THE Mirrour of Mirth, and pleasant Conceits: CONTAINING, Many proper and pleasaunt inuentions, for the re­creation and delight of many, and to the hurt and hinderance of none.

Framed in French by that Worshipfull and learned Gentleman Bonaduenture de Periers, Groom to the right excellent and vertuous Princesse, the Queene of Nauara: And Englished by R. D.

At London, ¶ Printed by Roger Warde: dwelling a litle aboue Holburne Conduit, at the Signe of the Talbot. 1583.

To the courteous and gentle Readers.

IT was the custome of a certayne Philoso­pher (righte gentle and curteous Readers) when hee perceyued the people to waxe wearie by his long and tedious orations, & to drop out of doores ere he had done, to take his harpe in hande, which he so finely fingered, that the sweet and pleasaunt sound thereof pro­cured the people to come running in faster then before they went forth, whose dulled spirits beeing reuiued with that pleasant melody, and their minds before cloyed with ouer many circumstances of grauitie, beeing by this mea­nes marueilously delighted, did the better and with grea­ter ease continue the time of his conclusion: whose excel­lent pollicie in this poynt, hath attayned so great cōmen­dation, that it is set foorth for an example to all posteri­ties. If then you find your selues ouerladen, eyther by the meanes of worldly cares, or with the intollerable burden of ouer great studies (if the deeds of this Philosoper were to bee followed) I would wishe you no greater or better pleasure then he shewed to his people: considering that Myrth and Melodye cutteth off care, vnburdeneth the mind of sorrow, healeth the greeued heart, & filleth both soule and body with inestimable comfort. And therefore manye mightye and excellent Princes, whose heades are troubled with diuers and sundry enormities, doe for this cause entertaine and accept of suche persons, whose plea­sant nature and disposition may moue them to delight. Sith then moderate pleasure is not onely conuenient, but also profitable and necessary for vs, I haue presumed here [Page] vpon your curtesie, for the recreation of your mindes, to sent vnto your sight this simpel & rude worke, the grace and beautie whereof beeing strypped from his Countrey guise, & now newly wrapped in this strang attyre, is not onely blemished by meanes of the translators vnskillful­nesse, but as it were spoyled both of fauour and fashion. Yet if it please you to pardon his imperfection, and to accept his good will, he shall not onely be incouraged to mend his amisse, but also hereafter present you with such as may better counteruaile your courtesie, and saue his owne credit. Thus loth to be ouer tedious, in so meane a manner, I commend you to the pro­tection of the celestial powers, and this to your freendly consideration.

Yours in all humilitie, T. D.

❧ Here beginneth the mirrour of Mirth, and pleasant conceites.
¶ Of a Querister that sange the Countertennor in the Church of S. Hyllaris at Poytiers, that cō ­pared the Chanons to their pottages.

IN the Churche of S. Hyllaris at Poytiers, sometimes there was a singing man, that sang ye Coū ­tertennor, who, for that he was a verie good fellowe, and would drinke hard, as commonly such men will doe, was welbeloued amongst the Chanons, and they called him oftentimes to dinner and to supper. And because of the familiar acquaintance that hee had with them, it séemed to him, that there was none of them all, but that sought and desired his furthe­rance. By reason whereof, hee would say first to one, and then to an other: Sir, you knowe howe longe time it is since I first serued in this Church, it is nowe high tyme that I might hereafter be prouided for, I pray you speak for me when you are together in your Chappell Court, I require no great thing, althogh you my maisters haue great liuinges, I would be content with one of the least. His request was wel taken and allowed of them all, be­ing seuerall, which gaue him a good aunswere, saying, that it was reason he should be remembred: and althogh the Chappell Court wil not consider of thée, rather then thou shouldest want, we will giue thée part of ours: this [Page] this said they to him, when they were alone. Wel, at all their going in, and comming out of the Chappel Court, he gaue attendaunce, desiring them to remember him: and they did aunswere him with one voice, saying: stay a while, and thou shalt not be forgotten, but shalte haue the first place that is vacant. But when yt came to the pinch, there was alwayes some excuse; eyther that the benefice was too great, and therfore one of the Maisters had it: or that it was too litle, and therfore he should haue a better: or that they were constrayned to giue it to one of their brethrens kinsmen, but without faile hee should the next that did fall. And with these wordes they kepte off this singing man, so that the time went away, and he serued still without any reward. And in the mean while he gaue alwaies some present (according to his slender abilitie) to them whom he knew might giue their voices in the Chappel Court, as the first new fruites he could buy: somtimes Chickens, somtimes Pidgeons, Rabbets, Partridges, and such like, according to the season: which the poore singing man bought, either at the market, or at the Poulters, making them beléeue, that they coste him nothing, and they tooke alwayes that which was giuen them. In the end, this Querister perceiuing himselfe ne­uer the néerer, nor one whit the better, but that hee loste his time, his money, & his paynes, determined to make no longer suite, but studied to shewe them what opinion he had of them. And to bringe this to passe, he founde the meanes to gather fiue or sixe Crowns together: and du­ring the time that he was prouiding them (for it requi­red time) he begā to make more account of my maisters the Channons then before, and to vse himselfe more so­berlie. And when he espied time conuenient, hee came to the chéefest amongst them, and prayed them one after an other, to dine with him the nexte Sonday following at his house, saying vnto them, that in 9. or 10. yeares that he had bene in their seruice, he could doo no lesse, then to [Page 2] bestowe one dinner of them, and hee would entertayne them, though not so well as they were worthie, yet ac­cording to his power, in the best maner that he might, or coulde deuise. They promised him one after an other to come together. But they were not so negligent, but that euerie one of them made their prouision at home againe the day appointed, fearing to haue a slender Dinner of this singing mans prouision, giuing better credite to his woordes, then to his kitchin. At the houre and time set downe, ech of them sent their owne ordinarie prouision to his house, and he said vnto them: My frends, my may­sters and yours dooth me great wronge, are they afrayde they shall not be well vsed? they néede not send their din­ner hither, for I haue prouided meat for them, I thanke God: but he tooke all that came, and put all together in a great Pot, that he had prouided of purpose in a corner of the kitchin. At the laste came the Channons to Dinner, & sat downe in order, according to their dignities. This singing man, at ye first let before them their pottage, that he had put together in the great Pot, but God knoweth in what order: for one had sent a Capon in stued broth, another Saffrō broth, another Chickins in white broth, an other powderd béefe and turneps, an other a legge of mutton in herbe pottage, some sent their meate sodden, and some rosted. When the Channons sawe this kinde of seruice, they had no stomackes to eate, but tarried ech man to see when their owne prouision woulde come in, not thinking that it was on the Table before them. The Querister or singing man, wente to and fro very busie, as one that was carefull to sée them well serued, behol­ding alwayes their countenaunces that sat at the table. The first seruice béeing somewhat too longe, they could forbeare no longer, but said vnto him: I pray thée take a­way these pottages, and giue vs those that we sente hy­ther. These are yours said he. Ours saide they? that they are not. Yes truely quoth he, they are: saying to one here [Page] is your turnups, to an other, here is your stued broth, to an other, here is your herbe pottage, to an other, here is your white broth, and to an other, these are your Saffrō pottage: then they began ech man to know his owne pot­tage, and to behold one an other Now truely, saide they, we were neuer thus vsed, but is this the order to feast ye Channons? now the Deuill take all, I thought this foole would mocke vs. Then spake an other saying, I had the best pottage that was eate of this seauen yeares: And I said an other, had well prouided for my dinner: And my heart gaue me said the fourth, that it had béene better to haue dined at home. When the singing man had giuen eare a while vnto their talke, he said: My maisters, if all your pottages were so good as ye faine they were, howe can it bee possible, that they should become naught in so short a time? I haue kept them by the fire close couered, what could I haue done better to them? Yea mary, saide they, but where diddest thou learne to put them thus to­gether? thou mighst well know, that they would not bee good béeing thus mixed. Well then said hee, I perceiue that which is good by it selfe alone, is naught béeing mix­ed with other things. Now truely said he, I must néeds beléeue you, if it be but by your selues my Maisters: for when ye be ech one alone by your selues, ther is nothing better then yee are, you promise then mountaines, but when you are together in your Chappel Court, then are ye like to your pottages. Thē they vnderstood wel what he meant. Ha well said they, we perceiue nowe to what end this thy dooing was, thou hast good cause to be consi­dered: but in the meane time, shal we not dine? Yes that you shall sayd he, better then you are worthie. Then hee brought them other meate that he had prepared, & set yt before them, where with they were pleased. When they had well dyned, they went away, & concluded from that time foorth that hee shoulde bee prouided for, the which was done. And thus his inuention and deuise of potta­ges, [Page 3] did preuaile more, then all his requests and impor­tunate suites before time.

¶ Of one that sang the Countertennor at Reymes, who was a singing man, a Pickard, and a May­ster of Art.

THere was a singing man that did belonge to our Ladies Church at Reymes, which is the Coun­trey of Champeny, who had a singular good voice to singe the Countertennor, but he was a man gi­uen verie much to vice, for there escaped no day wherin he did not commit some follie: with one he would fighte, with an other quarrell, a common gamester at Cardes and Dice, always at the Tauerne with his pretie wen­ches, of whome complaintes came daily to the Chappell Court, before the Channons and maisters, & they would often times warn him of his faults, reproouing & threat­ning him, sometimes openly, sometimes secretly, and he would promisse euerie time to amend, and to become an honest man: but when they were turned, and g [...]ne out of sight, & that the wine had gotten Sir Iohn by ye braine, then began he his old pranks. Now the Channons were constrained to beare with him for twoo causes: the one was, because he sange passing well: the other because hee was put to them by an Archdeacon of the Church, vnto whom they bare such reuerence, that they would not o­pen the mans faultes vnto him, thinking belike that he had known them aswell as they, and that he did reproue him for them (as in déede he did, when he knew thereof) but hee knewe not the one halfe of this faultes. It came to passe vppon a time, that this singing man committed an offence so haineus, that the Channons were constrai­ned of force to declare it to the Archdeacon, shewing him that for his sake they had put vp manie greeuous offen­ces at his handes: but now, seeing he vsed himself worse and [Page] worse, béeing in a maner past remedy, they could no lon­ger forbeare to hold their peace. Hee hath (said they) this night so beaten a Priest, that he shal not be able to singe Masse againe this twoo Monethes: if it had not béene for the looue of you, we wold haue forbidden him our church long ago, but for that we sée in him no remedie, we pray you not to bee offended with vs for that we doo informe you thereof. The Archdeacon aunswered them that they had done well, & that he himselfe would take order ther­in. And incontinently he sente for the singing man, who feared that there was some matter against him, for hee knewe well it was not to giue him a Benefice, neuer­thelesse he went, and was no sooner gone in, but Maister Archdeacon began to sing to him an other maner of les­son then Mattins. Come hither saide hee, thou knowest, how often those of this Church haue borne with thy in­solencie and naughtie life, therefore auoide, and get the hence, and sée that thou sée my face no more: I will not hereafter bee reprooued for suche a leude Iauell as thou art, for there is no amendment in thée: but if I shoulde serue thée according to thy desertes, I should make thee fast bread and water, this twelue monethes. Ye néed not aske if the singing man was cut on the heade: not with­standing, he was not so calmed, but that he made his an­swere directlie, and saide: Sir, doe you that are so well séene in men, maruell though I am not wise: you know Sir, that I am a singing man, a Packard, and a Mayster of Arte. The Archdeacon at this sodaine answere, could not tell whether to laughe, or to be angrie, notwithstan­ding he turned it to the beste. For he asswaged by little and little his anger, béeing prouoked to doe, as the By­shop of Courtisan did, who forgaue a Priest that had gotten fiue Nunnes with childe, to whom he was ghost­lie Father. For béeing called before the Byshop, and ve­rie straightlie examined thereof, iesting out the matter, aunswered thus: Demine, quinque tal [...]ntae tradists mihi, [Page 4] ecee alia quin (que) superlucratus sum: which is as much as to say: Lord, thou gauest me fiue tallentes, beholde nowe I haue gained other fiue. A Pickard hath alwaies his head néere his cappe: A singing man hath alwaies some my­nimes in his braine: A Maister of Art is so full of Ergos, that it forceth not to talke with him. And truely, when these thrée good quallities take hold of anie man, it is no maruel though he haue a light head, but rather to woon­der at the contrarie.

¶ Of three Sisters newly marryed, that did eche of of them make a good answere to their husbands the first night of their wedding.

