: with heavy sorrow, her vital spirits were so stopped, that she fell down presently dead, and could never be revived. This sudden sight so appalled the king's senses, that he sank from his seat in a swoon, so as he was fain to be carried by his nobles to his palace, where he lay by the space of three days without speech his commons were as men in despair, so diversely distressed; there was nothing but mourning and lamentation to be heard throughout all Bohemia; their young prince dead, their virtuous queen bereaved of her life, and their king and sovereign in great hazard: this tragical discourse of Fortune so daunted them, as they went like shadows, not men; yet somewhat to comfort their heavy hearts, they heard that Pandosto was come to himself, and had recovered his speech, who as in a fury brayed out these bitter speeches. [These bitter speeches omitted.] And with that he reached at a rapier, to have murdered himself, but his peers being present, stayed him from such a bloody act; persuading him to think that the commonwealth consisted on his safety, and that those sheep could not but perish that wanted a shepherd; wishing that if he would not live for himself, yet he should have care of his subjects, and to put such fancies out of his mind, since in sores past help, salves do not heal, but hurt; and in things past cure, care is a corrosive. With these and such like persuasions the king was overcome, and began somewhat to quiet his mind; so that as soon as he could go abroad, he caused his wife to be embalmed, and wrapped in lead with her young son Garinter; erecting a rich and famous sepulchre, wherein he entombed them both, making such solemn obsequies at her funeral as all Bohemia might perceive he did greatly repent him of his forepassed folly: causing this epitaph to be engraven on her tomb in letters of gold: THE EPITAPH. Here lies entombed Bellaria fair, Curse him that caused this Queen to die. This epitaph being engraven, Pandosto would once a day repair to the tomb, and there with watery plaints bewail his misfortune; coveting no other companion but sorrow, nor no other harmony but repentance. But leaving him to his dolorous passions, at last let us come to show the tragical diecourse of the young infant. 176 Who being tossed with wind and wave, floated two whole days without succour, ready at every puff to be drowned in the sea, till at last the tempest ceased, and the little boat was driven with the tide into the coast of Sicilia, where, sticking Fortune, minding to be wanton, upon the sands, it rested. willing to show that as she hath wrinkles on her brows, so she hath dimples in her cheeks; thought after so many sour looks, to lend a feigned smile, and after a puffing storm, to bring a pretty calm; she began thus to dally. It fortuned a poor mercenary shepherd, that dwelled in Sicilia, who got his living by other men's flocks, missed one of his sheep, and thinking it had strayed into the covert, that was hard by, sought very diligently to find that which he could not see, fearing either that the wolves or eagles had undone him, for he was so poor, as a sheep was half his substance, wandered down towards the sea cliffs, to see if perchance the sheep was browsing on the sea ivy, whereon they greatly do feed, but not finding her there, as he was ready to return to his flock, he heard a child cry; but knowing that there was no house near, he thought he had mistaken the sound, and that it was the bleating of his sheep. Wherefore looking more narrowly, as he cast his eye to the sea, he spied a little boat, from whence as he attentively listened, he might hear the cry to come. Standing a good while in amazement, at last he went to the shore, and wading to the boat, as he looked in, he saw the little babe lying all alone, ready to die for hunger and cold, wrapped in a mantle of scarlet, richly embroidered with gold, and having a chain about the neck. The shepherd, who before had never seen so fair a babe nor so rich jewels, thought assuredly, that it was some little god, and began with great devotion to knock on his breast. The babe, who writhed with the head to seek for the pap, began again to cry afresh, whereby the poor man knew that it was a child, which by some sinister means was driven thither by distress of weather; marvelling how such a seely infant, which, by the mantle and the chain, could not be but born of noble parentage, should be so hardly crossed with deadly mishap. The poor shepherd, perplexed thus with divers thoughts, took pity of the child, and determined with himself to carry it to the king, that there it might be brought up according to the worthiness of birth: for his ability could not afford to foster fall down at it, though his good mind was willing to further it. Taking the child in his arms, as he folded the mantle to he was greatly ravished with joy, and daunted with fear; joyful to see such a sum in his power, and fearful, if it should be known, that it might breed his further danger. Necessity wished him at the least to retain the gold, though he would not keep the child: the simplicity of his conscience scared him from such deceitful bribery. Thus was the poor man perplexed with a doubtful dilemma, until at last the covetousness of the coin overcame him for what will not the greedy desire of gold cause a man to do? So that he was resolved in himself to foster the child, and with the sum to relieve his want. Resting thus resolute in this point, he left seeking of his sheep, and, as covertly and secretly as he could, went by a by-way to his house, lest any of his neighbours should perceive his carriage. As soon as he was got home, entering in at the door, the child began to cry, which his wife hearing, and seeing her husband with a young babe in his arms, began to be somewhat jealous but at last, when he showed her the purse full of gold, she began to simper something sweetly, and taking her husband about the neck kissed him after her homely fashion saying that she hoped God had seen their want, and now meant to relieve their poverty, and, seeing they could get no children, had sent them this little babe to be their heir. Take heed in any case, ,"quoth the shepherd, "that you be secret, and blab it not out when you meet with your gossips; for if you do, we