Chapter XXXIII: Book IV: {523} (1)

The almighty wisdom evermore delighting to show the world that by unlikeliest means greatest matters may come to conclusion; that human reason may be the more humbled, and more willingly give place to divine providence; as at the first it brought in Dametas to play a part in this royal pageant, so having continued him still an actor, now that all things were grown ripe for an end, made his folly the instrument of revealing that which far greater cunning had sought to conceal. For so it fell out that Dametas having spent the whole day in breaking up the cumbersome work of the pastor Dorus, and feeling in all his labour no pain so much as that his hungry hopes received any stay, having with the price of much sweat and weariness gotten up the huge stone, which he thought should have such a golden lining, the good man in the great bed that stone had made, found nothing but these two verses written upon a broad piece of vellum.

Who hath his hire, hath well his labour plac’d; Earth thou didst seek, and store of Earth thou hast.

What an inward discontentment it was to master Dametas, to find his hope of wealth turned to poor verses, for which he never cared much, nothing can describe, but either the feeling in one’s self the state of such a mind Dametas had, or at least the bethinking what was Midas’s fancy, when after the great pride he conceived to be made judge between the Gods, he was rewarded with the ornament of an ass’s ears. Yet the deep apprehension he had received of such riches, could not so suddenly lose the colour that had so thoroughly dyed his thick brain, but that he turned and tossed the poor bowels of the innocent earth, till the {524} coming on of the night, and the tediousness of his fruitless labour made him content rather to exercise his discontentation at home than there. But forced he was, his horse being otherwise burdened with digging instruments, to return as he came, most part of the way on foot, with such grudging lamentations as a nobler mind would, but more nobly, make for the loss of his mistress. For so far had he fed his foolish soul with the expectation of that which he reputed felicity, that he no less accounted himself miserable, than if he had fallen from such an estate his fancy had embraced. So then home again went Dametas, punished in conceit, as in conceit he had erred, till he found himself there from a fancied loss fallen to essential misery: for entering into his house three hours before night, instead of the lightsome countenance of Pamela, which gave such an inward decking to that lodge, as proudest palaces might have cause to envy it, and of the grateful conversation of Dorus, whose witty behaviour made that loneliness to seem full of good company, instead of the loud scolding of Miso, and the busy rumbling up and down of Mopsa, which though they were so short, as quite contrary to the others’ praiseworthiness, yet were they far before them in filling of a house, he found nothing but a solitary darkness, which as naturally it breeds a kind of irksome ghastfulness, so it was to him a most present terror, remembering the charge he had left behind, which he well knew imported no less than his life unto him. Therefore lighting a candle, there was no place a mouse could have dwelled in but that he with quaking diligence sought into. But when he saw he could see nothing of that he most cared for, then became he the right pattern of a wretch dejected with fear: for crying and howling, knocking his head to the wall, he began to make pitiful complaints, where nobody could hear him: and, with too much dread he should not recover her, leave all consideration how to recover her. But at length looking like a she-goat when she casts her kid, for very sorrow he took in his own behalf, out of the lodge he went running as hard as he could, having now received the very form of hanging into his consideration. Thus running, as a man that would gladly have run from himself, it was his foolish fortune to espy, by the glimmering light the moon did then yield him, one standing aloft among the boughs of a fair ash. He that would have asked counsel at that time of a dog, cast up his face, as if his tooth had been drawing; and with much bending his sight, perceived it was Mopsa, fitly seated there for her wit and dignity. There, I will not say with joy, for how could he taste of joy, whose imagination was fallen from a palace to the gallows? But yet with some refreshing of comfort, in hopes he should learn better tidings of her, he began to cry out, {525} “O Mopsa, my beloved chicken, here am I thine own father Dametas, never in such a towardness of hanging if thou canst not help me.” But never a word could his eloquence procure of Mopsa, who indeed was there attending for greater matters. This was yet a new burden to poor Dametas, who thought all the world was conspiring against him, and therefore with a silly choler he began another tune. “Thou vile Mopsa,” said he, “now the vengeance of my fatherly curse overthwart thee if though do not straightways answer me.” But neither blessing nor cursing could prevail. Mopsa, who was now great with child with the expectation of her may-game hopes did long to be delivered with the third time of being named. Which by and by followed, for Dametas rubbing his elbow, stamping and whining, seeing neither of these take place, he began to throw stones at her, and withal to conjure her by the name of hellish Mopsa. But when he had named her the third time, no chime can more suddenly follow the striking of a clock, than she verily thinking it was the god that used her father’s voice, throwing her arms abroad, and not considering that she was muffled upon so high a tree, came fluttering down like a hooded hawk, likely enough to have broken her neck but that the tree full of boughs tossed her from one bough to another, and lastly, well bruised, brought her to receive an unfriendly salutation of the earth. Dametas, as soon as she was down, came running to her, and finding her so close wrapt, pulled off the scarlet cloak, in good time for her, for with the soreness of the fall, if she had not had breath given her, she had delivered a foolish soul to Pluto.

