A TRIUMPHANT ARCH ERECTED and CONSECRATED to the Glory of the FEMININE SEX:  
BY MONSIEUR de SCUDERY:  
Englished by I. B. Gent.  
Dum Spiro Spero  
LONDON, Printed for William Hope, and Henry Herringman, at the blue Anchor behind the Old Exchange, and at the blue Anchor in the lower Walk in the New Exchange, 1656.   

To the LADIES.  
Illustrious Ladies,  
THese following Harangues are so many pillars of that Triumphant Arch, erected by the skilful hands of the renowned Monsieur de Scudery, to the glory of your excellent Sex; which I, not only out of those common principles of Civility, which obliges all men to render you service; and in obedience to the commands of two most noble Ladies, which were sufficient to prompt the dullest spirit; but out of that earnest desire I have to proclaim my infinite respect and veneration to your Illustrious Sex, have adventured to translate, and do now prostrate them before you with the most profound respect that can be. And though my disjointed and unpolished version does so abate their native lustre, compared to the Original, as might deserve your censure; yet when you shall be pleased to consider of what importance it is to your fame and honour, and that none abler have yet remembered to undertake it; I do not believe only, that your natural sweetness will be persuaded to grant a pardon, but am induced to think it were a sin to doubt of your fair acceptance. Look but on it, Illustrious Ladies, as it truly is, a glorious Trophy, composed of the Arms, Sceptres, and Crowns of so many Monarches, which your beauties have subdued; and no doubt but it will become as grateful as it is magnificent; and be received with as much delight and satisfaction, as it is tendered with desire and passion.   

THE SUBJECTS Of the following HARANGUES.  

The first Harangue.  
HElena to Paris: That beauty is no real good.   

The second  
Angelica to Medoro: That Love proceeds from the inclination.   

The third.  
Amarillis to Tityrus: That the Country life is to be preferred before living in Cities.   

The fourth.  
Clorinda to Tancred: That the affection ought not to die with the beloved.   

The fifth.  
Erminia to Arsetes: That the affection ought not to go beyond the grave.   

The sixth.  
Cariclia to Theagenes: That those who never suffered troubles, cannot truly tell what pleasure is.   

The seventh.  
Polixena to Pyrrhus: That death is better than slavery.   

The eighth.  
Penelope to Laertes: That absence is worse than death.   

The ninth.  
Briseis to Achilles: That one may be both Slave and Mistress.    


HELENA TO PARIS.  
I Know full well (o too lovely, and if I may say it, too much beloved Paris) that you will not easily condescend to the discourse I shall now shape; that you will hardly suffer I should condemn that which you approve; that I blame that which you have so much praised, and that I slight that which you do even yet adore. You believe, without doubt, that I cannot offend my beauty, without offending your judgement; and that since I own all my glory to it, in owing it your conquest, I have no reason to make an assault against that. And truly he that looks on the thing but on this side, would ever be a stranger to my opinion: but as they have all double faces, if you will, yourself, consider both the one and the other without interest, and preoccupation; I assure myself that your sense of it will 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 myself; yes, my dearly beloved Paris, I myself will range all your troops in battalia, that so I may defeat them afterwards: and to remove all subject of complaint, I will not speak till after I have made you speak: I am not then ignorant, that the partisans for beauty, say that it is the chiefest work of nature, and its last effect: that the planets, and the sun itself have somewhat a lesser brightness; 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 feel not its power: that that marvellous and proud object continually triumphs: that Kings take a glory in following its chariot: that they prefer its chains to their crowns, 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 Monarches, 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 die slaves, who were not born but to command. In fine, they establish this beauty Queen of all the Earth; they make her reign sovereignly over all the rational world; and maintain with as much ardour as they resent; that she is alone the sovereign good. Nevertheless, O my dear Paris, how deceitful 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 pass for a solid advantage, were to make blossoms pass for flowers: flatterers form it of lilies and roses, and do not dream that the lilies and the roses are of no 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 than who does not know that we accustom ourselves 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 itself? Is there any object in Nature so marvellous as that, and whose pomp and magnificence can come near it? Nevertheless 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 threatening beams blaze in the air, 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 spoke 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 seem always beautiful to us, because we do not always see them: it being certain, that if we beheld them continually, they would not seem so to us. One season bestows 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 adorn 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. Lawful Reigns may be long, but Tyrannies are ordinarily short. The most faithful slaves do sometimes remember their liberty, and when the chains are not strong, they seldom fail 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, 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 lieth the beauty of Helena, although Helena be not dead; she sees herself entombed alive; she hears herself spoken of as of another person, and by a particular unhappiness she seems to be obliged, to enter twice into the grave. Ha' me Paris, let's tell the things as they are; the privation of that glory is more sensible than that glory itself ever was. It is more supportable to miss always some good, than to lose 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 always been in the mire, 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 Altar? To lose the Incense is more than to lose the Crown; and to see one's self slighted 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 fare 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 frail a thing. In a word 'tis to take glass for diamond, and to make that esteemed for precious, which 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 always his love may subsist in despite of the others ruin. 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 itself; which maintain that this beauty shall change, and yet we shall not see them change; and that in fine they shall yet think the ruins 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 weakness of their minds, than the meaning of their hearts. But suppose yet that they think all what they say, and that the lips do express 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 ourselves, than there is betwixt us and some other: And that thus we cannot promise any thing on our faith, since we cannot tell ourselves, 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 design but upon the sands, finds all his lines with a great facility; notwithstanding when it comes that the mass of stones must be piled, and the solidity of the marble must be hewn, the most skilful finds himself troubled. It is easy to those who have the art of speaking with a good grace, to make fair pictures of constancy, as of other virtues; nevertheless all painters are not virtuous, because they are painters: and when they draw those handsome Images, they do not always 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 seek the disadvantage of beauty: that sun hath eclipses in its highest elevation: that queen hath her disquiets under the purple, and on the throne: her sceptre, as it is of gold, is heavier than Iron; and her Crown has not so many flowers as thorns. I know well that to judge of her by the pomp, and by the splendour which environs her, it is impossible to have any other than very high thoughts: her beams dazzle the judgement and the sight; her majesty strikes fear; her sweetness inspires love; she is pleasing to those whom she murders; she finds 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 herself but heaven. Do not however judge, I conjure you, by these false marks of greatness; believe 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 keep them, that their Conqueror becomes a slave, as soon as ever he makes himself King. In all other states few rebels are found: and in this of beauty all aspire to tyranny; all will from subjects become masters; and not one resolves to serve, but with the unjust design of commanding. I know, lovely Paris, that you are the exception to this rule; that I should be unjust myself, if I complained of your respect; and that in you a shepherd worthy to command Monarches, hath always taken a glory in obeying me. But as you are incomparable, do not draw any consequence from yourself of others: and without opposing yourself 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 shameful conquests as well as honourable; and its power extends sometimes farther than she desires: a thousand importunate people persecute it: a thousand displeased assassinate it; and all oppose its good. One comes and praises it unhandsomely; the other comes and rather extols himself; the one is always 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 sighs; one comes and sings her praises, another powers forth injury; the one calls her divine, the other says she is a tigress; the one offers her incense, the other, if he durst, would throw dirt 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 statue; in fine, to consider these things well, hell itself 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 itself 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 soon as ere a woman considers this, she 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 bind us to one another, and which makes society, there is not one which she does not despise; slander (that poison as secret as dangerous) expands its self 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 feels not; they ruin her when she cannot perceive it; they strike her when she cannot see the arm nor the blow; and all these disasters happen to her only because of her beauty. From thence more tragical events yet draw their detestable source: from thence proceeds the quarrels of rivals, the division of families, irreconcilable hatred, bloody and woeful cumbats, and the utter desolation of houses: But my dear, and as I have already said, my too dear Paris, you, and likewise myself 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 speak rationally) which covers this sea with the enemy's galleys; 'tis this alone which pitches so many tents and pavilions about this famous City; 'tis this alone which digs the deep trenches that begird 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 perils 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 rashness of a Grecian, or the inconsiderateness of a Trojan makes them perish amidst the armies; the beauty of Helena (if it be true that Helena have any beauty) will always be the only cause of it. She shall answer for all the events of the war, and as if she made the destiny both of the one, and the other; the one and the other Nation will always demand satisfaction of her for the 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 Ilium; and to ruin 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 (o my dear Paris) lest 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 tenderness: Cassandra will ask for observance from you: the people will desire your compliance: and the very Greeks' will demand Helena of you, to be revenged, and to punish her. Well then, content all the world in her loss, and content even her own self, if so be her loss 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, this so flourishing an Empire, at least if you will believe 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 lustre of this beauty, as on those false lights which lead into precipices, and be no longer dazzled 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 obtain, as it is not the easiest. Confess as well as I, that beauty is no real good, and reject it as an evil. Do not listen either to pity or inclination, which never counsel faithfully, and do but flatter to deceive. Fellow, follow that severe beauty, I mean reason, and prefer it to that of my face. Harken to Priam, harken to Hecuba, harken to all the Trojans, nay harken to the very Greeks, and hearken no more to love, which speaks to you in favour of this beauty. Helena who knows it, and aught to know it, does once more protest to you, that she is nothing less 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 Crowns, or to sacrifice your quiet to her. Lose her then to conserve yourself, 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 hurtful to them; and if they knew what 'tis they desired, they would give as many battles not to have it, as they give to obtain it. Believe me then, and do not believe yourself, o my dear, dear Paris, and expose not either your State, nor your Parents, nor your quiet, for a thing which cannot be esteemed a real good, no not in the very minds of those, which do possess it. But when you have followed my counsel, and reasons, remember at least, that Helena hath spoken against herself to speak for you, and that it is no slight act for a woman to avouch ingenuously that beauty is not a real good. Remember (I say) that 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 lose with my life to preserve you; remember that yourself have often esteemed it beyond Thrones & Sceptres; and that in this manner, though I bestow on you but little according to my own judgement, I give you very much according to yours.  
FINIS.   

The effect of this HARANGUE.  
Parish was persuaded enough of the love that Helena had for him, but he was not so of the disesteem of her Beauty. He harkened to this reason as a Paradox, and judged without doubt that this fair Grecian spoke of her going, but only to oblige him the more to keep her.  
For mine own part, I who have made her speak no less against my own thoughts than against beauty; I acknowledge that since I have finished this hard task, for which I have had so much repugnance, I believe that now when I list, I may maintain that snow is black, and that Moors are white; so true it is, that what I have said has little truth in it, and is so little consonant to my belief.    

ANGELICA TO MEDORO. The Second HARANGUE.  

The Argument.  
ANGELICA, that fair Indian queen who made so many generous lovers run after her, and disdained their affections, could not in fine, hinder but that the beauty of a simple Soldier triumphed over hers, & her pride: and revenged the unjust disdain that proud one had made of the loves of so many kings, and of the vows of so many Hero's, whom she had scoffed, and never truly loved. Now we suppose that after the happy Medoro had subdued her heart, she had some shame for her defeat, and judging that so extraordinary a passion would be condemned of all the World; seeing the inequality of their conditions; one day when they were under the pleasant shades, where they passed so many sweet moments, she undertook to maintain, through a desire of glory, & with her usual Eloquence: That love proceeds only from inclination.   

