¶The first Nouell.

NVma Pompilius the seconde kyng of the Romanes beeyng deade, Tullus Hostilius succe­ded, a lustie and couragious yong gentleman: For as Nu­ma was giuē to peace, so was he to warres and valiance. It chaunced in his tyme that certein peasantes of the Romane dition, and the like of the Albanes, was foragyng and driuyng of boties the one from the other. At that tyme raigned in Alba one C. Cluilius. Ambassadours from bothe places were sent to redemaūde the thinges stol­len. Tullus commaunded his people that thei should deliuer none, til commaundement were giuen in that behalfe: for he knewe right well that the Alban kyng would restore nothyng, by whiche occasion be might v­pon iust cause, proclaime warres. He receiued the Al­ban Ambassadours in verie courteous maner, and thei as curteously celebrated his honourable and sumptu­ous interteignemente. Amitie proceded on bothe par­tes, till the Romanes beganne to demaunde the firste restituciō: whiche the Albanes denied, and summoned warres to bee inferred vpon them within thirtie daies [Page] after. Wherevpon the Ambassadours craued license of Tullus to speake, whiche beyng graunted, thei firste purged themselues by ignoraunce, that thei knewe no harme or iniurie doen to the Romanes, addyng further that if any thyng were dooen that should not please Tullus, it was against their willes, hopyng he would remember that thei were but Ambassadours, subiecte to the commaundement of their prince. Their coming was to demaunde a restitucion, without whiche, thei wer straightly charged to proclame defiaunce. Wher­vnto Tullus aunswered. Tell your maister, that the kyng of the Romanes doeth call the goddes to witnes, whether of them first maketh the quarrell, to thintent all menne maie expecte the reuenge of those warres. Whiche answere the Albane Ambassadours retour­ned to their maister. Greate prouision, for the warres was made on bothe partes, muche like to a ciuile con­tencion, almost betwene the father and the sonne. For the citie of Lauinium was builded by the Troians, and Alba by the Lauinians, of whose stocke the Romanes tooke their beginnyng. The Albanes seyng that thei were defied of the Romanes, beganne firste to enter in armes, and with a maine power perced the land of the Romanes, and encamped within fiue miles of the citie enuironyng their campe with a trenche, whiche after­wardes was called Fossa Cluilia, by the mean of their capitaine, wherein Cluilius the kyng died. Then the Albanes appointed one Metius Suffetius to bee their Dictator. Tullus vnderstāding the death of their prince with greate expedicion marched into the countrie a­bout Alba, passyng by the Albanes campe in the night whiche by the watche and scoutes was skried. Then he retired, to lodge as nere the enemie as he could, sen­dyng an Ambassadour before, to require Tullus that [Page] he would come to Parle before thei fought, wherein he had a thyng to saie, no lesse profitable to the Roma­nes, then to the Albanes. Tullus not cōtempnyng that condicion, agreed. Wherevpon bothe did put themsel­ues in readines, and before thei foigned, bothe the cap­taines with certaine of their chief officers, came forthe to talke, where Metius saied these woordes. The mutuall iniuries that hath been dooen, and the with­holdyng and kepyng of thynges caried awaie, contra­rie to the truce: and that our kyng Cluilius, is the au­thour and beginner of these warres, I do heare and as­suredly vnderstande for a trothe. And I doe not doubt, Tullus, but thou also doest conceiue the same, to be the onely occasion of this hostilitie. Notwithstandyng, if I maie speake rather the truthe, then vtter any glosyng woordes by waie of flaterie, the ambicious desire of bothe the Emperes, doeth moste of all stimulate and prouoke bothe the Cities, beeyng of one affinite, and neighbours, to frequēt this force of armes. But whe­ther this my coniecture bee right or wrong, thei ought to consider, whiche first began the warres. The Alba­nes haue created me their Capitaine, of this their en­terprise. I come to giue aduertisement to thée, O Tul­lus, of this one thing. Whiche is, that the Thuscans be­yng a greate nacion, and of power right famous, doth enuirone vs bothe rounde about, and the nerer thei bée vnto you, the more knowledge you haue of thē. Thei bee mightie vpon the lande, and of greate power vpon the sea. Call to thy remembraunce and consider, that when thou giuest the signe and watche woorde of the battell, our twoo armies shall bee but a ridiculous spectacle to them. So sone as thei doe perceiue vs twoe to be spent, and weried with fightyng, thei will bothe assaile the vanquished, and hym also that dooeth ouer­come. [Page] Wherfore if the goddes doe fauour either of vs, let vs not shewe our selfes to be wearie of our libertie and franchise that is certaine, and hazarde the Dice to incurre perpetuall seruitude and bondage. Theerfore lette vs deuise some otherwaie, whereby the one of vs maie gouerne the other, withont effusion of bloodde of either partes.

This condiciō nothyng displeased Tullus, although in corage, and hope of victorie, he was more fierce and bolder then the other. And beyng in consultaciō about that purpose, fortune ministered an apte occasion to them bothe: for in either campes there were three bre­thren, of age and valiaunce semblable. The brethren that were in the Romane campe were called Horatij, the other Curiatij. Wherevpon a cōbate was thought meete betwene these sixe persones. After the Romanes had vsed their solempne maners of consecratyng the truces, and other rites concerning the same, either par­tes repaired to the combate. Bothe the armies stoode in readines before their campes, rather voide of presente perill then of care: for the state of either of their Empi­res, consisted in the valiautce and fortune of a fewe. Wherefore their mindes were wonderfully bent and incensed vpon that vnpleasaunt sight. The signe of the combate was giuen. The thre yong men of either side dooe ioigne with furious and cruell onsette, represen­ting the corages of twoo battelles of puissaunt armies. For the losse consisted in neither those thre, but the pu­blique gouernemente or common thraldome of bothe the cities, and that was the future fortune, which thei did trie and proue. So sone as the clashyng armure did sounde at their firste incountrie, and their glitteryng swordes did shine, an incredible horror and feare per­ced the beholders, and hope inclining to neither partes; [Page] their voice and mindes were whist and silent. But af­ter thei were closed together, not onely the mouyng of their bodies, and doubtfull weldyng and handlyng of their weapons, but blooddie woundes appered, twoo of the Romanes fallyng doune starke deade one vpon an other: but before, the three Albanes were sore hurt. Whereat the Albane hoste shouted for ioye. The Ro­mane Legions were voide of hope, amazed to see but one, remain against thrée: It chaūced that he that liued whiche as he was but one alone, an vnmeete matche for the rest, euen so he was fierce, and thought hymself good inough for them all. Therefore to separate their fight, he fleeth backe, meanyng thereby to giue euery of them their welcome as thei followed. Whē he was retired a good space from the place where thei fought, lookyng backe, he sawe them followe a good distance one from an other, and one of them was hard by him, vpon whō he let driue with greate violence. And whi­les the Albane hoste cried out vpon the Curatij, to help their brother, Horatius had killed his enemie, and de­maunded for the seconde battaill. Then the Romanes incoraged their chāpion with acclamations and shou­tes, as fearfull men be wont to doe vpon the sodaine, and he spedeth hymself to the sight. And before the o­ther could ouertake hym, whiche was not farre of, he had killed an other of the Curatij. Now thei were e­quallie matched one to one, but in hope and strengthe vnlike. For the one was free of wounde or hurte: cru­ell & fierce by reason of double victorie, the other fainct for losse of bloodde, and wearie of runnyng: with pan­tyng breath, and discomfited with his brethrens slau­ghter, slaine before hym, is now obiected to fight with his victorious enemie, whiche was no equall matche. Horatius reioysing saied, twoo of thy brethren I haue [Page] dispatched: the thirde, the cause of this battaill, I will take in hande: that the Romanes maie bée lordes of the Albanes. Curiatius not able to sustaine his blowe, fill doune, and liyng vpon his backe, he thruste hym into the throte with his sworde, whiche dooen he dispoiled hym of his armure. Then the Romanes in a great tri­umphe and reioyse interteigned Horatius, and their ioye was the greater, for that the feare of their ouer­throwe was the nerer. This combate beyng ended, the Albanes became subiecte to the Romanes, and be­fore Metius departed, he asked Tullus if he would cō ­maunde hym any further seruice. Who willed hym to keepe the young souldiours still in interteignemente, for that he would require their aide againste the Verē ­tes The Armie dissolued, Horatius like a Conque­rour marched home to Rome, the three spoiles of his enemies beyng borne before hym. The saied Horatius had a sister, whiche was espoused to one of the Curatij that were slaine, who meetyng her brother in the tri­umphe, at one of the gates called Capena, and know­yng the Coate armure of her paramour, borne vpō her brothers shulders, which she wrought and made with her owne handes: She tore and rente the heare of her hedde, and moste pitiouslie bewailed the death of her beloued. Her brother beyng in the pride of his victorie taking the lamētacion of his sister, in disdainfull part, drewe out his sworde, and thruste her through, saiyng these opprobrious woordes. Auaunte with thy vnrea­sonable loue, get thee to thy spouse. Hast thou forgot­ten the death of thy twoo brethren that bee slaine, the prosperous successe of thy victorious brother, & chieflie the happie deliueraunce of thy countrie? Let that Ro­mane woman what soeuer she bee, take like rewarde, that shall bewaile the death of the enemie. Whiche [Page] horrible facte seemed moste cruell to the fathers and people. For whiche offence he was brought before the king, whom he deliuered to be iudged accordyng to the lawe. The lawe condempned him. Then he appealed to the people. In which appeale P. Horatius his father spake these wordes. My doughter is slain, not without iust desert, whiche if it were not so, I would haue sued for condigne punishment, to be executed vpō my sōne, accordyng to the naturall pietie of a father. Wherfore I beseche you dooe not suffer me, whom you haue seen in time past, beautified with a noble race and progenie of children, now to bee vtterly destitute and voide of all together. Then he embrased his sonne emonges them all, and shewed the spoiles of the Curatiens, saiyng. Cā you abide to see this noble champion (O ye Romanes) whom lately ye behelde to goe in order of triumphe in victorious maner, to lye now bounde vnder the gibet, expecting for tormētes of death? Whiche cruell and de­formed sight, the Albanes eyes can not well be able to beholde, goe to then thou hangman, and binde the hā ­des of hym, who hath atchieued to the Romane people a glorious Empire: Goe I saie & couer the face of him that hath deliuered this citie out of thraldome and bō ­dage. Hang him vpon some vnhappy trée, and scourge hym in some place within the Citie, either emonges these our triumphes, where the spoiles of our enemies doe remaine, or els without the walles, emonges the graues of the vanquished. Whether can ye dauise to carrie hym, but that his honourable and worthie ac­tes, shall reuenge the villanie of his cruell death. The people hearyng the lamentable talke of his father, and seyng in hym an vnmoueable mynde, able to sustaine all aduersitie, acquited hym rather through the admi­racion of his vertue and valiance, then by Iustice and [Page] equitie of his cause. Suche was the straicte order of iu­stice emonges the Romanes, that although this yong gentilman had vindicated his countrie from seruitute and bondage (a noble memorie of perfecte manhode) yet by reason of the murdre committed vpon his owne sister, thei were very straict and stacke of grauntyng hym pardon: because thei would not incorage the posteritie to like incon­uenience, nor pro­uoke well doers in their glorie, and triumphe, to per­petrate thynges vnlawfull.

¶The seconde Nouell.

GReate preparacion was made by the Romanes, against a people cal­led Rutuli, who had a citie named Ardea, excellyng in wealth and ri­chesse, whiche was the cause that the Romane kyng, beyng exhau­sted and quite voide of money, by reason of his sumptuous buildynges, made warres v­pon that countrie. In the tyme of the siege of that citee the yong Romane gentlemen bāqueted one an other, emonges whom there was one called Collatinus Tar­quinius, the sonne of Egerius. And by chaunce thei en­tred in communicacion of their wiues, euery one prai­syng his seuerall spouse. At length the talke began to growe hotte, where vpon Collatinus said, that wordes wer vaine. For within fewe howers it might be tried, how muche his wife Lucrecia did excell the rest, wher­fore (q he) if there be any liuelihod in you: Let vs take our horse, to proue whiche of our wiues doth furmoūt. Wherevpō thei rode to Rome in poste. At their coming thei found the kynges doughters, sportyng themselfes with sundrie pastymes: From thence thei went to the house of Collatinus, where thei founde Lucrece, not as the other before named, spendyng the time in idlenes, but late in the night occupied and busie, emonges her maides in the middes of the house spinning of Wolle. The victorie and praise wherof was giuen to Lucretia who when she sawe her husbande, gently and louing­ly interteigned hym, curteously biddyng the Tarqui­nians [Page] welcome. Imediatlie Sextus Tarquinius the sonne of Tarquinius Superbus, that tyme the Romane kyng was attached and incensed with a libidious de­sire, to construprate and defloure Lucrece. When the yong gentlemen had bestowed that night pleasantlie with their wiues, thei retourned to the Campe. Not long after Sextus Tarquinius with one man returned to Collatia vnknowen to Collatinus, and ignoraunte to Lucrece, and the reste of her houshold, for what pur­pose he came. Who beyng right hartely interteigued, after supper was conueighed to his chamber. Tarqui­nius burnyng with the loue of Lucrece, after he percei­ued the housholde to bee at reste, and all thynges in quiet, he with his naked sworde in his hande, goeth to Lucrece beyng a slepe, and kepyng her doune with his lefte hande, saied. Holde thy peace Lucrece (q he) I am Sextus Tarquinius, my sworde is in my hande, if thou crie, I will kill thee. The gentlewoman beyng sore a fraied, newlie awaked out of her slepe, and seyng imi­nent death, could not tell what to doe. Then Tarqui­nius confessed his loue, and began to intreate her, and therewithall vsed sundrie menacyng woordes, by all meanes attemptyng to make her quiet: when he sawe her obstinate, and that she would not yelde to his re­queste, notwithstandyng his cruell threates, he added shamefull and villanous woordes, saiyng. That he would kill her, and when she was slaine, he would al­so kill his slaue, and place hym by her, that it might be reported she was slain, beyng taken in adulterie. She vāquished with his terrible and infamous threat. His fleshly and licencious enterprise, ouercame the puritie of her chast harte, whiche doen he departed. Then Lu­crece sente a poste to Rome to her father, and an other to Ardea to her housbande, requiryng them that thei [Page 6] would make speede to come vnto her, with certaine of their trustie frendes, for that a cruell facte was chaun­ced. Then Sp. Lucretius with P. Valerius the soonne of Volesius, & Collatinus with L. Iunius Brutus, made haste to Lucrece. Where thei founde her sittyng, verie pensife and sadde, in her chamber. So sone as she sawe theim, she began pitiouslie to weepe. Then her house­bande asked her, whether all thynges were well, vn­to whom she saied these woordes.

‘No dere housebande, for what can bee well or safe vnto a woman, when she hath loste her chastitie. Alas Collatine, the steppes of an other man, be now fixed in thy bedde. But it is my bodie onely that is violated, my minde God knoweth is gililes, whereof my death shalbe witnesse. But if you be men, giue me your hā ­des, and trouthe, that the adulterer maie not escape vnreuenged. It is Sextus Tarquinius who beyng an enemie, in stede of a frende, the other night came vn­to me, armed with his sworde in his hand, and by vio­lence caried a waie from me, and tooke to himself a pe­stiferous ioye.’ Then euery of thē gaue her their faith, and comforted the pensife and languishyng ladie, im­puting the offence, to the aucthor and doer of the same, affirmyng that her bodie was polluted, and not her mynde, and where consente was not, there the crime was absent. Wherevnto she added. I praie you consi­der with your selues, what punishment is due for the malefactour. As for my parte, though I clere my self of the offence, my bodie shall feele the punishemente: for no vnchast or ill woman, shall hereafter take example of Lucrece. Then she drew out a knife, whiche she had hidden secretly, vnder her kirtle, and stabbed her self to the harte. Whiche doen, she fell doune grouelyng v­pon her wounde, and so died. Wherevpon her father [Page] and housebande made greate lamentacion, and as thes were bewailyng the death of Lucrece, Brutus plucked the knife out of the wounde, whiche gushed out with abundance of blood, and holdyng it vp saied. ‘I swere by the chaste blood of this bodie here deade, and I take you the immortall goddes to witnesse, that I wil driue and extirpate out of this Citie, bothe L. Tarquinius Superbus, and his wicked wife, with all the race of his children and progenie, so that none of them, ne yet any others shall raigne any longer in Rome.’ Then he de­liuered the knife to Collatinus. Lucretius and Valerius merueilyng at the straungenesse of his woordes: And from whence he should conceiue that determinacion. Thes al swore that othe. And folowed Brutus as their capitaine, in his conceiued purpose. The bodie of Lu­crece was brought into the markette place, where the people wondred at the vilenesse of that facte, euery mā cōplainyng vpon the mischief of that facinorous rape, committed by Tarquinius. Wherevpon Brutus per­swaded the Romanes, that thei should cease from tea­res, and other childishe lamentacions, and take wea­pons in their handes, and shewe themselues like men. Then the lustiest and moste desperate persones with­in the citie, made theimselues presse and readie, to at­tempt any enterprise. And after a guarrison was pla­ced and bestowed at Collatia, diligente watche and warde was kepte at the gates of the citie, to the intent the kyng should haue no aduertismente of that slurre. The reste of the souldiours followed Brutus to Rome. Whē he was come to Rome, the armed multitude did beate a meruellous feare throughout the whole citie: but yet because thei sawe the chiefeste personages goe before, that thought, that the same enterprise was not taken in vaine. Wherefore the people out of all pla­ces [Page 7] of the citie, ran into the marketplace. Where Bru­tus complained of the abhominable Rape of Lucrece, committed by Sextus Tarquinius, whervnto he added the pride and insolent behauiour of the kyng, the mi­serie and drudgerie of the people, and how thei, which in tyme paste were victours and Conquerours, were made of men of warre, Artificers and Labourers. He remembred also the infamous murder of Seruius Tul­lius their late kpng. These and suche like he called to the peoples remembraunce, whereby thei abrogated and deposed Tarquinius, banishyng him, his wife, and childrē. Then he leuied an armie of chosen and piked men, and marched to the campe at Ardea, committing the gouernemente of the citie to Lucretius, who before was by the kyng appoineted Lieutenant. Tullia in the tyme of this hurlie burlie, fledde from her house, al the people cursyng and criyng vengeaunce vpon her. Ne­wes brought into the Cāpe of these euentes, the kyng with greate feare retourned to Rome, to represse those tumultes. And Brutus hearyng of his approche, mar­ched an other waie, because he would not meete hym. When Tarquinius was come to Rome, the gates wer shutte against hym, and he hymself commaunded to a­uoide into exile. The cāpe receiued Brutus with greate ioye and triumphe, for that he had deliuered the citie of suche a tiraunte. Then Tarquinius, with his children fledde to Caere, a citie of the Hetrurians. And as Sex­tus Tarquinius was goyng, he was flain by those that premeditated reuengement, of olde murder and iniu­ries by hym doen to their predecessours. This L. Tar­quinius Superbus raigned .xxv. yeres. The raigne of the kynges from the first foundacion of the citie conti­nued. CC.xliiij yeres. After which gouernement two Consuls wer appoincted, for the order and administra­cion [Page] of the citie. And for that yere L. Iunius Bru­tus, and L. Tarquinius Collatinus.

¶The .iij. Nouell.

WHen P. Valerius and T. Lucretius, were created Consuls, Porsenna kyng of Hetruria, vpon the insti­gacion of the banished Tarquini­ans, came before the Citie with an huge armie. Whose same did wō ­derfully appail the Senate: for the like occasion of terrour, neuer before that tyme chaun­ced to the Romanes, who did not onely feare their ene­mies, but also their owne subiectes, suspecting lest thei should be forced to reteine the kinges again. All which afterwardes was through the wisedome and discreciō of the fathers, quietly mitigated and appeased, and the citie reduced to suche a vnitie and courage, as all sor­tes of people despised the name of king. Whē the ene­mies were approched, the rurall people abandonyng their colonies, fledde for rescue into the citie. The citie was diuided into guarrisons: Some kepte the walles, and some the waie ouer Tybre, whiche was thought verie saufe and defensible. Although the woddē bridge made ouer that Riuer, had almoste been an open waie for the enemies entrie, whereof Horacius Cocles, as fortune serued that daie, had the charge. Who so man­fully behaued himself, that after he had broken vp and burned the bridge, and dooen other notable exploites, he defended that passage with suche valiance, that the defence thereof seemed miraculous, to the great asto­nishemēt [Page 8] of the enemies. In fine Porsenna seyng that he could little preuaile in the afsault, retourned to the Campe, determynyng neuerthelesse to continue his siege. At whiche tyme one Caius Mutius, a yong gen­tleman of Rome, purposed to aduenture some notable enterprise: saiyng to the Senators these wordes. I de­termine to passe the Riuer, and enter if I can, into the campe of the enemies, not to fetche spoile, or to reuēge mutuall iniuries, but to hazarde a greater enterprise, if the Goddes be assistaunt vnto me. The Senate vn­derstandyng the effect of his indeuour, allowed his de­uise. And then hauyng a sworde vnder his garmente, went foorthe. When he was come into the throng, he conueighed hymself as uere to the kynges pauilion as he could. It chaunced that he was paiyng wages to his souldiours, by whom his Secretarie did sitte in suche apparell, almoste as the kyng hymself did weare. Mu­tius beyng a ferde to demaunde, whiche of theim was the kyng, lest he should betraie hymself, sodainly kil­led the Secretarie in stede of the kyng, and as he was makyng waie with his blouddie sworde to escape, he was apprehended, and brought before the kyng, and with merueilous stoutnesse and audacitie, spake these wordes. I am a citizen of Rome, and my name is Mu­tius, and beyng an enemie, I would faine haue killed myne enemie. For whiche attempte I esteme no more to die, then I cared to committe the murder. It is na­turally giuen to the Romanes, bothe valiantly to doe, and stootely to suffer. And not I alone haue conspired thy death, but a greate nomber of vs, haue promised the like, and hope to aspire to seblable praise and glo­rie: wherefore if this beginnyng doe please thee, make thy self redie euery hower to expecte like perill, and to fight for thy self. ‘And make accompte, that euery daie [Page] euen at the doore of thy lodgyng, thy enemie armed doeth awaite for thée: we alone yong gentlemen of the Citie dooe stande at defiance, and pronounce vpon thée this kinde of battaill. Feare no armies or other hosti­litie. For with thée alone, and with euery one of vs, these warres shalbe tried.’ The king astoned with that holde and desperate enterprice, fill into a greate rage and furie, commaundyng Mutius presently to bée con­sumed with fire, vnlesse he would out of hande tel him the order of the purposed and diuised treason. ‘Beholde O king (q he) how litell thei care for their bodies, that dooe aspire and séeke for fame and glorie. And then he thrust his right hande into the fire, and rosted the same in the flame, like one that had béen out of his wittes.’ The kyng amazed with the straungenesse of the facte, stepped doune from his seate, and caused hym to be ta­ken from the fire, saiyng. Awaie frende (q the kyng) thou hast killed thy self, and aduentured hostilitie vpō thy self, rather then against me. Surely I would think my self happie, if like valiance were to be found in my countrie. Wherefore by lawe of Armes I sette thée at libertie, vntouched and without harme, wherevnto Mutius for acquilyng that deserte, answered. For as muche as thou hast thus honourably delte with me, I will for recompence of this benefite, saie thus muche vnto thée, which by threates thou shouldest neuer haue gotten at my hādes. Thrée hundred of vs, that be yong noble men of Rome, haue conspired thy death, euen by the like attempt. It was my lofte to come first, the rest whē fortune shall giue oportunitie of tyme, euery one his tourne will giue the aduenture. Wherevpon he was dismissed, and afterwardes was called Scaeuola, for the losse of his right hande. Then peace was offe­red to the Romanes, who vpon cōdicions that the ene­mies [Page 9] guarrisons should be withdrawen from Ianicu­lum, and that the countrie wonne of the Veientines, should bee restored againe, gaue hostages. Emonges whom there was a gentlewoman called Cloelia. deli­uered into the handes of the Hetrurians, who decei­uyng her keepers, conueighed her self and the other pledges from their enemies, and swimmyng ouer the riuer of Tybre, arriued at Rome in sauftie, whiche be­yng redemaūded by Porsenna, wer sent backe againe. The kyng driuen into a wōderfull admiracion for the desperate and manly enterprises, doen by the Romane nacion, retourned the maiden home againe to Rome. In whose honour the Romanes erected an Image on horsebacke, placed at the vpper ende of the strete called Sacra via. And so peace was concluded, betwene Por­senna and the Romanes.

¶The .iiij. Nouell.

IN the yere that Titus Geganius & Pu­blius Minutius were Consuls, when all thinges were quiet abrods, and dissensiō at home appeased, an other greate mis­chief inuaded the citie. Firste a dearth of victuals, by reason the lande was vntilled, by the peo­ples [Page] departure, then a famine, suche as chaunceth to the besieged: whiche had brought a greate destruccion of people, had not the Consuls forséen the same, by pro­uision in forren places. Thei sent purueiors into Sci­cilia: but the malice of the cities adioynyng, staied the prouision that was made a farre of. The Corne proui­ded at Cumas was staied for the goodes of Tarquinius by Aristodemus the tirant, whiche was his heire. The next yere folowyng, a great masse of corne was trans­ported out of Scicile, in the tyme of the Consuls. M. Minutius and A. Sempronius. Then the Senate con­sulted, vpon the distribucion of the same vnto the peo­ple. Diuers thought that the tyme was then come, to bridle and oppresse the people, whereby thei might re­couer those priuileges, that were extorted from the fa­thers. Emonges whiche Martius Coriolanus a yong gentleman was the chiefest, who beyng an enemie to the Tribune aucthoritie, said these wordes. ‘If the peo­ple will haue victualles and corne at that price, where­at it was assised and rated in time past, then it is mete and necessarie, that thei rēder to the fathers, their aun­ciente aucthoritie and priuilege. For to what purpose be the plebeian Magistrates ordeined? For what con­sideracion shall I suffer my self, to bee subiugated vn­der the aucthoritie of Sicinius, as though I were con­uersant emonges theues? Shall I abide these iniuries any longer to continue, then is necessarie? I that could not suffer Tarquinius the kyng, shall I be pacient with Sicinius? Let Sicinius departe if he will, let him drawe the people after hym: the waie yet is open to the sacred hill, and to the other mountaignes. Let them robbe vs of our Corne, whiche thei tooke awaie from our owne lande, as thei did thrée yeres passe, let them inioye the victualles, whiche in their furie thei did gather. I dare [Page 10] bée bolde to saie thus muche, that béeyng warned and tamed, by this present penurie, thei had rather plowe and till the lande, then thei would suffre the same to be vncultured, by withdrawyng thē selues into Armure. It is not so easie to bée spokē, as I thanke it maie with facilitie bée brought to passe, that vpon condicions the prices of victualles should be abated, the fathers might remoue the aucthoritie of the Tribunes, and disanull all those lawes, whiche against their willes, were ra­tefied and confirmed.’ This sentence seemed cruell to the fathers, and almoste had set the people together by the eares, who would haue torne hym in péeces, had not the Tribunes appoincted a daie for his apparance. Wherevpon their furie for that tyme was appeased, Coriolanus seyng the peoples rage to encrease, and consideryng that thei should bée his Iudge, when the daie of his apparance was come, he absented hymself, and for lacke thereof, was condempned. Then he fledde to the Volscians, of whom he was gently inter­teigned: and lodged in the house of Accius Tullius, the chief of that citie, and a deadly enemie to the Romanes. Upon daily conference and consultacion, had betwene theim, thei consulted by what sleight or pollicie, thei might comence a quarrell againste the Romanes. And bicause thei doubted, that the Volscians would not easely bee perswaded therevnto, beyng so oft vanqui­shed and ill intreated, thei excogitated some other new occasion. In the meane time T. Latinius one of the ple­beian sorte, perceiuyng that the Romanes went about to institute great pastimes, conceiued a dreame, wher­in he sawe Iuppiter to speake vnto hym, and saied that he liked not the towardnesse of those games, and in case the same were not celebrated, with greate roialtie and magnificence, thei would ingender perill to the [Page] citie, whiche dreame he declared to the Consuls. Then the Senate gaue order, that the same should bée addres­sed with great pompe & triumphe: wherevnto through thinstigacion of Accius, a great nomber of the Volsci­ans resorted. But before the plates begonne, Tullius accordyng to the compacte agréed vpon, betwene hym and Coriolanus, secretly repaired to the Consuls, and takyng theim a side, declared that he had to saie vnto them, a matter iouchyng the publike wealthe of their citie, vtteryng these woordes. ‘I am forced against my will to signifie vnto you a matter, concernyng myne owne subiectes and countrie men. I come not to accuse them, for that thei haue alreadie admitted any thyng, but I come to giue you a premonicion, left thei should perpetrate some occasion, contrary to the order of your citie. The disposition of my countrie men, is more in­constant then I would wishe: whiche we haue felte, to our greate losse and decaie. The cause of our securitie at this presente, is rather suffered by your patience, then by our desert. Here bée at this instaunte, a greate multitude of Volscians Here be games prepared, and the citie throughly bent to beholde the same. I dooe re­member what was doen vpon like occasion in this ci­tie, by the Romane youthe. I tremble to thinke, what maie be rashely attempted, wherefore I thought good bothe for your own sakes; and for auoidyng of displea­sure, to foretell you of these thinges. And for mine own parte, I purpose immediatly to returne home, bicause I will auoide the daunger & perill, that maie chaunce by my presence.’ When he had spoken those wordes, he departed. The Consuls immediatly recompted the re­quest of Accius to the Senate: who more estemyng the personage, from whēce the same did procede, then the matter that was spoken, determined to prouide a re­medy [Page 11] for the same, and immediatly caused the Volsci­ans to auoide the citie, sendyng officers about, to com­maunde theim to departe that night: vpon whiche so­dein commaundemente, at the first thei began to mer­uaile, what should be the cause. And afterwardes thei conceiued a greate grief and offence, for that vnneigh­bourly enterteignement. And as thei wer passyng out of the citie in a long traine, Tullius beyng vpō the top of the hille called Ferrentine, to waite for the people, as thei passed by, called vnto hym the chief and princi­pall personages, to prouoke them to take that aduaū ­tage, and then assembled the multitude in the valleie, harde by the high waie, to whom he pronounced these wordes. ‘Forgetting all iniuries and displeasures past, doen by the Romane people against the Volsciās, how can you abide the contumelte committed this daie, wherein to our greate shame and ignomie, thei begin to ostentate and shewe forthe their plaies. Do not you beleue, that euen to daie, thei triumphe ouer you? Is not your departure (thinke ye) ridiculous, to al the Ro­manes, to straungers, and other cities adioynyng? Bée not your wiues and children (trowe ye) now passyng homewardes, laughed to scorne? What thinke you your selues be, whiche were warned to departe, at the sounde of the trumpet? What (suppose ye) will all thei thinke, whiche dooe meete this multitude retiryng homewardes, to their greate reproche & shame? True­ly except there be some secrete occasion, whereby wée should bee suspected to violate the plaies, or committe some other crime, and so forced to relinquishe the com­panie and fellowship of the houest, I knowe not what should be the cause of this repulse? Were wee liuyng, when we made suche festinacion to departe? If it maie bee called a departure, and not a runnyng awaie, and [Page] shamefull retire. I perceiue ye did not accompte, this to bee a citie of our enemies, where I thinke, if ye had taried but one daie longer, ye had all béen slaine. Thei haue denounced warres vpon you, whiche if you bee men of corage, shall redounde to the vtter destruccion of them, whiche first gaue the defiaunce.’ The Vollci­ans perceiuyng themselues greatly derided, for consi­deracions before remembred, determined by common accorde, to inferre warres vpon the Romanes, vnder the conduccion of Accius Tullius, and Coriolanus. Af­ter thei had recouered diuers of the Romane Cities, thei proceded further, and in sundry places spoiled and destroied the same, encampyng theimselues fiue miles from Rome, besides the trēches called Fossas Cluilias. In the meane tyme contencion rose, betwene the peo­ple and the fathers, howbeit the fears of forren partes, linked their myndes together, in the bandes of con­cord. The Consuls and fathers reposed their whole cō ­fidence in battaill, whiche the common peoplem no­wise could abide. Wherefore thei were constrained to assemble the Senate, wherein was determined, that Ambassadours should bee sente to Coriolanus to de­maunde peace: who retourned them again with a fro­warde answere: to this effecte, that first thei should re­store to the Volscians their Countrie, whiche thei had conquered, that doen, he willed them to seke for peace. Yet thei sent again Ambassadours, but in nowise thei wer suffered to come into their campe. Then the prie­stes cladde in their ornamentes, and other diuine fur­niture, were sent humblie to make peticion for peace. And yet thei could not perswade theim. Then the Ro­mane Dames repaired to Veturia the mother of Cori­olanus, and to his wife Volumnia. But whether the same was dooen by common consente, or through the [Page 12] feminine kinde, it is vncertain. It was appoincted that Veturia, beyng an aunciente gentlewoman, and mo­ther of Coriolanus, and Volumnia his wife, with her twoo yong children, should goe into the Campe, to the intente thei by their pitifull lamentacion, might de­fende the citie, whiche otherwise by force, was not a­ble to be kept. At their arriuall Venturia was knowen by one of her soonnes familier frendes, standyug be­twene her doughter in lawe, and her twoo neuies, who caried woorde immediatly to Coriolanus saiyng I am verie muche deceiued, but that thy mother, thy wife and children bee here in the Campe. Coriolanus hearyng him saie so, descended from his seate, like one not well in his wittes, and went forthe to embrase his mother. The olde gentlewoman from supplicacions, fill into a greate rage, speakyng these woordes. ‘Abide a while before I do receiue thy embracementes, let me knowe whether I am comen to mine enemie, or to my soonne, or whether I am a prisoner in thy Campe, or thy mother. Alacke how long haue I prolonged these auncient yeres, and hoare heares moste vnhappie, that now firste I doe beholde thée an exile, and then viewe thée myne enemie. Canst thou finde in thy harte, to de­populate and destroie, this thy countrie, wherein thou waste begotten and brought vp? Could not thy rage and furie bee mitigated and appeased, when thou did­dest first put foote, into the limites of this thy countrie? Did not naturall zeale pearce thy cruell harte, when thou diddest first cast thyne eyes vpon this citie? Is not the house of thy mother, and her domesticall Goddes, conteined within the walles of youder citie? Dooe not thy sorowfull mother, thy deare wife and children, in­habite within that compasse? Wherefore (O I cursed creature) if I had neuer had childe, Rome had not been [Page] now assailed. If I had neuer brought forthe a sonne, I should haue laied myne olde bones, and ended my life in a frée countrie. But I could neuer haue sustei­ned, or suffred more miserie, then is now incident and fallen vnto me, nor neuer more dishonour, then to be­holde thée in pitifull plight, a traitour to thyne owne countrie. And as I am the moste wretched wight of al mothers, so I truste I shall not longe continue in that state. If thou procede in this thine enterprise, either sodaine death, or perpetuall bondage bée thy reward.’ When his mother had ended these woordes, the whole traine of gentlewomen, brake into pitifull teares: bit­terly bewailyng the state of their Countrie, whiche at lengthe did mitigate the stomacke of Coriolanus. And whē he had imbrased his wife and children, he dismis­sed them. Then he withdrewe the Volscian campe frō the citée, and out of the Romane Prouince. Upon the displeasure of whiche facte, he died. It is saied, that when he was an olde manne he vsed, many tymes to speake and vtter this sentence. That verie miserable it is, for an olde manne to liue in banishemente. The Romanes disdained not to attribute to women, their due praise. For in me­morie of this deliuerie of their Countrie: Thei erected a Temple, Fortunae Muliebri, to wo­mens fortune.

¶The .v. Nouell.

SPurius Posthumius Albus, Aulus Manlius, and P. Sulpitius Cameri­nus, were sente Ambassadours to Athenes, and cōmaunded to write out the noble lawes of Solon, and to learne the Institucions, orders, and Lawes of other Greke citées. Upon whose retourne, the Tribunes were verie instāt, that at length lawes should be enacted and confirmed. And for that purpose, certaine officers wer appoincted, called Decemuiri: with soueraigne aucthoritie and po­wer, to reduce the same into writyng, whiche were thought méete and profitable for the common wealth. The principall and chief of whiche nomber, was Ap­pius Claudius, who committed no lesse filthie fact, then was doen by Tarquinius, for the rape of Lucrece. The said Appius conceiued a libidinous desire, to rauishe a yonge virgine, the doughter of one Lucius Virginius, then a capitain in the warres at Algidum, a manne of honest and sober life, whose wife was also of right good behauiour, and their children accordingly brought vp, and instructed. Thei had betrouthed their doughter, to one L. Icilius of the order of the Tribunes, a manne of [Page] greate stoutnesse and tried valiance, in the cause of the people. This yong maide beyng of excellent beautie, Appius at the firste began to woe by giftes and faire promises: but when he sawe that she was impregna­ble, he deuised by wicked and cruell pollicie, to obteine her, committyng the charge of that enterprise to one of his frendes, called Marcus Claudius, who went about to proue and maintaine, that the maide was his bond­woman, and in nowise would giue libertie to her frē ­des, to haue tyme to answere the processe made in that behalfe, thinkyng by that meanes, in the absēce of her father, he might at his pleasure enioye her. As the vir­gine was goyng to schole in the Forum, thesaid Clau­dius, the minister of mischief, laied handes vpon her, claimed her to bee his bondwoman, for that she was borne of a seruile woman, and commaunded her to fo­lowe hym. The maide béeyng afraied was amazed, and the Nursse that waited vpō her, cried out. Where­vpon the people ran out of their doores, to knowe the cause of that sturre. Claudius seyng the maide like to be rescued, by the multitude that was assembled, said, that there was no neede of that hurlie burlie, for that he attempted nothing by force, but that he was able to proue by lawe. Wherevpon he cited the maide to ap­pere, her frendes promised that she should accordyng to the lawe, make her apperance, beyng come before the consistorie, where Appius sat in iudgement, Claudius began to tell a tale, and processe of the cause, whereof Appius beyug the deuiser, vnderstoode the effect. The effecte of the tale was, that the maide was borne in his house, and was the doughter of his owne bondwomā, who afterwardes beeyng stolen awaie, was caried to the house of Virginius, and supposed to bee his childe, whiche thyng he saied, he was well able to proue, and [Page 14] would referre the iudgement of his cause to Virginius hymself: vnto whom the greater part of his iniurie did appertaine. In the meane tyme, he saied that it was meete, the maide should followe her master: where­vnto the aduocates of the maide replied, and saied that Virginius was absent, about the affaires of the Com­mon wealthe, but if he were aduertised of the matter, thei knewe well he would bee at home, within twoo daies after: wherefore thei saied, that it were againste equitée and Iustice, that processe and suite should bee made, for claime of children, in the absence of the pa­rentes, requiryng them to deserre the suite, till the re­tourne of the father. Appius not regardyng the iustice of the case, to the intent he might satisfie his owne luste and pleasure, ordeined in the meane tyme, that Clau­dius the assertor and plaintife, should haue the kepyng and placyng of the maide, till the father wer returned. Againste whiche wrong, many did grudge, although none durste withstande it. But as fortune chaunced, immediatly after that decrée and order was so pronoū ­ced, Publius Numitorius, the maides vncle by her mo­thers side, and Icilius her beloued, were comen home: vpon whose retourne, incontinently Icilius approched nere to Appius, and being put backe by the Sergeant he cried out a loude in these woordes. ‘Thou oughteste to put me backe from hence (O Appius) with a sworde that thou mightest without let, enioye the thyng thou wouldest haue kept close and secrete. It is I that dooe purpose to marie this maide, who I doubt not, is right honest and chaste: and also a pudique and pure virgin. Wherfore call together thy Secgeantes, and cause the roddes and ares, to be made prest and redie. For I as­sure thée, the spouse of Icilius shall not remaine out of her fathers house. No although thou hast taken awaie [Page] from the Romane people, their Tribunes aide and ap­peales, whiche be twoo stronge fortes and holdes, of their common libertie. Is aucthoritie giuen thée, libi­dinously to abuse our wiues and childrē? Excercise thy crueltie behind our backes, and vpon our liues if thou liste, so that thou dooe not contaminate, and defile the the vertue of chastitie. Wherevnto if thou inferre any damage or iniurie, I will for myne owne part, and for the loue of my beloued, crie out for the aide of the Ro­manes that he present, and Virginius shall doe the like of the souldiours, in the quarrel of his owne doughter. And al we together, wil implore for the succour of the goddes and menne. And truste to it, that thou shalt not enioye thy purpose, before some of vs haue lost our li­ues. Wherefore Appius I aduise thee, take héede in time. For when Virginius doeth come, he will seke re­medie to defende his doughter, and will knowe in what condicion and sorte she is ordred, if she bee refer­red to the seruitude of this man. And for my parte, my life shall soner faile, in defending her libertie, then my faithe to her betrouthed.’ Appius perceiuyng the con­stancie of Icilius, and that the people was in a greate mutine, and sturre, differred the cause of Virginia till the nexte daie: whose frendes hoped by that tyme, that her father would be at home: wherefore with all expe­dicion, thei addressed messengers vnto hym into the campe, for that the saufgarde of his doughter, consisted in his presence. In the meane time, the Assertor requi­red the maide, offeryng to put in sureties: the like offer made Icilius, of purpose to contriue and spende the tyme, till the arriuall of Virginius. The multitude of their owne accordes, helde vp their handes, promisyng to become suretie for Icilius, vnto whom he gaue thā ­kes, wepyng for ioye, to sée their kinde behauiour, and [Page 15] saied. ‘I thanke you moste hartely my beloued frendes to morowe I will vse your frendely offer, but at this present I haue sureties sufficient. Whervpō Virginia was bailed.’ Then Appius repaired home, and wrote to his frendes in the campe, that in nowise thei should giue Virginius leaue to come to Rome, whiche vn­gracious deuise came to late, and tooke none effecte. Wherevpon Virginius retourned home, and in poore and vile apparell, repaired into the Forum, after whō followed a greate nomber of matrones and aduoca­tes. Then he began to require them all of succour and aide, alledgyng that he was a souldiour, and one that aduentured hymself, for the saufgarde and defence of thē all: with suche like perswasions to the multitude. Semblable wordes were vttered by Icilius. All which doynges beeyng viewed and marked by Appius, in a greate furie ascended the consistorie. Then M. Clau­dius the plaintife began to renewe his sute: and before the father could make aunswere to that plea, Appius gaue sentence that the maide was bonde, whiche sen­tence, semed so cruell, that it appalled the whole mul­titude. And as Claudius was laiyng handes vpon the virgine, Virginius stepped to Appius, and said. ‘I haue betrouthed my doughter to Icilius, & not to thee Appi­us. My care in the bringyng of her vp, was to marrie her, and not to suffer her to be violated and defloured. Is it your maner, like sauage and cruell beastes, indif­ferentlie thus to vse your libidinous affections? I can­not tell, whether the multitude here present, will sup­porte this enormitie, but I am sure the armed souldi­ors, and suche as carrie armure will not suffer it.’ Mar­cus Claudius beyng repulsed by the womē, and aduo­cates that were present, silence was proclaimed by the Trumpet. Then Appius began to declare how he vn­derstoode, [Page] that all the night before, that certaine com­panies were assembled within the Citie, to excite and moue sedicion. For whiche cause he came with armed menne, not to hurte any man that was quiete, but ac­cordyng to the aucthoritie of his office, to bridle and re­presse those, that were troublers of the publike state. ‘Wherefore goe Sergeant (q he) make roume emon­ges the multitude, that the maister maie enioy his ser­uaunt.’ Whiche woordes he thundred out with greate furie, and therewithall the multitude gaue place, lea­uing the poore Puselle to be a praie to the enemie. Her father seyng that he was voide of succour and helpe, to defende the innocencie of his doughter, spake to Ap­pius in this sorte. ‘I firste dooe beseche thee Appius, if I haue vsed any vnreasonable woordes againste thee, to pardon me, and to impute the same to the fathers grief and sorowe. Suffer me I praie thee, to examine the Nonrsse, in the presence of the wench, of the whole circumstance of this matter, to the intent that if I bee but a supposed father, I maie departe hence with quiet conscience satisfied and contented.’ Virginius hauyng license to talke to his doughter and Noursse, departed a side into a place called Cloacina, where the shoppes be, now called Taberne Nouae, and pluckyng a sharpe knife from a Bocher that stoode by, he thruste the same to the hart of his doughter, saiyng. By this only mea­nes (doughter) I can make thee free: and loking again towardes the Iudgement feate, he saied. This bloodde Appius I consecrate and bestowe vpon thee. Whiche doen, with his sworde he made waie, to passe through the throng, to conueigh hymself out of the citie. Then Icilius and Nnmitorius tooke vp the deade bodie, and shewed it to the people, who cried out vpō the wicked­nesse of Appius, bewailyng the vnhappie beautie of [Page 16] that faire maiden, and deplored the necessitie of the fa­ther. The women exclamed in lamentable wise, sai­ing: ‘Is this the condicion and state of them, that bring foorthe children? Bee these the rewardes of chastitie?’ With suche like pitifull cries, as women are wont to make, vpon suche heauie and dolorous enentes. Vir­ginius beeyng arriued in the campe, whiche then was at the mounte Vicelius, with a traine of fower hun­dred persones, that fledde out of the citie, shewed to the souldiours the blooddie knife, that killed his doughter, whiche sight astonied the whole Campe: in so muche as euery man demaunded, what was the cause of that sodain chaunce. Virginius could not speake for teares, but at length he disclosed vnto them, the effecte of the whole matter, and holdyng vp his handes towardes the heauens, saied. ‘I beseche you (deare companions) doe not impute the wickednesse of Appius Claudius v­pon me, ne yet that I am a parricide and murderer of myne owne childrē: the life of my deare doughter had been more acceptable to me, then myne owne life, if so bee she might haue continued a free woman, and an honest virgine. But when I sawe she was ledde to the rape like a bondewoman, I considered, that better it were her life to be lost, then suffered to liue in shame: wherfore my naturall pitie was conuerted, to a kinde of crueltie. And for mine owne part, I doe not passe to liue lōg after her, if I thought I should not haue your helpe and succour, to reuenge her death. Consider that your selues haue doughters, sisters, and wiues, think not therefore, that the fleshly desire of Appius is satis­fied with the death of my doughter. And the longer that he dooeth continue in this securite, the more vn­brid [...]led is his appetite. Let the calamitie of an other be a sufficiēt documēt for you, to beware like iniuries. [Page] My wife is deade, by naturall fate and constellacion, and bicause my doughter could continewe no longer, in honeste and chaste life, death is befallen vnto her: whiche although it bee miserable, yet the same is ho­nourable. There is now no place in my house for Ap­pius, to satisfie his filthy luste. And I will faile of my purpose, if I doe not reuenge the death of my dough­ter, with so good will vpon his fleshe, as I did dis­charge the dishonour and seruitude of her, from his violente and crnell handes.’ This succlamacion and pitifull complainte, so stirred the multitude, that thei promised all to helpe and relieue his sorowe. Wher­vpon, the whole Campe were in a mutine and mar­ched in order of battaile to the moūte Auentine, where Virginius perswaded the souldiours, to chose ten prin­cipall capitaines, to bee heade and chief of that enter­prise: whiche with honourable titles of the field, should be called Tribuni. And Virginius hymself beyng elec­ted the chief Tribune, saied these woordes to the soul­diours. ‘I praie you reserue this estimacion, which you conceiue of me, vntill some better tyme and apter occa­sion, aswell for your commoditie, as for my self. The death of my doughter, wil suffer no honour to be plea­saunte or welcome to me, duryng my life. Moreouer in this troubled state of the Common wealthe, it is not méete for them to be your gouernours, that be subiecte and occurant to enuie and reproche, if my seruice shal be profitable vnto you, whē you haue thus created me a Tribune, it shall be no lesse commodious, if I doe still remaine a priuate manne.’ When he had spoken those woordes, thei chose tenne Tribunes. And like as the Campe at the mounte Auentine, was prouoked and stirred to this sediciō: euen so by meanes of Icilius and Nomitorius before remembred, the armie then beyng [Page 17] against the Sabines, began to reuolt and made the like nomber of Tribunes, whiche in arraie of battaile, mar­ched through the citée, at the gate Collina with banner displaied, to ioyne with the cāpe vpō the mount Auen­tine. And when bothe the campes were assembled, thei those out twoo emonges the twentie Tribunes, to bee their generalles, called M. Oppius, and Sextus Mani­lius. The Senate carefull and pensife for these euen­tes eftsons assembled, but no certaine determinacion was agreed vpon. At length thei concluded, that Vale­rius and Horatius, should be sent to the mount Auen­tine to perswade the people, but thei vtterly refused the message, vnlesse the Decemuiri wer first deposed. The Decemuiri made answere, that thei would not giue o­uer their aucthoritie, till suche tyme as those Lawes were ratified, whiche were treated vpon, before thei were elected to that office. Of all these contencions the people was aduertised by M. Duillius their Tribune. And when bothe the armies were ioyned at the moūt Auentine, aforesaied: All the multitude of the citie, mē women, and children, repaired thither, in sorte, that Rome was like a forlorne and abandoned place. The fathers seyng the citie thus relinquished, Horatius and Valerius, with diuers of the fathers, exclamed in this wise. ‘What doe ye expecte and looke for, ye fathers cō ­scripte? Will ye suffer all thynges to run to extreame ruine and decaie? Shall the Decemuiri still persiste in their stubberne and froward determinacions? What maner of gouernmente is this (O ye Decemuiri) that ye thus laie holde vpon and enioye? Will ye pronoūce and make lawes within your owne houses, and the li­mites of the same? Is it not a shame to sée in the Forum a greater nomber of your Catchpolles and Sergean­tes, then of other sober and wise Citizens? But what [Page] will ye doe, if the enemie vpon the sodaine, doeth ap­proche the walles? What will ye doe if the people vn­derstandyng that wee care not for their departure, doe in armes assaile vs? Will ye finishe your gouernment, with the ouerthrowe of the citie? But either we muste expell and abandon the people, or els we must admitte the Tribunes. Wee shall soner wante our fathers and Senatours, then thei their plebeian officers. Thei be­reued and tooke awaie from vs the Fathers, a newe kinde of aucthoritie, whiche was neuer seen before, who now feelyng the swetenesse thereof, will neuer giue it ouer. For wee can not so well tēper our auctho­ritie and gouernemente, as thei bee able to seke helpe and succour.’ The Decemuiri perceiuing that thei wer hated, so well of the Senate, as of the people, submit­ted themselues. And thervpon Valerius and Horatius were sent to the campe, to reuoke the people vpō suche condicions as thei thought moste meete. Then the De­cemuiri were commaunded, to take heede of the peo­ples furie. So sone as the Ambassadours were come to the campe, thei were receiued with greate ioye and gladnesse of the people, because thei wer the beginners of that sturre, and supposed that thei would make an ende of the commocion, for whiche cause thei rendred to them their humble thankes. Then Icilius was ap­poincted to speake for the people, who required to haue the aucthoritie of the Tribunes restored, and their ap­peale renewed, with restitucion of those lawes, whiche before the erection of the Decemuiri, were ratefied and confirmed. Thei demaunded also an impunite and frée pardon, to those that firste encouraged and incited the souldiours to that enterprise, and the restoryng of their liberties. Thei required to haue their enemies the De­cemuiri, to be deliuered into their handes. Whom thei [Page 18] threatened to put to death by fire. Whervnto the Am­bassadours answered in this wise. ‘Your requestes bee so reasonable, that thei ought willinglie to bee graun­ted. All whiche ye desire to obtaine, as a defence and comforte for your libertie, and not to persecute and in­fest others. Your furie and anger ought rather to bee pardoned, then permitted or graunted. Ye beare a face and séeme to detest and hate seueritie, and ye your sel­ues incurre, and runne hedlong into all kinde of cru­eltie: and before ye be made free your selues, ye desire to be lordes ouer your aduersaries. Shall our citie ne­uer bée voide of tortures and oppressions: sometyme of the fathers towardes the people, some tyme of the peo­ple towardes the fathers? You had more néede of a shilde to defende you, then of a sworde to fight. That manne is of a base state and courage, we suppose, that liueth in a Citie, and beareth hymself so vprighte, as neither he inferreth iniurie to others, ne yet suffereth wronge hymself. If ye shewe your selues so terrible, then it is to bee supposed, that after ye haue recouered your lawes and magistrates, and be placed againe in your former aucthoritie and preeminence: ye will also ordeine and appoincte Lawes ouer vs, that shall con­cerne our liues and goodes, and euery other lightmat­ter. But for this present I would wishe you, to be con­tented with your former fréedome.’ After the Ambassa­dours had willed theim, to consulte vpon some deter­minate answere, thei retourned to Rome, to make re­porte to the Senate, of the peoples requestes. The De­cemuiri perceiuyng, that contrary to their expectacion, no likelihode was of any persecucion, to be doen vpon them, condescended to those demaūdes. Appius beyng a man of nature cruell and malicious, measuryng the malice of others, by his owne maligne disposicion: [Page]spake these woordes. ‘I am not ignoraunte what for­tune is now imminente. For I dooe plainlie sée, that whiles weapons bee deliuered to our aduersaries, the combate is deferred againste vs. With bloodde, enuie muste bee rewarded. I will not any longer delaie the tyme, but depriue my self of the Decemuirate.’ When the Senate was aduertised by the Ambassadours, Va­lerius and Horatius, of the peoples aunswere: thei de­creed that the Decemuiri should bee deposed, and that Q. Furius the chief bishoppe, should create the plebeian Tribunes. Wherein also was enacted, that the depar­ture of the people, and mutine of the souldiours should bee pardoned. When these lawes were renewed, the Decemuiri wente foorthe, and openly in the assemblie deposed themselues, to the greate ioye and comforte of them all. All whiche beyng reported the people: bothe the souldiours, and the reste of the multitude, repaired before the Ambassadours, vnto whom the Ambassa­dours spake these wordes. ‘We now beseche you all, to retourne into your countrie, to your domesticall God­des, your wiues, and children, whiche wée trust shal be right good, happie, and profitable vnto you, and to the common wealth. But your modeste and sober behaui­our, for that no mannes grounde is violated and de­stroied, considering many thinges, could not suffice the hugenesse of this multitude, that parte of modestie, I saie, carie with you into the Citie, to your immortall fame and glorie. Gette ye therefore to the mounte A­uentine, from whence ye departed, whereas in a place moste happie, ye renued the foundacions of your aun­cient libertie, and there ye shall create your Tribunes. The chief bishoppe shal be presente, to kepe the Comi­rialles.’ Then the Romane people made Aulus Virgi­nius, Lucius Icilius, and P. Numitorius the Tribunes [Page 19] who with their assistauntes, first aduannced and con­firmed the libertie of the people. Afterwarde Virgi­nius was appointed to bee the accuser, and Appius chosen to be the defendant. At the daie appointed, Ap­pius resorted to the Forum, with a greate companie of yonge gentlemen, of the patriciall order, where Vir­ginius began to renewe the cruell and abhominable facte, whiche Appius committed in the tyme of his au­thoritie, and saied. ‘Oracion was first deuised & founde out, for ambiguous and doubtfull causes: therefore I will neither consume tyme, in accusyng hym before you, frō whose crueltie, ye haue by force defended your selues, nor yet I will suffre hym to ioyne to his former wickednesse, any impudente answere for his defence. Wherefore Appius all those thinges, whiche he wicked­ly and cruelly one vpon an other, thou haste dooen these twoo yeres paste, I dooe fréely forgiue thee. But if thou canste not purge thy self of this one thing, that against the order and forme of Lawe (thou thy self be­yng Iudge) wouldest not suffer the freman, to enioye the benefite of his freedome, during the processe made of seruitude, I will presently commaunde thee to pri­son.’ Appius Claudius beyng now a prisoner, and per­ceiuyng, that the iuste complaintes of Virginius, did vehemētty incite the people to rage and furie, and that the peticions and praiers of his frēdes, in nowise could mollifie their hartes, he began to conceiue a despera­cion. And within a while after slewe hymself. Spurius Oppius also an other of the Decemuiri, was immedia­tly sent to prison, who before the daie of his iudgemēte died. The reste also of that order fled into exile. Whose goodes were confiscate. Marcus Claudius also the As­sertor was condempned, howbeit Virginius was con­tented he should be banished the citie, and then he fled [Page] to Tybur. Thus vpon the filthie affeccion of one no­bleman, issued parricide, murder, rebellion, hatred, depriuyng of magistrates, and greate mischiefes suc­cedyng one in an others necke. Wherevpon the noble and victorious citie, was like to be a praie to forren na­cions. A goodlie documente to men of like callyng, to moderate themselues, and their Magisterie with good and honeste life, thereby to giue incouragemente of vertue, to their vassalles and inferiours: who for the moste parte doe imitate and followe the liues, and cō ­uersacion of their superiours.

¶The .vj. Nouell.

OF all follies wherwith vaine men be affected, the follie of immoderate loue, is most to be detested. For that husband, whiche is beautified with a comely and honeste wife, whose rare excellēcie doeth surpasse other, aswell in lineamentes proporcion, and feature of bodie, as with inwarde qualities of minde: if he can not retaine in the secrecie and silence of his breast, that excellyng gifte and benefite, is worthie to be inaugured with a laurell croune of follie. Beau­tie eche man knoweth, is one of natures ornamentes, by her wisedome ordeined, not to enter in triumphe, as victours vse vpon gaine of victorie, with brauerie to o­stentate their glorie, by sounde of Shalme & Dromme, but thankfully for the same, to proclaime the due praise [Page 20] to the aucthour of Nature. For there is nothyng more fraile and fadyng, then the luryng lookes of Dame beauties eyes, altogether like the flaryng Marigolde floure, whiche in the moste feruent heate of the Som­mers daie, doeth appere moste glorious, and vpō retire of the nightes shadowe, appereth as though it had ne­uer been the same. And therefore he that conceiueth, reioyse in her vncertaine state, is like to hym that in his slombryng dreame, doeth imagine he hath founde a perelesse iewell, of price inestimable, besette with the glistering Diamonde: and perfectly awaked, knoweth he hath none suche. If God hath indued a man with a wife that is beautifull and honest, he is furnished with double pleasure: suche, as rather thankes to hym, then vaine ostentacion is to bee remembred. Otherwise, he doateth, either in Ielosie or openeth proude vauntes thereof, to suche as he thinketh, to be his moste assured frendes. What ioye the sequele thereof doeth bryng, let the historie insuyng reporte.

Candaules kyng of Lydia, had a merueilous beau­tifull gentlewoman to his Quene and wife, whom he loued very dearly, and for that greate loue whiche he bare her, thought her the fairest creature of the world. Beyng in this louing concept, he extolled the praise of his wife, to one of his guarde called Gyges, the sonne of Dascylus (whom he loued aboue all the reste of his housholde, and vsed his counsaile, in all his weightie causes) with in a while after he saied vnto Gyges these woordes. ‘It seemeth vnto me Gyges, that thou doest not greatly beleue the woordes, whiche I speake vnto the, of the beautie of my wife, but because eyes be bet­ter witnesses of thynges then eares, thou shalte see her naked. With these wordes Gyges beyng amased cried out, saiyng. What wordes be these (sir kyng) me think [Page] you are not well aduised, to require me to viewe and beholde the ladie my maistres in that sorte? For a wo­man seen naked, doeth with her clothes, put of also her chastitie. In olde tyme honest thinges were deuised for mannes instruction, emonges whiche was vsed this one thing. That euery man ought to behold, the thin­ges that were his owne. But sir, I doe beleue assured­lie, that she is the fairest woman in the worlde, wher­fore desire me not to thynges that bee vnlawfull.’ In this sorte Gyges replied, and yet feared lest some daū ­ger might happen vnto hym. ‘Whom Candaules en­couraged, saiyng. Be of good there, and be not afraid, that either I or my wife, goe aboute to deceiue thee, or that thou shalte incurre any daunger. For I will take vpon me so to vse the matter, as she by no meanes shal knowe, that thou haste seen her. I will place thee be­hinde the portall of our chamber. When I goe to bed, my wife commonlie dooeth followe. And she beyng in the Chamber, a chaire is sette redie, vpon whiche she laieth her clothes, as she putteth them of. Which doen she sheweth her self a good tyme, naked. And when she riseth from her chaire to goe to bedde, her backe beyng toward thee, thou maiest easilie conueighe thy self out againe, but in anywise take heede, she doe not sée thee, as thou goest out. Wherevnto I praie thee, to haue a speciall regarde.’ Gyges seeyng that by no meanes, he could auoide the vaine requeste of the kyng, was redie at the tyme appoincted. Candaules about the hower of bedde tyme, went into the Chamber, and conueighed Gyges into the same, and after the Kyng, the Quene followed, whom Gyges behelde at her goyng in, and at the puttyng of her clothes. When her backe was towardes hym: (as he was goyng out) she perceiued hym. The Quene vnderstanding by her housbande, [Page 21] the circumstance of the facte, neither for shame did crie out, ne yet made countenance, as though she had séen Gyges: but in her minde purposed, to reuenge her hus­bandes follie. For emōges the Lydiās (as for the most parte, with all other nacions) it is coumpted a greate shame, to sée a naked man. The gentlewoman coun­terfaited her grief, and kepte silence. In the mornyng when she was redie, by suche of her seruauntes, whom she moste trusted, she sent for Gyges, who thought that she had knowen nothyng, of that whiche chaūced. For many times before, he vsed to haue accesse to the quene when he was called. Beyng come before her presence. She saied vnto him, ‘Gyges I offer vnto thee now two condicions, take whether thou wilte. For either thou muste kill Candaules, and take me to thy wife, and the kyngdome also, or els thou must die thy self, that thou maiest vnderstande, how in all thynges not meete to be knowen, it is not necessary to obeie Candaules. For either he must needes die, whiche gaue thee that coun­saile, or thy self, whiche diddest sée me naked, and ther­by committed a thyng vnlawfull.’ Whiche woordes for a while, did wonderfully amase Gyges, then he be­seched the Quene, that she would pardon hym frō that vnlawful choise. When he sawe that he could nor per­swade her: he required her to shewe him by what mea­nes, he might attempte that enterprise. ‘Marie (q she) euen in that place, where thou sawest me naked, when he is a slepe, thou shalte committe that facte.’ After thei had deuised the treason, nighte approched. And Gyges with stoute courage, bente hymself therevnto. For he sawe no remedie, but that he must kill, or els be killed. Wherefore with a Dagger, whiche the Quéene deli­uered hym, he killed Candaules, when he was a slepe. And so gotte from him bothe his wife and kyngdome. [Page] A goodlie example to declare, that the secretes of Mar­riage, ought not to be disclosed. But with reuerence to bee couered, lest God dooe plague suche offences with death, or other shame, to manifeste to the worlde, how derely he estemeth that honourable state.

¶The .vij. Nouell.

A Noble gentleman of Athenes cal­led Solon, by thappoinctment of the Athenians, made lawes for that ci­tie, and bicause none of the same la­wes should bee abrogated, for the space of tenne yeres, he bounde the Citizens by othe. And that the same might the better bee obserued: he hymself trauailed in­to farre countrees, as into Egipte to visite king Hama­sis, and so to Sardis to kyng Craesus, where he was li­berallie interteigned. This Craesus was kyng of Ly­dia, sonne of Haliattes, that brought to subiectiō great Countries in Asia and Graecia, and gathered together an innumerable masse of money, and richesse. Who three or fower daies after the arriuall of Solon (whiche was ledde aboute by his seruauntes, to viewe his no­table wealthe and substaunce) saied vnto Solon these woordes. ‘My frende of Athens, bicause thy famous wisedome is well knowen to the worlde, and I haue heard tell of the excellencie thereof, and of the greate­nesse of thy trauell, where thou haste attaigned to the singuler knowledge of Philosophie: I desire to learne [Page 22] of thee (now hauyng seen my greate treasures) who is the happiest man and moste blessed, that thou knowest in the worlde. Thinkyng he would haue iudged hym to be the same. But Solon made answere, that Tellus was the happiest. Who was an Athenien, and had vertuous and honeste soonnes, and thei likewise had honest children, all whiche were that tyme liuing. And when by the space of many yeres, he had ledde a vertu­ous and godlie life, he died an honourable death in the warres, whiche the Athenians had with their neigh­bors, at the battaill of Eleusina. Where he was indued with sumptuous funeralles, to his greate honour and praise. Then Craesus asked him, who was happie next Tellus: thinkyng he would haue attributed to him, the second place. For so the (q he) that is Cleobis and Bito, whiche were Argiues, and liued a contented life. And in all pastimes, to proue force and maisterie, thei bare awaie the prise and victorie. And of theim these thyn­ges be remembred. When the feastfull daie of Iuppi­ter, was celebrated emonges the Argiues. Tkeir mo­ther should bee caried to the Temple in a Chariotte, drawen with a yoke of Oxen, whiche were not come out of the countrie, at the appoincted time. The yonge men seeyng that the hower was come, entred into the yoke theimselues, and drewe the chariotte the space of xlv. stades to the Temple. After this acte seen of all the people there, thende of their life was suche, as certain­ly God gaue to vnderstande by theim, that better it is to dye, then liue. For the Argiues that were assem­bled about Bito and Cleobis, with shoutes and accla­macions, praised the good willes of those children, and the women themselues, saied that happie was the mo­ther, whiche brought for the suche lineage. Their mo­ther then ioyfull for that facte, and of the reputacion of [Page] of her sōnes, kneled doun before y^e Image of Iuno, hū ­bly beseching her to giue to her sōns, y^e thing y^t wer best for a mā to attain vnto. Her praier ended, she made her sacrifice, which doen, the .ij. yong men presently died in the temple. In tokē of whose noble liues, the Argiues erected .ii. images at Delphos. And to thē Solō appoin­ted the second place of blisfulnes. Craesus moued with these wordes, said vnto Solō. Thou stranger of Athe­nes, is our felicitie in suche litle reputacion with thee, that thou doest preferre before vs these priuate mē: So­lon answered. Sir, shall I assure you of humain thyn­ges, knowyng that God enuieth the state of men, and troubleth thē so often? In lēgth of time many thinges be séen, whiche mē would not se, and many thinges be suffred, that men would not suffer. Lette vs assigne to mās life, the terme of .lxx. yeres. In which yeres are the nomber of .xxv.M.cc. daies, in whiche computaciō the leape moneth, whiche is February, is not cōprehended But if you will that other yeres be lōger, by reason of that moneth, to thende the howers maie be adioined to thē, that wāt then the leaps monethes, maketh y^e tyme to amount (aboue .lxx. yeres) to .xxv. monethes, and the daies of those monethes amoūt to M.v.C. But admit that .lxx. yeres, with their leape monethes, be the totall somme of mans life, then is producted the sōme of .xxvi M.CC. daies. Truelie one daie is not like an other in effecte. Euen so Craesus I conclude, that man is full of miserie. But although your grace, seemyng bothe in welth, & also in multitude of men, to be a rich & migh­tie king, yet I cannot answere fully your demaūde, before I se how wel you do ende your life. For y^e riche mā is not happier, bicause he hath lōg life, excepte to his ri­ches fortune graunt y^t he leade a good & honest life. Ma­ny men be verie riche, & yet for all that be not blessed & happie. And many that haue but mean wealth, be for­tunate. [Page 23] He that is riche & welthie, and therwithall not happie, excelleth hym that is fortunate & happie onely in .ij. thinges, but thother surmounteth the riche mā in many thinges. The .ij. thinges wherin the riche excel­leth thother be these. Thone in satisfiyng his lust & af­fectiō, thother in power & abilitie, to sustein ill fortune and aduersitie. And as the mean man is inferior to the riche in those .ij. poinctes, whiche by fortune bee denied hym, yet he doeth excell him, bicause he neuer hath ex­perience of thē, he liueth in good & prosperous helth, he neuer feleth aduersitie, he doeth nothing y^t is wicked he is a father of good childrē, he is indued with formost­tie & beautie who if besides al those things, he die welt. It is he whō you demaunde that worthely maie be called blessed & happy. For before he die he can not be cal­led blessed: But fortunate he maie bee termed. For to obtein al (whiles you be a liuyng mā) it is impossible. For as one countrie is not able to serue it self with all comodities, but hauing one, it lacketh an other: Yet the same countrie that hath moste comodities is the beste: And as a mans bodie hauing one prefecciō is not per­fect, bicause in hauing one, he lacketh an other: Euē so he that hath most vertue, & is indued with greatest nō ­ber of the aforesaied comodities, & so quietly departeth his life, he in mine opinion is worthie to be intitled w^t the name of a king. A mā must expect thende of euery thing whervnto it tendeth. For God plucketh vp by y^e rootes many men, to whō he hath giuen abundance of welth & treasure.’ Craesus misliking the wordes of Solō suffred him to depart (saiyng he was a foole, that mea­sured present pleasures no better. After whose depar­ture, y^e goddes begā to bend their indignaciō & displea­sure vpon him, bicause he thought himself the happiest of al men. Long time after Craesus receiuyng corage & cōfort frō Apollo at Delphos: Attēpted warrs against [Page] Cyrus king of Persia. Who in those warres was ouer­throwen, and taken prisoner, after he had raigned .xiiij yeres, and was broughte by the Persians to Cyrus. Then Cyrus caused a stacke of woodde to be piled vp, and Craesus fettered with giues, was sette vpon the same. Who then remēbryng the saiyng of Solon, that no liuyng man was blessed, or in all poincted happie, cried out in lamentable wise. O Solon, Solon, Solon, whiche Cyrus hearyng, caused his interpreters, to de­maūde of him, what the same Solon was. Craesus with muche difficultie tolde what he was, and declared all the talke, betwene hym and Solon. Whereof when Cyrus heard the reporte, he acknowledged hymself to be also a man, and sore repented, that he went aboute to burne hym, whiche was equall vnto hym in honor and richesse, confessyng nothyng to bee stable and cer­taine in the life of man. Wherevpon he commaunded the fire to be taken awaie, whiche then began to flame And so with muche a do, he was deliuered. Then Cy­rus asked hym, who gaue hym counsaill to inuade his countrie, to make his frēde his foe. ‘Euen my self (saied Craesus) through vnhappie fate, by the perswasiō of the Grekishe GOD, whiche gaue me counsaill, to make warres vpon thee. For there is no man so madde, that had rather desire warre then peace. For in peace son­nes hurte their fathers, but in warres, fathers hurte their children. But that these thinges be come to passe I maie thanke the Deuels good grace.’ Afterwards Cyrus interteigned hym verie honorablie, and vsed his counsel, whi­che he founde ve­ry holsome & good.

¶The .viij. Nouell.

THere was a man borne in Mardus (whiche is a Countrie adioynyng vnto Persia) called Rhacon, that had seuen children. The yongest of theim (named Cartomes) afflicted diuerse honest menne, with greate harmes and mischifes. For whiche cause, the father began to reforme hym with wordes, to proue if he would amende. But he litle waiyng the good discipline of his father: It chaunced vpon a time that the Iustices of the countrie, repaired to the Sessi­ons in that Toune, where the father of that childe did dwell. Who takyng his sonne, and bindyng his han­des behinde hym, brought him before the Iudges. To whom he remēbred by waie of accusacion, all the mis­chiefes, whiche his soonne from tyme to tyme hadde committed, and desired the Iudges, that he might bee condēpned to die. The Iudges amased at that request, would not them selues giue sentence against hym, but brought bothe the father and the soonne, before Arta­xerxes the kyng of Persia: In whose presence the fa­ther stil persisted, in the accusacion of his sonne. ‘Why (q the kyng) canste thou finde in thy harte, that thyne owne soonne should be putte to death before thy face? Ye truely (q the father). For at home in my garden, when the yonge Lactuse beginne to growe, I cutte of the bitter and sower stalkes from the same. For pitie it were, the mother Lactuse should sustaine any sorowe, for those bastarde and degenerate shrubbes. Whiche [Page] beyng taken awaie, the prospereth, and encreaseth so greate swetenesse and bignes. Euen so (O kyng) if he be hanged, that hurteth my whole familie, and offen­deth the honest conuersacion of his brethren, bothe my self shalbee increased, and the reste of my stocke and li­gneage shall in like sorte prospere and continue.’ The Kyng hearyng those woordes, did greately praise the wisedome of Rhacon, and chose hym to bee one of his Iudges, speakyng these wordes before the multitude. ‘He that dare thus seuerely & iustly pronounce sentence vpon his owne childe, doubtles he will shewe hymself to bee an incorrupt and sincere Iudge, vpon the offen­ces of other.’ Then the kyng deliuered the yonge man, from that present fault, threatenyng hym with moste cruell death, if after that tyme, he were apprehended with like offence.

¶The .ix. Nouell.

THere was a certaine Persian called Sinaetas, that farre from his owne house mette king Artaxerxes, and had not wherewith to present him. (For it was an order emonges the Persians, instituted by Lawe, that euery man whiche mette with the king should giue hym a present.) Wherefore the poore man, bicause he would not neglecte his duetie, ranne to a Riuer called Cyrus, & taking vp bothe his handes full of water, spake to the kyng in this wise. ‘I beseche God that your maiestie, maie euermore raigne emon­ges. [Page 25] As occasion of the place, and myne abilitie at this instant serueth, I am come to honour your maiestie, to the intente you maie not passe without some presente. For whiche cause I giue vnto you this water. But if your grace had ones incamped your self, I would goe home to my house, for the best and derest things I haue to honour your maiestie withall. And peraduēture the same shall not be muche inferiour to the giftes, whiche other now dooe giue you.’ Artaxerxes delighted with this chaunce, saied vnto hym.

‘Good followe I thanke thee for this present, I as­sure thee, the same is so acceptable vnto me, as the most precious gift of the worlde. First, bicause water is the best of all thynges, then bicause the Riuer, out of the whiche thou diddest take it, dooeth beare the name of Cyrus. Wherefore I commaunde thee, to come before me, when I am at my Campe.’ When he had spoken those wordes, he required his Eunuches to take the pre­sent, and to putte it into a Cuppe of golde. The kyng when he was lodged in his pauilion, sente to the man a Persian robe, a Cuppe of golde, and a thousande Da­rices (which was a coigne emōges the Persians, wher­vpon was the Image of Darius) willyng the messen­ger to saie vnto hym, these woordes.

‘It hath pleased the kyng, that thou shouldest de­light thy self, and make merie with this golde, because thou diddest exhilarate his minde, in not suffryng hym to passe, without the honour of a present: but as neces­sitie did serue thee, diddeste humblie salute hym with water. His pleasure is also, that thou shalte drinke of that water in this cuppe of golde, of whiche thou ma­dest hym partaker.’

Artaxerxes hereby expressed the true Image of a princely mynde, that would not disdaine cherefully to [Page] beholde the homelie gifte (in our estimacion rude, and nothyng worthe) at the handes of his poore subiecte: and liberally to reward that ductifull zeale, with thin­ges of greate price and valour. To the same Artaxer­xes, ridyng in progresse through Persia, was presented by one called Mises, a verie greate Pomegranate in a Siue. The kyng merueilyng at the bignesse thereof, demaunded of hym out of what garden, he had gathe­red the same. He answered out of his owne. Whereat the kyng greatly reioysyng, recompenced hym with princely rewardes, saiyng. By the Sōne (for that was the common othe of the Persian kynges) this manne is able with suche trauell and diligence in my iudge­ment, to make of a litle citie, one that shalbe large and greate. Whiche wordes seme to declare, that all thyn­ges by care, sufficiente paine, and continuall labour, maie against nature, be made more excellent & better?

¶The .x. Nouell.

I Will rehearse a facte of the tyrant Phalaris farre discre­pante from his condictons. For it fauoureth of greate kindnes and humanitie, and seemeth not to bee dooen by him. Chariton was an Agri­gentine borne, and a greate louer of beautie, who with ardente affection loued one Menalippus, whiche was also borne in the Citie, of honeste condicions and ex­cellent beautie. This Tyrant Phalaris hindred Me­nalippus in a certaine sute. For when he contended in [Page 26] iudgement with one of Phalaris frendes, the tyraunte commaunded hym, to giue ouer his suite: wherevnto bicause he was not obediente, he threatned to put hym to death, except he would yelde. But Menalippus ouer came hym in lawe, and the noble men, whiche wer the frendes of Phalaris, would giue no sentence, & brought the same to a Nonesuite. Whiche the yong manne ta­kyng in ill parte, saied, he had receiued wronge, and confessed to his frende Chariton, the wronge he had susteined, requiryng his aide to reuenge the same vpon the Tirant. He made other yong menne priuie to that conspiracie, suche as he knewe would be redie and apt for that enterprise. Chariton perceiuyng the rage and furie of his frende, knowyng that no man would take his parte, for feare of the tyraunte, began to disswade hym, saiyng: that he hymself went about the like at­tempt, a litle before, to deliuer his countrie into liber­tie, out of presente seruitude, but he was not able to sorte the same to any purpose, without greate daun­ger. Wherefore he praied hym to committe the consi­deracion thereof vnto him, and to suffre hym to espie a tyme apt and conuenient. Menalippus was contente. Then Chariton reuoluyng with hymself that deuise, would not make his dere frende a partaker of that fact lest it should be perceiued but he alone toke vpon hym to doe the deede, that onely hymself might susteine the smarte. Wherefore takyng a sworde in his hande, as he was sekyng the waie to giue the assaulte vpon the Tiraunte, his enterprise was disclosed, and Chariton apprehended by the Guarde, whiche for the Tirantes defence, diligentlie attended about hym. From thence he was sent to the Iaole, and examined vpon interro­gatories to bewraie the reste of the conspiratours. For whiche he suffered the racke, and the violence of other [Page] tormētes. Afterwardes Menalippus remembryng the constancie of his frende, and the crueltie by him stout­ly suffered, wente to Phalaris, and confessed vnto hym that not onely he was priuie to that treason, but also was the aucthour thereof. Phalaris demaundyng for what cause he did it, told hym the consideracion before rehersed, whiche was the reuokyng of sentence, and o­ther iniuries doen vnto him. The Tirant merueiling at the constante frendship of these twaine, acquited thē bothe. But vpon condicion, that bothe should departe out of the citie and countrie of Scicilia. Neuerthelesse, he gaue them leaue to receiue the fructes and commo­dities of their reuenues. In recorde and remembraūce of whose amitie Apollo, sange these verses.

This Phalaris was a moste cruell Tyrant of the citie of Agrigentine in Scicilia, who besides other instrumē ­tes of newe deuised tormentes, had a Bulle made of brasse, by the arte and inuencion of one Perillus. Into whiche Bulle, all suche as were condempned to death were put, and by reason of extreme heate of fire, made vnder the same, those that were executed, yelled forthe terrible soundes and noyses, like to the lowyng of a Bulle. For whiche ingine and deuise, Perillus thin­kyng to obteine greate reward, was for his labour, by commaundemente of the Tyrante, throwen into the Bulle, beyng the firste that shewed the proofe of his deuise. Within a while after, also Phalaris hymself, for that his greate crueltie, could bee susteined no [Page 27] longer, was by a generall assault, made vpon hym by the people, haled into the same Bull, and burned. And although this Tyrant farre excelled in beastlie cruel­tie, yet there appered some sparke of humanitie in him, by his mercie extended vpon Chariton and Menalip­pus, the twoo true louers before remembred. the same Phalaris wrote many proper and shorte Epistles, full of vertuous instructions, and holsome admonicions.

¶The .xj. Nouell.

BEfore the beginnyng of this histo­ric, I haue thought good by waie of a Proeme, to introduce the wordes of an excellent writer called Lodo­uicus Caelius Rhodoginus. Saincte Hierome (saieth he) that moste holy and eloquent father, affirmeth that vertues are not to bee pondered by the sexe or kynde, by whom thei be doen, but by the minde. Wherewith if euer any woman was affected, truly it was the faire ladie Panthea, wherin I would no man should blame me of vngodlines, or indiscrecion, for that I doe remē ­ber a woman, mencioned in profane aucthours, be­yng not mynded at this presente, to make a viewe of Christe his secretes, whiche are his diuine scriptures, wherein bee conteined, the ghostlie liues of sacred da­mes, wherein also abundauntly doeth shine and glit­ter, [Page] the celestiall mercie of our heauenlie father. Let the reader remember, that we now be conuersaunte in the auncient monumentes, of other prophane aucthours, and out of theim doe selecte the pleasantest flowers, to adorne this Palace, whereby we maie be able to delite the weried beholders of the same. This Panthea ther­fore as Xenephon writeth, and partely as S. Hierome reporteth, was the wife of Abradatas, a noble perso­nage, and in warlike factes verie skilfull, derely belo­ued of Cyrus kyng of Persia, with whom this Ladie Panthea was captiue, at the ouerthrowe of the Assiri­ans. Netherto the woordes of Calius. Kyng Cyrus when his enemies wer vanquished, hearyng tell of this gen­tlewoman, called vnto hym one of his gentlemen, na­med Araspas, whiche was a Median borne, the verie minion, plaie felowe, and companion of Cyrus, from his youth. To whom for the greate loue that he bare hym, he gaue the Median robe of from his owne backe at his departure from Astiages, into Persia. To this gentleman, kyng Cyrus committed the custodie of the Ladie, and of her tent. Abradatas her housbande (whē she was taken prisoner) was before sent in Ambassage to the king of Bactria, by the Assirian kyng, to intreate of peace, bicause he was his familiare frende. When Araspas had receiued the kéepyng of the Ladie. He as­ked Cyrus, whether he had seen her. ‘No truely saied Cyrus.’ ‘Then haue I, saied (Araspas): and haue chosen her speciallie for your owne persone. And when wee came into her Pauilion, none of vs could tell, whiche was she, for she set vpon the grounde, with all her wo­men aboute her, and her apparell was like vnto her maides. But wee desirous to knowe, whiche was the maistres, behelde them all, and by and by she séemed to excell theim all, although she satte with her face coue­red, [Page 28] lookyng doune vpon the grounde. And when wee hadde her to rise vp, all the reste rose vp also. She did farre surmounte her maides, as well in makyng and lineamentes of bodie, as in good behauiour and come­linesse, although she was attired in simple apparell, the teares manifestly ran doune her eyes, falling vpon her garmentes, and distillyng doune to her feete. To whom he that was moste auncient emonges vs saied. Be of good chere Ladie. We here that you haue a ve­rie valiant man to your housbande, notwithstandyng wee haue chosen you for a gentleman, that is not infe­riour to hym, either in beautie, force, wisedome, or va­liance. But as we thinke, if there bee any man in this worlde, worthie of admiracion, it is Cyrus our Prince and lorde, whose paragon wee haue chosen you to bee.’ When the ladie heard them saie so she tare the attire­mente from her heade and bodie, she cried out, and all her maides skriched with her. At what tyme the grea­test parte of her face appered, and so did her necke and handes. And assure your self (Cyrus) that to vs, whiche viewed her well, it semed impossible, that suche a crea­ture could be borne of mortall parentes in Asia. Therfore sir, looke vpon her in any wise. To whom Cyrus saied. The more praise ye giue her, the lesse mynde I haue to see her, if she be suche a one as you haue saied. And why so (quod) Araspas. Bicause (saied Cyrus) if I should goe to see her hearyng you make this reporte of her beautie (leasure not seruyng me therevnto) I am a fraied, lest she would sone allure me, to goe many ty­mes to beholde her. Whereby I might perchaunce, growe negligēt in my matters of greatest importance. The yonge manne smilyng, saied. ‘Thinke you Cyrus that the beautie of a woman, can force a man vnwil­lyng, to attempt a thyng that should not be for the best [Page] If nature haue that force in her, she would compell all men a like. Doe you not see, that fire burneth all men, after one sorte, bicause it is his nature? Beautifull thynges bee not had in equall estimacion, some bee of greate price, some not so, some dooe regarde this, some that. For loue is a voluntarie thyng, and euery manne loueth what he liste. The brother is not in loue with the sister, but of an other she is loued. The father is not in loue with the doughter, and yet she is loued of an o­ther. For feare and lawe is sufficient to refraine loue. But if there were a lawe made to commaunde men, that thei whiche did not eate, should not bee hungrie, and thei that did not drinke, should not be a thirst, and that no manne should be colde in Winter, and hotte in Sommer, that lawe could not compell men to obeye those thynges. For menne by nature bee subiecte vnto theim. But to loue is a thyng free and voluntarie. Euery man loueth those thynges, that bee his owne, as his apparell and other his necessaries. Where­vnto Cyrus replied. If loue bee voluntarie: how can it bee that a man maie abandon the same, when he liste? But I haue seen men wepe for sorowe of loue, I haue knowen them that haue been slaues to loue, who be­fore thei haue loued, haue thought thraldome, the greatest euill: giuyng awaie many thinges, whiche had been better for them to haue kepte: and haue praied to God to be exonerated of loue, aboue all other diseases, and yet could not bee deliuered, beeyng bounde with stronger imprisonment, then if thei had béen tied with chaines, yeldyng themselues to their louers, seruyng them with all obedience. And when thei be hampered with suche mischieues, thei seeke not to auoide theim. Thei doe so in deede as you saie (answered the yonge man,) And therefore suche louers be miserable, wher­by [Page 29] thei wishe to dye, still continuyng in their woe and calamitie. And where there be a thousand waies to be ridde of life, yet thei will not die. Some of them fall to stealyng and robbyng of other menne. And when thei haue robbed, you with the firste thinkyng theft vnne­cessarie, doe condempne the theues, whom you doe not pardon, but punishe. In like maner the beautifull, doe not counsell menne to loue them, or couet that is not lawfull. But miserable men, shewyng themselues in­feriour to all lustes and desires, dooe in the ende accuse Loue, to be the aucthour of their miserie. Good and ho­nest men, although thei desire golde, beautifull hors­ses, and faire women, yet thei can abstaine from them all, as not subiecte to them, more then is meete. For I my self haue beholden this woman, whiche semeth to bee a surpassyng faire wight: and yet I am now with you, I ride, and dooe other thynges, accordyng to my duetie. Paraduenture (saied Cyrus) you went soner a­waie, then loue could haue time to fasten vpon a man. For fire touchyng a man, doeth not straite burne him: And woodde is not by and by in flame, yet would I not willingly touche fire, nor beholde beautifull per­sones. And I would giue you counsaill Araspas, to be­ware how you suffer your eyes to rolle, and wander v­pon faire women. For the fire burneth thē, that touche it: And beautifull folke, doe kindle them that beholde them a farre of, in suche wise that thei burne for loue. I warraunte you Cyrus (saied Araspas). For if I dooe continually looke vpon them, I will not so be drowned in loue, that the same shall prouoke me to do any thing that doeth not become me. You saie well saied Cyrus. Therefore keepe this woman as I bidde you, and see well vnto her. For paraduenture she is taken in good tyme.’ And so thei departed.

[Page]The yonge gentleman markyng the singulare beau­tie of the Ladie, and perceiuyng her greate honestie, he hauyng the custodie of her, thought he would dooe her pleasure, and by gesture sawe that she was not ingrate and vnthākfull, but verie diligent on her part, to cause her seruauntes, that all thinges at his comyng should be redie: And if he were by chaunce sicke, he lacked no kepyng, vpon whiche occasiōs, he fell in loue with her. And no meruell. For she was (as before is saied) a wo­man verie faire and amiable. Afterwardes kyng Cy­rus desirous to sende a spie into the countrie of Lydia, to learne what the Assirians did: Araspas whiche had the kepyng of the faire Ladie, seemed moste meete for that purpose. But Araspas chaūced to fall in loue with the Ladie, in suche wise as he was forced, to breake his mynde to her, that he must needes satisfie his pleasure. Whiche request, like a faithfull and louing woman to her housbande in his absence, she denied. Howbeit she would not accuse Araspas to Cyrus, beyng afraied to sette variaunce betwene twoo frendes. Araspas thin­kyng it a greate shame and reproche vnto hym, not to obtaine his desire: threatened the Ladie, that if she would not yelde to his requeste, he would haue it per­force. Then the woman fearyng violence, kepte the thyng no longer secrete, but sente one of her Eunuches to Cyrus, commaundyng hym to discouer the whole matter. Whiche when he heard, he laughed a good pace at him, who saied that he was superiour to loue, sendyng Artabasus with the Eunuche, to commaunde hym, not to force the woman: but if he could by faire meanes allure her, he would not be against it. When Artabasus came to Araspas: he rebuked hym, bothe for his infidelitie, in the thyng committed vnto his charge and also for his wickednesse, iniurie, and incontinēcie. [Page 30] Wherewithall Araspas wepte for sorowe, beyng op­pressed with shame, and confounded with feare, for the displeasure of Cyrus. Whiche thing Cyrus vnderstan­dyng called hym, and priuelie saied thus vnto hym.

‘I see Araspas that you be afraied of me, and muche ashamed. But be contente, for I knowe that the God­des haue been vanquished with loue, and dooe vnder­stande, what thinges the wiseste men haue suffred for the same. And I haue accused my self, bicause I could not cōteine, being in companie with faire personages. And hereof I my self am the occasion. For I compelled you to that inuincible matter. Araspas makyng aun­swere, saied: You be in this thing, O Cyrus, euen like vnto your self, as you be in all other. You be mercifull, and full of clemencie. But other mennes reporte is, that, whiche maketh me moste pensite. For so sone as the rumour of my calamitie, is dispersed, mine enemies will reioyce, and my frendes will counsaill me to flee, lest your maiestie doe hainously take reuenge for mine offence. Well Araspas, saied Cyrus: By that opinion and brute, you shall dooe me greate seruice, emonges my confederates. How can that be (said Araspas? How can I therein doe you any seruice? If presently (q Cy­rus) you doe make as though you fledde from me, and by goyng vnto myne enemies, you maie winne of thē greate credite. Uerely (saied Araspas) I suppose that I and my frendes, might raise a rumour in deede, that I am fledde from you for feare. So maie you (saied Cy­rus) returne vnto vs again, when you knowe our ene­mies secretes. For I thinke thei will make you priuie to al their counsell and aduises, bicause you shalbe in­credite with them, nothyng shalbe cōcealed from you, that we desire to knowe. I will euen now depart (said Araspas) for it is verie likely, that this my departure, [Page] maie seme to bee an argumente of trouthe, bicause I fledde for feare of punishment. Can you in that maner forsake faire Panthea (q Cyrus?) Truely (saied he) it euidentlie now appereth, that I am endewed with two mindes. And with the one I haue plaied the Phi­losopher, with loue that vntrue Sophistre. For there is no one minde, whiche is good and badde, and at one tyme, loueth good and euill thinges, and can not at one instant, perpetrate and doe one thing. Wherefore it is manifest, that there be twoo myndes. When the good minde ruleth, it dooeth thynges that be honest, when the euill is superiour, it woorketh ill. And now the good mynde, by makyng you his frende and confederate, doeth puissauntlie gouerne. Well (saied Cyrus) if you goe, you must beware, that your credite maie increase emonges them. Tell them hardely, the some of our in­deuours, but in suche wise, as our doynges maie bee lettes to their enterprises. And this shall let thē muche if you saie that we determine to inuade their countrie. For hearyng this, thei will not assemble their whole power, euery man fearyng his priuate parte. And see that you tary with them a good space. And looke what partes, thei meane nerest to approche, the same be most conuenient for vs to knowe. And bidde them to be re­die, when soeuer thei thinke time. For when you shall be departed from them, and thought that you knowe their order, thei must needes keepe the same, and bee a fraied to alter it, whiche if thei doe, thei will confounde them selues, through the sodaine chaunge.’

Thus Araspas departyng, tellyng his moste tru­stie seruauntes, what he would haue dooen in this matter, went his waie. But Panthea hearyng that A­raspas was gone, sent to Cyrus, saiyng.

‘Be not sorie Cyrus for the departure of Araspas, to [Page 31] your enemies. For if you will suffer me, to sende for my husbande, I doe promise you, that he shalbe a farre more assured frende, then Araspas was. And I knowe he will come with so greate power (for your aide) as he is able to make. For the father of the Assirian kyng, whiche now raigneth, was his frende. But this king vpon a tyme, went about to make a diuorcement, be­twene my husbande and me. Therefore, knowyng that this kyng, dooeth disdaine his good fortune, I am sure he would sone bee perswaded, to serue so noble a Prince as you be.’ Cyrus hearyng her saie so, commaū ­ded her to sende to her husband, whiche she did. Abra­datas knowyng his wiues tokens, and vnderstanding the effecte of her message, spedely came to Cyrus with M M horsemen. Thei that were the Persian spies, sent to Cyrus, declaryng what he was. Cyrus commaun­ded that forthwith, he shuld be brought vnto his wife. Whē the wife and husbande sawe eche other, thei im­brased like twoo, that mette after suche troublesome aduenture. Then Panthea declared the goodnes, tem­peraunce, and clemencie of Cyrus towarde her. Abra­datas hearyng of her interteignemente, saied. ‘What shall I dooe Panthea, to render thankes to Cyrus, for you and me? What other thyng (saied Panthea) but to indeuour your self, to be suche a trustie frende to hym, as he hath been towardes you. Then Abradatas went to Cyrus, and when he sawe hym, he tooke hym by the right hande and saied. For the pleasures that you haue doen me, O Cyrus, I haue no more to saie, but that I assure my self vnto you, as your frende, your seruaunt and confederate. And what soeuer I see you desire, I shall imploye my self, to the vttermoste of my power, to aide and helpe you in the same.’ To whō Cyrus said I accept you, and for this tyme dismisse you, to goe and [Page] suppe with your wife. Then you shall againe bee pla­ced in my Lente, with your frendes and myne. And when Abradatas sawe the preparacion of Cyrus, that he made against his enemies, he addressed to make prouision for hymself. His wife Panthea, had made of her treasure, a Curate and an helmet of gold, and likewise his vambraces, and had furnished the horsses of the Chariot with brasen barbes. When Cyrus had made diuers oracions, for the incoragyng of his armie, and had taken order, how all thynges might prosperouslie succede, diuidyng his Capitaines into seuerall battai­les, appoinctyng euery of thē their charge: Abradatas shewed hymself verie braue, and martiall in his Cha­riot. Who being aboute to put on a linen breast plate, accordyng to his Countrie maner: his wife Panthea brought him an armure of golde, and a Purple goune doune to his feete, after Robe fashion, and a Crimsen skarfe. These thynges had she priuelie wroughte for her housbande, knowyng the measure of his harnesse, whiche when her housbande sawe, he marueiled, and saied to Panthea. ‘Wife, haue you not defaced your Ie­wels, to make me this armure?’ ‘Truely (saied Pāthea) I haue a more precious Iewell then this. For if you seme to other, as you doe to me, you are my dearest Ie­well.’ In saiyng thus, she armed him, and would that no manne should haue seen her: for the teares distilled doune her chekes. Abradatas being in the fronte of the armie, armed after this maner, appered a gallante and braue capitaine, whose nature and complexion, agréed to his comelinesse. And takyng the raines of the Cha­riot in his handes, he prepared hymself to mounte vp.

Then Panthea, all other beeyng commaunded to stande backe, saied. ‘Truely Abradatas, if there be wo­men, that esteme their housebandes, more then their [Page 32] owne liues, I thinke you knowe that I am one of thē. Therefore what néede I to expresse, euery particulare thing. My factes, as I thinke, doe perswade you, more then woordes. And thus indeuouryng my self towar­des you, our mutuall loue is suche, that I had rather be buried quicke with you, beyng a noble manne, then to liue in shame. I esteme you with the beste, and my self not as the worst. Greate thankes we owe to Cy­rus, for his Princelie interteignemente of me, beyng a captiue, and chosen for himself, not like a prisoner with shame, but frée, without spot or blemish to mine honor. And vsed me, as though I had been his brothers wife And after Araspas departed from him, whiche had the custodie of me, I promised hym, that if he would giue me leaue to send for you, that you should become more loiall, and assured to hym, then euer Araspas was.’ A­bradatas delited with her chaste communicacion, & ten­derly laiyng his hande vpon her heade: Looking vp to heauen, made this praier. ‘O moste mightie Iuppiter, graunt that I maie shewe my self an housbande, mete for Panthea, and a frende worthie of Cyrus, who hath so curteouslie dealt with vs.’ Thus speaking at the en­trie of the Chariot seate, he went vp to the same, when he was set doune, the gouernour of the Chariot made fast the seate. Panthea hauyng nowe nothyng to em­brase, kissed the Chariotte seate. And he wente forthe. But Panthea followed hym priuelie, till he tourned and spied her, to whom he saied. ‘Bée of good comforte Panthea, A dieu and farewell.’ Then her Eunuches and women, conueighed her to her owne Chariot, co­ueryng the same with curteines.

Cyrus after the battaile and victorie, had againste Craelus: called diuers of his menne vnto hym, and de­maunded if thei sawe Abradatas. ‘For I maruell (said [Page] he) he cometh not vnto me now. For before the battell, many tymes he appered in my presence. Wherevnto one of his menne answered. The cause is (sir) that he is not a liue. For he was slain in the battaile, as he in­uaded the Aagiptians. The rest of his cōpanie, excepte his owne souldiours, fledde from hym, when thei sawe him incountre with the Aegiptian battaile. And whē he was deade, his wife Panthea tooke hym vp, & laied him in her owne wagon: conueiyng him to a certaine place, by the Riuer Pactolus. And (thei saie) that her Eunuches dooe digge a graue to burie him. His wife sitteth vpon the grounde, apparrelled with those fur­nitures that he did weare, leanyng her heade vpon her knees.’ With whiche woordes, Cyrus was driuen into greate sorowe, strikyng himself vpon the thigh, and by and by mounted vpon his horse. And taking with him M. horsemen: he went to mourne for his frende Abra­datas. More ouer he commaunded Gadatas and Go­bryas, to carrie the fairest apparrell thei could gette, to his good and honest frende that was deade, and to as­semble his orē and horse, and all his beastes and cattell wheresoeuer thei were, that thei might be sacrificed to Abradatas. But when he sawe Panthea, sittyng vpon the ground, and the deade corps liyng by her, he wept for sorowe, and saied. ‘Alacke good woman, thou trustie and faithfull wife, doest thou thus depart and leaue vs alone?’ And with those wordes he toke her by the rght hand, and therwithall was presented the deade hand of Abradatas, whiche the Aegiptiās in the battell had cut of: whiche when Cyrus sawe, he then lamented, more then he did before. And Panthea cried out. Who com­forted by Cyrus, kissed the deade hand, laiyng the same againe in his place, so well as she could, and saied.

‘Thus it is chaunced Cyrus: but why doe you beheld [Page 33] the deade bodie? This I knowe (q she) he hath suffred for me, beyng none of the lest aduentures, whiche he hath hazarded for my sake. And perchaunce Cyrus, he would haue doen no lesse for you. For I exhorted hym (like a foole as I was) to attempt this enterprise, that he mighte haue shewed hymself a frende, of worthie remembraunce. But he obeied that request, not onelie for my sake, but to pleasure you: He hath valiauntlie bestowed his life and is deade, and I vnhappie caitife that gaue him first counsaile, doe sitte heare aliue. But Cyrus for a certaine space holdyng his peace, powred furthe abundance of teares, and then saied. This gen­tleman (Ladie Panthea) hath a commendable ende, for he died in victorie. But take these furnitures, and ad­orne hym therewithall. For Gobryas and Gadatas were come with goodlie and verie excellent apparell. Then he saied, be sure he shalbe honoured with grea­ter thinges then these. A monumente also, accordyng to his worthinesse, shalbe erected vpon his graue. Sa­crifice shalbe offred, méete for a manne so valiaunt and puissaunt. Thou likewise shalt not be left comfortles. For in consideration of thy great chastitie and vertue. I will honour thee, and appoincte a garrison to con­uey thee into what place thou art disposed to goe. To whom Panthea saied. Be of good chere Cyrus, I will not hide from you the place, wherin I am determined to bestowe my self.’ Cyrus hearyng her saie so, went a­waie, pitiyng the woman, that was bereued of suche a housebande, and lamentyng the manne, that had lefte suche a wife behinde hym, and was like no more to sée her againe. But Panthea commaunded her Eunuches to goe out of the place, till she had satisfied her self with teares, and lamentacions for her housebande. For the prepared to kill her self, requiryng her Nursse to tarie [Page] by her, cōmaundyng her, that when she was deade, she should shroude her and her husbande, in one garment. The Nursse perswaded the Ladie, with humble wor­des and supplicacions, from her determinaciō. But she could not preuaile: and when she sawe that her mai­stres, toke her wordes in ill parte, she satte downe and wept. But Panthea with a sworde, which she had pre­pared a long tyme for that purpose, killed her self, and laiyng her heade vpon her husebandes breaste, she yel­ded from her chaste bodie, her innocente ghoste. The Nursse seyng that, cried out, and couered them bothe, as she was cōmaunded. Cyrus vnderstandyng the wo­mans facte, was amazed, and spedelie went to sée, if she might be holpen. The Eunuches (beyng three in nom­ber) seyng their maistres dead, thei likewise drewe out their swordes, & killed themselues in the place, where thei were cōmaunded to stand. For memorie of which facte Cyrus created a noble monumēt, to the perpetuall praise of chastitie, & honest loue. Whiche (as Xenophō reporteth) remained to his daies, with their names in­grauen in Syrian letters.

¶The .xij. Nouell.

ALexander the mightie and noble Empe­rour, after he had subdued Darius the Persian kyng: at length came to Sydone, a famous citie, by reason of the auncient fame of the first founders. The same citie was vnder the gouernment of Strato, and mainteined by the puissance of Darius, who yelding more by force [Page 34] of the people, then by free will, was thought vnwor­thie, to raigne and rule there. Alexander at the request of his frende Ephestion, willed him to appoinct one to be king, whom the Citizens should thinke moste wor­thie of that state. After profers of Ephestion, to diuers of the yonge gentlemen of that citie, and refusall made of their partes: thei alledged that none ought to enioy the dignitie of their king, but suche as were descended of the royall bloodde. Thinking none to be more mete for that state, then one Abdolominus, who being of the roiall race, for pouertie was inforced to inhabite a litle cotage without the citie. His good life was the cause of his pouertie, as it is to many other: & labouryng in his daiely trauell, vnderstoode not the brute of the warre, that troubled all Asia. Ephestion and the yong gentle­men repaired to his garden, with garmētes to garnish hym like a kyng, and founde hym makyng cleane his garden, whom thei saluted, and saied. ‘You muste ex­chaunge your homelie clothes, with these riche robes, wherewith wée here presente you. Washe your bodie that now is foule and vncleane, take vpon yon the co­rage of a kyng: and in this state (whereof you be wor­thie) expresse the same sobrietie and continencie, you dooe presentlie vse. And when you sitte in your regall seate, vsyng the aucthoritie of life & death of your sub­iectes: Doe in no wise forgette the fortune, wherin you were before you were made king, ne yet for what pur­pose you did receiue it.’ The matter semed to Abdolo­minus like a dreame: and demaunded of theim, if their wittes were founde, that did deride hym in that sorte. But when he sawe them binde by othe, their doynges to be of trouth, he washed himsef, and takyng the gar­ment, whiche was purple and golde, went with them into the palace. The fame was diuerslie bruted of this [Page] facte. Some fauoured the cause, and some did froune a­gainst it. But suche as were riche, did reproue his po­uertie and base estate, to those that were nere about A­lexander, whiche made the kyng to sende for him. And when he had long be holden his maner and order, said. ‘Your personage doeth not degenerate, from the fame of your progenitors. But I would faine knowe, how paciēt you were, in the time of your pouertie. I would to God (q Abdolominus) I could beare my prosperi­tie in like case now I am kyng. These handes did get that I desired. And hauyng nothing, I lacked nothing.’ Whiche wordes made Alexander, conceiue a good o­pinion of hym. To whom he restored the riches of the kyng before, and diuers other thynges, taken awaie by the Persians.

¶The .xiij. Nouell.

TVllie in the first booke of his Offi­ces saieth, that verie miserable, is ambicion and desire of honour: and that moste men, whiche be giuen to cupidite of gouernement, honor and glorie be forgetfull of Iustice. The truthe of whiche graue woor­des, vttred by a Prince of eloquence, the rude and bar­barous Ambassadours of Scythia, in plain and home­lie talke, boldlie did pronounce to kyng Alexander (surnamed Magnus) when he was aboute to inuade their countrie. For when he hadde within three daies finished twelue thousande boates, to transport his ar­mie [Page 35] ouer the famous riuer of Tanais (whiche deuideth Asia from Europa) against the poore Scythians, twen­tie Ambassadors of the Scythians came to Alexanders cāpe, to speake with him, to proue if thei could by wor­des, withdrawe his entended purpose: Before whom when thei were placed, the eldest of them spake these woordes. If the goddes had giuen thee a bodie, accor­dyng to the immoderate desire of thy minde, the whole worlde could not be able to hold thée. With one of thy handes, thou wouldest touche the Oriente, and with thy other hande the Occident. And when thou haste gotten that: thou wilte desire to knowe, where the brightnesse of the Diuine Maiestie is placed. Thus thou couetest after the thing, thou art not able to re­ceiue. Out of Europa thou marchest into Asia, and out of Asia thou passest into Europa. Afterwardes, if thou doest vanquishe all mankinde: thou must make warre with wooddes and snowes, with riuers and wilde bea­stes. What? Doest thou not knowe, that greate trees growe long, and yet be rooted out of the grounde in a moment: He is a foole that looketh after the fruict; and doeth not measure the height of the Tree, whereon it groweth. Take hede lest while thou doest contende to clim to the toppe, thou fallest downe with the bowes, whiche thou doest imbrace. The Lion also somtyme is made the feede of the smallest birdes. And rust consu­meth Iron. There is nothyng so firme, that is not in perill of the weake. What haue we to doe with thee? Wee neuer touched thy lande. What thou art, and from whence then commest, is it not lawfull for vs to to be ignoraunte, that liue in the waste wooddes? We can not be subiecte to any manne, and we desire not to rule. Wee haue certaine giftes peculiar vnto vs, be­cause thou shalte not be ignoraunte, of the state of our [Page] nacion. The yoke of Tren, the Plough, the Dart, and the bowle: Those thinges we vse, bothe with our frē ­des, and againste our enemies. Unto our frendes wee giue the fruictes, gotten with the labour of our oxen. And with them in our Bowle, we sacrifice wine to the Goddes. Our enemies we strike with the Dart a farre of, and with the speare nere at hande. After that sorte in time past, we ouercame the kyng of Scythia, and af­terwardes the kyng of Media and Persia, and the waie was open vnto vs into Aegipt. But thou whiche doest boaste, that thou art come to persecute Theues, art the common thefe of all nacions, wherevnto thou makest thy repaire. The Countrie of Lydia thou haste taken. Thou hast enioyed Syria. Thou doest possesse Persia, and the Bactrianes be vnder thy power. Thou dooest goe into India. And now thou extendest thy vnstable and gredie handes vpon our cattall. What nede haste thou of those riches, whiche doe make thee so hungrie? Thou art the first of all men, whiche with sacietie hast gotten famine, that the more thou haste, the more gre­delie thou couetest after thynges thou hast not. Doest thou not remember, how long thou hast slicked about Bactria? And whiles thou goest aboute to bryng them in subiection, the Sogdians beginne to reuolte. Thus warre dooeth growe vnto thee of thy victorie. For bee thou neuer so great, and puissant ouer other, yet there be none that can induce to be gouerned by strangers. Passe now Tanais, thou shalt perceiue what breadth it beareth, and yet thou shalt neuer ouertake the Scithi­ans, whose pouertie is swifter, then thy armie, whiche carieth the spoile of so many nacions. For when thou shalt thinke vs to be farre of, thou shalte see vs within thy campe, with like swiftnesse we folowe, and flee a­waie, I heare that our desertes & voide places, be moc­ked [Page 36] by the Greke prouerbes, we couet rather those de­sertes and places vnhabited, then cities and plentifull soiles. Therfore holde faste thy fortune, for she is tickle and can not bee holden against her will. Folowe thou the counsaile that is good, specially whiles the tyme doeth serue. Bridle thy felicitie, and thou shalt rule it the better. Our coūtrie mē saie, that Fortune is with­out feete, and that she hath onely handes and winges, but whē she stretcheth forth her hand, she will not suf­fer her winges to be touched. Finally, if thou be a God thou oughtest to giue benefites to mortall menne, and not to take awaie the commodities thei haue alredie: but if thou be a man: consider that thou art alwaie the same that thou art. It is foolishe parte to remember those thinges, and to forget thy self. Those people that fele not thy warres, thou maiest vse as thy frēdes. For frendship is moste firme and stable emonges equall, and those seme to bee equall, that haue not vsed force & violence emonges themselues. Beware thou take thē not for thy frēdes, whom thou doest subdue, and bring in obedience. There is no frendship betwene the mai­ster and the seruaunte, and in peace the lawe of armes is obserued. Beleue not that the Scythians doe binde frendship with any othe. For thei make their othe, by obseruacion of faithe. The maner of the Grekes, is to iustifie their factes, by inuocacion of their Goddes to witnesse. But wee knowe, that Religion consisteth in faithe her self. Thei whiche doe not renerence to men, doe begile the Goddes. Thou haste no nede of hym to be thy frende, of whose frendship thou stādest in doubt. Thou haste vs as kepers of Asia and Europa. For wee should touche the Countrie of Bactria, were it not for Tanais, whiche deuideth vs. And beyonde Tanais al is ours so farre as Thracia, and the fame is that Thracia [Page] bordreth vpon Macedonia: wee beyng neighbours, to bothe thy dominions, chose now whether then wilte haue vs, frended or foes. These were the woordes of the Scythians. Howbeit these homelie and plaine ad­uertisementes, could not diuerte kyng Alexander frō his intended enterprise, and accordyng to his desired successe, he ouercame them.

