Chapter XXXIV: Book IV: {523} (2)

With this she presented her fair neck to some by name, others by signs, desiring them to do justice to the world, duty to their good king, honour to themselves, and favour to her. The poor men looked one upon the other, unused to be arbiters in princes’ matters, and being now fallen into a great perplexity, between a prince dead, and a princess alive. But once for them she might have gone whither she would, thinking it a sacrilege to touch her person, when she finding she was not a sufficient orator to persuade her own death by their hands; “Well,” said she, “it is but so much more time of misery; for my part, I will not give my life so much pleasure from henceforward as to yield to his desire of his own choice of death; since all the rest is taken away, yet let me excel in misery. Lead me therefore whither you will; only happy, because I cannot be more wretched.” But neither so much would the honest shepherds do, but rather with many tears bemoaned this increase of their former loss, till she was fain to lead them with a very strange spectacle, either that a princess should be in the hands of shepherds, or a prisoner should direct her guardians: lastly, before either witness or accuser, a lady condemn herself to death. But in such moanful march they went towards the other shepherds, who in the meantime had left nothing unassayed to revive the king, but all was bootless: and their sorrow increased the more they had suffered any hopes vainly to arise. Among other trials they made to know at least the cause of his end, having espied the unhappy cup, they gave the little liquor that was left to a dog of Dametas, in which within a short time it wrought the like effect; although Dametas did so much to recover him, that for very love of his life he dashed out his brains. But now altogether, and having Gynecia among them, who, to make herself the more odious, did continually record to their minds the access of their loss, they yielded themselves over to all those forms of lamentation, that doleful images do imprint in the honest, but over-tender hearts; especially when they think the rebound of the evil falls to their own smart. Therefore after the ancient Greek manner, some of them remembering the nobility of his birth, continued by being like his ancestors; others his shape, which though not excellent, yet favour and pity drew all things now to the highest point; others his peaceable government, the thing which most pleaseth men, resolved to live of their own; others his liberality, which though it cannot light upon all men, yet all men naturally hoping it may {538} be, they make it a most amiable virtue. Some calling in question the greatness of his power, which increased the comparison to see the present change, having a doleful memory how he had tempered it with such familiar courtesy among them, that they did more feel the fruits than see the pomps of his greatness, all with one consent giving him the sacred titles of good, just, merciful, the father of the people, the life of his country, they ran about his body, tearing their beards and garments; some sending their cries to heaven, others inventing particular howling music; many vowing to kill themselves at the day of his funeral, generally giving a true testimony that men are loving creatures when injuries put them not from their natural course: and how easy a thing it is for a prince by succession, deeply to sink into the souls of his subjects, a more lively monument than Mausolus’s tomb. But as with such hearty lamentation, they dispersed among those words their resounding shrieks, the sun, the perfectest mark of time, having now gotten up two hours’ journey in his daily changing circle, their voice helped with the only answering echo, came to the ears of the faithful and worthy gentleman Philanax: who at that time was coming to visit the king, accompanied with divers of the worthy Arcadian lords, who with him had invited the place adjoining for the more assurance of Basilius’s solitariness, a thing after the late mutiny he had usually done: and since the princess’s return more diligently continued; which having now likewise performed, thinking it as well his duty to see the king, as of a good purpose, being so near, to receive his further direction: accompanied as above-said he was this morning coming unto him, when these unpleasant voices gave his mind an uncertain presage of his near approaching sorrow. For by and by he saw the body of his dearly esteemed prince, and heard Gynecia’s lamenting: not such as the turtle-like dove is wont to make for the over-soon loss of her only beloved mate, but with cursings of her life, detesting her own wickedness, seeming only therefore not to desire death, because she would not show a love of anything. The shepherds, especially Dametas, knowing him to be the second person in authority, gave forthwith relation unto him, what they knew and had proved of this dolorous spectacle, besides the other accidents of his children. But he principally touched with his master’s loss, lighting from his horse with a heavy cheer, came and kneeled down by him, where, finding he could do no more than the shepherds had for his recovery, the constancy of his mind, surprised before he might call together his best rules, could not refrain such like words. “Ah dear master,” said he, “what change it hath pleased the Almighty justice to work in this place. How soon, not to your loss, who having lived long to nature, {539} and to time longer by your well-deserved glory, but longest of all in the eternal mansion you now possess. But how soon I say to our ruin, have you left the frail bark of your estate? O that the words I in most faithful duty delivered unto you, when you first entered this solitary course might