IN the Cuntrey of Aniou there was in times past a Gentleman, that was riche, and of a good stocke, but he was somewhat subiect to his pleasure. This Gentleman had thrée Daughters, that were fayre and well nurtured, and of suche age and yeares, that the yon­gest might well ynough resist the violence of a man. It happened so, that they were without a Mother: and be­cause their Father was yet of lustie yeares, he vsed still his old customes, which were, to kéepe a good house, and to entertaine and receiue merry and pleasant company, where the order was, to play, to daunce, to reuell, and to make good cheare. And for that he was negligent, & not carefull in the ordering of his house, and ouerséeing of his houshold, his Daughters had opportunitie, leysure, & libertie ynough, to talke and laugh with young Gentle­men: whose talke I warrant you, was not how to make cheape corne, neither concerning the gouernaunce of the publicke welth, as the sequele showes. Also their father on his parte, played the Louer as well as others, which made the yong Gentlewomen the more boulder to loue and to be beloued, for as the old Cockes crow, the yong­ones learne. And they hauing gentle heartes, knowing [Page] that they were Gentlewomen of a good house, thought it a thinge verie vngratefull, and full of reproche, to be be­looued, and not to looue againe. These reasons therefore considered, béeing all thráe of them prayed, entertayned, looued, and followed euerie daie, and houre, at length they suffered themselues to be taken and snared in looue, taking suche compassion on their paramours, that they spared not so pleasure them, in whatsoeuer they did de­maund. At which play and sport they sped so wel, that the marks and signes began to appeare: for the eldest daugh­ter (beeing somewhat more forward then the reste) was greatly abashed, because there was no waye to kéepe it secrete: for in a house where the mother is missing, there is small regard of the daughters doinges: or at the least, if there happen a mischaunce, they know wayes and re­medies to preuent it. But the Maiden knowing no waie to hide this from her Father, determined to make him priuie to her secret practises: which, when he vnderstood, he was at the first verie sorie and greatlie displeased, but he dispaired not, for that hee was of that stampe of men, that tooke not thinges to the heart. And to say the truth, what néed a man torment and vexe himselfe for a thing, when it is done? it is but rather to make it worse. Wel, he sente his Daughter into the Countrey, three or foure miles off, to an Aunt that she had, vnder colour of sicke­nesse, because that by the counsaile of the Phisitions, the change of the ayre was very good for her, tarrying there vntill she was dliuered with child But as it is commō ­lie séene, one misfortune falleth vppon an others necke: for as his eldest Daughter had in a maner dispatched her businesse, and emptied her bellie, the second Sister was also sped. The Father perceiuing this, said: I sée that my Daughters would not that the world should be lefte de­solate. And vpon this euent (doubting belike the worst) he came to his youngest daughter, who was not yet with childe, but she had done her good will in the matter to her [Page 5] power: Well Daughter said he, he to doest & thou? hast not thou followed thy e [...]der afters steps? The young Dam­sell began to chaunged colour, and to blush, which the Fa­ther tooke for open confession. Verie well saide he, God sende vs good lucke, and keepe vs from euill: yet neuer­thelesse, he thought it his time to prouide for his affairs, and therefore he determined to marrie his thrée Daugh­ters. But here was the mischéefe, he knew not to whom: for, to offer them to his neighbours it was in vaine, be­cause their doinges in his house was knowen, or at the least suspected. On the other side, to marrie them to those that had abused his Daughters, was a thinge that could not wel be done, for it may be ech of them had more then one. And if peraduenture there was but one man that had done the déed, ye know few men will put their trust in one that will so willingly lay her legges open, before she know who shall be her husband. And for these consi­derations, the Father thought it more expedient and ne­cessary, to séeke his sonnes in Lawe further from home. And as those men which of nature are pleasant and ma­rie, and looue to frequent company, are happy and fortu­nate in their doinges: euen so, this gentleman fayled not of his purpose, to find out that which he sought for, which was in the Countrey of Bryttaine, where hée was well knowen, aswell for the name of his house, as for the lan­des and gooddes he had in that countrey, not far from the Towne of Nantes: by means whereof, he had good occa­sion to make his iourney thither. To conclude, when hée was in the said countrey, aswel by frends that he made, as through himself, he preferred the mariage of his thrée Daughters: to which the Bryttaines gaue some eare, so that there was choise ynough. But amongst all the rest, there was one Gentleman of Bryttaine who was rich, & of a good stocke, the which had thrée sonnes of good yeres, and well made like men, good dauncers, cleane legged, well footed, and excellent at all games, whose lyke was [Page] not to bee sad in all the whose Countrey, whereof this Gentleman was verie glad. And becaue the prolonging of the time was not best, hée concluded the match with ye Father of these youngmen, that his thrée Sonnes should marrie his thrée Daughters , and that one Bridal should serve for all: that is, they should all thrée be marryed on one day. And to bring this to passe, the thrée brethrē pre­pared them selues with all spéed to depart into Aniou, with the Gentleman father of three daughters. Now you must note, that although they were Bryttaines, there was not one of the thrée but knew fashions: for they had played youthfull prankes with the Brittanish Maydes, which are of a good inclination that waye, as the talke goeth. But to our matter. When they were come to the Gentlemans house, they beheld the countenances of the thrée Gentlewomen, euery one his, and founde them all fresh, faire and pleasaunt, and also wise and well spoken. Wel, the mariage was concluded, & al things prepared: But she night before the wedding should be, the Father called his three Daughters aside into a chamber, and said vnto them these woordes: Ye know what fault you haue al thrée committed, and what paine you haue put me vn­to: if I had beene of the nature of these rigorous cruell & heard hearted fathers, I had cast you off, and you shoulde neuer haue enioied any of my goods: but for my part you see, I had rather redresse thinges that are amisse, then to put you to shame, & my self in perpetuall trouble through your follies. I haue here brought for ech of you a husbād, therefore prepare your selues to make muche of them & cherishe them, and plucke vp good heartes, you shall haue no harme: If they happen to perceiue or spie anie thinge by any of you, to your owne perill bee it, neuerthelesse you haue as yet done thē no offence. And therfore hence­foorth take héede to your selues, and gouerne your selues so, that there may be found no fault in your doings, and I promise you for my parte, that I will both forget and [Page 6] forgiue all faults past. And besides all this, I assure you, she that can giue vnto her Husband the best aunswere to please him the first night, beeing in bed together, shoulde haue for her part two hundreth Crownes more then the others: now therefore go your wayes, and remember my woordes. After these wholesome admonitions, he wente to bed, and his Daughters also, being nothing obliuious in this matter. The Brydal day was the nexte morrow, they went to the Church, and were maryed earlie in the Morning. There was great cheare, with dauncing and leaping about the house: which beeing paste, the heddes were made, wherein the Brides were brauely laid, vnto whom their husbands shortly after came, what time the eldest sporting with his new bedfellow, and féeling her bellie verie lancke, merely put foorth these spéeches: I doubt my beloued, the birds be fled and gone: vnto whom she presently replied, keepe you then in the nest. The se­cond sisters husband handling her, feeling her bellie hard and round, began thus: how now Wise, the barne is al­readie full: beate then at the gate quoth thee. The thirde sisters husband in sporting himselfe in like sort, and fin­ding his wife skilfull in ye game, presently spoke in this maner: I perceiue the way was beaten before: the dam­sell aunswered, you maye the better finde the path. The night beeing past, and the day come, they came all three before their father, & declared vnto him, what had chaun­ced, and what was their aunswers: now, would I know to which of the thrée he ought to giue the CC. Crownes: If therefore your skill be so good, declare the truth of this difficult matter.

¶ Of a certain man in Pickardy, that withdrew his wife from her disordinate loue, through the ad­monition that he gaue her in the presence of her parents.

THere was in times past a Kinge in Fraunce, whose name we do not well know, & although we did, yet [Page] shoulde it bée secrete, because of this matter whereof we meane to speake. Neuerthelesse it is saide that he was a good Kinge, and worthie of the Crowne, he would bende his eare to heare the talke as well of the poore as of the rich, for thereby he vnderstood the truth of things, which cannot bée so wel when one goeth by heare say: but to the purpose. This good king, would walke thorow the coun­treyes of his kingdome, and many times would go into the Citties and Townes in a disguised garment, to vn­derstande the trueth and order of thinges. Vppon a day he thought to visite the countrey of Pickardy in his roy­all person: notwithstanding, vsing many times his accu­stomed priuatnes, béeing at Soyssons, he sent for the chée­fest of the towne, and caused them to sit downe with him at his Table, in token of great curtesie, requesting them very gently, to rehearse and tel some stories, eyther me­rie tales, or such as were graue and sad. Amongst others, there was one that began to declare to the King this sto­ry following. And it like your grace saide he, it came to passe not longe since in one of the townes of Pickardy, y a certaine Iustice, who liueth yet, buryed his wife, after they had liued together a good season. And because he ly­ked so well the first, he had a desire to marble the second time, and tooke to wife a Mayden fresh and faire, & come of a good kindred yet notwithstāding, she was not equall to him eyther in goods, or in quallities: for he was of good yeares, and halfe spent, and she in the floure of her youth wanton, and full of pleasure, so that hee was not able to satisfy her youth according to her desire: for when she be­gan to haue a litle tast of the ioyes and pleasures of this world, she felt quickly, that her husband did but set her a longing. And although hée gaue her good entertainment aswell in her apparell, in faire woordes, and showing to her a merie countenaunce, neuerthelesse, all this serued but to set fire in the [...]ow, so that at the laste it flamed out in suche sorte, that she determined with her selfe, to bor­row [Page 7] of some other that which her Husband wanted to performe. At the last, she found out a newe Louer, with whom she vsed her pleasure for a time: but not contente with him, shee got an other, and then an other, so that in short time she had such a company, that they hindred one an other, comming in vnto her bothe at lawfull and vn­lawfull houres, to take their pleasure on her: by which meanes, she had layde aside the remembraunce of her ho­nour, geuing her selfe wholy to her lust and pleasure. In the mean time her husband knew nothing, or at the least if he did, he armed himselfe with patience, being content to beare the penaunce of his owne follie, because that his yeares being more then halfe spent, he had so vnaduised­ly taken to wyfe a mayd of so young and tender yeares. Well, this traine continued so long, till it was cōmonly talkēd on in the towne, & in euerie mans mouth: where­with his frendes were gréeued so sore, that one of them could not refraine, but came and told him thereof, decla­ring vnto him the rumor & noyse that was spred abroad, so that if he did not prouide a remedie, he would giue oc­casion vnto all the world to thinke that he was content withall: and in the end all his frendes would despise and forsake his company, and he should be abhorred of all ho­nest men. When he vnderstood the talke of his frend, hée made a signe of gret displeasure and sorow, as one that knew nothing thereof, & promised to sée a remedy there­in with as much spéed as was possible: but when he was alone by him selfe, he thought it was a thinge out of his power to remedie, but that the shame would continue & remaine still: and he thought his wife should of her selfe in respect of him, and of her honour, call backe her follie and beware: otherwise, all the strong walles, boltes, and lockes, would not holde her in, nor staye her disordinate affection. Furthermore, he reasoned with himselfe, that he béeing a man sober and wise, ought not to set his care towardes the bridling of a vayne and euil giuen womā, [Page] the which thing kept him from searching out the trueth, of the matter too rashly. Notwithstanding, for that hee woulde not séeme as one not carefull of his domesticall affaires, the which was esteemed of all men must disho­nest and wicked, he bethought him on a remedie, which he thought aboue all others was most expedient and ne­cessary. The remedie was this: hee determined to buy a house which ioyned to his backeside, and of two he pur­posed to make one, saying, that hee would haue a going in and out at his backside, as well as at the streete side. Which deuise was sp [...]edilie finished, & a doore was made in the secretest place that might be: vnto which he caused to be made half a dossen of keies, & he forgat not to make a gallerie verie proper for the goers & commers. These thinge béeing thus prepared, he appointed a day to haue all his Wiues principal and chiefe parents and kindred to dinner, and not one of his owne kindred at that time: he gaue them good entertainment, and made them great cheare. After Dinner was done, before anie of them did rise from the Table, he began to speake vnto them these wordes following in the presence of his Wife: My may­sters and Gentlewomen all, that are here presente, you know how long it is since I married your kinswoman, that sitteth here by me, I haue had nowe time & leysure to cōsider, yt it was not to me she ought to haue béen mar­ried, because ye match betwene her & me was not equall: but when a thinge is done, that may not bee vndone, we must be content to tarrie the end. Then turning himself towards his wife, he said vnto her: wife, I haue not long since suffered rebukes, through your naughty and euyll gouernment, the which hath greeued me at the heart. It hath bene shewed me, that there commeth hither young­men at all houres of the day to kéepe you companie, tru­ly, it is a thing greatly to your dishonour & mine, which if I had perceiued before now, I would haue prouided a remedy for: but yet it is better late thē neuer. I pray you [Page 8] speake vnto those that frequent your company, that here after they may come to you in more secret maner, which they may the better do , because of a doore on the backside, which I caused to be made for them, of which doore here are halfe a dossen keies for you, to giue to ech of your lo­uers one, and if there be not keyes enough, I will cause more to bee made, for the Smith is at our commaunde­ment: and bid them so to part the time of their méeting, as may be most profitable bothe for them and you: for if you will not abstaine from sinne and euill doing, at the least do it so secretly, that the worlde haue no occasion to speake of the same, to your shame and mine. When the younge Wife had heard the talke that her Husband had made vnto her in the presence of her parentes & fréends, she began to be ashamed of her doinges, and remembred with her selfe the wrong and iniurie that she had done to her Husband, to the dishonour of him, her selfe, and her kindred: so that that then she had suche remorse of consci­ence, that from that time forward, shee shut the gate a­gainst all her Louers, and forsooke all her disordinate af­fections, and vnlawfull pleasures, and afterward liued with her husband like an honest and vertuous Wife, in all honour, and contentation of them both. When the King had heard this story, he was desirous to know who was the partie, saying: now by the faith of a Gentlemā, he is one of the pacientst men in my kingdome, he wold sure doo some vertuous act, séeing he is indued with such patience. And at the very same time the King made him his generall Attorney in Pickardy. As for me, if I knew the name of this honest man, I would giue him immor­tall praise: but time hath done great wronge to hide his name, that deserued well to be placed in the Chronicles, yea, to haue bene canonized. For he was a verie Martyr in this worlde, and I beléeue he is happie in the worlde to come.

¶ Of a Norman that went to Rome, who prouided Lattin to carrie to the Pope, and howe he hel­ped himselfe therewith.