¶The .xiiij. Nouell.

IN the presence of many lear­ned men of Rome, Metellus surnamed Numidicus, for his victories and triumphe ouer Iugurtha Kyng of Numidia, a Countrie in Africa: In the tyme of his office of Censor, made an Oracion beiwe the Romane people, of mariage of wines, vpon occasion that he hymself, by diuers of his frēdes, was perswaded to that state. Against which he vsed many vehement inuectiues and termes, which Aulus Gellius omitteth, for that he was loth to offende (when reporte thereof should be bruted) the nice cares, and louing mindes of the matrones, and dames of that Citie. Knowyng well that bothe thei, and their succes­sours: would not forgette, reprochefullie to combate, with his spirite and shadowe, when thei were not able (beyng preuented by earthly vermine) by any meanes to impeche his corps, in tombe fast closed and buried. But when I doe remember, how the same was saied, and also noised emonges a bande of Heathen soules, [Page 37] whose mindes for want of godlie skill, could not digest suche hainous blastes, as sounded in a tyme prophane, wherein no sacred voice of christian lore, was breathed vnto redemed flocke: I call to minde that now I may, in tyme of grace, righte frankelie write, without of­fence to humble state of matrone kinde, in these oure daies, inspired with spirite of humble harte, whose ea­res no tauntyng talke can griue. Wherefore with blushles face, and vnstaied penne, I meane the woor­des, of that well learned wighte, in open audience to pronounce, and by this booke, to suche elected sort for to declaire. But leth for to offende, as one wel bet in ma­riage schole, I must, a paena & culpa, forgiuenes craue: lest some shreude Heathen dame (for other doubt I not) doe frō her graue Al'Arme crie out. And then to fight with buried ghostes: my manhode will not serue, but by and by with postyng legges, and fliyng faste for to retire. But doubtes here bee brought foorthe, where doubting cause is none. Gellius therefore in persone of the vnmaried knight, in woordes right fewe, this sen­tence of the maried state, doeth vtter and proclame.

‘O ye Romanes, if we could be without wiues, then all wee should wante that griefe. But bicause nature hath so prouided, that neither with them wee can liue and passe our tyme conuenientlie, nor yet by any mea­nes be without thē satisfied, we ought rather to make preparacion, for perpetuall health, then for short plea­sure.’ With whiche woordes, diuers of the Romanes were displeased, and founde faulte with Metellus who (for that he went aboute, to exhorte the people to ma­riage) ought not by any meanes, to confesse any grie­fes and incommodities, to be in the same. But in these wordes he semed rather, to disswade and terrifie, then to perswade and incourage. But contrarilie he ought, [Page] rather to haue affirmed no sorowes and perpierities, to be in wedlocke, and if perchaunce any chaunced to be, thei were but light, and easie to bee borne and suffred, whiche for greater commodities and pleasures, might full well bee forgotten, and those that were, happed not through Natures vice, but by the defaulte and ill behauiour of some maried folke. How beit, Titus Ca­stritius supposed that Metellus, spake well & worthely.

‘For (saied he) a Censor ought to speake like a Cen­sor, a Rhetorician like one that professed Rhetorike: It is giuen to Rhetoricians, to vse false sentences, bolde, subtile and capcious: if so be, thei be likelie, and maie by any action, moue the hartes of men. Moreouer he saied, that it was a shame for a Rhetorician, in an euill matter, to leaue out any thing vntouched. But truely Metellus (quod he) is a holie man indued with grauitie and fidelitie, and that it was not decent for so honorable a personage, as he was, to speake any thing to the Romane people, but that he thought to be true, and likelie to seme true to all men: specially sithe he in­treated of suche a matter, as by daiely knowlege, com­mon experience, and frequented vse of life, might well bee comprehended and knowen. Therefore in giuyng to vnderstande, a grief notorious to all menne, he hath deserued by that oracion, a fame of a diligent and faith full man, bicause (to be short) he easely and redely per­swaded, that a citie can not prospere & continue, with­out the vse of Matrimonie, whiche of all thynges is moste assured & true.’ This Titus Castritius was a tea­cher of Rhetorike in Rome, and in the same Citie for declamacion and teachyng, was in greatest reputaci­on. A manne of right greate grauitie and authoritie: and of the Emperour Adrian, for his vertue and lear­nyng well estemed.

¶The .xv. Nouell.

PHocion a peripatetique Phi­losopher, in a boke whiche he made, intitled Cornucopia, writeth this historie of De­mosthenes and Lais the har­lot of Corinth, saiyng: That Lais by reason of her excellēt beautie, and pleasaunt fauor demaunded for the vse of her bodie, a greate somme of money. Unto whom was re­sorte, of all the riche men of Graecia: but she would not admite them to that facte, excepte thei would first, giue vnto her, her demaunde. The quantitie of whiche somme was exceding great, wherof rose the Prouerbe Non cuiuis homini contingit, adire Corinthum.

He that traueiled to Corinthe to Lais, not able to giue and bestowe, that somme vpon her, went in vain. To this woman, that noble Philosopher Demosthe­nes secretly repaired, praiyng her to giue hym leaue. But she demaundyng of hym, tenne thousande dena­rios (amountyng verie nere to thrée hundred pounde of our money) astonied at the wantonesse of the woman, and discoraged with the greatnesse of the somme, retourned backe againe, saiyng. ‘I come not to buye repentaunce to dere.’

¶The .xvj. Nouell.

WHen Pyrrhus Kyng of Epirus, in­ferred warres vpon the Romanes, and was come into Italie: & there had prosperouslie foughte, and ac­hieued the victorie of twoo or thrée battailes, whereby the Romanes were broughte to greate distresse, and moste parte of Italie had reuolted: one Timocha­res Ambraciensis, a frende of Kyng Pyrrhus, secretly repaired to C. Fabritius then Consat, and tolde hym, if he would giue hym a rewarde, he would poison the Kyng, whiche he saied, he might easely bryng to passe bicause his sonnes, at table waited vpon Kyng Pyr­rhus cuppe. Hereof Fabritius wrote to the Senate, re­quiryng their aduise. The Senate depeached Ambas­sadours to the Kyng commaundyng them to saie no­thyng of Timochares, but to giue the kyng warnyng, circumspectly to loke wel about hym, to preuent suche treason, as by those that were nerest him might be at­tempted. Thus muche is written in the historie of Va­lerius Antiates. But Quadrigarius in the third booke, writeth that it was one Nicias, and not Timochates, that went to Fabritius, and that those Ambassadours, were not sente by the Senate, but by the Consuls, and that the kyng rendred praise and thankes to the Ro­maines, restoryng to them, all the prisoners, whiche [Page 39] he had taken. The Consuls that tyme, were C. Fabri­tius and Aemilius. The tenour of whiche letters then sent to kyng Pyrrhus, the saied Cl. Quadrigarius affir­meth to be this. ‘The Romane Consuls sende saluta­cions to king Pyrrhus. We for thine iniuries, displea­sures and wronges iustlie offended, for the valiaunte stomackes remainyng in vs, doe studie and indeuour like enemies, to continue warres vpon thée. But it se­meth good vnto vs, for the loue we beare to our faithe, and for common exaumple, to wishe thee well to doe, whom by armes we be not able to vanquishe. There came vnto vs one Nicias, thy familiar frende, to de­maūde reward of vs, if secretlie he did kill thee: whiche we vtterlie denied, and required hym for that facte, to looke for no rewarde at our handes. Wherevpon wée thought good, to giue thee aduertisement hereof, lest if any suche thyng did chaunce, the Cities should not thinke, that we were priuie to the facte. For we delite not, to fight with giftes, rewardes, and treason. Thou in the meane tyme, excepte thou take heede, art like to die. Farewell.’ This was the auncient order emonges the Romanes, that neuer wer pleased, by the cowardly ouerthrow of other, to winne fame and glorie. And bi­cause I redde an other excellent historie of the same Fa­britius, I haue thought good, to adde the same to this Nouell. When peace was cōcluded, betwene the Ro­manes and the Samnites: the Ambassadors of the Sam­nites, repaired vpon a time to this Fabritius, who after thei had remembred vnto hym, diuers & sundrie thyn­ges, frendie dooen in their behalfe, thei offered vnto hym for rewarde, a greate somme of money, intreatyng him to receiue the same. Whiche the Sam­nites did (as the reporte was) bicause thei sawe, that he wanted many thynges, for the furniture of his house, [Page] and maintenaunce of the same, whiche thought, not to be sufficiētly decent for his estate and calling. Whiche Fabricius perceiuing with his bare handes, he touched his eares and eyes, and then stroaked his face downe­warde, his noase, his mouthe and throate, and the rest of his bodie, to the bottome of his bealie, answeryng the Ambassadours in this wise.

‘That whiles he was able to rule and gouerne all those mēbers, whiche he touched, he was sure to lacke nothing. Wherefore (quod he) these members, whiche be profitable and necessarie for my vse, will not suffer me to receiue this money, whereof thei knowe I haue no nede.’ Hereby reprehendyng the foolishe indeuour of these Samnites, in offryng to hym a bribe, whiche he was neuer accustomed to take for any cause, what so­euer he accomplished. Still shewyng hymself a man sincere and incorrupte

¶The .xvij. Nouell.

WArres wer addressed by the Roma­nes, against the Falisques (a people of Italie, the ruines of the chief citie whereof, doe yet appere sixe miles from Viterba) and an armie con­scribed and sent thether, vnder the conducte of Furius Camillus. The Falisques vpon the approche of the Romanes, were cō ­strained to retire within their citie, thinkyng the same to be their moste assured refuge. And thei to continue their siege, incamped a mile from the same, and deter­mined [Page 40] throughlie to besiege the same, whiche in deede had like to haue been of verie long continuaunce, ex­cept fortune had giuen to the Romane Capitaine, for his tried and well approued valiaunce, victory in time whiche chaunced after this maner. It was a custome emōges the Falisques (obserued also in these our daies) to haue their children instructed by one schole maister, and hym also to vse for their guide, and companion in all games and pastymes. Emonges them there was a Schole maister, whiche taught noble mennes sonnes. Who in the time of peace, teachyng those children, and vsyng for their exercise, to leade them abroade in the fieldes, kepte still that order, for all the warres before the gates, sometyme with shorte walkes, sometyme with longer for their disportes. And continuyng vari­etie of talke with those children, longer then he was wont to doe: at lēgthe he brought them to the Romane campe, euen to the Lent of Camillus, hopyng thereby (by like) to haue béen wel welcomed, and liberally re­warded, saiyng to Camillus, as detestable woordes as the facte was traiterous and wicked, whiche was in effecte. That he was come with that present vnto him, to yelde those children into his handes, whose paren­tes were the principall of that citie: And thereby knew for certaintie, that the citie would surrender. Camillus seyng this facte, and hearyng those wordes, saied vnto hym. ‘Thou art not come (villane) to a people and cap­taine, with this thy traiterous offer, semblable to thy self. We haue no alliaūce with the Falisques, cōfirmed by compacte, or humaine promes, but amitie where­vnto, nature dooeth binde vs, is and shalbee for euer­more betwene vs. Warre so well as peace, hath his lawe and righte. Whiche we haue learned to obserue with no lesse Iustice, then constauncie. Wee make no [Page] warres against children, whom we spare, whōsoeuer we inuade or take any cities: But against armed men we fight, yea, and against suche, as without offence, or prouocacion of our partes, assailed the Romanes cāpe at the siege of the Veiens. Thou hast vanquished them so muche as lieth in thee, with a newe kinde of victorie achieued by treason. But I will subdue them by pol­licie of the Romanes, by vertue, indeuour, and armes euen as I did the Veiens.’ When he had spoken those wordes: He caused this traiterous schole maister, to be striped starke naked, and bindyng his handes behinde hym, deliuered hym to the children, to carrie backe againe, with roddes in their handes, to whippe hym home to the citie. Whē he was in this order returned, the people of the citie flocked together, to see this sight. Then the magistrates assembled in counsaile, vpō this straunge occasion, and where before thei were incen­sed, with merueilous wrath and furie, rather desirous of vtter ouerthrowe, then peace: Nowe their myndes were quite altered, and peace vniversally demaunded. The fidelitie of the Romanes, and iustice of Camillus, bothe in Forum and Court was celebrated, and by ge­nerall assent, Ambassadours were sent into the campe to Camillus, and from thence by Camillus sufferāce, to the Senate at Rome, of purpose to yelde them selues to their gouernement, who beyng brought before the Senate, spake these woordes.

‘We (fathers conscripte) vanquished by you & your capitaine, where at neither God nor man ought to bee offended, haue yelded our selues to you, thinkyng that we shall liue more happie, and better contented vnder your gouernemente, then by our owne iawes and li­berties, a thyng that maketh the victor more glorious, and praise worthie, then any other. By the successe of [Page 41] these warres, twoo holsome examples, bee manifested to mankinde. Ye doe preferre faithe in warres, before certaine victorie, and wre induced by that faithe, haue of our owne accorde, presented victorie vnto you. We be at your commaundement: sende thither commissio­ners, to receiue our weapons, our pledges, and our ci­tie, whiche standeth with the gates wide open. Wee hope well, that neither, ye shall haue occasiō to be mis­cōtented with our fidelitie, nor we offended with your gouernement and Empire. For whiche facte, greate thankes were attributed to Camillus, bothe by the Fa­lisques and Romanes.’

Here appered the face and true Image, of that great vertue Iustice, wherewith this noble man was truely affected. His noble nature was not able to abide, any traiterous facte, doen by vnnaturall citizens, towarde their owne countrie. No vngratitude of his owne coū ­trie men, could withdrawe his nature, from the zeale and loue he bare to his countrie. His condempnacion by vnkinde Apuleius Saturninus the Tribune, for whiche he fledde to Ardea, could not let or impeach his magnanimitie, from giuing the Galles an ouerthrowe when thei had sacked Rome, and sharpely besieged the Capitole: who in his absence (created Dictator) by ga­theryng together suche Romanes as were fledde, vn­wares sette vpon the couetous Galles, as thei were in cōtrouersie, for paiment of a golden somme of money, and thereby restored his countrie to libertie. Where­fore, worthely might he be intitled, with the honoura­ble name of a second Romulus. For as Romulus was the firste builder, and peopler of that citie, so was Ca­millus, the vindicator and deliuerer of the same.

THe same historie is written by Ca­to, in an oracion whiche he made to his souldiours againste Galba, conteinyng in effects as foloweth. The Senatours of Rome vsed be­fore this tyme, to enter into the Senate house with their soonnes, Praetextatis, that is, with long robes garded about the skirtes with purple silke. When the Senate debated of graue and weightie matters, thei euer differred the same, till the nexte daie, forbiddyng that those causes, should not bee published, before thei were throughly decreed. The mother of the yonge gentleman Papy­rius, whiche had been with his father in the Senate house, asked of hym, what the fathers had doen in the Senate house that daie. Papyrius answered, that in a­ny wise he ought not, to vtter the secrets of the same. The mother more desirous to know, then she was be­fore, went about by faire meanes, foule woordes, and correction, to vnderstande the secretes of the Senate, and the cause why the same were kept so silēt. Wher­fore she more earnestly endeuoured, to learne the same of her sonne. The yonge manne by compulsion of his mother, toke occasion to invent a pleasaunt and mery lie, in this wise. ‘Mother (quod he), the Senate dooeth deliberate and consult, whether it be more commodi­ous, and profitable for the common wealthe, that one manne should haue twas wiues: or whether one wife, should haue twoo husbandes.’ When the olde Ladie heard this she was abashed, and in fearfull wise, goeth to the other Ladies and matrones of Rome, tellyng them, where about their husbandes did consulte. The [Page 42] next daie the women flocked together, in great trai­nes and in lamentable wise, repaired to the Senate, besechyng thē that one woman, might rather be ma­ried to twoo husbandes, then twoo wiues to one man. The Senatours entryng into the Court, marueiled what toies were in the womens heades, to make that demaunde. The yonge gentleman Papyrius stepped forthe, declaryng how importunate his mother was, to knowe wherevpon thei consulted the daie before, and therfore he deuised that fained tale, whiche he had imagined, to pacifie her desire. The Senators hearing and perceiuyng, his good and honest disposiciō, great­ly commended and extolled, his fidelitie & witte. How beit, thei made a law, that from that tyme forth, none of their sonnes, should come into the house with their father, but onely Papyrius. Who afterwardes recei­ued the surname of Praetextatus, to honour and beau­tifie his name, and notable wisedome, in kepyng se­cretes, and holdyng his peace, in the tyme of that youthly age.

¶The .xix. Nouell.

AVlus Gellius demaundyng of the Philosophier Taurus, whether a wiseman could bee angrie: Taurus after he had disputed muche of that affection, turned to Gellius and said This is mine opinion of the angrie man. But what the Philosophier Plutarche iudgeth thereof, I thinke it not muche out of the waie, if I tell thee his minde. Plutarche had a [Page] bondeman, which was an vnthriftie and wicked ver­let, but giuen to learnyng, and to disputacion of Phi­losophie, whō vpon a tyme he did beate, makyng hym to put of his coate, and to be whipped, for what offence I knowe not. He beganne to beate him. The fellowe cried out, that he had deserued no cause, why he ought to be so beaten. At length in continuaunce of his bea­tyng, he gaue ouer his criyng and complaintes, and began to vtter earnest and serious wordes, saiyng. ‘It was not Plutarche the Philosopher, that did beate hym, he saied it was a shame for Plutarche to bee an­grie, and how he had heard hym, many tymes dispute of that vice of angre, and that he had written a good­ly boke thereof, with many suche woordes. Why (q Plutarche) with gētle and quiet debatyng of the mat­ter. Thou lubbor, doe I seine to be angrie with thee? Doest thou either by any countenaunce, by my talke, by my colour, or wordes, perceiue that I am angrie? Neither mine eyes be fierce, nor my mouthe troubled I crie not out a loude, I chaufe not in rage or fume, I speake no vnsemely woordes, whereof I take repen­taunce, I tremble not.’ At which be signes and tokens of angre. Whiche pretie notes of that vnsemely passi­on, ought to minister to all men, occasion to auoyde that vice.

¶The .xx. Nouell.

AEsope of Phrygia is not vnworthelie de­med a wise mā. Forsomuche as he admo­nisheth & perswadeth, those thynges that be profitable: not seuerely or imperiou­sly as Philosophers do, but deuising pre­tie and pleasaunt fables, he indueth the mindes of mē [Page 43] with holsome and prouident instruction. As by this fa­ble of the birdes neste, he pretily and aptlie dooeth pre­monishe, that the hope & confidence of thynges, which man goeth about to bryng to passe, ought to bee fixed and trusted, to none other but to hymself. A litle birde (saieth he) called the Larke, buildeth her neste in the Wheate fielde, and her birdes beginne to fledge and feather, when the Wheate waxeth ripe. By chaunce the same Larke did make her nest in a pece of Wheat that was sonest redie to bee reaped. So that when the Wheate was yelowe, her litle ones were not fledged. Therefore fliyng abrode to séeke meate, for her bir­des, she warned them, that if there fortuned any ne­wes to bee dooen or spoken, in her absence thei should giue diligent héede therevnto, and to tel her when she retourned. Within a while after the Owner of the corne called the yonge man, his sonne, vnto hym (sai­yng) doest thou see this Wheate now ripe, and redy to to bee cutte lackyng nothyng, but helpe to reape the same? Gette thee therfore to morowe in the mornyng (so sone as the daie doeth breake) vnto my frēdes and neighbours, and praie them to come and helpe me in with this Corne. And so departed. When the dame was retourned, the yonge Larkes in tremblyng and fearful wise, peping and chirping about their mother, praied her to make hast to seeke some other place. For the owner of the Wheate had sent for his frendes, to be there the next day by times, to reape the same. Their dame badde them to be of good chere: for if the owner (quod she) doe referre it to his frendes: I am sure the Wheate shall not be cutte downe to morowe. There­fore we shall not nede to feare. The next daie the dame flewe abrode again for foode, and the owner waited at the houre appoincted for his frendes. The Sonne was [Page] vp, whose beames shone hot, and nothyng was doen, his frēdes came not. Then he saied againe to his sonne me thinke soonne (quod he) our neighbonrs be slepers and tarrie longe. Goe, call I praie thée, our kinsfolke and cosins, that thei maie help vs to morowe betimes, whiche saiyng the yonge Larkes ones againe a fraied tolde their dame when she retourned. The dame still perswaded them to bee of good chere, and not to feare. For kinsfolke in these daies, bée so slacke to dooe good déedes (quod she) and to helpe their owne stocke & kin­red, that thei be loth to take paines, specially at so short and sodain warnyng: Neuerthelesse faire birdes (quod she) harken what shalbe saied again, and tell me. The next mornyng the olde Larke went for the againe, for foode and forage, and the kinsfolke and Cosins came not, accordyng to the owners requeste. At length the owner saied to his sonne. A dieu my frendes and kins­menne. To morowe in the morenyng, brynge hither twoo Sickles, the one for me, and the other for thy self. And wee with our owne handes, will cut downe this Wheate. The mother Larke, hearyng her yonge ones tell this tale at her returne: Ye Marie my babes (quod she) now it is tyme to be gone. For the thyng whereof the owner hath spoken so longe, shall now be dooen in déede, sithe he purposeth to dooe the same hymself, and trusteth to none other. Wherevpon the Larke toke vp her yonge ones, & went to inhabite in some other place And the corne accordingly, was cut downe by the ow­ner. This fable Aesope reporteth, premonishyng men to beware of light hope, and vaine truste, to be reposed in frēdes and kinsfolke. And the same Q. Ennius in his Satyres, verie elegantly in trimme verses hath set out, whereof the twoo laste, worthie to bée had in harte and memorie, I haue thought good to remember.

¶The .xxj. Nouell.

ANtiochus makyng greate prepa­racion & furniture, to inferre warre vpon the Romanes, decked his ar­mie with Siluer and Golden ansi­gnes and Pendentes, wherein he had plentie of wagons, chariottes, and Elephantes with towers, his bande of horsemen glittered gloriouslie, with Golden bridles, trappers, barbes, and suche like. The king be­holdyng, in glorious and reioysyng wise, his gaie and beautifull armie: loked towardes Hannibal, and saied.

How saiest thou Hannibal. Thinkest thou that these thynges be not inough and sufficiente, to matche with the Romanes? Hanibal mocking and deluding, the co­wardnesse and weakenesse of his souldiors, cladde in those precious and costlie furnitures, saied. ‘All these thynges be inough, and inough againe for the Roma­nes, although thei were the moste couetous men of the [Page] worlde.’ The kyng vnderstoode Hannibal, that he had meant of the nomber of his souldiers, and of their bra­uerie. But he meant of the praie and spoite, whiche the Romanes should winne and gette.

¶The .xxij. Nouell.

THere chaūced to be certain plaies and games at Rome, where were many monstruous and cruell beastes. But emonges all those beastes, the huge­nesse and cruell aspectes of the Lions, were had in greatest wonder, special­ly of one. Whiche Lion was of an huge and greate bignesse, hauyng a terrible voice, his clawes stretched for the, his bristelles and heare vpright, beholding with his fierce and dedly eyes, all the multitude stādyng by. There was brought in, to fight with the Lion, emon­ges all the reste, one Androdus a Dacian borne, the bondman of a greate personage, of the Consular order whom the Lyon beholdyng a farre of, sodainlie stoode still. And afterwardes by litle and litle, in gentle sorte he came vnto the man, as though he had knowen him: Waggyng his taile like a Spaniell, fawnyng vpō his maister: and licked the handes and legges of the poore felowe, whiche for feare was almoste dead. This An­drodus perceiuyng the flateries of this fierce beast, re­couered comforte, and earnestlie viewed and marked the Lion. Then thei beganne to entre into mutual ac­quaintaunce, one reioysyng at an others metyng. U­pon whiche straunge euent, the people raised greate shoutes and acclamaciōs: wherevpon Androdus was [Page 45] called before the Emperor, and demaunded the cause, why that moste cruell beast did in that sort, fawne and fauour hym aboue all other.

Androdus tolde a merueilous and straunge histo­rie of the cause thereof, saiyng. ‘If it please your Maie­stie, when my Lorde and Maister, did by the office of Proconsul gouerne Africa, I through his causelesse stripes, and daily whippynges, was forced to runne a­waie. And when I had gotten pardon of the lieutenāt of that countrie, to remaine there, I withdrew my self in to the desertes and voide places. And lacking meate to ease the paine of hūger, I determined by some mea­nes, to séeke mine owne death. It chaunced aboute the midde of the daie, whē the Sonne was feruent and hot, I entred into a Caue, whiche was farre from habita­cion, very wide and large. Whervnto within a while after this Lion resorted, hauyng one of his féete bloo­die, & hurte. For paine whereof, he vttred muche mone and sorowe, bewailyng the griefe, and anguishe of the sore. When I sawe the Lion, my hart began to quake for feare, but beyng come in, as it were into his owne habitacion (for so it should appere) perceiuyng me to go aboute to hide my self a farre of, he like a milde and gentle beast came vnto me, holdyng vp his foote, rea­chyng the same to me, as though he desired helpe, and relief at my handes. Where withall I plucked out of his foote a stubbe, whiche stucke betwene the pawes thereof, and takyng a litle salue, whiche I had in my bosome, I thruste it into the bottome of the wounde, and diligently without any further feare, I dried the wounde, and wiped awaie the blood thereof. Where­with the Lion beyng eased, restyng his foote in my hā ­des, he laie downe to refreshe hymself. From that daie duryng the space of three yeres, the Lion and I conti­nued [Page] together, and liued with like fare. The lattest and beste morselles of those beastes, whiche he praied, he did euer brynge me into the caue whiche meate bi­cause I had no fire, I rosted in the heate of the Sonne, and did eate the same with good stomacke. But when I began to waxe wearie of that kinde of meate, vpon a tyme the Lion beyng abroade, I forsoke the caue, and traueilyng almoste the space of three daies, I was es­pied and taken of the souldious, and brought home to my maister out of Africa to Rome: who immediatlie condempned me to be deuoured of beastes. And now I perceiue that this Lion sithens I left his companie is taken, and dooeth acquite that good tourne and cure, whiche I shewed hym them.’ The people hearyng the discourse of this straunge facte, made suite that the fe­lowe might bée pardoned, and sette at libertie: and the Lion by generall voice was giuen vnto hym, for re­ward. Afterwardes Androdus caried the Lion, abrode the Citie in a litle corde, and had muche money giuen vnto hym, & the Lion was decked and beautified with flowers. And euery manne that mette them, did vse to saie. This is the Lion the frende of this man, and this is the man, the Phisicion of the Lion.

¶The .xxiij. Nouell.

IT was tolde to the Philosopher Phauo­rinus, that the wife of one of his Secta­tors and scholers, was brought a bedde of a sonne: Let vs go (quod Phauorinus) to visite the childwife, and to gratulate [Page 46] the father, for the ioye of his soonne. When thei were entred the house, after he had saluted the goodman, ac­cordyng to the custome, he asked the wife how she did, and praied the Goddes to sende her good footyng, and then inquired of her trauell, and painfull panges, whē he vnderstode that her trauell was greate, and her bo­die weake with watchyng, howbeeit somewhat com­forted with slepe, whiche she had taken, he determined to enter into further talke. I doubte not gossip (q he) but that you purpose to nourishe your sonne your self. The mother of the woman hearyng him saie so, began to praie pardon, and saied, that her doughter might not bothe sustaine paine in the birthe, and also trouble to nourishe it her self. I praie thee mother, saied Phauo­rinus, to suffer thy doughter to be the hole & intire mo­ther of her owne sonne. What kind of half and vnper­perfect mothers be thei, whiche so sone as thei bee deli­uered, doe against nature by and by, thrust the childe a waie from them? Can thei nourishe with their owne bloode, the thyng whiche thei see not, and will thei not vouchsaufe, to bestowe their Milke vpon that, whiche is now a liuyng creature, criyng out before their faces for the mothers help and duetie? O thou vnkinde wo­man, dooest thou thinke that Nature hath giuen thee twoo breastes, for nothyng els but to beautifie and ad­orne thy body, and not to giue sucke to thy children? In like sorte many prodigious and monstruous women, haue dried vp and extinguished, that moste sacred foū ­taine of the bodie, the educatour of mākinde, not with­out perill of their persones, as though the same were a disgracyng of their beautie and comelinesse. The like also some doe attempt, by deuises and subtile secrecies to extrude their concepcions, that the swellyng of their body, might not irrugate and wrinckle their faces, and [Page] that their painfull labours and greate burdeins, dooe not make them looke olde in their youthly daies. And like as it is generally to bee abborred, that man in his first beginnynges, (when he is fashioned, and inspired with life, and in the handes of the cunnyng and wise woman daine Nature) should be killed and slaine: euē so with not muche lesse detestacion it is to be had & cōp­ted, when he is perfect and borne, and the child of thine owne blood, to be depriued from his due sustenaunce. But it is no matter (will some saie) with whose Milke he bee nourced, so he receiue Milke and liue. The like maie be saied to that man, whiche is so dull, in percei­uyng the prouidence of Nature, that what matter had it been in whose bodie, and with whose blood, he hym­self had been formed and brought into light. Hath not she whiche nowe respireth, and with beautie waxeth white and fake, the same bloodde now in her breastes, which was before remainyng in her wōbe: Is not the wisedome of Nature manifest in this thyng, that after the cunnyng woorkeman the bloodde, hath framed in the inwarde partes, euery bodie of man, straight waie when the tyme of birthe approcheth, the same bloodde infudeth hymself into the vpper partes, and is redie to nourishe the rudimentes of life and light, offryng ac­quaintaunce & familier sustinance to the newe borne? Wherefore in vaine is not that reporte and belief, that like as the force and Nature of the generacion séede, is able to shape the similitudes of the minde & bodie, euen so the qualities and properties of the Milke, doe auaile to like effecte. Whiche thing is not onely marked in men, but also in brute beastes. For if Kiddes bee sock­led vp with Ewes Milke, and Lambes with Goates, the Wolle of thone will growe more rough and hard, and the heare of the other more tēder and soft. In trées [Page 47] also and fruictes, there is for the moste parte, a greater force and power, in the nature of the soile, and Water where thes growe, either for the pruning and planting then there is, if straunge impes and séede be grifted and sowen there. And many tymes you sée, that a fruictfull trée, caried and set in an other place, decaseth, through the nature of the grounde more barren. What reason is this then, to corrupte the noble Nature of this borne childe, whose bodie and minde, is well begonne with naturall beginnynges, and to infecte the same with the degenerate foode of straunge Milke. Specially if she to whom you shalt put forthe this childe to giue sucke, be either a bonde and serulte woman, and (as commonlie it chaunceth) of a forrein and barbarous nacion, bee she wicked, ill fauoured, whorishe, or dronken. For diuers times without difference, children be put forth to suche Nursses, whose honestitie and condicions, in the tyme of the puttyng for the, be vtterly vnknowen. Shall we suffer therefore, this our infaunt to bée corrupted, with pestiferous Milke? Shall we abide a newe nature and spirit, to be renued in his minde and bodie, deriued frō that whiche is most vile and wicked? Muche like to the same, whiche many tymes we see and wonder, how di­uers children borne of chaste and honest women, haue bodies and qualities, farre discrepant from their honest parentes. Wherefore verie trimlie and cunnynglie Maro folowyng Homeres verses doeth safe: speakyng of the cruell nature of Achilles.

He did not herein reprehende the birthe of Achilles, but the nature of the cruel & sauage beast, that brought hym vp: for he added this of his owne.

And truely the condicion of the Noursse, and nature of the Milke, disposeth almoste the greater parte of the childes condicion, whiche (notwithstādyng the fathers séede, and creacion of the bodie and mynde, within the mothers wombe) dooeth now in the begiunyng of his nouriture, configurate and frame a newe dispositiō in him. Moreouer who can saie the cōtrary, but that suche women as putte their children from them, deliueryng thē to be nourced of other, doe cutte of, naie, rather doe wipe a waie and extinguishe, that bande and increase of minde and affection, that doeth consociate and ioyne in nature, the parentes toward their children. For whē the childe is put forthe to an other place, and remoued from the mothers sighte, the vigor and tendernesse of her affection, is by litle ant litle forgotten, and out of memorie, & the derest care of her tender babe, groweth to vtter silence. The sendyng awaie of the childe to an other Nourice, is not muche inferiour to the forgetful­nesse that chaunceth, when death doeth take it awaie. Againe, the affection, the loue, and familiaritie of the childe, is prone to her that giueth it sucke. And so as it is enidently seen in them that be put forthe, the childe taketh no knowledge, or desire of the owne mother, [Page 48] that brought it forthe. Therefore, when the elementes and beginnynges of naturall pletie and loue, bee ones abandoned and defaced, how soeuer suche children, in that sort brought vp, shall seeme to loue the parentes, yet for the moste parte, it is no pure and naturall af­fection, but rather a supposed and Ciuile loue. Thus this noble Philosopher, giueth counsaill to euery good mother, not to be ashamed or grieued, to bryng vp her childe with her owne Milke, after her greatest paine past, whom before with her owne bloudde, she disdai­ned not to féede in her bodie.

¶The .xxiiij. Nouell.

LIke as in a good Capitaine, chosen out by any Prince & Monarche, to serue in his warres and exploites, manhode and valiance is to bée de­sired and wished: euē so in the same a politique minde, to forecast & pre­uente, aswell the saustie and good gouernement of his owne charge, as the anoiauuce of the enemie is to bee desired. Cicero in his oracion Prolege Manilia, affirmeth fower thynges, méete to be in a Generall or Lieutenaunte. That is to saie. Scientia rei militaris, virtus, authoritas, foelicitas, Knowledge of warfare, Manhode, Aucthoritie, and good Fortune. Kuowledge and experience, in choice of his souldiors, in trainyng the ignoraunte, in lodgyng the campe, in politique order how to dispose the scoutes and watche, in making the approche, and defence of the armie lod­ged, with other necessarie orders incident to the same. [Page] In manhode, boldlie to aduenture, warely to retire, paciently to suffer misfortune, hardlie to lie, sparely to sare, stoutlie to abide stormes and colde weather. In aucthoritie, wisely to gouerne, gentlie to speake, iust­ly to threaten, deseruedlie to punishe, mercifullie to forgiue, liberallie to deuide, and louingly to be obeied. And in felicitie and good successe: To honor God: To be faithfull to the Prince, to preuente the enemie, not to triumph before the victorie. To be constaunt in fro­warde fortune, and coragious in extremitie. Al which and many other, are verie meete and requisite in hym, that shalbe put in trust, by his soueraine Lorde or La­die, to aduenture the painful charge of a Deputie, Ge­nerall, Lieutenaunt, or Capitaine. Whereof, or in the chiefest of the same this noble gentleman Sertorius a capitaine of the Romane Citie, in tyme of Marius and Sylla: when the citie of Rome were at ciuile discensiō, had greate skill and knowledge. For besides his expe­rience in the warres (as Plutarche sateth in his life) he was verie abstinent from pleasures, and continente in other disorders, arare thynge in menne of his callyng. But bicause I purpose not to staie, in the full discourse of his vertues, and qualities, I meane but to touche in this Nouell, so muche as Aulus Gellius (in whom I am now cōuersant) doeth of hym make remembrance. Re­ferring the studious reader, desirous to knowe the state of his life & doinges to the plentifull recorders of suche memorable and worthie personages: Plutarche de vi­tis illustrium, and Appianus de ciuili Romanorū bel­lo. Whiche beyng Greke aucthours, be verie eloquent­lie translated into the Latine, the one by Gulielmus Xilander. 1561. and thother by Sigismundus Gelenius 1554. This Sertorius was of a pregnaunte witte, and therewithall a noble capitaine, verie skilfull in the vse [Page 49] and gouernmente of an armie. In distresse and harde aduentures, he practised for pollicie, to make lies to his souldiours, to proue if thei could preuaile. He vsed coū ­terfaicte letters, to imagine dreames, and to conferre false religions, to trie if those thynges could serue his tourne, in comfortyng and incouraging his souldiors. Emonges all the factes of Sertorius, this in suyng was very notable and famous. A white Stagge of exceding beautie, and liuelie swiftnesse, was giuen vnto hym by a Lusitanian: He perswaded euery man, that the same was deliuered vnto hym by the Goddes, and howe the Goddesse Diana had inspired that beaste, to admonishe and teache, what was meete and profitable. And when he went aboute, to cause his souldiours, to aduenture any harde and difficile exploit: he affirmed, that the Stagge, had giuen hym warnyng thereof, whiche thei vniuersallie beleued, and willinglie obeied, as though the same, had been sent downe frō the goddes in deede. The same Stagge vpon a tyme, whē newes came, that thene mie had made incursion, into his campe, amased with the haste and turmoile, ranne awaie and hid hym self in a Marishe harde adioynyng. Afterwardes be­yng sought for, he was supposed to bee deade. With­in fewe daies after, tidynges was brought to Sertorius that the Stagge was found. The messenger was com­maunded by hym to holde his peace, and threatened to be punished, if he did disclose it. The next daie, the same messenger was appoincted sodainlie, to brynge the Stagge into the place, where he and his frendes did cō sulte together. When thei were assembled he tolde thē how the daie after that he had lost his Stagge, he drea­med, that he was come againe, and according to his cu­stome, tolde hym what was nedefull to be doen. Then Sertorius makyng a signe, to haue the order fulfiilled, [Page] whiche he had giuen the daie before, by & by the stagge brake into the Chaumber. Wherewithall a greate shoute was made, and an admiracion raised of that chaunce. Whiche credulitie of the barbarous cositries serued Sertorius turne, in his weightie affaires. A wor­thie matter also, is to bee remembred of hym, that no souldiour that euer serued hym, of those vnciuile coun­trees (that tooke his parte) did ueuer reuolte or forsake him, although those kinde of people be moste inconstāt.

¶The .xxv. Nouell.

IN auncient Chronicles, these thin­ges appere in memorie, touchyng the bokes of Sybilla. A strange and vnknowen old woman, repaired to the Romane kyng Tarquinius Su­perbus, bearyng in her armes nine bookes, whiche she said were deuine Oracles, and offred them to bee solde. Tarquinius de­maunded the price. The woman asked a wonderfull some. The kyng makyng semblaunce, as though the olde woman toted, began to laughe. Then she got fire in a chasing dishe, aud burned three bookes of the nine. She asked the kyng againe, if he would haue the sixe for that price, whereat the kyng laughed in more am­ple sort, saiyng: that the olde woman no doubt did date in deede. By and by the burned other thre, humblie de­masidyng the kyng the like question, if he would buye the reste for that price. Wherevpō the kyng more ear­nestlie gaue heede to her request, thinkyng the constant demaundes of the woman not to be in vaine, brought [Page 50] the three bookes that remained for no lesse price, then was required for the whole. Therewithall the woman departed from Tarquinius, and was neuer seen after. These bokes wer kept in the capitole at Rome, wher­vnto the Romanes resorted, whē thei purposed to aske counsalle of the Goddes. A good example for wisemen to beware, how thei despise or neglecte auncient bokes and monnmentes. Many the like in this realme haue been defaced, founde in Religious houses, whiche no doubt would haue conduced greate vtilitie and profite bothe to the common wealth and countrie, if thei had been reserued and kepte, whiche bookes by the igno­raunte haue been torne and raised, to the greate grief of those that be learned, and of them that aspire to lear­nyng and vertue.

¶The .xxvj. Nouell.

DIuers thynges bee writen, whiche although thei seme of litle importaunce yet thei bée wittie and comfortable to re­create honest myndes, and de­serue to be had in remēbrance Emonges which Aulus Gel­lius (who reporteth ten of the former Histories, selected out of his booke De noctibus atticis) remembreth this pre­tie contrauersie. In Athenes there was a yonge man, called Euathlus, who beyng desirous to be an Orator, and a pleadyng aduocate, to the intent he might postu­late, [Page] accordyng to the accustomed maner of Athenes in those dates: accorded vpon a price, with a renewned Oratour named Protagoras, that he should instructe hym that arte, for a price agreed vpon betwene them, vpon condicion that the Scholer should paie, the one halfe of the money before hande vnto his Maister, and the rest at suche tyme, as he should proue to be an Ad­uocate, so well instructed, that at the first matter, whi­che he did pleade, he should obteine sentence on his side, and gaine for his labour and industrie. But if sentēce were pronounced against him, he should not be boūde to paie the same. Uppon this conclusion, the Maister taughte hym with greate diligence, the vttermoste of his knowledge in that arte. The Scholer againe lear­ned and reteined his teachyng, with greate prōptitude and redinesse of witte. When Protagoras had taught hym, the vttermoste of his knowledge: The scholer E­uathlus, to defraude hym of the reste of his money, de­termined neuer to be Aduocate, whose craft Protago­ras perceiuyng, cited hym by write, to appere before the Iudge, to answere the rest of the bargaine. When thei were bothe come in the Iudges presence, Protago­ras spake to his scholer in this wise. ‘Euathlus, the bar­gain betwene vs, thou canst not chose but confesse and acknowledge, whiche in effecte is this. It was agreed, that I should teache thee, the arte of pleadyng, and in the first matter whiche thou diddest pronoūce, and sen­tence giuen on thy parte, thou shouldest paie me the o­ther halfe of the money (for the firste moitie I receiued before hande) and now to auoide the satisfaction there­of (although thou knowest, that I haue full well deser­ued it) thou to defraude me of my duetie, refusest to bee an aduocate. But I will tell thee, this thy determina­cion is but vaine & frustrate: for I haue intangled thee [Page 51] in suche nettes, that thou canste not escape: but by one meane or other, thou shalte be forced to paie me. For if the Iudge doe condempne thee, then mangre thy head thou shalt be constrained: and if contrarie wise, sentēce be giuen on thy side, thou shalte be likewise bounde to paie me, by thy verie couenaunt, sitheus thou art boūd therevnto, when thou pleadest first, and sentence giuen in thy behalf. Doe now then what thou list, for in fine thou shalt be forced to paie me, in despite of thy teeth.’ All the assistauntes helde with Protagoras, affirming his suite to be verie reasonable. Notwithstandyng E­uathlus with a bolde spirite, aunswered for hymself in this maner. ‘Sir Protagoras it semeth vnto you, that I am conuicted, but staie a while, and giue me leaue to speake: and then you shall perceiue in what whise, I will cōfounde your argument. Here you haue brought your action against me, whereof I trust vpon my rea­sonable aunswere, before the Iudges, to be discharged. For if by this your pleadyng, by circumstaunces & art of an Oratour, whiche you haue vsed in all your dis­course: the matter shall fall so out, as sentence be giuē on your side, then the bargaine made betwene vs, is voide and of none effecte, bicause I losyng the profit of my first pleadyng, wherein by our agrement, sentence should be giuē on my behalfe, the same bargaine is not accōplished. For you should bee paied the moitie of the money behind, with that cōmoditia, which I did gaine by my first pleadyng: For whiche cause, there is no rea­son, but I must be discharged of your demaunde.’ After this debatyng of the matter, the Iudges wated the ar­gumentes of bothe partes, whiche seemed so doubtfull vnto them, that knowyng not how to giue sentence, thei suspended the processe.

The same Aulus Gellius, reciteth an other like que­stion, [Page] whiche he referreth to Plinie, as the first aucthor thereof. There was a lawe (saieth he) in a certain citie, that what soeuer he were, that committed any valiant facte of armes, the thyng that he demaunded, what so­euert were, should be graunted vnto hym It chaun­ced that a certaine persone did this worthie act, and re­quired that a mannes wife (whom he derelie loued) should be giuen vnto hym: whiche wife by force & ver­tue of the lawe, was accordingly deliuered. But after­wardes the man, from whom his wife was taken, did the like facte, and demaunding his wife to be redeliue­red vnto hym againe, saied vnto hym that had her, if thou wilt obserue the lawe, thou muste of force deliuer vnto me, my wife, but if thou do not like the law, thou oughtest yet to rēder her vnto me, as myne owne. The other answered hym in like sorte. If thou obserue the lawe, this woman is myne, for I haue first wonne her, by the lawe: but if thou doe not approue the lawe, thou hast no right to demaunde her, she now beyng myne.

¶The .xxvij. Nouell.

ALthough the wise Philosopher Plu­tarche, elegantly and brieslie descri­beth this historie, in the life of De­metrius: yet because Bandello aptly & more at large doeth discourse the same, I thought good to applie my yenne to his stile. Who saieth that Seleucus kyng of Babylone, a man verie victorious in [Page 52] battaill, was emonges the successors of Alexander the greate, the moste happie and fortunate: He had a sōne called by his fathers name Antiochus. After the de­ceasse of his wife, his sonne increased, and gaue great hope of valiaunce in future time, to become a valiante gentleman, worthie of suche a father. And beyng arri­ued to .xxiiij. yeres of age: It chaunced that his father fill in loue with a verie faire yonge gentlewoman, di­scended a greate parentage (called Stratonica) whom he tooke to wife, and made her Quene, and by her had one sonne. Antiochus seyng his mother in lawe, to be (besides her greate beautie) a curteous and gentle La­die, begā to be verie amourous of her, whose hart was so sette on fire (without apparante shewe) that incredi­ble it is to expresse the loue that he bare her. And yet he thought that loue to be vnnaturall, bicause she was his fathers wife, and therefore durfte not discouer it to any man. And the more secrete he kepte it, the more the heate began to boile and consume him. But bicause he sawe that loue had fixed so deepe footyng, that he was not wel able to retire, he determined after long sorowe and great turmoile, to seke some quiet hauē, to rest his weather beaten barke, that hadde been tossed with the waues of pensife and sorowful cogitacions. His father had many Kyngdomes & prouinces innumerable vn­der his Empire. At whose handes Antiochus craued license, to visite some of them, for his disporte and re­creaciō, of purpose to proue, if he could auoide that vn­seasonable loue, wherewith his harte was surprised. But he was no soner out of his fathers house, but his harte was vexed with greater tormentes then before, beyng depriued frō the sight of faire Stratonica, whose presence did better contente hym, then all the pleasu­res, and sportes of the worlde. Neuerthelesse, desirous [Page] to vanquishe his indurate affections, he continued a­brode for a certaine time, duryng whiche space, vnable to quenche the fire, he ledde a more desolate and trou­blesome life, then he did before. In the ende victorious loue, tooke hym prisoner, and caried him home againe to his fathers house. Who seyng the greate loue that his father bare to his wife, and the ioyfull time that he spent with faire Stratonica, trāsported into many care­full panges, many tymes he complained to hymself in this wise. Am I Antiochus the sonne of Seleucus? Am I he that my father loueth so well, honoreth so muche, and estemeth better then all his realmes and domini­ons? Alas. If I be Antiochus in deede, the sonne of so louyng a father, where is the duetifull loue, and boun­den reuerence, that I ought to beare vnto him? Is this the duetie of a sonne towardes his father? Ah wretche and caitife that I am. Whether hath grosse affection, vaine hope, and blinde loue caried me? Can loue be so blinde? Shall I bee so voide of sense, that I knowe not my mother in law, from an other woman, who loueth me no lesse, & entertaigneth me so well, as if she were myne owne mother, that laboured with painfull pan­gues, to bryng me into light? Whiche beyng true, as it is moste true, why then dooe I loue her, naie rather more then loue her? Why doe I séeke after her? What meane I to hope for her? Why dooe I precepitate my self so fōdlie, into the snares of blind & deceiptfull loue and into the trappe of deceiptfull hope? Can I not per­ceiue that these desires, these vnstaied appetites, & vn­bridled affections, doe procede frō that whiche is disho­nest? I se well inough that the waie I take, leadeth me into greate inconuenience. And what reproche should I sustaine, if this vnreasonable loue, were made com­mon to the worlde? Ought not I rather to suffer infa­mous [Page 53] death, then to see my father depriued of suche a wife, whom he so derely loueth? I will giue ouer this vnsemely loue, and reuerting my minde to some other wight, I will accomplishe the duetie of a good and lo­uyng sonne toward his father. Reasonyng thus with hymself, he determined whollie to giue ouer his enter­prise. And he had no soner purposed so to do, but sodain­lie the beautie of the Ladie appered, as it were in a vi­sion, before the face of his minde, and felt the flames to growe so hotte, that he vpon his knees, craued a thou­sande pardons of the louyng God, for the abandoning of his gentle enterprise. And therewithall contrarie imaginacions began to rise, whiche so contended with mutuall resistaunce, that thei forced hym thus to saie. ‘Shall not I loue this Ladie, bicause she is my fathers wife? Shall not I prosecute my suite, for all that she is my mother in lawe? Ah coward, faintharted, and wor­thie to be crouned a prince of follie, if therfore I should giue ouer my former mynde. Loue prescribeth no suche lawe to her suters, as pollicie dooeth to manne. Loue commaundeth the brother to loue the sister, loue maketh the doughter so loue the father, the brother his brothers wife, and many tymes the mother her sonne in lawe: whiche beyng lawfull to other, is it not law­full to me? If my father beyng and old man, whose na­ture wareth cold, hath not forgottē the lawes of loue, in louyng her whom I loue: Shall I beyng a yonge man, subiecte to loue, and inflamed with his passions, be blamed for louyng her? And as I were not blame warthie, if I loued one that were not my fathers wife, so muste I accuse Fortune, for that she gaue her not to wife to an other mā, rather then to my father, bicause I loue her, & would haue loued her, whose wife so euer she had been. Whose beautie (to saie y^e trouth is suche) [Page] whose grace and comelinesse, so excellente, that she is worthie to be receiued, honoured, and worshipped of al the worlde, I thinke it then conuenient for me, to pur­sue my determinaciō, and to serue her aboue all other.’ Thus this miserable louer, trauersyng in seuerall myndes, and deludyng his owne fancie, chaunged his mynde a thousande tymes in an hower. In thende af­ter infinite disputacions to hymself, he gaue place to reason, consideryng the greate disconnenience, that would insue his disordinate loue. And yet not able to giue it ouer: And determinyng rather to die, then to yelde to suche wicked loue, or to discouer the same to any manne. By litle and litle he consumed, as fle­tyng Snowe againste the warme Sonne: wherewith he came to suche feble state, that he could neither slepe nor eate, and was compelled to kepe his bedde, in such wise, that with superfluous paine, he was brought to meruellous debilitie. Whiche his father perceiuyng, that loued hym verie tenderite, conceiued greate grief and sorowe. And sent for Erasistratus (which was a ve­rie excellent Phisicion, and of greate estimacion) whō verie instantlie he praied, diligently to looke vnto his soonne, and to prouide for hym suche remedie, as was conueniente for the greatnesse of his disease. Erasi­stratus viewyng and beholdyng, all the partes of the yonge gentlemannes bodie, and perceiuyng no signe of sicknes, either in his vrine, or other accidente, wher­by he could iudge his bodie to be diseased: after many discourses, gaue iudgemente, that the same infirmitie proceded from some passion of the minde, whiche shor­tlie would coste hym his life. Whereof he aduertised Seleucus. Who louyng his sonne, after a fatherly ma­ner, and speciallie, bicause he was indued with vertue and good condicions, was afflicted with vnspeakable [Page 54] grief. The yong gētleman, was a merueilous trumne yongeman, so actife and valiaunt, as any that liued in his tyme, and therewithall verie beautifull and come­lie. Whiche made hym to bee beloued of all men. His father was continually in his chamber, and the quene her self, oftentymes visited hym, & with her owne han­des, serued hym with meates and drinkes, whiche bi­cause I am no Phisteiō, I knowe not whether the fame did the yonge man any pleasure, or whether it did him hurt or good. But I suppose, that her sight was ioyfull vnto hym, as of her, in whom he had placed all his cōforte, all his hope, quietnesse, & delight. But beholding before his eyes so many times, the beautie of her, whō so greatlie he desired to enioye, hearyng her speake, that was the occasion of his death, and receiuyng ser­uice of meates, and drinkes at her hādes, whom he lo­ued better, then the balles of his eyes: vnto whom he durste not make any requeste or praier, whether his grief surmounted all other, aud therefore continually pined and consumed, I thinke if of reason to bée bele­ued. And who doubteth, but that he felyng hymself, to bée touched with those her delicate handes, and seyng her to sitte by hym, and so many tymes for his sake, to fetche so many sighes, and with suche sweete woordes to bidde hym, bet of good there, aud that if he wanted any thyng to tell her, and praied hym with pleasaunt wordes, to call for that he lacked, and that for his sake she would gladlie accomplish his desire, who doubteth I saie, but he was merueilouslie tormented, with a thousande cogitacions, now conceiuyng hope, and by and by dispaire, and still concludyng with hymself, ra­ther to die, then to manifest his loue? And if it be a grief to all yonge men (bee thei neuer of so meane, and base cōdicion) in their youthlie tyme, to lose their life, what [Page] shall we thinke of Antiochus, that beyng a yongman of freshe and flourishyng age, the sonne of a riche and mightie kyng, that looked if he might escape after the death of his father to be heire of al did willingly craue death, of that small disease. I am assured that his so­rowe was infinite. Antiochus then beaten, with pitie, with loue, with hope, with desire, with fatherly reue­rence, and with a thousande other thynges (like a ship tossed in the depe seas) by litle and litle, begā to growe extremelie sicke. Erasistratus that sawe his bodie hole and sounde, but his minde greuouslie weakened, and the same vanquished with sundrie passiōs. After he had with hymself considered, this straunge case, he for cō ­clusiō foūde out, that the yong man was sicke through loue, & for none other cause. Moreouer he thought that many tymes, wise and graue menne through, Ire, ha­tred, disdaine, malinconie, and other affections, could easilie faine and dissemble their passions, but loue if it be kept secrete, doeth by the close kepyng thereof grea­ter hurte, then if it be made manifeste. And albeit that of Antiochus, he could not learne the cause of his loue yet after that imaginacion was entred into his hedde: he purposed to finde it out, by continuall abode with hym, and by greate diligence, to obserue and marke all his actions: and aboue all to take heede to the mu­tacion of his poulses, and wherevpon, their beatyng did alter. This deliberacion purposed, he sat downe by the bedde side, and tooke Antiochus by the arme, and helde him fast, where the poulses ordinarily doe beate. It chaunced at that instant, that the quene Stratonica entred into the chamber, whom, so sone as the yonge man sawe, cōmyng towarde him, sodainlie the poulce whiche were weake & féeble, began to reuiue, through mutacion of the blood. Erasistratus féelyng the renfor­cyng [Page 55] of the poulce, and to proue how longe it would continewe, moued not at the commyng of the Quene but still helde his fingers, vpō the beatyng of the poul­ces. So long as the Quene contiuned in the chamber, the beatyng was quicke and liuelie, but when she de­parted, it ceased, & the wonted weaknes of the poulces, retourned. Not long after, the quene came againe in­to the chāber, who was no soner espied by Antiochus, but that his poulces, receiued vigor, and begā to leape and so still continued. Whē she departed. the force and vigor of the poulce departed also. The noble Phisicion seyng this mutacion, and that still it chaunced vpō the presence of the Quene: he thought that he had founde out, the occasion of Antiochus sickenesse. But he de­termined better to marke the same, the next daie, to be more assured. The morowe after Erasistratus, sat doun againe by the yonge gentleman, and toke hym again by the arme, but his poulce made no mociō at all. The king came to se his sonne, and yet for all that his poul­ses were still. And beholde the Quene, came no soner in, but sodainlie thei reuined, and yelded suche liuelie mouyng, as if you would haue said: yonder is she that setteth my harte on fire. Beholde where she is, that is my life & death. Then Erasistratus, was well assured and certaine, that Antiochus was feruently inflamed with his mother in lawe: but that shame constrained hym to conceale, the hotte firebrandes that tormented hym: and to keepe them close and secrete. Certified of this opinion, before he would open the matter, he con­sidered what waie were best, to giue knowledge ther­of to kyng Seleucus. And when he had well debated of this matter, he deuised this waie. He knewe that Se­leucus loued his wife beyonde measure, and also that Antiochus was so dere vnto hym, as his owne life. [Page] Wherevpon he thus saied vnto the kyng. Noble Se­leucus, thy sonne is affected with a grieuous maladie, and that (whiche is worse) I deme his sickenesse to bee incurable. At whiche wordes the sorowfull father, be­gan to vtter pitifull lamētacion, and bitterlie to com­plaine of Fortune. To whom the Phisicion saied. If it please yon (my lorde) to vnderstande the occasion of his disease. This it is. The maladie that affecteth, and lan­guisheth your soonne, is Loue: and the loue of suche a woman, whiche excepte he enioye, there is no reme­die, but death. Alas (quod the Kyng, weepyng with bitter teares) and what woman is she, but that I maie procure her for hym, whiche am kyng of all Asia, and maie with intreatie, money, giftes, or other pollicie whatsoeuer, make her obediente, and willyng to my soonnes requeste. Tell me onelie the name of the wo­man, that I maie prouide for my soonnes healthe, yea though it cost me all my goods and realme to, if other wise she can not bee gotten. For if he die, what shall I doe with my kyngdome? Wherevnto Erasistratus an­swered. If it like your grace, your sōne is in loue with my wife, but bicause that loue, semeth vnto him discō ­uenient, he dareth not to manifest the same for shame, but rather wisheth to die, then to opē his minde. Howbeit, I by certaine euident signes, doe wei perceiue it. When Seleucus heard these woordes, he saied. O Era­sistratus, thou beyng so worthie a man, to whom fewe in goodnesse and humilitie, be comparable, so dere and welbeloued of me, and beareth the bruite, to be the ve­rie hauen, and harborough of wisedome, wilt thou not saue my sonne, whiche is a yonge man, now vpon the floure of his youth, and most worthie of life: for whom the Empire of all Asia, is worthelie reserued? O Erasi­stratus, the soonne of thy frende Seleucus, is thy kyng, [Page 56] who through loue and silence, is at the poineted death, thou seest that for modestie, and honestie sake, at this his laste and doubtfull passage, he had rather chose to die, then by speakyng to offende thee, and wilte thou not helpe hym? This his silence, this discrecion, that his reuerence, whiche he sheweth ought to moue thee to cōpassion. Thinke my welbeloued Erasistratus that if he loue ardently, that he was forced to loue. For vn­doubtedlie, if he could not loue, he would do the best he could, not to loue, yea, and all his endeuour to resist it. But who is able to prescribe lawes to Loue? Loue I knowe, not onelie forceth men, but also commaūdeth the immortall Goddes, and when thei bee not able to resist him, what can mannes pollicie preuaile? Wher­fore, who knoweth not what pitie mine own dere An­tiochus dooeth deserue? Who beyng constrained, can none otherwise doe. But to be silent in loue, is a moste euident signe, of a noble and rare vertue. Dispose thy minde therefore, to helpe my soonne. For I assure thée that if thou dooe not loue the life of Antiochus, Seleu­cus life muste needes bee hated of thee. He can not bee hurte, but I likewise must be hurted.

The wise Phisicion seyng that his aduise, came to passe as he thought before, and that Seleucus was so instant vpon hym, for the healthe of his sonne, the better to proue his minde, and his intencion, spake vnto hym in this wise. It is a common saiyng, my moste dradde soueraigne Lorde, that a man when he is hole, cā giue to hym that is sicke and weake, verie good counsaile. You perswade me to giue my welbeloued wife, to an­other man, and to forgo her, whom I moste feruentlie doe loue, and in lackyng her, my life also must faile. If you doe take from me my wife, you take with her my life. ‘Doubtfull it is my lorde, if Antiochus pour sonne [Page] were in loue with the Quene Stratonica, your gra­ces wife, whether you would bée so liberall vnto hym of her, as you would that I should bee of myne. I would it were the pleasure of the Goddes (sodainlie answered Seleucus) that he were in loue with my best beloued Stratonica, I sweare vnto thee, by the reue­rence that I haue alwaies borne, to the honourable memorie, of my father Antiochus, and my graundfa­ther Seleucus: and I sweare by all the sacred Goddes, that frelie and forthwith, I would render my wife in­to his handes (although she be the dearest beloued vn­to me) in suche wise, as all the worlde should knowe, what the duetie of a good and louyng father, ought to bée to suche a sone, as my intirely beloued Antiochus: who (if I bée not deceiued) is moste worthie of all helpe and succour. Alas this his greate vertue, in concealing that notable passion, as an earnest affection of loue, is it not worthie to be consecrated, to eternall memorie? Is he not worthie of all helpe and comforte? Dooeth he not deserue to be pitied, and lamented of all the whole worlde? Truly he is worsse then a cruell enemie, naie he is rather, more fierce and vnnaturall, then a sauage beast, that at suche moderate behauiour, as my sonne vseth, will not take compassion.’ Many other woordes he spake, manifestlie declaryng, that he for the healthe of his soonne, would not onelie sticke, to bestowe his wife, but also willinglie his life, for his preseruacion. Wherefore the Phisicion thought it not good, any lō ­ger to kepe secrete the thyng: but tooke the king a side and saied vnto hym in this wise. ‘The healthe of your soonne (my dere Lorde and soueraigne) is not in my handes, but the same resteth in you, and in your wife Stratonica, whom (as I, by certaine signes doe mani­festlie knowe) he ardētly doeth loue. Your grace now [Page 57] doeth knowe, from hencefor the what to doe, if his life be dere vnto you.’ And tellyng the kyng, the maner of suche loue, he ioyfully toke his leaue. The kyng now doubted but of one thyng, whiche was, howe to per­swade his sōne, to take Stratonica to wife, and how to exhorte his wife, to take his sonne to husbande. But it chaūced for diuerse causes, that easelie inough he per­swaded thē bothe. And perchaunce, Stratonica made a good exchaūge, by takyng a yong man, to forsake him that was old. After Seleucus had made the accorde be­twene his wife and his soonne, he caused all his armie to assemble, whiche was verie greate. To whō he saed in this maner. ‘My dere and louyng souldious, whiche sithe the death of Alexander the great, haue (with me) achieued a thousande glorious enterprises: I thincke it méete and conuenient, that ye be partakers of that, whiche I purpose to bryng to passe. Ye do knowe that vnder myne Empire, I haue .lxxij. kyngdomes, & that I beyng an old man, am not able to attende so greate a charge: wherfore (louyng companions) I purpose to deliuer and ridde you frō grief of idlenesse, and my self frō trouble and toile, reseruyng to me onelie so muche as lieth betwene the Sea, and the riuer Euphrates. All the rest of my dominions, I giue to my soonne Antio­chus, vpon whom in mariage, I haue bestowed my wife Stratonica, whiche thing ought to contente you, bicause my will and pleasure is suche.’ And whē he had tolde them, the loue & sicknes of his sonne, and the dis­crete deuise of the gentle Phisician, in the presence of a his armie, the mariage was celebrated, betwene Stra­tonica & Antiochus: Afterwards he crouned thē bothe Kyng and Quene of Asia, and with royall pompe and triumphe, the desired mariage was consummate. The armie hearyng, and séeyng these thinges, verie highlie [Page] cōmended, the pietie of the father towardes his sonne. Antiochus then continued with his welbeloued wife in ioye and quietnesse, liuyng together in great felici­tie. This was not he, that for matters of Aegipte, did make warres with the Romanes: But he that one­lie inferred warres vpon the Galatians, whiche out of Europa passed into Asia, but of which countrie he cha­sed them, and ouercame thē. Of this Antiochus came Seleucus, whiche was father of Antiochus, surnamed the greate, that attēpted verie notable warres against the Romanes, and not his greate graundfather, that maried his mother in lawe. Finallie this Seleucus (of whom I recompte this historie) by giuyng his wife to his sonne, did accomplishe a miraculous acte, and wor­thie (in deede) of sempiternall remēbraunce, and great­lie to bee commended therefore, who although he had achiued infinite victories ouer his enemies: Yet there was none of them all so greate, as the victorie of hym self, and his passions. For certainly Seleucus did van­quishe his owne appetites, depriuyng hymself of his wife, whom he loued and estemed, aboue all thynges in the worlde.

¶The .xxviij. Nouell.

ALL the beastes of the worlde, dooe applie themselfes to other beastes of their kinde Timon of Athenes onelie excepted, of whose straūge nature, Plutarche is asto­nied, in the life of Marcus Antonius, Pla­to and Aristophanes, doe reporte his merueilous na­ture, [Page 58] bicause he was a manne but by shape onelie, in qualities, he was the Capitall enemie of mankinde, whiche he confessed francklie, vtterlie to abhorre and hate. He dwelte alone, in a litle cabane in the fieldes, not farre from Athenes: separated from all neigh­bours and companie, he neuer went to the citie, or to any other habitable place, excepte he were constrained. He could not abide any mannes companie and con­uersacion: he was neuer seen to goe, to any mannes house, ne yet would suffer them to come to hym. At the same tyme there was in Athenes, an other of like qualitie, called Apemantus, of the verie same nature, different from the naturall kinde of manne, and lod­ged likewise in the middest of the fieldes. On a daie thei twoo beyng alone together at dinner. Apeman­tus saied vnto hym: O Timon, what a pleasaunt feast is this, and what a merie companie are wee, beyng no more but thou and I. Naie (quod Timon) it would be a merie banquette in deede, if there were none hers but my self. Wherein he shewed, howe like a beaste (in deede) he was. For he could not abide any other manne, beyng not able to suffer the companie of hym, whiche was of like nature. And if by chaunce he hap­pened to go to Athenes, it was onelie to speake to Al­cibiades, who then was an excellent Capitaine there, whereat many did meruaile: And therefore Apeman­tus demaunded of him, why he spake to no man, but to Alcibiades. I speake to hym some tymes, said Timon, bicause I knowe that by his occasion, the Atheniens shal receiue great hurte and trouble. Whiche wordes many tymes, he tolde to Alcibiades himself. He had a garden, adioynyng to his house in the fieldes, wherein was a Figge tree, wherevpon many desperate menne ordinarilie, did hange themselfes: In place whereof, he [Page] purposed to sette vp a house, and therefore was forced to cut it downe, for whiche cause he went to Athenes, and in the Markette place, he called the people aboute hym, saiyng: that he had newes to tell them. Whē the people vnderstoode, that he was aboute to make a dis­course vnto them, whiche was wonte to speake to no manne, thei merueiled, and the citizens on euery parte of the citie, ranne to heare hym: to whom he saied, that he purposed to cutte doune his Figge tree, to builde a house vpon the place where it stoode. ‘Wherefore (quod he) if there bee any man emonges you all in this com­panie, that is disposed to hange hymself, let hym come betymes, before it be cutte doune.’ Hauyng thus besto­wed his charitie emonges the people, he retourned to his lodging, where he liued a certain time after, with­out alteraciō of nature. And bicause that nature chasi­ged not in his life tyme, he would not suffer that death should alter, or varie the same. For like as he liued a beastlie and chorlishe life, euen so he required to haue his funerall, dooen after that maner. By his last will he ordeined hymself to bée interred vpon the sea shore, that the waues and surges mighte beate, and vexe his dead carcas. Yea, and that if it were possible, his desire was to bee buried in the depth of the Sea: causyng an Epitaphe to be made, wherein was discribed the qua­lities of his brutishe life. Plutarche also reporteth an o­ther to bee made by Calimachus: muche like to that, whiche Timon made hymself, whose owne soundeth to this effecte in Englishe verse.

¶The .xxix. Nouell.

MEn commonlie doe reproue the ho­nour of widowes, bicause thei bee­yng twise or thrise wedded, doe ma­rie againe. And albeit by outwarde apparaunce, thei whiche so blame them, seeme to haue reason, yet no manne ought to iudge the secrecie of the harte. Mariage is holie, and ought to be permit­ted, and therefore by any meanes, not to bee reproued: Although it can not be denied, but that the chast life is moste perfecte, notwithstanding, that perfection, in no­thyng dooeth diminishe the other. The widowe mari­yng againe, doeth not offende God by mariage, & to the worlde she committeth the lest fault. And bicause ma­ny old and auncient widowes in these daies, maie not after three or fower mariages, bee dismaied & terrified from that state: I will recite an historie, auouched by S. Hierome, in an Epistle Ad Gerontiam viduam de monogamia, whom for his holinesse and vertue, wee ought to beleue. It is also pretelie set forthe, by Pietro Messia de Seuiglia, an excellent aucthour, a gentleman [Page] of Spaine, in the .xxxiiii. Chapiter of the firste parte of his woorke, called La Selua di varie Lezzioni. Sainct Hierome saieth, that in the tyme of Pope Damasus, he sawe and knewe in Rome, one woman lawfully ma­ried to .xxij. men, and was the widowe of .xxii. husban­des. There was also a manne, whiche had had .xx. wi­ues, and was then the widower of the .xx. Bothe whi­che beyng free, and of equall state and condicion, thei made sute one to other: and that either of them mighte proue, whiche should bee the victor, in buriyng eche o­ther, thei maried together, whiche mariage was in greate admiracion emonges the Romanes. Who mu­sed, whiche of them should die firste, promisyng that at the funerall, thei would beautifie the corps, bothe with their presence, & also with tokens of victorie. It chaun­ced (sore againste her will I dare saie) that the woman died firste. At the celebracion of whose buriall: all the Romane husbandes laied their heades together, howe thei might exornate and garnishe the same. Thei con­cluded, to goe before the corps, with Laurell garlan­des vpon their beades, singyng verses of praise, for the obteinyng of suche a victorious conqueste. Now where the women went, I can not tell. For I finde written, that populus totius vrbis praecedebat feretrum, where populus, as I take it, signifieth the whole route of mē and women. And yet I thinke, womens hartes would tell scorne to goe before. Therefore I thinke thei came behinde like mourners, bearyng braunches without leaues, their beades in their handes, praiyng for all christen soules. But giuyng women leaue, to mourne for suche an ouerthrowe, I would wishe all my fren­des that be widowes (if in her conscience, she can finde in her harte) to folowe the noble Romane matrone and widowe called Annia, who (when her frendes and fa­miliers, [Page 60] exhorted her to marie againe, bicause she was yonge and beautifull) answered that she would not. For, quod she, if it be my fortune to haue a good man, as I had before, I shall stil be afraied, lest death should take hym awaie. But if it bee my chaunce to matche with an ill manne, how can I be able quietlie to beare that, hauyng had so good a husbande before. Decla­ryng thereby, that beyng ones well matched, greate héede ought to be taken, how to chose the nexte, least in making a hastie choise, leasure for repētance do folow.

¶The .xxx. Nouell.

SAladine whose valiaunce was so greate, that not onelie the same of a base man, made hym Souldan of Babilone, but also therby he wāne diuerse victories ouer the Saracene Rynges and Christianes, hauyng through his manifolde warres and magnificent triumphes, expended all his treasure, and by reason of one accident, which he had to doe: lacking a greate some of money, he knewe not where to haue the same so redie, as he had occasion to imploy it. Who called to remembraunce a riche Iewe, called Melchi­sedech, that lent out money for interest in Alexandria and thought he had to serue his tourne whē he would, but he was so coueteous, that with his good will, he would not doe it, and to force hym he was verie lothe. Howbeit compelled by necessitie, he cast his willes a­bout hym, to finde a meanes, howe the Iewe mighte serue his tourne, and founde out a sleight and waie by [Page] a colourable force. And causyng hym to bee called be­fore hym, interteignyng hym familierly, he made him to sit doune by hym, and saied to hym these woordes. ‘Sir, I doe learne by reporte of diuers menne, that you are verie wise and well learned, in thynges touchyug God. For whiche cause I would gladly knowe of you whiche of the three lawes, you iudge to bee moste true. The Iewishe lawe, the Saracene lawe, or the Christiā lawe?’ The Iewe whiche in deede was verie wise, per­ceiued well that Saladine went about to intrappe him in wordes, to raise some quarrell against him, thought that it was not good for hym, to praise one of those la­wes more then an other, that Saladine might take no aduantage of hym. Wherefore, to make a wise and di­screte answere, that he might not bée taken, he sharpe­ned his wittes, and sodainlie there came into his remē ­braunce this answere. ‘My lorde, the questiō which you haue proponed vnto me is excellēt, and to declare vnto you that whiche I knowe, I must tell you a tale, which if it shall please you to heare, is this. I do remember (if I be not deceiued) that many tymes I haue heard tell, how vpon a tyme, there was a noble manne, whiche was verie riche, and had emōges his other treasure, a verie beautifull rynge, of greate price and estimacion: which for the valor and beautie, he was verie desirous perpetuallie, to leaue vnto his successours: who willed and ordeined that the same soonne, whiche should haue that rynge, by the gifte of his father, after his decease, should bee taken and reputed for his heire, and should be honoured, and magnified of the rest, as the chiefest. He to whom the same ringe was left, obserued sembla­ble order in his posteritie, and did the like, that his pre­decessor had doen before hym. In short tyme this ring succeded frō hande to hande, to many successours.’ And [Page 61] last of all, it came to the handes of one that had thrée goodly sonnes, vertuouse and verie obedient to their father. Who for that cause loued them al indifferent­lie and in equall maner, whiche knowinge the order for the disposicion of that Ringe, curiouse to be beste estemed and beloued, euery of them, praied their Fa­ther so well as they coulde (which then was aged) that when he died he would giue him the Ringe. The good man whiche loued one no better then another, knewe not which of them to chose, to whome be might dispose it, and thought best, to promisse the same to euerie of them, to satisfie all thrée. And secretlie he procured an excellent Goldesmith to make two other, whiche were so like vnto the first, that the owner himselfe vnethes knew one from the other. And when he was vppon his deathe bedde he secretlie gaue to euerie of his sonnes a Ring. Who after the death of their father desirouse to entre the Inheritance and honour, one going about to displace another, euery of them to declare what title he had to enioy the same, brought forthe his Ringe. And the Ringes were founde so like, that the true ringe could not be knowen. Therefore the processe for the title remained in doubte and yet continueth till this daie. And so I saie vnto you my Lorde of the thrée lawes giuen by God the father to those thrée people whereof you haue made the question, euerie of those nations thinketh to inioie the inheritance of God, and to obserue the true lawe and his commaundementes, but whiche of them hath the lawe, that remaineth in doubte like the question of the Ringes. Saladine per­ceiuyng that Melchisedech knewe right well how to auoide the snare, whiche he hadde laied before his féete: Determined therefore to open and disclose vn­to him his necessitie, to proue if he would doe him that [Page] pleasur: And so he did tellinge him his intent & mea­ning, if he had not made him that wise answer. The Iewe liberallie lente him the some of money that he demaunded: Whiche Saladine holie repaied vnto him againe, besides other verie greate rewardes that he gaue him, vsinge him still for his frende, and after­wardes mainteined him next his person, in great and honorable state.

¶The .xxxj. Nouell.

LOnge sithens there was a gentle man at Genoua called M. Ermino Grimaldi, who as all men iudged, was the richest of possessions, and redy money, and therin farre excel­led all other citizens whiche then were knowen in all Italie. And as he did surpasse all other Italians in substances & welth, euen so in auarice and wretchednes he surmounted beyonde measure the most couetouse and miserable of the worlde. For he kepte his purse so close that he did not onelie neglect to doe good to other, but also to him­selfe, by sparinge in many thinges necessarie for his owne person: he indured muche hardnes in meate and drinke bicause he would spende nothinge contrarie to the commen custome of the Geneuois. Who be wont very nobly and honorablely to mainteine themselues in apparell and fare. For whiche cause his surname Grimaldi deseruedlie was giuen vnto him, and was called of euery man nothing elles but M. Ermino the Couetouse. It chaunced in those daies that as he by [Page 62] spendinge nothinge multiplied his goodes. There ar­riued at Genoua an honest gentleman and well spo­ken, a Courtier of good interteigmente, named Gu­glielmo Borsiere (nothinge like the Courtiers in these daies that to there greate shame, for there corrupt and rude manners would be called and reputed gentlemē, whiche in déede maie be counted asses, brought vp and noseled rather in the filthie condicions of the vilest men, then in courtes). In those daies Courtiers occu­pied themselfes, in treatinge of peace and endinge of quarrels that bred strife and dissension amonges gen­tlemen or in makinge of Mariages, amities, and atto­nementes, and with merie woordes and pleasant, did recreate troubled mindes, & exhilarated with pastimes other Courtiers, with sharpe reprehencions like fa­thers rebukinge the liues of the wicked, and that for litle gaine or rewarde. Where the Courtiers of our age doe imploy there time, in ill reportes one of ano­ther and doe disseminate debate and strife, vttering a thousande vnhappie and vile woordes, yea and that (whiche is woorst of all) in common audience. There maner is to reproue and checke one another of there iniuries, shames and mischiefes, true and vntrue, and with false and deceiuable flatteries and inuentions to committe against Gentlemen villanouse and vngra­ciouse factes. He is also the proprest man and best be­loued of some great men of ill condicions and of them best rewarded that can vse the vilest and most abhomi­nable talke, or can doe semblable déedes: whiche is a great shame and selaundre to the world in these daies, proofe whereof is euident enough for that the vertues past, haue forsaken the present sorte whiche liue in the ordure and filth of all vices: But to procede in that whiche I haue begonne (although vpon lust occasion [Page] I haue a litle more digressed then I thought) I saie that the foresaide Guglielmo Borsiere was honored & visited of the gentelmen of Genoua, who making his abode for a certen time in the Citie and hearinge tell of the misery and couetousnes of M. Ermino had great desire to sée him. M. Ermino hearinge tell that this Guglielmo Borsiere was an excellent man & hauinge in him (although a couetouse man) some sparke of gē ­tilite, he receiued him with frendlie woordes and good countenaunce, entring into communication with him of diuers and sundrie matters, and in talking brought him with certen other Citizens to one of his houses whiche was very faire and newe, where (after he had shewed him his house) he saide vnto him. ‘Oh M. Gu­glielmo you that haue séene and hearde many thinges can you shewe vnto me any newe deuise neuer séene before, that I may cause the same to be painted in my hall: To whome M. Guglielmo (hearinge his fonde talke) answered. Sir I cā shewe you nothing but that whiche hath béen knowen before excepte Nesinges or suche like. But if it please you sir I will gladly teache you one, whiche I thinke you neuer sawe. M. Ermino gladde to here of that, saied. I praie you sir tell me what it is, (not thinckinge he would haue made that answere).’ To whom maister Guglielmo redely saied. Cause the figure of Liberalitie to be painted. At which answere maister Ermino was so sodenly ashamed that he was forced to chaūge his minde in a maner cleane contrary to his accustomed vse, and saied. ‘Maister Guglielmo I will cause the same to be painted in such wise, as neither you nor any man elles shall haue occa­sion iustlie to obiecte the same againste me.’ And from that time foorthe (suche was the force of that taunte) he was the moste liberall and bountifull Gentleman [Page 63] that dwelt in Genoua, and one that honoured straun­gers and Citizens more then euer any did in his time.

¶The .xxxij. Nouell.

NOt many yéeres paste their was at Bologna a notable Phisician, renoumed through out the whole worlde, called Master Alberto, who beinge olde, almost. lx. yeeres of age, had suche an excellent witte, that although naturall heate was expired in his bodie, yet he disdained not to conceiue some amorouse flames of loue. Seinge at a banket a very faire gentlewoman a widowe called (as some saie) Madonna Margherita de Ghisiheri, she pleased his fancie so well, that he fixed her so fast in the siege of his remembrance, as if he had béene a younge man of ripe and youthly yeeres. In suche wise as that night, he coulde take no reste, if the daie before, he had not seene the faire and beautifull face of this faire gentlewoman. For whiche cause sometimes a foote, and sometimes on horsebacke, as he thought best, he continually vsed to passe before her lodginge, whiche was the cause that she and diuerse other gentlewomen did marke thoccasion of his ofte passinge to and fro that waie. And many times they lested and dalied amongest them selfes to sée a man of suche yeeres and experience to be in loue, thinckinge that the displeasant passion of loue, coulde fallen no [Page] holde but in the fonde mindes of younge people and no where else. Wherefore Master Alberto daylie pas­singe to and fro by the house of that gentlewoman, it chaunced vpon holy daie, that she sittinge with o­ther dames before her dore, and seinge Master Alber­to a farre of cominge towardes them, they all deter­mined curteousely to receiue him, and reuerently to salute him, and afterwardes merely to talke and sport of his loue, whiche accordingly they did. The gentle­women risinge vp they brought him into a Courte, of aire freshe and pleasant, where they caused to be brought foorth excellente wines and comfites, and in the ende with many cheerefull nd pleasaunt woordes they asked him howe it was possible, he coulde be in loue with that faier gentlewoman specially sithens many faire and trimme yongemen did loue her. Master Alberto perceiuinge himselfe touched and gesled at, very honestly answered with smilyng coun­tenaunce. ‘Mastres No wise man what so euer he be ought to maruel why I am in loue, chiefely with you, bicause your beautie & woorthines dothe well deserue the same. And although that naturally the forces whiche be incident to exercises of Loue, doe finde in olde men, good will therefore is not in them depriued, nor the iudgement in knowlege, in that which ought to be beloued. But bicause they haue more knowledge then yonge men, therfore by nature thei better know the qualitie of Loue. The hope that moueth me an old man to loue you, that is so well beloued of yonge mē, is this: I haue many times béene conuersant in places where I haue seene gentlewomen for there collation and pleasure after dinner, oftentimes to eate lupines and lekes and albeit that in the leke, there is nothing good, yet the hedde thereof is less hurtefull, and most [Page 64] pleasant to the mouthe, whereof generally (through a folish lust) ye holde the hedde in your hande and chawe the leaues, whiche not only be cuel and nought, but also be of an ill fauored smell and fauour. And what doe I know (mistres) if in the choise of your frendes ye doe the like? Whiche if ye doe, no doubt it is I, whom you haue chosen, and haue forsaken all other. This gentlewoman sometime ashamed and blushing with the rest, saide Master Alberto, you haue full well and curteousely paied vs home, and answered our pre­sumptuouse obiection Notwithstanding I doe estéeme and accepte your amitie & loue as I ought to regarde the loue of a wise and honest personage. And so (mine honestie and honour saued) all that I haue to doe you pleasure assuredly is at your cōmaundement.’ There­with all Master Alberto rose vp, thanckinge the gen­tlewoman, and with muche sporte and pleasant talke takinge his leaue of the company departed. In this maner the gentlewoman giuinge ouer her scoffes and tauntes, whereby she thought to put Master Alberto out of concept, was ouercome her selfe. Where of I (in the name of Panfilo Filostrato and Dioneo,) by way of intreatie doe beseech ye Ladies, Pampinea, Fiāmer­ta, Philomena, and other gentlewomen, to beware howe ye doe contriue your hollie day talke, by waste of wordes issuing forth your delicate mouthes, in car­pinge gaudinge and iestinge at yonge gentlemen, and specially olde men, and Master Alberto of Bolo­gna, that for loue like the grene stalkes or graie he dres of lekes, doe desire to sauer your mouthes and by ho­nest recreacion and pleasure to gratefie your comely personages, lest before the banket be done and all the confites spente, ye departe with blushinge cheekes with ouermuche weight of Goldesmithes woorks [Page] hanginge downe your heades not shaminge to looke your mother in the face from whence you came. I meane the earth: Where dame nature hath formed you by comely grace, and good behauiour to be holde eche man and to vtter pleasant talke intermixed with honestie and vextue.

¶The .xxxiij. Nouell.

IN the time of Azzo Marques of Ferrara their was a Marchaunt na­med Rinaldo of Esti come to Bolo­gna to dooe certaine affaires. Whi­che when he had dispatched, in re­tournyng homewardes, it chaun­ced as he departed out of Ferrara, and ridyng towardes Verona, he mette certaine men on horsebacke, whiche semed to be marchantes, but in verie deede were arrant theues, and menne of ill life and condicion: with whō he kepte companie, and with out suspicion what thei were, rode together familiar­ly talkyng. These good felowes seyng this marchant and thinkyng that he had money about him, determi­ned to robbe hym, when thei sawe their aduauntage, and to the intente he should suspect nothyng, thei rode like graue men of honest conuersacion, debatyng with hym of honest thynges, and faithfull, shewyng them­selfes so well as thei could, to be lowlie and gentle. U­pon whiche occasiō, he thought hymself moste happie to haue mette with suche a companie, bicause he & his ser­uaunt [Page 65] rode together alone. And as thei were in deba­tyng of diuers matters (as chaunceth in communica­cion) thei fill in talke of praiers, that menne dooe make vnto God. And one of the theues (for thei were thrée in nōber) saied vnto Rinaldo. ‘And you gentleman, what praier be you accustomed to make, whē you ride by the waie?’ To whom Rinaldo answered. ‘To tell you the truthe, I am a man verie plain, and rude in those mat­ters, and I haue a fewe praiers at my fingers endes: suche as myne auncestours vsed before me. And I lette go currant. ii.s. for. xxiiii.d. But neuerthelesse, I haue alwaies vsed, when I ride by the waie, to saie in the mornyng, at my goyng forthe of my lodgyng, a Pater noster and an Aue Maria, for the soule of y^e father and mother of sainct Iulian: and afer that, I praie to God and saincte Iulian, to sende me good lodgyng the night folowyng. And full ofte in my tyme I haue founde, in traueilyng of Countries many greate daungers, all whiche hauyng escaped, it hath been my fortune alwa­yes (when night approched) to chaunce vpon good and honeste lodgyng: whiche maketh me sted fastlie beleue that saincte Iulian (vnto whose honour I saie the same) hath obteined this benefite of God for me, & I thought that daie wherein I neglected to saie in the mornynge that praier, I could neither sauflie trauell, ne yet at night obtaine good harborough.’ He that demaunded the question, asked hym. ‘And hast thou saied them this mornyng?’ ‘Yea verelie’ answered Rinaldo. Then he whiche alredie knewe, how the matter would goe, said to himself, thou shalte haue enough to doe anon, for if thou haue not said them this mornyng, it maie so hap that thou shalt lodge full il this night. And afterwards he saied, ‘I haue likewise traueiled in my daies a great waie: And yet I neuer saied those praiers, but I haue [Page] heard many men greatly praise them. And yet I could neuer perceiue, but that I haue been well lodged. And peraduenture this nighte you shall proue, whiche of vs twoo shall haue best lodging, you whiche haue saied them, or I whiche haue not said them. It is moste true that I haue accustomed, in steede of that praier, to saie the verse Dirupisti, or the Antheme Intemerata, or the Deprofundis, whiche are (as my graunde mother did teache and instructe me) of verie greate force and ver­tue.’ And speakyng thus of diuers thinges, alwaies ri­dyng, expectyng the place and time, to put their wicked intent in effecte: It chaunced that approchyng nere to Castelll Guglielmo, when thei had passed ouer a riuer, these thrée theues, late in the euening in a darke place, did sette vpon hym and robbed hym, dismountyng him from his horsse, and left him there in his shurte. And as thei were goyng awaie, thei saied vnto hym: ‘Goe and seeke if thy sainct Iuliā, will helpe thée to good lodging this nighte, for our saincte, will helpe vs to good.’ And passyng through the Riuer, thei went their waie. The seruaunt of Rinaldo, perceiuing the theues sette vpon his Maister (like a cowarde) helped hym nothing at all, but tournyng his bridle, neuer lefte gallopyng, vn­till he came to castell Guglielmo: where bicause it was night, he lodged hymself in an Inne, whithout any fur­ther care for his master. Rinaldo being still there in his shurte, barefooted and bare legged, in the greate Frost and Snowe, not knowyng what to dooe, and seyng night alredie approche, quaking, and his teethe clacke­tyng in his head, began to looke about him, if he could sée any place there, for hym to resort for succour, that he might not die for cold: but (seyng none at al, bicause a­litle before, the warres had with fire cōsumed all thin­ges) beyng sore afflicted for colde, he beganne to runne [Page 66] towardes Castell Guglielmo, not knowing for al that, that his seruaunt was fled thither: thinkyng that if he might come in, God would sende him some succor, but darke night ouertoke him a good way of, before he culd come to the Castell, almoste by the space of a mile, by whiche meanes he arriued there verie late, the gates being shutte vp, and the bridges drawen, that he could not goe in. By reason whereof, he was very sorowe­full and discomforted, lamentablie, castyng his eyes a­bout, to espie if it wer possible, that at the lest he might shroude hymself frée from the Snowe: and by chaunce he sawe a house, vpon the walles of the Castell, vnder whiche he determined to rest hymself, till it was daie, and repairyng thither, he fofide vnder the house a doore (whiche was locked) vnder whiche doore, he gathered a litle straw, that he founde there about, and sat doune verie heauie & pensife: making his complaint many ty­mes vnto saincte Iulian, saiyng: that the faithe whiche he reposed in him, had now deceiued hym. But saincte Iulian taking pitie vpon hym, vithout any further de­laie, prepared hym a good lodgyng. There dwelled in that Castell a woman, whiche was a widowe, so faire a persone as might be seen, whom the Marques Azzo loued as his life, & kept her there for his own pleasure. And the same woman dwelt in that house, vnder the porche wherof, Rinaldo was gone to rest himself. And the daie before, by chaūce the Marques came thither, to disport hymself with her that night, & in her house had secretlie caused a bathe to bée made, and commaunded a greate supper to be prepared: And all thinges beyng redie, and the goodwife expectyng nothyng els, but the commylig of the Marques. It chaunced that one of his menne called at the gates of the Castell, who brought suche newes to the Marques, that sodainly he must ride [Page] awaie. Wherefore he sent woorde to the widowe, that she should not attende his commyng: who not a litle displeased with those newes, not knowyng what to doe, determined to entre into the Bathe, whiche was prepared for the Marques, and when she had supped, to goe to bedde. This bathe was hard by the dore, where poore Rinaldo was approched. The widowe beyng in the bathe, bearyng the plaintes and tremblyng voice, made by Rinaldo, thoughte it had been the noise of a Storke. Wherefore she called her maide, and said vn­to her. Goe vp, and looke ouer the walles, and sée who is at the doore, and knowe what he would haue. The maide, accordyng to her maistres commaūdement, the nighte beyng somewhat cleare, sawe Rinaldo sittyng in his shurt bare legged, shaking for colde, as is before saied: wherevpon she asked him, what he was. And Ri­naldo, with his teethe shiueryng in his heade, could scarse well speake, or vtter a woorde, and so brieflie as he could, he tolde her what he was, how and for what purpose he was come thither. Afterwardes he piteous­ly beganne to praie her (if she could) not to suffer hym that night, to sterue there for colde. The maide pitiyng his estate, returned to her maistres, and tolde her what she sawe: who like wise hauyng compassion vpō him, remembring that she had the keye of the doore (whiche sometymes serued the turne, when the Marques was disposed secretly to come in) she saied to her maide: ‘goe open the doore softlie. For we haue prepared a supper, and here is no man to eate it. And also here is lodging sufficient to harbour hym.’ The maide greatlie prai­syng her maistres for her curtesie, wente forthe and o­pened the doore. And when he was let in, thei percei­ued hym, to bee almoste frosen for colde, saiyng vnto him: ‘dispatche good felowe, goe into the Bathe, beyng [Page 67] yet hotte.’ Whiche thyng he right willingly did, not, lokyng that he should be hidden againe, and beyng re­comforted, with the warmeth thereof, he felt hymself reuiued, from death to life. The good wife caused cer­taine apparell, of her late deade husbande, to bee sear­ched out for hym, and when he had put them on, thei were so mete, as though thei had béen made of purpose, and waityng what it should please the good wife to commaunde hym, he began humblie to thanke God, and sainct Iulian, that he was deliuered from that euill night, contrary to his expectacion, and was brought to so good a lodgyng. After this the faier widowe, a litle reposyng her self, caused a great fire to be made, in one of her greate chambers, into the whiche she came, and demaunded her maide, what maner of manne he was. Whereto the maide answered, saiyng: ‘Maistres, now he is in good apparell, he is a verie handsome manne, and semeth to be of good reputacion and honestie.’ ‘Goe thy waies (quod her maistres) and call hym in hither. Bidde hym come to the fire, and tell hym that he shall suppe with me, for perchaunce he hath eate no meate to night.’ Rinaldo came into the chamber, and seyng the widowe, made to her greate reuerence: thankyng her for her kindnesse shewed vnto hym. When the wi­dowe had seen hym, and heard him speake, perceiuyng hym to be suche a one, as her maide reported: receiued hym in curteous wise, causyng hym familierly to sitte doune before the fire. And demaunded what mishappe, brought hym to that place. To whom Rinaldo reher­sed the whole discourse. For she had heard, at the com­myng of Rinaldo his seruaunt to the Castell, a reporte of his robberie, whiche made her to beleue him the bet­ter: She tolde hym also, that his man was come to the toune, and how he might easily finde him the next mor­nyng. [Page] But after meate was serued to the table, Rinal­do and she washed together, and then satte doune to supper. He was a goodlie personage, faier and plea­saunte to beholde, yonge and of good behauiour, vpon whom the woman many tymes did caste her eyes, and liked him well. To be shorte, this lecherous ladie, burnyng inwardlie with amourous desire, abused her self with hym, in stéede of the Marques. But when the morning began to shewe forthe her light, the widowe to the intent, no suspicion might be had, gaue him cer­tain base and course apparell, and filled his purse with money, praiyng hym to kepe it secrete, and firste tolde hym, whiche waie he should goe to séeke his man, let­tyng hym out at the doore, whereat he came in. Who semyng as though he had traueiled, a great waie that mornyng: When the gates were opened, wente in­to the castell, and founde his seruaunt. Wherfore put­tyng vpō hym, suche apparell as was in his male, and beeyng aboute to gette vp, vpon his mannes horsse, it came to passe, like as it had been a diuine miracle, that the three theues, whiche had robbed hym the night be­fore, were taken for doyng of an other robberie, which thei had cōmitted a litle while after, and wer brought to the Castell, and vpon their confession, his horsse, ap­parell, and money were restored to hym againe, losing nothyng but a paire of garters. Wherefore Rinaldo thankyng God and S. Iulian. mounted vpon his horse and retourned hole and saufe, to his owne house. And the nexte daie, the three theues were conueied forthe, to blesse the worlde with their héeles.

¶The .xxxiiij. Nouell.

THere was somtime in the ci­tie of Florence a knight, cal­led sir Tebaldo, who as some saie, was of the house of Lamberti: and as other affirme, of Agolanti. But leauyng the variaunce, of whether house he was, true it is, that he was in that time, a notable, riche and wealthie knight, and had three sonnes. The firste called Lamberto, the seconde Tebaldo, and the thirde Agolante, all faire and goodlie children: and the eldest of them was, not .xviij. yeres of age. When the saied sir Tebaldo died, to them (as his lawfull heires) he left all his landes and goodes. Who seyng themselfes, to be verie riche, in redie money and possessions, cōtinued their life without gonernement, at their owne pleasu­res, and without bridle or staie, thei began to consume their goodes. Thei kepte a greate and francke house, and many Horsses of greate value, with Dogges and Haukes, of sundrie kindes, and continuallie kept open house, giuyng liberall giftes, and obseruyng diuerse gestes at Tilt and Torney, doing that thing, that not onelie did appertaine, and belong to gentlemenne, [Page] but also that, whiche was incident to the trade & course of youthe. Thei continued not longe in this order, but their substaunce lefte them by their father, was verie muche consumed. And their reuenues (not able to ma­intaine their expences) began to decrease, wherevpon thei were faine, to morgage and sell their inheritaunce in suche wise, as in the ende thei grewe to extreme po­uertie. And then penurie did opē their eyes in like sort, as before richesse had closed them vp. For which cause Lamberto vpon a daie, did call his other twoo brethren vnto hym, and tolde them of what honour their father was, to what value his richesse did amounte, and now to what pouertie thei wer come, through their disordi­nate expences, giuyng them counsaill (so well as he coulde) that before miserie did growe any further vpō them, by sellyng that whiche was left, thei should goe their waie. Whiche thei did. And without leaue taken of any man, or other solempnitie, thei departed from Florence, and taried in no place, before thei were ar­riued in Englande. Where takyng a litle house, in the citie of London, thei liued with litle expences, and be­gan to lende out their money to vsurie, & Fortune was so fauourable vnto them, by that trade, that in fewe yeres, thei had gained a verie notable some of money, whiche made them one after an other, to retire againe to Florence with their substaunce, where thei redemed a greate parte of their inheritaunce, and bought other lande, and so gaue themselues to mariage: continew­ing neuerthelesse in England, their money at interest. Thei sente thither to be their factour, a yonge manne their nephewe, called Alexandro. And thei three dwel­lyng still at Florence, began againe to forget to what miserie their inordinate expences, had broughte them before. And albeit thei were charged with housholde, [Page 69] yet thei spente out of order, and without respecte. And were of greate credite with euery Marchaunte: whose expences, the money that Alexandro, many tymes did sende home, did helpe to supporte for certaine yeres, whiche was lente out to diuerse gentlemen, and Ba­rons of the countrie, vpon their Castelles, Manours, and other reuenues, whereof was receiued an incre­dible profite. In the meane tyme, the three brethren spent so largelie, that thei borowed money of other, fi­xyng all their hope from Englande. It chaunced con­trary to the opinion of al men, that warres happened betwene the kyng of England, and one of his sonnes, whiche bredde muche diuision in that Countrie, some holdyng of one part, and some of an other. By meanes whereof, all the manours and morgaged landes, were taken awaie from Alexandro, hauyng nothing wher­vpō any profite did rise. But daily trustyng, that peace should be concluded, betwene the father and the sonne. And that all thynges should be surrendred, aswell the principall as the interest: he determined not to departe the countrie. The three brethren whiche were at Flor­rence, not limityng any order, to their disordinate ex­pences, grewe daily worsse and worsse. But in processe of tyme, when all hope was past of their recouery, thei lost not onely their credite: but the creditors desirous to be paied, were faine to sende thē to prison. And bicause their inheritance was not sufficient, to paie the whole debt, thei remained in prison for the rest: And their wi­ues and childrē were dispersed, some into the countrie, and some hether and thither, out of order, not knowing how to do, but to abide a poore & miserable life for euer. Alexandro whiche of long tyme, taried for a peace in Englande: and seing that it would not come to passe: & considering with hymself (that ouer and besides his [Page] vaine abode, for recouery of his debtes) that he was in daunger of his life, he purposed to retourne into Ita­lie. And as he traueiled by the waie alone, and depar­ted from Bruges, by fortune he perceiued an Abbot, clothed in white, in like maner about to take his iour­ney, accompanied with many Monkes, and a greate traine: hauyng muche cariage, and diuers baggages before. After whom rode twoo olde knightes, the kins­menne of the kyng, with whom Alexandro entred ac­quaintance, by reason of former knowledge, and was receiued into their companie. Alexandro then ridyng with thē frendly, demaunded what Monkes thei were that rode before, with so greate a traine, and whether thei wente. To whom one of the knightes answered: that he whiche rode before, was a yonge gentle man their kinsman, which was newlie chosen Abbot, of one of the best Abbaies in Englande. And bicause he was verie yonge, and not lawfull by the decrees, for suche a dignitie, thei went with him to Rome, to obteine of the holie father, a dispensacion for his age: and for a cō ­firmacion of that dignitie. But thei willed hym to dis­close the same to no manne. And so this newe Abbot, riding sometymes before, and sometymes after, as we see ordinarilie that lordes doe, when thei trauell in the countrie: It chaunced that the Abbot, perceiuyng Ale­xandro ridyng besides him, whiche was a faire yonge manne, honest, curteous, and familier, who at the first meting, did so merueilouslie delight him, as any thing that euer he sawe in his life, and callyng hym vnto hym, he began familierlie to talke, and asked what he was, from whence he came, and whether he went. To whom Alexandro declared liberallie all his state, and satisfied his demaūde, offryng vnto hym (although his power was little) all the seruice he was able to dooe. [Page 70] The Abbote hearyng his curteous offer and comelie talke, placed in good order, consideryng more particu­lerlie, the state of his affaires, and waiyng with hym self, that albeit his traine was small, yet neuerthelesse he semed to be a gentleman, and then pitiyng his mis­happes, he recomforted hym familierlie, and saied vnto him, that he ought daily to liue in good hope. ‘For if he were an honeste manne, God would aduaunce him a­gain, not onelie to that place, frō whence Fortune had throwen hym doune, but also to greater estimacion, praiyng him that sithēs he was goyng into Thuscane whether he likewise went, that it would please him to remaine in his compaine.’ Alexandro thanked hym humblie of his comfort, and said vnto him that he was redie to imploie hymself, where it should please hym to cōmaunde. The Abbot thus riding (into whose minde newe thoughtes entred, vpon the sight of Alexandro) It chaūced after many daies iourneis, thei arriued at a village, that was but meanlie furnished with lod­gyng. The Abbot desirous to lodge there: Alexandro intreated hym to lighte at the Inne of an hoste whiche was familiarly knowen vnto him, and caused a cham­ber to be made redie for hymself, in the worste place of the house. And the Marshall of the Abbottes lodgyn­ges, beyng alredie come to the Toune (whiche was a manne verie skilfull in those affaires) he lodged all the traine in that village, one here, an other there, so well as he could. And by that time the Abbot had supped, night was farre spente, and euery man repaired to his bedde. Alexandro demaūded the host, where he should lie? To whom the hoste made answere. ‘Of a trouthe Maister Alexandro I knowe not: for you see that all my house is so full, that I and my housholde, be faine to lie vpon the benches: how beit I haue certaine gar­rettes, [Page] harde adioynyng to my lorde Abbottes cham­ber, where I maie place you verie well, and I will cause my folkes to beare thither a pallet, and there if you please, you maie lodge this night. To whom Ale­xandro saied. How shall I goe throughe the Abbot­tes chamber, where for the streighte rome in the same not one of his Monkes is able to lie. But if I had kno­wen it before, the curteins had been drawen: I would haue caused his Monkes to haue lien in the garrette, and I my selfe would haue lodged where thei dooe. Wherevnto the hoste saied, it is dooen now, but (me thinke) you maie if you liste lie there so well, as in any place of the house. The Abbot beyng a slepe, and the curteins drawen before hym, I will softlie and with­out noise conueie a pallett thithere.’ Alexandro percei­uyng that the same might be doen, without any anoy­aunce to the Abbot, agreed, and conueied himself so se­cretlie as he could, through the chamber. The Abbot which was not a slepe (but gaue himself to thinke and imagine vpon his newe desires) hearde the woordes that were spoken, betwene the hoste and Alexandro, and likewise vnderstanding, where Alexandro laie, was verie well contente in himself, and began to saie. ‘The Lorde hath sente me a time fauourable, to satisfie my desires: whiche if I do not now receiue, peraduen­ture the like will neuer bee offred againe.’ Wherefore perswading with himself, to take that present occasiō, and supposing likewise, that euery mā was a slepe, he called Alexādro so softlie as he could, and willed him to come and lie beside him: who after many excuses, when his clothes were of, came vnto hym. The Abbot laiyng his arme ouer him, began to attempte suche a­morous toies, as be accustomed betwene twoo louers: whereof Alexandro merueiled muche, and doubted [Page 71] that the Abbotte beyng surprised with dishonest loue, had called hym to his bedde of purpose, to proue hym. Whiche doubte the Abbot (either by presumption, or some other acte dooen by Alexandro) vnderstandyng: in continentlie beganne to smile, and to putte of his shurte whiche he ware, and tooke Alexandros hande, and laied it ouer his stomacke, saiyng vnto hym. ‘Ale­xandro, cast out of thy minde thy vnhonest thoughte, and fele here the thing, whiche I haue secrete.’ Alexan­dro laiyng his hande ouer the Abbottes stomack, per­ceiued that he had twoo breastes, rounde and harde, the skinne whereof was verie fine and neshe, whereby he perceiued, that he was a woman, whom incontinentlie he embraced, and without looking for any other inui­taciō, he would haue kissed her that she saied vnto him Before thou approche any nerer, marke what I shall saie vnto thee. ‘I am a woman, and not a man, as thou maiest perceiue, but beyng departed a maide from my house, I am goyng to the Pope, to praie him to place me in mariage. But whē I first viewed thee, the other daie, whether it was through thy good fortune, or my mishappe, loue attached me in suche wise, as neuer woman loued manne, as I dooe thee. And therefore I dooe purpose, to take thee for my husbande, before all others. But if thou wilte not take me to wife, get thee hence, and retourne to thine owne bedde.’ Alexandro although he knewe her not, yet hauyng regarde vnto the companie, and traine that followed her, iudged her to be some noble and riche Ladie. On the other parte, he sawe that she was a personage, right beautifull and faire, therefore without any further consideracion, he answered. That for somuche as her pleasure was such he was verie well contēted. She then sitting vp in her bedde, hauing a litle table (wherin the picture of Christ [Page] was painted) indowed him with a ringe, doing the or­der of espousalles, and afterwardes embracing one an other, to their greate contentacion and pleasure, thei ioyfullie continued together that night. And after thei had deuised, and concluded thorder and meanes, to ac­complishe their affaires, from that time forthe: Alexā ­dro so sone as it was daie rose, and went out of the chā ­ber, that waie he came in, without knowledge to any man, where he laie that night. Then right ioifull and glad, he proceded in his iourney, with the Abbotte and his cōpanie, and within fewe daies, arriued at Rome. And when thei had remained there a certaine tyme: The Abbot taking with him, but the twoo knightes, and Alexandro, wente to the Pope: where doyng to him their due reuerence, the Abbot began to speake in this wise. ‘Holie father (as your holinesse dooeth better knowe then any other) euery manne that purposeth to liue an honeste life, ought to auoide (so muche as lieth in him) all occasiōs that maie drawe him to the cōtra­ry. Whiche to thintent I that am desirous, to leade an honeste life, maie fullie performe: am secretlie fledde, and arriued here, in the habite, wherein you see, with a good porcion of the kyng of Englandes treasure, who is my father: that your holinesse, maie bestowe me in Mariage, for so muche as my father, would giue me to wife (whiche am a yonge gentlewoman as you see) to the Scottishe king, a verie riche and wealthie Prince. And his olde age was not so muche, the occasion of my departure, as the feare which I conceiued (through the frailtie of my youth, to be maried vnto him) to commit a thing, that should be cōtrary to the lawe of God, and the honour of the bloud roiall of my father. And in co­myng hitherwardes, beyng in this déepe deliberacion with my self, almightie God, who onelie knoweth as­suredlie, [Page 72] what is nedefull and necessarie for vs all, did place before mine eyes (through his gracious mercie, as I truste) him that he thinketh meete to bee my hus­bande, whiche is this yonge gentleman (poinetyng to Alexandro) whom you see standing besides me. The honestie & worthinesse of whom, is well able to match with any greate ladie, how honourable so euer she bee although peraduenture, the nobilitie of his bloudde is not so excellent as that, which procedeth from the roi­all and princelie stocke. Him then haue I chosen to be my husbande, him I will haue and none other, what­soeuer my father shall faie, or any other to the cōtrarie. Wherefore the principall occasion, that moued me to come hither, is now dispatched. But I will accōplishe and performe the rest of my voiage, aswel to visite the holie and reuerent places [whereof this citie is ful) and your holinesse: as also, that the contracte of mariage (hi­therto onely made in the presēce of God, betwene Ale­xandro and me) shalbe consummate openly, in the pre­sence of you, and consequentlie in the sight of all men Wherefore I humblie beseche your fatherhode, to bée agreable vnto that, which it hath pleased God and me to bring to passe, and that you would giue vs your be­nediction, to the intent wee maie liue together, in the honour of God, to the perfection and ende of our life.’ Alexandro greatlie merueiled, when he vnderstoode, that his wife was the doughter of the Kyng of En­glande, and was rapte with an vnspeakable ioye. But muche more merueiled the twoo knightes, whi­che were so troubled and appalled, that if thei had béen in any place els, sauyng in the presence of the Pope, thei would haue killed Alexandro, and peraduenture the Ladie her self. Of the other parte, the Pope was verie muche astonned, bothe at the habite and appa­rell [Page] of the Ladie, and also of her choise. But knowing that the same could not be vndoen, he was contente to satisfie her requeste. And firste of all, he comforted the twoo knightes, whom he knewe to bee moued at the matter, and reduced them in amitie, with the Ladie and Alexandro: then he gaue order, what was beste to be doen. And when the Mariage daie, by him appoin­ted was come, he caused the Ladie to issue forthe, clo­thed in roiall vestures, before all the Cardinalles, and many other greate personages, that were repaired to the greate feaste, of purpose by hym prepared. Whiche ladie appered, to bee so faire and comelie, that not without deserte, she was praised and commended of all the assemblie. In like maner Alexandro gorge­ouslie apparelled, bothe in outwarde apparaunce and condicions, was not like one that had lente money to Usurie, but of a more princelie grace, and was greate­lie honoured of those twoo knightes, where the Pope solempnelie celebrated [again) the espousalles. And af­ter that riche & roial mariage was ended, he gaue them leaue to departe. It semed good to Alexandro, and like wise to the Ladie, to goe from Rome to Florence, in whiche citie; the brute of that accidente, was all readie noised, where beyng receiued of the citizēs, with great honour, the Ladie deliuered the three brethren out of prison, and hauyng firste paied euery man their debte, thei with their wiues, were repossessed in their former inheritaunce. Then Alexandro and his wife, with the good will, and ioyfull gratulacions of all men, depar­ted from Florence, and takyng with them Agolante, one of their vncles, arriued at Paris, where thei were honorablie interteigned of the Frenche kyng. From thence the twoo knightes wente into Englande, and so perswaded the king, that thei recouered his good wil [Page 73] towardes his doughter: and sendyng for his soonne in lawe, he receiued them bothe, with greate ioye and triumphe. And within a while after, he inuested his saied soone, with the order of knighthode, and made hym Erle of Cornouale, whose wisedome proued so great, that he pacified the father, and the sonne where­of insued, surpassyng profite and commoditie for the whole realme, whereby he gained and gotte the loue, and good well of all the people. And Agolante his vn­cle, fullie recouered all debtes, due vnto him in En­glande. And the Erle when he hadde made his vncle knighte, suffred him to retourne in riche estate to Flo­rence. The Erle afterwardes liued with his wife, in greate prosperitie, and (as some dooe affirme) bothe by his owne pollicie and valiaunce, and with the aide of his father in Lawe, he recouered and ouercame the realme of Scotlande, and was there crouned kyng.

