HELENA TO PARIS.

I Know full well (ô too lovely, and if I may say it, too much beloved Paris) that you will not easily condiscend to the discourse I shall now shape; that you will hardly suffer I should con­demne that which you approve; that I blame that which you have so much praised, and that I slight that which you doe even yet adore. You beleeve, without doubt, that I cannot offend my beauty, without offen­ding your judgement; and that since I owe all my glory to it, in owing it your conquest, I have no reason to make an assault against that. And truely he that looks on the thing but on this side, would ever be a stranger to [Page 2] my opinion: but as they have all double faces, if you will, your self, consider both the one and the other without interest, and preoccupation; I assure my self that your sence of it wil not be at distance from mine: that you will break down the Altar where you have committed Idolatry, that you will acknowledge that you have taken an I­dol for a God, that you will subscribe to my opinion, and that in fine you will say as well as I that beauty is not a real God. But to prevent you from making me any objecti­ons, I will propound them my self; yes, my dearly beloved Paris, I my self will range all your troops in battalia, that so I may defeat them afterwards: and to re­move all subject of complaint, I will not speake till after I have made you speak: I am not then ignorant, that the partisans for beauty, say that it is the cheifest work of na­ture, and its last effect: that the planets, and the sun it self have somewhat a lesser brightnesse; that from that admirable mix­ture of colours, and for that exact proporti­of features which compose a beauty, there results something that is divine: that there are none but the blind can deny this truth, and those statues which feele not its power: [Page 3] that that marvellous and proud object con­tinually triumphs: that Kings take a glory in following its chariot: that they preferre its chaines to their crownes, and that the most brave take a vanity to sigh at its feet, and to cast down their trophies there. They say likewise that the Empire of this beauty is far more noble and more glorious than that of the great Monarchs, since they reign over the bodies only, and this reigns over the spirits. They say that they are her eyes only that may be called King of Kings, since they alone subject them, and that only they make those dye slaves, who were not born but to command. In fine, they establish this beauty Queen of all the Earth; they make her reign soveraignly o­ver all the rational world; and maintain with as much ardour as they resent; that she is alone the soveraign good. Never­thelesse, O my dear Paris, how deceitfull are the appearances! & how true it is at least, that if beauty be a real good for those that see it, it is an evil to those in whom 'tis seen. To make this passe for a solid advantage, were to make blossomes passe for flowers: flat­terers forme it of lilies and roses, and do not dream that the lilies and the roses are of no [Page 4] durance, and that the fairest flowers are of no price but amongst the curious, that's to say amongst those that are not wise. And then who does not know that we accustome our selves to behold beauty, as we do all o­ther things? that after that it moves our eyes no more than the most vulgar? And that as soon as it hath lost the grace of be­ing new, it hath almost lost all?

Can one behold a light more resplendent than that of the Sun it selfe? Is there any object in Nature so marvellous as that, and whose pompe and magnificence can come near it? Neverthelesse because his lustre is ordinary, and that 'tis seen every day, few people mind to consider it, how worthy so­ever it be of it: Whereas if in a sad night a Comet make his threatning beams blaze in the ayre, all the world runs forth to see it; all the world beholds with admiration; so true it is that things, which are common, moves but little, and that extraordinary ones do powerfully attract our minds. It is thus (Paris) with those admirable flowers of which we spake already; of that fair or­nament of the spring which nature paints with so much art, and which she enamels with so rare a diversity: they seeme alwaies [Page 5] beautifull to us, because we do not alwayes see them: it being certain, that if we beheld them continually, they would not seeme so to us. One season bestowes them on us, another ravishes them away, and another brings them again: and from thence it is that our eyes are never glutted. Add again to these reasons, that the flowers, which adorne the Earth, and those which compound the skin, are but a shadow of beauty; but a pleasing vapour; and but an illusion which delights. It is of beauty as of the rainbow, it is somewhat, and it is nothing; it appears what it is not; and equally deceives him that admires it, and that lets it be admired. Lawfull Reigns may be long, but Tyranies are ordinarily short. The most faithfull slaves do sometimes remember their liberty, and when the chains are not strong, they sel­dome faile of weakening them. Judge then whether this forsaken queen be very glori­ous, and whether one can fall from a throne so elevated without falling dangerously? Suppose likewise, that those slaves are wil­ing to be so, that their chains be of dia­monds, and that is to say, as durable as they esteem them precious; do you not know that it is a general order established in na­ture, [Page 6] that the effect cannot subsist when the cause is ceased? Beauty passes, the love which it engendered passes with it, and they are after left both without lovers or beauty. The glory which is left us, is the glory of an Epitaph: They say she obtained a thou­sand victories, she gained a thousand Tro­phies; she appeared in a thousand Tri­umphs; but after all, she is no more: here lyeth the beauty of Helena, although Helena be not dead; she sees her self intombed a­live; she hears her self spoken of as of ano­ther person, and by a particular unhappi­nesse she seems to be obliged, to enter twice into the grave. Hame Paris, lets tell the things as they are; the privation of that glory is more sensible than that glory it self ever was. It is more supportable to misse alwayes some good, than to loose it after we have had it: and without doubt 'tis bet­ter to be borne unhappy then to become so. It is better (I say) to have alwayes been in the myre, than to fall therein from the height of the throne: and those which are borne slaves are not half so unhappy as those Kings which become so. Now if to fall from the throne be a great misfortune, Judge what that is then to be cast from an [Page 7] Altar? To loose the Incense is more than to loose the Crowne; and to see ones self sleighted by those which adored us, is with­out doubt a displeasure which must be in­supportable. You may possibly tell men, that this inevitable evil is so farre off, that one cannot perceive it: that nature shall change its whole face fifty times before this beauty change, and that the sun shall see its glory a thousand and a thousand times before it shall behold its disgrace. O Paris, how if you measure the time, if you measure it thus! a thousand accidents may ravish it from us every day; It is exposed to a thousand dangers; and there are not more eyes which see it, than there are evils which can make that it never more be seen. And if yet it could reach as far as can be; that it should last to the utmost limits which nature hath prescribed it; and that this sun should yet be unclouded at its setting: there is so little space from the cradle to the sepulchre, and from the beginning of the life to its period, that one cannot with­out a strong injustice set any considera­ble price upon so fraile a thing. In a word 'tis to take glasse for diamond, and to make that esteemed for pretious, which [Page 8] is not at all so, though it appear so.

I know you will tell me that the true lo­ver does not derive the cause of his passion from the beauty only of the body, but that the mind hath its share; and that thus this last subsisting alwayes his love may subsist in despight of the others ruine. But Paris, how rare are these Philosophical lovers! and how few men are found which behold a Mi­stress only in the beauties of her soul! there are found some indeed, which swear that no­thing is able to shake their constancy, which protest that their fidelity is above the power of fortune, and more strong than time it self; which maintain that this beauty shall change, and yet we shall not see them change; and that in fine they shall yet think the ruines handsome, and will even adore a Temple, though destroyed. But Paris, when they say all this their Mistresses are not yet decayed; nor can their imagination con­ceive, that they can become so. They pro­mise, without knowing what they promise, and without intent to observe it; and all those unprofitable speeches proceed, rather from the weaknesse of their minds, than the meaning of their hearts. But suppose yet that they think all what they say, and that [Page 9] the lips do expresse only the pure intentions of the soul: she whom they deceive in de­ceiving themselves, is not much the more assured, since by the revolution of time and and things, there is often more difference betwixt us and our selves, than there is be­twixt us and some other: And that thus we cannot promise any thing on our faith, since we cannot tell our selves, what we shall be. O how much easier it is to ima­gine brave projects, than to put them in pra­ctice! The poorest architect, so long as he traces his designe but upon the sands, finds all his lines with a great facility; notwith­standing when it comes that the masse of stones must be piled, and the solidity of the marble must be hewen, the most skilfull finds himselfe troubled. It is easie to those who have the art of speaking with a good grace, to make faire pictures of constancie, as of other vertues; nevertheless all painters are not vertuous, because they are painters: and when they draw those handsome I­mages, they do not alwayes make their own pictures. Now my dear, and dearly belo­ved Paris, do not imagine, that 'tis but on­ly in the fear of the future that we must seeke the disadvantage of beauty: that sun [Page 10] hath eclipses in its highest elevation: that queen hath her disquiets under the purple, and on the throne: her scepter, as it is of gold, is heavier than Iron; and her Crowne has not so many flowers as thornes. I know well that to judge of her by the pompe, and by the splendour which environs her, it is impossible to have any other than very high thoughts: her beames dazle the judgement and the sight; her majesty strikes feare; her sweetnesse inspires love; she is pleasing to those whom she murders▪ she findes all submitted to her will; her imperious looks makes a thousand illustrious slaves to trem­ble; she imposes laws and receives none; in short she sees nothing above her selfe but heaven. Do not however judge, I conjure you, by these false marks of greatness; be­leeve that this queen elective is not without trouble; and on the contrary, the least of her subjects is more happy than she is. Yes Paris it is with her domination as 'tis with those great Empires which are only com­pounded of Conquests, and of usurped pro­mises; and which for this reason require so much care to keepe them, that their Con­querour becomes a slave, as soone as ever he makes himself King. In all other states [Page 11] few rebells are founde: and in this of beau­ty all aspire to tyrany; all will from sub­jects become masters; and not one resolves to serve, but with the unjust designe of commanding. I know, lovely Paris, that you are the exception to this rule; that I should be unjust my selfe, if I complained of your respect; and that in you a shepheard worthy to command Monarchs, hath al­wayes taken a glory in obeying me. But as you are incomparable, do not draw any con­sequence from your selfe of others: and without opposing your selfe against reason, or my discourse, suffer me to continue it. As the Planets shine as well upon the dung­hill as upon Jewels, and the most stupid see the sun as well as others; so beauty makes shamefull conquests as well as ho­nourable; and its power extends sometimes farther than she desires: a thousand im­portunate people persecute it: a thousand displeas'd assasinate it; and all oppose its good. One comes and praises it unhand­somly; the other comes and rather extolls himselfe; the one is alwaies musing by her, the other is so gay that he hath lost his wits; the one is jealous, another is despe­rate; one laughs at what the other sighes; [Page 12] one comes and sings her praises, another powres forth injury; the one calls her di­vine, the other sayes she is a tygresse; the one offers her incense, the other, if he durst, would throw durt at her; one raises an Al­tar to her, and sets her up an Image, the o­ther afterwards endeavours to raze both the Altar and the statua; in fine, to consider these things well, hell it self hath not a greater nor more strange torment than beauty which so many enemies besiege. Ne­vertheless (can you believe it?) these ene­mies are not the most to be feared, if they assault the quiet, there are others which as­sault the honour: and by an unexampled cruelty, beauty it selfe endeavours to de­stroy beauty. O Paris, you will easily ex­pound this riddle, and will easily know my thoughts, if you observe what envy makes my sex to do for the interest of this unhap­py beauty. As soone as ere a woman con­siders this, shee no more considers any body else; the most holy amity is not inviolable with her; the bonds of consan­guinity are not strong enough to hold her; and of all the devoirs which binde us to one another, and which makes society, there is not one which she does not despise; [Page 13] slander (that poison as secret as dangerous) expands its selfe insensibly on the reputati­on of a person who hath no other defect than that she hath none, than that of being too handsome. She receives a thousand wounds which she feeles not; they ruine her when she cannot perceive it; they strike her when she cannot see the arme nor the blow; and all these disasters happen to her only because of her beauty. From thence more tragicall events yet draw their detest­able source: from thence proceeds the quarrels of rivals, the division of families, irreconcilable hatred, bloody and wofull cumbats, and the utter desolation of houses: But my dear, and as I have already said, my too deare Paris, you, and likewise my selfe know it but too well what the effects are of this fatal beauty! you cannot cast your eyes from this very place towards the sigean gate, nor towards the banks of Xan­thus without beholding the deplorable works of those evils it can cause. 'Tis this alone (to speake rationally) which covers this sea with the enemies gallies; 'tis this alone which pitches so many tents and pa­vilions about this famous City; 'tis this alone which diggs the deep trenches that [Page 14] begirt her, and which robs her of her li­berty; and 'tis this alone which raises to an equal height with our walls the proud and high ramparts which cover the Greci­ans Camp. Yes Paris, 'tis this alone which hath caused the first blood to be spilt, with which the fields are died which hath distur­bed the quiet, and the old age of Priam; which hath caused the affliction of Hecuba; which hath engaged the valiant Hector in the perills of combats; and to say some­what yet more sensible to my heart, which hath endangered Paris. 'Tis from this a­lone, that the Mycenian Mothers, and that the Trojan Women will equally demand their children and their husbands; and by an unhappiness as strange as particular, 'tis this alone on which both the parties will look as an enemy; whether the rashnesse of a Grecian, or the inconsideratenesse of a Trojan makes them perish amidst the ar­mies; the beauty of Helena (if it be true that Helena have any beauty) will alwayes be the only cause of it. She shall answer for all the events of the warre, and as if she made the destiny both of the one, and the other; the one and the other Nation will alwayes demand satisfaction of her for the [Page 15] calamities they have suffered. Yes the Trojan people murmur against her; those of Argos curse her; offended Menelaus threatens; Cassandra calls her the fatal torch of Illium; and to ruine this unfortunate beauty, those people, which are at variance in all other things, agree in this: Nay I fear, (and this is the greatest of my fears;) I say I fear (ô my dear Paris) least the disgrace become contagious; and that you be accused of its crime; and that in fine they may hate you because you love it. Nature will complain of you and of love: the interest of your Country will strive to oversway that of your passion: Priam will demand obe­dience of you: Hecuba will claim your tendernesse: Cassandra will ask for ob­servance from you: the people will de­sire your compliance: and the very Greekes will demand Helena of you, to be revenged, and to punish her. Well then, content all the world in her losse, and content even her own selfe, if so bee her losse may serve any way to content you. Extinguish this fatal torch, which may inflame your City, reduce your Pa­laces to cinders, and r'anverse your walls, [Page 16] this so flourishing an Empire, at least if you will beleeve the predictions of Cassandra, and the dream your mother hath had, ren­der to Menelaus who does desire it, a guest which is so dangerous; follow no longer what you ought to fly; look on the perilous luster of this beauty, as on those false lights which lead into precipices, and be no lon­ger dazled with such obnoxious beams. Consider that its most resplendent lights may perhaps prove to you the shining of a Comet, which do threaten Princes and their States with disorders and misfortunes. Consider that all that pleases should not please: and that the victory of ones own passions is not the least glorious conquest, one may obtaine, as it is not the easiest. Confesse as well as I, that beauty is no real good, and reject it as an evil. Doe not li­sten either to pitty or inclination, which ne­ver counsel faithfully, and do but flatter to deceive. Follow, follow that severe beau­ty, I mean reason, and preferre it to that of my face. Hearken to Priam, hearken to Hecuba, hearken to all the Trojans, nay hearken to the very Greeks, and hearken no more to love, which speaks to you in fa­vour of this beauty. Helena who knowes [Page 17] it, and ought to know it, does once more protest to you, that she is nothing lesse than what she is believed to be; that she hath nothing precious but in appearance; and that she is of too small value to be preferred to Crownes, or to sacrifice your quiet to her. Loose her then to conserve your self, that fatal beauty; and if Troy will make an ominous present to the Greeks, let her make no other than what themselves demand. Of all those flames, which from the battlements of your ramparts, you shall cast into their Camp, I dare say that those of my eyes will be the most hurtfull to them; and if they knew what 'tis they desired, they would give as many battells not to have it, as they give to obtain it. Believe me then, and do not believe your selfe, ô my deare, deare Paris, and expose not either your State, nor your Parents, nor your quiet, for a thing which cannot be esteemed a reall good, no not in the very minds of those, which do possess it. But when you have followed my counsell, and reasons, remember at least, that Helena hath spoken against her selfe to speak for you, and that it is no slight act for a wo­man to avouch ingenuously that beauty is not a reall good. Remember (I say) that [Page 18] Helena hath more than once preferred your satisfaction before her own glory; and that the same cause, which obliged her to follow you, does now oblige her to leave you. Ne­ver forget this last testimony of my affection I conjure you, since it is the most difficult I can give you; and how low soever the price is that I set on this beauty, which I will loose with my life to preserve you; remem­ber that your self have often esteemed it be­yond Thrones & Scepters; and that in this manner, though I bestow on you but little according to my owne judgment, I give you very much according to yours.

ANGELICA TO MEDORO. The Second HARANGUE.
ANGELICA TO MEDORO.

WHen ever (lovely Medoro) you shall undertake to entertain me with the grandeur of your affect­ion, never speak to me neither of my birth, nor of my merit, nor of my obli­gations, nor of the glory you meet in ser­ving me, nor the advantages nature has be­stowed on me, nor those I enjoy by fortune; but to satisfy me in this occasion, say only to me that you love me, because your incli­nation prompts you on to it, and because you cannot hinder it your selfe. Believe me Medoro, 'tis neither to my birth, nor to my merit, nor to the obligations you have, nor to the glory you finde in serving me, nor the advantage I have received from nature, nor to those I hold by fortune, that I will owe all that tendernesse which I expect from [Page 24] you, and to say all, it is not neither from your reason, nor from your acknowledg­ment, nor likewise from your will that I ac­cept of the love which you have for Angeli­ca. If the chains which I have given you were no stronger than those, I should be­lieve you capable to break them easily, and should think my selfe but ill assured of my conquest. But for my own satisfaction, I am perswaded of the contrary, and I verily believe, that though I should not re-ascend the Throne again whereon I was borne, that although I had fewer good qualities than I have, though you were not obliged to me, though there were no glory in being my slave, and though neither Nature nor Fortune had given me neither beauty nor riches, yet you would not cease to love me as perfectly as you now do, provided that your Inclination did prompt you, as I now know it compells you. 'Tis an errour to think that love can be an effect of the Rea­son, or the Will. No Medoro, that passion would cease, being a passion, if it were bred in our souls by knowledge and judgment. One may, and one ought to chuse their friend: but one cannot nor ought not to chuse a Lover. We must love them almost [Page 25] without knowing them, the first instant of their sight must be the first of our servi­tude, where we engage our selves we must find our selves quite laden with chains, be­fore we have had the leasure to examine, whether or no it be glorious to receive them: the Judgment must be blinde, Reason must be banished, the Will must be enchain­ed, and in fine, the Inclination we have for the person beloved must triumph imperi­ously over all the powers of a soul, which is touched as it should be with a sincere & tru passion. 'Tis from that alone that love must take its birth, and not from that great num­ber of things, where a particular interest would sway us sooner than Inclination. And truly I can assure you, that in the mind I am in, I should rather receive a Crown from your hand, than give it you, as I do intend; I should rather see you despise all the Princesses in the world for love of me, than to despise, as I my selfe doe, all the greatest Princes of the Earth for love of you; since in fine, if things were thus, I could never doubt, but that your amity were rather an effect of your Inclination than of your Choise. Neverthelesse, since that can­not be, I am not unwilling to let you see, [Page 26] that my own cannot be for by-interests, but that it is voluntary in effect: if reason might freely have counselled in this busines: Medoro had not found Angelica's heart in a condition to receive now his Image; so many Illustrious Captives which her beau­ty or her good destiny had bestowed on her, would without doubt have engaged her soul before. Yes, of so many Princes, of so many Kings, of so many Heroe's which have loved her, and which have followed her; there would have been found some which her reason would not have judg'd un­worthy of her. If ambition could be a path for love, I should reign over the Tartarian Empire; if valour could subject the spirit, Orlando would be the Conquerour of Ange­lica; if wisdome, virtue, birth, and cou­rage could suffice to inspire that ardour, or to maintain and preserve it, I should yet love Renaldo more than my own self; if the testimonies of a violent affection were pow­erfull enough to produce its semblable, I should not have resisted my brother, when he would have made me accept of that of Ferragus the King of Spains son; in fine, if this passion came into ones heart without fear, and with judgment, the Circassion King [Page 27] had not left mine in a condition to be given you now; & it would have been almost im­possible, that of so many Crowns which have been laid down at my feet, I should not have found some which I had thought faire enough to have suffer'd them to set it on my head: notwithstanding, because all those princes, all those Kings, and all those Hero's have only satisfied my judgment, & have not touched my inclination I have de­spised them all, and the only Medoro without Crowne, without Kingdome, all cover'd with wounds, and extended almost dead up­on the earth, has had more power ore my soul, than all those who by their riches, by their birth, or by their courage have endea­voured to conquer me. 'Tis true that one may perhaps tell me that I have found more merit in you, than in all the others: and that he who came from shedding his blood, and exposing his life to give burial to the body of his King, deserved to be King him­selfe, and to inspire such sentiments into the heart of Angelica, which others could not infuse. However to tell things as they are, that Heroick vertue which you testified in that occasion, did not give you the Empire of my soul: and if that puissant inclination [Page 28] of which I speake, and which is the mother of all loves, had not constrained me to affect you, I should only have had compassion & esteem for you. But that superiour power which inclines us, or rather which forces us, to doe what it pleases, made that with­out knowing you, and without hardly ha­ving seen you, I had more care for your life than for my own, and did beleeve I found in your person, that which I had not found in any other. All that you at the first instant, called compassion, and generosity in me, was already an effect of love; I did not that which I would, but that which I could not forbear to do. I sought the herbs which should heale your wounds with too much earnestnesse and care to believe that I had no other interest in your life, but only for compassion, and generosity. No Medoro it was not so, I had no sooner seene you, but without the help of my judgment, I loved you as much as one can love, al­though I my selfe knew not whether that which I felt in my soul for you were love. And in effect, reason is rather wont to warre against love than to beget it, or to cherish it when it is borne, That severe and im­perious Queen, farre from approving the [Page 29] bonds the chains, and the follies of lovers, speaks nothing but of liberty of our franchi­ses, and wisdome. She will have all our sen­ses subjected to her, and our wills follow her intentions, our memory must receive nothing in store but what she judges worthy to be preserved, and the imagination must present her with things only that are serious and very solid. A lover at his Mistresses feet, is to her an object worthy of laughter and pitty: she scoffs at his weaknesse: she condemns all he does: and in fine, she would, were it in her power, destroy all the Lawes of Nature, banish all passions from mens hearts, and reign; She alone over all the Universe. Judge after this Medoro, whe­ther reason can introduce love in a soul, and whether I have not reason to say, that there is something in us more powerfull than she is that attracts us, since in spight both of her counsels and power, we often act quite contrary to what she would have us? there is this difference betwixt reason and inclina­tion, that one for the most part will oblige us to do things that displeaseth us, & this la­ter never tempts us to any thing but what is gratefull to us. 'Tis that without doubt which makes its power so great; that the [Page 30] other cannot resist it; she must needs yeild, how clear sighted so ere she is, to this amia­ble blinde guide which leads and conducts us as she pleases, who makes us love and hate according to her fancy, and who alone inspires love in the hearts of all men. When reason would sway us to any thing (though she be so imperious as I have said) yet she must imploy both time and artifice to per­suade us to obey her: she shews those whom she will expose to great perills, the glory they shall meet with; she represents to those who find an occasion to be liberal, that to give to ones friends, is to put ones treasure in security: in fine, she discourses the illfa­vourdnesse of vice, and the amability of ver­tue, that we may shun the one, and follow the other with the more ardour. She does not therefore act with so absolute a power as the inclination, which without pointing out to us either the good or the evil, which can happen by those things whereto she leads us, presses us on, or to say better, con­strains us with such violence that we cannot resist. Those natural aversions, which we see amongst reasonable persons, testifies suf­ficiently that our judgment is not absolute master of our actions: those that hate roses, [Page 31] acknowledge that their colour is faire, and that the smell it selfe is sweet; and yet for all the knowledge they have of their beau­ty, they turne away their sight with care, & fly from them as another would from some fearfull object. This imbecillity of their temperature is the same thing, with that which is found in our soul, when the incli­nation constrains it to do what she will, and not that which its selfe pleases. When I ceased to love Renaldo, I did cease knowing that he was yet worthy of my esteeme; and when 'twas his turne to cease from loving me, yet I believe he did acknowledge that Angelica had some beauty. Notwithstan­ding because it is not the judgment that be­gets affection, we know one another to bee lovely, and yet love not; and perhaps wee did love without knowing whether we had any lovely qualities or not: So true it is, that reason acts but weakly; and so certain is it, that inclination is altogether powerful. The first makes us obey only, by the same means legitimate Monarchs imploy against their subjects; but the other makes her self to feared and followed, as victorious Ty­rants use to do. She imployes nought but force against us; but as that force and vio­lence [Page 32] is almost inevitable, and that she hath no lesse sweetnesse than power, there is hard­ly any thing which resists but she overcomes it. Honour, glory, private interest, and vertue it selfe, are many times too weak an obstacle to hinder her designes, she makes Kings love shepherdesses, and that shep­herds raise their looks even up to their So­vereigns Thrones; and without distinction either of qualities or of merit, She makes a mixture of Scepters and sheephooks, of Crowns and chains, of free persons and slaves; and by these extraordinary effects, sufficiently testifies, that we are not masters of our own will, of affections; or that our reason is not alwayes so strong as to over­come her. In effect, should we act but by her counsells, should our love follow only our knowledge, and were it by her consent only that we should weare our fetters; it is certain that we should weare but one in all our lives. That which we had once found faire would alwayes be so to us; we should love till death, what we once thought love­ly: and inconstancy in fine, would never be found amongst lovers.