THere was vppon a tyme a Norman, who percey­uing that Priests liued the best and easiest life in the worlde, after his wife was deade, had a desire to become one of the Church, but he could write & reade verie little. Neuerthelesse, hauing heard say that money made all, and estéeming him selfe to be as like a man, as many of the priests of his parish, he came to one of his familiar frendes, and brake his minde vnto him, asking his counsell howe to vse and gouerne, him selfe in this matter. Who, after much talke had betwene them, did comfort him, and said, that if he would haue his mat­ters well brought to passe, it were best for him to goe to Rome, for he shoulde haue some what to doe to bee made Priest at the Byshops hand, that was his ordinary, who was verie circumspect in admitting Priests, and giuing them their Significauit: But the Pope, that was troub­led with many other thinges, would make no regarde of his ignorance, but would admit him with all spéed. More ouer, in so dooing he should sée the Countrey, and at his returne, beeing known to be priested at ye Popes hands, there were none, but woulde doe him honour and woor­ship, and that in a shorte time he should get a great Be­nefice, and become a very rich man. The Norman found this talke good, and agreable to his mind, but he had this blot of conscience, that he could speake no Latin, and de­clared it vnto his counseller, saying: Yea mary, but whē that I shall come before the Pope, what language shall I speake? he doth not vnderstand the Norman spéech, nor I can speake no Lattin, how shall I do then? As for that said his frend, thou néedest not to stay: for when thou art a Priest, it is inough for thée to know a Masse of Requi­em, [Page 10] our Ladies Masse, and a Masse of the holy Ghost, the which thou maiest learn quickly after thy returne. But for to speake vnto the Pope, I wil teach the thrée Latin woordes, so well placed, that when thou hast saide them before him, he shall thynke thée to be a profounde & lear­ned Clarke. The Norman was very glad to heare these tidinges, so that he would in all hast knowe what were these three wordes. Frend, saide his Counseller so soone as thou art come before the Pope, thou shalt fall downe on thy knées saying: Salue sancte pater: then hee will aske thée in Lattin, Vnde es tu? that is to say, Of whence arte thou? Thou shalt aunswere him, De Normania: then hee will aske thee, Vbi sunt literae tuae? thou shalte say to him, In manica mea: and presently without any delay, he will commaund thou shalt be dispatched, and then shalt thou come thy waies. This Norman was neuer so iocund and merrie as nowe, so that he remained fifteene or twentie daies with his frend, to learne those thrée Lattin words: and when he thought hee had learned them well, he pre­pared himselfe to take his iourney to Rome. And by the way he did nothing but repeate his Lattin: Salue sancte pater: De Normania: In mansca, meo: but I thinke verely he said it so often, and with such great affection, that he for­gat the first word, Salue sancte pater: and to sée the lucke of it, he was wel forward on his way. If the Norman was troubled, truely it was no maruell: for he knewe not to what Saint to make his vow, to recouer again his wor­des: and he thought with himself, to come before ye Pope without them was in vaine: and also hee thought, that it was not possible for him to find a man, that could so faith fully instruct and teach him, on the frend of his owne pa­rish from whence he came. Neuer was man so sorie, as this poore man was, vntil it chaunced vpon a Saturday in the morning, that hee wente into a Church to praye, whereas he vnderstood they began to sing a Masse of our Lady in note, Salue sancta parens, whereunto the Norman gaue [Page] eare: now God be praised and our blessed Lady, saide he, here are good tidinges. Neuer was man so glad as hee, & he caused the woords to be repeated by a clarke that was there, kéeping them so well in memorie, that hee forgat them no more, and thus set forward on his way with his Lattin, Salue sancta parens: thinking himself the better yt euer he was borne. At length he iourneyed so far, that he came to Rome. And you must note, that in those daies it was not so daungerous to speake with the Pope, as it is now. Well, when he was come thither, he was had in before the Pope, where he forgat not his reuerence vpō his knées, saying vnto him, Salue sancta parens. The Pope said vnto him, Ego non sum mater Christs: the Norman aun­swered, De Normacia. The Pope behold him, and saide: Demonium habes? In manicae meo, aunswered the Norman: and with that he put his hande into his sléeue to pull out his letters. The Pope began to be afrayde, thinking hee would haue pulled the Deuill out of his sléeue: but when he perceiued that they were letters, he asked him again, Quid petis? But the Norman could goe no further, for he was at the end of his lesson, so that he answered nothing at all to the Pope. In the end, when that certaine of his owne nation perceiued what Countrey man hee was, they began to question with him in his owne language: whom he gaue to vnderstand & knowe, that he had lear­ned but a litle Lattin in his countrey for his owne pro­uisiō, and that he knew much good, but he vnderstood not the way how to vse it.

¶ Of Fowlke, that made his Mayster beleeue, that a poore man which came to him was deafe, & also made the man beleeue that his Mayster was deafe, and how his Mayster was reuenged of him for it.

[Page 11]A Certaine Attorney in the Lawe, kepte vnder him two or thrée Clarkes, among the which there was one a wealthie mans sonne in Paris, that was his Apprentise, which put his sonne to the said Attorney to learne the skill of the Law. This yong mans name was Fowlke, about the age of sixtéene or seuentéene yeares verie vnhappie, wild, and full of play. Nowe (according to the custome of such houses) Fowlke did alwayes the ar­rants and busines: amongst which one was, that he went always to the gate when any body knocked, for to know the parties that did waite for his maister, and to knowe their request, to make reporte thereof to his Maister. There was a certain man that had a suite at Chastelet, and had taken Fowlkes Maister for his Attorney, & came oftentimes to visite him: and also because he would haue the more frendship shewed him, he broght with him som­times Capons, Conies, & Chickons: and his vse was, to come alwaies a little before noone, at suche time as the Clarkes were at Dinner, to whome Fowlke must open the gate, and then carrie his Maister woorde, and then to the gate againe to carrie him an aunswere, that before Fowlke could go in and out and dispatch the matter, his Dinner was verie light: and on the other side, his May­ster had no great respect of him, for he would send him a­broad into the Cittie at all houres of the daye, at which Fowlke was sore gréeued. Vpon a time this honest man came againe to the gate at the houre accustomed, whome Fowlke knewe by his knocking: when hee had knocked thrée or foure times, he wente and opened him the gate, & in going he thought to play him a cast of legerdemain, because he came alwaies at dinner time, and he thought his Maister should haue parte. Hauing opened the gate, how now good man said he, what say you? I would speak with your maister quoth he, concerning my suite. Well said Fowlke, tell me yoor mind, and I will certefie him. No said the good man, I must speake with him my selfe: [Page] well then saide Fowlke, I will goe tell him that you are here. In he goeth to his Maister, and told him that such a man would speake with him: bid him come in then sayd the Attorney. Sir saide Fowlke, he is become deafe, or at the least he cannot well heare, you must speake loude y­nough, if you will haue him to vnderstand. Well saide his maister, I will speake loude enough. Fowlke goeth then to the man, and saide vnto him: come in good man & speake vnto my maister: but wot you what? there is fal­len a disease into my maisters eares, so that he is become almost deafe, when you speake to him, you must speake to him aloude, or els hee can not heare you. This béeing done, Fowlke goeth to make an ende of his Dinner, and in his going said to himselfe, our maister and yonder mā will not nowe I trow talke in counsell. The good man commeth into the chamber whereas the Attorney was, and saluted him, saying: God giue you good morrow sir, so loude, that a man might haue hearde him all the house ouer. The Attorney saide vnto him as loude, welcome frende, what newes with thee? Then they entered into talke concerning the mans matter, but they talked out so loude one against an other, as if they had lost one ano­ther in a wood. When they had well debated the matter on both sides, the good man taketh hir leaue of the Attor­ney, and goeth his waye. Within certaine daies after, this good man came againe, but it was at suche time as Fowlke was abroade in the Cittie, about businesse that his Maister had sent him. The honest man went in, and did his duetie to his Attorney, demaunding of him how he did? He aunswered that he was in health. Ha Sir, said this good man, God be praised, yt you are no more deafe, the last time that I was heere, we were faine to speake aloude, but nowe I perceiue that you canne heare well, thanked be God. The Attorney was abashed at his say­ing: nay quoth he, haue you recouered your hearing? It is you that was deafe. The man aunswered vnto him, [Page 12] that he was neuer deafe, but that he heard alwayes ve­ry well: then the Attorneye perceiued well that it was one of Fowlkes knauish deuises: but he found ye meanes to recōpence it again. For vpon a day when that he had sent him into the Cittie, Fowlke forgate not to take the Tennys Court in his way, the which was not farre frō his Maisters house, as he was accustomed most times to do whē he was sent abroade, the which his Maist. knew full well, and also had found him there many tymes as he went by: knowing well yt he should finde him there, he went to a Barbar, that dwelled hard by, praying him to prouide him a good new Rod ready, and tould him for what purpose he would haue it. When he thought his man Fowlke had played so long that he did sweate, and was in a great heate: he came into the Tennys Court, and called Fowlke that had banded all ready his parte of two dosen of bauls, and was playing at double or quit, when his Maister saw him so red, & in such a heate, well ye knaue said he, leaue of, thou spoylest thy selfe, if thou chaunce to be sick, thy Father will laye ye blame in me: and there vpon, comming out of the Tennys, he caused him to go into the Barbars, to whome he said: Gossep, I pray you lend me a shirt for this yong mā, yt is alone a sweate, and cause him to be rubbed. Good God, said the Barber, marrie Sir he had néede, otherwise he should be in a daunger of a pleuresie. They caused Fowlke to goe into a backe shop, and made him to put of his clothes be­fore a fire, that was kindled to cloake the matter, and in ye meane time, the rods were prepared for poore Fowlke, that would haue bin contented to haue escaped without a cleane shirt, Whē his clothes were of, these cursed rods were brought, wherwith he was well whypped, both backe & bellye & al about. And in yerking of him, his M. said, how now Fowlke? how likest thou this pastime? I was the other daye deafe, but I shall make you daunse after a new fashion, how say ye, is it good playing ye foole [Page] with your Maister: But GOD knoweth Fowlke was blancke, and learned by this that it was not good moc­king his Maister any more.

¶ Of a Doctor of degree, that was so sore hurte with an Oxe, that he could not tell in which leg it was.

THere was vppon a tyme a certaine Doctor, ryding through the stréets towards the Schools, who met in the way by chaunce a Companie of Oxen, yt a But­chers Boye did driue: one of yt which Oxen came so néere to M. Doctor that he touched his gowne as he passed vpō his Mule: wherwithall, he being sore afraid, cried out a loude, help my Maisters, helpe this Oxe hath killed me, I am dead: at this crie, ye People came running together thinking by his crye yt he was greuously hurte, one kept him vpon the one side, another on the other side vpon his Mule: and amongst his great cryes, he called his seruant who was named Cornellius: come hether said he, goe thy waies to the Schooles, & tell them yt I am dead, an Oxe hath killed me, and yt I cannot come to make my lecture. The Students were sore troubled to heare these newes, and so were the other Doctors: wherupon they apointed some to go sée him, which found him laide a long vppon a bed, and the Surgeon by him that had his rolling bandes, his ayle, his ointements his whiles of egs, & all his ym­plements, necessarie in such a chaūce. M. Doctor complai­ned on his right leg so sore, yt he could not indure to haue his hose pulled of, but that it must néeds be ripped. Whē ye Surgeon had séen his bare leg, he found no skin broken nor brused, nor no appearance of hurt, although that M. Doctor cried stil, I am dead my fréend: and when ye Sur­geon did touch it with his hād, he cried the lowder, thou killest me, thou killest me. And where is it yt it greeneth you most said the Surgeon? dost thou not sée said he, how an Oxe hath killed mée, and askest thou me where my paine lyeth? then the Surgeon asked him, is it here Sir? [Page 13] no quoth he: nor here? no neither: to be short it could not be found. Oh good God, said the Doctor, what a paine is this, yt these Folkes cannot finde where my paine lyeth? is it not swollen said he to the Barber? no Sir said he. It must néeds be thē said the Doctor, yt it is in the other leg, for I know wel enough that ye Oxe did strike me on one of my legs. There was no remedy but ye other hose must be pulled of, & ye leg serched, but there was asmuch harm as in ye first leg. Good Lord quoth the Doctor, this Sur­geō hath no skill, go fetch me another. Whē he was come & could find nothing, the Doctor began to wōder, saying: this is a straung matter, yt such a great Oxe should strike me, & do me no harme: thē calling his man, he said: come hether, Cornelius? whē the oxe did hurt me, in which leg was it? was it not in this nexte the wall? Ita Domine, said his Seruant: then quoth he, it must néeds be in this leg, and so I said at the first, but they thought I mocked thē. The Surgeon perceiuing yt M. Doctor had no harme, but only was afraid: for to content his minde, he gaue it a litle ointmēt, & bound his leg with a cloth, saying vnto him, that ye dressing would serue at that time, and after­ward, saide he Maister Doctor, when you can tell me in which leg it is, another salue shalbe laid vnto it.

¶ A comparison of South-sayers, and Tellers of fortune, to the good wife, that caried a pale of milcke to the Market.

THe cōmon talke of Southsayers & tellers of fortune is to promise great riches, saying they know the se­crets of nature, which the wisest men neuer knewe: their doings, is like smoke in the Sun, so yt their South­saying may rather be termed false saying, and we cānot compare it better, then to a good wife yt somtime caried a pale of milke to the market, thinking to sell it, as pleased her, making her reckoning thus. First she would sell her milk for ij.d. & with this ij.d. buy xij. egs, which she wold set to brood vnder a hen, & she would haue 12. Chickons, [Page] these chykons being growne vp, she would kerue them, and by that meanes, they should be capons: these capons would be worth, (being yong) fiue pence a piece: that is, iust a crowne: with the which she would buye two pigs, a Sow & a Boare, and they growing great, would bring forth twelue others, the which she would sell (after she had kéept them a while) for fiue grotes a piece: that is, iust twentie shillings. Thē she would buie a Mare, that would bring foorth a faire Foale, the which would grow vp, & be so gentill and faire, yt he would playe skip, leape and fling, and crie we he he he after euery beast that should passe by, and for the ioye she conceyued of her sup­possed coult, in her iollitie counterfeiting to show his lu­stynesse, her pale of milcke fell downe of her head, and was all spilt: there laie her egs, her chikons, her capons her pigs, her mare, her coulte, and al vppon the ground. Euen so these Southsaiers, after yt they haue furnished, burnished, blotted, and spotted, loutted and floutted, pu­trefied and corrupted, promised and not performed, their best boxe being broken, they maie goe counte with this good Wife.