But when Dametas began afresh to desire his daughter not to forget the pains he had taken for her in her childhood, which he was sure she could remember, and to tell where Pamela was. “O good Apollo,” said Mopsa, “if ever thou didst bear love to Phaeton’s mother let me have a king to my husband.” “Alas, what speakest thou of Phaeton?” said Dametas. “If by thy circumspect means I find not out Pamela, thy father will be hanged to-morrow.” “It is no matter though he be hanged,” answered Mopsa, “do but thou make Dorus a king, and let him be my husband, good Apollo, for my courage doth much prick me toward him.” “Ah Mopsa,” cried out Dametas, “where is thy wit? Dost thou not know thy father? How hast thou forgotten thyself?” “I do not ask wit of thee, mine own God,” said she, “but I see thou wouldst have me remember my father, and indeed forget myself. No, no, a good husband.” “Thou shalt have thy fill of husbands,” said Dametas, “and do but answer me my question.” “O I thank thee,” said Mopsa, “with all my heart heartily, but let them be all kings.” Dametas seeing no other {526} way prevail, fell down on his knees, “Mopsa, Mopsa,” said he, “do not thus cruelly torment me; I am already wretched enough, alas! either help me, or tell me thou canst not.” She that would not be behind Apollo in courtesy, kneeled down on the other side; “I will never leave tormenting thee,” said Mopsa, “until thou hast satisfied my longing; but I will proclaim thee a promise-breaker, that even Jupiter shall hear it.” “Now by the fostering thou hast received in this place, save my life,” said Dametas. “Now by the fair ash,” answered Mopsa, “where thou didst receive so great a good turn, grant post haste to my burning fancy.” “O where is Pamela?” said Dametas. “O a lusty husband,” said Mopsa. Dametas, who now verily assured himself his daughter was mad, began utterly to despair of his life; and therefore amazedly catching her in his arms, to see whether he could bring her to herself, he felt the weight of a great cudgel light upon his shoulder, and for the first greeting he knew his wife Miso’s voice, by the calling him ribald villain, and asking him whether she could not serve his turn as well as Charita? For Miso having, according to Dorus’s counsel, gone to Mantinea, and there harboured herself in an old acquaintance’s house of hers, as soon as ten of the clock had stricken (where she had remained closely all that while, I think with such an amiable cheer, as when jealous Juno sat cross-legged to hinder the child-birth of her husband’s love) with open mouth she went to the magistrate appointed over such matters, and there, with the most scolding invective, her rage rather than eloquence could bring forth, she required his aid to take Dametas, who had left his duty to the king and his daughter, to commit adultery in the house of Charita’s uncle, in the Oudemian Street. But neither was the name of Charita remembered, nor any such street known. Yet such was the general mislike all men had of Dametas’s unworthy advancement, that every man was glad to make himself a minister of that which might redound to his shame; and therefore, with panic cries and laughters, there was no suspected place in all the city but was searched for under the title of Dametas, Miso ever foremost, encouraging them with all the shameful blazings of his demeanour, increasing the sport of hunting her husband, with her diligent barking, till at length, having done both him and herself as much infamous shame as such a tongue in such an action might perform, in the end not being able to find a thing that was not, to her mare again she went, having neither suspicion nor rage anything mitigated. But, leaving behind her a sufficient comedy of her tragical fancies, away homeward she came, imputing the not finding her husband, to any chance rather than to his innocency. For her heart being apt to receive and nourish a bitter thought, it had so swallowed {527} up a determinate condemnation, that in the very anatomy of her spirits one should have found nothing but devilish disdain, and hateful jealousy. In this sort grunting out her mischievous spite, she came by the tree, even as Dametas was making that ill-understood intercession to his foolish Mopsa. As soon as she heard her husband’s voice, she verily thought she had her play; and therefore stealing from her mare as softly as she could, she came creeping and halting behind him, even as he (thinking his daughter’s little wits had quite left her great noll) began to take her in his arms, thinking perchance her feeling sense might call her mind’s parts unto her. But Miso, who saw nothing but through the choler of revengeful anger, established upon the fore-judgment of his trespass, undoubtedly resolving that Mopsa was Charita, Dorus had told her of, mumping out her hoarse chafe, she gave him the wooden salutation you heard of; Dametas, that was not so sensible in anything as in blows, turned up his blubbered face like a great lout new whipped: “Alas! thou woman,” said he, “what hath thy poor husband deserved to have his own ill luck loaden with displeasure? Pamela is lost, Pamela is lost.” Miso still holding on the course of her former fancy, “What tellest thou me, naughty varlet, of Pamela; Dost thou think that doth answer me for abusing the laws of marriage? Have I brought thee children, have I been a true wife unto thee, to be despised in mine old age?” And ever among she would sauce her speeches with such bastinadoes, that poor Dametas began now to think, that either a general madding was fallen, or else that all this was but a vision. But as for visions the smart of the cudgel put out of his fancy; and therefore again turning to his wife, not knowing what in the world she meant, “Miso,” said he, “hereafter thou mayest examine me, do but now tell me what is become of Pamela.” “I will first examine this drab,” said she, and withal let fall her staff as hard as she could upon Mopsa, still taking her for Charita. But Mopsa that was already angry, thinking that she had hindered her from Apollo, leaped up and caught her by the throat, like to have strangled her, but that Dametas from a condemned man was fain to become a judge, and part this fray, such a picture of rude discord, where each was out with the other two. And then getting the opportunity of their falling out to hold himself in surety, who was indeed the veriest coward of the three, he renewed his earnest demand of them.