have wrought as much persuasion in you, as they sprang from truth in me, perchance your servant Philanax should not now have cause in your loss to bewail his own overthrow.” And therewith taking himself: “And indeed evil fitteth it me,” said he, “to let go my heart to womanish complaints, since my prince being undoubtedly well, it rather shows love of myself, which makes me bewail mine own loss. No, the true love must be proved in the honour of your memory, and that must be showed with seeking just revenge upon your unjust and unnatural enemies, and far more honourable it will be for your tomb to have the blood of your murderers sprinkled upon it than the tears of your friends. And if your soul look down upon this miserable earth, I doubt not it had much rather your death were accompanied with well-deserved punishment of the causers of it, than with the heaping on it more sorrows with the end of them, to whom you vouchsafed your affection: let them lament that have woven the web of lamentation; let their own deaths make them cry out for your death, that were the authors of it.” Therewith carrying manful sorrow and vindicative resolution in his face, he rose up, so looking on the poor guiltless princess transported with an unjust justice, that his eyes were sufficient heralds for him, to denounce a mortal hatred. She, whom furies of love, firebrands of her conscience, shame of the world, with the miserable loss of her husband, towards whom now the disdain of herself bred more love; with the remembrance of her vision, wherewith she resolved assuredly the gods had appointed that shameful end to be her resting place, had set her mind to no other way but to death, used such like speeches, to Philanax, as she had before to the shepherds; willing him not to look upon her as a woman, but a monster; not as a queen, but as a traitor to his prince; not as Basilius’s wife, but as Basilius’s murderer. She told how the world required at his hands, the just demonstration of his friendship; if he now forgot his king, he should show he had never loved but his fortune: like those vermin that suck of the living blood, and leave the body as soon as it is dead; poor queen needlessly seeking to kindle him, who did most deadly detest her, which he uttered in this bitter answer. “Madam,” said he, “you do well to hate yourself, for you cannot hate a worse creature; and though we feel enough your hellish disposition, yet we need not doubt you are of counsel to yourself of much worse than we know. But now fear not; {540} you shall not long be cumbered with being guided by so evil a soul; therefore prepare yourself, that if it be possible you may deliver up your spirit so much purer, as you more wash your wickedness with repentance.” Then having presently given order for the bringing from Mantinea, a great number of tents; for the receipt of the principal Arcadians: the manner of that country being, that where the king died, there should be orders taken for the country’s government, and in the place any murder was committed, the judgment should be given there, before the body was buried, both concurring in this matter, and already great part of the nobility being arrived, he delivered the queen to a gentleman of great trust; and as for Dametas, taking from him the keys of both the lodges, calling him the moth of his king’s estate, and only spot of his judgment, he caused him, with his wife and daughter, to be fettered up in as many chains and clogs as they could bear, and every third hour to be cruelly whipped, till the determinate judgment should be given of all these matters. That done, having sent already at his coming, to all the quarters of the country to seek Pamela, although with small hope of overtaking them, he himself went well accompanied to the lodge, where the two unfortunate lovers were attending a cruel conclusion of their long, painful, and late most painful affection. Dametas’s clownish eyes, having been the only discoverers of Pyrocles’s stratagem, had no sooner taken a full view of them, which in some sights would rather have bred anything, than an accusing mind, and locked the door upon these two young folks, now made prisoners for love, as before they had been prisoners to love; but that immediately upon his going down, whether with noise Dametas made, or with the creeping in of the light, or rather that as extreme grief had procured his sleep, so extreme care had measured his sleep, giving his senses very early salve to come to themselves, Pyrocles awaked, and being up, the first evil handful he had of the ill case wherein he was, was the seeing himself deprived of his sword, from which he had never separated himself in any occasion, and even that night first by the king’s bed, and then there had laid it, as he thought safe: putting great part of the trust of his well-doing in his own courage so armed. For indeed the confidence in one’s self is the chief nurse of magnanimity, which confidence notwithstanding doth not leave the care of necessary furnitures for it: and therefore of all the Grecians, Homer doth ever make Achilles the best armed. But that, as I say, was the first ill token: but by and by he perceived he was a prisoner before any arrest: for the door which he had left open was made so fast of the outside, that for all the force he could employ unto it, he could not undo Dametas’s doing; then {541} went he to the windows, to see if that way there were any escape for him and his dear lady. But as vain he found all his employment there, not having might to break out but only one bar; wherein notwithstanding he strained his sinews to the uttermost: and that he rather took out to use for other service, than for any possibility he had to escape; for even then it was that Dametas having gathered together the