloth, as if the needle itself would have been loth to have gone fromward such a mistress but that it hoped to return thitherward very quickly again, the cloth looking with many eyes upon her, and lovingly embracing the wounds she gave it: the shears also were at hand to behead the silk that was grown too short. And if at any time she put her mouth to bite it off, it seemed, that where she had been long in making of a rose with her hands, she would in an instant make roses with her lips; as the lilies seemed to have their whiteness rather of the hand that made them than of the matter whereof they were made, and that they grew there by the suns of her eyes, and were refreshed by the most, in discomfort, comfortable air, which an unawares sigh might bestow upon them. But the colours for the ground were so well chosen, neither sullenly dark, nor glaringly lightsome; and so well proportioned, as that, though much cunning were in it, yet it was but to serve for ornament of the principal work; that it was not without marvel to see how a mind which could cast a careless semblant upon the greatest conflicts of fortune could command itself to take care for so small matters. Neither had she neglected the dainty dressing of herself; but as if it had been her marriage time to affliction, she rather seemed to remember her own worthiness than the unworthiness of her husband. For well might one perceive she had not rejected the counsel of a glass, and that her hands had pleased themselves in paying the tribute of undeceiving skill to so high perfections of nature.

The sight whereof so divers from her sister, who rather suffered sorrow to dress itself in her beauty than that she would bestow any entertainment of so unwelcome a guest, made Cecropia take a sudden assuredness of hope that she should obtain somewhat of Pamela: thinking, according to the squaring out of her own good nature that beauty carefully set forth, would soon prove a sign of an unrefusing harbour. Animated therewith, she sat down by Pamela, and taking the purse, and with affected curiosity looking upon the work: “Fully happy is he,” said she, “at least if he knew his own happiness, to whom a purse in this manner, and by this hand wrought, is dedicated. In faith he shall have cause to account it, not as a purse for treasure, but as a treasure itself, worthy to be pursed up in the purse of his own heart.” “And {339} think you so indeed?” said Pamela, half smiling, “I promise you I wrought it but to make some tedious hours believe that I thought not of them; for else I valued it but even as a very purse.” “It is the right nature,” said Cecropia, “of beauty to work unwitting effects of wonder.” “Truly,” said Pamela, “I never thought till now that this outward gloss, entitled beauty, which it pleaseth you to lay to my (as I think) unguilty charge, was but a pleasant mixture of natural colours, delightful to the eye, as music is to the ear, without any further consequence, since it is a thing, which not only beasts have, but even stones and trees many of them do greatly excel in it.” “That other things,” answered Cecropia, “have some portion of it, takes not away the excellency of it, where indeed it doth excel: since we see that even those beasts, trees and stones are in the name of beauty only highly praised. But that the beauty of human persons is beyond all other things, there is great likelihood of reason, since to them only is given the judgment to discern beauty; and among reasonable wights, as it seems, that our sex hath the pre-eminence, so that in that pre-eminence, nature countervails all other liberalities wherein she may be thought to have dealt more favourably toward mankind. How do men crown, think you, themselves with glory for having either by force brought others to yield to their mind, or with long study, and premeditated orations, persuaded what they would have persuaded? and see, a fair woman shall not only command without authority, but persuade without speaking. She shall not need to procure attention, for their own eyes will chain their ears unto it. Men venture lives to conquer, she conquers lives without venturing. She is served, and obeyed, which is the most notable, not because the laws so command it, but because they become laws themselves to obey her; not for her parents’ sake, but for her own. She need not dispute, whether to govern by fear or love, since without her thinking thereof, their love will bring forth fear, and their fear will fortify their love; and she need not seek offensive or defensive force, since her only lips may stand for ten thousand shields, and ten thousand inevitable shot go from her eyes. Beauty, beauty, dear niece, is the crown of the feminine greatness; which gift on whomsoever the heavens (therein most niggardly) do bestow, without question, she is bound to use it to the noble purpose for which it is created; not only winning, but preserving, since that indeed is the right happiness which is not only in itself happy, but can also derive the happiness to another.” “Certainly, Aunt,” said Pamela, “I fear you will make me not only think myself fairer than ever I did, but think my fairness a matter of greater value than heretofore I could imagine it. For I ever, till now, conceived those conquests you speak of rather to proceed from the {340} weakness of the conquered than from the strength of the conquering power: as they say, the Cranes overthrow whole battles of Pigmies, not so much of their cranish courage, as because the other are Pigmies; and that we see young babes think babies of wonderful excellency, and yet the babies are but babies. But since your older years, and abler judgment find beauty to be worthy of so incomparable estimation, certainly, methinks, it ought to be held in dearness, according to the excellency, and no more than we would do of things which we account precious, never to suffer it to be defiled.”