are like not only to lose the gold and jewels, but our other goods and lives." "Tush," quoth his wife, "profit is a good hatch before the door: fear not, I have other things to talk of than of this: but, I pray you, let us lay up the money surely, and the jewels, least by any mishap it be spied." After that they had set all things in order, the shepherd went to his sheep with a merry note, and the good wife learned to sing lullaby at home with her young babe, wrapping it in a homely blanket instead of a rich mantle; nourishing it so cleanly and carefully as it began to be a jolly girl, insomuch that they began both of them to be very fond of it, seeing as it waxed in age, so it increased in beauty. The shepherd, every night at his coming home, would sing and dance it on his knee, and prattle, that in a short time it began to speak, and call him dad, and her mam. At last when it grew to ripe years, that it was about seven years old, the shepherd left keeping of other men's sheep, and with the money he found in the purse he bought him the lease of a pretty farm, and got a small flock of sheep, which, when Fawnia (for so they named the child) came to the age of ten years, he set her to keep; and she with such diligence performed her charge as the sheep prospered 178 marvellously under her hand. Fawnia thought Porrus had been her father, and Mopsa her mother (for so was the shepherd and his wife called), honoured and obeyed them with such reverence that all the neighbours praised the dutiful obedience of the child. Porrus grew in a short time to be a man of some wealth and crelit, for fortune so favoured him in having no charge but Fawnia that he began to purchase land, intending after his death to give it to his daughter; so that divers rich farmers' sons came as wooers to his house for Fawnia was something cleanly attired, being of such singular beauty and excellent wit that whosoever saw her would have thought she had been some heavenly nymph, and not a mortal creature insomuch that when she came to the age of sixteen years, she so increased with exquisite perfection both of body But the people, thinking she was and mind, as her natural disposition did betray that she was born of some high parentage. daughter to the shepherd Porrus, rested only amazed at her beauty and wit; yea, she won such favour and commendations in every man's eye, as her beauty was not only praised in the country, but also spoken of in the court: yet such was her submissive modesty that, although her praise daily increased, her mind was no whit puffed up with pride, but humbled herself as became a country maid and the daughter of a poor shepherd. Every day she went forth with her sheep to the field, keeping them with such care and diligence, as all men thought she was very painful; defending her face from the heat of the sun with no other veil but with a garland made of boughs and flowers, which attire became her so gallantly, as she seemed to be the goddess Flora herself for beauty. Fortune, who all this while had showed a friendly face, began now to turn her back, and to show a lowering countenance, intending as she had given Fawnia a slender check, so Egistus had but one only son, she would give her a harder mate: * to bring which to pass, she laid her train on this wise. called Dorastus, about the age of twenty years: a prince so decked and adorned with the gifts of nature, so fraught with beauty and virtuous qualities, as not only his father joyed to have so good a son, and all his commons rejoiced that God had lent them such a noble prince to succeed in the kingdom. Egistus, placing all his joy in the perfection of his son, seeing that he was now marriageable, sent ambassadors to the King of Denmark to entreat a marriage between him and his is son to come into hter who, willingly consenting, made answer that the Denmark, he doubted not but they should agree upon reasonable conditions. Egistus, resting satisfied with this friendly answer, thought convenient in the meantime to break with his son: finding therefore on a day fit opportunity, he spake to him in fatherly terms. [Fatherly terms omitted.] Dorastus, who from his infancy delighted rather to die with Mars in the field than to dally with Venus in the chamber, fearing to displease his father, and yet not willing to be wed, made him this reverent answer. [Reverent answer omitted.] Egistus, hearing his son to fly so far from the mark, began to be somewhat choleric, and therefore made him this hasty answer. [Hasty answer ends with-] "I mean, Dorastus, Euphrania, daughter and heir to the King of Denmark." Egistus pausing here awhile, looking when his son should make him answer, and seeing that he stood still as one in a trance, he shook him up thus sharply. [Sharp shaking omitted.] It happened not long after this that there was a meeting of all the farmers' daughters in Sicilia, whither Fawnia was also bidden as the mistress of the feast, who, having attired herself in her best garments, went among the rest of her companions to the merry meeting: there spending the day in such homely pastimes as shepherds used. As the evening grew on and their sports ceased, each taking their leave at other, Fawnia, desiring one of her companions to bear her company, went home by the flock, to see if they were well folded; and as they returned, it fortured that Dorastus (who all that day had been hawking, and killed store of game) encountered by the way these two maids, and casting his eye suddenly on Fawnia, he was half afraid, fearing that, with Acteon, he had seen Diana; for he thought such exquisite perfection could not be found in any mortal creature. As thus he stood in a maze, one of his page: told him that the maid with the garland on her head was Fawnia, the fair shepherd whose beauty was so much talked of in the court. Dorastus, desirous to see if nature had adorned her mind with any inward qualities, as she had decked her body with outward shape, began to question with her whose daughter she was, of what age, and how she had been trained up; who answered him with such modest reverence and sharpness of wit that Dorastus thought her outward beauty was but a counterfeit to darken her inward qualities, wondering how so courtly behaviour could be found in so simple a cottage and |