first coming shepherds, did blabber out what he had found in the lady Philoclea’s chamber. Pyrocles markingly hearkened to all that Dametas said, whose voice and mind acquaintance had taught him sufficiently to know. But when he assuredly perceived that his being with the Lady Philoclea was fully discovered: and by the folly or malice, or rather malicious folly of Dametas, her honour therein touched in the highest degree: remembering withal the cruelty of the Arcadian laws, which without exception did condemn all to death who were found, as Dametas reported of them, in act of marriage, without solemnity of marriage, assuring himself, besides the law, the king and the queen would use so much the more hate against their daughter, as they had found themselves sotted by him in the pursuit of their love. Lastly, seeing they were not only in the way of death, but fitly incaged for death, looking with a hearty grief upon the honour of love, the fellowless Philoclea, whose innocent soul now enjoying his own goodness did little know the danger of his ever fair, then sleeping harbour, his excellent wit strengthened with virtue, but guided by love, had soon described to himself a perfect vision of their present condition, wherein having presently cast a resolute reckoning of his own part of the misery, not only the chief but sole burden of his anguish consisted in the unworthy case, which was like to fall upon the best deserving Philoclea. He saw the misfortune, not the mismeaning of his work, was like to bring that creature to end, in whom the world, as he thought, did begin to receive honour: he saw the weak judgment of man would condemn that as death deserving vice in her, which had in troth never broken the bonds of a true living virtue: and how oft his eye turned to his attractive adamant, so often did an unspeakable horror strike his noble heart to consider so unripe years, so faultless a beauty, the mansion of so pure goodness, should have her youth so untimely cut off, her natural perfections so unnaturally consumed, her virtue rewarded with shame: sometimes he would accuse himself of negligence, that had not more curiously looked to all the house-entries, and yet could he not imagine the way Dametas was gotten in: and to call back what might have been, to a man of wisdom and courage, carries but a vain shadow of discourse; sometimes he could not choose but with a dissolution of his inward might lamentably {542} consider with what face he might look upon his, till then, joy Philoclea, when the next light waking should deliver unto her, should perchance be the last of her hurtless life. And that the first time she should bend her excellent eyes upon him, she should see the accursed author of her dreadful end, and even this consideration more than any other, did so set itself in his well-disposed mind, that dispersing his thoughts to all the ways that might be of her safety, finding a very small discourse in so narrow limits of time and place, at length in many difficulties he saw none bear any likelihood for her life, but his death. For then he thought it would fall out, that when they found his body dead, having no accuser but Dametas, as by his speech he found there was not, it might justly appear that either Philoclea in defending her honour, or else he himself in despairing of achieving, had left his carcass proof of his intent, but witness of her clearness. Having a small while stayed upon the greatness of his resolution, and looked to the furthest of it: “Be it so,” said the valiant Pyrocles, “never life for better cause, nor to better end was bestowed; for if death be to follow this doing, which no death of mine could make me leave undone, who is to die so justly as myself? and if I must die, who can be so fit executioners as mine own hands, which as they were accessories to the doing, so in killing me they shall suffer their own punishment?” but then arose there a new impediment; for Dametas having carried away anything which he thought might hurt as tender a man as himself, he could find no fit instrument which might give him a final dispatch: at length making the more haste, least his lady should awake, taking the iron bar, which being sharper somewhat at the one end than the other, he hoped, joined to his willing strength, might break off the feeble thread of mortality. “Truly,” said he, “fortune thou hast well preserved mine enemy, that will grant me no fortune but to be unfortunate, nor let me have an easy passage now I am to trouble thee no more. But,” said he, “O bar blessed in that thou hast done service to the chamber of the paragon of life, since thou couldst not help me to make a perfecter escape, yet serve my turn I pray thee, that I may escape from myself,” therewithal yet once looking to fetch the last repass of his eyes, and now again transported with the pitiful case he left her in, kneeling down he thus prayed.

“O great maker and great ruler of this world,” said he, “to Thee do I sacrifice this blood of mine, and suffer, Lord, the errors of my youth to pass away therein, and let not the soul by Thee made, and ever bending unto Thee, be now rejected of Thee, neither be offended that I do abandon this body, to the government of which Thou hadst placed me, without Thy leave; since how can I know {543} but that Thy unsearchable mind is I should so do, since Thou hast taken from me all means longer to abide in it? and since the difference stands but in a short time of dying, Thou that hast taken from me all means longer to abide in it? and since the difference stands but in a short time of dying, Thou that hast framed my soul inclined to do good, how can I in this small space of mine benefit so much all the human kind, as in preserving Thy perfectest workmanship, their chiefest honour? O justice