“Defiled?” said Cecropia, “Marry, God forbid that my speech should tend to any such purpose as should deserve so foul a title. My meaning is, to join your beauty to love, your youth to delight. For, truly, as colours should be as good as nothing if there were no eyes to behold them; so is beauty nothing, without the eye of love behold it: and therefore so far is it from defiling it, that it is only the honouring of it, only the preserving of it; for beauty goes away, devoured by time, but where remains it ever flourishing, but in the heart of a true lover? and such a one, if ever there were any, is my son, whose love is so subjected unto you, that rather than breed any offence unto you, it will not delight itself in beholding you.” “There is no effect of his love,” answered Pamela, “better pleaseth me than that: but as I have often answered you, so resolutely I say unto you, that he must get my parents’ consent, and then he shall know further of my mind: for, without that I know I should offend God.” “O sweet youth,” said Cecropia, “how untimely subject it is to devotion? no, no, sweet niece, let us old folks think of such precise considerations: do you enjoy the heaven of your age, whereof you are sure; and like good householders, which spend those things that would not be kept, so do you pleasantly enjoy that which else will bring an over late repentance, when your glass shall accuse you to your face what a change there is in you. Do you see how the spring-time is full of flowers, decking itself with them, and not aspiring to the fruits of autumn? what lesson is that unto you, but that in the April of your age, you should be like April? let not some of them for whom already the grave gapeth, and perhaps envy the felicity in you, which themselves cannot enjoy, persuade you to loose the hold of occasion, while it may not only be taken, but offers, nay sues to be taken, which if it be not now taken, will never hereafter be overtaken. Yourself know how your father hath refused all offers made by the greatest princes about you, and will you suffer your beauty to be hidden in the wrinkles of his peevish thoughts?” “If he be peevish,” said Pamela, “yet he is my father; and how beautiful soever I be, I am his daughter: so that God {341} claims at my hands obedience, and makes me no judge of his imperfections.”

These often replies upon conscience in Pamela, made Cecropia think that there was no righter way for her than as she had, in her opinion, set her in liking of beauty, with persuasion not to suffer it to be void of purpose; so if she could make her less feeling of those heavenly conceits, that then she might easily wind her to her crooked bias. Therefore employing the uttermost of her mischievous wit, and speaking the more earnestly, because she spoke as she thought, she thus dealt with her.

“Dear niece, or rather dear daughter, if my affection and wish might prevail therein, how much doth it increase, through you, the earnest desire I have of this blessed match, to see these virtues of yours knit fast with such zeal of devotion (indeed the best bond) which the most politic wits have found to hold man’s wit in well doing? For as children must first by fear be induced to know that which after when they do know, they are most glad of, so are these bugbears of opinions brought by great clerks into the world to serve as shewels to keep them from those faults, whereto else the vanity of the world, and weakness of senses might pull them. But in you, niece, whose excellency is such as it need not to be held up by the staff of vulgar opinions, I would not you should love virtue servilely, for fear of I know not what, which you see not, but even for the good effects of virtue which you see. Fear, and indeed foolish fear, and fearful ignorance, was the first inventor of those conceits; for when they heard it thunder, not knowing the natural cause, they thought there was some angry body above that spake so loud: and ever the less they did perceive, the more they did conceive; whereof they knew no cause, that grew straight a miracle: foolish folks not marking that the alterations be but upon particular accidents, the universality being always one. Yesterday was but as to-day, and to-morrow will tread the same footsteps of his foregoers: so as it is manifest enough that all things follow but the course of their own nature, saving only man, who while by the pregnancy of his imagination he strives to things supernatural, meanwhile he loseth his own natural felicity. Be wise, and that wisdom shall be a God unto thee; be contented, and that is thy heaven: for else to think that those powers, if there be any such, above are moved either by the eloquence of our prayers, or in a chafe at the folly of our actions, carries as much reason, as if flies should think that men take great care which of them hums sweetest, and which of them flies nimblest.”