¶ Of King Salomon, that made the Philosophi­call stone, & the cause why these Southsayers cannot preuaile in their doinges.

THE cause why South-sayers, Witches & Wis­sardes, cannot bring all there matters to passe as they would, all the world doth not know: but Ma­rie the Prophetisse, showeth the cause why, in a Booke that she hath made of the greate excellencie and knowledge of the art, exhorting the Philosophers, and gi­uing them courage not to dispaire, and she saith, that the Philosophers stone, is so worthie and so precious, that amongst other her wonderfull vertues and excellences, she hath power to commaūd Sprites, and whosoeuer hath [Page 14] it, he may binde, loose, warrant, torment, martyr, helpe out of prison, goe through boltes and lockes: to be shorte, he may iuggle, playe with both handes, and doe what he list, if he know how to vse his fortune. It is so (saith she) that Salomon had the perfection of this stone, and knew by diuine inspiration, the great and woonderful proper­tie of the same, which was, to constraine the Deuils as we haue saide. And therefore, so soone as he had made it, he concluded to make all the spirites come and appeare before him: but first he caused to bee made a Caldron of Brasse, of a woonderfull and huge greatnes; for it was nothing lesse then all the whole circuite of the Forrest of Sherborn, but that it wanted halfe a foote, or there a­bout: it is all a matter, we wil not striue for a litle: mary ye must note, that it must be somewhat rounder, and it was néedful to be so great, for to serue that turne that he minded. And after the same maner he caused to be made a couer, so closse and iuste, as was possible. And also in like manner, he caused a hole to be made, and cast in the ground, large and déepe inough, for to burie his Caldron. When hee had prepared all these thinges, hee made to come before him by vertue of the stone, all the Spirites, that were dispersed in this world, litle and great, begin­ning with the Emperoures of the foure corners of the earth: then he made the Kinges to come, Dukes, Earls, Barrons, Lordes, Knights, Esquires, Captaines, heads of Bandes, pettie Captaines, Soldiours a foote, and on horseback, to great numbers. When they were all come, Salomon commaunded them, by the vertue aforesaid, yt they should all goe into that said pan that was buried in the ground. The Spirites could not gainesay, but were faine to goe in, but ye may wel thinke that it was with great griefe. So soone as they were all in, Salomon cau­sed the couer to be set on, and glued fast with the glue of Sapience, and therein leauing the Deuills, caused it also to bee couered with earth, vntill the hole was filled vp, [Page] with whom his minde and purpose was, that the world should be no more infected, & that men might afterward liue in peace and tranquillitie, and that all vertue and godlinesse might raigne vppon the earth. And it came to passe presently after that, that men began to bee merrie and glad, content, liuelie, gallant frollirke, gentle, amia­ble and pleasant: O how all thinges went forward. The earth brought foorth all manner of fruite without mans labour, the Wolues did not deuoure the Cattell, the Ly­ons, Tigers, and wilde Boares, were as tame as other Beastes: to bee shorte, all the earth séemed a Paradise, whilest these Runnigate Deuills were inclosed in this déepe Dongeon: But what happened after a long time? as Kingdomes chaunce to chaunge, the Townes & Cit­ties decay, and new are builded: so, there was a Kinge, who had a great desire to builde a Cittie: and Fortune wold, that it came into his head, to raise it in the proper place whereas these Deuils were inclosed. This Kynge set people on woorke for to make this Cittie, the whiche he would haue mightie, strong, and inuincible, and ther­fore it required a terrible and déepe foundations to make the walles: herevpon the Pyonners digged so lowe, that one amongst the reste discouered the Caldron wherein these spirites were, who after yt he had stricken vpon it, and that his companions did perceiue it, thought they should haue bene made riche for euer, & yt there was hid­den some inestimable Riches. But it was not in their power to breake it open of a sodaine: for besides ye great­nes, it was out of measure thicke, and therefore it was necessary that the King should know therof. Who when he had séene it, thought euen as the Pyoners did: for who would euer haue thought that deuils were therin, when it was thought that there was none in the world? for in long time before there was no talk of them. This King did well remember, that the Kings his predecessors had infinite riches, so as he could not iudge but that they had [Page 15] buried and hid therein some greate treasure, and that it was appointed him of destenie to finde it out and to en­ioy that wealth, that he might be the richest King in the worlde. To conclude, he set as many men of woorke, as there was about the Caldrō at the first, and whilest they were battering and beating vppon it, to get it open, the Deuils were at their watch, listening and geuing care what it should be, so yt they could not tell what to thinke whether they should be had out to hanging, or that their Iudgement had beene made since they weere put there. Now these brasiers and batterers had beaten vpon it so longe, that they beate out a great peece of the couer, and made a way to goe in: but it was no sooner open, then ye Deuils you maye bee sure, striued to get out by heapes, making such a noyse and crie, that the Kinge and all his people was so amased with feare, that they fel downe as deade: and these Spirites got them to their féete, & away they goe, euerie one to his olde corner, but that perhaps some of them were amased, to sée the Countreys & King­domes altered and chaunged since their imprisonment: by meanes whereof, they were faine for a time to straye as vacabonds, not knowing of what countrey they were because they heard not their parish bell. But all the way as they went, thei did so many mischiefs, that it was hor­rible to declare: for in stéed of one mischiefe that they did in times past to vexe the worlde, they inuented a thou­sand: they killed, they ouerthrew, they cast downe, spoi­led and ouerwhelmed all thinges, all wente to shiuers, for the Deuils were loose. In those days there were ma­nie Philosophers, for the South-sayers and Augurers, were called Philosophers by excellency, because that Sa­lomon had left them by writing the maner and forme to make the holie Stone, the which they brought to an art, and kept schooles of Philosophy, as we do of Grammer, in such sort, that many attained to the knowledge, consi­dering also, that these cursed Spirites did not trouble [Page] their braine whilest they were inclosed. But so soone as they were at libertie, remembring howe Salomon had misused them by vertue of this stone, the first thing they did, was to goe to the Philosophers Forges, and to caste them downe: and also they founde the meanes to deface, scrape out, breake, and falsefie, all the Bookes that they coulde finde out, of the saide Science, so that they lefte them so obscure and hard, that men know not what they séeke. And they were minded altogether to abolishe and roote it out, but that God would not suffer them: yet this permission they had, to goe and come, for to hinder the best learned in their businesse, in such sorte, that when a­nie one taketh paines to attaine the perfection thereof, and hath in a manner brought it to passe, then commeth the Deuill, and he breaketh a boxe which is full of this precious matter, and in lesse then half an houre, maketh the poore Philosopher loose al the paines that he hath ta­ken in ten or twelue yeares, so that he is to begin again, not because Hogges haue rooted it vp and spoiled it, but the Deuills which are worse. And this is the cause why so few Southsayers attaine to their enterprises, not for that the Science is not so true as it was at the first, but because the wicked Spirites are enemies of this gifte, and séeke vtterly to ouerthrow it: and because it may be one day, that one maye haue the grace to doe as well, as Salomon euer did: if by good luck he happen in our daies, I pray him by these presentes, that he forget not to con­iure, adiure, excommunicate, roote out, destroy, extermi­nate, confound, and vtterly abolish these wicked spirits, enemies to nature, and all good thinges, that thus hinder not onely the poore Southsayers, but also all men and womē: for they put into their heads a thousand wrongs, and a thousand fantasies, yea, and they themselues enter into these old Witches, making them very Deuils. And hereof commeth these wordes, that are spoken of a wic­ked woman, She hath a Deuelish head.

¶ Of the Cardinall of Luxenburg, and of the good Wife that would make her Sonne a Priest, and how the said Cardinall named hymself Philpot.

DVring the Raigne of Lewys French King, the twelueth of that name, there was a Cardinall of the house of Luxēburg, who was Bishop of Mans, and kept commōly at his manor at Mans, being a man of great magnificence and loued and honored of his Diocessers, like a Prince, more like then a Prelate. And with his honor he vsed a certaine familiarity, that made him the better beloued of ye People, and also he was full of his flouts in time and place, and he loued to Iest, and would take it in good part to be iested withall. Vpon a day, there came before him a good Wife of the Countrey (as he was bent to giue eare to all commers,) the which wife, after that she had knéeled down before him, and re­ceiued his blessing (as they vsed very deuoutly in those dayes) she began to say vnto him: my Lord, and it like your grace, with all reuerence be it spoken, I haue a son that is twentie yeare old and better, and is Clarke good enough, for he hath gone a yéere to Schoole in our parish, I would faine haue him made a Priest, if it were your pleasure to accept him. In faith said ye Cardinal, it should wel done good wife, let him be made one: yea Sir (said the simple wife) but there is a thing I feare me will let him: yet it was tould mée that you can recompence him, she wold haue said, dispēce with him. The Cardinall taking great pleasure in the Womans simplicitie, said to her, what is it good wife? Sir, so it is, that he hath not: what is that he hath not said be? ha my Lorde said she, he hath not, I dare not tell it: for ye knowe well enough what men carrie. The Cardinall that vnderstood her well, said to her, and what is that which men carrie? hath he no lōg hose? no, no (quoth she) it is not that I would speake: Dyr, he hath nothing. The Cardinall, was long questio­ning [Page] with her, to see whether hee coulde haue made her speake it out, but it was not possible, for she saide vnto him: ha my Lorde, you vnderstande me well enough, to what end do ye reason so long with me? notwithstāding, in the ende she said vnto him: you shall vnderstande my Lord, when he was a litle boy, he fell of a ladder, and so brake thē, that he was faine to be gelded, and had it not béene for that mischaunce, I would haue maried him, be­cause he is the tallest of all my Children. In faith said the Cardinall, he shall not let to be a Priest for all that, being once dispenced, for that must ye note by the waye: and I would to God yt al the priests in my diocesse were in his case, & had no more then he. Ha my Lord said she, I thanke your grace, he shalbe bound to pray to God for you, and for al your good Fréends that are dead. But my Lorde, there is yet another thing, that I would tell your Lordship, so that it doe not displease you. What is that good woman, said he? it is tould me (quoth she) that By­shops may change Mens names: I haue another boye, that doth nothing but mocke him, because he is named Phillip, and it like your grace, I thinke if that he had an other name, it should be better for him, for they crie after him Philpot, Philpot: and you knowe Sir what a grief it is vnto one when he is scorned and mocked: I would desire you, and it were your pleasure, to giue him ano­ther name. Now, ye shal note, that the Cardinal himself was named Phillip. Truely good wife said he, it is euill done of them to call your Sonne Philpot, we must sée a remedy for it, but you shall vnderstande said he, I would not take the name of Phillip from him, but I will haue him to kéepe the name for my sake, because I am of that name. And therfore I will giue him my name, and I will take his, so that hereafter I wilbe called Philpot. And whosoeuer miscalleth thy Son otherwise thē Phil­lip, come and tell me, and I will giue thée leaue to take an action against them: how say you? are you not so con­tent? [Page 17] thou will not be offended that thy Sonne be called after my name? In good faith my Lord (quoth she) you doe for vs more, then we shalbe euer able to deserue, and therfore I praye God of his grace to send you long life, and Heauē for your méede. The good wife went her way very well pleased and content, to haue had so good an an­swere of the Bishop, and tould all her Neighbours what my Lorde had done for her. After this, the said Cardinal that had a delight to repeate such stories, would name himself Philpot for pleasure, and said that his name was no more Phillip, so that often tymes he was called Phil­pot, wherat he would laugh, after the manner of Augu­stus Caesar, who loued to Iest many tymes, and be con­tent to be iested withall, as appeareth by this common talke of him, and of a young man that came to Rome, who was in face so like Themperour, that there was no difference to discerne betweene them, and was looked at and vewed of all the People of the Cittie. Wherof Au­gustus, hauing knowledge, said vnto him vppon a time: tell me young man, hath your Mother byn at any tyme in the Cytie of Rome. The yongmā that vnderstood wel the Emperours meaning, aunswered: and it like your maiestie, my Mother came neuer yet to this Cittie as I haue hard her say, but my Father hath bin here diuerse & sundry times, so yt by this aunswere, he gaue vnto Au­gustus that, which Augustus thought to haue layed vpon him. For it was no more vnpossible that the yongmans Father, mighte haue knowen Augustus Mother, then the Emperour to haue béene acquainted with the young­mans mother: neither did the same Emperour take it in anger when Virgill called him a Bakers Son, because ye first tyme that he knew him, he would distribute loaffes of bread for gifts and presents, but afterwardes, he gaue him many other rich and good gifts.

¶ Of a young-man of Parys newely marryed, and how that Beaufort fownd a craftie meanes to take his pleasure of his wife, notwithstanding the diligent and carefull watch and keeping of Dame Parnet.