itself, howsoever thou determinest of me, let this excellent innocency not be oppressed? let my life pay her loss, O Lord give me some sign that I may die with this comfort.” (And paused a little as if he had hoped for some token) “and whensoever to the eternal darkness of the earth she doth follow me, let our spirits possess one place, and let them be more happy in that uniting.” With that word striking the bar upon his heart-side, with all the force he had, and falling withal upon it to give the thorougher passage, the bar in troth was too blunt to do the effect, although it pierced his skin, and bruised his ribs very sore, so that his breath was almost past him. But the noise of his fall drove away sleep from the quiet senses of the dear Philoclea, whose sweet soul had an early salutation of a deadly spectacle unto her, with so much more astonishment, as the falling asleep but a little before she had retired herself from the utmost point of woefulness, and saw now again before her eyes the most cruel enterprise that human nature can undertake, without discerning any cause thereof. But the lively print of her affection had soon taught her not to stay long upon deliberation in so urgent a necessity; therefore getting with speed her weak, though well accorded limbs, out of her sweetened bed, as when jewels are hastily pulled out of some rich coffer, she spared not the nakedness of her tender feet, but I think borne as fast with desire as fear carried Daphne, she came running to Pyrocles, and finding his spirits something troubled with the fall, she put by the bar that lay close to him, and straining him in her most beloved embracements: “My comfort, my joy, my life,” said she, “what haste have you to kill your Philoclea with the most cruel torment that ever lady suffered? Do you not yet persuade yourself that any hurt of yours is a death unto me; and that your death should be my hell. Alas! if any sudden mislike of me, for other cause I see none, have caused you to loathe yourself; if any fault or defect of mine hath bred this terrible rage in you, rather let me suffer the bitterness of it, for so shall the deserver be punished, mankind preserved from such a ruin, and I for my part shall have that comfort, that I die by the noblest hand that ever drew sword.” Pyrocles, grieved with his fortune, that he had not in one instant cut off all such deliberation, thinking his life only reserved to be bound to be the {544} unhappy newsteller: “Alas,” said he, “my only star, why do you this wrong to God, yourself, and me, to speak of faults in you? No, no, most faultless, most perfect lady, it is your excellency that makes me hasten my desired end; it is the right I owe to the general nature, that, though against private nature, makes me seek the preservation of all that she hath done in this age, let me, let me die. There is no way to save life, most worthy to be conserved, than that my death be your clearing.” Then did he with far more pain and backward loathness, than the so near killing himself was, but yet driven with necessity to make her yield to that he thought was her safety, make her a short but pithy discourse, what he had heard by Dametas’s speeches, confirming the rest with a plain demonstration of their imprisonment. And then sought he a new means of stopping his breath; but that by Philoclea’s labour, above her force, he was stayed to hear her. In whom a man might perceive what a small difference in the working there is, betwixt a simple voidness of evil and a judicial habit of virtue. For she, not with an unshaken magnanimity, wherewith Pyrocles weighed and despised death, but with an innocent guiltiness, not knowing why she should fear to deliver her unstained soul to God, helped with the true loving of Pyrocles, which made her think no life without him, did almost bring her mind to as quiet attending all accidents, as the unmastered virtue of Pyrocles. Yet having with a pretty paleness, which did leave milken lines upon her rosy cheeks, paid a little duty to human fear, taking the prince by his hand, and kissing the wound he had given himself: “O the only life of my life, and if it fall out so, the comfort of my death,” said she, “far, far from you be the doing of me such wrong as to think I will receive my life as a purchase of your death, but well may you make my death so much more miserable, as it shall anything be delayed after my only felicity. Do you think I can account of the moment of death, like the unspeakable afflictions my soul should suffer, so oft as I call Pyrocles to my mind, which should be as oft as I breathed? Should these eyes guide my steps, that had seen your murderer? Should these hands feed me, that had not hindered such a mischief? Should this heart remain within me, at every pant to count the continual clock of my miseries? O no, if die we must, let us thank death, he hath not divided so true a union. And truly, my Pyrocles, I have heard my father and other wise men say that the killing of one’s self is but a false colour of true courage, proceeding rather of a fear of a further evil, either of torment or shame. For if it were not respecting the harm, that would likewise make him not respect what might be done unto him: and hope, being of all other the most contrary thing to fear; this being an utter banishment of hope, it seems to {545} receive his ground in fear. Whatsoever, would they say, comes out of despair, cannot bear the title of valour, which should be lifted up to such a height, that holding all things under itself, it should be able to maintain his greatness even in the midst of miseries. Lastly, they would say, God had appointed us captains of these our bodily forts, which without treason to that majesty, were never to be delivered over till they were re-demanded.”

