A1r Ann Morris her Book:
The Lord of Heavon upon her Look
But when her passing bell doth towll
The Lord of Heavon receive her sowll
Amon
17231723
Roger Jones
his book
17251725
A1v A2r
A pair of columns form the left and right margins of the page. The two support a curving, ornamented archway for which a large elliptical frame serves as the center of the arch. The title and author of the piece appear within this frame. Directly below the frame appear a two-storied building with three windows on the second floor, in each of which appears a stylized figure. Rolling hills with interspersed farm and forest land spread out from this building and a roadway winds down to a second two-story edifice of which the second floor consists of a trio of domed towers topped with a spire. A second frame rests below this building and holds the publication information for the work. The engraver’s name “Sime Passus sculp.” rests below and to the left of this second frame, and the date 16211621 appears at the base of the right hand column.

Sime Passus sculp.

The
Countesse
of Mountgomeries
Urania.

Written by the right honorable the Lady
Mary Wroath. Daughter to the right Noble Robert
Earle of Leicester
.
And Neece to the ever famous, and renowned
Sr. Phillips Sidney knight. And to
ye most exelēent Lady Mary Countesse of
Pembroke
late deceased.


London
Printed for John Marriott
and John Grismand And
are to bee sould at theire shop
pes in St Dunstons Church 16211621
yard in Fleetstreet and in
Poules Ally at signe of
the Gunn.

A2v
B1r 1


The
Countesse
of Mountgomeries
Urania.

The First Booke.

When the Spring began to appeare like the welcome messenger
of Summer, one sweet (and in that more sweet)
morning, after Aurora had called all carefull eyes to
attend the day, forth came the faire Shepherdesse Urania
(faire indeed; yet that farre too meane a title for
her, who for beautie deserv’d the highest stile could be
given by best knowing Judgements). Into the Meade
she came, where usually shee drave her flocks to feede,
whose leaping and wantonnesse shewed they were proud of such a Guide:
But she, whose sad thoughts led her to another manner of spending her time,
made her soone leave them, and follow her late begun custome; which was
(while they delighted themselves) to sit under some shade, bewailing her
misfortune; while they fed, to feed upon her owne sorrow and teares, which
at this time she began againe to summon, sitting downe under the shade of a
well-spread Beech; the ground (then blest) and the tree with full, and fine
leaved branches, growing proud to beare, and shadow such perfections. But
she regarding nothing, in comparison of her woe, thus proceeded in her
griefe: “Alas Urania”, said she, (the true servant to misfortune); “of any miserie
that can befall woman, is not this the most and greatest which thou art
falne into? Can there be any neare the unhappinesse of being ignorant, and
that in the highest kind, not being certaine of mine owne estate or birth?
Why was I not stil continued in the beleefe I was, as I appeare, a Shepherdes,
and Daughter to a Shepherd? My ambition then went no higher then this
estate, now flies it to a knowledge; then was I contented, now perplexed. O
ignorance, can thy dulnesse yet procure so sharpe a paine? and that such a
thought as makes me now aspire unto knowledge? How did I joy in this
poore life being quiet? blest in the love of those I tooke for parents, but now
by them I know the contrary, and by that knowledge, not to know my selfe.
Miserable Urania worse art thou now then these thy Lambs; for they know
their dams, while thou dost live unknowne of any.”
By this were others
come into that Meade with their flocks: but shee esteeming her sorrowing
thoughts her best, and choycest companie, left that place, taking a little path B which B1v 2
which brought her to the further side of the plaine, to the foote of the rocks,
speaking as she went these lines, her eies fixt upon the ground, her very soule
turn’d into mourning.

Unseene, unknowne, I here alone complaine To Rocks, to Hills, to Meadowes, and to Springs, Which can no helpe returne to ease my paine, But back my sorrowes the sad Eccho brings. Thus still encreasing are my woes to me, Doubly resounded by that monefull voice, Which seemes to second me in miserie, And answere gives like friend of mine owne choice. Thus onely she doth my companion prove, The others silently doe offer ease: But those that grieve, a grieving note doe love; Pleasures to dying eies bring but disease: And such am I, who daily ending live, Wayling a state which can no comfort give.”


In this passion she went on, till she came to the foote of a great rocke, shee
thinking of nothing lesse then ease, sought how she might ascend it; hoping
there to passe away her time more peaceably with lonelinesse, though not to
find least respit from her sorrow, which so deerely she did value, as by no
meanes she would impart it to any. The way was hard, though by some windings
making the ascent pleasing. Having attained the top, she saw under
some hollow trees the entrie into the rocke: she fearing nothing but the continuance
of her ignorance, went in; where shee found a pretty roome, as if
that stonie place had yet in pitie, given leave for such perfections to come into
the heart as chiefest, and most beloved place, because most loving. The
place was not unlike the ancient (or the descriptions of ancient) Hermitages,
instead of hangings, covered and lined with Ivie, disdaining ought els should
come there, that being in such perfection. This richnesse in Natures plentie
made her stay to behold it, and almost grudge the pleasant fulnes of content
that place might have, if sensible, while she must know to taste of torments.
As she was thus in passion mixt with paine, throwing her eies as wildly as
timerous Lovers do for feare of discoverie, she perceived a little Light, and
such a one, as a chinke doth oft discover to our sights. She curious to see
what this was, with her delicate hands put the naturall ornament aside, discerning
a little doore, which she putting from her, passed through it into another
roome, like the first in all proportion; but in the midst there was a square
stone, like to a prettie table, and on it a wax-candle burning; and by that a
paper, which had suffered it selfe patiently to receive the discovering of so
much of it, as presented this Sonnet (as it seemed newly written) to her sight.

“He all alone in silence might I mourne: But how can silence be where sorrowes flow? Sigh’s with complaints have poorer paines out-worne; But broken hearts can only true griefe show. Drops B2r 3 Drops of my dearest bloud shall let Love know Such teares for her I shed, yet still do burne, As no spring can quench least part of my woe, Till this live earth, againe to earth doe turne. Hatefull all thought of comfort is to me, Despised day, let me still night possesse; Let me all torments feele in their excesse, And but this light allow my state to see. Which still doth wast, and wasting as this light, Are my sad dayes unto eternall night.”

“Alas Urania” (sigh’d she)! “How well doe these words, this place, and all agree
with thy fortune? sure poore soule thou wert heere appointed to spend
thy daies, and these roomes ordain’d to keepe thy tortures in; none being assuredly
so matchlesly unfortunate.”
Turning from the table, she discerned in the
roome a bed of boughes, and on it a man lying, deprived of outward sense, as
she thought, and of life, as she at first did feare, which strake her into a great
amazement: yet having a brave spirit, though shadowed under a meane habit,
she stept unto him, whom she found not dead, but laid upon his back, his
head a little to her wards, his armes foulded on his brest, haire long, and beard
disordered, manifesting all care; but care it selfe had left him: curiousnesse
thus farre affoorded him, as to bee perfectly discerned the most exact
peece of miserie; Apparrell hee had sutable to the habitation, which
was a long gray robe. This grievefull spectacle did much amaze the sweet
and tender-hearted Shepherdesse; especially, when she perceived (as she
might by the helpe of the candle) the teares which distilled from his
eyes; who seeming the image of death, yet had this signe of worldly
sorrow, the drops falling in that abundance, as if there were a kind strife
among them, to rid their Master first of that burdenous carriage; or else
meaning to make a floud, and so drowne their wofull Patient in his owne
sorrow, who yet lay still, but then fetching a deepe groane from the
profoundest part of his soule, he said. “Miserable Perissus, canst thou thus
live, knowing she that gave thee life is gone? Gone, O me! and with
her all my joy departed. Wilt thou (unblessed creature) lie here complaining
for her death, and know she died for thee? Let truth and shame
make thee doe something worthy of such a Love, ending thy daies like
thy selfe, and one fit to be her Servant. But that I must not doe: then
thus remaine and foster stormes, still to torment thy wretched soule
withall, since all are little, and too too little for such a losse. O deere Limena,
loving Limena, worthy Limena, and more rare, constant Limena:
perfections delicately faign’d to be in women were verified in thee, was
such worthinesse framed onely to be wondred at by the best, but given
as a prey to base and unworthy jealousie? When were all worthy parts
joyn’d in one, but in thee (my best Limena)? yet all these growne subject
to a creature ignorant of all but ill, like unto a Foole, who in a darke
Cave, that hath but one way to get out, having a candle, but not the B2 vnder- B2v 4
understanding what good it doth him, puts it out: this ignorant wretch
not being able to comprehend thy vertues, did so by thee in thy murder,
putting out the worlds light, and mens admiration: Limena, Limena,
O my Limena.”
With that he fell from complaining into such a passion,
as weeping and crying were never in so wofull a perfection, as now in
him; which brought as deserved a compassion from the excellent Shepherdesse,
who already had her heart so tempered with griefe, as that it
was apt to take any impression that it would come to seale withall. Yet
taking a brave courage to her, shee stept unto him, kneeling downe by
his side, and gently pulling him by the arme, she thus spake. “Sir” (said
she) “having heard some part of your sorrowes, they have not only made
me truly pitie you, but wonder at you; since if you have lost so great a
treasure, you should not lie thus leaving her and your love unrevenged,
suffering her murderers to live, while you lie here complaining; and if such
perfections be dead in her, why make you not the Phœnix of your deeds
live againe, as to new life rais’d out of the revenge you should take on
them? then were her end satisfied, and you deservedly accounted worthie
of her favour, if shee were so worthie as you say.”
“If shee were? O
God”
(cri’d out Perissus), “what divelish spirit art thou, that thus dost
come to torture me? But now I see you are a woman; and therefore
not much to be marked, and lesse resisted: but if you know charitie, I
pray now practise it, and leave me who am afflicted sufficiently without
your companie; or if you will stay, discourse not to me.”
“Neither
of these will I doe”
(said she). “If you be then” (said he) some furie of purpose
sent to vex me, use your force to the uttermost in martyring me;
for never was there a fitter subject, then the heart of poore Perissus is.”
“I
am no furie”
(repli’d the divine Urania), “nor hither come to trouble you,
but by accident lighted on this place; my cruell hap being such, as onely
the like can give me content, while the solitarinesse of this like cave
might give me quiet, though not ease, seeking for such a one, I happened
hither; and this is the true cause of my being here, though now I
would use it to a better end if I might. Wherefore favour me with the
knowledge of your griefe; which heard, it may be I shall give you some
counsell, and comfort in your sorrow.”
“Cursed may I bee” (cri’d he) “if
ever I take comfort, having such cause of mourning: but because you are,
or seeme to be afflicted, I will not refuse to satisfie your demaund, but tell
you the saddest storie that ever was rehearsed by dying man to living woman,
and such a one, as I feare will fasten too much sadnesse in you; yet
should I denie it, I were too blame, being so well knowne to these senselesse
places; as were they sensible of sorrow, they would condole, or
else amased at such crueltie, stand dumbe as they doe, to find that man should be so inhumane.”

Then faire Shepherdesse, heare my selfe say my name is Perissus, Nephew
I am to the King of Sicilie, a place fruitfull and plentifull of all
things, onely niggardly of good nature to a great man in that Country,
whom I am sure you have heard me blame in my complaints. Heire I
am as yet to this King mine Uncle; and truly may I say so, for a more
unfortunate Prince never lived, so as I inherit his crosses, howsoever I shall B3r 5
shall his estate. There was in this Country (as the only blessing it enjoyed)
a Lady, or rather a Goddesse for incomparable beautie, and matchles
vertues, called Limena, daughter to a Duke, but Princesse of all hearts:
this starre comming to the Court to honour it with such light, it was in
that my blessed destinie to see her, and be made her servant, or better to
say, a slave to her perfections; thus long was I happie, but now begins
the tragedie: for warres falling out betweene the people and the Gentlemen,
the King was by the people (imagining he tooke the other part)
brought into some danger, and so great an one, as rudenes joynd with
ill nature could bring him into, being at last besieged in a strong hold
of his, all of us his servants, and gentle subjects, striving for his good
and safetie; in this time nothing appearing but danger, and but wise
force to preserve mens lives and estates unto them, every one taking the
best meanes to attaine unto their good desires. The Duke (father to the
best, and truest beauty) would yet bestow that upon a great Lord in the
Country, truly for powerfull command and meanes, a fit match for any, but
the wonder of women, since none could without much flatterie to himselfe,
thinke he might aspire to the blessing of being accounted worthie
to be her servant, much lesse her husband. Shee seeing it was her fathers
will, esteeming obedience beyond all passions, how worthily soever
suffered, most dutifully, though unwillingly, said, she would obey;
her tongue faintly delivering, what her heart so much detested; loathing
almost it selfe, for consenting in shew to that which was most contrarie
to it selfe; yet thus it was concluded, and with as much speed as any
man would make to an eternall happines. While of this, and so my misfortune,
I remained ignorant, till one day the warres being a little ceased,
though not ended, the siege still continuing, I stole from mine uncle
to see my heart, which she kept safe with her: but when I came thither,
I found, or fear’d I found no roome for it. She who had it, being
in the power of mine enemie (for so I accounted him, when he enjoyed
my losse, my hopes being frustrate, my joyes lost and spoild, I grew from
my selfe, my sences failed me, a trembling possessing my whole bodie, so as
this distemper was marked, and pittied of all: but what did comfort me,
was, that she did seeme to pitty me. Then did I blesse my torments, that
had procured me such a favour. There were none, but carefully sought
my health, especially her husband, whose diligence was as tedious, as his
wives was my onely joy. Griev’d I was to stay and see my miserie, yet
sad I was to goe from seeing her, who gave me (though a barr’d) delight
in beholding her: but knowing passion the greater Lord over my strength,
I tooke my leave, pretending busines, having onely taken the opportunitie
that way afforded me to visite them, passing so neare by them; they
all seemed sorry for my going, and Limena indeed was so; then by unus’d
pathes I got backe to the King, often, as I rode, looking to that
place where I left my soule prisoner. When I had been a while at home,
remembring, or rather never letting the beautie of Limena be absent from
me, I say remembring her, and my everlasting wretched state in missing
her; calling my mischiefe by his gaine to account, I found so much cause
to lament, as in short time I was but mournefull sorrow; my friends B3 grieu’d B3v 6
griev’d, and generally all did shew displeasure for me, only my selfe found
nothing but cause to proceed in this dispaire, love having truly changed
me to that most low, and still unluckie fate. Businesse of State I neglected,
going about as in a dreame, led by the cruellest of hellish spirits,
Despaire, till I was awaked by a command to goe and leade some troops
which were gathered by the Kings friends together comming to raise
the siege, yet desiring me to be their head. I went, and thus farre willingly,
having so much hope left me, as to thinke I might by this meanes
conclude my afflictions with my end; yet first I resolved to write unto
her, that she might know, she had so unblest a creature to her Servant.
When I had written my letter with shaking hands, and yet a more shaking
heart, I gave it to a Page of mine, who was newly come unto mee, and
never had been seene in her Fathers house, giving him besides directions
how to carrie himselfe, which he discreetly did observe, and found as fit an
opportunitie as could be wisht: for her husband being gone to see an ancient
house of his, she walked alone into a little Grove below the place of her
abiding; he perceiving her, knew straight it was she; wherefore he followed
her, having before hid himselfe in the uppermost part of the thicket, expecting
occasion whereby to performe his Masters commaund. He then seeing
it offered, would not neglect it, though somewhat timerously, esteeming her
for her excellencies rather some Goddesse of those Woods, then an earthly
Creature: but remembring the infinite (yet not sufficient) praises I had given
her, concluded, it could be none other then Limena; so as comming to
her, he on his knees delivered the letter, saying these words; “The wofull Perissus
his Lord and Master presented that, with his service to her.”
This
(though but little) was more then I could have said, if in his place: For
Lord, how was I afflicted with millions of doubts how it might be delivered;
then, whether she would accept of it; and most, what she would conceive
of my boldnesse, quaking when I gave it him, knowing how wretched a creature
I must bee, if it offended her, yet wishing I might have had the papers
place once more to have been toucht by her, though, if it brought dislike, for
that to have suffered martyrdome. But she for my happinesse tooke it, and
with a pretty blush read it, which since I perceiv’d did spring from love, yet
blusht to see it selfe so lively in her cheekes. When she had read it, Good
youth (said she) commend me to your Lord: but for his letter, say, It needs
no answer till he come himselfe, and fetch one. With this he return’d, and
so with much comfort to me, hope being glad to build on any small ground,
how much more then on so likely a possibility. I then, Hopes servant, as before
onely slave to Despaire, made all haste I could to see her, having good
and welcome meanes affoorded me, being able with convenience to take her
Fathers house in my way to the new-rais’d Army. Thither I came, which
though in a wild Forest, yet it was pretended, I left the great roads for my
better safetie. Thus was a colour set upon my love, which but for her service,
and so the safelier to serve her, would suffer any glosse but truth in affection.
Being there ariv’d, I was extreamely welcomed of all: her Father,
a grave and wise man, discoursed with mee of businesse of State: after him,
and so all supper time, her husband discoursed of hunting, an exercise fit for
such a creature. Neither of these brought my Mistris from a grave, and almostmost B4r 7
sad countenance, which made me somewhat feare, knowing her understanding
and experience, able and sufficient to judge, or advise in any matter
we could discourse of: but modestie in her caus’d it, onely loving knowledge,
to be able to discerne mens understandings by their arguments, but no
way to shew it by her owne speech. This (and withall feare of discovering
some passions, which she, though excelling in wit and judgement; yet could
not governe, at least, guiltines forc’d her to thinke so) was the reason she held
her gravitie; yet after she grew more merry. And I finding a fit time by her
husbands going out of the chamber, with some companie that was there,
humbly desired an answere of my letter. She blushing, and as if ashamed so
much innocent vertue should be discovered with my Lover-like importunitie
in her, though strong in constancie; yet womans affection gain’d so much
by lookes, and sweet though-fearing words, as I was resolved, and assured of
her love, which made me proud of such a treasure, begin to dispose part of it
to my benefit, for looking about, and seeing every ones eyes carried their
owne waies, I kist her; she, not offended, yet said; “Let not my freedome make
you dispose otherwise then virtuously of me”
: I vowed more then that libertie
I would not aske, which I know, if I had offered, her vertue would have
refused, nor truly would my deere and worthy affection permit mee to demaund,
and this held our loves more firme, when tied by vertue. But not to
hold you long with this (which yet to me is some ease for the present, although
the bitterer the conclusion is that followes). We had as many such
meetings as true, or fained meanes could compasse us, till our miserie was
such, as this wild man her husband (whether out of true consideration of his
great unworthines, or proceeding from his froward disposition, I know not)
grew jealous (an humour following base minds as readily, as thunder doth
the lightning, then had he rashnes to accompany the other, which fram’d a
determinatiōon, which was soone altered frōom that name by performance, that
she should stay no longer with her father, but go with him to his own house;
this I had notice of, but all that we could doe, could not hinder the accomplishing
his will, and save her honour, which to me, more deere then mine
owne Life was esteemed. But the night before her going I came thither, where
I found the accustomed entertainement, he using me with al shew of respect,
which in that kind I embraced; our hearts being as farre from meaning truth
in giving or accepting, as truth is from bare complement, but greatnesse in
me made him use it; and care in me (of my better selfe) receive it; my heart
swelling with hate and scorne, even almost to breaking, when I did see him.
That night I saw her, and but spake to her, so curiously her husband watched
us, yet could he not keepe our eies, but by them we did deliver our soules, he
onely able to keepe her daintie body in his wicked prison. The next day
they went, and so went all worth with this odd man to have her delicacy
kept like a Diamond in a rotten box: yet she considering it to be to no purpose
to contend, where she was miserably bound to obey, observed him, as
well as she could bring her spirit to consent to; yet did he begin for her welcome
to grow curst to her; with her Servants he first began, finding, or better
to say, framing occasions to be rid of them all, placing of his owne about
her, which she suffered, onely contenting her selfe with the memorie of our
Loves: yet wanting the true content which was in our conversation, shee grew B4v 8
grew sad, and keeping much within, grew pale, her rosie cheekes and lippes
changing to wannesse: but this was all the change, her noble heart free
from such a sinne. This was but part of her affliction, still vexing her sweete
disposition, with speaking slightly of me, and then telling her of her love to
me; which brought her to that passe, as at last I was not named, but she would
blush; then would he revile her, and vilely use her: but she patiently, and silently
bare all, not suffering me to have notice of it, lest it might, as it should
have done, move mee to revenge her wrong for my sake endured. Thus it
rested, she restlesly bearing all the ills that froward Nature (mixt with peevish
and spitefull jealousie) could afflict upon the purest mind; using no other
meanes, but gentle and mild perswasions, which wrought no more in
him, but that still his madnesse increased. Now was his house not farre from
the way which I must passe betweene the Campe, and the great Citie of Siracusa,
being one of the chiefe of that kingdome; and which at that time had
yeelded it selfe againe unto the King. I hearing Philargus (for so was this
unworthie man called) was at his house, with his truly vertuous wife, whom
my soule longed to see, I resolved to lodge there that night, not (alas) mistrusting
the misfortune, but coveting to see her, whom more then my heart I
loved, or lov’d my heart the better for being hers. So I went thither, where
I was by him exceedingly well welcom’d in outward shew, though his meaning
was contrary, which I should have found, had his divelish plots bin readie,
Jealousie having now blinded him to all good nature or judgement. She
poore Lady (poore onely in this fortune) sad and griev’d, all her smiles turn’d
into sighes, and thinkings, which made me feare, and wonder, wondring at
the change of her beauty, which yet in palenes shew’d excellency; and feare I
did, lest my absence had offēended her, but I was deceiv’d, while I lest thought
of the true cause, or could imagine such villanie plotted against so rare perfections.
Desirous to know the cause, I remain’d almost impatient, not venturing
to speake to her before her husband, for hurting her: but he going out
of the roome, after wee had supped, either to cover the flames which were
ready to breake out in huge fires of his mistrust, or to have the company fitter
for him, affecting stil to be chiefe, his absence, howsoever, gave me opportunitie
to demaund the reason of her strangenesse: She sigh’d to heare mee
call it so, and with teares told me the reason, concluding; “and thus doe you
see my Lord”
(said she) “the torments I suffer for your love; yet do you more
torture me with doubting me, who have no happines left me, but the knowledge
of my faith to you, all afflictions being welcome to me, which for your
sake I suffer.”
Betweene rage and paine I remain’d amazed, till shee, taking
mee by the hand, brought mee more wofully to my selfe with these
words. And yet am I brought to a greater mischiefe; with that fixing her
weeping eyes upon mine, which affectionately answered hers with lookes
and teares. “I must my Lord” (said she) “intreate you to refraine this place,
since none can tell what danger may proceed from mad, and unbridled jealousie;”
“Refraine your sight? Commaund me then to die” (said I). “Have I
deserv’d to be thus punish’d? Shall his brutishnes undoe my blessings? yet
this place I will, since you will have it so, hoping you will find some meanes
to let me know Philargus house is not in all places.”
“That I will doe, or die”
(said she). “Miserable wretch” (cry’d I), “art thou borne to such fortune, as to haue C1r 9
have this Lady love thee, and her unmatched goodnes to suffer for one so
worthlesse as thy selfe?”
“No, no, my Lord” (said she) “in this you wrong me, and
that judgement which heretofore you said was in me, since if you were unworthy
then, my choice was unperfect: but you are worthie, and I worthily
chose you; I lov’d you, and constantly lov’d you, and in this doe I best allow
of my owne judgement.”
“I hope that love is not cleane gone” (cri’d I), (my
speech by love directed to say thus), “nor will you forget me, though from our
most desired meetings, we must be barred.”
“My love, my Lord” (said she) “had,
and hath too sure a ground to know remove, I too truly lov’d, and doe love
you, ever to forget it, or to let it have least shadow of lessening, though vailed
in absence, but rather (if increase can be where all is already possest) it
shall increase; Love living best where desert, and sufferance joyne together;
and for witnes of it, take this”
(said she, bestowing her picture upon me, which
is all the Limenas I shall now enjoy, or ever did, more then her lov’d, and best
beloved sight. The case was blew, commanding me withall to love that color,
both because it was hers, and because it self betokened truth. By this time
her husband was come, who told us, ’twas time to goe rest. We obay’d: and
this was the last time that ever I saw my deere, and most worthily accounted
deere Limena: for the next morning I was by day to be at the Citie, and so
from thence to returne to the Campe. Thus tooke I my leave, and my last
leave of vertuous Limena, whose sad face, but sadder soule foretold our following
harme, and succeeding ruine. For within few dayes after my returne
to the Camp, there came a Messenger early in the morning, and (O too early
for my fortune) whom I strait knew to be Limenas faithfull Servant. At first,
it brought joy to me, seeing a letter in his hand; but soone was that turn’d
to as much mourning, cursing my hands that tooke it, and eyes that read so
lamentable a letter; the contents (nay that it selfe) being this, and the verie
same my Mistris sent, and wo is me, the last she ere can send. Urania read it,
while he with teares and groanes gave the true period to it. The Letter said
thus.