A Certaine Man of Paris, after that he had frequen­ted the Vniuersity to small profit, gaue ouer his studie, and went and dwelled in the Citie, where he remained for a certaine tyme without a Wife, béeing content so to liue, wanting no kinde of pleasure that he could wish or desire, and also women (although there be no such at Paris to be had) of which he hauing knowne the craftes and subteltyes in many Cuntreyes, and hauing himselfe vsed them to his owne vse, he did not greatly force to marrie a Wife, fearing this cursed and commō mischiefe, to be made a Coockolde: and had it not béene for the desire he had to sée him self a Father, and to haue an heire of his owne bodie, he could haue byn con­tented, to haue kept him self a Bacheller still. But he be­ing a mā subiect to the flesh, thought it best notwithstan­ding to marrie and take a wife, and that rather betyme then to late, and partly because he thought he knew how to vse her aswell as the most mē, and also he did remem­ber again, that nothing causeth a man so soone to be made a Coockolde, as the imperfection and vnablenes that the woman findeth in her Husband. Moreouer, he did kéepe in memorie, and also in writing, the deceites, fraudes, and guiles, that woman dayly vse, for to haue and enioy their pleasure: he knew the goinges and commings, that these olde wiues make from house to house, vnder the coulor to bring, shread, linnē, wrought works, dainties, littell dogs, and such knackes: he knew how women doe conterfeit sicknesse, make their walkings to Orchards, and gardins, howe they speake to their louers that come in maskes, and howe they get them selues fauour, vnder [Page 18] the shadowe of kindred, and acquaintaunce: also he h [...] [...]ed Boccas and Celestinus. And of all these thinges [...] thought to take héede and beware, thinking this in him selfe, I would do the best that I can to keepe me from hornes, and as for other chaunces let them hap as they may. So then among the Damsells and Virgins of Pa­ris where he did remaine, he did chuse one to his minde, that was wel nurtered, sober, wise, and handsome, wher­in he failed not of his purpose, for he married one, that was faire, rich, and of a good kindred, whome he brought home to his owne inheritaunce. Nowe, he kept in his house a woman of good years, that had béene his Nurse, and that had alwayes dwelled in y house, named Dame Parnet, béeing one that was subtill and warie in all af­faires: which Woman he did present vnto his Wyfe, at her comming to the house, saying vnto her: louing wife, I am greatly behoulding to this Woman that you sée here, she was my Nurse, and hath done good seruice to my Father and mother, and to me after them, I giue her therfore vnto you, to kéep you Companie, she hath béene very well brought vp, I doubt not, but she will please you well. And then secretly, he charged Dame Parnet, to giue attendaunce vpon his Wife at all times, and for nothing to forsake her Companie vpon his displeasure, whither so euer she went: the which she promised faith­fully to do. But this much may I say by the way, that there is an vnhappy prouerbe, I cannot tell who did in­uent it, but it is very common, (casta quam nemo roga­uit:) I wil not say that it is true, but leaue it as it is, yet I dare say that there is no faire womā but hath béene or shalbe assalted. Well, I am not faire wil some say, nor I neither will another saye: I am content it be so, because I loue no strife, but this be sure, a Woman that is wyse and wily, will take héede to tell that she hath béene sued vnto by any, specially to her Husband: for if he be wise, he will thinke of his wife, that if she had giuen no occa­sion [Page] she should not haue bin required: but to come to my tale. It came to passe amongst other Companie, that did fre­quent & haunt this maried mans house (whome I meane not to name) was a yong Aduocate, who was called the Lord of Beaufort, being of the cuntry of Berry, who came many times to the Bar, to plead the law: to which Gen­tleman, this maried mā bare great fauour & loue, & made good chéer, because they had béene familliar at ye. Vniuer­sities, and Companions together in many places. This Beaufort, had not his name in vaine, for he was faire, & of a good behauiour, and therfore the yong maried Gen­tlewoman, gaue him a louing looke, & he likewise to her: in so much, that in short time by their oftē regards, they gaue a token of their secret loue & good wills. Now, the Husband knowing fashiōs, showed himself very willing to please his wife, specially when things were new, not greatly mistrusting his wiues youth, neither doubting his fréends honesly, contenting himself with the diligent care & attendance of Dame Parnet. Beaufort in like man­ner for his part, could tell how to behaue himself, percei­uing the great familiarity, that his freend her Husbande shewed him, & the gentle gratious intertainement, that ye yong wife made him with an outward affectiō, which hée thought was more manifest to him, then to another, as indéed it was true: and therfore he found easily an oc­casion in talking with her, to declare the sorrow he con­ceiued through her loue, and because she was brought vp & nourished in a house of fame, she could yt better vse her self, and answere vnto all questions and demaunds. To whome Beaufort being pricked forward with a goodwil, said in this maner: Gentelwoman, it is easie enough to a Gentlewoman of a good minde, to know the goodwill of a seruant, for they alwaies bring in subiectiō and thral­dome, the harts of men, whither they will or no: therfore it shall not néede further to expresse & declare vnto you, ye great affectiō & honor that I beare to an infinit nomber [Page 19] of your vertues, which are indeed, with such gentlen [...] of the minde, that the man can not otherwyse iudge [...] think, but that he was borne happy & fortunate to ha [...] his heart fixed in so good a place: for those things that are most precious, are not desired, but of gentle and noble minds; which therfore to me is a great occasiō to praise fortune, that hath béene so fauorable, as to present and offer me, so vertuo [...]s and worthie a subiect, that there­by I might haue the meane, to put in euidēce, the desire I haue to things precious, and of a great valew. And al­though I bée one of the leaste of those whose seruice you meryt & deserue, yet neuertheles I am thus perswaded, that the great perfections that are in you (wherat I do wonder) will giue occasiō to increase in me those things yt are required to true seruice. For, as touching my hart▪ it is so faithfully affectioned towards you, that it is vn­possible any thing cā be more, which I hope & trust, so to giue you to vnderstand, that you shal neuer be displeased in that you haue giuen me occasion to remaine for euer your faithfull & trusty seruant. The yong gentle womā, yt was well taught and sober, hearing his pretēce, would as gladly haue fulfilled his request, as it was required: who with a feminine voyce, being somwhat bould accor­ding to her age▪ (to the which commonly Women haue respect) being coupled with an honest & modest shamfast­nesse, answered him in this maner: Gentlemā, although I should haue a will and a desire to loue, yet will I not so ouershoot my self, as to make another Louer thē he to whome I am coupled & ioyned in mariadge & wedlocke, who loueth me so wel, and doth so gently entertaine me, that he kéepeth me frō thinking on any other thē on him. Furthermore, if it should fortune vnto me, to set my hart in two places, I estéeme & iudge your vertue & good heart to be such, yt you wold not wish me to do any thing yt shal redound to my dishonor. As touching the vertues & graces that on attribute vnto me, I will let thē passe, [Page] [...]nowing no such thing in my self, and therfore, I restore [...]m to the place frō where they came, which is to you. [...]or now, to defend my selfe otherwise, would you pre­sume to do that iniurie and wrong to him, that putteth so much confidence and trust in you? it séemeth to me, that such a noble minde as yours is, would by no means geue place to such a fact as this. And then you sée besides, the inconueniences so greatly to let such an enterprise, that if you should obtaine your request, there is not oportu­nitie to fulfill the same: For I haue alwaies in my Cō ­panie a Kéeper, so that if you would consent to do euill, she hath alwayes her eye vpon me, that I cannot steale from her by no means. Beaufort was very glad when he vnderstood this answere, and specially when he felt that the Gentlewoman stayed her self vpon reasone, whereof the first were some what to hard, but afore the last, ye yong wife did mellify their herselfe: to the which M. Beaufort made answere in this order. The thrée poincts that you doe alledge (Gentlewoman) I haue wel wayed and con­sidered: but you know y two of them depend and consist of your goodwill, and the third lyesh in diligence & good aduise. For as touching the first, séeing that loue is a ver­tue, that searcheth out and séeketh the hearts and minds after a gentle nature, you must well think, that one day you shall lyue first or last, the which thing before it be, it were better you should receiue the seruice of him, who loueth you as his proper life in due houre, then to staye any longer to yeeld & obey to ye Lord, that hath power to make you pay ye interest of the time yt by you hath beene let slyp, and to put you into ye hands of some dissembling man, yt wold not take such regard of your honor as it de­serueth. As touching y second, it is a case that hath béene long voide, to thē that find me what loue is: for you shall vnderstand, for the affection that I beare vnto you, (so far am I from doing iniurie to your Husbande) that ra­ther I do him honor, what I loue with a good heart that [Page 20] which he loueth: & there is no greater shew ye two hearts are at accorde, but when they both loue one thinge. You know well if he and I were ennemies, or if we had not acquaintance one with an other, I should not haue opor­tunitie to sée you, neither to speake to you so often as I doe. So then, the good will that I beare towardes him, béeing the cause of the great loue that I beare towardes you, ought not to be the cause that you should let me die for louing you. Now then, as concerning the thirde, you knowe faire Lady, that to a willing and noble heart no­thing is vnpossible, iudg then, what it is that can escape from two heartes, that are subiect to looue, which of him­selfe is such a Lord, that he maketh his subiectes attaine to the thing which they most desire. Well to bee shorte, Beaufort did so wisely tell his tale, that with curtesie she could not well refuse him. And their affaires remained in suche case, that the young Gentlewoman was ouer­come with a voluntarie mind: so that there remained no more, but to find opportunity and meanes to bring their matters to passe. They inuented many waies & deuises to attaine their purpose, but when it came to the pinche, Dame Parnet spoyled al: for she had two eyes, that were better then al the eies that Argos had, which kept Iunos Cowe. And for to vse those sleightes that Beaufort had v­sed before time, was al in vaine: for the young womans Husband knewe them all. Neuerthelesse, hee studied so longe, that in the ende he founde one deuise, that would serue his turne: which was (that knowing well that to two willing minds nothing might séeme impossible) he disclosed it to a frend of his, that was a young Merchant, of cloth, and not yet married, dwelling in a house which his Father had left him not long before, béeing at the'nd of our Ladies Bridge, whom he had so won to his will that he refused not to giue his consent in anie thing that Beaufort requested: And because the Gentlewomās hus­band was familiarly acquainted with this younge Mer­chaunt, [Page] it was the easier to bringe this matter to passe. These thinges falling so fit to their purpose, they gaue knowledge to the Gentlewoman of their determination and deuise, whereunto she willingly consented, and pro­mised that the nexte time she wente to the Market, shee would passe by that place, at what time they might put their deuise in practise. And as the Gentlewoman was comming by the house where Maister Henry dwelled, (for so was the Merchant named) beholde there was cast out (as the matter was determined before) a pale of wa­ter, that fell vpon the Gentlewoman: and it was caste in such manner, that all that sawe it thought it had come by some inconuenience and misfortune. Alas said she dame Parnet, helpe, what shall I doe? I am ashamed for euer. The best for her was, to step into M. Henries house, bée­ing her Husbandes frend, therefore she said vnto Dame Parnet: for Gods sake run home quickly, and fetche mee my gowne furred with white Lambe, and bring hither, I will tarrie for you at M. Henries. The olde Woman went her way, and the young Gentlewoman wente vp into a Chamber, where she found a good fire, that her lo­uer Beaufort had prouided for her, who deferred not the time, but tooke the occasion offered, in the pleasure of his longe looked for delight, whose matters were dispatched before the olde woman could bring her Gowne, French hood, partlet, and al other thinges that did belong to her. The married man béeing at home, and vnderstanding ye Dame Parnet was aboue in the chamber, who was get­ting together her trinkets, without saying any thing to him, for feare he should bée angrie, came and founde her aboue, asking her what shee made there, and where shee had lefte his Wife. Dame Parnet declared to him what had hapned, & that she was come home for other clothes. Yea with a vengeance said he (suspecting some deceite) here is a craftie deuise indéed, yt is not yet in my Booke, I think I knew all sauing this, I am nowe wel serued, [Page 21] one vnhappy houre is ynough to make one a Cuckolde: get you hence away, run with that you haue, I wil send the rest by the boy: Dame Parnet trotted as fast as euer she could, but all too late: for M. Beaufort had dispatched and done: and when dame Parnet came, she perceiued no­thing: for although the Gentlewoman had a good colour, she thought it was through the heate of the fire: and so it was, but it was with such a fire that no water is able to quench.

¶ Of Gyles the Ioyner, how he did reuenge him­selfe of a Grey-hound, that came alwayes & beguiled him of his Dinner.

THere was on a time at Poytiers, a Ioyner named Gyles, that laboured to get his liuing so well as he coulde, hauing loste his Wife, who had lefte him a Daughter of the age of nine or ten yeares, béeing cont̄t with her seruice, and had no other boye nor mayde. Hee made his prouision on the Saturday, to serue him all the wéeke after, and in the morning he would get his little Pot on the fire, that his Daughter made to boyle, & foūd himselfe aswell content with his ordinarie prouision, as a richer man would be with his. Nowe it is commonly said, it is good to haue a neighbour, neither too poore, nor too rich: for if he be poore, he will alwaies be crauing, bee­ing not able to helpe thée at néede: and if he be riche, hee will kéepe thée vnder subiection, and thou must be fayne to suffer him, and art afraid to borrow of him. This Ioi­ner had to his neighbour a Gentleman, who was some­what too great a Sir for his poore estate, and looued hun­ting verie well. And he did vsually kéepe a great compa­ny of Houndes in his house, to hunt the Hare, the which pastime was to bee had not farre without the Towne. Amongst all his hounds, he had a very faire Greyhound, that did many shreude turnes in that Towne: for hee [Page] would come into euerie mans house, & the victualles be found, he would deuoure: ther was nothing for him ney­ther too hot, nor too heauie, were it bread, béeffe, chéese, or anie thing else, all was one: & chiefly he did most harme to the poore Ioyner, for there was but a wall betwéene the Gentleman and him. By the meanes whereof, this Greyhound was smelling and séeking about his house, at all houres of the day, and looke what he found he car­ried it quite away. And also the hound had this subtletie, that with his paw he would cast downe the Potte that boiled vppon the fire, and would take vp the meate, and run his way: so that oftentimes the poore Ioyner had but a slender & cold Dinner. Which thing gréeued him sore: for after his labour and paines taken in his woorke, hee was beguiled of his Dinner, before hee could sit downe at Table. And (which was worst of all) he durst not cō ­plain, but he meaned to be reuenged whatsoeuer should happen. Vppon a daye when he spied the Greyhound go­ing to get his pray, he followeth after him with a great square troncheon in his hand, and he found him busie a­bout his Pot to get out the meat, he made no more adoe, but shut the gate, and got hold on the Greyhound, to whō in shorte time hee gaue fiue or sixe drie stripes with his square vpon the backe, and spared him not at al, and then cast away his square troncheon, and tooke vp a small ha­sell wand in his hand, an ell long, or there about, where­withall hee followed the Greyhound out of the poores, that cried as though he had béen killed (as indéed he was little better) and laide on him in the stréete, saying: Hahoreson Curre, get thée hence with a mischéefe and come no more here to eat vp my Dinner, making a shows, as though he had stricken with nothing but that small rod: but it was with a rod so soft as a footestoole, wherewith he had so blessed the greyhound, that the Gentleman ne­uer ease Hare after of his taking.