Pyrocles, who had that for a law unto him, not to leave Philoclea in anything unsatisfied, although he still remained in his former purpose, and knew that time would grow short for it, yet hearing no noise, the shepherds being as then run to Basilius, with settled and humble countenance, as a man that should have spoken of a thing that did not concern himself, bearing even in his eyes sufficient shows, that it was nothing but Philoclea’s danger which did anything burden his heart, far stronger than fortune, having with vehement embracings of her got yet some fruit of his delayed end, he thus answered the wise innocency of Philoclea. “Lady, most worthy not only of life, but to be the very life of all things; the more notable demonstrations you make of love so far beyond my desert, with which it pleaseth you to overcome fortune, in making me happy: the more am I, even in course of humanity, to leave that love’s force which I neither can nor will leave, bound to seek requital’s witness, that I am not ungrateful to do which, the infiniteness of your goodness being such as I cannot reach unto it, yet doing all I can, and paying my life, which is all I have, though it be far, without measure, short of your desert, yet shall I not die in debt to mine own duty. And truly, the more excellent arguments you made, to keep me from this passage, imagined far more terrible than it is, the more plainly it makes me to see what reason I have, to prevent the loss not only of Arcadia, but all the face of the earth should receive, if such a tree, which even in his first spring, doth not only bear most beautiful blossoms, but most rare fruit, should be so untimely cut off. Therefore, O most truly beloved lady, to whom I desire for both our goods that these may be my last words, give me your consent even out of that wisdom which must needs see, that, besides your unmatched betterness, which perchance you will not see, it is fitter one die than both. And since you have sufficiently showed you love me, let me claim by that love you will be content rather to let me die contentedly than wretchedly, rather with a clear and joyful conscience than with desperate condemnation in myself, that I, accursed villain, should be the means of banishing from the sight of men the true example of virtue. And because there is nothing left me to be imagined, which I so much desire, as that the memory of Pyrocles may ever have an allowed place in your wise judgment, I am {546} content to draw so much breath longer, as by answering the sweet objections you alleged, may bequeath, as I think, a right conceit unto you, that this my doing is out of judgment, and not sprung of passion. Your father, you say, was wont to say, that this like action doth more proceed of fear of further evil or shame than of a true courage: truly first, they put a very guessing case, speaking of them who can never after come to tell with what mind they did it. And as for my part, I call the immortal truth to witness that no fear of torment can appal me; who know it is but diverse manners of apparelling death; and have long learned to set bodily pain but in the second form of my being. And as for shame, how can I be ashamed of that for which my well meaning conscience will answer for me to God, and your unresistable beauty to the world? But to take that argument in his own force, and grant it done for avoiding of further pain or dishonour: (for as for the name of fear, it is but an odious title of a passion, given to that which true judgment performeth) grant, I say, it is to shun a worse case, and truly I do not see but that true fortitude, looking into all human things with a persisting resolution, carried away neither with wonder of pleasing things, nor astonishment of the unpleasant, doth not yet deprive itself of the discerning the difference of evil, but rather is the only virtue, which with an assured tranquility shuns the greater by valiantly entering into the less. Thus for his country’s safety he will spend his life, for the saving of a limb he will not niggardly spare his goods; for the saving of all his body he will not spare the cutting off a limb, where indeed the weak-hearted man will rather die than see the face of a surgeon, who might with as good reason say, that the constant man abides the painful surgery for fear of a further evil: but he is content to wait for death itself, but neither is true; for neither had the one any fear, but a well-chosen judgment: nor the other hath any contentment, but only fear, and not having a heart actively to perform a matter of pain, is forced passively to abide a greater damage. For to do, requires a whole heart; to suffer falleth easiliest in the broken minds. And if in bodily torment thus, much more in shame, wherein since valour is a virtue, and virtue is ever limited, we must not run so infinitely as to think the valiant man is willingly to suffer anything, since the very suffering of some things is a certain proof of want of courage. And if anything unwillingly, among the chiefest may shame go; for if honour be to be held dear, his contrary is to be abhorred, and that not for fear, but of a true election. For which is the less inconvenient, either the loss of some years more or less (when once we know our lives be not immortal) or the submitting ourselves to each unworthy misery which the foolish world may {547} lay upon us? as for their reason, that fear is contrary to hope, neither do I defend fear, nor much yield to the authority of hope, to either of which great inclining shows but a feeble reason which must be guided by his servants; and who builds not upon hope, shall fear no earthquake of despair. Their last alleging of the heavenly powers, as it bears the greatest name, so it is the only thing that at all breeds any combat in my mind, and yet I do not see but that if God had made us masters of anything, it is of our own lives out of which, without doing wrong to anybody, we are to issue at our own pleasure. And the same argument would as much prevail to say we should for no necessity lay away from us any of our joints, since they being made of Him, without His warrant we should not depart from them; or if that may be, for a greater cause we may pass to a greater degree. And if we be lieutenants of God in this little castle, do you not think we must take warning of Him to give over our charge when He leaves us unprovided of good means to tarry in it?” “No certainly do I not,” answered the sorrowful Philoclea, “since it is not for us to appoint that mighty majesty what time He will help us; the uttermost instant is scope enough for Him to revoke everything to one’s own desire. And therefore to prejudicate His determination is but a doubt of goodness in Him Who is nothing but goodness. But when indeed He doth either by sickness, or outward force lay death upon us, then are we to take knowledge that such is His pleasure, and to know that all is well that He doth. That we should be masters of ourselves, we can show at all no title nor claim; since neither we made ourselves, nor bought ourselves, we can stand upon no other right but His gift, which He must limit as it pleaseth Him. Neither is there any proportion betwixt the loss of any other limb, and that, since the one bends to the preserving of all, the other to the destruction of all; the one takes not away the mind from the actions for which it is placed in the world, the other cuts off all possibility of his working. And truly my most dear Pyrocles, I must needs protest unto you, that I cannot think your defence even in rules of virtue sufficient. Sufficient and excellent it were, if the question were of two outward things, wherein a man might by nature’s freedom determine, whether he would prefer shame to pain; present smaller torment, to greater following, or no. But to this, besides the comparison of the matter’s valour, there is added of the one part a direct evil doing, which maketh the balance of that side too much unequal; since a virtuous man without any respect, whether the grief be less or more, is never to do that which he cannot assure himself is allowable before the everliving rightfulness; but rather is to think honours or shames which stand in other men’s true or false judgments, pains or not pains, which {548} yet never approach our souls, to be nothing in regard of an unspotted conscience. And these reasons do I remember, I have heard good men bring in, that since it hath not his ground in an assured virtue, it proceeds rather of some other disguised passion.”