¶The .xxxv. Nouell.

IT is supposed, that the sea coaste of Reggium (in Calabria) is the moste delectable parte in all Italie, wher­in (harde by Salerno) there is a coū ­trie by the sea side, whiche thinhabi­tantes doe terme, the coaste of Mal­sy, so full of litle Cities, gardeins, fountaines, riche men, and marchauntes as any other people and countrie. Emong whiche said cities, there [Page] was one called Rauello, where in time paste (although in these daies, there bée verie riche men) there dwelt a notable man of substaūce, called Landolpho Ruffolo: who beyng not cōtented with his richesse, but desirous to multiplie them double, was in hazarde to lose hym­self, and all that he had. This manne (as all other mar­chauntes bee accustomed) after he had considered with himself, what to doe, bought a verie greate shippe, and fraughted the same with sundrie kindes of marchaun­dize, of his owne aduenture, and made a voiage to the Isle of Cypri, where he founde (besides the commodi­ties, whiche he brought) many other Shippes arriued there, laden with suche like wares: by whiche occasion it happened, that he was forced, not onelie to fell the same good cheape. but also was cōstrained (if he would dispatche his goodes) to giue them almoste for nought, whereby he thought that he was vtterlie vndoen. And beyng greatlie troubled for that lesse, not knowyng what to dooe, and seyng how in so litle tyme, of a riche man, he was come to beggers state, he thought either to die, or els by piracie to recouer his losses, to the in­tente he mighte not retourne, to the place poore, from whence he was departed riche. And hauyng founde a copesman, for his greate barque: with the money ther­of, and with other, whiche he receiued for his marchan­dise, he bought a small pinnas, mete for the vse of a pi­rate, whiche he armed and furnished with all thinges, necessarie for that purpose. And determined to make hymself riche, with the goodes of other men, and chief­lie he meante, to sette vpon the Turkes: wherevnto Fortune was more fauourable, then to his former trade. And by chaunce, by the space of one yere, he rob­bed and toke, so many Foistes and galleis of the Tur­kes, that he had recouered not onelie that, whiche he [Page 74] lost by marchādize, but also more then twise so muche as wherevnto those losses did amounte. Wherefore, well punished with the firste sorowe of his losses, kno­wyng his gaines to multiplie, that he neded not to re­tourne the seconde tyme, he thought with himself, that the same whiche he had gotten, was sufficiēt: and ther­fore determined presētlie, to returne to his owne house with his gotten goodes. And fearyng the hinderaunce which he susteined in traffique of Marchaūdise, he pur­posed to imploie his money, no longer that waies: but in that barque, wherwith he had gained the same, with his ores he tooke his course homeward. And beyng v­pon the maine Sea, in the night the winde rose at the Southeast, which was not onelie cōtrary to his course but also caused suche a tempest, that his smalle barque was not able to indure the seas. Wherevpon he tooke harborough in a Creke of the Sea, whiche compassed a litle Islande, there expectyng for better winde. Into whiche creke within a while after, with muche a doe, for auoidyng of that tempest, arriued twoo greate Ar­goseis of Genoa, that wer come from Constantinople. The Mariners of whiche shippes: when thei sawe the litle barque, & had shut vp the way, that the same could not goe out: vnderstandyng of whence he was, & kno­wyng by reporte, that he was verie riche, determined (beyng ikenne naturallie giuen to spoile, and loue of money) to take her. And settyng a shore parte of their meune well armed, and furnished with crossebowes, thei conueied thēselfes, to keepe and defende, that none within the Pinnas (excepte he would be shot through) was able to escape. Then retiryng into their skiftes, with helpe of the Tide, thei approched Landolpho his barke, which without any great difficultie, in a smalle space, thei tooke with all the companie, not losyng so [Page] muche as one manne. And cariyng Landolpho aborde one of their cockes, and all within borde his litle Pin­nas, thei soncke the same, and all the Mariners, & kepte Landolpho, sufferyng him not to haue about him, any kinde of armure, not so muche as an haberion. The next daie the winde chaunged, and the shippes hoisted vp sailes toward Leuant, and all that daie prosperous­lie sailed on their voiage. But vpon the closyng of the night, a storme rose again, and separated the twoo ship­pes, one from an other. And by force of the winde, it chaunced, that the Shippe wherein poore Landolpho was, strake with greate violence vpon a sande, in the Islande of Cephalonia. And as one would throwe a glasse against a wall, euen so the shippe opened, and fill in peces: whereby the sorowfull Mariners, that stoode aboue (the seas beyng couered with gooddes, coaffers, and planckes of the shippe, that swāme aboue water, whiche chaunceth many tymes, in suche like acciden­tes; the night beyng darke, & the billowes goyng high and [...]ble) suche as were able to swimme, began to take holde of those thinges, whiche Fortune gaue vnto thē. Emonges whō wretched Landolpho, seyng death before his face (whiche he so greatlie desired, and so many tymes craued, the daie before, rather then to retourne home in that poore estate) was afraied, and taught holde of a borde amonges the reste, trustyng it might chaunce, that God would pardon hym of drow­nyng, and sende hym some refuge for his escape. And as he was horsebacke, and fletyng vpon a plancke, so well as he could [driuen here and there with the sea and winde] he helde fast the fame, till it was daie light: whiche when he perceiued, he looked aboute hym, and sawe nothyng but the cloudes, the Seas and a coaffer, swimmyng aboue water, whiche was driuen so nere [Page 75] hym, that it made hym many tymes to feare, that it would bee his ouerthrowe. And the nerer it came, the more he laboured to putte it backe [so well as he could] with his hande, although his force and power was gone. But how so euer it chaunced, a gale of winde blewe out of the skies, and strake the coaffer againste the borde, wherevpon Landolpho was, who by that meanes driuē backe, was forced to giue ouer the plāck and with a billowe, was beaten vnder the water, and afterwardes remountyng a lofte againe, he swamme more through feare, then force. And seyng the borde ca­ried a farre of from hym, fearyng lest he should not bee able to fasten the same again, he drewe toward the coa­fer, whiche was nere inough vnto him. And laiyng his breast vpon the couer thereof, he made it goe [so right as he could] with his armes. And in this maner driuē by the sea, now here, now there, without eating [as ha­uyng not wherewithall] and drinkyng more then he would, he continued all that daie, and night folowing not knowyng where he was, for he sawe nothyng but sea. The nexte mornyng, either by the will of God, or through the windes force, Lādolpho [whiche was then transformed into a Sponge] holdyng faste with bothe his handes, the brimme of the coafer [like as we se thē that feare to bee drouned, dooe take holde of the nexte thyng that cometh to hande] arriued at the shore af the Isle of Corfu, where, by fortune a poore woman, was scowryng her vessell with Sande and salte wa­ter, who seyng hym drawe nere, and perceiuing in him no forme or fashion of a man, was afraied, and criyng out, ranne backe. He not able to speake, and se but ve­rie litle, could saie nothyng. but as the Sea droue hym nere the shore, the woman discried the likenes of a coa­fer, and beholdyng the same more aduisedlie, sawe at [Page] length his armes vpon the same, and therewithall his face, merueilyng with her self who it should be: wher­fore moued with compassion, she went into the sea a li­tle waie, whiche then was calme, and catchyng hym by the heare, The pluckte him and the coafer to lande. And with muche a doe vnfolded his armes, that were about the coafer, causyng her maide that was with her to carrie the coafer vpon her bedde. And she bare hym to lande (like a litle childe) whiche dooen, she put hym into a hotte house, and with warme water, by frotting and rubbyng hym, his naturall heate, and other his senses loste, began to come againe, into their former course. And when he sawe tyme, she toke hym out, che­rishing and comforting him, with wines and brothes, and so well as she could, made him at length to recouer his force in suche wise, that he knewe where he was. Then the woman deliuered hym his coafer, whiche she had saued, and hadde hym to seke his aduenture. And thus this good wife delte with Landolpho. Who litle estemed the coafer, but yet he considered, that it could not be of so small valour, but that it was able to beare his charges, for certaine daies. But feelyng it light, he was cleare voide of hope, to haue any succour and relief thereof. Neuerthelesse (when the good wife was out of the doores) he brake open the same, to see what was within, where he founde many precious Iewelles, some bounde together, and some lose, wher­in he had pretie skill. And knowyng thē to be of greate value (giuyng thankes to God, whiche had not yet for­saken hym) was wholie recomforted. Howbeit, for so muche as in a litle space, he had been twise cruellie di­stressed, and tormented by Fortune, fearyng the third tyme, he thought that it was nedefull for him, to take hede, how to dispose his thinges in sauftie, till he came [Page 76] home to his owne house. Wherefore, hauing bestowed those precious iewelles, in certaine ragges and clou­tes, so well as he could: he saied to the goodwife, that he had no neede of the coafer, but if she would giue hym a bagge, he would bestowe the same vpō her. Whiche the good wife willinglie did. And Landolpho giuyng her so greate thankes as he could, for the kindnes, whiche he had founde at her handes: tooke his leaue, and im­barking himself, he passed to Branditio, and frō thence frō place to place, till he came to Tranj, where finding diuers of the Citie wherein he dwelte, that were Dra­pers, he was apparelled of them (in a maner of Gods sake) to whom he tolde the discourse of all his fortune, except the coafer, who lēt hym a horse, and sent diuers in his companie, to bryng hym home to Rauello. And when he was in sauftie arriued, he thanked God, that had brought hym thither, where he searched his bou­gette, with more leasure then he did at the firste, and founde that he had many stones of so great valoure, that selling them at price reasonable, for lesse then thei were worthe, his substaunce did amount, to so muche more then it was, when he departed from his house. And when he had founde the meanes to dispatche, and sell his iewelles, he sent to Corfu a good pece of money, to the woman that tooke hym out of the sea, to recom­pence the kindnesse, that he had founde at her handes: and the like to them of Tranj, that had giuen hym ap­parell, the rest he tooke to hymself, and would be no more a marchaunt, but liued at home in honeste estate, to the ende of his life.

¶The .xxxvi. Nouell.

THere was at Perugia ae yong man, called Andreuccio di Pietro, a Horssecorser, who vnderstāding of a horse faire at Naples, did put fiue hun­dred Crounes in his pursse, and neuer traueiling before from his owne house, wente thither with certaine other marchauntes: arriuyng at Naples, vpon a Sondaie at night. The nexte mornyng, accordyng to the instructi­ons giuen him by his hosse, he went to the faire, where he viewed and sawe many horsse, whereof diuers did verie well like hym, and demaunded their prises: but with none he could agrée of price. And to shewe himself a right well able man, to paie for that he bought, many tymes (like a dolle and foole, as he was) he drewe out his pursse stuffed with crounes, in the presence of them that passed to and fro. It chaunced that a yonge womā of Scicilia [whiche was verie faire, but at euery man­nes commaundement, and that for litle hire) passed by as he was shewyng his pursse, not marked or percei­ued by Andreuccio, who sodainlie saied to her selfe. What is she in all this toune, that should be like vnto me, if al those crounes were mine? And so passed forth. There was with this yonge peate, an olde woman, a Scicilian also: who so sone as she espied Andreuccio, forsoke her cōpanion, and ran affectuouslie to imbrace [Page 77] hym Whiche the yonge woman perceiuing [not spea­kyng a woorde] she gaue good heede to that thei saied: Andreuccio tournyng himself to the olde woman, im­mediatlie knewe her, and reioysed muche, that he had so happelie mette her: whom after greate gratulaci­ons, and many welcomes, she promised to visite at his lodgyng, whiche doen, she departed from Andreuccio, and he retourned to buy his horsse, howbeit that mor­ning, he bought none at all. The yonge dame, whiche hadde firste seen this pursse, and marked the acquain­taunce betwene the olde woman and hym, to assaie by what meanes, she might gette that money, or at least, some parte thereof, subtellie asked the olde woman, what manne that was, of whence, what he did there, and how he knewe her. To whom the old woman par­ticularlie recoumpted her whole acquaintaunce, how she dwelt of long tyme in Scicilia with his father, and afterwardes at Perugia. And likewise she tolde her, when he retourned, and for what cause he was come to Naples. This iollie wenche, wholy informed of An­dreuccio his parentes, and of their names, made a plat and foundacion, by subtill and craftie meanes, how to obtaine her purpose. And when she was come home to her house, she sent the olde woman about businesse for that daie, bicause she might not retourne to Andreuc­cio. She had dwellyng with her a pretie girle, well noseled and broughte vp, in doyng of arrantes, whom about euenyng, she sent to the lodgyng of Andreuccio to make inquirie for him: where by fortune she chaun­ced to finde hym standyng alone, at his bostes doore, whō the girle did aske, if he knewe not an honest mā of Perugia, called Andreuccio di Pietro, that hosted there? ‘Yes my girle (quod he) I am the same manne.’ Then she tooke hym a side, and saied vnto hym. ‘Sir, [Page] there is a gentle woman of this Toune, that would gladlie speake with you, if it wer your pleasure.’ Whi­che when Andreuccio hearde, by and by he called to mynde, and semed to hymself, that he was a goodlie yange manne of persone, and that without doubte, the same woman was in loue with him, bicause in al Na­ples, he thought there was none so proper a striplyng as hymself. Whom incontinentlie he answered, that he would waite vpon her, demaunding whē he should come, and to what place. To whom she made answere ‘Euen when it pleaseth your sir. For my maistresse at­tēdeth at home for you.’ Andreuccio vpō that, without any woorde spoken to his hoste, whether he was gone: saied to the wenche. ‘Goe thou before, and I will fol­lowe.’ And the girle did conducte hym, to her maistres house, whiche dwelt in a streate called Malpertugio, a name shewyng the honestie of the streate, where she dwelte. But he knowyng and suspectyng nothyng, thought the place to be right honest, that he went vn­to, and the wife likewise honest and good, and boldlie entred the house, the wenche goyng before. And moū ­ting by the staiers: This yonge gristle, called her mai­stresse, saiyng vnto her, that maister Andreuccio was come. Who redie at the vpper steppe, seemed as though she attended for hym. This Ladie was fine, and had a good face, well apparelled, and trimmed af­ter the best maner. Who seing maister Andreuccio at hande, descended twoo steppes of the staiers, with her armes open to imbrace hym, foldyng the same aboute his necke, and paused a certaine space, without spea­kyng and woorde, as though greate loue, and earnest affection, enforced her so to doe. Then wepyng, she kis­sed his face, and with a voice halfe vttered, betwene howlyng and speakyng, she saied vnto hym. ‘O An­dreuccio [Page 78] myne owne dere harte, moste hartelie well come.’ Andreuccio merueilyng at those tender woor­des, all amased, answered. ‘Gētlewoman, and you also wel founde out.’ Afterwardes she toke him by the hand and conueied hym vp into a parlour, and from thence (without further talke) into a chamber, whiche was al perfumed with Roses, with flowers of Orenges, and other swete smelles: where he sawe a bedde wel furni­shed, & diuers sortes of apparell, placed vpō presses (ac­cordyng to the maner of that countrie) and many other faire and riche ornamentes. By reason whereof An­dreuccio, whiche was but a freshewater Souldiour, thoughte, that she had been a greate Ladie. And thei twoo sitting together vpon a chest, at her beddes féete: She began thus to saie vnto hym. ‘Andreuccio, I am assured you dooe greatlie wonder, at these faire woor­des, this curteous interteignement, and at the teares, whiche I lette falle. And no meruaile, althoughe you doe not knowe me, and peraduenture neuer heard tell of me before. But I will declare vnto you, a thyng more strasige and merueilous, then that is. And to tell you plaine, I am your owne sister, and I saie vnto you, that sith it hath pleased my Lorde God, to shewe me so muche grace and fauour, that I doe now se, one of my brethren before I die (although I desire to see them al) I care not when he dooe call me, from this wretched woride: I am so in spirite comforted and releued. And where it maie chaunce, that you neuer vnderstoode so muche before this tyme, I will tell you the whole dis­course. So it is, that Pietro my father & yours, dwelte of long time [wherof it is possible, that you haue heard report] at Palermo, where through the goodnesse, and frendlie behauior of hym, there be yet some remaining that did beare hym singular good will and frendship. [Page] But emonges other, whiche loued him moffe my mo­ther (which was a gentlewoman, and then a widowe) without doubt did loue him best. In such wise, that she forgettyng the loue of her father, and of her brethren, and the loue of her owne honour and reputacion, thei dealed so together, that thei begatte me, and am here as you see. Afterwardes, when your father and mine, had occasion to departe from Palermo, he retourned to Perugia, leauing my mother behinde, and me his yong doughter, neuer after that (so farre as I knowe) caring either for my mother or me: wherof if he were not my father, I would blame him very muche, cōsidering his ingratitude towardes my mother Albeit he ought to vse towardes me, so muche affection & fatherlie loue, as to his owne doughter, being come of no kitchin maide, ne yet of any basewoman: For my mother otherwise not knowyng what he was, did commit into his han­des (moued of mere loue) bothe her self, and all that she had. But what? Thynges ill dooen, and so long tyme paste, are more easie to be reprehended, then amended. Thus the matter went, he left me a litle infant at Pa­lermo, where, when I was growen to yeres, my mo­ther whiche was riche, gaue me to wife, to one of the house of Gergenti, a gentleman of greate honestie and reputacion, who for the loue of my mother and me, re­tourned to dwell at Palermo, where greatlie sauoryng the faccion of the Guelphi, he began to practise a cer­taine enterprise, with our kyng Charles, whiche being knowen to Kyng Federic, before the same enterprise could take effecte, we were forced to flie out of Scicilia. At what tyme I had thought, to haue been the chiefest Ladie, that euer was in that Island: wherefore taking with vs suche fewe thinges, as we were able to carie (fewe I maie well call them, in respecte of thē we pos­sessed) [Page 79] and leauyng our houses and pallaces, we came vnto this citie. Where we founde kyng Charles, so be­nigne towardes vs, that he hath recompenced parte of our losses, whiche wee susteined in his seruice. For he hath giuen vs possessions and houses, with good pro­uision of housholde to my husbande, and your brother in lawe, as you now sée and perceiue. And in his ma­ner I doe remaine here, where (swete brother) I thāke God (and not you) that at this presente I sée you:’ and therewithall she tooke hym aboute the necke, wepyng tenderly, and then kissed his face againe. Andreuccio hearyng this tale spoken in order, and digested from poinct to poinct with good vtterance, wherof no worde stucke betwene her teeth, or was impeached by default of tongue: And remembryng how it was true, that his father dwelte at Palermo, knowyng also by hymself, the maner of yonge menne, whiche in their youthe, be prompt and willyng to loue: and seyng her tender tea­res, her imbracynges and honest kisses, thought al that she had spoken, to bée moste certaine and true. And af­ter she hadde doe on her tale, he answered in this wise. ‘Madame, you maie not thinke vnkindnesse, if I dooe meruaile at this, for that in verie déede, I haue no ac­quaintance of you, no more then if you had neuer been borne. But whether my father hath spoken of you, or of your mother at any tyme, truely I doe not now remē ­ber, but so muche the more I dooe reioyce, that I haue founde a sister here [as I trust] bicause I am here alone. And certainly I knowe none so honourable, but you maie seme agreable vnto hym, so well as to me, which am but a poore marchaunte: howbeit, I doe beseche you to tell me, how you did knowe, that I was in the citie. To whom she answered. This mornyng a poore wo­man, whiche oftentymes repaireth to my house, gaue [Page] me knowledge thereof, bicause of longe tyme [as she tolde me) she did dwell with your father, at Palermo, and at Perugia. And bicause I thought it more conue­nient and mete, to bid you home, to myne owne house, then to seke you in an other mannes, I thought good to sende for you.’ After these woordes, she began in order, to inquire of the state of his parentes, callyng them by their proper names: wherevnto Andreuccio made an­swer, that now he perceiued, he had better cause to giue credite vnto her woordes, then before. Their discourse and talke of thynges beyng long, and the weather hot, she called for Greke wine and Comfittes, and made Andreuccio to drincke. Who after the banquette, de­strous to departe to his lodgyng (for it was about sup­per time) she by no meanes would suffer him, but ma­kyng as though she were angrie, saied vnto hym. ‘Oh God, I see now moste euidently, that you doe make li­tle accompt of me, beyng your owne sister, whom you neuer sawe before, and in her house: where vnto you ought to resort, when so euer you come to towne. And will you now forsake the same, to suppe in an Inne? But of trouth you shall not chose, but take part of my supper. And although my husbande bee not at home, (whereof I am right sorie) yet you shal knowe, that his wife is able, to make you some good there.’ To whom Andreuccio, not knowyng well what to saie els, made this answere. ‘I do loue you, as I ought to loue a sister. But if I go not to mine Iune, I knowe thei will tarie for me all this night, before thei goe to supper, to my greate reproche and shame.’ ‘Praised bee God (quod she then) I haue seruauntes to aduertise your hoste, that you be here with me, to the intent he shall not tarie for you. But pleaseth you sir, to dooe me this greate cur­tesie, that I maie sende for your companions hither, to [Page 80] beare you companie, that afterwardes, if you will née­des depart, ye maie goe all together.’ Andreuccio an­swered, that he would sende for none of his companie that night: but for so much as she was so importunate, he hymself was right well contente, to satisfie her re­queste. Then she made, as though she had sente to his Inne to giue worde, that thei should not tarie for him. And after muche communication, supper was placed vpon the table, serued in with many deuises, and sun­drie delicates abundantlie, and she with like sleightes continued the supper, till it was darke night. And whē thei rose from the table, Andreuccio made hast to de­parte, but she would not suffre hym, tellyng hym that Naples was a Towne so straight of orders, that none might walke abrode in the night, and specially straū ­gers. And that like as she had sente woorde, howe thei should not tary for hym at supper, euen so she had doen for his bedde. All whiche Andreuccio beleuyng, and takyng pleasure, that he was with his sister (deceiued though he were of his false belief) was well contented to tarie. Their talke and communicacion after supper was of purpose dilated and protracted, and one part of the night beyng spent, she left Andreuccio in his chā ­ber goyng to bedde, and a litle boie to waite vpon hym to see that he lacked nothing, and she with her women went into an other chāber. The tyme of the yere was verie hotte, wherefore Andreuccio beyng alone, stri­ped hymself, and laied his hose and dublette, vnder his beddes head, and desirous to goe to the priuie, he asked the boie where it was, who poinctyng to the doore, in a corner of the chamber, saied vnto hym. Goe in there.,, Andreuccio saufly went in, and chaunced by Fortune to sette his foote vpon a borde, whiche at bothe endes was lose from the Ioiste, wherevpon it laie, by reason [Page] wherof the borde & he tombled doune into the Iakes: & God so loued hym, that in the fall he receiued no hurt, although it were of a good heigth, sauyng he was un­broined and arraied, with the dōge of the place, wher­of the Iakes was ful. Whiche place (to the intent you maie the better vnderstande, what is saied, and what shall folowe) euen as it was I will describe vnto you. There was in a litle straighte entrie (as many tymes we see betwene twoo houses) certain bordes laied vpō twoo Ioistes, betwene the one house and the other. U­pon whiche, was placed the seate of the priuie, one of whiche bordes was the same, that fill downe with An­dreuccio, who now beyng in the bottome of the Iakes, sorowfull for that sodain chaunce, cried out to the boie for helpe. But the boie so sone as he heard, that he was fallen, went in to tell his maistres, who by and by ran into his chamber, to seke for his clothes: and when she had founde them, and in the same his money, whiche Andreuccio like a foole, without mistrust, still caried about hym: she now possessed to thyng, for whiche she had before laied the snare, in fainyng her self to bee of Palermo, and the doughter of one of Perugia. And ca­ryng no longer for hym, she straight waie shutte faste the priuie doore, whereat he went forthe when he fell. Andreuccio seyng that the boie would not answere, began to crie out a loude, but all was in vaine: wher­fore suspecting the cause, and beginnyng somewhat to late, to vnderstande the deceipte, he leapte ouer a litle wal, which closed that place frō the sight of the streate. And when he was in the open streate, he wente to the doore of the house, whiche he knewe well enough, ma­kyng a noise, rapping harde and long at the doore, but it was in vaine. For whiche cause, he began to com­plaine and lament, like vnto one, that manisfestly sawe [Page 81] his misfortune, saiyng. ‘Alas, in how litle tyme haue I lost fiue hundred crounes, and a sister.’ And after many other wordes, he began againe to bounse at the doore, and to crie out. He rapped so long, and cried so loude, that he waked many of the neighbours there aboutes, whō not able to suffer that noise, rose out of their bed­des, and emōges others, one of the maides of the house (faining her self to be slepie) loked out at the windowe and saied in greate rage. What noise is beneath? ‘Oh said Andreuccio, do ye not knowe me? I am Andreuc­cio, the brother of madame Floredelice. Thou haste dronke to muche me thinketh (q she maide) go slepe, & come again to morow. I knowe none called Andreuc­cio, nor yet do vnderstand what thou meanest by those foolishe woordes, get thee hence good man, and lette vs slepe I praie thee. Why quod Andreuccio, dooest thou not heare me, what I saie? Thou knowest me well inough, if thou wilte, but if the Scicilian kindred, bee so sone forgotten: Giue me my clothes, whiche I haue lefte behinde me, & I will goe hence with al my harte.’ Whereat the maide laughed, and saied. I thincke the man is in a dreame, and with that she tourned her self and shutte faste the windowe. Andreuccio now sure and certaine of his losses, attached with incredible sor­rowe, conuerted his anger into rage, thought to reco­uer by anoiaunce, that whiche he could not gette with faire wordes. Wherefore takyng vp a bigge stone, he beganne againe with greater blowes, to beate at the doore, Whiche whē many of the neighbours (that be­fore were waked out of their slepe and risen) did heare, thinkyng that it was some troublesome man, that fai­ned those wordes, to anoye the good wife of the house, and all thei likewise troubled with the noise: lookyng out of their windowes, beganne to rate hym with one [Page] voice (like a sorte of Curres of one streate, whiche dooe baule and barke at a straunge Dogge that passeth by) saiyng. ‘This is to muche shame and villanie, to come to the houses of honest womē, at this tyme of the night, and to speake suche fonde woordes. Wherefore (good man) gette thee hence for Goddes sake, and let vs slepe. If thou haue any thing to doe with the good wife, come againe to morowe, and disquiet vs no more to nighte.’ With whiche wordes, as poore Andreuccio was some­what appeased, one that was within the house, a Rus­sian (that kept the good wife) whom Andreuccio neuer sawe, nor heard before: looked out of the windowe, and with a bigge and horrible voice, demaunded, who was beneath? Whereat Andreuccio liftyng vp his heade, sawe one, that so farre as he could perceiue, seemed to bee a large rubber, with a blacke bearde, and a sterne visage, lokyng as though he were newlie risen from bedde, full of slepe, gaping & rubbing his eyes. Whom Andreuccio answered in scarfull wise, saiyng. I am the good wifes brother of the house. But the Russian interrupting his answere, speaking more fiercely then at the firste, saied. ‘I knowe not who thou arte, but if I come doune, I will so codgell and bombaste thee, that thou shalt not be able, to sturre thy self, like an asse and dronken beaste as thou art, whiche all this night, wilte not suffer vs to slepe.’ And with these wordes, tourning hymself aboute, he shutte the windowe. Diuers of the neighbors which knewe better, the condicions of that terrible Russian) speakyng faire to Andreuccio, saied vnto hym. For Gods sake good man, departe hence in tyme, and suffer not thy self to be slaine: gette thee hēce (quod an other) and say not but thou haddest warning. Where Andreuccio appalled, with the Russians woordes and sight, moued likewise by the counsale of [Page 82] the neighbors, that spake to hym as he thought, in cha­ritable wise, toke his waie to retourne to his Inne, the sorowfullest man that euer liued, and in greatest des­paire, for losse of his money. Turning that waie, wher­in he was guided by a litle girle, the daie before, and anoyed with the stenche, that he felte aboute hym: desi­rous to goe to the sea side to washe hym, he declined so muche of the left hand, takyng the waie vp to the streat called La Ruga Catellana, and as he was marching vp the highest parte of the Citie, by chaunce he sawe twoo men before hym, with a lanthorne light, in one of their handes, comyng towardes hym, for auoidyng of whō (bicause he feared that it was the watch, or some other ill desposed persones) he hidde hymself in an old house harde by. But thei (as of purpose) wente to the verie same place. Where one of them dischargyng hymself, of certaine instrumentes of yron, whiche he bare vpō his backe, bothe of them did viewe, and surueie those yrons, debatyng of diuers thinges touchyng the same, and as thei were talkyng togethers, one of them said: what meaneth this? I smell the foulest stenche, that e­uer I felt in all my life. And whē he had saied so, he lif­ted vp the Lanthorne, and espied miserable Andreuc­cio, couchyng behinde the wall, & being afraied, asked who it was, Andreuccio helde his peace. But thei ap­prochyng nere him with their light, demaunded what he made there, so filthely arraied. To whom Andreuc­cio rehersed, the whole aduenture as it chaūced. Who consideryng the cause of that misfortune, saied one to an other: this no doubt was doen, in the house of Sca­rabone Butta Fuoco: and tournyng towardes An­drouccio, one of them saied vnto hym. ‘Good manne, al­though thou hast loste thy money, yet thou hast greate cause to praise God: that it was thy chaunce to falle, [Page] and not to entre again into the house. For if thou had­dest not fallen, assure thy self, that when thou haddest been a slepe, thy throte had been cutte, and so with thy money, shouldest haue lost thy life. But what auaileth it now, to wepe and lamente. For thou shaite so sone, plucke the starres out of the elemente, as euer recouer one penie of thy losse. And without doubt he will kill thee, if he vnderstande, that thou make any woordes thereof. When thei had saied so, and had giuen hym that admonicion, thei cōforted hym in this wise. Good felowe, we doe lament thy state. And therefore, if thou wilte ioyne thy self with vs, about an enterprise, whi­che we haue in hande: we warraunte thee, thou shalte gette a great deale more, then thou hast lost.’ Andreuc­cio like one in extreame despaire, was contente. The date before was buried, one Messer Philippo Minu­tulo, an Archebishoppe of Naples, in riche pontifical­les and ornamentes, with a Rubie vpon his finger, that was worthe fiue hundreth Ducattes of golde, whom thei purposed to robbe and dispoile, telling An­dreuccio the whole order of their intente: who more coueitous, then well aduised, went with them. And go­ing towardes the greate churche: Andreuccio his per­sume, began so sente verie stronge, wherevpon one of them saied. ‘Is it not possible to deuise awaie, that this shitten beaste, maie washe hymself in some place, that he stincke no more thus filthelie? Yes, quod the other. There is a pitte here harde by, ouer whiche there han­geth a pulley, and a greate bucket, where we maie pre­sently washe hym.’ When thei were come to the pitte, thei founde the rope, hangyng still vpō the pulley, but the bucket was taken awaie: wherefore thei thought beste, to tye hym to the rope, and to lette hym doune the pitte, to washe himself. And that when he was wa­shed, [Page 83] he should wagge the rope, and thei would hoiste hym vp again. Whiche thei did. But it chaunced, that whiles he was thus clensyng himself in the pitte: The watche of the citie (because thei swette, and the nighte was verie hot) being drie & thirstie, came to the pitte to drincke. The other twoo, perceiuyng the watche at hande, left Andreuccio in the pitte, and ranne awaie. The watche, whiche was come thither to drinke, per­ceiued not, those twoo that were fledde. And An­dreuccio beyng still in the bottome, when he had clen­sed hymself, beganne to wagge the rope. The watche sittyng doune by the pittes side, caste of their clo­kes, and laied doune their halbardes, and other wea­pons, and began to drawe vp the rope, thinkyng that the bucket full of water, was tiede to the same. When Andreuccio was haled vp, to the brincke of the pitte, he forsoke the rope, and cast hymself with one his han­des, vpon the side of the same. When the watche sawe that, thei for feare ranne awaie, so faste as thei could, without speakyng any worde. Whereof Andreuccio did meruaile very muche. And if he had not taken good holde, he had fallen again doune to the bottome, to his greate hurte, and peraduenture, not without perill of his life. Notwithstandyng, beyng out of the pitte, and findyng halberdes, and other weapons there, whiche he knewe well, his fellowes brought not with them: he then began muche more to wonder. But betwene feare, and ignoraunce of that whiche happened, com­plainyng hymself of his harde Fortune, without tou­chyng of any thing, he determined to goe from thence, and wente he could not tell whether. But as he was departyng from that place, he mette his fellowes, re­tiryng backe to drawe hym vp. And when thei percei­ued hym, alredie haled out of the pitte, thei were won­derfully [Page] abashed, and asked who drewe hym out. An­dreuccio made answere, that he could not tell, rehear­syng to them in order, what had chaunced, and of the thynges he founde without. Thei vnderstandyng the matter, laughed, and tolde hym again the cause, wher­fore thei ranne awaie, and what thei were that drewe hym vp. And without further talke (beyng then about midnight) thei repaired to the greate churche. Into the whiche thei easely entred. And wente to the Tombe, whiche was of Marble, verie huge and weightie: The couer whereof beyng verie greate, with their crowes of yron, and other tooles, thei lifted it vp so farre, that one man was able to entre, whiche doen, one asked an other, who should goe in? Not I quod one, and not I (quod the other) No, nor I quod Andreuccio. Thother twoo hearyng Andreuccio saie so, stepped vnto hym. saiyng. ‘Wilte thou not goe in? By the faithe we owe to God: if thou goe not in, we will so beate thee, with one of these yron barres, that thou shalte neuer sturre againe, out of this place.’ Andreuccio beeyng made their common ridyng foole: greatly fearyng, when he heard them saie so, went in. And when he was in the graue, he saied vnto hymself. These good felowes doe make me goe in, bicause thei would deceiue me. For when I haue giuen them all, that is here, and I redie to come out, thei meane to runne awaie, to saue them selfes, and to leaue me behinde, without any part therof. Wherefore he purposed first, to take his owne por­cion to hymself. And remembryng the Rynge of great valour, whereof thei tolde hym so sone as he was in the graue, he pulled it of from the Archbishops fin­ger, and putte it vpon his owne. And afterwardes ta­king the Crosse, the Miter, and the Gloues, dispoiling hym euen to his shurt, he gaue them all, saiyng. That [Page 84] there was nothyng els. But thei pressyng vpon hym, that there was a Ring behinde, willed hym through­ly to make serche for it: howbeit he still answered that he could not fiude it. And bicause he would make thē tary a litle longer, he fained as though he had made a further searche. The other so subtill and malicious as he, badde hym to séeke still and when thei sawe tyme, thei toke awaie the proppes, that staied vp the Tōbe, and ran awaie, leauyng poore Andreuccio fast shutte in the Graue. Whiche when Andreuccio perceiued, what chaunced to hym then, eche man maie consider. Then he assaied sometymes with his shulders, some­tyme with his hedde, to remoue the couer, but all was in vaine. Wherefore euen for verie sorowe, he fill in a sownde, vpon the deade bodie of the Bishoppe. And if a man had seen them bothe at that instaunt, it could not well haue béen discerned, whether was the dead corps, the Archebishoppe dedde, or poore Andreuccio diyng. But after he was come to hymsef, he began piteouslie to complaine, seeyng he was arriued, to one of these twoo endes, either in the Tombe to die for hunger, and with the stenche of the dedde body, putrifiyng with wormes, if no manne came to open it: or els to be han­ged as a Thiefe, if he were founde within. And as he was in these consideracions, tormented with sorowe: he heard a noyse in the churche of diuerse menne, who as he thoughte, came to dooe the like facte, that he and his fellowes had doen before, wherewith his feare be­gan muche more to augment. But after thei had ope­ned the graue, and staied it vp, it came in question emō ­ges them, who should goe in. And when thei had con­tended a good space about the same. A Priest that was in the companie saied. Why are ye afraied? Dooe ye thinke, that he will eate you? The dedde neuer eate [Page] men: I will goe in my self. And when he had saied so, he laied hym downe upon his breaste, at the drinke of the graue, and thrustyng his feete in before, he wente doune. Andreuccio seyng that, erected himself vpright and caught the Prieste by one of the legges, makyng as though he would haue drawen hym in: whiche when the Prieste perceiued, he cried out a loude, spée­ding himself out, so fast as he could. Wherewithall the reste dismaied, almoste out of their wittes, leauyng the graue open, tooke their legges and ranne, as though a hundred thousande deuelles, had béen at their tailes: whiche seyng Andreuccio (more ioyfull then he loo­ked for) lepte out of the graue, and ranne as fast as he could out of the Churche, at the place where he came in. At what tyme daie light beganne to appere, and he with the ryng on his finger wandred he wist not whe­ther, till he came to the sea side, and at lengthe recoue­red his Inne, where he founde his companie and his hoste all that night, takyng greate care for hym. To whom recomptyng that whiche chaunced, his hoste gaue hym aduise incontinently, to gette hym out of Naples, whiche presently he did: and retourned to Perugia, hauyng bestowed, his. v. C. crou­nes vpon a Ryng, whiche he thought to haue imploied vpon horsses: For whiche cause he made that iorney.

¶The .xxxvii. Nouell.

THe Romane Empire beyng transferred frō the Frenche menne, vnto the Almanes: there rose a great discencion betwene bothe the nacions, and in the ende a cruell and continual warre. For which cause, as well for the defence of his kingdome, as to offede his enemies, the Frenche king, and one of his soonnes with all the power of their owne realme, and of their frendes and allies, assembled a greate hoste of menne, to encountre with their enemies: and before thei pro­ceded, bicause thei would not leaue their realme, with out a gouernor, knowyng Gualtieri, Erle of Angiers to be a gentle and sage knight, and their moste trustie frende, and that he was a man moste expert in the arte of warfare, semyng vnto thē (notwithstandyng) more apt to pleasure, then paine, lefte hym Lieutenaunt ge­nerall in their place, for the gouernement of the whole kyngdome of Fraunce: and proceded in their enter­prise. The Erle then began with greate knowledge, and by good order, to execute his office committed vn­to hym, dooyng nothyng without the consente of the Quene, and her faire doughter in lawe, although thei [Page] were lefte to be vnder his custodie and gouernement, yet neuer tholesse, he honoured them as his maistresses and superiours. This Erle Gualtieri was a beautiful personage, about the age of fourtie yeres, so familier and well condicioned, as any gentleman could be and besides that, he was the moste excellent and trimmest knight, that was knowen in those daies, and one most comelie in his apparell. It chaunced that the kyng and his soone, beyng at the warres aforesaied, the wife of the Erle died in the meane while, leauyng hym onely twoo little yonge children, a soonne and a doughter, whiche he had by her. He then frequentyng the courte, of the aforesaied Ladies, talkyng many tymes with them, aboute the affaires of the realme: the wife of the kynges sonne, fixed her eyes vpon him, and with great affection (for his persone and vertues) feruentlie im­braced hym with secrete loue. And knowing herself to be yonge and freshe, and hym to bee without a wife, thought (sodainly) to bring to passe, that whiche she de­sired, and thinkyng that nothyng could lette the same, but onely shame to discouer it, she purposed vtterly to abandone the same. And vpon a daie beyng a lone, she sente one to seeke the Erle, as though she would haue communicated with hym of other matters. The Erle whose minde was farre different, from the Ladies, in­continently came vnto her: who beyng sette doune to­gether vpon a bedde (which she desired) alone in a chā ­ber, he asked her twise, vpon what occasion she sent for hym: and she hauyng nothyng to sate vnto him, pressed in the ende, and rapte with loue, waxed verie shamfast and almoste wepyng, & quakyng for feare, with fainte wordes, began to saie as foloweth. ‘My derely beloued and louyng frende, and Lorde, you maie easelie knowe (beyng a wise manne as you bee) the frailtie of menne [Page 86] and women: and by diuers consideracions, the weake­nesse to bee more in the one, then in the other. Where­fore (before a iust iudge) one fault of diuerse qualities, ought not of reason to receiue one like punishemente. Moreouer, who is he that will saie, that a poore man or woman, whiche getteth their liuing, with the labor of their bodie, ought not more to bee reprehended, if thei become amourous, and subiect to their lustes, then the riche Ladie, whiche taketh no care for her liuyng, or wanteth any thyng that she desireth. Truely I beleue there is none suche, that will saie so: for whiche reason I suppose, that the thinges before saied, ought to serue the greatest part of the excuse, to the aduauntage of her that doeth possesse thē: If it happē that she giue her self fully, to the conductiōs of loue: and the superplusage of her said excuse, ought to consist, in that she hath chosen her a sage and vertuous frende, if she that loueth, hath doen so in deede. Whiche twoo thinges, as thei should be (I suppose) are in me, and many other also: whiche ought to induce me to loue, accordynglie as my youth requireth, and the great space, that is betwene my hus­bande and me. It behoueth now then, that thei should aduaunce themselfes in your presence, for the defence of my burnyng loue: and if the same doe raigne in you, whiche haue power in the wise, then I beseche you to giue me counsaile and aide, in the thing whiche I shall demaunde. True it is, that for the long absence of my husbande (not able to resist the prickes of the fleshe, and the force of loue) whiche be of suche greate effecte, that thei haue many times past, and yet daily doe vāquishe and ouercome, not onely feble and weake women, but also the strongest men. I liuyng in ease and idlenes, as you sée, and forced to folowe the pleasures of loue, and to become amourous: & as I doe knowe well, that such [Page] thynges (if thei were knowen) should not bee reputes honest. Neuerthelesse, the same beyng kepte secrete, I thinke shall not be muche dishonest. Notwithstanding dame Loue is so fauourable vnto me, that not onelie she hath giuen me true iudgement, in choise of a frende but hath reueiled vnto me, that it is you, which is wor­thie to be beloued, of suche a ladie as I am. For if I bée not greatlie deceiued, I do make accompt, that you be the fairest personage, the semeliest, the most curteous, and wisest gentleman, in all the Realme of Fraunce. And as I maie saie, by reason of his absence, that I am without a husbande, so maie you affirme, that you bee without a wife: wherfore I beseche you, for y^e loue that I beare vnto you, that you wil not denie me your loue and frendship, & that you wil haue pitie vpon my yong yeres, whiche doubtles dooe consume for you, as Ice against the fierie flames.’ At whiche worde the teares ran doune in suche abundance, that where she thought to make further supplicacion and praiers, she had no more power to speake. But holdyng doune her heade, like one that was ouercome, she threwe her self doune into the Erles lappe, who like a faithfull knighte, be­gan to blame (with sharpe rebukes) her fonde and foo­lishe loue: pushyng her from hym, as she was about to clepe hym aboute the necke, and swore greate othes, that rather he would bee drawen in fower peces, then consent to suche a thyng, to be doen by hym, or any o­ther, against the honor of his lorde & maister. Whiche wordes the Ladie hearyng, sodainly forgatte her loue, and in greate rage, saied vnto hym. ‘Shall I then bee frustrate, thou arrant villaine, in this wise of my desi­red ioye? But sithens thou goest about, to seke my di­struction: I will cause thee to be put to death, or els to be banished the worlde.’ When she had saied so, by and [Page 87] by she caught her self, by the heare of the head, and al­moste tare it of cleane, and then laied handes vpon her garmentes, rentyng the same in peces, and afterwar­des cried out aloude. ‘Helpe, helpe: The Erle of Angi­ers wil rauishe me by force.’ The Erle seyng that (and farre more doubtyng of the enuie, and malice of the Courte, then his owne conscience, for any committed facte, fearyng also, that more credite would bee giuen, to the wickednesse of the Ladie, then to his innocen­cie) conueied hymself from that place, and so sone as he could, he went out of the palace, and fledde home to his owne house, where without any further aduise, he pla­ced his children on horsebacke, and so well as he could caried them to Callice. At the brute and noyse of the Ladie, many people assembled. Who seyng and hea­ryng, thoccasion of her crie, not onely beleued her wor­des, but also affirmed, that the pompouse state of the Erle, was vsed by hym to bryng to passe, the effecte of his desire. Then thei ranne to the houses of the Erle, in greate furie, to arreste his persone: but not findyng him there, thei first sacked his houses, and afterwardes ouerthrewe them to the grounde. The newes hereof [so wicked as might bee deuised] arriued at the Kyng and Dolphins Campe, whereat thei were so troubled and offended, that thei condempned the Erle, and all his progenie, to perpetuall exile: promisyng greate gif­tes and rewardes, to them that would presente them quicke or deade. The Erle beyng offended in his con­science, for that he was fledde, innocente of the facte, made hymself culpable thereof, and arriued at Callice with his children, dissemblyng what he was, and so­dainly passed ouer into Englande, and in poore appa­rell, traueiled vp to London. And before he entred the citie, he gaue his children diuers admonicions, but spe­cially [Page] of two thinges. First, that thei should beare paci­ently the pouertie, whervnto Fortune [without their offence] had brought them. Afterwardes, that wisely thei should take héede, at no time to manifest, & declare to any man, from whence thei came, and whose childrē thei were, as thei loued the price of their owne liues. The soonne was named Lewes, almoste of the age of ix. yeres, and the doughter called Violēta, was about the age of .vij. bothe whiche childrē, as their age could suffer them, did well obserue their fathers lesson, as afterwardes it did right well appere. And bicause that this might the better be brought to passe, it semed good vnto hym, to alter their names, namyng the soonne Perotto, and the doughter Gianetta. And when thei were arriued at Lōdon, in maner of beggers: thei cra­ued their almose, and beyng by Fortune for that pur­pose, one mornyng at a churche doore, it came to passe that a greate ladie, whiche was one of the Marshalles of Englandes wiues, in goyng out of the Churche, sawe the Erle and his two litle childrē, beggyng their almose, of whom she demaunded, what countrie man he was, and whether those children were his owne, or not. To whom the Erle answered, that he was a Pi­carde, and by reason of a wicked facte, dooen by his el­dest soonne (that was an vnhappie boie) he was forced to departe his countrie, with those his twoo children. The Ladie whiche was pitifull, fixed her eyes vpō the girle, who pleased her verie muche, bicause she was beautifull, gentill, and pleasaunt, saiyng. ‘Good man, if thou be contēt to leaue vnto me, this thy litle dough­ter, whiche hath a good face, I will willingly take her, and if she become a duetifull maiden, when she is ma­riageable, I will marie her in honeste wise.’ This de­maunde greatly pleased the Erle, who redely answe­red, [Page 88] that he was contented, and with teares trickeling doune his eyes he deliuered, and commended his pretie doughter vnto her. And whē he had thus wel bestowed her he determined to tarrie no lōger there, but in beg­gyng his almose, traueiled through the countrie, with his soonne Perotto, & went into Wales, not without greate labour and paine, as one neuer accustomed to traueile on foote. Where dwelte one other of the kyng of Englandes Marshalles, that was of greate auctho­ritie, and kept a noble house: To whose court the Erle and his sonne, oftentymes repaired, to practise & begge their liuyng: where one of the Marshalles sonnes, and other gentlemennes children, doyng certaine childishe sportes and pastymes, as to runne and leape, Perotto began to entermedle hymself emonges them [who in those games did so excellently well, as none was his better] whiche thyng diuers tymes the Marshall per­ceiuing, and well pleased with the order of the childe, asked of whence he was. It was told him, that he was a poore mannes soonne, whiche many tymes came thi­ther, to begge his almose. The Marshall desiryng the childe, the Erle, whiche praied vnto God for nothyng els, liberally gaue hym vnto hym, although it gréeued hym, to departe from hym. The Erle then hauyng be­stowed his sonne and his doughter, determined no lō ­ger to tarry in Englande, but so well as he could, he passed ouer into Irelande, and when he was arriued at Stanford, he placed hymself, in the seruice of a man of armes, belōging to an Erle of that countrie, doing all thinges that did belong vnto a seruing man, or page: & not knowen to any mā, he cōtinued there a long time, with great paine and toile. Violenta named Gianet­ta, that dwelte with the Ladie at London, grewe so in yeres, in beautie, in personage, and in suche grace and [Page] fauour of her lorde and Ladie, and of all the rest of the house, and so well beloued of all them that knewe her, that it was meruailous to sée All men that sawe her maners and countenaunce, iudged her to be worthy of greate honour and possessions, by reason whereof, the Ladie that receiued her of her father, not knowyng what she was, but by his reporte, purposed to mar­rie her honourablie, accordyng to her worthinesse. But God the rewarder of all mennes desertes, knowyng her to be a noble woman, and to beare (without cause) the penaunce of an other mannes offence, disposed her otherwise, and to the intente, that this noble gentle­woman, might not come into the hādes, of a man of ill condicion, it must be supposed, that that whiche came to passe, was by Goddes owne will and pleasure, suf­fred to be dooen. The gentlewoman, with whom Gia­netta dwelt, had but one onely sonne by her husbande, whiche bothe she and the father, loued verie dearly: as well because he was a soonne, as also that in vertue and good merites, he greatly excelled. For he surpas­sed all other in good condicions, valiaunce, goodnesse, and beautie of personage, beyng about sixe yeres elder then Gianetta: who seeyng the maiden, to bee bothe faire and comely, became so farre in loue with her, that he estemed her aboue all thinges of the worlde. And bi­cause he thought her to be of base parentage, he durste not demaunde her, of his father and mother to wife. But fearyng that he should lose their fauour: he kepte his loue secrete, whereby he was worse tormented, then if it hadde been openly knowen. And thereby it chaunced, through Loues malice, he fill sore sicke: For whose preseruacion, were many Phisians sente for, and thei markyng in hym, all signes and tokens of sic­kenes, and not knowyng the disease: were altogether [Page 89] doubtfull of his health: whereof the father and mother tooke so greate sorowe and grief, as was possible, and many tymes with pitifull praiers, thei damaunded of hym, the occasion of his disease. To whom he gaue for answere, nothyng els but heauie sighes, and that he was like to consume, & die for weakenesse. It chaunced vpon a daie, there was brought vnto hym a Phisicion, that was verie younge, but in his science profoundlie learned, and as he was holdyng hym by the poulces, Gianetta (who for his mothers sake, attended hym ve­rie carefully) entred vpon occasion into the chamber, where he laie sicke, and so sone as the yonge gentle­man perceiued her, and that she spake neuer a worde, or made any signe, or demonstracion towardes hym, he felt in his harte, to arise his moste amourous defire, wherefore his poulces beganne to beate, aboue their common custome, whiche thyng the Phisicion imme­diatly perceiued and merualled, stādyng still to se how long that fitte would continue. Gianetta was no soner gone out of the chamber, but the beatyng of the poul­ces ceased: wherfore the Phisicion thought, that he had founde out some parte of the gentlemannes disease, and a litle while after, seming to take occasiō to speake to Gianetta, holdyng hym still by the armes, he caused her to be called in, and she incontinently came: but she was no soner come, but the poulces beganne to beate againe: and when she departed, the beatyng ceased. Whervpon the Phisicion was throughly perswaded, that he vnderstode the effecte of his sicknes, and there­withall rose vp, and takyng the father and mother a­side, saied vnto them. ‘The health of your sonne, doeth not consist in the helpe of Phisicions, but remaineth in the handes of Gianetta your maide, as I haue percei­ued by moste manifest signes, whom the yonge man [Page] feruently dooeth loue. And yet (so farre as I perceiue) the maiden doeth not knowe it: you therefore vnder­stande now what to doe, if you loue his life.’ The gen­tleman and his wife hearyng this, was somewhat sa­tisfied: for so muche as remedie mighte bee founde, to saue his life, athough it greued them greatly, if the thing wherof thei doubted, should come to passe, which was the marriage betwene Gianetta, and their soonne. The Phisicion departed, & thei repaired to their sicke soonne: the mother saiyng vnto hym in this wise. ‘My soonne, I would neuer haue thought, that thou woul­dest haue kept secrete from me, any parte of thy desire: specially, seyng that without the same, thou dooest re­maine in daūger of death. For thou art, or ought to bée assured, that there is nothyng that maie be gotten, for thy contētacion, what so euer it had been, but it should haue been prouided for thée, in as ample maner as for my self. But sith thou haste thus doen, it chaūceth that our Lorde God, hath shewed more mercie vpon thée, then thou hasle doen vpō thy self. And to thende thou shalt not die of this disease, he hath declared vnto me, the cause of the same: whiche is none other, but the great loue, that thou bearest to a yonge maide, wher­so euer she bee. And in deede thou oughtest not to bée a­shamed, to manifest thy loue, bicause it is meete and requisite for thyne age. For if I wist thou couldest not loue, I would the lesse esteme thee. Now then, my good sonne, be not afraied, franckly to discouer all thyne af­fectiō. Driue awaie the furie and thought, whiche thou hast taken, whereof this sickenes commeth: And com­fort thy self. Beyng assured, that thou shalt desire no­thyng at my handes, that maie be doen for thy conten­tacion, but it shall bee accomplished of me, that loueth thee better, then myne owne life: and therefore expell [Page 90] from thée this shame and feare. And spare not to tell me, if I be able to dooe any thyng, in that whiche thou louest. And if thou perceiue, that I bee not carefull to bryng it to passe, repute me for the cruellest mother, that euer bare childe.’ The yonge gentleman hearyng these wordes of his mother, was first ashamed, but af­ter thinkyng with hymself, that none was so well a­ble to pleasure hym as she (driuyng awaie all shame) saied to her in this wise. ‘Madame, there is none other thyng that hath made me, to kepe my loue secrete, but that, whiche I see in many people, who after thei bée growen to yeres of discrecion, dooe neuer remember that thei haue béen yonge. But for so muche, as herein I dooe sée your Ladiship discrete and wise, I will not onely affirme that to be true, whiche you haue percei­ued in me, but also I will cōfesse what it is, vpon suche condicion, that the effect thereof shall folowe your pro­mise, so farre as lieth in you, whereby you shalbée able to recouer my life.’ Wherevnto the mother trusting to muche in that, whiche she ought not to haue accompli­shed, for certaine consideracions, whiche afterwardes came into her minde: Answered hym liberally, that he might boldly discouer all his desire, and that forthwith she would bryng the same to passe. ‘Madame (saied the yong man then) the greate beautie, and commendable qualities of your maiden Gianetta, whom as yet, not onely I haue no power to intreate, to take pitie vpon me, but also I haue made no wight in the worlde, pri­uie of this my loue. The not disclosyng and secrecie wherof, hath brought me in case as you sée: And if so be the thing, whiche you haue promised, dooe not by one meane or other come to passe, assure your self, that my life is but short.’ The ladie knowing, that it was more tyme to comforte, then to reprehende, saied vnto hym [Page] smilyng. ‘Alas my soonne, were you sicke for this? Bée of good chere, and when you are whole, let me alone.’ The yong gentleman being put in good hope, shewed in litle tyme tokens and signes, of greate amendemēt. Wherof the mother was meruellous glad, disposyng her self to proue, how she might obserue that, whiche she had promised. And one daie, callyng Gianetta vn­to her, demaunded in gentle wise, by waie of merie talke, if she had not gotten her a louer. Gianetta with face all blushyng, answered. ‘Madame, I haue no nede thereof, and muche more vnsemely, for so poore a da­mosell as I am, to meditate or thincke vpon louers, whiche am banished, from my frendes and kinsfolke: remainyng in seruice as I dooe. To whom the Ladie saied. If you haue none, we will bestowe one vpō you, whiche shall content your mynde, and make your life more delectable and pleasaunt. For it is nul mete, that so faire a maide as you bée, should continue without a a louer. Wherevnto Gianetta answered. Madame, waiyng with my self, that you haue taken me from my poore father, and brought me vp as your doughter: It becometh me to do that, which pleaseth you. Notwith­standyng, I intende neuer to make any complainte to you, for lacke of suche a one (bothe for vertue and ho­nestie sake) but if it please you, to giue me a husbande, I purpose to loue hym, and none other.’ For my proge­nitours haue left me none other inheritaunce, but ho­nestie, whiche I meane to kéepe, so long as my life in­dureth. These woordes to the Ladie, semed contrary to that, whiche she desired to knowe, to atchieue her promes made to her soonne, although (like a wise La­die) to her self, she greatly praised the damoset, and said vnto her. ‘But Gianetta, what if my Lorde the Kyng, (whiche is a yonge Prince, and you a faire maiden) [Page 91] would take pleasure in your loue, would you refuse hym?’ Wherevnto the maide sodainly answered. ‘The Kyng maie well force me, but by consent, he shall ne­uer obtaine any thyng, except it be honest.’ The Ladie conceiuyng the courage, and stoutnesse of the maiden in good parte, saied no more vnto her: but thinkyng to put the matter in proofe, she tolde her sonne, that when he was whole, she would put them bothe in a chamber that he mighte haue his pleasure vpon her. For she thought it dishonest, to intreate her maide for her sōne bicause it was the office of a Roffiana. The yong man was nothing contented therewith, whereby he sodain­ly waxed worsse and worsse: whiche the Ladie per­ceiuyng, opened her whole intente to Gianetta: but findyng her more constaunt, the euer she was before; she tolde her husbande, all that she had dooen, who a­greed (although against their willes) to giue her to bée his wife, thinking it better (their sonne liuyng) to haue a wife vnagreable to his estate, then to suffer hym to die for her sake. Whiche after greate consultaciō, thei concluded, where of Gianetta was merueilously well pleased, and with deuoute harte gaue thankes to God, for that he had not forgottē her. And yet for all that, she would neuer name her self otherwise, then the dough­ter of a Picarde. The yonge sonne waxed whole incō ­tinently, & was maried, the best contented man a liue, and began to dispose himself, louingly to leade his life with her. Perotto, whiche did remain in Wales with the other Marshall of the kyng of Englāde, semblably increased, and was welbeloued of his maister, and was a verie comely and valiaunt personage, that the like of hym, was not to be founde in all the Islande, in suche wise that at Torneis, Iustes, and other factes of ar­mes, there was none in all the Countrie, comparable [Page] vnto him: wherfore by the name Perotto the Picarde, he was knowen and renowmed. And like as God had not forgotten his sister, euen so he shewed his merci­full remembraunce of hym. For a certaine plague and mortalitie, happened in that Countrie, whiche consu­med the one haulfe of the people there: besides that the moste part of them that liued, were fledde for feare in­to their coūtries, whereby the whole prouince, seemed to bée abandoned and desolate. Of whiche plague, the Marshall his maister, his wife, and his sonne, and ma­ny other brothers, neuewes, and kinsfolke died, of whō remained no more, but his onely doughter, which was mariageable, and some of his seruauntes, toge­ther with Perotto, whom (after the plague was some­what ceased) the yong gentlewoman toke for her hus­bande, through the counsaile and consente, of certaine of the countrie people that were aliue, bicause he was a valiaunt and honest personage, and of all that inhe­ritaunce, whiche her father left, she made hym Lorde. Alitle while after, the kyng of Englande vnderstoode, that the Marshall was dedde, and knowyng the valor and stoutnesse of Perotto the Picarde, he made hym Marshall, in steede of him that was dedde. In this sort in short tyme, it chaunced to the twoo innocent childrē of the Erle of Angiers, which were left by hym as lost and quite forlorne. It was then the .xviij. yere, sithens the Erle fledde from Paris, hauyng in miserable sorte suffred many aduentures. Who seyng hymself to be­gin to ware olde, was desirous (being yet in Ireland) to knowe (if he could) what was become of his childrē. Wherefore, perceiuyng that he was wholy altred frō his wanted forme, and féelyng hymself more lustie (through the long excercise and labour, whiche he had susteined in seruice) then he was in the idle tyme of his [Page 92] youthe, he departed from his maister (verie poore and in ill apparell) with whom he had continued in seruice a longe tyme, and came into Englande to that place, where he had left Perotto, and founde him to be Mar­shall of the countrie, and sawe that he was in healthe, lustie, and a comely personage, whiche reioysed hym merueilously, but he would not make hymself be kno­wen to hym, till he had séen, what was become of his doughter Gianetta: wherefore takyng his iourney, he rested in no place, till he came to London. And there secretly inquiryng of the ladie, with whom he had left his doughter, & of her state, he learned, that his dough­ter was her soonnes wife, whereof he tooke excedyng greate pleasure. And from that tyme forthe, he comp­ted his aduersities past, as nothing, sith he had founde his children liuyng, and in suche greate honor. And de­sirous to sée her (began like a poore manne) to harbour hymself, harde by her house, wherevpon a certain daie, beyng séen of Giachetto Lamyens, for that was the name of the husbāde of Gianetta: hauing pitie vpō him bicause he sawe hym poore and olde, commaunded one of his seruauntes, to haue hym into the house: and to giue hym meate for Goddes sake, whiche the seruaunt willingly did accomplish. Gianetta had many children by Giachetto, of whiche the eldest was but eight yeres olde: and thei were the fairest, and beste fauoured chil­dren in the worlde who when thei sawe the Erle eate meate, thei all came aboute hym, and began to make muche of hym, as thoughe by natures instruction, thei had knowen him to be their Grandfather. And he kno­wyng his nephewes, began to shewe them tokens of loue and kindnesse. By reason whereof, the children would not goe from hym, although their gouernour did call them awaie. Wherefore the mother knowing [Page] the same, came out of a chamber vnto the place, where the Erle was, & threatened to beare them, if thei would not doe as their maister hadde them. The children be­gan to crie, and saied, that thei would tary by that good manne: that loued them better, then their maister did, whereat the Ladie and the Erle began to laugh. The Erle not as a father, but like a poore man rose vp to dooe honour to his doughter, bicause she was a noble woman. Conceiuyng merueilous ioye in his minde to see her: but she knewe hym not at all, neither at that instant, nor after, bicause he was so wonderfully trans­formed: and chaunged from that forme, he was wonte to bée of: Like one that was olde, and graie hedded, hauyng a bearde, leane and weather beaten, resem­blyng rather a common persone, then an Erle. And the Ladie seyng that, the children would not departe from him, but still cried when thei were fetched awaie, willed the maister, to lette them alone. The children remainyng in this sorte, with the honest poore manne, the father of Giacchetto, came in the meane time, and vnderstoode this of their maister. Wherefore, he that cared not for Gianetta, saied. ‘Lette them alone with a mischief, to kéepe companie with beggers, of whō thei came. For of the mothers side, thei bée but verlettes children, and therefore it is no meruaile, though thei loue their companie.’ The Erle hearing those wordes, was verie sorowfull, notwithstādyng (holdyng doune his hedde) he suffred that iniurie, as well as he hadde doen many other. Giacchetto which knewe the mirth and ioye, that the children made to the poore man (al­though he was offended with those woordes) neuer­thelesse, made as muche of the poore Erle, as he did be­fore. And when he sawe him to wepe, he commaunded that if he honest poore man, would dwell there to doe [Page 93] some seruice, he should bee reteined. Who answered, that he would carie there with a good will, but he said that he could doe nothyng els, but kepe horsse, where­vnto he was accustomed, all the daies of his life. To whom a horsse was appoincted to kéepe, and daily whē he had dressed his horsse, he gaue hymself to plaie with the children. Whiles that Fortune thus dealt (accor­dyng to the maner aboue saied) with the Erle of An­giers and his children, it chaunced that the Frenche kyng (after many truces made with the Almaignes) died: and in his place was crouned his sonne: whose wife she was, that caused the Erle to bee banished. When the last truce with the Almaignes was expired the warres beganne to growe more sharpe, for whose aide the kyng of Englande sente vnto hym (as to his newe kinsman) a greate number of people, vnder the gouernemente of Perotto his Marshall, and of Giac­chetto Lamyens, soonne of his other Marshall, with whom the poore Erle wente: and not knowen of any man, remained a greate while in the Campe, as a ser­uaunt, where notwithstandyng, like a valiaunt man, with his aduise and déedes, he accomplished notable thinges (more then he was required). It chaunced that in the time of the warres, the Frenche Quene was ve­rie sore sicke, and perceiuyng her self at the poincte of death, repented her of all her synnes, and was confes­sed deuoutly, to the Archebishop of Roane, who of all men, was reputed an holie, and vertuous manne: and amōges all her other sinnes, she tolde him of the great wrong, doen by her to the erle of Angiers: and was not onely contented, to reueale the same to hym alone, but also rehearsed the whole matter, before many other personages of greate honour: desiryng them that thei would woorke so with the kyng, that if the Erle were [Page] yet liuyng, or any of his children: thei might bée resto­red, to their state againe. Not longe after the Quene departed: and was honourablie buried. Whiche con­fession reported to the Kyng (after certaine sorowfull sighes, for the iniuries dooen to the valiaunte man) he made Proclamacion, throughout all the Campe, and in many other places, that who so euer could bryng forthe the Erle of Angiers, or any of his childrē, should for euery of them, receiue a greate rewarde, bicause he was innocent of that matter, for whiche he was exiled, by the onely confession of the Quene: and that he en­tended, to exalte hym to his former estate, and more higher then euer he was. Whiche thing the Erle hea­ryng (beyng in the habite of a seruaunte) knowyng it to be true, by and by he wēt to Giacchetto, and praied hym to repaire to Perotto, that thei might come toge­ther, bicause he would manifest vnto them, the thyng whiche the kyng sent to seeke for. And when thei were all thrée assembled together in a chāber: the Erle saied to Perotto, that now he thought to lette hym vnder­stande, what he was, saiyng these wordes. ‘Perotto, Gi­acchetto whom thou séest here, hath espoused thy sister, and neuer had yet any Dowrie. And bicause she maie not be destitute of her Dowrie, I purpose that he, and none other, shal haue the reward, whiche the king hath promised to be so greate. Thou shalte manifest thy self Perotto, to bée the soonne of the Erle of Angiers, and Violenta the wife of Giacchetto, to bée thy sister, and me to be the Erle of Angiers thy father.’ Perotto hea­ryng this, and stedfastly beholdyng hym, beganne to knowe hym: and wepyng, threwe himself doune at his féete: and afterwardes imbracyng him, saied. My deare father, you are right hartly welcome. Giacchetto hea­ryng first what the Erle had said, and after seing what [Page 94] Perotto did, he was incontinently surprised, with so greate meruaile, and ioye, that he knewe not what to doe: notwithstandyng, giuyng credite to his woordes, as beyng ashamed of the opprobrious talke, whiche he had vsed towardes the Erle, as to a seruaunt, weping, fell doune at his féete: and humblie asked pardon, for all his rashe behauiours towardes hym: whiche was curteouslie graunted vnto hym by the Erle, who tooke hym vp. And after euery of them, had a while debated of their Fortune, and had well bewailed the same, and reioysed one with an other: Perotto and Giacchetto would haue newlie apparrelled the Erle, but he in any wise would not suffre them. And beyng desirous y^e Gi­acchetto, might haue assuraunce of the reward promi­sed, he would that he should, firste presente hym to the kyng, after that sorte, in the habite of a seruaunt as he was, that he might make hym the more ashamed. Thē Giacchetto with the Erle (and Perotto after) came before the kyng: and offred to present the Erle and his children, if it should please him to rewarde hym, accor­dyng to the Proclamacion. The kyng incontinentlie caused to bée brought forthe a rewarde, of merueilous value, as Giacchetto thought, and commaunded hym forth with, to presente the Erle and his children, accor­dyng to his promisse. Giacchetto then tourned about: and placed before hym, the Erle his seruaunt, and Pe­rotto, saiyng. ‘Sir, beholde the father and the sonne, the doughter whiche is my wife, is not here. But by Goddes helpe you shall sée her shortlie.’ The kyng hea­ring this, behelde the Erle: and albeit he was so grea­tlie chaunged, from his former fauour, after he hadde well viewed hym a while, he knewe hym, and with teares standyng in his eyes, he caused the Erle to rise vp, that knéeled before hym, kissyng and imbrasyng [Page] hym, and verie graciouslie receiued Perotto: and com­maunded forthwith, that the Erle should bée restored to apparell, seruauntes, horsses, and furniture, accor­dyng to his state and degée: whiche incontinently was doen: and moreouer the kyng greatly honoured Giac­chetto, and forthwith desired to knowe, all their For­tunes passed. And when Giacchetto had taken the greate rewarde, for bringyng forthe the Erle and his children, the Erle saied vnto hym. ‘Take these royall rewardes of the Kyng, my soueraigne Lorde: and re­member to tell thy father, that thy children, his nephe­wes and myne, be no beggers borne, of their mothers side.’ Giacchetto tooke the reward, and caused his wife and his mother in Lawe, to come to Paris, likewise thither came the wife of Perotto, where, with greate ioye and triumphe, thei taried a certaine space with the Erle, to whom the kyng had rendred all his good­des: and had placed hym in greater aucthoritie, then euer he was before. Then euerie of them tooke their leaue, and retourned home to their owne houses: and from that tyme forthe the said Erle, to thende of his life, liued in Pa­ris, in greater ho­nour and au­cthoritie, then euer he did before.

¶The .xxxviij. Nouell.

IN Fraunce there was a gē ­tleman called Isnardo, the Counte of Rossiglione, who bicause he was sickly and di­seased, kepte alwaies in his house a Phisiciō, named mai­ster Gerardo of Narbona. This Counte had one onely sonne called Beltramo, a ve­rie yonge childe, pleasaunt and faire. With whō there was nourished and broughte vp, many other children of his age, emonges whom one of the doughters of the saied Phisicion, named Giletta, who feruentlie fill in loue with Beltramo, more then was meete for a mai­den of her age. This Beltramo when his father was dedde, and lefte vnder the roiall custodie of the kyng, was sente to Paris, for whose departure, the maiden was verie pensife. Alitle while after, her father beyng likewise dedde, she was desirous to goe to Paris, one­ly to sée the yong Counte, if for that purpose she could gette any good occasion. But beyng diligently looked vnto by her kinsfolke (bicause she was riche and fa­therlesse) [Page] she could sée no conueniente waie, for her in­tended iourney: and being now mariageable, the loue she bare to the Counte, was neuer out of her remem­braūce, and refused many husbandes, with whom her kinsfolke would haue placed her, without making thē priuie, to the occasion of her refusall. Now it chaunced that she burned more in loue with Beltramo, thē euer she did before, bicause she heard tell, that he was gro­wen to the state of a goodly yonge gentlemanne. She heard by reporte, that the Frenche Kyng, had a swel­lyng vpon his breast, whiche by reason of ill cure, was growen to a Fistula, and did putte him to meruellous paine and grief, and that there was no Phisicion to be founde (although many were proued) that could heale it, but rather did impaire the grief, & made it worsse & worsse. Wherefore the kyng, like one that was in dis­paire, would take no more counsaill or helpe. Wher­of the yonge maiden was wonderfull glad, & thought to haue by this meanes, not onelie a lawfull occasion to goe to Paris: but if the disease were suche (as she supposed) easely to bryng to passe, that she might haue the Counte Beltramo to her husbande. Wherevpon with suche knowledge, as she had learned at her fa­thers handes before time, she made a pouder of certain herbes, whiche she thought meete for that disease, and rode to Paris. And the first thing she went about, whē she came thither, was to sée the Counte Beltramo. And then she repaired to the kyng, praiyng his grace, to vouchsaufe to shewe her his disease. The kyng percei­uyng her, to bee a faire yonge maiden and a comelie, would not hide it, but opened the same vnto her. So sone as she sawe it, she putte hym in comforte, that she was able to heale hym, saiyng. ‘Sire, if it shall please your grace, I trust in God, without any paine or grief [Page 96] vnto your highnesse, within eighte daies I will make you whole, of this disease.’ The kyng hearyng her saie so, began to mocke her, saiyng. ‘How is it possible for thée, beyng a yong woman to doe that, whiche the best renoumed Phisicions in the worlde can not? He than­ked her,’ for her good will, and made her a directe an­swere, that he was determined no more, to followe the counsaile of any Phisicion. Whervnto the maiden answered: ‘Sire, you dispise my knowledge, bicause I am yonge, and a woman, but I assure you, that I doe not minister Phisicke by professiō, but by the aide and helpe of God: and with the cunnyng of maister Gerar­do of Narbona, who was my father, and a Phisiciō of greate fame, so longe as he liued.’ The kyng hearyng those wordes, saied to hymself. ‘This woman peraduē ­ture, is sent vnto me of God, and therfore, why should I disdain to proue her cūnyng? Sithens she promiseth to heale me within a litle space, without any offence or grief vnto me.’ And beyng determined to proue her, he said. ‘Damosell, if thou doest not heale me, but make me to breake my determinacion, what wilt thou shall folowe thereof?’ ‘Sire saied the maiden: Let me be kept in what guarde and kepyng you list: and if I dooe not heale you within these eight daies, let me bee burnte: but if I doe heale your grace, what recompence shall I haue then? To whō the kyng answered. Bicause thou art a maiden, and vnmaried, if thou heale me, accor­dyng to thy promise, I will bestowe thée vpon some gentleman, that shal be of right good worship and esti­maciō. To whom she answered: Sire I am verie well content, that you bestowe me in mariage: But I will haue suche a husbande, as I my self shall demaunde: without presumpcion to any of your children, or other of your bloudde.’ Whiche requeste, the kyng incon­tinently [Page] graunted. The yong maiden began to minister her Phisicke, and in shorte space, before her appoincted tyme, she had throughly cured the kyng. And whē the king perceiued himself whole, said vnto her. ‘Thou hast well deserued a husbande (Giletta) euen suche a one as thy self shalt chose.’ ‘I haue then my Lorde (quod she) de­serued the Countie Beltramo of Rossiglione, whom I haue loued from my youthe.’ The kyng was very lothe to graunte hym vnto her: But bicause he had made a promis, whiche he was lothe to breake, he caused hym to bée called forthe, and saied vnto hym: ‘Sir Counte, bicause you are a gentleman of greate honor, our plea­sure is, that you retourne home to your owne house, to order your estate, according to your degrée: and that you take with you a Damosell, whiche I haue appo­incted to be your wife.’ To whom the Counte gaue his humble thankes, and demaunded what she was? ‘It is she q the kyng) that with her medecines, hath healed me.’ The Counte knewe her well, and had alredie séen her, although she was faire, yet knowing her not to be of a stocke, conuenable to his nobilitie, disdainfullie said vnto the king, Will you then (sir) giue me, a Phi­sicion to wife? It is not the pleasure of God, that euer I should in that wise bestowe my self. To whom the kyng said: ‘Wilt thou then, that we should breake our faithe, whiche we to recouer healthe, haue giuen to the damosell, who for a rewarde thereof, asked thée to hus­band?’ ‘Sire (quod Beltramo) you maie take from me al that I haue, and giue my persone to whom you please, bicause I am your subiect: but I assure you, I shall ne­uer bee contented with that mariage.’ ‘Well, you shall haue her (saied the Kyng) for the maiden is faire and wise, and loueth you moste intirely: thinkyng verelie you shall leade a more ioyfull life with her, then with [Page 99] a ladie of a greater house.’ The coūte therwithal helde his peace: and the king made great preparacion for the mariage. And whē the appoincted daie was come, the Counte in the presence of the kyng (although it were againste his will) maried the maiden, who loued hym better then her owne self. Whiche dooen the Counte determinyng before, what he would doe, praied licēce to retourne to his coūtrie, to consummat the mariage. And when he was on horsebacke, he went not thither, but tooke his iourney into Thuscane, where vnder­stādyng that the Florentines, and Senois were at war­res, be determined to take the Florentines parte, and was willinglie receiued, and honourable interteigned and made capitaine of a certaine nomber of men, con­tinuyng in their seruice a longe tyme. This newe ma­ried gentlewoman, scarce contented with that, and ho­pyng by her well doyng, to cause hym to retourne in­to his countrie, went to Rossiglione, where she was re­ceiued of all his subiectes, for their Ladie. And percei­uyng that through the Countes absence, all thinges were spoiled and out of order: she like a sage lady, with greate diligence and care, disposed all thynges in order againe, whereof the subiectes reioysed verie muche, bearyng to her their hartie loue and affection, greatlie blamyng the Counte, bicause he could not contente himself with her. This notable gentlewoman, hauing restored all the countrie againe, sent worde thereof to the Counte her husbande, by twoo Knightes of the countrie, whiche she sent to signifie vnto hym, that if it were for her sake, that he had abandoned his countrie, he should sende her woorde thereof, and she to doe hym pleasure would depart from thēce. To whom he chor­lishlie saied. ‘Lette her doe what she list. For I doe pur­pose to dwell with her, when she shall haue this ryng [Page] (meanyng a ryng which he wore) vpon her finger, and a soonne in her armes, be gotten by me.’ He greatly lo­ued that ryng, and kepte it verie carefullie, and neuer tooke it of from his finger, for a certaine vertue that he knewe it had. The knightes hearyng the harde condi­cion, of twoo thinges impossible: and seyng that by thē he could not be remoued from his determinacion, thei retourned againe to the ladie, telling her his answere: who verie sorowfull, after she hadde a good while be­thought her self, purposed to finde meanes, to attaine to those twoo thynges, to the intente, that thereby she might recouer her husband. And hauyng aduised with her self what to doe, she assembled the noblest and chie­fest of her countrie, declaring vnto them in lamentable wise, what she had alredie dooen, to winne the loue of the Counte, she wyngthem also what folowed there­of. And in the ende saied vnto them, that she was lothe the Counte for her sake, should dwell in perpetuall exile: therefore she determined, to spende the rest of her tyme in pilgrimages and deuocion, for preseruacion of her soule, praiyng them to take the charge, and gouer­nemente of the countrie, and that thei would lette the Counte vnderstande, that she had forsaken his house. And was remoued farre from thēce: with purpose ne­uer to retourne to Rossiglione againe. Many teares were shedde by the people, as she was speakyng these wordes and diuers supplicaciōs were made vnto him to alter his opinion, but al in vaine. Wherefore com­mending them all vnto God, she tooke her waie, with her maide, and one of her kinsemen, in the habite of a pilgrime, well furnished with siluer, and precious Ie­welles: tellyng no man whither she wente, and neuer rested, till she came to Florence: where arriuyng by Fortune, at a poore widowes house, she contented her [Page 98] self, with the state of a poore pilgrime, desirous to here newes of her lorde, whom by fortune she sawe the next daie, passing by the house (where she lay) on horsebacke with his companie. And although she knewe him well enough, yet she demaūded of the good wife of the house what he was: who answered that he was a straunge gentleman, called the Counte Beltramo of Rossigli­one, a curteous knighte, and welbeloued in the Citie, and that he was merueilously in loue with a neighbor of hers, that was a gentlewoman, verie poore and of small substaunce, neuerthelesse of right honest life and report, & by reason of her pouertie, was yet vnmaried, and dwelte with her mother, that was a wise and ho­nest Ladie. The Countesse well notyng these wordes, and by litle and litle, debatyng euery particular point thereof, comprehendyng the effecte of those newes, concluded what to doe, and when she had well vnder­standed, whiche was the house, and the name of the Ladie, and of her doughter, that was beloued of the Counte: vpon a daie repaired to the house secretlie, in the habite of a pilgrime, where finding the mother and doughter, in poore estate emonges their familie, after she hadde saluted them, tolde the mother, that she had to saie vnto her. The gentlewoman risyng vp, curte­ouslie interteigned her, and beyng entred alone into a chamber, thei satte doune, and the Countesse began to saie vnto her in this wise. ‘Madame, me thinke that ye be one, vpon whom Fortune doeth frowne, so well as vpon me: but if you please, you maie bothe comfort me, and your self.’ The ladie answered, that there was no­thyng in the worlde, whereof she was more desirous, then of honest comforte. The Countesse procedyng in her talke, saied vnto her. ‘I haue nede now of your fi­delitie and trust, wherevpon if I doe staie, and you de­ceiue [Page] me, you shall bothe vndoe me, and your self. Tel me then what it is hardelie (saied the gentlewoman) if it bée your pleasure: for you shall neuer bée deceiued of me.’ Then the Countesse beganne to recite, her whole estate of Loue: tellyng her what she was, and what had chaunced [...] that present daie, in suche perfite order that the gentlewoman beleuyng her woordes, bicause she had partlie heard report thereof before, beganne to haue cōpassion vpon her, and after that the Countesse had rehearsed, all the whole circumstance, she conti­nued her purpose, saiyng. ‘Now you haue heard emon­ges other my troubles, what twoo thynges thei bée, whiche behoueth me to haue, if I doe recouer my hus­bande, whiche I knowe none can helpe me to obtain, but onely you: If it bee true that I heare, whiche is, that the Counte my husbande, is farre in loue with your doughter. To whō the gentlewoman saied. Ma­dame, if the Counte loue my doughter, I knowe not, albeit the likelihoode is greate: but what am I able to doe, in that whiche you desire. Madame, answered the Coūtesse, I will tell you: but first I will declare what I mean to doe for you, if my determinaciō be brought to effect, I see your faier doughter of good age, redie to marie, but as I vnderstād y^e cause, why she is vnmari­ed, is the lacke of substāce to bestowe vpō her. Wher­fore I purpose, for recompence of the pleasure, whiche you shall dooe for me, to giue so muche redie money to marie her honorably, as you shall thinke sufficiēt.’ The Coūtesse offer was very well liked of the ladie, bicause she was but poore: yet hauing a noble hart, she said vn­to her Madame, ‘tell me wherin I maie do you seruice: and if it be a thing honest, I will gladlie performe it, & y^e same being brought to passe, do as it shal please you.’ Then saied the countesse, ‘I thinke it requisite, that by [Page 97] some one whom you truste, that you giue knowledge to the Counte my husbande, that your doughter is, and shalbe at his commaundement. And to the intent she maie bée well assured, that he loueth her in déede a­boue any other, that she praieth him to sende her a ring that he weareth vpō his finger, whiche ring she heard tell, he loued verie derely. And whē he sēdeth the ryng, you shall giue it vnto me, and afterwardes sende hym woorde, that your doughter is redie, to accomplishe his pleasure, and then you shall cause hym secretly to come hither, and place me by hym (in stéede of your dough­ter) peraduenture God will giue me the grace, that I maie bée with childe, and so hauyng this ryng on my finger, and the childe in myne armes, begotten by him I shall recouer him, and by your meanes cōtinue with hym, as a wife ought to doe with her husbande.’ This thing semed difficulte vnto the Gētlewoman: fearyng that there would folowe, reproche vnto her doughter. Notwithstandyng, consideryng what an honest parte it were, to be a meane, that the good Ladie should re­couer her husband, and that she should doe it for a good purpose, hauyng affiaunce in her honest affection, not onely promised the Countesse, to bryng this to passe: but in fewe daies with greate subtiltie, folowyng the order wherein she was instructed, she had gotten the ryng, although it was with the Countes ill will, and toke order that the Countesse, in stede of her doughter did lye with hym. And at the first meetyng, so affectu­ously desired by the Coūte: God so disposed the matter that the Countesse was begotten with childe, of twoo goodly sonnes, & her deliuery chaūced at the due time. Whervpon the gentlewoman, not onely cōtented the Countesse at that tyme, with the companie of her hus­bande, but at many other times so secretly, that it was [Page] neuer knowen: the Counte not thinkyng that he had lien with his wife, but with her whom he loued. To whom at his vprisyng in the mornyng, he vsed many curteous and amiable woordes, and gaue diuers faire and precious Iewelles, whiche the Countesse kepte moste carefullie: and when she perceiued her self with childe, she determined no more to trouble the gentle­woman, but saied vnto her. ‘Madame, thankes bée to God and you, I haue the thyng that I desire, and euen so it is tyme, to recompence your desert, that afterwar­des I maie departe. The gentlewoman saied vnto her, that if she had doen any pleasure agreable to her mind she was right glad thereof, whiche she did, not for hope of rewarde: but bicause it apperteined to her by well doyng, so to doe.’ Whervnto the Countesse saied, ‘your saiyng pleaseth me well, and likewise for my parte, I dooe not purpose to giue vnto you, the thing you shall demaunde of me in rewarde, but for consideracion of your well doyng, whiche ductie forceth me so to dooe.’ The gentlewoman then constrained with necessitie, demaunded of her with greate bashefulnesse, and hun­dred poundes, to marie her doughter. The Countesse perceiuyng the shamefastnesse of the gentlewoman, and hearyng her curteous demaunde, gaue her .v. C. poundes, and so many faire and costly Iewels, whiche almoste amounted to like valer. For whiche the gen­tlewoman more then contented, gaue moste hartie thankes to the Countesse, who departed from the gen­tlewoman, and retourned to her lodging. The gentle­woman to take occasion from the Counte, of any far­ther repaire, or sendyng to her house, tooke her dough­ter with her, and went into the coūtrie to her frendes. The Counte Beltramo, within fewe daies after, be­yng reuoked home to his owne house by his subiectes, [Page 100] (hearyng that the Countesse was departed frō thence) retourned. The Countesse knowynge, that her hous­band was gone from Florence, and retourned into his countrie, was verie glad, and contented, and she conti­newed in Florence, till the tyme of her child bedde was come, and was brought a bedde of twoo soones, whiche were verie like vnto their father, and caused thē care­fullie to be noursed, and brought vp, and whē she sawe tyme, she toke her iourney (vnknowen to any manne) and arriued at Monpellier, and restyng her self there for certaine daies, hearyng newes of the Counte, and where he was, and that vpon the daie of all Sainctes, he purposed to make a great feast, and assemblie of la­dies and knightes, in her pilgrimes wéede she wente thither. And knowyng that thei were all assembled, at the pallace of the Counte, redie to sitte doune at the ta­ble, she passed through the people, without chaunge of apparell, with her twoo sonnes in her armes. And whē she was come vp into the hall, euen to the place where the Counte was, fallyng doune prostrate at his feete, wepyng saied vnto him: ‘My Lorde, I am thy poore in­fortunate wife, who, to thintent thou mightest returne and dwel in thine owne house, haue been a great while beggyng about the worlde. Therefore I now beseche thée, for the honour of God, that thou wilt obserue the condicions, whiche the twoo knightes (that I sent vn­to thée) did commaunde me to doe: for beholde, here in myne armes, not onelie one soonne begotten by thée, but twaine, and likewise thy Kynge. It is now tyme then (if thou kepe promis) that I should be receiued as thy wife.’ The Counte hearyng this, was greatly a­stonned, and knewe the Kynge, and the children also, thei were so like hym. But tell me (q he) howe is this come to passe? The Countesse to the great admiraciō [Page] of the Counte, and of all those that were in presence, rehearsed vnto them in order all that, whiche had béen doen, and the whole discourse therof. For whiche cause the Counte knowyng the thynges she had spoken, to be true (and perceiuyng her constaunt minde, and good witte, and the twoo faier yonge boies: to kepe his pro­misse made, and to please his subiectes, and the La­dies that made sute vnto him, to accept her, from that time forthe, as his lawfull wife, and to honour her) ab­iected his obstinate rigour: causyng her to rise vp, and imbraced and kissed her, acknowledgyng her againe for his lawfull wife. And after he had apparelled her, according to her estate, to the great pleasure and con­tentacion, of those that were there, and of all his other frendes, not onely that daie, but many others, he kepte greate chere, and from that tyme forthe, he loued and honoured her, as his dere spouse and wife.

¶The .xxxix. Nouell.

TAncredi Prince of Salerne, was a curteous Lorde, and of a gētle nature: had he not in his age, imbrued his han­des, with his owne proper bloud. It chaunced that this prince in al his life time, had but one onely doughter: but he had been more happie, if she had neuer been borne. That doughter he loued so [Page 101] well, as a father could loue his childe: and for the ten­der loue he bare her, he was not able to suffer her, to bee out of his sighte. And could not finde in his harte to marie her, although she had many yeres passed the tyme, that she was mariage able: notwithstandyng, in the ende he gaue her to wife, to one of the soonnes of the Duke of Capua, with whom she continued no long tyme, but was a widowe, and then retourned vnto her fathers house againe. This Ladie was verie faire and comely of bodie and face, as any creature could be, yonge, lustie, and more wise, peraduenture, then a wo­man ought to be. And thus dwelling with her louing father, she liued like a noble Ladie, in greate pleasure. And seing that her father, for the loue he bare vnto her had no minde or care, to marie her againe, and also she thinking it skarce honest to require him therevnto, de­uised with her self secretly (if it were possible) to retain some valiaunt man to bée her louer. And seyng many gentlemen and others, frequentyng her fathers court (as wée commonlie sée, in the Courtes of Princes) and markyng the behauiour and order of many (emonges all) there was a yonge man, one of her fathers seruaū ­tes, that liked her well, whose name was Guiscardo, of verie base birthe (but in vertue and honeste condici­ons, more noble then the reste) and many tymes when she sawe him, she wonderfully delited in him, alwaies praisyng his dooynges aboue all others. The yonge manne, not hauyng good consideracion of hymself, perceiuyng her feruente affeccion: so fixed his minde that he disposed the same vppon nothyng elles, but to loue her. One louing an other secretly in this sort, and the ladie verie studious to finde occasiō, that she might talke with hym, unwillyng to commit the secrecie of hre loue, to any manne: she imagined with her self a [Page] new deuise, to giue him knowledge therof. And wrote a letter, signifiyng vnto hym, what he should dooe the nexte daie, and how he mighte vse hymself, to come to talke with her, & then puttyng the letter into the Cane of a rede, she gaue it vnto Guiscardo, in sportyng wise and saied. ‘Thou shalt this night, make a paire of Bel­lowes for thy seruaunt, wherwith she maie kindle the fire.’ Guiscardo tooke it, & thought that she did not giue it vnto him, without some speciall purpose, whervpon he went to his chamber, and loking vpō the Cane, per­ceiued it to be hollowe, and openyng it, founde the let­ter within, whiche she had written. And when he had well perused it, vnderstandyng the tenour and effecte thereof, he thought hymself the happiest manne in the worlde, and began to put hymself in redinesse, to mete with his Ladie, by suche waies and meanes, as she had to hym appoincted. There was in a corner of the prin­ces pallace a Caue, longe tyme before made, vnder the side of a hille, whiche Caue receiued light by a certaine vente, made by force within the saied mountaine, and bicause the same was not frequented and vsed, it was ouer growen with busshes and thornes. Into whiche Caue was a discente, by a secrete paire of staiers, that was in one ofthe lowest chambers of the pallaice, wherein the ladie laie, whiche was out of all mennes minde, bicause it was not occupied, many a daie before and shutte vp, with a verie strong doore. But Loue (in the eyes whereof, nothing is so secrete, but it will come to knowledge) had brought the same again, into the re­membraunce of the amourous Ladie. The openyng of whiche doore (that no manne might knowe it) many daies did trouble her wittes: afterward when she had found the waie, she went doune a lone into the Caue, and viewyng the vente, wherevnto she had giuen or­der [Page 102] for Guiscardo to come, she told him of what height it was from the grounde. For the execucion whereof, Guiscardo prepared a rope with knottes and degrées, to goe vp and doune, and puttyng vpon him a leather coate, to kepe hym from the thornes and bushes, went douns the next night at the saied vent, vnknowen of a­ny man: and fastenyng one of the endes of the rope, to the stocke of a trée, that grewe at the mouthe of the vēt he slipte doune into the Caue, and taried there for the Ladie, who next daie fainyng her self to slepe after di­ner, sente her maides out of her chamber, and locked herself within a lone: and then opened the doore, and went doune into the Caue, where findyng Guiscardo thei merueilously reioysed one with an other. And frō thence went vp together into her chamber: where thei remained togethers, the moste parte of that daie, to their greate contentacion. And hauyng giuen good or­der, for the affaires of their Loue, and the secrete vse thereof, Guiscardo retourned into the Caue, and the ladie locked the dore, and came out emonges her mai­des. The next night after, Guiscardo issued out of the vent vpon the rope, wherewith he descended, and con­ueied hymself into his chamber. And hauyng learned the waie, he resorted thither many tymes after. But Fortune enuious of that pleasure, so long and greate, with dolorous successe, tourned the ioye of those twoo louers, into heauie and sorowfull ende. The Prince accustomed sometimes, to resort alone into his dough­ters chamber, and there for a while to tarie and talke with her, & so to depart. Who vpon a daie after diner, when the Ladie (whose name was Gismonda) was in the garden withall her maidens, repaired vnknowen or séen of any man into her chamber. But beyng lothe to trouble his doughter of her pleasure, and findyng [Page] the windowes of her chamber shutte, and the curtens of the bedde drawen, he satte doune vpon a stoole at the beddes feete, and leanyng his hedde to the bedde, the Curteine drawen ouer hym (as he had béen hidden of purpose) he fell a slepe. And the Kyng beyng thus a slepe, Gismonda that (in euill tyme) the same daie had appoincted Guiscardo to come, left her maidens in the Gardein, and entred verie softly into her chamber, loc­kyng faste the doore after her. And not knowyng any manne to bée there, she opened the dore of the Caue to Guiscardo, who was redie to waite for her commyng. Then thei cast thē selues vpon the bedde, as thei were wont to doe, and thus solacing themselfes, and passing the tyme together, it chaunced that the Prince awaked who heard and sawe, what Guiscardo and his dough­ter did. Wherof beyng verie sorowfull, he would vpō the firste sighte haue cried out: but that he thoughte it better, for that tyme to holde his peace, and still to kepe hymself secrete, to the intent that he might more pri­uilie, and with lesse shame, accomplishe that, whiche he purposed to doe. The twoo louers continued togethers a greate tyme, as thei were wont to dooe, without any knowledge of the Prince his beyng there, & when thei sawe tyme, thei went doune from the bedde: and Guis­cardo retournyng to the Caue, she went forthe of her chamber, fro whence Tancredi (as olde as he was) con­ueied hymself into the Gardein, out at a windowe of the same, vnséen, and not perceiued of any man. Who like a pensife manne, and carefull euen vnto death, re­paired to his owne chamber, and the next night, about one of the clocke, he caused Guiscardo to bee apprehen­ded, by an order that he had prescribed, at his comyng foorthe of the Caue, euen clothed as he was, with his leather coate: and by twoo men was secretly conueied [Page 103] to the Prince. ‘Who so sone as he sawe hym, saied vn­to hym with teares, standyng in his eyes. Guiscardo, my beneuolence and goodnes towardes thée, haue not merited this outrage and shame, that thou haste com­mitted this daie, in myne owne house, whiche I sawe with myne owne eyes.’ To whom Guiscardo gaue no other answere, but that Loue was of greater force, then either the Prince, or hymself. Then the Prince commaunded hym to be kept, in a chamber adioinyng. The nexte daie the Kyng (Gismonda beeyng igno­raunte hereof) reuolued in his minde, diuers and sun­drie matters, and after diner as he was accustomed, he wente into his doughters chamber, and caused her to bée called vnto hym, and shuttynge the Chamber doore, in lamentable wise, saied vnto her.