“My onely Lord, thinke not this, or the manner strange I now send, knowing already
some part of the undeserved course taken with me, only pitie her, who
for your sake suffers patiently; accept these my last lines, and with them the sincerest
love that ever woman gave to man. I have not time to speake what I would,
therefore let this satisfie you, that the many threatnings I have heard, are come in
some kind to end: for I must presently die, and for you; which death is most welcome,
since for you I must have it, and more pleasing then life without you. Grant
me then these last requests, which even by your love I conjure you not to denie me,
that you love my poore memory; and as you will love that, or ever loved me, revenge
not my death on my murtherer, who, how unworthy soever hee was, or is, yet hee is
my Husband. This is all, and this grant, as I will faithfully die
Yours. ”

“Alas, faire Shepherdesse” (said he), “is this a letter without much sorrow to
be read? and is not this a creature of all others to be belov’d? Never let him
breath, that will not heartily, and most heartily lament such a misfortune.”
“Tis C true, C1v 10
true”
, said Urania, “reason and worth being companions: but yet I heare
not the certaintie or manner of her death, then will I not faile to lament
with you.”
“Alas”, said hee, “heare it of mee, onely fit to tell that storie.”
After my departure from his house to the Citie, and so to the Campe,
the jealous wretch finding my Ladie retired into a Cabinet she had, where
she used to passe away some part of her unpleasant life: comming in, he shut
the dore, drawing his sword, and looking with as much furie, as jealous
spite could with rage demonstrate; his breath short, his sword he held in his
hand, his eyes sparkling as thicke and fast, as an unperfectly kindled fire
with much blowing gives to the Blower, his tongue stammeringly with
rage bringing foorth these words; “thou hast wrong’d mee, vild creature; I
say thou hast wronged mee”
: shee who was compounded of vertue, and
her spirit, seeing his wild and distracted countenance guest the worst, wherfore
mildely shee gave this answere. “Philargus”, saide shee, “I knowe in mine
owne heart I have not wrong’d you, and God knowes I have not wrong’d
my selfe”
: “these speeches”, said he, “are but the followers of your continued
ill, and false living; but thinke no longer to deceive me, nor cousen your selfe
with the hope of being able, for in both you shall finde as much want, as I
doe of your faith to me; but if you will speake confesse the truth: O me,
the truth, that you have shamed your selfe in my dishonour, say you have
wrong’d me, giving your honour, and mine to the loose, and wanton pleasure
of Perissus; was I not great enough, amiable, delicate enough, but for
lasciviousnesse you must seeke, and woo him? Yet Limena I did thus deserve
you, that once better then my selfe I lov’d you, which affection lives in the
extremitie still, but hath chang’d the nature, being now as full of hate, as
then abounding in love, which shall instantly be manifested, if you consent
not to my will, which is, that without dissembling speeches, or flattring finenes
you confesse your shamefull love to the robber of my blisse: you may
denie it, for how easie is it to be faultie in words, when in the truth of truth
you are so faultie? but take heede, unfainedly answere, or here I vow to sacrifice
your blood to your wanton love”
; “My Lord”, said she, “threatnings are
but meanes to strengthen free and pure hearts against the threatners, and this
hath your words wrought in me, in whom it were a foolish basenesse for
feare of your sword, or breath to confesse what you demaund, if it were
true farre more did I deserve eternall punishment, if I would belye him, and
my selfe for dread of a bare threatning; since sure, that sword, were it not for
danger to it selfe, would, if any noblenesse were in it, or his master, choose
rather to dye it selfe in the blood of a man, then be seene in the wranglings
betweene us: yet doe I not denie my love to Perissus in all noble, and
worthy affection, being I thinke nurst with me, for so long have I borne
this respective love to him, as I knowe no part of my memory can tell me
the beginning. Thus partly you have your will in assurance, that that unseperable
love I beare him, was before I knewe you, or perfectly my
selfe, and shall be while I am, yet alwayes thus in a vertuous, and religious
fashion.”
“O God”, cry’d out Philargus “what doe I heare? or
what can you stile vertuous and religious, since it is to one besides your
husband? hath shame possest you? and excellent modesty abandoned
you? you have in part satisfied me indeed, but thus to see, that I have just C2r 11
just occasion to seeke satisfaction for this injury: wherefore, resolve instantly
to die, or obey me, write a letter straight before mine eyes unto him,
conjure him with those sweete charmes which have undone mine honour,
and content to come unto you: Let me truely knowe his answere, and be secret,
or I vow thou shalt not many minutes outlive the refusall.”
Shee, sweetest
soule, brought into this danger, (like one being betweene a flaming fire,
and a swallowing gulfe, must venture into one, or standing still, perish by
one) stood a while not amazed, for her spirit scorned so low a passion; but
judicially considering with her selfe what might be good in so much ill; she
with modest constancy, and constant determination, made this answer. “This
wretched, and unfortunate body, is I confesse in your hands, to dispose of
to death if you will; but yet it is not unblest with such a mind as will suffer
it to end with any such staine, as so wicked a plott, and miserable consent
might purchase: nor will I blott my fathers house with Treason, Treason?
Nay, the worst of Treasons, to be a Traytor to my friend. Wherefore my
Lord pardon me, for I will with more willingnesse die, then execute your
minde, and more happily shall I end, saving him innocent from ill, delivering
my soule pure, and I unspotted of the crime you tax me of, or a thought
of such dishonour to my selfe; I might have saide to you, but that this cruell
course makes me thus part my honour from you”
; “yet can you not part infamy,
and reproach from you, nor me”
, said he: “Prepare then quickly, this
shall be your last”
; “My Lord” said shee, “behold before your eyes the most distress’d
of women, who if you will thus murder, is here ready”
: then untying
a daintie embrodered wast coate; see here”, said she, “the breast, (and a most
heavenly breast it was) which you so dearely loved, or made me thinke so,
calling it purest warme snow; yet never was the colour purer then my love
to you, but now ’tis ready to receive that stroake, shall bring my heart blood,
cherish’d by you once, to dye it, in revenge of this my wrong revenge; nay,
such revenge will my death have, as though by you I die, I pittie your ensuing
overthrow.”

Whether these words, or that sight (which not to be seene without adoring)
wrought most I knowe not, but both together so well prevaile as hee
stood in a strange kind of fashion, which she (who now was to act her part
for life, or death) tooke advantage of, “and this your cruelty will more appeare
whēen it is knowne you gave no time for consideration, or repentance”
, said
she; “you deserve no such favor from me”, said he, “but rather that I should with
out giving care to that bewitching tongue have reveng’d my harme, but
since I have committed this first, like faultie men, I must fall into another:
Charity, but in no desert of yours, procures this favour for you: two dayes I
give you, at the end of which be sure to content me with your answere, or
content your selfe with present death.”
The joy she at this conceived, was as
if assured life had beene given her, wherefore humbly thanking him, she promised
to satisfie him so fully at that time, as he should (she hop’d) be pleased
with it. Away hee went leaving her to her busie thoughts, yet somewhat
comforted, since so shee might acquaint mee with her afflictions, for which
cause grieving that I should be ignorant of the true meanes to her end, she so
prettily gain’d that little time for the rarest lampe of excellent life to endure.
Then called she a faithfull servant of hers, and the same who brought me C2 the C2v 12
the dolefull letter: First, she conjured him by the faith hee bare her, to
obey what shee commaunded, and to bee secret; then related shee this
soule rendring storie to him, which shee injoyn’d him truly to discover
to mee, by his helpe getting pen and paper, and having written that dolorous,
yet sweete, because loving letter, sent him to mee that day shee
was to give her answere, which shee assured him should bee a direct refusall,
esteeming death more pleasing and noble, then to betray me, who
(for my now griefe mixt with that blessing) shee inricht with her incomparable
affection, giving him charge to deliver it to mine owne hands,
and besides, to stay with mee, assuring him I would most kindly intreat him
for her sake, which shee might truly warrant him, being Commandresse
of my soule. Hee found mee in my Tent, ready to goe forth; with a
wan and sad countenance hee gave that and my death together; then telling
the lamentable storie I now delivered you. With flouds of teares,
and stormes of sighes hee concluded: And by this, is the rarest peece of
woman-kinde destroyed. Had I growne into an ordinary passion like his
of weeping, sobbing, or crying, it had not been fit for the excessive losse
I was falne into; wherefore like a true Cast-away of fortune, I was at that
instant metamorphosed into miserie it selfe, no other thing being able to
equall mee, no more then any, except the owne fellow to a cockle shell,
can fit the other. This change yet in mee, which to my selfe was so sudden
as I felt it not, was so marked by my friends, and by all admired, as those
who feared the least, doubted my end; which would it then had happened,
since, if so the earth no longer had borne such a wretch, this sad place been
molested with a guest perpetually filling it; and these places neere, with
my unceasing complaints. Despaire having left mee no more ground for
hope but this, that ere long I shall ease them all, death proving mercifull
unto mee, in delivering this griefe-full body to the rest of a desired grave.
“My Lord Perissus” (said Urania), “how idle, and unprofitable indeed are
these courses, since if shee bee dead, what good can they bring to her?
and not being certaine of her death, how unfit are they for so brave a
Prince, who will as it were, by will without reason wilfully lose himselfe?
will not any till the contrarie bee knowne, as properly hope as vainely despaire?
and can it bee imagined her husband (who, passion of love did
in his furie so much temper) should have so cruell a hand, guided by so
savage a heart, or seene by so pitilesse eyes, as to be able to murder so sweet
a beauty? No my Lord, I cannot beleeve but she is living, and that you shal
find it so, if unreasonable stubborne resolution bar you not, and so hinder you
from the eternall happinesse you might enjoy.”
“Only rare Shepherdesse” (said
the love-kill’d Perissus), “how comfortable might these speeches bee to one,
who were able to receive them, or had a heart could let in one signe of joy?
but to me they are rather bitter, since they but cherish mee the longer to
live in despairefull miserie. No, shee is dead, and with her is all vertue,
and beauteous constancy gone. She is dead: for how can goodnesse or
pitie be expected from him, who know nothing more, then desire of ill
and crueltie? Thou art dead, and with thee all my joyes departed, all
faith, love and worth are dead: to enjoy some part of which, in short time
I will bee with thee, that though in life wee were kept asunder, in death we C3r 13
we may bee joyn’d together, till which happie hower I will thus still lament
thy losse.”
“If you bee resolv’d” (said the daintie Urania), “folly it were to offer
to perswade you from so resolute a determination; yet being so brave a
Prince, stored with all vertuous parts, discretion and judgement, mee
thinks, should not suffer you to burie them in the poore grave of Loves
passion, the poorest of all other: these invite mee, as from your selfe,
to speake to your selfe; Leave these teares, and woman-like complaints,
no way befitting the valiant Perissus, but like a brave Prince, if you know
shee bee dead, revenge her death on her murderers; and after, if you
will celebrate her funeralls with your owne life giving, that will bee a
famous act: so may you gaine perpetuall glorie, and repay the honor to
her dead, which could not bee but touched by her untimely end.”
“Her
honour toucht, and toucht for mee? O immortal God”
(cride he), “thou
wilt not (I hope) let a slave live should touch on such a thought, nor me
to live after it were borne, if not to sacrifice my bloud to wash away
the staine. But I pray you since you undertake thus to advise mee, how
can I doe this, and yet obey my Limena’s commaund, in not revenging
her death?”
“Why that” (replide the discreet Urania) “proceeded whollie
from the love shee bare you, which rather is another motive to stirre
you, if you consider it, since the danger shee apprehended you would
runne into, to right so delicate, yet unhappilie, injured a Ladie, and
for you injured, forced her to use her authoritie for your safetie. But
let not that prevaile, nor hinder a deadlie revenge for so detestable a
fact. Thus shall you approove your selfe, a brave and worthie Lover,
deserving her, who best deserv’d: but let it never be said, Perissus ended
unrevenged of Philargus, and concluded his dayes like a Fly in a
corner.”
These wordes wrought so farre in the noble heart of Perissus,
as rising from his leavie Cabine, then thus said hee: “Is Perissus the second
time conquerd? I must obey that reason which abounds in you;
and to you, shall the glory of this attempt belong: now will I againe
put on those habites which of late I abandoned, you having gaind the
victorie over my vowe. But I beseech you, tell mee who my Counsellor
is, for too much judgement I finde in you, to be directly, as you seeme,
a meere Shepherdesse, nor is that beauty sutable to that apparell.”
“My
name”
, said shee, “is Urania, my bringing up hath been under an old Man,
and his wife, who, till lately, I tooke for my Father and Mother but they
telling me the contrary, and the manner of their finding me, makes mee
find I am lost, and so in truth, is much of my content, not being able to
know any more of my selfe: I delighted before to tend a little Flocke,
the old paire put into my handes, now am I troubled how to rule mine
owne thoughts”
. “This doe I well credit”, said Perissus, “for more like a Princesse,
then a Shepherdesse doe you appeare, and so much doe I reverence
your wisedome, as next unto Limena, I will still most honor
you: and therefore, faire Urania, (for so I hope you will give mee
leave to call you), I vow before heaven and you, that I will never leave
off my Armes, untill I have found Philargus, and on him reveng’d my
Ladies death, and then to her love and memory, offer up my afflicted
life: but first shall you have notice of the successe, which if C3 good C3v 14
good, shall bee attributed to you; if ill, but to the continuance of my
ill destinie. But if your fortune call you hence before you shall be found
by them, I will imploy (since the world hath not a place can keepe the
beautie of Urania hidden, if seene, then will it not bee adored), they shall
not leave, till they have found you; nor will you scorne that name from
mee, who shall now leave you the incomparable Urania.”
With these
words they went out of the Cave, hee straight going to a large Holly
tree (the place rich with trees of that kind), on which at his comming
to that melancholy abiding, hee had hung his Armor, meaning that should
there remaine in memorie of him, and as a monument after his death,
to the end, that whosoever did finde his bodie, might by that see, hee
was no meane man, though subject to fortune. Them hee tooke downe
and arm’d himselfe, but while hee was arming, Urania entreated him to
doe one thing more for her, which was to tell her how he came to that
place. “And that was ill forgot most faire Urania” (said hee): “then know
that as soone as I had received that letter so full of sorrow, and heard
all that miserable relation, I was forced, notwithstanding the vow I had
to my selfe made (of this solitary course you have relieved mee from)
to goe against the Enemie, who with new forces, and under a new Leader,
were come within sight of our Army: I thinking all mischiefes did
then conspire together against mee, with an inraged furie went towards
them, hoping (and that onely hope was left mee) in that encounter to
ende my life, and care together in the battaile, yet not slightly to part
with it, in my soule wishing everie one I had to deale withall had been
Philargus. This wish after made mee doe things beyond my selfe, forcing
not only our company and party to admire me, but also the contrary
to bee discouraged, so as wee got the day, and not onely that, but an
end of the warres: for the chiefe Traytors being either kild or taken,
the rest that outliv’d the bloudy slaughter, yeelded themselves to mercie,
whom in my Uncles name I pardoned, on condition that instantly
they disbanded, and everie one retire to his owne home. This done,
and my Uncle quietly setled in his seate, in the midst of those triumphs
which were for this happy Victorie, I stole away, leaving a letter with
my new Servant, directed to the King, wherein I humbly asked pardon
for my private departure, and with all the intreates that I could frame,
perswaded him to entertaine that servant of mine, and to accept of him
as recommended by mee, and accordingly to esteeme of him. Then
tooke I my way first to her Fathers, to know the manner and certaintie,
where I found unspeakable mourning and sadnesse, her Mother readie
to die with her, as if shee had brought her forth to bee still as her
life, that though two, yet like those eyes, that one being struck in a
certaine part of it, the other unhurt doth lose likewise the sight: so she
having lost her, lost likewise all comfort with her; the servants mourn’d,
and made pitifull lamentations: I was sorry for them, yet gratefully
tooke their mourning: for mee thought it was for mee, none being able
to grieve sufficiently, but my selfe for her losse. When her Mother
saw me, who ever she well lov’d, she cry’d out these words: ‘O my Lord, see
here the miserable Woman depriv’d of all joy, having lost my Limena, your C4r 15
your respected friend.’
Full well do I now remember your words, when with
gentle and mild perswasions, you would have had us stay her going from this
place unto his house. Would we had then fear’d, or beleev’d: then had she bin
safe, whereas now she is murdred. ‘Murdred’ (cried I), ‘O speak againe’, but
withall how? Her husband, said she, led her forth, where in a Wood, thicke
enough to shade all light of pitie from him, hee killed her, and then burnt
her, her clothes found in the Wood besmeard with blood, and hard by them
the remnant of a great fire; they with such store of teares, as had been able to
wash them cleane, and quench the fier, were brought to the house by those,
who went to seeke her, seeing her long stay; not mistrusting harme, but that
they had forgotten themselves. The rest seeing this dolefull spectacle, rent
their haire, and gave all testimony of true sorrow: then came these newes to
us; how welcom, judge you, who I see feele sorrow with us: her father & brothers
arm’d themselves, and are gone in search of him, who was seene with
all speed to passe towards the Sea. Thus heare you the Daughters misfortune,
which must be followed by the mothers death: and God send, that as
soone as I wish, my Lord and Sonnes may meet with that ungrateful wretch
to revenge my miserable childs losse. This being done, she swounded in my
armes, my selfe being still in my transformed estate, helpt her as much as I
could, then delivering her to her servants, I tooke my leave, buying this armour
to goe unknowne, till I could find a place sad enough to passe away my
mournefull howres in. Many countries I went thorow, and left (for all were
too pleasant for my sorrow), till at last I lighted on this happie one, since in it
I have received as much comfort by your kind and wise counsell, as is possible
for my perplexed heart to entertaine. By this time hee was fully armed,
which made the sweet Urania admire him; and if more pitie had lodg’d in
her then before, she had affoorded him; his goodly personage and dolefull
lookes so ill agreeing, had purchased; for she did pitie him so much, as this
had almost brought the end of some kind of pitie, or pitie in some kind love:
but she was ordain’d for another, so as this prov’d onely a fine beginning to
make her heart tender against the others comming.”
Now was he ready to depart,
wherefore they came downe from the rock, when being at the bottome
they met a young shepherd, whose heart Urania had (although against her
will) conquered. This Lad shee entreated to conduct Perissus to the next
town, which he most willingly consented to, thinking himselfe that day most
happy when she vouchsafed to command him; withall she injoyned him, not
to leave him, till he saw him shipt, which hee perform’d, comming againe to
her to receive thanks more welcome to him, then if a fine new flock had bin
bestowed on him. Perissus gone, Urania for that night drave her flock homeward,
giving a kind looke unto the rocke as she return’d, promising often to
visit it for brave Perissus sake, and to make it her retiring place, there to passe
some of her melancholy howres in. The next morning as soone as light did
appeare, or she could see light (which sooner she might doe then any, her
eyes making day, before day else was seene) with her flocke she betooke her
selfe to the meadow, where she thought to have met some of her companions,
but being early, her thoughts having kept more carefull watch over her
eies, thought it selfe growne peremptorie with such authority. She found
none come, wherefore leaving the flocke to the charge of a young Lad of hers C4v 16
hers, tooke her way towards the rocke, her mind faster going then her feete,
busied still, like one holding the Compasse, when he makes a circle, turnes it
round in his owne center: so did shee, her thoughts incircled in the ignorance
of her being. From this she was a little mov’d by the comming of a
pretie Lambe towards her, who with pitifull cries, and bleatings, demanded
her helpe, or she with tender gentlenes imagined so; wherefore she tooke it
up, and looking round about if she could see the dam, perceiving none, wandred
a little amongst bushes and rude places, till she grew something wearie,
when sitting downe she thus began to speake: “Poor Lambe”, said she, “what
moane thou mak’st for losse of thy deare dam? what torments do I then suffer,
which never knew my mother? thy misse is gobscured2-3 characterst, yet thou a beast may’st
be brought up, and soone contented having food; but what food can bee given
me, who feede on nothing but Despaire, can that sustaine me? No, want
of knowledge starves me, while other things are plentifull. Poore innocent
thing; how doth thy wailing sute with mine? Alas, I pitie thee, my selfe in
some kind wanting such a pitie.”
Then shee did heare a noise in the bushes,
looking what it should be, she saw a fierce she-wolfe come furiously towards
her: she, who (though a spirit matchlesse lived in her) perceiving her, wished
the beast further, yet taking her wonted strength of heart, and vertuous
thoughts together, she thus said; “O heaven defend me miserable creature if
thou please; if not, grant me this blessing, that I shall here end, not knowing
any parents to sorrow for me, so those parents (if living) may never know
my losse, lest they doe grieve for me.”
As shee thus religiously gave her
thoughts, and her last, as shee thought to the highest, the beast running towards
her of the sudden stood still; one might imagine, seeing such a
heavenly creature, did amase her, and threaten for medling with her: but
such conceits were vaine, since beasts will keepe their owne natures, the true
reason being, as soone appear’d, the hasty running of two youths, who with
sharpe speares, soone gave conclusion to the supposed danger, killing the
wolfe as shee stood hearkning to the noise they made. But they not seeing
Urania, who on her knees was praising God, said one to another, “Alas, have
we hasted to kill this beast, which now is not for our turne, little helpe can this
give to our sicke father.”
Urania then looked up, hearing humane voices, which
she so little expected, as onely death was that she looked for: but then perceived
she two young men, whose age might be judged to bee some seventeene
yeares; faces of that sweetnesse, as Venus love could but compare with
them, their haire which never had been cut, hung long, yet longer much it
must have been, had not the daintie naturall curling somewhat shortned it,
which as the wind mov’d, the curles so pretily plaid, as the Sunne-beames in
the water; their apparrell Goates skinnes cut into no fashion, but made fast
about them in that sort, as one might see by their sight they were wild; yet
that wildnesse was govern’d by modesty, their skinne most bare, as armes and
leggs, and one shoulder, with part of their thighes; but so white was their
skinne, as seem’d the Sunne in love with it, would not hurt, nor the bushes so
much as scratch; on their feete they had a kind of shooes, which came up to
the anckle. Thus they were before the Prime of Shepherdesses, who comming
to them, and saluting them, they stept back in wonder to see that beautie,
which yet in the masculine they came neere to, then laying admiration so farre D1r 17
farre a part, as to keepe themselves safe from rudenesse in some kind, one of
them began: “Divine creature, pardon this our boldnesse, which hath brought
us thus rudely to your presence, if we have offended, let our humilitie in sorrow
excuse us; or if this beast we have kild was favour’d by you, take us who
are rude men, to serve you in that stead: in the meane time accept our petition
to bee forgiven our fault.”
Urania, who had before in their out-sides
seene enough to be wondred at, hearing their speech, bred more admiration,
she answered them; “Your beauties mixt with so much mildnesse and sweetnesse,
might pleade for you, if you had offended, which I saw not: but in having
given too much respect to me, the most miserable of women; nor any
rudenes see I, but in that beast which you have so manfully destroy’d: if your
habits shew wildnesse, your speech takes away that error; nor have you committed
any fault, if not in saving mee to live to greater miseries.”
The young
men then blushing, humbly thanking her, were taking their leaves, when she
curteously desired them, that since they had rescued her, she might know the
men that saved her, and the adventure brought them thither. They answered;
Withall their hearts they would satisfie her demand, but for that time
desired to be excused, since they were sent by their old weake father to get
some food for him, which when they had done, they would returne to her.
She hearing this; “Alas” (said she), shal you who have kept me out of the throat
of a ravening wolfe, want what I may helpe you to? Goe to your father, I
will accompanie you; this Lambe shall feed him, at this time sent of purpose
without doubt, to cherish so good and blest a man, as is father to two
such sonnes: and then may I know your storie and his together.”
They happy
to see so fit a dish for his age, on their knees would have thanked her, but she
hindred them; and so together they went towards the place where hee remain’d,
which was in a Cave under a great rock neere to the sea; when they ariv’d
at the place, the elder of the two went in, telling the old man of the faire
shepherdesses cōomming, and her kindnes to him. Wherfore he sent out a yong
maid, who was cloth’d in plaine (but neat) apparrell: of such beautie, as who
had seene her alone, would have thought her incomparable, but Urania excelled
her; meeting of her, knowing by the youth she was his sister, most sweetly
saluted her, taking her by the hand, went in, where they found the old man
so feeble, as he had but his tongue left to serve himselfe or them withall: and
well did it then serve him for the good of the young men, thus beginning to
Urania: “Admired Shepherdes, and most worthy to bee so; since the inward
beauty of your mind so much excells the peereles excellency of your outward
perfections, as vertue excels beauty, see here a poore signe of greatnes, overwhelm’d
with misfortune, and be as you are, all excelling, a happy meanes to
aide an els destroi’d hope of rising; sit down here, and grudge not me that honor;
for before the story be ended, you wil see more reason to pity thēen scorn,
and you my sons & daughter come neere, for now shal you know that, which
I have til this present kept from you, for feare I shuld not els have held you in
this poore, but quiet living.”
They being ready to sit, & heare the story, a mans
voice made thēem stay, & Urania intreated (as in lesse danger if seene then the other)
to go forth, she perceiv’d a gentlemāan of that delicacy for a māan, as she was?
struck with wōonder; his sweetnes & fairnes such, as the rarest painters must confes
thēemselves unable to coūunterfeit such perfections, & so exquisit proportion. D He D1v 18
He had a mantle richly embroidered with pearle and gold, the colour of that
and his other apparrell being watchet suitably imbrodered, his haire faire
and shining, so young he was, as hee had but the signe of a beard; Armes
he had none, save a sword to defend himselfe, or offend his enemies, hee
came softly and sadly on towards the rocke, but his eyes to the seaward: she
beholding him, said; “O sweet Iland, how mai’st thou indeed boast thy self for
being the harbour of all excellent persons.”
He whose mind was distant from
him, held his eyes and thoughts as at first fixt, beseeching the sea, if shee had
Amphilanthus in her power, shee would be pitifull unto him: after hee had
concluded these words, he (whose soule was absent from him) lookt towards
the Iland, when his eyes were soone called to admire, and admiringly behold
the rare Shepherdesse, who in the same kind of wonder lookt on him. He ravished
with the sight, scarce able to thinke her an earthly creature, stood gazing
on her. She who poore soule had with the sight of Perissus, given leave
for love to make a breach into her heart, the more easily after to come in
and conquer, was in so great a passion, as they seem’d like two Master-pieces,
fram’d to demonstrate the best, and choisest skill of art, at last (as men have the
stronger and bolder spirits) he went unto her, not removing his eyes in the
least from hers, and with a brave, but civill manner thus spake unto her. “If
you be, as you seeme an incomparable Shepherdesse, let me bee so much favour’d
of you, as to be permitted to aske some questions: but if you be a heavenly
person as your rarenesse makes me inagine, let me know, that by the
humble acknowledging my fault, I may gaine pardon.”
“Alas Sir”, said Urania,
so farre am I from a heavenly creature, as I esteeme my selfe the most miserable
on earth; wherefore if any service I can doe may pleasure you, I beseech
you command me, so may I receive some happinesse, which I shall obtaine in
obeying you.”
“What I will demaund”, said he, shall be such things as you may
easily grant, and by that make me your servant. I desire to know what this
place is but most what you are: for never can I beleeve you are as you seeme,
unlesse for the greater wonder all excellencie, should be masked under this
Shepherdesse attire.”
“For the perfections in me, as you call them”, said Urania,
“were they not made perfect by so excellent a Speaker, would be of no more
value, then the estimation I make of my poore beautie; touching your demaunds,
I will as well as I can satisfie you in them. This Iland is called Pantalaria,
govern’d by an ancient worthie Lord called Pantalerius, who having
receiv’d some discontent in his owne Countrie, with his family, and some others
that lov’d and serv’d him, came hither, finding this place unpossest, and
so nam’d it after his owne name, having ever since in great quiet and pleasure
remained here; himselfe and all the rest taking the manner and life of shepheards
upon them, so as now this place is of all these parts most famous for
those kind of people. For my selfe I can say nothing, but that my name is
Urania, an old man and his wife having bred me up as their owne, till within
these few daies they told me that, which now more afflicts me, then the povertie
of my estate did before trouble me, making me so ignorant of my selfe
as I know no parents. For they told me, that I was by them found hard by
the sea-side, not farre from these rocks, laid in a cradle with very rich clothes
about me, a purse of gold in the cradle, and a little writing in it, which warn’d
them that should take me up to looke carefully to me, to call me Urania, and when D2r 19
when I came to sixeteene yeeres of age to tell this to me, but by no meanes
before, this they have truely performed, and have delivered me the mantle
and purse, that by them, if good fortune serve, I may come to knowledge;
injoyning me besides, not to keepe this my story secret from any, since this
sweet place intising many into it, may chance to bring some one to release
me from this torment of Ignorance.”
“It could not be otherwise”, said he, since
such sweetnes, and peerelesse lovelynesse are match’d together.”
“But now”,
said Urania, “let me know I beseech you, who I have discover’d my selfe unto”;
“Let us sit downe”, said he, under these Rockes, and you shall know both who
I am, and the cause of my comming hither”
: “Nay”, answered Urania, “if it
please you, let us rather goe into a Cave hard by, where I have left an olde
weake man, ready to tell me his Story, having with him two of the finest
youths, and a Maide of the rarest beauty that eye can behold, and desirous
he is to speake, for long he cannot endure.”
So together they came into the
Cave, the grave man reverently with bowing downe his head, saluting him
thus; “Brave Sir, for Majestie doe I perceive in your countenance, which
makes me give you this title, Welcome to my poore abiding, and most welcome,
since now I trust, I shall dispose of my Sonnes, according to my long
wish and desire: sit I beseech you downe, and tell me who you are, that
then I may discourse to you the lamentable fortune I and these my children
are fallen into.”
The stranger sate downe betweene the old man and the excellent
Shepherdesse, beginning his Tale thus. “My name” said he, “is Parselius,
Prince of Morea, being eldest Sonne unto the King thereof, which
Countrie I left with a deare friend of mine, who besides the untying band
of friendship we live linked in, is my kinsman, and heire to the Kingdome of
Naples, called Amphilanthus, resolving not to returne, till wee had heard
newes of a lost Sister of his, who in the first weeke after her birth was stolne
away, since which time an old man, whether by divination or knowledge,
assured the King her Father, shee is living. Wherefore the most brave of
Princes, Amphilanthus, resolv’d to seeke her, my selfe loving him as well,
or better then my selfe, would not be denied to accompany him: for having
bene ever bred in neerenesse of affections, as well as in conversation together,
it could not be, but we must like the soule and body live, and move:
so we betooke our selves to the Sea, leaving Morea, passing many adventures
in divers Countries, still seeking the least frequented, and privatest places
keeping to the West, for that way wee were directed by the wise man.
At last we arriv’d in Sicilie, which Country we found in great trouble, warres
being broke out againe after the departure of Perissus, Nephew to the King,
who had setled the State in good peace and quiet. But their hearts either not
fully reconcil’d, or only reconciled to him, after his departure, which as we
heard was strange and sudden, being never since heard of, they rebelled againe;
but we soone appeas’d the busines, setling the King in his seat with all
quiet and safety. Then did Amphilanthus and I, though against my heart,
part our bodies, but never shall our minds be parted, he in one ship, taking I
know not justly what course, but I trust the happiest: my selfe guided by fortune,
not appointing any one place to bend to, was brought hither, promising
at our parting to meete at his Fathers Court in Italie within twelve
moneths after. But shorter I hope now my journey will bee, since I D2 verily D2v 20
verily beleeve, you most faire Shepherdesse are the lost Princesse, and rather
doe I thinke so, because you much resemble Leonius, the younger brother to
Amphilanthus, whose beautie in man cannot be equall’d, though surpassed by
you.”
When he had concluded, the old man with teares thus said: “O Almightie
God, how great are thy blessings to me, that before I die, thou dost thus
bring the most desired happinesse I could wish for, in sending hither that
Prince, who onely can restore our good unto us. Most mighty and worthilie
honourd Prince; see here before your royall presence, the unfortunate king
of Albania, who in the warres betweene Achaya and Macedon, taking part
with Achaya, was beaten out of my country, and forced to wander, seeking
safetie far from the place, where my safety ought most to have been. I came
to your fathers Court, it is true, poore, and unlike a Prince, which sight tooke
away so much as pitie; Courtiers, rather out of their bravery, contemning,
then compassionating extremitie: besides, your Mother, being Sister to
the Macedonian king then living, would not permit me any favour, my kingdome
in the meane while spoild, and parted among such, as could prevaile
by strength and policy to get shares. When I found my selfe in this misery,
with my wife and some few friends we went away, leaving Morea, and al hope
of gaining any good in Greece, following what course our stars would guide
us to, we came hither, where it pleased God to blesse us with these two boies,
and this daughter, after whose being seaven yeares old, she died. Yet for all it
is, and was a joy to me, to see of my owne for my posterity, finding that likelihood
of princely vertues (as I hope) shal be one day manifested, it hath grieved
mee to thinke how I should leave them; but now my hopes are revived,
since I trust that danger is past; your noble, and magnanimous vertues being
such, as to take pitie of any, how much more then wil your honor be, to assist
distressed Princes? And now may you well do it, since a servant of mine, who
I have often sent thither, to see how things passe, doth assure me, your Uncle
is dead, and a mighty Lord being next heire-male, which by the lawes of the
country was otherwise, hath got the Crowne, having inclosed your faire
young cosin, right heire to the kingdom of Macedon, being only daughter to
the late king, in a strong tower til she be of age, & then to marry her; or if shee
refuse, to keep her there stil, and this is the best she can expect. Wherefore sir,
thus you are bound to rescue her: then I beseech you take these two young
men into your protection, who till now, knew no other, then that they were
meane boies, I not daring to let them know their birth, lest those great spirits
which live in them, should have led thēem into some dangerous course: but still
I have kept them under, making them know hardnes and misery, the better
still to endure it, if so crosse their fortunes be; or if they come to enjoy their
right, they may know the better to command, having so well learn’d to obey
and serve. And most delicate Shepherdes, do you I pray accept of this young
maid for your friend and companion, since if you bee the King of Naples
daughter, or any other Princes, you need not scorne the companie of the
Albanian Kings daughter.”
Parselius taking the old King in his armes; “And
is it my good fortune most famous King of Albania”
(said hee) “to have it
in my power to serve so excellent a Prince? Doubt not then but I will
with all faithfull love and diligence (as soone as I have concluded this
search, with meeting my dearest friend in Italie) goe into Morea, and from D3r 21
from thence carry such forces as shall (with my other friends I will joyne
with me) restore you to your right, and pull downe that Macedonian Usurper,
were it but for wronging you. But since I have so faire an occasion to
revenge such injuries offered so vertuous a Prince as your selfe, in keeping
a kingdome, and usurping another from his rightfull Queene, I am doubly
bound: your sonnes I accept to bee my companions, and as brothers to me
will I be carefull of them”
; the like did Urania promise for the young Lady.
Then the old king before over-charged with sorrow, was now so ravished
with joy, as not being able to sustaine, bursting into flouds of kind teares,
and his soule turn’d into a passion of joy unsupportable, being onely able to
kisse the Prince Parselius and Urania, imbracing, blessing, and kissing his
children, giving them charge faithfully and lovingly to observe, and love
that brave Prince, and sweet Shepherdes, like a child for quiet ending, gave
up the ghost in their armes, he best did love. Great sorrow was made among
them for his death; but then growing almost night, Urania for that time
went home, leaving the three to attend the Kings body till the next morning,
directing Parselius to the sad abiding of the perplexed Perissus, promising
to come to the Cave by Sunne rising to dispose of all things.