Pyrocles was not so much persuaded as delighted, by her well-conceived and sweetly pronounced speeches: but when she had closed her pitiful discourse, and as it were sealed up her delightful lips, with the moistness of her tears, which followed still one another like a precious rope of pearl, now thinking it high time: “Be it as you say,” said he, “most virtuous beauty, in all the rest, but never can God himself persuade me that Pyrocles’s life is not well lost, for to preserve the most admirable Philoclea. Let that be, if it be possible, written on my tomb, and I will not envy Codrus’s honour.” With that he would again have used the bar, meaning if that failed, to leave his brains upon the wall, when Philoclea now brought to that she most feared, kneeled down unto him, and embracing so his legs, that without hurting her (which for nothing he would have done) he could not rid himself from her, she did with all the conjuring words, which the authority of love may lay, beseech him he would not now so cruelly abandon her, he would not leave her comfortless in that misery to which he had brought her. That then indeed she would even in her soul accuse him to have most foully betrayed her; that then she would have cause to curse the time that ever the name of Pyrocles came to her ears, which otherwise no death could make her do. “Will you leave me,” said she, “not only dishonoured, as supposed unchaste with you, but as a murderer of you? Will you give mine eyes such a picture of hell, before my near approaching death, as to see the murdered body of him I love more than all the lives nature can give?” With that she swore by the highest cause of all devotions, that if he did persevere in that cruel resolution, she would, though untruly, not only confess to her father that with her consent this act had been committed, but if that would not serve (after she had pulled out her own eyes made accursed by such a sight) she would give herself so terrible a death, as she might think the pain of it would countervail the never dying pain of her mind. “Now therefore kill yourself to crown this virtuous action with infamy: kill yourself to make me, whom you say you love, as long as I after live, change my loving admiration of you to a detestable abhorring your name. And so indeed you shall have the end you shoot at: for instead of one death, you shall give me a thousand, and yet in the meantime, deprive me of the help God may send me.” Pyrocles, even over-weighed with her so wisely uttered affection, finding her determination so fixed that his end should but deprive them both of a present contentment, and not {549} avoid a coming evil (as a man that ran not into it by a sudden qualm of passion, but by a true use of reason, preferring her life to his own) now that wisdom did manifest unto him that way would not prevail, he retired himself with as much tranquility from it as before he had gone unto it. Like a man that had set the keeping or leaving of the body as a thing without himself, and so had thereof a freed and untroubled consideration. Therefore throwing away the bar from him, and taking her up from the place, where he thought the consummating of all beauties, very worthily lay, suffering all his senses to devour up their chiefest food, which he assured himself they should shortly after for ever be deprived of: “Well,” said he, “most dear lady, whose contentment I prefer before mine own, and judgment esteem more than mine own, I yield unto your pleasure. The gods send you have not won your own loss. For my part they are my witnesses that I think I do more at your commandment in delaying my death than another would in bestowing his life. But now,” said he, “as thus far I have yielded unto you, so grant me in recompense thus much again, that I may find your love in granting, as you have found your authority in obtaining. My humble suit is, you will say I came in by force into your chamber, for so am I resolved now to affirm, and that will be the best for us both, but in no case name my name that, whatsoever come of me, my house be not dishonoured.”

