Arcadia - Sir Philip Sidney Renaissance and Medieval Studies

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strait. But as she was thinking what to answer her, they might see old Basilius pass hard by them without ever seeing them, complaining likewise of love very freshly, and ending his complaint with this song, for love had renewed both his invention and voice:

      Let not old age disgrace my high desire,

      O heavenly soul in human shape contained!

      Old wood inflamed does yield the bravest fire,

      when younger does in smoke his virtue spend.

      Nor let white hairs, which on my face do grow,

      seem to your eyes of a disgraceful hue,

      since whiteness doth present the sweetest show,

      which makes all eyes do homage unto you.

      Old age is wise, and full of constant truth.

      Old age well stayed from ranging humor lives.

      Old age has known whatever was in youth.

      Old age overcome, the greater honor gives.

      And to old age, since you yourself aspire,

      let not old age disgrace my high desire.

      Which being done, he looked very curiously upon himself, sometimes fetching a little skip, as if he had said his strength had not yet forsaken him.

      But Zelmane, having in this time gotten some leisure to think for an answer, looked upon Gynecia, as if she thought she did her some wrong.

      “Madam,” said Zelmane, “I am not acquainted with those words of disguising. Neither is it the profession of an Amazon, nor are you a party with whom it is to be used. If my service may please you, employ it, so long as you do me no wrong in misjudging me.”

      “Alas, Zelmane,” said Gynecia, “I perceive that you know full little how piercing the eyes of a true lover are. Any one beam of those thoughts you have planted in me is able to see through a greater cloud than you go in. Seek not to conceal yourself further from me, nor force not the passion of love into violent extremities.”

      The queen (being nothing troubled with jealousy in that point) obeyed the king’s command. But she was full of raging agonies and determinately bent that, as she would seek all loving means to win Zelmane, so she would stir up terrible tragedies rather than fail of her intention. And so went she from them toward the lodge with such a battle in her thoughts and so deadly an overthrow given to her best resolutions that even her body, where the field was fought, was oppressed by it all. She made a languishing sickness wait upon the triumph of passion, which, the more it prevailed in her, the more it made her jealousy watchful both over her daughter and Zelmane, ever keeping one of them entrusted to her own eyes.

      As soon as Basilius was rid of his wife’s presence, he fell down on his knees and said, “O lady, you alone have the power to stir up again those flames which had so long lain dead in me! See in me the power of your beauty, which can make old age come to ask counsel of youth and an unconquered prince become a slave to a stranger. When you see that power of yours, love that in me, at the least, since it is yours, although of me you see nothing to be loved.”

      “Worthy prince,” answered Zelmane, taking him up from his kneeling, “both your manner and your speech are so strange to me that I know not how to answer better than with silence.”

      “If silence please you, “ said the king, “it shall never displease me, since my heart is wholly pledged to obey you. Otherwise, if you would grant my ears such happiness as to hear you, they shall convey your words to such a mind that is, with the humblest degree of reverence, to hear them.”

      “I disdain not to speak with you, mighty prince,” said Zelmane, “but I disdain to speak about any matter that may bring my honor into question,” and with a brave, counterfeited scorn she departed from the king, leaving him not so sorry for this short answer as proud in himself that he had broached the matter. Feeding his mind with those thoughts, the king passed great time in writing verses and making more of himself than he was wont to do, so much so that with a little help he would have grown into a pretty kind of dotage.

      Once Zelmane was rid of this loving but little-loved company, “Alas,” said she to herself, “poor Pyrocles! Was there ever anyone but I who received wrong and could blame nobody? I have more than I desire, yet I am still in want of what I would have. Truly Love, I must needs say thus much on your behalf, that you have employed my love there where all love is deserved—and for recompense, have sent me more love than ever I desired.

      “But what will you do, Pyrocles? Which way can you find to rid yourself of your intricate troubles? To her to whom I would be known, I live in darkness. And to her I am revealed, from whom I would be most secret. What shift shall I find against the diligent love of Basilius? What shield against the violent passions of Gynecia? And if that be done, yet how am I the nearer to quench the fire that consumes me?

      “Well, well, sweet Philoclea, my whole confidence must be built in your divine spirit, which cannot be ignorant of the cruel wound I have received from you.”

       strength] fortress.

       exigent] pressing need.

      Chapter 2

      Mopsa Wooed

      Musidorus, dressed like a shepherd, tells Pyrocles how he found a way to address Pamela (who otherwise scorns his low estate) while avoiding the suspicions of Dametas, Miso, and Mopsa: He so praises Mopsa that Pamela knows he cannot be serious. (1593 ed. 52.32)

      But as sick folks who, when they are alone, think company will relieve them, and yet having company find it noisome—changing willingly outward objects, when indeed the evil is inward—so poor Zelmane was no more weary of Basilius than she was of herself when Basilius was gone, and ever the more weary of herself, the more she turned her eyes to become her own judges.

      Tired therewith, she longed to meet her friend Dorus so that upon the shoulders of friendship she might lay the burden of sorrow. Therefore she went toward the other lodge, where among certain beech trees she found Dorus appareled in flannel, with a goat’s skin cast upon him and a garland of laurel mixed with cypress leaves on his head.

      He was waiting on his master Dametas, who at that time was teaching him how to catch a wanton lamb with his sheep hook and how with the same to cast a little clod at any one that strayed out of company. And while Dorus was practicing, one might see Dametas holding his hands behind him under his girdle, nodding from the waist upwards and swearing he never knew anyone go more awkwardly to work. They might talk of book-learning what they would, but for his part he never saw more unhandy fellows than great clerks were.

      But Zelmane’s coming saved Dorus from further chiding. She began to speak with him of the number of his master’s sheep and which province of Arcadia bore the finest wool, then drew him on to follow her in such country discourses till—being out of Dametas’ hearing—with such vehemence of passion, as though her heart would climb into her mouth to take her tongue’s office, she declared to him upon what briars the roses of her affections grew; how time seemed to forget her, bestowing not one hour of comfort upon her; and how she remained still in one plight of ill fortune, only so much worse, since continuance of evil does in itself increase evil.

      “Alas, my Dorus,” said she, “You see how long and languishingly the weeks have passed over since we last spoke. And yet I am the same miserable I that I was, only stronger in longing and weaker in hoping.” Then fell she to so pitiful a declaration of the insupportableness of her desires that Dorus’ ears—unable to show what wounds

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