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by Nature, unhappy by Fortune,

      but most wretchèd I am, now Love awakes my desire.

When Dorus had sung this, having had all the while a free beholding of the fair Pamela (who could well have well spared such honor, but defended the assault he gave unto her face by bringing a fair stain of shamefastness58 to it), he let fall his arms and remained fastened in his thoughts, as if Pamela had grafted him there to grow in continual imagination. But Zelmane watched him and fearing he should forget himself too much, she took the lute out of his hand and sang these Sapphics,59 speaking (as it were) to her own hope, while laying fast hold of Philoclea’s face with her eyes:

      Zelmane:

      If my eyes can speak to do hearty errand,

or my eyes’ language she60 do hap to judge of,

      so that eyes’ message be of her receivèd,

hope, we61 do live yet.

      But if eyes fail then when I most do need them,

      or if eyes’ language be not unto her known,

      so the eyes’ message does return rejected,

      hope, we do both die.

      Yet, dying and dead, do we sing her honor.

      So become our tombs monuments of her praise.

      So becomes our loss the triumph of her gain:

      Hers be the glory.

      If the senseless spheres do yet hold a music;

      if the swan’s sweet voice be not heard but at death;

      if the mute timber, when it has lost its life,

      yieldeth a lute’s tune,

      are then human lives privileged so meanly

      as that hateful death can abridge them of power

      with the vow of truth to record to all worlds

      that we are her spoils?

      Thus not ending, ends the due praise of her praise.

Fleshly vale62 consumes, but a soul has its life,

      which is held in love. Love it is that has joined

      life to this our soul.

      But if eyes can speak to hearty errand,

      or my eyes’ language she does hap to judge of

      so that eyes’ message be of her received—

      Hope, we do yet live.

      Great was the pleasure of Basilius. And Gynecia’s would have been greater, except she found too well that the song was intended for her daughter. As for Philoclea, she was sweetly ravished.

      Then Dorus (desiring in a secret manner to speak of their cases, as perchance the parties intended might take some light of it), making low reverence to Zelmane, began this provoking song in hexameter verse. Zelmane soon found where his words were directed, both in tune and verse, and answered as follows:

Dorus. Zelmane.63

      Dorus:

Lady64 reserved by the heavens to do pastors' company honor,

      joining your sweet voice to the rural muse of a desert,

      here you fully do find the strange operation of love—

how love runs to the woods, as well as rides to the palace.65

      Neither he bears reverence to a prince nor pity to beggar,

      but (like a point in midst of a circle) is still of a nearness,

      all to a lesson he draws, neither hills nor caves can avoid him.

      Zelmane:

      Worthy shepherd, by my song to myself all favor is happened

that to the sacred muse66 my annoys somewhat be revealed—

      sacred muse, who in one contains what nine do in all of them.

      But ô so happy be you, who safe from fiery reflection

of Phoebus’ violence in shade of sweet Cyparissus67

      or pleasant myrtle may teach the unfortunate Echo

      in these wood to resound the renowned name of a goddess.

Happy are you who may to the saint—your only Idea68—

although simply attired, utter your manly69 affection.

      Happy be those mishaps, which justly proportion holding,

      give right sound unto the ears, and enter aright to the judgment.

      But wretchèd be souls who’re veiled in a contrary subject.

      How much the more we love, so much our loves are less beloved.

      What skill can cure a sore—an infirmity—wrongly judged?

      What can justice avail to a man who tells not his own case?

      You, though fears do abash, in you still possible hopes be.

      We do seem to rebel against nature, but are fools in a vain suit.

      And so—unheard, condemned, kept from where we do seek to abide,

      self-lost in wand’ring, banished from where we do come from—

      what means is there, alas, we can hope our loss to recover?

      What place is there left, we may hope our woes to recomfort?

      Unto the heavens? Our wings be too short. Earth thinks us a burden.

      Air we do still with sighs increase. To the fire? We do want none.

      And yet its outward heat our tears would quench, but an inward

      fire no liquor can cool. Neptune’s realm would not avail us.

      Happy shepherd, with thanks to the gods, still think to be thankful

      that to thy advancement their wisdoms have thee abased.

      Dorus:

      Unto the gods with a thankful heart all thanks I do render

      that to my advancement their wisdoms have me abased.

      But yet, alas! O but yet alas! Our haps be but hard haps

      which must frame contempt to the fittest purchase of honor.

      Well may a shepherd complain, but his plaints are not esteemed.

      Silly shepherd’s poor pipe, when its harsh sound testifies anguish.

      Into the fair looker-on, pas-time (not pass-i-on) enters.

      And those who make such dreary recital to the woods or brooks—

      what be the pangs they bear, and whence are those pangs derived?

      Pleased by rebounding answer to receive that name of echo,

      they may hope thereby to ease their inward horrible anguish,

      when trees dance to the pipe, and swift streams pause from the music,

      or when, unmoved, an echo begins to sing them a love song.

      Say then, what vantage do we get by the trade of a pastor?

      Since no estates be so base, but love vouchsafeth his arrow,

      since no refuge doth serve from wounds we do carry about us,

      since outward pleasures be but halting helps to decayed souls,

      far more happy be you whose greatness gets a free access,

      whose fair bodily gifts are framed most lovely

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