Since the beginning of the World, the Sun hath given admiration to all men, gold, [Page 33] pearls, and diamonds, have never found any that questioned their beauty: briefly, all things universally known, remain con­stant: why then, if love took birth from perfect knowledge, and by the operations of the judgement, should it not alwaies re-remain in the hearts that possesse it? Ha, no, no, Medoro, that cannot be so: and there­fore 'tis that all those, that are unfaithfull, are not so worthy of blame as is beleeved: nor those that are constant merit, so much praise as is bestowed upon them. The one and the other do what they are forced to do: some break their bands, and others preserve theirs, because they are constrained to it. You see some, who after they have broken their chains, do rivet them to­gether again with care, and binde themselves again more closely than they were before. There are some others, even weighed downe by their burden, who sigh under the load that presses them, and who might never­thelesse disengage themselves, but will not, preferring their servitude above liberty. Do you beleeve Medoro that these bizare effects can proceed from a clear-sighted rea­son, and a free will? Or do you not believe on the contrary that the sole inclination is [Page 34] that which unchains us, or unties us, which makes us inconstant or faithfull, and that which makes us either love or hate? Letnone wonder than any more, if we behold queens descending from their Thrones to place their Lovers there, though they be not of a roy­all birth: Let none wonder then any more to see Princes despised, Crowns rejected, and Hero's unfortunate in their amours; since 'tis not neither from reason, nor from interest, nor from ambition, nor from glo­ry that this noble ardour derives its birth.

But (youwill aske) what obligation has a lover to his Mistres, if it be true that sheloves him only because she is constrained & cannot chuse but love him? None, my dear Medoro, none, & 'tis for that in my opinion that love passes for the most noble of all passions, be­cause it is not mercinary. In common friendship and amity it is permitted to count the services we render or receive; and to name a thing, that we do willingly, an obli­gation: but in the actions of lovers there should be no such thing. The persons which love owing all things, there are no thanks owing in returne again, so that though I had given you my Crowne, as I have already [Page 35] given you my heart, I do not pretend you should be the more obliged to me, since a­mongst those that know how to love, who ever bestowes their affections, do at the same instant bestow both their Scepters and Kingdomes, and to be short, all that they possess. And if by misfortune it had hapned, that your inclination had been contrary to mine; that you had hated me as much as I have and do love you, do you thinke, my dear Medoro, that I should have blamed you? No, I would have bemoaned my self with­out accusing you: and as by my own expe­rience I know one cannot love through reason, I would not have murmured against you, though you had refused Angelica's love, with as much rigour as she has refu­sed the services of all the Kings in the world to accept those of the amiable, and gene­rous Medoro. Some might perhaps say to me that I am not very ingenious, but rather ve­ry ill advised, to entertaine you with these discourses: that I take off your fetters by perswading you that you may leave them without a crime: and that I instruct you in ingratitude, when I avouch my selfe that you owe me no obligation; although for the love of you I have done all what I was [Page 36] capable to do, in giving you my kingdome, and which is more my affection, which I preferre before the Scepter that I mean to give into your hands. But to answer that objection, I must tell you, that seeing the condition, wherein I found you, and the dif­ference of your birth from mine, if I could have hindred my love to you, I should be guilty if I had not done it: and being so rational as I know you to be, you would your selfe secretly have condemned my affection, though it were advantageous to you. You would have more esteemed in me the quality of Queen, than that of Lo­ver: and have rejoyced more for conque­ring my kingdome than my person. So that to perswade you all at once, both of the greatnesse of this affection, and that I am not unworthy of your esteeme no more than of your love, I shall never be weary with telling you, that 'tis a superiour po­wer that causes us to love; that all the wis­dome, and all the human prudence can­not bring any obstacle; and that in fine, 'tis only the inclination alone, which may bee said the true mother of all loves. There is I know not what secret charme, which passes from the eyes of the lover into the [Page 37] heart of her whom the destinies do chuse him for her beloved, whose power is inevita­ble, and as the moone governes the Sea, the north attracts the loadstone, and the sun formes the metals in the bowels of the earth, by means which are unknowne to us, so does the inclination conduct our judg­ment, attract our will, and formes the love in our soules, by waies of which we are ut­terly ignorant. She makes that wee often love, that which we do not know; and of­tentimes to, that which is not very lovely, and which we would not love if we could help it. From whence thinke you does ar­rive so many strange events in the world, of which Histories are filled if it be not from that puissant Tyrany, which surmounts all others? If Anthonies Galley (whose ad­ventures I have told you, and whose amours I learned since I left Asia, and since my be­ing in Europe) could have (I say) been go­vern'd by reason, and that it had not beene whirled away with violence, by the inclina­tion that that Roman had, for the faire E­giptian whose charmes hee did adore; do you believe he would not have stay'd in his army at the battel he lost, or that at least he would not have disputed that victory [Page 38] with his enemy? Yes Medoro, he was too wise, and too valiant, not to endeavour to winne, or to fly ignobly before those, whose conquerour he might have been. Ne­verthelesse, though he were ambitious, though he were almost assured to have all the advantage of that day, and though it concern'd and stood upon the Empire of the whole World, his inclination was more pu­issant in him than the desire of glory, or of dominion. One may say moreover, be­sides the illustrious example, that 'tis by the power of this inclination that so many bro­thers have become enemies, when they be­came Rivals; that so many subjects have revolted against their Princes; that so ma­ny Citizens have betrayed their Country; and that so many Hero's have committed faults of judgement, or done actions which were unworthy of them. All those people Medoro, had not lost their reason in the things which did not concerne their loves: they spake after the same manner as they were wont before, they were tainted with so great a malady; they acted in the same sort, they thought of their owne affaires, and of their friends with the same prudence: wherefore then should not the same reason [Page 39] be found in their love, if there had not been something in them more powerfull than that was? Ha, no, no, Medoro, this truth cannot be doubtfull: and though I seeme to prejudice my self in perswading my selfe in satisfaction, that I finde neverthelesse so much satisfaction, that I cannot omit. For as I think I am certain that you love me, in the same manner as I would be; I hold my selfe more assured of your affecti­on than I should be, if I believed that I held it by your acknowledgment rather than from your inclination. I love rather that you should love my person than the throne whereto I wil lead you: and I had rather you should esteeme the tendernesse of my amity than the conquest of my kingdome, which I call no more so, but only to let you see that I can bestow it on you. But (may one say perhaps) this same inclination, which makes you love to day, may also make you love no more too morrow: since in fine, you have been seen to love and hate Renaldo successively, and that Renaldo hath likewise been seen both to love and hate Angelica. I acknowledge ingeniously; that this ob­jection is stronger than the other; and I con­fesse likewise that this thought has given [Page 40] me some trouble in the first dayes of our a­mity. What (said I in my selfe sometimes when I considered the power of this inclina­tion, which caused me to love you) should it be possible, that one day I should no more love Medoro? Should it be possible that Medoro one day should love Angelica no more? and that this same inclination which unites our hearts and wills, should disunite them for ever? After so trouble­some a meditation, there succeeded a more pleasing thought: for coming to consider, that all those that love, do not change their inclinations alwaies; I perswaded my selfe, that we should be of those chosen lovers to serve as an example to posterity. Yes Me­doro, I beleeved that our affection never should diminish: and I beleeve at present that in making you King, I do but only augment the number of my subjects; that by bestowing my Crowne on you, I gain a faithfull slave; and in giving you my heart, I receive yours, never to be disposed of again. 'Tis in this manner Medoro, that we must at least flatter our selves in such things to which we cannot absolutely an­swer: for if it happens as we wish it, it were a wrong to afflict our selves, without cause: [Page 41] and if it happen that the inclination do change its object, there is no need of being comforted for the losse of that, which we do no longer esteeme to be worth our love. Lets then enjoy in peace the present felicity, without putting our selves in trouble for the future: let us leave the knowledge of things to come to destiny, since as well we cannot prevent them, neither by our fears or endeavours; lets imploy all the moments of our lives to speake advantageously of the power of this inclination, which has created all our felicity, since it hath created our love; let us leave some marke of it in all places we passe by; lets make all the trees which lend us their shade, lend us likewise their barks to engrave the names of Medoro and Angelica, that all those which see it, may admire and envy our happines; and to be short, never let us speake but of the pleasure there is in hearts thus united, which inclination alone does beget; in comparison of that, where reason or interest do mingle them­selves or contribute any thing. Such who love only by those two sentiments, do not at all know the sweets of love; reason is too sage to suffer any of her subjects to set all their joy, in the possession of a mistres: [Page 42] how perfect soever she may be; & interest is too mercenary to suffer any one to make his greatest treasures consist in the least favour that can come from a Lady. If I were beloved by any of those sage lovers, who alwayes consult with their judgments, and who oppose their inclination as much as they possibly can, whithout doubt they would love my Crowne, rather than a bracelet of my haire, and would preferre the luster of my throne before that of my lookes. O Medoro how little do those peo­ple know the nature of love? and indeed to speake rationally, they ought not to be put amongst the number of true lovers. All men are ot always equally touched with all passions: those which are borne covetu­ous, and who sometimes thinke they love, do wrong themselves: for if we examine the thing well, we shall finde that they love their Mistresses mony, and not the charms of her person. They follow their inclina­tion I confesse, but that which that inclina­tion regards is not love, but 'tis avarice. An ambitious man acts in the same manner; a valiant man will wish for many rivals, there­by to have the glory of fighting and over­coming them; and briefly all those, which [Page 43] are beleeved to be lovers, are not so ordina­rily but in appearance: and 'tis this without doubt which makes so many be inconstant and faithlesse. For as their strongest incli­nation is not that which makes them love, there may happen a hundred things, which satisfying their covetousnesse, their ambiti­on, and their vanity by other means makes them forsake their Mistresses, as uselesse to their felicity. But those, who above all passions, are strongly inclined to love, are more assured of the duration of their affecti­ons, and more happy in their service. They part neither their cares, nor their hearts; Scepters and Crownes are not the ends of their desires; but the certainty of being per­fectly loved is the only thing they pretend to. Think a little (lovely Medoro) on the happy life that we have led in these woods, ever since that by the force of our inclinati­on, we began to love. This cottage has serv'd me in lieu of a Palace, the fresh­nesse of this grasse has seemed more conve­nient to me than the magnificence of the Throne, and the melody of these birds more charming than all the musick that ever I heard in Europe. I have preferred the sands of these rivulets, which environ us, be­fore [Page 44] the mines of Gold in our Country: and the dew which we behold on these flowers: before the fairest pearls that ere the Orient did produce. And all this Medoro because I love you, because we see together all these things, and because both my inclina­tion, and that which you have for me, makes me, that I can see nothing with you which does not please, and which does not produce some joy. 'Tis that is (my dear Medoro) the true marke of an ardent passion: whoever can finde any part of his pleasure elsewhere than in the person he adores, is not at all capable of this noble weaknesse? and whoere is beloved and not being absent from what he loves, does not think himself happy, ought to be blotted out from the number of lovers. For to speak of things as they indeed are, those that be lovers after the manner as I understand it, I mean in spight of their reason and wills, can never do so; where-ever they find their Mistresses, they have nothing to desire, and where-ever she is not all is wanting, and nothing satisfies them. They would be weary in the great­est and most splendid Courts, although they were even seated on the Throne: and would esteeme themselves happy in a horrid [Page 45] desert, were they but blessed by the light of those eyes they adore. Now as the ob­ject of their content is more limited than that of others, it is likewise more facile to content them; but for the rest of men which cannot love, whose minds are a prey to so many passions; they need almost that eve­ry part of this world should contribute something to satisfie them fully. The Co­vetous, would have in their disposing, all the gold which the sun has produced since the beginning of Age: the Courageous would have overcome all the Hero's, that nature ever brought forth in all the world: nor would ambitious Conquerours have lesser then the Empire of the whole Universe. To satisfie the people there must be very much; or to say better, they must have either inchantments or miracles to make them become happy. But as for those that know to love, and who lock up all their fe­licity in the hearts of a servant, or a Mistres they never have nothing to fear but them­selves. For, provided their Inclination do not destroy their felicity by changing its object; they neither fear the malice of men, nor the capricio's of Fortune, nor any other of those misfortunes, which may happen in the course [Page 46] of their lives; so true it is, that their minds are disintangled from all other thoughts, but such as directly concerne their love. By this you may see, (my dear Medoro) of what nature that is, which I have for you. and that which I beleeve you have for me. You are to me instead of Parents, of Kingdome, and Crowne; and if I had not a designe to place it on your head, I think that without any desire of re-ascending the Throne, I should oblige you to passe the rest of our dayes, in this pleasing solitude. But since I am confident you will more esteeme the hand that shall crowne you, than the Crown it selfe, how glorious soere it may be; we must think of leaving this lovely desert; we must return to the Kingdom of Cataya, we must make all the earth to see what the power of this Inclination can do; we must shew it what that is which ought to be called love; and make it behold in you, a lover without ambition, which this love has made a King; and in my person, a Queen not im­prudent, which yet this same love, has made to become a subject.

AMARILLIS TO TITYRUS. The Third HARANGUE.
AMARILLIS TO TITYRUS.