Urania being come home, little meate contented her, making haste to
her lodging, that there shee might discourse with her selfe of all her
afflictions privately, and freely, throwing her selfe on her bed, she thus
beganne: “Alas, Urania, how doth miserie love thee, that thus makes
thee continuallie her companion? What is this new paine thou feel’st?
What passion is this thy heart doth entertaine? I have heard my imagined
Father, and many more, talke of a thing called Love, and describe
it to be a delightfull paine, a sought, and cherish’d torment, yet
I hope this is not that: for slave am I enough already to sorrow, no
neede have I then to be oppressed with passion: Passion, O passion!
yet thou rulest Me. Ignorant creature to love a stranger, and a Prince,
what hope hast thou, that because thou art not knowne, thou shouldst
be knowne to love in the best place? I had rather yet offend so then in
a meane choice, since if I be daughter of Italy, I chose but in mine owne
ranke, if meaner, ambition is more noble then basenesse. Well then, if
I doe love, my onely fault is in too soone loving; but neither in love, nor
choice: Love pleade for me, since if I offend, It is by thy power, and
my faults must, as made, be salv’d by thee. I confesse, I am wonne, and lost,
if thou, brave Prince, pittie not, and save me. Sweet Chastity, how did I
love, and honor thee? Nay, almost vowe my selfe unto thee, but I have
fail’d, Love is the more powerfull God, and I was borne his subject”
: with
that she rose up and went to the window to see if it were day, never knowing
before, what it was to wish for any thing (except the knowledge of her
selfe) now longs for day, watches the houres, deemes every minute a
yeare, and every houre an Age, till she againe injoy’d Parselius sight, who
all that night tooke as little rest; hope, love, and feare so vexing him,
and tyrannizing over him, as sleepe durst not close, nor seaze his eyes to
any the least slumber, all his content being in thinking on Urania; wishing
from his soule shee were the lost Princesse, then they might happily
injoy; which wish by love was chid, since love was able in him to make D3 her D3v 22
her great enough, and those wishes were but to adde to that which ought to
be so perfect, as it selfe should of it selfe be sufficient to make happines, which
is the greatest greatnes. Then did he resolve, whatsoever she was, to make her
his Wife; his Father, Country, Friend, and all must love Urania. Thus all
must yeeld to her, or lose him already yeelded. Hee whose youth and manlike
conversation scorn’d the poore name and power of love is now become
his Bondman, cries out on nothing but Urania; thinks of nothing, hopes for
nothing, but the gaine of her perfections to his love: accusing this night for
spitefully being longer then any other that ever he knew, affection and desire
making it appeare tedious unto him, and why? because it kept Urania from
him. “O” (would he say) “how happy wert thou Parselius to land on this shore,
where thou hast gaind the Goddesse of the earth to bee thy Mistris, Urania to
be thy love?”
But then would a lovers feare take him, making him tremblingly
sigh and say; “But if she should not love again, wretch of all men, what
would become of thee?”
Courage then joyning with hope, would bring him
from that sad despaire, giving him this comfort; “Yet sure” (said he) “her heart
was not fram’d of so excellent temper, her face of such beauty, and her selfe
wholly made in perfectnesse, to have cruelty lodged in her: No, shee was
made for love, then she must love; and if so, pity will claime some part; and if
any, or to any, who more deserves it then my selfe, who most affecteth her?”

With that he went to the mouth of the rocke, from whence he might discover
all the plaines, carefully and lovingly beholding them: “You blessed
Plaines”
(said he) “which daily have that treasure, which the rest of the world
wanting, confesseth sence of poverty; dull earth, ignorant of your riches, neither
knowing, nor caring how to glory sufficiently for bearing, and continually
touching such perfections, why dost not thou with all excellencies strive
to delight her? sending forth soft and tender grasse, mixt with sweetest
flowers when she will grace thee, suffering thee to kisse her feete as shee doth
tread on thee? but when she lies on thee, dost thou not then make thy selfe
delicate, and change thy hardnes to daintines and softnes? Happy, most happy
in her sweet weight; and yet when she doth leave thee do not the flowers
vade, and grasse die for her departure?”
Then hee perceiv’d her comming a
farre off downe the plaines, her flocke some feeding but most leaping, and
wantonly playing before her. “And well may you doe this most lucky flocke”
(said hee) “having such a Commandresse, and so faire a Guardian: well
doth joy become you, shewing you sensibly doe know the blessing you injoy.
But what will you doe when she shall leave you? leave this pleasure,
pine, starve, and die with so great miserie. Alas I pity you, for such a change
will bee. And what wilt thou, sweet Iland, doe? let in the sea, be drown’d,
and lose thy pleasant solitarines.”
Having thus said, he left the desolate rock,
and went to meete her, who with equall love and kindnesse met him; such
indeed was their affection, as can be expressed by nothing but it selfe, which
was most excellent. When the first passion was past, which joy govern’d for
sight, love taking the place of speech: “Ah Urania” (said he); “how did the Sun
show himselfe in his brightest and most glorious habits to entertaine thee
in these meades, coveting to win thy favour by his richnesse triumphing
in his hope of gaine? What mov’d thy sight then in my soule? Think you
not it grew to ravishing of my sences?”
“The Sunne” (said she) shin’d (mee thought) D4r 23
thought, most on you, being as if so fond, as he did give himselfe to be your
servant, circling you about, as if he meant, that you should be the body, and
himselfe serve for your beames.”
With that he tooke her hand, and with an
affectionate soule kissed it, then went they together to the Cave where the
two yong savage Princes, and their Sister attended them: then did they
privately bury the old King, promising (if businesses went well, that they
by Parselius favour might recover their right) to fetch his worthy body,
and lay it with the other famous Kings of Albania.

This being agreed upon they went out of the Cave, Steriamus and Selarina
(for so the yong Princes were called) went first in their savage habits, which
they resolved to weare till they came where they might fit themselves with
apparell, and Armes befitting their Estates: Parselius then promising to
knight them: Next after them went the Morean Prince leading Urania, and
she holding Selarina by the hand. Being come into the Plaine, Parselius againe
speaking to Urania, urged the likely-hood of her being the lost Princesse, besides,
assuring her, howsoever, of no lower an Estate if she would goe with
him. She made him this answer. “A Prince”, said she, “can demand or promise
but Princely things; I beleeve you to be so, because you say so; and
that face, me thinkes, should not dissemble, out of this I credit you, and so
consent to goe with you; then nobly and vertuously, as I trust you, dispose
of me.”
He casting up his eyes to Heaven, “Let me, nor my attempts prosper,”
said he, “when I breake faith and vertuous respect to you; now let us to
the Ship.”
“Nay, I beseech you first”, said shee, “permit me to take my leave of
my good friends, and formerly supposed Parents, lest my absence bring their
death, if ignorant of my fortune: besides, wee will carry the mantle and
purse with us.”
He soone agreed unto it, and so together they went to the
house, the late abiding of the matchlesse Shepherdesse, where they found the
good old folkes sitting together before the doore, expecting the returne of
Urania. But when they saw her come so accompanied, they wondred at it;
and though poore, yet were they civill, wherefore they went towards them,
and hearing by the faire Shepherdesse who the Princes were, kneeled downe,
and would have kissed the hand of Parselius: but he who respected them for
their care of Urania, would not permit them to doe so much reverence, lifting
them up, and imbracing them, told them the same story of his travell, and
cause thereof, as he had done to Urania, and then concluded, that the likelihood
of her being that sought for Princesse, was the reason why they agreed
to goe together, he promising to conduct her safely into Italy, and if she proved
the Princesse, to deliver her to her father, which verily he beleeved he
should doe; and seldome doe mens imaginations in that kind faile, especially
having so good grounds to lay their hopes upon. The old folkes sorry to part
with Urania, yet knowing she was not ordain’d to tarry with them, would not
seeme to contradict their wills: wherefore fetching the mantle and purse
with the little writing delivered them to Urania, whose good disposition
was such, as she could not refraine from teares when shee parted with them,
they wishing their age would have permitted them to have attended her,
but being feeble it was not for them to travell, especially to go so uncertaine
a journey, but in their place they desired their daughter might serve her;
which she willingly consented to. Thus D4v 24

Thus every thing concluded, they tooke their leaves, and way to the Ship,
which they found where Parselius had left her, but not as hee had parted
from her; for much more company was in her, and a strange encounter,
he found his Servants Prisoners, his Armes possess’d, and all his goods in
the hands of a Pirat: yet had he govern’d it so, as this mis-adventure was
not discover’d till they were aboord. Parselius alone in regard of his company
and some women, would neverthelesse, have ventured his life to have
kept Urania free, such was his love, by none to be surpassed: his compassion
likewise was great on the other Princesse; in himselfe, feeling the just
cause, as he thought, they had to mistrust him, and his promises to be valuelesse,
this accident being the first of their hoped for joyes.

But shee, whose truth in beliefe would not permit her to have the least
part of suspition to enter, much lesse, lodge in her breast against him, hindered
that brave (but doubtfull) attempt, using these speeches to him.

“Be satisfied, my dearest friend”, said she, “and hazard not your selfe in this
kinde, seeking to alter what is ordain’d by Fate, and therefore not to be
changed: but rather give us example, as confidently, and mildly to suffer
this adversity, as happily we might have enjoyed the other we expected.”

He onely with a languishing, but (to her) loving looke, answer’d her, when
the Pirat, contrarie to their expectation, came, and kneeling downe before
Urania, used these words.

“Let not, fairest Princesse, this accident trouble you, since your imprisonment
shall bee no other then the command of mee, and mine: neither
most noble Sir, be you, or these other offended, for sooner will I doe violence
on my selfe then any way wrong those that come with this Lady:
Bee patient, and you shall soone see, the cause of my taking this noble
prey”
; this said, he rose, and placing them all on fine seats in the Cabine,
where lately the Prince had sate free from both the bands of love, and imprisonment,
himselfe sitting before them began his discourse in this manner
(while the ship under saile was guided the way which he directed the Pilat)
“My name” (said he) “is Sandringall, borne and bred in the land of Romania, being
servant to the King thereof: this King lived long as one may say, the favorite
of fortune, being blest in his government with peace, and love of his
people, but principally happy in two children, a son, and a daughter, yonger
by some yeares then her brother, he being called Antisius, and she Antisia;
promising in their youthes all comfort to succeed in their age: but destinie
herein commanded, disposing quite other waies, and thus it was. The King
my Master having in his youth been a brave and valiant Prince, giving himselfe
unto the seeking and finishing adventures, a strict league of friendship
grew between him, and the King of Achaia, for whose sake he left his country,
with a great army asisting him against his Macedonian enemie: after returning
with honor and content, the Achaian King gratefull for such a curtesie,
being growne in yeares, sent Embassadours to demand his daughter in
marriage for his sonne, and withall to have the Princesse sent unto him, to be
brought up together, to the end, that conversation (a ready friend to love)
might nurse their affections so wel, as she might as contentedly be his daughter,
as it was affectionately desired of him. His sonne, as towardly a Prince
as those parts had, called Leandrus, with whom few Christian Princes will com- E1r 25
compare, except the two Cousens Parselius and Amphilanthus: but to my discourse.
My Master soone consented to the Achayan kings demand, which although
for the farnesse of the country he might have refused; yet the neerenes
of their loves was such, as he could not deny him, or his request, resolving
instantly to send the one halfe of his happinesse to his old friend; and for this
end he sent for me, but herewithal begins my miserie, caused by my treacherie,
which heartily I repent, and am ashamed of. I being arrived at his Court,
out of an ancient confidence which he had of my loialtie to him, committed
this charge unto me, to see his Antissia carefully conducted and delivered to
the king of Achaya: giving me directions, and counsel how to carry my selfe;
besides sole authority and power in this embassage. Thus we departed, my
wife attending on her person; accompanied we were with most of the nobility,
their loves being such, as they parted not til they saw the yong Princesse
shipp’d. Covetousnes (a dangerous sin in this time) bred in my wife (seeing
the infinite riches the father had sent with his child); her perswasions besides
(or rather joyn’d to the divelish sense of gaine) made me consent to detestable
wickednes. Led by this wicked subtilty, we resolv’d not to take our way
to Achaya, but to put in to some Island, there to sell the Jewels, and leave the
Princesse in a religious house, not to bee knowne while her deare Parents
should esteeme her lost, we using the gaine to our owne profits. More cunningly
to carry this, we sent a servant of ours before into the ship, with such
provision as our plot required, towards night, the sweete young Lady
embarqued, with beliefe to go into Achaya; we purposing nothing lesse: for
in the dead time of the night wee set the ship on fire, having before (when
most slept) convaide the treasure into the long boate: then with as much amasement
as any (nothing like the bellows of that fuell) I tooke the Princesse
in mine armes leaping into the boate, calling to my wife to follow me, withall
cutting the cord, lest others should leape in: she leaped, but short, her sin
so heavy drowning her, and my trusty servant, with al the knights, in number
twenty, and the Ladies sent to attend Antisia were drown’d, or burnd, or
both. Then play’d I the waterman, making towards the next shore we could
discover; day breaking gave us sight of one, yet only for flattring hope to play
withall, not to be enjoy’d, for instantly were we set on by rovers, who kept
about these coasts. The Princesse they tooke from me, and all the treasure,
leaving me in the boate, and towing it by the ship in the midst of the sea, left
mee with bread and water for two dayes, but without oare, sayle, or hope;
yet such, and so favourable was my destinie, as within that time a Pirat scouring
the seas tooke mee up, who not long after was set upon by another. But
then did the first arme me to serve him, which in gratitude I did, and so well
defended him, as we had the victorie by the death of the other, slaine with
my hand: for requitall hereof, he bestowed the new won Barke upon mee,
and men to serve me. Glad was I of this, having meanes to search for the
Princesse, which I vowed with true and humble repentance to performe, never
giving over, till I had found the lost Antisia, or ended my life in the service.
And this is the reason I took you, for having landed here, and by chance
seene you, I straight remembred your face, wherefore I determin’d by some
way or other to compasse the meanes to get you before my parting hence;
and had not this happy occasion befalne mee, some other had not failed E to E1v 26
to atchive my purpose. Then tell me where have you been these ten yeeres?
for so long it is since you were lost: and with all I beseech you let my submission
and repentance gaine my pardon.”
“Truly” (said Urania) “you have told
so ill a tale, as if I were the lost Princesse, I should scarce forget so great an injury:
but satisfie your selfe with this, and the hope of finding her, while you
have in your power one, who (alas) is lost too.”
The Pirat at this grew much
troubled and perplext, for so unadvisedly having discovered his former ill:
thus they remaind, the Pirat vext, Urania griev’d, Parselius in soule tormented,
the others moved as much, as respect in them to the other two, could
move in noble minds, least, or not at all, thinking of themselves, in comparison
of them: all sitting with arms cross’d, and eyes cast downe upon the
earth, except the Pirat, whose mind was busied with higher thoughts, none
knowing to what end they would have ascended, had not a voice awaked
them, which came from a Sayler, who bad them prepare. This called
not the rest from their sorrow, nor moved Urania so much as to heare it, who
sate not tearelesse, though speechles, while her sighes accompanied the wind
in loud blowing. Sandringal looking forth, saw the cause of the cry proceeded
from the sight of the great Pirat of Syracusa, whose force was therabouts too
well knowne: then did he take his armes, delivering Parselius his own into his
hands, intreating his aide. Parselius lifted up his eies, and as he raised them, he
placed them on Urania, as the sphere where they alone should move, using
these words: “Now have we some hope, since once more I possesse my armes”:
those (in shew) savage youths helping him. By this time was the other ship
come to them, when there began a cruell fight betweene them: being grapled,
Parselius encountred the chiefe Pirat, Sandringal a blacke Knight, who
was so strong and valiant, as Sandringal gaind much honour so long to hold
out with him. Parselius kild his enemy, when at that instant the black Knight
strake the head of Sandringal from his shoulders; which Parselius seeing,
“Farewel Sandringal” (said he), “now are Antissia and Leandrus well reveng’d for
thy treason.”
With that the black Knight commanded his part to bee quiet,
himselfe throwing downe his sword, and pulling of his helme, ran and imbraced
Parselius, who knowing him to be Leandrus, with as much affection held
him in his armes: thus was the busines ended, all growing friends by their example.
Then were al the prisoners brought forth of both the ships, amongst
whom he knew one to be the Squire of his deare friend and Cousen, Amphilanthus,
and two Gentlemen who had mortall hatred (as it did appeare) one
unto the other: for no sooner came they together, but they would have buffeted
each other, wanting weapons to doe more; the one of them Leandrus
tooke into his custody, while the other began his story thus. “My Lords” (said
he) “first let me beseech pardon for this rudenes; next, claime justice on this
villaine, who hath not only wrong’d me, but in his unmannerly discourse injur’d
the bravest Christian Princes; and that you may know the truth, give
me liberty to speake this to you. My name is Allimarlus, borne in Romania, and
Page I was unto the King thereof; but being come to mans estate, and so
much knowledge, as to see and commiserate my Masters misery, which had
the floud from two springs; the first was the losse of his daughter Antissia, being
sent under the conduct of his faithfull (as he esteemed) servant Sandringal
(who so well hee trusted, as hee would have ventured his life in his hands; which E2r 27
which appeared in putting the faire Antissia in his power, who as himselfe
he loved) to be delivered to the King of Achaia, desiring a match betweene
her and the kings sonne, called the hopefull Leandrus; but in the way the ship
was spoild by an unlucky fire, and she (as it was conjectured) lost, which since
proved otherwise, not being swallowed by the unmercifull sea, but betraide
by her Guardian, and stolne againe from him by Rovers; since which time
little newes hath been heard of her, saving hope of her living. The other, and
greater affliction was, and is, a wicked woman he hath made his wife, after the
death of his vertuous Queene, who died as soone as shee had seene her worthily
beloved Sonne Antissius blessed with a Sonne, whom they called after
his owne name, who having indured a long and paineful search for his Sister,
at his returne tooke a sweet and excellent Lady, called Lucenia to wife; who,
though she were not the fairest, yet truly was she beautifull, and as faire as any
in goodnesse, which is the choisest beauty. But this second marriage made
them first know miserie, the king old, and passionately doting on her: shee
young, politique and wicked, being the widow of a Noble man in the Countrie,
whose beastlines and crueltie cost the Prince his life, and bred the ruine
of the State, as I have since my departure from thence, understood by a
Knight of that Country. But to my discourse: The King one day after hee
had banished his sonne Antissius the Court, and by her damnable counsell
put such jealousie into his head, as hee now feared and hated him, that once
was three parts of his joy. This and the losse of his other comfort Antissia, did
so perplexe him, as one day being at dinner, he began with teares to speake of
Antissius, blaming his unnaturalnesse to him in his age, who had so tenderly
and lovingly cherished his youth: but little of that she would suffer him to
discourse of, lest his deserved pitie might have hindred her ends, and so her
plots have faild, or been discovered.”
Then spake he of his young friend and
once hoped for son Leandrus, who in search of Antissia, was said to be slaine,
by reason that his Squire return’d to the Court (after long seeking his Lord,
who by misadventure hee had lost), bringing his armour shrewdly cut and
tattered, which he had found in a meadow, but no newes of his Master; only
this probabilitie of his losse a country fellow gave him, telling him, that gallant
men in gay armours had not farre off performed a gallant fight, wherein
some were killed, and one Knights body carried thence by a Lady, who followed
the Knight, having but one more with her, whither they went, or
more of the matter, he could not tell. With this and the armour he return’d
to the old King, who the kindest of fathers, did accordingly suffer for this too
likely disaster. From that he fell to the last and first of his misfortune, speaking
of Antissia, and bewailing her losse: concluding, “How miserable am I
of all men, that doe live to lament for these many afflictions? one child dead
by his living undutifulnes, the other lost by treachery in a man I most trusted;
and to be besides, the occasion to bereave my dearest friend of his only comfort,
which as one of my equall sorrowes I esteeme. I seeing his vexation,
and just cause of mourning, offered my best service in seeking the Princesse,
who not being dead, I might hope to find, and bring some content
unto his age. Hee hearing mee say this, fell upon my necke, kissing my
forehead, and yet weeping so, as they resembled the watry and parting
kisses the sweet Rivers give the sweeter bankes, when with ebbing they must E2 leaue E2v 28
leave them: so did his teares, so did his kisses on my face, both meet and part;
at last his joy-mixt sorrow let him speake these words: ‘and wilt thou O Allimarlus
doe this for me? shall I yet find so true a friend?’
‘a servant, and a
faithfull one’
(said I) ‘who will not live, if not to serve you, and so my faith to
live in me.’
Then he tooke me up in his armes, and calling for a sword of his,
which he had worne in most of his adventures, gave that with the honour of
Knighthood to me; then kissing his hands and the Queenes, I took my leave.
He, though glad to find my loyaltie, and hoping to heare some newes of his
daughter, yet was sorry to part with me: so few were left that he could trust,
his kind wife having taken care that her Minions and favorites should most
attend his person.”