‘Gismonda, I had so muche affiance and trust, in thy vertue and honestie, that it could neuer haue entred in­to my minde (although it had béen tolde me) if I had not séen it with myne owne proper eyes, but that thou haddest not onely in déede, but also in thought, aban­doned the companie of all men, excepte it had béen thy husbande: wherof I shalbe right pensife and sorowfull so long as this litle remnaunte of life (that myne olde age doeth preserue) indureth in me. And sith thou coul­dest not conteine thy self, from suche dishonest loue, I would it had pleased God, that thou haddest taken a manne, equall to thine estate. But emonges so many that doe frequent my court, thou hast chosen this yong manne Guiscardo, whose birthe is verie vile and base, and brought vp (as it were for Gods sake) from a child, to this present daie, in our courte. For whiche conside­racion, I am verie sore disquieted, not knowyng how to take this at thy handes. For with hym (whō I haue caused to be taken this night, in going out of the caue, [Page] and now kepte as prisoner) I haue alredie concluded, what to doe. But with thee what I shall doe, God kno­weth. Of the one side, the loue that I still beare thee, more then any father euer bare to his doughter, doeth drawe me, on the other side, a iuste displeasure and in­dignacion, taken for thy greate follie, doeth moue me. The one mocion would that I should pardon thee, the other forceth me against my nature, to bee cruell vnto thée. Notwithstandyng, before I dooe make any certaine resolucion, I desire to heare, what thou canst saie for thy self.’ When he had spoken those wordes, he kissed her face, wepyng verie bitterly like a child, that had béen beaten. Gismonda hearyng her father, and knowyng that not onely her secrete loue was discoue­red, but also her louer Guiscardo to be in prison, con­ceiued an inestimable sorowe, vttering the same many tymes, without cries and schreches, accordyng to the maner of women, how beit, her greate courage surpas­sed her weakenesse, and did set a bolde face on the mat­ter, with meruailous sloutnesse determinyng, before she made any sute for her self, no longer to liue, seyng that her frende Guiscardo was alredie deade. Where­fore, not like a sorowfull woman, or one taken in any fault, but as a desperate persone, with a drie and stoute countenaunce, not troubled or vexed, she saied thus to her father. ‘I doe not purpose deare father, to stande in deniall, nor yet by humble sute to make requeste. For the one will nothyng auaile me, & the other is to none effecte. Moreouer I doe not intende by any meanes, to beseche your clemencie and loue towardes me, to bée beneuolent and bountifull, but cōfessyng the trouthe, I will first with true reasons and argumentes, defend myne houour, and afterwardes prosecute in vertuous wise, by effectes, the stoutnesse of my courage. True [Page 104] it is, that I haue loued, and dooe loue Guiscardo, and will loue hym so long as I liue, whiche shalbe but a li­tle tyme. And if so be that a woman maie loue a man, after death, I will not cease to loue him. But womāly frailtie and weakenesse, hath not so muche induced me herevnto, as the litle care you haue had, to bestowe me in mariage, and the greate vertues, that daiely I haue seen in Guiscardo. You ought deare father to knowe, that your self is of fleshe, and of fleshe you haue engen­dred me your doughter, and not of Stone or Iron. In likewise you ought, and muste remember (although now you be arriued to olde yeres) what yonge folkes be, and of what great power, the law of youth is. And although you were (duryng the force of your youthlie daies) trained and exercised in factes of armes, yet now you ought to knowe, what greate puissaunce resteth in the idle and delicate life, aswell in the aged, as emon­ges yonge people. I am then as you bee, begotten of fleshe, and my yeres so fewe, that I am yet but yonge, and thereby full of luste and delight. Wherevnto the knowledge, which I haue had alredie in mariage, for­ceth me to accōplishe that desire: & to the same be added merueilous forces, againste whiche it is impossible for me to resist, but rather to followe that, wherevnto thei draw me. I am become amourous, like a yong womā and like a womā as I am, and certainly I would haue imploied my whole force that waie, so farre as I could not to commit any shame to you, or to my self in that, wherevnto my naturall offence hath forced me. To whiche thyng, pitifull Loue, and gentle Fortune haue founde out, and shewed a waie secrete enough, where­by without knowledge of any man, I am come to the effect of my desires; whiche thyng I will no deny (who so euer tolde you of it, or by what meanes so euer you [Page] are come to the knowledge therof) & I haue not taken Guiscardo, to be my louer by chaunce, as many womē haue doen, but I haue chosen hym by long aduise and deliberacion, aboue all others, & haue brought him into me in this wise, inioiyng with our wise continuaunce of long time, the accomplishment of my desire, wherof me thinke (although I haue not offended but by Loue) that you doe purpose to prosecute rather the vulgar o­piniō, then the truthe, purposyng in this wise most bit­terly to cōptroll me, saiyng, that you had not had suche an occasion of anger, if I had chosen one that had béen a gentleman. Wherein you doe not consider, that the fault is not mine, but rather to be ascribed to Fortune who ought to bee blamed, bicause many tymes she exalteth the vnworthie, and treadeth vnder foote, those that be moste worthie: but now let vs leaue of further talke of this matter, and consider the beginnyng here­of. Firste of all you see, that of one masse of fleshe, wée haue all receiued fleshe, and that one Creatour, hath created euery liuing creature, with force and puissance equally, and with equall vertue: whiche vertue was the first occasion that made the difference, and distinc­cion of vs all, that were borne, and bee borne equall, and thei that obteined the greatest parte of vertue, and did the workes of her, were called noble, the rest conti­nuyng vnnoble. And albeit contrary vse, afterwardes obscured this Lawe: yet therefore, she is not remoued ne abandoned from Nature, or good maners. In like wise, he that by vertue performeth all his dooynges, doeth manifestlie shewe hymself to bee noble. And he that doeth otherwise terme hym, doeth committe the faulte, and not he that is so called. Beholde all your gentlemen, and examine well their vertue, their condi­cions, and maner of doynges. On the other parte, be­holde [Page 105] the qualities and condicions of Guiscardo, then if you please to giue iudgement without affeccion, you shall saie that he is right noble: and that all your gen­tlemen bee villaines, in respecte of hym. The vertues and excellencie of whom, I beleue can not be placed in any other wight, as in him, aswel by your owne report as by the choise of mine owne eyes. Who euer praised man in suche wise, and with suche ample commenda­cions praise worthie, wherein an honest man ought to be praised, as you haue doen him? And truely not with­out cause. For if mine eyes be not deceiued, you neuer gaue hym any praise, but that I haue knowen more in hym, then your woordes were able to expresse. Not­withstandyng, if I haue been deceiued herein, it was you, by whom I haue béen deceiued: will you then saie that I couple my self, with a manne of base condicion? Truelie you can not well saie so. But if you will saie, perchaunce with a poore man, I confesse it. And vere­ly it is to your shame, that you haue not vouchesaufed to place in high estate, a manne so honest, beyng your owne seruaunt. Neuerthelesse, pouertie doeth not de­priue any part of nobilitie, but riches hath. Many kin­ges and greate Princes, haue béen poore in olde tyme, and many plough men and shepherdes in times paste, haue been aduaūced to riche estate. And the last doubte whiche troubleth you, is, that you bee doubtfull, what to dooe with me: caste boldlie out of your mynde that doubte, and if you doe intende in thextremitie of your age, to vse that, whiche in your youth you neuer did, I purpose to become cruel also. Use your crueltie against me, for the aduoidyng wherof, I haue not determined to make any supplicacion to you, as giltie of this fault if faultes maie bee rehearsed. Assuryng you, that if you dooe not vnto me, that whiche you haue dooen, or will [Page] dooe to Guiscardo, myne owne handes shall dooe it. Wherefore goe to, and let fall your teares with wo­men, and if you purpose to be cruell, kill him and lette me also drincke of the same Cuppe, if you thinke wee haue deserued it.’ The kyng hearyng the stoute wordes of his doughter: thought not that she would haue doen in deede, as her wordes pretended, and as she saied she would dooe. Wherefore departyng from her, and not willyng to vse any maner of crueltie towardes her, he thought by the destruction and slaughter of Guiscar­do, to coole her burnyng loue. And therefore com­maunded twoo of his seruauntes (that had Guiscardo in kepyng) without any noise, to strangle hym the next night, and afterwardes pluckyng his harte out of his bodie, to bryng it vnto him: who did as thei were com­maunded. And the nexte daie, the kyng caused a faier Cuppe of golde, to bee brought vnto hym, wherein he laied the harte of Guiscardo, whiche he sente (by one of his familer seruauntes) vnto his doughter: and com­maunded hym, when he presented the same vnto her to saie these woordes. ‘Thy father hath sent thee this pre­sent, to comforte thy self with the thyng, whiche thou doest chieflie loue, as thou hast comforted hym of that, whiche he loued moste.’ Gismonda not amoued frō her cruell determinaciō, caused to be brought vnto her (af­ter her father was gone) venemous herbes and rootes, whiche she distilled together, and made water there­of, to drincke sodainly, if that came to passe, whiche she doubted. And when the kynges seruaunt, was come vnto her, and had deliuered his presente, he saied as he was commaunded Gismonda tooke the cuppe with a stoute countenaunce, & coueryng it, so sone as she sawe the harte, and vnderstoode the wordes, she thought ve­rely, that it was the harte of Guiscardo, wherefore be­holdyng [Page 106] the seruaunt, she said vnto him: ‘Truely it be­houeth that suche a harte as this is, should bée intom­bed in no worsse graue, then in gold, whiche my father hath moste wisely doen. Afterwardes liftyng the cuppe to her mouthe, she kissed it saiyng, I haue in all thyn­ges, euen vnto this time, being the last ende of my life, alwaies founde the tender loue of my father towardes me; but now I knowe it to bée greater, then euer I did before. And therefore in my behalfe, you shall render vnto hym, the last thankes that euer I shall giue hym, for so greate a presente. After those woordes, tour­ning her self towardes the cuppe, whiche she helde fast, beholdyng the harte, she saied thus. Oh sweete harbo­rough of my pleasures, cursed be the crueltie of hym, that hath caused me at this tyme to looke vpon thée, with the eyes of my face: it was pleasure enoughe, to sée thée euery hower, emonges people of knowledge and vnderstanding. Thou hast finished thy course, and by that ende, whiche Fortune vouchsaufed to giue thée thou art dispatched, and arriued to the ende, where­vnto all men haue recourse: thou hast forsaked the mi­series, and traueiles of this worlde, and hast had by the enemie hymself, suche a sepulture as thy worthinesse deserueth. There néedeth nothyng els to accomplishe thy funeralle, but onely the teares of her, whom thou diddest hartely loue, al the daies of thy life. For hauing whereof, our Lorde did putte into the heade, of my vn­mercifull father, to sende thée vnto me, and truely I will bestowe some teares vpon thée: although I was determined to die, without sheadyng any teares at all, stoutlie, not fearfull of any thyng. And when I haue powred them out for thée, I will cause my soule, whi­che thou hast heretofore so carefully kept, to be ioyned with thine. For, in what companie can I trauell, more [Page] contented, or in better saufgarde in places vnknowen, then with thy soule? Truely I am well assured, that it is yet here within: that hath respecte to the place, as­well of his owne pleasures, as of myne, beyng assured (as she who is certaine, that yet he loueth me) that he attenddeth for my soule: of whom she is so greatly be­loued.’ When she had thus saied, she began to let fall (as though there had béen a fountaine in her hedde) so many teares, that it was a miracle to beholde her, oftē ­tymes kissyng the dedde harte. Her maidens that stode aboute her, vnderstoode not what harte that was, nor wherevnto these wordes did tende: but beyng moued with compassion, thei all wept: pitifullie demaunding (although in vaine) the occasion of her sorowfull plain­tes: and comforted her so well as thei could. Who af­ter she had powred for the sufficient teares, lifted vp her hedde: and when she had wiped hereyes, she saied. ‘Oh louyng harte, all my duetie is fulfilled towardes thée, hauyng now nothyng to doe, but onely to yelde forthe my ghoste, to accōpanie thine.’ And this saied, she cau­sed the glasse of water, whiche she had made the daie before, to bee brought vnto her: and poured it out into the cuppe where the harte laie, all bained with a mul­titude of teares: whiche she puttyng to her mouthe, without feare, dronke vp all. And that dooen, went in­to her bedde, with the Cuppe in her hande, tossyng her bodie, as decently as she could vpon the same, holdyng the harte of her dedde frende, so nere as she could, vnto her owne hart. Her maidens seyng this (although thei knewe not what water it was, that she dranke) sente woorde to the kyng, who fearyng that whiche happe­ned, incontinently wente doune into his doughters chamber: where he arriued euen at that instaunte, that she had cast her self vpon the bedde, and beyng come to [Page 107] late to succour her, with swete wordes be began (seing her in those pangues, to wepe bitterlie. To whom his dougther saied: ‘Father, kepe in those vndesired teares, and bestowe them not vpon me, for I desire them not; who euer sawe manne besides you, to bewaile the wil­fulnesse of his owne facte. Howbeeit, if there dooe yet reste in you, any sparke of that loue, whiche you haue alwaies borne towardes me: graunte me this last re­queste, that although you were not contented, that I should liue secretly and couertly with Guiscardo, yet at lest, cause our bodies to be openly buried togethers, where it pleaseth you to bestowe them.’ The anguishe and sorowe, would not suffer the prince to answere one worde for weping. And then the Ladie perceiuyng her ende approche, cleped and strained the dead harte, hard to her stomacke, saiyng. Farewell swete harte in God for I am goyng to hym. And there withall she closed her eyes, and lost her senses, departyng out of this do­lorous life. In this manner sorowfullie ended the loue of Gismonda and Guiscardo, as you haue heard, whom the Prince after he had wept his fill, and taken to late repentaunce for his crueltie: caused honorablie to be buried, and intombed bothe in one graue, not with­out greate sorowe of all the peo­ple of Salerne.

¶The .xl. Nouell.

IF you dooe euer make any proofe or triall, to knowe of what trampe the arrowes of Loue bee, and what fruicte thei bryng to them, that doe vse and practice the same: I am assured you shalbee tou­ched with some pitie, when ye vnderstande the beastlie crueltie of an Infidell louer, towardes his Ladie. He of whom I will declare the historie, is Mahomet, not the false Prophete, but the greate graundfather of Solimā Ottoman Emperour of the Turkes, whiche raigned at that time. He it is, that to the shame and eternall in­famie, of all Christian Princes of his tyme, did winne Constantinople, and tooke awaie the Easte Empire form Constantine, a Christian Emperour, the yere of our Lorde. 1453. Mahomet then hauyng obteined so greate victorie at Constantinople: emonges the spoil of that riche citie, there was founde a Greke maiden, of suche rare and excellent beautie, that she allured the eyes of euery wight, to wonder and beholde the same, as a thyng miraculous, whose name was Hirenee, of the age of sixtene or seuentene yeres. Whom a Capi­taine to gratifie his Lorde, did present: a Iewell (as he thought) moste acceptable to hym, aboue all thynges of the worlde. The Emperour Mahomet, yonge and wanton beyonde measure, after he had cast his eye vpō the maiden, and had grauen her beautie in his harte, [Page 108] gaue a straight charge, that she should be kept for him, hopyng after the tumulte of the warre was ended, to bestowe conuenient tyme vpon her. The retract soun­ded, and the affaires of the Empire, reduced to sure e­state, remembring hymself of the beautie of Hyrenee, whiche had made a breache & entrie into his hart, com­maunded that she should be brought forthe vnto hym, and hauyng viewed her at his pleasure, he felt himself so surprised with that newe flame, that he conceiued none other delight, but to plaie and dallie with her, in suche sorte, that his spirites beyng in Loues full pos­session, Loue dealt with hym so cruellie, that he could take no rest daie nor night. Who yelded hymself suche a praie, to his darlyng Hyrenee, that he felt none other contentacion in his minde, but that whiche he recei­ued of her. And this amorous passiō indured, the space of thrée continuall yeres, takyng suche vigor and in­crease by litle and litle, that he began to forgette that, whiche apperteined to the ornamente and honor of his Empire, leauyng the whole administraciō of publique causes to his Baschats, he hymself beyng so necligent, that he reposed in them, all matters concernyng the state of the Empire. Duryng this disorder, the vulgar people began secretly to grudge, aswell for the confu­sion and disorder of the Empire, as for the ill gouer­nement of the same (and specially, because the Baschats corrupted with auarice, imploied themselfes to their particuler profite, and to inriche themselfes, with the spoile of the people.) The Ianissaries on the other side, a warlike people, and brought vp in continuall exer­cise of armes, began with open voice to detracte and slaunder their Lorde, commonlie complainyng, how he consumed his life, like an effeminate persone, with­out inferryng or doyng any profite to the Empire. To [Page] be shorte, the matter came to suche desolacion, that it might rather haue been called a sedicion, then a mur­mure: and yet there was none so hardie, as durste at­tempt, to declare the same to the Emperour, knowyng hym to bee of nature so terrible, cruell, and rigorous, that with a woorde, he would put hym to death, that went aboute to withdrawe him from his desire. Ther­withall he was so drōke with the beautie of the Greke, that the leste matter, wherewith thei might giue occa­sion, to withdrawe hym from his necligent life, was enough to driue hym into a rage and furie. This poore Emperour was so bewitched, that not onely he consu­med, daies and nightes with her, but he burned with continual Ialousie, whose beautie was so liuely pain­ted, in the inwarde partes of his harte and mynde, that he remained thus ouerwhelmed in beastly pleasure, euery man in particuler, and all in generall, conspired against hym, with one determinate minde, to yelde no more obedience vnto hym in tyme to come, and pur­posed to chose some Emperour, that were more mar­ciall and warlike, through whose succour and coun­saile, thei might not onely conserue the thynges got­ten, but also amplifie the boundes, and limites of their Empire. Mustapha whiche was broughte vp with the Emperour, a gentle personage, franke of talke, and so nere to his maiestie, that he might goe into his cham­ber, although the Greke was present: when he percei­ued conueniente tyme, suche as he desired to haue, re­paired to the Emperour vpon a daie, who likyng wel his deuises, walked with hym alone in his Gardein, to whom after he had made greate reuerence, accordyng to their custome, he saied vnto hym.

‘My soueraigne lorde and maister, if I might speake fréelie, without seruile feare, whiche staieth me, or if [Page 109] the terrour of your displeasure might not abashe me, I would willinglie declare vnto your maiestie, that whiche concerneth not onely your securitie and sauf­garde, but (whiche is more) the sauftie of your whole Empire. Whō Mahomet answered with merie coun­tenaūce, saiyng. Cast a waie suche cold feare as staieth thee, and speake hardely thy mynde. Shewe me what it is that toucheth me. I doubt, and it shall please your maiestie, lest I shall séeme ouer presumptuous, and rashe vnto you, if I dooe discouer the secretes of my harte, but our auncient educacion, the duetie of my cō ­science, with the experience, that you haue alwaies had of my fidelitie, haue so muche forced me, that being no longer able to rule my self (I am constrained, by what vertuous prouocacion, I knowe not) to manifest thin­ges vnto you, that bothe tyme and necessitie, wil make you to thinke them good and necessarie: Although (it maie so bée) that now your eyes be so bounde vp, in the vaile of your disordinate affection, that you can not digest, or take the same in good part. The life (my lorde) whiche you haue ledde, sithens the taking of Constan­tinople, and the excessiue pleasures, wherein you haue plūdged your self these thrée yeres, is an occasion, that not onely your souldiours, and the rest of your popular people, but the moste faithfull lordes of your Empire, doe murmure, conspire, and coniure against you. And pardon me (my Lorde) if I speake so vnreuerently, in thynges touchyng your preseruacion. For there is no manne, but doeth verie muche merueile, of this great and newe alteraciō that appereth in you, whiche doeth so abase you, and maketh you to degenerate, from your auncient generositie and valiaunce. Your owne self hath giuen ouer your self, to bée a spoile and praie to a simple woman: that you wholie depende vpon her [Page] flattries aud allurementes: reason or counsaill cā take no place in your passionate and afflicted harte. But I humblie beseche your Maiestie, to entre a little into your self, and make a suruey of your life, that you haue sedde these thrée yeres past. The glorie of your aunce­stours and predecessours, acquired and wonne by shea­dyng of so muche bloudde, kept by so greate prudence, conserued by so happie counsaill, haue thei no repre­sentacion, or shewe before your face? The remem­braūce of their memorable victories, doeth it not touch the depthe of your conscience? The magnanimite and valiaunce, wherby thei be immortalized, and their fame registred through the whole worlde, is it extinguished in you? Their Trophées and monumētes grauen, and aduaunced in all the corners of the earth, be thei thro­wen doune and defaced, from the siege of your remem­braunce? But where is now, the ardent desire, whiche boiled in you from your infancie, to make Italie tri­butarie vnto you, and to cause your self to be crouned at Rome, Emperour aswel of Thorient, as of the Oc­cident? This is not the waie to amplifie, and inlarge your Empire, but rather to restrain and diminishe the same. This is not y^e mean to preserue it, but to disposse it & make it lesse. If Ottoman the first tronke or stocke, of your gentle familie and kindred, hadde thus giuen hymself to be corrupted in idlenes, you hadde not now inherited, the noble kingdome of Grece, nor gouerned the countries of Galatia and Bithinia, and many other prouinces, whiche enuironne the greate sea. Sembla­blie his soonne Orcan (a liuelie Image of his father and a folower of his valiant factes) had not triumphed ouer Licaonia, Phrigia, Caria, nor dilated the boundes of his Empire, to Hellesponte. What shall I speake of Amurates, the successour of Orcan, who was the firste [Page 110] that inuaded Europa, conquered Thracia, Syria, Rasia, and Bulgaria? And Baiazet likewise, did not he cutte of the hedde of the greate Tamburlain, whiche called him self the scourge of GOD, and brought into the fielde fower hundred thousande Scithians a horsebacke, and sixe hundred thousande footemen? Shall I shall passe ouer with silēce, the vertuous exploites of your grand­father Mahomet, who conquered Macedonia, & made the Countries, to feele the edge of his sworde, euen to the sea Ionicum, lettyng passe many wonderfull expe­dicions and iourneis, by hym made againste the Lidi­ans and Cliecians? But now I can not reuiue the me­morie of your father Amurate, but to my great sorowe and grief, who by the space of .xl. yeres, made the Sea and earth to tremble & quake, and with the furie of his strong hande, vsed suche cruell reuengement ouer the Grekes, that the memorie of the woundes doe remain at this presente, euen to the Mountaines of Thomao and Pindus, he subiugated the Phocians: made tribu­tarie Athenes, Beotia, Aetolia, Caramania, and al the barbarous naciōs, from Morea, to the straictes of Co­rinthe. What nede I here to bring in the cruel battail that he had againste the Emperoure Sigismonde, and Philippe Duke of Burgundie, wherein he ouerthrewe the whole force of the Christians, tooke the Emperour prisoner, & the Duke of Burgundie also, whom he sent to Adrianopolis? Or to remember other fierce armies whiche he sente into Hungarie, whereof your maiestie is a faithfull witnesse, your self beyng still there in your owne persone. Iudge then my Lorde what dili­gence, and intollerable trauell, he vsed in his mani­folde glorious enterprises, and famous victories. Doe you thinke, that if he had béen idle in his pallaice, emō ­ges the ladies, you had inherited your Empire, or had [Page] now béen lorde of so many excellent Prouinces: which he is not sufficient to rule, that can not prouide to con­firme, and establishe the same. There bee many of your subiectes and vassalles at this daie, whiche doe obeye and honour your Maiestie (more for feare, then good loue thei beare you) that would rebell against you, if Fortune would tourne her backe. The Christians of long time (as you knowe) haue sworne your ruine and distruccion. Moreouer thei saie that their high bishop, the Pope of Rome, hath conuocated all his prelates to vnite, and reconcile the Princes and Monarches of Christendome together, to ouer runne you, and to take the scepter out of your handes, & to dispoile you of your Empire. But what knowe we, whither thei wil ioine their force, with the power of the Persian Sophi, your capitall enemie, or with the Souldan of Aegipte, your aunciente aduersarie: whiche if thei come to passe (as God forbidde) your Empire will be consumed. Gather your wittes then together, from hence forthe my lorde and call again Reason, which so many yeres, you haue banished from you. Awake out of the depe slepe, which hath sieled vp your eyes. Imitate and folowe the trade of your aūcestors, whiche euer loued better one daie of honor, then an hundred liuyng yeres, of shame and re­proche. Attende to the gouernement of your Empire. Leaue of this effeminate life, Receiue again the smell of your generositie and vertue. And if you can not at one tyme, cutte of & remoue, all that amourous heate, whiche vndermineth so your harte, moderate the same by litle and litle, and giue some hope to your people, whiche thinke you to bee vtterly loste, and desperate of recouerie. Or if so bee the Greke dooe delight you so muche, who shall lette you to cary her with you in all your iourneis and expedicions? Why, can not you to­gether, [Page 111] bothe inioye her beautie, and vse the practise of armes? Me thinke that your pleasure shalbe greater, after you haue wonne some victory, and subdued some countrie, to inioye her in your armes, then to remaine in a house, with eternall infamie, and continual grud­gyng of your subiectes. But proue I praie you, to se­parate your self certain daies from her, and you shall certainly iudge, how farre greater the pleasures bée so differred, then those, that be daily vsed. Yet one thing more, and it please your maiestie, there resteth to be de­clared, whiche is, that all the victories of your proge­nitours, or the conquestes, whiche your self hath made bee to small purpose, if you doe not kepe them and in­crease them, the keping of a thing gotten, beyng of no lesse glorie and praise, then the conquest. Be now then a conqueror of your self, humblie besechyng your Ma­iestie, that if I haue spoken any thyng, disagreable to your minde, accordyng to your wonted clemencie, to pardon the same, and to impute the faulte to my boun­den duetie, and the care that I haue of your honor and sauftie.’ Mahomet after he had heard the long discours of his Slaue, stoode as still as a blocke, and fixyng his eyes vpon the grounde, with sodaine chaunge of cou­lour, declared by outwarde signes, the agitacions and vnquietnesse of his minde in suche wise, that the poore slaue Mustapha, seyng in hym those alteraciōs, was in doubte of his life: whose wordes so pricked the Empe­rours harte, that he knewe not what to doe, or where­vpon to bee resolued, and seeiyng his conscience trou­bled, with a furieus battaill: knowyng euidently that Mustapha had spoken the truthe, and that he vttered the same, like a trustie seruaunt to his maister. But on the other side, the beautie of the Greke, was still before his eyes, and the minde he had to abandon her, gaue [Page] hym suche alarme, that he semed at that instaunte, as though his harte had béen torne out of his bellie. And thus moued with diuers tempestes, without other thoughte, hauyng his eyes inflamed, with greate rage and furie, he saied vnto hym. ‘Although thou hast spo­ken vnreuerently inough, yet our educacion together and the fidelitie that I haue proued in thée, in time past shalbée thy pardō for this time. To the purpose. Before the Sonne doeth cōpasse the Zodiacque, I will let it be knowen to thée and to other, what puissaunce and po­wer, I haue ouer my self, or whether I am able to bri­dle mine affection or not. Take order in the mean time that all my noble menne, the Baschats, and the princi­pall of my menne of warre, bee assembled together to morowe, in the middes of the greate halle of my pal­lace.’ This determinacion finished, the Emperor went into the Greke, and reioysyng hymself, all that daie and mighte with her: he made more of her then euer he did before. And the more to flatter her, he dined with her, and commaunded that after diner, she should ad­orne her self, with the moste precious Iewelles, and decke her with more sumptuous apparel, then euer she did weare before. Whervnto the poore wenche obeied, not knowyng that it was her Funerall apparell. On the other side, Mustapha vncertaine of the Emperors mynde, at the hower appoincted, caused all the nobili­tie to bee assembled in the hall, euery of them meruei­lyng, what moued the Emperour so to doe, sithens he had so long tyme shutte vp hymself, without shewing his persone abrode. Beyng thus assembled, and euery manne talkyng diuersly of this matter, accordyng as their affection serued: beholde, the Emperor entred in­to the pallace, leadyng the Greke by the hande, who beyng adorned, otherwise then she was wonte to bee, [Page 112] was accompanied and garnished with beautie, so rare and excellente, that she resembled rather an heauenlie Goddesse, then a humaine creature. The Turke came into the hall, after that the lordes had made their reue­rence, accordyng to their wonted maner, holdyng still the faier Greke by the left hāde, he stode stil in the mid­dest of the holle: then lokyng furiously rounde aboute hym, he saied vnto them ‘So farre as I vnderstande, all ye dooe mutine and grudge, bicause I (beyng vanqui­shed with Loue) can not separate, and withdrawe my self daie nor nighte, from the presence of this Greke. But I dooe knowe none of you all so continente, and chaste in Loue, that if he had in his possession, a thyng so rare and precious, so amiable, and beautie so ex­cellente, but before he could forgette her, and giue her ouer, he would three tymes be well aduised. What say ye to the matter? Euery of you shall haue frée libertie, secretly to tell me your mynde.’ But thei rapt with an incredible admiracion, to see so faier a thyng, saied that he had with greate reason, passed his tyme with her. Wherevnto the barbarous cruell Prince answered. ‘Well, now then I will make you to vnderstande, that there is no earthlie thyng that can binde vp, or capti­uate my sences so muche, but that from hence forthe I will followe myne anncestours, hauyng the glorie and valiaunce of the Ottomans, so fixed in my breast, that nothyng els but death, is able to blot it out of my remembraunce.’ Those wordes finished, incontinent­ly with one of his handes, he catched the Greke by the heare of the heade, and with his other hande, he drewe out his falchion from his side, and foldyng his handes aboute the golden lockes of her heare, at one blowe he strake of her bedde, to the great terrour of them all. When he had so dooen, he saied vnto them: ‘Now ye [Page] knowe, whether your Emperor is able to represse, and bridle his affectiōs, or not.’ Within a while after, mea­nyng to discharge the rest of his cholere, he addressed a Campe of fower score, or an hundred thousande men: with whom percyng Boussine, he besieged Belgrade, where Fortune was so cōtrary vnto hym, that he was put to flight, and loste there a notable battaile against the Christians, vnder the conducte of Ihon Huniades, surnamed le Blanc, who was father of the worthie and glorious kyng Mathie Coruin.

¶The .xlj. Nouell.

IN the countrie of Aquitane, there was sometime a lorde, whose landes and lorshippes laie betwene Limosine and Poictou, and for the antiqui­tie of his house was renow­med, bothe for bloodde and wealthe, emonges the chief of all the Countrie. Beyng allied in kinred with the beste, and had full accesse and fauour, aswell in the houses of the auncient Dukes of Guienne, and Countes of Poictou, as in the royall Courtes of the Frenche Kynges. This Lorde (whom Bindello the aucthour of this historie, affirmeth to be Signor de la Rocca Soarda, but the translator and au­gmentator of the same in Frenche, called Francois de Belle Forest, leaueth out his name, for good respecte as [Page 113] he allegeth) kepte a greate Courte and liberall house­holde, and singularlie delighted (after the maner of the Frenche nobilitie) in huntyng, specially in hawkyng. His house also was had in greater admiracion (the ru­denesse and ignoraūce of that tyme was suche) bicause he had gotten beastes of straunge Countries, chieflie Lions, wherein he had greate pleasure, aswell for the rarenesse of that beast in Fraunce, as for a certaine ge­nerositie, that he knewe to bee in the same, whiche re­sembled the magnanimitie and courage of noble men, whose mindes and spirites, dooe not esteme thynges that be vaine, and cannot be affraied in doyng of thin­ges, wherevnto honour is offred for rewarde. This Lorde maried a Ladie, the doughter of one his neigh­bours, a woman worthie for suche a husbande: whose beautie was suche, as there was none comparable vn­to her: whiche the more increased, for that she was indued with perfite vertue, and furnished with so good behauiour, that right good mindes and wittes should bee occupied, naie, rather put to their shiftes to decide, whether gift were greatest, either the exquisite worke­manship of her excellyng beautie, or whether Nature had imploied all her cunnyng, to frame a bodie to ap­pere before menne miraculous, or els her honest port, her good grace, curtesie, and graue mildnesse, accom­panied with vertue, not vulgare or common to many mē, whiche made his ladie to shine, like the glistering Planet of Mars, emonges other the wanderyng star­res. In suche wise as the verie sauage and brute, were formed with splendent fame, to praise her to be suche a woman, whose equall thei neuer knewe, to bee in all their Countrie, who made the house of her husbande glorious, and hym a contented manne, to beholde suche a Starre to lie by his side, whiche suffised to illustrate, [Page] and beautifie a whole countrie, by her onely presence, and to nobilitate a race, although the bloodde of aun­cestours did faile, for the accomplishement of their per­fection. Suche is the great force of Uertue, whiche not onely did aduaunce her, aboue them that dooe her im­brase, but rather did cōstraine the enuious, to haue her in admiracion. But these admiratours, and praisers of Uertue, dooe not vse suche indeuour for the merites, whiche thei attribute to the thyng, rather thei imploie their onely industrie, to gather some profite of her, and then (followyng the nature of the dogge) doe retourne to their vomite, and bestowe their venime, hidden in their Serpentes breaste. As it came to passe, and was euidente in a certaine manne, that was Stewarde of this noble mannes house (truely a verie happie house, aswell for the honeste loue, betwene the Lorde and the Ladie, as for the vertue and clemēcie, wherewith both the one and the other, were accōpanied) who in the be­ginnyng, as honestie & duetie did require, was a louer of good maners, and commendable demeanour of his Ladie and maistresse, afterwardes (forgettyng the fi­delitie, whiche he did owe vnto his Lorde, the nobilitie of his predecessours, and the perill of his owne life) be­gan to loue her, and serue her in harte, and to wishe for the fairest thyng, whiche outwardlie did appere to bee in her, where he ought not so muche, as with the looke of his eye, to giue any atteinte of likelihode, for the re­uerence of hym, whiche was the right honor, and iuste possessor of the same. This maister foole then, not mea­suryng his forces, and lesse followyng the instincte of Reason, became so amourous of his Madame, that cō ­tinually he imagined by what meanes, he might giue her to vnderstande the paines and languores, wherein he liued for the loue of her. But (alas) these deuises [Page 114] vanished, like a litle dispersed cloude, at the risyng of the Sonne. For thinkyng vpon the vertue of his mai­stresse, his desires were soner remoued from his harte, then he was able to impresse them in the seate of his iudgemente, thereby to take any certaine assuraunce. Notwithstandyng, his hedde ceased not to builde Ca­stelles in the aire, and made a promisse to hymself to inioye her, whom he worshipped in his harte. For he tooke suche paines, by his humble seruice, that in the ende he acquired, some parte of his Ladies good grace, and fauor. And for that he durst not be so bolde, to ma­nifest vnto her, the vehemencie of his grief, he was cō ­tented a long tyme, to shewe a counterfaicte ioye, whi­che raised vnto hym a liuely spring of sorowes and dis­pleasures, that did ordinarily frette & boile his minde so muche: that the force of his wepyng for vaine hope, was able to suffocate the remnant of life, that rested in his tormented harte, whiche caused certaine, litle broo­kes of teares to streame donne, assailyng the myndeof this foolishe Louer. This faier and chaste Ladie was so resolued, in the loue of her husbande, that she tooke no regarde to the countenaunces, and foolishe fashi­ons of this maister Louer. Who seyng his mishappe to grow worsse and worsse, and from thence forthe no remedie, that whether by reioyse, well hopyng of bet­ter lucke, or for sodaine and miserable death, he deter­mined to proue Fortune: and to sée if the water of his hope, could finde any passage, stedfastly determinyng, that if he were throwē downe hedlong into the bottō, of Refusall, & cōtēpned for his seruice, not to retire a­gaine, but rather further to plondge, for the accelera­tyng of the ruine of hymself, and his desires. For he thought it impossible, that his harte could indure more intollerable heate, of that inuisible fier, then it had felt [Page] alredie, if he founde no meanes for the smoke, to haue some vent and issue. For whiche consideracion, cleane besides hymself, bewitched with foolishe Loue, like a beast throughly transformed into a thing, that had no sense of a reasonable manne (suche as thei bee accusto­mably, that be inrolled in the muster bookes of Venus sonne) was purposed to open to the Ladie (when occa­sion serued) bothe the euil, and also the grief that he su­steined, in bearyng toward her, so greate and extreme affection. Beholde here, one of the effectes of humane follie: this was the firste acte of the Tragedie, wherein Loue maketh this brainlesse manne to plaie, the firste and principall parte vpon the Stage. This poore gen­tleman (otherwise a good seruaunt, and carefull for the profite and honour of his maister) is nowe so voide of hymself, and blinde in vnderstanding, that he maketh no consciēce to assaile her (to defraude her of her grea­test vertue) the simple name of whom, ought to haue made hym tremble for feare, and to blushe for shame, rather then for her beautie sake, and naturall curtesie, to dispoile her of her honestie, and to attempte a thyng vncertaine to winne, & also more daungerous to prac­tise. Now, whiles he liued, in the attempt of his hoped occasion, it chaunced that the Ladie (thinkyng no ma­lice at all) began to beholde the Stewarde, with a bet­ter eye and loke more familier, then any of the gentle­men, and domesticall seruauntes of the house, aswell for the painted honestie of this Galant, as to sée hym so prompte and redie to obeie her. And therefore vpon a daie, as she walked in the Gallerie, she called hym vn­to her and verie familierly communicated vnto hym, certaine affaires, touchyng the profite of the house. He that marched not, but vpon one foote, and burned with Loue, and whose harte leapte for ioye, and daunced for [Page 115] gladnesse, thought that he had now obteined, the toppe of his felicitie, & the whole effecte of his desire: sodainly he cast awaie, the dispaire of his former conceiptes, ob­iectyng hymself to the daunger, wherin he was like to be ouerwhelmed, if the Ladie accepted not his request, with good digestion. In the ende, recoueryng force, he discoursed in his mynde this wicked opinion, where­with folishe and wilfull fleshely louers, doe blason and displaie, the honour and chastite of Ladies, when thei make their vaunte, that there is no woman, be she ne­uer so chaste, continente, or honest, but in the ende yel­deth, if she be throughly pursued. O, the woerdes and opinion of a beast, rather then of a man knowing ver­tue. Is the nomber of chaste women so diminished, that their renowme at this daie, is like a Boate in the middes of some tempestious sea, wherevnto, the ma­riners dooe repaire to saue themselfes? It is the onelie vertue of Laies, whiche doeth constraine them, to vo­mite forthe their poison, when thei sée themselfes de­ceiued, of their fonde and vncomely demaundes. A man shall neuer heare those wordes procede, but from the mouthes of the moste lasciuious, whiche delight in nothyng els, but to corrupt the good names of Ladies, afterwarde to make them their laughyng stockes. Re­tourne wée then to our purpose, this valiaunt souldior of Loue, willyng to giue the first onset, vpon his swete enemie, beganne to waxe pale, and to tremble, like the Réede, blowen with the winde, and knoweth not in what parte, or by what meanes, to bestowe the firste strokes of his assault. At length with foltring tongue, and tremblyng voice, he speaketh to his Ladie, in this wise. ‘Alas madame, how happy were the course of our transitorie life, if the common passions, receiued no in­crease of their trouble, by newe and diuers accidentes, [Page] whiche seme to take roote in vs, for the very greate di­minucion of that libertie, that euery manne doeth stu­dy so muche to cōserue. But truely that studie is vain, and the paine therof vnprofitablie bestowed. For such a manne inforceth hymself, to liue frée from passion, whiche in the middes of his inforcemente, feeleth hym self to be violently constarined, and séeth the takyng awaie of his libertie, to be a certaine impeachemente, which therevnto he would giue. Alacke, I haue pro­ued that mischiefe, and am yet in the greatest excesse, and pangues of my disease. I féele (alas) a diuersitie of anguishes, & a Sea of troubles, whiche tormente my minde & yet, I dare not discouer the occasiō, seing that the thing, which is the cause of my grief, to be of suche desert, that my seruice past, & all that is to come, is not able to giue the proofe, if one speciall grace and fauor, doe not inlarge, the litle power that is in me, to coun­teruaile the greatenesse, and perfection of that cause, whiche thus doeth variat and alter, bothe my though­tes and passions. Pardon me (madame) if I doe speake obscurely, for the confusion of my mynde, maketh my wordes correspondent, to the qualitie of the same. Not­withstandyng, I will not kepe silente from you, that whiche I dooe suffre, and muche lesse dissemble, what passiō I indure, beyng assured, aswel for your vertue & gentlenes, that you (moued with compassion) will suc­cour me, so much as shal lie in you, for preseruacion of the life of hym, that is the best and moste obedient ser­uaunt emōges them all, that doe you humble seruice.’ The Ladie whiche neuer thought of the wickednesse, whiche this insensate man began to imagine: answe­red him very curteously. ‘I am sory truely for your mis­happe, and doe merueile, what should be the effecte of that passion, whiche as you saie, you fele with suche di­municion [Page 116] of that, whiche is perfecte, and accomplished in you. For I doe sée no cause that ought to moue you to so straunge infirmitie, whereof you tolde me, wher­with I had alredie found fault, although you had said nothyng. I would to GOD I knewe, whiche waie to helpe you, aswel my lorde my husbandes sake, who I am sure doeth beare you good will, as for the honestie, which hetherto I haue knowen to be in you, which as I thinke all men resemblyng you, for vertue and good condicions, doe deserue that accōpt and consideracion.’ He that thought her alredie to be taken in his nettes, seyng so faire a waie open and cleare, to disclose that, whiche he had kept couert so long tyme, in the depth of his harte, answered. ‘Ah madame, are ye ignoraunt of the forces of Loue, & how much his assaultes, can debi­litate the liuelihode of the bodies and spirites of men? Knowe ye not that he is blinde and naked, not caryng whether he goeth, manifestyng hymself there, where occasion is offred? Alas madame, if you haue not pitie vpon me, and doe not regarde that, whiche I doe suffer for the loue of you, I knowe not how I am able to a­uoide Death, whiche will approche so sone to cutte of, and abridge my yeres, as I shall vnderstande a refusal of that, whiche the extreme Loue, that I beare you, madame, forcethe me to require: whche is to receiue a newe seruice, of your aunciente and faithfull serui­ture: who inflamed by the bright beames of your di­uine face, knoweth not now, how to chaunge the affec­cion, & muche lesse to receiue helpe, but of that place, where he receiued the pricke. Excuse (madame I be­seche you) my rashenesse, and pardon my follie, accu­syng rather, either your celestiall beautie, or els that tiraunt Loue, who hath wounded me so luckelie, that I esteme myne euill, fortunate, and my wounde hap­pie: [Page] sithe by his meane, my thoughtes and cogitacions, doe onely tende to doe you seruice, and to loue you in myne harte, whiche is the Phenix of the faireste and moste curteous ladies, within al our Prouince. Alas, that excellencie, whiche thus maketh me your seruasit shall one daie be my ruine, if by your good grace (spea­kyng it with wepyng teares) you doe not fauor hym, whiche liueth not, but to obeie you, and whiche lesing your good grace, will attempte to depriue hymself of life, whiche being depriued through your crueltie, will goe to complaine himself of his bolde attempt, and al­so of your rigor emonges the ghostes, and shadowes of thē that be alredie dedde, for like occasions.’ The chaste Ladie was so rapt of wittes, for the straungenes of the case, and for the grief whiche she conceiued, to sée the vnshamefast hardinesse of the varlette, that she could not tell how to make hym answere: But in the ende breakyng silence, and fetchyng a great sighe, from the bottome of hec harte, her face slained with a fresh Uer­milion rudde, whiche beautified her colour, by reason of disdaine, conceiued against this impudent Orator, she answered hym verie seuerely. ‘O God, who would haue thought, that from a hart nobly brought vp, and deriued from an honourable race, a villanie so greate, could haue taken roote, and spryng vp with suche dete­stable fruicte? What maister Stewarde? Haue ye for­gotten the duetie of a seruaunt, towarde his lorde and maister? Haue ye forgotten I saie, the duetie of a ver­tuous gentleman, well nourished and trained vp, to­warde suche and so greate a Ladie as I am: Ah These and Traitour that thou art. Is this the venime, whi­che thou kepest so couert and secrete, vnder the swete­nesse of thy counterfaicte vertue? A vaunte varlette, a vaunte: Goe vtter thy stuffe, to them that be like thy [Page 117] self, whose honour and honeslie is so farre spent, as thy loialtie is lighte and vaine. For if I heare thee speake any more of these follies, bee assured that I will mor­tifie that ragyng flame, whiche burneth thy light be­leuyng harte, and will make thée feele by effecte, what maner of death that is, wherein thou reposeste the rest of thy trauell.’ As this deceued Oratour, was framyng his excuse, and aboute to moderate, the iuste wrathe of his Ladie, displeased vpon good occasion, she not able to abide any more talke, saied further.

‘And what signes of dishonestie, haste thou séen in me, that moue thée, to perswade a thing so wicked, and vncomely for myne estate, yea and so preiudiciall, to me, to my frendes, & the house of thy maister, my lorde and spouse? I can not tell what it is that letteth me, from causyng thée to bée caste for the emong the Lions (cruell and capitall enemies of adulterie, emonges thē selfes) sithe thy pretence is, by violatyng my chastite, to dishonor the house, wherevnto thou owest no lesse, then all the aduauncemente thou haste: from the taste whereof, thou haste abandoned Uertue, the best thyng wherewith thou were affected. Auoide now therefore, let me heare no more of this, vpon paine of thy life, o­therwise thou shalt féele the rewarde of thy teinerite, and vnderstande the bitternesse of the litle pleasure, whiche I haue conceiued of thy follies.’ So the good la­die helde her peace, reseruyng in her harte, that whiche should be her helpe in tyme and place: howbeit she said nothyng hereof vnto her husbande, aswell for raisyng offence or slaunder, as for prouokyng her husbande a­gainst him, whiche susteined the punishement himself, sithe that this refuse, did more straungely pinche hym, more nere at the harte, then euer the Egle of Caucasus whereof the Poetes haue talked so muche) did tier the [Page] mawe of the subtil these Prometheus. And yet the vn­happie steward not contentented, with the mischief cō ­mitted against the honor of his maister, seing y^t it was but lost time, to cōtinue his pursute, and that his gaine would bee no lesse then death, if she accordyng to her promised threates, did thereof aduertise her husbande, beyng a cholerique manne, and light of belefe, and bi­cause the saied Stewarde, for suche an enterprise had receiued a simple recompence, although correspondent to his desert, premeditated worsse mischiefes, more noi­some then the firste. He was in doubt, whether it were better for hym, to tarry or to depart, sithe twoo thinges in a maner, were intollerable for hym to suffer. For he could not forsake the house, where from his cradle, he had béen finelie broughte vp, the Lorde whereof made muche of hym, as of his owne persone. On the other side, he knewe that so longe as the Ladie was aliue, he could haue no maner of ioye or contentacion. For that cause, conuerting extreme loue (whiche once he bare to the Ladie) into cruell hatred, vnsemelie for a brutall beast, and into an insaciable desire of reuenge: he deter­mined to addresse so strong an ambushe, trained with suche subteltie, that she was not able to escape, with­out daunger of her life and honor, whereof she declared her self to be so carefull. Alas, what blindnes is that, whiche captiuateth the wittes and spirite of hym, that feedeth hymself of nothyng els, but vpon the rage of fantasticall despite, and vpon the furie of despaire. Doe we not se, that after Reason giueth place to desired re­uenge of wronge thought to be receiued, man dispoy­leth hymself of that, whiche apperteineth to the kinde of man, to put on the fierce nature, of the moste brute and cruell beastes, to runne hedlong without reason, toward the place where the disordinate appetite of af­fections, [Page 118] doeth conducte hym? Whereof I will not ad­uouche any other example, but of this Traitour, who passionated not with Loue, but rather with rage and furie, ceaseth not to espie al the actions, and behauiour of his Ladie, to the intente he might bryng to ende, his deuised treason against her, that thought (perchaunce) no more of his folies, but honestlie to passe the tyme, with her deare and wel beloued husbande. Truely, if this Ladie had béen of the disposicion of some women, (that care not to moleste their husbandes, for the firste Flie that buzzeth before their eyes, conceiuyng a friue­lous and sodaine opiniō of their chastitie, not so muche asiailed, or to sharpelie defended, chauntyng glorious Hympnes, and high praises of their victorie) certainlie she had not tombled her self into the daunger, where­vnto afterwardes she fill. Not for that I will blame them, that doe reueale to their husbandes the assaul­tes, whiche thei receiue of importunate suters, that doe assaie to deflower their Chastite. Yet I will saie that Mosdestie in the same (as in euery other humaine actiō) is greatly to be required, sith that suche a one, by thin­kyng to extolle her honour and honestie, and to make proofe of her chastite, rendreth the same suspicious, and giueth occasion of talke to the people, that is more apt and redie to slaunder and infamie, then by good reporte to praise them, whiche by vertue doe deserue commē ­dacion, bringyng the life and fame of her husbande, to suche extremitie, that it had béen better vertuouslie to haue resisted, the force of Loue, and the flatteryng sute of suche Louers, then to manifest that whiche mighte haue been kept secrete, without preiudice of either par­tes. And truely that woman deserueth greater glorie, which of her self defendeth her honestie, and quencheth the flames liuely kindled in the hartes of other, with [Page] the coldnesse of continencie, by that meanes vanqui­shing twoo, then she doeth, whiche manifesting the vice of an other, discloseth as it were, a certain apparaunce of her frailtie, and the litle reason wherewith she is in­dewed, to vanquishe hym, that confesseth to be her ser­uaunt, and whose will dependeth at her commaunde­ment. And when the whole matter shalbe rightly iud­ged, she that reuealeth the imperfecciō of a Suter, she­weth her opinion and minde, to be more pliant to yelde to his requeste, then indewed with reason to abandon pleasure, and to reiecte the insolencie of the same, sithe that Reasons force, doeth easely vanquishe the lighte affeccions of the sensuall partie, which ones ingrauen in their fantasie, doe make the senses of those women, so inconstant, as thei perswade themselfes to bée puis­saunt and mightie, that all thinges be, and rest at their will and pleasure.

Retournyng now then to our former discourse, the Stewarde so laboured with might and maine, till he had founde meanes to bee reuenged, of the receiued refusall, with suche subtiltie and Deuelishe inuen­cion, as was possible for manne to deuise, whiche was this. Emong the seruauntes of this greate lorde, there was one no lesse yonge of witte and vnderstandyng, then of age. And albeit that he was faier and comelie, yet so simple and foolishe, as he had muche a doe, to tell the nomber of sixe. This foole by reason of his folly, and simplicitie was the onely sporte and passetyme, of the Lorde and Ladie. The Ladie many tymes tooke plea­sure, to talke with this maister foole, to bring hym into a choler and chaufe, thereby to prouoke laughter. And therefore all the housholde, vsed to call hym in mocke­rie, My Ladies darelyng. In whom the Lorde tooke singuler pleasure and delight, estemyng hym so well, [Page 119] as any of the other seruauntes. The malicious Ste­ward, seyng the familiaritie of the Ladie with the fole (like one that had alredie catched his praie, within his snares) began also to make muche of that yonge Coc­kescome, in suche wise as he had broughte hym, into suche fooles paradise, that he might make hym doe and saie, what he list. Who seyng hym so diligent to his de­sire, one daie tooke hym a side, and after he hadde whit­tled hym well, he saied vnto him. ‘Dicke, I can tel thée a knacke, that thou shalt make my Ladie laugh well, but thou muste saie nothyng, till she dooe perceiue it.’ The poore Idiot glad to please his maistres, was de­sirous to knowe what it was, & promised to dooe what so euer he would bidde hym. ‘Thou most (said the Ste­warde) in the euenyng before she goe into her cham­ber, hide thy self vnder her bedde, and tary there till it bee an hower or twoo before daie, and then I will tell thee what thou must doe.’ This platte deuised, the foole the same euenyng, executed the deuise of his Deuelishe counsailour, who seyng his desire to take effecte, went to an olde gentleman, that was of greate honestie and vertue, for whiche he was of all men so well knowen, that thei estemed his worde, so true as the Gospell. To that gentleman this craftie villaine, full of poison and malice, wholy bente to mischief, tolde and reported the fact, not as it was in déede, but to the greate preiudice, & dishonour of the Ladie, giuyng hym to vnderstande, how muche she had forgottē her self, that without the feare of God, reuerence of her husbande, and respect of her owne honestie, she had filthely giuen her self ouer to him, which was called her Dareling. The good gen­tleman hearyng this straunge case, was astonned like one that had béen stroken, with a flashe of lightenyng, then drawing nere to the Accuser, he answered. ‘It is, [Page] possible that suche wickednesse, canne lie hidden in the breast of our madame? I sweare vnto thée by God, that if any other had tolde it me besides you, I would not haue beleued it, and truely yet I am in doubt thereof. No, no, saied this wicked blasphemer, I will make you sée that, whiche you can not beleue:’ And hauyng lessoned his foole, in his wonted follie, the nexte daie, he tooke the gentleman thither, who seyng, the Ladies minion, going out of her chamber (whiche many times laie seuerallie from her husbande) could not refraine weepyng, lamentyng the ill fortune of his Lorde, who thinkyng that he had had an honeste wife, was abused with an impudente and vnshamefast whore. Then he began to frame a long Oracion, againste the inconti­nencie of women, moued rather through the good will, he bare to his maister, then to the truthe of the matter, whiche vndiscretely he spake, against the order of wo­men kinde. So ignoraunte was he of the treason, and indeuour of the Stewarde, who demaunded of hym, what was to be dooen in that matter. ‘What saied the olde gentleman? Suche wickednesse ought not to bée vnpunished. My Lorde must be aduertised hereof, that the house maie be purged of suche a plague and infec­cion, that he maie euidently vnderstande the hypocri­sie of her, that so long tyme hath kepte close her incon­tinencie, vnder the vaile of fained chastitie.’ But the righteous God, made openly to appere before mennes eyes, the secrete sinnes of the wicked, to thintent grea­ter slaunders should not increase. The Steward verie ioyfull, that he had gotten so honest a manne, to bee a witnesse of his accusaciō, approued his aduice, for that it agreed well with his intente. So thei wood together went to the Lorde, with countenaunce sadde and hea­uie, correspondente to their mynde, and speciallie the [Page 120] Traitour, whose sense was so confounded with glad­nesse, that thinkyng to beginne his tale, his wordes so stucke in his mouthe, as he was not able to vtter a worde. Whereat the Lorde was wonderfully abashed merueilyng what that tinudice did meane, till he had heard the vnfaithfull Steward, tell his tale, who saied to hym in this maner. ‘My Lorde, I am sorie, that it is my lot, to declare vnto you a matter hitherto vnkno­wen and not marked or taken héede of by any manne, whiche wil so muche offende you, as any pleasure that euer till this daie, did please and contēt you. And God knoweth what grief it is to me (in your presence) to be an accuser of a persone in the worlde, whiche I haue e­stemed next vnto you, aboue any other creature that li­ueth. But beyng in the place I am, I mighte (by good desert) be accused of treason and felonie, if concealyng suche a detestable crime, I should leaue the same of fi­delitie to an other, lesse desirous to do you seruice then I am. Who beleueth there is no seconde persone, that desireth better to acquite the goodnesse and prefermēt, whiche I haue receiued of your Lordship, then I dooe. This it is my Lorde. My Ladie, misprisyng her duetie to your lordshippe, and the honor of the house whereof she came, hath not disdained to receiue into her chāber at inconuenient time, the foole that is called her Dare­lyng, and in the place, into whiche none but your ho­nor, ought to haue peaceable entrie: wherof this gen­tleman present (whom you knowe to be without com­parison) shalbe witnesse. Touchyng my self, the faithe and truste, whiche alwaies I haue vsed in all your af­faires, and the litle affection, whiche I haue to thinges contrary to vertue, shall giue true testimonie, of that whiche I haue saied.’ The lorde bearyng these pitifull newes, which perced his harte more depe, then any two [Page] edged sworde, at the first was so astōned, that he could not tell what to saie or doe, sauyng the ardente furie of Cholere, made hym distill a certaine Melancholique humor into his eyes, whiche receiued the superfluous vapours of his braine. At length breaking that sorthe, whiche troubled hym within, and grindyng his téethe for furie, with stuttering and vncertain voice, fetching sighes betwene, saied. O ‘GOD what newes bée these that I heare? Is it possible, that the fairest and cha­stest Ladie that liueth, hath in this wise defaced her ho­nour: and so wickedly blemished my reputacion? Alas if it so be, that she hath in this wise disparaged her self, no truste is to be reposed in any other, what soeuer she be. Ah God vnder what Planet was I borne, that af­ter so long pleasure receiued with my beloued fere, and companion, I should by her sele a displeasure, an hun­dred times worsse then death? Is there no remedie but that my house must receiue, and sée an enterprise to vi­lanous, by her onely meane, whiche ought rather to haue béen the ornament and beautie of the same?’ Then he chaused vp and doune the chamber, without spea­kyng any more woordes, with his eyes rollyng in his hedde, makyng straunge countenaunces, whiche did well expresse the grief, that vexed and tormented his mynde. In the ende halfe pacified, he tourned his face toward the Accuser, saiyng. ‘My frende if this be true, whiche thou hast tolde me, I sweare by GOD, that I will make her fele the smart, of suche greuous punish­ment, as shalbe spoken of for euer. But if my wife bée slaundred, and accused wrongfully, assure thy self that I will bee reuenged vpon thee. I knowe the vertue of this gentleman very well (hauyng hadde good proofe thereof) & of thy fidelitie I am nothyng at all in doubt. But alas, the loue that I beare vnto my wife, and her [Page 121] former vertue, whiche maketh me to loue and esteme her so muche, dooeth throughly pearce my harte, and muche adoe I haue to liue, hearing this report: whiche doeth deface and blotte, al the honestie and vertue, that euer remained in me.’ ‘And that was it my Lorde (an­swered the Traitour) whiche did deceiue you. For the shewe of that painted vertue, did so delude you, that you bee almoste bewitched from vnderstanding the wrong, so manifestlie perpetrated against you, and all your house. Now to thende, that you thinke not the ac­cusacion to be false, I trust (if it please you to assist me) to let you sée the thing, whereof we haue giuen you in­telligence.’ ‘I will dooe (saied the Lorde) what you will haue me, although it be to my greate grief and sorow.’ ‘To morowe mornyng then (answered the Traitour) one hower before daie, I will let you sée, the varlet go­yng out of her chamber with so greate ioye, as I dooe conceiue heauinesse and griefe, for the simple remem­braunce of so greate wickednesse.’ When thei were a­gréed herevpon, this knaue moste detestable, weauing the toile, wherein he hymself was caught, went to su­borne the personage of his foole, whole made and in­structed in his trumperie: leauing the poore lorde with a hamer workyng in his hedde, that he was like to run out of his wittes. So greate is the furious force of the poison of Ialosie, which ones hauyng dispersed the ve­nime ouer the harte and intrailes of men, the wiseste sort haue lost the due discrecion of their wittes. In the mornyng aboute the hower, that the amourous foole (ignoraunte wherefore he wente in) should issue out of his maistresse chamber, the Stewarde rauished with inexplicable ioye and gladnesse, like to the pleasure of hym, that had attained the somme of his desires, called his Lorde, to see that heauie and dolorous sight. The [Page] good gentleman, perceiuyng the report to be true, and thinking that she had vsed the foole to be her bedfelow, was like to haue died for sorowe, or els to haue torne in peces that vnhappie sotte, innocente of the euill sus­pected by the Lorde, who durst not so muche as thinke to dooe suche a wicked facte. In the ende giuyng place to reason, he caused the poore foole to be apprehended, and put in the bottome of a dongeon, and beyōde mea­sure was offended with his wife, for that he thoughte the simplicitie of y^e imprisoned wretch, had not the face to demaunde the question, and therefore did verely be­leue that it was she, y^t had induced him to doe the dede, to satisfie her vnbrideled and filthie lust, and therefore caused her to be shut vp, within a darke and stinckyng prison, not meanyng to sée her, or to heare her speake for her iustification, ne yet would suffer that any man, should take vpon him to stande in her defence, to bring witnesse of her innocencie. For saied he (replete with wrathe and anger) ‘I dooe better beleue that, whiche I haue séene, and knowen by myne owne presence, then your woordes, vaine reasons, and complaintes of no good grounde and effect as founden vpon her, that hath to muche forgotten herself and her duetie towar­des me.’ Moreouer vanquished with the Cholere (not without cause truely) of a husbande that thought hym­self by her onely meanes deceiued and betraied, sente worde to the poore captiue, that she should then prouide for her soules healthe, sithe he was determined the very same daie to make her plaie a Tragedie, more cruell then that was pleasaunte, whiche she had alredie doen with her beloued, in extrudyng her to bee deuoured of his Lions, whiche were the ministers for the execution of the Iustice ordeined againste her, as though she had béen the moste lasciuious, and detestable woman, that [Page 122] euer the earth brought forthe. The faser and innocente Ladie, knowyng the humour and cholere of her hous­band, and likewise seing (contrarie to right order of all Iudgemente) that she could not bée heard or suffred to make answer, passed through the rigorous law of him, y^t thought her to be an Adulteresse. And could not tell what to doe but to lamēt her ill fortune, gushing forth teares in suche abundaunce, that the moste part of her attire, were wett and bedewed with the same, then for­testyng her self in the hope of the mercifull hande of almightie God the father of all consolacion, who ne­uer forgetteth them, whiche with intire faithe doe call vpon hym, and appeale to the succour of the holie and precious name of his sonne Iesus Christ our sauiour, she with compunction of harte, and sincere deuocion, suith ioyned handes and knées vpō the graund, addres­syng her eyes to the heauens, praied in this wise.

Alas my God, I dooe knowe and confesse, that the multitude of my synues, doe surpasse the sea sandes, & am not ignoraunt, that this vnhappie tyme is chaun­ced vnto me, for the punishemente of my forepassed of­fences. Notwithstandyng (Lorde) accordyng to thy greate goodnesse, haue no respecte vnto my demerites and wickednesse (whereof my life is full) but rather extende thy fauour and mercie, vpon thy poore crea­ture, whose innocencie thou (whiche art the searcher of mennes hartes) doest well vnderstande and knowe, I doe not desire prolongacion of my miserable life, one­ly maie it please thée (O God) for thy goodnesse and in­stice sake, to saue myne honoure, and to graunte, that my husbande maie se with what integritie, I haue al­waies honoured the holy bande of Mariage, by thée or­deined, to thintent he maie liue from henceforthe quiet of this inspicion conceiued of me, and that my paren­tes [Page] maie not sustein the blot of ignominie, whiche wil make them blushe, when thei shall beare reporte of my life past. She beyng in these contemplacions and holie praiers, preparyng her self to receiue death, her hus­band caused her to be conueied into the Parke of Liōs, whiche beyng straunge and terrible at the first sighte, did merueillously affraie her, but remembryng how in­nocente she was, puttyng her hope in God, she wente thither with suche constauncie and courage, as if she had been ledde to some ioyous banquet, and the people which neuer heard tell before, of suche a kinde of death was assembled in greate multitude, tariyng to sée the ende of that execucion, and talkyng diuersly of that so­daine Iudgemente, praied all with one voice, for the preseruacion of their ladie, of whose chastitie thei were alredie right well assured. Nowe as thei attended for the time of execucion, the Ladie was placed in the mid of the Parke, not without teares and sighes of the As­sistauntes, who murmured at the remembrance of the horror, of a sight so furious. The innocent Ladie knée­led doune vpon her knées, and bothe by gesture and merie countenaunce, shewed how ioyfully she went to suffer that, whiche she had neuer deserued: Then recō ­mending her soule to God, for whose saluaciō she sted­fastly hoped, she pronounced this praier, a loude. ‘O my Lorde God, whiche diddest ones deliuer Daniel, from a daūger like to this, whervnto the false accusaciō of the wicked, haue wrongfully cast me hedlong: And diddest discharge Susanna, from the slander of the peruerse and adulterous Iudges, pleaseth thée pitifully to beholde, thy poore creature. Pardon O Lorde, forgiue I hum­blie beseche thee, the simplicitie of my deare husbande, who dealeth thus with me, rather through the circum­uencion of deceiptfull cauillyng slaunderers, then by [Page 123] his owne malice and crueltie. Receiue O my GOD and mercifull father, Receiue my soule betwene thy besse handes, whiche thou hast redemed by the bloodde sheddyng of thy soonne Iesus, vpon the Tree of the Crosse.’ As she had ended these woordes, she sawe the Lions come for the rampyng, and bristleyng vp their heare, stretchyng foorthe their pawes with roaryng voice, cruelly lookyng rounde about them: Of whom the Ladie thought to be the present praie. But the good­nesse of God, who is a iust Iudge, and suffreth his own elect to be proued to the extremitie, of purpose to make their glorie the greater, and the ruine of the wicked more apparaunt, manifested there an euident miracle. For the Lions (beyng cruell of nature, and that tyme hungrie and gredie of praie) in lieu of tearyng the La­die in péeces, to gorge their rauening paunche, thei fill to lickyng and fawnyng vpon her, makyng so muche of her, as if thei had familiarly been nourished with her owne breastes. A thing no lesse pleasaunt to the Ladie then meruellous to al y^e people standyng round about who seyng a chaunce so miraculous cried out, inconti­nently for the deliuerie of the Ladie, & for vengeaunce to be taken of hym, whiche so wickedly had protruded her into that daunger: whiche for her vertue, ought to be extolled and praised of the whole worlde. When the noble man was certified of this straunge aduenture, he caused his Stewarde to be apprehended and impri­soned, whose conscience forced suche remorse, yet not knowyng the ende of the tragedie, condempned hym­self by his countenaunce. Duryng his imprisonmente the deposiciō of the beloued foole was taken , who said, that by the suggestion of the malicious Steward, ma­ny tymes (ignoraunt to the Ladie) he conueied himself into her chamber, not knowyng wherevnto, the intent [Page] of hym that caused hym so to do did extende. The other gentleman made excuse (although he was blame wor­thie) that he was deceiued by the same false practise, that the Lorde hymself was. The Stewarde openlie confessed the treason, whiche he had deuised againste the Ladie, and the whole occasion thereof, and thinc­kyng to be reuenged of the refusall of loue, by her de­nied, he framed this slaunder, to make her lose her life. Whiche the Lorde hearyng could not abide, that his death should any longer bee respected, but without o­ther forme of Lawe, he was thruste out to the Lions, and was out of hande seased vpon, and torne in péeces by those beastes, whiche by Goddes iuste iudgemente, did absteine from the good Ladie, for the punishement of the detestable synne of this varlette. In the meane tyme the chaste and innocente Ladie, beyng broughte before her husbande, after he had kissed and imbrased her, with humble reuerence she saied vnto hym. ‘My Lorde, I render my humble thankes to God, for that through his holie grace, & inscrutable Iustice, he hath let you to vnderstande, twoo diuers affeccions, in twoo seuerall persones of this worlde, whiche you loue so well. In one, the treasō so pernicious, which prouoked you, to soile and imbrue your hādes (not without cause till this daie proued contrarie) in the bloodde of your faithfull and dere beloued wise. In thother, a will and minde so good to obeye you, and to persist in continua­cion of that effecte, whiche maketh her generally to bée praised, & worthie of your earnest loue, for so muche as she is your very affectionat spouse. Notwithstanding, iustlie maie I make my cōplaint of you, for that with­on excuse for my discharge, or hearyng any thing that might serue for my purgacion, you condempned her, for whose honour and defence you ought, to haue im­ploied [Page 124] bothe gooddes and life. But God shal bée iudge betwene your litle discrecion, and my righteousnesse, betwene myne obedience, and your crueltie, where­with you haue abused the nobilitie, of the race whereof I came.’ The husbande hearyng this wise and iust cō ­plaint, on the one side transported with ioye, leapt and reioysed, to sée his deare companion in libertie, and de­clared to be innocent, on the other parte he blushed for shame, that he had so lightlie, and without better proofe and triall condempned her, whom God by his grace, had preserued from the Lions throates, and durste not lifte vp his hedde, by reason his harte freated, at the re­membraunce of his light credite and furie imoderate. Finallie imbrasyng his wife, and kissyng her louyng­ly saied vnto her. ‘Madame, and deare beloued wife, I can not deny, but foolishely I haue attempted, to ble­mishe the honor of her, that whilome made me to shine and glister, emongest the best and chief of all this coun­trie, but he that doeth well marke and behold, the galle and disdaine of a husbande louyng his wife, and then vnderstanding her litle care and great forgetfulnesse whiche she hath, bothe of his honour, and glorie of his comfort, will easely excuse and pardon my fault, whi­che I will not by any meanes colour and cloke, but ra­ther craue pardon at your handes, assuryng you, that I will amende and requite the same, so well & in suche wise as you and yours, shall haue no cause but to bee content and satisfied. It suffiseth me sir (quod she) that my giltlesse offence is knowen vnto you, and that I haue recouered place in your fauourable acceptacion: For I dooe accompte myne aduersitie well imploied, sithe thereby you and your frendes maie glorie, of the seuere Iustice ministred against malefacters, and I re­ioyse in resistaūce of the assaultes of loue, and of death [Page] to guarde and kepe my chastitie pure and inuiolable. And maie serue for example to euery honourable La­die, beyng assailed with suche strong and mightie ad­uersaries, to kepe themselfes honest. For the croune is not due but to her, that shall lawfully combate to the ende.’ After this the Lorde by perswasion of his wife, commaunded that the foole should be auoided the house that his presence might neither grieue or torment her ne yet might remoue the memorie of a thyng, that ne­uer was thought or dooen. And not without cause: for the Lorde, whiche reclinde his eare, to euery triflyng reporte, and credited the woordes of euery whistlyng pikethanke, had muche a dooe to escape from dooyng thinges, vnworthie his estate and calling. Of so great force, truely is the venime of suche Serpentes, that seasyng it self by litle and litle, vpon the harte of hym disposed to receiue it, in furie maketh it to be in effecte, like the nature of poison and drogues corrupt: where­of menne ought to bée no lesse, but rather more diligēt and carefull then of meates, emonges persones whom thei suspecte and feare, sithens that malidies and infec­ciōs of minde, be farre more daūgerous, then outward passions, whiche torment the bodie. Wherevnto if the saied noble manne was not hedefull, he felt the dam­mage for penaunce of his inconsideracion. Howbeit as ioynges, bothe good and ill emonges menne, bee not still durable and perpetuall: Certaine daies after, he beganne to solace hymself with his wife, and rode an huntyng abroade, visited his neighbours, and at home made greate feastes and bankettes, wherevnto his kindred and frendes were inuited, to cōgratulate this newe alliaunce, indeuouryng thereby to satisfie the faulte committed, and the better to gratifie and plea­sure his wife, to make her knowe how muche he este­med [Page 125] and regarded her then before: he caused the suc­cesse of this presente historie, to bee ingrauen with greate industrie, and merueilous cunnyng in Marble, whiche he placed ouer the gate of the firste entrie in­to his Castle, aswell to immortalizate the greate cha­stitie of his faire and vertuous wife, as to sette forthe a Mirrour and example to euery housholde seruaunte, and to all other what soeuer thei bee, to beware how thei attempt any thyng against the honour of Ladies. For many times it chaunceth, that he whiche diggeth a ditche, and setteth vp a Gallowes, is the firste that doeth fall, or is stretched therevpon. As you maie se by this present discourse, whiche setteth before your eyes, what ende the fonde loue of them ordinarelie haue, whiche without reason, not measuryng their owne a­bilitie, doe suffer themselfes to be guided and ledde in­to their sensuall lustes and appetites: For ill successe faileth not in a beginnyng, the grounde whereof abhorryng reason, is planted and laied vpon the sandie foundacion of pleasure, whi­che is shaken and ouerthrowen, by the least winde and tempest, that Fortune can blu­ster against suche buildyng.

¶The .xlii. Nouell.

THere is no manne but doeth knowe, that Valencia is at this daie, the chief and onely Rampar of Spaine, the true seate of Faithe, Iustice, and Humanitie. And emōges all the rare and excellent-orna­mentes, that citie is wel fur­nished with so trimme La­dies, and curteous gentlewomen, as thei knowe how to baite and féede yonge men, with foolishe daliaunce, and idle passetyme. So that if there be any beetle hedde or grosse persone, the better to allure and prouoke him to those follies, thei tell hym by a common Prouerbe, that he must goe to Valencia. In this citie there was in old tyme, as it is at this daie a verie auncient stocke and familie, called Ventimiglia, out of whiche be des­cended a great nomber of riche and honorable knigh­tes. Emonges whom, not longe tyme passe there was one, named Didaco, verie famous and renowmed, to be the moste liberall and familer gentleman of the ci­tie, who (for wante of better businesse) walked vp and [Page 126] doune the citie, and so consumed his youth, in triūphes maskes, and other expences, common and apt for suche pilgrimes, addressing his loue indifferently to all wo­men, without greater affection to one, then to an other and continued that order, till vpon an holy daie, he es­pied a yong maide of smal yeres, but of verie exquisite beautie: whiche maiden sodainly castyng her eye vpon hym, so pearced the knight Didaco with her looke, that from that tyme forthe, she entred more nere his harte, then any other. And after he had wel marked her dwel­lyng place, he many tymes passed and repassed before the doore, to espie if he might, gette some looke or other fauour of her, that began alredie to gouerne the bridle of his thoughtes, and if it chaunced that the gentle­manne behelde her, she shewed herself curteous and a­miable, indued with grace so good, that he neuer de­parted ill contēted out of that streate. The gentleman continuyng certaine tyme in those vanities, was dest­rous to know a farre of what she was, of what lineage and of what vocacion. And after he had curiously ser­ched out all her originall, he vnderstoode by diuers re­porte, that she was a Goldsmithes doughter, whose fa­ther was dedde certaine yeres before, hauyng no more but her another aliue, and twoo brethren, bothe of their fathers occupacion. Notwithstandyng, of life she was chaste & honeste, defamed with none, although she was pursued of many. Her outwarde beautie did not so muche sette her forthe, as her grace and order of talke, who although brought vp in a citizens house, yet no la­die or gentlewoman in the Citie, was comparable to her in vertue and behauiour. For from her tender ye­res, she was not onely giuen to her nedle, a méete exer­cise for maides of her degrée, but also was trained vp to write and reade, wherin she tooke so great pleasure, [Page] that ordinarilie she carried a boke in her hande, whiche she neuer gaue ouer, till she had gathered some fruicte thereof. This knight hauing receiued that first impres­sion, of the valor and vertue of Violenta (for that was her name) was further in loue then before, and that whiche added more oile to the matche, was the conti­nuall lookes, wherwith she knewe how to delight him: and with them she was so liberall, that so oft as he pas­sed through the streate, she shotte them forthe so cruel­ly, that his poore harte (felyng it self so tormēted) could not indure that newe onset. By reason whereof, thin­kyng to quenche the fire, that by litle and litle consu­med hym, he would attempt her chastite, with giftes, letters, and messengers, whiche he continued the space of halfe a yere or more. Wherevnto Violenta, giuyng no place, in the ende he was constreined to assaile her with his own presence: and one daie findying her alone at the doore, after he had made a verie humble reue­rence vnto her, he saied. ‘Maistresse Violenta, conside­ryng your order and the colde regarde, that you haue to my letters and messages, I doe remember the sub­tiltie, that is attributed to the Serpente, who with his taile stoppeth his eares, bicause he will not heare the woordes, whiche hath power to constraine hym, to doe against his wil, which hath made me to leaue to write vnto you, & to desire specially to speake vnto you, that myne affectuous accentes, my sorowfull wordes, and feruente sighes might certefie you better then Paper: the rest of my passion, beleuyng verely, that if the hea­uie sounde of my greuous complaintes, maie come to your eares, thei will make you to vnderstande, a parte of that good and euill, whiche I feele continually in my harte, although the loue whiche I beare you, be suche, that I can not giue suche liuelie experience outward­ly, [Page 127] beyng but litle in comparison of them, whiche maie be séen within.’ And pronouncyng those wordes, there followed so many teares, sobbes, and sighes, that thei gaue sufficiēt testimonie, that his tongue was the true and faithfull messenger of his harte. Whereof Vio­lenta somewhat ashamed, with a constaunte grace said vnto hym, ‘Senior Didaco: if you dooe yet remember your life past, and mine honestie (whiche peraduenture you haue thought either rude or cruell) I doubte not, that you haue any cause to maruaile of my presump­cion, and to attribute that to vice, whiche is familier with vertue. For although that you haue sollicited me to loue you, by an infinite nomber of letters and mes­sages, yet it is so, that followyng the nature of maides of my degrée. I haue neither allowed them, nor yet cō ­dempned thē, as where vnto accordinglie, I haue made none answere: not for despite or contempte, but to lette you knowe more certainlie, that by fauoryng your en­terprises, I should increase your grief, whiche can re­ceiue none ende by the waie you pretēde. For although that I haue made the first proofe vpon my self, and ther­fore of reason I ought to lamente them, whiche bee in semblable paine, yet I will not let slippe the bridle in suche wise to my passion, that myne honestie shall re­maine in an other mannes power, and (so it maie bée) at the mercie and curtesie of them, who not knowyng how dere it is to me, shall thinke thei haue made a pre­tie conquest. And that I maie haue no cause to repente to late, I haue stopped myne eares for feare, that I bée not a rested and staied, with the violence of your char­mes, a thyng as you saie, proper to Serpentes. But I haue fortefied my harte, & armed my self in suche wise within, that if God continue that grace in me, whiche hitherto he hath doen, I hope not to bee surprised. Al­though [Page] that I must néedes confesse (to my shame) that I haue receiued merueilous assaultes of loue, not one­ly for the common renowme of your vertues, and through the curtesie and gentlenesse daiely imparted to me by your letters, but speciallie by your presence, whiche hath yelded vnto me experience and assurance of that, whiche all the letters of the worlde could not doe, nor all other messages were not able to conceiue. And to the ende that I maie not bee vtterly ingrate, and that you doe not departe from me, altogether mis­content, I doe promis you now that from henceforthe, you shall inioye the firste place of my harte, wherevnto an other shall neuer entre: if so be you can bée contente with honest amitie, wherin you shall finde me in tyme to come so liberall, in al that, whiche honestie shall per­mitte, that I am contente to forgoe the name of a pre­sumptuous or cruell Damosell, for your sake. But if you meane to abuse me, or hope for any thyng of me, contrary to myne honour, you be merueilously decei­ued. Wherefore if you thinke your worthinesse to greate, ta cary awaie a recompence so small, you shall dooe very well bothe for me and your self, in forget­tyng that is past, to cutte of all hope in tyme to come.’ And she thinkyng to prolonge a further discourse, the mother of Violenta (whiche still stode at the windowe, all the time that Senior Didaco, was with her dough­ter, came downe to the doore) interruptyng their talke, saied to Didaco. ‘Sir, I suppose you take greate plea­sure, in the follie of my doughter, bicause you cary and abide here, rather to contriue your tyme, then for any other contentacion you can receiue. For she is so euill taught, and of suche rude behauiour, that her demea­nour will rather trouble you, then giue you cause of delight. Maistresse saied Didaco, although in the be­ginnyng, [Page 128] I purposed not to tarie so long, yet when I entred in more familier acquaintaunce, and had well experienced her good graces, I confesse that I haue staied here, longer then I thought. And were he neuer so greate a lorde, that liueth at this daie, I dare auouch that he might thinke his tyme well bestowed, in hea­ryng suche sober and honest talke, wherwith I thinke my self so well satisfied and instructed, that all the da­yes of my life I will witnesse, that vertue, curtesie, and sober behauiour is to be founde, aswell in meane degrées and houses, and in them that bee right noble, emonges whiche meane families, although she be one (it maie so be) that one more illustre and noble, cannot be more excellente, and accomplished with better ma­ners, then she: whiche is now well manifested to me, in this litle discourse. And after certaine other commō talke,’ Didaco tooke his leaue, and wente home to his house, where he liued fourtene or fiftene monethes without any reste, assaiyng by all meanes to mortifie his desires, but it auaileth not: For although he was riche, a trimme courtiar, and an eloquent gentleman, and had opportunitie to speake vnto her many tymes, and she gentle inough to heare him, and to vnderstand his errantes, and was assured by frendes, that she for her parte was also in loue, yet he was not able by hu­mane arte and pollicie, to conuerte her to his mynde. Wherewithall he was longe tyme molested, and at lengthe pressed with grief and anoiaunce, he was ad­uised to sende sixe hūdred Ducates to the mother, for a Relief to the mariage of her doughter, promising besi­des, that he would assigne her an honest dowrie, when she founde a manne, worthie to be her husbande: vpon condicion that she would yelde to hym some comforte, to ease his affection. But she which could not be wōne [Page] with loue, was not able to bée recouered with money: and was offender that Senior Didaco had forgotten himself so muche, as to thinke to gaine that for money, whiche with so greate paine, teares and sighes, hadde been denied hym. And to make hym vnderstande, that she was offended, she sent worde by hym, that brought her the money, that he should goe, and proue hereafter to deceiue them, that measured their honour with the price of profite, and not to set trappes to deceiue other, that would buye nothyng contrary to vertue. And af­ter Didaco was aduertised of her mynde, and percei­ued that he lost tyme in all his enterprises, and was a­ble no lōger to sustaine his extreme paine and sorowe, whiche daily augmented, and when he had debated in his minde all the successe of his loue, he resolued in the ende vpon that, whiche he thought moste profitable for the quiete of his mynde, whiche was to marie her. And although she was of no suche house, and yet lesse indo­wed with substaunce, as he deserued. Yet her beautie and vertue, and other giftes of grace, wherewith she was inriched, made her worthie of a great Lorde. And resolued vpon this, he repaired to Violenta, to whom he saied. ‘Maistresse Violenta, if the true Touchestone, to knowe them that be perfect louers (emonges other) is mariage, certainly you haue gotten a husbande of me, if it please you to accept me for suche a one, whom in tyme you shall make to vnderstande, the difference betwene gooddes and vertue, and betwene honestie and richesse.’ Violenta then rauished with ioye, and in­credible contentacion, somewhat abashed, saied vnto hym. ‘Senior Didaco. I knowe not whether you pre­tende by woordes, to proue my constancie, or els to bryng me into fooles paradise: but of one thyng I can assure you, that although I acknowledge myself infe­riour [Page 129] to you in merites, gooddes and vertue, yet if that come to passe whiche you promis. I will not giue place to you in loue, trustyng if God sende vs life together, you shall well vnderstande one daie, that you would not exchaunge my persons for a great Ladie, what so euer she be.’ For confirmacion whereof, Didaco pluc­ked frō his finger an Emeralde of greate value, which (when he had kissed her) he gaue vnto her in the waie of mariage, praiyng her that she would not disclose it for a certaine tyme, vntill he hymself, had made all his frēdes priuie vnto it. Notwithstandyng, he willed her to impart the same to her twoo brethren, and to her mo­ther, and he would gette some prieste of the Countrie, to solempnize the Mariage within their house: whiche was dooen in a chamber, aboute fower of the clocke in mornyng, beyng onely presente the mother, the bre­thren, the prieste, and a sernuaunt of the house, brought vp there from her youthe, and his owne man, without makyng any other preparacion or coste, requisite for suche a matter. In this sort thei spent the daie in great ioye and mirthe (whiche thei can conceiue, that bee of base birthe, and exalted to some high degree of honor) till night was come, and then euery man withdrewe themselfes, leauyng the bride and her husbande to the mercie of Loue, and order of the night. Who beyng a­lone receiued equall ioye, and like contentacion, which thei fele that beyng pressed with ardent and greuous thirst, doe in thende afterwardes with liuely ioye, and all kinde of libertie, quenche that cruell discommodite and continued in those pleasures till mornyng, that daie began to appere, to whom Violenta saied. ‘My ho­nourable Lorde and dere husbande, sithe that you bee now in possession of that, whiche you haue so greatlie desired, I humbly beseche you, to consider for the tyme [Page] to come, howe and what wise, your pleasure is that I shall vse my self. For if God graunte me the grace, to be so discrete in pleasyng you, as I shalbe redie and de­sirous to obeye you, in all that you shall commaunde me, there was neuer gentle mannes seruaunte, that did more willingly please his maister, then I hope to do you.’ Wherevnto Didaco answered. ‘My sweete and welbeloued wife. Let vs leaue this humblenesse and seruice for this tyme, to them whiche delight in those thynges. For I promis you of my faithe, that I haue you in no lesse reuerence & estimacion, then if you had come of the greateste house in Cathalongne: as I will make you vnderstande some other tyme, at more lea­sure. But till I haue giuen order, to certaine of myne affaires, I praie you to kepe our Mariage secrete, and bee not offended, if many tymes I doe resorte home to myne owne house, although there shall no daie passe (by my will) but at nighte I will keepe you compa­nie. In the meane tyme, to buie you necessaries, I will sende you a thousande, or twelue hundred Ducates, to imploie not vpon apparell, or other thynges requisite to your degrée (for I will prouide the same my self at an other tyme) but vpon small trifles, suche as be apt and conuenient for housholde.’ And so departed Senior Di­daco from his wiues house: who did so louyngly inter­teigne hym, that by the space of a yere, there was no daie, wherein he was content, without the viewe and sight of his wife. And vpon his oft resort to their house the neighbours began to suspect, that he kept the mai­den, and rebuked her mother and brethren, but speci­ally Violenta, for sufferyng Didaco to vse their house in suche secrete wise. And aboue all, thei lamented the ill happe of Violenta, who beyng so well brought vp, till she was twētie yeres of age, and a maiden of suche [Page 103] beautie, that there was none in all the citie of Valen­cia, but greatly did esteme her, to bee of singuler hone­stie and reputacion. Notwithstandyng, degeneratyng from her accustomed vertue, thei iudged her to be light of behauiour, giuen to lasciuious loue. And albeit that very many times, suche checkes and tauntes were ob­iected, and that she vnderstode that murmur and talke, yet she made small accompt of them, knowing that her consciēce by any meanes, was not charged with suche reproche: hoping therewithall that one daie, she would make them to giue ouer that false opinion, when her Mariage should be published and knowē. But certain tymes féelyng her self touched, and her honestie appai­red, could not conteine, but when she sawe tyme with her husbande, she praied hym very earnestly, to haue her home to his owne house, to auoide slaūder, and de­famacion of neighbors. But sir Didaco knewe so well how to vse his wife by delaies and promises, that she agreed vnto hym in all thynges, & had rather displease the whole worlde together, then offende hym alone. Beyng now, so attached with the loue of the knighte, that she cared for nothyng els, but to please and contēt hym in all thinges, wherevnto she sawe hym disposed, and like as in the beginnyng she was harde, and verie slacke in loue, now she became so seruent & earnest, in her affections that she receiued no pleasure, but in the sight of Didaco, or in that whiche might contente and please him best. Whiche the knight did easely perceiue and seyng himself in full possession of her harte, began by litle and litle to waxe cold, and to be grieued at that which before he compted deare and precious, perswa­dyng himself, that he should doe wrong to his reputa­cion, if that Mariage vnworthie of his estate, were dis­couered and knowē in the citie: And to prouide for the [Page] same, he more seldome tymes repaired, to visite his wife Violenta: yea and whē so euer he resorted to her, it was more to satisfie his carnall pleasure, then for a­ny loue he bare her. And thus forgettyng bothe God, and his owne consience, he frequēted other companies in diuerse places, to winne the good will of some other gentlewoman. In the ende by sundrie sutes, dissimu­lacions, and hipocrisies, he so behaued hymself, that he recouered the good will of the doughter of Senior Ra­myrio Vigliaracuta, one of the chiefest knightes, and of moste auncient house of Valencia. And (as we haue de­clared before) bicause he was riche and wealthie, and issued of a noble race, her parentes did easely agrée to the Mariage. And the father hauyng assigned an ho­nourable dowrie to his doughter. The Nuptials were celebrated publikely, with greate pompe and solemp­nitie, to the greate contentacion of all men. The Ma­riage doen and ended, sir Didaco and his newe wife, continued at the house of his father in lawe, where he liued a certaine tyme, in suche pleasure and delectaciō as thei dooe, that be newly maried. Whereof the mo­ther and brethren of Violenta beyng aduertised, con­ceiued like sorowe, as accustomablie thei dooe, that sée the honour of them that be issued of their owne bloodde vniustly and without cause to bée dispoiled. And these poore miserable creatures, not knowyng to whom to make their complainte, liued in straunge perplexitie, bicause thei knewe not the Prieste, whiche did solemp­nise their Mariage. On the other side, thei had no suf­ficient proofe of the same. And albeit thei were able to verifie in some poinctes, the first Mariage of Didaco; yet thei burste not prosecute the lawe, against twoo of the greateste Lordes of their Citie. And knowyng the stoute harie of Violenta, thei thoughte to conceale the [Page 131] same from her for a time, but it was in vaine. For not longe after she was certified thereof, not onely by the nexte neighbours, but by the common brute of the ci­tie, whiche reported that in tēne yeres space, there was not seen in Valencia, a Mariage more honourable or roiall, nor better frequented with a noble companie of gentlemen and Ladies: then the same was of the yong knight Didaco, with the doughter of Senior Ramyrio. Wherwithall Violenta vexed beyonde measure pres­sed with yre and surie, withdrewe her self into her chā ­ber alone, and there beganne to scratche and teare her face and heare, like one that was madde, and out of her wittes, saiyng. ‘Alas, alas, what paine and trouble, what vnmeasurable tormentes suffreth now my poore afflicted minde, without comfort or consolacion of any creature liuyng? What dure and cruell penaunce doe I susteine, for none offence at all? Ah fortune, fortune the enemie of my felicite and blisse, thou haste so depri­ued me of all remedie, that I dare not so muche, as to make any manne knowe or vnderstande my mishappe that the same might be reuenged, whiche beyng dooen would render suche contentacion to my mynde, that I should departe out of this worlde the best contented and satisfied maiden that euer died. Alas, that the god­des did not graunte me the benefite, that I might haue come of noble kinde, to thintent I might haue caused that traiterous ruffien, to féele the grieuous paine and bitter tormentes, whiche my poore harte susteineth. Ah wretched caitife that I am, abādoned and forlorne of all good fortune: now I doe sée that with the eyes of my mynde, whiche with those of my bodie daseled and deceiued, I could not sée or perceiue. Ah cruell enemie of all pitie, doest thou not knowe, & féele in thy minde, the heauie and sorowful sounde of my bitter plaintes? [Page] Understandest not thou my voice, that crieth venge­aunce vpon thée for thy misdeede? Can not thy crueltie in nothyng be diminished, seyng me dismembred with the terrour of a thousande furious martirdomes. Ah ingrate wretche is this now the rewarde of my loue, of my faithfull seruice, and myne obediēce?’ And as she thus bitterly tormented her self, her mother and bre­thren, and her maide, whiche was brought vp with her from her tēder yeres, went vp to the chamber to Vio­lenta, where thei foūde her then so deformed with rage and furie, that almost she was out of their knowledge. And when thei went about to reduce her, by all mea­nes possible, from those furious panges: and saw that it nothing auailed, thei left her in the keping of the old maiden, whō she loued aboue any other. And after the maiden had vttered vnto her particularly many rea­sons, for the appeasyng of her grief, she tolde her that if she would be quiet a little while, she would goe and speake to the knight Didaco, and make hym to vnder­stande his fault. And would with discret order so deale with him, that he should come home to her house, & therfore she praied her to arme her self againste this wic­kednes, & to dissemble the matter for a time, that here­after she might vse vpon hym iust reuenge. ‘No, no Ia­nique, answered Violenta, the offēce is very small and light, where counsaill is receiued: and albeit that I cā not chose, but confesse thy counsaill to be very méete, yet there wanteth in me, a mynde to followe it: that if I did féele any parte in me, disposed to obeye the same. I would euen before thy face, separate that mynde frō my wretched bodie: For I am so resolued in the malice and hatred of Didaco, that he can not satisfie me with­out life alone. And I beleue the Goddes did cause me to be borne, with myne owne handes, to execute ven­geaunce [Page 132] of their wrathe, and the losse of myne honour. Wherefore Ianique if frō my youth thou diddest euer loue me, shewe now the same to me by effect, in a mat­ter whervnto thy helpe is moste necessary: for I am so outraged in my mischief, that I doe enuie y^e miserablest creatures of the worlde, remainyng no more in me to continue my life in wailyng, and continuall sighes, but the title of a vile and abhominable whore. Thou art a straunger, and liuest here a beastly life, ioyned with continuall labour. I haue twelue hundred crou­nes, with certaine Iewelles, whiche that false traitour gaue me, whiche bée predestinated by the heauens, for none other purpose, but to paie them their hire, whiche shall doe the vengeaunce vpon his disloyall persone. I dooe put the same money now into thy handes, if thou wilt helpe me to make sacrifice, with the bodie of poore Didaco: But if thou dooest deny me thy helpe, I will execute the same alone, and in case he doe not die, as I doe intende he shal be murdred as I maie. For the first tyme that I shall sée hym with myne eyes, come of it what will, his life shal bee dispatched with these twoo trembling handes, whiche thou seest.’ Ianique seyng her maistresse in these termes, and knowing her stoute na­ture, indued with a manly and inuincible stomacke, after she had debated many thynges in her mynde, she determined wholie to impose her self for her maistres in that she was able to doe. Moued partly with pitie to sée her maistresse, dishonored with a defamed mariage, and partely prouoked with couetousnesse, to gaine so greate a somme of money, whiche her maistresse did of­fer, if she would condiscende to her enterprise (thinking after the facte committed, to flee into some other coun­trie). And when she was throughly resolued vpon the same, she imbraced Violenta, and saied vnto her Mai­stresse, [Page] ‘if you will bee ruled by me, and giue ouer the vehemence of your wrathe and displeasure, I haue founde a waie for you, to bee reuenged vpon Didaco, who hath so wickedly deceiued you. And albeeit the­same can not bée doen secretly, but in the ende it must be knowen: yet I doubt not, but the cause declared be­fore the Iudges, and thei vnderstandyng the wronge he hath doen you, thei will haue compassion vpon your miserie: who knowe right well that alwaies you haue been knowen an estemed, for a very honest and vertu­ous maiden. And to the ende that you be informed how this matter maie bée brought to passe, firste you muste learne to dissemble your grief opēly, and to faine your self in any wise, not to be offended with the newe Ma­riage of the knight. Then you shall write vnto hym a letter, with your owne hande, lestyng hym thereby to vnderstande the paine that you suffer, for the greate loue you beare hym, and then ye shall humbly beseche hym, sometimes to come and visite you. And sithe that froward fortune, will not sufixe you to bee his wife, yet that it would please hym, to vse you as his louer, that you maie possesse the seconde place of his loue, sithe by reason of his newe wife, you can not inioye the firste. Thus that deceiuour shalbee begiled, by thinkyng to haue you at his commaundement, as he was wont to doe. And beyng come hither, to lie with you, wée will handle hym in suche wise as I haue inuented, that in one night he shall lose his life, his wife, and her whom he thincketh to haue for his louer. For when he is a bedde with you, and fallen into his first sléepe, wée will sende hym into an other place, where in a more soun­der slepe, he shall euerlastynglie continue.’ Violenta al this tyme, whiche fedde her blooddie and cruell harte with none other repasie, but with rage and disdaine. [Page 133] began to bee appeased, and founde the counsaill of Ia­nique so good that she wholie purposed to followe the­same. And to begin her enterprise, she praied Ianique for a time to withdrawe her self, vntill she had written her letter, by the tenor whereof she should vnderstande with what audacitie she would prosecute the rest. And beyng alone in her chamber, takyng peune and paper she wrote to Didaco, with fained harte, as followeth.

‘Senior Didaco I am perswaded, that if you will vouchesafe to reade, and pervse the contentes of these my sorowfull letters, you shalbe moued with some cō ­passion and pitie, by beholdyng the true Image of my miserable life, pourtraied and painted in the same, whi­che through your disloyaltie and breache of promise, is consumed and spente with so many teares, sighes, tor­mentes, and griefes, that diuerse tymes I maruaile how Nature can so long supporte, and defende the vio­lente assaultes of so cruell a martirdome, and that she hath not many tymes torne my feble spirit, out of this cruell and mortall prison: whiche maketh me to thinke and beleue, by continuyng life, that death himself hath conspired my miserie, and is the companion of my af­fliction: consideryng that by no torment, she is able to make diuision, betwene my soule and bodie. Alas how many tenne hundred thousande tymes in a daie, haue I called for Death, and yet I can not make her, to re­cline her eares vnto my cries. Alas how many tymes am I vanquished, with the sharpe tormētes of sorowe, redie to take my leaue, and last farewell of you, beyng arriued to the extreme pangues of death. Beholde Di­daco myne ordinarie delices, beholde my pleasures, beholde all my pastime. But yet, this is but litle in re­specte of that, whiche chaunceth in the night. For if it happē that my poore eyes doe fall a sléepe, wearie with [Page] incessaunte drawyng forthe of welsprynges of teares, slombryng dreames cease not then, to vere and afflicte my mynde, with the cruellest tormentes that are pos­sible to be deuised, representing vnto me by their vglie and horrible visions, the ioye and contentacion of her, whiche inioyeth my place: whereby the greatest ioye, whiche I conceiue, is not inferior to cruel death. Thus my life mainteined with continuacion of sorowes and griefes, is persecuted in moste miserable wise. Nowe (as you knowe) I daily passe my sorowe, vnder pain­full silence, thinkyng that your olde promisses, confir­med with so many othes, and the assured proofe, which you still haue had of my faithe and constauncie, would haue broughte you to some order, but now seyng with myne eyes, the hard mettall of your harte, and the cru­eltie of my fate, whiche wholie hath subdued me to your obedience, for respecte of myne honour: I am for­ced to complaine of hym that beateth me, and thereby dispoileth me, bothe of myne honor and life, not vouch­saufyng onely so muche as ones to come vnto me. And vncertaine to whom I maie make recourse, or where in fined redress, I appeale vnto you, to thende that se­yng in what leane and vglie state I am, your crueltie maie altogether be satisfied, whiche beholdyng a sight so pitifull, wherein the figure of my torment is liuelie expressed, it maie be moued to some compassion. Come hither then thou cruell man, come hither I saie, to vi­site her, whō with some signe of humanite, thou maiest staie, or at least wise, mollifie and appease the venge­aunce, whiche she prepareth for thee. And if euer sparks of pitie did warme thy frosen harte. Arme thy self with a greater crueltie, then euer thou was wont to do, and come hither to make her sobbe her laste and extreme sighes, whō thou hast wretchedly deceiued. For in do­yng [Page 134] otherwise, thou maiest peraduenture to late, be­waile my death, and thy beastly crueltie.’ And thinking to make a conclusion of her letter, the teares made her wordes to die in her mouthe, and would not suffer her to write any more: wherefore she closed and sealed the­same, and then callyng Ianique vnto her, she saied.

‘Holde gentle Ianique, cary these letters vnto hym, and if thou canst so well plaie thy part, as I haue doen myne, I hope we shall haue shortly at our commaun­demente, hym that is the occasion of this my painfull life, more greuous vnto me then thousande deathes together.’ Ianique hauyng the letter, departed with di­ligence, and went to the house of the father in lawe of Didaco, where quietly she waited, till she might speak with some of the house, whiche was within a while af­ter: For one of the seruauntes of Didaco, whom she knewe right well, went aboute certaine his maisters busines, & méetyng Ianique, was abashed. Of whō she demaunded, if the Lorde Didaco were within, and said that she would faine speake with him: but if it wer pos­sible, she would talke with hym secretly. Whereof Di­daco aduertised, came forthe to her into the streate, to whom smilyngly (hauyng made to hym a fained reue­rence) she saied. ‘Senior Didaco, I can neither write nor reade, but I dare laie my life, there is sute made vnto you by these letters, whiche Madame Violenta hath sent vnto you. And in déede to sale the truthe, there is greate iniurie dooen vnto her of your parte, not in re­specte of your newe Mariage. (For I neuer thoughte that Violenta was a wife méete for you, consideryng the difference of your estates) but bicause you will not vouchsauf to come vnto her, seming that you make no more accompt of her, and specially for that you prouide no mariage for her in some other place. And assure your [Page] self she is so farre in loue with you, that she is redie to die, as she goeth, in suche wise that makyng her com­plainte vnto me this daie, wepyng, she saieth vnto me. Well, for so muche then as I can not haue hym to bee my husbande, I would to God he would mainteigne me for his frende, and certaine tymes in the wéeke, to come to sée me, specially in the night, lest he should bée espied of the neighbors. And certainly if you would fo­lowe her minde herein, you shall dooe very well. For the case standeth thus, you maie make your a vaunte, that you bee prouided of so saire a wife, and with so beautifull a frende, as any gētleman in Valentia.’ And then Ianique deliuered him the letter, whiche he recei­ued and redde, and hauing well considered the tenor of the same, he was incontinently surprised with a sodain passion. For hatred and pitie, loue and disdain (as with in a Cloude bée conteined hotte and colde, with many contrary windes) beganne to combate together, and to vexe his harte with contrary mindes, then, pawsyng v­pon answere, he saied vnto her. ‘Ianique my dere frēde, racommende me to the good grace and fauoure of thy maistresse, and saie vnto her, that for this tyme I will make her no answere, but to morowe at fower of the clocke in the morning, I will be at her house, and kepe her companie all the daie and nighte, and then I will tell her all that I haue dooen, sithens I departed laste from her, trustyng she shall haue no cause to bée offen­ded with me.’ And then Ianique takyng her leaue, re­tourned towarde Violenta, tellyng her what she had doen. To whom Violenta answered. ‘Ianique, is thou hast made a good beginnyng to our enterprise, I like­wise for my parte, haue not slepts. For I haue deuised, that wee muste prouide for a strong roape, whiche wée will fasten to the heddes hedde, and when he shalbee a [Page 135] slepe, I will cast the other ende of the rope to thée, ouer thwarte the bedde, that thou maieste plucke the same with all thy might, and before thou beginnest to pull, I will with a knife cutte his throate, wherefore thou must prouide twoo great kniues, whatsoeuer thei cost, but I praie thée let me alone with doing of the fact, that I maie dispatch him of his life, whiche alone did make the first assault, to the breache of mine honour.’ Ianique knewe so well howe to prouide for all that was requi­site, for the execution of their enterprise, as there rested nothyng but oportunitie, to sorte their cruell purpose to effecte. The knight six Didaco, at the hower appoin­ted, tolde his newe wife, that he must goe into the coū ­trie, to take order for the state of his lande: and that he could not retourne, till the next daie in the mornyng. Which she by and by beleued. And the better to couer his facte, he caused twoo horsse to dee made redie, and rode for the whē the clock strake. iiij. And when he had riden through a certaine streate, he saied to his manne (whiche was went to serue his turne in loue matters) ‘cary my horse to suche a man out in the Countrie, and tarrie there all this daie, and to morowe Mornyng, come seeke me in suche a place, when I am gone from the house of Violenta. In the meane time set my horsse in some Inne. For in any wise I will haue no manne knowe, that I dooe lie there,’ whiche dooen the maister and the seruaunte, went twoo seuerall waies. The knight beyng come to the house of Violenta, he found Ianique tariyng for hym, with good deuocion, to vse hym accordyng to his desert, and conueied hym to the chamber of Violenta, and then she retourned aboute her businesse. The knighte kissed Violenta and badde her good morrowe, askyng her howe she did. Whom Violenta answered. ‘Sir Didaco you bid me good mor­rowe [Page] in woordes, but in déede you goe to prepare for me, a heauie and sorowfull life. I beleue that your minde beareth witnes, of the state of my welfare. For you haue brought me to suche extremitie, that you sée righte well, how nothyng els but my voice, declareth me too bee a woman, and therewithall so féeble a crea­ture, as I still craue and call for death, or for pitie, al­though bothe of thone and of the other, I am not heard at all. And yet thinke not Didaco, that I am so farre out of my wittes to beleue, that the cause of my wri­tyng the letter was for hope, that (you remembryng my bitter paines, & your owne hainous crime) I could euer moue you to pitie. For I am perswaded, that you will neuer cease to exhauste and sucke the bloodde, ho­nor, and life of them that credite your trumperies, and deceiptes, as now by experience, I knowe by my self, with suche deadly sorowe, that I still attende and loke for the sorowfull ende of my life.’ Didaco seyng hee thus afflicted, fearyng that her cholere would further inflame, beganne to cull her, and to take her now into his armes, tellyng her, that is Mariage with the doughter of Vigliaracuta, was cōcluded more by force, then his owne will and minde, bicause thei pretended to haue a gifte, of all the lande and gooddes he had in succession, after his father was dedde, which if thei did obteine by lawe, he should be a begger, all the daies of his life, and that the same was dooen, to prouide for the quiet state of them bothe, and nowithstanding he had maried an other wife, yet he purposeth to loue none but her, and meante in tyme to poison his wife, and to spende the rest of his life with her. And thus sewyng to remedie his former fault, by surmised reportes, chaun­ting vpō the cordes of his pleasaūt tongue, he thought with Courtlike allurementes, to appease her, whiche [Page 136] had her wittes to well sharpened, to be twise taken in one trappe, howbeit for feare of driuyng hym awaie, and to lose the meane to accomplishe that, whiche she intended, she saied vnto hym, with forced smilyng.

‘Sir Didaco, although you haue so ill vsed me in tyme paste, that I haue no greate cause to beleue your present wordes, yet the loue that I beare you, is so roo­ted in my harte, that the faulte muste bee very greate, whiche should remous the same: in consideraciō where­of, I will constraine my self to beleue, that your woor­des bee true, vpon condicion that you will sweare, and promis to lie with me here, ones or twise in a wéeke. For me thinke that if I mighte at tymes inioye your presence, I did remaine in some part of your grace and fauour, and should liue the beste contented woman a liue.’ Wherevnto he willingly agreed, with a greate nomber of other like protestacious, prompte and redie in them, whiche meane deceipt. But if the poore mise­rable woman, had perced the same in the depthe of her harte, and had credited all that he spake, no doubte, he would haue chaunged his mynde. Thus either partes spente the daie, in colde and dissembled flatteries, till darke nighte, with his accustomed silence, did deliuer them the meane, to exercise their cruell enterprise. So sone as supper was dooen, Didaco and Violenta wal­ked vp and downe together, talkyng of certaine com­mon matters, till the knight (pressed with slepe) com­maūded his bedde to be made redie. It neded not then­to inquire with what diligence Violenta and Ianique, obeied that requeste: in whom onely as thei thought, cōsisted the happe, or mishappe of their enterprise. To whom bicause Violenta might shewe her self more af­fectionat, went firste to bedde, and so sone as thei were laied, Ianique brewe the curteines, and tooke awais. [Page] Didaco his sworde, and makyng as thoughe she had a thing to doe vnder the bedde, she fastened the rope, and taked vp the fire, whiche was in the chimney, cariyng a stoole to the beddes side, and laieth vpon thes ame twoo greate kechin knifes, whiche doen she put out the can­dle, and fainyng to goe out of the chamber, she shut the doore, and wente in againe. And then the poore infor­tunate knight, thinking that he was alone in the chā ­ber with Violenta, began to clepe and kisse her, wher vnto she made no refusall, but desirous to renewe his olde priuate toles, she peased hym, of all loue that he bare vnto her, to kepe troce for twoo or thrée howers, for that the night was long inough, to satisfie his desi­res, affirmyng that it was impossible for her to wake bicause fiue or sixe daies before, by reason of her grie­fes, she had not slept at all, notwithstanding she saied, that after her sixtie sléepe, she would willinglie obeye him. Whervnto the gentleman was easely perswaded aswell bicause he had elswhere sufficiently staunched his thurst, as also for that he was loth to displease her. And fainyng her self to slepe, she turned her face, to the other side, and in that wise continued, till the poore gē ­tleman was fallen into his sound slepe. Then Ianique softly conueied the rope ouer his bodie, and gaue it to Violenta, and after she had placed it, accordyng to her minde, and as thei together had deuised before, she deli­uered thende to Ianique, who beyng at the beddes side satte doune vpon the grounde, and seidyng the rope a­boute her armes, hoisted her twoo féete againste the bedde, to pull with greater force, when nede required. Not longe after, Violenta tooke vp one of the greate knifes, and liftyng herself vp softly, the proued with her hande, to seke a place moste méete for her, to stabbe a hole into her enemies fleshe. And inchaunted with [Page 133] wrathe, rage, and furie, like an other Meden, thruste the poincte of the knife with suche force into his throte that she perced it through, and the poore vnhappie mā thinkyng to resiste the same, and to giue some repulse, against that aduerse and heauie fortune, was appalled, who feelyng a newe charge giuen vpon hym againe, specially beyng intricated with a roape, was not able to sturre hande nor foote, and through the excessiue vi­olence of the paine, his speache and power to crie, was taken awaie: In suche sorte that after he had receiued tenne or twelue mortall woundes, one after an other, his poore martired soule departed, from his sorowfull bodie. Violenta hauyng ended her determined enter­prise, commaunded Ianique to light the candle, and ap­prochyng nere the knightes face, she sawe by and by that he was without life. Then not able to satisfie, her bloodie harte, ne yet to quenche her furious rage, whiche boiled in her stomacke, she with the poincte of the knife tare out the eyes from his hedde, criyng out vpō them with hideous voice, as if thei had been aliue. ‘Ah traiterous eyes, the messengers of a minde moste villanous, that euer seiorned within the body of man: come out of your shamelesse siege for euer. For the spring of your fained teares, is nowe exhausted & dried vp.’ Then she plaied the Bocher, vpon those insensible members, continuyng still her rage, and cruelly seazed vpon the tongue, whiche with her blooddie handes, she haled out of his mouthe, and beholdyng the same with a murderous eye, as she was cuttyng it of, saied. ‘Oh abhominable and periured tongue, howe many lies, diddest thou frame in the same, before thou couldest with the canon shotte of this poisoned member, make breache into my virginitie. Whereof now beyng de­priued by thy meanes: I francklie accelerate my self [Page] to death, wherevnto thou presently haste opened the waie.’ And when she had separated this little member from the reste of the bodie (insactable of crueltie) with the knife ripped a violente hole into his stomacke, and launching her cruell handes vpon his harte, she tare it from the place, and gashyng the same with many blo­wes, she saied. ‘Ah vile harte, harder then the Diamont whose Andeuile forged the infortunate trappes of my cruell destenies: Oh that I could haue discouered, thy cogitacions in tyme past, as I dooe now thy materiall substaunce, that I might haue preserued me, frō thine abhominable treason, and detestable infidelitie.’ Then fleashyng her self vpon the dedde bodie, as a hungrie Lion vpon his praie, she left no parte of hym vnwoun­ded. And whē she had mangled his bodie all ouer, with an infinite number of gashes, she cried out. ‘O infected Carrion, whilom an organ and instrumēt, of the moste vnfaithfull and traiterous mynde, that euer was vn­der the coape of heauen. Now thou art paied with de­sert, worthie of thy merites.’ Then she saied to Ianique (whiche with greate terrour, had all this while viewed all her doinges) ‘Ianique, I féele my self now so eased of my paine, that come death when he will, he shall finde me stronge and lustie, to indure his furious assaulte, whiche of longe tyme I haue proued, besides assured hope to bring this enterprise to passe. Helpe me then to traine this corps, out of my fathers house, wherein I was firste defloured, then I will tell thée what thou shalte dooe. For like as myne honestie is stained, and published abrode, euen so will I the reuenge to be ma­nifeste, and that his bodie shalbe exponed, to the viewe of all men.’ Whose request Ianique obeied, she and Vi­olenta tooke the bodie, and threwe it out at one of the chamber windowes, doune vpon the pauemente of the [Page 138] streate, with all the partes whiche she had cut of. That doen she saied to Ianique. ‘Take this casket with all the money within the same, and shippe thy self at the next Port thou shalt come to, and gette thee ouer into Afri­ca, to saue thy life so spedely as thou canste, and neuer come into these partes againe, nor to any other where thou art knowen.’ Whiche Ianique purposed to do, al­though Violenta hadde not counsailed her therevnto. And redie to departe, she gaue a sorowfull farewell to her maistres, and betooke her self to her good fortune: and from that tyme forthe, no manne could tell whe­ther she wente, for all the pursute made after her. So sone as daie appeared, the first that passed by the streat espied the dedde bodie, whiche by reason of the noise and brute made throughout the towne, prouoked ma­ny people to come and see it. But no man knewe what he was, beyng disfigured, aswell by reason of the eyes torne out of his hedde, as for other partes mutilated and deformed. And about .viij. of the clocke in the mor­nyng, there was suche a multitude of people assem­bled, that it was in maner impossible, to come nere it. The moste parte thoughte, that some Theues in the nighte, had committed that murder. Whiche opinion semed to bee true, bicause he was in his shurte. Other some were of contrary opinion. And Violenta whiche was at the windowe, hearyng their sundrie opinions, came doune, and with a bolde courage and voice, that euery man might heare, saied. ‘Sirs, you doe contende vpon a thyng whereof (if I were demaunded the que­stion, of the magistrates of this citie) I am able to ren­der assured testimonie. And without greate difficultie this murder can not be discouered, by any other but by me.’ Whiche woordes the people did sone beleue, thin­kyng that diuers gentlemen ielous of Violenta, had [Page] made a fraie. For she had now lost her auncient reru­tacion, by meanes of Didaco: who (as the fame and common reporte was bruted) did kepe her. When she had spoken those wordes, the Iudges were incontinē ­tly aduertised aswell of the number, as of that whiche Violenta had saied, and wente thither with certaine Sergeauntes & Officers, where thei founde Violenta, more stonte, then any of the standers by: and inquired of her immediatly, how that murder came to passe, but she without feare or appallement, made this answere. ‘Ye that you sée here deade, is the lorde Didaco. And bi­cause it apperteineth to many, to vnderstād the trouth of his death (as his father in Lawe, his wife, and other kinsmen) I would in their presence, if it please you to cause them to bee called hither, declare that I knowe.’The magistrates amased to se, so greate a lorde to cru­elly slaine, commited her to warde till after diner, and commaūded that al the before named should be somo­ned to appere. Who assembled in the pallace, with suche a number of people as the Iudges could skante haue place, Violenta in the presence of them all, with out any rage or passion, first of all recompsed vnto thē the chaste loue betwene Didaco and her, which he cō ­tinued the space of fowertene or fiftene monethes, without receiuyng any fruicte or comoditie thereof. Within a while after (he being vanguished with leue) maried her secretly at her house, and solempnized the neptialles by a Prieste vnknowen: declaryng moreo­uer, how thei hadde liued a yere together in housholde, without any occasion of offence, on her part giuen vn­to hym. Then she rehersed before them, his second ma­riage, with the doughter of suche a manne, being there presente, addying for conclusion, that sithe he hadde made her to lose her honestie, she had sought meanes to [Page 135] make hym to lose his life. Whiche she executed, with the helpe of Ianique her maide: who by her aduise beyng lothe to liue any longer, had drouned her self. And after she had declared the true state of the matter, passed betwene them, she saied for conclusion, that all that she had rehersed, was not to incite or moue thē to pitie or compassion, thereby to prolonge her life, wher­of she iudged her self vnworthie, for if you (qoud she) doe suffer me to escape your handes, thinkyng to saue my bodie, you shalbe the cause and whole ruine of my soule, for with these myne owne handes, whiche you see before you, I will desperately cutte of the threde of my life. And with those woordes she helde her peace: whereat the people amased, and moued with pitie, let fall the luke warme teares, from their dolorouse eyes and lamented the misfortune of that poore creature: imputyng the faulte vpon the dedde knighte, whiche vnder colour of mariage had deceiued her. The magi­strates determinyng further, to deliberate vppon the whole matter, caused the dedde bodie to be buried, and committed Violenta againe to Warde, taking awaie from her, kniues and other weapons, wherewith thei thought she might hurte her self. And vsed suche dili­gent searche and inquirie, that the Prieste whiche ma­ried them, was founde oat, and the seruaunt of Dida­co, that was presente at the mariage of Violenta, be­yng examined, deposed how by his maisters commaū ­dement, he caried his horsse into the countrie, and how he commaunded him, to come to hym againe the next mornyng, to the house of Violenta. And all thynges were so well throught to light, as nothyng wanted for further inuestigacion of the truth, but onely the con­fession of hym that was dedde. And Violenta by the common opinion of the Iudges, was condepned to bée [Page] behedded: not onely for that she had presumed, to pu­nishe the knightes tromperie and offence, but for her excessiue crueltie doen vpon the dedde bodie. Thus in­fortunate Violenta ended her life, her mother and bre­thren beyng acquited. And was executed in the pre­sence of the Duke of Calabria, the soone of kyng Fe­deric of Aragon: whiche was that tyme the Viceroy there, and afterwardes died at Torry in Fraunce: who incontinently after caused this historie to be registred. with other thinges worthie of remembraunce, chaun­ced in his tyme at Valencia. Bandell doeth write, that the maide Ianique was put to death with her maistres but Paludanus a Spaniard, a liue at that time, writeth an excellent historie in Latine, wherein he certainly de­clareth, that she was neuer apprehended, whiche opi­nion (as moste probable) I haue folowed.