But it was a sport to see, how the former conceits Dorus had printed in their imaginations, kept still such dominion in them, that Miso, though now she found and felt it was her daughter Mopsa, yet did Charita continually pass through her thoughts, {528} which she uttered with such crabbed questions to Dametas, that he not possibly conceiving any part of her doubt, remained astonished, and the astonishment increased her doubt. And as for Mopsa, as first she did assuredly take him to be Apollo, and thought her mother’s coming did but mar the bargain: so now much talking to and fro had delivered so much light into the misty mould of her capacity, as to know him to be her father. Yet remained there such footsteps of the foretaken opinion that she thought verily her father and mother were hasted thither to get the first wish. And therefore to whatsoever they asked of her, she would never answer, but embracing the tree, as if she feared it had been running away, “Nay,” says she, “I will have the first wish, for I was here first;” which they understood no more than Dametas did what Miso meant by Charita; till at length with much urging them, being indeed better able to persuade both, than to meet hand to hand with either, he prevailed so much with them, as to bring them into the lodge to see what loss their negligence had suffered. Then indeed the near neighbourhood they bare to themselves, made them leave other toys, and look into what dangerous plight they were all fallen, as soon as the king should know his daughter’s escape. And as for the women, they began afresh to enter into their brawling, whether were in the fault. But Dametas, who did fear that among his other evils, the thunderbolt of that storm would fall upon his shoulders, slipped away from them, but with so maugre a cheer, as might much sooner engender laughter than pity. “O true Arcadia,” would he say (tearing his hair and beard, and sometime for too much woe, making unwieldy former-faults) “how darest thou bear upon thee such a felonious traitor as I am? And, you false-hearted trees, why would you make no noise to make her ungracious departure known? Ah Pamela, Pamela, how often when I brought thee in fine poesies of all coloured flowers, wouldst thou clap me on the cheek, and say thou wouldst be one day even with me? Was this thy meaning, to bring me to an even pair of gallows? ah ill-taught Dorus, that camest hither to learn good manners of me? did I ever teach thee to make thy master sweat out his heart for nothing, and in the meantime to run away with thy mistress? O my dun cow, I did think some evil was towards me ever since the last day thou didst run away from me, and held up thy tail so pitifully: did I not see an eagle kill a cuckoo, which was a plain foretoken unto me, Pamela should be my destruction? O wise Miso, if I durst say it to thy face, why didst thou suspect thy husband that loveth a piece of cheese better than a woman? and thou little Mopsa, that shall inherit the shame of thy father’s death, was it time for thee to climb trees, which should so shortly be my best burial? O that {529} I could live without death, or die before I were aware! O heart, why hast thou no hands at commandment to dispatch thee? O hands, why want you a heart to kill this villain?” In this sort did he inveigh against everything, sometimes thinking to run away, while it was yet night: but he that had included all the world within his sheep-cote, thought that worse than any death; sometime for dread of hanging he meant to hang himself; finding, as indeed it is, that fear is far more painful to cowardice, than death to a true courage.