“Long time was I not landed in Greece, in that part called Morea, before I
met an old man, who told me something of the Princesse, but nothing of her
certaine aboad: yet I rejoyced to heare of her, not doubting but to bring
her to delight her grieved father, who never indeed tasted of true happinesse
since her losse, that being the thread to his succeeding miseries. That old
man likewise told me, I was in my way of finding her, if I held on to Laconia.
I earnestly desired his company, which he affoorded me, and so we went together,
resolving still to enquire, and to leave no likely place unsought in all
Greece, till we had found her. A prettie space we thus continued, the old man
passing away the time with good discourse, which made the way seeme
shorter, telling me many adventures which had befalne him in his youth, having
led the life that most brave spirits use; but one I best remember (being
his owne story, the place wherein we then were producing it), it was this,
and in truth worthy of note. ‘Whatsoever I now, faire Knight’, (said he) ‘appeare
to be, know I am in birth quite contrary: poore, and alone now, once a
Duke, and one of the mightiest, richest, ancientest, and sometimes happiest of
these parts; this countrie wherein you are, being mine, onely subject in homage
to the famous King of Morea; my education had been most in the court;
my time, some spent there, some time abroad: but weary at last of either, as a
hound wil be, who never so wel loving hunting, wil at last take rest: so did I
lie downe at mine owne home, determining to end my daies in quiet plenteousnes,
taking my own delight; to adde unto which, I brought with me a vertuous
Lady, and such a one, as might for goodnes equal any of her ranke, and
truly not unbeautifull: yet so much was I besotted on a young man, whom I
had unfortunatly chosen for my companion, as at last all delights & pastimes
were to me tedious and lothsome, if not liking, or begun by him. Nay, my
wives company in respect of his, was unpleasing to me. Long time this continued,
which continuance made me issue-les, wherfore I made him my heire,
giving him all the present honor I could in my own power, or by the favor of
the king (who ever grac’d me much) procure him. But he the son of wickednes,
though adopted to me, esteeming possessiōon far better then reversiōon, gave
place so much to covetousnesse, as murder crept into credit to attaine the
profit, wherefore he practised to make me away: my friends and kindred had
before left me, expecting nothing but my ruine, seeing me so bewitch’d with
my undoing. The plot was laid, and I thus betraide where most I trusted;
the time being come for the execution, the hired man (being mine
more for justnesse, then his for rewards) came unto me, and upon promise of E3r 29
of secresie discovered the truth unto me, making me besides promise, to be
perswaded by him; which was, for some time to retire my selfe, till a party
were made in the Countrey strong enough to pull downe his pride, who
had gained such power, as he was grown more powerfull then my selfe, then
might I be my selfe, and rule in safety. I consented to the concealing, but
never could be wonne, to thinke of harming him, whose ungratitude I beleev’d
sufficiently would one day burden him. But how often did I entreat
and beseech him to performe his part, and satisfie his Master in killing me?
whose falsenesse and wickednesse more griev’d me, then ten deathes (could
I have suffer’d so many) yet his honest care over-ruled me, and I submitted
to his Counsel. Then tooke he my clothes, apparelling me fit for the change
of my fortune: He, (poore man) returning to my Castle, for so till then it
was, credibly reporting, that I going to swimme, as often I did in this sweet
River which runnes along this Valley, I was drown’d (wee being then in
that place, and indeed, the sweetest in the world.) This in some kind was
true, said he, for drown’d I was in sorrow and teares: which, could they
have made a streame for bignesse answerable to their swift falling, had questionlesse
made his fram’d report true. This being told the Duke, as then by
my imagined death, imaginarily he was, did make shew of insupportable
griefe being so possest, as he seemed disposled of senses, furiously, and suddenly
stabbing the good man, who for my life lost his owne: This was counted
a passionate act, Love transporting him so much beyond himselfe, as he
was not able to resist his owne furie, while his devillish cunning did both
put a Glosse upon his brutishnesse, and keepe his Treason unreveal’d: the
poore soule falling dead at his feet, while he said, “take this for thy detested
newes bringing.”
Then did he make a solemne funeral for my dead mind,
though living bodie, He apparrell’d himselfe, and his Court in mourning,
which gave much content to the people who loved me, while indeed, their
black was but the true picture of his inward foulenes. My wife did presently
retire to a house her selfe had built: but when he had (as he thought) sufficiently
plaid with the people, he began to exercise his authority, beginning
with my wife, picking a quarrell to bereave her of her estate, which he in
short time did, turning her to seek her fortune: Patiently she tooke it, having
yet some Jewels left her, she bought a little house in a thick and desart wood,
where she was not long before I came unto her, discovering my selfe to both
our equall passions of joy and sorrow. Privatly we there continued many
yeares; God in our poverty giving us an unexpected blessing, which was a
daughter, who grew up and served us; for a servant our meanes would not allow
us, though our estates requir’d it. Seventeene yeares we thus concealed
liv’d, but then, as joies, so tortures will have end; The Duke in all pleasure and
plenty, I in miserie, and povery. One day the young Prince accompanied
with his most noble companion Amphilanthus, (who for the honour of
Greece was bred with him) and many other brave young Nobles who attended
them, went forth to see a flight at the brooke; when after a flight or two
the Princes Hawke went out at checke, which made them all follow her, and
so long, as at the last (for rescue of my afflictions) they were brought to my
poore abiding, which by reason of the farrnesse from the Court, and foulnes
of the weather, (a sudden storm then falling) they accepted for their lodging: E3 which E3v 30
which although so meane as could be, yet they pleased to like it, rather looking
into my heart for welcome (where they found it) then into the meannesse
of the place.’
‘After they had refreshed themselves and discoursed freely with me, it
pleased my Prince to say, that my estate and life, agreed not with my conversation:
wherefore he would not be denied, but needes must know the
truth; which out of obedience, more then desire, with heart-tearing griefe
I discoursed to him. He gave few words for answer, but commanded me
the next day with my Wife and Daughter to attend him to the Court,
which faine I would have refused; foreseeing (that which soone after follow’d)
the destruction of my once most loved friend: who, though hee
had chang’d gratefulnesse to the contrary, and love to hate, yet my affection
could not so much alter it selfe as to hate where once so earnestly I affected,
or seeke revenge on him, whose good I ever wished. But we obeyed; then
the sweet young Prince presented me to his Father, who instantly called me
to minde, remembring many adventures, which in our youths We had passed
together: pittying my fortune as much as he had in younger daies affected
me, yet glad in some kind, to recompence my faithfull service to him;
instantly sent for the Usurper, who by reason of a journey the King made to
see his Realme, and shew it to his Sonne before his departure, who was to
goe thence with his excellent Cousen in a search by them undertaken, was
come neere to the place of the Tyrants abode. He refused to come, but
soone by force he was brought before the King; who with milde fashion,
and royall Majestie examined the businesse, which he confessed: but rather
with a proud scorne, then repentant heart: wherefore the King with just
judgement degraded him, committing him to a strong Tower, whereinto he
was walled up, meate given him in at the windowe, and there to ende his
dayes: which were not long, pride swelling him so with scorne of his fall,
as he burst and dyed.’
‘The Dukedome after this sentence was restored to me: but truely, I was
not able so to recover my former losse, wherefore humbly thanking the
King, and his Sonne, besought them to give mee leave to bestow it on my
Daughter; which was granted me, my wife thinking she had seene enough
when I was my selfe againe, departing this life with joy and content. Besides,
I made one suit more, which was, that since the Prince had with so
much favour begun to honour mee, it would please him to proceed so far
as to bestow one of his young Lords in marriage on my Daughter. The King
and Prince both tooke this motion most kindely, wherefore choosing a hopefull
young Lord, and him the Prince most loved, gave him to her: the marriage
was with much honour celebrated in the Court, at which for their unspeakable
honour, Parselius (for so the Prince is called) and Amphilanthus
Prince of Naples, were made Knights; and bravely for the beginning of their
succeeding glory began those sports of Field, as since have made them famous
over the world. This ended, I went away kissing the Kings and Princes
hands, undertaking a Pilgrimage: which performed, I returned to this
place, where like an Hermit still I live, and will continue while life is in mee;
this Valley, those steepie woody Hilles, and the Cave I rest in, shall bee all the
Courts or Pallaces that these old eyes shall ever now behold.’
As thus we trauelled E4r 31
travelled on, determining to conclude that daies journey with the end of his
story, and resting in his Cell that night, we were called from that resolution
by a noise within the wood, of Horse, and clashing of Armour, which drew
me to see what the matter was. Arriving at the place, we found two gentlemen
cruelly fighting, and by them many more slaine: but that which most
amazed us, was, that hard by them on the ground, was one of the Mirrours
for beauty to see her selfe lively in, so faire indeed, is she, and such a fairenes
hath she, as mine eyes never saw her equall, if not that rare Shepherdesse
by you, or the incomparable Lady Pamphilia, Sister to the noble Prince
Parselius, who I need but name, the world being sufficiently filled with his
fame. This Lady lay along, her head upon her hand, her teares ranne in as
great abundance, as if they meant to preserve themselves in making some
pretty brooke of truest teares, her breath shee tooke rather in sighes and
sobs, then quiet breathing, yet did not this alter the colour, or feature of
her heavenly beauty: but resembling the excellent workmanship of some
delicatly proportion’d fountaine, which lets the drops fall without hurting
it selfe: or like a showre in Aprill, while the Sunne yet continues cleare and
bright and so did she seeme to our eyes.
As we were admiring her, there came a Knight in blacke Armour, his
Shield sutable to it without any Device, who not seeing the Lady, step’d
to the two Combatants, willing them to hold their hands, till hee did understand
the cause of their enmitie; They refusing it, turn’d both on him,
one stricking him forcibly on the shoulder, he seeing their rudenesse, and
feeling himselfe smart, forgot parting, and made himselfe a party, sticking
one of them such a blow as made him fall dead at his feet. Whereupon the
other yeelded, delivering his Sword, and turning to the Lady, who now
the Knight saw, with admiration for her fairenesse and sorrow, unbinding
her and sitting downe by her, finding I was likewise a stranger, call’d me, and
the good Hermit to heare the discourse which the vanquished man deliver’d
in this manner.
‘Two of these which here you see lye slaine were halfe brothers, Sonnes to
one mother; the one of them my Master; who on a day, after a long chase
of a Stagge, happened into a Merchants house, not farre hence, where this
Lady did then remaine: They were civilly and courteously entertained
for being Gentlemen well borne, and in their fashion pleasing, they were
respected, and belov’d of most; never having attempted, or to mans knowledge
imbraced, or let in a thought contrary to vertue till their comming
thither, where they resolv’d of a course worse then man could of man imagine,
if not proud by experience. For there they saw that Ladie, desir’d
her, and plotted to obtaine her, purposing with all ill meaning to enjoy her,
nothing being able to give other ende to their wicked mindes but this;
whereto their beastlinesse, and true justice hath brought them: having
made this place their bed of death, as it was meant for their lascivious desires.
Great they did imagine her of birth, by the honour done unto her;
this was another spurre to their devillish longing; yet to be certaine, with
a good fashion dissembling their inward intent, (as well they could, for they
were Courtiers) intreated the Merchant to tell who this Lady was, that
they might accordingly honour and respect her. Hee told them her name was E4v 32
was Antissia, and that she was daughter to the great king of Romania, betraied
by her Guardian, taken from him againe by Rovers, and sold by them on
this coast, at the Towne call’d S. Anzolo, where I a Merchant’
(said he) ‘bought
her; they not knowing who they sold, nor I what I had bought: till some
daies after she her selfe (intreating me no more to suffer her to be made merchandize,
but to carry her to her father, who would reward me sufficiently
for my paines) told me the unexpected secret. The brothers hearing this,
inflamed more then before, beauty first inticing them, then ambition wrought
to compasse a kings daughter to their pleasure; much commending themselves
for placing their loves so worthily, yet still forgetting how unworthie
and dishonourable their love was. Desire makes them now politike, casting
all waies how they might betray her; consulting together, they at last concluded,
to get the Princesse into the Garden to walke, having before appointed
these slaine men to attend at a doore, which opened into the field, which
they opening, perswaded her to goe out a little into so sweet an aire: she fearing
nothing went with them, when no sooner she was forth, but shee found
she was betrayd; crying for helpe would not availe her, yet the pitifulnesse
of it brought forth most of the house, who perceiving what was intended
and neere acted, no fury could be compar’d to theirs (and furie indeed it was)
for they but five, and unarmed, attempted to rescue her from us, being all
these; and two of them so amorous, as they in that raging passion (love being
at the best a mild frenzie) would have been able, or thought themselves so, to
have withstood them, and many more, especially their Mistris being in presence.
This noise also brought forth the good womāan, wife to the honest merchant,
where began so pitifull a monefull complaining betweene her and this
Princesse, as truly mov’d compassion in all my heart I am sure weeping for
them: yet the mad Lovers had sense of nothing but their worst desires.
With these words the Princesse fell into a new sorrow, which the Knight
perceiving (whose heart was never but pitifull to faire Ladies) perswaded
the sad Antissia so well, as he proceeded; Then being possest of the Ladie,
my Master led the way, bringing his brother and us to this banket; this place
being set downe for her dishonor, but destin’d for their graves. Then grew a
strife for the first enjoying of her, so farre it proceeded, as from words they
fell to blowes, and so in short time to this conclusion: for they fighting, wee
following our Masters example, followed them in death likewise all but my
selfe, and I now at your mercy.’
He had but concluded his storie, when I pulling
of my helmet, kneeling downe to the Princesse, told her who I was, and
likewise my search for her, which she (with as much joy as on a sudden could
enter into so sad a mind) receiv’d with gratious thankfulnes. Now had the
black Knight in like manner discover’d his face, which so excellent in lovelines,
I cannot say fairenes, as the whitest beauty must yeeld to such a sweetnes,
and yet doth his mind as farre excell his person, as his person doth all others
that I have seene, and so will all allow, for this was Amphilanthus; who with
mild, yet a princely manner, told the Princesse, That she might leave her sorrow
being falne into his hands, where she should have all honor and respect,
and within short time by himselfe bee deliver’d to her father. But first
hee was to performe his promise to his dearest friend and Cosen Parselius
in meeting him in Italy, the time prefixed being almost expired, and his search vtterly F1r 33
utterly fruitlesse. ‘But I pray sir’ (said Parselius) ‘how came that brave Prince
again into Morea?’
‘By a violent storme’ (said he), ‘wherein he suffer’d shipwrack.’
This done, Amphilanthus, Antissia, the Hermit, and my selfe, tooke
our waies to the Merchants house, whom we found return’d, but ready again
to have left his house, fill’d with discontent and passion for the unhappy accident:
his wife in that desperate griefe as hardly could shee have endured
with life, had not the blessed returne of Antissia given comfort, like life unto
her sorrowes. The servant to the slaine Knight guided us within sight of
the house: but then with pardon and liberty of going his owne way, he departed.
That night we rested there, the next morning parted our selves; Amphilanthus,
Antissia, the Merchant and his wife, took their journy together towards
the Court, there to leave her till he had found Parselius, and so end his vow;
the old Hermit returnd to his private devotions, my self took my way to the
next port, to ship my selfe for Romania, in the same ship was also this man,
who hearing me discourse of my adventures with the Master of the ship,
gave ill language of Amphilanthus, then of Parselius, saying, they were Cosoners,
and not Princes, but some odde fellowes taking good names upon
them, since it was very unlikely so great persons should be so long suffered
abroad, and travell in such a sort alone, and more like runne-awaies, then
Princes. These much moved mee: but to put mee quite out of patience,
hee went on, giving vilder, and more curst speeches of my owne Lord:
this made mee strike him, and so wee fell together so close, as one or
both had dyed for it, had not the company parted us; and after wee had
againe gon to it, but that this ship came and tooke us, and so made us Prisoners
to save our lives. But now Sirs, if you doe not justice, you wrong
your selves, in not revenging so great an injurie done to the bravest Princes.”

Parselius replide: “Wee were not worthie to live, if wee did not right
so worthy a Gentleman as your selfe, and revenge the wrong done to so
great Princes, whose greatnesse yet cannot keepe ill tongues in awe sufficientlie,
but that in absence they are often wronged; and therefore
friends must revenge that, which they ignorant of otherwise may suffer.
But herein wee may bee thought partiall; for this Knight you see is Leandrus,
my selfe Parselius, one of the cousoning Princes (as it pleased his
honestie to call mee): I would advise therefore, that this rare Shepherdesse
should appoint him his punishment.”
The young Knight kneeled
downe to have kissed the handes of the two Princes: they taking him
up, gave him thankes for his discourse, commending him much for his
loyaltie and valour.

Urania, (who was as heartily angry as the Knight) seeing her Parselius
thus wronged, could find no lesse punishment for him, then death. But
then the Prince did with sweete perswasions mitigate her furie: but
brought it no lower then to publike whipping, submission, and recantation:
Lastlie, humbly on his knees to aske pardon of the Romanian
Knight.

All now satisfied but Urania, (who could not easilie forgive an injurie
done to her other selfe) sent him a shore to the next land they saw, F then F1v 34
Then did the knight againe speake: “My Lord Parselius, with your leave, I beseech
you permit me to take so much boldnes, as to beseech my Lord Leandrus
to doe me so much honour, as to tell mee the adventure, which caused
the report and suspition of his death”
: they both agreeing, Leandrus thus began.
“After I had left you most noble Parselius, I went to my owne countrie
to visite my father, where still I heard the noise of Antissia’s losse, the likelihood
of her beauty, the griefe of Parents, and the wrong done to my selfe:
these did not only invite, but command me to be diligent, in making al these
pieces joyne again in the first body of cōontent; which I perswaded my self able
to doe, by seeking and finding of her. The one I resolv’d, the other I nothing
doubted: then with my fathers consent I left Achaya, taking my way among
the Greek Ilands, and passing the Archipelago. I left no Iland that had a league
of land unsought, or unseene: then shipt I my self, and past into your Morea; so
after I had seene all those places, I went againe to sea, resolving afterwards
to take towards Italy, whither for farnesse it might bee the traytors had
carried her; my companion then leaving me to go to his heart, which he had
left in Cecillia. But being in the Iland of Cephalonia, there was a solemne and
magnificent Feast held, which was by reason of a marriage betweene the
Lords daughter of that Iland, and the Lord of Zante’s sonne, a fine and spritefull
youth; Justs, Tilt, and all other such warlike exercises being proclaimed.
Hearing this, I would needs shew my selfe one, as forward as any stranger to
honour the Feast. The first day (which was the wedding-day) Armes were
laid aside, and only dancing and feasting exercis’d: after supper every one
preparing for the dancing againe. With the sound of trumpets there entred
one in habit and fashion like a Commander of horse, who deliver’d some few
lines to the new married Paire, dedicated as to their honour and joy, which
they receiv’d most thankfully, promising freedome and welcome to the
whole company. Then entred in twenty Gentlemen presenting souldiers,
and so danced in their kind, making a brave and commendable demonstration
of Courtship in the bravest profession, honour abounding most, where
noblenes in valour, and bounty in civilitie agree together. After they went to
a rich banket: the brave Masquers discovering themselves, were found to
be gentlemen of both Ilands, equally divided in number, as their affections
ought to be to either, and therefore had put themselves into the evenest and
perfectest number of ten, and ten. But to leave sport, and come to earnest;
the manner of that place was, that from the banquet the Bride must be stolne
away (to bed the meaning is), but she tooke to the fields. Most did misse her,
for there wanted no respective care of her, but al were satisfied with the fashion,
correcting such as spake suspiciously, and expecting to be call’d to see her
in bed, waited the calling. But the time being long, some hastier then the rest
went to the chamber, where they found she had not been. This was instantly
blowne abroad; all betooke themselves to Armes who could beare any,
the Ladies to their teares, every one amaz’d, and chiefly the Bridegroome
perplext. The old fathers vext, the mothers tore their gray locks, such disorder
in generall, as cannot bee exprest, but by the picture of the same accident,
Some mistrusted the Masquers, but soone they clear’d themselves,
putting on Armes, and being as earnest as any in the search. I a stranger,
and loving businesse, would needs accompany them (which the favour of a Noble. F2r 35
Nobleman, with whom I had got some little acquaintance, did well aide me
in) whose fortunes were in finding them, more happy then any others, overtaking
them, when they thought themselves most secure, being together laid
within a delicate Vineyard, a place able to hide them, and please them with
as much content, as Paris felt, when he had deceiv’d the Greeke King of his
beautifull Hellen; laughing at the fine deceit, and pitying in a scornefull fashion
those, who with direct paine and meaning followed them, commending
their subtilties and fine craftinesse, in having so deceiv’d them. Kissing and
embracing, they joyfully remain’d in their stolne comforts, till wee rudely
breaking in upon them, made them as fearefully rush up, as a tapist Buck will
doe, when he finds his enemies so neere: yet did not our comming any whit
amaze them, but that they were well able to make use of the best sence at
that time required for their good, which was speech, uttering it in this manner.”