She would have spoken further, to have enlarged and confirmed her discourse, when Pamela, whose cheeks were dyed in the beautifullest grain of virtuous anger, with eyes which glistered {342} forth beams of disdain, thus interrupted her. “Peace, wicked woman, peace, unworthy to breathe, that dost not acknowledge the breath giver; most unworthy to have a tongue which speaketh against him, through whom thou speakest: keep your affection to yourself, which like a bemired dog, would defile with fawning. You say yesterday was as to-day. O foolish woman, and most miserably foolish, since wit makes you foolish; what doth that argue but that there is a constancy in the everlasting governor? Would you have an inconstant God, since we count a man foolish that is inconstant? He is not seen, you say, and would you think him a God who might be seen by so wicked eyes as yours? Which yet might see enough if they were not like such, who for sport’s sake, willingly hoodwink themselves to receive blows the easier. But though I speak to you without any hope of fruit in so rotten a heart, and there be nobody else here to judge of my speeches, yet be thou my witness, O captivity, that my ears shall not be willingly guilty of my creator’s blasphemy. You say because we know not the causes of things, therefore fear was the mother of superstition; nay, because we know that each effect hath a cause that hath engendered a true and lively devotion. For this goodly work of which we are, and in which we live, hath not his being by chance; on which opinion it is beyond marvel, by what chance any brain could stumble. For if it be eternal, as you would seem to conceive of it, eternity and chance are things unsufferable together. For that is chanceable which happeneth; and if it happen, there was a time before it happened when it might not have happened; or else it did not happen, and, if so chanceable, not eternal. And as absurd it is to think, that if it had a beginning, his beginning was derived from chance: for chance could never make all things of nothing; and there were substances before, which by chance should meet to make up this work; thereon follows another bottomless pit of absurdities. For then those substances must needs have been from ever, and so eternal: and that eternal causes should bring forth chanceable effects, is as sensible as that the sun should be the author of darkness. Again, if it were chanceable, then was it not necessary; whereby you take away all consequence. But we see in all things, in some respect or other, necessity of consequence: therefore in reason we must needs know that the causes were necessary. Lastly, chance is variable, or else it is not to be called chance: but we see this work is steady and permanent. If nothing but chance had glued those pieces of this All, the heavy parts would have gone infinitely downward, the light infinitely upward, and so never have met to have made up this goodly body. For before there was a heaven, or earth, there was neither a heaven to stay the height of the ring, or an earth, {343} which (in respect of the round walls of heaven) should become a centre. Lastly, perfect order, perfect beauty, perfect constancy, if these be the children of chance, let wisdom be counted the root of wickedness. But, you will say, it is so by nature; as much as if you said, it is so, because it is so. If you mean of many natures conspiring together, as in a popular government to establish this fair estate; as if the elementish and ethereal parts should in their town-house set down the bounds of each one’s office: then consider what follows, that there must needs have been a wisdom which made them concur: for their natures being absolutely contrary, in nature rather would have sought each others’ ruin, than have served as well-consorted parts to such an unexpressible harmony. For that contrary things should meet to make up a perfection without force and wisdom above their powers, is absolutely impossible unless that you will fly to that hissed-out opinion of chance again. But you may, perhaps, affirm that one universal nature, which hath been for ever, is the knitting together of these many parts to such an excellent unity. If you mean a nature of wisdom, goodness and providence, which knows what it doth; then say you that which I seek of you, and cannot conclude those blasphemies with which you defiled your mouth, and mine ears: but if you mean a nature, as we speak of the fire, which goeth upward, it knows not why; and of the nature of the sea, which in ebbing and flowing seems to observe so just a dance, and yet understands no music, it is but still the same absurdity superscribed with another title. For this word, One, being attributed to that which is All, is but one mingling of many, and many ones; as in a less matter, when we say one kingdom which contains many cities, or one city which contains many persons, wherein the under-ones, if there be not a superior power and wisdom, cannot by nature have regard to any preservation but of themselves: no more we see they do, since the water willingly quenches the fire, and drowns the earth, so far as they from a conspired unity; but that a right heavenly nature indeed, as it were unnaturing them, doth so bridle them. Again, it is as absurd in nature, that from an unity many contraries should proceed still kept in an unity; as that from the number of contrarieties an unity should arise. I say still, if you banish both a singularity and plurality of judgment from among them, then (if so earthly a mind can lift itself up so high) do but conceive how a thing whereto you give the highest and most excellent kind of being, which is eternity, can be of a base and vilest degree of being, and next to a not being: which is so to be, as not to enjoy his own being? I will not here call all your senses to witness, which can hear nor see nothing, which yields not most evident evidence of {344} the unspeakableness of that wisdom: each thing being directed to an end, and an end of preservation, so proper effects of judgment, as speaking and laughing, are of mankind. But what mad fury can ever so inveigle any conceit, as to see our mortal and corruptible selves to have a reason, and that this universality, whereof we are but the least pieces, should be utterly devoid thereof: as if one should say, that one’s foot might be wise, and himself foolish: this heard I once alleged against such a godless mind as yours, who being driven to acknowledge this beastly absurdity that our bodies should be better than the whole world, if it had the knowledge whereof the other were void; he sought, not able to answer directly, to sift it off in this sort; and if that reason were true, then must it follow also that the world must have in it a spirit, that could write and read too, and be learned, since that was in us commendable. Wretched fool, not considering that books be but supplies of defects, and so are praised because they help our want, and therefore cannot be incident to the eternal intelligence, which need no recording of opinions to confirm his knowledge, no more than the sun wants wax to be the fuel of his glorious lightfulness. This world therefore cannot otherwise consist but by a mind of wisdom, which governs it; which whether you will allow to be the creator thereof, as undoubtedly he is, or the soul and governor thereof, most certain it is, that whether he govern all, or make all, his power is above either his creatures, or his government. And if his power be above all things, then consequently it must needs be infinite, since there is nothing above it to limit it. For beyond which there is nothing, must needs be boundless and infinite: if his power be infinite, then likewise must his knowledge be infinite: for else there should be an infinite proportion of power which he should not know how to use, the unsensibleness whereof I think even you can conceive: and if infinite, then must nothing, no not the estate of flies, which you with so unsavoury scorn did jest at, be known unto him. For if there were, then there were his knowledge bounded, and so not infinite: if his knowledge and power be infinite, then must needs his goodness and justness march in the same rank: for infiniteness of power and knowledge, without like measure of goodness must necessarily bring forth destruction and ruin, and not ornament and preservation. Since then there is a God, and an all-knowing God, so as he seeth into the darkness of all natural secrets, which is the heart of man; and sees therein the deepest dissembled thoughts, nay sees the thought before they be thought: since he is just to exercise his might, and mighty to perform his justice, assure thyself, most wicked woman, that has so plaguily a corrupted mind that thou canst not keep thy sickness to thyself, but must {345} most wickedly infect others; assure thyself, I say, for what I say depends on everlasting and unremovable causes, that the time will come when thou shalt know that power by feeling it; when thou shalt see His wisdom in the manifesting thy ugly shamefulness, and shalt only perceive him to have been a creator in thy destruction.”