But his fingers were nothing nimble in that action, and anything was let enough thereto, he being a true lover of himself without any rival. But, lastly, guided by a far greater constellation than his own, he remembered to search the other lodge, where it might be Pamela that night had retired herself. So thither with trembling hams he carried himself; but employing his double key, which the king for special credit had unworthily bestowed upon him, he found all the gates so barred, that his key could not prevail, saving only one trap door which went down into the vault by the cellar, which as it was unknown of Pyrocles, so had he left it unregarded. But Dametas, that ever knew the buttery better than any other place, got in that way, and passing softly to Philoclea’s chamber, where he thought most likely to find Pamela; the door being left open, he entered in, and by the light of the lamp he might discern one on the bed by her; which although he took to be Pamela, yet thinking no surety enough in a matter touching his neck, he went hard to the bedside of these unfortunate lovers, who at that time being not much before the break of day (whether it were they were so divinely surprised, to bring this whole matter to the destined conclusion, or that the unresistable force of their sorrows had overthrown the wakeful use of their senses) were as then possessed with a mutual sleep, yet not forgetting with viny embracements to give any eye a perfect model of affection. But Dametas looking with the lamp in his hand, but neither with such a face nor mind upon these excellent creatures, as Psyche did upon her unknown lover, and giving every way freedom to his fearful eyes, did not only perceive it was Zelmane, and therefore much different from the lady he sought: but that this same Zelmane did more differ from the Zelmane he and others had ever taken her for, wherein the change of her apparel chiefly confirmed his opinion; satisfied with that, and not thinking it good to awake the sleeping lion, he went down again, taking with him Pyrocles’s sword (wherewith upon his slight under-suit Pyrocles came only apparelled thither) being sure to leave no weapon in the chamber, and so making the doors as fast as he could on the outside, hoping with the revealing of this, as he {530} thought greater fault, to make his own the less, or at least that this injury would so fill the king’s head, that he should not have leisure to chastise his negligence (like a fool, not considering, that the more rage breeds the crueller punishment), he went first into the king’s chamber, and not finding him there, he ran down crying with open mouth, the king was betrayed, and that Zelmane did abuse his daughter. The noise he made, being a man of no few words, joined to the yelping sound of Miso, and his unpleasant inheritrix, brought together some number of the shepherds, to whom he without any regard of reserving it for the king’s knowledge, spattered out the bottom of his stomach, swearing by him that he never knew that Zelmane, whom they had taken all the while to be a woman, was as arrant a man as himself was, whereof he had seen sufficient signs and tokens, and that he was as close as a butterfly with the lady Philoclea.