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 yourself. Believe me Medoro, 'tis neither to my birth, nor to my merit, nor to the obligations you have, nor to the glory you find in serving me, nor the advantage I have received from nature, nor to those I hold by fortune, that I will owe all that tenderness which I expect from you, and to say all, it is not neither from your reason, nor from your acknowledgement, 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 myself but ill assured of my conquest. But for my own satisfaction, I am persuaded 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 compels you. 'Tis an error 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 ●n our souls by knowledge and judgement. One may, and one ought to choose their friend: but one cannot nor ought not to choose a Lover. We must love them almost without knowing them, the first instant of their sight must be the first of our servitude, where we engage ourselves we must find ourselves quite laden with chains, before we have had the leisure to examine, whether or no it be glorious to receive them: the Judgement must be blind, 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 & true 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 intent; I should rather see you despise all the Princesses in the world for love of me, than to despise, as I myself do, 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 Choice. Nevertheless, since that cannot be, I am not unwilling to let you see, that my own cannot be for by-interests, but that it is voluntary in effect: if reason might freely have counselled in this business: 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 judged 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 Conqueror of Angelica; if wisdom, 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 powerful 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 Spain's son; in fine, if this passion came into one's heart without fear, and with judgement, the Circassion King 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 fair enough to have suffered them to set it on my head: notwithstanding, because all those princes, all those Kings, and all those Hero's have only satisfied my judgement, & have not touched my inclination I have despised them all, and the only Medoro without Crown, without Kingdom, all covered with wounds, and extended almost dead upon the earth, has had more power o'er 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 himself, and to inspire such sentiments into the heart of Angelica, which others could not infuse. However to tell things as they are, that Heroic virtue which you testified in that occasion, did not give you the Empire of my soul: and if that puissant inclination of which I speak, 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 superior power which inclines us, or rather which forces us, to do what it pleases, made that without knowing you, and without hardly having seen you, I had mrore care for your life than for my own, and did believe 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 heal your wounds with too much earnestness 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 seen you, but without the help of my judgement, I loved you as much as one can love, although I myself knew not whether that which I felt in my soul for you were love. And in effect, reason is rather wont to war against love than to beget it, or to cherish it when it is borne, That severe and imperious Queen, fare from approving the bonds the chains, and the follies of lovers, speaks nothing but of liberty of our franchises, and wisdom. 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 Mistress' feet, is to her an object worthy of laughter and pity: she scoffs at his weakness: she condemns all he does: and in fine, she would were it in her power, destroy all the Laws of Nature, banish all passions from men's 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 powerful than she is that attracts us, sInce in spite 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 grateful to us. 'Tis that without doubt which makes its power so great, that the other cannot resist it; she must needs yield, how clear sighted so ere she is, to this amiable blind 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 employ both time and artifice to persuade us to obey her: she shows those whom she will expose to great perils, 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 one's treasure in security: in fine, she discourses the ill favourdnesse of vice, and the amability of virtue, 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 judgement is not absolute master of our actions: those that hate roses, acknowledge that their colour is fair, and that the smell itself is sweet; and yet for all the knowledge they have of their beauty, they turn away their sight with care, & fly from them as another would from some fearful object. This imbecility 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 self pleases. When I ceased to love Renaldo, I did cease knowing that he was yet worthy of my esteem; and when 'twas his turn to cease from loving me, yet I believe he did acknowledge that Angelica had some beauty. Notwithstanding because it is not the judgement that begets affection, we know one another to be lovely, and yet love not; and perhaps we 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 Monarches employ against their subjects; but the other makes herself to feared and followed, as victorious Tyrants use to do. She employs nought but force against us; but as that force and violence is almost inevitable, and that she hath no less sweetness than power, there is hardly any thing which resists but she overcomes it. Honour, glory, private interest, and virtue itself, are many times too weak an obstacle to hinder her designs, she makes King's love shepherdesses, and that shepherds raise their looks even up to their Sovereign's Thrones; and without distinction either of qualities or of merit, She makes a mixture of Sceptres 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 always so strong as to overcome her. In effect, should we act but by her counsels, should our love follow only our knowledge, and were it by her consent only that we should wear our fetters; it is certain that we should wear but one in all our lives. That which we had once found fair would always 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; 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 always remain in the hearts that possess it? Ha', no, no, Medoro, that cannot be so: and therefore 'tis that all those, that are unfaithful, are not so worthy of blame as is believed: 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 bind themselves again more closely than they were before. There are some others, even weighed down by their burden, who sigh under the load that presses them, and who might nevertheless disengage themselves, but will not, preferring their servitude above liberty. Do you believe Medoro that these bizare effects can proceed from a clearsighted reason, and a free will? Or do you not believe on the contrary that the sole inclination is that which unchains us, or unties us, which makes us inconstant or faithful, and that which makes us either love or hate? Let none wonder than any more, if we behold queens descending from their Thrones to place their Lovers there, though they be not of a royal 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 (you will ask) what obligation has a lover to his Mistress, if it be true that she loves him only because she is constrained & cannot choose 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 mercenary. 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 return again, so that though I had given you my Crown, as I have already 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 bestows their affections, do at the same instant bestow both their Sceptres and Kingdoms, and to be short, all that they possess. And if by misfortune it had happened, that your inclination had been contrary to mine; that you had hated me as much as I have and do love you, do you think, my dear Medoro, that I should have blamed you? No, I would have bemoaned myself 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 entertain you with these discourses: that I take off your fetters by persuading you that you may leave them without a crime: and that I instruct you in ingratitude, when I avouch myself that you own me no obligation; although for the love of you I have done all what I was capable to do, in giving you my kingdom, and which is more my affection, which I prefer before the Sceptre 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 hindered 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 yourself 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 rejoiced more for conquering my kingdom than my person. So that to persuade you all at once, both of the greatness of this affection, and that I am not unworthy of your esteem no more than of your love, I shall never be weary with telling you, that 'tis a superior power that causes us to love; that all the wisdom, and all the human prudence cannot bring any obstacle; and that in fine, 'tis only the inclination alone, which may be said the true mother of all loves. There is I know not what secret charm, which passes from the eyes of the lover into the heart of her whom the destinies do choose him for her beloved, whose power is inevitable, and as the moon governs the Sea, the north attracts the loadstone, and the sun forms the metals in the bowels of the earth, by means which are unknown to us, so does the inclination conduct our judgement, attract our will, and forms the love in our souls, by ways of which we are utterly ignorant. She makes that we 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 think you does arrive so many strange events in the world, of which Histories are filled if it be not from that puissant Tyranny, which surmounts all others? If Anthony's 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 governed by reason, and that it had not been whirled away with violence, by the inclination that that Roman had, for the fair Egyptian whose charms he did adore; do you believe he would not have stayed in his army at the battle he lost, or that at least he would not have disputed that victory with his enemy? Yes Medoro, he was too wise, and too valiant, not to endeavour to win, or to fly ignobly before those, whose conqueror he might have been. Nevertheless, though he were ambitious, though he were almost assured to have all the advantage of that day, and though it concerned 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 concern their loves: they spoke 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 own affairs, and of their friends with the same prudence: wherefore then should not the same reason be found in their love, if there had not been something in them more powerful than that was? Ha', no, no, Medoro, this truth cannot be doubtful: and though I seem to prejudice myself in persuading myself in satisfaction, that I find nevertheless 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 myself more assured of your affection than I should be, if I believed that I held it by your acknowledgement rather than from your inclination. I love rather that you should love my person than the throne whereto I will lead you: and I had rather you should esteem the tenderness of my amity than the conquest of my kingdom, 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 confess likewise that this thought has given me some trouble in the first days of our amity. What (said I in myself 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 always; I persuaded myself, that we should be of those chosen lovers to serve as an example to posterity. Yes Medoro, I believed that our affection never should diminish: and I believe at present that in making you King, I do but only augment the number of my subjects; that by bestowing my Crown on you, I gain a faithful 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 ourselves in such things to which we cannot absolutely answer: for if it happens as we wish it, it were a wrong to afflict ourselves, without cause: and if it happen that the inclination do change its object, there is no need of being comforted for the loss of that, which we do no longer esteem to be worth our love. Let's then enjoy in peace the present felicity, without putting ourselves 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; let's employ all the moments of our lives to speak advantageously of the power of this inclination, which has created all our felicity, since it hath created our love; let us leave some mark of it in all places we pass by; let's 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 happiness; and to be short, never let us speak 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 mistress: 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 always consult with their judgements, and who oppose their inclination as much as they possibly can, without doubt they would love my Crown, rather than a bracelet of my hair, and would prefer the lustre of my throne before that of my looks. O Medoro how little do those people know the nature of love? and indeed to speak 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 covetous, and who sometimes think they love, do wrong themselves: for if we examine the thing well, we shall find that they love their Mistress' money, and not the charms of her person. They follow their inclination I confess, 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 fight and overcoming them; and briefly all those, which are believed to be lovers, are not so ordinarily but in appearance: and 'tis this without doubt which makes so many be inconstant and faithless. For as their strongest inclination is not that which makes them love, there may happen a hundred things, which satisfying their covetousness, their ambition, and their vanity by other means makes them forsake their Mistresses, as useless 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; Sceptres and Crowns 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 served me in lieu of a Palace, the freshness of this grass has seemed more convenient to me than the magnificence of the Throne, and the melody of these birds more charming than all the music that ever I heard in Europe. I have preferred the sands of these rivulets, which environ us, before 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 mark of an ardent passion: whoever can find any part of his pleasure elsewhere than in the person he adores, is not at all capable of this noble weakness? and whoere is beloved and not being absent from what he loves, does not think himself happy, aught 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 spite of their reason and wills, can never do so; wherever they find their Mistresses, they have nothing to desire, and wherever 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 esteem themselves happy in a horrid 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 satisfy 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 Conquerors have lesser than the Empire of the whole Universe. To satisfy the people there must be very much; or to say better, they must have either enchantments 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 Mistress 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 capricios of Fortune, nor any other of those misfortunes, which may happen in the course of their lives; so true it is, that their minds are disintangled from all other thoughts, but such as directly concern their love. By this you may see, (my dear Medoro) of what nature that is, which I have for you. and that which I believe you have for me. You are to me instead of Parents, of Kingdom, and Crown; and if I had not a design to place it on your head, I think that without any desire of reascending the Throne, I should oblige you to pass the rest of our days, in this pleasing solitude. But since I am confident you will more esteem the hand that shall crown you, than the Crown itself, how glorious soe'er 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 show 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.  
FINIS.   

The effect of this HARANGUE.  
ANgelica was too witty not to persuade, and Medoro too Amorous not to be persuaded. So that although Ariosto hath not told us what happened to them in the Indies; and though he have hardly mentioned, that they Embarked to go; we may believe that the power of Inclination, rendered their love eternal; and as that alone had given it birth, so that alone made it last ever after.    

AMARILLIS TO TITYRUS. The Third HARANGUE.  

The Argument.  
THe great Virgil introducing himself in the Eclogues of his Bucolics, under the name of a Shepherd called Tityrus; does regret Rome and the Court of Augustus, from whence he was absent; and testifies he is little pleased with the woods and plains. That hath given me place to introduce, likewise the shepherdess Amarillis his Mistress, who surprising him in this thought reproaches him of the disesteem he makes of their abode; represents its beauties to him; and comparing them to the defects of what he regrets, strives to make him acknowledge, that the Country life is preferable before that of Cities.   