Thus she said, thus she ended, with so fair a majesty of unconquered virtue, that captivity might seem to have authority over tyranny: so foully was the filthiness of impiety discovered by the shining of her unstained goodness, so far as either Cecropia saw indeed, or else the guilty amazement of a self-excusing conscience made her eyes untrue judges of their natural object, that there was a light more than human, which gave a lustre to her perfections. But Cecropia, like a bat, which though it have eyes to discern that there is a sun, yet hath so evil eyes that it cannot delight in the sun, found a truth but could not love it. But as great persons are wont to make the wrong they have done, to be a cause to do the more wrong, her knowledge rose to no higher point, but to envy a worthier; and her will was no otherwise bent, but the more to hate, the more she found her enemy provided against her. Yet all the while she spoke, though with eyes cast like a horse that would strike at the stirrup, and with colour which blushed through yellowness, she sat rather still than quiet, and after her speech rather muttered than replied: for the war of wickedness in herself, brought forth disdainful pride to resist cunning dissimulation; so that, saying little more unto her, but that she should have leisure enough better to bethink herself, she went away repining, but not repenting, condemning greatly, as she thought, her son’s over-feeble humbleness, and purposing to egg him forward to a course of violence. For herself, determining to deal with neither of them both any more in manner of a suitor: for what majesty of virtue did in the one, that did silent humbleness in the other. But finding her son over-apt to lay both condemnation, and execution of sorrow upon himself, she sought to mitigate his mind with feigned delays of comfort, who (having this inward overthrow in himself) was the more vexed that he could not utter the rage thereof upon his outward enemies.