Philoclea fearing lest refusal would turn him back again to his violent refuge, gave him a certain countenance that might show she did yield to his request, the latter part whereof indeed she meant for his sake to perform. Neither could they spend more words together: for Philanax with twenty of the noblest personages of Arcadia after him, were come into the lodge, Philanax making the rest to stay below, for the reverence he bare to womanhood, as stilly as he could came up to the door, and opening it, drew the eyes of these two doleful lovers upon him. Philoclea closing again for modesty’s sake, within her bed the riches of her beauties, but Pyrocles took hold of his bar, minding at least to die, before the excellent Philoclea should receive any outrage. But Philanax rested a while upon himself, stricken with admiration at the goodly shape of Pyrocles, whom before he had never seen, and withal remembering, besides others, the notable act he had done, when with his courage and eloquence, he had saved Basilius, perchance the whole state from utter ruin, he felt a kind of relenting mind towards him. But when that same thought came waited on with the remembrance of his master’s death, which he by all probabilities thought he had been of council unto with the queen, compassion turned to hateful passion, and left in Philanax a strange medley, {550} betwixt pity and revenge, betwixt liking and abhorring. “O lord,” said he to himself, “what wonders doth nature in our time to set wickedness so beautifully garnished? and that which is strangest, out of one spring to make wonderful effects both of virtue and vice to issue?” Pyrocles seeing him in such a muse, neither knowing the man, nor the cause of coming, but assuring himself it was for no good, yet thought best to begin with him in this sort. “Gentleman,” said he, “what is the cause of your coming to my lady Philoclea’s chamber? is it to defend her from such violence as I might go about to offer unto her? if it be so, truly your coming is vain, for her own virtue hath been a sufficient resistance; there needs no strength to be added to so inviolate chastity, the excellency of her mind makes her body impregnable. Which for my own part I had soon yielded to confess, with going out of this place, where I found but little comfort being so disdainfully received, had I not been, I know not by whom presently upon my coming hither, so locked into this chamber that I could never escape hence; where I was fettered in the most guilty shame that ever man was, seeing what a paradise of unspotted goodness, my filthy thoughts sought to defile. If for that therefore you come, already I assure you your errand is performed; but if it be to bring me to any punishment whatsoever, for having undertaken so inexcusable presumption; truly I bear such an accuser about me in mine own conscience, that I willingly submit myself unto it. Only thus much let me demand of you, that you will be a witness unto the king what you hear me say, and oppose yourself, that neither his sudden fury, nor any other occasion may offer any hurt to this lady; in whom you see nature hath accomplished so much that I am fain to lay mine own faultiness as a foil of her purest excellency. I can say no more, but look upon her beauty, remember her blood, consider her years, and judge rightly of her virtues, and I doubt not a gentleman’s mind will then be a sufficient instructor unto you, in this, I may term it miserable chance, happened unto her by my unbridled audacity.”

Philanax was content to hear him out, not for any favour he owed him, but to see whether he would reveal anything of the original cause and purpose of the king’s death. But finding it so far from that, that he named Basilius unto him, as supposing him alive, thinking it rather cunning than ignorance: “Young man,” said he, “whom I have cause to hate before I have mean to know, you use but a point of skill by confessing the manifest smaller fault, to be believed hereafter in the denial of the greater. But for that matter, all passeth to one end, and hereafter we shall have leisure by torments to seek the truth, if the love of the truth itself will not bring you unto it. As for my Lady Philoclea, if it so fall {551} out as you say, it shall be the more fit for her years, and comely for the great house that she is come of, that an ill-governed beauty hath not cancelled the rules of virtue. But howsoever it be, it is not for you to teach an Arcadian what reverend duty we owe unto any of that progeny. But,” said he, “come you with me without resistance, for the one cannot avail, and the other may procure pity.” “Pity!” said Pyrocles, with a bitter smiling, disdaining with so currish an answer, “no, no, Arcadian, I can quickly have pity of myself, and would think my life most miserable, which should be a gift of thine. Only I demand this innocent lady’s security, which until thou hast confirmed unto me by an oath, assure thyself the first that lays hands upon her shall leave his life for a testimony of his sacrilege.” Philanax, with an inward scorn, thinking it most manifest they were both, he at least, of council with the king’s death: “Well,” said he, “you speak much to me of the king: I do here swear unto you, by the love I have ever borne him, she shall have no worse howsoever it fall out than her own parents.” “And upon that word of yours I yield,” said the poor Pyrocles, deceived by him that meant not to deceive him. Then did Philanax deliver him into the hands of a nobleman in the company, everyone desirous to have him in his charge, so much did his goodly presence, wherein true valour shined, breed a delightful admiration in all the beholders. Philanax himself stayed with Philoclea, to see whether of her he might learn some disclosing of his former conclusion. But she, sweet lady, whom first a kindly shamefulness had separated from Pyrocles, having been left in a more open view than her modesty would well bear, then the attending her father’s coming, and studying how to behave herself towards him for both their safeties, had called her spirits all within her; now that upon a sudden Pyrocles was delivered out of the chamber from her, at the first she was so surprised with the extreme stroke of the woeful sight, that, like those that in their dreams are taken with some ugly vision, they would fain cry