AMARILLIS TO TITYRUS.  
CEase Illustrious Shepherd, cease to regret the magnificence of Rome; do not disturb the tranquillity of our woods by unjust and inutile complaints; and be persuaded, that whether for the pleasingness of persons, for the purity of manners, for the innocency of pleasures, for the felicity of life, or for true virtue; our villages ought to be preferred before the pomp 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 design to show you this day. In the one we see naught but Sceptres and Crowns, and in the other 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 show, you shall behold no other gold, than that of the beams of the Sun; no other pearls, than those the due drops on the ennamel of our meads; nor other diamonds, than the liquid crystal of our fountains. But (o Tityrus) how pure is that gold! how grateful a lustre those pearls do cast! and how delicious is that morning crystal to those, who do not let themselves be deceived by deluding appearances; who can discern as they ought, the beauties of art and nature; and prefer with judgement a lasting felicity before a fading one! You will tell me (perhaps) that hearing me speak in this manner, it would seem that I have but little considered that magnificent daughter, which you have showed me, of Augustus' Court; because I do not condescend to agree, that you have cause to complain for being absent from it. It is true notwithstanding, that I have taken notice of every stroke; and I confess also, that at the instant those great buildings of Marble, of Jasper, and of Porphiry brought me in doubt whether I should not prefer them before our Grotts. But I was not long in that error; and although without doubt the portrait is a little flattered, that hath not hindered me from finding that you are in the wrong to speak of Rome, as of a place to which nothing is wanting that may render an honest man happy; and of our forests, 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 me more attentively, and to persuade 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 judgement. You have told me (unless 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 confess 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 the best Masters of antiquity; that all the houses are placed; that all the furniture is stately; that all the public places are adorned, either with brass statuas, or triumphant arches; and that in fine, she encloses within her walls, all that art can produce as marvellous, and all that is most rare in the universe. Let's see after this, unjust Shepherd, if in our solitude I can find aught wherewith to make you forget those gallant things; and wherewith to make you confess that the Country life is to be preferred before that in Cities. I perceive that you find my design 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 wonderful. Nevertheless it is certain, that there is a notable difference betwixt all those ornaments which embellish 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 piece of the Gods. It is true, we have no Palaces, but if our Cottages be less magnificent, they are by their low roofs, the more distant from thunders, and storms. 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 ceilings which are at Rome. But (you will tell me) it seems by your speech, that the stars, and the sun do not shine on the Capitol each in their turns; and that Rome, is only a place of obscurity, and darkness; I acknowledge it shepherd, I acknowledge it, and to make you acknowledge it yourself, suffer me to show 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 margin of some of our rivers. Ha' shepherd, if it be true, that brave objects raise the Spirits, and that the marble, the jasper, the porphyry, pearls, diamonds, and gold, raise pleasing thoughts, what should not the arrival of that fair 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 he makes each morning towards us? At Rome he is hardly ever seen without clouds: the fogs and the smoke veil a part of his beams: one would say he were angry, to be employed 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 mire in the streets; whereas with us, when he gins to appear, he hath nothing to do, 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 equal his triumph: no sooner do the first of his beams begin to shed the purple, the gold, and azure in some places of the sky, but all nature seems to rejoice. 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 to behold the same thing, when it is handsome, always admire more and more, that wonderful treasure of rich and lively colours, which overspreads the clouds at his arrival. They admire (I say) those fair 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 thickness of our forests, only to make them more pleasant, and not to take away their freshness, or to dissipate our shade. In the morning he permits us to look on him; at noon he suffers our woods to defend us from his scorching; and in the evening he shows us his Image in the rivers, and in our fountains, but so sparkling, and so wonderful, that all the diamonds in the world cannot equal the beauty of the least of his beams. When he renews the day, he puts us in hope we shall quickly behold him by the proud preparation which foreruns him: and when he robs it from us, he seems to assure us by the abundance of his riches, which he employs to paint the heavens with Roseate, shadowed gold, and with all the colours the most lively, and others most shady, that his absence shall not be long; and that in few hours we shall behold him again as bright as ever. Acknowledge now shepherd by this weak 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 only thing that renders our habitations pleasing; there are places into which the sun never comes, and yet they give delight; we have Grotts sunk so deep into the concavity of works, that the day hardly arrives there, and the night, who mingles her sable complexion with his lustre, is never quite banished thence. They are only tapistred with moss, and yet the silence and coolness which one meets, creates a pleasure. There are muses with tranquillity and with sweetness: and if one were alone in Nature, may peaceably enjoy all the charms of solitude. At the going forth from thence, you shall always find a fountain, whose water is so pure, it permits through its streams to behold the diversity of pebbles, which are in the bottom of its bed. It makes but a weak murmur, fit to rock asleep with voluptuousness, than to keep awake with anger. The waters which flow thence from a rivulet, which serpentinely creeps with a soft tread amongst the pebbles, reeds, and flowers, till it steals into a mead, where confounding itself 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 grateful to the sight, than the muddy waters of Tiber. Now if from these peaceable beauties you will pass to those whose charms are mingled with I know not what that's terrible, and which strikes a horror in their divertisements; we have fearful 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 mountains of snow precipitating themselves upon one another, so much those waters foam, and to see them roll, and bound with such abundance and impetuosity would make one believe they would overflow the whole earth. Nevertheless, they are no sooner disgorged into a gulf which is at the foot of that rock whence they Issue, but they hid themselves in the caverns, to go and render their tribute without doubt to those, from whence they proceed. Going from thence, shepherd, shall I conduct you into one of those meadows, where we find a large tapestry of different flowers that overspreads it; where you may see a hundred crystal springs; where on the one side is seen a delightful river; and on the other many willows, 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, let's go then (shepherd) let's go into one of those forests, whose obscurity, silence, and antiquity seems to imprint respect in all those which walk there. If that shady forest were at the gates of Rome, it would be filled only with thiefs, or fugitive criminals: whereas here we shall find none but stags, hinds, roe-bucks, and deres, you may guess also by their numbers, that we do not often make toils to catch them, and you shall see by the small care they take to hid 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 be not black rather than green; are not yet destitute of somewhat wherewith to divert the mind, and sight of a melancholy shepherd; and when by some windows where the trees are less thick, the rays 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 seem as if they would force the obscurity to yield place to light. One would say by the agitation of the leaves, that they press together, to hinder its entrance; but the more the wind makes them tremble, the more easy passage do they give to those enemies of darkness. Going from this Forest, will you let me guide you to the brink of a great pond, whose tranquillity seldom fails to give rest to those minds which do but stop to admire its beauty? Zephyrus only curls its billows; and he stirs them so softly, that one may with ease behold all the fishes which are at the bottom 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, run to hid themselves at the least noise they hear. If from the bottom of this crystal, you ascend to consider its surface, you shall behold it all covered with swans: admire (Shepherd) the whiteness of their plumage; the gravity they keep 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 design to please; when they make sails of their wings only to delight; and swim about only to be admired? Ha', Shepherd, how fare are the inhabitants of Rome from these innocent pleasures, and what delights does their troublesome life rob them of! Nevertheless I am not yet at the end of the description of the places we inhabit; I must needs lead you up one of those great mountains, from whence at once we discover the Rivers, Forests, Plains, and Pastures; where the sight is so unlimited, that the objects may seem to steal from our view by their great distance, and the sky to kiss the furthermost parts we behold. But perhaps you do not love an object of such a vast extent: let me then show you the way on our banks, and in our valleys, that so I may make you acknowledge that their fruitfulness should be preferred before the sterility of Rome's seven hills. Those little corners of earth are so much favoured by heaven, that they seem to be ever sheltered from all the injuries of the air: the wind does hardly breath there; the hail does not destroy the vines: the green 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 sweet odour of our Violets, of our Roses, and our Gillyflowers? At least there is this difference, that the one does but satisfy the smell; and that the other, besides its grateful perfume, pleases the eye infinitely. In effect, was ever any thing more fair to behold than this prodigious quantity of flowers, which fills our Gardens; either for their form, for the brisk and lively colours, or the variety there is amongst them? Believe me (shepherd) the magnificent Tapestry which is at Rome does not show any thing that is so wonderful. The purple is not so fair, as the Incarnate 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 sun's masterpiece 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 confess, that you must be insensible of pleasures, if you prefer 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 handsomeness of some, or the beauty of others; since 'tis not in this place that I intent to speak of that, harken only to what they listen too; I mean that great quantity of 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 music, who surpasses them all by the least of his notes. And indeed they are all ashamed of their unskilfulness; they leave off through impuissance and respect; and only the Nightingales his fellows try with equal arms to vanquish him, & to overcome each the other. Harken 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 charm, 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 discern 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 sweetness of his voice does change; he sings now only out of despair; I can discover through those leaves, that he staggers, his claws can no longer grasp the branch, which upholds him; I see him tumble with vexation, and he in falling murmurs yet some languishing notes, and does almost lose his life before his voice. Those (Shepherd) are the only ambitious ones of our Country: compare those with them of Rome (I conjure you) and although the destiny of this poor Bird be 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 only, in summer, and in autumn, that we have the advantage above Cities, winter itself, how fearful and sharp soever 'tis described, hath somewhat amidst its rigour which is fine, and magnificent in our fields. The snow, which in the Cities, loses all its whiteness, as soon as ere 'tis fallen, ot at least conserveses its purity only on the house tops; does here make rich and curious plumes of the branches of our Cypress, Cedars, and Firres. Those trees (I say) whose leaves do not shed, mingling their verdure with its whiteness, makes without doubt as pleasing an object, as the summer can bestow: and then, when th● frost, and sharpness of the cold hath converted all our rivulets into Crystal, 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 do not make us become guilty: We cannot corrupt the fidelity of any one with them: nor employ them in so many unlawful uses as you know they do at Rome. There is one thing more yet in the Cities, which seems to me not to be endured: which is, that one would say there is but one kind of season all the year long, to those that inhabit them. They always behold the same things; they have the same employments; their houses are always alike; their pleasures do not vary: and except only that they have cold and heat, according to the divers temperatures of the air, there happens no change in their life: contrary to us, to whom nature every year renews four times, all the beauties of our dwellings. Each season gives us a different occupation: The spring with its flowery chaplet calls us to take care of our meadows and flocks. The summer with its Coronet of wheat-ears, obliges us to the reaping of our harvest: Autumn 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 nevertheless, render to the earth the tribute which each one owes it: that so another time she may return with interest those grains, which we have sowed in her bosom. 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 self in this manner; one cannot either envy you for it, nor reproach you, nor accuse you of any crime: but fare otherwise, the more you are careful, the more you are praised: whereas the others care is always blame-worthy, if they are not always blamed. They have more pain and less pleasure; that which is acquired by unjust ways cannot be without doubt, possessed without disquiet. They fear their enviers, their enemies, and thiefs; but for us we have neither enviers, nor enemies; Nor do we fear any other robbers of our riches, than the birds, which steal some of our fruits: and which for all this, we would not banish from our Campaniaes', so much those innocent criminals, 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 adorns 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 itself but with that which the earth locks in her bowels, and which she conceals from the eyes of men: whereas we enjoy all that wherewith she dresses herself, 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 a-dayes 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 dress herself with her fairest ornaments; and would not leave imperfect, that which you call her chief works. The gold should not 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 fountains: Cease then (shepherd) cease to maintain that the abode at Rome, is pleasanter than that in our Country: and prepare yourself in the remainder, to see the magnificence of your divertisements, yield to the simplicity of ours. Of all the public festivals with which you have entertained me, those of the triumphs, and the combats of the Gladiators, are the most celebrous: But (o Tityrus) those feasts, and plays, have somewhat that is tyrannical and woeful! and how hard it is to reasonable people to rejoice, in seeing so many unhapy! that which is called delight, ought not to be mingled with bitterness. Smiles and tears should not be seen together: and blood spilled in a battle itself, should not delight how much less than in pastimes. Nevertheless the most pleasing which they have at Rome, is to see Kings in chains; and four thousand gladiators cut one another's throats for the pleasure of Roman people. O Shepherd, what must those people be, who delight to see rivers of blood & mountains of carcases! for our parts, we who afflict ourselves, when any of our lambs are sick, we should be far from rejoicing to behold those miserable ones die 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 esteem for the vanquishers: In fine, to tell you the things as I believe them, I can see no innocent pleasures in Rome; they insult over the unhappy, and they cause the unfortunate slaves to perish: they lead Kings captives, after they have usurped their Kingdoms: and they hear, and they look on, not only without horror, but with satisfaction, the last complaints and actions of dying men. Cesar (as they say) wept after the Pharsalian Battle, over those great numbers of bodies, which he beheld without life, and motion; but in Rome they laugh at that which made him weep; and they call it a feast of rejoicing, which rather should be named a public mourning. See Shepherd, I entreat you, whether we are cruel or innocent in our pastimes; and whether in reminding you of them, you will not acknowledge that if there be less pomp, there is more wit, more skill, more equity, and also more pleasure. Repasse then in your imagination, one of those general holidays 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 bagpipes, others their flutes; some of them lead the victim, 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 embellished with mottoes, figures, and ribbons. The neatness of their , 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, & autumn, bestows each year upon us, does make amends enough for that want, and for the rest, the beauty of my companions (if I am not deceived) ought not to yield 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 countenances as pleasing; at least I should not deny, that the tan of the fields spoils their skins, and destroys its fresh colour. But besides that the thick umbrage of our forest, 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 looking lasses than our fountains, no other Fucus than the dew; and yet there are maids amongst our woods, whose complexion is so wonderful, that it outvies, 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 found in our filds, Every where else there is nothing but dissimulation & art; they see to be seen; they make no conquest without design; that which appears fair, is not so; and one is sometimes as much deceived in the person as the mind.  