CEase Illustrious Shepherd, cease to regret the magnificence of Rome; do not disturbe the tran­quility of our woods by unjust and inutile complaints; and be perswaded, that whether for the pleasingnesse of per­sons, for the purity of manners, for the innocency of pleasures, for the felicity of life, or for true vertue; our villages ought to be preferred before the pompe of the fai­rest Cities; and the simplicity of our Cot­tages, to the seats of the proudest Palaces. I acknowledge that the picture, which you have made me of that proud one, which dares vaunt to subject all the earth, is ve­ry different from that which I designe to shew you this day. In the one we see naught but Scepters and Crownes, and in the other [Page 50] only Garlands of flowers and Sheephooks. In the first we see every where glistering the gold, pearls, and diamonds; and in this I am going to shew, you shall behold no o­ther gold, than that of the beams of the Sun; no other pearls, than those the dew drops on the ennamel of our meads; nor o­ther diamonds, than the liquid christal of our fountains. But (ô Tityrus) how pure is that gold! how gratefull a luster those pearls do cast! and how delicious is that morning christal to those, who do not let themselves be deceived by deluding appear­ances; who can discerne as they ought, the beauties of art and nature; and preferre with judgment a lasting felicity before a fading one! You will tell me (perhaps) that hea­ring me speake in this manner, it would seeme that I have but little considered that magnificent daughter, which you have shewed me, of Augustus Court; because I do not condiscend to agree, that you have cause to complaine for being absent from it. It is true notwithstanding, that I have ta­ken notice of every stroake; and I confesse also, that at the instant those great buildings of Marble, of Jasper, and of Porphiry brought me in doubt whether I should not [Page 51] preferre them before our Grotts. But I was not long in that errour; and although with­out doubt the portrait is a little flattered, that hath not hindred me from finding that you are in the wrong to speake of Rome, as of a place to which nothing is wanting that may render an honest man happy; and of our forrests, as of a dwelling where one can find nothing which might reasonably satisfy a man of spirit. Let us examine all these things in order, I conjure you: and to oblige you to hear mee more attentively, and to perswade you with greater power, I shall let you see that Rome is in my Imagination, such as you have described it to me: that so by the opposition of the life at Court, and the Country life, I may by making you see the advantages and defects, draw you with the more facility to my judgment. You have told me (unlesse I am deceived) that the beauty of the places we inhabit, does serve very much to render men happy; that brave objects does elevate the spirits; and that this being so (as I confesse it) Rome is the most charming abode upon earth, since 'tis there that the greatest riches are found. You have (I say) assured me, that all the Temples are filled with the workmanship of [Page 52] the best Masters of antiquity; that all the houses are placed; that all the furniture is stately; that all the publick places are adorned, either with brasse statua's, or tri­umphant arches; and that in fine, she in­closes within her walls, all that art can pro­duce as marvellous, and all that is most rare in the universe. Lets see after this, unjust Shepherd, if in our solitude I can find ought wherewith to make you forget those gallant things; and wherewith to make you con­fesse that the Country life is to be preferred before that in Cities. I perceive that you find my designe too bold, and that you are troubled to comprehend, (you I say, who are out of love with the place where you were borne, and who have forgotten them) that out of Rome one can behold any thing that is wonderfull. Neverthelesse it is cer­tain, that there is a notable difference be­twixt all those ornaments which imbellish that, and these of the places we inhabit. But is all that makes them brave, contrary to us, who enjoy all the beauties of nature. In fine that is but the works of men, and our a­bode is the master peece of the Gods. It is true, we have no Palaces, but if our Cottages be less magnificent, they are by [Page 53] their low roofs, the more distant from thunders, and stormes. And then to say the truth, whoever shall stand to consider the marvellous structure of that rich Cano­py which covers our heads, will not regret the proudest seelings which are at Rome. But (you will tell me) it seems by your speech, that the starres, and the sun do not shine on the Capitol each in their turns; and that Rome, is onely a place of obscurity, and darknesse; I acknowledge it shepherd, I ac­knowledge it, and to make you acknowledg it your selfe, suffer me to shew you that, which without doubt you do not now re­member to have ever seen; I mean therising and setting of the Sun in our plains, either when we are in our woods, or that we walk along the margent of some of our rivers. Ha shepherd, if it be true, that brave ob­jects raise the Spirits, and that the marble, the jasper, the porphiry, pearls, diamonds, and gold, raise pleasing thoughts, what should not the arrival of that faire planet do, when he appears in the horizon, he which hath communicated to all those things, the little beauty they have? In effect, is there any thing more lovely in the whole Uni­verse, than the magnificent entrance hee [Page 54] makes each morning towards us? At Rome he is hardly ever seen without clouds: the foggs and the smoake vaile a part of his beams: one would say he were angry, to be imployed in that place, only to give light to cheats, flatterers, and to voluntary slaves. One would think (I say) that he hides a part of his light, because his heat serves but to dry the myre in the streets; whereas with us, when he begins to appear, he hath no­thing to doe, but to dissipate the innocent vapours which arise from the earth; and to dry up the pearls of dew, which moisten our fields; to make our Roses to blow, to give a fresh enamel to all our flowers; to paint the wings of our butterflies; and to receive the wishes of all the Shepherds of our Vil­lage. And indeed it appears to us every day, with so much magnificence, that no­thing can equall his triumph: no sooner do the first of his beams begin to shed the purple, the gold, and azure in some pla­ces of the skie, but all nature seemes to re­joyce. The obscurity of the night does dissipate; the stars with respect disappaer; the birds awake singing; our flocks are willing to go forth to the folds, & all our Shepherds and Shepherdesses, who are never wearied [Page 55] to behold the same thing, when it is hand­some, alwayes admire more and more, that wonderfull treasure of rich and lively co­lours, which overspreads the clouds at his arrival. They admire (I say) those faire im­pressions of light, which he communicates to all the objects which are capable to re­ceive them: he guilds the crowns of our luminous beams, he pierces the thicknesse of our forrests, only to make them more pleasant, and not to take away their fresh­nesse, or to dissipate our shade. In the morning he permits us to look on him; at noone he suffers our woods to defend us from his scorching; and in the evening he shews us his Image in the rivers, and in our fountains, but so sparkling, and so wonder­full, that all the diamonds in the world cannot equal the beauty of the least of his beams. When he renewes the day, he puts us in hope we shall quickly behold him by the proud preparation which fore-runs him: and when he robs it from us, he seems to assure us by the abundance of his riches, which he imployes to paint the heavens with Roseat, shaddowed gold, and with all the colours the most lively, and others most shady, that his absence shall not bee [Page 56] long; and that in few houres we shall be­hold him again as bright as ever. Acknow­ledge now shepherd by this weake draught I have traced, that there is nothing in Rome which is so handsome as this which I have represented to you. Yet this is not the one­ly thing that renders our habitations plea­sing; there are places into which the sun never comes, and yet they give delight; we have Grotts sunke so deep into the conca­vity of works, that the day hardly arrives there, and the night, who mingles her sa­ble complexion with his luster, is never quite banished thence. They are onely tapistred with mosse, and yet the silence and cool­nesse which one meets, creates a pleasure. There are muses with tranquility and with sweetnesse: and if one were alone in Nature, may peaceably enjoy all the charms of so­litude. At the going forth from thence, you shall alwayes find a fountain, whose wa­ter is so pure, it permits through its streams to behold the diversity of pebles, which are in the bottome of its bed. It makes but a weake murmur, fitter to rock asleep with voluptuousnesse, than to keep awake with anger. The waters which flow thence from a rivulet, which serpentinely creeps [Page 57] with a soft tread amongst the pebles, reeds, and flowers, till it steals into a mead, where confounding it selfe amongst others, which likewise moisten it, they unite, and with their mingled waters, make a great and large river, whose stream and brink, cause a new divertisement: and whose purity without doubt ought to be more gratefull to the sight, than the muddy waters of Ty­ber. Now if from these peaceable beauties you will passe to those whose charmes are mingled with I know not what that's terri­ble, and which strikes a horrour in their divertisements; we have fearfull precipices; we have rocks, whose heads do reach the heavens; and from whence such furious torrents descend, that their fall makes as great a noise as the thunder, or the Sea. One would say that they are mountaines of snow precipitating themselves upon one another, so much those waters foame, and to see them rowle, and bound with such abundance and impetuosity would make one beleeve they would overflow the whole earth. Never­thelesse, they are no sooner disgorg'd into a gulfe which is at the foot of that rock whence they Issue, but they hide themselves in the cavernes, to go and render their tri­bute [Page 58] without doubt to those, from whence they proceed. Going from thence, shepherd, shall I conduct you into one of those me­dowes, where we find a large tapistry of different flowers that overspreads it; where you may see a hundred cristal springs; where on the one side is seen a delightfull river; and on the other many willowes, Alders, and Lote trees, which by their shadow make their sweet abode pleasing, though the sun scorch all besides, and invites the shepherds to sleep securely? But perhaps you will not stay so long, lets go then (shepherd) lets go into one of those forests, whose obscuri­ty, silence, and antiquity seems to imprint respect in all those which walk there. If that shady forrest were at the gates of Rome, it would be filled only with theeves, or fu­gitive criminalls: whereas here we shall find none but staggs, hinds, roe-bucks, and deers, you may guesse also by their numbers, that we do not often make toiles to catch them, and you shall see by the small care they take to hide themselves, that that place is a san­ctuary for them. All those great spaces, whose deep shade is such, that in the day you can hardly distinguish colours, and where one may almost doubt whether the foliage [Page 59] be not black rather than greene; are not yet destitute of somwhat wherewith to divert the mind, and sight of a melancholy shep­herd; and when by some windowes where the trees are less thick, the rayes of the sun appears and dissipates a part of that pleasing night; there was never any thing so lovely as those long twists of silver beams, which seeme as if they would force the obscurity to yeild place to light. One would say by the agitation of the leaves, that they presse together, to hinder its entrance; but the more the wind makes them tremble, the more easie passage do they give to those enemies of darknesse. Going from this Forrest, will you let me guide you to the brink of a great pond, whose tranquility seldome failes to give rest to those minds which do but stop to admire its beauty? Ze­phirus only curles its billowes; and he stirs them so softly, that one may with ease be­hold all the fishes which are at the bottome of those waters, as clear as they are smooth. Some of them swimming with precipitation to seek their food; the others bound, and raise themselves above the water: and o­thers more timorous, runne to hide them­selves at the least noise they hear. If from [Page 60] the bottome of this cristal, you ascend to consider its surface, you shall behold it all cover'd with swans: admire (Shepherd) the whiteness of their plumage; the gravity they keepe in swimming; and the noble pride which still appears in their looks: would one not say, they despise all they look on? and would not one Imagine also, that at some times they have a designe to please; when they make sails of their wings only to delight; and swim about only to be admired? Ha, Shepherd, how farre are the inhabitants of Rome from these innocent pleasures, and what delights does their troublesome life rob them of! Neverthelesse I am not yet at the end of the description of the places we inhabite; I must needs lead you up one of those great mountains, from whence at once we discover the Rivers, Forrests, Plains, and Pastures; where the sight is so unlimited, that the objects may seeme to steale from our view by their great distance, and the skie to kisse the furthermost parts we be­hold. But perhaps you do not love an ob­ject of such a vast extent: let me then shew you the way on our banks, and in our val­leys, that so I may make you acknowledge [Page 61] that their fruitfulnesse should be preferred before the sterility of Romes seven hills. Those little corners of earth are so much favoured by heaven, that they seeme to be ever sheltered from all the injuries of the ayre: the wind does hardly breath there; the hayle does not destroy the vines: the greene is eternal: and I truly believe, that if one should not manure them, the Sun alone would produce and ripen, all what ever Agriculture brings forth elsewhere; not without much trou­ble and care. Now that we may not yet forget that which makes the liberality of our Shepherds; and that which is the in­nocent love of our shepherdesses: can you compare the Perfumes of Rome with the sweeet odour of our Violets, of our Roses, and our Gilliflowers? At least there is this difference, that the one does but satisfie the smell; and that the other, besides its gratefull perfume, pleases the eye infinitely. In effect, was ever any thing more faire to behold than this prodigious quantity of flowers, which fills our Gardens; either for their forme, for the briske and lively [Page 62] colours, or the variety there is amongst them? Believe me (shepherd) the mag­nificent Tapestry which is at Rome does not shew any thing that is so wonderfull. The purple is not so faire, as the Incarnat of our Roses: the Pearls of our Crowns Imperial, are more worth than Orient pearls: and the least of our flowers deserves more admiration than all that human art can invent. Now after I have made you be­hold that which I call the suns master-piece follow me into this neighbour grove; 'tis there that you shall find that which is not to be found at Rome; 'tis there that you shall hear, that which is not heard in any City; and 'tis there you will be forced to confesse, that you must be insensible of pleasures, if you preferre not the Coun­try life before that of the Court. Be­hold then (I conjure you) that great num­ber of shepherds, and shepherdesses, who daring the heat of the day, have led their flocks into the shade under the closeness of this grove: and without admiring the hand­somenesse of some, or the beauty of others; since 'tis not in this place that I intend to speak of that, hearken onely to what they listen too; I mean that great quantity of [Page 63] birds, who by their different tones, make so pleasant a consort. Hearing them sing so early, one would say they did strive to­gether who should obtain reward of the victory. But amongst others admire that learned master of musick, who surpasses them all by the least of his notes. And in­deed they are all ashamed of their unskil­fulnesse; they leave off through impuis­sance and respect; and only the Nightin­gales his fellowes try with equal armes to vanquish him, & to overcome each the o­ther. Hearken how admirably this does pass his cadences; how he lets fall his voice; how he maintains it, how he renews it, and with what regularity he animates his song. That other which answers him, hath a particular charme, he is more lan­guishing and more amorous; but as he is more feeble, so I believe he will be van­quished. Listen how they redouble their strengths; and you may even discerne a kind of joy, in him that finds he hath the advantage, and sorrow, and anger in that which finds his strength diminisheth. Look ye (shepherd) he can sing no more; his strains are not so equal, though they be more frequent, the sweetnesse of his voice [Page 64] does change; he sings now onely out of des­paire; I can discover through those leaves, that he staggers, his clawes can no longer graspe the branch, which upholds him; I see him tumble with vexation, and he in falling murmers yet some languishing notes, and does almost loose his life before his voice. Those (Shepherd) are the onely ambitious ones of our Country: compare those with them of Rome (I conjure you) and although the destiny of this poore Bird bee worthy of pity; acknowledge that 'tis better am­bition cause only the death of Nightingales, than that it should ranverse Thrones and Empires. Yet more (Shepherd) 'tis not in the spring time onely, in summer, and in au­tumne, that we have the advantage above Cities, winter it selfe, how fearfull and sharp soever 'tis discribed, hath somewhat amidst its rigour which is fine, and magnifi­cent in our fields. The snow, which in the Cities, looses all its whitenesse, as soone as ere 'tis fallen, ot at least conserves its purity only on the house tops; does here make rich and curious plumes of the branches of our Cypresse, Cedars, and Firres. Those trees (I say) whose leaves do not shed, mingling their verdure with its whitenesse, makes [Page 65] without doubt as pleasing an object, as the summer can bestow: and then, when the frost, and sharpenesse of the cold hath converted all our rivulets into Cristal, we behold likewise all our trees laden with dia­monds. You will tell me, (it may be) that those diamonds do not make us the richer: and that the Sun deprives us of what the cold bestows. But (shepherd) if those dia­monds do not enrich us, however they doe not make us become guilty: We cannot corrupt the fidelity of any one with them: nor imploy them in so many unlawfull uses as you know they do at Rome. There is one thing more yet in the Cities, which seems to me not to be indured: which is, that one would say there is but one kind of sea­son all the year long, to those that inhabit them. They alwayes behold the same things; they have the same imployments; their houses are alwayes alike; their plea­sures do not vary: and except only that they have cold and heat, according to the divers temperatures of the ayre, there hap­pens no change in their life: contrary to us, to whom nature every year renues four times, all the beauties of our dwellings. Each season gives us a different occupation: [Page 66] The spring with its flowry chaplet calls us to take care of our medowes and flocks. The summer with its Coronet of wheat­ears, obliges us to the reaping of our harvest: Autume with its garland of vine, invites us not to leave our grapes any longer ex­posed to the pillage of passengers: and the winter all covered with ice, will have us ne­verthelesse, render to the earth the tribute which each one owes it: that so another time she may returne with interest those graines, which we have sowed in her bo­some. O Shepherd, how innocent is this usury; and how little it resembles that which they practise in Cities, this beggars no body, by thus enriching ones selfe in this manner; one cannot either envie you for it, nor reproach you, nor accuse you of any crime: but farre otherwise, the more you are carefull, the more you are praised: whereas the others care is alwayes blame-worthy, if they are not alwayes bla­med. They have more paine and lesse plea­sure; that which is acquired by unjust ways cannot be without doubt, possessed without disquiet. They fear their enviers, their e­nemies, and theeves; but for us we have neither enviers, nor enemies; Nor do we [Page 67] fear any other robbers of our riches, than the birds, which steale some of our fruits: and which for all this, we would not banish from our Campaniaes, so much those inno­cent criminalls, do give us delight in other reencounters. But to let you see, that for all your magnificent structures of your Temples and your Palaces; for all your Marble, Jasper, and Porphirie, which a­dornes them; and for all your aqueducts your Statuas, and your Triumphant arches we are however the true possessors of the bravest things of Nature. You need but consider, that Rome beautifies it selfe but with that which the earth locks in her bow­ells, and which she conceals from the eyes of men: whereas we enjoy all that where­with she dresses her selfe, and with all that she sets forth to the view of the whole World. No Shepherd, they are not her treasures, those metals which are now a­dayes the Tyrants of the minds, and the corrupters of the most wise: If that were so, we should behold trees laden with gold, with pearls, and jewels; she would dresse her selfe with her fairest ornaments; and would not leave imperfect, that which you call her chief works. The gold should not [Page 68] need to be refined; we should need no la­pidaries to cut the diamonds; nor no peo­ple which knew how to polish the pearls. All those things would be in sight, and would be as well finished, in the instant they were produced, as are our flowers, our woods and our fountaines: Cease then (shepherd) cease to maintaine that the abode at Rome, is pleasanter than that in our Country: and prepare your selfe in the remainder, to see the magnificence of your divertisements, yeeld to the simplicity of ours. Of all the publick festivalls with which you have en­tertained me, those of the triumphs, and the combats of the Gladiators, are the most celebrous: But (ô Tityrus) those feasts, and playes, have somewhat that is tyrannical and wofull! and how hard it is to reasonable people to rejoyce, in seing so many unhapy! that which is called delight, ought not to be mingled with bitternesse. Smiles and tears should not be seen together: and blood spill'd in a battle it selfe, should not delight how much lesse then in pastimes. Never­thelesse the most pleasing which they have at Rome, is to see Kings in chains; and four thousand gladiators cut one anothers throats for the pleasure of Roman people. [Page 69] O Shepherd, what must those people be, who delight to see rivers of blood & moun­tains of carcasses! for our parts, we who afflict our selves, when any of our lambs are sick, we should be far from rejoycing to be­hold those miserable ones dye so cruelly: or be satisfied to see Princes, and Princesses laden with fetters. For my part (Shepherd) should I see such a spectacle, I should have more compassion for the vanquished, than esteeme for the vanquishers: In fine, to tell you the things as I believe them, I can see no innocent pleasures in Rome; they insulte over the unhappy, and they cause the un­fortunate slaves to perish: they lead Kings captives, after they have usurped their Kingdomes: and they heare, and they look on, not only without horrour, but with sa­tisfaction, the last complaints and actions of dying men. Cesar (as they say) wept after the Pharsalian Battel, over those great numbers of bodies, which he beheld with­out life, and motion; but in Rome they laugh at that which made him weepe; and they call it a feast of rejoycing, which rather should be named a publick mourning. See Shepherd, I intreat you, whether we are cruell or innocent in our pastimes; and [Page 70] whether in reminding you of them, you will not acknowledge that if there be lesse pompe, there is more wit, more skill, more equity, and also more pleasure. Repasse then in your imagination, one of those ge­neral holidayes of all our hamlets, or one of those sacrifices, after the reaping of our harvest: did you ever see any thing more pleasing, than to see, not Kings manacled in fetters; not Gladiators all covered with blood and wounds; but an innumerable number of Shepherds and Shepherdesses, with coronets and garlands of flowers; with such a joy in their countenance, as is com­municated to all that behold them? some have their bag-pipes, others their flutes; some of them lead the victimes, the others carry the consecrated vessels; the one raises an altar of turfs, the other puts the fire which enkindles it; and almost every one hath sheephooks imbellished with mottoes, figures, and ribons. The neatness of their cloaths, serves also to make them the more amiable; 'tis not proud indeed, but it is gal­lant. The purple and the jewels do not shine there; but their pure whiteness, & those fa­ding jewels, which the spring, the summer, & autume, bestowes each year upon us, does [Page 71] make amends enough for that want, and for the rest, the beauty of my companions (if I am not deceived) ought not to yeild to that of the Roman Ladies: you will tell me (per­haps) that though it were true, that the fea­tures of their faces were as sweet, and their countenāces as pleasing; at least I should not deny, that the tan of the fields spoyles their skins, and destroys its fresh colour. But be­sides that the thick umbrage of our forrest, defends them from that enemy; I must also tell you, that the tan is more becoming, and supportable, than painting, and that nature is more charming than artifice. For our parts, Shepherd, we appear such as we are: we have no other lookinglasses than our fountains, no other Fucus than the dew; and yet there are maids amongst our woods, whose complexi­on is so wonderfull, that it out-vies, and sul­lies the whitenesses of the lilies, and the in­carnate of the fairest roses. The modesty of their actions; the sincerity of their discourse; & the serenity which appears in their looks, are such things as are only foūd in our filds, Every where else there is nothing but dissi­mulation & art; they see to be seen; they make no conquest without designe; that which ap­pears faire, is not so; and one is sometimes as much deceived in the person as the mind.