“‘My Lords’ (said they), ‘if ever you have knowne love, that will (we hope)
now with-hold you from crossing lovers. We confesse, to the law wee are
offenders, yet not to the law of love: wherefore as you have loved, or doe, or
may, pity us, and be not the meanes that wee too soone sacrifice our blouds
on the cruell altar of revenge, while we remaine the faithfull vassals of Venus.
Let not your hands be soild in the bloud of lovers; what can wash away
so foule a staine? You may bring us (it is true) unto our just deserv’d endes:
but then take heed of a repentant gnawing spirit, which will molest you,
when you shall be urg’d to remember, that you caus’d so much faithfull and
constant love, to be offred to the triumph of your conquest, over a lover unarm’d,
wanting all meanes of resistance, but pure affections to defend himself
withall, and a woman only strong in truth of love.’
For my part, she wan me,
my companion was by him gaind; so as promising assistance in place of arms,
and helpe in stead of force, we sat down together, he beginning his discourse
in this manner.
‘To make long speeches, striving to be held an Orator, or with much delicacie
to paint this storie, the time affoords not the one, our truth and love
requires not the other; wherfore as plainely as truth it self demands, I wil tel
you the beginning, successe, and continuance of our fortunate (though crost)
affections. I lov’d this Lady before she had seene this yong Lord, she likewise
had onely seene my love, and onely tide her selfe to that, before he saw her;
love made me her slave, while she suffered as by the like authoritie. I sued,
she granted; I lov’d, she requited; happinesse above all blessings to bee imbraced.
Our eyes kept just measure of lookes, being sometimes so inchain’d
in delightfull links of each others joy-tying chaine (for so wee made up the
number of our beholdings), as hard it was to be so unkindly found, as to seperate
so deare a pleasure. Our hearts held even proportion with our thoughts
and eies, which were created, nursed, and guided by those, or rather one harts
power. But Parents having (were it not for Christianity, I shuld say) a cruel &
tirannical power over their childrēen, brought this to us disastrous fortune: for
discovering our loves, set such spies over us (scorning that I being the yonger
brother to an Earle, should have such happinesse, as to injoy my Princesse) as
we could never come to enjoy more then bare lookes, which yet spake our
true meanings after it was discover’d. This course inrag’d us, vowing to have F2 our F2v 36
our desires upon any termes whatsoever, alwaies consider’d with true noblenesse,
and vertue. Thus resolv’d, We continued, till her Father concluding
this match, shut her up in a Towre, wherein he then kept (in her)
his choisest Treasure, till this day of her Marriage: which opportunity
we tooke, purposing’
; More he would have said, as it seemd, truely to manifest
the vertuous determination they had, in their accomplishment of their
desires, when he was hinder’d by the rushing in of others with their Horses.
Rising, We discern’d the deceiv’d youth with some others in his company;
Fate, like his Love, having guided him to that place. In charity wee could
not leave our first professed Friends, nor could I part my selfe from such and
so true Love: wherefore resolutely taking my companions part, defended
the Lovers, pitty then taking the place of Justice in our Swords; the Husband
being unfortunately slaine by my Companion, truly I was sorry for
him, and glad it was not I had done it. But soone followed a greater and
more lamentable misfortune: For one of the yong Lords Servants, seeing
his Master slaine, pressed in, unregarded, or doubted, upon the unarmed Lover,
who was this while comforting his Mistris, and not expecting danger,
was on the sudden thrust into the backe, as he was holding his onely comfort
in his armes. He soone (alas, and so forever) left his deare imbracement,
turning on him who hurt him, repaying the wrong with giving him
his death: but then soone followed his owne, the wound being mortall
which he had received, yet not so suddenly, but that he saw the destruction
of his enemies. We being as fierce, as rage, and revenge could make us,
then he remaining alone (besides my selfe) alive, and yet dying, giving me infinite
thankes for my love, and willing rescue lent him, with many dolefull
and (in affection) lamentable groanes and complaints, he tooke his leave of
his onely and best beloved, then of me; to whom he committed the care of
her, and his body, then kissing her departed. But what shall I say of her?
imagine, great Prince, and all this brave company, what she did; You will
say, she wept, tore her haire, rent her clothes, cri’d, sobd, groand; No,
she did not thus, she onely imbraced him, kissed him, and with as deadly a
palenesse, as death could with most cunning counterfeit, and not execute,
She entreated me to conduct her to the next Religious house, where shee
would remaine till she might follow him. I admird her patience, but since
more wonder’d at her worth. O women, how excellent are you, when you
take the right way? else, I must confesse, you are the children of men, and
like them fault-full. The body we tooke with the helpe of a Litter which
passed by (having before convayd a hurt Knight to the same Monastery
next to that place) and in that we convayd it thither, where we buried him,
and almost drownd him in our teares. Thinking then to have remov’d, she
fell ill, not sicke in body, but dead in heart, which appear’d; for within
two dayes she dyed, leaving this world, to meet, and once more joy in him,
who more then a world, or ten thousand worlds she loved, and still desired;
which made her choose death being her then greater joy, burying
them together a little without the house (the order of that place not permitting
them to be layd within it.) After this sad (but honest) performance
of my word, I went on in my Journey, meeting within few dayes after, a
Page belonging to my dead friend, who with his Masters Armour followed him F3r 37
him, love and obedience bringing it into his mind. The armor was good, being
that which I now weare, mine owne hackt and cut in many places. With
much sorrow the youth receiv’d the wofull tidings of his Master, then obtained
I so much, as to have those armes, which with violēent sorrow he consented
to, helping me to arme my selfe in them, though so, as had I been any but
his dead Lords friend, he sooner and more willingly would have wound into
his funerall shirt. He tooke my armour, and laid it together under a tree
which grew in the mid’st of a faire and pleasant plaine: then (although against
my will) he kist my hands, and with as much true-felt sorrow as could
lodge in so young yeares, tooke his leave of me; only beseeching me, when
I remembred my unfortunate friends, I would also with some pity thinke on
his misery: this was my adventure. And then past I by sea, till on a rock I suffered
shipwrack, being taken up by this famous Pirat whom you so valiantly
have slaine, being I assure you, none of your least victories, he having had as
much strength and skill, as in any one man need remaine: but knowing me,
and some power I have with the king of Cecile, my deere and worthy friend
Perissus his Uncle, whose excellent company I gain’d in Achaya, he then being
there, and with whom I travelled many moneths, almost yeares, till I began
this search: this man, on condition I would mediate for him to the King,
or his Nephew, let me goe at libertie, and arm’d in his ship, till such time as
we fortun’d to land; alwaies concluded, that while I was with him, I should
defend him with my best meanes. This made me resist you till heaven told
me my error, which I repent, and heartily aske pardon for: and this sure was
the reason that my Page imagined my death, if hee found (as by all likelihood
he did) my armes.”

Then did Parselius againe imbrace Leandras: turning to the Squire of Amphilantus
he demanded what he knew of his Master. “Truly” (replide he) “nothing
but the joy I conceive to heare by this gentle Knight that he is living:
I parted from him in a great storme, having been in Germany sent thither with
an army from the Pope to assist the Emperour against the Duke of Saxony,
who was slaine by his hand, and for this act was by the Emperour and the other
Princes made King of the Romans, having protected the Empire against
such an enemy; since till now never having heard newes of him: but he ment
to seeke still for you, and therefore left Germany, and in the Mediterran sea,
my selfe, ship, and all my Lords treasure was taken by this Pirat, whom your
valour hath destroyed.”
Thus with prosperous wind and infinite joy for Amphilanthus
his new title and honour, they sailed towards Italy, hoping to land
not farre from the Towne where the king of Naples at that time kept his
Court, which was at that great Citie: but being within the sight of the shore
because it then was evening they resolv’d not to land till the next morning,
and so take the day before them. This thought the best (like mens counsells)
proov’d the worst; for in the night rose a terrible and fearefull storme, being
so violent, as it tooke not away rest only, but knowledge from the Pilot, being
onely able within some howers to assure them, that they were far distant
from Italy. The tempest continued in as great (if not greater) furie, nor any
more comfort had they, save that now they enjoyed light, and yet could that
light scarce be counted day, being but as day-breake before the Sun-rising; so
as it was but as to distinguish the time of day from night, or as if it were to F3 hold F3v 38
hold a candle to them, the more to see their danger, so thicke, cloudy, and uncomfortable,
as they could discerne nothing, but what was nearest them,
which was perill. Cunning now prevail’d not, for the most skilfull confessed,
that now he was artlesse, heavenly powers working above the knowledge of
earthly creatures, which way they were by force carried, was utterly unknown
to them; sailes, tackling were gone; the mast, either by force, or hope
of safety cast over-board; thunder, lightning, wind, raine, they wanted not;
none being able to expresse the desperatenes of this storme, but by saying, it
was the picture of the last day for violence, but like the world for strangenes
and uncertainty. Thus they continued in the day (having only the shadow of
a day) and in the night feareful flames, which yet they thankt, because by thēem
they could discerne themselves. When heaven did think this storme had lasted
long enough crosse to those, though crost, yet still most loving lovers, it
commanded the seas to be at quiet, which being perform’d, the Pilot againe
began to use his skil, which first had meanes to let him know, that so farre they
were from the place resolv’d on, as in stead of the coast of Italy, they were
within sight of the Iland of Ciprus: this not onely amazed them, but much
troubled them, considering the barbarousnes of the people who there inhabited,
and their extremity such, as of necessity they must land to replenish their
wants, caused by the rigor of the tempest: yet were they come to such a part
of the country, as there was no harbor or port to ride or land at; wherfore they
were forst to coast the country; night again like an evil spirit possessing them,
almost all tired and weary with the length and violence of the storme.
Some were laid down to see if rest would possesse them: others falne asleep,
none enduring it like the excellent Urania, which brought comfort (though
in sorrow) to the loving and noble Parselius, never shewing feare or trouble:
incouraging all. And yet she did feare, but seeing his, she dissembled hers, in
care of not further harming him, She, I say, when all were gone to rest, stood
as Sentinel, but by her owne appointment, love cōommanding her soule to take
no advantage of restfull houres; which she obediently did, sleep never but by
loves liberty possessing her eies: which freedome her passion had not yet allowed
her, but molesting her patient sweetnes caused her to walke up and
downe in the maze of her trouble. The Moone (though coldly) smiling on
her, and her love, she perceived a great fire, whereupon she called the company,
demanding what their opinions were of it; they could not give her a direct
answer, till being come somewhat neerer, they perceived it was a Ship
was falne a fire in the midst of the Sea, and right against it a very good Harbour.
Pitty, and noble compassion straight moved in them, so as they haled
to the burning Barke, to know if there were any by ill fortune in her, and if so,
to succour them, but hearing no answer, they concluded shee was empty:
wherfore passing on they landed in the Island, which no sooner was done, but
their former wonder was encreased, by the sudden falling a fire of their own
Ship, which had but deliverd her self of thēem, and then as a Martyr suffer’d for
the paine they had in her endur’d. But this past, admiration brought new sorrow
to them, considering they were in a strange Country, among barbarous
people, depriv’d of all hope to get thence any more, but there to continue at
the mercy of unchristened creatures. Parselius wished, but stil found himselfe
further from succour of any but his fruitles wishes: all his tormenting griefe being F4r 39
being for Urania. Urania did as he did, justly requiting his paine, for all hers
was for him. All lamented and pittied Urania, and the dainty Selarina, who
mildly, yet with a more Woman-like manner suffered these afflictions, loving
and pittying Urania, being an obligation they were all in their hearts,
as they found, bound unto. Leandrus sorrowed for her, and bewail’d the
two young Princes, whose Father had lost his Kingdome, for his love to his
Father, which stirred in him a commiserate passion. Thus, all for others
grieved, pittie extended so, as all were carefull, but of themselves most carelesse:
yet their mutuall care, made them all cared for. Parselius with a
brave courage, at last advised them to goe on, yet left it to their owne
mindes, fearing to perswade, least harme might after follow, grieve, feare,
perswade they did and all distractedly, so much they feared, and most was
for Urania: so much can worth, sweetnesse, and Beautie worke in noble
mindes. His advise was to goe on, and this was allowed, for what could hee
propound that Urania liked not of? And if she consented, what spirit could
deny? Thus, on they went (but as in a Labyrinth without a thrid) till they
came within sight of a rare and admirable Pallace.

It was scituated on a Hill, but that Hill formed, as if the world would
needs raise one place of purpose to build Loves throne upon; all the Country
besides humbly plaine, to shew the subjection to that powerfull dwelling.
The Hill whereon this Pallace stood was just as big as to hold the
House: three sides of the Hill made into delicate Gardens and Orchards:
the further side was a fine and stately Wood. This sumptuous House was
square, set all upon Pillars of blacke Marble, the ground paved with the
same. Every one of those pillars, presenting the lively Image (as perfectly
as carving could demonstrat, of brave, and mighty men, and sweet and delicate
Ladies, such as had been conquer’d by loves power: but placed there,
as still to mainetaine, and uphold the honour, and House of Love. Comming
towards it, they imagined it some Magicall work, for so daintily it appear’d
in curiositie, as it seem’d as if it hung in the ayre, the Trees, Fountains,
and all sweet delicacies being discerned through it. The upper Story had
the Gods most fairely and richly appearing in their thrones: their proportions
such as their powers, and quallities are described. As Mars in Armes,
weapons of Warre about him, Trophies of his Victories, and many demonstrations
of his Warre-like God-head. Apollo with Musicke, Mercurie,
Saturne, and the rest in their kind. At the foote of this Hill ranne a pleasant
and sweetly passing river, over which was a Bridge, on which were three
Towres: Upon the first was the Image of Cupid, curiously carv’d with his
Bow bent, and Quiver at his backe, but with his right hand pointing to the
next Towre; on which was a statue of white Marble, representing Venus,
but so richly adorn’d, as it might for rarenesse, and exquisitenesse have beene
taken for the Goddesse her selfe, and have causd as strange an affection as the
Image did to her maker, when he fell in love with his owne worke. Shee
was crownd with Mirtle, and Pansies, in her left hand holding a flaming
Heart, her right, directing to the third Towre, before which, in all dainty
riches, and rich delicacy, was the figure of Constancy, holding in her hand
the Keyes of the Pallace: which shewed, that place was not to be open to
all, but to few possessed with that vertue. They F4v 40

They all beheld this place with great wonder, Parselius resolving it was
some Enchauntment; wherefore was the nicer how they proceeded in the
entring of it: while they were thus in question, there came an aged Man,
with so good a countenance and grave aspect, as it strucke reverence into
them, to be shewed to him, by them. He saluted them thus: “Faire company,
your beholding this place with so much curiosity, and besides your habits
makes me know you are strangers, therefore fit to let you understand the
truth of this brave Building, which is dedicated to Love. Venus (whose
Priest I am) thinking her self in these latter times, not so much, or much lesse
honour’d then in ages past, hath built this, calling it ‘the throne of Love’. Here
is She dayly serv’d, by my selfe, and others of my profession, and heere is
the triall of false or faithfull Lovers.”

“Those that are false, may enter this Towre, which is Cupids Towre,
or the Towre of Desire: but therein once inclosed, they endure torments
fit for such a fault. Into the second any Lover may enter, which is the
Towre of Love: but there they suffer unexpressable tortures, in severall
kindes as their affections are most incident to; as Jelousie, Despaire, Feare,
Hope, Longings, and such like. The third which is guarded by Constancy,
can bee entred by none, till the valiantest Knight, with the loyallest Lady
come together, and open that gate, when all these Charmes shal have conclusion.
Till then, all that venture into these Towres, remaine prisoners; this
is the truth. Now if your hearts will serve you adventure it.”

They thanked the old man for his relation, but told him they had some
Vowes to performe first: which ended, they would adventure for imprisonment
in so rare a prison. The old Priest left them, and they weary, laid
them downe neere the Towre of Desire, refreshing themselves with some
little meate, which Uranias mayde had in her Scrip: but wanting drinke,
they all went to the River, whereof they had but drunke, when in them severall
Passions did instantly abound.

Parselius forgot all, but his promise to the dead King of Albania, for the
setling his Sonnes in that Kingdome. Leandrus afflicted with the losse of Antissia,
must straight into Morea to finde her, and take her from Amphilanthus;
Steriamus and Selarinus would not be refused the honour of Knight-hood,
Mars having so possessed them with his warlike disposition, as worlds to
their imaginations were too little to conquer, therefore Albania was already
wonne. Urania, whose heart before was onely fed by the sweet lookes, and
pleasing conversation of Parselius, loves him now so much, as she imagines,
she must try the adventure, to let him see her loyalty is such, as for his love,
and by it she would end the Inchantment. Selarina, thought she saw within
the Gardens, a young Prince with a Crowne upon his head, who beckned
to her, wherefore she would goe at such a call. Urania’s maide beheld as she
beleev’d Allimarlus in the second Towre, kissing and embracing a Blackmoore:
which so farre inraged her, being passionatly in love with him, as
she must goe to revenge her selfe of that injurie. These distractions carried
them all, as their passions guided them. Parselius having knighted the two
Princes, tooke their way to the next Port: Urania now not seene or thought
on. Leandrus hasting another way, to finde meanes for his Journey. Selarina
to the Towre, and knockt with that fervent desire to accomplish her ende as the G1r 41
the gate opened; all the three rush’d in, striving who should be first. But Selarina
was then soone made to know shee should not contend with Urania,
wherefore she was lockt into the first tower, burning with desire to come
to that sweete Prince, which still she sees before her: hee calling, shee
with uncessant desire striving to goe to him. Urania went on, when entring
the second tower, guarded by Venus, she was therein inclosed, when as thus
much sense came to her, as to know she had left Parselius, which strak her into
a mourning passion, confessing that, an unpardonable fault, and what he in justice
could not excuse. Then despaire possest her so, as there she remaind, loving
in despaire, and despairing mourn’d. The shepherdesse her servant continuing
her first passion got into that Tower too, where she stil saw her affliction,
striving with as much spitefull jealousie, as that fury could vex her withall,
to come at the Moore to pull her from her knight. Thus were the women
for their punishment, left prisoners in the throne of Love. which Throne and
punishments are daily built in all humane hearts. But how did the honest Allimarlus
carry himselfe in all these changes? Alas, with much griefe and sorrow
for this misfortune, he not having drank, being the onely sensible man
left; wherefore fearing more the harme of Parselius and his companions then
the Ladies, who were (without question) safe, though farre from being free,
he followed them, lest harme might from those furious humors grow. They
made such haste, as no rest could invite their stay, till they were tired with
their owne minds travell, and then all three lying downe in one anothers
armes, they yeelded unto sleepe. In which, new torments vexed them: for
then did they come a little to themselves (or a little more from themselves
in another kind) and as men long held in a trance, awaked. Parselius weeping
for Urania’s unkindnesse, who had (as hee dreamed) forsaken him,
and left him sleeping, while shee went with another. The two Princes bewailing
the death of their Sister, who they imagined taken violently from
them, and sacrificed to Venus.

Thus they againe fall into strange and new distractions, which griev’d
the young Knights verie soule to see, but having no hope of seeing them
restored, while they continued in that Iland: soothing them up in their
owne opinions, knowing it dangerous and idle to crosse mad men, with gentle
perswasions gain’d Parselius to goe with him, when hee promis’d to bring
him where Urania with her new friend did abide, and then he might recover
her, and kill his enemie. The other hee likewise gaind, promising they
should have the meanes to kill their adversaries likewise.

Thus he got them thence: travelling in this sort, till they came to the
sea side where they found a small Barke, and in her two persons, an old
man, and a little Boy being Fishers: and having taken some, had then
newly put a shore to dresse, and so to satisfie their hungers with their
gaine. The Romanian Knight saluted the old man, intreating, that that
companie might goe into his boate, and time it was to prevent the comming
harme, for then were they ready to runne into the sea; but by
force they got them into the Barke, where no sooner they were, having
freed themselves from the land (which was the nature of those charmes), but
their good spirits againe possess’d them. Then did Parselius bewaile Urania,
crie out of his miserable fortune in having lost her, beseech every one
to pitie with him so great a mischiefe. The knight wept to see these G changes G1v 42
changes, but then mildly told him all that had happened. Griev’d Parselius
did remaine; but considering heavenly powers had caused this, he the
more quietly endur’d it, yet not without a bleeding hart, and often showring
eies: “O Urania” (would hee cry), “how justly maist thou hate me, for leaving
thee? Damn’d country, can it be that thou wert ordain’d for love to have a
Throne in, and yet to be the hel of lovers?”
Much more he cri’d, and sorrowed
out, while the old man had gain’d the knowledge of this adventure from
Allimarlus, who was by him knowne, so as beseeching Parselius to lay by his
mourning, “or at least to give eare to this story”, said hee, “which will encrease
compassion, and passion in you”
; with that the grave old man began thus. “Lamentation
(brave Princes) is that which I must treat of; but first I must tell
you, as one of the parts of this story; I am called Selencius, brother I am to the
king of Romania, Lord to this young knight: and thus from me (the most unfortunate
of Princes) heare the wofull’st and most disastrous history, that ever
Princely eares gave attention to. I was brother, and somtime heire to this unhappy
king, being thought lost: but after found in such an adventure of enchantment
as this seemes to be. Return’d, married, and was blest with two
children, of whom I am sure this Gentleman hath already discoursed unto
you, wherefore that part I wil leave, and come to the last. My Nephew Antissius
being come from the fruitles search of his sister Antissia, my brother
would needs marry him to a Lady in the country, which he (although never
having bin in love) might have questioned; yet he ever loved to obay his father,
and so they were married. O Antissius, worthy Antissius”
: with that the
teares ran downe his long white beard, resembling drops in snow, stopping
his breath, that scarce the last word could bee heard. In this time did all the
Princes joyne, concluding it with sobs, and groanes, every one having equall
feeling of sorrow, though for several things. At last he cry’d out these words:
“Pardon great Prince this sad interruption in my story, which I am forst to do,
heart-rending sorrow making me ever doe so, when I think of (much more
shame) my deerest Nephew, and his unfortunate losse; being such a wound to
that country, as none can imagine but our selves, who daily feele the misery.
He being married by his fathers commāand, who longed to see some fruit from
so worthy a stock, his obedience having mastred his affection, which rather
was to follow Armes, then fall into the armes of Love: he worthily lov’d his
wife, and lovingly liv’d with her; within that yeare being blest with a Son,
whom after his father they called Antissius: with this joy’d-at birth began the
ruin of all (yet not because of his birth, for in him we have yet our last hope)
but by reason that the Grandmother liv’d but to kisse her babe; after whose
death the king again maried, and her, whose wickednes I am sure hath come
unto your eares. This malitious creature, after she had caused Antissius to bee
banisht, and most honest men to lose their lives, or places, she yet not satisfied
with such sins, as never the earth sufferd in one body the waight of more
treason, adultery, witchcraft and murder, were plentifully in her, yet while
he liv’d she was not contented. Wherefore to bring this to passe, was now her
only study. In this time some one or two honest hearts were left, who gave
the king warning of her, ventring their heads to save his body from harme:
her immoderate desires so much knowne, as they cried out against her; shee
being a Queene salved not, nor covered her sin, which in her greatnes appeared
the greater fault; a spot being more markt in a Diamond, then in an ordinarynarie G2r 43
piece of glasse. Long time it was ere his honest and unspotted love would
believe it, or hearken to it, while shee delighted her selfe in her owne shame,
and his dishonor. At last (though extreame loath) he seem’d to see it, slaking
his violent love to her, & oft refraining her bed, made her discerne it, though
delighting her self so much with others, had somewhat blinded her from seeing,
what but for policy, she cared little for. But then did shee never leave the
poore man with her flatterings and dissembling falshoods, till she had gaind
the canuse and ground of his most just offence, and deserved mistrust, and unusuall
strangenes, which at last (undone by her bewitching fawnings) she gained.
Then had she enough, vowing to be revenged on al, and under this colour
to execute her malice, and purge her spleene upon the famous Prince his son;
which by her cruell practises, she at last unfortunately brought to passe. For
first (by meanes as she pretended that she was slandred) she got her good honest
husband to banish any, who had in the least, spoken of her lightnes; putting
into that number those whom she hated, having suffred (as she alleagd)
as much by their slanderous reports, as almost if it had been a truth shee had
merited, wishing she had still continued widow, rather then to come to this
height of honour; and having it, to fall so low as into the shame of dishonor:
beseeching him throughly to revenge her, or to permit her to retire to the
most lonely and private life, rather then there openly to sinke under shame
and infamie: or if she could be found faulty, then to cut off her head, farre unfit
to live wife to so vertuous and good a king. To satisfie her, whose dissemblings
were of force to bring new heate into his aged heart, which like old
wood will presently kindle, he strooke off the heade of those loyall servants,
who had honestly (though undiscreetly) told him of her sinne, men, not loving
that discourse of any. This done, he came to receive thanks: but she telling
him this was nothing, and unlesse hee would doe more to right her, so
shamefully wrongd, she would go away, and execute some mischiefe on her
selfe; her spirit and conscience not being able to sustaine themselves induring
such abuse: and then (if ever he lov’d her) he would be sorry, he had wrongd
so true and faithfully loving a wife, while he did credit pickthanking Counsellors.
He seeing this passion in his deere wife, vowed revengefull justice on
all she could accuse. Upon this vow, and some other assurance which was
given by execution, her holy Majesty seem’d somewhat satisfied, and then
contented (as it were) to live, having new life given in her justice, and faithtrying
honour. She came abroad, but oft-times blushing; modesty was the
colour put upon it, when indeed it was affection to a young Lord in the
Court: who after shee found she could not win with all inticements and
love-showes, shee accused him for seeking her, and so with many more
lost his head. Now was Antissius and his vertuous wife confind to a Castle,
some twenty miles from the Court, he being accused of popularity, and
aspiring to the Crowne. This was the power of that insatiable Monster, as
shee could, and would banish from him his best, and onely true comforts.
My Nephewes misfortune increasing, and his hate to live, growing
every day stronger in him, he gaind for all this the Queenes leave to goe,
and live with me. She willing to it, hoping his former ill usage would provoke
him to that hee might die for, else shee would finde a meanes to compasse
it. But few plots needed, this being the beginning, and his soone G2 following G2v 44
following overthrow; for the people finding her government absolute, and
that being bent to the ruin of the land, followed the vertuous Prince in great
numbers, and at al times, which he as much as in him lay, did put off & avoid:
yet not so, but that the Queene wrought cunningly enough upon it, to mixe
jealousie with the fathers love to his sonne, shee never ceasing to wish the
subjects love as great and firme to his Majestie, as shee, and all others saw
their hearts were placed upon his worthy sonne, which though he for his affection
to him, did not yet make use of, ‘yet it is a fine thing’, said she, ‘to bee a
king, and a terrible matter to be tempted: were you not safely blessed with so
honest a son. And therefore you must trust more to the loyaltie of Antissius,
then the faith of his people, who, he might perceive, regarded nothing lesse
then their due respect to him. Sparingly she spake well of him, but freely to
make suspition. Thus now was he falne into the path, which led to the court
of her malice: for buzing these things in his old, and fearefull eares, shee at
last brought to this fulnesse of ill. One day as she had appointed (being privately
with the King in a Gallery) two of the Counsell came in, in hast, yet
a dissembling feare in their faces, counterfeiting need, but doubt and unwillingnesse
to discover what mov’d in them this sudden approch. The King
urg’d them, when with teares they told him, that they had gaind knowledge
of a dangerous conspiracy, which was plotted, & to be instantly executed upon
the persons of his Majesty, and his most royal Queen, by Antissius and my
self, the treason being this: to depose him, kil the Queen, banish the Counsell
I make himselfe Monarch of Romania, dispose the offices, already disposed of,
among his favourites, and the whole realme, as he best liked to his followers,
and associats, and in this kind make a conquest of it.’
‘Then alas sir’ (said they),
‘what will become of poore Romania, when your vertue and wisdome shall be
put by, their government, and his greene capacity, and those young wild headed
Counsellors shall rule over us, who were fitter at schoole to learne obedience
and loyalty, then to sway a Scepter, besides the wrong and sin, of taking
the lawfull Prince from among his people.’
This related and seconded by
the Queen, who stil in a double maner clear’d, & condemn’d poore Antissius,
whose just and vertuous heart never thought of such a treason, nor of her (if
not with sorrow for her wickednes). It wrought so far in the jealous brest of
the old man, as he manifested his crediting it, and with all the feare hee conceiv’d
of it, expressing as much hate to his son, as such a wicked practise might
justly challenge. Then hastily (as feare is alwaies sudden) he demaunded advice,
with the best and readiest way to avoide the danger. They yet having
gone but halfe way of their divelish progresse, replied: That since it pleased
him to have such confidence in them, as to aske their advice in so great a
busines, they would as honestly discharge themselves, and this they held the
safest, and the best course; which was, that the Prince (who they must still
love and reverence, and whose fault cut their hearts to thinke of) should be
sent for, but in such a manner, as he should have no cause to distrust, lest then he
went about to gaine by force, what they before had been inform’d, he hoped
to compasse by a private conspiracie. This advice, and the plot it selfe, he imparted
to some more of the Counsell, who already were sufficiently instructed
in their parts, and so accordingly agreed; consenting, nay commending
the grave, carefull, and honest advice of the other two. Then was a messenger G3r 45
Messenger straight dispatched to the Prince, (who like a brave, but innocent
Hart came into the toile) with order to come himselfe, his wife, and Sonne
unto the King, whose age, and weaknesse being great, and his affection only
left strong in him, towards him, and his, would have them neerer to him,
and for that he would recompēence him, for the injuries in former times done
to him: I was not at home, for had I bin, the journey surely had bin hindred,
while Antissius doubting no treason, his noble heart being free from thinking
any, in haste (hoping that way to expresse the joy hee felt by these unexpected
glad tidings) posted to the Court, leaving word, that I (who was to returne
in a very short time after) should with all convenient speed accompany
his wife, and sonne to the King. Few daies he had rid, before he was encountred
with a troope of horse, under the commaund of an ancient friend of
his, and a friend indeed he was in this action, being betrayd as well as he, sent
under colour of love to the Prince, who since hee had (or at least it being
thought hee had) so much dislik’d his father, as hee had forbid him his once
heeld-deerest sight, and that the people had taken notice of it in a dangerous
kind: to prevent any bold or hazardus attempt might happen by a rude multitude,
the Queene had sent this troupe to guard him, and that she knowing
the love this Gentleman bare Antissius, had made choice of him to conduct
his person thither. Antissius was somewhat troubled with this accident, wondring
why she should be on the sudden so kind, knowing that there was none
whose ruin she and her godly crew more shot at: yet could not he (who saw
only with the eies of vertue) pierce into this plot. Mildly and gratiously hee
saluted the Captaine and his men, yet telling them, his innocency had been
guard enough for his person.”