But let's return, Shepherd, let's return to that fair 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 holiday. 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 myself) are only baskets, and sheephooks, and pipes, and bagpipes, and darts: and for the Shepherdesses, crowns of flowers, cages of reeds, nosegeys, and ribbons, and yet we take as much care to win, 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, wrestling, dancing, poetry, and music (if I be not deceived give more divertisement, than all the combats of Gladiators. He whose course is nimble; he that wrestles 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 combats of Tigers, and Panthers, of which you make so much. Think Shepherd, think seriously, whether you should not love rather to see the Shepherdess Galathea dance, or to hear the fair Lycoris sing, than to behold a lion 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' self were Conqueror. 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', and against the ingenious Mopsus, in the sight of our sagest shepherds; and if from the public holy-days, you will pass to those innocent wars, which makes one of our greatest pleasures; I mean our hunting, and fishing: you will again be forced to acknowledge, that Rome is not acquainted with all that is capable to please; since she cannot give these grateful occupations, to those which inhabit there. And yet 'tis certain, that one can hardly find any thing fit to delight, than to behold many Shepherdesses with angles in their hands, and all keeping a profound silence, for fear lest the noise they should make should fright away the fishes they would catch, and make them shunthe shore. The one makes ready her bait on the brink; the other casts her line into the river, and appears almost her own statue, so attentive she is to what she is about. This by an action as quick as it is pleasant, lifts up her arm, draws the line, and rejoiced at her prey, casts a fish upon the shore, which bows itself, stretches, turns, winds, and beats, makes divers leaps and bounds upon the grass, and makes its rich silver scales to glister, amongst the emeralds of the field. The other hoping for the same success of her fellow, draws hers without drawing any thing; at which the rest laugh or are comforted, for having a like fortune. But that which is the most delightful, is to see our Shepherds laden with nets, to draw some fishpond; 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 green; 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 detain them. But 'tis in vain they beat; as soon as they have changed their element, they must die, the freshness of the grass is not to them, such as is the freshness of the water. This pastime how simple soever it is, is not yet so poor, but that queens as well as shepherds have employed themselves with it; Cleopatra, who had had the glory to catch the hearts of Cesar, and Mark Antony in her nets, did not scorn to fish, 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 less, in deceiving the birds; sometimes in hiding from them that which should take them, under the heap of grain which is thrown to them, that so in coming to seek wherewith to live, they find their death; sometimes in shooting them with bolts; and sometimes in surprising them on the trees, by lyming the branches, which hold them by the wings, the more they flutter and strive to fly, the more they are entangled amongst those dangerous twiggs. After these harmless exercises either of fishing, or bird-catching, you shall see the one and the other return with their prey; the Shepherd's 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 been successful, though laden with their spoil, do not omit to sing some Eclogue, or play on their pipes; the flocks follow their masters, or their mistresses; the dogs by their fidelity, take care that no sheep 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 success. But 'tis too much, Shepherd, 'tis too much spoken of our innocent war, which (if I do not deceive myself) ought to be preferred to those which have caused the proudest Trophies to be raised, and whose Conquerors 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 virtues which are seen amongst us. First, Rome is filled with adulators, and we know hardly what adulation is: at Rome, falsehood, and medisance reigns; and in our woods the truth appearing always, we never fail to praise that which is praiseworthy: at Rome all men are slaves, either to their ambition, or avarice; and in our campaniaes, we possess more goods, than we desire to have; nor are we covetous, but only of time, which we would always well employ at Rome, there are those people which make their treasures of the greatest poisons which are in nature, either to make away their enemies, 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 heal the bitings of serpents, or any other venomous beast. At Rome, all the world thinks only upon their own interest; here, they only think on their own pleasures, provided it be harmless. At Rome all those which inhabit it seek to approach near the Prince: in our woods we only seek our equals. At Rome, they will have no Masters, and yet deny not to kiss the hand that inchains them; and in our hamlets, we obey our ancient Shepherds, with as much affection as freedom. At Rome those which make the Law's scoff at them, and do not observe them; and in our forests, the sagest Pastors instruct by their examples, rather than by their words. Yes we do what they do, sooner than what they tell us: nor do we know amongst us, any infringers of our laws, or our customs. At Rome the riches alone, makes the difference twixt men: and in our Groves, virtue and merit only makes the price and the distinction. In fine Shepherd, at Rome, all the world is busied to deceive others; or at least to hinder that they be not themselves cozened; whereas we are only careful to seek the occasions to serve ourselves. If any of our Shepherdesses have sometimes straggled that sheep from her flock which she loves best; you shall see all our Shepherds with care, and earnestness seek to recover again, that which she lost. They inquire with diligence; they tell to those whom they meet, all the beauties of that pretty creature, that thereby they may know if they have not seen it. They describe its whiteness, its marks, the flowers & the ribbons which are tied to its horns, and forget nothing which may serve to their design, and if it happens that they find it, they return with as much joy, as your Consuls, when they have gained a battle; so true it is, that we ardently love to serve, not only our friends, but all those that have need of it. As for Rome, without doubt it is not so there; all the world rejoices at another's misfortune: those whom the Prince does not behold with a pleased eye, are forsaken by those whom they have most obliged, what virtue soever they have: & those on the contrary whom he favours, should they be the most vicious, and imperfect of men, shall not want however, not only 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 favourites to fear, or follow; we live with equality; we love those that love us, and hate none. For the rest, I had always heard say, that the Shepherds were the Images of Sovereigns; that they ought to govern the people as we govern our flocks; and that the Sceptre and the Crook, aught to have much resemblance. Nevertheless 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 tenderness; we have no other care than to make them happy; we choose them the sweetest pasture, the clearest waters; we give them a courageous and faithful keeper, which is our dog; and we defend them ourselves 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 likewise, both from the extreme cold and the extreme heat: in winter we leave them sometimes in the folds, when the frost hath glazed all the pasture: and in summer 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 healthful, we adorn them with ribbons 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 choosing the pasture, and waters for them, they make their flocks seve 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 harms; '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 adorn them, but rather strip them even of their natural ornaments. We endeavour our flocks should be fat, & they will have theirs lean & feeble; in fine, Shepherds, not content 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 adorns them borrows 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 esteem 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, bagpipe, and all the glorious marks of our innocent profession. Ha', Tityrus (yet once more) what a dangerous thing 'tis for one to be a Sovereign, 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 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 been employed 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 itself, but that those whom she files in the ranks of her most Illustrious Hero's have embraced it, with ardour. Yes, those who after they had gained battles (as you know better than myself) have manured the ground with their own hands, and have also in the pressing affairs of the Republic, been recalled from thence to rule the reins 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 they have done, that's great, or good, have never been praised more, than when they had governed the public, taken Cities by force; lessened the bounds of the Roman puissance; gained Battles; 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 pass to the passions in particular; you shall find, that of all those that use to cause the grandest disorders, we know but one only, and which produces none but grateful 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 disquietness as without pride; and seeing nothing beneath us, nor nothing above our heads but the Heavens; we are free from anger as from insolence; nor would we exchange our sheephooks, for all the Sceptres in the world. It is easy for you to judge 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 find any entrance in a Country where all deserves to be loved. But (you will ask 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 powerful, 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 wars; 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 Shepherdess's, with more innocency, and less bitterness, than on the Throne, and in the Palaces of great Kings. 'Tis in those elevated places, that this passion 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 design, 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 Mother's graces: he inspires none but reasonable desires in the hearts of our Shepherds; we see them kiss their chains, even when the rigour of their mistresses makes them seem most heavy to them; they receive their favours with ravishment; and when they are ill entertained, their discretion and patience, does oblige them to undergo that misfortune, with respect and submission. They are always our slaves, and by consequence they never are our Tyrants. We have Shepherdesses which are rigorous, but we have no Shepherds which are indiscreet; they dare hardly proclaim their complaints, with their bagpipes and on their reeds; their verses, their songs, and their entertainments, are filled only 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 esteem, or of their affection. Constancy (that virtue 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 sceptre, nor gold, nor diamonds, which can dazzle, or bribe them; the wise amongst us despise them, and the rest do not know what they are: We do 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 chain in all their lives. Nor are our Shepherdesses likewise more unfaithful: their simplicity, and their freeness is the cause they do not disguise their thoughts. They are modest and sincere; and if a little jealousy (in spite of so many virtues which should hinder it from springing) did not disturb the tranquillity of our meadows; all our Roses would be without prickles, & all our pleasures would be without mixture, and without bitterness. This passion nevertheless does not act here, as at Rome; in that place, they have recourse to violence. The poisons, and poniards are put in use; and sometimes serve equally against the Rival, 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 feel the trouble of their Master; who passing away their sorrow in the darkest forests, abandon them to the care of their friends. Yet however this retreat does not make us see many mournful events; and for the most part, some complaint, some song, and foam few Poems, is all the revenge, and the reconcilement of the most jealous. If it be the Shepherdess 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 he be guilty, if so be, he reputes, and implores his pardon hadsomely, and with a good grace. And if on the contrary she be in the wrong; we condemn her to make with her own hands a garland of flowers for him; and sometimes also we consent, that he should rob her of a bracelet of her hair, after that, their felicity is founded more solidly than 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 seek out the same shades; and the same fountains; their sheephooks have the same devices painted; their baskets tied with the same ribbons; their sheep adorned with the same colours, and their very dogs seem 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, aught to be portrayed otherwise than ours; it should be represented like a fury; he should have more than one bow, and more than one torch given him, seeing the disorders he causes: he ought to bear a Scythe, as well as Saturn, and death, since he destroys all that time and death destroy. He o'erthrows all as well as they; he never inspires the desires of love in a heart; but that hatred, jealousy, 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 enamelled with the same colours of the Rainbow, and his eyes should be hoodwinked 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 Country life? we inhabit nature's 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 virtue, our customs 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 persuasion, and to your own knowledge, who without doubt would not endure, 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 justify better than I can, the advantages of the Country 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 Bagpipe with our skilfullest Shepherds: do not then remember any more to be persuaded 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 covered with Swans, nor of our Hillocks, nor of our Valleys, nor of the lovely diversity of our Flowers, nor our Woods, or the Music 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 of our Shepherdesses; cancel the memory of our holidays, of our sacrifices, of our Chases, of our Fishing, of the innocency of our Manners, and of Amaryllis herself. But remember at least, that you may never speak any thing against the Country life; that at your departure from Rome you become a Shepherd as you were before. That you have born the Scrip, and Sheephook; 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 Shepherdess Galatea, and the praises of the Country life.   