[Page 72] But let's return, Shepherd, let's return to that faire assembly, where our sage Pa­stors, who are the witnesses and judges of our sports, do already prepare the rewards for those which shall overcome in this holy­day. You shall know by the simplicity of their worth, that it is not through a desire of coveteousnesses, that they desire to win: since those prizes, which are ordained for the Shepherds (as you know better than my selfe) are only baskets, and sheephooks, and pipes, and bag-pipes, and darts: and for the Shepherdesses, crowns of flowers, ca­ges of reeds, nosegeys, and ribons, and yet we take as much care to winne, as if it were to conquer the whole world. But Shep­herd, we need no weapons to obtain this vi­ctory; we need not spill blood to defeat these enemies: we do not lead those in tri­umph, over whom we have had the advan­tage; on the contrary, we embrace them, instead of enchaining them; we tell them they are the sillfullest, though they were not the happiest; and in fine, we strive to com­fort them of this small disgrace. Running, wrastling, dancing, poetry, and musick (if I be not deceived) give more divertisment, than all the combats of Gladiators. He [Page 73] whose course is nimble; he that wrastles with the greatest sleight; he who dances with the best grace; he who makes the bra­vest verses; and he who sings the truest, gives without dispute more satisfaction, than those combates of Tigers, and Pan­thers, of which you make so much. Think Shepherd, think seriously, whether you should not love rather to see the Shepher­desse Galathea dance, or to hear the fair Ly­coris sing, than to behold a lyon tear out the throat of a Tiger, or an Elephant over­throw a Rhinoceros? Yes Shepherd, you would love it better, I read it plain enough in your face, that you will agree to what I say; and I think likewise, that you had ra­ther see those two handsome maidens (al­though they otherwhile captivated you, than to be spectator of the most magnificent Triumph that ever Rome did show, though Augustus selfe were Conquerour. Do not blush Shepherd, for that little reproach I make you; do not repent you of all the brave verses, which you have composed for their glory; and be not ashamed that you have so often carried away the prizes of our exercises against the cunning Melibeus, the active Coridon, against the daring Me­nalcus, [Page 74] and against the ingenious Mopsus, in the sight of our sagest shepherds; and if from the publick holy-dayes, you will pass to those innocent warres, which makes one of our greatest pleasures; I mean our hunt­ing, and fishing: you will again bee forced to acknowledge, that Rome is not acquaint­ed with all that is capable to please; since she cannot give these gratefull occupations, to those which inhabit there. And yet 'tis certaine, that one can hardly find any thing fitter to delight, than to behold many Shep­herdesses with angles in their hands, and all keeping a profound silence, for fear least the noyse they should make should fright away the fishes they would catch, and make them shun the shore. The one makes ready her bait on the brink; the other casts her line into the river, and appears almost her own sta­tua, so attentive she is to what she is about. This by an action as quick as it is pleasant, lifts up her arme, drawes the line, and re­joyced at her prey, casts a fish upon the shore, which bowes it selfe, stretches, turns, winds, and beats, makes divers leaps and bounds upon the grasse, and makes its rich silver scales to glister, amongst the emeralds of the field. The other hoping for the [Page 75] same successe of her fellow, drawes hers without drawing any thing; at which the rest laugh or are comforted, for having a like fortune. But that which is the most de­lightfull, is to see our Shepherds laden with nets, to draw some fish-pond; there 'tis that when they are happy, you shall be­hold when they draw their nets, a living wave which spreads upon the brink, by the multitude, and the diversity of the fishes they take; some of them skip up above the net; others break it; some bound upon the greene; others more hap­py save themselves; others again entangle themselves the more by striving to disen­gage themselves; and altogether do their utmost to save their lives, and to escape from that which does detaine them. But 'tis in vain they beat; as soone as they have changed their element, they must dye, the freshnesse of the grasse is not to them, such as is the freshnesse of the water. This pastime how simple so­ever it is, is not yet so poor, but that queens as well as shepherds have imployed them­selves with it; Cleopatra, who had had the glory to catch the hearts of Cesar, and Mark Antony in her nets, did not scorne to fish, [Page 76] to cast the line, and made it one of her most ordinary gallantries. But Shepherd, if there be any pleasure in deceiving the inno­cent fish, there is no lesse, in deceiving the birds; sometimes in hiding from them that which should take them, under the heap of grain which is throwne to them, that so in coming to seeke wherewith to live, they find their death; sometimes in shooting them with bolts; and sometimes in surpri­zing them on the trees, by lyming the bran­ches, which hold them by the wings, the more they flutter and strive to flie, the more they are entangled amongst those dangerous twiggs. After these harmelesse exercises either of fishing, or bird-catching, you shall see the one and the other return with their prey; the Shepherds returns with great o­sier baskets filled with fish; the Shepher­desses carry cages of reeds, where they have kept alive some birds which have pleased them; and altogether not forgetting the care of their sheep, return to their cottages. Those which have beene successfull, though laden with their spoile, do not omit to sing some Eclogue, or play on their pipes; the flocks follow their masters, or their mistres­ses; the doggs by their fidelity, take care [Page 77] that no sheepe straggle; and the sheep and oxen, by their loud clamours, advertising those that are in their cabins, that the fish­ing, or chase is ended; they all come with much haste and joy to know the successe. But 'tis too much, Shepherd, 'tis too much spoken of our innocent warre, which (if I do not deceive my self) ought to be prefer­red to those which have caused the proudest Trophies to be raised, and whose Conque­rours have obtained the most magnificent Triumphs: Let's come then (if you please) to somewhat that is more solid; and let's compare the vices of Rome, to the vertues which are seene amongst us. First, Rome is filled with adulators, and we know hard­ly what adulation is: at Rome, falshood, and medisance reigns; and in our woods the truth appearing alwaies, we never faile to praise that which is praise-worthy: at Rome all men are slaves, either to their ambition, or avarice; and in our campaniaes, we pos­sesse more goods, than we desire to have; nor are we covetous, but only of time, which we would alwayes well imploy: at Rome, there are those people which make their treasures of the greatest poisons which are in nature, either to make away their ene­mies, [Page 78] or to make away themselves, if it hap­pens that they are to be punished for their crimes; and amongst us, we make our dear­est treasures, of salutary herbs, which can heale the bitings of serpents, or any other venemous beast. At Rome, all the world thinks only upon their owne interest; here, they only thinke on their own pleasures, provided it be harmelesse. At Rome all those which inhabit it seeke to aproach near the Prince: in our woods we only seek our equalls. At Rome, they will have no Ma­sters, and yet deny not to kisse the hand that inchains them; and in our hamlets, we obey our ancient Shepherds, with as much affection as freedome. At Rome those which make the Lawes scoffe at them, and do not observe them; and in our forrests, the sagest Pastors instruct by their examples, rather than by their words. Yes we doe what they doe, sooner than what they tell us: nor doe we know amongst us, any infringers of our lawes, or our customes. At Rome the riches alone, makes the difference twixt men: and in our Groves, vertue and merit only makes the price and the distinction. In fine Shepherd, at Rome, all the world is [Page 79] busied to deceive others; or at least to hin­der that they bee not themselves cozened; whereas we are only carefull to seeke the occasions to serve our selves. If any of our Sheperdesses have sometimes stragled that sheepe from her flock which she loves best; you shal see all our Shepherds with care, and earnestness seek to recover again, that which she lost. They enquire with diligence; they tell to those whom they meet, all the beau­ties of that prety creature, that thereby they may know if they have not seen it. They de­scribe its whiteness, its marks, the flowers & the ribons which are tyed to its hornes, and forget nothing which may serve to their de­signe, and if it happens that they find it, they return with as much joy, as your Consuls, when they have gained a battel; so true it is, that we ardently love to serve, not onely our friends, but all those that have need of it. As for Rome, without doubt it is not so there; all the world rejoyces at anothers misfortune: those whom the Prince does not behold with a pleas'd eye, are forsaken by those whom they have most obliged, what vertue soever they have: & those on the contrary whom he favours, should they be the most vitious, and imperfect of men, shall not want however, [Page 80] not onely to have friends, but adorers and slaves. It does not go in this strain in our Campaniaes; we see nothing above us but the heavens; we have neither Princes, nor favorites to fear, or follow; we live with e­quality; we love those that love us, and hate none. For the rest, I had alwaies heard say, that the Shepherds were the I­mages of Soveraigns; that they ought to governe the people as we govern our flocks; and that the Scepter and the Crooke, ought to have much resemblance. Neverthelesse after the manner that things are reported to us, there is a notable difference betwixt them; or to say better, there is nothing at all alike. We love our flocks with tender­nesse; we have no other care than to make them happy; we chuse them the sweetest pasture, the clearest waters; we give them a couragious and faithfull keeper, which is our dog; and we defend them our selves with the hazard of our lives, when the wolves do assault them; we take care not only to nourish and keep them, but to hin­der them likwise, both from the extream cold and the extream heat: in winter we leave them sometimes in the folds, when the frost hath glazed all the pasture: and in summer [Page 81] when the ardour of the sun scorches them, we seek such shades as may defend them from all inconveniences. When they are sick, we get such remedies as are proper for their maladies: and when they are health­full, we adorn them with ribons and flow­ers. It is not thus with many Princes, who ought to be Pastors: they will not love their flocks, nor care to be beloved by them, provided they be feared; they make use of the sheephoke rather to affright than to as­semble, or defend them; in lieu of chusing the pasture, and waters for them, they make their flocks serve their needs, and their mag­nificence: instead of keeping them as we do, reversing the order and rule; 'tis the flocks that must keep the Sheperds; where­as (I say) it should be their parts to preserve them from all harmes; 'tis they who on the contrary are the cause of all evils every day unto them, when they are sick, they are so far from seeking remedies for them, that they augment their trouble by their tyrannies: and when they are sound, they do not use to adorne them, but rather strip them even of their natural ornaments. We indeavour our flocks should be fat, & they will have theirs lean & feeble; in fine, Shepherds, not content [Page 82] to take off their fleeces, wherewith they after make their richest robes, they tear them from their bodies with so much violence, that one may say, the purple which adornes them borrowes its colour from the blood of their flocks, rather than the industry of those ex­cellent artisans, of whom they make so much esteem at Rome. Ha, Shepherd! If we had such Pastors amongst us, we would banish them from our meadows; we should esteeme them worse than the wolves, which are the declared enemies of our sheep; and we would degrade them from that honourable employment, by taking away their sheep­hook, their scrip, flute, bag-pipe, and all the glorious marks of our innocent pro­fession. Ha, Tityrus (yet once more) what a dangerous thing 'tis for one to be a Sove­raign, that is not a good Pastor! and how much better it were to take a simple shep­herd to be King, than to have a King that could not be a Shepherd! I know you will tell me, that we have now gotten a Prince, whose sweetness, clemency, and goodness, deserve that we should give him the name of Pastor, rather than Tyrant: and that Augustus, since he hath gathered his flock, is one of the best Shepherds that ever bare [Page 83] a Sheephook. But tell me a little, how many flocks has he desolated, to make this one? How much blood hath he spilt, how many Pastors hath he throatled? how ma­ny Wolves, Panthers, and Tigers have bin imploy'd to make deserts of the fairest mea­dows of this Empire? & how many innocent lambs have felt his fury, before they tasted his clemency? Speak Shepherd, I conjure you, and answer me punctually. No, no, I perceive by your silence, that you cannot contradict me; and that you are constrained to acknowledge, that there might be found more Pastors which would be good Princes, than Princes capable to be good Pastors. In effect, the felicity of the country life, hath not been so much unknown in Rome it selfe, but that those whom she files in the ranks of her most Illustrious Hero's have imbraced it, with ardour. Yes, those who after they had gained battels (as you know better than my selfe) have manured the ground with their own hands, and have also in the pressing affaires of the Republick, been re­called from thence to rule the reyns of the Empire; and from the plough to the head of an army; and from their solitude, to the Court. And yet, those people, what e­ver [Page 84] they have done, that's great, or good, have never been praised more, than when they had governed the publick, taken Cities by force; lessened the bounds of the Roman puissance; gained Battels; and merited the honours of triumph, they have been seen to refuse those honours, return from the go­vernment to their sheepcoat; from the head of an army to the plough; and from the Court to their solitude again. After this Shepherd, complain no more of your destiny: and be not so unjust as not to think any thing so pleasing as the magnificence of of Rome: since our simplicity, is as much worth as their artifice. And if from their manners in general we passe to the passions in particular; you shall find, that of all those that use to cause the grandest disorders, we know but one onely, and which produces none but gratefull effects amongst us. First, ambition does not torment us; we are Shep­herds Children, we will be only that, and can be no more. Our desire having no ob­ject, we wish for nothing, we live without disquietnesse as without pride; and seeing nothing beneath us, nor nothing above our heads but the Heavens; we are free from an­ger as frō insolence; nor would we exchange [Page 85] our sheephooks, for all the Scepters in the world. It is easie for you to judg that not be­ing ambitious we know not either, avarice, nor envy, since these are two passions, which are almost inseparable from the other. Cho­ler is but little more acquainted with us: nor does hatred finde any entrance in a Country where all deserves to be loved. But (you will aske me) what is then that passion, which useth to produce such strange disor­ders in the Cities, and makes known no o­ther than pleasing effects in your Campa­niaes? For as for me, 'tis so long that I have not lived there, that I have lost the remembrance? It is Tityrus the most pow­erfull, and noblest of all: 'tis that which made Hercules spin; which fired Troy; which hath r'enversed so many Empires; which hath caused so many ruins in all the corners of the world; which hath made so many warres; which gave Antony to Cleo­patra; Augustus to Livia; and 'tis in fine, that passion, which is borne amidst delights flowers, woods, brooks, meads, Shep­herds, and Shepherdesses, with more in­nocency, and lesse bitternesse, than on the Throne, and in the Palaces of great Kings. 'Tis in those elevated places, that this pas­sion [Page 86] which they call love, is almost always dangerous: a lover that gives law to all the world is not very fit to receive it from a mistress. He will have the things which he desires, more magistically than others: and when he encounters any obstacle in his de­signe, that crowned slave that is not accu­stomed to obey; and is wont to be obeyed of all that approach him; that slave (I say) quits his chains, revolts, remounts the throne, and becoming a Tyrant to her, whose captive he was, he oftentimes makes her suffer sad and funest adventures. But amongst us on the contrary, that little god, whose puissance hath no limits, never ap­pears in our woods, but with the society of his Mothers graces: he inspires none but reasonable desires in the hearts of our Shep­herds; we see them kisse their chains, even when the rigour of their mistresses makes them seeme most heavy to them; they re­ceive their favours with ravishment; and when they are ill entertained, their discretion and patience, does oblige them to undergoe that misfortune, with respect and submissi­on. They are alwayes our slaves, and by consequence they never are our Tyrants. We have Shepherdesses which are rigorous, [Page 87] but we have no Shepherds which are indis­creet; they dare hardly proclaime their complaints, with their bagpipes and on their reeds; their verses, their songs, and their entertainments, are filled onely with our praises; all our trees are engraved with their inscriptions, and ours mixed together: and all their speeches, gives us every day new marks, either of their esteeme, or of their affection. Constancy (that vertue which so few practice in the Cities) is most com­monly found amongst us; the equality of our conditions, and of our riches, makes that the weakest do remain constant; there is neither scepter, nor gold, nor diamonds, which can dazle, or bribe them; the wise amongst us despise them, and the rest do not know what they are: We doe not see a husband here repudiate many wines as at Rome, the lovers do not cease to be such e­ven after marriage: they will not obtain us to slight us afterwards; they take a care of the conquest they have made, and think themselves glorious to wear but one chaine in all their lives. Nor are our Shepher­desses likewise more unfaithfull: their sim­plicity, and their freenesse is the cause they do not disguise their thoughts. They are [Page 88] modest and sincere; and if a little jealousie (in spight of so many vertues which should hinder it from springing) did not disturb the tranquility of our meadowes; all our Roses would be without prickles, & al our pleasures would be without mixture, and without bit­ternesse. This passion neverthelesse does not act here, as at Rome; in that place, they have recourse to violence. The poysons, and ponyards are put in use; and some­times serve equally against the Rivall, and against the Mistress also. But here, the greatest hurt which happens to us, is that we perceive the complexion of the fairest maids to become pale; and the flocks of our carefullest Shepherds, to feele the trouble of their Master; who passing away their sorrow in the darkest forests, abandon them to the care of their friends. Yet how-ever this retreat does not make us see many mournfull events; and for the most part, some complaint, some song, and some few Poems, is all the revenge, and the recon­cilement of the most jealous. If it be the Shepherdesse that's displeased, her lover is again brought to her feet, sad and changed as he is, She hears him, receives his justifi­cation, if he be innocent, and pardons him if [Page 89] he be guilty, if so be, he repents, and im­plores his pardon handsomely, and with a good grace. And if on the contrary she be in the wrong; we condemne her to make with her own hands a garland of flowers for him; and sometimes also we consent, that he should robb her of a bracelet of her hair, after that, their felicity is founded more so­lidly then before; and the innocency of their life, justifying all their pleasures, they remain the happiest in the world. The Shepherd takes care of his Mistresses flock they go almost still together on the same pastures; they seeke out the same shades; and the same fountaines; their sheephooks have the same devices painted; their bas­kets tyed with the same ribons; their sheep adorned with the same colours, and their very doggs seeme to have contracted toge­ther a particular amity. This happy state considered, as it should be, is it not true shepherd, that the love of Rome, ought to be portray'd otherwise than ours; it should be represented like a fury; he should have more than one bow, and more than one torch given him, seing the disorders he cau­ses: he ought to beare a Scythe, as well as Saturne, and death, since he destroyes all [Page 90] that time and death destroy. He orethrowes all as well as they; he never inspires the desires of love in a heart; but that hatred, jealousie, and anger, steps in presently after. But for that love which inhabits our woods, he never must be represented but upon flow­ers; his wings must be enamel'd with the same colours of the Rainbow, and his eyes should be hoodwinkt with a very thin vail, his shafts and quiver adorned with roses and pesseminds, his skin must be white and in­carnadine, the pleasures and graces must not abandon him, his innocency must ap­pear in all his actions, and his torch seem to be in his hands, rather to lighten than to annoy us. Judge, Shepherd, after all this which I have said now to you, whether Rome ought to be preferred to the Countrey lise? we inhabit natures fairest seats, we possess all the true riches, we enjoy the fru­ition of all innocent pleasures, we are not too distant from the most solid vertue, our customes are not unjust, we are free from ambition, and behold nothing above us; what can we wish for more, or what more can you desire? yield then, Shepherd, yield to reason, to my prayers, to my perswasion, and to your own knowledge, who without [Page 91] doubt would not indure, that I should give you the quality of Shepherd, if you did not esteem it glorious. So many Verses and Eclogues which you have made do ju­stifie better than I can, the advantages of the Countrey life: it will suffice, to re­member one day, that Tityrus, after he hath sung the great acts of Aeneis, (as he hath designed) hath not disdained to accord his Reeds and Bag-pipe with our skilfullest Shepherds: do not then remember any more to be perswaded of what I desire you, neither the Sun which I have described so luminous, nor our Rivers whose waves are all silvered, nor our Fountains of Crystal, nor the Emeralds of our fields; nor those lofty Mountains, whose prospect is so plea­sing; nor those Torrents, whose falls, al­though they seem fearful, do yet afford di­vertisement: do not so much as think any more, I say, of our gloomy Forests, nor of those ponds cover'd with Swans, nor of our Hillocks, nor of our Valleys, nor of the lovely diversity of our Flowers, nor our Woods, or the Musick of our Nigh­tingales, nor of the advantage we have a­bove the Cities in all the Seasons of the Year. Forget, I say, if you can, the beauty [Page 92] of our Shepherdesses; cancel the memory of our holydayes, of our sacrifices, of our Chaces, of our Fishing, of the innocency of our Manners, and of Amaryllis her self. But remember at least, that you may never speak any thing against the Countrey life; that at your departure from Rome you be­come a Shepherd as you were before. That you have born the Scrip, and Sheep-hook; and that with the same hand with which you are going to write Dido's complaints, and the Trojan Princes praises, you have written Tityrus his moans to the Shepherdesse Gala­tea, and the praises of the Countrey life.

CLORINDA TO TANCRED. The Fourth HARANGUE.
CLORINDA TO TANCRED.

YOu have overcome, illustrious and valiant Knight; I resign my sword to you with my life: and you have moreover this ad­vantage, to hear from the mouth of that person whom you have vanquished, that you are worthy to be her vanquisher. But whence comes the sadnesse which appears on your face, and in your actions? Is it possible there should be found a man so ge­nerous, to weep for his own Victories, and to mourn the death of his enemies? Cease, couragious Knight, cease to regret my loss; and remember that I wanted but little of be­ing the cause of yours. But once again, that which I behold, and that which I hear, can it be true? Ha! I do not doubt it, I now re­member [Page 98] my deliverer; I hear that same voice, which in the midst of battels hath often appeared to me, so terrible and so charming: nor do I wonder now to see him weep at my death, who had saved my life. Yes, generous Prince, I do remember that great day, which gain'd you so much ho­nour; where, prompted by that noble am­bition, to overcome in you the valiantest & most couragious of all men, I pursued you so obstinately, that my boldnesse, or rather my rashnesse, gave you an esteem for me: you did not onely forbear to assault me, and neglect to defend your self when I assaulted you, but you defended me from all those that came against me; you became contra­ry to that party of which you were before, onely in consideration of me; you pursued your own, as your enemies, because they were mine; and all your actions did confirm to me better than your speeches, that either by the power of your fate, or by your in­clination Clorinda had touched your illustri­ous heart. Ha! may the heavens grant me some moments of life, to return you thanks for so much generosity, and to comfort you for the sadness I have caused in you. I per­ceive well, Tancred, I perceive that you [Page 99] think of going to seek some remedies for the wounds which I have received from your hand: But if it be true, that I have a­ny power over you (as your tears seem to perswade me) do not abandon me, I conjure you, to the insolence of your souldiers, at this time, when the miserable Clorinda hath no other arms to defend her self, than her complaints and sighs. Also the wounds I have received are such, that there is no share in life more for me. Ha! would the hea­vens yet once more prolong it in me a little, for some instants that I might testifie my acknowledgment. It seems to me my pray­er is heard; for although I feel that the hour of my death is neer, it seems to me, I say (if I deceive not my self) that I have cause to believe I shall not expire, till I have related to you a part of those thoughts that are in me: Do not fear, that I shall complain of you, or of fate; I have too great a soul, too firm, and too reasonable, to have a ressentment so vulgar, so weak, and so unjust. I know that in Battels one finds as often death as victory; that one must equally prepare for the one and the other; and that if so be we be overcome without shame or basenesse, we should lose [Page 100] such a victorie without despair, & die with­out murmuring. I do not then regret the portion of life which I might yet have had: mine hath been long enough since it hath been unspotted: I have lived little, I con­fess, but I have lived with glory, and I die with honour. If Clorinda must be van­quished, it must needs have been by him who uses to overcome all others: 'tis no small thing for her to have disputed with him for that illustrious prize as she hath done; and not to have yielded, but onlie because nothing can resist him. Do not mourn for me then, more than I mourn for my self; rule your ressentments by mine; comfort your self as I am comforted, and be not more sensible of my misfortune than your own interest. If you behold me as your enemy, you will rejoice at my loss; all Godfreys armie will give you thanks for this action, for though I be of that sex from which ordinarily men can draw no ad­vantage to fight and overcome us. I think nevertheless without vanitie that Clorinda's name is famous enough, to dare believe as I do, that all your Knights would think them­selves fortunate, not onlie to be her conque­rers, but even to be cōquered by her. Do not [Page 101] therefore cast that crown upon my Tomb, which you have acquired by my defeat, as if unworthy of your temples; do not dis­dain the victory, if you will not disgrace me: On the contrary, proclaim it to all the world, let all the world know what it hath cost you; do not hide the blood which you have lost, onlie hide your tears from Clorinda, that her death may be more quiet, since it cannot be more honourable. And to testifie, that she pardons it with a willing heart to you, she conjures you (if it be true that you have any affection for her) to con­serve it even after she is dead: let not her ashes extinguish that noble ardour, which her Heroick actions have kindled in your soul; you have loved her an enemy, love her in the grave; you have loved her when she was armed against you, love her when she shall be dead by your hands; you have loved her, even when she hated you; love her also when she shal have ended her days, in assuring you, that she hath esteemed your valour and your vertue even so far, as to suffer her death without murmuring, and to think it a glory to lose her life by the same hand that had preserved it for her. I die ne­vertheless with the sorrow of not having [Page 102] implied it for the service of my deliverer: but as that ingratitude is not voluntary, so let it not hinder you to look upon my death as if I suffered it to save you, though I suf­fer it, because I would have lost yours. I­magine that all the blowes I made at you were directed against your enemies, and not against your person; let the blood which I lose serve for a price for the tears which you shed: and in fine believe, that seeing the generosity I have found in your soul, if Clorinda had lived, she would have testified to you by her actions, that she could no lon­ger reckon you amongst her enemies. But since things past cannot be revoked, and that shortly there will no more remain of Clorinda but her name, her ashes, and her Monuments (if you have the goodness to afford her one) have a care of all those, heighten her reputation if you can, that so yours may increase, and that you may also justifie at the same time your affection and your sufferings. Be not so weak as those persons unworthy the light of the day, which cease from loving their friends, as soon as ere they are uncapable, or not in a condition to acknowledge their amity: Be not (I say) of those in whom the grave [Page 103] strikes an horrour, who dare not follow the persons they love into the shades of death. Those that are so weakly interested, they seek onlie but for the recompence of their affections, and who loves onelie pleasing things are not worthy the light of the Sun: the great and generous souls are not wont to do thus; and to tell things as they are, tis onely within the grave, and 'twixt the very armes of death, that we can assure our selves certainty of the good will any hath for us; all the services which are rendred to the li­ving may be suspected of self-interest; the honours done to the dead cannot be ill in­terpreted, but merit to live eternally in the memory of all men. This is the true mark of Heroick love, and of true vertue, tis (as I have said) the infallible Character of a soul great, noble, and generous, tis loving for love, and not for the reward; and 'tis in fine, the right means (as I have also said) to become worthy of all imaginable honours, to honour the memory of those, who during their lives have merited to be esteemed by us in a particular manner. Is it not enough that we lose a person so dear to us, unlesse we blot her Image from our memory? Ha! no, no, too generous Prince, you will not do [Page 104] thus, you will visit her Tomb with respect, and her name becomming inseparable from yours by her deplorable adventures shall fly 'ore all the world with luster and glory: you will conserve this love which was so pure, that hope it self, hath had no share: for truly it would not be just, that Clorinda ceasing to hate when she descends into the grave, you should begin to wish her ill, when she ceases to live, and when she begins to know you; and by consequence to esteem you very much. After you have been my enemy, be my Champion, I conjure you; defend against all the world the beauty of those advantageous Pourtraits which fame hath made of me over all the earth: main­tain that she hath not flattered Clorinda: speak of the grandeur of her courage, of her experience in her youth, of her success in combats, of the purity of her soul, of the innocency of her life, and of the glory of her death. It concerns me little, that you should publish how I was born upon the throne; it suffices that you perswade them I was worthy; and that your self be per­swaded, that my defeat is honourable to you. I perceive that this discourse redou­bles your anguish, and that you had rather [Page 105] not have vanquish'd, than buy the victory by my loss. Do not however regret so much an unhappy person, neither accuse your self to have cōmitted so great a crime. The Clo­rinda whom you fought is not she whō you behold. The other was an infidel, an enemy of all Christians, & by consequence yours; and this on the contrary is at present better instructed, more enlightened, and more ra­tional, since she dies with a great esteem and acknowledgment for Tancred. But how­ever (you will tell me) she dies by the hand of that Tancred: it is true (I shall answer) but she dies for her glory. None amongst mortals ought to have been her conqueror, but him that was so generous as to weep for his victory. The blood she should have lost in any other encounter would have sul­lied her reputation; it must needs be then for the honour of her arms that she lose her life by your hand, that so she might live e­ternally: and then, illustrious Prince, if the hazard of the war had not made us meet; and chance & your valour had not brought me to these conditions I am in; never had Clorinda given you any marks of her ac­knowledgments; she had an austere vertue which would alwayes have obliged her to treat you like an enemy; you have sweet­ned [Page 106] the haughtiness of her soul by over­coming her: her pride hath been weaker than your civility: and the death which she receives from your hands causes her to en­tertain your love without anger and ha­tred, which she would never have done at any other time. Do not then complain of the rigour of the adventure, since to it you owe a part of my esteem. I had admired your courage in battels, but I confesse that I had not so perfectly known your genero­sity after the victory. There be more vali­ant souldiers than merciful and debonair Conquerours; and more men that are able to spill the blood of their enemies, than to shed tear upon their graves. Cease then, cease from afflicting your self, and complai­ning for me: death not being harsh to me, methinks you should comfort your self like me: and in fine, you ought to resolve to that which you cannot possible shun. If I had lived longer, what happiness more could you have expected? you should never have seen Clorinda, but with her weapons in hand; is not it better (since heaven will have it so) that you never see her more? her Idea will be more pleasing to you, than she her self would have been in such a po­sture: [Page 107] and in the humour she is of, she is content you should love her memory, but perhaps she would not have had you love her person otherwise. Acknowledge with me therefore the advantages that this victo­ry gives you; and do not murmur inconsi­derately for that which you cannot hinder. Moderate your sorrow, that it may last the longer: I receive my death with tranquili­ty, suffer my losse with patience: but ne­ver lose the memory of what I was. You will restore my life, in preserving my image in your heart; but a life more noble and more glorious, and for the which I have so often hazarded the other. All that Clorinda hath done, hath been but to immortalize her name; hinder then by your cares that it be not buried in oblivion: and if it be true (as I cannot doubt it) that your soul is altoge­ther generous, do not change your minde, since I am going to be in an estate, which suffers no more change. I die with much admiration for your vertue; live with a great esteem of my courage; bear even from my grave to your owne the affection which you say you have for me; and when mis­fortune will have you quit this life, let it be ordained, that an Image of Clorinda be in­closed [Page 108] in your Tomb; let her be yet found imprinted in your heart, and that nothing be so puissant as to deface and blot it out. 'Tis in vulgar souls that time and absence destroyes the fair opinions which vertue a­lone had impressed: but amongst Heroick persons, time, absence, nor death it self, are not able to change their inclinations. They love in the grave that which they loved in the world; the remembrance of that plea­sing object serves in lieu of their persons; and as they have loved without hope and interest, they preserve without infidelity, and without trouble, the amity which they had promised. Certainly, there would be somewhat of cruel and unjust to lose toge­ther the life, the light, and the affection of our friends: we do revive again, if we live in their memory: raise up therefore your Clorinda in this manner, and do not make her die yet once more in so cruel a manner, far worse than the former. The first is an effect of your skill, of your courage, and of her fate: and the second would be one of your forgetfulness, of your indifferency, and (if I may speak so) of your ingratitude. Yes, generous Prince, I may make use of those terms; and I dare believe, that you [Page 109] will not think it ill, if Clorinda believes she obliges you sensibly, when even she imploys the last moments of her life, to testifie to you the true esteem she hath conceived of your extream vertue. Do not then be want­ing of acknowledgment, since you see I am not wanting in it: receive the regret I have for not having served you, as an undubita­ble proof, that I should have done it, had I lived longer. But render also to my ashes, and to my name the honours and the cares which you would have rendered to Clorinda, had she survived longer. Do not fear that her ghost shall affright you, when you shall visit her grave: nor that with a querulous and moaning voice she will reproach you for her death. No Tancred, you shall be­hold no more, neither Clorinda nor her sha­dow: you shall hear no more, neither her voice, nor her plaints. But alas, I know I increase your sorrow in thinking to cure it! that the testimonies of amity which I ren­der you do cause more affliction than they bring joy: that I am so far unhappy as to trouble you, even when I would serve you: that I pierce your heart, when my own is readie to expire: and that I am more dread­ful to you dying and dis-armed, than I was [Page 110] to you in the midst of Combats. I shall therefore tell you nothing more that may augment your tears: I will hide a part of my mind from you, for fear of stirring yours, and for fear likewise lest your imbe­cility should take hold of me. Ha! no, no, I repent me of that thought; and since I have no more than a few minutes to live, I must wholly give them to him, who otherwhile did save my life; to him who at this time does weep my death, although it hath hindred his; and to him whose cares should immortalize me. As well I do not think that my silence would stop your moans: and I also believe, that you will never be more afflicted, than when this si­lence shall become eternal. Prepare your self however for it, for I feel my fatal hour approaches, my strength diminishes, my voice fails; and I shall hardly have the time to tell you, that Clorinda dies with­out any other sorrow, than that which yours does cause in her. That she esteems the end of her dayes for the most glorious of all her adventures; that being born upon the Throne, she does not care though she dies on the dust, since 'tis with honour: that having lived with innocency, and repu­tation [Page 111] without stain, she regrets nothing in the world, but onely that she cannot retali­ate that which she owes to you: and that in fine, she esteems her self happy to have found in the same person, an enemy so courteous, as even to save her life; a Knight so valiant, as to make her death illustrious; a Conquerour so compassionate as to weep at his own Victories; and a lover so passi­onate and so heroick, as to make her hope, that he will conserve that affection very pure, even to his last breath. Adiew then Prince, too unfortunate to be so generous: My voice fails me, I lose my sight and breath. But if it be possible, forget not this remembrance, That the Love ought not to die with the Beloved.