The poor men jealous of their prince’s honour, were ready with weapons to have entered the lodge; standing yet in some pause, whether it were not best, first to hear some news from the king himself, when by the sudden coming of other shepherds, which with astonished looks ran from the one cry to the other, their griefs were surcharged with the evil tidings of the king’s death. Turning therefore all their minds and eyes that way, they ran to the cave where they said he lay dead, the sun beginning now to send some promises of coming light, making haste, I think, to be a spectator of the following tragedies. For Basilius having passed over the night more happy in contemplation than action, having had his spirits sublimed with the sweet imagination of embracing the most desired Zelmane, doubting lest the cave’s darkness might deceive him in the day’s approach, thought it now season to return to his wedlock-bed, remembering the promises he had made to Zelmane, to observe true orders towards Gynecia. Therefore departing, but not departing without bequeathing by a will of words, sealed with many kisses, a full gift of all his love and life to his misconceived bedfellow, he went to the mouth of the cave, there to apparel himself; in which doing, the motion of his joy could not be bridled from uttering such like words: “Blessed be thou, O night,” said he, “that hast with thy sweet wings shrouded me in the vale of bliss, it is thou that art the first gotten child of time, the day hath been but an usurper upon thy delightful inheritance, thou invitest all living things to comfortable rest, thou art the stop of strife, and the necessary truce of approaching battles.” And therewith he sung these verses to confirm his former praises.

{531}

O night, the ease of care, the pledge of pleasure,
Desire’s best mean, harvest of hearts affected,
The seat of peace, the throne which is erected,
Of human life to be the quiet measure.

Be victor still of Phoebus’ golden treasure,
Who hath our sight with too much sight infected,
Whose light is cause we have our lives neglected,
Turning all nature’s courses to self displeasure.

These stately stars in their now shining faces,
With senseless sleep, and silence wisdom’s mother,
Witness his wrong, which by the help is eased.
Thou art therefore of these our desert places
The sure refuge; by thee and by no other
My soul is blest, sense joy’d, and fortune raised.