for help but have no force, so remained she a while quite deprived not only of speech but almost of any other lively action. But when indeed Pyrocles was quite drawn from her eyes, and that her vital strength began to return unto her, now not knowing what they did to Pyrocles, but, according to the nature of love, fearing the worst, wringing her hands, and letting abundance of tears be the first part of her eloquence, bending her amber crowned head over her bedside to the hard-hearted Philanax. “O Philanax, Philanax,” said she, “I know how much authority you have with my father: there is no man whose wisdom he so much esteems, nor whose face he so much reposes upon. Remember how oft you have promised your service unto me, {552} how oft you have given me occasion to believe that there was no lady in whose favour you more desired to remain: and if the remembrance be not unpleasant to your mind, or the rehearsal unfitting for my fortune, remember there was a time when I could deserve it. Now my chance is turned, let not your truth turn. I present myself unto you, the most humble and miserable suppliant living, neither shall my desire be great: I seek for no more life than I shall be found worthy of. If my blood may wash away the dishonour of Arcadia, spare it not, although through me it hath indeed never been dishonoured. My only suit is, you will be a mean for me, that while I am suffered to enjoy this life, I may not be separated from him, to whom the gods have joined me, and that you determine nothing of him more cruelly than you do of me. If you rightly judge of what hath passed, wherein the gods, that should have been of our marriage, are witnesses of our innocencies, then procure, we may live together. But if my father will not so conceive of us, as the fault, if any were, was united, so let the punishment be united also.” There was no man that ever loved either his prince, or anything pertaining to him, with a truer zeal than Philanax did. This made him, even to the depth of his heart, receive a most vehement grief, to see his master made as it were more miserable after death. And for himself, calling to mind in what sort his life had been preserved by Philoclea, what time taken by Amphialus, he was like to suffer a cruel death, there was nothing could have kept him from falling to all tender pity but the perfect persuasion he had that all this was joined to the pack of his master’s death, which the misconceived speech of marriage made him the more believe. Therefore first muttering to himself such like words: “The violence the gentleman spoke of, is now turned to marriage: he alleged Mars, but she speaks of Venus: O unfortunate master! this hath been that fair devil Gynecia; sent away one of her daughters, prostituted the other, impoisoned thee, to overthrow the diadem of Arcadia.” But at length thus unto herself he said: “If your father, Madam, were now to speak unto, truly there should nobody be found a more ready advocate for you than myself. For I would suffer this fault, though very great, to be blotted out of my mind, by your former led life, your benefit towards myself, and being daughter to such a father. But since among yourselves you have taken him away, in whom was the only power to have mercy, you must be clothed in your own working, and look for none other than that which dead pitiless laws may allot unto you. For my part, I loved you for your virtue, but now where is that? I loved you in respect of a private benefit, what is that in comparison of the public loss? I loved you for your father, unhappy folks you have robbed the world of him.” These {553} words of her father were so little understood by the only well-understanding Philoclea, that she desired him to tell her, what he meant to speak in such dark sort unto her of her lord and father, whose displeasure was more dreadful unto her than her punishment: that she was free in her own conscience, she had never deserved evil of him, no not in this last fact: wherein, if it pleased him to proceed with patience, he should find her choice had not been unfortunate. He that saw her words written in the plain table of her fair face, thought it impossible there should therein be contained deceit: and therefore so much the more abashed: “Why,” said he, “Madam, would you have me think, you are not of conspiracy with the Princess Pamela’s flight, and your father’s death?” With that word the sweet lady gave a pitiful cry, having straight in her face and breast abundance of witnesses that her heart was far from any such abominable consent. “Ah of all sides utterly ruined Philoclea,” said she, “now indeed I may well suffer all conceit of hope to die in me. Dear father, where was I that might not do you my last service before, soon after miserably following you?” Philanax, perceived the demonstration so lively and true in her that he easily acquitted her in his heart of that fact, and the more was moved to join with her in most hearty lamentation. But remembering him, that the burden of the state, and punishment of his master’s murderers, lay all upon him: “Well,” said he, “Madam, I can do nothing, without all the states of Arcadia: what they will determine of you, I know not: for my part your speeches would much prevail with me, but that I find not how to excuse your giving over your body to him that for the last proof of his treason lent his garments to disguise your miserable mother, in the most vile fact she hath committed. Hard sure will it be to separate your causes, with whom you have so nearly joined yourself.” “Neither do I desire it,” said the sweetly weeping Philoclea: “Whatsoever you determine of him, do that likewise to me, for I know from the fountain of virtue nothing but virtue could ever proceed, only as you find him faultless, let him find you favourable, and build not my dishonour upon surmises.” Philanax, feeling his heart more and more mollifying unto her, renewed the image of his dead master in his fancy, and using that for the spurs of his revengeful choler, went suddenly without any more speech from the desolate lady, to whom now fortune seemed to threaten unripe death, and undeserved shame among her least evils. But Philanax leaving good guard upon the lodge, went himself to see the order of his other prisoners, whom even then as he issued, he found increased by this unhoped means.