ERMINIA TO ARSETES. The Fifth HARANGUE.
ERMINIA TO ARSETES.

THose which say as you say, that the power of death ought not to destroy love: that one must love in the dark regions of the air those whom we lov'd whilst they enjoy'd the light of the Sun; that not to conserve our affections very pure to­wards them, is to be unfaithful; that 'tis inconstancy to be capable of any other flames after they are separated from the li­ving; and that in fine, whoever is so un­happy, as to see his Mistris enter into the Monument, never ought to have any thoughts of making any other conquest. Those people (I say) are equally ignorant, both how far the power of death, and the power of love do extend. They know not [Page 116] what that is which we call love: they know neither fidelity nor constancy; and judge of things either by their own capritious fancies, or for their own interest. As for you, sage and faithful Arsetes, I have no reason to find it ill, that you bestow your tears to the memory of the valiant Clorin­da: I consent likewise, that the generous Tancred mingle his with yours; and I shall further testifie to you by my sighes, that the destiny of that illustrious person hath caus'd grief in me; and that I was her Ri­val, but not her enemy. But I will also per­swade you, that without being either in­constant or unfaithful, that Prince who lo­ved her during her life, might now recom­pence my affection by his own, since she does cease to live. Death (that fearful mon­ster that destroys all that breaths upon earth) wil not that love should enterprize any thing against his power: those which he once bears away are no longer obliged to any thing: he separates those amities that are the closest united; and unties the strong­est alliances. In making Kings to tumble from the Throne into the Sepulchre, he dispences their subjects from all obedience; their power ends with their life, and there [Page 117] remains no more of those Monarchs, but the memory of their vices, or of their ver­tues. If they have been evil, they are bla­med with boldnesse; and if they have been good, they are praised without suspition of flattery; their Tombs are carefully looked to, their names are immortaliz'd by the Histories which are made of their Reigns and their Heroick actions; but the services which they were wont to require of their subjects are not rendered to them: So true it is that death brings a change in all things. That which I say of Kings may be said of those whom love had made Queens over their Lovers, and whom death hath subject­ed also to its Empire; as they are not in a condition to command any more, we are dispensed from obeying them; the lawes of Reason and Nature will have us weep their loss, and cherish their memory, that we ne­ver forget them, that we raise stately Tombs for them, and that we forget not any thing which may adde to their glory; but Reason and Nature will likewise tell us, that time cures the sharpest sorrowes; that the deep­est spring of tears must be dried up at length, and that all afflictions must dimi­nish In effect, there is no means to be found [Page 118] in these occasions; we must enter into the grave with the beloved person, or we must keep within the limits which wisdome pre­scribes to the most violent griefs. All the ornaments of the proudest Mausoleums are but extinguish'd torches, and sad marks and tokens that those that rest in them have now no share in the light; and that by con­sequence, the living should have no share in their ashes and urnes. That eternall sleep which reigns in the graves, and which the tears and the sighes of the most passionare lovers cannot dispell, evidences enough, that 'tis not to the deceased we owe our love and constancy. The change which hap­pens in them justifies that which happens to others; and then to speak truly, the most despairing do abuse themselves, when they think yet to love the ghosts of their Mistres­ses, as if they were still alive. That which can cause no longer, neither desire, nor hope, nor disquiet, nor jealousie, cannot be called love: They cease to love therefore, and yet do not apprehend it, and mistake an ef­fect of their grief, and sometimes of their temperature for a mark of passion. Not­withstanding it is absolutely impossible, that love and death can ever reign together; [Page 119] they think to love their Mistresses, and in­deed they love only their memory; they say they are faithful and constant, and yet all their sentiments are changed: for of all the tendernesses which true affection inspires, there remains nothing in portion to them but grief; besides that with time does or­dinarily become onely a melancholy habit, rather than an effect of their losse, or the ressentment they have of it, they accustome themselves to sadnesse, as to joy; their sighes do ease them, their tears fall without bitternesse; and the recital of their ill for­tunes, instead of increasing their torments, and renewing their displeasures, serves them for a pastime and a pleasing divertisement. Believe me, Arsetes, those are not the signs of a violent passion: Neverthelesse it is certain that the wisdome of nature works in us, whether we will or not, this advantage­ous change. Death is an evil too inevitable and too common amongst men to be left without a consolation for the losses it brings; and indeed we finde it to be so: and reason hath not left us without giving the just limits to the greatest sorrow. Ever since the beginning of ages death hath made men shed tears, which time hath wiped off [Page 120] again: all the children have been com­forted for the death of their fathers; all the fathers have not despaired at the death of their children; the most faithful hus­bands have attended their wives to their graves, without descending therein them­selves: and the most constant women have buried their husbands, and yet did not lie down with them in the same bed of earth. In fine, Arsetes, as there is no joy permanent in this life, there ought to be no eternal af­fection. You will tell me, that the bands of blood and those of love are things very different; and that for the most part the in­terest of the person beloved has more pow­er in our hearts than any other considerati­on. You will adde to this, that we would forsake our Countrey, and all our Parents to serve her; and that likewise when it hap­pens that we lose her, she causes as much af­fliction, she alone, as if we lost all together, both our Parents that gave us birth, and our fortunes; and in short, all that is left us to lose in the world. Though I should agree touching that, yet we must still come to my argument, which is, that either we must comfort our selves after the death of the person whom we love, or we must die [Page 121] with her. For to think that love is a thing compatible with the darknesse of the grave is a belief of small appearance; 'tis a thing without reason, and without example; and which can never happen, unless they lose their sence and understanding with their Mi­stresses. As we do not affect what we never see, neither ought we to love what we shall never behold more; one may preserve the remembrance, but we cannot love the beau­ties, since they are no longer in being: one may still love the chains and shakels which they wore; but as these chains and bands are broken for ever, we may without incon­stancy or infidelity retake some others, pro­vided they be not unworthy of the first. We must not break down a golden Statua, to put a brass one in the place: But amongst some Christians it is usual to adorn the place with more than one Image. I do not there­fore desire that Tancred should raze out that of his Clorinda intirely from his heart; I have more respect to her, and more com­placence for him: I would only have him, since he has not renounced all humane so­ciety, for we know he does both give and receive Orders, go to the wars, defend his life, and imploy the same hand, with [Page 122] which he cut the bands that tied him to the service of Clorinda, against those whom Clorinda has alwayes served; I would (I say) that having never ceased to be faithfull to his party, having never ceased to be va­liant in battels, and having never forgotten to be generous, he may not now omit to be an acknowledger of my affections. In the state as things now are he owes nothing but compassion to Clorinda, but he owes love to Erminia. Clorinda can now no more either love or hate him; and Erminia has not on­ly lov'd him before he knew Clorinda, but she loves him still, even whilst he prefers Clorinda's ashes before Erminia's chaste flames. Heavens be my witnesse, if I nou­rish the least thought of hatred against that illustrious person: as long as she lived, I held as great an esteem of her vertue, as I had affection for the Prince whom I loved: no, Arsetes, her death did not rejoyce me; on the contrary, it did grieve me. I honour'd her enough to weep her loss; and I loved Tancred enough, to desire almost that he might not have such a sad misfortune, al­though according to appearance, it might be advantageous to me; and if after their interest I may have leave to think of my [Page 123] own, I dare avouch again, that I believe, that I should be less unhappy, if Clorinda were not dead, than I am now, though she be equally incapable to give either love or jealousie. Did she yet live, I should not take it ill, if Tancred would give me but his e­steem and friendship, and preserved his in­tire love and passion for her; I would say in his defence, he loves that which cannot be beloved too much; Clorinda is young, fair, vertuous, and valiant, and his inclination does prompt him to adore her: let us be­moan our fortune then without accusing her that causes it, since we can finde nothing to object against his choice. But now that Clo­rinda is no more but a little dust, that her youth does subsist no more, that her beauty is destroyed, that her vertue cannot appear, but only by the relations of those that know her, that her valour can be no more either useful or hurtful to her friends or enemies; and that in fine, she is as far distant from us as if she had never been. It is not just, that Tancred should have more fidelity for the ashes of his enemy, than acknowledgment and regard for her who began to love him from the first instant she ever beheld him, although that first instant cast her from the [Page 124] Throne to slavery; and that the hands which enchained her had torne a Crown from off her Fathers head, yea a Crown which should have been placed upon her own temples. But perhaps, generous Arse­tes, you do not know all the rights which I have in Tancreds affection, by the birth of that love which I have for him: it will not then be out of our discourse and way, if I tell it you in a few words; that so if it happens one day, that he hear my reasons with more sweetness than you believe, you may not accuse him of infidelity and inju­stice, if he do prefer Erminia before the ghost or shadow of Clorinda. It is likewise necessary for my own glory, that you should know, that without ceasing to be vertuous & reasonable I could begin to love Tancred, though he were my Fathers conquerour; that I might continue to wish him well, though he have not answered my amity; and that I am in the right at present to wish from him, that he would be content onely to honour the memory of Clorinda, and be­gin to love Erminia. You must know then (sage and wise Arsetes) that when the Chri­stians had pull'd down Antiochu [...] his throne, and that they had taken away both his sce­pter [Page 125] and life who gave me life: you may know (I say) that by the fortune of war I fell into the hands of the Conquerour, who (as you cannot but know) was the same Tancred of whom we now speak. But alas! why was it that the Conquerour was not more rigorous to me at that time, since he will not be merciful now? wherefore was it that he did not treat me like a slave then, if it be true that he will not treat me like a Mistris now? Wherefore was it that he rendred me all the treasures of the King, my father, then, if he will not now render me my own heart again, or give me his in exchange? and why did he give me my li­berty so freely and graciously, since he now refuses so cruelly to accept these chains, which are less rude and heavy? Yes, faith­ful Arsetes, I acknowledge with some con­fusion, I began to love Tancred then, when in appearance I should have begun to hate him. His vertue, his moderation, and his clemency touched my heart sensibly: I was his Captain, and he respected me as a Queen: by the right that Conquerors have over the conquered, all our treasures were his, and he restored them to me, or rather gave them: I was his prisoner, and he re­stored [Page 126] me to liberty: 'tis true, that loosen­ing those chains which I wore, he put me on some others more strong than those which I was freed from. I beheld my liberty as an evil, and regreted my servitude as a great good; and though I did not know my self (in those times) wherefore I had such thoughts which seemed so void of reason, I know now that the extraordinary generosity of Tancred had already usher'd love into my heart, although I were then of an age, in which love is unknown. Since that, what have I not done, sometimes to love him no more, somtimes to love him dearlier? I have beheld him somtimes as an usurper; I have considered him as an enemy, who had taken away Antiochus's Crown; and which is more, who had taken away all the quiet of my life by a passion which his generosity had bred in my soul, and which I could not overcome. But shall I tell it, faithful Arse­tes? after I had beheld him as an usurper and an enemy, I always loved him, because he was both vertuous, and my deliverer, and my beloved. I have seen him from the walls of Jerusalem shedding the blood of our souldiers, without shedding a tear my self: I desired the victory, but however [Page 127] would not have Tancred be conquered. I had found him too mercifull a Conque­rour, not to desire to have him still in a condition, to make known his vertue by doing good, rather then in suffering evil. Nor could I hear of the peril he was in, by reason of his hurts, without having a design to save his life, who had saved my honour, and had given me my liberty. You know as well as my selfe, that I made use of the valiant Clorinda's armes to get out from Jerusalem, and to execute my en­terprize: But in taking her armes and weapons I did not put on her courage, so that I was quickly forced to quit my sword, and betake me to the sheep hook to secure my selfe. I have then been Cavalier and Shepherdesse for the insen­sible Tancred: I was also Armida's pri­soner in his consideration: and that which I finde to be more happy for me, is, that by that marvellous art, which all the Kings, my Predecessors, have left me in possession; I have had the satisfaction to render and save the life of my deliverer, to dresse his wounds, and to heal him, in such a time when none but ERMINIA could [Page 128] relieve him. You see then, Arsetes, that the birth of my affection is not criminal, since Tancreds sole vertue did breed it. You may judge likewise that its continuation is ex­cusable, and the design of saving him did contribute much to it: and you should also know, that Clorinda not living any longer, he is obliged to recompence my amity with his owne. Clorinda, who at this present causes all his grief, and posses­ses all his thoughts, had never imployed her armes, but to assault him, and to pur­sue him: and I stole the armour of Clorin­da, but onely to save his life. Clorinda, from whom he had taken neither Crown, nor Scepter, has alwayes beheld him as an enemy: and I, from whom he had ravish­ed all, even to my very liberty, I have al­wayes beheld him as a Prince, which could and should be my lover. I have already told you, Arsetes, that if your illustrious Mistris did live yet, I would not so much as have a thought to dispute her conquest; but her misfortune having laid her in her grave, you may judge after all that I have said, whether it be reasonable to prefer the sepulchre of Clorinda before Erminia? for in fine, tis not unfaithfulness to abandon [Page 129] those which do abandon us for ever. What Arsetes, can you apprehend that one may keep a love for that which cannot receive it any more? That pleasing interchange of will and desires, which is made betwixt lovers, can that be made between Clorinda's Tomb and the Prince Tancred? No, Arse­tes, that cannot be so; all things in the world have their limits: so long as the be­loved person is living, we must follow her over all the earth, we must partake of her fortune how unhappy so'ere it be; nay, we must even die for her, if there be occasiō: but if it happens that she dies, we must (as I have already said) either cease to live, or cease to love her; 'tis so absolute a necessity that nothing can oppose it; all the ages have shewed us examples of what I say; all that despaired have kill'd themselves with their own hands; and those that were wise have comforted themselves with their own rea­son. In effect, there would be great inju­stice in the order and course of nature, if every time that death does cast one person into the Grave, there should be another that must renounce intirely all the society of the living, and pass the remainer of his dayes in shedding of fruitless tears, and [Page 130] vainly walking about the margent of the grave; for truly to speak with sincerity, there are scarce any people that die, which should not expect those last devoirs, either from their friends, or from those for whom they had any affection, if it were true that reason did authorize such a strange procee­ding: by this means such a thrid of sor­rows would run through all the world, as would render the lives of all men unhappy, and destroy the Universe. Or else we must (not to be exposed to such troublesome ad­ventures) refuse the amity of all honest men; never have any love for any, nor be obliged to any, but take all care to make our selves become hated, and rather look to the health of those for whom we have any good wil, than to their deserts or worth: for fear, lest their constitutions being weak, the end of their dayes happening it may be be­fore old age, should oblige those which love them to spend the rest of their dayes in mourning about their graves. Seriously, Arsetes, it is not to be easily imagined, that there are rational souls, which believe that death does not destroy love; time and ab­sence, which have nor so much power as that, do every day make too many become in­constant, [Page 131] to leave a belief, that after death hath ravished the object away which gave birth to that passion, we should yet preserve a love for it. We cannot continue to love that object, since it is destroyed; nor ought we to do it, since we should equally resist both Reason and Nature, which will not have it so. Those who are said to have been in love with a fair Statua, or a Picture, are more excusable than those that love a grave, or the ashes which it incloses: the eyes which are wont to seduce the imagina­tion and will by the advantage of all fair objects, betray them, and gives them some kind of delight in sweetly deceiving them; but to preserve a love for an object that is so horrid, for that which can never be plea­sing, for that which we could never behold without tears and affright, nay for that which we shall never behold again, tis that which cannot, which ought not to be, and tis that which makes me with boldness maintain, That the love ought not to last but to the grave. All men that have not lost their judgements, neither do, nor ought to do any thing without a design: Tis so ge­neral a rule, that there are hardly any which misse it; the covetous know wherefore [Page 132] they guard their treasures; all the ambiti­ous know whither they would climb; all that are of vindicative spirits know for what end they molest their enemies; nor are the lovers ignorant what they intend, when they weep and sigh at the feet of their Mistres­ses. They know (I say) that love is the price of love; and that in fine, we love to be beloved again. But should we ask the Prince Tancred, what he pretends by con­tinuing to love the ghost of Clorinda, as much as he loved her person; I believe he would be somewhat troubled for an answer. To say that his tears and sighes have for their principall design, to touch and move her heart, would not be belie­ved, since tis impossible it should be so. Or else to think, that he preserves his first flames to animate the ashes of his Mistris, he is too wise to have such a thought: or again to imagine, that he has no other end in what he does, but to make himself unhap­py needlesly, is a thing without all appea­rance. Neverthelesse it is certain, that the love which you so much praise in this Prince can produce no more advantage to him, nor to me, but either my own death or his. Ha! if it were possible, that the [Page 133] illustrious Clorinda could hear his moanes, and my reasons; and that from the midst of her grave she could make him hear her commands; how she would blame his pro­ceedings, and mourn my unhappinesse! she was other-while too generous, to think it now just, that Tancred, being no longer ob­liged to be faithful to her, should be still ingrateful towards me. You may tell me, perhaps, that her last desires were not as I perswade: But, Arsetes, she then lived yet, when she declared them to Tancred. That imbecillity which is common to all those that are dying, is not to be found in them after they are dead; all their passions be­come tranquil in the grave; the deceased desire neither the love nor the constancy of any, they have no share in our fortunes, they do not care whether others meddle with their destiny; and as they are separa­ted from all things, they do not trouble themselves whether we separate also from them, or yet still follow them. Believe me, Arsetes, tis enough to be constant during our lives, without being so after death: tis (I say) enough to do what we ought, with­out doing what we ought not: and then, to say things as they are, so long as we [Page 134] are alive we are obliged to serve to the publick society; it is not permitted us to be ingratefull; it is not permitted us to be unjust; and this being so, it is not per­mitted to Tancred, to love Erminia no more, and to love Clorinda still, though Clorinda be no more, and that Erminia be in a condition to love him to his grave. Be­sides, if we do likewise but rightly expound the last desires and will of your illustrious Mistris, one shall finde that they were ill understood by this Prince: for whatso'ere commands she gave him to reverence her memory, she made him none more pressing than those by which she injoyn'd him to be comforted. Now what means is there for this Prince to be ever comforted, if he retain the love he had for her? What, Arsetes, can a true lover live happily, and know that he can never be seen, nor be be­loved by his Lady? Ha! no, no, let's not abuse our selves in expounding Clorinda's last speeches; for without doubt she is a­greed to what I say, she will willingly re­main in Tancreds memory, but she will not be angry, if I reign in his heart; she will be willing to have him respect her name, but she will not be displeased if he love my [Page 135] person; she was willing that he should shed some tears upon her grave, but she will not murmur, if reason, time, and Erminia dries them up againe; she has consented that her death should make him unhappy for some few dayes, but she will consent likewise that he should make me happy for all my life. Do not therefore, Arsetes, re­sist Clorinda's will: perswade the Prince, her lover, that which I would perswade you; tell him he disobeys his Mistris and yours, in not comforting himself; and that if it be permitted for any one to pretend a part in his affection, it can be onely to me. As a friend to Clorinda, I have some right to the amity he had for her; as his slave, which I have been, he should let me wear his fetters; as a Queen, which I ought to be, he should give me the Empire of his heart, instead of the Crowne which he hath made me lose: and, as his lover, he ought to leave Clorinda's grave to follow me even till my death. That is the term that I prescribe to the love which I will have him have for Erminia; I do not de­sire that he should forsake Clorinda's tomb to come and walk about mine, if I happen to die before him: No, my pretentions [Page 136] are not so unjust; if he die not for the sorrow of my death, I will have him live, and be comforted. For in fine, whe­ther I hearken to reason or na­ture, I finde, that the love ought not to indure be­yond the grave, or after death.

CARICLIA TO THEAGENES. The Sixth HARANGUE.
CARICLIA TO THEAGENES.