And yet further would his joys needs break forth. “O Basilius,” said he, “the rest of thy time hath been but a dream unto thee; it is now only thou beginnest to live, now only thou hast entered into the way of blissfulness. Should fancy of marriage keep me from this paradise? or opinion of I know not what promise bind me from paying the right duties to nature and affection? O who would have thought there could have been such difference betwixt women? Be jealous no more, O Gynecia, but yield to the pre-eminence of more excellent gifts, support thyself with such marble pillars as she doth, deck thy breast with those alabaster bowls that Zelmane doth; then accompanied with such a title, perhaps thou mayest recover the possession of my otherwise inclined love. But alas! Gynecia thou canst not show such evidence, therefore thy plea is vain.” Gynecia heard all this he said, who had cast about her Zelmane’s garment, wherein she came thither, and had followed Basilius to the cave entry, full of inward vexation, betwixt the deadly accusation of her own guiltiness, and the spiteful doubt she had Zelmane had abused her. But because of the one side, finding the king did think her to be Zelmane, she had liberty to imagine it might rather be the king’s own unbridled enterprise, which had barred Zelmane, than Zelmane’s cunning deceiving of her; and that of the other, if she should headily seek a violent revenge, her own honour might be as much interested, as Zelmane endangered; she fell to this determination: First with fine handling of the king to settle in him a perfect good opinion of her, and then as she should learn how things had passed, to take into herself new devised counsel: but this being her first action, having given unlooked for attendance to the king, she heard with what partiality he did prefer her to herself, she saw in him how much fancy doth {532} not only darken reason, but beguile sense, she found opinion mistress of the lover’s judgment, which serving as a good lesson to her good conceit, she went out to Basilius, setting herself in a grave behaviour and stately silence before him; until he (who at the first thinking her by so much shadow as he could see to be Zelmane, was beginning his loving ceremonies) did now being helped by the peeping light wherewith the morning did overcome the night’s darkness, know her face and his error, which acknowledging in himself with starting back from her, she thus with a modest bitterness spoke unto him: “Alas! my Lord, well did your words decipher your mind, and well be those words confirmed with this gesture. Very loathsome must that woman be from whom a man hath cause to go back; and little better liked is that wife, before whom the husband prefers them he never knew. Alas! hath my faithful observing my part of duty made you think yourself ever a whit the more exempted? hath that which should claim gratefulness, been a cause of contempt? Is the being mother of Pamela become an odious name unto you? if my life hitherto led have not avoided suspicion, if my violated truth to you be deserving of any punishment, I refuse not to be chastised with the most cruel torment of your displeasure; I refuse not misery, purchased by mine own merit. Hard I must needs say (although till now I never thought I should have had cause to say) is the destiny of womankind, the trial of whose virtue must stand upon the loving of them that employ all their industry not to be beloved. If Zelmane’s young years had not had so much gravity hidden under a youthful face, as your gray hairs have been but the vizor of unfitting youthfulness, your vicious mind had brought some fruits of repentance, and Gynecia might then have been with much more right so basely despised.”

Basilius, that was more ashamed to see himself overtaken, than Vulcan was, when with much cunning he proved himself a cuckold, began to make certain extravagant excuses: but the matter in itself hardly brooking any purgation, with the suddenness of the time, which barred any good conjoined invention, made him sometimes allege one thing, to which by and by, he would bring in a contrary, one time with flat denial, another time with mitigating the fault; now brave, then humble, use such a stammering defensive that Gynecia, the violence of whose sore indeed ran another way, was content thus to fasten up the last stitch of her anger. “Well, well, my Lord,” said she, “it shall well become you to govern yourself, as you may be fit rather to direct me than to be judged of me, and rather to be a wise master of me, that an unskilful pleader before me. Remember the wrong you have done, is not only to me, but to your children whom you {533} had of me: to your country, when they shall find they are commanded by him that cannot command his own indecent appetites: lastly, to yourself, since with these pains you do but build up a house of shame to dwell in: if from those movable goods of nature (wherewith, in my first youth my royal parents bestowed me upon you) bearing you children, and increase of years have withdrawn me, consider I pray you that as you are the cause of the one, so in the other, time hath not left to work his never-failing effects in you. Truly, truly, Sir, very untimely are these fires in you; it is time for us both to let reason enjoy his due sovereignty. Let us not plant anew those weeds, which by nature’s course are content to fade.”