¶The .xliij. Nouell.

THE auncient and generall custome of the gentlemen, and gentlewomen of Pied­monte, was daiely to aban­don famous cities and mur­mures of common wealthes for to withdrawe themselfes to their Castles in the coun­trie, and other places of plea­sure, of purpose to begile the troublesome turmoiles [Page 140] of life, with greateste reste and contentacion, whiche troubles and griefes, thei dooe féele, that intermedle with businesse of common wealthe, whiche was with greate care obserued, before the warres had preposte­rated the order of auncient gouernement, that muche a doe you should haue had, to finde a gentleman idle in a citie. Who rather did resort to their countrie houses with their families, whiche were so well gouerned and furnished, that you should haue departed so well satis­fied and instructed, from a simple gentle mannes house as you should haue dooen from a greate Citie, were it neuer so well ruled, by some wife and prudent Sena­tour. But sithens the worlde began to waxe olde, it is come againe to very infancie, in suche sorte that grea­test nomber of Cities, are not peopled in these daies, but with a many of idle gentlemen, that make their resiance and abode there, not to profite, but to conti­newe their delicate life, and thei doe corrupte not one­ly themselfes, but (whiche is worste) thei infecte them that keepe them companie, whiche I will discourse somewhat more at large, for so muche as the gentle­woman, of whom I will describe the historie, was brought vp all the tyme of her youthe, in one of the fi­nest and moste delicate Cities of Piedmonte, And fée­lyng as yet some sparke of her former bringing vp, she could not be reformed (beyng in the countrie with her husbande) but that in the ende she fill into greate re­proche and shame, as you shall vnderstande by the con­tent of this historie.

In the tyme that Madame Margaret of Austriche, doughter of Maximilian the Emperour, went in pro­gresse into Sauoie, towardes her husbande: there was a greate Lorde, a valiaunte and curteous gentleman, in a certaine Countrie of Piedmonte, whose name I [Page] will not disclose, aswell for the reuerence of hisneresse kinne, which doe yet liue, as for the immoderatee ru­ell punishemente, that he deuised towardes his wife, when he toke her in the faulte. This greate Lorde, al­though he had goodlie reuenues, and Castelles in Pi­edmonte, yet for the moste parte of his tyme, he follo­wed the Courte, by commaundemente of the Duke, that interteined hym nexte his owne persone, vsyng commonly his aduise in al his greatest affaires. This lorde at that time, maried a maidē in Thurin of meane beautie, for his pleasure, not estemyng the place from whence she came. And bicause he was well nere fiftie yeres of age when he married her, she attired her self with suche modestie, that she was more like a widowe then a maried woman: and knewe so well howe to vse her husband, the space of a yere or twoo, that he thought hymself the happiest manne a liue, that he had founde so louyng a wife. This woman beyng serued, and re­uerēced with greate honour, waxed werie of to muche rest and quiet, and begā to bée inamoured of a Gentle­manne her neighbour, whom in a litle time she knewe so well to vse by lookes, and other wanton toies, that he did easely perceiue it, notwithstandyng for the honour of her husbande, he would not some to knowe it, but a farre of. Now this warme loue by litle and li­tle, afterwardes began to growe hotte, for the yonge woman wearie of suche long delaie, not able to contēt her self with lookes, vpon a daie findyng this yonge gentleman in conueniente place, as he was walkyng harde by her house, beganne to reason with hym of ter­mes and matters of loue, tellyng hym that he liued to solitarie, in respect of his yonge yeres, and how she had alwaies béen broughte vp in Townes, and places of greate companie, and resorte, in suche wise that now [Page 141] beyng in the Countrie, she could not easely digeste the incommoditie of beyng a lone, speciallie for the conti­nuall absence of her husbande, who scarse thrée mone­thes in a yere, remained at home in his owne house. And so fallyng from one matter to an other, loue pric­ked them so sore, that in fine thei opened a waie to that that troubled them so muche, & specially the woman: who forgettyng her honour, whiche ordinarily dooeth accompanie greate Ladies, priuely she tolde hym the loue, that she hadde borne hym of longe tyme, whiche notwithstandyng she had dissembled, waityng when he should haue giuen the firste onsette, for that gentle­menne ought rather to demaunde, then to be required of Ladies. ‘This gentleman vnderstandyng (by halfe a woorde) her disease, tolde her that although his loue was extreme, neuerthelesse, demyng hymself vnwor­thie of so high degrée, he still concealed his grief, which bicause he thought it could not come to passe, feare for­ced hym to keepe it secrete. But sithe it pleased her so muche to abasse her self, and was disposed to doe hym so muche honour, to accepte hym for her seruaunte, he would imploie his indeuour, to recompence that with humilitie and humble seruice, whiche Fortune had de­nied hym in other thynges.’ And hauyng framed this foundacion to their loue, for this tyme thei vsed no o­ther contentacion one of an other, but onely deuise. But thei so prouided for their affaires to come, that thei neded not to vse longer oracion. For being neigh­bours, and the husbande many tymes absent, the high waie was open, to bryng their enterprises to desired effecte. Whiche thei full well acquieted, and yet vna­ble wisely to maister and gouerne their passions, or to moderate theim selues by good discrecion, the ser­uauntes of the house (by reason of the frequented com­municacion [Page] of the gentleman, with the gētlewoman) began to suspecte them, and to conceiue simster opiniō of their maistresse, although none of them durst speake of it, or make other semblaunce of knowledge. Loue holdyng in full possession, the hartes of these twoo lo­uers, blinded them so muche, that leauyng the bridle, to large for their honour: thei vsed themselues priuely and apertly, at all tymes one with an other, without any respecte. And when vpon a time, the Lorde retour­ned home to his owne house (from a certaine voiage, wherin he had béen in the Dukes seruice) he found his wife to bée more fine and gorgeous, then she was wōt to be, which in the beginnyng did wōderfully astonne hym. And perceiuyng her sometymes, to vtter wan­ton woordes, and to applie her minde vpon other thin­ges, when he spake vnto her, he beganne diligently to obserue her countenaunce and order, and being a man broughte vp in courtly trade, and of good experience, he easely was perswaded, that there was some ele vn­der the stone, and to come to the trouthe of the matter, he made a better countenaunce, then he was wonte to doe, whiche she knewe full wel how to requite and re­compēce. And liuyng in this simulacion, either of them attempted to begile the other, that the simplest and lest craftie of thē both, could not be discouered. The yong gentleman, neighbour of the Lorde, grieued beyonde measure, for that he was come home, passed and repas­sed many tymes, before his Castell gate, thinkyng to gette some looke of his Ladies eye: but by any meanes she could not for feare of her husbande, who was not so foolishe, that after he sawe him goe before his gate so many tymes, without some occasion, but that he ease­ly iudged, there was a secret amitie betwene thē. Cer­taine daies after, the gentleman of insinuate hymself [Page 142] into the lordes fauour, and to haue accesse to his house sent hym a verie excellente Tercelet of a Faucon, and at other tymes, he presented hym with Ueneson, and vmbles of Dere, whiche he had killed in hūtyng. But the Lorde (whiche well knewe that flatterie many ty­mes, serued the torne of diuerse menne, to begile foo­lishe husbandes of their faire wiues) that he might not seme vngratefull, sente hym also certaine straunge thynges. And these curtesies cōtinued so long, that the lorde, desirous to laie abaite, sent to praie hym to come to diner: to whiche request the other accorded liberally, for the deuotion he had to the sainct of the Castell. And when the Table was taken vp, thei went together to walke abrode in the fildes. And the more frēdly to wel­come hym, he praied his wife, to goe with them, where­vnto she made no greate deniall. And when thei hadde debated of many thynges, the Lorde saied vnto hym. ‘Neighbour and frende, I am an olde manne and Me­lancholie, as you knowe, wherefore I had neede from henceforthe to reioise my self. I praie you hartely ther­fore, to come hither many tymes, to take parte of our diner, and suche fare as God dooeth sende. And vse the thynges of my house, as thei were your owne.’ Which the other gratefullie accepted, humblie praiyng that his Lordship would commaunde hym and that he had, when it were his pleasure, & to vse him as his very hū ­ble and obedient seruaunte. This Pantere laied, the yong gentleman ordinarily came ones a daie, to visite the Lorde and his wife. So long this order continued, that the Lorde (vpō a daie, fainyng hymself to be sicke) commaunded that no man should come into his cham­ber, bicause al the night before he was il at ease, & could take no rest. Whereof the gentleman was incontinen­tly aduertised, by an olde woman, hired of purpose for [Page] a common messanger, of whom a none we purpose to make menciō. Being come to the Castle, he demaūded how the Lorde did, and whether be might goe se hym, to whom answer was made, that he could not, for that he was fallen into a slomber. Madame nowe was in the gardein alone, comyng vp and doune for her plea­sure, & was aduertised that the gentleman was come. Who beyng broughte into the gardeine, and certified of the Lordes indisposicion, began to renewe his olde daliaunce with the Ladie, and to kisse her many ty­mes, eftsons puttyng his hande into her bosome, and vsyng other pretie preparatifes of loue, whiche oughts not to be permitted, but onely to the husbande. In the meane tyme, while thei twoo had been there a good space, the husbande slept not, but was departed out of his chamber, the space of twoo howers and more, and was gone vp to the higheste place of all his Castell, where at a very litle windowe, he might diserie al that was doon, within the compasse of his house. And there seyng all their curteous offers and proffers, he waited but when the gentleman, should haue indeuored hym self to procede further, that he might haue discharged his mortall malice vpon them bothe. But thei fearing that their long abode in the gardeine, might ingender some displeasure, retourned into the Castell, with pur­pose in tyme to content their desires, so sone as oppor­tunitie serued. The Lorde notyng all the demeanour betwene them, retourned to his chamber, and wente againe to his bedde, fainyng to be sicke, as he did al the daie before. Supper tyme come, the Ladie wente to knowe his pleasure, whether he would sup in his chā ­ber, or in the hall, he answered (with a disguised chere­full face) that he began to feele hymself well, and that he had slepte quietly, sithens Diner, and was determi­ned [Page 143] to suppe beneth, sendyng that nighte for the gen­manne, to beare hym companie at supper: and could so well dissemble his iuste anger, that neither his wife, nor the gentleman perceiued it by any meanes. And so the Lorde with his Ladie still continewed, the space of fiftene daies, or three wekes, makyng so muche of her, (as though it had been the first moneth that he maried her) in suche forte, that when the poore miserable wo­manne, thought to haue gotten victorie ouer her hus­bande and frende, it was the houre that Fortune did weaue the toile and nette to intrappe her. The Lorde whiche no longer could abide this mischief, driuen in­to an extreme cholers, seyng he that he could finde no meanes to take them (hymself beyng at home) delibe­rated either sone to die, or to prouide for y^e matter: and the better to execute his determinacion, he counterfai­ted a letter from the Duke of Sauoie, and bare it se­cretly to the Post himself alone, and commaunded him next daie to bryng it to his Castell, whereby he fained that the Duke had sente the same vnto hym. Whiche matter the Poste did handle so well, that he broughte the letter when he was at supper, with Botes on his legges all durtie and raied, as though he were newlie lighted from his horse. And the better to maintain his wife in her error, after he had reade the letter, he gaue it to her to reade: whiche conteined no other thing, but that the Duke commaunded hym, presently with all diligence, hymself and his traine to come vnto hym, to bee dispatched vpon. Ambassage into Fraunce. That dooen he saied vnto her. ‘Wife, you see how I am con­strained to depart with spede (to my great grief) Bidde my menne therefore to bee redie in the mornyng, that thei maie, goe before, & waite for me at Thurin, where my Lorde the Duke is at this presente. I myself will [Page] departe from hence to morowe at night after supper, and will ride in Poste in the freshe of the nighte.’ And the better to deceiue this poore vnhappie woman, he went into his Closette, and tooke his caskette, where­in was the moste parte of his treasure, and deliueryng the same vnto her, saied, that fearyng left he should ta­ry long in Fraunce, he would leaue the same with her to helpe her in necessitie. And after all his traine was gone, he caused one of the yeomen of his chamber, to tary behinde, whose fidelitie he had at other times pro­ued. And all that daie he ceased not to cherishe, & make muche of his wife. But the poore soule did not foresee, that thei were the flatteries of the Crocodile, whiche reioyseth when he seeth one deceiued. When he had supped, he made a particuler remembraūce to his wife how the affaires of his house should bee disposed in his absence. And then tooke his leaue, giuyng her a Iu­das kisse. The Lorde vnethes had ridden two or three miles, but that his wife had sente the olde woman, to cary woorde to her louer, of the departure of her hus­bande, and that he might saufly come and lie with her in the Castell, for that all the seruauntes were ridden forthe with their maister, sauyng one yeoman and her twoo maides, whiche doe neuer vse to lie in her cham­ber. Upon this gladde newes, the gentleman thought no scorne to appere vpon that warnyng, and the olde woman knewe the waie so well, as she broughte hym straighte into the Ladies chamber, whom Loue inue­gled in suche wise, as thei laie together in the bedde, where the Lorde was wonte to lie. And the olde wo­man laie in an other bedde in that chamber, and shut the doze within. But while these two poore passionate louers, thought thei had attained the toppe of all feli­citie, and had inioyed with full saile, the fauours of the [Page 144] litle God Cupide, Fortune desirous to departe them, for the last messe of the feaste, prepared so bitter Com­fettes, that it coste them bothe their liues, with suche a cruell death, that if thei whiche make profession of sem­blable thynges, doe take example thereat, wiues will gette them better names, and husbandes shalbe lesse deceiued. The Lorde that night, made no longer tracte of tyme, but lighted from his horsse, at the keper of one of his Castles houses, whom he knewe to bée faithfull. To whom in the presence of the yeoman of his cham­ber, he discoursed the loue betwene the gētleman and his wife, and commaunded him with all spede to arme hym, and with a case of Pistolettes to followe hym, whom he obeied. And beyng come to the Castell gate, he saied to the keper of his Castell. Knocke at the gate and faine thy self to bee alone, and saie that I passyng by thy house, did leaue a remēbraunce with thée, to ca­ry to my Ladie. And bicause it is a matter of impor­taunce, & requireth haste, thou were compelled to bring in this night. Knockyng at the gate somewhat softely (for feare left thei which were in the chambers should heare) a yoman rose whiche laie in the Courte, know­yng the voice of the keper (bicause he was one, whom his Lorde and maister did greatly fauour) opened the gate, and the first thyng thei did; thei lighted a Torche and went vp all three to the Lordes chamber, not suf­feryng any manne to cary newes to the Ladie, of their approche. Beyng come to the chamber dore, the keper knocked, whiche immediatly the olde woman heard, and without openyng the dore, asked who was there. ‘It is (quod the keper) that haue brought a letter to my Ladie, from my Lorde my maister, who ridyng this night in Poste to Thurin, passed by my house, and very earnestlie charged me, by no meanes to faile but [Page] to faile but to deliuer it this night.’ The Ladie aduer­tised hereof (that would neuer haue thought that her owne manne, whom she tooke to bee simple, and voide of guile, would haue framed a platte for suche trea­son, saied to the olde woman. ‘Receiue the letter at the doore, but in any wise let hym not come in, and I will accomplishe the contentes.’ The olde woman, whiche thoughte onely but to receiue the letter betwene the doore, was astoned when the keper, who (giuyng her a blowe with his foote vpon the stomacke) threwe her backewarde, where she laie more then a quarter of an houre, without speking or mouing. And then thei thre entryng the chaumber in greate rage, with their Pi­stolettes in their handes, founde the twoo miserable louers starke naked, who seyng themselfes surprised in that state, were so sore a shamed as Eue and Adam were, when their synne was manifested before God. And not knowyng what to dooe, reposed their refuge in waimentyng and teares, but at the verie same in­staunt, thei bounde the armes and legges together, of the poore gentleman with the chollers of there horfse, whiche thei broughte with them of purpose. And then the Lorde commaunded that the twoo maides, whiche were in the Castell, and the reste of the seruauntes, should bee called to assiste them, to take example of that faire fighte. And all the meane people beyng ga­thered in this sorte together, the Lorde tournyng hym self vnto his wife, saied vnto her. ‘Come hither thou vnshamefaste, vile, and detestable whore, like as thou hast had a harte so traiterous and vnfaithfull, to bring this infamous Ruffian, in the nighte into my Castell, not onely to robbe and dispoile me of myne honoure, whiche I preferre and esteme more then life: but also (whiche is more to be abhorred) to infringe and breake [Page 135] for euer, the holie and precious bande of Mariage, wherewithall we be vnited and knitte together. Euen so I will euen forthwith, that with these thyne owne handes, with whiche thou gauest me the firste testimo­monie of thy faithe, that he presently shalbee hanged and strangled in the presence of all menne, not know­yng how to deuise, any other greater punishemente, to satisfie thyne offence, then to force thée to murder him, whom thou haste preferred before thy reputacion, a­boue mine honour, and estemed more then thine owne life.’ And hauyng pronounced this fatall Iudgemente, he sent one to seke for a greate naile of a Carts, which he caused to bee fastened to the beame of the chamber, and a ladder to bee fetched, and then made her to tye a Coller of the order belongyng to Theues and male-factours, aboute the necks of her sorowfull louer. And bicause she alone was not able to do that grieuous and waightie charge, he ordained that like as the olde wo­man, had been a faithfull minister of his wiues loue, so she should putte her hande in performyng, the vtter­moste of that woorke. And so these twoo wretched wo­men, were by that meanes forced to suche extremitie, that with their owne handes, thei strangled the infor­tunate Gentleman: with whose death the Lorde not yet satisfied, caused the bedde, the clothes, and other furnitures (wherevpon thei had taken their pleasures past) to be burned. He commaunded the other vtensiles of the chāber to be taken awaie, not suffryng so muche strawe, as would serue to couche of twoo Dogges, to be lefte vnconsumed. Then he saied to his wife. ‘Thou wicked woman, emonges all other moste wicked. For so muche as thou hast had no respecte, to that honoura­ble state, where vnto Fortune hath aduanced thée, be­yng made by my meanes, of a simple damosell, a great [Page] Ladie, and bicause thou haste preferred, the lasciuious acquaintaunce of one of my subiectes, aboue the chaste loue, that thou oughtest to haue borne to me: my de­terminacion is, that from henceforthe thou shall kepe continuall companie with hym, to the vttermoste daie of thy life: bicause his putrified carcase hath giuen occasion, to ends thy wretched bodie.’ And then he cau­sed all the windowes and doores to be mured, and clo­sed vp in suche wise, that it was impossible for her to goe out, leauyng onelie a litle hole open, to giue her breade and water: appoinctyng his Stewarde to the charge thereof. And so this poore miserable woman, remained in the mercie of that obscure and darcke pri­son, without any other companie, then the deade bodie of her louer. And when she had conti­nued a certaine tyme in that stinckyng Dongeon, without aire or comfort, ouercome with sorrowe and extreme paine, she yel­ded her soule to GOD.

¶The .xliiij. Nouell.

THe auncient Histories of Princes (aswell vnder y^e name of King, as of y^e title of Duke, which in time past dyd go­uerne y^e Countrey of Saxone) doe reporte that Otho the se­conde of that name, which was the first Emperour that lawfullye raigned (after the Empire ceassed in the stock of Charles the great) had of his wife Matilde daughter of the King of Saxone, one sonne, which succeded him in y^t Imperial crowne, called Otho the thirde, who for his vertuous educati­on and gentle disposition, acquired of all men the sur­name of The loue of the Worlde. The same Empe­rour was curteous and mercifull, and neuer (to any mans knowledge) gaue occasion of grief to any per­son, he did good to euery man, and hurt no man: like­wise he thought, that that kingdome was well gotten, and gotten was better kept, if the King, Prince or Ruler thereof did studie and séeke meanes to be belo­ued, rather than feared, sith loue ingendreth in it selfe a desire of obedience in the people. And contrarywise, [Page] that Prince which by tyrannie maketh himselfe to be feared, liueth not one houre at rest, hauing his con­science tormented indifferently, both wyth suspition & feare, thinking still that a thousād swords be hanging ouer his head, to kill and destroy him. Otho then vn­der his name of Emperor, couered his clemencie with a certayne swéete grauitie and Princely behauiour. Who notwithstanding declared an outwarde shewe of his courtesie, to make swéete the egrenesse of dis­pleasure, which they féele and taste that be subiect to the obeysaunce of some new Monarchie. Man being of his owne nature so louing of himselfe, that an im­moderate libertie semeth vnto him swéeter, more iust and indurable, than auctorities rightlie ordayned, the establishment wherof, semeth to represent the onely gouernement of that first King, which from his highe throne, giueth being and mouing to all things. That good Emperour then knowing very well the malice of men, who although he was a good man of warre, hardie of his handes, and desirous of glory, yet mode­rated so well the happie successe of hys enterprises, that his grace and gentlenesse principally appeared, when he had the vpperhande, for that he cherished and well vsed those whome he had subdued vnder his obe­dience, his force and felicitie was declared when he corrected and chastised rebels, and obstinate persons, which wilfully would proue the gret force of a Prin­ces arme iustly displeased, and to others what fauor a King coulde vse towardes them, whome he knewe to be loyall and faythfull: giuing cause of repentance, to them which at other times had done him displeasure. And to say the truth, he might be placed in the ranke, of the most happie Princes that euer were, if the pri­uate [Page 202] affaires of his owne house had so happyly succe­ded, as the renowme which he wanne in the science of warfare, and in the administration of the common wealthe. But nothing being stable in the lyfe of man: This Emperour had in him, that thing, that diminished the glorye of his wisedome, and (resem­bling an Octauius Augustus) the vnhappie successe of his owne house, did somewhat obscure the fame of his noble factes, and those insolent doings serued vn­to him as a counterpoyse to prosperous Fortune, which may be easily perceyued, by the progresse and continuation of this Historie. This good Prince had one daughter, in whome Nature had distributed hir giftes, in such wise, that she alone might haue vaun­ted hir selfe to attaine y^e perfection of all them, which euer had any thing, worthy of admiration, were it in the singularitie of beautie, fauour, and courtesie, or in her disposition and good bringing vp. The name of this fayre Princesse was Adelafia. And when this Ladie was very yong, one of the children of the Duke of Saxone, came to the Emperours seruice, whose kinsman he was. This yong Prince, besides that he was one of the fayrest and comlyest gentlemē of Allemaigne, had therewithal, together with know­ledge of armes, a passing skill in good scieures, which mitigated in him the ferocitie bath of his warlike knowledge, and of the nature of his Countrey. His name was Alerane, who seing himselfe the yongest of his house, and his inheritaunce verie small, in­deuoured to conciliate euery mannes fauoure and good will, to remoue his owne fortune, and to bring himselfe, in estimation with the Emperour, where in all thinges he imployed so well his indeuoure, that [Page] through his worthinesse he wanne comendation and report, to be the moste valiaunt and stoutest gentle­man, in all the Emperours court, which prayse did greatly cōmende the tendernesse of hys yong yeares, and was therewithal so sober, and of so gentle spirit, that although he excelled his companiōs in al things, yet he auoided cause of offence (shewing himselfe fa­miliar amongs all the Courtyers.) Euery mā (which is a great matter) rather praysed him and loued him, and he thought himself most happie, y^t by any meanes coulde fashion himselfe to imitate the vertue, y^e made Aleranes name so renowmed. And that which made him fuller of admiracion, and brought him in fauour with his Lorde and Maister was, that vpon a daye the Emperor being in an assemble in the middes of a laund, and in a desert place, it chaunced that a Beare, issuing out of her caue, was assayled of hunters: the fierce beast, auoiding y^e toyles and flying the pursute of the dogges, came with great vehemencie & spéede, from a mountayne, and was vpon the Emperour [...]or he was ware, separated from his company and with­out his sworde. But Alerane by good fortune was at hande, who more carefull for the safety of his Prince, than for his owne life, encountred with y^e Beare, and killed him, in the presence of the Emperour, and ma­ny other. All which beholding (to their great asto­nishment) the dexteritie and hardinesse of Alerane at those small yeares: (for then he was not aboue the age of .xvij.) the Emperour imbrasing him, did highly comende him, telling them that were by, that hys lyfe was saued chiefly by Gods assistaunce, and next by the prowesse of Alerane. The newes hereof was so bruted abrode, that there was no talke but of the [Page 203] valiaunce and stoutnesse of this yong man of warre, which caused faire Adelasia, (moued by naturall in­stigation, and with the opinion and report of the ver­tue towarde in that yong Prince) to feele a certayne thing (I can not tell what) in hir minde, which infla­med her senses & heart. And she had no soner cast her eyes vpon Alerane, but Loue, which had prepared the ambushe, so pearced her delicate breast, that he tooke full possession of her: in such wyse that the Princesse was so strangely in loue with the yong Prince, that she neuer founde pleasure and contentation, but in that, which was done or sayde by her louer, whome she accompted the chiefe of all the men of his time. In this burning heate, she felt the passions of loue so vehement, and his pricks so sharpe, that she coulde not euaporate, y^e cloudes which darkened her spirites and continually tormented her minde. And albeit that the little occasion, which she sawe, for their com­ming together in time to come, did dissuade her, from pursuing the thing which she most desired: yet the ti­rant Loue shewed himselfe very extreme in that di­uersitie of thoughtes, and varietie of troubles which vexed the spirite of the Princesse: For she coulde not so well dissemble, that which honor & age commaun­ded her to kéepe secrete, but that Alerane which was (as we haue already fayde) well expert and subtile, perceiued the inwarde disease of Adelasia. Moreouer there was betwene them a naturall conformitie and likelyhode of condicions, which made them to agrée in equall desires, to féede of lyke meates, their passio­nate mindes were martired with equall sorrowe and payne, departed aswell in the one, as in the other. For Alerane by taking carefull héede to the lookes [Page] which the Princesse continually did stealingly cast vpon him, saw the often and sodayne chaunges of co­lour, wherein sometimes appeared ioy, which by and by did ende, with infinite number of sighes, and with a countenance agreable to that, which the heart kept secrete and couert, wherby he assured himselfe vnfay­nedly to be beloued, which caused him to do no lesse, (for satisfaction of such like merite and desert, done by Adelasia) but to beare vnto her like affectiō, forcing her by all diligence and seruice, to continue still that good will toward him, yelding himself as a praie, to the self same loue. Who ruling thaffections of the Princesse, (as braue and pleasaunt as she was) made hir sorow­full and pensife, and altered hir in such wise, that shée thought the company wherein she was, did impeach her ioye, which she iudged to conceyue like plea­sure that she did, when at libertie and alone, she re­uolued her troubles, and fansted her contentation in her minde. Alerane on the other syde slept not, but as though he had receyued the first wounde by the hands of the blinde little archer Cupide, ceassed not to think of her, whose Image ordinaryly appeared before his eyes, as engrauen more liuely in his minde than any forme may be insculped vpon metall or marble. And yet neyther the one nor the other, durste discouer the least passion of a great number, which oppressed their besieged hearts, and which suffered not to liue in any rest this faire couple of loyall louers, that durste not manifest their loue. The eyes alone did thoffice of the handes and tongue, as trusty secretaries, and fayth­full messangers of the effectes of the minde. That which kindled she fler most, was their frequent talke together, which was but of common matters, with­out [Page 204] vtterance of that which y^e hart knew wel ynough, and whereof the eyes gaue true testimonie. A passion truely almost intollerable for a yong Princesse, aswel bycause she neuer had experience of like sorrow, as for hir tender age: and yet more for a naturall abashmēt and shame, which with the vayle of honor doth serue, or ought to serue, for a bridle, to euery Lady couetous of fame, or like to be the ornament or beauty of her race. Adelasia then floting in the tempestuous seas of her appetites, guided by a master, which delighteth in the shipwracke of them he carieth, vanquished wyth an immoderate rage of loue, tormēted with grief vn­speakable, offended with hir owne desires, being a­lone in hir chāber, began to complayne her sorrowes, and sayde: ‘Ah, what passion is this that is vnknowen vnto me, that ingendreth an obliuion of that which was wont to delight and content me? From whence commeth this newe alteration, and desire vnaccusto­med, that solitary being alone, is the rest & argument of my troubles? What diuersities and alterations be these that in this sorte do poyse & weygh my thought? Ah Adelasia, what happy miserie doest thou finde in this frée prison, where pleasure hath no place, tyll the Enemies haue dysquieted the lyfe, with a Million of paynfull and dangerous trauayles? What is this to say, but that agaynst the nature of maydens of my yeares, I will not, or can not be quiet day nor night, but to take my repaste and féeding vpon cares and thoughtes? Alack, I thought then to finishe my sor­rowes & griefes, when (being alone) I began to frame the plot of my torments and paynes, with so many formes & deuises in my fansie, as I doe make wishes and requests vpon the thing I loue and esteme aboue [Page] all, vpon which all mine affections doe depende and take their beginning. What is this to say, but that my maydes do offend me, when with discrete wordes they goe about to diuert me from my follies and plea­saunt noysom thoughtes? Wherefore should not I take in good part, y^t care which they haue of my helth, and the paine which they take to remember me of my torment? Alas, they know not wherein consisteth the force of mine euil, and muche lesse is it in their power to remedie the same. Euen so I would haue none o­ther playster, but him that hath giuen me the wound, nor none other meate, but the hunger that drieth me vp, I craue none other comforte but the fire which burneth me continually, the force whereof pearceth the sucke and marie within my bones. Ah: Ale­rane, Alerane, the floure and mirror of all prowesse and beauty. It is thou alone y^e liuest in me, of whome my minde conceyueth his hope, and the harte his nou­rishment. Alas: that thy worthinesse should be the o­uerthrowe of mine honor, and thy perfection the im­perfection of my lyfe. Ah Loue, Loue, howe diuersly thou dealest with me. For seing mine Alerane, I am attached with heate in the myddes of yce that is full colde. In thinking of him I doe both rest and trauaile continually. Nowe I flée from him, and sodaynely agayne, I desire him. In hearing him speake, the su­ger and hony, that distilleth from his mouth, is the contentmēt of my minde, till suche time as his words appeare to be different from my desire. For then ah Lord: my rest is conuerted into extreme trauaile, the hony into gall, and wormewood more bitter, than byt­ternesse it selfe, the hope of my minde is become de­spaire so horrible, that the same onely will bréede vnto [Page 205] me, (if God haue not pitie vpon me) shorte occasion of my death.’ After these wordes, she rested a long time without speaking a worde, with hir armes a crosse and hir eyes eleuate on high, which ranne downe like a riuer of teares, and semed to be so rauished, that a man would haue iudged her rather a thing without life, than a creature sensible, and labouring for lyfe, til, recouering her spirites againe, as comming from an Extasie and sounde, she began hir plaintes againe in this sort. ‘What? must such a Princesse as I am, abase my selfe to loue her owne subiecte, yea and her kinnesman, and specially not knowing yet how his mynde is disposed? Shall I be so vnshamefast, and voide of reason, to surrendre my self to any other but to him, whome God and my fortune hath promised to be my espouse? Rather death shall cut of the threde of my yeares, than I will contaminate my chastity, or that any other enioy the floure of my virginitie, than he to whom I shal be tied in mariage. Ah: I say and promise muche, but there is a tormenter in my minde which dealeth so rigorously with my reason, that I cannot tell where vpon well to determine. I dare not thinke (which also I ought not to do) that A­lerane is so folish to despise the loue of one, that is the chiefest of the daughters of the greatest Monarches of the worlde, and much lesse, that he should forget him­self, in such wise, to forsake me, hauing once enioyed y^e best & dearest thing that is in me, & whereof I meane to make him, the only and peaceable possessor. Truly the vertue, gētlenesse, and good nuriture of Alerane, doe not promise suche treason in him, and that great beautie of his, cannot tell how to hide such rigor that he will refuse one, that is one of the most deformed [Page] and ill fauored creatures, and which loueth him with suche sinceritie, that where she shall lose the meanes to enioy him, there shall feele, euen forthwith, the miserable end of her sorowful dayes.’ And then againe she helde her peace, tossed and turmoiled with diuers thoughtes fleting betwene hope and feare, by and by, she purposed to deface from her heart, the memorie of Loue, which already had taken to faste footing, and would not be separated from the thing, which heauen himself seemed to haue prepared, for the perfectiō and glorie of his triumphe. Loue then constrayned her, to resolue vpon her last determination. Then continu­ing her talk, sighing w^tout ceasing, she sayd. ‘Chaunce what may to the vttermost, I can but wander like a Uagabonde and figitiue with mine owne Alerane (yf he will shewe me so muche pleasure to accepte me for his owne) For sure I am, the Emperour wil ne­uer abide the mariage, which I haue promised: and sooner wil I die, than another shal possesse that, which Alerane alone deserueth: hauing a long time vowed and dedicated the same vnto him. And afterwardes let them report what they lift of the bolde and folish enterprises of Adelasia, when my heart is contented and desire satisfied, & Alerane enioieth her, that loueth him, more than her self. Loue verily is not liable to y^e fansie of the parents, nor yet to y^e will, euen of them that subiugate themselues to his lawes. And besides y^t I shal not be alone amongst princesses, that haue for­saken parents and countries, to folow their loue into straunge Regions. Faire Helena the Greke, did not she abandon Menelaus her husband and the rych citie of Sparta, to follow the faire Troian Alexander say­ling to Troie? Phedria and Ariadne, despised the deli­cates [Page 206] of Creta, lefte their Father a very olde man, to go with the Cecropian Theseus None forced Medea the wise furious Lady (but Loue) to depart the Isle of Colchos, her owne natiue country, with the Argo­naute Iason. O good God, who can resist the force of Loue, to whome so many kinges, so many Monar­ches, so many wise men of all ages, haue done their homage? Surely the same is the only cause that com­pelleth me (in making my self bold) to forget my due­ty towards my parents, and specially myne honor, which I shall leaue, to be reasoned vpon, by the igno­rant people, that considereth nothing, but that which is exteriourly offred to the view of the sight. Ah: how much I deceyue my selfe, & make a reckning of much without myne hoste. And what knowe I if Alerane (although he doe loue me) wyll lose the good grace of the Emperour, and forsake his goodes, and (so it may be) to hazarde his life, to take so pore and miserable a woman as I am? Notwithstanding I will proue fortune, death is the worst that can chaunce, which I accelerate, rather than my desire shall lose his ef­fect.’ Thus the faire and wise Princesse concluded her vnhappy state. And all this time, her best friend Ale­rane, remayned in great affliction, beyond measure, and felte suche a feare as cannot be expressed with wordes, only true louers know the force, altogether like to that wherof the yong Prince had experience, and durst not discouer hys euyll to her, that was able to giue him her allegeance, much lesse to disclose it to any deare friende of his, into whose secrecie he was wont to commit the most part of his cares, which was the cause that made him fele his harte to burne, like a litle fier in the middes of a cleare riuer, and sawe him­self [Page] selfe ouerwhelmed within the waters, hotter than those that be intermixed with sulphure, & do euaporat and send forth ardent smokes in an AEthna hill or Ve­suue mountayne. The Princesse impacient to endure so long, could no longer kepe secrete the flames hyd­den within her, without telling and vttering them to some, whom her minde liked best, and there to render them where she thought they toke their essense and be­ing, casting away all shame and feare, which accusto­mably doth associat Ladies of hir estate and age. One day she toke secretely asyde, one that was her Gouer­nesse, named Radegonde, a Gentlewoman, so vertu­ous, wise and sober, as any other that was in the Emperoures courte, who for her approued man­ners, and chaste life, had the charge, of the bringing vp and nourishing of Adelasia, from her Infancie. To this Gentlewoman then the amorous Princesse deliberated to communicate her secretes, and to let her vnderstand her passion, that she might finde some remedie. And for that purpose they two retired alone within a closet, the pore louer trembling like a leafe (at the blast of the weasterne winde, when the sunne beganne to spreade his beames) syghing so strangely, as if hir body and soule would haue departed, sayde thus. ‘The trust which dayly I haue had in that na­turall goodnesse, which appeareth in you, my mother and welbeloued Lady, ioyned with discretion and fi­delitie, wherwith all your actes and affaires be recō ­mended, do presently assure me, and make me bolde, in this my trouble, to participate vnto you my secre­tes, which be of greater importance without compa­rison, than any that euer I tolde you, persuading my selfe that the thing which I shall tell you, whatso­euer [Page 207] it be (be it good or ill) you will accepte it in suche wise, as your wysedome requireth, and to kepe it so close, as the secrete of suche a Lady as I am, doth de­serue. And that I may not holde you long in doubte what it is, knowe ye, that of late the valor, prowesse, beauty, and curtesie of senior Alerane of Saxon, hath founde suche place in my hearte, that (in despite of my selfe,) I am so in loue with him, that my life is not deare vnto me but for his sake, my hearte taketh no pleasure, but in his glory and vertue, hauing chosen him so vertuous a Prince, for my friend, and one day (by Gods sufferaunce) for my laweful spouse and hus­bande. I haue assayed a thousand meanes, & so many wayes, to cast him of, & to blot him out of my minde: But alas vnhappy caytife, Fortune is so frowarde, and so vnmercyfull to my endeuour, that the more I labour and goe about to extinguish in me, the memo­rie of his name and commendable vertues, so muche the more I do enlarge and augnient them, the flames of which loue do take such increase, that I do little or nothing estéeme my life, without the enioying the ef­fecte of my desire, and the tast of such licor, which nou­rishing my hope in pleasure, may quench the fier that doth consume me. Otherwise I sée no meanes possi­ble, but that I am constrayned, eyther to lose my good wittes (whereof already I felte some alienation) or to ende my dayes with extreme anguishe, and insuppor­table hearts sorrowe. Alas, I knowe well that I shal lose my time, if I attempt to pray the Emperour my father, to giue me Alerane to my husbande, syth he doth already practise a mariage betwene the King of Hungarie and me. And also that Alerane (although he be a Prince of so noble bloud, and so honorable house, [Page] as the Saxon is yet is to base to be sonne in law to an Emperour. In these my distresses, it is of you alone, of whome I loke for ayde I counsayle, being certayne of your prudence and good iudgement: and therfore I pray you to haue pity vpon me & haue remorse vpon this immoderate passiō, that doth torment me beyond measure.’ Radegonde, hearing Adelasia disclose this talke, wherof she would neuer haue thought, was so confounded and astoned, that of long tyme she could not speake a word, holding her hed downe, reuoluing thousand diuers matters in her minde, knew not wel what to answere the Princesse. Finally gathering her spirits vnto her, she answered her with teares, in her eyes saying. ‘Alas, Madame what is that you say: Is it possible that the wisest, vertuons, and most courtcots Princesse of Europa, could suffer her selfe in this sort (through her onely aduise) to be transported to her owne affections and sensual appetites? Is it wel done that you seing in me, a discretion and modestie, doe not imitate the puritie therof? be these the godly ad­monicions which heretofore I haue giuen you, that you will so lightly defile your fathers house wyth the blot of infamie, and your self with eternall reproche? Would you Madame, that vpon thende of my yeares I should begin to betray my Lorde the Emperoure, who hath committed to my handes the most precious iewell of his house? Shall I be so vnconstant in mine olde dayes to become an vnshamfast minister of your fonde and folish Loue? a thing which I neuer dyd in the ardent time of my youth. Alas, Madame, forget I besech you, this folishe order, cast vnder your feete this determination wickedly begon, suche, as to the blemishing of the honorable brightnes of your fame, [Page 208] may cause the ruine of vs al. Follow y^e counsel of your deare nourice Radegond, who loueth you better than her owne soule. Quench these noysome & parching fla­mes which haue kindled, & throwen forth their sparks into your chast & tēder hart. Take hede I besech you, that a vaine hope do not deceyue you, & a folish desire abuse you. Alas: think that it is the part of a sage and prudent minde, to refrayne the first motions of euery passion, & to resist the rage that riseth in our willes, & the same very oft by succession of time, bringeth to it self to late & noysome repentance. This your thought procedeth not of Loue: for he that thinketh to sustaine himselfe with venim sugred with that drogue, in the end he séeth himself so desperatly impoysoned, that on­ly death is the remedie for such disease. A Louer truly may be called the slaue, of a tirant most violent, cruel, & bloudy, that may be found, whose yoke once put on, can not be put of, but with paynefull sorrow and vn­speakable displeasure. Do you not knowe Madame, that Loue and follie be two passions so like one ano­ther, that they engendre like effectes in the mindes of those that doe possesse them: in such wise as the affec­tion of the pacient can not be concealed? Alas, what shall become of you and him that you loue so well, if the Emperour do know and perecyue your light and folish determinations. Shew Madame for Gods sake, what you be. Let the ripe fruites of your prudence, so long time tilled, appeare abrode to the world. Expell from you this vnruled loue, which if you suffer frank­ly to enter into your heart, assure your self he wil take such holdfast of y^e place, that whē you think to extrude the enemie oute, it is he that will driue awaye that smal portion of force and reason that resteth in you. [Page] And then all the comforte of your miseries, will be the lamentation of your losses, and repentance for that, which cannot be, by any meanes recouered.’ A­delasia burning in Loue and fretting with anger, not able to abide contrarie replie to her minde, began to loke furiously vpon the Lady, that gaue her such hol­some admonition, to whom she sayd with more than womanly stoutnesse, these wordes. ‘And what are you good gentlewoman, that dare so hardely prescribe lawes to Loue that is not subiecte or tied vnto the fantasie of men? Who hath giuen you commission to take the matter so hote, against that I haue deter­mined to doe, say you what you can? No, no, I loue Alerane, and will loue him, whatsoeuer come of it. And sith I can haue none other helpe at your handes, or mete counsell for mine ease & comfort: Assure your self, that I wil do mine endeuor to finde it in my self. And likewise to prouide so well as I can for myne af­faires, that eschewing the alliaunce which the Empe­rour prepareth, I will liue at heartes ease with hun, whom (in vaine) you goe about to put out of my re­membraunce. And if so be I chaunce to sayle of my purpose, I haue a medicine for my calamities, which is death, the last refuge of al my miseries. Which wil be right pleasaunt vnto me, ending my life, in the contemplation and memorie of the sincere and perfect Loue, that I beare to mine Alerane.’ Radegonde no lesse abashed, than surprised with feare, hearing the resolution of the princesse, could not at the first make any answere, but to make her recourse to teares, the most familiar weapons that women haue. Then se­ing by the countenances of Adelasia, that the passion had set in fote to déepe, for any body to attempte to [Page 209] pluck out the rootes, frō that time forth, she wiped her eyes, nor without euident demonstration (for al that) of her great grief conceyued, with infinite sighes, tur­ning her face to the Lady, she sayde to her with plea­saunter countenance than before. ‘Madame, sithe your missehap is such, that without Alerane, you cannot be quiet or pacified in minde, appease your playntes, wipe away your teares, shewe your contenaunce ioyfull, aud setting aside all care, put on good corage, and repose in me all your anguish and trouble. For I doe promise you, and sweare by the fayth that I doe owe you, Madame, come whatsoeuer thing shall vnto me, I will deuise in practising your rest to begin mine owne sorow. And then you shall se how muche I am your frend, & that the wordes which I haue spoken do not procede els where, but from the desire that I haue to doe you seruice, seking al wayes possible your ad­uauncement.’ Adelasia at these last wordes felt such a motion in her minde, that much a doe she had for the exceding great ioy and pleasure she conceiued, to stay her soule from leaping forth of that corporall prison (like the spirite of that Romaine Lady which once left the body, to descende into the Elisien feldes, to vse the perfection of her ioye with the blessed soules there, when she saw her sonne retorne safe and sounde from the battaile of Thrasimene besides the lake of Peruse, where the Consul Flaminius was ouercome by Ha­niball) but in the ende, the hope to haue that which Radegonde had promised, made her to receyue heart againe, and to clepe her counseler, saying. ‘God forbid deare mother, that the thing you do for me, should re­bound to your mishap, or discontentation, sith the af­fection which you haue, consisteth in the only pity and [Page] conseruation of a pore afflicted mayden. And your de­sire tendeth to the deliuerance of the most passionate Princesse, that euer was borne of mother. And be­leue that Fortune wyll be so fauorable, that what mischief so euer should chaunce, you remayning with­out paine, I shall be she that alone shall beare the pe­nance. Wherfore once againe I besech you, (sayde she embracing Radegonde) to bring that to passe, wherof you giue such an assured hope. Care not you Madame sayd Radegonde, I trust within a while to make you proue the effecte of my promise. And will cause you to speake vnto him whom you desire so muche. Only be mery, and forget these straunge fashions, in tormen­ting your selfe so much before your maides, to the in­tent that, which hetherto hath bene kept secrete, may not be reueled to your great shame and hinderance, and to the vtter ruine & ouerthrowe of me.’ During all this time Alerane liued in despaire, & hardie coward­nesse, for although he sawe the amorous gestes of A­delasia, yet he durst fire no certayne iudgement of his owne satisfaction, althoughe hys hearte tolde hym, that he was her onely fauoured friende, and promy­sed him that, which almost he feared to thinke, which was to haue her one day for friende, if the name of spouse were refused. Thus tormented wyth ioye and displeasure, wandering betwene doubt, and assu­rance of that he hoped. The self same day that Adela­sia practised with Radegonde for the obtayning of her ioy, and secret ministerie of her Loue, he entred alone into a garden, into which the Princesse chambre had prospecte, and after he had walked there a good space in an Alley, viewing diligently the order of thé fruit­full trées of so diuers sortes, as there be varietie of co­lours, [Page 210] with in a faire meade, during the vedure of the spring time, and of so good and sauorous taste as the hearte of man coulde wyshe: He repaired vnder a Laurel trée, so well spredde and adorned with leaues, about which trée you might hane sene an infinit num­ber of Myrtle trées, of smell odoriferous and swéete, of Oringe trées laden wyth vnripe fruite, of pliable Mastickes and tender Tameriskes. And there he fet­ched his walkes along the thick & grene herbs, behol­ding the varietie of floures, which decked & beautified the place, wyth their liuely and naturall colours. He then rauished in this contemplation, remembring her which was the pleasure and torment of his minde, in sighing wise began to say. ‘O that the heauens be not propitious and fauourable to my indeuors. Sith that in the middes of my iolities, I fele a newe pleasaunt displeasure, which doth adnihilate all other solace, but that which I receyue throughe the Image paynted in my heart, of that diuine beautie, which is more variated in perfection of pleasures, than this paradise and delicious place, in varietie of enamell and payn­ting, although that nature and arte of man, haue workemanly trauailed, to declare and set forth their knowledge and diligence. Ah: Adelasia the fairest Lady of all faire, and most excellente Princesse of the earth: Is it not possible for me to féede my self so well of the viewe and contemplation of thy heauenly and Angelicall face, as I do of the sight of these faire and sundrie coloured floures? May it not be broughte to passe, that I may smell, that swete breath which respi­reth through thy delicate mouthe, béeing none other thing, than Baulme, Muske, and Aumbre, yea and that which is more precious, which for the raritie and [Page] valor hath no name euen as I doe smell the Roses. Pincks and Uiolets hanging ouer my head, franckly offering themselues into my handes? Ah: infortunat Alerane, there is no floure that ought to be so hande­led, nor sauor, the swetenesse whereof ought not to be sented without desert, merited before. Ah: Loue, Loue that thou hast fixed my minde vpon so highe thinges. Alas I feare an offence so daungerous, which in the ende will bréede my death. And yet I can not wyth­drawe my heart, from that smoke of Loue, although I would force my selfe to expell it from me. Alas I haue read of him so many times and haue heard talk of his force, that I am afrayd to borde him, and yet feare, I shall not escape his gulfe. Alas I knowe well it is he, of whome is engendred a litle mirth and laughing, after whiche doeth followe, a thousande teares, and weapings, which for a pleasure that passeth away so sone as a whirle winde, doth gyue vs ouer to greate repentance, the sorrow wherof endureth a long time, and sometimes, his bitternesse accompanieth vs euen to the graue. The pacients that be taynted with that amorous feuer, althoughe continually they dye, yet they can not wholy sée and perceiue for al that, the de­faut and lacke of their life, albeit they doe wish and desire it still. But alas what missehap is this that I do see the poyson, that causeth my mischief, and do know the way to remedie the same, and yet neuerthelesse I can not, or will not recouer the help. Did euer man heare a thing so strange, that a sick man seking help, and finding recouery, shoulde yet reiecte it?’ Saying so, he wepte and syghed so piteously, as a little chylde threated by his mother the nourice. Then roming vp and down vpon y^e grasse, he séemed rather to be a man [Page 211] straught and bounde wyth chaynes, than like one that had his wittes and vnderstanding. Afterwardes be­ing come againe to himselfe, he retourned to his first talke, saying: ‘But what? am I more wise, more con­stant and perfecte, than so many Emperors, Kinges, Princes, and greate Lordes, who notwithstanding their force, wisedome, or richesse, haue bene tributarie to loue? The tamer and subduer of monsters and Ti­rants, Hercules, (vanquished by the snares of loue) did not he handle the distaffe in stead of his mighty mace? The strong and inuincible Achilles, was not he sacri­ficed to the shadowe of Hector, vnder the color of loue, to celebrate holy mariage wyth Polixena, daughter to King Priamus? The great Dictator Iulius Caesar, the conqueror of so many people, Armies, Captaines and Kings, was ouercome with the beautie and good grace of Cleopatra Quene of Egipt. Augustus his successour attired like a woman, by a yeoman of his chamber, did he not take away Liuia from him that had first maried her? And that cōmon enemie of man, and of all curtesie, Claudius Nero, appeased yet some of his furie, for the loue of his Lady? What straunge things did the learned wise and vertuous Monarch Marcus Aurelius indure of his welbeloued Faustine? And that great captaine Marcus Antonius the very terror of the Romaine people, and the feare of strange and barbarous nations, did homage to the childe Cu­pido for the beautie of Quéene Cleopatra, which af­terwardes was the cause of his whole ouerthrowe. But what meane I to alledge & remember the num­ber of louers, being so infinite as they be? Wherfore haue y^e Poets in time past fayned in their learned and deuine bokes the loues, of Iupiter, Appollo, & Mars, [Page] but that euery man may knowe, the force of Loue to be so puissant that the Gods theselues haue felt his force to be inuincible & ineuitable? Ah: if sometimes a gentleman be excused for abassing himselfe to Loue a woman of base birth and bloude, why should I be accused or reprehended for loning the daughter of the chiefest Prince of Europe? Is it for the greatnesse of her house and antiquitie of her race? Why, that is al one betwene vs two, & toke his originall of the place, whereof at this day, my Father is the chiefe and prin­cipall. And admit that Adelasia be the daughter of an Emperoure: Ah, Loue hath no regarde to persons, houses, or riches, rather is he of greater commen­dation, whose enterpryses are moste famous, and haute gestes extende their flyght farre of. Nowe res­teth then to deuise meanes howe to make her vnder­stande my payne. For I am assured that she loueth me, sauing that her honoure and yong yeares doe let her, to make it appeare more manifest. But it is my propre duty to make request for the same, conside­ring her merites, and my small desertes in respect of her perfections. Ah: Alerane, thou must vnlose that tongue which so long time, hath ben tied vp, through to much folish and feareful shame. Set aside the feare of perill, whatsoeuer it be, for thou canst not imploy thy self more gloriously than vpon the pursuit of such a treasure, that séemeth to be reserued for the fame of thy minde so highly placed, which can not attayne greater perfections, except the heauens do frame in their impressions a seconde Adelasia (of whom I think dame nature her self hath broken the moulde) who can not shake of Alerane from the chiefest place, in whom he hath layd the foundation of his ioy that he hopeth to [Page 212] finde in loue.’ During these complaynts, Radegonde, that saw him rauished in that extasy, coniecturing the occasiō of his being alone, caused him to be called by a Page: who hearing that, was surprised with a newe feare intermixt with a secret pleasure, knowing very wel, that she being the gouernesse of his Lady, vnder­stode y^e greatest priuities of her hart, hoping also that she brought him gladsome newes, and setting a good chere vpon his face all mated and confused for trou­bles past, he repayred to the Lady the messanger, who was no lesse ashamed, for the tale that she must tell, than he was afeard and dombe, by sight of her, whom he thought to bring, the arreste and determination, eyther of ioye or displeasure. After curtesie and wel­coms made betwene them, the Lady preambled a cer­tayne short discourse touching the matter, to doe the Saxon prince to vnderstand, the good wil & harty loue of Adelasia towarde him, praying him that the same might not be discouered, syth the honor of his Lady did consist in the secrecie therof, assuring him, that he was so in fauour with the Princesse, as any true and faythful louer could desire to be for his contētation. I leaue to your consideration, in what sodaine ioy Ale­rane was, hearing such gladsome newes which he lo­ked not for, & thought he was notable to render suffi­cient thankes to the messanger, and much lesse to ex­tolle the beauty and curtesie of his Lady, who wyth­out any of his merites done before, (as he thought) had him in so good remembraunce. Beséeching moreouer Redegonde, that she would in his name doe humble commendations to his Lady, and therewyth to con­firme her in the assurance of his perfect good wil, and immutable desire, euerlastingly at her commaunde­ment, [Page] onely praying her, that he might say vnto A­delasia, thrée words in secret, that she might perceyue his heart, and sée the affection, wherewith he desired to obey her all the dayes of his life. The messanger as­sured him of all that he required, and instructed hym what he had to doe, for the accomplishment of that he loked for, which was, that the nexte day at night, she would cause him to come into her Warderobe, which was adioyning to the Chamber of his Ladye, to the ende that when her maydes were abrode, he might re­paire to the place where he might easly visite his may­stresse, and say vnto her what he thought good. The compact thus made, the Lady retourned to the Prin­cesse, that wayted with good deuotion for the newes of her beloued. And hearing the report of Radegonde, she was not contented that she should make repetici­on of the same, twice or thrice, but a million of times and euen till night, that she slepte vpon that thought, with the greatest rest, that she had receyued in a long time before. The morrowe at the houre that Alerane should come, Adelasia fayning her selfe to be yll at ease, caused her maydes to goe to bed, making her a­lone to tarry with her: that was the messanger of her loue, who a little while after, went to séeke Alerane, which was a building of Castels in the ayre, fantasy­ing a thousand deuises in his minde: what might be­fall of that enterprise he went about: notwithstanding he was so blinded in folly, that without measuring the fault which he cōmitted, he thought vpon nothing but vpon the presente pleasure, which semed to him so great that the chamber wherein he was, was not suf­ficient to comprehende the glory of his good houre. But the Princesse on the other parte, felte a maruel­lous [Page 213] trouble in her minde, and almost repented, that she had so hardely made Alerane to come into a place vndecent for her honor, and at a time so inconuenient. Howebeit seing that the stone was throwen, she pur­posed not to pretermitte the occasion, whiche being balde can not easely be gotten agayne, if she be once let slip. And whiles she trauailed in these meditations and discoursed vpon that she had to doe, Radegonde came in leading Alerane by the hande, whom she pre­sented to the Princesse, saying to her with a very good grace. ‘Madame, I deliuer you this prisoner, whome euen now I found here, betwene your chambre and that wherin your maydes do lye: now consider what you haue to do.’ Alerane in the meane time, was fallen downe vpon his knees before his sainct, wholly bente to contemplate, her excellent beauty and good grace, which made him as dumbe as an Image. She like­wise beholding him that made her thus to erre in her honestie, forced throughe shame and loue, coulde not for beare to beholde him (the power of her minde whol­ly transferred into her eyes, that then yelded conten­tation of her heart which she so long time desired. In the ende Alerane taking the hands of Adelasia, many times did kisse them, then receyuing corage, he brake of that long silence and beganne to say thus. ‘I neuer thought (Madame) that the sight of a thing so long de­sired, had bene of such effect, y^t it would haue ranished both the mind and body, of their propre duties and na­turall actions, if nowe I had not proued it, in behol­ding, the diuinitie of your beauty most excellent. And truely Madame Radegonde did rightly terme this place here, my prison, considering that of long time I haue partly lost this my liberty, of the which I féele [Page] now an intire alienatiō. Of one thing sure I am, that being your prisoner, as I am in dede, I may make my vaunt and boaste, that I am lodged in the fairest and pleasauntest prison, that a man can wishe and desire. For which cause Madame, be well aduised, howe you doe vse and entreat your captiue and slaue, that hum­bly maketh peticion vnto you, to haue pitie vpon hys weakenesse, which he wyll accepte a grace vnspeake­able, if of your accustomed goodnesse, it may please you to receyue him for yours, for that from hence­forth, he voweth and consecrateth his life, goods, and honour, to your commaundemente and seruice.’ And saying so, his stomake panted with continuall sighes, and from his eyes distilled a riuer of teares, the better to expresse and declare the secret force, that made him to vtter these wordes. Which was the cause that A­delasia embracing him very louingly, sayde vnto him. ‘I know not (Lord Alerane) what prison that is, where the prisoner is in better case, than the prison of whom he termeth himselfe to be the slaue, considering that I fele in me such a losse of my selfe, that I can not tell whether to goe and withdrawe me, but euen to him that craueth the same fredome, whereof I my selfe do make requeste. Alas my right welbeloued Alerane, into what extremitie am I brought, the verye great loue that I beare you, forceth me to forget my duety, and the lihneage wherof I come, yea and mine honor, which is more to be estemed thā all the rest. But I re­pose in you such affiance, that you will not deceiue, so simple a Lady as I am, vtterly voyd of guile & deceyt. Who, if you be tormented, liueth not without griefe and sorrowe, altogether lyke vnto yours. If you doe sigh, I am wholly spent and consumed in teares. Doe [Page 214] you desire reffe? Alas: I wishe and craue the same vnto vs both, that be now sundred and deuided, which cā not be aquired, except they be vnited that were be­fore wholly separated. Radegonde interrupting their talke, smylingly sayde. And howe can this separation be vnited, where the parties them selues doe liue in that disiunction? You say true Madam, sayd Alerane, for, the perfection of vnitie, consisteth in the conioy­ning of that which is separated. Wherfore (Madame sayde he to Adelasia) I humbly besech you, aswell for your comfort as my rest, not to suffer this diuision to be so long, sith the outwarde bonde shall combine the same so inwardely, that very death shall not be able hereafter to deface or deminishe the same. If I may assure my self sayd she of your fidelitie, it so may come to passe, that I woulde giue you a very great liberty, but hearing tel so many tymes of the inconstancy and fickle trust of men, I will be contented with my first fault, wythout adding anye further aggrauation, to fasten and binde that, which specially I esteme in my self. Alas Madame sayde Alerane, do you thinke, that the prouf of my fidelitie may receiue greater perfecti­on, by enioying the pleasures of that I hope for, than it doth alredy? No no Madame, therfore assure your selfe of my heart and stedfastnesse. For soner shall my body fayle, than default in me to serue and honor you, if not according to the worthinesse of your estate, yet by all meanes, so farre as my power shal extend. And can you finde in your hart to conceiue, that your Ale­rane would play y^e traytor with her, for whose seruice he feareth not to aduenture a thousād liues if god had giuē him so many?’ Adelasia besprent al with teares, was in an extasy or traūce. Which Alerane perceuing [Page] and sawe that Radegonde was gone into the warde­robe, to suffer them to talke their fil: he began to take possession of her mouthe, redoubling kisse vpon kisse, sometymes washed wyth teares, sometyme dryed vp, with frequent vse thereof, leauing neyther eye nor cheke vnkissed: and seing the pacience of his Ladye, he seased vpon her white, harde, and round breastes, whose pappes with sighes moued and remoued, yel­ding a certayne desire for Alerane to passe further. Which Adelasia perceyuing, dissembling a swete an­ger and such a chafe as did rather accende the flames of the amorous Prince, than wyth moyst licor extin­guish the same, and making him to gyue ouer his en­terprise she fiercely sayde vnto him. ‘Howe nowe (Sir Alerane) how dare you thus malapertly abuse this my secrete friendship, in suffering you to come so frankly into my chamber. Thinke not that although I haue vsed you this familiarly, that I can be able to suffer you, to attempt any further. For (if God be fauou­rable to conserue me in my right wittes) neuer man shall haue that aduauntage, to gather the floure of my virginitie, but he with whome I shal be ioyned in mariage. Otherwise I shal be vnworthy, both of my honorable state, and also of that man whatsoeuer he be, worthy of estimation and preferment. So I thinke to Madame, answered Alerane. For if it would please you to doe me that honor, to receiue me for your faith­ful and loyall espouse, I sweare vnto you by him that séeth and heareth al things, that neuer any other shall be maystresse of Aleranes hart, but the faire princesse Adelasia.’ She that asked no better thing, after much talke betwene them, in the ende condescended, that Alerane shoulde giue his fayth to marrie her, and to [Page 215] conuey her out of the courte, till the Emperoure were appeased for their fault committed. Thus had the Saxon Prince, the full possession of his desires, and caried away the pray so long time sought for. Rade­gonde was she, that receyued the othes of their es­pousalles, and capitulated the articles of their secrete mariage. And after the determination made of their flying away, and a day therevnto appoynted, the two Louers entred the campe, to make proufe by combate of their hardinesse, and assaye of their trauaile in time to come, wherein they thought for euer to perseuere & continue. Being a bedde then together, they did con­sūmate, the band that straightly doth binde the hearts of louers together, intiring the vnion diuided, which before they thought imperfect and could not be accom­plished but by inwarde affections of the minde. And God knoweth how this new maried couple vsed their mutual contentation: But sure it is, that they conti­nued together vntil the morning had vncouered from the night her darknes, euen to y^e poynt of day, that A­lerane was somoned by Radegonde to depart, who to conclude his former ioy, very louingly kissed his new wife and sayde vnto her. ‘Madame, the felicitie that I fele now, by enioying that which vniteth me so nerely vnto you, which is indissoluble and neuer hereafter to be brokē, semeth so great that no perill whatsoeuer doth happen, can make me forget the least part of my ioy. So it is that seing the state of our present affaires, and fearing the daunger that may chaunce, I wil for this time take my leaue of you, and goe about to put the same in order, that no negligence may flacke your ioye and desired pleasure.’ ‘Ah: sir (sayde she) that my heart forethinketh both the best and worste of our in­tended [Page] enterprise. But to the intente we may proue our fortune, by whose conduction we must passe, I do submit my selfe, to the wisdome of your minde, and to the good successe that hetherto hath accōpained al your indeuours.’ And then they kissed and embraced againe, drinking vp one anothers teares, which distilled from them in such abundance. Thus Alerane departed frō his Ladies chamber, & went home to his owne house, where he solde all his goodes at small price, making men to vnderstand, that he would employ the money otherwise, in things wherof he hoped to recouer grea­ter gaine. With that money he bought precious sto­nes, and pretie Iewels, that he might not be burdened with cariage of to much gold, or other money, and thē he put his males and bougets in readinesse to go with his wife in the habite and apparel of pilgrimes, faire and softely a foote, that they might not be discouered. Which was done in the night. The Princesse faining her selfe to be sicke, made her maydes to withdrawe themselues into their chamber, and then she went in to the garden where Alerane first made his plaintes, as you haue heard before: in which place her husband taried for her. God knoweth whether they renewed their pastime begonne the day of their mariage, but fearing to be taken, they beganne to playe the come­die, the actes whereof were very long and the scrolle of their miseries to prolixe to cary, before they came to the Catastrope and ende of their Comicall action. For leauing their sumptuous and riche apparell, they clo­thed themselues wyth Pilgrimes attire, taking the Skallop shell and staffe, like to them that make their Pilgrimage to S. Iames in Gallisia. The Princesse toke the personage of a yong Wench, ruffing her [Page 216] heare which she had in time passe so carefully kempt, curled, and trimmed wyth golde and iewels of inesti­mable value, wherin consisteth the chiefest grace tou­ching the beauty & ornament of the woman. Who is able to deny, but that this naturall humour and passi­on, borne so sone as we, which they call Loue, is not a certayne essence and being, the force & vigor wherof, is not able to abide cōparison. Is it no small matter, that by the only instinction of Loues force, the daugh­ter of so great a Prince, as the Emperour of the Ro­maines was, should wander like a vagabonde in dis­sembled apparell, and poorely clothed, to experiment and proue the long trauayle of iorneys, the intempe­rature of the ayre, the hazarde to méete wyth so many théeues and murderers, which lay in wayte in all pla­ces for pore passengers, and moreouer, to féele the bit­ternesse of trauayle, neuer tasted before, the rage of hunger, the intollerable alteration of thirst, the heate of hote sommer, the coldenesse of winters yee, subiect to raines, & stormy blasts: doth it not plainly demon­strate that Loue hath either a greater perfection, than other passions, or else that they which fele that altera­tion, be out of the number of reasonable men, endued with the brightnesse of that noble quality? This faire Lady recouering the fieldes wyth her husbande, with determination to take their flyght into Italie, was more ioyefull, freshe, and lustye, than when she ly­ued at ease amongs the delicates and pleasures, that she tasted in her fathers court. Sée howe fortune and loue were contented to be blinde, closing vp the eyes of them, that follow their trace, & subdue themselues to their edictes, and vnstable disposition. And truely this rage of Loue was y^e only meane to dulcorate and [Page] make swete the bytter galle of griefe which those two louers felte, defatigated almost with tedious trauaile iudging theire wearinesse a pastime and pleasure, be­ing guided by that vnconstante captayne, which ma­keth dolts and foles wise men, emboldeneth the weak hearted and cowardes, fortifieth the séeble, and to be shorte, vntieth the pursses and bagges of couetous Carles, and miserable Misers. Now whiles our faire pilgrimes, without any vowed deuocion, were abrode at their pleasures (being wery with the way, they had trauayled all nighte) the morrowe after theire de­parture, all the Emperoures house was in a greate hurlye burlye and stirre, for the absence of Adelasia. The wayting maydes cryed out, and raged wythout measure, with suche shrichinges, that the Emperour moued wyth pytie, althoughe his griefe and anger was greate, yet he caused euery place there aboutes to be searched, and sought, but all that laboure was in vayne. In the ende, perceyuing the absence of Alerane, suspected that it was be, which had stolen a­way his faire Daughter, and brought him into suche a passion and frensie, that he was like to runne out of his wittes and transgresse the boundes of Reason. ‘Ah traytour sayde the good Prince. Is this the guerdon of good turnes, bestowed vpon thée, and of the honour thou hast receiued in my company? Do not thinke to escape scot frée thus wythoute the rigorous iustice of a father, deserued by disobedience, and of a Prince, a­gainst whome his subiect hath committed villany. Ye God giue me life, I wil take such order, that the poste­ritie shal take example by that iust vengeance which I hope to take of thée (arrant theefe, & despoyler of my honor and consolation.) And thou vnkinde daughter [Page 217] shalt smartely féele the wrong done to thy kinde, and welbeloued father, who thinketh to prouide for thée, more honorably than thy disloyaltie and incontinen­cie, so farre as I sée, doe merite and deserue, sith that without my leaue, and thy vocation, thou hast gotten thée a husband worthy of thy folly, with whom I hope to make thée vnderstande thy fault, & my displeasure which I receiue through thy shameful act, so reproch­full, specially in her, which is the daughter of suche a father as I am, and descendeth of the most royall race in al Europe.’ Many other things the Emperor sayde, in great rage and furie. And in the ende com­maunded, that one should goe into Saxon, to knowe if Alerane had conueied his stolen daughter thither: but he could bring no newes at al from thence. He assayed then if he could learne any tidings of them by other meanes, causing by sound of Trumpet to be cryed in all the Townes confining that if any person coulde bring him worde, or doe him to vnderstande certayne and sure newes of those two fugitiues, he would giue them that, wherewith they should be contented all the dayes of their lyfe. But he wanne so muche by this third serche, as he did by y^e first two. Which thing the Maiestie of God, semed to permit and suffer aswel for the happy successe that chaunced afterwardes, as for the punishing of the rashe enterprise of two Louers, which liued not very long in prosperitie and ioy, but that they felte the hand of God, who sometime suffe­reth the faithfull to fall, to make him acknowledge his imbecillitye, to the ende he maye confesse, that al health, sustenance, rest, and comfort, is to be attended and loked for at the handes of God. When Alerane and his Lady were gone out of a city within the Em­perours [Page] lande called Hispourg, being come into cer­tain wilde and desert places, they fel into the lapse of certaine theues which stripped Alerane into his shirt, and had done asmuch to y^e poore Princesse, if certaine Marchauntes, had not come betwene, which caused the théeues to retourne. Alerane was succoured with some clothes to couer his body, and releued with a lit­tle sume of money, which being spēt, those two Kings children were constrained to begge, and aske for gods sake reliefe to sustayne their infortunate life. Which distresse was so difficulte for Alerane to disgest, that he was like (standing vpon his féete) to die for sorrowe and want, not so muche for the aduersitie wherevnto he was brought through his owne fault, as for the pi­tie that he had vpon his deare beloued Lady, whome he sawe in so lamentable state, and knewe that she might attayne to her auncient dignitie and honour a­gaine, if she listed to prefer reward or prise before his lyfe, for which she spared not the very laste droppe of her bloude. She knowing the dolor and anguish that her husband endured, comforted him very wisely with ioyful countenance, saying. ‘How now deare husband, think you that fortune is or ought to be still fauoura­ble to Princes and great Lordes? Do you not know that greate hulkes and shyppes doe souer perishe and drown in maine seas and riuers amiddes the raging waues and surges, than in narrow flouds and brokes, where the water is still and calme? Doe you not sée greate trées, whose toppes doe rise alofte, aboue the highe hilles and stepe mountaines, soner shaken and tossed with blustering windie blastes, than those that be planted, in fertile dales and lowe valleys? Haue you forgotten so many histories, by you perused and [Page 218] read with so great delight, when you were in the Em­perours court? Doe not they describe the chaunge of Monarches, the ruine of houses, the destruction of one Realme acquited, by the establishing and raygne of another? What Prince, Monarche, or Captaine was euer so happie, that hath not felt some griefe and misfortune? Alas swéete heart, thinke that God doth chastise vs with his roddes of tribulation, to make vs to knowe him: but in the meane tyme, he kepeth for vs a better fortune that we loke not for. Moreouer he neuer forsaketh them which with a good heart, doe goe vnto him, hauing their affiance in his great goodnesse and infinite mercy.’ Alerane hearing the wise talke of his wife, could not forbeare wéeping, and sighing answered her in this maner. ‘Ah Lady, in beauty and wisedome incōparable, it is not my fortune that cau­seth my minde to wander and stray from the siege of constancie, knowing well the qualities and number of Fortunes snares, and howe ielous she is of hu­maine ioy and felicitie. I am not ignorant that she layeth her ambushes, and doth beset the endeuors, so­ner of personages that be noble and of highe paren­tage, than of those whose heartes be base and vna­ble, and their victories not able to attayne to any iote of honour and fame. But (good God) sayde he (em­bracing his deare beloued spouse) it is for you Ma­ame, that I endure tormente, hauing made you to abandon the pompe of your estate, and bereued from you a King to be your husbande, causing you thus to féele an horrible and newe kinde of punnishment, hunger & famine (I meane) in the middes of these de­serts and wilde places, and therewithall haue ioyned you in company with an infortunate companiō, who [Page] for comforte and solace, ministreth teares and sighes. O God most high and puissant, howe profounde and darke are thy iudgements, and how righteous is thy iustice. I acknowledge mine offence to be the cause of thine anger, and originall of our trespasse, and that this payne chaunceth to vs for our sinnes, which haue so wickedly betrayed, the best Prince of the worlde, and forsaken the company of him, at whose bountifull handes, I haue receyued, better intertaynment and greater honor, than I deserued. Ah Emperor Otho, that thou art so well reuenged nowe, with cowardly fraude and deceipt committed, against thée by Alerane of Saxone, taking away her from thée, which was the staffe & future staye of thy reuerende age.’ And as he was perseuering in this talke, Adelasia (seing him in that contemplation) plucked him by the arme say­ing. ‘Sir it is time to consider our owne affaires, we haue trauayled I cannot tell howe farre without rest, me thinke (our fortune being no better) y^t we ought to remaine in some place attending for the grace and mercy of God, who (I hope) will not fosake vs.’ They were then in Liguria in the deserts, betwene Ast and Sauonne, a coūtrey in y^e time wel peopled, & furnished with huge and darke forests, garnished with many trées, great & high. By the aduise then of Adelasia, y^e Saxon Prince forced by necessity (the maystresse of all artes) retiered into those forestes where he practised y^e occupation of a Collier, and some sayde, that nature taught him, the order how to cut his woodde, to make ready his pittes, and to knowe the season and time when his coales were burned ynough. Great paines he susteyned about his businesse, and went himselfe to sell his coales, which he bare vpō his shoulders, to [Page 219] the next market Townes, till he had gayned so much as bought him an asse, where with he dayly trauai­led to vtter his coales, and other deuises which néede had forced him to learne. In this time Adelasia was deliuered of a goodly childe, whome they named Wil­liam. And afterwardes, by succession of time, she bare vj. sonnes more. For they dwelt almost .xviij. or .xx. yeares in that pore and miserable life, and had dressed vp a little lodging within a caue, that was faire and brode, wherin very trimly and well they had bestow­ed themselues. When the eldest of their sonnes was growen to the stature of a pretie stripling, the father sent him sometime to Sauonne, and sometime to Ast, to sell their litle marchandise, for reliefe of their hous­hold. But the boy, whose bloude coulde not conceale and hide y^e nobilitie of his birth, hauing one day solde certaine burdens & loades of woode and coale: bought with that money a faire yong hauke, which he caried vnto his father. The good man gently rebuked his sonne, and sayd, that such game belonged not to men of their degrée, and that they had much a doe to liue, without employing their money vpon suche trifles, Long time after, William being arriued to the age of xvi. yeares, went to Sauonne, to sell certaine ware by his fathers commaundement, and with the money he bought a very sayre sworde, which when his father fawe with teares in his eyes, he went aside and sayde to himself. ‘Ah vnfortunate ladde, that thy harde luck, should do thée this great wrong: truely neyther the pouertie of thy parents, nor the place of thy bringing vp, can deface in thée, the secret shyning brightnesse, of thine Auncestors vertue, nor the prediction of thy corage and manhode in tune to come, if God giue thée [Page] grace to aduaunce thée, to the seruice of some noble prince.’ Notwithstanding for that time he ceassed not sharply to rebuke and threaten his sonne, in suche wise that the yong man hauing a heart greater than his force, determined secretely to depart from his pa­rents. Now fortune chaunced so well and apt for his purpose, that then & at the very same time, the Hon­garians were entred Italy to spoile and rob the coun­try, against whom the Emperor marched with great expedition, wyth an huge and goodly army, of pur­pose to force them to leaue his land in peace. William hauing knowledge hereof, proceded towarde the Em­perours campe, where he shewed in déede great hope (being of so small yeares) of his future valiance, and prowesse, by y^e dedes of armes that he did, during that warre. Which ended and the enemy put to flight, the Emperor went into Prouance, to put in order his af­faires in his realme of Arles, which then was subiect to the Empire. Afterwards he retired into Italy with deliberation to seiorne at Sauonne, for a certayn time, which dyspleased William nothing at all, bycause he should remaine harde by his Parentes, who were ve­ry carefull for his well doing, vtterly ignorant where he was become. And notwithstanding, a hope (what I know not) made them expect of their sonne, some good fortune in time to come, who was now growen great and of goodly perfection, one of the most valiant soul­diours, that were in the wages and seruice of his Ma­iestie. Which very brauely he declared in a combate, that he fought man to man with an Almaine souldior that was hardy, big made, & feared of all men, whom neuerthelesse he ouercame in the presence of the Em­peror his graundfather. Who, I knowe not by what [Page 220] naturall inclamation, dayely fixed his eye vpon that yong Champion, & began to beare him more good wil than any other in his courte, which was an occasion, that an auncient Gentleman, seruing in the Princes court, ftedfastly beholding the face, behauiour & coun­tenance of William, semed to sée a picture of the Em­peror when he was of his age, which was more exact­ly viewed by diuers other, that were broughte vp in their youth with Otho. Wherof being aduertised, he caused the yong man to be called forth, of whome he demaunded the names of his Parentes, and the place where he was borne. William that was no lesse curte­ous, humble and wel manered, than wise, valiant and hardy, kneled before the Emperor with a stout coun­tenance, resembling the nobilitie of his Auncestours: answered. ‘Most sacred and renowmed Emperor, I haue nothing whereof to render thankes to fortune, but for the honour, that your maiestie hath done vnto me, to receiue me into your noble seruice. For the for­tune and condition of my parentes, be so base, that I blushe for shame to declare them vnto you. Howebeit being your humble seruant, and hauing receyued fa­uour of your Maiestie, not commonly employed, your commaundemente to tell you what I am, I will ac­complish aswel for my bounden duty, wherwith I am tied to your maiestie, as to sastisfie that which it plea­seth you to commaunde me. Be it knowen therefore vnto your Maiestie, that I am the sonne of two poore Almaines, who flying their owne country, withdrew themselues into the deserts of Sauonne, where (to be­guile their hard fortune) they make coales, & sel them, to sustaine and relieue their miserable life: In which exercise I spent al my childehode, although it were to [Page] my great sorrowe. For my heart thought (Sir) that a state so vile, was vnworthy of my coragious minde, which dayly aspired to greater thinges, and leauing my father and mother, I am come to your seruice, to learne chiualry and vse of armes, and (mine obedience saued to your maiestie) to finde a waye to illustrate the base and obscure education, wherein my parents haue brought me vp.’ The Emperor seing the curte­ous behauiour of the yong mā, by this wise answere, remembring the similitude of his face, which almost resembled them both, suspected that he was the sonne of Alerane and of his daughter Adelasia, who for feare to be knowen, made themselues Citizens of those de­serts, albeit that William had tolde him other names, and not the proper appellations of his father and mo­ther. For which cause his heart began to trobbe, and felt a desire to sée his daughter, and to cherish her with like affection, as though he had neuer conceyued of­fence and displeasure. He caused then to be called vn­to him a gentleman, the nere kinsman of Alerane, to whom he sayde with merie countenaunce and ioyful there. ‘You doe knowe as I thinke, the wronge and displeasure that your cosin Alerane hath done me, by the rape and robbery, committed vpon the person of my daughter: you are not ignoraunt also of the re­proche wherewith he hath defiled al your house, com­mitted a felonie so abhominable in my court, and a­gainst mine owne person, which am his soueraigne Lorde. Notwithstanding sith it is the force of Loue, that made me forget him til this time, rather than de­sire of displeasure, I am very desirous to sée him, and to accept him for my sonne in law, and good kinsman, very willing to aduaunce him to that estate in my [Page 221] house, which his degrée and bloude doe deserue. I tell you not this without speciall purpose. For this yong souldiour, which this day so valiantly and with such dexteritie vanquished his aduersary, by the consent of al men, which haue knowen me from my youth, doth represent so well my figure and lineaments of face, which I had whē I was of his age, that I am persua­ded, and doe stedfastly beleue, that he is my Neuew, the sonne of your cosin Alerane and my daughter A­delasia. And therfore I will haue you to goe with this yong man, into the place where he shall bring you, and to sée them that be his parents, bycause I purpose to doe them good, if they be other, than those whom I take them. But if they be those two that I so greatly desire to sée, doe me so much pleasure as I may satis­fie my heart with that contentation, swearing vnto you by the crowne of my Empire, that I will doe no worse to them, nor otherwise vse them, than mine owne proper person.’ The gentleman hearing the lo­uing and gentle tearmes of the Emperor, sayde vnto him. ‘Ah Sir I render humble thanks vnto your Ma­iestie, for the pitie that you haue, vpon our dishonored race and ligneage of Saxone, dedecorated and blemi­shed through Aleranes trespasse against you. I praye to God to recompence it (we being vnable) and to giue you the ioy that you desire, and to me the grace that I may doe some agreable seruice both in this and in al other things. I am readie (Sir) not onely to goe seke my cosin, (if it be he that you thinke it is) to carry vnto him those beneficial newes which your Maiestie hath promised by worde, but rather to render him in­to your handes, that you may take reuengement vp­on him for the iniurie that he hath done to the whole [Page] Empire. No no sayde the Emperour, the desired time of reuengement is past, and my malice agaynst Ale­rane hath vomited his gal. If in time past I haue thrif­ted to pursue the ruine and ouerthrowe of those two offenders, nowe I goe about to foresée and séeke their aduauncement and quiet, considering the long pe­naunce they haue taken for their faulte, and the fruite that I see before mine eyes, which is such that it may by the smell and fragrant odour thereof, supporte the weakenesse and debilitie of my olde yeares, and con­straineth me (by y^e vertue therof) to haue pitie vpon his parentes, which (through their owne ouerthrow) haue almost vtterly consumed me.’ Those wordes ended the good Prince gaue euident testimony of desire to sée his only daughter, by the liuely colour that rose in his face, and by certaine teares rūning downe along his heard, y^t began to ware graye. Then he caused Willi­am to come before him, and commaunded him to con­dude the gentleman, to that part of the forest, where his father dwelled. Wherevnto the yong man readily and with al his heart obeyed. Thus the Lord Gunfort (for so was Aleranes cosin called) accompanied with his little cosin, and many other gentlemen, wente to­ward the place, where the Colliar Princes remained. And when they were néere the craggie caue, the lod­ging of Alerane: the whole company lighted of their horse, and espied him busie about the lading of his coales to sende to Ast. For the arriuall of the Em­peror to Sauonne, stayed Alerane from going thither himself, by reason his conscience stil grudged, for his fault committed against him. Alerane seing this good­ly company, was abashed, as though hornes had so­denly growen out of his head, and yet the sight of his [Page 222] sonne richely furnished, and in the company of Gun­fort his cosin, did more astonne him. For he suspected incontinently that he was dyscouered, and that the Emperour had sent for him, to be reuenged of y^e fault so long time committed. And as he had imagined di­uers things vpon his hard fortune, w^tin his fansy: His sonne came to embrace him vpon his knées, & to kisse his hands, with an honest and hūble reuerence, saying to Gunfort. ‘Sir, this is he of whom I told the Empe­ror, & of him I toke my being: This is my father.’ All this while the good father embraced his sonne very hard, and wéeping for extreame ioy, sayd vnto him. ‘A­las my sonne, if thy comming be so happy vnto me as it is ioyfull, yf thy newes be good & prosperous, which thou bringest: thou doest reuiue thy father halfe dead, and from lamentable dispaire, thou doest replenish and fill him with such hope, that one day shall be the staye of his age, and the recouery of his greatest losses.’ The sonne not able to abide the discourse of his parents af­faires, could not comprehend any thing at the pitiful meting: but stode still so astonned, as though he had bene fallen from the cloudes. Now during this time, that the father and the sonne thus welcomed one ano­ther: Gunfort toke hede to all the countenaunce and gestures of Alerane. There was no part of y^e Colliers body that he forgat to viewe: and yet remembring the voyce of his cosin, and séeing a wound that he had in his face, was sure that it was he. And then with hys armes stretched forthe he came to clepe. Alerane about the necke, whom he made to loke redde with his warme teares, saying. ‘Ah: Alerane, the presente torment now, but in time past, y^e pleasaunt rest, of our race. What Eclipse hath so long obseured the shyning [Page] sunne of thy valiant prowesse? Why hast thou cōcealed so long time, thy place of retire frō him, which desired so much thine aduaūcement? Hast thou y^e heart to sée the teares of thy cosin Gunfort running downe from his eyes vpon thy necke, & his armes embracing thée with such loue and amitie, that he cannot receyue the like, except he be something moued by thée, in séeing thy louing entertaynement? Wilt thou deny that, which I knowe, by a certayne instincte and naturall agrement, which is, that thou art Alerane the sonne of the duke of Saxone, and so renowmed through out al Germany? Doest thou pretēd (through thine owne misfortune so rooted in thy heart by liuing in these wildernesse) to depriue thy sonne of the honor, which the heauens and his good fortune haue prepared for him? Ah cruell and pitilesse father, to suffer thy pro­genie to be buried in the tombe of obliuion, with eter­nall reproche. O vnkinde kinsman toward thy kind­red, of whome thou makest so smal accompt, that wilt not vouchsafe to speake to thy cosin Gunfort, that is come hither for thy comfort, and the aduaūcement of thy familie.’ Alerane sore ashamed, aswell for the re­membrance of his auncient fault, as to sée himself in so pore estate before the Emperours gallants, answe­red Gunfort, saying. ‘My Lorde and cosin, I beseche you to beleue, that want of desire to make my com­playnt vnto you, and lacke of curtesie to entertayne you, haue not made me to forget my duety towardes you, being aswel my nere kinsman, as suche a one to whome I haue done wrong and very great iniury, by offending y^e Emperour. But you doe know of what puissance the prickes of conscience bé, and with what worme she gnaweth the hearte of them, which féele [Page 223] themselues culpable of crime. I am (as you sayde) the present missehap of our house, for the opinion that the Emperour hath conceiued of my folly, and shal be the rest (if you will doe me so much pleasure to ridde me of this miserable life) both of you and of the minde of a father iustly displeased against hys daughter, and the quiet of a Prince offended with his subiect. For I sweare vnto you by my faith, that I neuer so muche desired lyfe, as I now doe couet death, for that I am assured, that I being dead, my pore companion and welbeloued wife, shall liue at her ease, enioying the presence and good grace of her father. What meane you so to say, answered Gunfort. The Emperour is so well pleased & appeased, that he hath sworne vnto me to receiue you as his sonne in lawe, and my Lady your wife as hys deare beloued daughter, whome I pray you to cause to come before vs, or to signify vnto vs where she is, that I may do reuerence vnto her as to my Princesse & soueraigne Lady.’ William was all amased, and almost besides himselfe, hearing this dis­course, and thought he was eyther in a dreame or else inchaunted, till that Alerane called his wife by her proper name, who was so appalled to heare the word of Adelasia, that her hart was sodainly attached with terror and feare, when she sawe so great a company about her husband. And then her sonne came to do his duetie, not as to his mother onely, but as to y^e daugh­ter of an Emperour, & the wife of a Prince of Saxone. She agayne embraced and kyssed him, although she was surprised with feare & shame, and so moued with that sodaine sight, that she had much a doe to kepe her selfe from faynting and falling downe betwene the armes of her sonne, and thought that she had passed [Page] the place where Gunfort was, who going towarde her, after his reuerence and dutie done, made her vn­derstand the charge he had, & the good will of the Em­peror, which determined to receyue her agayne with so good order and entertainment as might be deuised. Which earneste wordes made them to resolue vpon the prouse of fortune, and to credite the promises that Gunfort made them in the Emperours behalf. Thus they forsoke the caue, their coates and fornaces, to reenter their former delightes and pleasures. That night they lodged at a village not far frō the forrest; where they carried certayne dayes, to make apparell for these straunge Princes, and so well as they coulde to adorne and furnish Adelasia, (who being of the age almost of .xxxiiij. or .xxxv. yeares, yet manifested some parte of the perfection of that deuine beautie, and mo­dest grauity, which once made hir maruelous and sin­guler aboue all them that lyued in her dayes.) In the time that this ioly company had furnished and prepa­red themselues in readinesse, Gunfort sent a gentle­man of that troupe, toward the Emperour, to aduer­tise him of the successe of his iourney. Wherof he was exceding ioyful, and attended for the comming of his children, with purpose to entertayne them in louing & honorable wise. When al things were in readynesse and the traine of Adelasia in good order, according to the worthyuesse of the house whereof the came, they rode towarde Sauonne, which iourney séemed to them but a sport, for the pleasure mixt with compassiō that eche man conceyued, in the discourse y^e Alerane made vpon his misfortunes & chaunces, aswell in his iour­neys, as of his abode and continuance in the desertes. Which William calling to remembraunce, praysed [Page 224] God, & yelded him thankes, for that it had pleased him to inspire into his minde, y^e forsaking of his parentes, considering that the same only fault, was the cause of their restitution, and of his aduauncement and glory, being the sonne of such a father, and the neuewe of so great a Monarche. The fame of whose name made al men quake and tremble, and who then had cōmaun­ded al the troupe of the gentlemen of his court, to goe and seke the forlorne louers, so long time lost and vn­knowen. To be short, their entrie into Sauonne, was so royal and triumphant, as if the Emperour himself would haue receyued the honor of such estate, & pomp. Which he commaunded, to be done aswell for the ioy that he had recouered y^e thing, which he accompted lost, as to declare and acknowledge to euery wyght, that vertue can not make her self better knowen: than at that time, when the actions and dedes of great per­sonages be semblable in raritie & excellence, to their nobilitie. For a Prince is of greater dignitie and ad­miration, than he comonly sheweth himselfe, which can neuer enter into the head of the popular sorte, that déemeth the affections of other, according to their owne rude and beastely fansies. As the Gréeke Poet Euripides in his tragedie of Medea, doth say.

The Emperoure then hauing forgotten, or wisely dissembling that which he coulde not amende, met his daughter and sonne in law, at the Pallace gate, with so pleasant chéere and ioyfull countenance, as the like long time before he did not vse. Where Alerane and Adelasia being light of from their horse, came to kisse his hands (and both vpon their knées) began to frame an oration, for excuse of their fault, and to pray par­don of his Maiestie. The good Prince rauished with ioy, & satisfied with repentance, stopped their mouthes with swete kisses and hard embracinges. ‘O happy ill time (sayde he) and sorowfull ioy, which now bringeth to me a pleasure more great, than euer was my heauy displeasure. From whence commeth this my pleasant ioy? O well deuised flight, by the which I gaine that (by preseruing my losse once made and committed) which I neuer had: yf I may so say, considering the ornament of my house, and quietnesse of my lyfe. And saying so, he kissed & embraced his litle. Neuewes, and was lothe that Adelasia should make rehersal of other talke but of mirth and pleasure. For (sayde he) it suf­ficeth me that I haue ouerpassed and spent the grea­test parte of my lyfe in heauinesse, vtterly vnwilling nowe to renewe olde sores and woundes.’ Thus the mariage begon vnknowen & against the Emperours [Page 225] wil, was consummate & celebrated with great pompe and magniffcence, by his owne commaundement, in the Citie of Sauonne, where he made Sir William Knight, with his owne hand. Many goodly factes at the Tourney and Tilt were done and atchieued, wherat William almost euery day bare away the prise & victory, to the great pleasure of his father & contentation of his graundfather, who then made him Marques of Monferrat. To the second sonne of Alerane he gaue the Marquisat of Sauonne, with al the appurtenances and iurisdictions adioyning, of whome be descended the Marqueses of Caretto. The thirde he made Mar­ques of Saluce, the race of whom is to this day of good fame and nobilitie. Of the fourth sonne sprange out the originall of the house of Cera. The fift was Mar­ques of Incise, whose name and progeny liueth to this day. The sixt sōne did gouerne Pouzon. The seuenth was established Senior of Bosco, vnder the name and title of Marques. And Alerane was made and consti­tuted, ouerséer of the goods and dominions of his chil­dren, and the Emperours Lieutenaunt of his posses­sions which he had in Liguria. Thus the Emperour by moderating his passion, vanquished himselfe, and gaue example to the posteritie, to pursue y^e offence be­fore it doe take roote: but when the thing can not be corrected, to vse modestie and mercy which maketh kings to liue in peace, and their Empire in assurance. Hauing taken order with all his affaires in Italie, he toke leaue of his daughter and children, and retired into Almaigne. And Alerane liued honorable amōgs his people, was beloued of his father in lawe, and in good reputation and fame, arriued to olde yeares, still remembring that aduersitie ought not to bring vs to [Page] dispaire, nor prosperity, to insolencie or ill behauiour, and contempt of things that seme small and base, sith there is nothing vnder the heauens that is stable and sure. For he that of late was great and made all men to stoupe before him, is become altogether such a one as though he had neuer bene, and the pore humble man aduaunced to that estate, from whence the first did fal and was deposed, making lawes sometimes for him, vnder whom he liued a subiect. And behold of what force, the prouidence of God is, and what poyse hys balance doth con­tayne, and howe blame worthy they be that referre the effectes of that diuine coun­sell to the inconstant and mutable reuolucion of fortune, that is blind and vn­certaine.

The Duchesse of Sauoie
¶The .xlv. Nouell.