IN fine, my dear and beloved Theagenes, we have run a glori­ous Race, at the end of which we finde a Crown, which is no less glorious: 'tis good to remember the storm, when we are in a safe harbour; and amidst the rest and tranquility of the earth, with what pleasure we revolve in our minds the fury and agitation of the Sea. Those images, though troubled and tumultuous, do nevertheless please the mind: they are disordered and confused, but tis delightful; and as diversity is the greatest charm of na­ture, those marvellous events which com­pose so intricate and cross a life as ours hath been, never fails to excite joy in that soul that remembers its former sadnesse and [Page 142] misfortunes. Tis certain every thing appears best by their contraries: and tis only by the opposition that their differences are no­ted, and their advantages sensibly discove­red. The light owes its lustre to the shade; and 'tis from the night that day does draw its brightnesse; the Sun makes known the splendour of its rayes by the tenebreous darkness; tis the rigorous sharpness of the Winter that heightens the amiable sweetnes of the Spring; the prickles makes the rose more esteemed; and briefly, tis from mis­fortunes without doubt that felicities do a­rise; it being very true, that those who have not undergone some evils, can never truly know what pleasure is. In effect, those who have never had but fortunate ad­ventures; who never have proved the in­constancy of fate; and whose most sensible contentments have never cost them a sigh, nor made them shed a tear, do possess them without being possessed; enjoy them with­out enjoyments; and make that an object of their froideur and disdain, which might be the object of all the worlds desires. They are rich, and know it not; they have treasures, and cannot tell their value; they have good things, and do not tast them; and [Page 143] their abundance makes them poor. Such a long series of felicities does benum a soul rather than rouze it: and the frequency does no lesse take away the delicacy of the plea­sure, than it does take away the sharpnesse of pain. One is accustomed to a Scepter, as well as to an iron chain; the Throne is no better to those people than an ordinary chair; and there are those that wear a Crown upon their heads, who yet hardly know whether they have it on, or are adorned with it or no. Those Princesses, who being born in the purple, and have alwayes worn a Royal Mantle; who, even from their cra­dles to their graves, have alwayes stood un­der the Canopy of state, within the Balli­sters, and amidst the Pomp and Majesty, cannot compare their satisfaction to Cari­clia's; she who was expos'd at her birth, she who was not known to any, she who did not know her self, she who was not adornd but with her natural graces; and she in fine, who from extream misery has past in a mo­ment, to the supreamest grandeur. For my part (I acknowledge to you Theagenes) it seems to me, that I have conquered the Kingdome which Fortune restores to me; it seems to me, that I hold it by my vertue, [Page 144] and not by my birth; and it seems to me, that my merit has given to me, all that which my love will make me give your me­rit. Now as that which we gain by our in­dustry, or generosity, is infinitely more pre­cious, than that which we hold from na­ture; you must not wonder, if I prefer a glory which hath cost me an hundred la­bours to that glory which others have without trouble; and if I finde that tis on­ly through difficulties, that we attain to soveraign happiness. No, my dear Thea­genes, it has been by my disgraces that I have obtained my welfare; 'twas only by my banishment that I got your acquain­tance; and onely my leaving Ethiopia, which saw my birth, hath made the birth of my affection to be seen in the temple of A­pollo at Delphus. Thus cannot any deny, but that my good hath proceeded from my evil, and that my repose is sprung from my traverses. Who would not have said, when we left the Grecian rivage, and that the Pi­rat Trachinus had made himself Master of our Vessel, that there was no more any fe­licity for us? Who would not have said, when that Pirat became enamoured of me, that we must have lost our reason, if we had [Page 145] had the least hope left? who would not have said, when there rose so great a tem­pest, that the waves lifted us even to hea­ven, and afterwards let us sink again to the very center of the earth, that the Sea was going to swallow us, and that its fury was going to dash our ship against the points of the Rocks? who would not have said, when those infamous Pirats were arrived at the mouth of a great River; and that they began a combat amongst themselves, of which I should have been the prize, that Fortune was going to decide their difference, and give to one of the parties both the vi­ctory and Cariclia? who would not have said, seeing me upon that desert shore, a­midst so many slaine, and clasping your wounded self in my armes, almost as dead as they and you were; that we were going to finde our graves, on that part of an arm of the River Nylus, called Heracleetick; and that the illustrious race of Perseus, from whom I am descended, and the noble blood of Achilles from whence you sprung were at the point to perish inevitably in a savage, and not inhabited place? Notwithstanding, by the goodness of the gods which protect­ed us, nothing of all this befell us, but we [Page 146] are yet in a condition to comfort our selves for those misfortunes past, or rather to re­joyce for our present felicities. But lovely Theagenes, tell me the truth, I conjure you, and do not disguize it, no more than I do these thoughts of mine; can you remem­ber the horrid countenances and minds of those first robbers which ceased on us, or the extravagant equipage of the second which took us from the first, without feel­ing some joy in your soul, for being freed from so eminent peril? Do you not yet behold them as well as I, issuing from be­tween those Rocks, their faces tann'd and Sun-burnt, their hair long and tangled, their bodies half armed and half naked; and do they not now give you as much pleasure, as they then gave me fear? Tis here that we may now with liberty consider, without any affrights, that fair Isle of Shepherds, which so long a space of Marshy earth, & which so great a quantity of Reeds and Canes sepa­rates from the firm ground, hiding it from the sight of those which are there. Did you ever see any thing more pleasing, or more industrious than that labyrinth of water, which so many small enterlaced paths does form amongst those Reeds and Canes, [Page 147] through which the vessels of those Thieves make their passage, and can find out a way, which none other but they can discover? Did you ever behold a Rustick object, that was more grateful than that Island was, af­ter we had in a boat trac'd out all the con­cealed turnings of which I speak, which seems as it had hid it selfe amidst so many aquatick herbs, and so many plants which never grow but in Marshes? Did you ever see any thing more artificial and more pret­ty together, than were those Cabbins, made with enterlaced branches of Palmes, and covered with other long branches mixed with laurel? and this object being joyned to so many different armes and weapons which those theeves hung on all the trees about, would it not make one think, that that little mountain were one of those great and proud Trophies, which the Grecians raise when they are victorious? I know that you will tell me, that those innocent plea­sures could not possibly be sensible to us, and that the love which Thyamis conceived for me, (he who was chief of those robbers) made us suffer strange troubles; I know that you will tell me, that I saw my self se­parated from you, and buried alive in a pro­found [Page 148] Cave; I know that you will tell me, that when the Egyptians and the Persians came to assault those Theeves: Thyamis's jealousie had almost made me lose my life, and that he would without doubt have de­prived me of it, if the obscurity of that den had not made him take the unhappy This be for me; I know that you will tell me, that the flame devoured almost in an instant all the Canes, the Reeds; all the Plants, the herbs, all the arms and the Ca­bins of those Robbers: and that one would have said, that by some enchantment that pleasant object vanished, and left nothing in its place but flame, ashes, and smoke: I know that you will tell me, that you were infinitely troubled, when you thought me lost, and that was redoubled, when taking This be for me, you thought me dead: but I must tell you, that that sorrow could not come neer to that joy of yours and mine, when you beheld me living, and that I found you safe. Recall, my dear Theagenes, recall to your memory, I conjure you, my ravish­ments, and your transports in that occasi­on; trace well in your memory that image which time and a long series of other mis­fortunes have perhaps blotted out: Exa­mine [Page 149] your heart well, as I examine mine; and tell me after that, if you ever felt a more sensible content; if the paines you had suffered did not augment your felici­ties; and in fine, whether it be not true, as I maintain, that those who have not felt some evil, cannot tell what pleasure is? but perhaps you may reply again, that those felicities were so short, that they could hard­ly pass but for a pleasing dream: that For­tune which had re-united us did re-separate us presently again by Mitranes cruelty; and that that last separation, finding our souls wholly disposed to sadnesse, that sadnesse enter'd our souls with all the fury of an in­solent Conquerour, who ravages and sub­verts all in the place he surprizes. It is cer­tain, (and I acknowledge) that nothing can compare with the sence of those afflictions we then felt; and that to know them per­fectly, one must have prov'd them; for the greatest and most persuasive Eloquence can trace but an imperfect draught of them. I beheld my self separated from all that I loved; you saw your self separated from all that you passionately desired, and sepa­rated for ever. You beheld me in the pow­er of a Barbarian; and I saw you under a [Page 150] cruell Master; and immediately after (which was the most inhumane) you saw me no more, Theagenes, nor could I see you. Without doubt those funest mo­ments were so sad both to you and my self, that those themselves who suffered it, can­not have so much art as to relate it: and if from this woful adventure I pass again to the apparition of that dead Corps which I saw both move and speak by the power of Magick, and by her mothers impiety, whose unnatural tenderness troubled the repose of her grave, and violated the last of natures lawes; I doubt not, but that I do almost affright you as much as I was at that ad­venture, and make you participate of my fear. For imagine to your self a Maiden, and the good Calasiris, alone in the midst of a great plain, covered all over with broken weapons and armes, with Chariots o'retur­ned, sprinkled with blood, dead souldiers, and all others tragical objects, which are wont to be seen in those sad places where a battel hath been given. Imagine (I say) that you beheld me, & that you beheld all these doleful objects by the gloomy light of the Moon, whose weak beams did sometimes pierce the clouds, and made us confusedly [Page 151] perceive all these things: and sometimes wrapping its self in those clouds again, left nothing in those Campanias but horror and obscurity. Represent to your self, that you saw me amidst this fearful disorder, and that from amongst those massacred souldi­ers you behold on a sudden a dead body, with motion as quick as unnatural, arise as one should raise a Statua, and stand some­time upright. Twice I beheld it arise, as if alive; twice I beheld it fall as if dead; twice I beheld her face pale and disfigured; twice I beheld her eyes quite extinguish'd and turn'd inwards, though they appeared open; twice her mouth opened it self, dead as she was; and twice she spake, but with fewer words than sighs, and with an accent capable to appal with horrour the stoutest soul. Nevertheless, my dear Theagenes, all this affliction and all this fright served af­terwards but to augment our joy, when by the bounty of the gods we met one ano­ther before the walls of Memphis. 'Twas there that I once more experimented, that they which never had no evil, do not know pleasure: 'twas there that I knew sensibly that the absence makes us afterwards find the sight of the beloved object the more [Page 152] pleasing: and it was there, my dear Thea­genes, that I learn'd by experience, that those which are alwayes happy, are not half happy. In effect, those who never lost a treasure, are ignorant of the joy there is in finding it again, and hardly know that which its possession gives. It belongs only to unfortunate ones to speak of a good for­tune: and as we must be in the profound and deep vallies to judge well of the heights of mountains; so we must have been in mi­series and afflictions, to know perfectly what is felicity and abundance. In such a happy moment of an unlookt for accident, there passes certain invisible beams from one lo­vers eyes to the others, which carry with them into the hearts a certain I know not what, not to be express'd. The words of content, of joy, of satisfaction, and of glo­ry, are too poor to express so tender and de­licate a sentiment; and the eloquent silence of those two happy persons does tell it far better than can any words, or than it can be represented by all the figures of that impe­rious art, which vaunts it self to be the Ma­ster of all free spirits, and the Tyrant of the will. But Theagenes, as I have said, that the eyes of a lover are eloquent, [Page 153] and that they can make themselves be un­derstood; so yours do confirm me in my opinion; and I understand, though I do not speak a word, what they would have me comprehend, and what they would remem­ber me of. No, no, I have not forgotten the unworthy love of that object worthy of my hatred and your disdain: in a word of Arsace, that cruel sister of the Persian King, who caus'd so much trouble to us, and thought to make us perish; I know that in her I had a Rival to be feared; I know that she made you wear iron chains, you who deserved to hold a Scepter; I know that having discover'd our innocent passion, her guilty artifices would constrain me to espouse Achemenes, one of her slaves; I know her fury caus'd you to be buried alive in the obscurity of a deep dungeon; I know you received such outrages as struck me with horrour, and which highly signa­liz'd your love and constancy; I know that the despair of that inraged woman exposed my life to poyson; and that if the Justice of the Gods had not made Cibele to take it her selfe, who would have given it to me, your Cariclia had been lost; I know that the fearful ma­lice [Page 154] of that Persian accus'd me of that death of which she was the cause, and of which I was innocent; I know that I found my self a prisoner as well as you, and that I did par­take of your chains; I know that men who were at once both Judges and Slaves, did condemn me to the fire, to content that fu­rious woman; I know that I beheld my self upon the pile of wood, ready to be consu­med; I know that the flames encompass'd me round about, and that love and inno­cency were never exposed to so hard a trial; but I likewise know, that by the assistance of the gods, and the vertue of that stone I wore about me, which you Grecians call Pantarbe, I marched upon the brands, as on a bed of flowers; and that that infa­mous pile of wood became the Throne of my glory. O my dear Theagenes, tell me (I conjure you by our amours) whether my triumph were not caused by my condemna­tion? and whether after your mourning for me as dead, any thing ever equall'd your contentment, when you beheld me alive; or to say better, risen again from death? for my part, I confess to you, that after that Miracle, which the gods, and love, and nature wrought together in our favour, I [Page 155] was so transported with joy, that I cannot expresse it: and I was liberally recompen­ced by them, for all the pains which I had undergone; yea, even for all troubles that I was yet to suffer. You know moreover, that as felicities are ordinarily linked toge­ther as well as misfortunes; so this same (although very great) did not happen alone to us: for we came from Arsaces prison, by the order of Oroondates, to whom by a spirit of jealousie, of despight, and venge­ance Achemenes was gone to, to advertize him of his wives impudicity. You know also, that we had the satisfaction to learn that heavens justice had made use of Arsa­ces own hand, to punish her crimes, in the fear she had that her husband would punish her: and that thus all our traverses increa­sed our contentments, and served onely to make us know their grandeur the better: and if you tell me that presently after we found a new affliction, being surprized by unknown people, who took us away from Bagoas, and would have conducted us to his Master Oroondates; I shall reply, that imme­diately afterwards we also found a new joy, since those souldiers who took us were of Ethiopia, where we desired to go. In effect, [Page 156] they presented us to Hydaspes, who at first seemed as if he would favour us, since by his order our chains of iron were changed for chains of gold, and we were entertained with much respect. Neverthelesse, my dear dear Theagenes, tis here I must confess that our hopes were deceitful, and that we be­held our selves anew in such displeasures, which had nothing equal to it, but the dan­ger which we underwent. For in fine, if they adorn'd us, it was but like victims, which they meant to sacrifice; and if they had any respect for us, 'twas but because we were the offerings which they had alotted for their Deities. Truly, I cannot deny but that in this occasion my trouble was in­comparable; and I could not but murmur a long time against the Oracle which had sent me from Ethiopia, and which absolutely seemed to be false, since we found a grave there where it had made us hope that we should finde a Throne. But Theagenes, how marvellous and concealed is the providence of the gods! and how weak is humane reason in discovering it! at the moment that we were at the foot of the altars, where we were ready to be immolated; at the point when Hydaspes had his arm lifted [Page 157] up to stab his own daughter, thinking to do a pious act; briefly, at the very point that we were both going to die, and to die in so pitiful a manner; fate changed the face of things, I was discovered and known to be what I was before the City of Meroe; my Sacrifier was found to be my Father; the victime was found to be his daughter, Hydaspes and Persina found an heiress, the Ethiopians found a new Queen; and Thea­genes and Cariclia, who know that those which have not had any evil cannot know what pleasure is, found themselves almost happy. I say almost, (generous Prince) be­cause our apprehensions did not yet cease; and that my fathers scrupulous devotion believ'd that nature was too weak, to hinder him to acquit himself of what he owed to the gods. But if that too nice zeal did give us trouble, the publick cry which made it end, did no less rejoyce us. You will tell me (perhaps) that this unhop'd for good concern'd me only; that that which saved me, did not save you; that the hand which spared me, would yet sacri­fice you; that you combated a Bull, whose rage was terrible; that you fought a Gy­ant, whose strength was no lesse; that [Page 158] they would constrain me to marry Meroebe; that at the same time in which they put the royal Bandeau about my temples, they would have put the mortal Scarf over your eyes; and that I was fain once more to walk on burning coals, wiehout any other assistance than my own purity, having be­fore left my Pantarbe. But in fine, Theage­nes, this happiness became equal to us; you were spared, as I was saved; the hand which shielded me did not strike you; the Bull neither frighted nor hurt you; the Gyant did but encrease your glory; Meroebe was the captive that adorned your triumph; the flame by its lustre imparted some both to your vertue and mine; Cariclia and Sisimi­thres finished our prosperities; and from the feet of those altars of the gods where we then were, we presently were raised up gloriously to the Kings Throne, where we now are. Acknowledge then (my dear Theagenes) as well as I, that it belongs not but to those that have been unfortunate, to say they are happy; that 'tis but only after our disgraces that our felicities are sweet; that by troubles onely we can come to judg of quiet and rest: and that those who ne­ver have undergone any evil, cannot truly [Page 159] know what pleasure is. For my part, I find so much satisfaction in remembring my troubles, and the memory is so grateful and so precious to me, that far from banishing it from my soul, I wish not onely that it may be always there, but that this glorious Image may alwayes be in the memory of all men. Let there be found a Painter, both faithful and skilful, and happy enough, to trace a picture of it, that Posterity may be­hold it; that our adventures may be known wherever the Sun gives light; that our a­mours be talked of in all the languages of the world; that the Ethiopian History be not hid from any; that we may have an hundred Imitators of our pleasures and suf­ferings; that we may be the rule & model of all other lovers; and that from age to age the whole Universe may alwayes ad­mire Theagenes and Cariclia.

POLIXENA TO PYRRHUS. The Seventh HARANGUE.
POLIXENA TO PYRRHUS.

FEar not that the desire of life will make me have recourse to tears, thereby to excite compas­sion in your soul: Polixena's heart is too great to fear death; and her spirit is too reasonable and too ge­nerous, not to prefer it before slavery. Those who are forced to descend from the Throne withviolence ought not to apprehend their descent into the grave: it is better they should cease to live, than that they should begin to become slaves; and it is better to become nothing at all, than to survive their glory and their happiness. Do not fear therefore, that the Victime will escape from the foot of the altar; she desires her death which you are going to give her; she be­holds [Page 164] without horrour the knife which must pierce her brest; nor does Achilles ghost demand the end of her life with more are dency, than she her self does crave it. What do you stay for then to perform this funest ceremony? there is no need you should busie your selves with all the preparations of an ordinary sacrifice; for I do not think there is any one of the gods that can favou­rably receive that which you are going to offer this day. The Victime is pure and in­nocent, I confess; but if I am not decei­ved, it will stain that hand that shall shed its blood; the Sacrifier will become crimi­nal, and the sacrifice will be of no advan­tage but only to the oblation it self. But what shall I do in this occasion! it seems hearing me speak in this manner, that I would with-hold the arm that should strike me! No, Pyrrhus, 'tis not my design; on the contrary, I seek to irritate you, thereby to hasten my death. 'Tis with impatience and disquiet that I perceive, that my birth, my youth, and my present condition inspires you with some sence of tenderness; nay I fear also that my constancy does make you take some compassion; and apprehend in fine, all that one lesse generous than my [Page 165] self would desire. But remember not to let you bow to any pity, that you are a Gre­cian, and I a Trojan; that you are Achil­les son, that I am daughter to Priam, and Paris sister; who, to revenge the death of generous Hector, kill'd that cruel Achilles, your father, and my enemy. For let them not tell me, that he was become my lover ever since the sad day wherein he saw me at my brothers funeral; or that 'tis yet through a sentiment of affection that his ghost will have me sacrificed upon his Tomb: No, Pyrrhus, no, Achilles was but my enemy, and never was my lover; however I shall say, that for my own part at least, I had rather be his Victime, than to have been his Mistris. Polixena's eyes would be guilty, if they could have infused love into her brothers murtherer; and she would esteem her self very unhappy, if any could suspect her to have contributed any thing to such a kind of conquest. I have wish'd to pierce his heart, I confess, but ne­ver to subdue it to me; I have desired his death, but not his love; and I in fine, have had all the hatred that one can have, for the enemy of ones blood, the destroyer of ones Countrey, and for Hectors murderer. That [Page 166] if nevertheless you will publish to all the world, that the great Hectors vanquisher has been vanquished, not by the beauty of Polixena, but by her sorrow only; proclaim also that Polixena has not been orecome by the submissions of Achilles; that the tears he has shed hath not washed off the blood her brother lost by his hand; and that when Priam, and all the Trojan Princes would for the publick good have immola­ted her to Achilles passion, thereby to ob­tain a peace; proclaim, I say, that she did oppose it with all her strength, that she ne­ver consented, and that the death she pre­pares her self to receive this day is the on­ly complacence she hath ever had for Achil­les passion. O gods! who ever beheld such a token of love, as that I shall present­ly receive? Achilles (as tis said) was Polix­ena's lover; but let us see a little what te­stimonies he has given her of that passion and respect he hath had for her. So long as he lived, he has imployed his valour onely against all whom she did love, and against all those whom she ought to love; I have seen him, that cruel Achilles, pursue all my friends with such spleen, that it had more of fury than of true courage. I have seen him [Page 167] an hundred times from the top of our Ram­piers bathe his hands in my blood. But, ô pitiful spectacle! I have seen him fight the valiant Hector: or to say better, I have be­held all the gods incens'd against us, making use of his arm to surmount him, who sur­mounted all others. Yes, I have seen the invincible Hector fall to the dust, by the will of heaven only, and by the only cruelty of Achilles; I have seen that Achilles, not only fight my brother, not only make him lose his life, but I have seen him by an in­humanity which never could be parallel'd use many outrages on that body of his ene­my, quite dead as it was: I have seen him load himself with his spoils; I have seen him give him several wounds, when he had no more sence of feeling; I have seen him tie him to his Chariot, he who should never have gone but in a Chariot of triumph; I have seen him compass our wals about three times, dragging that illustrious Hero, bound by the feet, his head hanging in the dust & blood. But what do I say; could Polixena be­hold all these things without dying! or that which is most strange, could Polixena cause any love in the cruellest of her enemies? Yes, Polixena has lived, and her tears, as [Page 168] tis said, have softned the heart of the piti­lesse Achilles; he wept with her at Hectors funeral; he desired a peace with Priam, and demanded his daughter of him. But at the same time (ô prodigie of extravagance as well as cruelty!) he did yet once more wash his hands in that unfortunate womans own brothers blood, whom he intended to make his wife; he hath slain Troilus with the same hand with which he slew, Hector; and with that same hand he would after­wards have taken Polixena for his spouse, if she had been so unworthy as to consent to it: Are those the marks of love, or of hatred? Is it a lover, or an enemy that acts in this manner? Or to speak more truly, are not those the actions of a man furious and di­stracted? For my part, I confess to you, all these things are incomprehensible to me: for if Achilles were but my enemy, why should he weep at Hectors funeral? and if he were become my lover, why did he yet tear in pieces one of my brothers with a Tygers cruelty? But that which astonishes me, and wrongs me most, is, that he could imagine that I was capable to hearken to his complaints and sighs, to forget the deaths of my brothers, to be their enemies Mistris, [Page 169] and their murderers wife. This thought is so injurious to Polixena, that she cannot possibly comprehend it should ever enter into the heart of Achilles, how inhumane so'ere he was. She cannot imagine, I say, that he could have believed that Hectors si­ster were so unworthy to do it: for, had he been but her adversary, as all other Greeks are, she would not easily have believed, that he had any love for her, nor would ever have consented to his unjust passion. Judge then, if after that which I have told you she could have been perswaded that Achilles was her lover, and far lesse consent to his affection? But let's see a little the sentiments he pre­serves for her in his grave; tis there that the Grecians and the Trojans▪ should end their differences; tis in the grave that all the world becomes of one party, & that love and hatred ought to cease. Notwithstanding it seems that Achilles is not satisfied with the utter ruine of Priams whole Empire. The burning of Troy is not a sufficient pile for his funeral, nor is his ghost contented with all the blood the Trojans have lost: His ashes must be sprinkled with Polixena's; and for a token of the love he had for her, his son must needs become her executioner; [Page 170] and since he could not have her for his wife she must now become his victime: Truly, to love in this manner one must be both a Grecian and Achilles together. Do not think how'ere that I complain of this cruel proceeding: on the contrary, I render thanks to the gods for their bounty in short­ning my thrid by this means: in the condi­tion of my present fortune death cannot but be advantageous to me: and to make it welcome, they could not choose better than to make me lose my life on the tomb of A­chilles. To die in this manner is to die tri­umphant; 'tis to behold ones enemy at ones feet; 'tis to be revenged for all the outrages and affronts one hath received; and tis to climb the Throne, when we de­scend thus into the Grave; and if against my will you perceive some marks of sorrow in my countenance, do not believe it is any effect of my fear, or of the trouble I have in losing my life: on the contrary, I feel joy in it. But if it be permitted me to ex­press all that I feel, the onely thought of the affliction which the unhappy Hecuba will receive, is that which causes all my grief. She brought me forth on the Throne, and I leave her to die in chains: I goe to re­gain [Page 171] my liberty, and I leave her in slavery; and even now whilst I am to her in lieu of Husband, Children, and Empire; I deprive her of all things, in depriving her of the consolation she found alone in me, and which she can find no where else. Ah! would the Heavens measure out her constancy to her sufferings; or shorten her dayes, to shorten her misfortunes. Alas! is it possible, that I can wish no better advantage for her that brought me into the world, but to see her in her grave? No, there is no power on earth that can make her less unhappy: and the Gods themselves, since they cannot re­call things past, cannot afford her a more fa­vourable destiny, than to give her her death before she hears of mine. For I do not doubt, though I were assured to passe my life in slavery, but that unfortunate Princess will regret me with as much affliction, as if in losing the light I lost all the diadems of the world. The sentiments of nature will be more prevalent in her than the power of reason; and the desire to increase her sor­row will make her that she will find nothing which may comfort her for my loss, but the hope of her own. At least, Prince, to whom I speak, be not so inhumane to re­fuse [Page 172] her the body of her daughter, or not to let her have it without paying a ransome. For what can a Queen give you, whose Em­pire is destroyed, whose City is consumed, and to whom there is onely left in possessi­on the ashes of her children? So long as she had treasures, she has bestowed them prodigally, to redeem the bodies of her sons from the hands of the cruel Achilles; but now that she hath nothing remaining of all what she hath had, but onely the remem­brance of her pass'd happiness, thereby to encrease her present misery, be satisfied with her tears. 'Tis the only ransome you should exact from her; and that onely which she can give you. So that if all compassion be not intirely extinguish'd in your soul, you will esteem the tears of an unhappy Princess to be inestimable; you will think the pray­ers they make when they are even loaden with fetters, ought not to be refus'd when they are not injust: and those slaves who have worn Crowns ought not to be treat­ed with inhumanity. Suffer then the un­happy Hecuba to put all those in their graves whom she hath brought forth into the world: return Polixena's corps to her, when Polixena shall be no more; and do not re­fuse [Page 173] this sad courtesie and grace, to her whose Kingdome you have invaded, slain her children, and stabb'd her husband. Have a care, lest abusing of your Victories, you one day merit to find as harsh Conque­rours as your selves have been. The gods who oppress us at this time, will be perhaps awearied of protecting you and punishing us; and it may be also that the blood which I am going to lose may be more favourable, to the Trojans than to the Grecians. Do not therefore despise the counsels which I give you, although I be your enemy; and re­spect in the persons of those whom you have vanquished, those who assuredly had been your Conquerours, if the Heavens had seconded their courage. For my self, who have no longer portion in this life, but onely to die with constancy, and in a man­ner not unworthy of so many illustrious Hero's, from whom I am descended: I ask you, wherefore you do not suddenly finish that which you intend to execute? Do you wait till the Ghost of cruell Achilles come once more forth from Hell to re­demand Polixena? or do you think to make my death the more cruell, in making me expect it a long time? whatever it be, hasten [Page 174] you to satisfie both Achilles and Polixena together. If you stay longer, perhaps pity may surprize you; perhaps all the Trojan slaves may break their chams to deliver me; perhaps also that the Grecians will love ra­ther to see me captive, than to see me die; life up your arm therefore, and plunge your ponyard into my heart: I present my brest to you; and without fear, as without regret, I am resolved for my loss. Do not prepare therefore neither irons, nor cords to hold me: I shall not (surely) fly that which I would goe to seek for; nor is it difficult to sacrifice a Victime which willingly offers it self, and which would sacrifice her self, if she had the power.