The effect of this HARANGUE.  
THe Reader may believe that this Discourse was persuasive; since Virgil, who is the same with Tityrus, regrets Rome but only that one time in all his Bucolics, though he were 3 years composing them. He employed again afterwards seven more in composing his Georgics, a Work of the same nature, and the which contains all the Country Occupations. Thus may one (as I have said) without putting our Imaginations on the rack, believe that Amarillis did in some sort persuade Tityrus: and that the diversity of this great Land-scept artificially painted, and boldly traced, displeased not his sight.    

CLORINDA TO TANCRED. The Fourth HARANGUE.  

The Argument.  
EVery one knows that in Tasso's Jerusasalem Tancred kills his Mistress Clorinda without knowing her. But every one knows likewise that she knows him not neither, and dies without hardly speaking. I do not doubt therefore but that I shall be accused of falsifying the History (if at least a fable may have that name) and that I shall be found strangely bold, to dare to make a Heroine to speak, which so famous an Author hath silenced. Besides that 'tis to say that which he never said, they will find him yet more judicious than I, for not having put so long a Discourse in the mouth of a dying person. But I confess, that maugre all those objections on the which it is apparent that I have thought, since I make them myself before any other offers them; I was not able to resist so pleasing a temptation. It always seemed to me in reading this passage of that marvellous Poem, that Tasso had not entirely drawn all that might be drawn: and that since he was the Master of Clorinda's destiny, he might have allowed her some moments of life, to render the adventure more tender; and the unhappiness of Tancred more pitiful, by the things that she might say to him. May the Reader then suffer, that as Bayardo and Ariosto often said, that 'tis Turpin which hath said what they invented. I may say also, that another Historian than Tasso assures, that the wound with the sword was less great; that Clorinda lived some hours, and that she spoke very near in these terms to the Generous Tancred to persuade him, That the Love ought not to die with the Beloved.   

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 sadness 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, courageous 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 my deliverer; I hear that same voice, which in the midst of battles 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 gained you so much honour; where, prompted by that noble ambition, to overcome in you the valiantest & most courageous of all men, I pursued you so obstinately, that my boldness, or rather my rashness, gave you an esteem for me: you did not only forbear to assault me, and neglect to defend yourself 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, only 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 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 persuade me) do not abandon me, I conjure you, to the insolence of your soldiers, at this time, when the miserable Clorinda hath no other arms to defend herself, 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 testify my acknowledgement. It seems to me my prayer is heard; for although I feel that the hour of my death is near, it seems to me, I say (if I deceive not myself) 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 Battles 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 baseness, we should lose such a victory 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 only because nothing can resist him. Do not mourn for me then, more than I mourn for myself; rule your ressentments by mine; comfort yourself 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 Godfrey's army 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 vanity that Clorinda's name is famous enough, to dare believe as I do, that all your Knights would think themselves fortunate, not only to be her conquerors, but even to be conquered by her. Do not 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 hid the blood which you have lost, only hid your tears from Clorinda, that her death may be more quiet, since it cannot be more honourable. And to testify, 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 Heroic 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 shall have ended her days, in assuring you, that she hath esteemed your valour and your virtue 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 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 blows 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 justify 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 strikes an horror, who dare not follow the persons they love into the shades of death. Those that are so weakly interested, they seek only but for the recompense of their affections, and who loves only 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 only within the grave, and 'twixt the very arms of death, that we can assure ourselves certainty of the good will any hath for us; all the services which are rendered 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 Heroic love, and of true virtue, '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, unless we blot her Image from our memory? Ha! no, no, too generous Prince, you will not do thus, you will visit her Tomb with respect, and her name becoming inseparable from yours by her deplorable adventures shall fly o'er all the world with lustre and glory: you will conserve this love which was so pure, that hope itself, 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 gins 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 persuade them I was worthy; and that yourself be persuaded, that my defeat is honourable to you. I perceive that this discourse redoubles your anguish, and that you had rather not have vanquished, than buy the victory by my loss. Do not however regret so much an unhappy person, neither accuse yourself to have committed so great a crime. The Clorinda whom you fought is not she whom 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 acknowledgement for Tancred. But however (you will tell me) she dies by the hand of that Tanered: 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 acknowledgements; she had an austere virtue which would always have obliged her to treat you like an enemy; you have sweetened 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 own a part of my esteem. I had admired your courage in battles, but I confess that I had not so perfectly known your generosity after the victory. There be more valiant soldiers than merciful and debonair Conquerors; 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 yourself, and complaining for me: death not being harsh to me, methinks you should comfort yourself 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 herself would have been in such a posture: 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 tranquillity, suffer my loss 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 mind, since I am going to be in an estate, which suffers no more change. I die with much admiration for your virtue; live with a great esteem of my courage; bear even from my grave to your own 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 enclosed 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 destroys the fair opinions which virtue alone had impressed: but amongst Heroic persons, time, absence, nor death itself, 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 will not think it ill, if Clorinda believes she obliges you sensibly, when even she employs the last moments of her life, to testify to you the true esteem she hath conceived of your extreme virtue. Do not then be wanting of acknowledgement, 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 ready to expire: and that I am more dreadful to you dying and dis-armed, than I was to you in the midst of Combats. I shall therefore tell you nothing more that may augment your tears: I will hid 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 hindered 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 yourself 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 days 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 without stain, she regrets nothing in the world, but only that she cannot retaliate that which she owes to you: and that in fine, she esteems herself 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 Conqueror so compassionate as to weep at his own Victories; and a lover so passionate and so heroic, as to make her hope, that he will conserve that affection very pure, even to his last breath. Adieu than 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.   

The effect of this HARANGUE.  
THe ressentments that a like Discourse might have inspired, did not miss of finding place in the afflicted spirit of Tancred: he wept, and wept a long time for so extraordinary a misfortune, and for so fearful an adventure; and we may believe that he wept ever. Since Erminia (how lovely, & how much a lover soe'er she was) could never comfort him for the death of Clorinda. Nevertheless, be not you persuaded, that he was so, That the affection ought not to die with the beloved; but suspend at least your judgement, since this other Princess hath somewhat to say thereon. Harken better to her than Tancred did hearken: for in truth she is too worthy of compassion to be suffered to die for a dead one, or at least for not hearing of her.    

ERMINIA TO ARSETES. The Fifth HARANGUE.  

The Argument.  
AFter that Tancred had killed Clorinda, as you have seen before; the Prince appeared inconsolable: and hardly could that famous Hermit which follows Godfrey's army separate him from that fair body, whose soul himself had separated; so that Erminia, daughter to the King of Antioch, who had a long time loved that generous, but affllicted Prince, despaired of ever seeing her affection recompensed. I was in that unhappy condition, that meeting one of Clorinda's Domestics, who maintained that Tancred had reason to do so; she end avoured to make him confess, to ease her sorrow, That the affection ought not to go beyond the grave.   

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 loved whilst they enjoyed 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 Mistress 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 what that is which we call love: they know neither fidelity nor constancy; and judge of things either by their own capricious 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 testify to you by my sighs, that the destiny of that illustrious person hath caused grief in me; and that I was her Rival, but not her enemy. But I will also persuade you, that without being either inconstant or unfaithful, that Prince who loved her during her life, might now recompense my affection by his own, since she does cease to live. Death (that fearful monster that destroys all that breaths upon earth) will not that love should enterprise 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 dispenses their subjects from all obedience; their power ends with their life, and there remains no more of those Monarches, but the memory of their vices, or of their virtues. If they have been evil, they are blamed with boldness; and if they have been good, they are praised without suspi●ion of flattery; their Tombs are carefully looked to, their names are immortalised by the Histories which are made of their Reigns and their Heroic 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 laws 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 add to their glory; but Reason and Nature will likewise tell us, that time cures the sharpest sorrows; 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 in these occasions; we must enter into the grave with the beloved person, or we must keep within the limits which wisdom prescribes to the most violent griefs. All the ornaments of the proudest Mausoleums are but extinguished 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 urns. That eternal sleep which reigns in the graves, and which the tears and the sighs of the most passionare lovers cannot dispel, evidences enough, that 'tis not to the deceased we own 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 jealousy, 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; 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 only a melancholy habit, rather than an effect of their loss, or the ressentment they have of it, they accustom themselves to sadness, as to joy; their fighes do ease them, their tears fall without bitterness; 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: Nevertheless it is certain that the wisdom 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 find it to be so: and reason hath not left us without giving the just limits to the greatest sorrow. Ever since the beginning of age's death hath made men shed tears, which time hath wiped off 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 add to this, that we would forsake our Country, 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 ourselves after the death of the person whom we love, or we must die with her. For to think that love is a thing compatible with the darkness 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 sense 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 Statue, 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 entirely 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 employ the same hand, with which he cut the bands that tied him to the service of Clorinda, against those whom Clorinda has always served; I would (I say) that having never ceased to be faithful to his party, having never ceased to be valiant in battles, 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 loved 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 witness, 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 virtue, as I had affection for the Prince whom I loved: no, Arsetes, her death did not rejoice me; on the contrary, it did grieve me. I honoured her enough to weep her loss; and I loved Tanered 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 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 jealousy. Did she yet live, I should not take it ill, if Tancred would give me but his esteem and friendship, and preserved his entire love and passion for her; I would say in his defence, he loves that which cannot be beloved too much; Clorinda is young, fair, virtuous, 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 find 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 virtue 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 acknowledgement 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 Throne to slavery; and that the hands which enchained her had torn a Crown from off her Father's 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 Tancred's 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 virtuous & reasonable I could begin to love Tancred, though he were my Father's conqueror; 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 only to honour the memory of Clorinda, and begin to love Erminia. You must know then (sage and wise Arsetes) that when the Christians had pulled down Antiochus his throne, and that they had taken away both his sceptre and life who gave me life: you may know (I say) that by the fortune of war I fell into the hands of the Conqueror, who (as you cannot but know) was the same Tancred of whom we now speak. But alas! why was it that the Conqueror 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 Mistress now? Wherefore was it that he rendered 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 ●ude 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 virtue, 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 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 myself (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 ushered 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, sometimes to love him dearlier? I have beheld him sometimes as an usurper; I have considered him as an enemy, who had taken away Antiochus' 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 virtuous, and my deliverer, and my beloved. I have seen him from the walls of Jerusalem shedding the blood of our soldiers, without shedding a tear myself: I desired the victory, but however would not have Tancred be conquered. I had found him too merciful a Conqueror, not to desire to have him still in a condition, to make known his virtue by doing good, rather than 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 myself, that I made use of the valiant Clorinda's arms to get out from Jerusalem, and to execute my enterprise: But in taking her arms and weapons I did not put on her courage, so that I was quickly forced to quit my sword, and betake me to the sheephook to secure myself. I have then been Cavalier and Shepherdess for the insensible Tancred: I was also Armida's prisoner in his consideration: and that which I find 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 satissaction to render and save the life of my deliverer, to dress his wounds, and to heal him, in such a time when none but ERMINIA could relieve him. You see then, Arsetes, that the birth of my affection is not criminal, since Tancred's sole virtue 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 recompense my amity with his own. Clorinda, who at this present causes all his grief, and possesses all his thoughts, had never employed her arms, but to assault him, and to pursue him: and I stole the armour of Clorinda, but only to save his life. Clorinda, from whom he had taken neither Crown, nor Sceptre, has always beheld him as an enemy: and I, from whom he had ravished all, even to my very liberty, I have always beheld him as a Prince, which could and should be my lover. I have already told you, Arsetes, that if your illustrious Mistress 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 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 soe'er it be; nay, we must even die for her, if there be occasion: 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 showed us examples of what I say; all that despaired have killed 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 entirely all the society of the living, and pass the remainder of his days in shedding of fruitless tears, and vainly walking about the margin 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 authorise such a strange proceeding: by this means such a third 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 ourselves become hated, and rather look to the health of those for whom we have any good will, than to their deserts or worth: for fear, lest their constitutions being weak, the end of their days happening it may be before old age, should oblige those which love them to spend the rest of their days 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 constant, 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 Statue, or a Picture, are more excusable than those that love a grave, or the ashes which it encloses: 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 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 aught to do any thing without a design: 'tis so general a rule, that there are hardly any which miss it; the covetous know wherefore 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 intent, 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 love her person; I believe he would be somewhat troubled for an answer. To say that his tears and sighs have for their principal 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 Mistress, 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 needlessly, is a thing without all appearance. Nevertheless 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 illustrious Clorinda could hear his moans, and my reasons; and that from the midst of her grave she could make him hear her commands; how she would blame his proceed, and mourn my unhappiness! 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 persuade: But, Arsetes, she then lived yet, when she declared them to Tancred. That imbecility 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 are alive we are obliged to serve to the public society; it is not permitted us to be ingrateful; 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 Mistress, one shall find that they were ill understood by this Prince: for whatsoever commands she gave him to reverence her memory, she made him none more pressing than those by which she enjoined 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 ourselves in expounding Clorinda's last speeches; for without doubt she is agreed to what I say, she will willingly remain in Tancred's 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 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 again; she has consented that her death should make him unhappy for some few days, but she will consent likewise that he should make me happy for all my life. Do not therefore, Arsetes, resist Clorinda's will: persuade the Prince, her lover, that which I would persuade you; tell him he disobeys his Mistress 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 only 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 Crown 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 pretensions 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 harken to reason or nature, I find, that the love ought not to endure beyond the grave, or after death.   

