The length of these speeches before had not so much cloyed Pyrocles, though he were very impatient of long deliberations, as this last farewell of him he loved as his own life did wound his soul. For thinking himself afflicted, he was the apter to conceive unkindness deeply, insomuch that shaking his head, and delivering some show of tears, he thus uttered his grief: “Alas!” said he, “Prince Musidorus, how cruelly you deal with me; if you seek the victory, take it; and, if ye list, the triumph. Have you all the reason of the world, and with me remain all the imperfections; yet such as I can no more lay from me, than the crow can be persuaded by the swan to cast off all his black feathers. But truly you deal with me like a physician who, seeing his patient in a pestilent fever, should chide him instead of ministering help, and bid him be sick no more; or rather like such a friend, that visiting his friend condemned to perpetual prison, and laden with grievous fetters, should will him to shake off his fetters, or he would leave him. I am sick, and sick to the death; I am prisoner, neither is there any redress but by her to whom I am a slave. Now, if you list, leave him that loves you in the highest degree: but remember ever to carry this with you, that you abandon your friend in his greatest extremity.” And herewith the deep wound of his love being rubbed afresh with this new unkindness, began, as it were, to bleed again in such sort that he was unable to bear it any longer, but gushing out abundance of tears, and crossing his arms over his woeful heart, he sunk down to the ground, which sudden trance went so to the heart of Musidorus, that falling down by him, and kissing the weeping eyes of his friend, he besought him not to make account of his speech, which if it had been over-vehement, yet was it to be borne withal, because it came out of a love much more vehement, that he had not thought fancy could have received so deep a wound; but now finding in him the force of it, he would {64} no further contrary it but employ all his service to medicine it in such sort as the nature of it required. But even this kindness made Pyrocles the more to melt in the former unkindness, which his manlike tears well shewed, with a silent look upon Musidorus, as who should say: “And is it possible that Musidorus should threaten to leave me?” and this struck Musidorus’s mind and senses so dumb, too, that for grief being not able to say anything, they rested with their eyes placed one upon the other, in such sort as might well paint out the true passion of unkindness to be never aright, but betwixt them that most dearly love.