Basilius that would rather than his life the matter had been ended, the best rhetoric he had, was flat demanding pardon of her, swearing it was the very force of Apollo’s destiny which had carried him thus from his own bias; but that now like as far travellers were taught to love their own country, he had such a lesson without book, of affection unto her, as he would repay the debt of this error with the interest of a great deal more true honour than ever before he had done her. “Neither am I to give pardon to you, my Lord,” said she, “nor you to bear honour to me. I have taken this boldness for the unfeigned love I owe unto you, to deliver my sorrow unto you; much more for the care I have of your well-doing, than for any other self-fancy. For well I know that by your good estate my life is maintained, neither, if I would, can I separate myself from your fortune. For my part therefore I claim nothing but that which may be safest for yourself; my life, will, honour, and whatsoever else, shall be but a shadow of that body.” How much Basilius’s own shame had found him culpable, and had already even in soul read his own condemnation, so much did this unexpected mildness of Gynecia captive his heart unto her, which otherwise perchance would have grown to a desperate carelessness. Therefore embracing her, and confessing that her virtue shined in his vice, he did even with a true resolved mind vow unto her, that as long as he, unworthy of her, did live, she should be the furthest and only limit of his affection. He thanked the destinies that had wrought her honour out of his shame, and that made his own striving to go amiss, to be the best means ever after to hold him in the right path. Thus reconciled to Basilius’s great contentation, who began something to mark himself in his own doings his hard hap guided his eye to the cup of gold wherein Gynecia had put the liquor meant for Zelmane, and having failed of that guest, was now carrying it home again. But he whom perchance sorrow, perchance some long disaccustomed pains, had made extremely thirsty, took it out of her hands, although she {534} directly told him both of whom she had it, what the effect of it was, and the little proof she had seen thereof: hiding nothing from him, but that she meant to minister it to another patient. But the king, whose belly had no ears, and much drought kept from the desiring a taster, finding it not unpleasant to his palate, drank it almost off, leaving very little to cover the cup’s bottom. But within a while that from his stomach the drink had delivered to his principal veins his noisome vapours, first with a painful stretching, and forced yawning, then with a dark yellowness dying his skin, and a cold deadly sweat principally about his temples, his body by natural course longing to deliver his heavy burden to his earthly dam, wanting force in his knees, which utterly abandoned him, with a heavy fall gave some proof whether the operation of that unknown potion tended. For, with pang-like groans, and ghastly turning of his eyes, immediately all his limbs stiffened, and his eyes fixed, he having had time to declare his case only in these words: “O Gynecia, I die; have care.” Of what, or how much further he would have spoken, no man can tell: For Gynecia having well perceived the changing of his colour, and those other evil signs, yet had not looked for such a sudden overthrow, but rather had bethought herself what was best for him, when she suddenly saw the matter come to that period, coming to him, and neither with any cries getting a word of him, nor with any other possible means, able to bring any living action from him; the height of all ugly sorrows did so horribly appear before her amazed mind, that at the first it did not only distract all power of speech from her, but almost wit to consider, remaining as it were quick buried in a grave of miseries. Her painful memory had straight filled her with the true shapes of all the fore-past mischiefs; her reason began to cry out against the filthy rebellion of sinful sense, and to tear itself with anguish for having made so weak a resistance, her conscience a terrible witness of the inward wickedness, still nourishing this debateful fire; her complaint now not having an end to be directed unto, from something to disburthen sorrow, but a necessary downfall of inward wretchedness. She saw the rigour of the laws was like to lay a shameful death upon her, which being for that action undeserved, made it the more insupportable, and yet in depth of her soul most deserved, made it more miserable. At length, letting her tongue go as dolorous thoughts guided it, she thus with lamentable demeanour spoke:

“O bottomless pit of sorrow, in which I cannot contain myself, having the firebrands of all furies within me, still falling, and yet by the infiniteness of it never fallen. Neither can I rid myself, being fettered with the everlasting consideration of it. For {535} whither should I recommend the protection of my dishonored fall? to the earth? it hath no life, and waits to be increased by the relics of my shamed carcass: to men? who are always cruel in their neighbour’s faults, and make others’ overthrow become the badge of their ill-masked virtue? to the heavens? O unspeakable torment of conscience, which dare not look unto them. No sin can enter there, O there is no receipt for polluted minds. Whither then wilt thou lead this captive of thine, O snaky despair! Alas, alas, was this the free-holding power that accursed poison hath granted unto me, that to be held the surer it should deprive life? was this the folding in mine arms promised, that I should fold nothing but a dead body, O mother of mine what a dreadful suck have you given me? O Philoclea, Philoclea, well hath my mother revenged upon me my unmotherly hating of thee. O Zelmane, to whom yet, lest any misery should fail me, remain some sparks of my detestable love, if thou hast, as now alas! now my mind assures me thou hast, deceived me, there is a fair stage prepared for thee, to see the tragical end of thy hated lover.” With that word there flowed out two rivers of tears out of her fair eyes, which before were dry, the remembrance of her other mischiefs being dried up in a furious fire of self detestation, love only, according to the tempter of it, melting itself into those briny tokens of passion. Then turning her eyes again upon the body, she remembered a dream she had had some nights before, wherein thinking herself called by Zelmane, passing a troublesome passage; she found a dead body which told her there should be her only rest: This no sooner caught hold of her remembrance, than she determined with herself, it was a direct vision of her fore-appointed end, took a certain resolution to embrace death, as soon as it should be offered unto her, and no way seek the prolonging of her annoyed life. And therefore kissing the cold face of Basilius; “And even so will I rest,” said she, “and join this faulty soul of mine to thee, if so much the angry gods will grant me.”