The effect of this HARANGUE.  
AS Tasso hath not told us, whether Tancred were comforted, and whether he had pity of Erminia; so neither can I tell it you: and because Arsetes was an ancient Domestic of Clorinda, I dare not neither assure you, whether he did agree to this Discourse. You have the reasons of the one and the other. Consider them at leisure, and judge sovereignly, if you are so bold as to judge of Queens, and so disinterested as to undertake it.    

CARICLIA TO THE AGENES. The Sixth HARANGUE.  

The Argument.  
WHen after the suffering of all those illustrious misfortunes, which compose the Ethiopian History, CARICLIA and THEAGENES beheld themselves on the Throne; that lovely and famous Heroine, in a particular conversation which she had with her lover, recalled to her memory all her past troubles; and comparing them to her present felicities, it seemed to her that that pleasing remembrance did in some manner increase them: So that in her transportation of joy, she spoke in this sort to THEAGENES, to prove to him, That those that never had evil, do not know true pleasure.   

CARICLIA TO THEAGENES.  
IN fine, my dear and beloved Theagenes, we have run a glorious Race, at the end of which we find 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 tranquillity 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 sadness and 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 brightness; the Sun makes known the splendour of its rays by the tenebreous darkness; 'tis the rigorous sharpness of the Winter that heightens the amiable sweetness 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 world's desires. They are rich, and know it not; they have treasures, and cannot tell their value; they have good things, and do not taste them; and their abundance makes them poor. Such a long series of felicities does benumb a soul rather than rouse it: and the frequency does no less take away the delicacy of the pleasure, than it does take away the sharpness of pain. One is accustomed to a Sceptre, 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 always worn a Royal Mantle; who, even from their cradles to their graves, have always stood under the Canopy of state, within the Balisters, and amidst the Pomp and Majesty, cannot compare their satisfaction to Cariclia's; she who was exposed at her birth, she who was not known to any, she who did not know herself, she who was not adorned but with her natural graces; and she in fine, who from extreme misery has passed in a moment, to the supremest grandeur. For my part (I acknowledge to you Theagenes) it seems to me, that I have conquered the Kingdom which Fortune restores to me; it seems to me, that I hold it by my virtue, 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 find that 'tis only through difficulties, that we attain to sovereign 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 only 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 Pirate Trachinus had made himself Master of our Vessel, that there was no more any felicity for us? Who would not have said, when that Pirate became enamoured of me, that we must have lost our reason, if we had had the least hope left? who would not have said, when there risen so great a tempest, that the waves lifted us even to heaven, and afterwards let us sink again to the very centre 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 Pirates 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 slain, and clasping your wounded self in my arms, almost as dead as they and you were; that we were going to find our graves, on that part of an arm of the River Nilus, called Her acleetick; 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 are yet in a condition to comfort ourselves for those misfortunes past, or rather to rejoice for our present felicities. But lovely Theagenes, tell me the truth, I conjure you, and do not disguise 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 tanned and Sunburnt, 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 interlaced paths does form amongst those Reeds and Canes, through which the vessels of those Thiefs make their passage, and can find out a way, which none other but they can discover? Did you ever behold a Rustic object, that was more grateful than that Island was, after we had in a boat traced out all the concealed turn of which I speak, which seems as it had hid itself amidst so many aquatic 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 Cabins, made with interlaced branches of Palms, and covered with other long branches mixed with laurel? and this object being joined to so many different arms and weapons which those thiefs 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 myself separated from you, and buried alive in a profound Cave; I know that you will tell me, that when the Egyptians and the Persians came to assault those Thiefs: Thyamis' jealousy 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 Thisbe 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 Thisbe for me, you thought me dead: but I must tell you, that that sorrow could not come near 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 your heart well, as I examine mine; and tell me after that, if you ever felt a more sensible content; if the pains 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 reunited us did re-separate us presently again by Mitranes' cruelty; and that that last separation, finding our souls wholly disposed to sadness, that sadness entered our souls with all the fury of an insolent Conqueror, who ravages and subverts all in the place he surprises. It is certain, (and I acknowledge) that nothing can compare with the sense of those afflictions we then felt; and that to know them perfectly, one must have proved them; for the greatest and most persuasive Eloquence can trace but an imperfect draught of them. I beheld myself separated from all that I loved; you saw yourself 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 cruel Master; and immediately after (which was the most inhuman) you saw me no more, Theagenes, nor could I see you. Without doubt those funest moments were so sad both to you and myself, that those themselves who suffered it, cannot have so much art as to relate it: and if from this woeful adventure I pass again to the apparition of that dead Corpse which I saw both move and speak by the power of Magic, and by her mother's impiety, whose unnatural tenderness troubled the repose of her grave, and violated the last of nature's laws; 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 yourself a Maiden, and the good Calasiris, alone in the midst of a great plain, covered all over with broken weapons and arms, with Chariot's o'returned, sprinkled with blood, dead soldiers, and all others tragical objects, which are wont to be seen in those sad places where a battle 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 perceive all these things: and sometimes wrapping its self in those clouds again, left nothing in those Campanias but horror and obscurity. Represent to yourself, that you saw me amidst this fearful disorder, and that from amongst those massacred soldiers you behold on a sudden a dead body, with motion as quick as unnatural, arise as one should raise a Statue, 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 extinguished and turned inwards, though they appeared open; twice her mouth opened itself, dead as she was; and twice she spoke, but with fewer words than sighs, and with an accent capable to appal with horror 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 pleasing: and it was there, my dear Theagenes, that I learned by experience, that those which are always 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 valleys 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 unlooked 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 expressed. 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 imperous art, which vaunts itself 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, 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 caused 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 Sceptre; I know that having discovered our innocent passion, her guilty artifices would constrain me to espouse Achemenes, one of her slaves; I know her fury caused you to be buried alive in the obscurity of a deep dungeon; I know you received such outrages as struck me with horror, and which highly signalised your love and constancy; I know that the despair of that enraged woman exposed my life to poison; and that if the Justice of the Gods had not made Cibele to take it herself, who would have given it to me, your Cariclia had been lost; I know that the fearful malice of that Persian accused me of that death of which she was the cause, and of which I was innocent; I know that I found myself 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 myself upon the pile of wood, ready to be consumed; I know that the flames encompassed 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 virtue 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 equalled 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 was so transported with joy, that I cannot express it: and I was liberally recompensed 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 jealousy, of despite, and vengeance Achemenes was gone to, to advertise him of his wives impudicity. You know also, that we had the satisfaction to learn that heaven's 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 only to make us know their grandeur the better: and if you tell me that presently after we found a new affliction, being surprised 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 soldiers who took us were of Ethiopia, where we desired to go. In effect, 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. Nevertheless, my dear dear Theagenes, 'tis here I must confess that our hopes were deceitful, and that we beheld ourselves anew in such displeasures, which had nothing equal to it, but the danger which we underwent. For in fine, if they adorned 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 allotted 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 find 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 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 victim was found to be his daughter, Hydaspes and Persina found and 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 father's scrupulous devotion believed 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 public cry which made it end, did no less rejoice us. You will tell me (perhaps) that this unhoped for good concerned 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 Giant, whose strength was no less; that 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 Giant did but increase your glory; Meroebe was the captive that adorned your triumph; the flame by its lustre imparted some both to your virtue and mine; Cariclia and Sisimithres finished our prosperities; and from the feet of those altars of the gods where we than were, we presently were raised up gloriously to the King's 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 felicties are sweet; that by troubles only we can come to judge of quiet and rest: and that those who never have undergone any evil, cannot truly know what pleasure is. For my part, I find so much satisfaction in remembering my troubles, and the memory is so grateful and so precious to me, that far from banishing it from my soul, I wish not only that it may be always there, but that this glorious Image may always 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 always admire Theagenes and Cariclia.   

The effect of this HARANGUE.  
TRuly one may say, that these last wishes have obtained the effect of this Harangue; since the reputation of this brave Romance will never have an end, and that there are few others which do not owe something to it. It's Author, who preferred the preservation of this pleasing Book before his Bishopric, did no bad office to those who since himself have meddled to compose the like: and they and I are obliged to acknowledge, that though we have not servily imitated him, it is never thelesse certain, that we own much to this great example.    