LOue commonly is counted the greatest passion, amongs all the most greuous, that ordinarily, do assault y^e spirites of men, which after it hath once taken hold of any gentle subiecte, followeth y^e nature of the corrupt humoure, of those that haue a feauer, which taking his beginning at the heart, disperseth it self incureably, through all the other sensible parts of the body: whereof this present historie giueth vs am­plie to vnderstande, being no lesse maruelous, than true. Those that haue read the auncient histories and Chronicles of Spaine, haue sene in diuers places the occasion of the cruell ennimitie, which raygned by the space of .xl. yeares, betwene the houses of Mendozza and Tolledo, families not only right noble and aun­cient, but also most abundant in riches, subiectes and seigniories of all the whole realme. It happened one [Page] day that their armies being redy to ioyne in battaile, the Lord Iohn of Mendozza chief of his army, a man much commended by al histories, had a widowe to his sister, a very deuout Lady, who after she vnderstode the heauy newes of that battayle, falling downe vp­on hee knées, prayed God incessauntly, that it woulde please him to reconcile the two families together, and to make an ende of so many mischiefes. And as she vnderstode that they were in the chiefest of the con­flict, and that thers were a great number slaine on both partes, she made a vowe to God, that if her bro­ther retorned victorious from y^e enterprise, she would make a voyage to Rome on foote. The ouerthrow fell after muche bloudshead, vpon them of Tolledo. Men­dozza brought away the victorie, with the lesse losse of his people. Wherof Isabell aduertised, declared vn­to her brother, the vowe that she had made. Which semed very straunge vnto him, specially howe she durst enterprise so long a voyage on fote, and thought to turne her purpose, howbeit, she was so importu­nate vpon him, that in the ende he gaue her leaue, with charge that she shoulde goe well accompanyed, and by small iourneyes, for respect of her health. The Lady Isabell being departed from Spaine, hauing tra­uersed the moūtaynes Pirtenees, passed by Fraunce, went ouer the Alpes, and came to Thurin, where the Duke of Sauoye had then for wife, a sister of the King of England, who was bruted to be the fairest creature of the weast partes of the worlde. For this canse, the Lady Isabell desired greatly, in passing by, to sée her, to knowe whether truth did aunswere the great re­nowme of her beautie. Wherin she had Fortune so fa­uorable, that entring into Thurin, she found the Du­chesse [Page 227] vpon her Coche, going abrode to take the ayre of the fields. Which the Lady Isabell vnderstanding, stayed to beholde her, being by fortune at that present at the dore of her Coche. And then with great ad­miration, considering the wonderfull beautie of that princesse, iudging her the chiefest of beautie of al those that she had euer séene, she spake somewhat loude in the Spanish tongue, to those of her companie, in this manner. ‘If God would haue permitted, that my bro­ther and this Princesse might haue married together, euery man might wel haue sayde, that there had bene mette the most excellent couple, for perpectiō of beau­tie, that were to be founde in all Europa.’ And her wordes in dede were true. For the Lorde Mendozza was euen one of the fairest Knights, that in his time was to be founde in al Spaine. The Duchesse who vn­derstode the Spanish tongue very well, passing forth, beheld all that company. And fayning not to vnder­stand those wordes, thought that she surely was some great Lady. Wherfore when she was a litle past her, she sayde to one of her Pages. ‘Mark whether that La­dy and her company goe to their lodging, and say vn­to her, that I desire her, (at my retourne) to come and sée me at my castell,’ which the Page did. So the Du­chesse walking a long the riuer of Poo, mused vpon the words spoken by y^e Spanish Lady, which made her not long to tarry there, but toke the way back againe to her Castell, where being arriued, she founde the Lady Isabell, who at the Duchesse request, attended her with her company. And after dutifull reuerence, the Duchesse with like gratulacion, receiued her very curteouslye, taking her a parte, and demaunding her, of what prouince of Spaine shee was, of what [Page] house, and what Fortune had brought her into that place. And then the Lady Isabell made her to vnder­stand, from the beginning, the occasion of her long voyage, & of what house she was. The Duchesse vn­derstanding her nobilitie, excused her selfe, for that she had not done her that honour which she deserued, imputing the fault vpon the ignorance that she had of her estate. And after diuers other curteous communi­cation, the Duchesse would néedes knowe whervnto the wordes tended that she had spoken of her, and of the beautie of her brother. The Spanish Lady some­what abashed, sayde vnto her. ‘Madame, yf I had kno­wen so muche of your skill in our tongue, as nowe I doe, I would haue bene well aduised, before I had so exalted the beauty of my brother, whose prayse had bene more commendable in the mouth of some other. Yet thus muche I dare affirme, (without affection be it spoken,) as they that knowe him can report, that he is one of the comliest gentlemen that Spaine hath bred these .xx. yeares. But of that which I haue spoken tou­ching your beautie, if I haue offended, muche a doe shall I haue to gette the same pardoned, bycause I cannot repent me, nor say otherwise, except I should speake contrarie to truth. And that durst I enterprise to be verified by your self, if it were possible that Na­ture for one quarter of one houre onely, had transpor­ted into some other, that which with right great won­der she sheweth now in you.’ Whervnto the Duchesse to thende she would séeme to excuse her prayse, answe­red with a litle shame fastnesse, which beautified much her liuely colour, saying: ‘Madame if you continue in these termes, you wil constraine me to think, that by changing of place, you haue also changed your iudge­ment. [Page 228] For I am one of the least to be commended for beautie of al this lande, or else, I wil beleue, that you, haue the beautie and valor of my Lorde your brother so printed in your minde, that all that, which presen­seth it self vnto you, hauing any apparance of beauty, you measure by the perfection of his.’ And at that in­stant the Lady Isabell, who thought that the Duchesse had taken in euill parte, the comparison that she had made of her and her brother, somwhat in choler and heate therewythal, sayde vnto her. ‘Madame, you shal pardon me if I haue so muche forgotten my selfe, to presume to compare your beautie to his. Whereof if he be to be commended, yet I may well be blamed, being his sister, to publish the same in an vnknowen place. But yet I am well assured, that when you shal speake, euen with his enemies, that yet besides his beautie, they will well assure him to be one of the gen­tlest and best condicioned gentlemen that liueth.’ The Duchesse seing her in these alterations, and so affected to the prayse of her brother, toke gret pleasure therin, and willingly would haue desired that she should haue passed further, were it not for feare to offend her, & to put her in a choler. And to thintent to turne her from that matter, she cōmaunded the table to be couered for supper, wher she caused her to be serued honorably, of all the most delicate & exquisite meates that were pos­sible to be gotten. Supper done, & the tables vncoue­red, after they had a little talked together, and that it was time to withdrawe thēselues, the Duchesse more to honor her, would that she should lodge in her owne chambre with her, where the Pilgrime (wearied with the waye) toke very good rest. But the Duchesse pric­ked with the straunge talk of the Lady Isabell, hauing [Page] a hammer working in her head, coulde not sléepe. And had so well the beautie of the vnknowen Knight gra­ued in the bottome of her heart, that thinking to close her eyes, she thought that he flewe continually before her like a certayne fansie or shadowe. In sorte, that to knowe further what he was, she would gladly haue made greater inquirie. Then sodaynly after a little shame and feare intremingled with a certayne wo­manhode long obserued by her, & therwithall y^e fidelity which she bare to the Duke her husband, presenting it self before her, she buried altogether her first coūsel which died & toke ende, euen so soue almost as it was borne. And so tossed with an infinite number of diuers thoughtes, passed the night, vntill the day beginning to lighten y^e world with his burning lampe, constray­ned her to rise. And then the Lady Isabell, ready to de­part, went to take leaue of the Duchesse, who willing­ly would haue wished that she had neuer séene her, for the newe flame that she felt at her heart. Neuerthe­lesse, dissembling her euill, not able to holde her any longer, made her to promise by othe, that at her re­torne form her voyage, she would repasse by Thurin, and after she had made her a very liberall offer of her goodes, taking her leaue, she left her to the tuicion of God. Certaine dayes after the departing of the spa­nish Lady, the Duchesse thinking to quench this new fier, the same began further to flame, and the more that hope failed her, the more did desire encrease in her. And after an infinite number of sundry cogitations, Loue got the victorie. And she resolued with her selfe in the ende, whatsoeuer might come therof, to comu­nicate her cause to one of her beloued damsels called Emilia, and to haue her aduise, in whome she wonted [Page 229] to repose her trust in all her secrete affaires, and cau­sing her to be called for secretly, she sayde vnto her. ‘E­milia, I beleue that if thou hast taken any good héede to myne auncient maner of behauiour, euer since my departure from England, thou hast knowen me to be the very ramper and refuge of all afflicted persons. But nowe my destenies be tourned contrarie. I haue nowe more néede of counsell than any other liuing creature. And hauing no person about me worthy to vnderstand my misfortune, my first and last refuge is to thée alone. Of whome I hope to receiue consolati­on in a matter which toucheth me no lesse than my lyfe and honour.’ And then the Duchesse declared vnto her priuily, that since the departing of the Lady Isabell she had had no reste in her minde, and howe she was enamoured of a Knight whome she neuer saw, whose beautie and good grace had touched her so néere, that being altogether vnable any longer to resist her mis­fortune, she knewe not to whome to haue recourse, but to the fidelitie of her counsell. Adding therevnto for conclusion, that she loued him not dishonestly, or for hope she had to satisfie any lasciuious appetite, but onely to haue a sight of him. Which (as she thought) should bring vnto her suche contentation, as there­by her griefe shoulde take ende. Emilia who euer lo­ued her maystresse as she did her owne hearte, had great compassion vpon her, when she vnderstode the light foundation of her straunge loue. Neuerthelesse desiring to please her euen to the last point of her lyfe, sayde vnto her. ‘Madame if it will please you to recre­ate your self from these your sorrowes, and to respite me onely two dayes, I hope to prouide by some good meanes that you shal shortly sée him, who vndeserued­ly [Page] doth worke you all this euill.’ The Duchesse nou­rished with this hope, desired her effectually to thinke vpon it: Promising vnto her, that if her words came to good effect she would make her suche recompence as she her selfe should confesse she had not done pleasure to an ingrate or vnthankful womā. Emilia which had the brute to be one of the most subtile and sharpe wit­ted dames of all Thurin, slept not during the tyme of her prescription. But after she had searched an infinit number of meanes to come to that which she desired, there was one that semed most expedient for that pur­pose and of least perill aboue other. And her tune of delay expired, she went to Madame the Duchesse, and sayed. ‘Madame, God knoweth howe many troubles my mynde hath sustayned, and howe muche I haue striued with myne owne conscience to satisfie your commaundement, neuerthelesse, after I had debated things so substantially as was possible, I could deuise nothing more worthie your contentacion, than that which I will nowe declare vnto you, if it will please you to heare me. Which to be short is, that for the exe­cution of this our enterprise, it behoueth you to fayne your selfe to be sicke, and to suffer your self to be tray­ned into suche maladies, as there shall rather appeare in you, token of death, than hope of lyfe. And be­ing brought into suche extremitie, you shall make a vowe (your health recouered) to goe within a certayne time to Sainct Iames on pilgrimage, which you may easely obtayne of the Duke your husband. And then may you make your voiage liberally with y^e Lady Isa­bell, who wil passe this way vpon her retourne, with­out discouering your affection vnto her, and will not [Page 230] fayle by reknowledging of the curtesie that you haue vsed towardes her in these partes, to conduct you by her brothers house, where you may sée him at your ease, that maketh you to suffer great torment. And I will aduertise you furthermore of one thing, which e­uer till this time I haue kept close. But for that we two togethers cannot without great difficulty accom­plishe our businesse, it hath séemed good vnto me to knowe of you, if you woulde that a third person shall be called therevnto, who is so much at my commaun­dement as I dare trust him like my self. It is Maister Fraunces Appian the Millanor, your Phisitian, who (to say the very truth vnto you) hath bene so affectio­ned to me, this yeare or two, that he hath not ceassed by all meanes possible, to wynne mée (but to honeste loue) for he pretendeth to marry me. And bycause that hitherto I haue made smal accompt of him, and haue not vsed any fauoure towardes him, nor good enter­taynment otherwise: I assure my self seing the great amitie that he beareth me, that if I did but fauora­bly behold him fyue or sixe times with plesaunt lokes, adding thervnto a few kisses, he would hazard a thou­sand lyues for my sake if he had them, to content me. And forasmuch as I know him to be a diligent man, learned, and of great reputation, and one that may stande vs to great steade in this businesse: I thought good not to cōceale or kepe from your knowledge my aduise herein.’ The Duchesse vnderstanding all this pretie discourse, so apte for her affections (rauished with great ioy) embraced hard Emilia, and sayd vnto her. ‘Emilia my deare friende, if thou diddest know in what wise I doe esteme thée, and what I meane in [Page] tyme to come, to bestow vpon thée, I am wel assured, albeit thou hast hitherto sufficiently shewed thy good will, yet thou wilt hereafter doe me great pleasure promising thée, by the fayth of a Princesse, that if our enterprise doe wel succéede, I wil not vse thée as a ser­uant, but as my kinswoman and y^e best beloued friend I haue. For I hold my self so satisfied wyth that thou hast sayd vnto me, that if Fortune be on our side, I sée no maner of impediment that may let our enterprise. Goe thy way & entertaine thy Phisitian, as thou thin­kest best, for it is very expedient that he be a party, and for y^e rest, let me alone. For neuer was ther any Lazar that better could dissemble his impotency, thā I know howe to counterfayt to be sicke.’ The Duchesse being departed from Emilia, began to plaine her selfe bitter­ly, fayning sometime to fele a certayne payne in her stomacke, sometyme to haue a disease in her head, in such sort, that after diuers womanly playntes (propre to those that fele themselues sicke) she was in the ende constrayned to lay her selfe downe, and knewe so wel how to dissemble her sickenesse, that (after she had cer­taine dayes kept her bed) there was much doubt of her health. And during this time Emilia had layed so ma­ny amorous baytes to féede her Phisitian, y^t he which knewe very wel the most happy remedies for the bo­dy, coulde not nowe finde any to heale the malady of his owne minde. Emilia hauing noseled Maister Ap­pian with amorous toyes, began to make him vnder­stand the originall of the Duchesse sickenesse, the ef­fectes of her passion, the order that she had vsed du­ring the furious course of the same. Adding thervn­to for conclusion, that if he would kéepe the matter se­crete, and ayde them with his counsell, she would by [Page 231] and by promise him mariage by wordes, for the present tyme, and that from thence forth she would neuer de­nie him any fauour or priuitie. That onely reserued which no man can honestly demaund, til the mariage be solempnized in the face of the Church. In witnesse wherof she kissed him with great affection. The Phy­sitian more eased there withall, than if he had sene his Hippocrates or Galen, raysed agayne fro death, promi­sed rather to lose his life, thā she should want his help. And for the better beginning of this enterprise, they went presently to visite the Duchesse. In whom they found her pulse so to beate, the tongue so charged, the stomake so weakned by a continual suffocation of the matrice, that the pacient was in very great perill of death. Whervnto euery man did easly giue credite for the reputation and great experience of the Phisician. And master Appian hauing cōmaunded al the chābre to be voyded, made the Duchesse to vnderstand in few words, how it behoued her to gouerne her self. And the better to cloke her cause, he brought her at that instant a little perfume, by receyuing the sauour wherof, she shoulde often tymes fall into certayne lyttle Soun­dings, and by often vsing the perfume, it would eate away her colour for a time, that it shoulde séeme, as though she had not gone out of her bed in half a yeare. Neuerthelesse it should doe her no other displeasure, & that in thrée or foure dayes, with certayne other drug­ges, he would restore her colour as liuely as it was be­fore. Which y^e Duchesse lyked best of any thing in the world. And they thre togither played their parts so wel y^e the common brute throughout at the citie was, that the Duchesse would dye. The Duke being aduertised of these things, caused al the Phisitians of Thurin to [Page] assemble, to prouide for the health of the Duchesse: Who being come togither with the Duke into her bedchāber, a little after she had receyued Master Ap­pians perfumes: and seing her to sowne diuers times before them, were in great dispayre of her health. And after they had somwhat debated the matter with Ma­ster Appian, not knowing whervpon to resolue, they sayd vnto the Duke, that it behoued him to prouide for her soule, for that they saw in her the ordinarie tokens and messangers of death. The poore Duke being sor­rowfull beyonde measure, for that he loued the Du­chesse entierlie, sent for the Suffragane of the Byshop of Thurin, a mā of very holy life, to thintent he might giue her good councel. To whom she confessed her selfe with a voyce so féeble, y^t it séemed to be more than halfe dead. Her talk was not long, but yet she made him be­leue that nature failed her, and that by little and little she drewe towardes her ende: Desiring him to haue her in remēbraunce, and her poore soule in his orisons and prayers. The Suffragane being gone, the Duke and others, with a great number of Gentlemen and Ladies, went into the chambre. But she began then to enter into so greate rauing, that euerye bodye was a­feard of her. And after that she had tossed her self in her bed, lyke a senselesse creature, her speache fayled her. Wherat those present, striken with no small wonder, thinking the soule would strayght wayes haue depar­ted the body, some of them cryed vpon her. Madame re­member Iesus, some other sainct Barbara. But wylie Emilia more priuy of her counsel than the rest, taking her tenderly by y^e arme, cried vpon her w^t a loud voice. Madame call vpō sainct Iames, who hath so often suc­coured you in your aduersities. And with that the [Page 232] Duchesse awaked as it were out of a heauy sléepe, and rowling her eyes to and fro, wyth a straunge trem­bling of al her members, began to pronounce with an interrupted voyce. ‘O glorious Apostle, in whome from my tender youth, I haue euer had my stedfast trust and hope, be now mine intercessor in this cruell assault of death, to Iesus Christ. And I make a vowe nowe to thée, that if I may recouer my health, I will my selfe in person, goe honour thy sacred body, in the proper place where it reposeth.’ And hauing ended her fayned Prayer, she coūterfayted a sléepe, and so conti­nued the space of .ij. or .iii. houres, which caused all the companye to withdrawe themselues, except the poore Duke, who would not depart from her, vntill she wa­ked, and in the meane time ceassed not to pray to God for the health of his loyall spouse. After she had so well played thys Pageaunt by the space of an houre or two, fayning then to awake, she beganne to stretch forth her armes and legges with such force, that who­soeuer had heard the noyse, would easily haue iudged that she was deliuered from some great tormēt. And beholding the Duke her husband, with a pitifull eye (who had leaned his head nere vnto hers in the bed) she cast her stretched armes negligently vpon his neck, & kissing him said. ‘Now may I safely kisse you my Lord that w^tin these thrée houres was in such pitiful plight, as I thought my self for euer depriued of that benefit. Thanks be giuen to god & that good sainct, to whom I made my vow. I am presently so wel eased, y^t if I féele my selfe no worse, I will yet deteine you (husbande) a while from mariage.’ But the poore Duke altogither rauished with ioye, hauing his white bearde all tem­pered with teares, knew not what answere to make, [Page] but behelde her with suche admiration, that he séemed to be besides himselfe. And in the meane time certaine which were at the dore, hearing them speake, entred the chamber, who finding the Duchesse somewhat bet­ter than she was, published the same incontinently thorow all the city, wherof the Citizens being aduer­tised (bicause they loued her dearely) made processions & other thankes giuings to God, as in cases like hath bene accustomed. With in a while after, the Duchesse began by little and little to taste her meates, & to vse such diet that she had recouered her former health. Ex­cept the new plague, which she felt at her heart for the Lorde Mendozza, which she could not cure but by the presence of him that bare the oyntment boxe for that sore. And so longe she continued in these amorous thoughts, til the Lady Isabell retourned from her pil­grimage, who came to the castell according to her promise. And after friendly gréetings one of another, the Duchesse made her to vnderstande, howe since her departure she had neuer almoste commen out of her bedde, for that she had bene afflicted with a most grie­uous sickenesse. Neuerthelesse by the helpe of God, and the intercession of good S. Iames (to whome she had vowed her selfe) she had recouered health. And if she coulde obtaine leaue of the Duke her husband, she would think her self happy to make a voyage thyther in her companie. Which the Spanishe Lady persua­ded by all meanes possible, shewing vnto her many commodities, which she should find in Spaine, and the honorable companie of gentlemen & Ladyes, who at her arriuall there (if it would please her to doe them so much honor as to visite them in passing by) would leaue nothing vndone for the best manner of enter­taynment [Page 233] that possible might be deuised. And by this meane y^e Lady Isabell thought to pricke her forward, who was in dede but to quick of the spurre already, & thinking euery hour .vij. determined one morning to moue the Duke her husband therevnto. To whome she sayd. ‘My Lorde I beleue that you doe sufficiently wel remember my trouble past, and the extreme mar­tirdome that I suffred in my late sicknesse, and name­ly of y^e vow which I made for recouerie of my health. Now finding my selfe whole and strong, my desire is that with your licēce I might accomplish my voyage, specially with so good opportunitie. For the noble woman of Spaine of whome I haue heretofore tolde you, is retourned, and it shoulde be a great ease to vs both to goe in companie together. And for so much as it is a matter of necessitie, and that earely or late I must aduenture to paye my vowed debte, it is beste both for my commoditie and also for mine honour, to goe in her companie.’ Wherevnto the good Duke did willingly accorde. Who neuer had any manner of suspicion that such a treason was lodged in the heart of so great a Princesse. And hauing giuen order for al things requisite for her departing, she toke a certayne number of gentlemen and damsels, amongst which, Maister Appian and Emilia were not forgotten, and being all apparelled in Pilgrimes wéedes, by long trauaile and weary iorneys, after they had passed the cold Alpes, they came into the countie of Rossilion, & entred into Spaine. And then the Duchesse feling her self to approch the place where her heart of long time had taken hold, desired the Lady Isabell and her com­panie earnestly, not to make it knowen to any person what she was. And so trauayling by small iorneyes [Page] and deuising of diuers matters, they arriued within two little dayes iorneyes of the place where the Lord of Mendozza kept his ordinarie houshold. For which cause the Spanish Ladye entreated the Duchesse not to be offended, if she sent some one of her men before to gyue aduertisement of their comming, whiche the Duchesse graunted. And the messanger finding the the Lorde of Mendozza readie to receyue them, and hauing done him to vnderstand of the comming of the Duchesse, of the first talke betwene her and his sister, of the great entertaynment that she had giuen them, Of the singuler beautie with the which she was ador­ned: He was not so grosse but that he knewe by & by, that the Duchesse at those yeares, had not ben so libe­ral of her labour, to make such a voiage on soote, with­out some other respect. And dissembling what he thought, caused thirtie or fortie of his gentlemen in­continently to make them ready. To whome making as thoughe he would goe hunt the Hare, he went to meete the Duchesse: and hauing discouered them a far of in a fielde, the Lady Isabell did forth with knowe them. Who aduertised the Duchesse that he which rydde vpon the white Ienet of Spaine, was the Lorde of Mendozza her brother, and the other, certaine of his seruants. The Prince then after he had made his horse to vaute thrée or four tymes alofte in the ayre, with an excellent grace & meruellous dexteritie ligh­ted from his horse, and kissing her hand, said vnto her. ‘Madame, I beleue that if y^e wandering knights of old time, who haue eternized there memorie, by an infi­nite number of renowmed victories, had had so much good luck, as many times in there aduentures to méete with such pilgrimes, as you be, that they would wil­lingly [Page 234] haue abandoned the Launce and the Murrion, to take the Staffe & the Scrippe.’ The Duchesse then being comparable with any Lady of her time, for her educacion and comely talke, assayled wyth ioye, feare, & shame, that no lack of duety might be founde in her, sayde vnto him. ‘And in déede my Lorde like as if the knightes of whome you speake, had tasted of some good hap, (as you terme it) by méeting with such Pilgrimes: So also we hope that the Sainct to whom we be vowed, in the honor of whom we haue enterpri­sed this perillous voyage, wil receiue vs in good part. Otherwise our paine were altogether lost, & our iour­ney euill imployed.’ And after they had giuen this first amorous atteint, the Lorde of Mendozza taking her by the arme, conducted her vnto his castell, deui­sing of pleasaunt matters. And he was greatly aston­ned, to sée so rare a beautie, as appeared in the Prin­cesse: Which neyther the wearinesse of the way, nor the parching beames of the Sunne, could in any wise so appaire, but that there rested ynough, to draw vnto her the very hartes of the moste colde, and frosen men of the worlde. And albeit the Lorde of Mendozza, tooke great pleasure and admiration in beholding her, yet was it nothing in respect of the Duchesse: who af­ter she had aduised and well marked the beautie, excel­lency, and other giftes of grace, in the Lorde of Men­dozza, she confessed that all that which she had hearde of his sister, was but a dreame in comparison of the proufe, which discouered it selfe vpon the first viewe: Seming vnto her by good iudgemēt, that all the beau­ties of the worlde were but paintings, in respect of the perfection of that which she saw with her eyes. Wher­in she was not deceyued, albeit that her feruent loue [Page] might haue bewitched her senses. For all the Histo­ries in Latine, Spanishe, & Italien, the which make mention of Mendozza, giue vnto him the first place in beautie of all the Princes and Lordes that were in his time. The poore Duchesse, after she had manifested by outwarde gestures, and countenances, to the Lord of Mendozza, that which was in the inwarde part of her heart, without receiuing the full satisfaction of his sight, which she desired, determined (hauing soiourned thrée dayes in his Castle) to depart the nexte morning, (vnwares to the Knight,) to perfourme her voyage. And so soone as the light of the daye began to appeare, she went to the chamber of the Lady Isabell, whome she thanked affectuously, aswell for her good company, as for the great courtesie, and humanitie, that she had receiued in her house. And hauing taken leaue of her, departed with her trayne. The Knight Mendozza, a­bout an houre or two after her departure, aduertised therof, was greatly troubled, what the matter might be that she was gone without taking leaue of him. And after that he had a little thought therevpon, he ea­sily perceyued, that all the fault therof was in himself. And y^t this great Princesse had abandoned her coun­trie, of purpose by all iudgement to visite him, and that he had shewed himselfe very slack for her satisfacti­on, in that he had not offred her his seruice. Whereat being iustly greued, she did not vouchsafe to giue him a farewell. And so accusing himselfe, he determined to follow after her, accōpanied only with two Pages. And for that he was on horseback, it was not long be­fore he espied her in the high way to S. Iames, where lighting frō his horse, he walked two miles wyth her, seasoning the matter without intermission: desiring [Page 235] her amongs other things, to let him vnderstand what displeasure she had conceiued in his house, that caused so spedy and secret a departure: adding thervnto, that if her pleasure were, he would accompanie her to the place whither she was vowed: and would also recon­duct her in his owne person to Thurin, in so honora­ble sorte, that she should haue cause to be contented. Then passing further, with sighes sayde vnto her. ‘Madame, Fortune had done me a great benefite, if when my sister made her vowe to goe to Rome, I had lost the battaile against myne enemies, and that her vowe had bene without effect. For it might haue bene that I should haue remained quiet by the losse of some of my people. But alas I fele nowe, since your com­ming into this countrie, a battaile so cruell, and as­sault so furious in my heart, as not being able any longer to resist it, I finde my selfe vanquished, and caught captiue, in suche sorte, that I knowe not to whome to complayne, but to you, which is the motion of all my disquietnesse. And yet, which grieueth me most, you dissemble as though you did not vnderstand it. And to bring me to my last ende, you are depar­ted this day out of my house, not dayning to sée me, or to appease me with one farewell, which hath so further inflamed my passion, that I dye a thousande times in a day. Beseching you for the time to come, to entreat me more fauorably, or you shal sée me, in that state, wherein you woulde be loth to sée your enemy: Which is, most cruell death.’ And in dede, he shewed sufficiently, how great the grief was that prest him, & how well the passion that he felt, was agreable to the wordes which he spake. For in pronouncing his wor­des he sighed so in hys tale, and changed his colour so [Page] often, and had his face so besprent with teares, that it semed his soule attached with superfluous sorrowe, would at that very instant haue abondoned his body. Which the Princesse perceyuing, touching at y^e quick the very spring of al his euill, sayde vnto him. ‘Seigni­our Mendozza, I know not what you woulde that I shoulde doe more for you, nor for what occasion you doe pretend, that I should be the cause of your death. For if the occasion thereof should happen through my default, my lyfe by strength or abilitie coulde not en­dure one houre after, for the sorow I should conceyue therof. Think me to be yours, and be not offended, I besech you, if openly I doe no longer talk with you. For I would not to wynne al y^e goods in the world, y^t any of this traine which doth accompanie me, should perceyue any one sparke of the great kindled fier, wherin my hart burneth day and night for your sake, being assured y^t if you had felt one houre of my paine, in place to accuse me of cruelty, your self cōplayning, would pitie y^e griefe which I haue sustayned for your long absence. For without the continuall presence of your person, representing it selfe in the eyes of myne vnderstanding, with a firme hope once to haue séene you: it had bene impossible for me, to resist the long and hard assault, where with loue hath euery houre as­sailed me. But one thing I must nedes confesse vnto you, that by reasō of y^e cold welcome which you made me in the beginning, I thought it procéeded of some euill opinion conceyued of me, or peraduenture, that you had thought me ouer liberall of myne honour, to haue lefte the countrie where I commaunde, to ren­der my selfe subiect to your good grace, which caused me without leaue to depart your house. But nowe [Page 236] that I do know by your countenance and teares, the contrarie: I acknowledge my faulte, and desire you to forget it. With full promise, that at my retorne frō my voyage of S. Iames I wil make you amendes, in the very same place, where I cōmitted the fault. And remayning your prisoner for a certayne time, I will not depart from you, vntill I haue satisfied, by suffici­ent penaunce y^e greatnesse of my trespas. In y^e meane tyme you shall content your selfe with my good will: and without passing any further retorne againe home to your Castle, for feare least some suspicious person in my company should conceiue that in me, which al the dayes of my lyfe I neuer gaue occasion, so muche as once to thinck.’ To whom the Lorde of Mendozza obeyed, more to content her, than otherwise, for he had the beauties and good behauiours of the Princesse, so imprinted in the most pleasant place of his heart, that he would haue desired neuer to haue departed her cō ­panie. But like as they determined iocundly, to im­ploy and satisfie their desires, at her retorne from her voyage: euen so Fortune in the meane while did be­set the same, and so fully brake the threde of their en­terprises, that y^e issue had not so good successe, as was their prefixed hope. Nowe leaue we the Duchesse, to perfourme her voyage, and the Lorde of Mendozza to entertayne his amorous passions, and let vs di­gresse to the Duke, who about .x. or .xii. dayes after the Duchesse his wife was departed, began to fele her ab­sence, which not being able to sustayne for y^e gret loue that he bare vnto her, and specially knowing y^e great fault that he had committed (being the sister of a King and wife of suche a Prince) so to let her goe, like an vnfeathered shafte, in so long a voyage: determined [Page] with himselfe (for feare least if any misfortune should happen vnto her, the same should touch his honor) to call together his counsell, and to prouide some reme­die. The counsell assembled, and the cause proponed, euerie of them told the Duke that he had ouer lightly consented to the will of the Duchesse, and that if she should happen to fall into any inconuenience, all men would impute it to his reproch, whereof they would haue aduertised him, at y^e beginning, sauing for feare they had to displease him: Adding for conclusion, that it was most expedient the Duke should put himselfe on the sea to goe and séeke her in Galisia. Which he did, and imbarked himselfe with a great companie of gentlemen, to whome the winde was so fauourable, y^t he ariued at S. Iames before her. And hauing made enquirie for her, vnderstode she was not come. Ne­uerthelesse he was aduertised by certayne pilgrimes, that it could not be long before she would be there, for that they had lefte her not past thrée or .iiii. dayes iour­ney from thence: trauailing with her traine, by smal iorneys, whereof the Duke was exceding glad, and sent certaine of his gentlemen to méete her vpon the way, as she came, who trauailed not farre before they met the Duchesse with her companie, and did her to vnderstand of the Dukes arriuall and of the cause of his comming from Thurin. Which tidings was not verie ioyful to her, and by her wil would haue wished that he had not taken so much paines. Neuerthelesse, preferring honor before affection, she made the more hast to sée him, and at her arriuall, séemed to be glad of his comming, and to lament the payne that he had taken, by committing himselfe in so many daungers for her sake. Afterwardes they entred into the church [Page 237] with great deuotion, where when the Duchesse had made certaine particuler prayers, she began to per­ceyue that God had withstanded her lasciuious will, and pitying the good Duke her husbande, whould not permit him to be deceyued in such disloyall sort, repen­tantly bewayling her forepassed fault. And seling her selfe pressed euen at the very soule with a certaine re­morse of conscience, she was so victorious ouer her af­fections, y^t she determined wholly to forget Mendozza and his beautie. Praysing God neuerthelesse that it had pleased him to graunt her the grace so well to dis­pose her matters, that her affections had not excéeded the bondes of honor: Determining from thenceforth, not onely to put Mendozza in vtter obliuion, but al­so for euer clearely to cut of his amorous practise: and therfore would not so much as did him once farewell, nor yet to let him in any wise vnderstand those newes. And so settled in this deliberatiō, solicited her husband very instantly to depart, which he did, and all thinges prepared to the sea, they tooke againe their course to Thurin, and had y^e winde so prosperous, y^t from thence in fewe daies they arriued at Marsellis. And weary of the seas, he caused horses to be prepared to ride from thence to Thurin by land, where he and his wife liued together in right great ioy and amitie. The Lorde of Mendozza greatly payned with the long absence of the Duchesse, sent a gentleman of purpose to Galisia, to know y^e occasion of her long tarying. Who brought certaine newes that the Duke was comen in person, to fetche his wise, and that he had caried her awaye with him by sea. Where withal he was maruellously out of pacience, determining neuerthelesse one day when his affaires were in good order, to goe visite her [Page] at Thurin. During the tyme that these thinges re­mained in this estate, aswell of the one side, as of the other: the Almaines prepared a great army, and en­tred into Fraunce where they wasted & burned all the countrie as they passed. The King being aduertised hereof, sent for the Duke of Sauoie to goe méete them with the men of armes of Fraunce. But before his de­parture from Thurin, he left for his Lieutenant ge­neral, the Earle of Pancalier, by the aduise and coun­sell of whome he intended that all the affaires of the Duchie should be ruled and gouerned in his absence, and that he should in so ample wyse be honored and o­beyed, as his owne propre person. This Earle of Pan­calier being a noble man, very prudent in his doings, and knewe right well howe to gouerne the common wealth, seing y^e he had the whole countrie at his com­maundement, and himselfe manye times in presence of the Duchesse, and viewing her so faire and comelie, could not so well rule hys affections, but that by little and little he fell in loue with the Duchesse, in suche wise as that he forgat him self, making no conscience to offer his seruice vnto her. But the Princesse who was resolued to liue a good womā, abhorred al his las­ciuious orations, requiring him to be better aduised another time, before he presumed to vtter such talke, except to such as were his equals. Telling him that a man ought not to be so vnshamefast to offer his ser­uice to anye greate Ladye, or to make other sute vn­to her, before he had first knowen by her gesture or wordes, some likelyhode of loue: which he could not déeme in her, forsomuch as she neyther to him or to a­ny other had euer (till y^e day in all her life) shewed such fauour, as other suspicion coulde be conceyued, than [Page 238] that which was conuenable and méete for her honor. Which when the Countie of Pancalier vnderslode, he toke his leaue of her, ashamed of that he had done. But he following the custome of louers, not thinking him­selfe cast of for the first refuse, eftsones renewed his re­questes. And framing a louing stile, besought her to haue pitie vpon him, and to respect the greatnesse of his passion: and that he coulde not long prolong his lyfe without the fauoure of her good grace, who onely was the very remedy of his euill. The Duchesse pes­tred with suche like talke, sayde vnto him. ‘Sir Coun­tie, me think you ought to haue satisfied your self with my first refusall, wythout further continuance in the pursuing of your rash enterprise. Haue you forgotten the place that you kepe, and the honor whervnto my Lorde the Duke my husband hath exalted you? Is this now the loyall reward that you rendre vnto him for creating you his Lieutenant ouer all his landes and seigniories, to demaunde the preheminence of his bed? Assure your selfe for finall warning, that if euer hereafter you shal againe fal into lyke error, I sweare vnto you by the fayth of a Princesse, that I will make you to be chastised in suche sorte, as all semblable Traytors and disloyall seruaunts shall take example.’ The Earle seing him selfe refused, and thus rebuked, and in doubt that the Princesse would make her hus­band to vnderstand his enterprise vpon his retourne, chaunging this great loue into an hate more than mortall, determined whatsoeuer should come thereof, to inuent all meanes possible, vtterly to destroy the Duchesse. And after that he had fansied diners things in his minde, he deuised by the instinct of the diuell) to cause one of his Nephewes, being of the age onely of [Page] xviij. or .xx. yeares, which was his heire apparant, for that he had no children, one of the fayrest and best con­dicioned Gentlemen of all Thurin, to sort that deui­lish attempt to purpose.m And finding opportunity, one day he sayde to the yong man (that depended wholly vpon him) these wordes. ‘Nephewe, thou knowest that all the hope thou hast in this worlde lyeth in me alone, making accompt of thée as of my childe. And for that it pleased God to giue me no children, I haue constituted and ordeined thée my sole and onely heire with ful hope that from henceforth thou wilt accompt thy self most bounde vnto me, and therefore obedient in all thinges which I shall commaunde thée, specially in that which may be moste for thine aduauncement. The Duke as thou knowest, is absent, old, and croked and at al houres in the mercy of death through daun­gers of the warres. Nowe if he should chaunce to dye, my desire is to mary thée with some great Lady: Yea and if it were possible with the Duchesse, her selfe, which God knoweth what profit it would bring both to thée and thine, & in my iudgement an easie matter to compasse, yf y^u wilt despose thy self after my coun­sell, or at least wyse, if thou canst not come to the title of husband, thou mayst not fayle to be receiued as her friend. Thou art a comely Gentleman, & in good fauor with the Duchesse, as I haue oftentimes perceyued by her communication, albeit that holding fast the bridle of her honor she hath bene afrayd hitherto to open her selfe vnto thée. Spare not my goods, make thy selfe braue from henceforth whatsoeuer it cost, and be dili­gent to please her in al that thou mayst, and time shall make thée know that which thy tender yeares hath hi­therto hidden from thée.’ The poore yong man, giuing [Page 239] sayth to the vnfaythfull inuentions of his vncle (whom he counted as his Father) began ofte to frequent the presence of the Duchesse, and shamefastlye to solicite her by lookes and other offices of humanitie, as nature had taught him, continuing that order by the space of a moneth. Which perceyued by the Duchesse, she was diligent for her part to accept the honest & affectionate seruice that the yong man daylie did vnto her, and shewed vnto him likewise a certaine courteous fauor alwayes, more than to the reste of the Pages, aswell for the birthe and beautie where withall nature had enriched him, as for that she fawe him enclined to doe her seruice more than the rest, not thinking of anye dishonest appetite in the yong man, nor of the malice of his vncle, who hauing none other felicitie in the world, but in reuenge of the Duchesse his enimie, not able to beare the cruel vengeaunce rooted in his heart, determined to play double or quitte. And calling hys Nephewe before him he sayde vnto him. ‘My childe, I doe perceiue and sée that thou art one of the most hap­piest gentlemen of all Europe, if thou knewest how to followe thine owne good luck. For the Duchesse not onely is amorous of thée, but also consumeth for earnest loue which she beareth to thée. But as thou knowest women be shamefast and would be sued vnto in secrete, and doe delight to be deceyued of men, to thende it might séeme howe with deceit or force they were constrayned to graunt that vnto them, which of their owne mindes they woulde willingly offer, were it not for a little shame fastnesse that withdraweth thē. And thereof assure thy selfe, for I haue oftentimes ex­perimented the same, to my great contentaciō. Wher­fore cre dit my Councell, and folow mine aduise. And [Page] thou thy self shalt confesse vnto me, before to morrow at this time, that thou arte the happyest man of the worlde. I will, then that this night when thou séest conuenient time, thou shalt conuey thy selfe secretely into the chamber of the Duchesse, and to hide thy selfe a good way vnder the bedde, for feare of being percey­ued by any creature: where thou shalt remaine vntill an houre after midnight, when all men be in the depth of their sléepe. And when thou perceiuest euery man at rest, thou shalt closely rise, and approching the Du­chesse bedde, thou shalt tell what thou arte, and I am sure for the earnest loue which she beareth thée, and for the long absence of her husbande, she will courteously receyue thée betwene her armes, & feast thée with such delicate pleasures, as amorous folke doe their louers.’ The simple yong man giuing fayth to the wordes of his vncle that was honored as a King (thinking per­haps that it procéeded by y^e persuasion of the Duchesse) followed his commaundement, and obeyed wholly his trayterous and abhominable request. And oportunitie founde, accomplished from point to point, that which his cruell vncle had commaunded, who a little before midnight, fearing least his treason should be discoue­red, tooke with him thrée Counsellors, and certayne o­ther of the Guarde of the Castle. Whervnto as Lieu­tenant to the Duke, he might both enter & issue forth at all times when he lift, and without declaring hys enterprise, went straight to the portal of the Duchesse chambre, & knocking at the dore, sayd that the Duke was come. Which being opened, he entred in with a number of lightes, accompanied with the Guarde, ha­uing a rapier ready drawen in his hande, like a furi­ous man besides himselfe, began to loke round about, [Page 240] and vnder the bed of the Duchesse, from whence he caused his owne propre Nephewe to be drawen. To whom without giuing him leasure to speake one word for feare lest his mischief should be discouered, he sayd. O detestable villaine, thou shalt dye, and there with­all" he thrust the rapier into him, vp to the hard hiltes, and doubling the blow to make him faile of his spéech, he gaue him another ouerthwart the throte, so fiercely that the pore innocent after he had a litle réeled to and fro, fell downe stark dead to the ground. When he had put vp his rapier, he turned towards the Counsellers, and sayde vnto them. ‘My friendes, this is not the first time that I haue espied the lasciuious and dishonest loue betwene this my locherous Nephewe and the Duchesse, whome I haue caused to die, to honoura­bly in respect of his desert. For by the very rigor of the lawe, he deserued to haue bene burnt quicke, or else to be torne in pieces with .iiij. horses. But my Lady the Duchesse I meane not to punishe, or to prouide chas­tisement for her: For you be not ignoraunt, that the ancient custome of Lombardie and Sauoie requireth, that euery woman taken in adultery shall be burned aliue, yf with in a yeare & a day she finde not a Cham­pion to fighte the combase for her innocencie. But for the bounden duery that I deare to my Lorde the Duke, and for respect of the estate which he hath com­mitted to my charge, I will to morrowe dyspatche a Poaste, to make hym vnderstande the whole accident as it is come to passe. And the Duchesse shal remaine in this Chambre, with certayue of her maides, vnder sure keping and safegard.’ All this time the Duchesse who had both iudgement and spirite so good as any Princesse that raygned in her time, suspected straight­wayes [Page] the treason of the Earle. And with a pitiful eye beholding the dead body of her Page, fetching a déepe sighe, cryed out. ‘Oh innocent soule which sometyme gauest lyfe to this bodye that nowe is but earth, thou art now in place where thou séest clearely the iniquitie of the murderer, that lately did put thée to death.’ And hauing made an end of this exlamation w^t her armes a crosse, she remained as in a sowne without mouing eyther hande or foote. And after she had continued a while in that estate, she desired the Counsellers to cause the body to be buried, and to restore it to y^e earth whereof it had the first creation. ‘For (quoth she) it hath not deserued to be tied to the gibet, and to be fode for birdes of the ayre.’ Which they graunted not without a certaine greuous suspicion betwéene her and the Page. For so much as she excused not her self, but the innocencie of him, without speaking any worde of her owne particular iustification. This pitiefull aduen­ture was out of hande published through all the citie, with so great sorrow and murmure of the people, that it semed as though the enemies had sacked the towne. For there was not one, from the very least to the greatest of all, but did both loue and reuerence the Duchesse, in suche sort that it séemed vnto them, that this misfortune was fallen vpon euery one of their children. The Earle of Pancalier did nothing al that day, but dispatch the Poastes. And hauing caused all the whole matter to be registred as it was séene to be done: he commaunded, the Counsellers, and them of the Gard, to subscribe his letters. And al the matter being put in order he sent away two Currors with di­ligence, the one into Englande to aduertise the King her brother, and the other to the Duke. Who being, [Page 241] arriued, eche man in his place, presented their char­ges. Wherevnto both the brother and the husband gaue full credite without any maner of difficultie: persuaded principally therevnto by the death of the Nephewe. Who (as it was very likely) had not bene put to death by his owne vncle, and of whome he was also the very heire, without his most grieuous faulte, praysing greatly the fidelitie of the Earle, that had not pardoned his owne propre bloud, to conserue his duetie and honor so his soueraigne Lorde. And it was concluded betwene them, by deliberate aduise & coun­sayle, aswell of those of the King of England, as by a gret nūber of lerned men of Fraūce, whom the french king made to assemble for that respect in fauour of the Duke that y^e custome should be inuiolably kepte, as if it were for the most simple damsell of all the country: to the end that in time to come, great Lords and La­dies which be as it were lampes to giue light to o­thers, might take example. And that from thenceforth they should not suffer their vertues to be obscured by the cloudes of such execrable vices. The King of Eng­lande to gratifie the Earle of Pancalier: who (in his iudgement) had shewed himselfe right noble in this acte, sent him an excellent harnesse, with a sworde of the selfe same trampe by the Currour, with letters of aunswere written with his owne hande, howe he vn­derstode the manner of his procedings. And the mes­sanger vsed such diligence, that wythin fewe dayes he arriued at Thurin. Shortly after y^t the King of Eng­land had sent backe the Currour, the Duke of Sauoie retorned his, whome he stayed so much the longer, by­cause y^e matter touched him more nere. And he would that it should be debated by most graue and deliberate [Page] counsell. And when he had resolued, he wrote to the counsellers and other Magistrates of Thurin, aboue all things to haue respect that the custome should be inuiolablie kept, and that they should not in any case fauour the adultery of his wife, vpon payne of death. Then in particuler, he wrote his letters to the Earle, wherby he did greatly allow his fidelity, for the which he hoped to make him such recompence, as both he and his, should taste thereof during their liues. The Cur­rour of the Duke arriued, and the matter proponed in counsell, it was iudged, that (following the aunci­ent custome) a piller of Marble should be placed in the fieldes neere Thurin: which is betwene the bridge of the riuer Poo and the citie, wherevpon should be written the accusation of the Earle of Pancalier a­gainst the Duchesse. Which the Duchesse vnderstan­ding (hauing none other companie but Emilia, and a yong damsell) dispoiled her self of her silken garmēts, and did put on mourning wede, martired with an in­finite numbre of sundrie tormentes, seing her selfe a­bandoned of al worldly succour, made her complaints to God: beseching him with teares to be protector of her innocencie. Emilia who vnderstode by her, that she was vniustly accused, and seing the iminent perill that was prepared for her, determined by her accusto­med prudence to prouide therfore. And after she had a little comforted her, she sayde vnto her. ‘Madame, the case so requireth nowe, that you shoulde not consume tyme, in teares and other womanish plaintes, which can nothing diminishe your euill. It séemes most ex­pedient vnto me, that you fortefie your selfe agaynst your enemie, and to find some meáne to send Maister Appian in poast to the Duke of Mendozza, one of the [Page 242] best renowned in prowesse of al y^e Knights in Spaine, who being aduertised of your misfortune, wil prouide so well for your affaires, (that your honor being reco­uered) your lyfe shall remayne assured. Wherefore if you will followe myne aduise, you shall write him an earnest letter (as you knowe right wel howe to indite) which Appian shall present on your behalfe. For if you follow not this counsel, I know none other as the worlde goeth now, that will hazard his lyfe vnder the condicion of so straunge a lot as yours is, specially ha­uing respect to the renowme and magnanimity of the Earle, who as you know, is in reputation to be one of the moste valiant men and most happy in armes that is in all Sauoie or Lombardie. My deare friend (quod the Duchesse) doe what thou wilt. For I am so resol­ued and confirmed in my sorrow, that I haue no care eyther of death or lyfe, no more than if I had neuer bene borne. For neyther in the one, nor in the other, can I foresée any remedy for myne honor already lost. Madame (quod Emilia) let vs for this time leaue the care of honor in the hands of God, who knoweth both how to kepe it, and restore it, as shall seme good vnto him. And let vs giue order for our parte, that there be no want of diligence, for feare of being ouertaken.’ And hauing made an ende of her tale, she gaue her yncke and paper, saying vnto her. ‘Nowe Madame I shall sée at this pinch, if your heart will serue you at a néede or no.’ The Duchesse withdrew her selfe a part and after she had long discoursed in her minde of that which was past betwene the knight and her, she wrote vnto him as followeth.

‘My Lorde Mendozza, I doe not write these let­ters vnto you, vpon any hope to be deliuered by your [Page] meane from the poinaunt pricke of fierce death which dothe besiedge me, knowing death alwayes to be the true porte & sure refuge of all afflicted persons in my case. For since that God willeth it, nature permitteth it, and my heauie Fortune consenteth to it, I will re­ceiue it with a right good wil, knowing that the Graue is none other but a strong rampier and impregnable castle, wherin we close our selues against the assaults of lyfe, and the furious stormes of fortune. It is farre better (as appeareth manifestlye by me) with eyes shut, to waite in y^e Graue, than longer to experiment lyfe (the eyes being open) liuing with so many trou­bles vpon earth. But gladly would I bring to remem­braunce, and set before your eyes how sometyme I a­bandoned the place, which was no lesse deare vnto me than mine owne country where I was borne, and delicately nourished in honor and delightes, to extende my selfe into an infinite number of perilles, contrarie to the duetie of those that be of mine estate, losing the name of a princesse to take y^e title of a caytise pilgrim, for the onely feruent and vnmeasured loue which I bare you, before I did euer sée you, or by any meanes bound thervnto by any your proceding benefits. The remembraunce whereof (as I thinke) ought nowe to deliuer suche an harde enterprise, to the porte of your cōscience, that breaking the vaile of your tender hart, you should therefore take pitie and compassion of my straunge and cruell Fortune. Which is not onely re­duced to the mercy of a most dolorous prison, and res­teth in the power of a bloudie and mercilesse Tirant: But (which is worse) in the continuall hazard of a shameful death. Which I do not much lament hauing long desired to accelerate the same wyth mine owne [Page 243] handes, to finde rest in an other world: were it not that by death I should leaue an eternall blotte to my good name, and a perpetuall heritage of infamie to my house and kindred. Wherfore if it so be, that frend­ship loketh for no reward, and that she cānot be paid, but by the tribute of another friendship, make me now to tast the auncient fruite of my friendship. And if pitie be the sole and onely key of Paradise, display it nowe on the behalfe of her, who (forsaken of all hu­maine succor) attendeth but the fatal houre to he thro­wen into the fier as a pore innocent lambe in sacrifice. And for that the bearer shall make you vnderstande the rest by mouth (whom it may please you to credite as mine owne selfe) I wil make an ende of my heauie letter. Beseching God to giue a good lyfe vnto you and to me an honorable death.’

The letter closed and seated vp with the seale of the Duchesse, she commaunded Emilia to deliuer it to Appian, and to require him to vse diligence, not ceas­sing to ryde day and night vntill he come to the place where they left the knight Mendozza, giuing charge to make him vnderstande (at length) her innocencie and false accusation. Appian being dispatched, was so affected to please his maistresse, and so desirous to sée her deliuered of her imprisonment, that he ceassed not to trauaile day and night, till he came within the Frontiers of Spaine. And after that he had ridden yet two or thrée dayes iourney: approching nere the place where he thought to fynde the Knight Mendozza, he began to inquire of the host of the Inne where he lay that night, aswell of his good health, as of his other af­faires, who made him answere, that it went euen so euill with him at that present, as with the most porest [Page] gentleman of al Spaine. Although y^t he were in dede a very great Lorde. ‘For (qudo he) with in these fewe monethes past, his enemies of Tolledo, whom he hath diuers tymes vanquished, haue so well allied them­selues together out of all partes of Spaine, that they haue brought a great armie to the fielde. And For­tune of the warre hath bene so fauorable vnto them, that they discomfited Mendozza and all his armie. Who hath retired himself, with those fewe of his peo­ple that he could saue alyue, into a little towne of his, where yet to this present he is besiedged. And so it is, (as euery man saith,) that he doth his endeuor meruel­lously well, in such sort that his enemies can not enter the towne.’ Maister Appian then demaunded of him, if the towne besiedged, were farre of. And he answe­red, that it was about .vij. or .viij. poastes. Then with­out making any longer inquirie, he toke a guide that accompained him euen almost to the campe. And whē he sawe the towne a farre of, he sent the guide backe a­gayne, and went the same day, to offer his seruice to a certayne Captaine of light horsemen, who receyued him into wages, and then he bought armour to serue the purpose. And Master Appian besides his learning was a wise & pollitike man, and determined so sone as any skirmish did beginne, to be formost, and in dede he vsed the matter so wel, that he suffred himself to be ta­ken prisoner and to be caried into y^e towne. And being within, he desired those that had taken him, to conduct him to the Lord of Mendozza their Chieftaine. Who knew him by and by, for that in the voyage which the Duchesse made into Spaine, he sawe him euer more nere her, than any other of her gentlemen. And after that the Lorde of Mendozza had demaunded of him [Page 244] by what meanes he entred the towne. Upon his aun­swere, he perceyued that he was a man of good experi­ence, and well affected to the seruice of his Maistresse, that durst hazard his lyfe in such wise, to obey her de­sire. Incontinently Maister Appian deliuered vnto him the Duchesse letter. Which when he had readde, he retired into his chambre with Maister Appian, ha­uing his face all bedewed with teares. And bycause that the letter did importe credite, he prayed Maister Appian to declare his charge. Who sayde vnto him. ‘My Lady the Duchesse which is at this day the most afflicted Princesse vnder the coape of Heauen, com­mendeth her selfe vnto your honour, and doth humbly beseche you, not to be offended for that at her last be­ing in Galisia, she departed without accomplishing her promise made vnto you. Praying you to impute the fault vpon the importunitie of the Duke her hus­band. Whō being constrayned to obey, she could not satisfie the good will that she bare vnto you.’ Then he began to declare in order howe the Earle of Pancalier was enamoured of her, and not being able to obtaine his desire, caused his Nephewe to hide him vnder her bed: and how he had slaine him with his owne handes. Finally, the imprisonment of the Duchesse, and the iudgement giuen against her. Whereof the Lorde of Mendozza was greatly astonned. And when he had heard the whole dyscourse, he began to conceyue some euill opinion of the Duchesse. Thinking it to be in­credible, that the Earle of Pancalier woulde so forget himselfe, as to murder his owne propre Nephew and adopted sonne, to be reuenged of a selie woman. Ne­uerthelesse, he dissembled that which he thought, in the presence of Maister Appian, and sayde vnto him. ‘[Page] Appian my friende, if mine aduerse Fortune did not speake sufficiently for me, I could tell thée here a long tale of my miseries. But y^e séest into what extremitie I am presently reduced, in sort that I am vtterly vn­able to succor thy maistresse, I my self still attending the houre of death. And all y^t which presētly I am able to doe for thée, is to set thée at libertie, from the perill prepared for vs.’ And without longer talke, he caused a hote skirmish to be giuē to his enemies, to set Appian at large: who being issued forth, made certayne of his men to conduct him to place of suretie. Appian seing no way for Mendozza to abandon his city for peril of death prepared for him and his, thought his excuse reasonable. And to attempt some other Fortune, he vsed suche diligence, that he in short time was retour­ned to Thurin, where hauing cōmunicated the whole matter to Emilia, she went strayght to the Duchesse, to whome she sayde. ‘Madame God giue you the grace to be so constant in your aduersities, as you haue occa­sion to be miscontented with the heauie newes that Appian hath brought you.’ And then she began to re­count vnto her the mysfortune of Mendozza, the thraldome wherevnto his enemies had brought him, and for conclusion, that there was no hope of helpe to be expected at his handes. Which when the Duchesse vnderstoode she cryed out. ‘Oh poore vnhappy woman amongst all the moste desolate and sorrowfull: Thou mayst well now say that y^e light of thy life from hence­forth beginneth to extinguish and growe to an ende: séeing, the succour of him, vpon whome depended thine assuraunce, is denyed thée. Ah ingrate Knight. Now knowe I right well (but it is to late) that of the extreme loue that I haue borne thée, sprong y^e first roote [Page 245] of all mine euill, which came not by any accident of Fortune, but from celestiall dispensacion and diuine prouidence of my God. Who nowe doth permit that mine Hipocrisie and counterfayt deuotion shall re­ceyue condigne chastisement for my sinne.’ And then Emilia, seing her so confounded in teares, sayde vnto her. ‘Madame it doth euill become a great and wise Princesse, (as you hitherto haue euer bene reputed) for to torment her selfe: sith that you know howe all the afflictions which we receiue from heauē, be but proues of our fidelitie, or as your selfe confesseth by your complayntes, to be iust punishment for our sinnes. Nowe then be it the one or the other, you ought to for­tifie your self against the hard assault of your sorrow. And to remitte the whole to the mercy of God, who of his aboundant grace, will deliuer you of your trou­ble, as he hath done manye others, who when they thought themselues forsaken of al help, and caused cer­tayne drops of his pitie, to raine downe vpon them. Alas deare heart (quod the Duchesse,) how easie a matter it is for one that is hole, to comfort her that is sick. But if thou feltest my griefe, thou wouldest helpe me to complaine. So grieuous a matter it is vnto mée, with lyfe to lose myne honour. And I muste confesse vnto thée, that I sustayne a very cruell assault, both a­gainst death and lyfe, and I cannot eyther with the one or with the other, haue peace or truce in my selfe. Ne yet doe knowe howe to dissemble my sorrow, but that in y^e ende the same wil be discouered by the fumes of mine ardent sighes, which thinking to constrayne or retaine, I doe nothing else but burie my selfe w^tin mine owne body: Assuring thée, that greater is one drop of bloud that swelleth the heart within, than all [Page] the teares that may be wept in the whole life without. Wherfore I pray thée leaue me a litle to complaine my dolor, before I goe to the place from whence I shal neuer retorne.’ Emilia that willingly would haue sacri­ficed her selfe to redeme the Princesse from perill, not being able any longer to endure the harde attempte where with pitie constrayned her heart, was forced to goe forth and to withdraw her self, into another cham­ber, where she began to lamēt after so straunge man­ner, that it semed it had bene she, that was destened to death. Whiles that these Ladies cōtinued thus in their sorowes, the Knight Mendozza take no rest by day or night, ne ceassed continually to think vpon the misfor­tune of the Duchesse. And after that he had well consi­dered y^e same, he accused himself for fayling her at that her gret néede, saying. ‘Now do I wel know that I am for euer hereafter vtterly vnworthy to beare armes, or to haue y^e honorable title of a Knight, sith y^e same or­der was giuen vnto me, with charge to succour afflic­ted persons, specially Ladyes, whose force onely con­sisteth in teares. And yet neuerthelesse, I (like a caitise) haue so shamefully neglected my duety towardes the chiefe person of the worlde, to whome I am greatly bounden, that I dye a thousand times, that day wher­in I thinke vpon the same. It behoveth me then from henceforth to establish new lawes to my deliberation, and that I breake the gate of myne auncient rigor: lo­uing much better to die in honor, pore, & disinherited, than to liue, puissant, vnhappie, & a cowarde. Wher­fore let fortune worke her will. Sithens the Duchesse did forsake her countrie, to come to sée me in her pros­peritie, I may no lesse doe nowe, but visite her in her aduersitie.’ Pressed and solicited inwardly wyth this [Page 246] newe desire determined with him selfe, hap what hap might, to goe to her rescue. And hauing giuen order to all that was necessarie for the defence of the Citie, putting his confidence in the fidelity of those that were within: caused all his Captaines to be called before him: Whome he did to vnderstand, howe he was de­termined to goe seke succour, to leuie the siedge of his enemies. During which time he constituted his nere kynsman, his lieutenaunt generall, and the next mor­ning before the day appeared he gaue a great al arme to his enemies, wherin he escaped vnknowen. Being mounted vpon a Ienet of Spaine and perceiuing him self out of all perill, he toke post horse, and made suche expedition that he arriued at Lyons, where he proui­ded himselfe of the best armoure that he could get for money, and of two excellent good horsses, whereof one was a courser of Naples. And hauing gotten a cer­taine vnknowen Page, tooke his waye to Thurin, where being arriued, he lodged him selfe in the sub­vrbes, demaunding of his host if their dwelt any Spa­niards in the towne, who made him answere, that he knewe none but one, which was a good olde religious father, that for the space of .xx. yeares was neuer out of Thurin, a man of vertuous life, and welbeloued of all the Citizens, and had the charge of a certayne conuent. Neuerthelesse his lodging was apart from his brethren, to solace him selfe, and to auoyde the in­commoditie of his age. The Knight hauing learned of his hoste the place were this good father dwelled, went with diligence, betimes in the morning, to sée him, and sayde vnto him in the Spanish tongue. ‘Fa­ther God saue you. I am a Spaniard comen hither in­to this countrie for certayne mine affaires, towardes [Page] whome you might doe a charitable déede, if it would please you to suffer me to remaine with you for foure or fyue dayes onely, crauing nothing els but lodging: For my seruaunt shall prouide for other necessaries,’ which the good father willingly graunted, much mar­uelling at his goodly personage. And whiles the Ser­uaunt was gone to the towne to bye victuals, the good father demauuded of him, of what countrey in Spaine he was, which the knight frankly confessed. And the fatherly man then hauing his face all be sprent wyth teares sayd. ‘Praysed be the name of God, that he hath giuen me the grace before I die, to sée so great a Lorde in my poore house, of whom I am both the subiect and neighbor.’ And then he began to tell him how for de­uotion he had forsaken hys natiue countrey and had bestowed himselfe there, the better to withdrawe him from worldly vanitie. Neuerthelesse he sayde, that he knew his father, his mother, & his graundfather. De­siring him to vse his house at commaundement, where he should be obeyed as if he were in his owne. And thē the Lorde of Mendozza sayde vnto him, that he was departed from Spaine, of purpose to sée Fraunce, and there to make his abode for a time. And y^e passing by Lyons, one aduertised him of the infortunate chaunce of the Duchesse, whom if he thought to be innocent of the crime whereof she was accused, he would defende her to the sheading of the last droppe of his bloude. Ne­uerthelesse he woulde not hazarde his lyfe or soule, to defende her, if he knewe she were culpable. Which words the good man greatly allowed, saying vnto him. ‘My Lorde, touching her innocencie, I beleue there is at this daye no man liuing, but her selfe and the Earle, her accuser, that can iudge. But of one thing I can [Page 247] well assure you, that we here, doe déeme her to be one of the best Princesses, that euer raigned in thys coun­trie, specially for that aboute a yeare past, she went on foote to S. Iames, with such denotiō and humility, that there was no man but pityed to sée her so mortified for her soule health. And to combate with the Earle of Pancalier, you séeme vnto me very yong. For besides the continual exercise y^t he hath alwayes had in armes, he is withall estemed, to be one of the strongest, rea­diest and moste redoubted knightes of all Lombardie. The victorie notwithstanding is in the hande of God, and he can giue it, to whome he pleaseth: Which he made manifest in the yong infant Dauid, against the monstrous Giant Golias.’ To whome the knight aunswered. ‘Father I haue deuised a waye howe to prouide against the scruple of my cōscience, touching the doubt conceyued by me, whether the combat that I shall take in hande against the Earle of Pancalier, be iust or not, which is, that I vnder the colour of con­fession, might vnderstande of the Duchesse, the truth of the matter. And so likewyse if you think good, I maye cause my head and beard to be shauen, & apparelling my selfe in such habite as you doe weare, we may ea­sily (as I think) with the leaue of her kéepers, go into the Duchesse chamber, to exhort her to pacience: for about this time of the yeare the day is expired.’ Wher­vnto y^e good Father without any great difficulty, con­sented, aswell for respect of hys good zeale, as for hys reuerent dutie to the nobilitie of the stock wherof she came. And so all things prouided, they went togither, towards the Castle of the Duchesse. And he that then had séene the Knight Mendozza in hys Fryers ap­parell, woulde vnethes haue discerned him, to be so [Page] great a Lorde as he was. For besides the dissembled gestures, and countenaunces, wherewith he knewe right well howe to behaue him selfe, he was so leane and pore, aswel for the care of the battaile he lost, and ouerthrowe of his people, as for the myssehay of the Duchesse and the perill of hys life at hande, by reason of the combate betwene the Earle and him, that he re­sembled rather a holy Sainct Hierome, mortified in some desert, than a Lorde, so noble and valiant as he was. Arriued at the Castell, the olde father addressed himself to the Guarde and sayde. ‘Masters bycause the time for the death of the miserable Duchesse doth ap­proche, we be come hither to giue her suche spirituall comfort, where with God hath inspired vs, hoping that he wil this day giue vs the grace to induce her to dye paciently, to the intent that by losse of the body, her soule may be saued.’ Whervnto they accorded wil­lingly, and caused the chambre to be opened vnto thē. Those which were wich her in the chamber went forth incontinentlie, thinking that the Gouernoure had caused those good fathers to come to heare the last con­fession of the poore Duchesse, who was so sorrowefull and pensife that she was forced to kepe her bed: which came very wel to passe. For the knight Mendozza be­ing nere to her bed, with his face towardes her, so counterfayted himselfe in the day, that he could not in any manner of wise be knowen. And good old father Frier taried in a corner of the chamber a farre of, that he might heare none of their talke. And as the Lord of Mendozza leaned him vpon her bedside, he sayde vnto her in the Italian tongue, whiche was so familiar to him, as the Spanish. ‘Madame the peace of our Lorde be with you. Whervnto the Lady aunswered. Father [Page 248] why speake you of peace, sithe I am in continuall warre, depriued of all contentation, and doe but at­tende the laste ende of all my calamitie, which is a most cruell and shamefull death, without desert.’ And then the Lorde of Mendozza, who had consumed the most part of his youth in good letters, sayde vnto her. ‘I beleue Madame you be not ignorant that miseries and tribulations which come vpon people, fall not by accident or fortune, but by the prouidence or dispensa­cion of God, before whome one little sparrow onely is not forgotten, as the prophet Amos doth manifest vn­to vs, when he sayth: There is none euill in the Citie that I haue not sent thither. Which is also appa­rant in Iob, whome the deuill coulde not afflict, be­fore he had first obtayned licence of GOD. And it is necessarie for you to knowe, that tribulation and af­fliction be tokens of the fore chosen and elected people of God, and the true markes of our saluation. So that if you consider the order of al the Scriptures, since the beginning of the world vntil our time, you shall finde that those whome God hath alwayes best loued and cherished, he hath commaunded to drinke of the cup of his passion, and to be more afflicted than others: ex­amples whereof be common in the Scriptures. As when Abell was afflicted by Caine his brother, Isaak by his brother Ismaell, Ioseph by his brethren, Da­uide by Absolon his sonne, the children of Israell (the elect people of God) by Pharao. Which things being profoundly considered by S. Paule, he sayde. If we had not another hope in Iesus Christ, than in the lyfe present, we might well saye that we were the moste miserable of all others. And yet moreouer sayth he, it is little or nothing that we endure, in respecte of that [Page] which Iesus Christ hath suffred. Who (although he he framed the whole worke of the worlde) was called the Carpenters sonne for preaching, he was sclaundered, he was caryed vp to a moūtaine to be throwne downe, he was called Glotton, Dronkarde, louer of Publi­canes and sinners, Samaritane, Seducer, Diuell: say­ing, that in the name of Belzebub he did caste out Di­uells. But let vs consider Madame, a little further, what things were done vnto him, he was naked to clothe vs, prisoner and bounde to vnbinde vs from the chayne of the Diuell, made a sacrifice to cleanse vs of all our inwarde filth, we doe sée that he suffred hys syde to be opened, to close vp Hell from vs, we sée his handes which in so comely order made both Heauen and Earth for the loue of vs, pearced with pricking nayles, his head crowned with thrée sharped thornes to crowne vs with Heauēly glory. Let vs waygh that by his dolor came our ioye, our health grewe of hys infirmitie, of his death was deriued our lyfe: and shoulde we be ashamed to haue our head touched with a fewe thornes of trouble? Strengthen your selfe then (Madame) in the name of God, and make you ready to receyue death in the name of him that was not ashamed to indure it for you. Is his strong hande any thing weakened? Is it not in him to ouerthrowe the furie of your enemie, and so to humble your ad­uersarie y^t he shall neuer be able to be relieued? Howe many poore afflicted persons haue there bene séene to be abandoned of all succour, whome he hath behelde with his pitifull eye, and restored to greater ease and contentacion, than euer they were in before? Learne then from henceforth, to comfort your selfe in God, and saye as the great Doctor holy Ignatius sayd in his [Page 249] Epistle to the Romanes. I desire that the fyer, the gal­lowes, the beastes, and all the torments of the Diuell might exercise, their crueltie vppon me, so as I may haue fruition of my Lorde God.’ And after that the Knight had made an ende of his consolation, the Du­chesse was so rapt in contentation, that it séemed her soule had already tasted of the celestial delightes, and would flie euen vp into heauen. And then féeling her selfe lightened lyke one that had escaped some furious tempest of the seas, she began to confesse her self vn­to him from poynt to poynt, without omitting any thing of that which she thought might grieue her con­science. And when she came to the accusation of the Earle, she prayed God not to pardon her sinnes, if she had committed in déede or thought, any thing contra­rie to the duetie of mariage, except it were one disho­nest affection that she had borne to a knight of Spaine, whome vnder pretence of a fayned deuotion, she had visited in Spaine, not committing any thing sauing good wil which she bare vnto him. ‘Which maketh me thinke (quod she) that God being moued against mine hipocrisie, hath permitted this false accusation to be raised against me by the Earle of Pancalier, which I wil paciently suffer, sith his will is so.’ Her confession finished, she plucked of a rich Diamond which she had vpon her finger saying. ‘Good father, albeith I haue heretofore bene a riche Princesse as you knowe, yet they haue now taken away al my goods from me (this Diamond except) which my brother the King of Eng­lande gaue me, when I was married to the Duke of Sauoie. And bicause I cannot otherwise doe you good, I giue it vnto you, praying you to remember me in your prayers, & to kepe it. For it is of a greater price [Page] than you thinke, and may serue one day to supply the necessitie of your conuent.’ The confession ended and the Diamond receiued, the two Friers retorned home to their conuēt. And so sone as they were arriued ther, the Lorde of Mendozza sayd vnto him. ‘Father, now doe I knowe certainly, that this pore woman is inno­cent, wherfore I am resolued to defend her so long as lyfe doth last. And I féele my selfe so touched and pres­sed in minde, that I thinke it long till I be at the com­bat. Wherefore I pray you if it chaunce that fortune be contrarie vnto me, after my death, make it to be openly knowen what I am, and chiefly that the Du­chesse may vnderstand it, for speciall purpose. And if it chaunce that I escape with lyfe, (which can not be but by the death of the Earle) be secrete vnto me in these things which I haue declared vnder the vayle of con­fession.’ The good father promised so to doe. And ha­uing passed all that day and night in prayers and sup­plicacions, he armed himselfe, and made readye his courser. And whē the dawning of the day began to ap­peare, he went in his armour to the gates of the city, and calling one of the Guard, sayd vnto him. ‘Good fel­lowe I pray theée goe bidde the Counte of Pancalier to prepare hym selfe, to mayntaine the false accusation, which he hath made against the Duchesse of Sauoie. And further tell him, that there is a knight here, that will make him to denie that accusation before he part the fielde, and wil in the presence of all the people cut out that periured tong, which durst commit such trea­son against an innocent Princesse.’ This matter was in a moment published throughout al the citie, in such sorte, that you might haue séene the Churches full of men and women, who prayed to God for the redemp­tion [Page 250] of their maistresse. During the time that y^e Guard had done hys Ambassage, the Lorde of Mendozza went towardes the piller where the accusation was written, attēding when the accuser should come forth. The Earle of Pancalier aduertised hereof, began in­continently to féele a certayne remorse of conscience, which inwardly gript him so néere, that he endured a torment like to very death. And being vnable to dis­charge himselfe thereof, would willingly haue wished that he had neuer committed the same. Neuerthelesse to the intent he might not séeme slacke, he sent worde to the knight, that he should write his name vpon the piller, to whome Mendozza made aunswere, that he might not knowe his name, but the combat he would make him fele before the day went downe. The Earle of Pancalier made difficultie at the combat, if first and formost he knew not the name of him with whome he should haue to doe. The matter well aduised, it was clearely resolued by the Iudges, that the statuts made no mention of the name, and therefore he was not bounde therevnto, but that the statute did expresly fa­uor the defendant, gyuing vnto him the election of the armour, and semblablie it was requisite that the per­son accused, should be brought forth in the presence of the two Champions. Which things vnderstanded by the Earle, albeit that he trusted not his quarell, yet making a vertue of necessitye, and not vnlearned in the order of such conflictes, forthwith armed himselfe, and came into the place ordayned for y^e campe, where he found his enemy armed, in a black armour, in to­ken of mourning. Immediatly after, they sent for the Duchesse, who ignoraunt of the matter, wondered much, when she vnderstode there was a knight in the [...] [Page] [...] [Page 250] [Page] fielde armed all in blacke, séeming to be a noble man, that promised some greate matter by hys dexteritie and bolde countenaunce, and woulde also maintaine against the Earle of Pancalier, his accusation to be false. The pore Duchesse then not being able to ima­gine what he should be, greatly troubled in her minde, and comming forth of the Castle, was conducted in a litter couered with blacke cloth, accompanied with more than two hundred Ladyes and damsels, in sem­blable attyre, vnto the place, where the Iudges, the people, and the two Knightes were, who did but at­tende her comming. And after they had wayghted her going vp to a little stage ordained for that purpose, the Deputies, for the assurance of the campe, demaunded of her these wordes, saying. ‘Madame For that you be accused of adulterie by the Earle of Pancalier here present, and the custome requireth that you present a Knight with in the yeare and day, by force of armes to trie your right: are you determined to accept him that is here present, and to repose your self vpon him, both for your fault and innocencie?’ The Duchesse aunswered, that she committed all her right into the mercy of God, who knewe the inward thoughts of her hearte, and to the manhode of the Knight, albeit she thought that she had neuer séene him. And when she had ended those words, she fell downe vpon her knées, then lifting vp her eyes all blubbered with teares to­wardes heauen, she sayd. O Lord God which art the very veritie it self, and knowest the bitternesse that I féele in my heart, to sée my selfe falsly accused, shewe forth nowe the treasure of thy grace vpon me wret­ched Princesse. And as thou diddest deliuer Susanna from her trouble, and Iudith from Holosernes, deli­uer [Page 251] me from the hande of a Tirant. Who lyke a Lion hungrie for my bloude, deuoureth both mine honour and life. And hauing made an ende of her prayer, she remained vnmoueable as if she had bene in a traunce. And nowe the Knight Mendozza, offended to sée the Earle to praunce his horse vp and downe the campe, making him to vaute and leape, with a countenaunce very furious sayde vnto him. ‘Traitoure Counte, bycause I am certayne that the accusation whiche thou hast forged against this Princesse, is inuented by the greatest villanie of the world, I doe maintaine here before al these people, that thou hast falsely accu­sed her, & that thou liest in thy Throte, in al that thou hast contriued against her, and that y^e hast deserued to be put into a sacke, to be cast into y^e riuer for y^t murder that thou hast cōmitted vpon thy Nephewe, the inno­cent bloud of whome, doth now cry for vengeāce to be taken for thy sinne before god.’ And scarce had he made an ende of his words, but y^e Earle answered him with a meruellous audacity. ‘Infamous villaine, which hi­dest thy name for feare lest thy vices shuld be knowē, thou art now fouly deceiued by thinking to warrant her, who hath offēded against the Duke her husband, by her whoredome & adulterie. And for that thou hast parled so proudely, and wilt not be knowen, I can not otherwise think but that thou art some one of her ruf­fians. And therfore I do mayntaine, that thou thy self doest lye, & that thou deseruest to be burnt in the same fyre with her, or else to be drawen wyth foure horsses by the crosse pathes of this towne, to serue for an exā ­ple in the worldes to come, not only for all lasciuious Ladies & Dāsels, but also for such mischeuous whore­mongers, as be lyke to thy selfe.’ Incontinently af­ter, [Page] the Harraulde of armes began to make the ac­customed crye, and the Knightes to put their Laun­ces in their restes, they let run their Horses with such violence, that ioyning themselues, their shieldes, their bodyes and heades togither, they brake their staues, euen to their harde Gauntlets, so roughlye, that they fell both downe to the grounde without losing, ne­uerthelesse the raynes of the bridles. But the heate of the heart, and desire to vanguish, made them readily to get vp againe, & hauing cast away the troncheons of the staues, layde handes on their swordes, and there began so straunge and cruell a sturre betwéene them, that they whiche were the beholders were affighted to sée them able to endure so muche. For they were so fleshed one vpon another, and did so thick bestow their strokes without breathing, that the lookers on cōfessed neuer to haue séene any combat in Piemonte betwene two single persōs, so furious, nor better followed than that of the Earle and of the Knight Mendozza. But the Spanish Knight encoraged with the Iustice of his quarel, and the reward of his fight, semed to redouble his force. For euen then when euery mā thought that power must néedes fayle him, it was the houre where­in he did best behaue himselfe. In such sorte, that hys enemie, not being able any longer to endure hys pu­issaunte strokes, being wounded in diuers partes of hys body, did nowe no more but defende himselfe, and beare of the blowes which were bestowed without in­termission vpon al the partes of his bodie. Which the Spanish knight perceiuing, desirous to make an ende of the combat, made so full a blowe with all his force vpon the top of his helmet, that he wounded his heade very sore. Wherwithall the heart of the Earle began [Page 252] very much to faynt, and staggering here & there like a dronken man or troubled in his senses, was constray­ned to fall downe from his horse. And then the Lorde of Mendozza dismounting himselfe, and taking holde vpon the corps of his shield, plucked it so rudely to him that he ouerturned him on his other side. Then with the pomel of his sword he did so swetely bumbast him, that he made his helmet to flie of his head. And serting his foote vpon his throte, made as though with the point of his sword he wold haue killed him, saying. ‘Counte, the houre is now come that thou must go make an ac­compt with God of thine vntrouth and treason which thou hast cōmitted against the Duchesse. Ah sir knight (quod the Earle) haue pitie vpon me, and kill me not I beseche thée before I haue a little bethought me of my conscience. Uillayne (quod the Spaniarde) if I had any hope of thine amendement, I would willing­ly giue thée delay of lyfe. But being a traytor as thou art, thou wilt neuer ceasse to afflict innocents. Neuer­thelesse if thou wilt acknowledge thy fault publikely, and require pardon of the Duchesse, I will willingly leaue thée to the mercy of the Duke, although that if I did obserue the rigour of the lawe, I shoulde cause thée presently to receyue the payne prepared for y^e Du­chesse.’ To whome he obeyed for safegarde of his lyfe, and knéeling on his knées before the Duchesse in the presence of all the people made a long discourse of his loue towardes her, of the repulse that she gaue him, and that for reuenge, he ayded himselfe with his Ne­phewe, thinking to ouerthrowe her chastitie. Finally, how he had slayne his Nephew, to induce the Duke to iudge her to be culpable of y^e adulterry. And then tour­ning his face towardes the Duchesse, sayde vnto her. ‘[Page]Madame it behoueth me to confesse y^t the losse of thys one lyfe is to little to paye the tribute of the curelesse fault that I haue cōmitted against you. Yet sith it is so, I besech you by preferring pitie and mercy before the rigor of your iustice, you will permit that I may liue yet certayne dayes to make a viewe of my lyfe paste, and to prouide for the scruple of my conscience.’ Then new ioye approched to garnishe the spirite of the Du­chesse, and both the soule and the heart began to shewe themselues ioyful, in such wyse, that she was a long tyme wythout power to speake, & did nothing else but ioyne her handes & lift vp her eyes to Heauen, saying. ‘O Lorde God, praysed be thy holy name, for that thou hast caused the bright beames of thy diuinitie, to shine vpon the darknesse, of my sorrowfull lyfe, enforcing so well the minde of thys traytour the murderer of mine honor by the prickes of thy rigorous iustice, o­penly to acknowledge before all men, the iniurie that he hath done me.’ And without speaking any more words, she torned her face for feare lest she shuld make him any other answere. Then all the people began to laude and magnifie God, and to sing Psalmes for ioy of the deliueraūce of their Duchesse, who was brought backe and reconducted into the citie, with so great triumph, as if she had made a seconde entrie. Whilest these things were a doing, the deputies for the suretie of the campe caused the wounded Earle to be borne to prison. The knight Mendozza stale secretely away, and after that he had in the nexte village dressed cer­taine smal woūds that he had receiued in the combat, he toke his way to Spaine. In y^e meane tyme, the Du­chesse caused him to be sought for in euery place, but it was not possible to knowe any more newes of him, [Page 253] than if he had bene neuer sene. Wherat being grieued beyonde measure, she made her mone to Emilia, to know wherfore he should so absent himselfe from her. ‘Madame (quod Emilia) he is sure some French knight or else it may be some kinsman of your owne, who is come out of Englande into these partes for certaine other affaires. And fearing least he should be stayed here, will not be knowen, reseruing the manifestaci­on of himselfe til another tyme more apte for his pur­pose. Let him be what he may be (sayde the Duchesse) for so long as my soule shall remayne wythin my bo­dye, I will doe him homage during my life. For the which I am so duely bound debtour vnto him, as ne­uer subiect was to his soueraigne Lord.’ In this time, whilest these matters went thus at Thurin, the Duke of Sauoie, who was Lieutenant general for the King agaynst the Almaines, encountering with his ene­mies in a skirmishe, by fortune was slayne. Whereof the King of Englande being aduertised, and specially of the deliuerie of his sister, desirous to haue her a­bout him, sente for her to marry her agayne, and to leaue vnto her the entier gouernement of his hous­hold. And to grateste her at her first arriuall, he gaue the rule of his daughter vnto her, which was of the age of .xvi. or .xvij. yeares, wyth whome by certayne meanes there was a mariage practized for the Prince of Spaine.

Let vs nowe leaue the Duchesse to liue in honor with her brother, and retorne we to the Lord of Men­dozza, who being arriued néere vnto his citie, vnder­stode incontinently that they which had besiedged it had leuied their campe. For that they of the towne had so well done their endeuour, that not onely their [Page] enemies were not able to enter: But also they had in a certaine skirmish taken the Lord Ladulphe their Chieftaine prisoner, who was yet to that presente de­teined: bicause meanes were made for peace to be concluded on all sides. Neuerthelesse they durst doe nothing without him. Whereat the Lorde of Men­dozza, being replenished with great ioye to see hys af­faires prosper so well in all partes entred the citie. And the articles of the peace communicated vnto him, he founde them very profitable for him. And being cōcluded & approued by him, he began to solace himself in his owne house, without taking care for any thing saue onely from thenceforth to thinke by what meane he might go to sée the Duchesse, and recount vnto her the issue of his affaires. But fortune prepared him a more readie occasion than he thought of. For the King of Spaine being aduertised of certayne talkes that had bene bruted of the mariage of his sonne with the daughter of the King of Englande, determined wyth spéede; to sende a greate companie of noble men thyther, to demaunde hys daughter in mariage. Of the whiche the Lorde of Mendozza, as well for hys nobilitie, as for the knoweledge whiche he had in languages, and other good disciplines, was elec­ted chiefe, with speciall commission to accorde the mariage in case it should so please the King. The Am­bassadours vsed such expedition, that they arriued at London where the King for y^e present made his abode. Who aduertised of their comming, gaue cōmaunde­ment to the Princesse his daughter, & to the Duchesse his sister, to prepare thēselues to receiue a great com­pany of Lordes of Spaine, which that day would come to his courte to treate of the aforesayde mariage. And [Page 254] God knoweth if y^e Ladyes spared oughte of that which they thought might augment their beautie. The King also for his part, to do them more honor, went to méete them in person, and at their arriual, gaue them a most friendlye welcome. But sodaynely as they presented themselues to doe their reuerence to the Ladyes: the Duchesse who incontinently knew the Lorde of Men­dozza, began so to detest him, that she was not able to rule her selfe, but (with a sodayne mutacion of colour) she must néedes abandon the companie. The Lorde of Mendozza, knowing the originall of her griefe, lefte not his dutie vndone towardes the Princesse, and other Ladies, which accompanied her, dissembling to haue taken no regard to thabsence of the Duchesse. And Emilia, who had followed her mystresse into the chambre, fearing least there were some sodayne mis­chaunce happened, demaunded of her, wherefore she was retired from a company so honorable: and sayde that she did great wrong to her owne estimation. To whome the Duchesse (with extreme choler) made aun­swere. ‘Why Emilia, thinkest thou that I haue the heart to suffer my hande to be kyssed, by that moste trayterous and cowardely Knight of the worlde, who made no conscience to abandon me in the moste grea­test necessitie of my lyfe? whereas I contrarie to the dutie of all the lawes of honor, and contrarie to my sexe, dyd so muche abase my selfe, as to visite hym in Spaine. Naye, rather my dayes shall ceasse their course, than mine affection shall euer reuiue in hym: He shall neuer receyue any other fauoure of me, but as of his most cruell and mortall enimye. And then Emilia smiling, sayde vnto her. In good earnest Ma­dame, I thought that the sharpenesse of your imprison­ment, [Page] with the other torments paste, which you haue indured, might haue put all these matters quite in ob­linion, and would so haue mortifyed you, that you had wholly lost all desire of reuenge. But so farre as I can perceiue, I am deceiued of mine accompt, seing that sodainly, so sone as you beheld the knight Mendozza, you began to flye, as if your ghostly enemie had come before you, in hys moste hideous and horrible forme.’ Yet coulde not Emilia perswade her, to shew her selfe abrode before dinner, tyll the King sente for her, with worde that if she came not, he woulde himselfe fetche her. And then a little shamefast colour, began to re­new her Alablaster chéekes, which rendred her so rud­die and fayre, that the Spaniardes confessed, neuer to haue séene in any part of the worlde, where they had bene; one so fayre and beautifull a wyddowe. The ta­bles couered for dinner, the king tooke his place, and for their more honourable entertaynement, caused them to be set at his owne table: and made the Lorde of Mendozza, to be placed face to face with the Du­chesse his sister: Who was so inflamed and moued with choler, that she durste not lifte vp her eyes for feare least vpon the sodaine she should be perceyued: Which eyes sparkling sometymes with great yre, re­sembled properly two starres of the night, that shoote forth their brightnesse vpō the earth, when al things be in silence. And all this time the Lorde of Mendoz­za, conceyued such pleasure at these pretie toyes, that he would not haue chaunged his ioy for the best citie in all Englande. And as the Duchesse in this order did firmely fixe her eyes, she sawe by fortune a riche Diamonde that Mendozza ware vppon his finger: Wherevpon hauing oftentymes cast her eyes, she so­daynely [Page 255] knewe that it was the very same that she had gyuen to the good father that confessed her at Thurin, the day before she was leadde to the piller: and be­gan then to imagine with her selfe, howe it might be that he coulde come by the same. And not knowing what to say immediately after she had dyned, and the tables taken vp, she caused Master Appian her Phisi­tian to be called vnto her: whome she desired to know of the Lorde of Mendozza, by what meanes he came by the Diamonde that he ware vpō his finger. Which Appian did. And after he had talked with the knight of certayne common matters, he sayde vnto him. ‘My Lorde, you haue a very fayre Diamonde theee, which as I thinke, I haue séene before this time, wherefore Sir I pray you tell me where you had it.’ To whome the Lorde of Mendozza aunswered in laughing wise. ‘Maister Appian, where I had the ring, is to secrete for you to knowe, but tell my Lady the Duchesse, that the knowledge thereof onely appartayneth vnto her.’ Which answere Appian declared to y^e Duchesse. And albeit that she toke no great pleasure in the answere: Yet neuerthelesse very desirous to vnderstande the truth, she repaired to the knight which the same tyme walked alone in a Gallerie, who after he had kissed her handes, began to discourse of his fortunes past, declaring vnto her, that he repented, of the refusall that he made to Maister Appian for her succour, and howe within a while after he rode to Thurin: adding the deuise whereby he had heard her confession: and howe the Diamonde came into his handes, putting her in remembraunce from worde to worde, of all his talke with her, during the time that he was in Friers wéede, then finally his victorie agaynst the Earle, his [Page] secret flight, and all the whole as before hath bene de­clared. Whereat the Duchesse no lesse abashed than rapt with ioy and admiration, fell downe in a swoune betwene his armes, holding her mouth so faste closed against his, that it séemed she woulde drawe the soule out of his body, to ioyne and vnite with hers. And af­ter she had remained a while in this traunce, she cried out. ‘O pore heart so long time plagued. Which hast for the space of a yere nowe passed, bene-tossed with so many tempestes and diuers assaults of Fortune. Re­ceyue at this present the medicine apte for thy health, sithens thou enioyest him betwene thine armes, that by the price of his bloud, valiant force, and extreme trauayles, hath raysed thée from death to lyfe. Let for­tune from henceforth doe her will in that she is able to deuise against me. And yet will I for this onely be­nefit, confesse my selfe this day to be eternally bound vnto her. Madame (quod the Knight) I pray you let vs not renewe the memorie of our former griefes: wher­in if by any meane, I haue done you good, I was but the organe or instrumente thereof. For God, who is the righter of all wrong, did neuer suffer iustice with­out his due vengeance, howe long so euer he taried. So (you not being in any wise culpable) if I had ne­uer enterprised the combate whervnto I was bound: Our lord God wold haue raised some other to achieue the same. Wel then my Lord (q the Duchesse) sithens it pleaseth you not, that I renewe my dolors paste, which haue taken ende by your meane: I shall hum­bly beseche you to excuse me, if this day I haue not giuen you that honour and good entertainment which you deserued: Assuring you that before you shall de­parte this countrie, I will make you amendes accor­ding [Page 256] vnto your owne discretion. Madame (quod the Knight) for all the wronges that euer you did vnto mée, (if they may be called wronges) the curtesie, fa­uor and gentlenesse which already I haue receyued, doth at one instant acquite and recompence. Neuer­lesse if it may please you to receyue me for your se­conde husbande, sith it hath pleased God to call your first out of this lyfe into another: that is and shall be the fulnesse of all the felicitie that I loke for in this worlde. My Lorde Mendozza (sayde the Duchesse) the recompence which you demaunde of me, is very little in respect of the amendes and satisfaction which I ought to make you. But of one thing I can well as­sure you, that if I had the whole worlde at my com­maundement, and that I were the best Princesse of the earth, in al kinde of beauties and gifts of grace, I would willingly submit my selfe vnto you, in conside­ration of your worthynesse, & benefits bestowed vpon me with so willing a mind, as presently I do yeld vn­to your request. And I must néedes confesse, that I am now gretly boūd to Fortune, that hath deliuered me into your hands, from whome I hope neuer to be se­uered, so long as my soule shall rest within my body: being predestinated as I beleue, to no other end, but to serue and obey you.’ And as they thought to make a longer discourse of their talk, Emilia told them, that the King was in counsel, and that the other Lords of Spaine attended his cōming. Who with his cōpany, being come before the king, & hauing done their reue­rence vnto him, he began to declare his charge, and how they were of purpose sente to his maiestie, in the behalf of the King of Spaine, to demauud y^e Lady his daughter in mariage, for his sonne y^e prince of Spaine: [Page] Which he had chosen aswell to haue his alliaunce, (a matter by him onely desired) as for the beautie & good grace, for the which she was speciallye recommended. And if so be, he had willed to haue chosen hys matche elsewhere, that there was not at that day, any Prince in all Europa, that woulde not willingly haue accor­ded vnto him. To whome the king aunswered, ‘My friendes, I féele my selfe so much honored, for that it hath pleased the King to sende vnto me, as if he had not preuented me, I had thought to haue sent vnto him for the same purpose. And albeit that, herein he hath vanquished me in ciuilitie and courtesie: yet I wil not fayle if I can to surmount him in amitie. For he hath bounde me during lyfe, in such wyse, that he and my Lord his sonne, may boldly vaunte thēselues, to haue a King of Englande and a realme, frō hence­forth at their commaundement.’ The mariage con­cluded, y^e Duchesse diligently made sute to talke with the king alone, to communicate vnto him, the agre­ment betwene the Lorde of Mendozza and her. And perceiuing that the king was gone into his chambre, she went vnto him, and being alone with him, hauing her face all bedewed with teares, knéeling, she sayd vn­to him. ‘My Lord, when I consider my miseries past, and the cruell assaultes y^t I haue receiued of Fortune, being not onely cōmitted to the mercy of a most cruell prison: but (which is more) at the very laste point of a shamefull death: I am so afflicted, that the onely re­membraunce of those miseries terrifieth me, and cau­seth a certaine extreme bitternesse to rise in my heart. And when on the other side, I thinke of the great good­nesse that almightie God hath shewed vnto me, by stretching forth his mightie hande to deliuer me oute [Page 257] of that perill: chiefly to make me tryumphe, ouer the death of mine enimie. I féele such comfort of minde, that all the delightes of the worlde, be but griefes, in respect of the ioye, pleasure and contentacion, that I receiue. Wherin nothing offendeth me so much as hi­therto that I haue not acknowledged the benifit recei­ued of him, who was elected of God to be my deliue­rer: neuerthelesse sir, by your onely worde, you may both satisfie him, and content me, yea and (as it were) prolong the dayes of my lyfe.’ The King, who loued his sister no lesse than his daughter, seing her pitifull complaynt and teares, and to speake with such affecti­on, tooke her vp, and holding her by the arme, sayd vn­to her. ‘Deare sister and friende, if I haue not to this present, satisfyed him that was the cause of your deli­ueraunce, I can not be accused of ingratitude, for that hitherto I haue not knowen him, ne yet your self doth knowe what he is, (as you haue oftentimes tolde me:) But of one thing you maye be assured: and I sweare vnto you at this present, by my Scepter, that, so sone as I shall vnderstande what he is, I will vse him in such wyse, as he shal thinke himselfe satisfyed and con­tented, though it did cost me the one halfe of my king­dome. For the pleasure which he hath done vnto you, byndeth not you alone, but me also, to be partaker of that bande, both our honours being iointly bounde therevnto. Alas my Lorde (sayde the Duchesse) it is the knight Mendozza, chief of this Ambassade, to whom, if it please you to giue your cōsent that we two might marrie, all auncient bandes and debtes shall remayne extinct, and so, by a small rewarde, you shall restore life to two persons, almost dead, for the excessiue loue which one beareth to the other.’ And therwithall she be­gan [Page] to declare to the King, thoriginall and processe of the whole discourse. First the voyage of the sister of Mendozza into Piemont, her owne peregrination to S. Iames, the honest amitie betwene her & Mendozza the message of maister Appian to Mendozza, his re­fusall of that request, his retorne after to Thurin, her confession, the Diamonde knowen agayne, finally, how al the whole had passed betwene them, the coun­terfayte deuotion to Sainct Iames, onely reserued) which for her honours sake she would not tell him. The king vnderstāding this straunge discourse, was so rapt with ioye, and appalled with gladnesse, that he coulde not for a long time, make any aunswere. When his passiō was moderated, he sayd to his sister. ‘But be you well assured, that he will receiue you for his wyfe? Yea my Lorde (quod she) I ought well to be assured of it, since he himself hath made the request. And truely (qoud the king,) God forbidde that I should be the cause, to breake so holye an accorde. For if the Lord of Mendozza were inferior in qualitie, nobility, and goodes, than he is: yet hath he so much done, both for you & me, as we may not honestly refuse him. How much more then be we bounde, to him: being a great Lorde as he is, issued of noble and famous families of Spaine, riche in goodes, and hauing hazarded his lyfe for the conseruation of your honour: and there withall seketh mine alliaunce. Go your wayes, (dere sister and friende) goe your wayes, make muche of him, and entreate him, as you think best. And when I haue walked two or thrée tornes here, I will come vn­to him, to cōmunicate more amplie of these matters.’ Scarce had the Duchesse leysure to aduertise the Lord of Mendozza of that which was concluded betwene [Page 258] the king and her, but he came downe into the Hall, where the most part of the Spanishe Gentlemen wal­ked, and with a very ioyfull countenance went to the knight. To whome he sayde. ‘My Lorde Mendozza, I praye you to embrace mée. For, so farre as I sée, I haue a better interest in you than I thought.’ And the Lorde of Mendozza, thinking to embrace him, his knée vpon the grounde, was immediately desired to stande vp. Whome the king cleping about the necke, sayde vnto him, so loud that euery man might heare. ‘Sir knight, by the God of heauen, since that I might commaund in the realme of England, I haue not en­tertained gentleman, nor Prince, to whome I haue bene more endebted than to you: nor neuer was there any dearer vnto me, than you, for the great grati­tude and kindenesse, wherewith you haue bound me, whereby I shal not from henceforth be satisfied, vntill I haue in some thing acknowledged the bonde where­in I am bounde vnto you.’ When he had spoken those wordes, he began to declare from poynt to poynt, in the presence of all the assembly, the contentes of the whole before declared historie. Wherat, ther was none in all the companie, but that was greatly astonned at the prudence of Mendozza, by so wel dissembling, and accomplishing so great enterprises, without making them manifest. And the King of England, commaun­ded that the mariage of him and his sister shoulde be published through out his realme, that all his nobilitie might be assembled. And for his greater honour, the King did from thenceforth constitute him his highe Cunstable of England, and reposed himselfe in him, as vpon a firme piller, for the administration of the wayghtiest affaires of his realme. And the mariage [Page] solempnized & consummate with the Duchesse, he re­tourned into Spaine, to accompanie the Prince into Englande, whose mariage was celebrated at Lon­don, in the King of Englandes daugh­ter, with suche pompe, and solemp­nitie, as semblable Princes be commonly accusto­med to doe in lyke cases.

The Countesse of Salesburie
¶The .xlvj. Nouell.

THys Historie ensuing, des­cribing the perfect figure of womā ­hode, the naturall quality of Loue incensing the harts indifferently of all Natures children, the liuely y­mage of a good condicioned Prince, the zealous loue of parents, and the glorious reward y^t chastitie cōduceth to her imbracers, I déeme worthy to be annexed to the former Nouell, wherin as you haue heard, be contained the straūge ad­uentures of a fayre & innocent Duchesse. Whose lyfe [Page 259] tryed lyke gold in y^e furnace, glittereth at this day, like a bright starry planet, shining in the firmament with most splēdent brightnesse aboue all the rest, to the eter­nall prayse of feminine kinde. And as a noble Duke of Sauoie, by heate of Loues rage, pursued the lo­uing trace of a King of Englandes syster married in­to Spaine, euen so a renowmed and moste victorious Prince (as the Aucthor of them both affirmeth thorowe the furie of that passion, which (as Apuleus sayth) in the fyrst heate is but smal, but abounding by increase, doth set all men on fier) maketh earnest sute by dis­course of wordes, to a Ladie her selfe, a Countesse, and Earles daughter, a beautifull and faire wight, a creature incomparable, the wyfe of a noble man hys owne subiect: who seing her constant forte to be im­pregnable, after pleasaunt sute and milde request, at­tempteth by vndermining to inuade, and when wyth siege prolixe, he perceiueth no ingenious deuise can achieue that long and paynefull worke, he threateth might and mayne, dire and cruell assaultes, to winne and get the same, and laste of all surrendred into his handes, and the prisoner crying for mercye, he merci­fully is contented to mitigate his conceyued rigor, and pitifully to release the Ladie, whom for her womanly stoutnesse and coragious constancie, he imbraceth and entertaigneth for his owne. This great and worthy king, by the first viewe of a delicate Ladie, thorow the sappe of Loue soaked into his noble heart, was trans­ported into many passions, and rapt into infinite pan­gues, which afterwardes, bredde him great disquiet­nesse. This worthie Prince (I saye) who before that time lyke an Alexandre, was able to conquere and gayne whole kingdomes, & made all Fraunce to quake [Page] for feare, at whose approche the gates of euery Citie did flye open, and fame of him prouoked eche French­mans knée to bowe, whose helmet was made of man­hodes trampe, and mace well stéeled with stoute at­temptes, was by the weakest staye of dame Natures frame, a woman: (shaped wyth no visage sterne or vglie looke) affrighted and appalled, whose heart was armed with no lethall sworde or deadly launce, but with a Curat of honour & weapon of womanhode, and for al his glorious conquests, she durst by singuler cō ­bat to giue refusall to his face. Which singuler per­seueration in defence of her chastitie inexpugnable, esclarisheth to the whole flocke of womankynde, the bright beames of wisdome, vertue, and honestie. No prayers, intreatie, suplication, teares, sobbes, sighes, or other lyke humaine actions, poured forth of a Princesse heart, could withdraw her from the bounds of honestie. No promise, present, practise, deuise, sute, friende, parent, letter, or counsellor, could make her to straye out of the limits of vertue. No threate, me­nace, rigor, feare, punishment, exile, terror, or other crueltie, coulde diuert her from the siedge of constan­cie. In her youthly tyme, till her mariage day, she de­lighted in virginitie, From her mariage day during her wydow state, she reioyced in chastitie. The one she conserued like a hardie Cloelia, the other she kept like a constant Panthea. This notable historie there­fore I haue purposed to make common, aswell for en­couragement of Ladyes to imbrace Constancie, as to imbolden thē in y^e refusal of dishonest sutes, for which if they doe not acquire semblable honor, as this Lady did, yet they shall not be frustrate of the due rewarde incident to honor, which is, fame, & immortall praise. [Page 260] Gentlemen may learne by the successe of this dis­course, what tormentes be in Loue, what trauailes in pursute, what passions lyke ague fittes, what dis­conueniences, what lost labour, what playntes, what griefes, what vnnaturall attemptes be forced. Many other notorious examples be contayned in the same, to the great comforte and pleasure, as I trust, of the well aduised reader. And althoughe the aucthor of the same, perchaunce hath not rightly touched the propre names of the Aucthors of this tragedie, by perfect ap­pellations: as Edward the thirde for his eldest sonne Edward y^e Prince of Wales (who as I reade in Fabiā) maried the Countesse of Salesburie, which before was Countesse of Kent, & wife vnto sir Thomas Holand: & whose name, (as Polidore sayth) was Iane, daughter to Edmund Earle of Kent, of whome the same Prince Edward, begat Edward that dyed in his childish yeres, & Richard that afterwards was King of England the seconde of that name, & for that she was kinne to him, was deuorced, whose sayd father maried Phillip, dau­ghter to y^e Earle of Henault, & had by her .vij. sonnes: And AElips for y^e name of y^e sayd Countesse, being none such amongs our vulgare termes, but Frosard remē ­breth her name to be Alice, which in dede is common amongs vs: and the Castle of Salesberic where there is none by that name, vpon the Frontiers of Scotland albeit the same Frosard doth make mention of a castle of y^e Earle of Salesburies, giuen vnto him by Edward the thirde when he was Sir William Mountague, and maried the sayde Lady Alice, for his seruice and prowesse againste the Scottes: and Rosamburghe for Roxboroughe: and that the sayde Edward when he sawe that he could not by loue and other persuasions [Page] attayne the Countesse, but by force, maried the same Countesse, which is altogether vntrue, for that Poly­dore and other aucthors, doe remember but one wyfe that he had, which was the sayde vertuous Quéene Phillip, with other like defaultes: yet the grace of the Historie for al those errors is not diminished. Wherof I thought good to giue this aduertisement. And way­ing with my selfe that by the publishing hereof, no dis­honour can redound to the illustre race of our noble Kinges and Princes, ne yet to the blemishing of the fame of that noble king, eternized for his victories and vertues in the auncient annales, Chronicles and mo­numents, forren and domesticall, (bicause all natures children be thrall and subiect to the infirmities of their first parents,) I doe with submission humblie referre the same, to the iudgement and correction of them, to whome it shall appertaine. Which being considered, the Nouell doth begin in this forme and order.

THere was a King of Englande named Ed­ward, which had to his first wyfe, the daugh­ter of the Counte of Henault, of whom he had children, the eldest wherof was called also Ed­ward, the renowmed Prince of Wales, who besides Poictiers subdued y^e french men, toke Iohn the French King prisoner, and sent him into England. This Ed­ward father of the Prince of Wales, was not onely a capitall enemie of the French men, but also had con­tinuall warres with the Scottes his neighbours, and seing himselfe so disquieted on euery side, ordayned for his Lieutenant vpon the frontiers of Scotland, one of his captaynes, named William Lorde Montague. To whome bicause he had fortified Roxboroughe, and [Page 261] addressed manye enterprises agaynst the enemies, he gaue the Earledome of Salesburie, and married him honorablie with one of the fairest Ladies of England. Certayne dayes after, King Edwarde sent him into Flaundres, in the companie of the Earle of Suffolke, where Fortune was so contrarie, that they were both taken prisoners, by the French men, and sent to the Louure at Paris. The Scottes hearing tell of their dis­comfiture, and howe the marches were destitute of a gouernour, they spéedely sent thether an armie, with intent to take the Countesse prisoner, to raise her Ca­stle & to make bootie of the riches that was there. But the Earle of Salesburie before his departure, had gi­uen so good order, that their successe was not suche as they hoped. For they were so liuely repelled by them that were within, that not able to indure their furie, in steade of making their approches, they were constray­ned to goe further of. And hauing intelligence by cer­tayne spies, that the King of Englande was depar­ted from London, with a great armie, to come to suc­cour the Countesse, perceyuing that a farre of, they were able to doe little good, they were fame shortly to retire home agayne to their shame. King Edward de­parted from London, trauayling by great iourneyes with his armie towardes Salesberic, was aduertized, that the Scottes were discamped, and fled agayne into Scotland. Albeit they had so spoyled the Castle in ma­ny places, that the markes there, gaue sufficient wit­nesse, what their intente and meaning was. And althoughe the King had thought to retourne backe a­gayne vpon their retire, yet being aduertized of the great battrie, and of the hote assault that they had gi­uen to the Castle, he went forth to visit the place. The [Page] Countesse whose name was AElips, vnderstanding of the kings comming, causing al things to be in so good readinesse, as y^e shortnesse of the time could serue, fur­nished her selfe so wel as she could w^t a certaine num­bre of Gentlewomen and souldiers that remained, to issue forth to méete the King, who besides her naturall beautie, for the which she was recommended aboue al the Ladies of her prouince, was enriched with the fur­niture of vertue and curtesie. Which made her so in­comparable, that at one instant, she rauished y^e heartes of al the Princes & Lordes that did beheld her, in such wise, that there was no talke in all the armie, but of her graces and vertue, and speciallie of her excellent and surpassing beautie. The king hauing made reue­rence vnto her, after he had wel viewed al her gestures and countenaunces, thought that he had neuer séene a more goodlier creature. Then rapt with an incredible admiration he sayde vnto her. ‘Madame Countesse, I doe beleue, that if in this attire and furniture wherein you now be, accompanied with so rare and excellent beautie, ye had bene placed vpon one of the rampiers of your Castle, you had made more breaches with the lookes & beames of your sparkling eyes, in the harts of your enemies, than they had bene able to haue done in your Castle, with their thundering Ordinaunce.’ The Countesse somewhat shamefast and abashed, to heare her selfe so greatly praysed of a Prince so great, began to blushe and taint with roseall colour, the whitenesse of her alablaster face. Then lyfting vp her bashefull eyes, somewhat towards the king, she sayd vnto him. ‘My soueraygne Lorde, your grace may speake your pleasure. But I am well assured, that if you had séene the numbre of shotte, which by the space of .xij. houres [Page 262] were bestowed so thick as hayle, vpon euery parte of the Forte, you might haue iudged what good will the Scottes did beare vnto me and my people. And for my selfe I am assured, that if I had made proufe of that which you say, and submitted my selfe to their mercie, my bodie nowe had bene dissolued into dust.’ The king astonned with so sage & wise an aunswere, chaunging his minde, went towarde the Castle: where after in­terteignement and accustomed welcome, he began by little and little, to féele himselfe attached with a newe fier. Which the more he labored to resist, the more it inflamed. And feling this newe mutacion in himselfe, there came into his minde, an infinite nūbre of mat­ters, balancing betwene hope and feare, sometimes determining to yelde vnto his passions, & sometimes thinking clerely to cut them of, for feare least by com­mitting himselfe to his affections, the vrgent affayres of the warres, wherwith he was inuolued, should haue yll successe. But in the end vanquished with Loue, he purposed to proue the heart of the Countesse, and the better to attayne the same, he toke her by the hande, and prayed her to shewe him the commodities of the Forteresse. Which she did so well, and with so good grace, interteigning him all that while with infinite talke of diuers matters, that the little griftes of Loue which were scarcely planted, began to grow so farre, as the rootes remayned engrauen in the depth of his heart. And the King not able any longer to endure suche a charge in his minde, pressed with griefe, de­uised by what meanes he might enioy her, which was the cause of his disquiet. But the Countesse seing him so pensife, without any apparaunt occasion, sayde vn­to him. ‘Sir I doe not a little maruell, to sée you re­duced [Page] into these alterations. For (me thinke) your grace is maruellously chaunged w^t in these two or thre houres, that your highnesse vouchsaued to enter into this Castle for my succour and reliefe in so good time, that al the dayes of my lyfe, both I and mine be great­ly bounde vnto you, as to him which is not onely con­tent eliberallie to haue bestowed vpon vs, the goodes which we possesse, but also by his generositie, doth cō ­serue and defende vs from the incursions of the ene­mie. Wherein your grace doth deserue double praise, for a déede so charitable. But I cannot tell nor yet de­uise, what should be the occasion that your highnesse is so pensife and sorrowfull, sithe without great losse on your part, your enemies vnderstanding of your stoute approch, be retired, which ought, as I suppose, to driue away the melancolie from your stomack, and to reuoke your former ioy, for so muche as victorie ac­quired without effusion of bloude, is alwayes moste noble and acceptable before God.’ The King hearing this Aungelles voyce, so amiably pronouncing these wordes, thinking that of her owne accorde she came to make him mery, determined to let her vnderstand his griefe, vpon so conuenient occasion offred. Then with a trembling voyce he sayde vnto her. ‘Ah Ma­dame, howe farre be my thoughtes farre different from those which you doe thinke me to haue, I féele my heart so opprest with care, that it is impossible to tell you what it is, howheit the same hath not bene of long continuance, being attached there withall, since my comming hither, which troubleth me so sore, that I cannot tell wherevpon well to determine.’ The Countesse seing the King thus moued, not kno­wing the cause why, was vncertayne what aunswere [Page 263] to make. Which the king perceiuing, sayde vnto her, fetching a déepe sigh from the bottome of his stomack. ‘And what saye you Madame therevnto, can you giue me no remedie?’ The Coūtesse, which neuer thought that any such dishonestie coulde take place in y^e kings heart, taking things in good part, sayde vnto him. ‘Syr, I know not what remedie to giue you, if first you doe not discouer vnto me the griefe. But if it trouble you, that the Scottish king hath spoyled your countrie, the losse is not so great, as wherewith, a prince so mighty as you be, néede to be offended: sithens by the grace of God, the vengeance lyeth in your hand, and you may in tyme chasten him, as at other times you haue done.’ Wherevnto, the king seing her simplicitie, answered. ‘Madame the beginning of my grief riseth not of that, but my wounde resteth in the inwarde parte of my heart, which pricketh me so sore, that if I desire from henceforth to prolong my lyfe, I must open the same vnto you, reseruing the cause thereof, so secrete that none but you and I must be partakers. I muste nowe then confesse vnto you, that in cōming to your Castle, and casting downe my head to beholde your celestiall face, and the rest of the graces, wherwith the Heauens haue prodigally endewed you, I haue felt (vnhappie man as I am) such a sodayne alteratiō, in all the most sensible partes of my bodie, that knowing my forces diminished, I can not tell to whome to make my com­plaint of my libertie lost (which of long time I haue so happyly preserued) but only to you, that like a fayth­full keper and onely Treasorer of my heart, you may by some shining beame of pitie, bring againe to hys former mirth and ioye, that which you desire in me: and by the contrarie, you maye procure to me a life [Page] more painefull and grieuous, than a thousand deathes together.’ When he had ended these wordes, he helde his peace, to let her to speake, attending none other thing by her aunswere, but the laste decrée eyther of death or lyfe. But the Countesse with a grauitie, con­formable to her honestie & honor, without other mo­uing, sayde vnto him. ‘If any other besides your grace, had bene so forgetfull of himselfe to enter in these tearmes, or to vse suche talke vnto me, I knowe what shoulde be myne aunswere, and so it might be, that he shoulde haue occasion not to be well contented, but knowing this your attempt to procéede rather from the pleasantnesse of your hearte, than for other affec­tion, I will beleue from henceforth, and persuade my selfe, that a Prince so renowmed and gentle as you be, doth not thinke, and much lesse meane, to attempt any thing against myne honour, which is a thousand times dearer vnto me than lyfe. And I am persuaded, that you doe not so little estéeme my father, and my husband, who is for your seruice prisoner in the hands of the French men, our mortall enemies, as in their absence to procure vnto them suche defamation and slaunder. And by making this request, your grace doth swarue from the boundes of Honestie very farre, and you doe greate iniurie to your fame, if men shoulde know what tearmes you doe vse towards me. In like manner, I purpose not to violate the faith, which I haue giuen to my husbande, rather I intende to kepe the same vnspotted, so long as my soule shall be caried in the Chariot of this mortall body. And if I should so farre forget my selfe, as willingly to commit a thing so dishonest, your grace ought for the loyall seruice of my father and husbande towarde you, sharpely to re­buke [Page 264] me, and to punishe me according to my deserte. For this cause (moste dradde soueraigne Lord) you which are accustomed to vanquishe and subdue other, be nowe a conquerour ouer your selfe, and throughly bridle that concupiscence (if there be any) vnder the raines of Reason, that being quenched and ouercome, they may no more reuiue in you, and hauing liuely re­sisted the first assaultes, the victorie is but easie, which shall be a thousand times more glorious and gainefull for you, than if you had conquered a kingdome.’ The Countesse had scarce made an ende of her tale, but one came to tell them that the Tables were couered for dinner, the King well fedde with Loue, dyned for that tyme very soberlye, and not able to eate but vpon a­morous dishes, did caste his lokes inconstantly here and there, and still his eyes threwe the last loke vpon that part of the table, where the Countesse satte, mea­ning thereby to extinguishe the boyling flames, which incessantly did burne him, howbeit by thinking to coole them, he further plondged himselfe therein. And wandering thus in diuers cogitations, the wise aun­swere that the Countesse made, like a vaunte curreur, was continually in his remebrance, and was well assured of her inuincible chastitie. By reason wherof, seing that so harde and enterprise, required a longer a­bode, and that a heart so chaste, could not so quickly be remoued frō purpose, careful on the other side, to giue order to the waightie affaires of his realme, disquieted also on euery side, throughe the turmoile of warres, determined to depart the next day in the morning, re­seruing till another tyme more conuenient, the pur­sute of his Loue. Hauing taken order for his depar­ture, in y^e morning he went to seke the Countesse, and [Page] taking his leaue of her, he prayed her, to thinke bet­ter of the talke made vnto her the day before, but a­boue all, he besought her to haue pitie vpon hym. Wherevnto the Countesse answered, that not one­lye she prayed God incessantly to giue him victorie o­uer his outwarde enemies, but also grace, to tame that carnall passion, which did so torment him. Cer­taine dayes after that King Edward was arriued at London, which was the place of his ordinarie abode, the Countesse of Salesburie was aduertised, that the Earle her husbande, being out of prison, consumed with griefe & sicknesse, died by the way homewardes. And bicause they had no children, the Earledome re­torned to y^e King, which first gaue the same vnto him. And after she had lamented the death of her husbande the space of many dayes, she retourned to her fathers house, which was Earle of Warwicke. And for so muche as he was one of the Kinges priuie Counsell, and the most part of the affaires of the realme passed by his aduise and counsell, he continued at London, that he might be more nere vnto the Kinges person. The King aduertized of the comming of the Coun­tesse, thought that fortune had opened a way to bring his enterprise to desired effecte, specially for that the death of her husbande, and the witnesse of his earnest good will, would make her more tractable. The king seing all thing (as he thought) to succede after his de­sire, began to renewe his first affections, séeking by all meanes to practise the good wil of the Countesse, who then was of the age of .xxvi. yeares. Afterwardes he ordayned many triumphes at the Tilte and Torney, Maskes, Momeries, feastes, banquets, and other like pastimes, wherat Ladies accustomably doe assemble, [Page 265] who made much of them all, and secretely talked with them. Notwithstanding he could not so well disguise and counterfait his passions, but that he still shewed himselfe to beare beste good will to the Countesse. Thus the king coulde not vse suche discretion in loue, but that from his secret fier, some euident flames did issue out: But the Countesse which was a wise and curteous Lady, did easely perceyue, how the king by chaunging the place, had not altered his affection, and that he still prosecuted his talke begon at Salesberic. She despising all his amorous countenaunces, con­tinued her firme and chaste minde. And if it chaunced that sometimes the king, made more of her, than dis­cretion required, sodainly might haue bene discried a certaine palenesse in her face, which declared the little pleasure that she toke in his toyes, with a certayne ri­gor appearing, that yelded to the king, an assured tes­timonie that he laboured in vaine. Neuerthelesse she, to cut of all meanes of the Kings pursute, kept still her fathers house, shewing her self, in no place where the king might sée her. The king offended, seing him­selfe depriued and banished her presence, whome he estemed as the comfort of his lyfe, made his secretarie priuie to the whole matter, whose fidelitie he had wel proued in matters daungerous, with minde to pur­sue her by other way, if it chaunced that she persisted in her wonted rigor and refusall. Howbeit before he proceded any further, sith he could not secretely talke with her, he purposed to sende her a letter, the Tenor whereof insueth.