“They went on, but when they were within sight of the great Citie of
Constantinople (the Court then being there) they perceived a farre greater
number of Souldiers, with which sight hee saw his end, and soone heard
the sentence of his death: for then did they set upon him, crying, ‘Downe
with that Traytor, that disobedient child, the incurable griefe of his loving
father, the dishonour of our Countrie, and the Canker of the States
flawed-reproductionone word.’
With these cries they rushed violently upon the Prince. The first
troope seeing this Treason, did their best to defend Antissius; but their
lives could not buy his safetie, in vaine striving to alter destiny: the period
of his dayes being come with a blow given him by a trayterous villaine,
which strake his head in two. Griefe of this accident turn’d to fury, his
party fighting as if Antissius had beene in every one, and so to bee defended;
but that was past, their loves onely living to him. Yet dyed it too,
for none were left of the whole Troope, but the Captaine, and some tenne
more. The Queenes men having gain’d almost what they sought, fully to
give her satisfaction in his death; yet wanted part, since they could not get
his bodie, to be made a present to her cruelty. For the Captaine perceiving
their drift, hinder’d them of it, taking him up when he saw the unluky blow
given, and in the heate of the fiight fled away with it, knowing this a better
piece of service, then to have lost his life in revenge at that time: since
to better purpose he might save it in serving his Sonne, to have a just, and
fit requitall for such a wickednesse, on those shamefull murderers. They
came with this body (of the most beloved Prince, while he lived, and the G3 most G3v 4246
most pittied and honourd after death) to my house. Just as I return’d, did
I encounter this sad and disastrous adventure; In stead of a brave, couragious,
and (with it) pleasing presence, I met his bloudlesse, pale, and martyr’d
body. There I saw the hope of our Country, and comfort of mine
age, chang’d againe into our first being: So much it afflicted mee, as I
stood amazed with griefe, speechlesse, and senselesse of sense, but sorrow:
till sorrow being pleasd to make me have more feeling of her power, gave
me leave to let these words come from me. ‘O Antissius, hath life beene
lent me to see this day! Miserable man, miserable Countrey, wretched age,
wherein such cruelty doth raigne; O Antissius!’
but then by their honest
good perswasions (telling me the necessity, and ensuing dangers, if not prevented,
that the rest living might fall into) I strove to endure this calamity
with as much patience, as so miserable a man could let sinke into him, and indeed
for this young youthes sake, who is the young Antissius, heire to these
miseries, and the overthrowne estate of Romania. But then followed a second
cause of griefe; For his vertuous wife came to us, who hearing such
lowd cries, and distracted noyses, left her Chamber, following the cries till
they brought her to that most lamentable spectacle. When she saw the cause
of their wailing, she put them aside, going to the body, and kneeling downe
by it, used these words; ‘My deare, was it for this, that unnaturall Father, and
monster of women, sent for thee? That no sooner thou shouldest see thy Fathers
house, but with it thou must see thy house of death? Alas, wert thou too
good, too hopefull, too full of all vertues to live among us, who can now but
assist thee with our teares? But long shall not this worldly sorrow triumph
over me in thy losse, for I must, and will be with thee’
; with that kissing the
pale lips of her dearest love, and as it were breathing her (though not last, but
fortelling) last breath into him, she rose, and rising, a little seemed to smile,
joy within her (for assured going to him) having caused that Countenauce,
which by some was disliked, not being, to their weake apprehensions, sad enough,
for such a cause of woe. As soone as she had left the body, she came
to me, earnestly entreating me, that I would suffer none to trouble her, shee
having some private devotions to performe, which being ended, I should
be welcome to her. For my part, I so little mistrusted her intent, or imagined
a Woman had so strong a spirit, as to dye when shee would, granted
what she asked, being confident, her goodnesse would keepe her from doing
any violence on her selfe. Having left me, she went to the roome where
her young Sonne lay, and then fast sleeping, when as weeping over him (as
the Maides since tolde me) ‘well maist thou sleepe, deare heart’, said she, ‘for
long, I feare thy quiet will not last; thy being Sonne to so worthy a Father,
and unfortunate a Mother, must cast some stormes on thee, it being fault enough
in thee to have such Parents: at least, thy wicked Grandmother will
thinke so, who hating truth will make thee suffer for thy Fathers sake.
Sleepe then quietly, my sweet, and lost Antissius, nor now looke up
to see thy woefull Mother, or to take her last farewell: but thus receive
her blessing, which as the blessing of her owne soule, shee wishes
may come, and stay upon thee, God sending thee a more happie
life then thy valiant Father had: let his guifts of vertue, courage, and
magnanimity live in thee, and his misfortunes take their grave in mee; Alas G4r 47
Alas, Antissius, my onely sweet Babe, I must leave thee’
, then againe kissing
him, shee said. ‘This is the difference in affection, twixt a Husband and a
Childe, otherwise no feare of misfortune should carry me from thee, but
my sweetest I must goe, leaving Antissius, to flie to Antissius. And good maids’
,
said she, ‘have a kind, and just care of this young Prince, he may live to requite
your paines, and revenge the wrongs done to his distressed Parents.’

They vowed all faith and dutifull service to him; then againe, as loath it
must be the last, she kissed him, and so went to her Chamber: yet at the dore,
turning backe, affectionatly, and with watry eyes, cast her last, and kindest
fare-well looke on him. When she came into her Chamber, Shee lockt the
dore, not suffering any to stay or come to her: where she continued till (I
thinking her stay long, besides, having businesse with her concerning the
dead Prince) I went to her Lodgings, where long I knocked, and indeed,
so long as it vexed me: but after feare possessed mee, when I considered
what the danger might be, and her freedome, and liberty, such as none had
ever received that dishonor, of being barr’d her presence. Wherefore I
sent for some of my Servants, who by my command brake open the dore.
Entring the roome, We found her laid upon her bed, newely dead, yet her
own accustomed sweetnesse in her, lying as straight, and unmov’d, as if
death had onely then showne, he could in his panges be milde, yet receive
his gaine: so as well it may be said, he depriv’d her of her life, yet left her
owne beauty and grace to triumph over his fury. By the bed side stood a Table
cover’d with a Carpet of Crimson Velvet, and on the board a Letter,
which I tooke up, and seeing it directed to me, I read it, and here (brave
Princes) you may see the very same, my dearest Neece left to me, which
never will I part with, till time give end unto my dayes, or life to accomplish
her desires. The Letter was this.
‘Since it hath pleased God for the overthrow of this Land, and griefe of all
good hearts, (among which you, and I, hold the neerest places in sorrow)
to cut this thread of admiration in sunder, and leave the heavy burden of lamentation
upon us, taking away our joy, our comfort, our onely Hope Antissius,
I feele my selfe altogether unable to sustaine so great, and killing a
losse, then let me crave this of you (which the assurance of your love to your
dead Nephew, and dying Neece, imboldeneth me to aske) that you will
grant these three things, and see them accomplished: Let the love you bare
to your dead Nephew continue and live in the same strength to your living
Nephew. Let nothing hinder you from seeking a deadly revenge on his Murderers.
Lastly, let me be here privately buried with him. Let these requests be
welcome to you my dearest Uncle, and not deny the dying Lucenia.’”

“No Stranger I thinke would have denied so just requests, proceeding from
a Lady of her worth, and being dying; what then wrought in me, who
wanted not love, or resolution of revenge? One of her desires I instantly
performed, for I buried her with her bhusband, and then upon the Tombe, my
selfe, the Captaine, and the Servants to the lost Antissius, tooke a solemne
oath to have revenge: but by the bravest Princes, whose worths must
needs abhorre so detestable practises; other meanes, though they diserv’d the G4v 48
the worst, and basest, honest and noble hearts did detest them. This done,
we parted every one a severall way, and to a severall King, to make our misery
more manifest; out of Justice demanding their ayde, to pull downe
wickednesse, and againe settle worth in Romania, my selfe remaining one
whole yeare after, nere the Hellispont disguised, and almost begging my lyving,
with this my last hope. Still they sought us while wee were among
them, but then perceiving the continuall hazard, and ablenesse in this latter
Antissius to travell; We left Greece, my selfe alone going with him: But
how this was discover’d, or that this young man must inherite his Fathers
misfortunes, we hardly did escape taking. Upon the missing of us, Ambassadours
were sent in all haste to all the neere Princes, to whom with much
falsehood, their false fault was covered with as foule a vaile, working so farre
as beliefe, or feare of warre made shew of, so much as prevented the succour
we had hoped for. Finding this, we tooke this Boate, coasting (not daring
to stay any where) till we could be secure, Many places we have seene, but
found none to rescue misfortune: not caring whither we went, so we were
freed from her malicious power. Hither Fate hath brought us, and here we
have found, and serv’d some Noblemen, and good Princes, who have promis’d
their helpe: so as, if you (brave Prince) Parselius, and these with you
will likewise assist us, I feare not, but assure my selfe of our hoped-for comfort.
Thus if pitty dwell in you, you will pitty us, and this Allimarlus is your
Lord, and Prince.”
Parselius then embraced him, so did Steriamus and Selarinus:
all promising (their former vowes, and businesse ended) they would
attend and rescue them, in the meane time, they would advise them to leave
that shore, for feare of danger, considering the Charmes, which yet to any
but such as adventured the Towres, or unfortunatly dranke of the River
were nothing: yet that scarce knowne, made cause of doubt. So they resolv’d
and betooke themselves to the Sea, when they saw floating upon the
water, a man past sense or power to helpe himselfe, being now subject to the
Sea, and the disposition shee might bee in to destroy him, or succour him.
Parselius in Charitie willed them to goe towards him, the Tyde bringing
him a pace (as in love of him) that way. Being neare, hee perceived the
man to be his deare Friend Leandrus, who (in the same fury they had before
falne into, but wanting such helpe as they had) ran into the Sea, missing
a Boate to convay him, but not fury to cast away himselfe, crying out
he would have Antissia in spite of the valiantest blacke Knight. But quickly
was he cool’d with losse of strength, to save himselfe from losse, senses
were come to him, but alas, too soone to lose them againe, and life with
them, if this happy adventure had not come unto him. For then cry’d out
Parselius, “O take up that worthy body, save that noble person from such losse”;
with this they made to him, taking him up, and after much care, getting life
againe, to put it selfe into the Cage of the body, when knowing his friends,
but forgetting all things else, they embraced, as soules would (if not by a
greater joy hinder’d) rejoyce in the other world, for encountring their
best friends. On they rowed, sometimes Parselius and the other Princes
ayding the old man; taking their turnes till they discover’d a Morean Ship, to
which they haled. She comming, and her rulers knowing their Prince, with
all joy and dutie receiv’d him, and his company into her. Then securely they sayl’d H1r 49
sayled towards Greece where being landed in Morea, they determined,
that since instant ayde could not be given them, they should there in a strong
Castle remayne, not Prisoners, but Commanders of that place, being an impregnable
Fort, and in such a place, as none could land without their favour;
so might they use the opportunitie of place, and time. The Romanian Knight,
after this place was by the Prince deliver’d to Seleucius and his Nephew Antissius
(in the same ship had thither brought them) tooke againe to the Sea,
intending to goe into Romania, and so hired them for Constantinople. But
soone were they alter’d: for meeting another ship which desir’d to know
something (the cause of that ships journey being for discoverie) hee found
in her the ancient servant, and the same faithfull Captaine who had so loyally
serv’d the first Antissius. Finding him (and by him, that the Prince was to be
found) he with him returned to the Castle: where being receiv’d, and ready
to make his discourse, I will leave him, and goe againe to Parselius, who tooke
the directest way to the Court, which was then kept in Arcadia, being a time
the King had in pleasure made a journey that way, to delight himselfe in
that most delightfull Countrey. Being there arriv’d, no joy could be compar’d
to the Kings and Queenes, seeing their deerest Sonne return’d: but
little joy felt he, Urania being lost, which onely to Pamphilia he discover’d,
who out of a deere and sisterly affection, the like bewayled absence. Sports
and pleasures were every day offer’d, while he still knew of none, being in
them as in another World; onely wherein his owne person was required,
there his valour failed not, though his Soule which govern’d that, was otherwhere.
Some dayes this lasted: but Parselius, whose love still urg’d him,
could have no rest, colouring his paine with the losse of his friend and cousin,
which indeed was the cause, but in the feminine gender. The King was the
lesse displeas’d, because it was on so worthy a subject; yet he was sorry, being
the lovingest of Fathers, that his deerest sonne should be displeas’d, and
most troubled, when hee saw hee would not stay, but againe goe seeke his
friend. Yet before his depart, he gayn’d the promise of his Father, to rayse
men to assist Steriamus in his journey, to conquer his right: which was granted
both for that just Cause, and likewise, because the faire young Princesse
Mariana, Queene of Macedon, by right should be unto her right restor’d.
Thus departed Parselius, leaving Steriamus and his Brother to attend their
businesse, and see the men rays’d, himselfe promising within fit time to take
their journey to returne. Leandrus likewise accompanying Parselius to the
Court, gave his word to use his best power in gayning forces from his Father,
to assist in this deserv’d occasion, they having suffer’d for their Parents
loves. To which end he went into Achaya, giving his hand to Parselius, to
be with him in Morea within six moneths, which was the time appointed
for their marching forwards towards Macedon, or Albania, as at their next
meeting they would agree on. Thus they parted: Parselius as his destinie
would guide him, Leandrus to Achaya, and the other Princes remayning in
Arcadia with the King, very much esteemed of.

But soone after the Court remooved neerer to the Sea; while Amphilanthus,
who had beene too long forgot, not being time enough remembred,
being the most matchlesse Prince with the faire Antissia, being in the H Mer- H1v 50
Merchants house as the Romanian Knight told Parselius, finding fit time,
and longing to meete his friend, with the Princesse, and the honest paire, took
their way towards the Court where the king lived: by the way it was Antissia’s
fortune, to marke (with so yeelding a heart) the lovelinesse, sweetnes,
braverie, & strength of the famous Amphilanthus, which in many adventures
hee made testimony of in her sight, before their gaining the Court, as this
(alas) made her acknowledge, she had seene but him, who might be thought
a Prince, shee had heard of none but him, all others vertues being single in
them, but knit in one in him. This made her like, that made her love: and so
she did (poore Lady) to her lost libertie; he, the more he saw her respect to
him, answered it with his to her: kindnesse then betray’d them, she shewing
it, he (as a kind-hearted Prince to Ladies) receiving it. By this time they were
content to think they loved, and so to know those paines. He was not unexperienced,
therefore soone saw remedy must be given: and cruelty hee imagin’d
it would be in him, who discern’d he might by his art helpe her, if hee
refus’d that good, to one so faire, and so kindly loving. This made him in
charitie watch his opportunitie, or at least not to loose any, being most with
her; and contentedly, because lovingly passing the time, entertaining themselves
with fine discourse many howers together. The good people wearie
with travelling or seeking other necessaries for them, necessarily leaving
them then, not with much complaining of their absence.

At last they came unto the Court, being two moneths after the departure
of Parselius, and the next weeke after the secret departure of Steriamus,
which was such, as hereafter you shall heare. His arrivall was as pleasing
to the People and Prince, as faire weather is after a storme, or plenty following
a great dearth: so generally and particularly was hee beloved; his
enemies (for no great man, nor good man lives without) being forced in
truth to confesse he deserv’d much admiration. Hee came pleasantlie
thither, and for some dayes continued so: but after, whether misse of
his friend Parselius, or some other private cause to himselfe mooved him,
is not knowne: but sad hee grew, and shunning all other companie, would
retire himselfe with Antissia into Pamphilia’s chamber, where hee would,
when hee speke, direct his speech to her; still blaming her brothers for so
strangely leaving their Country, he could not offer speech to her, which she
received not with much respect, yet was shee generally the most silent
and discreetly retir’d of any Princesse. But one day as they were alone
together, some discourse falling out of the beautie of Ladies, Amphilanthus
gave so much commendations of Antissia, as she betweene dislike, and
a modest affection, answered, hee had spoke sufficiently in her praise: “for
truly my Lord”
, said she, “me thinkes there is not that beautie in her as you
speake of, but that I have seene, as faire and delicate as shee; yet in truth
shee’s very white, but that extreame whitenesse I like not so well, as
where that (though not in that fulnesse) is mix’d with sweete lovelines;
yet I cannot blame you to thinke her peerelesse, who viewes her but
with the eyes of affection.”
Amphilanthus gave this reply; That hee
till then had never seene so much Womanish disposition in her, as
to have so much prettie envie in her, yet in his opinion (except her H2r 51
her selfe) he had not seene any fairer, Antissia with that came to them, which
brought them into other discourses, til they were forced to part. They gone,
Pamphilia alone began to breath out her passions, which to none shee would
discover, resolving rather so to perish, then that any third should know shee
could be subject to affection. “Alas”, would she say (weeping to her selfe) “what
have I deserved to bee thus tyrannically tortured by love? and in his most
violent course, to whom I have ever been a most true servant? Had I wrong’d
his name, scornd his power, or his might, then I had been justly censured to
punishment: but ill Kings, the more they see obedience, tread the more upon
their subjects; so doth this all conquering King. O love, look but on me,
my heart is thy prey, my self thy slave, then take some pity on me.”
Being heavie,
she went into her bed, but not with hope of rest, but to get more libertie
to expresse her woe. At last, her servants gone, and all things quiet, but her
ceaselesse mourning soule, she softly rose out of her bed, going to her window,
and looking out beheld the Moone, who was then fair and bright in
her selfe, being almost at the full, but rounded about with blacke, and broken
clouds. “Ah Diana” (said she) “how doe my fortunes resemble thee? my love
and heart as cleare, and bright in faith, as thou art in thy face, and the fulnesse
of my sorrowes in the same substance: and as thy wane must bee, so is my
wane of hopes in my love; affections in him, being as cold to me, as thou art
in comparison of the Sunnes heate: broken joyes, blacke despaires, incirkling
me, as those dissevered clouds do strive to shadow by straight compassing thy
best light.”
When she had (as long as her impatient desires would permit her)
beheld the chast Goddesse, she went to her bed againe, taking a little Cabinet
with her, wherein she had many papers, and setting a light by her, began
to reade them, but few of them pleasing her, she took pen and paper, and being
excellent in writing, writ these verses following.

“Heart drops distilling like a new cut-vine Weepe for the paines that doe my soule oppresse, Eyes doe no lesse For if you weepe not, be not mine, Silly woes that cannot twine An equall griefe in such excesse. You first in sorrow did begin the act, You saw and were the instruments of woe, To let me know That parting would procure the fact Wherewith young hopes in bud are wrackt, Yet deerer eyes the rock must show. Which never weepe, but killingly disclose Plagues, famine, murder in the fullest store. But threaten more. This knowledge cloyes my brest with woes T’avoid offence my heart still chose Yet faild, and pity doth implore.” H2 When H2v 52

When reading them over againe; “Fie passion” (said she) “how foolish canst
thou make us? and when with much paine and businesse thou hast gain’d us,
how dost thou then dispose us unto folly, making our choicest wits testimonies
to our faces of our weakenesses, and, as at this time dost, bring my owne
hands to witnesse against me, unblushingly showing my idlenesses to mee.”

Then tooke shee the new-writ lines, and as soone almost as shee had given
them life, shee likewise gave them buriall. “And yet”, said shee, “love must doe
thus, and sure we love his force the better for these fansies.”
Then putting out
the light, lest that shuld too soone wast, beholding her passions, which in hotter
flames continued (then the united one of the candle could aspire to comparison
with the smallest of millions of them) turning her in her bed with a
deepe love-sigh, she cried: “O love, thou dost master me.”

Thus did the love wounded Princesse passe that night, or the greater part
of it; convenient time for sports in the morning being come, the king sent
for her to attend him and the Queene, to see a match which was made at the
Justs onely, partly to please the king, but most to welcome Amphilanthus.
Pamphilia and Antissia were plac’d together; Antissia dearely loving her for
her cousins sake; whom so well she lov’d, as she gloried to have all eares and
eyes partake the knowledge of it. Pamphilia did embrace her companie, being
excelling in sweet conversation, as farre as pleasant and harmelesse mirth
could extend: and fit was such a companion, for the melancholy which abounded
in the Princesse. Being at the window, and all having once runne
over, Amphilanthus gaind the first honour. Whereat Antissia being joyfull,
“Well may it be bestowed on him” (said she), “for sure none can in all brave exercises
come neere your matchles Cousin, for delicate finenesse, and peerelesse
power.”
“’Tis true” (said Pamphilia): “yet if you saw my brother Parselius,
you would (and indeed must) confesse, hee comes the neerest to him, and
neerely matches him.”
“I know not him” (said Antissia), “but if he do but second
this, you may boldly say, no Princesse living can compare with you for a Cosin
and a Brother.”
By this the match was ended, and the Knights comming
to the king, hee gave them thankes, embracing his best beloved Nephew.
Then went each one to his Mistris, to receive their opinions in the defence
of their favours: Antissia telling Amphilanthus, that in her mind, hee alone
deserv’d the honour of that day. He repli’d; Her wishes and favour did purchase
him that honour, more power living in them, then in his arme or skill.
Then did all returne, the Knights conducting every one his Ladie, Pamphilia
went alone, for she not enjoying her love, lov’d be alone, as she was alone
in perfect and unfortunate loving; thinking so slight a thing as a Knights leading
her, might bee a touch in her thoughts to her spotlesse affection, nor
would she ever honour any one, with wearing a favour in those sports; having
vowed, that onely one should enjoy all love and faith from her; and in
her constancie (this not being knowne, her passions so wisely govern’d, as
she was not mistrusted to love so violently) made her of many to be esteemed
proud, while it was that flame, which made her burne in the humblest subjection
of Loves meanest subjects; yet was her choice like her selfe, the best.
No day pass’d without some exercises on horseback, wherein Amphilanthus
did still adde fame unto himselfe, by that to make Antissia the more his Prisoner:
But now is the time for his depart in the search of his friend arriv’d; if H3r 53
if it griev’d the Court to part with him? it surely heartily perplexed her,
whose life depended on his sight; so it tormented her, as with the flowing
of teares, her face was martyred so much, as she was not fit to come in company,
having turn’d her delightfulnesse to sorrowes, faining her selfe ill, and
so keeping her chamber, being seene of none but of Pamphilia, to whom shee
had freely discoursed both her affection, and successe in her love; who like a
worthy friend, accōompanied her in this sorrow. The night before he was to go,
he came into her chamber to bid her farewell, and to intreate her to remaine
there till his returne; the king having given him his promise, that all honour
and respect should bee us’d to her; the Princesse Pamphilia (he durst say)
would doe the like; and for his owne part, care and diligence should not
want in him to make his speedy returne. The poore Lady could but with
a speechlesse mourning behold him, holding his hand fast in hers, at last sorrow
brought foorth these words for her. “My Lord, God knowes how I lament
for your going, how much more must your absence afflict me? As
you see the one, and may judge of the other, have pittie in hastning hither
to her, who till then daily will finde a death-like life.”
So he tooke his leave
of her, promising to performe her commands: then turning to Pamphilia
(who had all this while beheld this so sad, but loving parting), “Madam” (said
he) “is there anything left to make me so happy, as that it may bee in my fortunes
to serve you, and so to be blest with your imployments?”
“My Lord” (said
she) “it is sufficient to be commanded by one, and so beautifull a Lady: for my
part, I will entreate your speedy returne, and that you bring my brother
with you.”
With this he left the Ladies, one to lament, the other forc’d to
comfort. His journey he tooke directly toward the sea, meaning at the first
convenient Port to take shipping, and so to passe into Italie, whether, it might
be his friend was gone, according to their first agreement. But comming into
a place not the richest, but well distant from the worst of countries, in a
part within some leagues from the sea, the least inhabited of any of those
quarters, being somewhat hilly, and desert-like, he went among some of those
hills to rest himselfe, chusing one, the side of it being a fine Wood, the foote
of it beautified with a pleasant and swift River, before it a prety Plaine which
went not farre, before another Hill proudly over-lookt her lowlinesse: his
horse he gave to his Squire, himselfe walking downe into the Wood, and being
taken with the pleasures of that place, hee laid himselfe among them on
the ground, speaking these words: “What destiny is this, unhappy man, that
no time will bee permitted mee to endure happy in? How is the world deceiv’d,
in thinking happinesse consists alone in being belov’d? when as if it
proceedes from other then their owne chosen love, it is a punishment; like as
the being cramm’d, when one is full: Love then (I beseech thee) make me
lesse happy in not being lov’d, or truly blest with enjoying her heart, who
hath made mine her Captive. But O mee, I doe feare that shee doth love:
wretch that I am, what then must needs befall mee? Death, I cruell’st death,
when by a Love procured.”
More he was a saying, and surely had discovered
his passions in a greater, and more exact manner, but that hee was call’d to attention
by a delicate (yet dolefull) voyce, a Lute finely plaid upon, giving
musicke to his Song, which was this.

