you seek to cool your hot desire,
since sighs, into my inward furnace turned,
for bellows serve to kindle more the fire.
Reason, in vain (now you have lost my heart)
my head you seek, as to your strongest fort,
since there my eyes have played so false a part
that to your strength1 your foes have sure resort.
Then, since in vain I find all were my strife,
to this strange death I vainly yield my life.
The ending of the song served but for a beginning of new plaints, as if a mind oppressed with a heavy burden of cares was fain to discharge itself of all sides and, as it were, paint out the hideousness of that pain in all sorts of colors. For the woeful person threw the instrument to the ground with such-like words, as if the lute had ill-joined with the voice:
“Alas, poor lute, how much are you deceived to think that in my miseries you could ease my woes, as in my careless times you were wont to please my fancies! The time is changed, my lute, the time is changed. My joyful mind no more receives everything to a joyful consideration then than my careful mind now makes each thing taste like the bitter juice of care. The evil is inward, my lute; the evil is inward. All that you do serves but to make me think too freely of it. “What then is your harmony, but the sweetmeats of sorrow? The discord of my thoughts, my lute, ill agrees to the concord of your strings. Therefore be not ashamed to leave your master, since he is not afraid to forsake himself.”
With thus much spoken, he finished with such hearty groaning instead of a conclusion that Gynecia could not refrain from showing herself, thinking such griefs could serve fitly for nothing if not her own fortune. But as she came into the little arbor of this sorrowful music, her eyes met with the eyes of Zelmane, the party that had indicted herself to misery, so that both of them remained confused in sudden astonishment.
Zelmane feared that Gynecia had heard some part of those complaints which she had risen up early that morning on purpose to breathe out in secret. But Gynecia a great while stood still, with a kind of dull amazement, looking steadfastly upon her. At length she returned to some use of herself and began to ask Zelmane, what cause carried her so early abroad? But as if the opening of her mouth to Zelmane opened some great flood-gate of sorrow (whereof her heart could not abide the violent issue), Gynecia sank to the ground, with her hands over her face, crying vehemently:
“Zelmane, help me! O, Zelmane, have pity on me!”
Zelmane ran to her, marveling what sudden sickness had thus possessed her. She began to ask her the cause of her pain and offer her service. Gynecia opened her eyes wildly upon her, pricked with the flames of love and the torments of her own conscience,
“O Zelmane, Zelmane!” she said, “You offer me physic, who are my only poison! Or will you do me service, who have already brought me into eternal slavery?”
Zelmane then knowing well at what mark she shot, yet loath to enter into it, said,
“Most excellent lady, you were best to retire yourself into your lodging, that you may better pass this sudden fit.”
“Retire myself?” said Gynecia. “If I had retired myself into myself, my unfortunate guest, when you to me came to draw me from myself, blessed had I been, and no need had I had of this counsel. But now I am forced to fly to you for succor—you whom I accuse of all my hurt—and to make you the judge of my cause, who are the only author of my mischief.”
Zelmane was the more astonished the more she understood her. “Madam,” said she, “whereof do you accuse me, that I will not clear myself? Or wherein may I help you, that you may not command me?”
“Alas,” answered Gynecia, “what more shall I say? Take pity of me, O Zelmane, but not as Zelmane. Do not disguise with me in words, as I know you do in apparel.”
Zelmane was much troubled with that word, finding herself brought to this strait. But as she was thinking what to answer her, they might see old Basilius pass hard by them without ever seeing them, complaining likewise of love very freshly, and ending his complaint with this song, for love had renewed both his invention and voice:
Let not old age disgrace my high desire,
O heavenly soul in human shape contained!
Old wood inflamed does yield the bravest fire,
when younger does in smoke his virtue spend.
Nor let white hairs, which on my face do grow,
seem to your eyes of a disgraceful hue,
since whiteness doth present the sweetest show,
which makes all eyes do homage unto you.
Old age is wise, and full of constant truth.
Old age well stayed from ranging humor lives.
Old age has known whatever was in youth.
Old age overcome, the greater honor gives.
And to old age, since you yourself aspire,
let not old age disgrace my high desire.
Which being done, he looked very curiously upon himself, sometimes fetching a little skip, as if he had said his strength had not yet forsaken him.
But Zelmane, having in this time gotten some leisure to think for an answer, looked upon Gynecia, as if she thought she did her some wrong.
“Madam,” said Zelmane, “I am not acquainted with those words of disguising. Neither is it the profession of an Amazon, nor are you a party with whom it is to be used. If my service may please you, employ it, so long as you do me no wrong in misjudging me.”
“Alas, Zelmane,” said Gynecia, “I perceive that you know full little how piercing the eyes of a true lover are. Any one beam of those thoughts you have planted in me is able to see through a greater cloud than you go in. Seek not to conceal yourself further from me, nor force not the passion of love into violent extremities.”
Now was Zelmane brought to an exigent,2 when the king, turning his eyes that way through the trees, perceived his wife and mistress together. Framing the most lovely countenance he could, he came straight away towards them, and at the first word—thanking his wife for having entertained Zelmane—desired her that she now return to the lodge because he had certain matters of estate to impart to the Lady Zelmane.
The queen (being nothing troubled with jealousy in that point) obeyed the king’s command. But she was full of raging agonies and determinately bent that, as she would seek all loving means to win Zelmane, so she would stir up terrible tragedies rather than fail of her intention. And so went she from them toward the lodge with such a battle in her thoughts and so deadly an overthrow given to her best resolutions that even her body, where the field was fought, was oppressed by it all. She made a languishing sickness wait upon the triumph of passion, which, the more it prevailed in her, the more it made her jealousy watchful both over her daughter and Zelmane, ever keeping one of them entrusted to her own eyes.
As