The letter written with his owne hand, and sea­led with his seale, he commaunded the Secretarie to goe to the Countesse, at her fathers house, and secret­ly to deliuer the same, which he did. And the Coun­tesse hauing read and perused it, sayde to the Secre­tarie. ‘My frende, you shal tell the king, that I doe be­seche him most humbly, to send me no more letters or messages touching the matters, wherof he hath writ­ten. For I am in such wise resolued in the aunswere, [Page 266] which I made him in my Castle, that I will persist immutable, to the ende of my life.’ The Secretarie re­torning, and hauing recited the answere of the Coun­tesse, the King rapte with an impacient and extreme choler, woulde againe attempt an other newe way: and consuming by little & little in this amorous fier, began to sort out of the limits of Reason. And almost out of his wittes, demaunded of his Secretarie. ‘Doe you thinke it expedient, that I make request to her father, bicause I want counsell in other thinges?’ To whome the Secretarie boldly sayde, that he thought it vnreasonable to seke ayde at a fathers hands to cor­rupt his daughter: faithfully telling to the King, y^e re­proch and infamie that would followe thereof, aswell for the old seruice, that her father had done to his aun­cestors, as for his great prowesse in armes, for which he was so greatly commended. But Loue, the mortal enemie of all good councell, so blinded the eyes of the king, that without any further deliberation, he com­maunded the Secretarie to goe seke the father, to de­maund help of him for matters of importance: which the Earle vnderstanding, obeyed incontinently, where the King alone in a chamber, lying vpon a bed, after he had commaunded him to shut the dore and to sitte downe by him, sayde these wordes. ‘My Lorde, I haue caused you to come hither for a certayne occasion, which toucheth me so nighe, as the losse or preserua­tion of my lyfe. For neuer through any assault of For­tune (the sharpnesse whereof I haue often felte) haue I bene vanquished with so great enuie and malice, as nowe. For I am so vexed with my passions, that being ouercome by them, I haue none other refuge, but a moste vnhappy death that euer man can suffer, if pre­sentely [Page] I be not holpen. Knowe ye therefore, that I déeme him onely to be happy, that by Reason can rule his wittes, not suffring himself to be caried into vaine desires: In which point we do differ from beasts, who being lead onely by naturall order, doe indiffenretly runne head long, whether their appetie doth guide them: But we with the measure of Reason, ought to moderate our doings with suche prouidence, as with out straying we may choose the right way of equitie and iustice. And if at any tyme, the weake fleshe doth faint and giue ouer, we haue none to blame but our selues. Who deceyued by the fading shadow and false apparance of things, fall into the ditch by our selues prepared. And that which I doe alleage, is proued, not without manifest reason, wherof I nowe doe fele ex­perience, hauing let slip the raines of the bridle to far ouer my disordinate affections, being drawen from the right hand, & traiterously deceyued. And neuerthe­lesse I cannot tel how to retire to take y^e right way, or how to tourne my backe from y^t which doth me hurt. Wherefore now (vnfortunate & miserable that I am) I acknowledge my selfe to be like vnto him, that fol­loweth his game in the thicket of a woodde, rushing through thick and thinne at all aduentures, not kno­wing howe to finde the way he entred in, but rather the more he desireth to followe the trace, the more in the ende he is wrapped in the bushes. So it is my Lord, that I cannot and may not for all my foresayde allegacions, so colour my fault, or purge myne error, but y^t I must confesse and acknowledge it to be in me. But I speake to this ende, that séeking a farre of the originall of my griefe, you woulde helpe me to com­playne, and to take pitie vpon me. For to tell you the [Page 267] truth, I am so intricated in the Labarinthe of my vn­brideled will, that the more I doe aspire to the better (alas) the worsse I am. Haue not I good cause to com­playne my Lorde, that after so many famous victories achieued by sea and lande, wherewith I haue renow­med the memorie of my name in all places, am nowe bounde and vanquished with an appetite so outragi­ous, that I can not helpe my self, whereby mine owne lyfe or rather death, is consumed in such anguishe and mortall payne, that I am become the very mansion of all mischiefes, and onely receptacle of all miseries? What sufficient excuse for my fault may I henceforth alleage, that in the ende will not display it to be both vnprofitable and voyd of Reason? But what shall be the buckler of my shame, if not my youthly age, which pricketh me forwarde to leue lyke a sharpe needle? the force whereof I haue so oft repelled, that nowe being vanquished, I haue no place for reste, but in thy mer­cie, who in my fathers dayes, diddest liberally spende thy bloud, in many notable enterprises in his seruice, which afterwardes thou hast so well continued, that in many daungerous affayres, I haue diuers tymes proued the fidelitie of thy Counsell, whereby I haue brought to passe things of great importaunce, and therein hitherto neuer founde thée slack and vnfayth­full. Which when I remember, doe prouoke me to be bolde to declare vnto you mine entent, which by your onely worde you may procure, the fruite wherof being gotten, you shall winne the heart of a King, whome you may vse as you list all the dayes of your lyfe. And the more the thing shal séeme harde, difficult or payne­full, the greater your merite shall be, and the more firmely shal he be bounde, which doth receyue it. Con­sider [Page] then my Lorde, how profitable it is, to haue a king at your commaundement. You haue also foure sonnes, whom you cannot honorably aduaunce with­out my fauour: swearing vnto you by my regall Scepter, that if you comfort me in my troubles, I wil endue y^e thrée yongest, with so large possessions, y^t they shall haue no cause to be offended with their eldest brother. Remember likewyse, what rewardes I haue bestowed vpon them that serue me. And if you haue knowen howe liberall I haue bene towardes other, thinke then I pray you, how bountifully you binde me towardes you, vpon whome my life and death depen­deth.’ The king ending his sorowfull complaynt, stop­ped by sobbes and sighes, helde his peace. And y^e Earle who tenderly loued his prince, hearing this pitiful dis­course, (the faythfull witnesse of his inwarde passion) and not able to coniecture the occasion, was maruel­lously troubled in himself, and without longer aduise, ouercome with pitie, he made a liberall and very so­dayne offer to the king of his lyfe, his children, and of all that he was able to doe. ‘Cōmaunde, my soueraigne Lord (quod he with wéeping teares) what it shall please you to haue me to doe, if it be, euen to bestowe mine owne lyfe for your sake. For by the fayth and foaltie that I doe owe to God and to your grace, I sweare, that many dayes and yeares paste I haue bounde my selfe inuiolably, and all mine abilitie without excepti­on, so long as my tongue is able to sturre, and my breath shall remayne within this body, faythfully and truely to serue your Maiestie, not onely for that my dutie bindeth me, but if it were for your sake, to trans­gresse and excéede the boundes of mine honor.’ But the good olde Earle, which neuer thought that a request [Page 268] so vniust and dishonest, would haue procéeded oute of the mouth of a King, with frank and open hart, offred that liberall graunt. The king then thinking that he had sounded the depth of the Earles affection, chaun­ging colour, his eyes fixed on the ground, sayde vnto him. ‘Your daughter the Countesse of Salesburie, (my Lorde) is the onely medicine of my trauayles, whome I doe loue better than my owne life, and doe féele my selfe to inflamed with her Heauenly beauty, that with­out her grace and fauour, I am not able hereafter to lyue, for thys consideration, syth you desire to doe me seruice, and to preserue my lyfe, I praye you to deale so with her, that she with compassion may looke vpon me. Crauing this request at your handes, not without extreme shame, considering aswell your ho­norable state, as your auncient merites imployed vp­on me and my progenitoures. But according to your modestie and accustomed goodnesse, impute the faulte vpon amorous loue, which in such wise hath alienated my libertie, and confounded my heart, that now ran­ging out of the boundes of honor & reason, I féele my selfe tormented & vexed in minde. Wherby I am pro­uoked to make this request, and not able to expell the mortal poyson out of my heart, which hath diminished my force, intoxticated my sense, and hath depriued my minde from all good counsell, that I can not tell what to do but to séeke to you for helpe, hauing no kinde of rest, but when I sée her, when I speake of her, or think vpō her. And I am at this present reduced into so piti­full state, that being not able to winne her by intrea­ties, offers, presents, sutes, ambassages and letters, my onely and last refuge and assured port of all my miseries, resteth in you, eyther by death to ende my [Page] lyfe, or by force to obtayne my desire.’ The Earle hea­ring the vneiuile and beastlye demaunde of his soue­raigne Lorde, blushing for shame, and throughlie as­tonned, filled also with a certayne honest and vertu­ous disdayne, was not able to dissolue his tongue to render a worthy aunswere to the afflicted Prince. Fi­nally lyke one awaked from his deade sléepe, he sayde vnto him. ‘Sir, my wittes fayle, my vertue reuolteth, my tongue is mute, at those words that procéede from your mouth, wherby I fele my self brought into two so straunge and perillous poyntes, that passing ey­ther by one or other, I muste néedes fall into very great daunger. But to resolue my selfe vpon that which is moste expedient, hauing giuen vnto you my fayth in pledge, to succour and helpe you euen to the abandoning of honor and lyfe, I will not be contrarie to my wordes. And touching my daughter, for whom you haue made request, I will reueale vnto her the effect of your demaunde: yet of one thing I muste tell you sir, power I haue to entreate her, but none at all to force her. Inoughe it is that she vnderstande of me, what heart and affection you beare vnto her. But I doe maruell, yea and complayne of you, pardon me (most dradde soueraigne) and suffer me without of­fence to discharge my griefe before your presence, ra­ther than to your shame and myne eternall infamie, it should be manifested and published abrode by other. I saye that I maruell sir, what occasion moued you to commit such reproch in my stocke & bloude, and by an acte so shamefull and lasciuious, to dishonor the same: Which neuer disdayned to serue both you and yours, to the vttermost of their powers. Alas vnhappy father that I am, is this the guerdon and recompence that [Page 269] I and my children shal expect for our trusty and faith­full seruices? Oh sir for Gods sake, if you liste not to be liberal of your owne, seke not to dishonour vs, and to inflict vpon our race, suche notable infamie. But who can loke for worse at the hands of his mortall and cruell enemie? It is you, euen you it is, (most noble Prince) that doth rauishe my daughter of her honor, dispoyle me of my contentation, ye take from my children hardinesse to shewe their faces, & from all our whole house, the auncient fame and glory. It is you that hath obscured the clearenesse of my bloude, with an attempt so dishonest and detestable: that the me­morie thereof shall neuer be forgotten. It is you that doth constraine me to be the infamous minister of the totall destruction of my progenie, and to be a shame­lesse Pandarus of my daughters honor. Thinke you sir, that you meane to helpe and succoure me, when others shal attempt to obiect before my face this slaun­der and reproch? but if your self doe hurte me, where shall I hereafter seke reliefe and succour. If the hand which ought to helpe me, be the very same that doth giue me the wound, where shall the hope be of my re­couerie? For this cause, may it please your Maiesty, whether iustlie I doe make my complaynt, and whe­ther you giue me occasion to aduaunce my cryes to the heauens, your selfe shall be the Iudge. For if like a Iudge in dede you doe giue ouer your disordinate af­fectiō: I then appeale to the iudgement of your inuin­cible mynde, accomplished with all curtesie and gen­tlenesse. On the other side, I doe lamente your For­tune, when I thinke vpon the reasons which you haue alleaged, and the greater cause I haue to complayne, bicause I haue knowen you from your youth, and [Page] haue alwayes déemed you at libertie and frée from suche passions, not thrall or subiect to the flames of Loue, but rather giuen to the exercise of armes. And nowe seing you to become a prisoner of an affection vnworthy your estate: I can not tell what to thinke: the noueltie of this sodayne chaunce semeth to be so straunge. Remember sir that for a little suspicion of adulterie, you caused Roger Mortimer to be put to death. And (being skarce able to tell it without teares) you caused your own mother miserably to die in prisō. And God knoweth how small your accusacions were and vpon howe light ground your suspicion was con­ceyued. Doe not you knowe how wonderfully you be molested with warres, and that your enemies trauell daye and night to circumuent you, both by sea & lande? Is it now time then to giue your selfe to delightes, & to captiuate your minde in the pleasures of Ladies? Where is the auncient generositie & nobilitie of your bloud? Where is the magnanimitie & valour, where­with you haue astonned your enemies, shewed your selfe amiable to your friendes, and wonderful to your subiects? Touching the last point, wherby you threa­ten, that if my daughter doe not agrée to your desire, you will forcibly enioy her, I will neuer confesse, that to be the fact of a valiaunt and true king, but of a vile, cowardly, cruell and libidinous tyraunt. I trust it be not the pleasure of God, that nowe at the age you be of, you will begin to force Gentlewomen that be your humble subiectes, which if you do, this Iland shal lose the name of a Realme, and hereafter shall be déemed none other, but the receptacle of Theues and murde­rers. If then, (to conclude this my sorrowfull and hea­uie complaint) you may, or can by your flatteries, pro­misses [Page 270] and presents, persuade my daughter to obey your vnbrideled appetites, I shall haue occasion to be­waile her dishonestie, and to déeme her, as an incon­tinent daughter, degenerated from the vertues of her progenitors. But touching your owne person, I haue nothing to say, but that herein you do follow the com­mon sorte of men, that be suters to Ladyes, willing to please their fansies. There resteth only now for me to aunswere the fauour, which in tyme to come you promisse to me and my children. I couet not after any thing reprochfull to me or my children, or to any of our posteritie, that may make vs ashamed, knowing in what contempt and reputation they be, which being borne of base parentage, be arriued to goods and ho­nour, by gratifiyng and obeying Princes and Kings in their dishonest lusts and appetites. Remember sir, that within these fewe dayes, being in campe against the Scottes, you vpbraided a certaine man (which shal be namelesse) for being a minister of your fathers Loue, who was from the state of a Barber, aduaūced to the degree of an Earle, and how you sayd, that if in time to come he amended not his maners, you woulde send him to the shoppe againe. And for my part, I am of opinion, that honest pouertie hath euer bene the auncient and greatest inheritance amongs the noble Romanes, which if it be condempned by the ignorant multitude, and if we therefore doe giue place to the same, making greater accompt and estimation, of ri­chesse and treasures, than of vertue: I will say for myne owne parte, by the grace of God, that I am so abundantly prouided, for the maintenance of me and myne, not like an ambicions man or couetous, but as one satisfied with the good wil of Fortune, I doe most [Page] humblie then beséeche you (sir) for conclusion, to take in good part, that which my duetie and honor doe con­straine me to speake. And so by your graces leaue, I will departe towarde my daughter, to let her vnder­stande from poynt to poynt your Maiesties pleasure.’ And without tarying for other replie of the King, he went his way discoursing diuers things in his minde, vpon that which had passed betwéene the King and him. The reasons which the Earle had made, so pear­ced the affections of y^e passionate king, that vncertayne what to say, he condempned himselfe, knowing ve­rie well, that the Earle not onely vpon right and iust cause, had pronounced those wordes: but also that he had done the office of a faithfull seruaunt and trustie counseller, in such sort, that feling his conscience tou­ched at the quick, he coulde not excuse himselfe, from committing a dishonest charge to a father so commen­dable & vertuous in the behalfe of his daughter. Thus he determined to chaunge his opinion. Afterwardes when he had throwen forth many sighes, he spake these wordes to himself. ‘O miserable man, cut of this amo­rous practise, how art thou defrauded of thy right sēse to cast thy minde vpon her, whome thou oughtest to vse with suche reuerence, as thou wouldest doe thyne owne proper sister, for the seruice, which thou and thy progenitors, haue receyued of the good Earle her fa­ther? Open the eyes of thyne vnderstanding, and knowe thy selfe, giue place to Reason, and reforme thy vnshamefull and disordinate appetites. Resist withall thy power, this wanton will, which doth enuiron thée. Suffer not this tiraunt Loue to bewitch or de­ceyue thée.’ Sodaynely after he had spoken those wor­des, the beautie of the Countesse representing it selfe [Page 271] before his eyes, made him to alter his mynde agayne to the contrarie, and to reiect that which he before al­lowed: saying thus. ‘I fele in my minde the cause of mine offence, and thereby do acknowledge the wrong, but what shall I doe? sithe I am not able any longer to withstand Beautie that cruel murderer, which doth force and maister me so muche, let Fortune then and Loue doe what they liste, the fayre Countesse shall be mine, chaunce what chaunce may. Is it a notable vice in a King to loue his subiects daughter? Am I the firste vpon whome such inconuenience hath come?’ This talke ended, he deluded himself, & thinking vpon the contrarie, he accused himself agayne, and then frō this he altered againe to the other. And being in this perplexity, he passed day and night, with such anguish and dolor, as euery man doubted his health. And flo­ting thus betwéene hope and dispaire, he resolued in the ende to attende the fathers aunswere. The Earle then being gone out of the Kings chambre, aggraua­ted with sorrowfull thoughtes, ful of rage and discon­tentation, thought good to delate the matter to the next day, before he spake to his daughter: and then calling her vnto him, and causing her to sit againste him, he reasoned the matter in this wise. ‘I am assured deare daughter, that yon will no lesse maruell than be a­stonned, to heare that which I shall say vnto you, and so muche the more, when you doe perceyue, how farre my tale shall excéede the order of Reason. But for so much as of two euills the least is to be chosen, I doubt not, but like a sage and wise woman, which I haue alwayes knowen you to be, you will staye vpon that which I haue determined. Touching my selfe, sith it hath pleased God to giue me knowledge of good and [Page] yll, hitherto I haue still preferred honour before lyfe bicause (after myne opinion) it is a lesse matter to dye innocently, than to liue in the dishonour and shame of the whole world. But you know what libertie he hath, which is vnder y^e power of another, being sometimes constrained to make faire weather, of things not one­lye cleane contrarie to his minde, but also (which is worsse) against his owne conscience, being oftētimes forced according to the qualitie of the time, and plea­sure of the state, to chaunge his maners, and to put on newe affections. Wherof I haue thought good to put you in remembrance, bicause it toucheth the matter, which I purpose to tell you. Thus it is (deare daugh­ter) that yesterday after dinner, the King sent for me, and being come before him, with a very instante and pitifull prayer, he required me (his eyes ful of teares) to doe a thing for him, that touched hys lyfe. I which (besides that I am his subiecte and seruaunt) haue al­wayes borne a particuler affection to his father and him, without deliberation what the matter should be, betroched to him my faith to obey his request, if it cost me the price of myne honor and lyfe. He seing himself assured of my liberall promisse, after many wordes ioyned with an infinite number of sighes, discouering vnto me the secrete of his heart, he tolde me, that the torment which he indured, procéeded no where else but of the feruent Loue that he bare vnto you. But O immortall God, what man of any discretion, woulde haue thought that a King coulde be so impudent and vnshamefast, as to cōmit to a father a charge so disho­nest, toward his owne daughter?’ The Earle hauing recited in order the historie past betwéene him and the King, sayde thus vnto her. ‘Consider you swete daugh­ter, [Page 272] myne vnaduised and simple promisse, and the vn­brideled minde of an amorous king, to whom I made aunswere, that intreat you therevnto I was able, but force you I could not. For this cause (deare daughter,) I doe pray you at this instant for all, that you will o­bey the kings pleasure, and thereby to make a present to your father of your honest chastitie, so dearely es­temed and regarded by you, specially, that the thing may so secretly be done, that the fault be not bruted in the eares of other. Neuerthelesse, the choyse resteth in you, and the key of your honour is in your owne handes, and that which I haue sayde vnto you; is but to kepe promisse with the King.’ The Countesse all the while that her father thus talked, chaunged her colour with a comelye shamefastnesse, inflamed with a ver­tuous disdaine, that he which had beholde her then, would haue thought her rather some celestial goddesse, than a humaine creature. And after long silence, with an humble grauitie, she began thus to make her aunswere.

‘Your wordes haue so confounded me, and brought me into such admiration (my Lorde and right honora­ble father) that if all the partes of my body were con­uerted into tongues, they coulde not be sufficient worthily to expresse the least part of my sorrowe, and vnquietnesse. And truely very iustly may I complaine of you, for the little estimation you haue of me, which am your owne flesh, bloud and bone. And for the ran­some of the fraile and transitorie lyfe, which you haue giuen me vpon earth, you will for recompence nowe defraude me of mine honour. Whereby I do perceyue that not onely all natures lawes, be cancelled and mortified in you, but which is worsse, you doe excéede [Page] therein the cruelties of beastes, who for all their bru­tishnesse, be not so vnnaturall to doe wrong to their owne yong ones, or to offer their fruite to the mercy of another, as you haue done yours, to the pleasure of a King. For notwithstanding the strayght charge and aucthoritie, which you haue ouer mée, to com­maunde me being your right humble & very obedient daughter, yet you ought to thinke and remember, that you haue neuer séene in me, any acte, motion, signe, or worde, to incite you to moue such dishonest talke. And although the king many times, with infinite nū ­ber of prayers, presentes, messages and other such al­lurements of persuasion, hath displayed and vttered all the arte of his minde, to seduce and corrupt me, yet he was neuer able to receiue other answere of me, but that honor was a thousand times dearer vnto me than lyfe, which still I meant to kepe secrete from your knowledge, euen as I haue done from other of myne alliaunce, for feare least you should be induced, to com­mit some trespas, or conspire any thing against our king, foreseing the straunge accidents, which haue chaunced for lyke matters, to the ruine of many cities and prouinces. But good God, my doubt is nothing to purpose, sith that your self, is the shamelesse Poste of an act to dishonest. And to conclude in fewe wordes, although that daylie I haue good hope, that the king seing me at a point, still to conserue my chastitie in­uiolable, he will giue ouer to pursue me any longer, & will suffer me hereafter, to liue in quiet, with mine equals, but if so be he so doe continue obstinate in his olde folly, I am determined rather to dye, than to doe the thing that shall hurt me and pleasure him. And for feare that he take from me by force, y^t which of mine [Page 273] owne accorde I wil not graunt, following your coun­sell, of two euilles, I will choose the leaste, thinking it more honorable to distroy and kill my selfe with mine owne handes, than to suffer such blot or shame to ob­scure the glorye of my name, being desirous to com­mit nothing in secrete, that sometime hereafter being published, may make me ashamed and chaunge colour. And where you saye that you haue sworne and gaged your fayth to the king, for the assuraunce of your pro­mise, it as verye yll done, before you did consider, what power fathers haue ouer their children, which is so well defined by the lawe of God, that they be not bounde to their parents, in that which is against his diuine commaundements. Much lesse may they binde vs to things incestuous and dishonest, which specially and strayghtly be inioyned vs not to perfourme, if we therevnto be required. And it had bene farre more de­cent, and excusable before God, if when you made that foolishe promise to the king, you had promised him, ra­ther to strangle me with your owne hands, than to cō ­sent to let me fall into a fault so abhominable. And to thende I may tel you y^e last determinacion, & conclusi­on of that which I am determined to do by good aduise and immutable counsell: thus it is. You shall tell the king, that I had rather lose my life, after y^t most cruell and shamefull maner that may be deuised, than to cō ­sent to a thing so dishonest, hauing of long time fyxed this saying in my minde, That honest death, doth honor and beautifie the forepasled lyfe.’ The Father hearing the wyse aunswere of the daughter, gaue her his blessing, in his heart praysing her Codlee minde, beseching God to helpe her, and to kéepe her vnder his protection, and to confirme her in that holye and ver­tuous [Page] determination. Then féeling him greatly com­forted, he repayred to the King, to whome he sayde. ‘Pleaseth your grace to thintent I might obserue my promise, I sweare by the fayth the I doe owe to God and you, that I haue done what I can with my daugh­ter, disclosing vnto her your whole minde and plea­sure, and exhorting her to satisfie your request, but for a resolute aunswere she sayth, that rather she is con­tented to suffer moste cruell death, than to commit a thing so contrary to her honor. You knowe (sir) what I sayde vnto you still, that I might entreate her, but force her I coulde not. Hauing then obeyed your commaundement, and accomplished my promise, it may please you to giue me leaue to go home to one of my Castles, from henceforth to incline my self to qui­etnesse, & to ease my decrepite and féeble age.’ Which the king willingly graunted. The same day, he depar­ted from the Courte with his sonnes, and went home to his Countrie, leauing at London his wife & daugh­ter, and the rest of his housholde, thinking thereby to discharge himself of things without the kings displea­sure. The king on the other side was no soner aduer­tised of the Earles departure, and that he had left hys daughter behinde him at London, but he knew the fa­thers minde and purpose, and fell in such dispayre of his loue, y^t he was lyke to haue runne out of his wittes for sorrowe. The nightes and dayes were all one to him, for he coulde take no reste, giuing ouer vse of armes, administration of iustice, hunting and hau­king, wherein before that time, he had great delight. And all his study was, many tymes to passe and re­passe before the gate of the Countesse, to proue if he might attayne to haue some sight of her. And things [Page 274] were brought to so pitifull state, y^t within fewe dayes, the Citizens and other gentlemen, began to perceyue the raging loue of their Prince, euery of them with common voice blaming the crueltie of the Countesse, that was vnmaried, who the more she proued the king inflamed with her loue, the more squeymishe she was of her beautie. The Peres and noble men, seing their king reduced to such extremitie, moued with pitie and compassion began secretely to practise for him, some with threatnings, some with flatteries & persuasions, some went to the mother, declaring vnto her, the eter­nall reste and quiet prepared for her & al her friendes, if she woulde persuade her daughter to encline to the kings minde, and contrarywise the daunger iminent ouer her head. But all these deuises were in vaine, for the Countesse moued no more, than a harde rocke beaten with diuers tempestes. Notwithstanding at length, seing that euery man spake diuersly, as their affections did leade them, she was so troubled and pen­fife in heart, that fearing to be taken, and that y^e king vanquished with his strong passion, by successiō of time would vse his force, and violently oppresse her, founde meanes to gette a great sharpe knife, which she caryed about her secretly vnder her gowns, of purpose, that if she sawe her self in peril to be defloured, she might kill her selfe. The Courtyers offended with y^e martirdome of their Maister, and desirous to gratifie him, and to seke meanes to do him pleasure, conspired all in gene­ral against the Earles familie, letting the king to vn­derstand, that it were most expedient, sith that things were out of hope, to cause AElips to be brought to his Palace, to vse her by force. Whervnto the king (being dronke in his owne passion) did willingly agrée. Not­withstanding, [Page] before he passed any further for that he faythfullye loued the Countesse, he determined to ad­uertise the mother of the Countesse, of that whiche he intended to doe, and commaunded his Secretarie to goe séeke her with diligence, and without concea­ling any thing from her knowledge, to instructe her of the whole. The Secretarie finding the mother of the Countesse, sayd vnto her. ‘Madame the King hath willed me to say vnto you that he hath done what he can, and more than his estate requireth, to wynne the grace and Loue of your daughter, but séeing that she hath despised his prayers, disdained his presence, and abhorred his griefes and complaintes, knowing not what to doe any more, his last refuge is in force, let­ting you to vnderstande hereof, to the intent that you & she may consider what is to be done in this behalfe. For he hath determined whether you will or no, to fetch her out openly by force, to the great dishonour, slaunder and infamie of al your kinne. And where in time past, he hath loued & fauored the Earle your hus­bande, he trusteth shortly to make him vnderstande what is the effecte of the iuste Indignation of such a Prince as he is.’ The good Lady hearing this sodaine and cruel message, was astōned in such wise, that she thought how she saw her daughter already trained by the heares of the head, her garments haled and torne in pieces, with a rufull and lamentable voyce crying out to him for mercy. For this cause, with blubbering teares, trembling for feare she fell downe at the Se­cretaries féete, & straightly imbracing his knées, sayd vnto him. ‘Maister Secretarie, my deare and louing frende: Beseche the King in my name, to remember the paine and seruice done vnto him by mine Annces­tors. [Page 275] Intreate him not to dishonour my house in the absence of the Earle my husbande. And if you be not able by your persuasion to molifie his harde heart, de­sire him for a while to take pacience, vntill I haue ad­uertised my daughter of his wil and pleasure, whome I hope so to persuade, that she shall satisfie the kings request.’ When she had made this answere, the Secre­tarie declared the same to the King, who madde with anger & Loue, was contente, and neuerthelesse, com­maunded his gentlemen to be in a readynesse to seke the Countesse. In the meane time the mother of faire AElips went to her daughters chamber, and after she had commaunded all her maydes, which accompanied her, to withdrawe themselues out of the chamber, she began in fewe wordes to recite vnto her the message done vnto her by the Secretary. Finally with sobbing sighes she sayde vnto her. ‘The dayes haue bene (deare daughter) that I haue séene thée to kéepe thy state a­monges the chiefest of all the Ladyes of the Realme. And I haue counted my selfe happie that euer I did beare thée in my wombe, and thought by meanes of thy beautie & vertue, one day to sée thée to become the ioy and comfort of all thy frendes. But now my cogi­tacions be tourned cleane contrarie, thorowe thyne vnluckie fate: Now I thinke thée to be borne not on­ly for the vniuersall ruine of all our familie, but also (which grieueth me most) to be an occasion and instru­ment of my death, and the desolation of al thy frends. But if thou wilt somewhat moderate thy rigor, all this heauinesse shortly shall be tourned into ioy. I or our King and soueraigne Lorde is not onely in Loue with thée, but for the ardent affection and amitie that he beareth vnto thée, is out of his wittes, and nowe [Page] doth conspire againste vs, as thoughe we were Trai­tors and murderers of our Prince. In whose handes (as thou knowest) doth rest, the lyfe, honor and goodes both of thy selfe and vs all. And what glory and try­umphe shall be reported of thée to our posteritie, when they shall knowe that by thy obstinate crueltie, thou hast procured the death of thyne olde father, the death of thy hore headed mother, and the destruction of thy valiant and coragious brethren, and dispoyled the rest of thy bloude, of their possessions and abilitie? But what sorrowe and griefe will it be, to sée them wan­der in the worlde like vagaboundes, banished from their liuings, and remaine in continuall pouertie, without place and refuge in their miserie? who in steade of blessing or praysing the houre of thy birth, will cursse thée in their mynde a thousande times, as the cause of all their ouerthrowe and yll fortune. Thinke, and consider vpon the same (deare daughter) for in thée alone consisteth the coseruation of our liues, and hope of al our frendes.’ This lamentable discourse ended, the afflicted Coūtesse, not able any longer to re­sist that pangue, but that her heart began to waxe so faynt that with her armes a crosse she fel downe halfe dead vpon her daughter: who seing her without mo­uing and without any apparaunce of lyfe, and all the partes of her body to ware colde, she quickly layde her downe, and then with helpe and other things apte for sownings, she made her come to her selfe againe, and thinking wholy to recouer her, she earnestly promised her to do what she would haue her, and then sayd vnto her. ‘Doe away your teares (Madame) moderate your selfe a litle from your tormentes, reuoke your former ioy, and be of good chere, for I am disposed to obey you [Page 276] God defende that I shoulde be the cause of the payne whiche I sée you to suffer. Nowe I am readye to goe with you to the King, where it shall please you, we two without other companye will doe oure owne er­rande and attempte the beginning of our enterpryse.’ The mother full of ioye, lifting vp her handes to the heauens, tenderly embraced her daughter, and many times did kisse her, and after she had commaunded her Coche to be made ready, she went forth wyth her daughter, accompanied onely with two Gentlewo­men, her Damoselles, to the Kings Pallace. When they were come thyther, they sent worde to the Secre­tarye, that broughte her the message, who conducted them to the Kinges chamber, and presenting them be­fore the King sayde. ‘Syr, beholde the company which you haue so long time desired? They be come to doe your grace humble reuerence.’ The King gretly aston­nied, came to mete them, and with ioyfull countenāce sayde. ‘Welcome Ladie Countesse, and your long de­sired companie. But what good fortune conducted you hyther nowe.’ The Countesse hauing made her obey­sance, yet alfryghted with feare, aunswered him. ‘Be­holde here my Lorde your fayre AElips so long tyme wished for, who takyng repentaunce for her former crueltye and rigor, is come to render her selfe at your commaundement.’ Then the King beholding the yong Countesse trembling for feare, lyke a leafe shaken with the winde (with her eyes fixed on the ground) ap­proching nere her, toke her by the hande, and kissing her, sayde. Welcome, my lyfe and soule. But she no" more moued than a fierce Lyon enuironed with cru­ell beastes, stode still and helde her peace, her heart so constrained for sorrowe and dispite, that she was not [Page] able to aunswere a worde. The King, who thought that suche passion procéeded of shame, commaunded that the gentlewomen, that were come in her compa­nie, shaulde depart the chamber, sauing the mother, which brought her to the entrie of the kings chamber. Then wythdrawing her selfe backe, she left her to the mercy of loue and the King. So sone as the King was entred the chamber, he shut the dore after him. Which AEllps perceyuing, began to fele a furious combat be­twéene her honor and lyfe, fearing to be defloured, and seing her abandoned of all humayne succour, falling downe prostrate at his fete, she sayde vnto him. ‘Gra­cious and redoubted Prince, sithe that my heauy for­tune hath brought me hither, lyke an innocent lambe to the sacrifice, and that my parents amazed through your furie, as rauishers of me agaynst my will, and contrarie to the duetie of their honor, haue deliuered me into your handes, I humblie beseche your maies­tie, yf there remayne in your noble personage any sparke of vertue and Princely affection, before you passe any further to satisfie your desire, to let me proue and vnderstand by effecte, if your Loue be such, as of­tentymes by letters and mouth you haue declared vn­to me. The request which I will make vnto you, shall be but easie, and yet shall satisfie me more than al the contentation of the worlde. Otherwise (sir) doe not thinke that so long as my lyfe doth continue, I am able to doe any thing, that can content your desire. And if my sute shall seeme reasonable, and grounded vpon equitie, before I doe open and declare the same more at large, assure the performaunce thereof vnto me by othe.’ The King hearing her prayer to be so rea­sonable, wherevnto rather than to refuse it, he swore [Page 277] by his Scepter, taking God to witnesse and al the hea­uenly powers, for confirmation of that which he pre­tended to promise: then he sayde vnto her. ‘Madame the onely maistresse & keper of my louing heart, sithe that of your grace and curtesie, you haue vouchsafed to come to my Palace, to make request of my only fa­uour and good will, which now I irreuocably doe con­sent, and graunt, swearing vnto you by that hono­rable sacrament of Baptisme, whereby I was incor­porated to the Church of God, and for the Loue that I beare you (for greater assurance I can not giue) I wil not refuse any thing, that is in my power and abilitie, to the intent you may not be in doubt whether I doe loue you, & intend hereafter to imploy my self to serue and pleasure you: for otherwise I shoulde falsifie my fayth, and more feruently I cannot bynd my selfe if I shoulde sweare by all the othes of the worlde.’ The fayre Countesse sitting stil vpon her knées, although the King many times prayed her to rise vp, reuerent­ly toke the King by the hande, saying. ‘And I doe kisse this royall hande, for loyall testimonie of the fauour which your grace doth shew vnto me.’ Then plucking out a sharpe knife, which she had vnder her kirtle, all bathed and washed in teares, reclining her pitiefull eyes towardes the King, that was astonned and ap­palled with that sight, she sayde vnto him. ‘Sir, the gift that I require, and wherfore your faith is bound, is this. I most humbly desire you, that rather than to dispoyle me of myne honor, with the sworde girded by your side, you wil vouchsafe to ende my lyfe, or to suf­fer me presently, with this sharpe poynted knife in my hande, to thrust my self to the heart, that myne in­nocent bloude, doing my funerall honor, may beare [Page] witnesse before God of my vndefiled chastity, being so resolued honorably to dye, and that before I doe lose myne honor, I may murder my selfe before you, with this blade & knife in my hande.’ The king that burned with amorous heate, beholding this pitifull spectacle, and considering the inuincible constancy & chastitie of the Countesse, vanquished with remorse of cōscience, ioyned with lyke pitie, taking her by the hand, sayde. ‘Rise vp Lady & liue frō henceforth assured: for I will not ne yet pretend all the dayes of my life, to commit any thing in you agaynst your will. And plucking the knife out of her hand, exclamed. This knife hereafter, shal be the Pursiuant before God & men of this thine expugnable chastitie, the force wherof wanton Loue was not able to endure, rather yelding place to Uer­tue, which being alienated from me, hath made me at one instante victorious ouer my selfe, which by and by I will make you to vnderstande, to your great contentacion and greater maruell. For assu­raunce whereof, I desire none other thing of you, but a chaste kisse.’ Which receyued, he opened the dore and caused the Countesse to come in with the Secreta­rie and the gentlewomen, and the same time he caused the Courtiers and Pieres of the Realme, which were then in the base Court of the Pallace, among whome was the Archebishop of Yorke, a man of great reputa­tion & singuler learning, to whome with the knife in his hande, he recyted particularlie the discourse of hys Loue. And after he toke the Countesse by the hand, and sayd vnto her. ‘Madame the houre is come that for re­compence of your honest chastitie and vertue, I wyll and consente to take you to Wife, if you can finde in your heart.’ The Countesse hearing those wordes, be­gan [Page 278] to recolour her bleake and pale face, with a ver­melion teint and Roseal rudde, and accomplished with incredible ioye and contentacion, falling downe at his fete sayd vnto him. ‘My Lord, forasmuch as I neuer lo­ked to be aduaunced to so honorable state as Fortune nowe doth offer, for merite of a benefite so hyghe and gret, which you present vnto me, vouchsauing so much to abase your selfe to y^e espousal of so pore a Lady, your Maiesties pleasure being suche, beholde me ready at your commaundement.’ The King taking her vp from the ground, commaunded the Bishoppe to pronounce with a hyghe voyce the usuall wordes of Matrimonie. Then drawing a riche Diamond from his fynger, he gaue it to the Coūtesse, and kissing her, said. ‘Madame you be Quene of Englande, and presently I doe giue you thyrty thousande Angelles by the yeare for your reuenue. And the Duchie of Lancastre being by con­fiscation fallen into my handes, I giue also vnto you, to bestowe vpon your self and your frendes.’ All which inrolled according to the maner, the King accompli­shing the mariage, rewarded the Countesse for the ri­gorous interestes his so long Loue, with such hap and contentation, as they may iudge which haue made as­say of like pleasure, and recouered the fruite of so long pursute. And the more magnificently to solemnize the mariage, the King assembled al the Nobilitie of Eng­lande, and somoned them to be at London the first day of Iuly, to beautifie and assiste the Nupcialles and coronation of the Quene. Then he sent for the Father and brethren of the Quene, whom he embraced one af­ter an other, honouring the Earle as his father, and his Sonnes as his brethren, whereof the Earle won­derfullye reioyced, séeing the conceyued hope of his [Page] Daughters honor sorted to so happy effecte, as well to the perpetuall fame of him and his, as to the euerlas­eing aduauncement of his house. At the appointed day the Quene was brought from her fathers house, appa­relled with Royall vestures, euen to the Pallace, and conducted with an infinite number of Lordes and La­dies, to the Church, where when seruice was done the King was maried (againe) openly, and the same celebrated, she was conueyed vp into a pub­like place, and proclaimed Quéene of Englande, to the exceding gra­tulation and ioy incredible of all the Subiectes.

Galgano.
¶The .xlvij. Nouel.

IN the citie of Siena in Italie there was a riche yong Gentleman called Galgano, borne of noble birth, actiue, and well trained vp in al kinde of exer­cise, valiant, braue, stoute, and curte­ous, in the maners and orders of all cuntries very skilfull. This Galgano loued a Gentle­woman of Siena named Madonna Minoccia, the wife of sir Stricca a comely knight, and wore in his apparel the colour and deuises of his Lady, bearing the same vpon his helmet and armoure, in all Iustes, Tour­neyes and triumphes, obseruing noble feastes and banquettes for her sake. But for all those costly sump­tuous and noble practises, this Lady Minoccia in no wise would giue eare vnto his sutes. Wherfore Gal­gano at his wittes end, was voyde of aduise what to doe or say, seing the great crueltie and rigor raigning in her brest, vnto whome he daylie prayed for better successe and fortune, than to himselfe. There was no feast, banquet, triumphe, or mariage, but Galgano was there, to doe her humble seruice, and that day his minde was not pleased and contented, wherin he had not séene her that had his louing heart in full possessi­on [Page] very many tymes (like a Prince y^t coueted peace) he sente ambassadours vnto her, with presentes and messages, but she (a proude and scornefull Princesse) dayned neyther to heare them or receyue them. And in this state, stode this passionat Louer a long tyme, tormented with the exceding hote Loue & fealtie that he bare her. And many tymes making his reuerent complaints to Loue, did say. ‘Ah Loue, my deare and soueraigne Lorde, howe cruell and harde hearted art thou, how vumercifully dealest y^u with me, rather how deafe be thyne eares, that canst not recline, the same to my nightly complaintes, and daylie afflictions? How chaunceth it that I doe in this maner consume my ioyfull dayes with pyning plaintes? Why doest thou suffer me to Loue, and not to be beloued?’ And thus oftentimes remembring the crueltie of Loue, & his Ladies tiranny, he began in maner like a wyght replete with despaire. But in fine, he determined pa­ciently to abide the good tyme and pleasure of Loue, still hoping to finde mercy. And daylie gaue himselfe to practise and frequent those thinges, that might be acceptable and pleasaunte to his Ladye. But she still persisted inexorable. It chaunced that sir Stricca and his fayre wyfe, for their solace and recreation, repai­red to one of their houses harde by Siena. And vpon a time, Galgano passed by the same with a Sparhauke on his fist, making as thoughe he went a Hauking, but of purpose onely to sée his Lady. And as he was going by the house, sir Stricca espied him, and went forth to méete him, and familiarly taking him by the hande, prayed him to take parte of his supper with his wyfe and him. For which curtesie Galgano gaue him thankes and sayde. ‘Sir I doe thanke you for your cur­teous [Page 280] request, but for this tyme I pray you to holde me excused, bicause I am going about certayne af­faires very requisite and necessary to be done.’ Then sayde sir Stricca. ‘At least wise drincke with me before you depart:’ but giuing him thankes he bad him fare wel. Maister Stricca seing that he could not cause him to tarry, toke hys leaue, and retourned into his house. Galgano gone from Maister Stricca, sayd to himselfe. ‘Ah beast that I am, why did not I accept his offer? Why should shamefastnesse, let me from the sight of her, whome I loue better than all the worlde besides.’ And as he was thus pensife in complaints, his spani­ells sprong a Partrich, whereat he let goe his Hauke, and the Partrich flying into sir Stricca his garden, his Hauke pursued and seassed vpon the same. Maister Stricca and his Lady hearing that pastime, ran to the garden window, to sée the killing of the Partrich. And beholding the valiant skirmish betwéene the foule and the Hauke, the Lady asked whose Hauke it was. Her husband made aunswere that he knewe well ynough the owner, by the goodnesse and hardinesse of the same. ‘For the owner of this hanke (quod he) is the trimmest and most valiant gentleman in all Siena, and one in­dued with best qualities. The Lady demaunded what he was. Maister Galgano (sayde her husbande) who e­uen nowe passed by the gate, and I prayed him very earnestly to supper, but he woulde not be intreated. And truely wyse, he is the comeliest gentleman, and most vertuous personage, that euer I knewe in my lyfe.’ With those words they went from the window to supper. And Galgano, when he had lured his Hauke departed away. The Lady marked those words & fixed them in minde. It fortuned within a while after, that [Page] sir Stricca was by the state of Siena, sent in ambas­sage to Perugia, by reason whereof, his Lady at home alone, so sone as her husband had taken his iourney, sent her most secret and trusty maide, to intreat Mai­ster Galgano, to come and speake with her. When the message was done to Galgano, (if his heart were on a merie pinne, or whether his spirites dulled with continuall sorrow were againe reuiued, they knowe, that moste haue felt the paynefull pangues of Loue, and they also whose fleshe haue bene pearced with the amorous arrowes of the little boy Cupide. He made aunswere that he woulde willingly come, rendring thanks both to the maystresse and maid, the one for her paine, & the other for her good remembrance. Galgano vnderstanding that sir Stricca was gone to Perugia, in the euening at conuenient time, repaired to the house of her whose sight he loued better, than his owne eyes. And being come before his Lady, with great submissi­on & reuerence he saluted her (like those whose hearts doe throbbe, as foretelling the possessiō of good tournes and benefits, (after which with long sute and trauaile they haue aspired) wherewith the Lady delighted, ve­ry pleasauntlie, toke him by the hand, and imbracing him, sayde. ‘Welcome myne owne swéete Galgano, a hundred tymes I say welcome.’ And for the tyme with kisses, making truce with their affections, the Lady called for confictes and wine. And whē they had dronk and refreshed themselues, the Lady toke him by the hand and sayde. ‘My swéete Galgano night beginneth to passe away, and the tyme of sléepe is come, therfore let vs yelde our selues to the seruice and commaunde­ment of our very good Lady Madame Cytherea, for whose sake I intreated you to come hither.’ Galgano [Page 281] aunswered, that he was very well contented when it were her pleasure. Being within the chamber, after much pleasant talk & louing discourse betwene them, the Lady did put of her clothes, and went to bed. Gal­gano being somewhat bashfull, was perceyued of the Lady, vnto whom she said. ‘Me think Galgano that you be fearefull and shamefast. What do you lacke? Do I not please you? Doth not my personage content you? Haue you not the thing whiche you desire? Yes Ma­dame sayde Galgano. God himselfe could not do me a greater pleasure, than to suffer me to be cleped within your armes.’ And reasoning in this sorte, he put of his clothes also, & layde him selfe by her, whom he had co­ueted and desired of long tyme. Being in the bed, he sayde. ‘Madame, I beséech you graunt me one request. What is that Galgano (quod she.) It is this Madame, sayd Galgano. I do much maruell, why this night a­boue all other, you haue sent for me: considering how long I haue loued you, and although I haue prosecu­ted my sute by great expence & trauaile, yet you wold neuer yelde before this time. What hath moued you now thus to doe? The Lady answered. I will tel you sir. True it is, y^t not many dayes a go, passing by this house, with your Hauke on your fiste, my husbande tolde me that so sone as he sawe you, he wente out to méete you, of purpose to intreat you to supper, but you would not tarrie: Then your Hauke pursued a Par­trich, euen into my garden, and I seing the Hauke so egrely seassing vpon the same, demaunded of my hus­bande whose Hauke it was. He tolde me that the Hauke did belong to the most excellent yong man of all Siena: and that he neuer in all his lyfe knewe a gentleman better accomplished with all vertues and [Page] good qualities, and there withall gaue vnto you sin­guler praise and commendacion. Whervpon hearing him in such wise to praise you, and knowing right wel your affectionat minde and disposicion towardes me, my heart attached with loue, forced me to send for you that I mighte hereafter auoyde disdaine and other skornefull demeaner, to impeach or hindre your loue. And this briefly is the cause. Is this true sayde Galga­no? Most certayne and true, answered the Lady. Was there no other occasion? No verely sayde the Lady. God defend (quod Galgano) that I should recompence the curtesie and good will of so noble a gentleman (as your husband is) with reproch & villanie. Is it méete that good tournes shuld be requited with vnkindnesse? If euer man had cause to defende the honor of his vn­knowen frende, cause haue I right good and apt. For now, knowing such a frende, that would by vertuous reportes haue aduaunced me to higher matters, than whereof I am in possession, shoulde I rewarde with pollucion of his stocke and wife? No, no, Lady: My raging sute by Loue, is by vertue quenched. Uertue onely hath staunched the flames of vile affections. Séeke another frende, to giut thy lecherous mynde. Finde out some other companion, to coole thy disordi­nate loue. Shall I be disloyall to him, that hath bene faythfull vnto me? Shall I be Traytor to him, that friendly hath commended me? What can be more re­quired of humane hearts, or more desired of man­like minde, but will full bente, and fixed to doe him good, that neuer erst by iust desert, deserued the same.’ With which wordes sodainely he lept out of the bed, And when he had furnished him selfe agayne with his apparell, he also put vpon him vertuous frend­ship, [Page 282] and toke his leaue of the Lady, & neuer after that time he gaue him selfe to those affaires. And Maister Stricca he cōtineallie obserued both with singuler loue and duetifull frendshippe. Whereby it is vncertayne whether was most singuler in him, his continency at the very instant by refrayning that vehement heate of loue, which so long time with great trauayle & cost he had pursued, or his regarde of frendship to Sir Stricca vpon wordes of commendacion spoken behinde his backe. Bothe no doubte be singuler vertues méete of all men to be obser­ued: but the subduing of his af­fections surmounted and passed.

Of a Duke of Venice
¶The .xlviij. Nouell.

IN the noble Citie of Venice, there was once a Duke, that was verye stoute, and riche, and there­withall of great experience & wyse­dome, called Valeriano di messer Vannozzo Accettani. In the chie­fest Churche of which Citie called San Marco, there was a stéeple, which was very fayre, sumptuous, and of greatest fame of any thing at that time that was in Venice, which stéeple was lyke to fall downe by reason of certayne faultes and decayes in the founda­tion. Wherefore the Duke caused to be searched tho­rowe out all Italie, some cunning workeman that would take in hande the reparation & amendment of the same. With promise of so much money as he wold demaund, for doing therof. Wherevpon an excellent Architect of Florence, named Bindo, hearing tell of this offer, determined to goe to Venice, for the accom­plishment of that worke, and for that purpose with his [Page 283] only sonne and wife, he departed Florence. And when he had séene and surueyed the stéeple, he went straight to the Duke, and tolde him that he was come thither to offer his seruice for reparing of the same; whom the Duke courteously interteygned, and prayed him, that he woulde so sone as he coulde, begin y^e worke. Wher­vnto Bindo accorded, and with suche diligence, and small time, he finished the same, in better forme and suretie than it was at the first. Which greatly pleased the Duke, and gaue Bindo so muche money as he de­maunded, making him besides, a citizen of Venice, for the mayntenaunce of whole state, he allotted him a sufficient stripende: Afterwards the Duke called him vnto him, and declared that he woulde haue a Trea­sure house made, wherein should be disposed and layde vp, all the Treasure, and common ornaments for the furniture of the whole Citie, which Bindo by and by toke vpon him to doe, and made it of suche singuler beautie, as it excelled al the monumentes of the citie, wherin al the sayde treasure was bestowed. In which worke he had framed a stone by cunning, that might be remoued in and oute at pleasure, and no man per­ceyue it: Meaning therby to go into y^e chamber when he list: Whervnto none in all the worlde was priuie but himselfe. When this Palace and Treasure house was done, he caused all the furnitures of silkes, han­gings wrought with golde, canapées, clothes of state, riche chayres, plate, and other ornamentes of golde and siluer to be caryed thither, whiche he called La Turpea del doge, & was kept vnder fiue keyes, wher­of foure were deliuered to foure of the chiefe citizens, deputed to that office, and were called Chamber­laynes of the Treasure house, and the fift key y^e Duke [Page] himselfe did kéepe, so that the chamber coulde not be opened except they were all fiue present. Now Bindo and his familie dwelling at Venice, and he being a Citizen of the same, began to spende liberally, and to liue a riche and welthy lyfe, and his sonne Ricciardo consumed disordinately, wherby in space of time, they wanted apparell to furnishe their bodyes, whiche they were not able to maintayne for their inordinate expences. Wherfore the father vpon a night called his sonne vnto him, and got a ladder, and a certaine yron instrument made for the purpose, taking also with him a litle lime, and went to the hole, which Bindo artifici­ally had made in that chamber, & taking out the stone, wente in, and toke out a fayre cuppe of Golde, which was in a closet, and afterward he went out, and placed the stone agayne in his due place. And when they were come home, they brake the cup in peces, & caused it to be solde by pece meale, in certayne cities of Lombar­die. And in this sort, thei maintained their disordinate life begon. It chaūced not long after, that a Cardinall arriued at Venice, about affaires with the Duke, and the State, who the more honorablie to receyue hym, opened the Treasure house to take out certaine furni­tures within, as plate, clothes of state, & other things. When the dore was opened, & had taken out the sayde necessaries, they found a cuppe lesse than ought to be wherwith the chamberlaines contended among them­selues, and wente to the Duke, telling him that there wanted a cuppe. Whereat the Duke maruelled, and sayde that amongs them it must nedes be gone. And after many denials, and much talke, he willed them to say nothing, till the Cardinall was departed. The Cardinall came, aud was receyued with honorable in­terteignement, [Page 284] and when he was departed, the Duke sent for the foure Chamberlaynes, being desirous to knowe howe the cuppe was gone: And commaunded them not to departe the Pallace, before the same was founde, saying that amongs them it muste néedes be stolen. These foure persones being together, and deba­ting amongs themselues, howe and by what meanes the cuppe should be taken away, were at their wittes ende. At length one of them sayd. ‘Let vs consider whe­ther there be any comming into the chamber in anye place els, besides the dore, and viewing the same they coulde not perceiue any entrie at all.’ And to proue the same more effectuallie, they strawed the chamber a­boute with fyne chaffe, and did sette fyre on the same, which done, they shut fast the windowes and dores, that the smoke and smoulder might not goe out. The force of which smoke was such as it issued through the hole that Bindo made, wherby they perceiued the way howe the robberie was committed, and wente to the Duke to tell him what they had done. The Duke vn­derstanding the fact, willed thē to say nothing, for that he woulde deuise a way to take the théefe, who caused to be brought into the chamber a caldron of pitche, and placed it directly vnder the hole, aud commaunded that a fyre shoulde be kepte day and night, vnder the caldron, that the same might continually boyle. It came to passe that when the money was spent, which the father and the sonne had receyued for the cuppe, one night they went againe to the hole, and remo­uing the stone, the Father went in as he did before, and fell into the caldron of pitche (whiche continually was boyling there) vp to y^e waste, and not able to liue any longer, he called his sonne vnto him, and sayde. ‘[Page] Ricciardo mine owne swéete sonne, death hath taken me prisoner, for halfe my body is dead, and my breath also is ready to depart. Take my heade with thée, and burie it in some place that it be not knowen, which done, commend me to thy mother, whome I pray thée to cherish & comforte, and in any wise take héede that warelie and circumspectlie thou doe depart hence. And if any man doe aske for me, say that I am gone to Flo­rence about certaine businesse.’ The sonne lamentably began to lamēt his fathers fortune, saying. ‘Oh deare father what wicked fury, hath thus cruelly deuised so­daine death. Content thy selfe (my sonne) sayd the Fa­ther, and be quiet, better it is that one should die, than two, and therefore doe what I haue tolde thée, and farewell.’ The sonne toke vp his fathers heade, and went his way, and the reste of his bodie remayned in the caldron, like a blocke without forme. When Ric­ciardo was come home, he buried his fathers heade so well as he could, and afterwardes tolde his mother what was become of his father, who vnderstanding the maner of his death, began piteously to crye out, to whom her sonne holding vp his hands, sayd. ‘Good mo­ther holde your peace, and giue ouer your wéeping: for our life is in great perill and daunger, if your out crie be hearde, and therefore quiet your selfe, for bet­ter it were for vs to liue in poore estate, than to die with infamie, to the vtter reproche and shame of all our familie.’ With which wordes, he appeased her. In the morning the body was founde and caried to the Duke, who maruelled at it, & coulde not deuise what he should be, but sayde. ‘Surely there be two that committed this robberie, one of them we haue, let vs imagine how we may take the other. Then one of the [Page 285] foure Chamberlaines sayde. I haue founde out a trap to catche the other, if it will please you to heare mine aduise, which is this. It cā not be chosen, but this théefe that is deade, hath eyther wife, children, or some kins­man in the Towne, and therefore let vs cause the bo­dy, to be drawen through out the citie, and giue dili­gent héede whether anye person doe complaine or la­ment his death. And if any suche be founde, let him be taken and examined: and this is y^e next way as I sup­pose, to finde out his companion.’ Which being conclu­ded, they departed. The body was drawen through out the citie with a guard of men attending vpon y^e same. As the execucioners passed by y^e house of Bindo, whose carcasse lay vpon the hardle, his wife stode at the win­dowe, and seing the body of her husband so vsed, made a great outcrye. At which noyse the sonne spake to his mother and sayde. Alas mother what doe you. And be­holding" his fathers corps vpon the hardle, he toke a knife and made a great gashe into his hande, that the bloud abundantlie issued out. The guarde hearing the noyse that the woman made, ranne into the house, and asked the woman, what she lacked. The sonne an­swered. ‘I was caruing a pece of stone with this knife, and by chaunce I hurt my hande, which my mother séeing cryed out, thinking that I had hurte my selfe more than I haue.’ The guard séeing his hande al blou­dy and cut, did beleue it to be true, and went rounde a­boute the liberties of the citie, and found none that sée­med to lamēt or bewaile that chaunce. And returning to the Duke, they tolde him howe all that labor was imployed in vaine, wherevpon he appointed them to hang vp the deade body in the market place, with se­cret watche in like maner, to espie if any person by [Page] day or night, would come to complaine or be sorrow­full for him. Which body was by the féete hanged vp there, and a continuall watche appoynted to kepe the same. The rumor hereof was bruted through out the citie, and euery man resorted thither to sée it. The wo­man hearing tell that her husbands carcasse should be hanged vp in the market place, sayde diuerse times to her sonne, that it was a very great shame for him to suffer his fathers body in that shamefull sorte to be v­sed. To whom her sonne made aunswere, saying. ‘Good mother, for gods sake be contented for that which they do, is for none other purpose, but to proue me: where­fore suffer a while, til this chaunce be past.’ The mother not able to abide it any longer, brake out many times into these words. ‘If I were a man, as I am a woman, it should not be vndone now: and if thou wilt not ad­uenture thy selfe, I will one night giue an attempte.’ The yong man séeing the frowarde nature of hys mother, determined to take away the body, by this po­licie. He borrowed twelue friers frockes or cowles, and in the euening went downe to the hauen, and hi­red twelue Mariners, and placed thē in a backe house, giuing them so much meate and drinke as they would eate. And when they had well whitled & tippled them­selues, he put vpon them those friers cowles, with vi­sardes vpon their faces, & gaue euery of them in their handes a burning torche, seming as though they had bene diuels of hel. And he him self, rode vpō a horse all couered with black, beset round about with mōstrous and vglie faces, euery of them hauing a burning can­dle in his mouth, and riding before with a maruelous hideouse visarde vpon his heade, sayde vnto them: doe as I doe: And then marched forwarde to the market [Page 286] place. When they came thether they ran vp & downe making a great roring, being then past midnight and very darke. When the watch saw that straunge sight, they were affrayde, thinking y^t they had bene Diuels of hel, and that he on horsbacke in that forme, had bene the great deuil Lucifer himself. And séeing him runne towards the gibet, the watch toke ther legges & ranne away. The yong man in the shape of the great Diuel, toke downe the body, and layde it before him on horse­backe, who calling his companye awaye, rode before in post. When they were come home, he gaue them their money, and vncasing them of their cowles, sent them away, and aferwards buried the body so secretly as he coulde. In y^e morning, newes came to the Duke that the body was taken away, who sēt for the Guarde to knowe what was become thereof. To whom they sayde these wordes. ‘Pleaseth your grace, about mid­night last past, there came into the market place a cō ­pany of Diuels, among whome we sawe the greate Deuill Lucifer himselfe, who as we suppose, did eate vp the body, which sight and terrible vision, made vs to take our legges.’ The Duke by those wordes per­ceyued euidently, that the same was but a practize, to deceiue them of their purpose, not withstanding, he de­termined to deuise some meanes in thende to knowe the truth, and decréed a constitucion, that for the space of .xx. dayes, no fresh meate should be solde in Venice. At which decrée all the Citie merueyled. Afterwardes he caused a very fayre fatte Calfe to be solde, seassing the price of euery pounde at a Fiornio, which amoun­teth to a French Crowne or there aboutes, and wyl­led him that solde it, to mark thē that bought it. Thin­king with himselfe, ‘that he which is a Théefe is lico­rous [Page] of mouth, and will not stick to giue a good price although it cost him a French crowne for euery poūd.’ Making proclamation, that he which would buye any fleshe meate, shoulde resort to the market place where was to be solde. All the Marchaunts and Gentlemen, repayred to buye some of the Ueale, and vnderstan­ding that euery pounde woulde not be solde vnder a French Crowne, they bought none at all. This Calfe and the price was bruted in all places, and came to the knowledge of the mother of this yong man, who sayd vnto her sonne. ‘I haue a minde to eate some of the Ueale, nowe solde in the market. Ricciardo aunswe­red. Mother make no hast to buye it, but first let it be cheapened by other, & at length I will deuise a meane that you shall haue it. For it is not wisedome for vs to be the first that shall buye the same.’ The mother lyke an ignoraunt & vnskilfull woman, was importunate to haue it. The sonne fearing that his mother woulde sende for some of the Ueale, by other, caused a Pye to be made, & prepared a flagon full of wyne, both which were intermixed with things to cause sléepe, & taking bread, the sayde pye, and the flagon of wyne, when it was night, putting on a counterfait beard, and cloke, went to the stall where y^e Ueale was to be solde, which as yet was whole & vnbought. And when he had knoc­ked at the shop dore, one of the Guard asked who was there. To whom Ricciardo sayd. ‘Can you tel me wher one Ventura doth kéepe his shoppe? of whome one of them demaunded what Ventura? I know not his sur­name sayde Ricciardo, that I would he had bene han­ged, when I came first to dwell with him: why, who sent thée sayd one of y^e guard? his wife (quod Ricciardo) and had me cary him this meate aud wine for his sup­per. [Page 287] But I pray you sayde Ricciardo, let me leaue the same with you, till I goe home to know better, where he kepeth his stall. And maruell not I pray you, why I knowe not where his shop is, for it is not long sithens I came to dwell in this citie.’ And so leauing behinde him the pye, and the bread with the flagon of wyne, he made hast to depart, and told them that he would come againe by & by. When he was gone, one of them toke the flagon, and dranke, and afterwards gaue it to his companion, and sayde. ‘Drinke, for thou neuer diddest taste of better wine in al thy life.’ His cōpanion drank, and merily cōmuning of this matter, they fell a sléepe. Ricciardo loking in at a hole of the dore, séeing them a slepe, went in, and toke the calfe and caried it home whole as it was, & sayde to his mother. ‘Holde mother, there is your lust, cut it out. And by and by she cut out a great pece.’ The Duke so sone as he heard y^t the calfe was stolen, & the maner howe, did wonder very much, and determined yet to know what he was. And caused a hundred poore people to come before him, and taking their names, he sayd vnto thē. ‘Get ye to al the houses in Venice, vnder colour to begge almes. And marke if you sée in any house, fleshe dressed, or any pece at the fyer, which if you doe, ye must be importunate in beg­ging, till they giue you eyther fleshe or broth. And he among you all that shall bring me the first newes, I will giue him .xx. Crownes.’ These beggers dispersed themselues into euery corner of the citie, demaunding their almes, amongs whome one of them asked his almes at the house of Ricciardo, and approching nere, espied openly fleshe at the spitte, and asked a morsell thereof for goddes sake: to whom the vndescrete wo­man, seeing that she had plentie, gaue a litle pece. The [Page] poore man thanked the good wife, and prayed God to saue her life. And as he was going downe the steppes of the dore, Ricciardo met him with the fleshe in his hande. Wherewithall astonned, he willed him to re­tourne in againe, and sayde he would giue him more. The begger gladde of that, wente in againe, whome Ricciardo caried into his chamber, and when he was within, he strake suche a full blowe vppon his heade, with an axe, that he kylled him, and threwe him into a Iakes, shutting the dore after him. In the euening, these poore men retourned to the Duke, ac­cording to their promise, and sayde howe they could fynde nothing. The Duke called thē by their names, and compting them, founde one lesse than the num­ber, whereat he maruelled. And after he had well adui­sed with himselfe, what should become of him that "lac­ked, he sayde. Certaynly the poore man is slaine. Then causing the Councel to be assembled, he declared what he had done: and yet sayd that it were méete the party were knowen. Wherevnto one of the Senators sayde. ‘Your grace hath duely made searche by the belly and mouthe, to finde out this verlet: I thinke it now ne­cessary that triall be made, by Lecherie, which com­monlye accompaneth licorous mouthes.’ Then it was concluded that the moste riotous and lecherous yong men, such as the Duke had in greatest suspicion to the number of .xxv. shoulde be warned to appeare before him, which accordinglye was done, amongs whom was this Ricciardo. These yong Roysters assē ­bled in the Palace, euery of them maruelled wherfore the Duke had caused thē to come thether. Afterwarde the Duke commaunded .xxv. beddes to be made in one of his great chambers, to lodge euery of the sayde .xxv. [Page 288] persons by himself, and in the middes of the chamber he commaunded a riche bedde of estate to be sette vp and furnished, where was appoynted to lie his owne daughter, which was an exceding faire creature. And in the night when these yong men were layed in their beddes, many gentlewomen, attendant vpon y^e Lady, came in to bring her to her lodging. And her Father deliuered to her a sawser full of black die, or stayning, and sayde vnto her. ‘If any of these yong men, that doe lie here by thée, doe offer to come to thy bedde, loke that thou mark him in the face with this stayning co­lour, that he may be knowen.’ At which wordes all the yong men maruelled, and therefore durst not attempt to goe vnto her, but sayde one to another. Surelye this commaundement of the Duke hath some secrete mysterie in it. Notwithstanding, Ricciardo determi­ned about midnight to go to her bed. And when y^e can­dle was out, being awake of purpose, he rose vp and went to the gentlewomans bedde, and began to im­brace & kisse her. The mayden when she felte him, so­daynelie dipped her finger in the colour, & stayned his face, not perceyued of him, when he had accomplished the thing he came for, he retourned to his bedde. And then began to imagine vpon the Dukes wordes, and for what policie he spake them. And lying a litle while stil, musing vpon the same, he went againe to the gē ­tlewomans bed, hauing disposed himselfe in the plea­sures of this paradise lambe. He perceyued her when she dipped her finger in the sawcer, & rubbed his face. Ricciardo marking the fame, toke away the sawcer from the beddes head, and rounde about, bestowed the colour vpon y^e faces of euery of his felowes, who were to fast a slepe that they did not fele him. Some he mar­ked [Page] with two spottes, some with six and some with .x. himself he painted but with foure besides those wher­with already he was berayed by the Gentlewoman. Which done, he set the saucer agayne vpon the beds head, & when he had bidden her farewel, fayre & softly he returned againe to his bed. In y^e morning betimes, the Damosels of the chāber came in to helpe the Lady to make her ready, which done, they waited vpō her to the Duke, who asked her howe the matter stode. She aunswered well, for she had done his cōmaundement. And tolde him how one came vnto her three times, & e­uery time she gaue him a taint in his face. The Duke by and by sent for them that were of his counsell. To whome he sayde. ‘Sirs I haue founde out this good fel­lowe, and therefore I haue sent for you, that we al to­gether may goe to sée him.’ They went all into the chā ­ber, and viewing them round about, they perceyued all their faces coloured, whereat they fell into a great laughter. Then one of them sayde to a nother. Suer­lie this fellowe hath the subtilest head that euer was knowen: and concluded y^e one of the company had set y^e colour in their faces. The yong men beholding one another, paynted in that sorte, brake into a great sport and pastime. Afterwardes the Duke examined euery of them, & séeing that he was not able by any meanes to vnderstande by whom it was done, he determined to knowe the man before he departed, and promised to him that shoulde confesse the truth, to giue his daugh­ter to him in mariage, and with her, a very great dow­rie, and a generall pardon. Wherefore Ricciardo vnderstanding the Dukes minde, toke hym asyde, and tolde him the whole matter particularly from the beginning to the ende. The Duke imbraced him, and [Page 289] gaue him his pardon, and with great ioy and triumph he solemnized the mariage betwene him & his daugh­ter. Wherewithal Ricciardo encoraged, proued a very stoute and valiaunt man, in suche wise almost, as the affaires of the whole state passed through his handes. And liued a long time after, with the loue & good will of the whole co­minaltie of Venice.

Philenio Sisterno.
¶The .xlix. Nouell.

AT Bologna, which is the no­blest citie of Lombardie, the mo­ther of studies, and accomplished with all things requisite for such a florishing citie, there was a yong scholler, a gentleman of the cun­trie of Crete, named Philenio Sis­terno, of very good grace and behauior. It chaunced that in his tyme, there was a great feast made in the citie, wherevnto were bidden the fairest dames, and best of reputation there. There was likewise, many gentlemen and schollers of Bologna, amongs whome [Page] was this Philenio: Who following the manner of yong men, dallying sometime with one, sometime with another: and perceyuing them for his purpose, determined to daūce with one of them. And comming to one which was called Emerentiana, the wyfe of sir Lamberto Bentiuoglia, he prayed her to daunce. Who being very gentle, and of no lesse audacitie than beau­tifull, refused not. Then Philenio leading forth the daunce very softly, sometimes wringing her by the hand, spake somewhat secretely vnto her, these words. ‘Madame your beautie is so great, that without doubt it surmounteth all that euer I sawe, and there is no woman in the worlde, to whome I beare so great af­fection, as to your person, which if it were correspon­dent to me in loue, I would think my self the best con­tented man in the worlde, otherwise I shall in shorte time be depriued of lyfe, and then you shall be the cause of my death. And louing you (Madame) as I doe, and as my duety requireth, you ought to take me for your seruaunt, vsing me and those litle goodes which I haue, as your owne. And I doe assure you, that it is impossible for me to receyue greater fauour from heauen, than to sée my self subiect to such a gentlewo­man as you be, which hath taken me in a net lyke a birde.’ Nowe Emerentiana which earnestly had mar­ked the swéete and pleasaunt wordes, lyke a wise gen­tlewoman, semed to giue no eare thervnto, and made him no aunswere at all. The daunce ended, and Eme­rentiana being set downe in her place, this yong schol­ler went to take another Gentlewoman by the hand, and began to daunce with her: which was not so sone begon, but thus he sayde vnto her. ‘It néedeth not Ma­dame, that by wordes I doe expresse the feruent loue [Page 290] which I beare you, and wil so doe, so long as my poore spirite shall gouerne and rule my members: and if I could obtaine you for my maistresse and singuler La­dy, I would thinke my selfe the happiest man on liue. Then louing you as I doe, and being wholly yours, as you may easily vnderstand, refuse me not I besech you for your humble seruaunt, sith that my lyfe and al that I haue dependeth vpon you alone.’ The yong gen­tlewoman, whose name was Panthemia, perceyuing his meaning, did not aunswere him any thing at that tyme: but honestlie procéeded in her daunce: and the daunce ended, smyling a little, she sat downe with the other dames. This done, amorous Philenio rested not vntill he had taken the third by the hand (who was the gentlest, fayrest, and trimmest dame in al Bologna) and began to daunce with her roming abrode, to shew his cunning before them that came to behold him. And before the daunce was finished, he sayd thus vnto her. ‘Madame it may so be, as I shall séeme vnto you very malapert to manifest the secrete loue that I haue and doe beare you at this instant, for which you ought not to blame me but your beautie, which rendreth you ex­cellent aboue al the rest, and maketh me your slaue & prisoner. I speake not of your cōmendable behauior, of your excellent & maruellous vertues, which be such & of so great effect, that it would make the Gods descend downe to contēplate the same. If then your excellent beauty and shape, so wel fauoured by nature, and not by arte, may séeme to contente the immortall Gods, you ought not to be offēded, if the same do constrayne me to loue you, and to inclose you in the priuie cabane of my hearte. I beseche you then gentle Madame (the onely comforte of my life) to haue pity vpon him that [Page] dieth a thousand times a day, for you. In so doing, my life shalbe prolonged by you, commending me humbly vnto your good grace.’ This faire gentlewoman called Simphorosia, vnderstanding the swete and pleasaunt wordes vttered from the very heart of Philenio, could not dissemble her sighes: but waying her honor, bicause she was maried, gaue him no aunswere at al. And the daunce ended, she retourned to her place. Nowe it chaunced, as these thre Ladies, did sit together in com­passe, socundly disposed to debate of sundry mery talk, beholde, Emerentiana, the wife of Seignior Lamberto, not for any euyll, but in sporting wise, sayde vnto her companions. ‘Gentlewomen, I haue to tell you a plea­saunt matter which happened to me this daye. What is that sayde the cōpanions? I haue gotten this night, sayde she) in dauncing, a curteous Louer, a very fayre Gentleman, and of so good behauiour as any in the worlde: who sayde that he was so inflamed with my beautie that he toke no rest day nor night:’ & frō point to pointe, rehearsed vnto them, all that he had sayde. Which Panthemia, and Simphorosia vnderstanding, aunswered that the like had chaunced vnto them, and they departed not from the feaste, before eche of them knewe him that was their Louer. Whereby they per­ceyued y^t his wordes proceded not of faithfull loue, but rather of follie and dissimulatiō, in such wise that they gaue so light credit therevnto, as of custome men vse to do to the wordes of them that be sicke. And they de­parted not from thence, vntil al thrée with one accord, had conspired euerye one for her parte, to giue him a mocke Philenio continuing thus in loue, somtime w^t one, sometime with another, & perceyuing that euery of them séemed to loue him, he determined with him­selfe, [Page 291] if it were possible to gather of them the last frute of his loue. But he was greatly deceyued in his desire, for that all his enterprise was broken. And that done, Emerentiana which coulde not anye longer dissemble the loue of the folish scholler, called one of her maides, which was a fayre and iolly wenche, charging her that she shoulde deuise meanes to speake with Philenio, and to giue him to vnderstand y^e loue which her may­stresse bare vnto him, and when it were his pleasure, she willinglie woulde one night haue him at home at her house. Which newes when Philenio heard, he gret­ly reioyced, and sayde to the mayde. ‘Returne to your maistresse fayre maide, and commende me vnto her, telling her in my behalfe, that I doe praye her to loke for me this euening, if her husbande be not at home.’ During which time, Emerentiana caused a certayne number of fagote of sharpe thornes to be made, and layde vnder the bedde, where she laye, still waiting for her minion. When night was come, Philenio toke his sworde, and went to the house of his enemy, & calling at the dore with the watchworde, the same inconti­nently was opened. And after that they had talked a little while together, and banketted after the best ma­ner, they withdrewe themselues into the chamber to take their rest. Philenio had no soner put of his clothes to goe to bedde, but Seignior Lamberto her husbande came home. Which the maistresse of the house percey­uing, made as though she had bene at her wits ende, and coulde not tel whether to conueye her minion, but prayed him to hide himselfe vnder the bedde. Philenio seing the daunger, wherin both he and the wife were, not taking with him any other garments, but onely his shirte, exept vnder the bedde, where he was so cru­elly [Page] prickt and scratched with the thornes that there was no parte of his body (from the toppe of the heade to the sole of the fore) frée from bloude, and the more he sought to defend himselfe in that darke place, the more sharply & piteously he was tormented, and durst not crie, for feare least seignior Lamberto woulde kill him. I will leaue to your consideration in what plight this poore wretche was in, who by reason of his mise­rable being, as he was brechlesse in that terrible pur­gatorie, euē so was he speachlesse and durst not speake for his life. In the morning when segnior Lamberto was gone forth, the poore scholler put on his clothes so well as he could, and al bloudy as he was, returning to his lodging, was like to die. But being diligently cu­red by physiciās, in short time he recouered his former health. Shortly after, Philenio began to pursue againe his loue towards the other two, y^t is to say, Panthemia & Simphorosia, & found cōuenient time one euening to speake to Panthemia, to whom he rehearsed his griefes and cōtinual torments, praying her to haue pitie vpon him. The subtile and wise wench Panthemia, fayning to haue compassion vpon him, excused her self by lacke of meanes to content his desire, but in the end vanqui­shed with fayre supplications and maruellous sighes, she made him to come home to her house, & being vn­ready, dispoyled of his apparell to goe to bed with his Lady, she required him to goe with her into a litle clo­set, where all her swete smelles and perfumes were, to the intent he might wel perfume him before he wēt to bed. The yong dolt not doubting the subtilty of this wicked woman, entred the closet, and setting his fote vpon a borde vnnayled from the ioyst, fell so depe in­to a store house where marchauntes vse to laye there [Page 292] cotton and wol, that he thought he had brokē his neck, and his legges, notwithstanding, as fortune woulde, he had no hurt. This pore scholler being in that darke place, beganne to seke for some dore or ladder to goe out, and finding nothing for his purpose, he cursed the houre & time that euer he knewe Panthemia. When the dauning of the day began to appeare, the simple Sot perceyued in one place of the storehouse certayne vents in the wal, which gaue some light, bicause they were olde and couered ouer with mosse, in such wise, that he began with maruellous force, to pluck out the stones in the most decayed place of the wal, and made so great a hole, that he went out. And being in a lane harde by the great streate, barefote & barelegged, and in his shirte, he went home to his lodging, vnknowen of any man. A litle while after Simphorosia vnderstā ­ding of y^e deceits y^t the other two had done to Philenio, attempted to giue him the thirde, which was not infe­rior to the other twayne. And for that purpose, she be­gan a farre of to cast her amorous lokes vpō him, let­ting him to knowe that she was in great distresse for his Loue. This poore soule hauing already forgotten his fortune past, began to walke vp and downe before her house, like a man altogether tormented any pay­ned with Loue. Then Simphorosia, séeing him to be farre in loue with her, sent him a letter by an olde wo­man, whereby she aduertized him, that his beautie and good behauior, so puissantlie did gouerne her affections that she coulde take no rest by night nor daye, for the earnest loue that she bare him. Wherefore she prayed him if it were his pleasure, to come and speake with her. Philenio receyuing that letter, and perusing the contents thereof, not considering the deceite prepared [Page] for him, ne yet any longer remembring the iniuries past, was more ioyfull and glad than euer he was be­fore. Who taking penne and paper, answered her a­gaine, that he for his parte suffred no lesse tormentes for her sake, yea and in respect of Loue, that he loued her farre better than she did him, and at al times when she pleased, he woulde be at her commaundement to do her seruice. The aunswere readde, and oportunitie founde, Simphorosia caused him to come home to her house, and after many false sighes, she sayde vnto him. ‘My deare frende Philenio, I knowe none other in all the worlde, that hath brought me into this state and plight wherein presently I am, but you, bicause your beautie, good grace, and pleasant talke, haue so set my heart on fier, that I féele it to kindle and burne lyke drie woode.’ Which talke mayster Scholler hearing, thought assuredly that she consumed for loue of him. This pore Nodgecock, contriuing y^e time with swéete and pleasant wordes, with his dareling Simphorosia, the tyme approched that he should goe to bed with his faire Lady, who sayd vnto him. My swete frend Phile­nio abide a while, and let vs make some banket and collation, and taking him by the hande, she caried him into her closet adioyning, where was a table rea­dy furnished w^t exquisit conficts and wines of the best. This Gentlewoman had made a composition in the wine, to cause this yong Gallant to slepe for a certayn time. Phileneo thinking no hurt, toke the cup and fil­led it with the wine, and dranke it vp at one draught. His spirites reuiued with this refreshing, after he had bene very wel perfumed and washed in swete waters, he went to bed, and within a while after this drink be­gan to worke, and the minion slepte so soundely, that [Page 293] Canon shot, or the greatest gonnes of the world were not able to wake him. Then Simphorosia perceyuing the drinke beginne to worke, called one of her sturdy maides that wel vnderstode the game of this pageant. Both whiche carying this pore sléepy Scholler by the féete and armes, and opening the dore very softly, they faire & well bestowed him in the middest of the streate, a good stones cast of from the house, where he lay all night. But when the dawning of the day did appeare, or an houre before, the drinke lost his vertue, and the pore Sot began to wake, & thinking that he had bene a bed with the Gentlewoman he perceyued himselfe brechlesse and in his shirte, more deade than alyue, through the colde that he had endured, by lying starke naked vpon the earth. The pore wretch was not able to helpe him self, so much as with his armes & legges, and could not stand vpō his féete without great paine: notwithstanding, through creping and sprawling, he got home to his house, vnsene of any man, and proui­ded so well as he could for recouery of his health. And had it not bene for his youth, which did helpe him at that instant, his sinewes had bene benommed for euer. In the ende, hauing attained his former health, and the state wherin he was before, he stil remembred the iniuries past, and without shewing any signe of anger or ill will, made as though he loued them all thrée bet­ter than euer he did before, and sometime semed to be in loue with the one, and sometime with the other. They againe for their parte, nothing mistrusting the malice of Philenio, set a good face on the matter, vsing amorous chere and countenaunce towardes him, but when his back was tourned, with mockes and floutes they toke their pleasure. He bearing in his brest secret [Page] despite, was stil desirous with his hand to marke them in the face, but he like a wise man, wayed the natures of women, and thought it woulde redound to great shame and reproche, if he did them any hurt. And ther­fore restraining the heate of his choler, did let them a­lone. And yet by deuising and practising, how he might be euen with them and reuenged, he was in great per­plexitie. Uery shortly after, it chaunced that the schol­ler had deuised a meane, easely to satisfie his desire, & so sone as he had determined vpon the same, Fortune also therevnto was fauorable. Who hired in the citie of Bologna a very faire house, which had a large hall, and commodious chambers: and purposed to make a great and sumptuous feast, and to inuite many La­dyes and gentlewomen to the same. Amongs whome these thrée were the first that should be bidden: which accordingly was done. And when the feast day was come, the thrée Gentlewomen that were not very wise at that instant, repaired thither suspecting nothing. In the ende, a little to recreate the gentlewomen, and to get them a stomake, attending for supper time, the scholler toke these his thrée louers by the hande, and led them friendelie into a chamber, somewhat to re­freshe them. When these thrée innocent women were come into the schollers chamber, he shut fast the dore, and going towardes them, he sayde. ‘Beholde the time is come for me to be reuenged vpon you wicked and curssed creatures, and to make you suffer the penaunce of the torment wherwith ye punished me for my great loue.’ The gentlewomen hearing those cruell wordes, rather dead than aliue, began to repent that euer they had offended him, and besides that, they curssed them­selues, for giuing credit vnto him whome they ought [Page 294] to haue abhorred. The scholler with a fierce and an­gry countenaunce, commaunded them vppon paine of their lyues to strippe themselues naked. Which sentence when these thrée Goddesses hearde, they beganne to looke one vppon another, wéeping and praying him, although he woulde not doe it for their sakes, yet in respect of his owne curtesie and naturall humanitie, that he woulde saue their honor aboue all things. This Gallant reioysing at their humble & piti­full requestes was thus courteous vnto them, that he would not suffer them to stande with their garments on, in his presence. The women casting themselues downe at the Schollers féete, wept bitterly, beseching him that he woulde haue pitie vpon them, and not to be the occasion of a slaunder so great and infamous. But he whose heart was hardened as the Diamond, sayde vnto them, y^t this fact was not worthy of blame, but rather of reuengement. The women dispoyled of their apparell (and standing before him, so frée from couering as euer was Eue before Adam) appeared as beautifull in this their innocent state of nakednesse, as they did in their brauerie: in somuch that the yong Scholler viewing from top to toe, those fayre and ten­der creatures, whose whitenesse surpassed the Snow, began to haue pitie vpon them: but calling to his re­membraunce the iniuries past, & the daunger of death wherein he was, he reiected all pitie, and continued in his hard and obstinate determination. Then he tooke all their apparell, and other furnitures that they did weare, and bestowed it in a little chamber, and wyth threatning wordes commaunded al thrée to lye in one bedde. The women altogether astonned, beganne to saye to themselues. ‘Alas what fooles be we? What [Page] will our husbandes and our friendes saye, when they shall vnderstande that we be founde naked and mise­rablie slayne in this bedde? It had bene better for vs to haue dyed in our cradelles, than apprehended and founde dead in this state and plight.’ The Scholler se­ing them bestowed one by another in the bedde, lyke husbande and wyfe, couered them wyth a very white and large shéete, that no part of their bodyes might be séene and knowen, and shutting the chamber dore af­ter him, Philenio went to séeke their husbandes, which were dauncing in the Hall. And the daunce ended, he brought them into the Chamber where the thrée Mu­ses laye in their bedde, saying vnto them. ‘Sirs I haue brought you into this place to shew you some pastime and to let you sée the fayrest things that euer you sawe in your lyues.’ Then approching nere the bedde, and holding a torche in his hande, he began fayre and soft­lye to lyft vp the shéete at the beddes féete, discouering these fayre Ladyes euen to the knées. Ye shoulde haue séene then, how the husbandes did beholde their white legges, and their well proporcioned féete, which done, he disclosed them euen to the stomack, and shewed their legges and thighes farre whiter than alabaster, which seemed lyke two pillers of fine marble, with a rounde bodie so wel formed as nothing coulde be better. Con­sequently he tourned vp the sheete a little further, and their stomacks, appeared somewhat round and plūme, hauing two round breastes, so firme & feate, that they woulde haue constrayned the great God Iupiter, to imbrace and kisse them. Whereat the husbandes tooke so great pleasure and contentacion, as coulde be deui­sed. I omit for you to think in what plight, these poore naked women were, hearing their husbands to make [Page 295] them. All this while, they laye verye quiet, and durst not so much as to hemme or cough, for feare to be kno­wen The husbandes were earnest with the Scholler to discouer their faces, but he wyser in other mennes hurts, than in his owne, would by no meanes consent vnto it. Not contented with this, the yong Scholler shewed their apparel to their husbands, who seing the same, were, astonned, and in viewing it with great ad­miration, they sayd to thēselues. ‘Is not this the gown that I once made for my wyfe? Is not this the Coyfe that I bought her? Is not this y^e Pendant that she v­seth about her necke? Be not these the rings that she weareth vpō her fingers?’ Being gone out of the chā ­ber, for feare to trouble the feast, he would not suffer them to depart, but caused them to tarrie supper. The Scholler vnderstanding that supper was ready. And that the Master of the house, had disposed all things in order, he caused the geastes to sit downe. And whiles they were remouing & placing the stooles & chayres, he returned into the chāber, where the thrée Daines lay, and vncouering thē, he sayd vnto them. ‘Bonidur, fayre Ladyes, did you heare your husbands? They where­by, and doe earnestly tarie for you at supper. What do ye meane to doe? Up and ryse ye Dormouses, rubbe your eyes, and gape no more, dispatche and make you ready, it is tyme for you now to repayre into the Hal, where the other Gentlewomen doe tarye for you. Be­holde now how this Scholler was reuenged by inter­teigning them after this maner.’ Then the poore deso­late women, fearing least their case woulde sorte to some pitifull successe, dispayring of their health, and thus troubled and discomforted, rose vp looking ra­ther for death than for anye other thing. And tour­ning [Page] them towarde the Scholler, they sayde vnto him. ‘Maister Philenio, you haue sufficient reuenge vp­on vs: the best for you to doe nowe, is to take your sworde, and to bereue vs of oure lyfe, which is more lothsome vnto vs than pleasant. And if you will not doe vs that good tourne, suffer vs to goe home to our houses vnknowen, y^t our honors may be saued.’ Then Philenio thinking that he had at pleasure vsed their persons, deliuered them their apparell, and so sone as they were ready, he let them out at a little dore, very secretlye, vnknowen of any man, and so they went home to their houses. So sone as they had put of their fayre furnitures, they folded them vp, and layde them in their chestes. Which done, they went about their housholde businesse, till their husbandes came home, when their husbandes retourned, they founde their wiues sowing by the fyre side in their chambers. And bicause of their apparell, their ringes, and iewelles. which they had séene in the Schollers chāber, it made them to suspect their wiues, euery of them demaun­ding his seuerall wyfe, where she had bene that night, and where their apparell was. They well assured of themselues, aunswered boldly, that they were not out of their house all the euening, and taking the keyes of their cofers, shewed them their apparell, their rings, & other things, which their husbandes had made them. Which when their husbandes sawe, they coulde not tell what to say, and forthwith reiected all the suspici­on, which they had conceyued against them: telling them from point to point, what they had séene y^t night. The women vnderstanding those wordes, made as though they knewe nothing, and after a little sporte and laughter betwéene them: they went to bed. Ma­ny [Page 296] tymes Philenio met his Gentlewomē in y^e streates and sayde vnto them. ‘Which of you was most afrayde or worste intreated?’ But they holding downe their heades, passed forth not speaking a worde. In this maner the Scholler was required so wel as he could, of the deceytes done against him, without any blowe giuen.

A chaste Death.
¶The .L. Nouell.

IN the Citie of Amboise, there was a Muleter that serued the Quéene of Nauarre, sister to King Fraunces the first of that name, which was brought a bed of a sōne at Blois: To which Towne the said Muleter was gone to be paide his quarters wages. Whose wife dwelled at Amboise beyond the bridges. It chaunced that of long time one of her husbandes seruantes did so disordinatelye loue her, that vpon a certayne daye he coulde not forbeare but he must néedes vtter the effect of his Loue borne [Page] vnto her. But she bring a right honest woman, tooke her mans sute in very ill part, threatning to make her husbande to beate him, and to put him away, and vsed him in suche wise, that after that tyme he durst not speake thereof no more, no yet to make any signe or semblance. And kept that fier couered within his brest, vntill his Master was ridden out of the towne, and that his maistresse was at euensong at Sainct Floren­tines, a church of the castle, farre from her house. Who now being alone in the house, began to ymagine how he might attempt that thing by force, which before by no supplication or seruice he was able to attaine. For which purpose, he brake vp a borde betwene his may­stresse chamber and his. But bicause the curteyns of his maister and maystresse bed, and of the seruauntes of the other side, couered and hid the walles betwene, it could not be perceyued, nor yet his malice discried, vntill suche time as his maistresse was gone to bed, with a little wenche of .xij. yeares of age. And so sone as the pore woman was fallen into her first sléepe, this varlet entred in at a hole which he had broken, and so conueyed himselfe into her bed in his shirte, with a naked sworde in his hand. But so sone as she felt him layed downe by her, she lept out of the bed, going a­bout to persuade him by such possible meanes as was mete for an honest woman to doe. And he indued with beastly Loue, rather acquainted with the language of his Mulets, than with her honest reasons, shewed him­self more beastly than the beasts, with whom he had of long time bene comiersant. For, séeing her so ofte to runne aboute the table that he coulde not catche her, and also that she was so strong, that twise she ouer­came him, in despaire that he shoulde neuer inioy her [Page 297] a liue, he gaue her a great blowe with his sworde ouer she raynes of the backe, thinking that if feare and force coulde not make her to yelde her selfe, yet payne and smarte should cause her. Howbeit, it chaunced cleane contrarye. For like as a good man of armes when he séeth his owne bloude, is more chafed to reuenge him­selfe vpon his enemies to acquire honor: euen so the chaste hearte of this woman, did reenforce and for­tefie her courage in double wise, to auoyde and escape the hands of this wicked varlet, deuising by al meanes possible by fayre wordes to make the varlet to acknow­ledge his fault. But he was so inflamed with fury, that there was no place in him to receyue good coūcel. And eftsones with his sword, gashed her tender body with diuers and sundry strokes, for the auoyding whereof, so fast as her legges could beare her, she ranne vp and downe the chamber. And when through want of bloud she perceyued death approche, lifting vp her eyes vnto heauē, and ioyning her handes together, gaue thanks vnto God, whom she termed to be her force, her vertue her pacience and chastitie, humbly beseching him to take in good parte the bloude which by his commaun­dement was sheadde in honor of that precious bloud, which from his owne sonne did issue vpon the Crosse, wherby she did beleue firmely & stedfastly, that all her sinnes were wiped away defaced frō the memorie of his wrath and anger, and in saying, ‘Lorde receyue my soule which was derely bought and redemed with thy bounty and goodnesse,’ she fel downe to the ground vpon her face where the wicked villayne inflicted her body with manifolde blowes. And after she had lost her speache and the force of her body: this moste wicked and abhominable varlet, toke her by force, which had [Page] no more strength and power to defende her selfe. And when he had satisfied his cursed desire, he fledde awaye in suche hast, as afterwardes for all the pursute made after him, he could not be founde. The yong wenche which lay with her, for feare hid her self vnder the bed. But when she perceyued the villayne departed, she came vnto her maistresse, and finding her speachelesse and without mouing, she cried out of the window vn­to the nexte neighboures to come to succour her. And they which loued her, and estéemed her so well as any woman in the Towne, came presently vnto her, and brought diuers Surgeons with them, who finding vp­on her body .xxv. mortall woundes, they did so muche as in them laye to helpe her. But it was impossible Howbeit she lay one houre without speache, making signes with her eyes and handes, declaring that she had not lost her vnderstanding being demaunded by the priest, of the fayth wherein she died, and of her sal­uation, she aunswered by such euident signes, that her speache and communicacion coulde not declare it bet­ter, howe y^t her trust and confidence was in the death of Iesus Christ, whom she hoped to sée in the celestiall city, and so with a ioyful countenaunce, her eyes erec­ted vp to the heauēs, she rendred her chast body to the earth, and her soule to her creator. And when she was shrowded ready to the buriall, as her neighbours were attending to follow her to the church, her pore husbād came home, and the first sight he saw, was the body of his deade wife before his dore, whereof before that in­stante he had no newes. And when he vnderstode the order of her death, he then doubled his sorrow, in such wise that he was also like to die. In this sorte was this martir of Chastitie buried in the Church of S. Flo­rentine, [Page 298] where all the honest dames and wiues of the city endeuored themselues to accompany her, & to ho­nour her with such reuerence as they were able to do: accompting themselues most happye to dwell in that Towne, where a woman of such vertuous behaui­our did dwel. The folish and wanton persons séeing the honour done to y^e dead body, determined from that time forth, to renew their former life and to chaunge the same into a better.

A King of Naples.
¶The .Lj. Nouell.

IN the citie of Naples, in the time of King Alphonsus, in whose raigne wantonnesse bare chiefest sway, there was a gentleman so honest, beautifull and comely, as for his good conditions, an olde Gentleman gaue to him his daughter in mariage, which in beautie and good grace was comparable to her husbande. The loue was great betwéene them, till it chaunced vpon a shoruetide, that the King went a masking into the citie, where euery [Page] man endeuoured himself to interteigne him the best he coulde. And when he came to this gentlemans house, he was best receyued of any place in all the towne, as­wel for banketting, as for musical songs, and the gen­tlewoman, the fairest that the King sawe in al the citie to his contentation. And vpon the ende of the banket, she sang a song with her husband, with a grace so good that it greatly augmented her beautie. The King sée­ing so many perfections in one body, conceyued not so great pleasure in the swéete accordes of her husband and her, as he did howe to deuise, to interrupt & breake them. And the difficultie for bringing that to passe, was y^e great amitie that he saw betwéene them. Wher­fore he bare in his heart that passion so couerte, as he possibly coulde. But partly for his owne solace and comfort, he feasted all the Lordes and Ladyes of Na­ples, where the gentleman and his wyfe was not for­gotten. And bicause man willingly beleueth, that he doth sée, he thought that the lokes of that gentlewo­man promised vnto him some grace in time to come, if the presence of her husband were not let thervnto. And to proue whether his coniecture were true, he sent her husband in commission to Rome, for .xv dayes or thrée wéekes. And so sone as he was gone, his wyfe which hitherto had not felte any long absence from her hus­band, made great sorrow for the same, wherof she was recomforted by the King, many times by swéete per­suasions, by presentes and giftes, in suche sorte, that she was not onely comforted, but contented with her husbandes absence. And before the thrée wéekes were expired of his returne, she was so amorous of y^e King, that she was no lesse sorrowful of his comming home, than she was for his departure. And to the intent the [Page 299] Kings presence might not be lost, they agréed toge­ther, that when her husbande was gone to his possessi­ons in the countrie, she should send worde to the King, that he might haue safe repaire vnto her, and so secret­ly, that his honour, (which he feared more than he did the fact) might not be impaired. Upon this hope, this Ladies heart was set on a merie pinne. And when her husband was come home, she welcomed him so well, that albeit he knewe howe the King made much of her in his absence, yet he would not beleue it. But by con­tinuance of time, this fier that could not be couered, by little and little began to kindle, in suche wise, that the husband doubted muche of the truth, and watched the matter so néere, that he was almost out of doubt. But for feare, leaste he whiche did the wrong, shoulde doe him greater hurts, if he séemed to knowe it, he de­termined to dissemble y^e matter. For he thought it bet­ter to liue with some griefe, than to hazarde his lyfe for a woman which loued him not. Not withstanding, for this displeasure, he thought to be euen with the king if it were possible. And knowing that many times, des­pite maketh a woman to doe that which Loue can not doe, specially those women that haue honorable hearts and stoute stomakes, was so bolde without blushing, vpon a day in speaking to the Queene, to say vnto her, that he had pitie vpon her, for that she was no better beloued of the king her husband. The Quéene which heard tell of the loue betwene the king and his wife. ‘I can not (quod she) both inioy honor and pleasure to­gether, I know well that honor I haue, whereof one receyueth the pleasure, and as she hath the pleasure, so hath not she the honor that I haue.’ He which knew wel by whome those wordes were spoken, sayde vnto her. ‘[Page]Madame, honor waited vpon you euen at your birth, For you be of so good a house, that to be a Quéene or Empresse, you can not augment your nobilitie, but your beautie, grace, & honestie, hath deserued so much pleasure, as she that depriueth you of that which is in­cident to your degrée, doth more wrong to her selfe, than to your person. For she for a glory that hath tur­ned her to shame, hath there withall lost so much plea­sure, as your grace or any Lady in the realme maye haue. And I may say vnto you (Madame) that if the king were no king as he is, I thinke that he could not excell me in pleasing of a woman. Being sure, that to satisfie such a vertuous personage as you be, he might exchange his complexion with mine. The Quéene smi­ling, answered him. Although the king be of more de­licate and weaker complexion thā you be, yet the loue that he beareth me, doth so muche content me, that I esteme the same aboue all thinges in the worlde. The gentleman sayde vnto her. Madame, if it were so, I woulde take no pitle vpon you, for I knowe wel that the honest loue of your heart, woulde yelde vnto you great contentation, if the like were to be found in the king. But God hath foresene and preuented the same, leaste enioying your owne desire, you woulde make him your God vpon earth. I confesse vnto you (sayde the Quéene) that the loue I beare him, is so great, that the like place he could not finde in no womans heart, as he doth in muse. Pardon me Madame (sayde the Gentleman vnto her if I speake more frankely, your grace hath not sounded the depth of eche mans heart. For I dare be bolde to saye vnto you, that I knowe one that doth loue you in suche wise, whose loue is so great, that you loue in respect of his, is nothing. And [Page 300] for so muche as he séeth the Kings loue to fayle in you, his doth grow and increase, in suche sorte, that if your loue were agreable vnto his, you should be recompen­sed of all your losses.’ The Quéene aswell by his words as by his countenaunce, began to perceyue, that the talke proceded from the bottom of his hart, and called to her remembrance that long time he had endeuored him self to do her seruice, w^t such affection, as for loue he was growen to be melancolike, which she thought before, to come through his wiues occasion, but nowe she assuredly beleued that it was for her sake. And thus the force of Loue, which is well perceyued when it is not fayned, made her sure of y^t, which was vnknowen to all the worlde. And beholding the gentleman which was more amiable than her husband, and séeing that he was forsaken of his wife, as she of the king, pressed with despite and ialousie of her husbande, and prouo­ked with loue of the gentleman, beganne to say with finger in eye, and sighing sobbes. ‘O my god, must ven­geaunce get that at my hand, which Loue can not do?’ The gentleman well vnderstanding her meaning, aunswered. ‘Madame vengeance is swéete vnto him, which in place of killing his enemy, giueth life to a perfect frende. I thinke y^t it is time that trouth shoulde remoue from you the folish loue, that you beare vnto him which loueth you not. And that iust and reasona­ble loue, shoulde expell frō you the feare, which neuer can remayne in a noble & vertuous heart. But nowe Madame, omitting to speake of the greatnesse of your estate, let vs consider that we be both man & woman, the most deceyued of the worlde, and betrayed of them which we haue most derely loued. Let vs now reuēge our selues (Madame) not onely to render vnto them, as [Page] they haue deserued, but to satisfie the loue whiche for my parte I can no longer beate, except I shoulde die. And I thinke, that if your heart be not harder than Flint, or Diamont, it is impossible but you must per­ceyue some sparke of fier, which increaseth more than I am able to dissemble. And if pitie of me which dyeth for your loue, doth not moue you to loue me, at least wyse let loue of your selfe constrayne you, which be­ing so perfect a creature as you be, doth deserue to en­ioye the heartes of all the honest men of the worlde. And let I say, the contempt & forsaking of him moue you, for whom you haue disdayned all other persons.’ The Quéene hearing those wordes, was so rauished, that for feare to declare by her countenaunce y^e trou­ble of her spirite, leaning vpon the Gentlemās arme, went into a garden harde by her chamber, where she walked a long time not able to speake a worde. But the Gentleman seing her halfe wonne, when he was at the ende of the Alley, where non̄e coulde sée them, he certified her by effect, the loue which so long tyme he kept secrete from her. And both with one consent reioyced in reuenge, wherof the passion was importa­ble. And there determined, that so oft as he went into the countrey, and the King from his Castle to y^e Citie, he shoulde retourne to the Castle to sée the Quéene. Thus deceyuing the deceyuers, all foure were parta­kers of y^e pleasure, which two alone thought to enioy. The accorde made, they departed, the Ladye to her chamber, and the Gentleman to his house, with suche contentacion, as they had quite forgotten all their troubles past. And the fears that eyther of them had of the assembly of the King and of the Gentlewoman, was tourned to desire, which made the Gentleman to [Page 301] go more ofte than he was wont to doe into the Coun­trey, beyng not past halfe a myle of. And so sone as the king knewe thereof, he fayled not to visite his La­die, and the Gentleman the night folowing went to the Castle to salute the Quéene, to doe the offyce of the Kings Lieutenant, so secretly as neuer any man did perceyue it. This voyage endured of long tyme, but the King bicause he was a publike person, coulde not so well dissemble his loue, but all the worlde did perceyue it, and al men pityed the gentlemans state. For diuers light persons behinde his backe woulde make hornes vnto him, in signe of mockerie, which he right well perceyued. But this mockerie pleased him so wel, that he estemed his hornes better than y^e Kings Crowne, who and the Gentlemans wyfe one daye, could not refrayne (beholding a Stagges heade set vp in the Gentlemās house) frō breaking into a laughter before his face, saying, how that head became the house very well. The Gentleman that had so good a heart as he, wrote ouer that heade these wordes.

The King retourning agayne to thys Gentlemans house, finding this superscription newely written, de­maunded of the Gentleman the signification of them. Who sayde vnto him.

‘But content your selfe. All they that weare hornes, be pardoned to weare their cappes vpon their heades. For they be so swéete and pleasaunt, that they vncappe no man, and they weare them so light, that they think they haue none at all.’ The king perceyued well by his wordes, that he knewe something of his doings, but he neuer suspected the Loue betwéene the Quéene and him. For the Quéene was better contented with her husbandes lyfe, and with greater ease dissembled her griefe. Wherefore eyther partes liued long time in this loue, till age had taken order for dissolueiō therof. Beholde Ladyes (q Saffredante) thys Historie, which for example I haue willingly recyted vnto you, that when your husbandes doe make you hornes as big as a Goate beareth, you may render vnto him the monstruous heade of a Stagge, peace (q Emarsnite smy­ling) no more wordes.

A Princesse of Flaundres.
¶The. Lij. Nouell.