¶ Of Blondeaw the merrie Cobler, that was ne­neuer sad or heauie in his life time but twise, and how he prouided remedie for it, & of his Epitaphe.

THere was sometimes dwelling in Paris a Cobler, named Blondeaw, that had a litle shop in a corner, where he mended shooes, getting his liuing thereby merrily, and aboue all he loued good wine, and could tel them that went vnto it, where the best was, for he wold be sure to spie out the best, and take his part. All the day long he would sing as he sat at his worke, and make the neighbors merie, he was neuer séene all the daies of his life heauie and sad, but twise. The one time was, after yt he had found an olde naule in an yron pot, in which was store of old money, some of siluer, & some of brasse, wher­of he knew not the value. Then he began to he heauie & sad, and would sing no more, his mind ran all on his pot of trash that he had found: he thought to himselfe that the money was not currant, I cannot saide hee, get neither bread nor Wine for it, & if I shew it to the Goldsmiths, they will bewray me, or haue their part of my finding, & yet they wil not giue me halfe of that it is woorth. Then another time he was afraide that he had not hidden his pot well, and that some one or other came to steale it a­way, there was almost no houre, but he would goe from his shop to remoue his pot, he was in the greatest trou­ble and paine that could be. But at the last he be thought himselfe saying: howe the Deuill commeth it, that I am so troubled with my pot, euery man perceiueth by mee, that I haue some thing in my head, I would the Deuill had it, so I had neuer séene it: which said, on a sodaine he tooke the pot, with the money, and cast it into the riuer, and there drowned all his care: this béeing doen, he was the merriest man aliue, and began in his accustomed ma­ner, [Page] to singe as ioifully as euer he did, neither was his minde anie more gréeued or molested. And other time, hee was offended with a Gentleman, that dwelled right o­uer against his shop, who had an Ape, that did a thousand shreud turnes to Blondeaw. For he béeing in a window, watched the Cobler when hee cut out péeces of lether for his shooes, and beholde how he did, and so soone as poore Blondeaw was gone to Dinner, or to any other place a­bout his businesse, the same Ape would come downe to goe into the Coblers shop, and take his cutting knife, & cut out the leather, as he had séene Blondeaw doe, & this was his custom and vse at all times that Blondeaw was gone out: so that the poore man was faine to eat & drinke a great while in his shop, and durst not go abroad vnles he had locked vp his lether: and if he had forgottē at any time to shut it vp, then ye Ape would not forget to cut out péeces. Which thing did trouble him very much, and also he durst doo no harme to the Ape, for feare of his maister. When he was so weary of this displeasure, that he could forbeare no longer, he thought he would be reuenged, & perceiuing it was the Apes property to counterfeyt him in all thinges: (for if Blondeaw had whette his knife, so would this Ape doe, yf he had thrust with his naule, this Ape would do so after him, and if that he had pulled out his thréedes at length, the Ape would pull out, as he had séene him doe) vpō a time he did whet his cutting knife, and made it as sharpe as a razour, and at that time whē he espied the Ape to looke earnestly vppon him, he began to put his cutting knife against his throate, and to goe with it to and fro, as though he would haue cut his owne throate: and when he had done this twise or thrise, that the Ape mighte learne it, hee laide downe his knife, and shut his shop doore, and wente home to Dinner. This Ape by and by commeth downe, and entreth his shoppe, thinking to trie this new game and pastime, that he had neuer seene before: And hee taketh vp the paring knife, [Page 23] and straightwayes put it to his throate, going with it to and fro, as he had seene Blondeaw the Cobler doe: but he put it too neare his throate, and taking no regarde, cut his owne throat, whereof he died within an houre after. And thus Blondeaw was reuenged of the Ape, without any daunger of his Mayster: and then he framed himself to his olde custome againe, in singing, and making good cheare, and so he continued euen vnto the end of his life. And in remembraunce of his merrie life amongst them, they made an Epitaph, and set the same ouer his graue, for all passers by to peruse at their pleasure.

HEre vnderneath this ground doth lie a Cobler, Blondeaw was his name:
Who in his life liu'd merrily, to his great prayse, and endles fame.
Whose death his neighbors did lament, they did so much in him delight:
Whom they did looue, till life was spent, and death did come to claime his right.

¶ Of three Brethren that thought they shoulde haue bene hanged for their Lattin.

THere was vppon a time three Brethren, come of a good house, that had béene kept at Paris a longe time: but their time béeing spent in play and idle­nesse, it came to passe that their Father sente for them home, for the which they were verie sorie, because they could not speake one word of Lattin: therefore they did agrée together to learne ech one a word for their pro­uision. So that the eldest did learn to say, Nos tres clerici. The second tooke his theame of money, and hee learned, pro Bursa & pecunia. The third passing by a Church, hard the priest say, Dignum & iustum est, & that kept he for his [Page] store. And here vpon they departed from Paris, being pro­uided to go to their Father, and they concluded & agreed together, that wheresoeuer they came, and to all people that they met, they would speake no other thing but the Latin that they had learned: because they would be este­med to be the greatest Clarkes in the Countrey. Nowe as they were going through a Wood, it was found that Théeues had cut a mans throat about that time: Wher­fore ye Prouost Martial comming thither with his men, and finding these thrée brethren harde by where the facte was cōmitted, demaunding of them who had killed this man, by and by the eldest (to whome it belonged first to speake) aunswered, Nos tres clerics. Yea said the Prouost, for what intent haue you done it? The second Brother, (whose turne was to speake next) said, pro Bursa & pecu­niae. Well said the Prouost Martiall, you must therefore be hanged. The thirde Brother aunswered, Dignum & instum est. So that the thrée Clarkes had like haue been hanged by their owne confession, if it had not bene, that when they perceiued it was in good earnest, they began to speake their mothers Latin, and to declare what they were. The Prouost that saw they were young and sim­ple witted, knew that it was not they, & so let them goe, following with hue and crie the murtherers, not forget­ting the learned fellowes he met withall.

¶ Of a younge Scholler, that made that Lattin preuaile to some effecte, which the Curate of their parish had taught him.

A Certaine rich Husbandman of the Countrey, kept his sonne certaine yeares at Paris, who (by ye coun­sell of the parish Priest, sente for him home. When he was come, the old man greatly reioiced to sée his son, and out of hand sent for the Priest to dinner, who came, & taking ye yongman by the hand, bid him welcom home, [Page 24] I am glad said he to sée you well: let vs go to dyner, and then I will talke with you. After diner was done, the Father said to the Priest: Sir, sée here my Sonne, that I haue sent for from Paris, as you gaue me counsell, it shalbe thrée yeare come this Candelmas, since he went thither, I would gladly know whether he haue profited any thing there or no, but I feare me he loseth his time, and yet I would faine make him a Priest: I praye you M. Vicar, examine him, to see how he hath profited. Yea marie Gossep said the Vicar, I will for your sake take a litle paines with him. And at that time in the presence of the good man, he called for his sonne: come hither sayd the Priest, I know your tutors at Paris are great Lati­nistes, let me heare how they haue taught you, séeing your father doth meane to make you a Priest, I am ve­ry glad thereof: and therfore first of all tell mée, what is latin for a Priest? the yong man answered him, Sacer­dos: wel said the Priest, that is not a misse, for it is writ­ten, ecce Sacerdos magnus. But Pristulus is a great deale more eloquenter, and more proper: for you knowe very wel, that a Priest weareth a stoule about his neck. Now thē tell me, what is latin for a Cat? for the Priest espied the Cat by the fire? The Lad answered, Catus, felis, mu­rilegus: the Priest because he would make the good man beléeue that he knewe more then all the Doctors in Pa­ris, said to the yong man: I thinke your Cutors at Paris haue so taught you, but there is yet a better woorde, and that is Mitis: for you know there is nothing more fami­liar then a Cat, and also her taile (that is so smooth and soft when ye hādell it is called Suauis. Now then, what call ye in latine fire? the boy aunswered Ignis. No sayd the Priest, it is Gaudium: for ye know, it comforteth and reioyceth vs: do you not see that we are here by the fire at our ease? Well, what call ye water in latin? the Lad answered Aqua. It is a great deale better sayd ye Priest to call it Abundantin: for you know, that there is nothing [Page] so plentifull as water. Now, wat is a bed in lattin? the Boy said Lectus. The Curat said, ye speake none but cō ­mon lattin, there is no Child but can tell this, know ye no other wordes? the Boy said again Cubile: yet that is not it. At the last when he had no more lattin wordes for a bed: Iohn (said the Priest) I will tell thée, it is called Requies, because that theron we sléep, and take our rest. Whilest the Priest was questioning in this order, with his nouice, the old man was not well pleased, but could haue found in his heart to haue beaten his Sonne, for he had thought he had lost his time, and spent his mo­ney in vaine. But the Priest séeing him angry, said vnto him: Gossip, I pray you contēt your self, your Son hath profited wel enough, I know yt he hath béen thus taught, and his answeres are good. But there is latin, and latin again: for I know such words, that they neuer hard no such at Paris, not the best Doctors of them all, therfore send him to me, and I wil teach him things that he doth not yet know: and you shall sée, that before thrée months are past, I will instructe him otherwise then he is yet. The yongman all this while durst not reply, because he was fearfull, & shamfast: but his thought was frée neuer­thelesse. Within certain dayes after, the Priest did kill a fat hog, & sent for this Husband-mā to dinner, to make merie with hogs puddinges, and willed him to bring his Son with him: which came, dined together, & made good chéere. The young man that kept wel in remembrance the Lattin that the Curat had taught him, and that studied, and practised the way and meane to exercyse the same, did rise from the table are they had done, and af­ter he had done his dutie, he goeth to the fire side, where he espying the Cat, tooke her, and tyed a wispe of drye straw at her taile, and set fire thereto with a match, and so let her go: and she féeling the fire flame at her taile, be­gan to run about, and at the last vnder the Priestes had where he laye, the which was set on fire with the [Page 25] Cats taile, and began to flame. And when the yong man sawe that, it was hye tyme to make his latin to works some effect, he came in all the haste running to the Vi­car, and said vnto him. Pristole, Mitis habet gandium in suani, quod si abundantia non est, tu amittis tuam requiem. It was no boote to bid the Priest runne, perceiuing the fire to waxe great. And by this meanes the young man did showe howe he had profited in the Latin, that Maister Vicar had taught hym, for to teach hym, not to defame him any more before his Father.

¶ Of a Priest that could not saye one word almost in his Gospell, but Iesus.

IN a certain parish in the Diocesse of Mans, which was named Saint Georges, there was a Priest, that before tyme had béene marryed, but after that his Wyfe was dead, (to do his indeuour the better to praye to GOd for her Soule, and for to get the saying of a masse, that she had appointed to bée sayde euery day for her in the Parish Church) hee would néeds be made a Priest. And although hee could speake no lattin but for his owne prouision, and scant that: yet notwithstan­ding he dyd as others doe. and would make an ende of it as well as hée could. Vppon a tyme there came to Saint Georges a Gentleman, vppon certaine businesse that hée had: and because he had no leasure to tarry the hye masse, hee minded to haue a lowe masse said: so he sent his man to séeke a Priest to saye it, who met with this Priest that we speake of here, that was as diligent as might bée. And although hee knewe but his masse of Requiem, of our Ladye, and of the Holy Ghost, yet hee made no showe of any thing, for feare to lose his Masse great, but séemed to haue asmuch skill as another. [Page] Well, he put on his masking roabe, and beginneth his masse, he dispatched his introite with much a do, and the Epistle with much more. But the Gentleman tooke no great regard, béeing occupyed in his Prayers, vntill it came to the Gospell that was too hard for the Priest, for he did neuer reade it before, aboue thrée or foure times: by the meanes whereof, he was merueilously troubled, knowing well, that the Gentleman, and they that stood by, gaue eare vnto him, which gaue ocasion to make his toung to trip the more. He said this Gospell so heauily, and found in it so many new and strange wordes, and so hard to spell, that he was constrayned to cut off the one halfe, and at euery second or third woorde he sayd Iesus, (although it was not in his Gospel) at the last he got out of it with great paine, and made an end of his masse, as well as he could. The Gentleman noting the ignorance of this Priest, payde him for his masse, and willed his man to bid him home to dyner, which proffer the Priest willingly accepted. Being together at dyner, the Gen­tlemā said vnto him: Sir Iohn, the Gospell that ye read to day, was very deuout, there was Iesus repeated very often. Thē Sir Iohn, that was somwhat merie because of his good chéere, perceiuing the Gentleman pleasantly disposed, began to saye. Sir, I perceiue well what you meane, but I will tell you Sir: indéede I am not so well séene, as those that haue béene Priests twentie or thirtie years, wheras I haue not béen passing two or thrée yéere at the most, the gospell that was read this day (for to tell you truth) I neuer read it before, aboue thrée or foure tymes, as there are many other in my booke that are ve­ry hard. But I will tell you what Sir, whē I say masse before honest Folke, and that there is in the gospell hard wordes that I cannot reade, I skip them ouer for feare to make the matter too long: but in stéede of them I says Iesus, which is a great deale better. Now, truely Sir Iohn saide the Gentleman, you do very well, alwayes [Page 22] when I come this way I wil heare your masse: I drink to you Sir Iohn. I thank you Gentlemā said the Priest, when you stand néede of mée Sir, I will serue you aswel as any Priest in the Parish, and so he tooke his leaue as merie as might be.