'Tis the least favour which you can grant to a Princess, to die freely: As daughter to Priam, and as Hectors sister, I ought to obtain this which I demand: for what avails it Achilles Ghost, whether I have any bonds, or whether I have none, if so be I lose all my blood, if so be I expire on his ashes, and that in fine, I remain in the pow­er of death? But let not that cruel ghost imagine, that mine shall be his companion in the dark regions of the grave: No, I shall alwayes be his most mortal enemy. [Page 175] Ile goe (if the Gods will permit it) from grave to grave about the ruines of Troy, to seek the sepulchres of my parents: and u­niting my self inseparably to Hectors ghost, Achilles shall then know whether Polixena's heart were generous or not; whether it were capable to listen to his complaints, and to answer to his passion; or if rather, she were not a worthy sister to Hector, and a worthy daughter to Priam. Alas! why must Illium's ashes cover the ashes of so many illustrious persons? O would the im­mortals, that the blood which Polixena is going to shed, could withdraw them from underneath those famous ruines, and that her death could give them life again. But 'tis no time now to make these fruitless wishes; the Gods change not their resolu­tions, nor can the fate of Troy be revoked. It belongs to us onely to submit to what our destiny ordains: and whether we be conquered or conquerours, we are equally obliged to obey without murmuring, and with an equal visage to receive either happi­nesse or misfortune. Tis by these sentiments (ô Prince and Priest together) that I remain so tranquil at the approaches of death; and if I do not deceive my selfe, I discover [Page 176] more trouble in your looks than you can behold in mine. For there is this difference betwixt what you are going to do, and what I do now; that I obey Heaven, and you o­bey the Ghost of the cruel Achilles, who will have her sacrificed to him, whom he pretended he loved, during his life. But, O Gods, what could his hatred be, since even his love produces the death of her whom he loved? Was ever such a thing heard of before? without doubt 'tis, if not a gene­rous, yet at least an ordinary and natural sentiment, not to be sorry for the death of an enemy: but to desire it to those whom we love, that's a thing against both reason and nature, and a thing which no age nor people ever saw: and indeed I am strongly perswaded, that 'tis more thorow hatred than love that I am sent to my grave. So long as Achilles lived he hath desired that I should be his slave, and now he cea­ses to live he will have me for his victime. Lets satisfie this last desire, since we may do it without shame; and lets rejoyce that we have neither been his wife, nor his Mi­stris, hor his slave. Whoever goes out of this life with glory, ought ever to esteem themselves happy; principally, if [Page 177] we leave a chain in leaving this world; what matter is it whether they unlose the chains that binds us, or whether they break them? however it is, tis still to set us at li­berty.

Be then my deliverer, and fear not for your particular that I shall wish you any hurt. The hand that frees me cannot but be grateful to me; and he that hinders me from being a captive, cannot be hated by me. But what do I! and what is't I say, unhappy that I am! I do not think to whom I speak. He whom I behold is not onely a Grecian, not only my enemy, not onely my sacrifier, but he was likewise the executio­ner of my father. No, Pyrrhus, 'tis neither as Grecian, nor as my enemy, nor as A­chilles son, nor as my sacrifier that I look on you, even when I change my thoughts, and that I make imprecations against you; but tis because you were my fathers mur­therer. What Pyrrhus, could you so hate­fully pursue that venerable old man to the very feet of the altar, where his sought his refuge, to thrust a dagger even into his heart! Did your hand not tremble at the aspect of that great Prince, Father of so many Heroes, truly it should have done so; [Page 178] but those that do not revere the gods, have no reason to respect men. Ha! truly that act hath acquired you a great deal of glory: and tis a difficult thing to kill a Prince worn out with age, feeblenesse, and misery; and who seeks his defence onely by the protecti­on of those sacred places, which ought to be inviolable. Methinks there was no need of staining your arm and name by so bar­barous an action: the flames which have consumed our City would have sufficed to take away the life of that deplorable King, and the least you could do was to let his Palace be his Funeral-pile to be consumed in. But you are too nice an observer of A­chilles his cruelties, not to observe them ex­actly: 'Twas not enough to have usurped an Empire, and to set Illium all in one flame: the altars must be prophan'd, they must be sprinkled with humane blood; and that not onely with the blood of vulgar ones. It must be the noblest blood in all the earth that must be spilt; it must be a royall person that must be trampled under foot, despising in him, and with him all that was holy, or sacred in our Palaces, and in our Temples: after such an unnatural action, I was in the wrong to [Page 179] fear lest any pity should enter your soul, and defer my death: that's a sentiment which the Grecians in general are unacquainted with, and of which the son of Achilles can­not be capable possibly. That dagger which I behold in your hand, and with which you are a going to pierce my heart, is perhaps the same which hath gone through the King, my Fathers heart. O sad spectacle! O too cruel torment! why is it that I did not pe­rish in the flames which have devoured so many illustrious persons; and that I have been reserved to behold such horrid things? am I guilty of Helena's crimes, or of Paris his failings? No, Polixena is innocent, and if she have outlived so many misfortunes, tis to die with more constancy, and with more glory also: tis to let the Grecians which did not come to this siege know, what the sons of Priam might be, since e­ven his daughter dare encounter and con­front death, without any the least fear.

If those flames which consum'd Troy had put a period to my destiny, I should have had no witnesses of these last senti­ments of my soul: Posterity might have doubted of Polixena's vertue; and might have believed, that since Achilles had had [Page 180] the temerity, after he had made her Coun­trey desolate, and slain her brothers, to de­mand her for his wife, and to say, that he was in love with her; that she had not done as she should in so strange a business. But as things are now, I die in publishing, that I am an utter enemy to Achilles, that I have ever been so, and that I shall be so eternally; let the ghost of that cruel one come once more forth of his sepulchre; let it appear to all the Grecians, and let it declare whether Polixena does erre from the truth. To justifie what she sayes, you need but consider the animosity which he retains for her, even after his death: and one may easily know that which she had for him so long as he lived. For although what ever comes from the Grecians ought to be suspe­cted by the Trojans; this apparition of A­chilles is not one of Ulisses deceits, as that was, whereby our City was betrayed. No, tis a perfect hatred, which makes him come forth of his grave, to make me enter into mine; and this sanguinary ghost did re­behold the day, onely to make me lose the light for ever. Why do you stay then, O Prince! unworthy of that title? and why do not you end this woful sacrifice? Do you [Page 181] respect the daughter more than you have done the Father? and does your hand rather tremble to stab Polixena, than when you massacred the deplorable Pri­am? hearken to that subterranean voice which issues from the hollownesse of that grand sepulchre with an horrid sound, and which with threats commands you to immolate me to his fury.

Behold that earth which opens it self, behold the ghost of Achilles, which ap­pears to me; or rather Achilles himself, who is leaving his grave. He is pale, and disfigured; a terrour inflames his eyes, even dead as they are; and I be­hold him just such as he appeared to me on the sad day when he fought with Hector; unlesse death (or perhaps the remorse for his crimes) have changed his skinne and colour.

Behold, Phyrrus, behold that hideous spirit, which arises little by little; and who to his threatening actions, joyning his horrid voice, does for the last time ordain you to sacrifice Polixena to him. Make this Ghost to vanish by obeying it; the Victime is ready prepared, the [Page 182] poyniard is in your hand, and you are ac­customed to shed the Blood Royall. Strike then; as your Slave, I conjure you; and as the Daughter of a King, I command you.

PENELOPE TO LAERTES: The Eighth HARANGUE.
PENELOPE TO LAERTES:

HE that undertakes to maintain that death is the most sensi­ble and greatest of all evils, is surely such a one, as ei­ther never loved at all, or at least hath never undergone the unhappinesse of being absent from the person beloved. No, my Lord, that mon­ster which desolates all the earth; who by the succession of time changes the face of the whole Universe, who treats alike both vice and vertue; who strikes with the same fatal dart the Kings and Shepherds, and whose very portraiture alone fills the stout­est soul with horrour and amazement, is not yet that thing which I believe we ought the most to apprehend. Absence, which we [Page 188] may truly say is the commencement of all sorrowes, and the end of all joyes, hath in it somewhat that is more harsh and insup­portable: for if the first be that which de­stroyes our prosperity, the second is that which makes us unhappy, even in the midst of abundance, yea, on the Throne it self. There is neverthelesse a great deal of diffe­rence betwixt them, for death ravishes e­qually from us, both our felicities and mis­fortunes; if it rob us of any flowers, it does not leave us the prickles behind them, it crushes with the same hand both our Crowns and fetters: and in a word, when it deprives us of life, it likewise utterly ex­tinguishes in our hearts all the flames of love and anger, all the resentments of ha­tred, vengeance; and in fine, all other pas­sions. It causes, I say, both our joy and trouble to expire together at the same mo­ment: whereas absence not onely robs us of all the good that ever death deprives us of, but likewise causes all those evils to fall on us, to which the other puts a sudden pe­riod. Our life it self in this occasion is left us, but onely to make us the more sensible of the most piercing pain that can be felt: and if there be sometimes such people, who [Page 189] prefer the absence of the beloved person ra­ther than death; 'tis because they suffer themselves to be deluded by false appearan­ces; tis because that mournful dress in which it is represented affrights them; tis because they contemplate it more with their bodily sight than the eyes of the soul; tis because they only consider it in what is most terrible; and tis in fine, because they love themselves better than they doe their Mi­stresses, and prefer the rayes of the Sun a­bove the lustre of her eyes, and had rather not see her at all, than be deprived of their sight. Ha! how ignorant those people are of the true sentiments which love inspires! But (you will say to me, my Lord) perhaps you do not seriously consider, how great that violence must needs be which separates so close an union, as that of soul and body: But I shall answer you, you do not truly consider, your self, what a greater violence that must be, which for a long season sepa­rates that which love, reason, and inclinati­on seem to have joyned with an eternal and immortal chain. Death, sage Laertes (as you know better than my self) is as natu­ral to us as life: if it be an evil, 'tis at least an evil that should not surprize us: as soon [Page 190] as we begin to live, we ought to begin to learn to die; at the first opening of our eyes, we should already look on the open­ing of our graves; and every Monarch in the world that hath not renounced common sence, cannot be ignorant, that as he mounts up to his Throne, so he shall once descend into his sepulchre. ▪Tis not thus in the things of love; that passion being altoge­ther divine, seizes so imperiously on those whom she possesses, and the sight of the beloved person does so absolutely fill all the soul of her adorer, that this absence is an e­vil which still surprizes him, and comes so unawares, that by consequence it renders him more unhappy than death can, which we ought alwayes to expect. That amazing instant, which parts two persons perfectly loving one another, is a sadnesse beyond my expression, though I have proved it more cruelly than any other; but to make you in some manner comprehend it, Ima­gine to your self, my Lord, that you were ambitious, and that your Crown were torn from you; imagine your self were extream­ly covetous, and that your treasures were all stoln from you; imagine you were vi­ctorious, and that your victory were ra­vished [Page 191] out of your hands; imagine you were shakled with chains, whose very weight were insupportable; imagine you lost all that is dear to you in the world; imagine you were deprived of the light of the day, and that you remained in horrid darknesse; imagine your heart were torn forth of your bosome, and you not yet dead: and ima­gine in fine, that I not onely suffered all these pains, but that even death, how terri­ble so 'ere it be, was the utmost of all my wishes, at that sad moment of Ulisses de­parture. Ha! my Lord (yet once more) how grievous that funest minute was to me! death is rather the lulling asleep of all our troubles, than any sensible evil, and it has nothing trouble some but the way that leads to it. But absence is a chain of misfortunes which finds no end, but at the end of our lives, or the return of the beloved person. The first sigh which death does make us breath, hath alwayes the advantage of be­ing the last: but the first, which absence obliges us unto, is followed with so many others, and accompanied with so many tears, so many disturbances, so many tor­ments; or to speak better, so many deaths, that its evill suffers no comparison: and [Page 192] then to speak rationally, death and absence may be taken for one another, since both the one and the other equally deprives us of all that we can love: but as tis impos­sible, that the loss of all the riches in the world can be so sensible to us, as the absence of the person whom we dearly love, since she is in the stead of all unto us; so also it is impossible, but that that which deprives us of it, must be more harsh than death it self, which can only take away that good from us which we esteem farre lesse than she. But (you will say again) that death which snatches away a Crown, which puls down your Throne, which deprives you of the light, does also rob you from the per­son whom you love: she does not forsake you (tis true) but you leave her; and in this manner you do as well lose the sight of her, as in absence, and likewise lose her for ever. I acknowledge (sage Laertes) that this objection is strong; nevertheless it is not impossible to clear it. To die before the eyes of those we love, is somewhat more comfortable than to remain alive, se­parated from ones lover and husband toge­ther: to mingle our last tears together with his, is less insupportable than to be left a­lone [Page 193] to weep continually: and to leave ones soul betwixt those armes, is rather a strict­er union with him, than a separation. In fine, (to say all in a word) after the having given him the last adiew after the having had the satisfaction of knowing the great­nesse of his amour, by the greatnesse of his sorrowes; after the having (if it be permit­ted to speak so) resigned our soul into his hands; we have alwayes this advantage, to cease to live, in ceasing to see him; losing the light for ever with his presence; and to become insensible of grief, as well as of joy. The repose and obscurity of the grave are better in this occasion than life & the light of day: that funest and mortal Lethargy which for ever rocks all our sences into a deep sleep in the cradle of the Tomb, is the only remedy which could charm all the e­vils I now suffer for the absence of my dear Ulisses; and as sleep does every night make the happy and miserable to become equall and alike, as it does the greatest-Princes and the meanest Subjects; So death likewise places in the same rank those lovers which injoy the presence of their Mistresses, with those which are deprived of it. The thick­nesse of those shades we meet withal in the [Page 194] grave, hinders us for evermore from distin­guishing any of the things of this world; and death, how pitiless so'ere tis described to us, is not so cruel, but that it promptly heals us of all the evils it causes. If it make an ambitious man lose his Crown, it deprives him at the same instant both of the diadem and the ambition which rendered it so pleasing to him: if it rob the treasures from the possession of the covetous, it like­wise steals away that avarice from his heart which made him cherish wealth so much: and if it dis-unite two persons dearly loving, the least unhappy is he without doubt who loses his life, since in losing that he loses both his sence, knowledge, and memory at the same moment. It is not thus in absence; we die thereby indeed unto all pleasures, but it is only to live unto all pains. As soon as ere we lose the sight of the person that reigns in our souls, all other passions throng in to tear and torture it; Love, Hatred, Anger, Vengeance, Jealousie, Fear, and Hope it self, does persecute and war against us. We never love more, than when we lose the sight of the object of our affection; we never hate any thing with so much vio­lence as that which robs us of our beloved: [Page 195] we are never more irritated, than when our felicity is destroyed, we never wish more ardently to revenge our selves, than when we are reduced to the terms of despair: we are never more jealous, than when we can­not be the witnesses of their actions, who owe all their fidelity to us: we never de­serve so much to be pitied, as when we fear the death of our lovers; and one may likewise say, that we are never more unhap­py, than when we are reduced to that point of having no other consolation, than an uncertain and doleful hope, which ordinari­ly serves rather to increase our miseries, than to asswage them; so true it is, that ab­sence is a terrible and fearful evil; and so true it is, that it converts all the remedies which are presented to it into poyson. Do not you imagine (my Lord) that I have learn'd what I now say, either from the example of others, or from reason which oft-times teaches us many things which we have never experienced. No, my Lord, I tell you nothing, but what my own trial hath verified: and would to heaven I were yet ignorant of such sad truths, and that death were the only evil which I might apprehend. When my dear dear Ulisses was [Page 196] resolved to part, and that overswayed by the power of his destiny, he separated him­self from me; love (to render this separa­tion the more cruel to me) represented him more lovely to me than ever I had beheld him: his sorrow augmenting his charmes, his silence caused by the affliction he indu­red in leaving me, rendered him more grate­ful to me, than his sweetest eloquence had ever done, although that eloquence have inchanted all the earth: in fine, sage Laer­tes, I then know better than ever I had known till then, the price and value of what I had possessed, and of what I was then ready to be dispossessed of. My love in­creased, I acknowledge it; and though I had believed all my life, that I could not possibly love my husband more ardently and tenderly than I did love, yet neverthe­lesse I cannot deny but that I found my af­fection redoubled in that sad instant. But when after I had lost his fight, the Image of Menelaus presented it self to my mind, who had caused his departure, hatred seized so powerfully on me, that there are no unjust wishes which I made not for him. Anger followed hatred, and the desire of revenge immediatly stept in after hatred: I desired [Page 197] he might not regain Helena; I wished he might suffer all his life-time that which I now suffered by his means; and I think likewise, that in the heat of my resentment I should have made prayers, to obtain from heaven, that he might have been beaten, and his army defeated by the Trojans, had I not remembred that he could not be vanquished, but that my dear Ulysses must be so to, since he was ingaged in the quar­rel. But, my Lord, will you think it well, that I should shew you all my troubles, and discover all my imbecilit [...]es? Yes, since it is onely by that means that I can prove to you, that absence is worse than death. After then that I had resented all the most violent effects of love, anger, hatred, I found my self again assaulted by Jealousie: Ulysses went to a place, where they might take such prisoners as were capable to en­chain their vanquishers and masters, as the examples of Agamemnon and Achilles has since taught us. Imagine then the trouble that this thought excited in my heart: it was so great, that if the fear of Ulysses death in so dangerous a voyage had not modera­ted its violence, I believe I should have ac­cused him in my thoughts, as if he had [Page 198] been already guilty: I should have made him some reproaches, and perhaps for some instants should have hated him. But the consideration of the perils he was going to expose himself unto, did no sooner come in­to my mind, but that tumult was appeased: but I was not the less unhappy for all this, since there is no danger which I did not ap­prehend for him, and which by consequence I did not undergo. I imagined that I be­held him ready to make ship-wrack; I be­held him in the combats; I beheld him wounded; I saw him a prisoner; I beheld him ready to expire; and I think truly, that the onely fear of his death had made me die, if hope more to make me suffer than to ease me had not preserved my life. I hoped then, my Lord, but to say truly, 'twas so feebly, and with so much uncertain­ty, that that hope was rather a trouble than an help unto me. That ill founded hope had no sooner inspired my heart with some pleasing thought, but presently my fear quenched it again: if the one made me i­magine Ulisses returned victorious, the other persctaded me, he might be then perishing in the waves: if one made me behold the har­bour, the other shewed me nothing but [Page 199] tempests and wracks: in fine, I alwayes thought him either inconstant or dead: and the successive raign of two such contrary sentiments tyrannized so fiercely in my soul, that to be in a condition not to fear any more, nor to be flattered again with hope, I wished more than an hundred times for death. You may know from thence (if I do not deceive my self) that absence is more to be feared than that, since tis desired as a remedy for those evils, which this last makes us suffer. Truly, my Lord, they are so great and so sensible, that if it were possi­ble to comprehend, that there could be a sharper pain, or a greater misfortune, than the death of the beloved person, we might yet say, that such a losse caused lesse afflicti­on, than the torment of an absence, whose duration is incertain. Yes, my Lord, those which do not love their husbands so well as to follow them into their graves, and who have courage enough; or to say better, in­sensibility enough, to suffer that separation without despairing, have more rest than I have: they have this advantage, to know that they are unhappy alone, and that those whom they mourn are at quiet: they fear neither their inconstancy, nor their death, [Page 200] which is already happened: nor can they a­ny more apprehend ought, either from that pitiless monster, nor from inconstant for­tune, since there remains no more for them to lose but their own life, which is no longer pleasing to them. But what do I say, insen­sible as I am! No, no, my Lord, do not give ear to what my sorrow makes me speak, nor believe, that I could ever prefer the death of my dearest Ulysses before his ab­sence, how rigorous so'ere it is unto me. May he live, and may he also live happy, though distant from his Penelope, rather than I should hear that he lives no more: I had rather never behold him, than to behold him die; and I had rather hear he were incon­stant, than to hear of the end of his life. O heaven, to what a strange necessity do you reduce me, to make wishes against my self! Now, my Lord, is not absence worse than death? and have I not reason to say, that I am the most unhappy person of all my sex? those that die have this sad conso­lation in losing their lives, that they may consider that from the beginning of ages all men have undergone what they do, and as long as the world shall last, all those that are born must undergo the very same: but [Page 201] of all the Grecian Princesses, whose hus­bands have followed Menelaus, I am the on­ly she that have heard no news of mine; I am the onely she that yet doth sigh; I am the only she that have no share in the pub­lick joy; and the onely she alone, that dares not prepare Crowns, not knowing whether those Crowns should be made of Lawrel, or of Cypress branches. The vi­ctory has been woful only to me alone; and Polixena, yea Hecuba her self (though the unhappiest amongst the Trojans) are not yet so unhappy as poor Penelope. The first died with constancy, and by consequence with glory: and the last had at least this advantage, that she could weep over the bodies of her children, and revenge the death of her son; whereas I weep, and do not know what object my tears should have. Perhaps alas! thinking onely to weep for the absence of my dear Ulysses, I am obliged to weep for his inconstancy, or it may be for his death. For, my Lord, how can I think him living, and not criminal, since he does not come? he knowes he is King of this Island, and that his subjects have need of him; he knowes you are his Father, and that you wish for his return; he knows Te­lemachus [Page 202] is his son, and that he desires to know him, he being so young when he de­parted, that time has effaced the memory of him; he knowes in fine, that Penelope is his wife, and that upon that happy return de­pends all her felicity; nevertheless it is now almost twenty years since he went; it is neer ten years since the Grecians conquered, and yet we do not know whether we should be­moan him as unhappy or guilty. However it be, 'tis certain that I have cause to com­plain, and to despair; on what side so'ere I turn, I still finde new subjects of sorrow; your old age afflicts me, my sons green years disquiets me; those that would comfort me increase my troubles; those which bear no part with me in my woes, anger me; and both the discourses of the one, and the si­lence of the others are equally insupportable to me. But that which nevertheless is the most cruel to me, is, that neither time nor affliction hath sullied that little beauty on my face, which hereaofore charmed Ulysses: 'tis not but that if I must see him again, I shall be joyful to have preserved it; but in the condition I am, I finde that tis shame­ful to me to be yet able to make any con­quests. Nevertheless you are not ignorant, [Page 203] what a number of importunate persons do persecute me, though I despise them: for my part I am in doubt whether I ought to hide from them, my person or my tears: for to say truth, I think verily I have now no other amability, nor any thing worthy of esteem, but only my excessive regrets and sorrow for the absence of my dearest Husband; and yet Helena hardly ever had more slaves than I have captives, though Helena and Pe­nelope are persons very different, and al­though I take as great care to break their chains, as she did to manacle them. O hea­vens! who ever heard such amorous dis­courses, as these indiscreet people make, to court me to an approbation of their fond passions, and to gain my belief that their intentions are legitimate? Ulysses is dead, (say these impatient men) and by conse­quence our love does not offend you: ha! if Ulysses be dead (do I reply then with tears) nothing but a grave is fit for Penelope; and if he be not, you are cruel, and not judici­ous, to come and sigh at her feet, who sighs for his absence, & who can never behold you but as her enemies, rather than her lovers. Judge after this, my Lord, if any thing can be added to the troubles I suffer? leave me [Page 204] then the liberty to preferre death before absence; the one makes the body suffer more than the spirit, and the other torments the spirit more than the body; the one puts a period to all misfortunes, the other gives birth to all miseries; the one is an evil which indures but an instant, the other is a despair which may last all the life; the one does but extinguish all our passions, the other is a Tyrant, which makes them rule successively in our souls: in fine, death is but onely death, and absence is a series or chain of murders, torments, disquiets, fears, jealousies, angers, despairs, and con­tinual deaths. In absence we make vowes which contradict one another; ve make wishes, for which we repent again; we ex­pect alwayes to behold that which we fear we shall never see again; we hope and ap­prehend at the same time; we fancy dangers which never were; we accuse with unjustice those whom we bemoan and cherish with reason; we sometimes hate our selves; we blame our own sorrow, and yet will not be comforted; we hide our tears, and yet de­sire not that time should wipe them from our cheeks, we envy anothers happiness, we fly from society, and solitude is insup­portable; [Page 205] we behold all what we would not see, and cannot be so blessed as to see that which we would ever behold; we seek after that which we are assured not to find; and in a word, we finde our selves in a condition to wish for death, and pre­fer it before absence; yea, to make supplications to obtaine that which all the world fears, and from which all the world does flie.