H3 Adieu H3v 54 “Adieu sweet Sun Thy night is neare Which must appeare Like mine, whose light but new begun Weares as if spun By chance not right, Led by a light False, and pleasing, ever wun. Come once in view Sweet heat, and light My heavy sp’rit Dull’d in thy setting, made anew If you renew, Daysies doe grow, And spring below Blest with thy warm’th, so once I grew. Wilt thou returne, Deare blesse mine eyes Where loves zeale lyes Let thy deere object mildly burne Nor flie, but turne ’Tis season now Each happy bow Both buds and blooms, why should I mourne?”

No sooner had he ended his song, but the same voice (though in a more
plaining maner) brought forth these words: “O life, O death? why am I cloyd
with one, & slave for the other, much more of me desired? False joyes, leave,
forc’d pleasure fly me, musick why abide you? since joy, pleasure, and true
musick (which is love) abandons me, shuns me; alas true piece of misery: I
who am despis’d, hated, scorn’d, and lost. Are these my gaines ungrateful
love? take here thy conquest, and glory in thy purchase, while I live loathing
my selfe, and all, but her by whom I remaine a wretched forlorne slave: yet
some comfort I have to sustaine mee, that I suffer for the rarest and most excellent
of women, and so long Cupid use thy force, and tyrannize upon my
slaughtered heart.”
These words were to the brave Italian, so just the image of
his owne thoughts, as they were as if his, or like two Lutes tun’d alike, and
placed, the one struck, the other likewise sounds: so did these speeches agree
to his incumbred thoughts. Willing he was to comfort him, but loth to disquiet
him, knowing in this estate lonelines, and disburdning of some part of
the like griefe doth ease one: wherefore he remain’d in a doubt what to doe
when as the young man (for so he perceiv’d from such a one the voyce did
come) not caring which way he did take, or seeing any direct path, but
that his phantasies led him in, came hard by the place where Amphilanthus
lay, who viewing his youth and delicate beautie, admired and pittied him H4r 55
him. He passed on towards the River, his eyes, as it were, imitating the
swift running of that streame, his Lute he held in his hand, till againe having
some more Verses fram’d in his minde (perfect lovers never wanting invention)
he againe played, and sung; having done, “O Love”, said he, “once
ease me, or let death seaze me, giving conclusion to my dolorous daies.
What doe I gaine by being a Prince? What availes it me to hope for a Kingdomes
Government, when she who is my Kingdome to me, and my Princesse
doth reject me? Woe is me that ever I knew Morea; Woe is me that ever
I beheld Pamphilia; O Pamphilia, would I were but so much honour’d,
as thou wouldst but thinke me worthy to kisse thy hands, that would revive
me, and for that favour would I thinke my selfe sufficiently requited for all
my torments bearing.”

Amphilanthus hearing his Cousen named, and the young man discover
himselfe to be a Prince, wondring in his travels he had never seene him, desirous
to be resolv’d of his estate, and name, with all the true cause of his desperate
griefe, went towards him curteously, and with respect due to him,
saluted him thus. “Sir, let not, I pray you, my boldnesse in this interrupting
your more pleasing thoughts, be displeasing to you, since it is my fortune
(not desire to trouble you) which brought me hither, wherefore, I hope, I
shal obtaine pardon of you.”
The young Prince soberly, and a little blushing,
answered. “No fault can I find with your being here, or any thing except my
owne fortune, which thinkes it selfe never curst enough to me; but since,
as I assure my selfe, you have heard my Passions, till now never knowne to
man, let me know by whom I am discover’d?”
Upon promise to have the
like curtesie from you”
; replyed the valiant King, “I wil not hide my selfe from
you”
: He consenting, the stranger Prince began: “Then Sir, know I am
called Steriamus, Prince and rightfull King of Albania, brought unto this
countrey by the vertuous and noble Prince Parselius, who hath undertaken
to assist me in recovering the Kingdome lost in my Fathers daies, but what
talke I of a Kingdome, having lost the power of my content and happinesse;
now Sir, performe your word”
: “I am” said the other, “Amphilanthus King of the
Romans.”
Steriamus knowing him to be that famous Prince, in whose search
his friend was gone, fast held him in his armes, crying; “yet am I happy to
see the most renowned Prince breathing before I dye; for now may I ending
say, I have seene the worth of the world, and feele her greatest cruelty.”
Amphilanthus
blush’d to heare his vertue so extold, but lovingly embracing in
like manner the Albanian Prince, was againe sollicited by him, to tell him
all his story, which in this manner (sitting downe by the River side) he did
discourse. “My selfe and my brother being brought by that worthy Prince
to his Fathers Court, were there left, he first having receiv’d promise, and
command being given for mens raysing, to restore me (miserable me) to my
kingdome, as I before told you, he tooke his leave, being gone in the search
of you, but promised returne within six monthes into Morea, being now gone
into Italie, hoping to meete you there. I remaining, griev’d to part with
him, but more afflicted with an incurable wound, which in that Court I receiv’d.
But before I goe any further, I pray tell me whether you have lately
seene the Princesse Pamphilia, for surely then shall I finde one paine troubles
us, and one cure onely for us”
; “I saw her very lately”, repli’d Amphilanthusthus, H4v 56
“being but almost now come from her Fathers Court, but for all that
you may safely goe on with your discourse.”

“Then”, said he, “it was my happinesse to see her, but my misery to fall in
love with her, (cruell she) who if she prove not mercifull to me, I must for
her, thus ever suffer: besides, it hinders my going on, in the regaining of
Albania; for, what is a Kingdome to me, being subject to a greater power of
the minde? What can that Realme prove to me, if Pamphilia martyr mee?
What is a Court to one cast downe to the lowest of Loves slaveries? No
Selarinus, thou art worthy, and free, and therefore fit to rule; and God
send thee that, and all other good fortunes, and this among the rest, that
thou never come to the knowledge of thy miserable Brothers end, whose
misery did thus begin.”

“One day as the King and Queene were walking in the Garden, attended
on by all the Princes, Ladies, and Knights of the Court, every one discoursing
as best pleased them, Pamphilia walked alone, none daring to present
himselfe to her: such was the respect all bore unto her, and feare of displeasing
her. I saw her, and with that sight lost my selfe; Love then emboldned
me so, as arm’d with his fire, I went to her, and tooke the boldnesse to walke
by her, and offering discourse (I confesse unworthy of her hearing) shee entertain’d
me modestly and gravely: Love for me finding this hope, forc’d
me to use the time, and to speake something of it selfe to her: which shee
perceiving (yet out of pitty not willing too curstly to deale with me) shewd
me in her countenance dislike of my speeches. And yet not to put mee too
much besides my selfe, called other to her, to adde (as she faign’d) to her
company: With a bleeding heart I suffered this disgrace, which yet was
by her so handled, as none but my owne soule could witnesse it to any. Thus
that day past, sorrow increasing in me, and little mirth growing in her. Oft
times would she be ready to sigh, but loving that breath, which shee drew
for so loved a cause, she did strive to fetch it backe againe; or else it was to
cover her long breathing. Many daies this continued, till one night standing
in a round window in a great Galerie, a Lady who did much use to accompany
the Princesse (though she be of the Queenes Chamber) standing
by her. ‘Madam’, said she, ‘did you ever see so silent a Prince as this is? Surely
if he were to winne his Kingdome by words, as it must be done by swords,
the Countrey might remaine a long time without the lawfull King.’
Pamphilia
looked (O me a deadly wound that sweetest looke did prove) pleasingly
upon me, saying, ‘My Lord, you see this Lady finely begs discourse
from you.’
‘Alas Divine Princesse’, said I, ‘what discourse can proceed from
a dead man?’
‘I never heard till now’, said shee, ‘that dead men walk’d, and
spake.’
‘Yes Madame’, cry’d I, ‘as you have seene trees continue greene in
their branches, though the heart be quite dead, and consum’d away, hollownesse
onely remayning: And so is nothing left in me but empty hope
and flourishing despaire.’
‘Is there no cure’, said she? ‘Yes, that there is’, said
I. ‘Shew it’, said she: I looking about, and seeing the other Lady parted
from me, besides hard by a faire Glasse (many hanging as ornaments in that
Gallery) I tooke it up turning it to her, mine eyes onely speaking for me. She
(with seeing her face, saw my cause of torment) said as little as I: onely taking
the Glasse turn’d the other side, which was dull like my gaines, and with as I1r 57
as much scorne and contempt, as could appeare in so much beauty (like as if
the Sun would in spite shew himselfe in a storme), she turnd from me. I stood
still, for indeed I could not move, til for my last comfort, sense came to mee,
to shew me, I was in no fit place so to betray my passions: wherefore getting
so much strength (although no more, then as men after a long sicknes gaine,
when they goe with feeble joynts, the length of a roome; so much had I),
and that little with much ado, brought me to my chamber, where I opened
my brest to al sorrow, and let mine eies make ful sea of teares. Thus I remaind,
till this resolution took me, to wander I car’d not whither, so it were far from
knowledge of any, and to leave that most cruell beauty to her owne content;
which yet I feare she hath not, though I truly wish shee had. I call’d my brother
to me, telling him he must be secret to me, as he did hope for love from
mee: which hee vowed, not mistrusting what I meant, till ’twas too late to
goe backe. With sobs and teares hee besought mee to alter: but I told him
there was no remedie, nor must he breake his oath. Then against his heart he
said, he must obay. My charge was this; never reveale my manner of going,
nor ever to seeke after me, or suffer any that he could hinder. Then went
I to Pamphilias chamber, where I humbly desired to speake with her; shee
gave me leave: but when I was ready to say something she prevented me. ‘If
you have’
, said she, ‘any busines, I shalbe ready to do you any service in it: but
if it be concerning your glasse discovery, know this, you shall doe best to bee
silent; for a greater offence you cannot doe mee.’
‘Alas Madam’ (said I), ‘have
you no pitie for me?’
‘I have pity for any’ (said she), ‘leave this folly, and I shall
wish you well.’
That was so cold a favour for my desires, and my dutifull affection
such to her, as not to give her the least cause of dislike, besought her,
she would honour me but so much, as I might kisse her hands before my departure,
which was forc’d by an adventure, calling me away: she nobly grāanted
that, and said, she wisht me good fortune. I told her, my fortune could only be
made by her. ‘Then can it prove little’, said she. With trembling and death-like
palenes I left her lodgings, having yet the favour which my lips receiv’d, in
touching her fairest hand; which kisse shall never part from me, till these my
lips doe kisse with death. Then wandred I away, till I came hither; never finding
any place to please me, nor, alas, doth this, or can any thing but her pity
please; only this is lesse distastefull, then those where greater noises be. Here
I am quiet, but for my owne quiet, but for my griefe, which never gives mee
rest. In a little cave in the ground is my lodging, one Squire attending mee,
who from a Towne not farre hence fetcheth me provision: this Lute (a quality
I learnd in the Court since my comming thither) misfortune, and my Mistrisses
disdaine, my discourse and companions: and thus lives, and daily dies
the rejected Steriamus.”
Having finished his tale, his eies flowed againe with
teares, as if it were their office to give the full stop of his discourse. Amphilanthus
embracing him; “Steriamus” (said he) “leave these lamentations; for a fury in
one (who how worthy soever, yet being a woman), may change. How many
have bin condemnd for cruely, that after have prov’d kind enough? yet speak
I not this of Pamphilia, who hath still kept a constant resolution to her selfe.
But sure some strange occasion makes her (so full of judgement and sweetnesse)
carrie so strict a course in your affections: yet let not that make you forget
your selfe. The poore Albania (poore in missing you) calls upon you, I the I1v 58
the rest of the world hath need of such Princes, then let not passion overthrow
a brave spirit: absence can bring no hope, presence and desert may, if
any thing. Or say she never love you, there are other faire Ladies, who will
be liker themselves, pitifull and loving.”
“Never shall other love possesse my
heart”
(cride he), “and that O heavens still witnesse for mee, and behold this
vow, That when I change, it shall be unto death.”
Then shutting his hands one
fast within the other, he groaning said; “Nor ever let these hands part, if I part
from this my love. Time”
(said he) “will give you (I trust) unexpected cause of
cōomfort, in the meane time, let us talke of somthing els.”
Then Steriamus invited
Amphilanthus to the Cave, dearely loving him for his brave advice, but most
for his cosins sake. There they sat together, lay together, & pass’d some dayes
together, till the Albanian was overcome with the Italians (never-fayling)
perswading speeches; so as they tooke their course towards the sea, falling into
that way which brought them directly to the Castle, where young Antissius
and his Uncle were by Parselius left. There they found them, and met
the honest Captaine, who was brought thither by the Romanian Knight, who
after the whole discourse was told to Amphilanthus, as before it had been to
Parselius by the old Prince, and young Knight, continued the story thus. “After
that (devill of women) the Kings wife had wrought the ruine of Romania,
Proclamations out for the bringing of either or both of you, for which large
summes of money were offered: but if you could be deliver’d in alive, those
summes, and great honours with brave possessions: you my Lord made a
Traytor, and you Sir having your head at sale. Then obtained she, that her
sonne was made heire apparant to the Crowne; and that if the King happned
to die, while the new Prince was under yeares, that then she would governe
as Protectresse, till hee came of age. This sure, shee grew wearie of the old
man, whose age, and dotage (she having imploy’d them to her use, was now
cloy’d with them) troubled her; to bee rid of him was then her study. At
last finding an easie way (as she thought) shee cald one of her servants to her
(being one who ambitiously sought to win the honour, of being her favourite)
leading him into a private Cabinet, where she plotted al her wickednes:
there she began with false and forged flattrings to intice him to her purpose;
dissimulation, and protestation of her affections she wanted not, to draw him
into the yoke of her witch-craft. ‘And what’ (said she) ‘though the world doe
taxe me for loving many? doe not you accuse me, my onely deere; for sooner
will I die, then wrong your love. If my fashion, which is free and familiar,
make you doubt me? consider why it is, since it were neither wisdome, nor
safety for us, to use you only kindly in al sights. The graces others have, is but
to blind their eies, which els would be cleere sighted to our ill, and this ever
by the love you beare me, I conjure you to believe; and this should you well
find, were I at liberty and free.’
‘What freedome would you aske?’ ‘To be my
selfe’
, said shee, ‘and so to take a husband I could love, as I love you; and so
would make you, were the old man dead.’
‘Is that the bar’, cride he, ‘deere Lady?
He is dead, or even as good, for two daies is his longest terme of life. That
done, enjoy me, who am onely thine; and verily the thing is easie, safe; and
doubtlesse doe it then, and by it purchase me.’
He long time bewitcht with
her craft, allur’d by her beautie, and continued in error by her falsehoods, beleev’d
she spake unfained from her heart, letting himselfe covet that, which with I2r 59
with murder (and treacherous murder) they must gaine frōom the true owner
But he lookt no further then his love, to compasse which, no meanes seem’d
ill, so partiall was he to his vild desires. Thus was his word engaged, and the
kings life limited; which end of time being come, they inticed the grave
man into a Parke, where they murdred him, bringing home the old body besmear’d
in his owne bloud, coverd with their mantles (as the fault was with
their fained talles), which were, that in the Wood certaine men, hired as it
was likely by you, set upon him, killed him, and wounded them; shewing
some slight wounds which they had (for the greater shew of truth) given
themselves. The Queene being brought to this sad sight, tooke on strangely,
rending her clothes, crying, and even howling so, as most did pitie her, and
few or none accuse her guilty of the crime, so cunning was she in her deepe
deceits. Then was the Councel cald, who came, in shew sad, but in harts joyfull,
wicked men, loving nothing more then change; they brought also the
young king to his mother. The people being assembled, and the false report
of the kings death deliverd, wherwith they were satisfied, pitying the wounded
body, yet crediting the murderers. Thus was the poore doting King rewarded
for his fondnes. A funerall was made with all ceremonious cost and
pompe, the young unlawfull king being that day crowned, as soone as the body
was interred. This was yet but one part of the play, the other soone followed.
She thinking her selfe no way secure (so many knowing of her sin) to
avoide punishment on earth, would run yet faster to meet more punishments
cause, in the other world, by heaping murders upon murders: for inviting all
those except her Minion) to a private banquet, she poison’d them, reserving
the favourite for some other vertuous purpose; who being in the pride of
his desires, expecting when he should be made her husband, often urg’d it:
but shee put it off with pretence of feare, least that the too sudden marriage
might give occasion to the world to doubt, what was most true, and what
their guiltinesse made them mistrust.”

“Thus it past a while like a calme tide after a tempest: her sonne and shee
being in full possession of all, the neighbour kings sent to condole the
death of the king, and to congratulate the other, whether out of love, or
desire of peace (a sweete thing to spritelesse Princes). Among the rest
came one, who accompanied the Embassadour of Morea, a Gentleman of
excellent parts, winning the love of all that conversed with him, having a
modest government over a strong and daintie wit: but as hee was in this
happie, hee was crost with the violent love of the chastlesse Queene, who
affected him after her wonted fashion, but so fondly and intemperately,
as shee caus’d most to looke with gazing eyes on her: hee was not of the
highest stature, though farre from being low; his haire faire, and that
beard hee had, something inclind to yellow. Shee saw this Gentleman
(who since I learnd, was Sonne to the Duke of Mantinea, and Captaine of
a troope of Horse, which was part of the Kings Guard, and the Noblest
part; because that Companie must ever bee choice men, and all Gentlemen):
Shee wooed him, plainely said, Shee loved him. Yet could
not this prevaile, wroth in him, withstanding all her baites: which being
meant as refusals, prov’d inticements to bring her on; like a Spaniell,
that fawnes on the mans crueltie. Her passions then growne immoderate,I2 moderate, I2v 60
and ungovernable, yeares increasing in her, and strength of judgement
failing her more then in her youth, gave such open testimonie of her
love, as her latter servant (but companion in mischiefe) perceiv’d it; his confidence
having been such, as that blinded him long time, giving libertie and
assurance in that to her, and her ends, which never were but either politike,
or lascivious. But he as having new sight given him to see her shame, and his
owne together; hate taking the place of love, his desires flew to the ruine of
her, as before to the continuance of their dayes in their owne pleasures never
enough enjoy’d. Hee plotted to undoe her, and watched the opportunity,
which he obtaind by his diligent prying; that, bringing him to discover her
going into her Cabinet with this stranger, pretending there to shew him
some jewels. They were no sooner within the roome (shee having but put
the doore a little to, not close), but her inraged enemy came, and finding
meanes of discerning what was to be seene, lost it not, but stood still looking
in. She (whose thoughts caried her to higher points then care) took no heed
of that which most concern’d her: for there hee saw her with all passionate
ardency, seeke, and sue for the strangers love; yet he unmoveable, was no further
wrought, then if he had seene a delicate play-boy acte a loving womans
part, and knowing him a Boy, lik’d onely his action; then with much adoe he
brought forth these words: ‘Alas, Madam, why seeke you at my hands your
dishonour and my shame? How dare you venter your honour in the power
of a stranger, who likely would use it to his glory, and your reproch? Besides
you know I love one, whose worth and truth must not be hurt, or blotted in
my fault, my life not worthy to satisfie the crime, should her unspotted loyaltie
suffer for my sinne.’
‘Yet satisfie my desire’ (said she) ‘and then love whom
you will.’
‘Love whom you will’ (cry’d out the furious forsaken) rushing into
the roome as much unexpected, and unwelcome, as thunder in winter,
which is counted prodigious. The Queene stood amazed while hee used
these speeches; ‘Fie faithlesse Woman, verifier of that fault whereof I hoped,
women had been slandred, and not subject unto: have I obeyed you in
your wicked and abominable treasons, thus to be rewarded?’
She finding hee
had not onely found her, but also had discovered her false-hood, withal considering
his rage, she fell at his feet, asking pardon. ‘Pardon your selfe’, said he,
‘if you can, and me who want it, as drought doth water: Be your protestations,
vowes, and daily given oathes come to this?’
With that most furiously hee
ran towards her, but the Morean in humanitie sav’d her from hurt by him; but
to hinder that, he was forc’d to struggle with him, who was a strong man, and
then had double power. This noyse cal’d in some that waited without, others
ran to tell the king, either to shew forwardnesse in service, or indeed busines,
not caring what they carry, so it be newes, wanting the chiefest part, which
is judgement, to know, where, when, and what to tell. But in briefe, the king
came, and finding this unfortunat disorder, not being able to win from them
by faire meanes the truth, (to avoyde all ill) committed them to prison, from
whence (for the speedier, and so more secure proceeding) the next morning
they were brought to publike arraignement: but the King was not present,
fearing those things (which after brake forth) would then be blowne forth.
And indeed it was so, for the accused being demaunded what he could say in
his owne defence; said, Nothing but wherein he must accuse himselfe. Being vrged I3r 61
urged to that, hee confest all, finishing his speech thus; ‘For her sake, by her
consent, knowledge, and command, I slew the King; shee having given mee
her faith (which as a faith I esteemd; but alas, it was a shadow put in a false
light) that she would marry me; this added to a naturall ambition I had to
greatnesse, not judicially weighing, how heavy in justice this weight of honor
should bee so divellishly sought for, or attained.’
For this hee was condemned
to die, the manner by foure wild horses: but before his execution she
was examined, with whom few words were used, before she confest her
selfe guilty. She was likewise condemned (for being a subject, shee was under
the law), and so had her head struck off, the stranger was delivered free againe.
Many pitied her, to whom she had done good (for none can be found
so ill, that some will not commiserate); yet the most (like the base world)
left her, having held with her while her power shin’d, but now set with her
light, running to the rising strength, not to the declin’d: few said, shee was
wrongfully put to death, either for love to her, or to make busines: for no sooner
was she dead, but one of her antienter favorites rose in rebellion, the people
apt to take any occasion to stirre new afflictions: but a great party he hath
gotten, and so much gaind, as the King is now shut up in the great City of
Constantinople, the Rebell (as the unlawfull king doth call him) besieging him,
and vowing never to lay downe Armes, till he hath gotten him in his power:
and now do they all cry out for Antissius, honouring the very name as a god;
wishing for you Sir, and vowing if they can recover you, to make you their
King. Thus have I left them, the Generall (for so he is called) having injoyned
me to find you out; they are infinite strong, and want but you, and some
brave men to governe them. Goe now I beseech you; never had Romania
more need, nor shall you ever finde a fitter time.”

The Princes sat a while in consultation, at last they resolv’d presently to
take the journey in hand, not holding it good to loose so fit an opportunitie.
The Squire of Amphilanthus was sent to find Parselius in Italy, and to acquaint
him with their affaires, withall to entreat his company. This concluded
on, all went to rest, Steriamus desiring, that because his name was not yet
knowne by desert, it might be still kept secret; and most he desired it, by reason
of his vow. They agreed to it, and he was only call’d, “The true despis’d”,
which was all the device in his shield. Amphilanthus did desire to be held unknowne
too: but his reason was, that it was not so safe for so famous a man to
be commonly knowne, in so great & imminent dangers; besides, the renowne
of him, might make many refuse the combate with him, who else hee might
for sport or profit encounter: hee had “Love” painted in his shield, and was
call’d, The Knight of Love.

Towards Romania with prosperous winds they sailed, chusing the way by
sea as the shortest, and lesse troublesome. In a fit and short time they arriv’d
in Romania, landing a little from the Towne, for feare of unknowne dangers,
and so they past to the Armie, where Antissius and his Uncle being knowne,
unspeakable joy was made, the Generall yeelding all into his hands, and taking
his authority from him. Upon this the Usurper sent for a Truce, but
that was denied: then hee desired (rather then to continue immur’d in
that kind, besides, ready to bee famisht), that they would bring three
Knights into the field, the which number hee would also bring, himselfe I3 being I3v 62
being one, and those sixe to end the businesse, which side overcomming,
the other should depart with peace, and never make more warre, one against
another. This was accepted, Amphilanthus and Steriamus being two,
the third they had not yet appointed, nor would, till the day of combate;
still expecting some famous Knight, or Parselius himselfe, might come to fill
the number: if none, then the young Knight their first acquaintance should
be the man.