But Basilius, taught by the last day’s trial, what dangerous effects chosen courages can bring forth, rather used the spade than the sword; or the sword, but to defend the spade, girding about the whole town with trenches; which beginning a good way off from the town, with a number of well-directed pioneers, he still carried before him, till they came to a near distance, where he built forts, one answering the other, in such sort, as it was a pretty consideration in the discipline of war, to see building used for the {346} instrument of ruin, and the assailer intrenched as if he was besieged. But many sallies did Amphialus make to hinder their working. But they (exercising more melancholy than choler in their resolution) made him find, that if by the advantage of the place, few are able to defend themselves from many, that many must needs have power (making themselves strong in seat) to repel few, referring the revenge rather to the end, than to a present requital. Yet oftentimes they dealt some blows in light skirmishes, each side having a strong retiring place, and rather fighting with many alarms to vex the enemy, than for any hope of great success.

Which every way was a tedious cumber to the impatient courage of Amphialus; till the fame of this war, bringing thither diverse, both strangers and subjects, as well of princely, as noble houses, the gallant Phalantus, who refrained his sportful delights as then, to serve Basilius (whom he honoured for received honours) when he had spent some time in considering the Arcadian manner in marching, encamping and fighting, and had learned in what points of government and obedience their discipline differed from others, and so had satisfied his mind in the knowledges, both for the cutting off the enemy’s helps, and furnishing one’s self, which Basilius’s orders could deliver unto him, his young spirits (weary of wanting cause to be weary) desired to keep his valour in knowledge by some private act, since the public policy restrained him; the rather, because his old mistress Artesia might see whom she had so lightly forsaken: and therefore demanding and obtaining leave of Basilius, he caused a herald to be furnished with apparel of his office, and tokens of a peaceable message, and so sent him to the gate of the town to demand audience of Amphialus: who, understanding thereof, caused him both safely and courteously to be brought into his presence: who, making lowly reverence unto him, presented his letters, desiring Amphialus, that whatsoever they contained, he would consider he was only the bearer, and not the inditer. Amphialus with noble gentleness assured him both by honourable speeches, and a demeanour which answered for him, that his revenge, whensoever, should sort unto itself a higher subject. But opening the letters, he found them to speak in this manner:

Phalantus of Corinth, to Amphialus of Arcadia, sendeth the greeting of a hateless enemy. The liking of martial matter without any dislike of your person hath brought me rather to the company than to the mind of your besiegers: where languishing in idleness, I desire to refresh my mind with some exercise of arms, which might make known the doers, with delight of the beholders. Therefore if there be any gentleman in your town that either for the love of honour, or honour of his love, well armed on horseback, with lance {347} and sword, win another, or lose himself, to be prisoner at discretion of the conqueror, I will to-morrow morning by sunrising, with a trumpet and a squire only, attend him in like order furnished. The place I think fittest, the island within the lake, because it stands so well in the view of your castle, as that the ladies may have the pleasure of seeing the combat: which, though it be within the commandment of your castle, I desire no better security than the promise I make to myself of your virtue. I attend your answer, and wish you success as may be to your honour, rather in yielding to that which is just than in maintaining wrong by violence.