As she was in this plight, the sun now climbing over the horizon; the first shepherds came by, who seeing the king in that case, and hearing the noise Dametas made of the Lady Philoclea, ran with the doleful tidings of Basilius’s death unto him, who presently with all his company came to the cave’s entry, where the king’s body lay; Dametas for his part more glad for the hope he had of his private escape, than sorry for the public loss of his country received for a prince not to be misliked. But in Gynecia nature prevailed above judgment, and the shame she conceived to be taken in that order, overcame for that instant the former resolution; so that as soon as she saw the foremost of the pastoral troop, the wretched princess ran to have hid her face in the next woods; but with such {536} a mind, that she knew not almost herself what she could wish to be the ground of her safety. Dametas that saw her run away in Zelmane’s upper raiment, and judging her to be so, thought certainly all the spirits in hell were come to play a tragedy in these woods, such strange change he saw every way. The king dead at the cave’s mouth; the queen, as he thought, absent; Pamela fled away with Dorus; his wife and Mopsa in divers frenzies. But of all other things Zelmane conquered his capacity, suddenly from a woman grown to a man; and from a locked chamber gotten before him into the fields, which he gave the rest quickly to understand; for instead of doing anything as the exigent required, he began to make circles, and all those fanatical defences that he had ever heard were fortification against devils. But the other shepherds who hath both better wits, and more faith, forthwith divided themselves, some of them running after Gynecia, and esteeming her running away a great condemnation of her own guiltiness: others going to their prince, to see what service was left for them, either in recovery of his life, or honouring his death. They that went after the queen, had soon overtaken her, in whom now the first fears were staid, and the resolution to die had repossessed his place in her mind. But when they saw it was the queen, to whom besides the obedient duty they owed to her state, they had always carried a singular love, for her courteous liberalities, and other wise and virtuous parts, which had filled all that people with affection and admiration. They were all suddenly stopped, beginning to ask pardon for their following her in that sort; and desiring her to be their good lady, as she had ever been. But the queen, who now thirsted to be rid of herself, whom she hated above all things; with such an assured countenance as they have, who already have dispensed with shame and digested the sorrows of death, she thus said unto them, “Continue, continue, my friends; your doing is better than your excusing; the one argues assured faith, the other want of assurance. If you loved your prince, when he was able and willing to do you much good, which you could not then requite to him; do you now publish your gratefulness, when it shall be seen to the world, there are no hopes left to lead you unto it. Remember, remember you have lost Basilius, a prince to defend you, a father to care for you, a companion in your joys, a friend in your wants. And if you loved him, show you hate the author of his loss. It is I, faithful Arcadians, that have spoiled the country of their protector. I, none but I, was the minister of his unnatural end. Carry therefore my blood in your hands, to testify your own innocency, neither spare for my title’s sake, but consider it was he that so entitled me. And if you think of any benefits by my means, think {537} with it that I was but the instrument and he the spring. What, stay ye, shepherds, whose great shepherd is gone? you need not fear a woman, reverence your lord’s murderer, nor hath pity of her, who hath no pity of herself.”