The day come, when as the Lists were made without the Towne, the Judges
appointed, old Seleucius, Uncle to Antissius, and the honest Captaine
Lisandrinus, were the Judges for their side: on the other, were the
Admirall, and Marshall of Romania. The Gates were all set open, and
free libertie given everie one to passe where hee listed, onely injoyn’d
to goe unarm’d. The first that entred into the field was the King, on each
hand of him his two Companions in fight; before him six men bare-headed,
one carrying his Helme, three other his Speares, the two last his Sword
and Sheild: his Armour was greene, floured with Gold; the furniture to
his Horse of the same colour, cut into Garlands of Laurell, and embroidered
with Gold; but so artificially joynd together, as they seemd when the
Horse stird, to rise as ready to crowne each part of his conquest. In his
Shield he had a crowne of Bayes, held up by a Sword; Word he had none,
so as it seemd he staid for that, till his hoped for victorie had provided one for
him. The other Knights were both alike in Watchet and Gold; their devices
a blew Cloud, out of which sparkled fire.

But then came the honour of his sexe, never enough admired, and belov’d
Amphilanthus, his Armour was white, fillited with Rubies; his furniture
to his Horse Crimson, embroydred with Pearle; his Shield with the
same-device, from which hee tooke his name. Steriamus according to his
fortune was in Tawny, wrought all over with blacke. As they were entring,
a brave Gentleman in a murry Armour, fillited with Diamonds, his
furniture richly wrought with Silver and Gold, came to Amphilanthus, using
these words: “My Lord, your worth cannot bee hid, though you have obscured
your name; they both (but the former most) ties mee to be your servant,
and as the first favour I shal receive, beg the honor of being third in this
brave exploit; not that I am so ignorant, as to think my selfe worthy of being
your Companion, but wholly out of ambition to serve you.”
Amphilanthus
looking upon him, seeing the richnes of his Armes, and the braverie of
his Personage, being as comely and strong set, as ever hee had seene any,
made him this answer. “Sir, the honor is mine, to gaine so brave a Companion
and friend, wherein I rejoyce; and in place of your love to me, give you mine,
which is and shall be firme unto you, and with all my heart embrace your
offer to bee the third, not now doubting of the victorie, having so happy
a beginning.”
Then they imbraced, and taking him on the left hand of
him, and Steriamus on the right, they went on to the Judges: and all
sixe meeting together, speaking some few wordes one to another, they
parted to meete, never more to part on some sides. Amphilanthus encountred
one of the Watchet Knights, Steriamus the King; and the Forest
Knight
(so being called, because of his Device, which was a great
and pleasant Forrest, most pleasantlie set forth, as the cunning of the I4r 63
the rarest Painter could devise) met the other watchet knight. The first
Knight lost his Stirrop, else there was no advantage on any side, and thus
they continued the three courses; then lighting and drawing their swords,
there grew the cruellest, and yet delightfullest Combate, (if in cruelty there
can be delight) that Martiall men ever performed, or had been seene by
judging eyes: for never was courage, magnanimity, valour, skill, and nimblenesse,
joyn’d better together; so as indeed a Kingdome was too low a
prize for such a Combate. Long it continued, till the Knight of Love, disdaining
one man should hold out so long with him, gave him such a wound
in the head as therewith he fell downe dead at his feete. At the same instant
the King gave Steriamus, a great hurt in the body, but he was quickly paid
with a wound in the belly, which gave him his discharge, and freed him from
any more trouble of ruling or obeying. The Knight of the Forrest seeing
his Companions good fortune, knew it his part to accompany them, so as
with a surely given stroke, the head of the other, and last knight fell to kisse
his feete. Steriamus was carried presently into the Towne, where by the
helpe of a good Chyrurgion, he was soone recovered. The Judges all in
face glad, (howsoever some of their hearts were affected) came to them,
who with the rest, presently proclaymed Antissius King, who was by the
people received with much joy at the Coronation, which was within short
time. Antissius created the Generall, Duke of Neapolis, and Lysandrinus
Duke of Selybria.

All things being in quiet, the Knight of Love would needes returne into
Morea, to see things fitting for Steriamus, and to accompany him in his
Conquest. With him went the Knight of the Forrest, betweene whom
grew so strict a bond of Friendship, as was never to be broken, they two lying
together in one roome, Steriamus in another, by reason of his hurt.
Amphilanthus in the night often turn’d, and turning, still did end with sighes.
The Forrest Knight perceiv’d it, yet let him alone till the morning, when
being ready to rise; “My onely friend”, said he, “Your last nights ill rest made
mine unpleasing to me, and most, because mine ignorance hinders me from
being able to serve you. I cannot be yet so bold to demand the cause, since
what proofe have you of me, that I should thinke you might esteeme mee
worthy of such a favour? Yet this you may be confident of, that death shall
ceaze me, before I refuse to venter life to obtaine your desires; and lose it
rather, then reveale any secret you shall impart to me.”
Amphilanthus answer’d,
that he saw unexpected good happen to him in al things (especially in
this blessed friēendship) but in that which he most sought for, “nor would I conceale
the cause of this my paine from you, were it once discover’d to her
from whom I suffer it, but till then I must conceale it; and you, I hope,
on this occasion will excuse me: and for proofe of your accepting this for
that which it is, being truth, tell me your love, and fortune in it, which shall
binde me to confidence, and ingage me to the relation of mine.”
“My Lord”,
said he, “to satisfie you (which is the all of my wishes) understand, that my
poore selfe (onely rich in the honour of being your friend) hunting one
day in a great forrest, my Father, the king of Bohemia, and many other
Princes of Germanie, being assembled; It was my fortune following the
sport more eagerly then the rest, to goe so farre from my company, as I was left I4v 64
left in the woods all night: there I tooke my lodging, resting free from
passion, if not rage, for wanting judgement so to be lost. In this night, and
middest of it (for I wak’d with the dreame, and found it was not day) me
thought I saw a Creature, for shape a woman, but for excellencie, such as all
the rarenes in that sexe, curiously, and skilfully mixed, could but frame such an
one; and yet but such a one in shew, like a Picture well drawne, but the subject
more perfect, apparelled in greene, her haire hanging carelesse, nothing
holding it, but a delicate Garland, which she wore upon her head, made of
Pansies, and Wood-binds. Her face bare, boldly telling me, not I onely, but
all hearts must burne in that purenesse: Eyes like the perfect’st mixtures of
heavenly powers, not to be resisted but submitted to. Lipps fully commanding
the plenty of duty, when they seem’d to demaund obedience: Her
neck the curiousest pillar of white Marble, breast of Snow, or smooth waves
of Milke, swelling, or falling, as the sweet gale of her most sweet breath did
rise, or slacke. All other parts so exquisite as none, save onely she, can be so
excelling. This I found in her, who me thought, came to me using these
words. ‘Arise, leave Bohemia, and rescue me from the hands of Rebels.’ I
cride out, stay, O stay, and tell me how, and where?’ ‘In Hungaria’, said shee,
with that I wak’d having her Image so perfect in my breast, as nothing can
remoove it from me. A pretty while I lay still, wishing to sleepe againe,
so once more to have beheld her; but she was too rich a Jewell slightly to
appeare to such worthlesse eyes. Contented with that I had seene, I lay feeding
on that and my resolution which was to seeke her. When day began to
appeare, what joy was it to me? But for my greater comfort I found hard
by me this Armour laid with this Shield, and Sword. I staid not but put it
on, thinking with my selfe how to attaine to the honour of Knight-hoode,
my Father having refused it to me, because my elder Brother, being weake
and sickly, had not demanded it; resolving I should attend his encrease of
strength, my Fathers whole content being in that Sonne. Considering
this, I knew it no way to goe to him: wherefore arm’d, (my Squire carrying
my Sword, I passed unto the Emperours Court, who without delay
gave me what I demanded, honoring me with the gift of an excellent Horse,
and furnishing me with all conveniencies.”

“Then tooke I my way for Hungarie, which Kingdome I had no sooner
entred, but I mett the newes of a great rebellion made by the uncle Kings
Bastard sonne, called Rodolindus, against the Daughter and Heire of the second
brother, called Melasinda, who was Crowned Queene, after the decease
of her Uncle and Father. But hee envying her greatnesse, and ambitiously
seeking the honour himselfe, claym’d a contract betweene the
King and his mother, with all vowes and protestations of marriage. Witnesses
he produced, true or false they made a terrible stirre, and brought
the fairest Malasinda into great danger. Troopes I continually mett, some
with the Queene, some against her: with much difficultie I pass’d till I came
to an ancient Lords Castle, within two leagues of the City of Buda, where
she was inclosed; this nobleman held with his Soveraigne, and after much
discourse of those affaires, he led me into a Gallery where he shewed me
the picture of that distressed Princesse; truely, I will not say, so well drawn
as that which remaines figur’d in my heart, but so well, as none but her counterfeit K1r 65
Counterfeit could appeare so beautifull, and such, as I knew it to be the same
which in that blessed night in the Forrest shewed her selfe to me. This
made me conclude, the adventure was reserv’d for me: wherefore carefully
examining all things that had passed, and curiously and affectionatly
weighing the businesse, and meanes to atchieve the finishing, not leaving
any thing unask’d, that might availe, concluding to adventure what ere came
of it. The good Lord advised me, (perceiving my purpose) to bee ruled
by him: which I consented to, when I found hee meant honestly for his
Princesse good, and circumspectly for my safety, by no meanes suffering
me to enter the Towne, as my selfe, (by reason of a great hate had been betweene
our Parents) but as an adventrous Knight, who hearing of her troubles
offerd my service to her. She most faire, most lovely shee, accepted
me into her service, where I performed what was put into my trust: in
two dayes killing two of the mightiest, and strongest knights of all his party.
In the ende, the Councell of both sides, and the people weary of war,
advised, and agreed upon a peace, on those conditions, that he should lay
downe all claime to the Crowne, yeelding it wholly to her; but in requitall,
shee should take him for her Husband. This was bitter to her, but
this she must doe, or be left alone, people-lesse, and kingdome-lesse. I was
but one, and unable to set the Crowne, and keepe it on her head against the
whole state: wherefore loving her so much, as not daring to thinke of any
harme to her, in giving ill advise, (nor could my soule allow her lesse then
the kingdome) with the rest, I perswaded for him; till shee told me; She
was sorry she no better deserv’d my love, but that I would thinke another
fitter for it, or she unworthy of mine.
I swore (and truely) the world had not that treasure I more covetously
sought, then her enjoying; she urg’d the unkindnesse betweene our Parents,
made me doubt: I firmely vow’d, her love made me secure, and happy:
but what I did, or said in this, was onely for her good and safety.
With much adoe, and long perswasions I wonne (her love to mee) her
yeelding for the other; so the match was concluded, and peace on all sides,
I leading her the day of her marriage to her wedding Chamber, where I
left her to her husband; the next morning shee came downe into a little
Garden, whereinto no window looked, but that in her Cabinet, nor key
could open but her owne. Into this place I was convay’d by her woman
a little before, where meeting her, we passed some houres together. Thus
was I the blest man, injoying the world of riches in her love, and hee contented
after, having what he sought. Thus I lived a while, till I found him
alter’d, and the face of the Court a little chang’d towards mee (for former
causes they pretended, forgetting me, and what was done by mee for
them) which made me, fearing her harme, leave the Country for a while,
which little time to me already seemes ages, being yet but moneths, and
few in number, though in love innumerable. She was sad, and griev’d for
my going; I playd the woman too, and wept at our departing, but soone
I hope againe that we shall meete, howsoever I will see her, though in private,
and venter life for it. After that I left Hungary, I came through many
Countries, till I came in to Italie, and so hoping to meete you there; but hearing
of your being in Morea I went crosse the Sea into that Countrey, and K so K1v 66
so had mist you, but that I fortunately met your Squire; who seeking Parselius
enquired of me, for him, and I for you of him. Wee resolv’d each other,
I telling him where I had left him, which was in Elis, after a delicate and
strange adventure finishing, and being directed by him how to know you, I
was the better instructed to present my service to you, which the fame of
your worth had long since dedicated to you.”

“Leave complements deere friend” (said Amphilanthus), “it is not now time
to use them, our loves having sealed them up in truth; give such delicate
phrases to your next Mistris.”
“My next: why, thinke you I will change?” “If
you bee wise”
(said Amphilanthus), “and would my fate would change, then
were I happy; one such minute, whereof it seemes you have had seasons, would
be more welcome to me, then the Crowne of Naples; yet would I have her
chaste still, and then I hope I should with truth and service win her.”
“Is shee
yet to be won”
(said the Bohemian)? “Yes”, (said the Italian), “by me she is: and
what tormenteth me is, I feare she loves my friend.”
“He is no friend that wil
not yeeld to you (said he).”
“I should not love him” (said Amphilanthus), “if his
love to mee should exceed that to so incomparable a creature.”
“How know
you she doth love”
(said the Prince)? “I only feare” (said he), “and dare not hope
it is my selfe: but surely she doth love.”
“Hope and beleeve” (said he) “and that
will make you bold to shew yours to her, and then who can refuse you?”

“Would this were true, and then had I the only victory I seeke. Adventure
brave Prince”
(said the Bohemian), “never yet faild your conquest on men, and
women are the weaker and gentler: besides, you are (the world sayes happy
in those wars) so fortunate and so loving, as you cannot faile, nor she resist.”
“I
am no coward, though mistrust my strength in her sight; her lookes”
(said
Amphilanthus) “are to me (if frowning) more terrible then death: yet come
what will, I must adventure; if I obtaine, I will be as free with you, as you
have been with me, else keep my disgrace, my fortune, and affliction
from discovery made by my tongue. Will not your face declare it thinke
you? therefore to avoide such inconvenience, woe bravely, and resolutely,
and then win joyfully, and blessedly.”
Morning being somewhat spent, they
rose, and so tooke on their way, Steriamus having yeelded to Amphilanthus
earnest perswasion, to goe with him into the pleasant Morea. Parselius, after
he had left his Fathers Court and friends together, with his sad thoughts, he
betook himselfe to Elis, and so to ship for Italy, to fetch his friend to assist the
two Princes, and after to goe and redeeme his heart out of the enchantment:
as he past along in the country of Elis, one day being so busied, as his thoughts
had chāangd him into thēemselves, his horse carying him which way he best lik’d
he was cald upon by a rude voice, which wild him, to know himselfe better,
then so proudly to carry himself before a Princesse. Looking up to see what,
and who this was, he perceived close by him a troope of Ladies, all on horseback,
and many Gentlemen and Knights attending them, but one who had
adventur’d to instruct him a little more then the rest, to whom he thus spake;
“Truly sir” (said he) “this fault was caused by melancholy, not by rudenes; for I
have bin too wel brought up to be uncivil to Ladies.”
“It appeares so indeed”, said
he, “that thus you stand prating to me, and do no reverence to her who best deserves
it.”
The Prince angry at his boldnes, but unwilling to wrangle with him,
only turnd to the Ladies, & made a reverence to thēem, offring to passe by thēem; but K2r 67
but the first Knight seeing that: “Stay Sir” (said he) “you have not done all, ’tis
not a curtesie shall serve, for we must see if your valour be equall to your manners.”
“They have commonly gone together” (said Parselius): “but where are
your Armes?”
“Hard by” (said the other); “and that you will too soone find.”
“I’m sure” (said he) “I have found words enough, which may make me hope to
scape the better from your blowes.”
He went and arm’d himselfe, the like did
all the rest, while the Prince stood beholding the Lady, who was of great
beauty and bravery; apparreld in a hunting garment of greene cut with red,
the upper and lower part of her gowne embroydred with gold, and red, a feather
of red and greene in her head; the furniture to her horse of the same colour
and richnes, to whom Parselius thus spake: “Madam, if I had offended
you, the least of your corrections had made me submit, without the furie of
your Knights, who me thinkes were very confident of the due respect you
may challenge, els unarm’d they would not have bin so forward to the combate.”
“Sir” (said she) “you are deceiv’d in this, for such is their valour, as none
yet ever equall’d them, especially him that first spake; nor have they reason
to trust any further on me, then their owne swords will warrant them in; but
indeed the cause of all this, is a vow which I have made, which is this; My
selfe being daughter to the Prince of Elis, which Countrie is in homage subject
to the King of Morea, it was my ill fortune to fall in love with the scornefull
and proud Prince of that Countrie, called Parselius, who did not content
himselfe with disdaining me, but boasted of my subjection, and to my selfe,
when I with humilitie besought his favour; he told me, he was no subject to
Love. This hath made me vow revenge, to which end I keepe these knights
about me, and never meete any stranger, that they encounter not, nor shall,
till we meete him; and if good fortune fall, that we win him by combate, I
will then win him by love, or obtaine my will by force.”

By this the Knights were come, who setting on the brave Prince one after
the other, he overthrew them all, and left them, most not able to goe thence,
some starke dead, the best, leggs or armes broken. This done, the Lady againe
spake: “Sir, since fortune and your power, hath left mee guardlesse, I
hope you will conduct me to the Towne, besides, let me know who you are.”

“Madam” (said hee) “as I take it, by the course of Armes you are mine; for if you
were to win mee by their conquest, by the same reason you must be lost, if
they be vanquished.”
“Tis true Sir” (said she) “and such indeed were the conditions;
yet I had hop’d you would never have called that in question.”
“Nor
truly Madam”
(said he) “doe I it, with any meaning to keepe you, though my
victory gives you to me: but to shew I am civill, and not unmannerly, I will
deliver you here to your Ladies and Pages; that I am not proud or scornfull,
I kisse your hands: but to let you see I disdaine an unworthy love, or a forc’d
one, Parselius bids you thus farewell, and will yet pray, that your senses may
tell you, a lower choice, and an humbler mind will prove more fit and
happie for you; and such I wish you, since for mee you have been distempered.”

Thus hee departed, leaving her amazed and afflicted, with hate, disdaine,
scorne, and all other shee accused him of, till shame overcame, and forst
her to returne to a good old man her father; whose mild and good example,
brought her to follow the counsell of Parselius, who held on his K2 iourney, K2v 68
journey, taking ship for Italy, he landed in the kingdome of Naples; those very
parts, making him remember that, which too well still continued in his
mind, which was the sweet and delicate Iland, wherein he found the sweetest,
and delicatest of Shepherdesses; the thought of whom brought forth
these words, his heart bleeding as fast, as before his eyes had shed sad drops.
“O sweet Iland”, cride he, “and yet desolate Pantalarea, how doe our afflictions
suit as one, and so our destinies? Urania hath left thee, and thou mourn’st;
Urania hath left mee, and I pine. Deerest Urania, deere unto me still; why
wouldst thou for novelties leave thy faithfull Parselius? why wouldst thou
not be as well then advised, as till that time be governd by my counsell? Yet
foole, most blame thy selfe: for why didst thou permit her dainty lips to
touch that charmed Brooke? nay, still adde unto thy folly; why wouldest
thou drinke so hastily thy selfe, and so have no meanes left to helpe or save?
Accursed Spring, from whence did run the ruine of my blisse. Bewitching
streame, to charme me to the losse of my soules joyes; spitefullest of the gods,
or goddesses; was it for revenge, because wee would not trie your charmed
house, that yet their cruell triall should be made upon us? Unlucky tempest,
constraining us to land on that much more unlucky shore.”
Leaving his ship,
he went a land, commaunding his servants to goe to the Court, and if they
came before him thither, there to attend till his comming, but secretly; himselfe
going along the sea-side, his mind as unrestingly running on Urania, as a
hurt bird, that never leaves flying till he falls downe: no more did hee rest,
till death-like sleepe did force him to obay; yet were his dreames oft of her,
his mind then working, and presenting her unto his imagination, as in day
his thoughts did to his heart. so did the eyes of his loving soule, ever behold
her, accusing himselfe for his folly, fearing the power of the charmes, whose
wicked might, might alter her; assuring himselfe, shee must be deceiv’d by
them, if ever she did change. In this violent feaver of sorrow hee went on,
till he discern’d a man come from under the rocks that proudly shewed their
craggie faces, wrinkling in the smiles of their joy, for being above the Sea,
which strove by flowing to cover them; but for all that ambition, was forc’d
to ebbe in penance for that high desire. He came arm’d at all points, leading
in his hand as beautifull a Lady as Nature could frame, and sorrow suffer to
appeare so; being such an one, as both had us’d their best art to frame, and suffer
to shew excellent; had she bin free, how much more rare must she then of
necessity appeare, who in misery shew’d so delicate? The Morean Prince staid
to behold, & beholding did admire the exquisitenes of that sad beautie, but
more thēen that did the cruelty of the armed man seeme wōonderful, for leading
her to a pillar which stood on the sand (a fit place that the sea might stil wash
away the memorie of such inhumanity) he tied her to it by the haire, which
was of great length, and Sun-like brightnesse. Then pulled hee off a mantle
which she wore, leaving her from the girdle upwards al naked, her soft, daintie
white hands hee fastened behind her, with a cord about both wrists, in
manner of a crosse, as testimony of her cruellest Martyrdome. When shee
was thus miserably bound to his unmercifull liking, with whipps hee was
about to torment her: but Parselius with this sight was quickly put out of
his admiration, hasting to revenge her wrong, setting spurres to his horse,
hee ran as swift as Lightning (and as dangerous this happned to the Knight) K3r 69
Knight) towards them, yet sending his voyce with more speede before
him, crying, vilde Traitor, hold thy hands and turne thy spight on
mee, more fit to encounter stripes, hoping thus to save her from some,
which if but one, had beene too much for such delicacie to endure.

But hee (whose malice was such, as the neerer he saw her succour,
the more was his fury encreased) looking up and seeing a brave knight
accompany that voice, casting his hatefull looke againe on her, and throwing
away the Whips, drew his Sword, saying, “nor yet shall this newe
Champion rescue thee”
; then ready to have parted that sweet breath from
that most sweet body, Parselius came, and struck downe the blow with his
Sword, though not so directly, but that it a little rased her on the left side,
which shee perceiving, looking on it, and seeing how the bloud did trickle
in some (though few) drops, “Many more then these”, said shee, “have I inwardly
shed for thee my deare Perissus”
; but that last word she spake softlier
then the rest, either that the strange Knight should not heare her, or that she
could not affoord that deere name to any, but her owne eares.

Shee being thus rescued, the Knight strake fiercely at Parselius, who
met him with as much furious strength, giving him his due in the curstedst
kind, and fullest measure, making such proofe of his valour (justice
being on his side, which best guides a good sword in a noble hand) as
in short time hee laid him at his feete, pulling off his helme to cut off
his head. But then the Ladie cride unto him, beseeching him to stay
that blow; the like did another Knight newly arriv’d, who untide the
Lady. Whereat Parselius was offended, thinking himselfe highly injured,
that any, except himselfe, should doe her that service, telling him, Hee
much wondred at his boldnesse, which had made him offer that wrong
unto him. “I did it” (said the new Knight) “but to give her ease, and so to
bring her, that wee both might acknowledge humble thankfulnesse for
this brave and happy reliefe, which hath brought her blessed safety.”
Parselius
hearing this curteous answere, was satisfied: then looking on the vanquished
Knight, hee demaunded, Why hee had used that cruelty to so perfect a
Lady? As he was answering, the stranger Knight knew him, casting his
eye upon him, and without any word, would as soone have deprived him of
his life: but Parselius stayd him, blaming him for seeking the death of a man
already dying. He confessing his fault, askt pardon; and pulling off his helme,
told him, that there he stood ready to receive punishment for twice so offending
him.

Parselius, though not knowing him, yet seeing his excellent personage,
and princely countenance, imbraced him, telling him, That honour might
gaine, nay challenge pardon for a greater fault, then was possible to bee committed
by such a brave Knight, he likewise taking off his helme. When Limena
(who was this sad tormented Lady) saw her Perissus (for Perissus it was),
the joy she conceiv’d was just such, as her love could make her feele, seeing
him her soule had onely loved; after so many cruell changes, and bitter
passions in their crost affection. This being past, the wounded Knight began
thus.

“First” (said hee) “let mee know by whose hand I have received this worthieK3 thie K3v 70
end, and indeed, too worthy for so worthlesse a Creature, who now,
and but now, could discerne my rash, and wicked error: which now I most
heartilie repent. Now are mine eyes open to the injuries done to vertuous
Limena, her chastity appeares before my dying sight, whereto before, my
eyes were dimme, and eares deafe, seeing and hearing nothing, but base
falshoods, being govern’d by so strong and undeserved Jealousie.”

“Next, I must aske pardon of you my Lord Perissus, deny not these Petitions,
I humbly beseech you, both unto a dying man, who in his life, did
offer you too foule, and too unpardonable an injury.”
Perissus seeing his speedy
end approaching, having the noblest and freest heart, forgave him that
offence, which proceeded from the same ground that his crosses came from,
both taking roote from Love, and yet Love in that kinde chang’d nature
with madnesse, when attended on with so much jealousie; then with a
milde voice, he spake.

“Philargus”, said he, “I am glad your punishment is accompanied with so
happy and true repentance; I doe freely forgive you, and thinke no more
of that past, then if never done. But this I desire you will demand the like
of your excellently vertuous wife, who hath beene the patient of all your
fury.”
“That I doe”, said Philargus, “and let my soule enjoy no happinesse, if I
wish not her as well as it. Then deare Limena, have you pardon’d me? if
not, O doe, and forgive unfortunate, and ill-deserving Philargus”
“My Lord”,
said she, “I most sincerely and heartily forgive you, and so I pray, doe you
the like for me”
; “my dearest then”, said he, “I happily, and thrise happily now
shall welcome death. For your other demand”
, said the brave Prince, “my
name is Parselius, Prince of Morea”
: Philargus kissing his hand, gave him
thankes, and weeping for joy said. “Most fortunate end, how doe I embrace
thee, comming so luckily, and brought thee by such royall hands?”
Then
taking Perissus by the one hand, and Limena by the other, he said, “I have yet
one reques