POLIXENA TO PYRRHUS. The Seventh HARANGUE.  

The Argument.  
As the Grecians were returning to their Country, after the taking of Troy, the ghost of Achilles appeared to them, which with a fearful and threatening voice reproached their ingratitude and forgetfulness; and in fine, demanded of them for recompense of his grand exploits, and the life which he had lost in that long & famous siege of Ilium; that Polixena, the daughter of Priam, of whom he had been enamoured, should be sacrificed upon his Tomb. Though this demand were infinitely cruel, the fear of a dead man, whom the Grecians had so much dreaded living, made him obtain what he demanded; so that Pyrrhus his son went and took her, to immolate her to his father's pitiless ghost; and 'twas at that sad instant that we do suppose, that this beauteous and generous Princess made this discourse to him, as you are going to see, by the which she pretended to prove to him, That death is better than servitude.   

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 Victim will escape from the foot of the altar; she desires her death which you are going to give her; she beholds without horror the knife which must pierce her breast; nor does Achilles' ghost demand the end of her life with more are dency, than she herself does crave it. What do you stay for then to perform this funest ceremony? there is no need you should busy yourselves 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 Victim is pure and innocent, I confess; but if I am not deceived, it will slain 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 itself. But what shall I do in this occasion! it seems hearing me speak in this manner, that I would withhold 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 sense of tenderness; nay I fear also that my constancy does make you take some compassion; and apprehend in fine, all that one less generous than my self would desire. But remember not to let you bow to any pity, that you are a Grecian, and I a Trohan; that you are Achilles' son, that I am daughter to Priam, and Paris sister; who, to revenge the death of generous Hector, killed 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 brother's 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 Victim, than to have been his Mistress. Polixena's eyes would be guilty, if they could have infused love into her brother's murderer; and she would esteem herself very unhappy, if any could suspect her to have contributed any thing to such a kind of conquest. I have wished 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 Country, and for Hector's murderer. That if nevertheless you will publish to all the world, that the great Hector's vanquisher has been vanquished, not by the beauty of Polixena, bu● by her sorrow only; proclaim also that Polixena has not been o'ercome 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 public 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 herself 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 employed his valour only 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 an hundred times from the top of our Rampires bathe his hands in my blood. But, o pitiful spectacle! I have seen him fight the valiant Hector: or to say better, I have beheld all the gods incensed 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 sight my brother, not only make him lose his life, but I have seen him by an inhumanity which never could be paralleled 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 sense 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 walls 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 cruelest of her enemies? Yes, Polixena has lived, and her tears, as 'tis said, have softened the heart of the pitiless Achilles; he wept with her at Hector's funeral; he desired a peace with Priam, and demanded his daughter of him. But at the same time (o prodigy of extravagance as well as cruelty!) he did yet once more wash his hands in that unfortunate woman's own brother's 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 Hector's funeral? and if he were become my lover, why did he yet tear in pieces one of my brothers with a Tiger's 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 enemy's Mistress, and their murderer's wife. This thought is so injurious to Polixena, that she cannot possibly comprehend it should ever enter into the heart of Achilles, how inhuman soe'er he was. She cannot imagine, I say, that he could have believed that Hector's 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 persuaded that Achilles was her lover, and far less 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 ruin of Priam's 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; and since he could not have her for his wife she must now become his victim: Truly, to love in this manner one must be both a Grecian and Achilles together. Do not think however that I complain of this cruel proceeding: on the contrary, I render thanks to the gods for their bounty in shortening my third 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 one's 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 only 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 go to regain 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 he 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 days, 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 pass 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 inhuman to refuse her the body of her daughter, or not to let her have it without paying a ransom. For what can a Queen give you, whose Empire is destroyed, whose City is consumed, and to whom there is only 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 only the remembrance of her passed happiness, thereby to increase her present misery, be satisfied with her tears. 'Tis the only ransom you should exact from her; and that only which she can give you. So that if all compassion be not entirely extinguished 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 refused 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 corpse to her, when Polixena shall be no more; and do not refuse this sad courtesy and grace, to her whose Kingdom you have invaded, slain her children, and stabbed her husband. Have a care, lest abusing of your Victories, you one day merit to find as harsh Conquerors as yourselves 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 Conquerors, if the Heavens had seconded their courage. For myself, who have no longer portion in this life, but only 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 intent to execute? Do you wait till the Ghost of cruel Achilles come once more forth from Hell to redemand Polixena? or do you think to make my death the more cruel, in making me expect it a long time? whatever it be, hasten you to satisfy both Achilles and Polixena together. If you stay longer, perhaps pity may surprise you; perhaps all the Trojan slaves may break their chains to deliver me; perhaps also that the Grecians will love rather to see me captive, than to see me die; lift up your arm therefore, and plunge your poniard into my heart: I present my breast 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 go to seek for; nor is it difficult to sacrifice a Victim which willingly offers itself, and which would sacrifice herself, 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 Hector's 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 always be his most mortal enemy. I'll go (if the Gods will permit it) from grave to grave about the ruins of Troy, to seek the sepulchers of my parents: and uniting myself inseparably to Hector's 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 ruins, 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 only to submit to what our destiny ordains: and whether we be conquered or conquerors, we are equally obliged to obey without murmuring, and with an equal visage to receive either happiness or misfortune. 'tis by these sentiments (o Prince and Priest together) that I remain so tranquil at the approaches of death; and if I do not deceive myself, I discover more trouble in your looks than you can behold in m●ne. 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 persuaded, that 'tis more thorough 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 victim. Let's satisfy this last desire, since we may do it without shame; and let's rejoice that we have neither been his wife, nor his Mistress, hor his slave. Whoever goes out of this life with glory, ought ever to esteem themselves happy; principally, if 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 only a Grecian, not only my enemy, not only 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 father's murderer. 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; 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, feebleness, and misery; and who seeks his defence only 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 Ilium all in one flame: the altars must be profaned, they must be sprinkled with humane blood; and that not only with the blood of vulgar ones. It must be the noblest blood in all the earth that must be spilt; it must be a royal 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 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 Father's 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 consumed 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 virtue; and might have believed, that since Achilles had had the temerity, after he had made her Country 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 err from the truth. To justify what she says, 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 Ulysses 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 re-behold the day, only 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 woeful sacrifice? Do you 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 hollowness 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 itself, behold the ghost of Achilles, which appears to me; or rather Achilles himself, who is leaving his grave. He is pale, and disfigured; a terror 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; unless death (or perhaps the remorse for his crimes) have changed his skin and colour.  
Behold, Phyrrus, behold that hideous spirit, which arises little by little; and who to his threatening actions, joining his horrid voice, does for the last time ordain you to sacrifice Polixena to him. Make this Ghost to vanish by obeying it; the Victim is ready prepared, the poniard is in your hand, and you are accustomed to shed the Blood Royal. Strike then; as your Slave, I conjure you; and as the Daughter of a King, I command you.   

The effect of this HARANGUE.  
This fair and unhappy Princess drew the tears of all the Grecians: Pyrrhus himself was moved; nor could his eyes behold the crime which his hand committed. He struck her nevertheless, barbarous man that he was; and that young and deplorable creature had so much modesty, that even in falling, struck with the deadly blow, she was careful to lay her hands upon her lower garments, for fear lest after her death some indecent action should offend her modesty.    

PENELOPE TO LAERTES: The Eighth HARANGUE.  

The Argument.  
PENELOPE, that virtuous wife to ULYSSES, whose reputation yet lives after so many ages past, and who from the borders of that seldom frequented Island where she lived, has made her renown spread over the whole world, finding herself one day extremely afflicted for the absence of her Husband, who after the siege of Troy had strayed almost ten years, at the mercy of the winds and waves, without possibility of seeing his Country; would ease her sorrows by her plaints, and make her dear Husband's Father acknowledge by the discourse you are now going to see, That absence is worse than death.   

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 under one the unhappiness 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 virtue; who strikes with the same fatal dart the Kings and Shepherds, and whose very portraiture alone fills the stoutest soul with horror and amazement, is not yet that thing which I believe we ought the most to apprehend. Absence, which we may truly say is the commencement of all sorrows, and the end of all joys, hath in it somewhat that is more harsh and insupportable: for if the first be that which destroys our prosperity, the second is that which makes us unhappy, even in the midst of abundance, yea, on the Throne itself. There is nevertheless 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 only robs us of all the good that ever death deprives us of, but likewise causes all those evils to fall on ●s, to which the other puts a sudden period. Our life itself in this occasion is left us, but only to make us the more sensible of the most piercing pain that can be felt: and if there be sometimes such people, who 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 do their Mistresses, and prefer the rays 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, yourself, what a greater violence that must be, which for a long season separates that which love, reason, and inclination seem to have joined with an eternal and immortal chain. Death, sage Laertes (as you know better than myself) is as natural to us as life: if it be an evil, 'tis at lest an evil that should not surprise us: as soon 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 sense, 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 surprises him, and comes so unawares, that by consequence it renders him more unhappy than death can, which we ought always to expect. That amazing instant, which parts two persons perfectly loving one another, is a sadness beyond my expression, though I have proved it more cruelly than any other; but to make you in some manner comprehend it, Imagine to yourself, my Lord, that you were ambitious, and that your Crown were torn from you; imagine yourself were extremely covetous, and that your treasures were all stol● from you; imagine you were victorious, and that your victory were ravished out of your hands; imagine you were shackled 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 darkness; imagine your heart were torn forth of your bosom, and you not yet dead: and imagine in fine, that I not only suffered all these pains, but that even death, how terrible soe'er it be, was the utmost of all my wishes, at that sad moment of Ulysses 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 troublesome 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 always 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 evil suffers no comparison: and 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 itself, which can only take away that good from us which we esteem fare less than she. But (you will say again) that death which snatches away a Crown, which pulls 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 one's lover and husband together: to mingle our last tears together with his, is less insupportable than to be left alone to weep continually: and to leave one's soul betwixt those arms, 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 adieu after the having had the satisfaction of knowing the greatness of his amour, by the greatness of his sorrows; after the having (if it be permitted to speak so) resigned our soul into his hands; we have always 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 senses 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 Ulysseses; and as sleep does every night make the happy and miserable to become equal and alike, as it does the greatest Princes and the meanest Subjects; So death likewise places in the same rank those lovers which enjoy the presence of their Mistresses, with those which are deprived of it. The thickness of those shades we meet withal in the grave, hinders us for evermore from distinguishing any of the things of this world; and death, how pitiless soe'er '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 disunite two persons dearly loving, the least unhappy is he without doubt who loses his life, since in losing that he loses both his sense, 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, Jealousy, Fear, and Hope itself, 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: we are never more irritated, than when our felicity is destroyed, we never wish more ardently to revenge ourselves, 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 own 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 assuage 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 poison. Do not you imagine (my Lord) that I have learned what I now say, either from the example of others, or from reason, which ofttimes 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 Ulysses was 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 charms, his silence caused by the affliction he endured in leaving me, rendered him more grateful to me, than his sweetest eloquence had ever done, although that eloquence have enchanted 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 nevertheless I cannot deny but that I found my affection redoubled in that sad instant. But when after I had lost his sight, the Image of Menelaus presented itself 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 immediately stepped in after hatred: I desired 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 remembered that he could not be vanquished, but that my dear Ulysseses must be so to, since he was engaged in the quarrel. But, my Lord, will you think is well, that I should show you all my troubles and discover all my imbecilities? Yes, since it is only by that means that I can prove to you, that absence is worse than death. After than that I had resented all the most violent effects of love, anger, hatred, I found myself again assaulted by Jealousy: 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 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 shipwreck; 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 only 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 Ulysses returned victorious, the other persctaded me, he might be then perishing in the waves: if one made me behold the harbour, the other shown me nothing but tempests and wracks: in fine, I always thought him either inconstant or dead: and the successive reign of two such contrary sentiments tyrannised 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 myself) 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 loss caused less 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, which is already happened: nor can they any more apprehend aught, 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 Ulysseses before his absence, how rigorous soe'er 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 myself! 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 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 only she that yet doth sigh; I am the only she that have no share in the public joy; and the only he alone, that dares not prepare Crowns, not knowing whether those Crowns should be made of Laurel or of Cypress branches. The victory has been woeful only to me alone; and Polixena, yea Hecuba herself (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 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 only to weep for the absence of my dear Ulysseses, 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 knows he is King of this Island, and that his subjects have need of him; he knows you are his Father, and that you wish for his return; he knows Telemachus 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 knows 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 near 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 soe'er I turn, I still find 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 find that 'tis shameful to me to be yet able to make any conquests. Nevertheless you are not ignorant, what a number of importunate persons do persecute me, though I despise them: for my part I am in doubt whether I ought to hid 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 cnemies, rather than her lovers. Judge after this, my Lord, if any thing can be added to the troubles I suffer? leave me then the liberty to prefer 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 miserios; the one is an evil which endures 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 only death, and absence is a series or chain of murders, torments, disquiets, fears, jealousies, angers, despairs, and continual deaths. In absence we make vows which contradict one another; ve make wishes, for which we repent again; we expect always 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 ourselves; we blame our own sorrow, and yet will not be comforted; we hid our tears, and yet desire not that time should wipe them from our cheeks, we envy another's happiness, we fly from society, and solitude is insupportable; portable; 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 find ourselves in a condition to wish for death, and prefer it before absence; yea, to make supplications to obtain that which all the world fears, and from which all the world does fly.   

