a reply against it in the praise of honourable action, in showing that such a kind of contemplation is but a glorious title to idleness; that in action a man did not only better himself, but benefit others; that the gods would not have delivered a soul into the body which had arms and legs, only instruments of doing, but that it were intended the mind should employ them, and that the mind should best know his own good or evil by practice; which knowledge was the only way to increase the one, and correct the other; besides many other arguments, which the plentifulness of the matter yielded to the sharpness of his wit. When he found Pyrocles leave that, and fall into such an affected praising of the place, he left it likewise, and joined with him therein: because he found him in that humour utter more store of passion; and even thus kindly embracing him, he said, “Your words are such, noble cousin, so sweetly and strongly handled in the praise of solitariness, as they would make me likewise yield myself up into it, but that the same words make me know it is more pleasant to enjoy the company of him that can speak such words than by such words to be persuaded to follow solitariness. And even so do I give you leave, sweet Pyrocles, ever to defend solitariness, so long as to defend it, you ever keep company. But I marvel at the excessive {44} praises you give to this country; in truth it is not unpleasant, but yet if you would return into Macedon you should either see many heavens, or find this no more than earthly. And even Tempe in my Thessalia (where you and I, to my great happiness, were brought up together) is nothing inferior unto it. But I think you will make me see that the vigour of your wit can show itself in any subject: or else you feed sometimes your solitariness with the conceits of the poets, whose liberal pens can as easily travel over mountains as molehills, and so like well-disposed men, set up everything to the highest note; especially, when they put such words in the mouths of one of these fantastical, mind-infected people, that children and musicians call ‘Lovers.’” This word “Lover,” did no less pierce poor Pyrocles, than the right tune of music toucheth him that is sick of the Tarantula.[b1-04] There was not one part of his body that did not feel a sudden motion, while his heart with panting seemed to dance to the sound of that word; yet after some pause (lifting up his eyes a little from the ground, and yet not daring to place them in the eyes of Musidorus) armed with the very countenance of the poor prisoner at the bar, whose answer is nothing but guilty: with much ado he brought forth this question. “And alas,” said he, “dear cousin, what if I be not so much the poet (the freedom of whose pen can exercise itself in any thing) as even that miserable subject of his cunning whereof you speak?” “Now the eternal gods forbid,” mainly cried out Musidorus, “that ever my ear should be poisoned with so evil news of you.