Amphialus read it with cheerful countenance, and thinking but a little with himself, called for pen and paper, and wrote this answer:

Amphialus of Arcadia, to Phalantus of Corinth, wisheth all his own wishes, saving those which may be hurtful to another. The matter of your letters to fit for a worthy mind, and the manner so suitable to the nobleness of the matter, give me cause to think how happy I might account myself, if I could get such a friend; who esteem it no small happiness to have met with so noble an enemy. Your challenge shall be answered, and both time, place, and weapon accepted. For your security from any treachery (having no hostage worthy to countervail you) take my word, which I esteem above all respects. Prepare therefore your arms to fight, but not your heart to malice, since true valour needs no other whetstone than desire of honour.

Having written and sealed his letter, he delivered it to the herald, and withal took a fair chain from off his own neck and gave it him. And so with safe convoy sent him away from out his city: and he being gone, Amphialus showed unto his mother, and some other of his chief counsellors what he had received, and how he had answered, telling them withal, that he was determined to answer the challenge in his own person. His mother, with prayers authorized by motherly commandment; his old governor, with persuasions mingled with reprehension (that he would rather affect the glory of a private fighter than of a wise general) Clinias with falling down at his feet, and beseeching him to remember that all their lives depended upon his safety, sought all to dissuade him. But Amphialus (whose heart was inflamed with courage, and courage inflamed with affection) made an imperious resolution, cut off the tediousness of replies, giving them a charge what they should do upon all occasions, and particularly to deliver the ladies, if otherwise than well happened unto him: only desiring his mother that she would bring Philoclea to a window, whence she might with ease perfectly discern the combat. And so soon as the morning began to draw dew from the fairest greens to wash her {348} face withal against the approach of the burning sun, he went to his stable, where himself chose out a horse, whom (though he was near twenty years old) he preferred for a piece of sure service, before a great number of younger. His colour was of a brown bay, dappled thick with black spots; his forehead marked with a white star; to which, in all his body there was no part suitable, but the left foot before; his mane and tail black and thick, of goodly and well-proportioned greatness. He caused him to be trimmed with a sumptuous saddle of tawny and gold enamel, enriched with precious stones: his furniture was made into the fashion of branches of a tree, from which the leaves were falling, and so artificially were the leaves made, that, as the horse moved, it seemed indeed that the leaves wagged as when the wind plays with them; and being made of a pale cloth of gold, they did bear the straw-coloured livery of ruin. His armour was also of tawny and gold, but formed into the figures of flames darkened, as when they newly break the prison of a smoky furnace. In his shield he had painted the Torpedo fish. And so appointed, he caused himself with his trumpet and squire (whom he had taken since the death of Ismenus) to be ferried over into the island, a place well chosen for such a purpose. For it was so plain that there was scarcely any bush, or hillock, either to unlevel or shadow it: of length and breadth enough, to try the uttermost both of lance and sword; and the one end of it facing the castle, the other extending itself toward the camp, and no access to it, but by water, there could on secret treachery be wrought; and for manifest violence, either side might have time enough to succour their party.

But there he found Phalantus, already waiting for him upon a horse milk white, but that upon his shoulders and withers he was freckled with red stain, as when a few strawberries are scattered into a dish of cream. He had caused his mane and tail to be dyed in carnation, his reins were vine branches, which engendering one with the other, at the end, when he came to the bit, there for the boss brought forth a cluster of grapes by the workman made so lively that it seemed, as the horse champed on his bit, he chopped for them, and that it did make his mouth water to see the grapes so near him. His furniture behind was of vines, so artificially made that it seemed the horse stood in the shadow of the vine, so prettily were clusters of ruby grapes dispersed among the trappings which embraced his sides. His armour was blue like the heaven, which a sun did with his rays (proportionably delivered) gild in most places. His shield was beautified with this device: a greyhound which over-running his fellow, and taking the hare, yet hurts it not when it takes it. The words were, “The glory, not the prey.”

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