The effect of this HARANGUE.  
ONe may believe that Ulysses return was the effect of this Harangue, and that the Heavens did grant it to such tender and passionate sentiments: since after he had strayed so many years on the Sea and Land, he returned to the embraces of his wife Penelope, his father Laertes, and Telemachus his son; and this wise and illustrious people beheld him again in that Isladnd where she so much longed for him.    

BRISEIS TO ACHILLES. The Ninth HARANGUE.  

The Argument.  
Achilles' becoming enamoured with Polixena at Hector's funeral, would, to facilitate the happy success of his love, make a peace betwixt the Trojans and Greeks; and that he might behold his new Mistress upon so fair a pretext, he came even into Troy whilst the truce lasted. So extraordinary a thing caused all the people to murmur in the Camp, an rendered him suspicious to the whole Army: but amongst others, Briseis a captive Princess, whom Achilles had much loved, before this infidelity, received thereby an affliction beyond compare. So that for her own interest, and likewise the Princes, whose glory she was obliged to preserve, she took in fine, the confidence to represent unto him the wrong he would do her, and that which would likewise accrue unto himself. Now as he was of a violent humour, and a spirit apt to be moved, this remonstrance did but stir his anger; insomuch that he treated Briseis as a slave, and spoke to her with a Magisterial accent, that's to say, very imperiously. This unjust proceeding brought this Lady to despair; and as despair makes weapons of all things, and that from exeream timidity, one runs sometimes even to audacity; she undertook to maintain in his presence, That one may be both Slave and Mistress.   

BRISEIS TO ACHILLES.  
YEs, yes, cruel Achilles, I see my chains, and feel a slave: though I had never beheld the one, and had always 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 testify 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 yourself and me. But what ever Pride you have, and what ever humility you would have me to have, 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 Sceptre, not for a chain and that in taking away my Throne you have not taken down my heart; as we receive Kingdoms and Empires from the hands of fortune; so she being avaricious and capricious, can take away again what she had bestowed: but as we have our generosity only 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 show that at liberty in the midst of slavery; & make it, in fine, triumph over tyrants as well as tyranny. Do not expect therefore, that I should continue to complain poorly of your infidelity; that I should let fall any shameful teats; or that I should shed them needlessly; 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 myself should add to my disgraces, that of not being able to undergo them. No, Achilles, no, I will complain no more of your inconstancy, I will call you ingrateful no more, I will not say 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, pass 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 incure, that his who murdered her brother Hector, dare to approach so near hers: neither forget any thing that can satisfy her of whatsoever may cause affliction to me, or dishonour to yourself. 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 endure your inconstancy without murmuring. But do not expect that I will suffer you to go on from inconstancy to pride, and from pride to disdain; that you should reproach me of my chains, which only 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 suffer that baseness; and though your inhumanity should condemn me to torments, I had yet rather suffer than deserve them. What, Achilles! do you remember no more already, that I have seen you kiss my chains with respect, and not dare to kiss the hand that beware 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 freedom than I am, or am I more a slave than I was? were you less Sovereign 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 vifage? were you blind, barbarous Achilles, or are you now become so? did you want judgement 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 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 myself 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 laws, and receive them; and that one cannot serve and reign 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 only carried sheephooks, and never seen the sceptre but in another's hand; if I had been born in a Cottage, and not within a Palace; yea more, had I been born with these chains on 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 Mistress 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 Sovereign, if Briseis were beloved; and Achilles would obey her, if Achilles could truly love. 'Tis one of the most illustrious marks of love puissance, to abase Thrones, and elevate Shepherdesses; to place the Crown upon a fair head, whose temples never kissed but only 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 Mistress' fetters, the Mistress takes her lover's sceptre; he who commanded, obeys; and she that obeyed, commands: and as the obedience is voluntary, the command is not rigorous. He trembles now himself, that Conqueror 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 only to be rewarded with love again. He prefers the least of her favours above the gold of his Sceptre, and the jewels of his Crown; he believes himself rich, when he bestows all; and briefly, he thinks he reigns, 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 sacrilege beyond all pardon, and worthy of death; and if any other had the boldness to dare to anger their Mistress, 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 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 Sceptre 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 virtue 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 body; 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 virtue changes not? and wherefore should they lose even their respect, since that same beauty which made them respectful, hath lost nothing of its lustre? believe me, Achilles, whether virtue either reign or obey, whether she be on the throne or in fetters, or whether it have its birth in the purple or in rags, it is always alike lovely, and always equally worthy of respect and veneration. None but the dull and stupid multitude will judge of things by the lustre that environs them, and dazzles 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 virtue be less esteemed, though she be no longer adorned with it, or with any justice to hinder, but that one may be both slave and Mistress. But let us suppose (though falsely, and without reason) that her birth must needs be illustrius, that will pretend to the glory of retaining him still an illustrious prisoner, who is already become so to his slave, that the chains of that happy captive must have been forged of the same gold the sceptre was of, which otherwhile her father ruled; what do you find 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 aught to ascend the Throne, I cannot deny it, but have you not made me descend from one yourself? 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 worn 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 go 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 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 employs 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 reservedness; 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 proceed; that Thersites by biting jests strikes at your reputation, making all the world merry at your cost; and Idomeneus, Diomedes, and all the other Grecian Princes are resolved not to endure so unreasonable a thing. Every one observes you watchfully, each one remarks all your words, every one considers all your actions; and you are now esteemed in our Camp, rathar a spy 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 eyes, 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 yourself. But Achilles, you must then hue in pieces all our Troops, combat all our Captains, and slay all our soldiers; that is to say, you must do that which the Trojans cannot, nay dare not undertake; you must go and take Hector's place; you must go and dishonour yourself. Perhaps you have no such guilty thoughts, perhaps you will only retire yourself 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 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 glory, & who by a thousand brave performances aspires to immortality? Should any one prefer his particular interest before the common good, or his unjust passion above equity itself, or the enemies good beyond his own countries? should any one believe himself wiser than all others, when indeed he has no wisdom at all? should any one be Judge in his own cause? should any one listen to his own desires, & not give ear to reason itself? and if it be so that one had truly loved (which I cannot believe) should he proudly maintain afterwards, that one cannot be both slave & mistress? certainly, Achilles, there is somewhat that is so strange in your proceed, that one cannot well comprehend it; the more one considers it, the less 'tis understood; & I think you hardly understand it yourself. For my part I acknowledge that 'tis inconceivable to me, nor can I imagine by what fantastical motives you can be drawn to do so: for wherefore should you quarrel so outrageously with Agamemnon, when he plucked me out of your hands, if you do not find me 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 only took away from you what you have a mind 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 Agamemnon's hands, if I am no longer welcome to you? answer, Achilles, answer to what I desire you: I entreat you with humility, if I be yet your slave only; and if I am yet both your Slave and Mistress, I command you. Have you taken me to your own self again but only to employ me about mean and servile offices? Have you many captives that wears chains, whose fathers have worn crowns? do you believe that an hand ordained for a Sceptre can help its self with a needle? or that she that was accustomed to command, can accustom herself 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 pity? Do you believe your fetters can enchain the soul as they do the body; or that a generous stab cannot free me from this slavery and your Tyranny? 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 consider what I suffer! Though it should present itself to my sight in all that funest & bloody equipage, which the most barbarous Tyrant can dress it withal; 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 withal; 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 Mistress; burr one cannot remain a captive without being Mistress, after the once having had the glory of being so. I could have lived without that glory, 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 endured the anger of my Conqueror, but I cannot endure the disdain of my lover; I could then have remembered 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 willingness, that I should take the care to choose her an habit that may adorn her, and the pains to curl her hair, to embroider her head-attire with jewels; and to endeavour besides to add 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 charms, make you remark the lustre of her eyes, the pureness of her skin, and beauteous face, thereby to increase your affection and your delight together? will you not afterwards make me go and entertain that fair Phrygian 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 enkindle her soul 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 vanquished the Trojans a thousand times, and that you took away her brother's life? Will you not have me declare aloud your liberality, when you took money for Hector's corpse; 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 o faint-hearted as I am myself! am I not ashamed of what I do? and should I not blush, since contrary to my design and first discourse my very anger itself is become a token of my passion, or rather of my error? 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 says the same that love does: Be gone, since you will go, and pass from this Camp to the other, where glory waits for you, as well as Polixena: Leave your ancient friends, and run to the embraces of those whom you have fought withal, and whom you ought to fight withal again: forget the interest of your own Nation, and lose all even to your very honour, to behold your Mistress again; look upon Briseis tears with smiles, and scoff at her troubles, if at least her troubles do not provoke your anger: Join her chains to Hector's arms, and carry both the one and the others to that Trojans feet: and in fine, go and marry an unworthy sister upon the tomb 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 Fate and Achilles his obstinacy? But remember, cruel and blind 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 find 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 near her; that if you approach near Troy, your fatal hour does approach likewise; that the first day of that fatal Marriage shall be the last of your days, and that your death must quickly make me die.  
Behold what Heaven has inspired 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 ruin and mine. Just Gods, he hears me no more, he is going! the power 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 myself am going to die likewise.   

The effect of this HARANGUE.  
THe unfortunate Briseis obtained nothing of the patilesse Achilles, but her prediction was not untrue. He went to see Polixena, that he might see the day no longer; and every one knows, that one of Paris' arrows sent him to his grave, for not having believed this lovely slave, who without doubt deserved to be together both Slave and Mistress.   
FINIS.