¶ Of M. Peter Faeifew, that had Bootes, which cost him nothing, and of the Scorners of a Towne called Arrow, in Aniou.

NOT long time since, there kepte in the Towne of Angiers a iolly shifting Gentlemā, named Maister Peter Faifew, a man full of inuentions, vsing many tymes vnlawfull shifts, to take other mens goods for his owne: Maister Peter could do such things well enough. And this prouerbe séemed to him very good, Al things are common, there wantes but the waye to get them. True it is, that he would make such cleanly shifts & conueian­ces, that mē could not greatly blame him, but laugh and iest at his doings, notwithstanding they tooke as great héede of him as they could. It were too long to tell the shiftes that he hath made in his life tyme, but by this one iudge of the rest. Vppon a time, he found himselfe so hard beset in going out of the Town of Angiers, that he had no leysure to take his boots, no, he had not leysure to saddell his Horse, he was followed so neare. But hee made such shifte, that when he was a two or thrée for­longs out of the Towne, he found the meanes to get a mars of a poore man yt went homeward to the Towne, saying vnto him, that he went that same waye, and was in great haste, but hee would leaue the Mare with his Wife. And because it was foule weather, he went into a barne, and in great hast made him a paire of bootes of haye, and got vppon his mare, and at the last hee came to Arrow all wette, and in ill plight, which caused his countenaunce to be very sad. And yet to mende the mat­ter, [Page] in ryding through the Towne, whereas hée was sufficently knowne, the Scorners (for so were they cal­led because of their scoffing and mocking) began to rate him, saying: M. Peter, it were good talking with you now in this case, another said M. Peter, take vp your swoord: another, he is mounted vpon his Mare like saint Georg on his Horsebacke: but among the rest, the Shoomakers mocked him most with his boots. Surely said they, this a good World for Shoomakers, for the Horses will eat vp their Maisters boots. Maister Peter was so moued, that a litle thing would haue made him lighted of his Mate: but so much the more willinger were they to flout him, because he was one that mocked others: yet hee tooke yt patiently, and saued him selfe so soone as he could in [...] Inne. When he was a litle come to him selfe by the fire, he began to studie howe he might be reuenged of these Scorners, that had so giuen him his welcome in: at last he remembred and bethought him of a meane and waye to be reuēged of the Shoomakers, according as the tyme and necessitie required. His deuise was (wanting boots) to finde the meanes to be booted of frée cost of the Shoo­makers, and sending a Boy of the In for a Shoomaker, there came one, which by chance was of them that flou­ted him at his cōming in. Friend said he, cast thou make me a paire of good boots against too morrow in the mor­ning? Yea Sir said the Shoomaker: but I would haue them an houre before day quoth hee. Sir you shall haue them said he, at that hour, or as early as you will. Then I pray the dispatch them, and I will pay thee thy owne price: the shoomaker tooke measure of his leg and went his way. He was no sooner gone, but M. Peter called an other Boy, and willed him to fetch him an other shooma­ker, saying, that the first man and he could not agre. The Shoomaker came, to whome he said asmuch as he did to the first, that he should make him a paire of boots against the next morrow an houre before day, and he would not [Page 27] rare what he paide for them, so that he made them well, and of good neats lether. The two Shoomakers labou­red al night about these boots, ye one not knowing of the other. The next day in the morning at the houre expres­sed, M. Peter sent for the first Shoomaker, that brought his boots. So he caused him to pul on the right foot boot, which was made very well, but when he came to pul on the left leg boote, he made as though his leg was sore, saying to the shoomaker: frend, thou dost hurt me, I haue a swelling fallen into this leg, and I had forgot to tel the of it, ye boote is too straight, but there may be a remedy: I pray thee goe & set it on the last, I had rather tarrie an houre longer. When the shoomaker was gone. M. Peter puld off the boote, and thē sent for the other shoomaker, and in the meane time caused his mare to be sadled, and reckoned and paid for al his charges, and by & by came ye second Shoomaker with his boots. M. Peter caused him to pul on ye left boote, which was meruelously wel made, but as for the right leg boote, he made such an excuse as he did to the first, and sent him with it againe to haue it made wider. And when he was gone, he tooke the right leg boote that he had of the first shoomaker, & puld it on, and got vpō his mare, and rode away as fast as he could. And he had well nye rydden thrée myle when the twoo Shoomakers came and met together at the Inne with eche of them a boote in their hande, that asked one an­other for whome his boote was: it is sayde the one for Maister Peter Faifew, that willed me make it wider, be­cause it hurt his leg. How so said the other, I haue made this boote wyder for him, thou deceauest thy selfe, it is not for him that thou hast wrought. No ys saide he, haue not I spoken with him? do not I know him? and whilest they were so debating the matter, the Host of the house came, and asked them for whome they tar [...]. For M. Peter Faifewe, sayde the one, and the other say [...] asmuch. If you staye to speake with hym, you must then tarrie [Page] vntill he come this way agine said the Host, for by this time he is foure or fiue mile on his way, and rydeth still on. God knows, the two Shoomakers combes were cut, what shal we then do with our boots saide the one to the other? they determined to playe a mum-chaunce who shold enioy them, because they were both of one fashion. And Maister Peter sped euen as he did wish, who was in better order then he was the day before.

¶ Of a Counsellor and his Horse-keeper, that sold him his olde Mule againe in steede of a young one.

THere was a Counsellor of the Palice, that had kept a Mule twentie fiue yeares or there about, and had amongest the rest before tyme an Horse-keeper, na­med Dedyer, that kéept this Mule ten or twelue yeare, who after he was werie of his seruice asked leaue of his Maister, and with his good wil became a Breaker of Horses, notwithstanding, he frequented dayly his Mai­sters house, in offering his seruice as duetifully, as if he had beene his houshould Seruaunt. After certain years, the Counsellor perceiuing his Mule to be very old, said vnto Dedyer: come hither, thou knowest well ynough my Mule, she hath borne me merueilously wel, I am so­ry that she is so old, for I feare me I shall not get again her like, but I praye thee looke abroade, and sée if thou canst espye out one for my turne. Dedier said vnto him: Sir: I haue one in my stable I thinke will prooue well, you shall haue her a while, and if you finde her to your minde, we shall agrée for her well enough, and if she do not like you, I wil take her again. Thou sayst well said the Coūsellor, go thy ways & bring her to me, & so he did, In the meane time, he gaue Dedyer his old Mule to put awaye, who began to use her téeth with a file, and dresse [Page 28] and rubd her, and quickened her vp with a sticke, and so cunningly vsed her, that he made her quicke and liuely, that if she had séene but a sticke, shee would haue stirred. In the meane time, his Maister rode vpon that Mule, yt the Horsekéeper had lent him, but he founde her not for his turne, and said vnto Dedyer: the Mule that thou ga­uest me will not serue my turne, she is too full of qualli­ties, canst thou not get me an other? Sir (said this Horse­breaker) it comes well to passe, for within this twoo or thrée dayes I haue founde one, that I haue knowen of a longe time, which will serue your turne very well, and when you haue tried her, and find her not as good as my woord, then blame me. Dedyer broght out this fine mule, as smooth as a penny, with a gilded bridle, foming at the mouth, and playing with her heade, that it would haue doone a man good at the hearte to haue séene her. This Counsellour taketh her, getteth on her backe, and found her verie gentle, and ambled finely, he praised her verie well, musing how she could be so well made to his hand, she would stand as méeke to get vp as might be: to con­clude, he found her in all pointes as good as the olde one that he had first, & also of the same colour and scantling. Hee called this Horse breaker, and demaunded of him where he had this Mule, she séemeth (quoth he) much like to the old one that I gaue thée, and hath the same qualli­ties. I promise you Sir sawe Dedyer, when I sawe her first on the colour of your old Mule, I thought she would haue her conditions, or els that she might bee brought to them, and therefore I boughte her, béeing in good hope, that she would serue you [...] turne. Now truly said ye Coū ­sellour, I con thée thanke: but what shall I paye for her? Sir saide he, you know y I am at your cōmaundement, and all that I haue, if it were to [...]other, I woulde not sell her one pennye better cheape then fortie Crownes, neuerthelesse, you shall haue her for thirtie. The Coun­sellor was agr [...] and gaue him thirtie Crownes for his [Page] old Mule againe, supposing he sped very well.

¶ Of the Scorners of Arrow in Anion, howe they were beguyled of one Pyquet, by the meanes of a Lampron.

WEe haue here before spoken of the Scorners of Arrow, of whom it is said, that neuer man pas­sed through the Towne, which was not moc­ked: I doe not know whether they vse it still or no, but I heard say, that vpon a time a great Lord tooke vpon him to passe through the Towne, and not to be scorned. And to bring this matter to passe, he determined to goe to the Towne verie late in the Euening, and to departe in the Morning so early, that no body shold be stirring to mock him. And indéed he so measured his way, that he came in verie late: therefore, all the people béeing gone to bed, he found neither man nor woman, that saide worse to him then his name. And when he came to his Inne, he made show that he was not well at ease, and so withdrew him into his Chamber, and was serued by his owne men so well, that the night passed without any daunger: but hee commaunded ouer night the Maister of his house, that al his traine might be readie in the morning twoo houres before Sun rising: the which was done, and he himselfe was first vp, for he had no desire to sléepe, he had so great care to passe without a mocke. He wente to horse so soone as the day began to appeare, no body béeing vp, nor stir­ring in the Towne, and rode till he came at the Towne end, thinking then he had béen out of all daunger, wher­of he began to be glad and reioice: but harken what hap­pened. There was an olde w [...]ther beaten Witch, that stoode vp against the ende of a wall, which gaue him his pasport, saying to him in her owne language: Rose you so soone for feare of flyes. Neuer was men so ashamed as he, to be so vnluckil [...] flowted, and specially of such an old [Page 29] hag. And if it had beene a Kinge, as some saye it was, I thinke he would haue made gunpouder of the old witch: But the most part beléeue it was no King, although they of the Towne of Arrow make their vaunt that it was. Well, whosoeuer it was, he had his parte as well as o­thers. But as the Prouerbe sayeth, Que mockat, mockabi­tur: Euen so those of Arrow had sometimes the like as they profered, which appeared by M. Peter Fa [...]sew. And there was giuen them an other pretie mocke by one na­med Pyquet, which had bought a Lampron at Duxtall, and put it in a Linen wallet that he caried behind him, which Lampron he tied verie fast by one of the holes in her head with a point, and made her fast within the wal­let, so that she could not get out by any meanes, and ha­uing a litle hole in the end of his wallet, hee put out her tayle, that she might be séene. When he came néere to ye Towne of Arrow, this Lampron that was very quick, writhed always her taile more and more, so that in pas­sing through the Towne the Scorners spyed her, & how in writhing of her selfe shee appeared by little and little more and more out of the wallet, and they were at hand watching when she would fal out of the wallet. But Pi­quet he rode easily through the Towne, as one that had no great hast on his way, because he should gather toge­ther more company, that came out of their houses and fo­lowed him, to catche the Lampron when it fell, of the which there was foure or fiue that watched as decently for it, as a Cat doeth for a Mouse, thinking they shoulde haue it to dinner. All this while Pyquet made as though hee had not séene them, but that at sometimes he would looke first of the one side, and nexte of the other, as if his Horse had not béene well gyrded, which he did to sée his lackeyes that followed him. When hee was out of the Towne, he began to ride faster, and these Scorners af­ter, thinking yt it would not continue long, but it would fal, for the Lampron appeared almost all but of ye wallet: [Page] they run half a mile after this Lampron, but there was twoo of them wearie with trotting, that gaue ouer, & the other twoo held out sides still, béeing glad that all the rest were gone, saying one to another: hold thy peace, we shall haue the better parte. When Pyquet perceiued hee had but two lackeyes following him, hee began to ryde faster and faster, and the Scorners followed after more then a long mile from the Towne, thinking at length to haue the Lampron for their labour: but Pyquet rode on still a good pace, and the Lampron would not fall, which prouoked them to great anger, whereat Pyquet had good sporte, and began to laugh out so loude, that at the laste they perceiued and saw wel ynough that they were moc­ked. Neuerthelesse, one of their to make the matter good, said a far off to Pyquet: how Sirha, you on Horsebacke, take vp your Lampron that is ready to fall. Pyquet staid his horse, and turned about saying vnto him: Come and fetche it if it fall, for you are woorthie to haue it, vp else run a little further, and it will fall by an by. But they went their waies with their combes cut, and bid the de­uill and a vengeaunce take the Lampron. But when they were come back againe into the Towne, God kno­weth how they were flouted and mocked: for they knew well the craft, asking them what sauce they would haue to their Lampron. And thus the mockinges & scornings doth oftentimes return vpon the mockers and scorners themselues.

¶ Of a Prouost named Cocklyer, that had a payn in his eyes: whom the Phisitions made to be­leeue that he did see.