THere was in Flaundres a La­dy of an honorable house, which had two husbandes, by whome she had no children that were liuing. Du­ring the time of her widowhode, she dwelt within one of her brothers, that loued her very wel, which was a noble man, and had maryed a Kings daughter. This yong Prince was muche giuen to pleasure, louing hunting, pastime, and the company of fayre Ladyes, according as youth doth require. He had a wyfe y^t was curst and troublesome, whome the delectations of her husbande in no wise did content and please. Where­fore this noble man caused his sister daylie to kéepe companye with his wyfe. This Gentlewoman his sister, was of pleasaunt conuersation, and therewith­all very honest and wyse. There was in the house of this noble man, a Gentleman whose worship, beautie and grace, did surpasse all the rest of hys companions. This Gentleman perceyuing the sister of his Lorde and Maister to be pleasaunt & of ioyfull countenance, thought to proue if the attempt of an honest friende would be vouchsaued at her handes, but he founde her aunswere to be contrarie to her countenance. And al­be [...] [Page] [...] [Page 302] [Page] if that her aunswere was suche as was méete for a Princesse and right honest Gentlewomā, yet bicause she perceyued him to be a goodly personage, and cur­teous, she easily pardoned his bolde attempt, and sée­med that she toke it not in yll parte when he spake vn­to her. Neuerthelesse she warned him, after that time, to moue no such matter, which he promised, bicause he would not lose his pleasure and honor that he concey­ued to entertayne her. Notwithstanding, by processe of tyme his affection increased so much, that he forgot y^e promise which he had made vnto her, not hazarding his enterprise by wordes: for he had to long against his will experimented her wyse & discrete aunsweres. But he thought if he coulde finde her in some conue­nient place (bicause she was a widowe, yong, of lusty yeares & good complexion) it were possible she would take pitie vpon him, & of her selfe. And that he might bring his purpose to effect, he sayde to his Maister, that he had besides his owne house very goodly game, & that if it pleased him to kill three or foure Stagges in the moneth of Maye, he coulde neuer sée better pastime. The Lorde aswell for the loue he bare to the Gentle­man, as for the pleasure he had in hunting, graunted his request. And went to his house which was so fayre and well furnished, as the best Gentleman in all the Countrey had not a better, and did lodge his Lorde and Ladie in one side of the house, and in the other di­rectly against it, her whome he loued better than him­selfe. The Chamber was so well hanged with Ta­pistrie, and furnished, and so trimly matted, as it was impossible to perceyue a falling dore, which was by the beddes side, descending to the chamber where hys Mother laye, which was an olde Ladie, that was trou­bled [Page 303] with the Catarre or Rume. And bicause she had a Coughe, fearing to disease the Princesse which lay aboue her, she chaunged chambres with her sonne. And euery night the olde Gentlewoman brought conflictes to the Lady for her recreation, vpon whome the Gen­tleman wayted, who (for that he was well beloued & very familiar with her brother) was not refused to be by her at her rising and going to bedde. Whereby he daylie tooke occasion to increase his loue and affection. In such sorte that one night, after he had caused the Lady to sit vp late, (she being surprised with sléepe) he was forced to depart the chamber, and to repayre to his owne. Where when he had put on the moste bra­uest perfumed shirt that he had, & his cap for the night so trimly dressed, that there wāted nothing, he thought in beholding himselfe, that there was no Ladye in the worlde that could refuse his beautie and comelynesse. Wherefore promising himselfe a happy successe in his enterprise, he went to hys bed where he purposed not long to abide, for the desire that he had to entre into an other, which should be more honorable & pleasant vnto him. And after he had sent his mē away, he rose to shut the dore after them, & hearkened a good while, whether he could heare any noyse in the Ladyes chāber aboue. And when he was sure that euery man was at rest, he began to take his pleasant iorney, and by little & little opened the falling dore, which was so well trymmed with cloth, that it made no noyse at all, and went vp to y^e Ladies bed side, which then was in her first slepe, and withoute respect of the bonde and promise that he made vnto her, or y^e honorable house wherof she came, without leaue or reuerence, he layed him selfe downe besides her, who felt him betwene her armes before she [Page] perceyued his cōming. But she which was somewhat strong, vnfolded her selfe out of his handes, and in asking him what he was, began to strike, to bite and scratch. In such wise, as he was constrayned (for feare least she shoulde cry out) to stoppe her mouth with the couerlet, which was impossible for him to doe. For when she saw him to presse withal his force to despoile her of her honor, she spared no part of her might to de­fende and kepe her selfe, & called (so loude as she could) her woman of honor, that lay in her chamber, which was a Gentlewoman right auncient and sober, who euē in her smock, ranne straight to her maistresse. And when y^e gentleman perceiued that he was discouered, was so fearefull to be knowen of the Lady, that so sone as he could he shifted himselfe downe by his trap­dore. And when before he had desire, hope & assurance to be welcome, nowe he was brought in despayre for retourning in so vnhappy state. When he was in his chamber, he founde his glasse and candle vpon the ta­ble, and beholding his face al bloudy with scratchings and bitings, which she had bestowed vpon him, the bloude whereof ranne downe his fayre shirte which was more bloudled than gylted, he beganne to mone himselfe in this wise. ‘O beautie, thou art now payed thy deserte, for vpon thy vayne promise haue I aduen­tured a thing impossible. And that which might haue bene the augmenting of my contentation, is nowe the redoubling of my sorrow. Being assured y^t if she knew howe contrarie to my promise I haue enterprised this folish fact, I should vtterly forgoe the honest and com­mon conuersation which I haue with her aboue all o­ther. That which my estimation, beautie and good be­hauiour doe deserue, I ought not to hide in darknesse. [Page 304] To gaine her loue I ought not to assay her chaste bo­dy by force, but rather by my seruice and humble pa­cience, to waite and attende til loue did vanguish. For without loue all the vertue and puissance of man is of no power and force.’ Euen thus he passed the nighte in suche teares, griefes and playntes, as a man can not well reporte and vtter. In the morning, when he beheld his bloudy face al mangled and torne, he fained himselfe to be very sicke, and that he coulde abide no light, til the company were gone from his house. The Lady which thus remained victorious, knowing that there was no man in all her brothers court, that durst attempt a déede so wicked, but onely he, which was so bolde to declare his loue vnto her, knewe well that it was her hoste, And when she and her woman of honor had searched all the corners of the chamber to knowe what he was, and sawe that she would not finde him, she sayde vnto her woman in a great rage. ‘Assure your selfe, it can be none other, but the Gentleman of the house, whose villanous order I will declare to my brother in the morning, in such sort, that his head shal be a witnesse and testimonie of my chastitie. Her wo­man séeing her in that furie, sayde vnto her. Madame I am right glad to sée the loue & affection which you haue to your honor, for the increase whereof, you will not spare the life of one, which hath aduentured him­self so much forced with the loue that he beareth vnto you. But many times suche one thinketh by those meanes to increase his loue, which altogether he doth diminishe. Wherefore (Madame) I humblie beseche you to tell me the truth of this facte.’ And when the Lady had recompted the same at length, the woman of honor sayde vnto her. ‘Your grace doth say that he got [Page] no other thing of you, but scratches and blowes with your fistes. Do I assure you (quod the Lady) and I am certayne if he get him not a good surgeon, the markes will be séene to morrowe. Well Madame (quod the Gentlewoman) sithens it is so, me thinketh you haue greater occasion to prayse God, than to muse vpon re­uengement: For you may beleue, that fithens he had the courage to enterprise suche a thing, & that despite hath made him to faile of his purpose, you can deuise no greater death for him to suffer, thā the same. If you desire to be reuenged, let Loue & shaine alone to bring that to passe, who know better which way to torment him than your selfe: & with greater honor to your per­son. Take héede Madame from falling into such incon­uenience as he is in. For in place of great pleasure which he thought to haue gayned, he hath receyued the most extreme anoyance, that any Gentleman can suf­fer. And you Madame by thinking to augment your honor, you may decrease and diminishe the same. And by making that complaint, you shall cause that to be knowen, which no man knoweth. For of his part (you may be assured) there shall neuer be any thing reuea­led. And when my Lord your brother at your request, shall execute that iustice which you desire, and that the pore gentlemau shal be ready to dye, yet the brute wil runne that he hath had his pleasure vpon you. And the greatest parte will say, that it is a difficult matter for a gentleman to do such an enterprise, except the Lady minister some great occasion. Your grace is fayre and yong, frequenting your life in pleasant cōpany, there is none in al the Court, but séeth and marketh the good countenaunce you beare to that gentleman, whereof your selfe hath some suspicion. Which wil make euery [Page 305] mā suppose that if he haue done this enterprise, it was not done w^t out some consent on your part. And your honor which hitherto hath borne your port a loft, shall be disputed vpon in all places where this historie shall be remembred.’ The Princesse vnderstanding, and waying the good reasons of her Gentlewoman, knew that she spake the truth: and that by moste iust cause she should be blamed: considering the familiaritie and good countenaunce which daylie she bare vnto the Gentleman. Wherefore she inquired of her woman of honor, what was best to be done. Who aunswered her thus. ‘Madame sith it pleaseth you to receyue myne aduise, by waying the affection whereof it procedeth, me thinke you ought in your heart to reioyce, that the goodliest, and moste curteous Gentleman that liueth, coulde neyther by loue, nor force, dispoyle you of your gret vertue and chastitie. For which (Madame) you are bound, to hūble your self before God, acknowledging that it is not done by your vertue, bicause many wo­men walking in a more paynful and more vnpleasant trade than you doe, haue bene humiliated and brought low by mē farre more vnworthy of loue, thā he which loueth you. And ye ought now to feare more than euer you did, to vse any semblance and talke of amitie, bi­cause there haue bene many that haue fallen the secōd time into daungers and perils, which they haue anoy­ded at y^e first. Remember (Madame) that loue is blinde, who darkeneth mens eyes in such sorte, that where a man thinketh the way most sure, there he is most rea­dy to fall. And I suppose Madame, that you ought not to be knowen of this chaunce, neyther to him, no yet to any man else, and when he remembreth any thing vnto you, to make as though you did not vnderstande [Page] his meaning, to auoyd two daūgers. The one of vaine glory for the victory which you haue had, the other to take pleasure in remēbring things, that be so pleasant to the flesh, which the most chaste haue had much a doe to defend them selues from feeling of some sparks, al­though they do seke meanes to shunne & auoyde them withall their possible power. Moreouer Madame, to thende that he think not by such hazard and enterprise to haue done a thing agreable to your minde, myne adusse is, that by little and little, you doe make your self straunge, and vse no more your wonted grace vn­to him, that he may knowe how muche you despise his follie, and consider how great your goodnesse is, by cō ­tenting your selfe with y^e victory which God hath giuē you, without séeking any further v [...]tion or reuenge­ment. And God graunt you grace (Madame) to conti­nue that honestie which he hath planted in your heart, and by acknowledging that all goodnesse procedeth frō him, you may loue him and serue him better than euer ye did.’ The Princesse determined to credit the coun­sayle of her gentlewoman, slept with so great ioy as the pore gentleman waked with sorrow. On the mor­row y^e noble man ready to depart, asked for his hoste, vnto whome aunswere was made, that he was so sick, that he coulde not abide the light, nor endure to heare one speake. Wherof the Prince was sore abashed, and would haue visited him, but that it was tolde him that he was a slepe, and was very loth to wake him. Wher­fore without bidding him farewel, he departed, taking with him his wife and sister, who hearing the excuse of the Gentleman, that would not sée the Prince, nor yet his companie, at their departure, was persuaded that it was he, that had done her all that torment, and [Page 305] durst not shew the markes which she had signed in his face. And although his Maister did send oftentimes for him, yet came he not to the Court, vntill he was hea­led of all his wounds, except that which Loue and de­spite had made in his hart. When he came to y^e Court and appeared before his victorious enemie, he blushed for shame of his ouerthrowe. And he which was the stoutest of al the company, was so astonned, that ma­ny tymes being before her, he coulde not tell which way to loke or tourne his face. Wherefore she was assured that her suspicion was certayne and true, by little and little estraunging her selfe from him, but it was not done so sleightly or politikely, but that he perceyued it wel ynough, and yet he durst make no semblance thereof, for feare of worse aduenture. Notwithstanding he conserued both his loue in his heart, & also pacience of minde, for the losse of his Ladies fauour, which he had right wel deser­ued.

Amadour and Florinda
¶The .Liij. Nouell.

IN the Countie of Arande, in Aragon, there was a Lady, which in the best time of her youth, con­tinued the widdowe of the Earle of Arande, with one sōne and one daughter, called Florinda. The sayde Ladye brought vp her chil­dren in all vertue and honestie, méete and conuena­ble for all Lordes and Gentlemen, in such forte, that her house was renowmed to be one of y^e most honora­ble houses in all y^e Region of Spayne. Many times she repayred to Tolledo, where the King of Spaine helde his Court, and whē she came to Sarragosa, which was harde adioyning to the Court, she cōtinued long with the Quéene, and in the Court, where she was had in so good estimatiō as any Lady might be. Upon a time going towardes the King, according to her custome, which was at Sarragosa, in his Castle of Iasserie, this Lady passed by a village that belonged to the Uiceroy of Cathalongne, who still continued vpon y^e frontiers of Parpignon, by reason of the great warres y^t were betwene the French King and him. Howbeit, at that time peace being concluded, the Uiceroy withall his captaynes were come to do reuerence to y^e King. The Uiceroy knowing that the Countesse of Arande dyd [Page 307] passe through his coūtrie, went to mete her, aswel for auncient amitie, as also for the honor he bare vnto her being allied to the King. Now this Uiceroy had in his companye diuers honest Gentlemen, which through the frequētation and continuance of the long warres had gotten suche honor aud fame, that euery man that might sée them & behold them, did accompt themselues happie. But amonges all the other, there was one cal­led Amadour, who although he was but .xviij. or .xix. yeares of age, yet he had suche an assured grace, and a witte so excellent, y^t he was demed amongs a thou­sande persons worthy to haue the gouernement of a common wealth, which good wit was coupled with a maruellous naturall beautie, that there was no eye, but did content it self eftsones to beholde him. And this beautie so exquisite, was associated with wonderful e­loquence, that doubtful it was to say, whether of them merited greatest honor, eyther his grace, his beauty or his excellente tong, but that which brought him into best reputation, was his great hardinesse, whereof the common report and brute, was nothing impeached or stayed for all his youth. For in so many places he she­wed his maruellous chiualcie, that not onely Spaine, but Fraunce and Italie, did singularlie commend and set forth his vertue: bicause in all the warres where­in he was presēt, he neuer spared himself for any daū ­ger. And when his countrie was in peace and quiet, he sought to serue in straunge places, being loued and estemed both of his frends and enemies. This Gentle­man for the loue of his Captayne was come into that coūtrie, where was arriued the Countesse of Arande, and in beholding the beautie and good grace of her daughter, which was not then past .xij. yeares of age, [Page] he thought that she was the fayrest & moste vertuous personage that euer be sawe: and that if he coulde ob­tayne her good will, he shoulde be so well satisfied as if he had gayned al the goods and pleasures of the world. And after he had a good while viewed her, for all the impossibilitie that reason could deuise to the contrary, he determined to loue her, although some occasion of that impossibilitie, might rise through y^e greatnesse of the house whereof she came, & for want of age which was not able as yet to vnderstand the passiōs of loue. But against the feare thereof he armed himselfe with good hope, persuading with himselfe, that time aud pa­cience woulde bring happy ende to his trauayle. And from that time gentle Loue which without any other occasion than by his owne force was entred the hearte of Amadour, promised him fauour & helpe by all mea­nes possible to attayne the same. And to prouide for the greatest difficultie, which was the farre distance of the Countrie where he dwelt, and the small occasion y^t he had thereby any more to sée Florinda, he thought to marrie against his determinatiō made with the La­dies of Barlelone and Parpignon, amongs whom he was so conuersant by reason of the warres, that he sée­med rather to be a Cathelan, thā a Castillan, although he were borne by Tolledo, of a riche and honourable house, but bicause he was a yonger brother, he inioyed no great patrimonie or reuenue. Not withstanding, Loue and Fortune séeing him forsaken of his parents determined to accomplishe some notable exployte in him, & gaue him (by meanes of his vertue) that which the lawes of his coūtry refused to giue. He had good ex­perience in factes of warre, and was so wel beloued of all Princes and Rulers, that he refused many times [Page 307] their goodes, as a man that wayed not the same. The Countesse of whome I spake, arriued thus at Sarra­gossa, was very well interteigned of the king, and of his whole Court. The Gouernor of Cathalogne many times came thither to visite her, whō Amadour neuer fayled to accōpany, for the only pleasure he had to talk with Florinda. And to make himselfe to be knowen in that company, he went to Auenturade, which was the daughter of an old Knight that dwelt hard by y^e house, which from her youth was brought vp w^t Florinda, in such familiar sorte, that she knew all the secrets of her hart. Amadour aswel for the honesty y^t he found in her, as for the liuing of thrée thousand Ducats by the yere which she shoulde haue to her mariage, determined to giue her such interteignemēt, as one that was disposed to marry her. Whervnto the Gentlewoman did wil­lingly recline her eare. And bicause that he was pore, and the father of the damosel rich, she thought that her father would neuer accorde to the mariage, excepte it were by meanes of the Countesse of Arande. Where­vpon she went to Madame Florinda, and sayde vnto her. ‘Madame, you sée this Castillan Gentleman, which so oftentimes talketh with me, I doe beleue that his pretence is to marry me. You doe know what a father I haue, who will neuer giue his consent, if he be not persuaded therevnto by my Lady your mother & you.’ Florinda which loued the damosell as her selfe, assured her that she would take vpon her to bring that matter to passe, with so earneste trauayle as if the case were her owne. Then Auenturade brought Amadour be­fore Florinda, who after he had saluted her, was lyke to fall in a sowne for ioy, and although he were comp­ted the moste eloquent person of Spaine, yet was he [Page] now become mute and dumb before Florinda, wherat she maruelled much. For albeit she was but. xv. yeares of age, yet she vnderstode that there was no man in Spaine that had a better tongue or a more conuenable grace than he. And seing that he sayde nothing vnto her, she spake vnto him in this wise. ‘The same which is bruted of you (sir Amadour) through out the whole countrie of Spaine, is such that it maketh you knowen and estemed in this companie, and giueth desire and occasion to those that know you, to imploy themselues to doe you pleasure. Wherefore if there be any thing wherin I may gratifie you, vse me I beseche you.’ A­madour that gased vpō the beautie of that Lady, was rapt and surprised, not wel able to render thankes vn­to her. And although Florinda maruelled to sée him without aunswere, yet she imputed the same rather to bashfulnesse than to any force of loue, and departed without any further talke. Amadour knowing the vertue which in so tender yeares began to appeare in Florinda, sayde vnto her whom he purposed to marry. ‘Doe not maruell, though my talke doe fayle before Madame Florinda, for the vertues and wise wordes, hidden in that yong personage, did so amase me, that I wist not what to say. But I pray you Auenturade (quod he) which knoweth all her secretes, to tell me, if it be otherwise possible, but that she hath the heart of all the Lordes and Gentlemen of the Court: for they which knowe her and doe not loue her, be stones, or beasts.’ Auenturade which then loued Amadour more than all the men in the world, and would conceale no­thing from him, sayde vnto him, that Madame Flo­rinda was beloued of the whole world: but for the cus­tome of the coūtrie, few men did speake vnto her. ‘And [Page 309] (quod she) as yet I sée none that make any semblance vnto her, but two yong Princes of Spaine, which de­sired to marry her, whereof the one is the sonne of the Infant Fortune, and the other of the Duke of Ca­douce. I pray you thē (quod Amadour) to tel me which of them as you thinke, doth loue her best. She is so wise sayd Auenturade, that she will confesse or graūt her loue to none, but to suche as her mother pleaseth. But so far as we can iudge, she fauoreth much better the sonne of the Infant Fortune, thā the Duke of Ca­douce. And for y^t I take you to be a man of good iudge­mente, this day you shall haue occasion to iudge the truth. For the sonne of the Infant Fortune is brought vp in the courte, who is one of the goodliest and moste perfecte yong gentlemen in al christendome. And if the mariage doe procede, according to our opinion which be her maids, he shall be assured to haue Madame Flo­rinda. And then shall be ioyned together the goodliest couple in the worlde. And you must vnderstande, that although they be both very yong, she of .xij. yeares of age, and he of .xv. yet it is thrée yeares past since their loue first began. And if you be disposed aboue other to obtaine her fauour, myne aduise is, that ye become friende and seruaunt vnto him.’ Amadour was very ioyful to heare tel that his Lady loued some man, trus­ting that in tyme he shoulde wynne the place, not of husbande, but of seruaunt. For he feared nothing of all her vertue, but a lacke of disposition to loue. And after this communication, Amadour bent him­self to haunt the society of the sonne of the Infant For­tune, whose fauour he sone obtained. For all the pas­times which the yong Prince loued, Amadour could doe right well. And aboue all other, he was very cun­ning [Page] in ryding of horsses, and in handling all kindes of armes and weapons, and in all other pastimes and games méete for a yong Gentleman. Warres began in Languedoc, and Amadour must néedes retire with the Gouernour, to his great sorrowe and griefe. For he had there no meane to retourne to the place where he might sée Florinda. For which cause he spake to his owne brother which was Stuarde of the King of Spaines householde, and declared vnto him what cour­tesie he had founde in the house of the Countesse of Arande, and of the Damosell Auenturade, praying him that in his absence he woulde doe his indeuour, that the maryage might procéede, and that he woulde obtayne for him the credite and good opinion of the King and Quéene, and of all his friendes. The Gen­tleman which loued his brother, aswell for Natures sake, as for his great vertues, promised him his tra­uaile and industrie to the vttermost. Which he did in suche wyse that the olde man her father, now forget­ting other naturall respect, began to mark and behold y^e vertues of Amadour, which y^e Countesse of Arande, and speciallye fayre Florinda, paynted and set forth vnto him, and likewise the yong Earle of Arande, which began to growe to yeares, and therewithall to loue those that were vertuous, & giuen to honest exer­cise. And when the mariage was agréed betwéene the parents, the sayd Stuarde sent for his brother whilest the truce endured betwéene the two Kings. Aboute this tyme, the King of Spaine retired to Madric, to a­uoide the euill ayre that was in many places, where by the aduise of diuers of his Counsell, and and at the request of the Countesse of Arande, he made a mary­age betwene the yong Duchesse the heyre of Medina [Page 310] Celi, and the yong Earle of Arande, as well for the vnion of their house, as also for the loue he bare to the sayde Countesse. And this mariage was celebrated in y^e castell of Madric, whervnto repayred Amadour, who so well obtayned his suite, that he maried her, of whome he was muche better beloued, than his small loue towarde her did deserue, sauing that it was a co­uerture and meanes for him to frequent the place where his minde and delight incessantly remayned. After he was maried, he became so well acquainted and familiar in the house of the Countesse, that he was so conuersant amongs the Ladyes, as if he had bene a woman. And although he was then but .xxij. yeares of age, he was so wise and graue, that the Countesse im­parted vnto him all her affayres, commaunding her sonne and daughter to intertayne him, and to credite all things wherein he gaue counsell. Hauing wonne this great estimation, he behaued himselfe so wise and politike, that euen she whome he loued knewe no part of his affectiō. But by reason of the loue that Florinda bare to the wyfe of Amadour, whome she loued more than any other, she was so familiar with him, that she dissembled no parte of her thought, declaring vnto him all the loue that she bare towards the sonne of the Infant Fortune. And he that desired nothing more thā throughly to winne her, ceassed not from continuance of talke, not waying wherof he spake, so that he might holde her with long discourse. Amadour had not after his maryage continued a moneth in that companye, but was constrayned to retire to y^e warres, where he remained more than two yeares, without retourne to sée his wyfe, who still abode in y^e place where she was brought vp. During this time, Amadour wrote ma­ny [Page] letters vnto his wyfe, but the chiefest effect of the same, were commendations to Florinda, who for her parte fayled not to render like vnto him, many tymes writing some preue poesie with her owne hand, in the letter of Auenturade. Which made her husbande di­ligent many times to write againe vnto her, but in al this doing, Florinda knew nothing, but that she loued him as if he had bene her brother. Many times Ama­dour went and came, but in the space of fiue yeares, he neuer saw Florinda two monethes together in the whole time. Not withstāding, Loue in despite of their distaunce and long absence, ceassed not to increase. And it chaunced that he made a voyage home to sée his wyfe, and founde the Countesse farre from the Court, bicause the king of Spaine was gone to Vandelousie, and had taken with him the yong Earle of Arande, which then began to beare armes. The Countesse was retired to a house of pleasure, which she had vpon the frontiers of Arragon and Nauarre, and was right ioyful when she saw Amadour, who almost thre yeres had bene absent. He was very well receyued of euery man, and the Countesse commaunded that he shoulde be vsed and intreated as her owne sonne. During the time that he soiorned with her, she communicated vn­to him al the affayres of her house, and committed the moste parte thereof to his discretion, who wanne suche credite in the house, that in all places where he list, the dores were opened vnto hym. Whose wise­dome and good behauiour made him to be estemed, as though he had bene a Saincte or Aungell. Flo­rinda, for the loue and good will which she bare vnto his wife and him, made much of him in al places wher she sawe him, knowing nothing of his intent. Wher­fore [Page 311] she did not refrayne her selfe or take hede of anye countenaunce, for that her hearte as yet felt no passiō, but that she felt a great contentacion in her selfe, whē she was in y^e presence of Amadour, of any other thing she thought not. Amadour to auoide the iudgement of them that haue proued the difference of Louers coun­tenances, was very ware and circumspect. For when Florinda came to speake vnto him secretely (like one y^t thought no hurt) the fier hidden in his brest, burned so sore, that he coulde not staye the blushing colour of his face, nor the sparkes which flewe out of his eyes. And to the intent, that through long frequentation, none might espie the same, he interteigned a very fayre La­dy called Paulina, a woman in his time accompted so faire, that few men which beheld her, could escape her bonds. This Lady Paulina vnderstanding how Ama­dour vsed his loue at Barselone & Parpignon, & how he was beloued of the fayrest & honest Ladyes of the coū ­trie, & aboue all of the Countesse of Pallamons, which in beautie was prised to be the fayrest in all Spaine, & of many other, sayde vnto him. That she had great pi­tie of him, for that after so many good fortunes, he had maried a wife so foule and deformed. Amadour vnder­standing well by those wordes, that she had desire to remedy her owne necessitie, vsed the best maner that he coulde deuise, thinking that in making her beleue a lie, he should hyde from her the truth. But the subtile and wel experimented in loue, contented not her selfe with talke, but perceyuing right well that his hearte was not satisfied with her loue, doubted that he coulde not serue his Lady in secrete wise, & therefore marked him so nere, that dayly she had a respect and watch vn­to his eyes, which he coulde so well dessemble, that she [Page] was able to iudge nothing, but by darke suspicion, not without great payne and difficultie to the gentle­man, to whom Florinda (ignorant of all their malice) did resorte manye times in presence of Paulina, whose demeaner then was so familiar, that he with maruel­lous payne refrayned his lokes, against his heart and desire. And to auoide that no inconuenience should en­sue, one day speaking to Florinda, as they were both leaning at a windowe, sayde these wordes. ‘Madame, I beseche you to tell me whether is it better to speake or to die. Wherevnto Florinda answered readily, say­ing. I will still councell my friends to speake and not to die. For there be fewe wordes spoken but that they may be amended, but the life lost cannot be recouered. Promise me then sayde Amadour, that not onely ye will accept those words which I will saye, but also not to be astonned or abashed, till ye heare the ende of my tale. To whom she answered. Say what it please you, for if you doe affraye me, none other shall assure me. Then he began to saye vnto her. Madame, I haue not yet bene desirous to disclose vnto you the greate affec­tion which I beare you, for two causes. The one, bi­cause I attende by my long seruice, to shewe you the experience thereof. The other, for that I doubted you woulde thinke a great presumption in me (which am but a poore gentleman) to insinuate my selfe in place whereof I am not worthye. And althoughe I were a prince as you be, the loyalty yet of your heart, wil not permit any other, but him which hath already taken possession (the sonne I meane of the Infant Fortune) to vse any talke of loue with you. But Madame, like as necessity in time of great warre constrayneth men to make hauoke of their owne goodes, and to consume [Page 312] the gréene corne, that the enemy take no profit and re­liefe therof, euen so do I hazard to aduaunce the frute, which in time I hope to gather, that your enemies & mine may inioye thereof none aduauntage. Knowe ye Madame, that from the time of your tender yeares, I haue in such wise dedicated my selfe to your seruice that I ceasse not still to aspire the meanes to achieue your grace and fauour. And for that occasion, I did marry hir whō I thought you did loue best. And know­ing the loue you beare to the sonne of the Infant For­tune, I haue indeuored my selfe to serue him as you haue sene. And all wherein I thought you did de­light, I haue accomplished to the vttermoste of my power. You doe sée that I haue gotten the good will of the Countesse your mother, of the Earle you bro­ther, and of all those that doe beare you good will. In such sort as in this house I am estemed, not like a ser­uaunt, but as a sonne. And al the labour which I haue sustayned these fiue yeares past, was for none other cause, but to lyue all the dayes of my lyfe with you. And vnderstande you well, that I am none of those which by these meanes doe pretend to receyue of you any profite or pleasure, other than that which is good and vertuous. I doe knowe that I can neuer marry you, and if I could I would not, to withstand the loue that you beare vnto him, whome I desire to be your husbande, likewise to loue you in vicious sorte, like them that hope to recompence their seruice, with the dishonor of their Ladies, I am so farre of from that af­fection, that I had rather be dead than to sée you by de­sert worthy of lesse loue, and that your vertue shoulde by any meanes be diminished for any pleasure that might happen vnto me. I doe pretende and craue for [Page] the ende and recompence of my seruice, but one thing. Which is, that you woulde continue my loyall and faithfull maystresse, that you will neuer withdrawe from me your good grace and fauour, and that you will maintayne me in that estate and degrée wherin I am. Reposing your trust and fidelitie in me more than in any other, making your selfe so assured of me, that if for your honor or any cause touching your person, you stand in néede of the lyfe of a Gentleman, the same shall right willingly be employed in your seruice. In like maner all things vertuous and honeste which e­uer I shall attempt, I beseche you to thinke the same to be done onely for the loue of you. And if I haue done for Ladyes of lesse reputation than you be, any thing worthy of estimation, be you assured that for suche a maystresse as you are, my enterprises shall increase in suche sorte, that the things which I found difficult and impossible, shall be easelie for me to accomplishe. But if you do not accept me to be wholly yours, I de­termine to giue ouer armes, and to renoūce valiance, bicause it hath not succoured me in necessitie. Where­fore Madame, I humblie beseche you that my iust re­quest may not be refused, sith with your honour and conscience you cannot well denie the same.’ The yong Lady hearing this vnaccustomed sute, began to chāge her colour, and to cast downe her eyes lyke an amased woman, not withstanding, as she that was wise and discrete, sayde vnto him. ‘If (Amadour) your request vnto me be none other than it is: wherefore haue you discoursed vnto me this long oration? I am afrayde that vnder this honest pretence there lurketh some hid­den malice to deceyue the ignoraunce of my youth, in such wise, that I am in great perplexitie how to make [Page 313] you aunswere, for to refuse the honest amitie which you haue offered, I shall doe contrarie to that I haue done hitherto, which haue reposed in you more truste than in al the men of the world. My conscience or mine honor can not gainesay your demaunde, nor the loue that I beare to the sonne of the Infant Fortune, which is grounded vpon mariage. Where you pretend no­thing, I can not tell what thing should let me to make you aunswere according to your requeste, but a feare that I haue in my heart, founded vpon the small occa­sion that you haue to vse that talke, for if you haue that already which you demaunde, what doth constraine you to speake so affectuously? Amadour that was not w^t out an answere, sayd vnto her. Madame, you speake very wisely, and you do to me so much honor, for the confidence and trust which according to your saying you doe repose in me, that if I doe not content my self with such a benefite, I were the vnworthiest creature liuing. But vnderstand Madame, that he which goeth about to builde a perpetuall mansion, ought to haue regarde to a sure and firme foundation. Wherfore I which desire perpetually to remaine in your seruice, doe seke not onely the meanes to kepe my selfe nere about you, but also to foresée that none do vnderstand y^e great affection which I doe beare you. For although my minde be so vertuous & honest, that the same may disclose it selfe before the whole worlde, yet there be some so ignorant and vnskilfull of louers hearts, that many times will iudge contrary to the truth, where­of procedeth so ill brute and reporte, as if the effectes were wicked. The cause which hath made me so bolde to say and declare vnto you thus much, is the suspiciō that Paulina hath conceyued in her minde, for that I [Page] can not loue her. Who doth nothing else but marke and espie my countenance in euery place, and when you vse your familiar talke with me before her, I am so afrayed to shew any signe wherby she may grounde or verifie her iudgement, that I fall into that incon­uenience, which I woulde willingly auoyde. Where­fore I haue thought good to besech you (before her and those which you doe knowe to be so malicious) to ab­stayne from talking with me so sodainly, for I had ra­ther dye, than any liuing creature shoulde haue know­ledge therof. And had it not bene for the loue which I beare vnto your honor, I had not yet declared y^e same vnto you, for I doe hold my self sufficient happie and content of the loue and affiance that you do beare me, crauing nothing else but the continuance of the same.’ Florinda so well satisfied with this answere, began to fele in her heart a further thing to grow than euer she did before. And hearing the honest reasons alleadged by him, sayd, that her honestie and vertue should make aunswere for her, and there withall assented to his de­maunde. Whereof whether Amadour were ioyfull, Louers néede not doubt. But Florinda credited more his counsell, than he would haue had her. For she be­ing fearefull and timerous, not onely before Paulina, but in all other places, vsed farre other countenaunce than she was wont to doe. And in this altenation of her former familiaritie, she misliked the conuersation that Amadour had with Paulina, whose beautie was suche, that she could not otherwise beleue, but that he loued her. And Florinda to passe ouer he heauinesse, daylie vsed the companie of Auenturade, that began meruellously to be ialous betwéene her husbande and Paulina, whereof she made complaint many times to [Page 314] Florinda, who comforted her so well as she could, like one attached with the same disease. Amadour coniec­turing by the countenaunce of Florinda, that not one­ly she was estraunged from him through his former aduertisement, but also that there was some other dis­pleasure conceyued, comming vpon a tyme from e­uensong out of the Monasterie, he sayd vnto her. ‘Ma­dame, what countenaunce doe you make me?’ ‘Suche as I thinke doth please you best,’ answered Florinda. Then Amadour suspecting a matter, to know whether it were true, began to say. ‘Madame, I haue so vsed the matter, that Paulina beginneth to giue ouer her opinion of you. She answered him. Ye can not doe a better thing either for your self or for me. For in doing your self a pleasure, you doe honor vnto me.’ Amadour iudged by these wordes, y^t she thought he toke pleasure to talk of Paulina, wherewith he became so desperat, y^t he coulde not forbeare to saye vnto her in anger. ‘Ma­dame, you begin very sone to torment your seruaunt. There was neuer payne more greuous vnto me, than to be forced to speake to her whome I loue not. And si­thens all that which I doe for your seruice, is taken in ill parte, I wil neuer speake againe vnto her, what­soeuer happen. And to dissemble mine anger and con­tentacion, I will addresse my selfe to some place here­by, till your fansie be past. But I hope I shal receyue newes from my Captayne, to retourne to the warres, where I will so long continue, that you shall knowe and vnderstande, that none other thing but you alone doth force me to carry here.’ And in saying so, without attending for her aunswere, he incontinently depar­ted, and she remayned so sadde and pensife as any wo­man coulde be. And Loue beganne to shewe his great [Page] force in such wyse, as she knowing her wrong inces­santly, wrote to Amadour, praying him to retourne home, which he did within fewe dayes after that hys choler was past. And to tell you what businesse there was, to interrupt and breake the ialousie conceyued, it were superfluous. But in y^e ende, he wanne the fielde, so that she promised him, not onely to beleue that he loued not Paulina, but also helde her selfe assured that it shoulde be to him a martirdome intollerable, to speake vnto her, or anye other, excepte it were to doe her seruice. After that Loue had vanquished this pre­sent suspicion, and that the two Louers began to take more pleasure in their mutuall talke than euer they did before, newes came that the King of Spaine was aboute to addresse his Armie to Saulse, wherefore he that was wont to be there with the first, was not lyke nowe to fayle to augment his honour. But true it is, that his griefe was nowe more great, than at other tymes before, aswell for losing the pleasure whiche he enioyed, as for feare to fynde some mutation and chaunge at his retourne, bicause he saw Florinda pur­sued by great Princes & Lordes, and already come to the age of .xv. yeares, thinking that if she were maried in his absence, he should neuer haue occasion to sée her againe, except the Countesse of Arande woulde ap­point his wife to wait vpon her. For accomplishment whereof he made suche friendes, that the Countesse and Florinda, promised him, y^t into what so euer place she were maried, his wife Auenturade should attende vpon her. And although it was in question that Florinda should be maried into Portugal, yet it was determined y^t his wife shoulde neuer forsake her. And vpon the assurance, not without vnspeakeable sorow, [Page 315] Amadour departed & left his wife with the Countesse. When Florinda was alone, after the departure of her seruant, she gaue her selfe to all thinges good and ver­tuous, hoping therby to attayne the fame of a moste perfect Lady, & to be counted worthy the interteigne­ment of such a seruant. Amadour being arriued at Bar­salone, was banketted of the Ladyes, after the olde maner, but they finding him so altered and chaunged, thought y^t Mariage coulde neuer haue had such power vpon man, as it had ouer him. For he séemed then to disdayne those things which sometime he greatly desi­red, and specially the Coūtesse of Palamons, whom he dearely loued, coulde deuise no meanes to make him goe alone home to his lodging. Amadour tarried at Barsalone so little while as he coulde, bicause he might not come late to the place where he should winne and achieue honour. And being arriued at Saulse, great & cruell warres was comenced betwene the two kings, which I purpose not to recite, ne yet the noble enter­prises done by Amadour, whose fame was bruted a­boue the rest of his companions. The Duke of Nagye­res, arriuing at Parpignon, had charge of two thousād men, and prayed Amadour to be his Lieutenant, who with that band serued so wel, that no crie was hearde in all the skirmishes, other than Nagyeres. It chaūced that the king of Thunis, which of long time had warre with the Spaniardes, vnderstanding how the kings of Spaine and Fraunce were together by y^e eares at Par­pignon and Narbone, thought that in better time he could not anoy the king of Spaine. Wherefore he sent a great number of Foysts and other vessels, to robbe and destroy those frontiers which were yll guarded & kept. They of Barsalone séeing a number of Shippes [Page] passe before the Towne, aduertised the king that was at Saulse, who imediatly sent the Duke of Nagyeres to Palamons. And when the Shippes perceyued that the place was well guarded, they made as thoughe they woulde passe further. But aboute midnight they re­tourned, and landed so many men, that the Duke of Nagyeres was taken prisoner. Amadour which was very vigilant, hearing al arme, presently assembled so many men as he coulde, and defended himselfe so well, that the force of his enemies a long time coulde not hurt him. But in thende knowing that the Duke of Nagyeres was taken prisoner, and that the Turkes were determined to burne the Citie of Palamons, and then to fier the house which he strongly had forced a­gainst them, he thought it better to render him selfe, than to be cause of the losse of so many good souldiors as were in his bande, and also by putting himselfe to raūsome, he hoped in time to come to sée Florinda. Thē he submitted himself to a Turke called Derlyn, the go­uernor of y^e king of Thunis, who conueyed him home to his maister, where he was well enterteigned, and better kept. For they thought y^t hauing him in their handes, they had gotten the onely Achilles of Spaine. In this sorte Amadour continued almost the space of two yeares, in y^e seruice of y^e king of Thunis. Newes came into Spaine of this ouerthrow, wherof y^e friends of the Duke of Nagyeres, were very sorrowfull. But they that loued the honor of their countrie, thought Amadour to be the greatest losse. The brute whereof was noysed in the house of the Countesse of Arande, where at that tyme the pore Gentlewoman Auentu­rade lay very sore sicke. The Countesse suspecting very muche the affection that Amadour bare vnto her [Page 316] daughter, which he suffered and dissembled for his ver­tues sake, called her daughter aside, and tolde her the pitious newes. Florinda which could well dissemble, sayde vnto her, that it was a great losse for all their house, but specially she pitied the state of his pore wife, bicause at that time she was so sore sick. But seing her mother wepe so bitterly, she let fall some teares to kepe her companie, least through to much dissimulati­on, her loue might be discouered. After that time, the Countesse spake to her many tymes, but she could ne­uer perceyue by her countenaunce, any cause of cer­tayne suspicion. I will leaue to speake of the voyages, the prayers, the supplications and fastings, whiche Florinda did ordinarily make for y^e safegard and pros­peritie of Amadour, who incontinently so sone as he was arriued at Thunis, sente newes to his friendes, and by a sure messanger aduertized Madame Florin­da, that he was in good health and hope to retourne. Which newes was to the pore Lady, the only meanes to releue and ease her sorrow. And doubte ye not, but the meanes of writing, was vtterly debarred from Amadour, whereof Florinda acquited her self so dily­gently, that by her letters and epistles, he receyued gret consolation & comfort. The Countesse of Arande receyued cōmaundement from the King, to repaire to Sarragosa, where he that tyme was arriued. And there she founde the yong Duke of Cardonne, making sute to the King and Quéene, for mariage of her daughter. The Countesse vnwilling to disobey the king, agréed, thinking y^t her daughter being very yong, had none other affection, but that she had. When the accord was concluded, she sayde vnto her daughter, that she had chosen her that match which she thought best worthy [Page] to ioyne with her person. Her daughter séeing that in a thing already done it was to late to take counsell, "sayde vnto her, y^t God was to be praysed in all things. And séeing her mother so farre alienated from her in­tent, she thought it better to shew her selfe obedient, than to take pitie vpon her selfe. And to comforte her in that sorow, she vnderstode that the Infant Fortune was at the point of death. But before her mother or any other person, she shewed not so much as one signe or token thereof, strayning her selfe so muche, that the teares by force retiring to her heart, did cause the bloud to issue forth at her nose, in such abundance, that her lyfe was in present daunger. And to recouer her of that dysease, she was maried vnto him, for whose sake she had rather haue chaunged her lyfe for pre­sente death. After the mariage, Florinda, wente with her husbande into the Duchie of Cardonne, and with her Auenturade, to whome she secretly made her complaint, aswell of her mothers rigor, as also of the sorrowe she conceyued for the losse of the sonne of the Infant Fortune. But of her griefe for Amadour, she spake neuer a worde, but by waye of comforting her. This yong Lady then determined to haue God and respect of honor before her eyes, and so well to dissem­ble her griefes, that none should at any tyme perceyue that she misliked her husbande. In this sorte Florinda passed a long tyme, liuing a lyfe no lesse pleasant than death. The report whereof she sent to her good seruant Amadour, who vnderstanding her great loue, and well disposed heart, and the loue she bare to the In­fant Fortune, thought that it was impossible she could liue long, & lamented her state more than his owne. This griefe augmented his paine of imprisonment, [Page 317] wishing to haue remained a slaue all the dayes of his lyfe, so that Florinda had had a husband according to her desire, forgetting his owne griefe by féeling that his friende did suffer. And bicause he vnderstode by a friende which he had gotten in the courte of the King of Thunis, that the King was mynded to offer him the gibbet, or else to make him renounce his faith, for the desire he had to retayne him still, and to make him a good Turke, howbeit he behaued himself so wel, with him that toke him prisoner, that he gaue him leaue to depart vpon his faith, taxing him at so great raun­some, that he thought a man of so small substaunce was neuer able to pay. And so without speaking to the king his Maister, he let him goe vpon his faith. After he had shewed himselfe at the court of the King of Spaine, he departed incontinently to his friends to get his raun­some, and went straight to Barsalone, whether the yong Duke of Cardonne, his mother, & Florinda, was gone about certayne affaires. Auenturade, so sone as she heard tell that her husband was come, declared the same to Florinda, who semed for her sake greatly to reioyce thereat. But fearing that the desire she had to sée him woulde make her chaunge countenaunce, and that they which knewe not the cause thereof, woulde conceyue some ill opinion, she stode still at a window to sée him come a far of. And so sone as she espied him, she went downe a paire of staires, which were so darke that none coulde perceyue if she chaunged colour. When she had imbraced Amadour, she led him into her chamber, and from thence to her mother in lawe, which had neuer sene him before. He had not continued there two dayes, but he was so well beloued, as he was before in the house of the Countesse of Arande. I [Page] will omit the words and talke betwéene Florinda and Amadour, and the complaints which he made vnto her of his ill aduenture, that he had sustained in his absence. And after many teares vttered by her, for the heauinesse she had taken, aswell for the mariage a­gainst her will, as for the losse of him that she loued so dearely, whome she thought neuer so sée agayne, she determined to take her consolation in the loue and fidelitie that she bare to Amadour, which not with­standing she durst not open and declare. But he that muche doubted thereof, lost no occasion and tyme to let her knowe and vnderstande the great loue he bare her. And euen vpon the point, that she was ready to receyue him, not as a seruant, but for her assured and perfect friende, there chaunced a maruellous fortune. For y^e king for certayne matters of importance, incō ­tinently sent forth Amadour, whereof his wife con­ceyued suche sorrowe, that hearing those newes, she sounded & fell from the stayres where she stode, where with she hurt her selfe so sore, that neuer after she re­uiued. Florinda (that by the death of her had lost al cō ­forte) made suche sorrowe, as one that was destitute of good friendes & kinssolke, but Amadour toke the same in worste parte. For he had not onely lost one of the moste honest women y^t euer was, but also the meanes that he shoulde neuer after that time haue occasion to visit Florinda. For which cause he fell into such a sick­nesse, that he was like to haue died sodaynly. The olde Duchesse of Cardonne, incessantlie did visit him, and alledged many philosophicall reasons to make him pa­ciently to receyue death, but it auayled nothing. For if Death of thone side did torment him, Loue of y^e other side did augmēt his martirdome. Amadour séeing that [Page 318] his wife was buried, & that the king had sent for him, (hauing no occasion of longer abode there) he entred into suche dispaire, that he séemed to be out of his wit­tes. Florinda which in comforting him was almost de­solate, remained by him one whole afternone, vsing the moste honest and discrete talke that was possible, thinking therby to diminishe the greatnesse of his sor­rowe, assuring him that she woulde deuise wayes that he might visit her more ofte than he did thinke for. And bicause he must depart the next morning, and was so feble and weake that he coulde not rise from his bedde, he intreated her to come & sée him at night after euery man was gone. Which she promised to do, not know­ing that Loues extremity was voyd of reason. And he that saw no hope euer after that time to sée her againe whom so long time he had serued: and of whom he had neuer receyued other interteignement than that you haue hearde, was so beaten and ouercome with Loue long dessembled, and of the despaire he conceyued, that (all meanes to vse her companye taken awaye) he pur­posed to playe double or quitte, eyther to lose her or to winne her fauour, and to paye himselfe at one instant, the thing which he thought he had right wel deserued. Wherfore he caused the Curtaynes of his bedde to be drawen, that they which came into the chamber might not sée him, complaining of sickenesse more than he was wont to doe, whereby they of the house thought he woulde not haue liued .xxiiij. houres. After euery one of the house had visited him at night, Florinda (at the speciall request of her husband) came to sée him, thin­king for his comforte, to vtter vnto him her affection, and howe aboue all other she woulde loue him, so farre as her honor did permit. And sitting down in a chaire [Page] at the beddes heade, she beganne to comfort him, and therewithall poured out many teares. Amadour seing her sorrowful & pensife, thought that in her great tor­ment he might easelie atteyne the effect of his intent: And lifted himselfe vp in his bed, which Florinda per­ceyuing, she woulde haue stayed him, thinking that through weakenes he was not able to moue. And kne­ling vpon his knées, he sayde vnto her. ‘Must I for e­uermore forgoe your sight mine owne deare Ladye?’ And in saying so he fell downe betwene her armes like one that fainted for lacke of strength. Then poore Flo­rinda imbraced him, and of long time helde him vp, doing al y^t was possible for his comfort. But the mede­cine she gaue him to case his sorrowe, did rather in­crease y^e same more strong. For in fayning himself half deade, without speaking anye worde, he attempted y^e which y^t honor of womanhode doth defend. Whē Flo­rinda perceyued his ill intent, she coulde scarce beleue the same, considering his honest requestes made before time, and therefore asked him what it was that he desi­red. But Amadour fearing to heare her aunswere which he knewe well coulde be none other but chaste and vertuous, without further talke, pursued his pur­pose so earnestly as he coulde, wherewith Florinda being astōned did suspect he had bene out of his wittes rather than beleue that he went aboute her dishonor. Wherefore with loude voyce she called a Gentleman which she knew well to be in the chamber. Which A­madour hearing, vtterly in dispaire, threwe himself so sodaynely into his bed, that the Gentleman thought he had bene deade. Florinda rising out of the chaire, sayd vnto him. ‘Goe quickely and fetche me some good vine­ger. Which the gentleman did. Then Florinda began [Page 319] to saye vnto him. Amadour what follie hath in­chaunted your wisedome? And what is that which you woulde haue done vnto me? Amadour that through the force of loue had lost al reason, sayd vnto her. Doth my long seruice merite a recompence of such crueltie? And where is the honesty then sayde Florinda, which so many times you haue preached vnto me? Ah Ma­dame sayde Amadour. I beleue it is impossible your selfe more faythfully to loue your owne honor than I doe. For when you were vnmaryed, I coulde so well subdue my heart and affection, that you did neuer vn­derstande my will and desire. And nowe that you be maryed, to the intent your honor may be in couert, what wrong doe I to aske that which is mine owne? For by force of loue I haue wonne you. He that first inioyed your heart, hath so yll followed the victorie of your body, that he hath deserued to lose altogether. He that possesseth your bodie, is not worthy to haue your heart, wherefore your bodye is none of his, ne yet he hath no title in the same, But I Madame, these fiue or sixe yeares haue susteyned such paynes and trauel for your sake, that you are not ignorant but to me apper­tayneth both your bodye and heart, for whose sake I haue vtterly forgotten mine owne. And if you can finde in your heart to defende me frō my right, doubte ye not but they which haue proued the forces of Loue, will laye the blame vpon you, which hath in this sorte robbed me from my libertie, and with your heauenlye graces hath obscured my senses, y^t not knowing here­after what to doe, I am constrayned to goe withoute hope for euer yto sée you againe. Notwithstanding warrant your selfe, that in what place so euer I am, you shall still possesse my heart, which shall continue [Page] yours for euer, be I vpon y^e lande or water, or betwene the handes of my moste cruell enemies. But if I had before my departure, y^e suretie of you which the great­nesse of my loue deserueth, I shall be strong ynough paciently to beare the griefes of long absence. And if it please you not to graunt me my request, you shall shortlye heare tell that your rigor hath rendred vnto me a most vnhappy and cruel death.’ Florinda no lesse astonned than sorie, to heare such words procéede from him, of whome she neuer had any suche suspicion we­ping sayde vnto him. ‘Alas Amadour, is this the mea­ning of those vertuous wordes which sithens the be­ginning of my youth ye haue vttered vnto me? Is this the honor of the cōscience which you haue many times persuaded me rather to die than to lose the same? Haue you forgotten the good examples recyted vnto me of vertuous dames that haue resisted foolish Loue? And is this the contempt which ye daylie made of Ladyes that were foolish & vaine? I can not beleue Amadour, that you are so madde, that God, your owne cōscience, and mine honor, shoulde be altogether oute of your minde and memorie. But if it so be as you saye, I doe prayse the goodnesse of God, which hath preuented the mishap that now I am fallen into, in shewing me by your wordes, the heart which I did not know. For hauing loste the sonne of the Infant Fortune, who not onely is maryed into another place, but also loued a­nother, and I nowe maryed to him, which I cannot loue, I thought and determined wholly, with all mine heart and affection to loue you, founding the same vpō that vertue which I knewe to be in you, which loue by your meanes onely I haue conceyued, and therfore did more esteme my honor and conscience, than mine [Page 320] owne life. Upon assurance of this stone of honestie I am come hither thinking to builde a moste sure foun­dacion. But (Amadour) in one moment thou hast de­clared, that in place of a pure foundacion, thy building is reared vpon a light sande, and vnconstant ground, or else vpon a filthy and foule quamire. And where I began to erect a good part of the lodgings of this buil­ding, hoping to dwell there for euer, sodainly thou hast ouerthrowen the whole. Wherefore, you must imme­diately breake in sunder the hope and credit that euer­more you haue founde in me, and determine that in what place soeuer I be, not to séeke after me, eyther by wordes, or countenaunce. And doe not thinke, that I can or will at anye time hereafter chaunge mine opi­nion, which wordes I speake with great sorrowe and griefe. But if I had made an othe of this perfect amitie and loue, I knowe mine heart would haue dyed vpon this breache, although the astonishement in that I am deceyued, is so great y^t I am well assured it will make my lyfe eyther short or sorrowfull. And therefore I bidde you farewell and that for euer.’ I purpose not to tell you of the sorrow which Amadour felt by hearing these wordes. Bicause it is impossible not onely to write them, but also to think them, except it be of such as haue had experiēce of the lyke. And seyng that vpon this cruell conclusion she woulde haue gone away, he caught her by the arme, knowing wel that if he did not remoue that yll opinion, which by his owne occasion she had conceyued, he should lose her for euer. Where­fore he sayde vnto her with a verye faynt there. ‘Ma­dame, all the dayes of my lyfe I haue desired to loue a woman endued with honestie and vertue. And bicause I haue founde so fewe, I would fayne haue tryed whe­ther [Page] your person had bene worthy of estimacion and loue, whereof nowe I am well assured, and humblie doe prayse God therfore, bicause mine heart is addres­sed to suche perfection, beseching you to pardon this fond and bolde enterprise, sith you do see that the ende doth redounde to your owne honor and contentation.’ Florinda which began to know the malice of men by him, like as she was harde to beleue the euill where it was, euen so she was more difficile to credit the good where it was not, and sayde vnto him. ‘I praye to God your wordes be true. Yet I am not so ignorant but y^t the state of mariage wherein I am, hath made me eui­dentlie to perceyue that the strong passion of blinde loue hath forced you to this attempt. For if God had losed my hande, I am wel assured you would not haue pluckt backe the bridle. They that attempt to séeke af­ter vertue, will not take the waye that you doe. But this is sufficient if I haue lightlie beleued any honesty in you, it is time for me nowe to know the truth, that I may ridde my selfe from you.’ And in saying so, Flo­rinda went out of the chamber, and all the night long, she neuer left wéeping, who felt such great griefe in y^e alteracion, that her heart had much to doe, to sustaine the assaults of sorrowe y^e loue had made. For although reason thought neuer to loue him agayne, yet the heart which is not subiect vnto vs, would not accord to that crueltie. For which consideracion, she loued him no lesse than she was wont to doe, and knowing that loue was the cause of that faulte, she purposed for satisfac­cion of Loue, to loue him with all her hearte, and yet throughe obedience and fealtie due to her honor, she thought neuer to make other semblance. In the mor­ning, Amadour departed in this sorte, troubled as [Page 321] you haue heard, neuerthelesse his coragious heart, en­tred not in dispaire, but renued a fresh hope once a­gaine to sée Florinda, and to winne her fauour. Then he toke his iourney towards the court of Spaine (which was at Tolledo) taking his way by the Countesse of Arande, where late in an euening he arriued, and founde the Countesse very sicke for the absence of her daughter Florinda. When she sawe Amadour, she kissed and imbraced him, as if he had bene her owne childe, aswell for the loue she bare vnto him, as for the lyke which she doubted that he bare to Florinda, of whome very earnestly she inquired for newes, who told her the best that he could deuise, but not the whole truth, and confessed vnto her the loue betwéene Flo­rinda and him (which Florinda had stil conceled & kept secrete) praying her ayde to bring him agayne into her fauour: and the next morning he departed. And after he had done his businesse with the Quéene, he repaired to the warres, so sadde and chaunged in all his condi­tions, that the Ladyes, Captaines, and all they that were wonte to kepe him companie, did not know him. His apparel was all black, mourning for the death of his wyfe, whereby he couered the sorrowe which was hid in his heart. In this wise Amadour passed thrée or foure yeares before he returned to the Court. And the Countesse of Arande which heard tell that Florinda was so sore chaunged, that it would haue moued any mans heart to beholde her, sente for her, hoping that she would haue come, but her expectatiō was frustrate, for when Florinda vnderstode that Amadour had told her mother the good wil betwene them, and y^t her mo­ther being so wise & vertuous giuing credit to Ama­dour, did beleue his wordes, she was in meruellous [Page] perplexitie, bicause of the one side she saw that her mo­ther did esteme him so wel, that if she declared vnto her the truth, Amadour might conceyue some displeasure. Which thing she had rather dye than to doe: where­fore she thought her selfe strong ynough to chastise him of his folly, without helpe of her friends. On the other side she perceyued that by dissembling the euill which she knew by him, she shoulde be constrayned by her mother and her friendes, to speake vnto him and to beare him good countenaunce: whereby she feared his euill opinion would be the more encoraged. But seing that he was far of, she passed the lesse of y^e matter. And when y^e Countesse her mother did commaund her, she wrote letters vnto him, but they were suche as he might wel gather that they were written rather vpon obedience, than of good will, the reading whereof bred sorrow vnto him in place of that ioye he was wont to cōceyue in her former letters. Within y^e terme of two or thre yeares, after he had done so many noble enter­prises that all the paper of Spaine could not contayne them, he deuised a newe inuention, not to winne and recouer the hearte of Florinda (for he déemed the same quite lost) but to haue the victorie ouer his enemye, sithens she had vsed him in that sort, and reiecting all reason and speciallye feare of death, into the hazarde whereof he hasted himselfe, he concluded and determi­ned his enterprise in suche sorte, that by reason of his behauiour towardes the Gouernor, he was deputed & sent by him to treate with y^e king of certayn exploites to be done at Locates, sparing not to impart his mes­sage to the Countesse of Arande, before he tolde the same to the king, to vse her good aduise therin. And so came in poste strayght into the Countie of Arande, [Page 322] where he had intelligence in what place Florinda re­mayned, and secretly sent to the Countesse one of his frends to tel her of his comming, & to pray her to kepe it close, and that he might speake with her that night in such secret wise as no man might haue knowledge thereof. The Countesse very ioyful of his coming, told it to Florinda, & sent her into her husbandes chamber to put of her clothes, that she might be ready when she should sende for her after euery man was gone to bed. Florinda which was not yet well boldened by reasō of her former feare, making a good face of the matter to her mother, withdrewe her selfe into an orato rieor chappel, to recōmend her selfe to God, praying him to defend her hart from all wicked affection, & considered howe often Amadour had praysed her beautie, which was not impaired or diminished, although she had bene sick of long time. Wherfore thinking it better to doe iniurie to her beautie by defacing it, than to suffer the heart of so honeste a personage by meanes thereof wickedly to be inflamed, she toke vp a stone which was within the Chappell, and gaue her selfe suche a great blow on the face, that her mouth, eyes and nose were altogether deformed. And to the intent no man might suspect what she had done, when the Countesse sent for her, in going out of the Chappell, she fell downe vp­on her face vpon a great stone, and there withall cried out so loud, that the Countesse came in and found her in that pitious state, who incontinently dressing her face, and binding it vp with clothes, conueyed her in­to her chamber, and prayed her to goe into her closet to enterteigne Amadour, til she were weary of his cō ­panie. Which she did, thinking that there had bene some body with him. But finding him alone, and the [Page] dore shut vpon her: Amadour was not so wel pleased as she was discontented. Who nowe thought eyther with loue or force to get that, which he had so long tyme desired. And after he had spoken a fewe wordes vnto her, and founde her in that minde he left her, and that to die for it she woulde not chaunge her opinion, desperately he sayde vnto her. ‘By God Madame, the fruit of my labour, shall not be thus taken from me, for scruples and doubtes. And sith that Loue, pacience and humble desires can not preuaile, I will not spare by force to get that, which except I haue it will be the cause of my destruction.’ When Florinda sawe his face and eyes so altered, that the fayrest die and colour of the worlde was become so red as fyer, and his most pleasaunt and amiable loke transformed horrible and furious, that very hote burning fyer séemed to sparkle within his heart and face: and in that furie with one of his strong fiftes he griped her delicate and tender handes. On the other side she séeing all her defences to fayle her, and that her fete and handes were caught in suche captiuitie that she could neyther run away nor yet defend herselfe: knew none other remedie, but to proue if he had yet remayning in him any griftes of the former loue, that for the honor therof he might for­get his crueltie. Wherfore she sayde vnto him ‘Ama­dour if now you doe accompt me for an enemie, I be­sech you for the honestie of y^e loue which at other times I haue found planted in your heart, to giue me leaue to speake before you doe torment me.’ And when she sawe him reclining his eare, she pursued her talke in this wise. ‘Alas Amadour, what cause haue you to seke after the the thing whereof you shall receyue no contentation, inflicting vpon me suche displeasure [Page 323] as there can be no greater? You haue many tymes proued my will and affection in the tyme of my youthfull dayes, and of my beautie farre more ex­cellent than it is nowe, at what tyme your passion might better be borne with and excused, than nowe. In suche wise that I am amased to sée that you haue the heart to torment me at that age and greate debili­ty wherwith I am now indued. I am assured that you doubte not but that my will & minde is such as it was wont to be. Wherefore you cannot obtayne your de­maunde but by force. And if you sawe how my face is arraied, you woulde forget y^e pleasure which once you receyued in me, and by no meanes would forcibly ap­proche nere vnto me. And if there be left in you yet a­ny remnantes of loue, it is impossible but that pitie may vanguishe your furie. And y^t to pitie and honestie whereof once I had experience in you, I doe make my plainte, and of the same I doe demaund grace and pardon, to thintent that according to your persuasion and good aduise, you maye suffer me to liue in peace & honesty, which I haue determined during my life. And if the loue which you haue borne me be cōuerted into hatred, & that more for reuengement than affection, you doe purpose to make me the most vnhappy wight of the worlde, I assure you, you shall not be able to bring your intent to passe, besides that, you shall con­strayne me against my determination, to vtter and reueale your villany & disordinate appetite towards her, which did repose in you an incredible affiance: by discouering whereof, thinke verely, that your life can­not continue without perill.’ Amadour breaking her talke sayde vnto her. ‘If I die for it, I wil presentlie be acquieted of my torment. But the deformitie of your [Page] face (which I thinke was done by you of set purpose) shall not let me to accomplishe my will. For since I can get nothing of you but the bones & carcasse, I wil holde them so fast as I can.’ And when Florinda sawe that prayers, reason, nor teares coulde not auaile, but that with crueltie he woulde néedes followe his villa­nous desire, which she had stil auoided by force of resis­tance, she did helpe her selfe so long, til she feared the losse of her breath, and with a heauy and pitious voice she called her mother so loude as she coulde crye, who hearing her daughter calling with such rufull voyce, began gretly to feare the thing that was true. Wher­fore she ranne so fast as she could into the warderobe [...] Amadour not being so nere death as he sayd he was, left of his hold in such good time, as the Lady opening her closet, founde him at the dore, and Florinda farre ynough from him. The Countesse demaunded of him saying, ‘Amadour what is the matter? Tell me the truth.’ Who like one that was neuer vnprouided of ex­cuse, with his face pale and wanne, and his breath al­moste spente, sayde vnto her. ‘Alas Madame, in what plight is my Lady Florinda? I was neuer in all my life in that amase wherein I am now. For as I sayde vnto you, I had thought that I had inioyed part of her good will, but now I know right well that I haue no­thing at all. I thinke Madame, that sith the time she was brought vp with you she was neuer lesse wise and vertuous than she is, but she is very daungerous and squeimish in speaking and talking, and euen now I woulde haue loked vpon her, but she woulde not let me. And when I sawe that countenaunce, thinking y^t it had bene some dreame or vision, I desired to kisse her hand, according to y^e fashion of the countrie, which she [Page 324] vtterly refused. True it is Madame, I haue offended her, wherof I craue pardon of you, but it chaūced only for that I toke her by y^e hande, which I did in a maner by force, & kissed the same demaunding of her no other contentation. But she like one (as I suppose) that hath sworne my death, made an outery for you, as you haue heard, for what cause I know not, except y^t she were affrayde that I woulde haue forced some other thing. Notwithstanding Madame, what so euer the matter be, I protest vnto you the wrong is mine, and albeit that she ought to loue all your honest seruants, yet for­tune so willeth, that I alone, the most affectioned of thē all, is clearelye exempt out of her fauour. And yet I purpose still to continue towardes you & her the same man I came hither, beseching your good grace and fa­uour, sithens that without my desert I haue lost hers.’ The Countesse which partelye beleued, and partelye mistrusted his talke went vnto her daughter, and de­maunded of her wherefore she cried out so loude. Flo­rinda aunswered that she was affrayd. And albeit the Countesse subtilly asked her of many things, yet Flo­rinda would neuer make other answere, for y^t hauing escaped the hands of her enemie, she thought it punish­ment ynough for him to lose his labor. After that the Coūtesse had of long time cōmuned w^t Amadour, she left him yet once againe to enter in talke w^t Florinda before her, to sée what coūtenaūce she would make him. To whō he spake few words except they were thanks for y^t she had not cōfessed the truth to her mother, pray­ing her at least wife that seing he was dispossessed out of her heart, she would suffer none other to receiue his place. But she answering his former talke, sayd. ‘If I had had any other meanes wherwith to defend my self [Page] from you than by crying out, she shoulde neuer haue heard me, and of me you shall neuer heare worse, ex­cept you doe constrayne me as you haue done, and for louing any other man, you shal not néede to feare. For sith I haue not founde in your heart (which I estemed the moste vertuous in all the worlde) the good successe that I desired, I will neuer beleue hereafter that ver­tue is planted in any man. And this outrage shal make me frée from all passions that Loue can force,’ and in saying so she toke her leaue. The mother which be­helde her countenaunce, could suspect nothing, and af­ter that tyme, she knew wel that her daughter bare no more affection to Amadour, and thought assuredly that she was voyd of reason, bicause she hated all those thinges which she loued. And from that tyme forth there was suche warre betwéene the mother and the daughter, that the mother for the space of .vij. yeares woulde not speake vnto her, except it were in anger. Which she did at the requeste of Amadour. During which tyme, Florinda conuerted the feare that she had to remayne with her husbande, into mere loue, to a­noyde the rigor and checkes of her mother. Howebeit, seing that nothing coulde preuayle she purposed to be­gyle Amadour, & leauing for a day or two her ser straūge countenaunce, she counselled Amadour to loue a wo­man, which as she sayde, did commonly talke of their loue. This Lady dwelt with the Quéene of Spaine, & was called Lorette, who was very ioyful and glad to get suche a seruaunt. And Florinda found meanes to cause a brute of this newe loue to be spred in euery place, and specially the Countesse of Arande (being at the Court) perceyued the same, who afterwardes was not so displeased with Florinda, as she was wont to [Page 325] be. Florinda vpon a tyme heard tel that the Captaine the husband of Loret began to be ialous ouer his wife and determined by some meanes or other he cared not how, to kill Amadour, Florinda notwithstanding her dissembling countenaunce, could not suffer any hurt to be done to Amadour, and therefore incontinently gaue him aduertisement therof. But he retourning a­gaine to his former sollyes, answered, that if it would please her to interteigne him euery day thrée houres, he would neuer speake agayne to Loret, whervnto by no meanes she would consent. Then Amadour sayde vnto her, ‘if you will not haue me to liue, wherefore goe ye about to defend me from death? except ye pur­pose to torment me alyue in such wise that a thousand deathes can not doe? But for so much as death doth fly from me, I wil neuer leaue to seke death, til I haue founde him out, at whose approch onely I shall haue rest.’ Whilest they were in these tearmes, newes came that the King of Granado was about to enter into great warres against the King of Spaine: in such wise that the King sent against him the Prince his sonne, and with him the Constable of Castille, and the Duke of Albe, two auncient and sage Lords. The Duke of Cardonne and the Counte of Arande not willing to tarrie behinde, besought the King to giue eyther of them a charge. Which he did according to the dignitie of their houses, appointing Amadour to be their guid. Who during that warre, did suche valiaunt factes that they semed rather to be desperately than hardyly enterprised. And to come to the effect of this discourse, his great valiaunce was tryed euen to the death. For the Moores making a bragge as though they woulde giue battayle, when they sawe the army of the Chisti­ans, [Page] counterfaited a retire, whome the Spaniardes pursued, but the olde Constable and the Duke of Albe doubting their policie, stode still, against the wil of the Prince of Spaine, not suffering him to passe ouer the riuer, but the Counte of Arande and the Duke of Cardonne (although they were countreman­ded) did followe the chase, and when the Moores sawe that they were pursued with so small a number, they retourned, and at one recountrie killed the Duke of Cardōne, and the Counte of Arande was so sore hurt that he was left for deade in the place. Amadour arri­uing vpon this ouerthrowe, inuaded the battayle of the Moores, with suche rage and furie, that he rescu­ed the two bodyes of the Duke and Countie, and cau­sed them to be conueyed to the Princes campe, who so lamented their chaūce, as if they had bene his owne brethren. But in searching their wounds, the Countie of Arande was found to be aliue, and was sent home to his owne house in a horslitter, wher of long time he was sick, and lykewise was conueyed to Cardonne the deade body of the yong Duke. Amadour in rescuing those two bodyes, toke so little héede to him selfe, that he was inclosed with a great number of the Moores, & bicause he would be no more taken, aswell to verifie his faith towardes God, as also his vowe made to his Lady, and also considering that if he were prisoner to the King of Granado, eyther he shoulde cruelly be put to death, or else forced to renounce his fayth, he deter­mined not to make his death or taking, glorious to his enemies. Wherefore kissing the crosse of his sworde, and rendring his body and soule to the handes of al­mightie God, he stabbed himselfe into the body with such a blow, that there neded no second wound to rid [Page 326] him of his lyfe. In this sorte dyed pore Amadour, so much lamēted as his vertues did deserue. The newes hereof was bruted throughout Spaine, and Florinda which then was at Barsalone, where her husbande in his lyfe tyme ordeyned the place of his buriall, after that she had done his honorable obsequies, without making her owne mother, or mother in lawe priuie thervnto, surrendred herselfe into the Monasterie of Iesus, there to liue a religious lyfe, receyuing him for her husband and friend, which had deliuered her from the vehement loue of Amadour, & from a displeasaunt lyfe so great and vnquiet as was the company of her husbande. In this wise she conuerted all her af­fections, to loue God so perfectly, y^t after she had long time lyued a religious life, she yelded vp her soule in suche ioy as the Bridgrome doth when he goeth to vi­site his spouse

A Duke of Florence
¶The .Liiij. Nouell.

IN the Citie of Florence, there was a Duke that maryed the Ladye Margaret the bastarde daughter of the Emperour Charles y^e fift. And bicause she was very yong, it was not lawfull for him to lye with her, but tarying til she was of better yeres, he vsed her very gently. Who to spare his wyfe, was amorous of certayne other Gentlewomen of the citie: Amongs whome he was in loue, with a very fayre, wise and honest Gentlewo­man, that was sister to a Gentleman, whome y^e Duke loued so well as himselfe, to whome he gaue so much aucthoritie in his house, that his worde was so well obeyed and feared as the Dukes himselfe, and there was no secrete thing in the Dukes minde, but he declared the same vnto him, that he might full well haue bene called a seconde himselfe. The Duke seing his sister to be a woman of so great honestie, had no wayes or meanes to vtter vnto her the loue that he bare her (after he had inuented all occasions possible) at length he came to this Gentleman which he loued so well, and sayde vnto him. ‘My friende if there were any thing in all the worlde, wherein I were able to [...] you, and woulde not doe it at your request, I shoulde be afrayde to declare vnto you my fantasie, [Page 327] and much ashamed to craue your helpe and assistance. But the loue is such that I beare you, that if I had a wife, mother, or daughter, which were able to saue your lyfe, I woulde rather imploye them, than to suf­fer you to die in torment. And if you doe beare vnto me y^e affection which am your Maister, thinke verely that I doe beare vnto you the lyke. Wherefore I will disclose vnto you such a secrete and priuie matter, that the silence thereof hath brought me into that plight which you sée, wherof I doe loke for none amendemēt but by death or by the seruice which you may doe me, in a certayne matter which I purpose to tell you.’ The Gentleman hearing the reasons of his maister and se­ing his face not fayned, but all be sprent with teares, toke great compassion vpon him and sayd. ‘My Lord I am your humble seruaunt. Al the goodes and worship that I haue doth come from you. You may say vnto me as to your friende. Assure your selfe, that all which resteth in my power and abilitie, is alreadie at your commaundement.’ Then the Duke began to tell him of the loue that he bare vnto his sister, which was of such force, that if by his meanes he did not enioy her, his lyfe coulde not long continue. For he sayde, that he knewe right well that intreatie and presents were with her of no reputacion. Wherefore he prayed him, that if he loued his lyfe, so well as he did his, to finde meanes for him to receyue that benefite, which with­out him he was in despayre neuer to recouer. The bro­ther which loued his sister and honor of his kindred, more than the Dukes pleasure, made a certayne re­uerence vnto him, humbly beseching him to vse his trauayle and payne in all other causes sauing in that, bicause it woulde be a sute so slaunderous and infa­mous, [Page] as it woulde purchase dishonour to his whole familie, adding further, that neyther his heart and ho­nor would not serue him, to consent to do that seruice. The Duke inflamed with an vnspeakable furie, put his finger betwéene his téeth, and biting of the nayle, sayde vnto him in a great rage. ‘Well then sithe I fynde in the no friendeship I knowe what I haue to doe. The Gentleman knowing the crueltie of his Maister, being sore afrayde, sayde vnto him. My Lorde, for so muche as your desire and pleasure is vehement and earneste, I will speake vnto her and bring you aunswere thereof.’ And as he was departing the Duke sayd vnto him. ‘Sée that thou tender my life as thou wilt that I shall loue thyne.’ The Gentleman vnderstanding well what that worde did meane, absē ­ted himselfe a daye or twaine to aduise with him selfe what were best to be done. And amongs diuers his co­gitations, there came to his remembraunce the boun­den duetie which he did owe to his maister, and the goodes and honors which he had receyued at his hands, on y^e other side he considered the honor of his house, the good life and chastity of his sister, who (he knewe well) woulde neuer consent to that wickednesse, if by subtil­tie she were not surprised, or otherwise forced, & that it were a thing very straunge and rare, that he shoulde go about to defame himselfe and the whole stock of his progenie. Wherefore he concluded, y^e better it were for him to die, than to commit such a mischiefe vnto his sister which was one of the honestest women in al Ita­lie. But rather he considered how he might deliuer his countrie from such a Tirant, which by force woulde blemish and spotte the whole race of his house. For he knewe right well that except the Duke were taken a­way, [Page 328] the life of him and his affinitie coulde not be in securitie and safegarde. Wherefore without mocion made to his sister of that matter, he deuised a waye to saue his life and the reproch that should follow therof. At the two dayes ende, he came vnto the Duke, and tolde him in what sorte he had practized with his sister, and although the same in the beginning was harde & difficult, yet in the ende he made her to consent, vpon condicion that he woulde kepe the same so secrete as none but himself & he might know it. The Duke desi­rous & glad of those newes, did sone beleue him, & im­bracing the messanger, promised to giue him whatso­euer he woulde demaunde, praying him with al spede that he might inioye his desired purpose. Wherevpon they appointed a time. And to demaunde whether the Duke were glad and ioyful of the same, it were super­fluous. And when y^t desired night did approche, wherin he hoped to haue the victorie of her whom he thought inuincible, he and the Gentleman alone withdrewe themselues together, not forgetting his perfumed coif and swete shirte wrought and trimmed after the best maner. And when euery man was gone, both they repaired to the appoynted lodging of his Lady, where being arriued they founde a chamber in decent and comely order. The Gentleman taking of the Dukes night gowne, placed him in the bed, saying vnto him. ‘My Lorde, I will now goe seke her which can not en­ter into this chamber without blushing, howebeit I truste before to morrowe morning she will be verye glad of you.’ Which done, he left the Duke, and went into his owne chamber, where he found one of his ser­uaunts alone, to whom he sayd. ‘Hast thou the hart to follow me into a place where I shal be reuenged vpon [...] [Page] [...] [Page 328] [Page] the greatest enemie that I haue in the world?’ Yea sir answered his man. Whervpon y^e gentleman toke him with him, so sodaynly y^t he had no leasure to arme him selfe with other weapon but with his onely dagger. And when the Duke heard him come againe, thinking he had brought her with him y^t he loued so greatly, he drewe the curteyne, and opened his eyes to beholde & receyue that ioye which he had so long loked for, but in place of séeing her which he hoped should be y^e conser­uation of his life, he saw the acceleration of his death, which was a naked sword y^t the Gentleman had draw­en, and there withall did strike the Duke, which was in his shirte voide of weapon, althoughe well armed with courage, and setting vp in his bedde, grasped the Gentleman aboute the bodye, and sayde. Is this thy promise which thou hast kept? and séeing that he had no other weapon but his téeth and his nayles, he bitte the Gentleman in the arme, and by force of his owne strength he so defended himselfe, that they both fell downe into the flower. The Gentleman fearing the matche, called for his man. Who finding the Duke and his Maister fast together, y^t he wyst not whether to take, he drewe them both by the féete into the mid­dest of the place, and with his dagger assayde to cut the Dukes throte. Who defended himselfe, till such time as the losse of his bloud made him so weake and féeble that he was not able to contende any longer. Then the Gentleman and hys man layde him againe into his bedde, where they accomplished the effect of that mur­ther. Afterwards drawing the curteyne, they departed and locked the deade body in the chamber. And when he saw that he had gotten the victory of his enemy, by whose death he thought to set at libertie the common [Page 329] welth, he supposed his fact to be vnperfect if he did not the like to fiue or six of them which were nerest to the Duke, and best beloued of him. And to atteyne the per­fection of that enterprise, he bad his man to doe y^e like vnto them one after another, that he had done to the Duke. But the seruant being nothing hearde or cora­gious, sayde vnto his maister. ‘Me thinke sir that for this time ye haue done ynough, and that it were better for you now to deuise how to saue your own life, than to séeke meanes to murder any more. For if we do a­bide so long time to kil euery of thē as we haue done in murdering of the Duke, the day light wil discouer our enterprise before we haue done, although we find them naked and withoute defence.’ The Gentleman whose euill conscience made him fearefull, did beleue his seruant, and taking him alone with him, went to a bishop that had in charge the gates of the citie, and the vse of the Posts, to whom he sayde. This euening (my Lorde) newes came vnto me that mine owne brother lieth at the pointe of death and crauing licence of the Duke to goe sée him he hath giuen me leaue. Where­fore I beseche you commaunde the postes to deliuer me two good horse, and send worde to the porter that the gates may be opened. The bishop which estemed no lesse his request than the commaundemente of the Duke his maister, incontinently gaue him a billet, by vertue whereof both the gates were opened and the horse were made ready according to his demaūde. And vnder colour and pretence of visiting his brother, he rode to Venice, where after he had cured himselfe of the Dukes bitings fastened in his flesh, he trauayled into Turkey. In the morning the Dukes seruantes séeing the time so late before their mayster retourned, suspected that he was gone forth in visitation of some [Page] Lady, but when they sawe he taried so long, they begā to seke for him in euery place. The pore Duchesse into whose hart the loue of her husband strōgly did inuade vnderstanding that he could not be founde, was very pēsife & sorowful. But when the Gentleman which he so dearely loued was not likewise séene abrode, search was made in his chamber, where finding bloud at the chamber dore, they entred in, but no man was there to tell them any newes, and following the tracte of the bloude, the poore seruantes of the Duke went to the chamber dore, where he was, which dore they founde fast locked, and incontinentely brake open the same. Who seyng the place all bloudy, drewe the cur­teyne, & found the wretched carcasse of the Duke lying in the bedde, sléeping his endelesse sléepe. The sorrowe and lamentacion made by the Dukes seruants, cary­ing the dead body into his pallace, is easie to be coniec­tured. Whereof when the Bishop was aduertized, he repayred thether, and tolde howe the Gentleman was gone away in the night in great hast, vnder pretence to go to sée his brother. Whervpon it was euidently knowen that it was he that had cōmitted the murder. And it was proued that hys poore sister was neuer priuie to y^e facte, who although she was astonned with the sodayne chaunce of that aduenture, yet her loue towardes her brother was farre more increased, bi­cause he had deliuered her from a Prince so cruell, the enemie of her honestie. For doing whereof he did not sticke to hazarde his owne life. Wherevpon she perseuered more and more in vertue, and althoughe she was poore by reason her house was confiscate yet both her sister and she matched with so honest and rich husbandes as were to be found in all Italie: and after­wardes liued in good and great reputation.

Of Frauncis the French King.
The .Lv. Nouell.

IN Digeon a Towne of Bur­gundie there came to the seruice of King Frauncis, (which was father to Henry the second of that name, that was killed by Moūsier Mon­gomebrie, in a triumph at the Tilt, and Graundfather to Charles the ix. that now raigneth in Fraunce) an Earle of Alle­maigne called Guillaume, of the house of Saxon, wher­vnto the house of Sauoie is so greatly allied, as in olde time, they were but one. The Counte forsomuch as he was estemed to be so comely and hardy a Gen­tleman, as any was in Allemaigne, was in such good fauour with the King, that he toke him not onely in­to seruice, but vsed him so nere his person, as he made him of his priuie chamber. Upon a day the Gouernor of Burgundie, y^e Lorde Trimouille (an auncient knight and loyall seruaunt of the King) lyke one suspicious and fearefull of euill & hurt of his Maister, had daylie espies about his enemy, to know what he did, and vsed the matter so wisely, that very fewe things were con­cealed from him. Among other aduertisementes, one of his friendes wrote vnto him that the Counte Guil­laume had receyued certayne somes of money, with promise of more, if by any meanes he coulde deuise [Page] which way to kill the King. The Lorde of Trimouille hearing of this, fayled not to come to the King to giue him knowledge therof, and disclosed it likewise to Ma­dame Loyse of Sauoie his mother, who forgetting her amitie & alliance with the Almaigne Earle, besought the king forthwith to put him away. The king prayed his mother to speake no more thereof, and sayde, that it was impossible that so honest a gentleman woulde attempt to do a dede so wicked. Within a while after, there came other newes of that matter, confirming the first. Whereof the Gouernour for the intire loue he bare to his Maister craued licence eyther to expell him the cuntrie, or to put him in warde. But the king gaue speciall commaundement that he shoulde not make any semblance of displeasure, for that he purpo­sed by some other meanes to knowe the truth. Upon a time when he went a hunting, he girded about him the best sworde that he coulde finde, to serue for all armes and assayes, & toke with him the Counte Gu­illaume, whome he commaunded to wait vpon him, the first and chiefest next his owne person. But after he had followed the hart a certayne tyme, the King séeing that his traine was farre from him, & no man neare him sauing the Counte, he tourned himselfe round about. And when he sawe that he was alone, in the midde of the Forest, drawing out his sworde, he sayde to the Counte. ‘Howe say you (Sir Counte) is not this a fayre and good sworde. The Connte feling it at the point, & well viewing the same, sayde, that he ne­uer saw a better in his lyfe. You haue reason sayde the king. And I beleue that if a gentleman were deter­mined to kill me, and did knowe the force of myne armes, and the goodnesse of my heart accompanied [Page 331] with this sword, he would be twice well aduised before he attempted y^e enterprise. Not withstanding I would accompte him but a cowarde, we being alone without witnesses, if he did not attempt that, which he were disposed to doe. The Counte Guillaume with bashfull and astonned countenaunce, answered. Sir, the wic­kednesse of the enterp [...]ise were very great, but the fol­ly in the execucion, were no lesse.’ The King with those wordes fell in a laughter, and put the sworde into the skaberd againe. And hearing that the chase drew nere him, he made to the same so fast as he could, when he was come thether, he sayde nothing of that which had passed betwéene him and the Counte, & verely thought that Counte Guillaume althoughe y^t he was so strong and stoute a gentleman as was in that tyme, yet he was no man to doe so great an enterprise. But the Coūte Guillaume, fearing to be bewraied or suspected of the facte, next day morning repayred to Robertet, the Secretarie of the Kings reuenewes, and sayd that he had well wayed the giftes and annuities which the king woulde giue him to tarrie, but he perceyued that they were not sufficient to interteigne him for halfe a yere, & that if it pleased not the king to double y^e same, he should be forced to depart, praying the sayd Rober­tet to knowe his graces pleasure so sone as he coulde, who sayde vnto him, that he himselfe coulde without further commission coulde disbirsse no more vnto him but gladlie whithout further delaie he would present­lye repayre to the king, which he did more willingly, bicause he had séene the aduertisements of the Gouer­nor aforesayde. And so sone as the king was awake, he declared the matter vnto him in the presence of Mō ­sier Trimouille and Monsier Bouiuet Lord Admirall, [Page] who were vtterly ignorant of that which the king had done. To whom the king sayd. ‘Loe, ye haue bene mis­contented for that I woulde not put away the Counte Guillaume, but now ye sée he putteth away himselfe. Wherefore Robertet tell him, that if he be not contēt with the state which he receyued at his first entrie in­to my seruice, wherof many Gētlemen of good houses would think themselues happy, it is mete that he seke his better fortune, and tell him that I woulde be loth to hinder him, but wilbe very well contented, that he seke where he may liue better, accordingly as he deser­ueth.’ Robertet was so diligent to beare this aunswere to the Counte, as he was to present his sute to y^e king. The Counte sayde that with his licence he woulde gladly goe forthwith. And like one that feare forced to departe, was not able to beare his abode .xxiiij. houres. And as the King was sitting downe to dinner, fay­ning to be sorye for his departure, but that necessitie compelled him to lose his presēce, he toke his leaue. He went likewise to take leaue of the kings mother, which she gaue him, with so great ioye, as she did receyue him, being her nere kinsman & friende. Then he went into his Countrie. And the king séeing his mother and seruants astoned at that his sodayne departure, decla­red vnto them the Al Arme, which he had giuen him, saying that although he was innocēt of y^e matter suspected, so was his feare great ynough, to depart from a maister with whose con­dicions hitherto he was not ac­quain­ted.

A straunge punishment.
The .Lvj. Nouell.

KIng Charles, of Fraunce the .viij. of that name, sent into Germany a Gentle­man called Bernage, Lorde of Cyure besides Amboise. Who to make spéede, spa­red neyther day nor night for execution of his Prin­ces commaundement. In such wise that very late in an euening he arriued at the castle of a Gentleman, to demaunde lodging, which very hardly he obtayned. Howbeit, whē the gentleman vnderstode that he was the seruaunt of such a king, he prayed him not to take in ill part the rudenesse of his seruaunts, bicause vpon occasion of certaine his wiues friendes that loued him not, he was forced to kepe his house so straight. At what tyme Bernage told him the cause of his iourney, wherein the Gentleman offered to doe to the King his Maister al seruice possible. Leading him into his house where he was feasted & lodged very honorably. When supper was ready, the Gentleman conueyed him into a parler well hanged with fayre Tapistrie. And when the meate was set vpon the table, he perceyued a wo­man comming forth behinde the hanging, which was so beautifull as might be sene, sauing that her heade [Page] was all shauen, and apparelled in Almaine blacke. After both the Gentlemen had washed, water was brought to y^e gentlewoman, who when she had washed she sat downe at the table, without speaking to any man or any word spokē vnto her. The Lord Bernage beholding her wel, thought her to be one of the fayrest Ladies y^t euer he sawe, if her face had not bene so pale, & her countenaunce so sad. After she had eaten a little, she called for drink, which one of the seruants brought vnto her in a straunge cup. For it was the head of a dead man trimmed with siluer. Whereof she drancke twice or thrice. When she had supped and washed her handes, making a reuerence to the Lorde of the house, she retourned behinde the hangings without speaking any worde. Bernage was so muche amazed at that straūge sight, that he waxed very heauie and sad. The gentleman that marked him, sayd vnto him. ‘I sée wel that you be astonned at that you saw at the table. But seing your hnoest demeanor, I wil not kepe the thing secret frō you, bicause you shall not note that crueltie to be done without gret occasion. This gentlewoman which you sée, is my wife, whome I loued bettter than any gentleman could loue his wife. In such sort that to marry her I forgat all feare, and brought her hither in dispite of her parents. She likewise shewed vnto me such signes of loue, that I attempted a thou­sand wayes to place her here for her ioy and myne, where we liued a long tyme in suche rest and conten­tation, that I thought my selfe the happiest Gentle­man in Christendome. But in a iourney which, I made, which to attempt mine honor forced me, she for­got both her selfe, her conscience, and the loue which she bare towardes me, and fell in loue with a Gentle­man, [Page 333] that I brought vp in this house, which vpon my returne I perceyued to be true. Notwithstanding the loue that I bare her, was so great, that I had no mis­trust in her, til such tyme as experience did open myne eyes, and saw the thing that I feared more than death. For which cause loue was tourned into furie and dis­paire, in suche wise that I watched her so nere, that vpon a day fayning my selfe to goe abrod, I hidde my selfe in the chamber where nowe she remaineth. Into the which sone after my departure she repaired, and caused the gentleman to come thether, Whome I did beholde to doe that thing, which was altogether vn­méete for any man to doe to her, but my selfe. But when I sawe him get vp, vppon the bed after her, I stepped forth and toke him betwene her armes, and with my dagger immediatly did kil him. And bicause the offence of my wife semed to be so great, that like death was not sufficient to punish her. I deuised a tor­ment which in myne opinion is worsse vnto her than death. I do lock her vp in the chamber wherein she ac­customed to vse her delightes, and in the companie of him that she loued far better than me. In which cham­ber I haue placed the anatomie of her friend, reseruing the same in a little closet as a precious Iewell. And to the ende she may not forget him at meales, at the ta­ble before my face, she vseth the heade of that verlet, in stead of a cup to drink, to the intent she may behold him aliue, in the presence of him whome through her owne faulte she hath made her mortall enemie, & him dead & slaine for her sake, whose loue she preferred be­fore mine. And so beholdeth those two things at dinner & supper which ought to displease her most, her enemie liuing, and her friend dead, & al through her owne wic­kednesse [Page] howbeit I do vse her no worse than my self, although she goeth thus shauen: for the ornament of the heare doth not appertayne to an adultresse, nor the vaile or other furniture of the heade to an vnchast wo­man. Wherefore she goeth so shauen, in token she hath loste her houestie. If it please you sir to take the payne to sée her, I will bring you to her.’ Wherevnto Bernage willingly assented. And descending into her chamber which was very richely furnished, they found her sitting alone before the fier. And the Gentleman drawing a Curteyne, which was before the Closet, he saw the anatomie of the deade man hanging. Bernage had a gret desire to speake vnto the Lady, but for feare of her husband he durst not. The Gentleman percey­uing the same sayde vnto him. ‘If it please you to say any thing vnto her, you shall vnderstand her order of talke.’ Therewithall Bernage sayde vnto her. ‘Madame if your pacience be correspondent to this torment, I deme you to be he happiest woman of the worlde.’ The Lady with teares trickling downe her eyes, with a grace so good and humble as was possible, spake thus vnto him. ‘Sir I doe confesse my fault to be so greate, that al the affliction and torment that the Lorde of this place (for I am not worthy to call him husbande) can doe vnto me, be nothing comparable to the sorrowe I haue conceyued of mine offence.’ And in saying so she began pitifully to wéepe. Therewithall the Gentle­man toke Bernage by the hand, and ledde him forth. The next day morning he departed aboute y^e businesse which the king had sent him. Notwithstanding, in bid­ding the gentleman farewel, he said vnto him. ‘Sir the loue which I beare vnto you, & the honor and secrets wherewith you haue made me priuie, doth force me to [Page 334] saye vnto you howe I doe thinke good (séeing the great repentance of the poore Gentlewoman your wife) that you doe shewe her mercye. And bicause you be yong and haue no children, it were a very gret losse and de­triment to lose such a house and ligneage as yours is. And it may so come to passe, that your enimies therby in time to come maye be your heires, and inioye the goodes and patrimony which you do leaue behind you.’ The Gentleman which neuer thought to speake vnto his wife, with those wordes paused a great while, and in thende confessed his wordes to be true, promising him that if she would continue in that humilitie, he woulde in time shewe pitie vpon her, with which pro­mise Bernage departed. And when he was retourned towards the king his maister, he recompted vnto him y^e successe of his iourneyes. And amongs other things he tolde him of the beautie of this Lady, who sent his Painter called Iohn of Paris, to bring him her coun­terfaicte: which with the consent of her husband, he did. Who after that long penance, for a desire he had to haue children, & for the pitie he bare to his wife which with great humble­nesse receyued that affliction, toke her vnto him againe and afterwardes be­gat of her many children.

A President of Grenoble
¶The .Lvij. Nouell.

IN Grenoble (the chiefe citie of a Country in Fraunce called Daulphine which citie otherwise is named Grati­anopolis) there was a Presidēt that had a very fayre wyfe, with whome quietly and very louingly he led his lyfe. She perceyuing her husband to begin to waxe olde, began to loue a yong man that was his Clarke, a very faire and comely personage. Upō a time when her husband in a morning was gone to the pallace, the Clarke en­tred his chamber and toke his Maisters place, which thing one of the Presidents seruaunts, that faithfully had serued him the space of .xxx. yeares, lyke a trustie seruaunt perceyuing, could not kepe it secret, but told his Maister. The President which was a wise man, would not beleue it vpon light report, but sayde that he did it of purpose to set discord betwéene him and his wyfe, not withstanding if the thing were true as he sayde, he might let him sée the thing it selfe, which if he did not, he had good cause to thinke that he had deui­sed a lye to breake and dissolue the loue betwéene him and his wyfe. The seruaunt did assure him that he would cause him to sée the thing whereof he had tolde him. And one morning so sone as the the President was gone to the Court, and the Clarke entred into his [Page 335] chamber, the seruaunt sent one of his companions to tell his Maister that he might come in good time, to sée the thing that he declared vnto him, he himself stan­ding still at the dore to watche that the Clarke might not goe out. The President so sone as he sawe the signe that one of his made vnto him, fayning that he was not well at ease, left the audience, and spéede­ly went home to his house where he found his old ser­uaunt watching at the chamber dore, assuring him for truth that the Clarke was within, and that he should make no more a doe but presently to goe in. The Pre­sident sayde to his seruant. ‘Doe not tarrie at the dore, for y^e knowest there is no other going out or comming in but this except, it be a little closet whereof I alone beare the key.’ The President entred the chamber, and found his wife & the Clarke a bed together, who in his shirt fel downe at y^e Presidents fete, crauing pardon, & his wife on the other side began to wéepe. To whome y^e President sayde. ‘For so much as the thing which thou hast done is suche, as thou maist well consider, that I cannot abide my house (for thée) in this sort to be disho­nored & the daughters which I haue had by thée to be disaduaūced and abased. Therfore sayd he, leaue of thy wéeping, and marke what I shall doe. And thou Nico­las (for that was his Clarks name) hide thy self here in my closet, and in any wise make no noyse: when he had so done, he opened the dore, and called in his olde seruant, and said vnto him. Diddest not thou warrant and assure me that thou wouldest let me sée my Clark and wife in bedde together? And vpon thy wordes I am come hither, thinking to haue killed my wife, and haue found nothing to be true of that which thou did­dest tell me. For I haue searched the chamber in euery [Page] place [...] I will shew thée.’ And with that he caused his seruant to loke vnder the beddes, and in euery corner. And when the seruant founde him not, throughly as­tonned, he sayd to his maister. ‘Sir I saw him goe into the chamber, and out he is not gone at the dore: And so farre as I can sée he is not here. Therefore I thinke the Diuell muste néedes carrie him away. Then his maister sayde vnto him. Thou art a very villaine, to set suche diuision betwene my wife and me, wherefore I doe discharge thée from my seruice, & for that which thou hast done me, I will pay thée thy duty, with y^e ad­uantage. Therefore get thée hence and take hede that thou doest not tarrye in this towne past .xxiiij. houres.’ The President for that he knewe him to be an honeste and faythfull seruant, gaue him fiue or six yeares wa­ges, and purposed otherwise to preferre him. When the seruant (with ill will and weping teares) was de­parted, the President caused his Clarke to come out of his Closet. And after he had declared to his wife and him, what he thought of their yll behauiour, he forbad them to shewe no likelyhode of any such matter, and commaunded his wife to attire and dresse her selfe in more gorgeous apparel, than she was wont to weare, and to haunt and resorte to company and feastes, wil­ling the Clarke to make a better countenaunce of the matter than he did before, but whensoeuer he rounded him in y^e eare & bad him to departe, he charged him af­ter y^e cōmaūdement not to tarry .iiij. houres in y^e town. And when he had thus done, he retourned to the pal­lace, as though there had no such thing chaunced. And the space of .xv. dayes (contrarie to his custome) he fea­sted his friendes and neighbours, and after the ban­ket, he caused the ministrels to play, to make the Gen­tlewomen [Page 336] daunce. One daye, seing that his wife did not daunce, he commaunded his Clarke to take her by the hande, and to leade her forth to daunce, who thin­king the President had forgotten the trespasse paste, very ioyfully daunced with her. But when y^e daunce was ended, the President fayning as though he would haue commaunded him to doe some thing in his house badde him in his eare to get him away and neuer to returne. Now was the Clarke very sorowful to leaue his Ladye, but yet no lesse ioyfull he was that his lyfe was saued. Afterwardes when the President had made all his friendes and kinsefolkes, and all the coū ­trie, beleue what great loue he bare to his wife: Upon a fayre day in the moneth of May, he went to gather a sallade in his garden, of such herbes, that so sone as she had eaten of them, she liued not past .xxiiij. houres after, whereof he counterfayted such sor­row, as no man could suspect the oc­casion of her death. And by that meanes he was reuenged of his enemy, and sa­ued the honor of his house

I wyll not by this Nouell (sayd Emarsuitte) prayse the conscience of the President, but herein I haue de­clared the light behauior of a woman, and the gret pa­cience & prudence of a man. Praying you good Ladies all, not to be offended at the truth. If al women (quod Parlamente) that loue their Clarkes or seruauntes, were forced to eate such sallades, I beleue they would [Page] not loue their gardens so wel as they doe, but would teare and pluck vp all the herbes both roote and rinde to auoyd those things that by death might aduaunce the honor of their stocke and ligneage. If sallades be so costly (q Hircan) and so daungerous in May, I will prouoke appetite with other sawses, or else hunger shal be my chiefest.

Of a Ialous Gentleman.
¶The .Lviij. Nouell.

BEsides the cuntry of Per­che, there where two Gentle­men, which from the tyme of their youth liued in such great and perfecte amitie, that there was betwéene them but one heart, one bed, one house, one table, and on purse. Long time continued this perfecte friendship: betwéene whome there was but one will and one worde, no difference in eyther of them. In so much as they not only semed to be two brethren, but also they appeared in al sem­blances to be but one man. One of them chaunced to marry. Notwithstanding they gaue not ouer their friendship, but perseuered in their vsual amitie as they were wont to doe. And whē they happened to be stray­ned to straight lodging, y^e married gentleman would [Page 337] not sticke to suffer his friende to lye with him and his wife. But yet you ought for friendship sake to consider that the married man lay in the middes. Their goodes were common betwene them, that for al the mariage no cause did hinder their assured amitie. But in pro­cesse of tyme, the felicitie of this world (which carieth with it a certayne mutabilitie) could no continue in the house, which was before right pleasaunt and hap­pie. For the married man forgetting of the faithfull fide­litie of his friend, without any occasion conceyued a great suspicion betwéene him and his wife, from whō he could not dissemble the case, but sharpely tolde her his mynde. She therewithall was wonderfully ama­zed. Howbeit he commaunded her to doe all thinges (one thing excepted) and to make so muche of his com­panion as of himselfe. Neuerthelesse he for bad her to speake vnto him except it were in y^e presence of many. All which she gaue her husbandes companion to vn­derstand, who woulde not beleue her, knowing that he had neyther by thought or déede done any thing whereof his companion had cause to be offended. And likewise bicause he vsed to kepe nothing secrete from him, he told him what he had sayd, praying him to tell him the truth of y^e matter, bicause he purposed neyther in that, ne yet in any other thing, to giue occasion of breach of y^e amitie which of lōg time they had imbraced. The maried Gentleman assured him that he neuer thought it, and howe they which had sowen that ru­mor, had wickedly belied him. Wherevnto his compa­nion aunswered. ‘I knowe well ynough that Ialosie is a passion so intollerable as loue it selfe. And when you shall conceyue that opinion of Ialousie, yea & it were of my selfe, I shoulde doe you no wrong, for you your [Page] selfe shoulde not be able to kepe it. But of one thing which is in your power I haue occasion to complayn, and that is bicause you would concele from me, your maladye, sith there was no passion or opinion which you conceyued, that before this time you kept secrete frō me. Likewise for my own part if I were amorous of your wife, you ought not to impute it as a fault vn­to me, bicause it is a fier which I beare not in my han­des, to vse at my pleasure. But if I kepe it to my selfe from you, & indeuour to make your wife knowe it by demōstracion of my loue, I might then be accōpted y^e wicked frend that euer liued. And for me I assure most you that she is an honest & a good woman, and one that my fansie dothe lest fauor (although she were not your wife) of all them that euer I sawe. But now sithens there is no occasion, I doe require you that if you per­ceyue any suspiciō, be it neuer so little, to tell me of it, bicause I woulde so vse my selfe, as our friendeship which hath indured so long, might not be broken for a woman. And if I did loue her aboue any thing in the world, yet surely I woulde neuer speake worde vnto her, bicause I doe esteme our friendship aboue any o­ther thing.’ His companion swore vnto him very great othes, that he neuer thought it, praying him to vse his house as he had done before. Whervnto he answered. ‘Sith you will haue me so to doe, I am content. But I pray you if hereafter you doe conceyue any simstre o­pinion of me, not to dessemble the same, which if you doe I will neuer continue longer in your companye.’ In processe of time, liuing togither according to their custome, the maried gentleman entred agayne in­to more suspicion than euer he did, commaunding his wife to beare no more that countenance towardes him [Page 338] that she was wont to do. Which commaundement she tolde to her husbands companion, praying him after that time to forbeare to speake vnto her, for that she was commaunded to doe the like vnto him. The Gen­tleman vnderstanding by wordes and by certayne counternaunces, that his companion had not kept pro­mise, he sayde vnto him in a great choler. ‘To be ia­lous (my companion) is a thing naturall. But bicause thou diddest sweare vnto me by othes not to dissemble with me, I can by no meanes forbeare any longer. For I did euer think that betwéene thy heart & mine there could be no let & interrupcion: but to my great griefe and without any fault on my part, I doe sée the contrarie. For as muche as thou art not onely verye ialous betwéene thy wife and me, but also thou woul­dest dissimulate and couer the same, so that in the ende thy maladie and diease hath continued so long, that it is altered into a mere malyce: and like as our loue hath bene y^e greatest that hath bene séene in our time, euen so our displeasure & hatred is now most mortall. I haue done so muche as lieth in me to auoide this in­conuenience, but sith thou hast inspected me to be an ill man, and I haue still shewed my selfe to be the con­trarie, I doe sweare, and therewithal assure thée by my fayth, that I am the same thou thinkest me to be, and therefore from hence forth take hede of me. For since suspiciō hath separated thée from my loue and amitie, dispite shall deuide me from thine.’ And albeit that his companion woulde haue made him beleue the contra­rie, and that he mistrusted him nothing at all, yet he withdrewe his part of his moueables and goodes that before were commō betwéene them, so that nowe both their hearts and goodes were so farre separated, as be­fore [Page] they were vnited and ioyned together. In suche wise as the vnmaried Gentleman neuer ceassed till he had made his companion Cockold, accor­ding to his promise.

A Miracle at Lyons.
The. Lix. Nouell.

IN the Church of sainct Iohn at Lyons, there was a very darke chappell, and within the same a Tombe made of stone, erected for great personages, with pictures liuely wrought, and about y^e same tombe there doe lie many worthy gknihts of great valiance. Upon a hot esommers day, a souldior walking vp and downe the Church, had great delight to slepe, and beholding that darke chap­pel which was colde and fresh of ayre, thought to goe slepe vpon the Tombe as other did, besides whome he layed him downe to slepe. It chaunced that a good old woman very deuout, came thether when the souldior was in the depth of his slepe. And after she had sayde her deuotions, with a waxe candle in her hande, she would haue sticked the same vpon the Tombe, and re­pairing nere the place where the souldior lay, desirous [Page 339] to sicke it vpon his forhead, thinking it had bene of stone, the waxe would not cleaue. The olde woman, which thought the cause that her candle woulde not sticke was the coldnesse of the Image, went about to warme the forhead with the flame of y^e candle, to make it cleaue. But the Image which was not insensible, began to cry out, whereat the pore woman was so a­frayd, that lyke one straught of her wittes, she brake into exclamation crying. A miracle, A miracle. They within the Church hearing an outcry of a miracle," ranne in heapes as thoughe they had bene mad, some to ring the belles, and some to sée the miracle. And the good wife brought them to sée the Image, which was remoued. Whereat many began to laughe. But diuers priestes could not so content them­selues, but determined greatly to estéeme that Tombe, ther­of to get money.

Of a Doctor of the Lawes.
¶The. Lx. Nouell.

TO conclude our number of Nouels, I haue thought good (gen­tle reader) to bring in place a Doc­tor and his wife, to giue thée a mery farewell: bicause thou hast hitherto so friendly and paciently suffred thy self to be stayed in reading of y^e rest: Wherfore w^t a pleasant (Valete et Plaudite) in a short & merie tale, which discloseth the subtiltie of two false knaues to begile a pore Doctor and his wife, I meane to end. And therfore do say, that in the citie of Bologna in Italie, there was a worshipfull Doctor of the Law, called Maister Florien, which in other thinges sauing his profession, was but filthie, beastlie, and of so ill be­hauiour as none of his facultie the like. Who by sa­uing of many crustes, had layed vp so good store of Crownes, that he caused to be made a very great and costly Cup of siluer, for payment of whiche Cup he went to the Goldsmithes house, and after he had payed for the siluer, the guilt, and for the fashion, hauing not his Clarke with him to carie it home, he prayed the Goldsmith to lend him his man. By chaūce there were newly come to the citie, two yong men that were Ro­manes, which ranged vp and downe the stretes with their eares vpright, viewing & marking euery thing done in the same, bearing about them counterfaicts [Page 340] Iewels and lingots guilt of Sainct Martines touch, to deceyue him that would play the fole to buy them. One of them was called Liello, & the other Dietiquo. These two marchants being at good leasure to goe vp and downe the streates, beholding the passangers to and fro, by fortune espied the Goldsmithes man, who (to set forth the workmanship and making of the cup) caried the same open. These Gallants bearing a spite to the cup, more for the siluer than for other malice, purposed to inuent some sleight to get the same, and a farre of with slie pase, followed the Goldsmithes mā, of whom they craftilie inquired of y^e owner of the cup, and where he had left maister Florien, when they had concluded vpon their enterprise. Liello (the finest boy of them both) went strayght way to buy a Lamprey of great price, and hiding the same vnder his cloake, re­payred straight to maister Doctors house. Where fin­ding his wife of semblable wit and behauior that her husband was, with vnshamefast face and like grace, sayd vnto her. ‘Mystresse, Master Florien your husbād hath sent you a fishe, and prayeth you to dresse it, and to make dinner readie, bicause he bringeth a company of other Doctors with him. In the meane time he re­quireth you, to sende him the cuppe agayne, which he sent you this morning, by the Goldsmithes man, bi­cause he had forgotten to marke his armes vpon it.’ The woman receyuing the fishe, franklie deliuered him the cup, and went about to prepare dinner. Liello (which hunted after game but better caught his pray) hied him a pace, and conueyed himselfe with spede, to the house of one of his Countriemen, and there reioy­ced with his companions, attending for the comming of the Royster Dietiquo, who tarried in the Towne, [Page] wayting and viewing what pursute was made after his fellow. Sone after Maister Florien retourned to his house, and finding his dinner more delicate than it was wont to be, was astonned, and asked his wife who was at all that cost. His wife very scornefully an­swered: ‘Why you haue forgotten, that you sent me worde this morning, that you would bring home with you diuers gentlemen to dinner?’ ‘What (quod y^e Doc­tor I thinke you be a fole.’ ‘I am not (sayde she) and for more witnesse you sent me this fishe, that I would you had bene better aduised before you had bestowed suche cost.’ ‘I assure the (quod he) I sent the no fishe, but belike it was some folish knaue that had forgotten his arrāt & mistaken the house. But how soeuer it was wife, we at this time wil be content to fare well at other mens charge.’ ‘Why sir (sayde his wife) cal your selfe to better remembrance. For he y^t brought the Lamprey, came to me for your cup by this token, y^t you would haue your armes engrauen vpon the same.’ At those wordes the poore Doctor, after he had discharged thrée or foure ca­nons laden with haileshot of scolding wordes, went out into the strete, running hither and thither, demaū ­ding of al thē he met, if they sawe none carrie a Lam­prey home to his house. And you would haue sayde if you had séene him with his hode hanging at one side, that the goodman had bene out of his wittes. Dietiquo stode stil in a corner, and behelde the Doctors frantike order, and albeit that he was sure that the stealing of the cup by Liello his companion was impossible to be knowen, yet being sorie that the Lāprey cost so muche, determined also to play his parte, and séeing the Doc­tor stayed from making further complaints, he went home to the Doctors house, where smiling with a good [Page 345] grace and bolde countenance, sayd to the Doctors wife. ‘Mistresse Doctor, good newes, the cup is found. One whō you knowe, caused the same to be done in sport, to bring your husband Master Florien in a choler, who now is a­mongs diuers of his friends, iesting at y^e pleasant deceyt, and hath sent me to fetch their dinner, wherin they pray you to remember the Lamprey, and to come your self to take parte of the same, bicause they purpose to be merie.’ The woman ioyfull of those newes, began somewhat to complayne of the griefe which she had taken for losse of y^e cup, & deliuered to Dietiquo the rosted Lamprey with the sause betwene two platters, who innontinentlie hidde the same vnder his cloke, & with so much spéede as he could, went to séeke out his companion Liello, & their countrie­men, which all that while had tarried for him. And God knoweth whether those good fellowes did laugh & mocke the poore Doctor and his wife or not. And when she had made her selfe gaye and trimme to goe eate parte of the Lamprey, as she was going out she met Master Florien loking lowringlie vpon the matter, to whome she sayde (smiling like a frumentie pot) ‘how now sir, come they hi­ther to dinner? I haue sent you y^e lamprey ready dressed.’ Then Master Doctor after fayre talk, began to discharge his double Canons, calling his wife, Bitche, Beast and stinking Goate, and vnderstāding that he was twice be­giled and coulde not tel by whom, for spite and despayre he tare of his beard & the heare of his head. Which bruted & knowē in the City, the Iesters & pleasant felowes bent themselues, to finde occasion, to laugh & deuise pastime at the poore begiled Doctor and his wife.