BRISEIS TO ACHILLES. The Ninth HARANGUE.
BRISEIS TO ACHILLES.

YEs, yes, cruel Achilles, I see my chains, and feel a slave: though I had never beheld the one, and had alwayes been ignorant of the other, the usage I have received this day would teach me but too much what my condition is, and also both what the mis­fortune is that accompanies it, and the shame that waits upon it. You are without doubt my master, your actions and your words do testifie it enough: and pas­sing very far beyond the limits of the le­gitimate power of my Master, you become my Tyrant, and make me suffer a punish­ment, unworthy both of your self and me. But what ever Pride you have, and what e­ver humility you would have me to have, [Page 210] I cannot forget in wearing your fetters, that I should wear a Crown; that I was not born such as you would have me die; that my hand was destined for a Scepter, not for a chain and that in taking away my Throne you have not taken down my heart; as we receive Kingdomes and Empires from the hands of fortune; so she being avaritious and capritious, can take away again what she had bestowed: but as we have our ge­nerosity onely by nature, who is too wise to change her counsels, and too liberal to take away her gifts again; so we preserve that even to our graves; we can shew that at liberty in the midst of slavery; & make it, in fine, triumph over tyrants as well as tyrāny. Do not expect therefore, that I should con­tinue to complain poorly of your infidelity; that I should let fall any shameful tears; or that I should shed them needlesly; that I should give such satisfaction to my Rival, as to behold my shame in the day of her glory, and my sorrow amidst her pleasures: Or briefly, that I my self should add to my disgraces, that of not being able to under­goe them. No, Achilles, no, I will com­plain no more of your inconstancy, I will call you ingrateful no more, I will not say [Page 211] you are wavering; nor will I any more re­proach you, that either you heard not, or that you heard but in fury. Continue to betray me, if you think good, passe from the Grecians to the Trojans Camp, from our Trenches over their Ramparts; and if this be not yet enough, adore your enemies: Kiss (I say) Polixena's hand, if she be so unworthy as to indure, that his who mur­thered her brother Hector, dare to approach so neer hers: neither forget any thing that can satisfie her of whatso'ere may cause af­fliction to me, or dishonour to your self. I consent, Achilles, I consent. whether per­force, or voluntarily, no matter, if so be you are pleased; if so be you appear my ma­stet, if so be I appear your slave; and that I voluntarily indure your inconstancy with­out murmuring. But do not expect that I will suffer you to goe on from inconstancy to pride, and from pride to disdain; that you should reproach me of my chains, which onely your cruelty makes me wear; and that you should treat me unworthily, because I am not free, because you are not generous, and because I am unfortunate. No, I tell it you once more, and shall tell it you more than a thousand times; I cannot [Page 212] suffer that baseness; and though your in­humanity should condemn me to torments, I had yet rather suffer than deserve them. What, Achilles! doe you remember no more already, that I have seen you kiss my chains with respect, and not dare to kiss the hand that ware them? that I have known you think it a glory to obey her, whom you might have commanded? that I have found you entertaining her as a Queen, whom now you use as a Slave? and finally, that I have beheld you captivated by your own cap­tive? whence comes then so strange an al­teration? was I more at freedome than I am, or am I more a slave than I was? were you lesse Soveraign than you at present are, or are you more absolute than you were then? have we interchanged our conditions one with another, or have I changed my visage? were you blinde, barbarous Achil­les, or are you now become so? did you want judgment at that time when you ado­red me, or do you want it now, since you a­dore me no more? In a word, were you an Idolater then, or are you impious now? Ha! no, no, neither of all these things hath happened so; I am still what I was, you are still the same you were, at least, for your [Page 213] fortune: and if there had happened no more change in your heart, than in my face, and in your condition, I should yet behold him at my feet, who would hardly suffer me to cast my self at his; I should yet hear him make his Petitions, who now pronounces nought but injuries against me; I should yet receive submissions from him, from whom I now receive affronts; I should yet behold his humility, and not perceive his pride; and briefly, I should yet have in you a respectful lover, and not a vaunting Ty­rant. You believe then (as I comprehend by your pitiless and haughty answer which you have made me) you believe (I say) that command and servitude are things incom­patible in love, as well as they are in war; that one cannot give lawes, and receive them; and that one cannot serve and raign together, But how you are abused, if you have that belief! and how little do you know the power of love, if you make it to rise from the power of fortune! if those from whom I had my birth had onely car­ried sheephooks, and never seen the scepter but in anothers hand; if I had been born in a Cottage, and not within a Palace; yea more, had I been born with these chains on [Page 214] me, in which you will make me die; if I were not only a slave, but the daughter of a father that had been such himself; and on the contrary, though your Empire were as great as the whole Earth, though your Pro­vince were the Mistris of the whole Uni­verse; and that Peleus, or Achilles himself did command all men, as they do the Mir­mydons, that could not hinder but that Bri­seis would be Soveraign, if Briseis were be­loved; and Achilles would obey her, if A­chilles could truly love. 'Tis one of the most illustrious marks of loves puissance, to abase Thrones, and elevate Shepherdes­ses; to place the Crown upon a fair head, whose temples never kissed but onely gar­lands of flowers; and in a word, to make us behold Queens in fetters, as well as Kings in chains, when two amiable persons are truly touched with this noble passion; nei­ther the one nor other has any thing which does not become common to both; they make a glorious exchange of the marks of the ones misfortune, and the others gran­deur, that so nothing may be separated, nor any thing render them different. The lover takes his Mistresses fetters, the Mistris takes her lovers scepter; he who commanded, [Page 215] obeys; and she that obeyed, commands: and as the obedience is voluntary, the com­mand is not rigorous. He trembles now himself, that Conquerour that made whole Provinces tremble, he observes the least glances of this elective Queen; he is com­placent, he is humble, yea even respectful; he fears to offend her, he seeks to please her; and as he loves, so he desires onely to be rewarded with love again. He prefers the least of her favours above the gold of his Scepter, and the jewels of his Crown; he believes himself rich, when he bestowes all; and briefly, he thinks he raignes, when he thus serves. Thus, proud and haughty A­chilles, thus do true lovers live, and such as are truly generous. They never let fall any reproaches, no aigreur ever mingles with their discourses: on the contrary, the least injury would seem blasphemy unto them, and the least insolence a sacriledge beyond all pardon, and worthy of death; and if any other had the boldnesse to dare to anger their Mistris, far from offering it themselves, one passion would excite another, love would lead them to hatred, hatred would draw them unto fury, & fury would prompt them to revenge: they would be prodigal [Page 216] of their dearest blood, as they had been of their greatest riches; they would expose themselves for her glory, and believe they ventured for their own; and though they should lose both their Scepter and life to defend her, they would yet believe they gai­ned by that loss, and triumph in their over­throw, as having done what they could and ought; so true it is that love renders those equals that were different, and confounds particular interests. In effect, as wise per­sons should nor cherish a blind affection, but ever love with knowledge, as well as incli­nation; the beauty of vertue should ravish them, as well as the beauty of a lovely face; and the perfections of the mind charm them as powerfully as the perfections of the bo­die; their hearts should be touched more by the qualities of the soul than by the gifts of fortune; wherefore then, after they have loved that which they judged worthy of their love, should they cease from loving her still? wherefore do we see them change, since vertue changes not? and wherefore should they lose even their respect, since that same beautie which made them respectful, hath lost nothing of its lustre? believe me, Achilles, whether vertue either reign or obey, [Page 217] whether she be on the throne or in fetters, or whether it have its birth in the purple or in rags, it is alwaies alike lovely, and alwaies e­qually worthie of respect and veneration. None but the dull and stupid multitude will iudg of things by the lustre that invirons them, and dazles the sight; or will make the difference of persons according to their dif­ferent conditions. All those borrowed orna­ments have nothing that is either essential or solid; & if it be only the gold or diamonds in the Crown that renders one esteemable, we should rather esteem the Goldsmiths or Lapidaries, which make them so glistering; or at least, the earth which produces them. Ha! no, no, all those things which the vulgar call precious, are too poor to be the objects of a great and reasonable understanding; and that which comes from fortune is too low of value to make vertue be less esteem'd, though she be no longer adorned with it, or with anie justice to hinder, but that one may be both slave and Mistris. But let us suppose (though falsly, and without reason) that her birth must needs be illustrius, that wil pretēd to the glorie of retaining him still an illustri­ous prisoner, who is already become so to his slave, that the chains of that happy captive [Page 218] must have been forged of the same gold the scepter was of, which otherwhile her fa­ther ruled; what do you finde in this, that can make Briseis unworthy of Achilles love, or worthy of his hatred? You are the son of a King, I confess, but was not my father a King likewise? there are Crowns in your family, I acknowledge it, but hath there not been some in mine also? you ought to ascend the Throne, I cannot deny it, but have you not made me descend from one your self? you have overcome us, 'tis true, but might not we have vanquished you? I am become your slave, that's certain, but was it not possible you might have been ours? I wear your fetters, all the world sees it, but so might you have worne our chains? you may treat me cruelly, I do not doubt it, but will it not be barbarous if you do? you may abandon me indeed; but are you not unfaithful if you do? you may love Polixena, I know it but too well, but would it not be unreasonable that you should love your enemies? you may goe into Troy, I grant it, but will it not be a madness to trust the Trojans? you may likewise betray the Grecians, who does not know it; but will it not be a baseness to betray them? Ha! I [Page 219] perceive, cruel Achilles, that this last re­proach is more insupportable to you than all the rest; that you can hardly suffer it; and that tis not without some difficulty, that you in some manner retain that fury which is so natural to you. Tis no matter, how­ever, tis no matter, for though you should let the cloud of your anger break upon my head, yet the care I have for all that con­cerns you, obliges me not to conceal from you that which others dare not reveal unto you. Know then (if you be so blind as not to perceive it) that the whole Camp mur­murs against you, that Agamemnon whom you have offended, makes use of this op­portunity to revenge himself, and to cry you down amongst the Grecians; that U­lysses imployes his eloquence upon no o­ther subject, and his facility of speaking, and speaking well is a dangerous enemy to you; that the sage Nestor loudly blames you, though in all other occasions he hath ever testified much reservednesse; that A­jax himself, who is no small friend, is redu­ced to the sorry necessity, either of not say­ing any thing to defend you, or to quarrel for want of better reasons with those that condemn your proceedings; that Thersites [Page 220] by biting jests strikes at your reputation, ma­king all the world merrie at your cost; and Idomeneus, Diomedes, and all the other Gre­cian Princes are resolved not to indure so unreasonable a thing. Everie one observes you watchfully, each one remarks all your words, everie one considers all your actions; and you are now esteemed in our Camp, ra­thar a spie for the Trojans, than as one of the chief commanders of the Grecians. I perceive that you will answer me, by the fury which inflames your eies, that you know the art to make them hold their peace; that your hand is more to be feared than their tongues; and that if they can affront you, you can yet better punish them, and revenge your self. But Achilles, you must then hew in pieces all our Troops, combate all our Captains, and slaie all our souldiers; that is to say, you must do that which the Trojans cannot, nay dare not undertake; you must goe and take Hectors place; you must goe and dishonour your self. Perhaps you have no such guiltie thoughts, perhaps you will onelie retire your self into your tents, as you did heretofore; that so by the disadvantage which the Grecians shall have, when they must fight without you, they may know and [Page 221] feel the wrong they do themselves by vex­ing you, and not approving all that pleases you. O Achilles! are these fit actions for an Hero, who hath no other object but his glo­rie, & who by a thousand brave performan­ces aspires to immortalitie? Should anie one prefer his particular interest before the com­mon good, or his unjust passion above equi­ty it self, or the enemies good beyond his own countreys? should anie one believe him­self wiser than all others, when indeed he has no wisdome at all? should any one be Judge in his own cause? should anie one li­sten to his own desires, & not give ear to rea­son it self? and if it be so that one had trulie loved (which I cannot believe) should he proudly maintain afterwards, that one cannot be both slave & mistris? certainly, Achilles, there is somewhat that is so strange in your proceedings, that one cannot wel cōprehend it; the more one considers it, the less tis un­derstood; & I think you hardly understand it your self. For my part I acknowledg that tis incōceivable to me, nor can I imagin by what fantastical motives you can be drawn to do so: for wherefore should you quarrel so out­ragiously with Agamemnon, when he plucked me out of your hands, if you do not find me lovely? [Page 222] wherefore retreat within your Pavilions, and sigh bitterly there, since you do not love the cause of your retreat? wherefore did you behold our Battslia's defeated, and not assist them, if they onely took away from you what you have a minde to lose? where­fore did you suffer Hector to break down our barracadoes, and not oppose him, if this cause of your difference be so indiffe­rent to you? wherefore did you suffer him to fire our Navy, without hastening to quench it, if that flame of affection which you had for me be extinguished in your heart? wherefore did you expose Patroclus, the dearest of your friends, and be the cause of his death, if my life be not dear to you? and wherefore in fine, did you take me out of Agamemnons hands, if I am no longer welcome to you? answer, Achilles, answer to what I desire you: I intreat you with humility, if I be yet your slave onely; and if I am yet both your Slave and Mi­stris, I command you. Have you taken me to your own self again but only to imploy me about mean and servile offices? Have you many captives that wears chains, whose fathers have worne crowns? do you believe that an hand ordained for a Scepter can help [Page 223] its self with a needle? or that she that was accustomed to command, can accustome her self to obey? Do you believe when you treat me thus, that I can see it, and live? Do you believe I am destitute of courage, as you are of reason and pitie? Do you be­lieve your fetters can enchain the soul as they do the bodie; or that a generous stab cannot free me from this slaverie and your Tyrannie? Ha! if you believe thus, how little do you know your own cruelties, and how ill are you acquainted with Briseis! how little do you conceive what death is; or how little do you confider what I suffer! Though it should present it self to my sight in all that funest & bloudie equipage, which the most barbarous Tyrant can dress it with­all; though I should meet it accompanied with executioners, with scourges, and with flames; though there were new tortures in­vented to please you, and to afflict me with­all; I should yet prefer all these before the miserable condition I am now in: and should sooner resolve to suffer them all, than to suffer your outrages and disdain: for in fine, one may be both Captive and Mistris; bur one cannot remain a captive without be­ing Mistris, after the once having had the [Page 224] glorie of being so. I could have lived with­out that glorie, but I cannot live and lose it; I could have resolved to have lived in your chains, but I cannot resolve now to return to them again; I could have indured the anger of my Conquerour, but I can­not indure the disdain of my lover; I could then have remembred that I was your slave, but now I cannot forget that you have mine: in a word, you may be barbarous and inconstant, but I cannot be insensible and have no resentment. O cruel and un­reasonable Achilles! are you not also cruel enough to believe, that I should be yet too much honoured in serving the new and fairer object of your flames? have you not so much blindness as to hope that I shall be­come her captive, as you say I am yours? do you not expect from my complacence and willingnesse, that I should take the care to chuse her an habit that may adorn her, and the pains to curl her hair, to imbroider her head-attire with jewels; and to indea­vour besides to adde new graces to those she received at her birth, that thereby art may finish in her that which nature has so glori­ously begun? will you not have me extol her perfections, tell you of her charmes, [Page 225] make you remark the lustre of her eies, the pureness of her skin, and beauteous face, thereby to increase your affection and your delight together? will you not after­wards make me goe and entertain that faire Phrigian of the rare qualities that are in you? must I not vaunt of your courage, and speak to her of your skill, and above all value your constancy which I know so well, that so I may inkindle her soule with the bright flame which consumes yours? But will you not have me tell her, to prove your va­lour, that you have besieged Troy, that you have vanquisht the Trojans a thou­sand times, and that you took away her brothers life? Will you not have me declare aloud your liberality, when you took money for Hectors corps; and your civility, when you threatened Pri­am, who came to your Tents to de­mand it of you? O barbarous man that you are! are those your intents? but ô faint-hearted as I am my selfe! am I not ashamed of what I do? and should I not blush, since contrary to my designe and first dicourse my verie [Page 226] anger it selfe is become a token of my passion, or rather of my errour? No, no, do not listen to me any more, nei­ther listen to love, who speaks to you even as I do; nor to reason, which sayes the same that love does: Be gone, since you will goe, and passe from this Camp to the other, where glorie waits for you, as well as Polixena: Leave your ancient friends, and runne to the imbraces of those whom you have fought withall, and whom you ought to fight withall again: forget the interest of your own Nation, and lose all even to your very honour, to behold your Mistris a­gaine; look upon Briseis tears with smiles, and scoffe at her troubles, if at least her troubles doe not provoke your anger: Joyn her chains to Hectors armes, and carry both the one and the others to that Trojans feet: and in fine, goe and marrie an unworthie sister upon the tombe of her most generous brother. You will have it so, and Fate will have it so likewise; and although I would not, if I could help it, yet I must needs consent to it; for who can withstand [Page 227] Fate and Achilles his obstinacy? But remember, cruel and blinde as you are, that a God hath told you by my mouth, (yes I swear, that I feel a God inspiring what I now tell you) that you shall finde hatred, where you hope to meet with love; that you shall have no­thing but regret, where you expected nothing but pleasure; that you shall be betrayed by the Trojans, as you now betray the Grecians; that they shall have as much craft, as you have sim­plicity; that if Polixena do wait for you, death does wait for you also neer her; that if you approach neer Troy, your fa­tal houre does approach likewise; that the first day of that fatall Marriage shall be the last of your dayes, and that your death must quickly make me die.

Behold what Heaven has inspir'd me with, and this is that which you ought to believe; this is that which you will not believe; and this is that insensible and mad man, which will be the cause both of your ruine and mine. Just Gods, he hears me no more, he is going! the power [Page 228] of his destiny drags him away; I shall be­hold him no more; nor shall he 'ere see me again; he leaves me, he is going to die, and I my self am going to die likewise.