IN the Countrey of Mayne, there was not long ago a Lieutenaunt of the Prouost Martiall, who was named Cocklier, a man that could giue a sentence, and that knew the pollicies of the Lieutenant Maylard, [Page 30] who vppon a day hauing vnder his handes a man that had committed and done many fellonies, notwithstan­ding he did alleadge for his life that he was a graduate, but he let him coole in prison, yet afterwardes he sent for him, and began to vse him verie gently, saying: Truely, it were reason that you should be sente to your Bishop, calling him by his name. I will not depriue you of your priuiledge, but put you in remembraunce when you doe not thinke thereon: yet I counsell you, that hereafter you withdrawe your selfe from places of dishonour, béeing a man sufficient to serue the Kinge: by which meanes you should bee knowen, and so come to take a charge, and to be estéemed: And not to lie lurking in Townes, & watching of high waies, to put your selfe in daunger of life, to your continual fame & infamie. By and by the man (that felt himselfe praised) saide: Sir, I am not nowe to learne what it is to serue the King, I was before the Towne of Pauia, when it was taken vnder the charge of Captaine Lorge, and since I was with my Lord Lautrick at Myl­layne, and in the kingdome of Naples. But for al that the Prouost red his sentence, and made him stretch a Rope, although he was a graduate, and by the meanes taught him howe to serue the Kinge. Thus Cocklyer could doe these thinges, and such like, and could sée cleare with the eies of his wit, but with the eies in his head he could not sée the length of thrée fingers: & he néeded not to haue béen asked, whether hee had rather haue his nose as longe as his sight, or his sight as longe as his nose, for there was not much betwéene them both. It chaunced vpon a time, the Byshop of Mans going of visitation through his Di­ocesse, would see how he did in going by, because he knew him to be a good Iustice, whome he found in his Bed be­ing sicke of a Rume, that was fallen into his poore eyes. Well Maister Prouost (said the Byshop) howe doe you? My Lord (saide he) I haue kept my bed this Moneth and more. Your eyes are neuer well (saide the Byshop) but [Page] how doo you féele them nowe? My Lord (said Cocklyer) I hope in God they shall doe well: for the Phisition hath tolde me that I can sée. Thinke you that hee was not a wise man, to know of the Phisition whether he did sée or no. But hee would not trust a Prisoner in his saying, as he put confidence in the Phisition for his owne.

¶ Of the feates and memoriall actes of a Foxe, that belonged to the Baily of Mayne la Inhes, and how he was taken and put to death.

IN the Towne of Mayne la Inhes, in the low coun­trey of Mayne, which is scituate in the borders of the barren Countrey, there was sometimes a Baily, that was a good companiō, according to the order of the Countrey, who delighted in manye thinges, & had in his house many tame beasts, among the which he had a Fox, that he brought vp and kept of a yong one, whose tayle was cut off, and therefore was called the Curtall Foxe. This Foxe was craftie of nature, but yet he dege­nerated from his kinde, in béeing conuersant with men, and had so good a wit for a Fox, that if he could haue spo­ken, he wold haue shewed to manie men that they were but Beastes. He knew when the Bayly of the house did make a feast, séeing the folks in the house busie, especial­ly the Cooke. Hee would go to the Pouiters, and bringe home Conies, Capons, Pidgeons, Chykons, and wylde Foule, according to the season, and would steale them so cunningly, that he was neuer taken dooing the déede, and thus he furnished his maisters kitchin meruelously wel. Neuerthelesse he went to and fro so often, that he began to be suspected of the poulters, and others: for he always found new crafts, stealing still more and more, At ye last, they conspired to kill him, which they durst not do open­ly for feare of his maister, yt was chief Lord of the town: but eche one determined to trap him in the night. Nowe [Page 31] this Foxe, when he went about to séeke his pray, would come in at the Seller window, or by a low light, or else watch whilest they had come to the doore without a can­dle, and then did he steale in like a Ratte. And as he had inuentions and waies to come in, so had he in like man­ner pollicies to get out with his praye. Manie times the Poulterers determined his death, with a Crosbow bent watching for him: but the Foxe would preuent them for all their pollicie, & did neuer come there so longe as they watched. But a man could not haue his eyes any sooner closed, but the Fox would be presently prouided. If ther were anie snares or gyns laide for him, he knew aswell how to escape the daunger, as if he himselfe had laid thē, so that they could neuer be so circumspect as to take him, although hee neuer came away emptie: yet béeing manie times preuented of his purpose, hee was sore displeased, because he could not doo suche seruice to the Cooke, as hée was vsed to doe. And therefore béeing of good yeares, hée began to take héede: and also he thought, that they made no account of him as they did asore time, because he did them small seruice in his age: and chiefly for this, hee be­gan to be mischieuous craftie, and to eate and kill vp his Maisters Foule. So that euerie bodie béeing in bedde, he wold step to the pearch, and now take a Capon, another time a Hen, and they did not mistrust him, thinking that it had béene the Wéesell, or the Polcat. But in the ende, (as all mischiefes come to light) he went and came so of­ten, that a litle wench lying in the stable for Gods sake, perceiued him, and bewrayed all: and from thence foorth the great blame was laide on the Foxe: for it was repor­ted to Maister Bayly, that Curtall his Foxe did eat vp and deuoure his Foules. This Foxe would be in euerie corner to listen and heare what was spokē against him, and he vsed commonly to bee vnder the Table when his Mayster was at dinner & supper. But after his M. hard of his fashions, he so hated him, that vppon a time béeing [Page] at Dinner, and the Fox being behind the folkes, Maister Bayly began to say: what say you to my Fox that eateth vp all my Hens and Capons? I will be reuenged of him within these thrée daies. The Foxe vnderstanding this, knew it was no more good tarrying in the Towne, and he tarried not vntill the thrée daies were past, but he ba­nished himselfe, and fled into the fieldes, amongst ye wild Foxes: you may bee sure his farewell was not without making spoile of somewhat: but béeing now amongst his kind, he had some thinge ado to acquainte himselfe with them, for during the time that he remained in the town, he had learned to speake good yealpishe of the Dogs, and their manner also, and went with them on hunting, and vnder the colour of freendship, would deceiue the wilde Foxes, and put them into the handes of the Dogs: this the foxes remembring, refused both the receiuing of him into their companie, and to put their confidence in him any more. But he vsed Rhetoricke, and made partly his excuse, and partly asked forgiuenesse. And then hee made them beléeue, that he knew the meanes to make thē liue at ease like Kinges, because he knewe all the poultry in the Countrey, and the houres and times fit to séeke their pray: and thus in the ende they beléeued him through his faire woords, and made him their Captaine. Wherwith­all they founde them selues contente for a time: for their Captaine Curtall brought them to suche places, as they had ynough But the mischiefe was, that they would vse themselues too much to the ciuil life not fit for them. For the people of the Countrey, séeing them thus in bandes and companies, set Dogs after them, and made alwaies some of them to come short home. But in the mean time Captaine Curtall that craftie Fox, saued himselfe at al times: for he kept the backward, to that ende, that when the Dogs were busie and occupyed with the first Band, he might haue leysure to saue himselfe, and escape from the view of them. And also he would neuer go into the [Page 32] hoale, but amongest the Companie of other Foxes, and when the houndes were readie to thrust in, he would so bite and fight with his fellowes, that he should cōstraine them to goe foorth, to the end that whilest the dogs were occupyed in running after them, he might saue him selfe. But the poore Curtall Foxe could not so well shift for him selfe, but in the ende he was caught: Forasmuch as the Clounes of the Countreye, knewe well ynough that he was the cause of all mischiefe and shreud turnes that were done there about, so that they sware his death, and dispatched eche of them a Messenger to all the Gentle­men of the Countrey, requesting their helpe, and desi­ring them for the profit of the Cuntrey, to lend thē their dogs, to dispatch the Cuntrey of that mischieuous Fo [...]e. To the which the Gentlemen did willingly agrée, and gaue a good answere to the messengers, and also the most parte of them had of a long tyme sought their pastime, and could not finde any thing. In the end they brought out so many dogs, that there were enough both for the Curtall Foxe, and his Fellowes, so that he might well byte and dryue out the rest, but it would not preuaile: for at the last when there was no more left, his turne must néedes follow next: he was taken quick, and haled out of a Corner of his hoale, with digging him out, for the dogs could not come at him, nor make him to come foorth of his hoale, Well, at the last poore Curtall was taken, and ledde aliue into the Towne of Maine, where­as his Iudgement was giuen, and was sacrificed in the open market place, for the thesis, robberyes, pylferies, craftes, fraude, deceits, iniuries, wronges, conspiracies, treasons, murthers, and other grieuous faults and iniu­ries by him committed and done, and was executed be­fore a great multitude standing by to sée the execution. The People came flocking thether on heapes. For hee was knowne wel twentie mile compasse, to be the most ungratious Foxe that euer the earth bare. Some saye, [Page] for all that, many honest Folkes bewailed his death, be­cause he had doone so many proper fears, & therfore they said it was pittie that he should be put to death, beeing a Foxe of in good vnderstanding: but in the end they could not haue the maistery, although they had layke hands on their weapons, to haue saued his life: for he was hanged and strangled for a notable theef at the Castel of Maine. And thus may you sée that there is no mischief nor wic­kednes, but is punished at the last.

¶ Of Maister Pontalais, how featly he played his [...] against a Barber, that dyd counterfeite [...]

THere are few Folkes, but haue hard speaking of Maister Iohn Pontalais, the memorye of whome is yet fresh in minde also his Iells, sportes, pastymes, and merry prankes, and his faire playes, that he played, and hos [...] he put his shoulder against a Cardinals, shew­ing him that [...] mountaines might méet together in dispight of the old prouerbe: But what neede I rehearse this, when he did a thousand other seats, among ye which we wil speake of one or two. Ther was a barber y wold counterfeit the braue Fellowe: for he thought there was not a man in all Paris, that ha [...] the like wit that he had, no [...] the like grace, specially whē he was in his hot house stark naked (like to Frier Croiset, that said masse in his dublet) hauing but his rasor in his hand, he would say to those whome he did rub and shaue: sée you not Sir, what cometh of a good wit? what think you by me? such cuning as you see me haue, I learned of my owne mind, & al that euer I haue, came by my own getting, there was neuer kindred nor frend that I haue, that euer helped me with any thing: if that I had been a foole, I should not haue had ye knowledge that I haue: and as he thought of himselfe, so would he that all the world should thinke of him. The which being knowne by M. Iohn Pontalais, he vsed him [Page 33] for his purpose, béeing sure of him alwaies to make one in his plays & enterluds: for he said vnto him, that there was neuer a man in all Paris, that could playe his parte better then he: & I neuer haue praise (said Pontalais) but when that I haue you for one of my Companie, for then they aske me, who was he that plaied such a part, it was excelently well handled of him, and then I declare your name, because I would haue you knowne. You would muse to heare tell that the King would sée you playe, we tary but the time: you néede not aske if the Barber was proude to heare such woords, so that he became so stout yt who but he: and also he said vpon a day to M. Iohn Pon­talais: know you what (Pontalais?) I would not that you should hereafter make me cōmō for euery day, nor I wil play no more, vnlesse it be some morral or stage matter, wherin are noble men, as Kings, Princes, & Lords, and I will alwaies haue the best part and oftenest in sight. Now truely, said M. Iohn Pontalais you say well, & you are worthie. But why did you not tel mee of it sooner? I was far ouerséene that I did no remember it my selfe: But I know how to make you amends hereafter, for I haue better matters to play thē euer were plaid, where­in you shall haue the best part, and kéep longest vpon the scaffold▪ And first of al I pray you faile me not vpō Sun­ [...]e next: for, I meane to play a notable matter, in the which speaketh ye great King of India, will not you play yt parte how say you? [...]ea, yea (sayd ye Barber) who should els play it, & I should not? giue me my scroule. Pontalais gaue it him the next morning. When the day came, that ye play shuld be, the barber showed him self in his throne with his scepter, kéeping as good and royal a maiestie as euer did Barber. In the meane time, M. Iohn Pontalais prepared his thinges in a readines to flout she Barber: and because cōmonly he made the first show vpō the scaf­old, playing ye prologue in his plays, ye rest hauing playd their partes he commeth in at the last, and spake thus.

[Page]
I am but litle, as all men may see,
Hauing neither speare nor shield to defend me:
But yet neuerthelesse it hath so come to passe,
That the great King of India hath shaued my Arse.

And he speake this with such a grace as it required, because he would giue the People to vnderstande of the brauerys of the Barber: and also he had made his playe in such order, 'hat the King of India should speake very litle, but onely kéepe a countenaunce, to the ende that if the Barbar should haue béen offended, the playe notwithstanding should haue gone forwarde. But God knoweth how Maister Barbar was flouted for playing the Kinge, for he wished hee had béene warming his not house. There is yet another tale tould of the same Pon­talais, that others doe attribute to another: but who so­euer is the Author, it is very pleasant. It is of a Fryer, which vpon a holiday went vp into the pulpit to preach, where he was very busie in talking litle good: for when he strayed out of his Text (as he did very often) he made the goodlyest digressions in the World: & thus he would say. There are few found worthie to come into a Pul­pit: for although they be skilfull, yet haue they not the gift to preach. But vnto me, God hath giuen the grace both of knowledg and preaching, and also I know what all sciences are, and in pointing his finger to his head, he would say: my Frend, if thou wilt haue any Grāmer it is here within? if thou wilt haue any Rethorick, it is here also? if thou wilt haue Philosophie it is here like­wyse? for Logicke, I feare not a Doctor in all the Vni­uersitie, and yet with in these thrée yeares I knewe no­thing: notwithstanding, you heare and sée howe I doe preach. But God giueth his graces to whom it pleaseth him. Nowe, so it was that Maister Iohn Pontalais, had somwhat to play there that daye in the after noone, who knew what maner of man the Fryer was. He made his [Page 34] showes thorow the Town: and it fel so out, that he must néedes passe by the Church where this Fryer was prea­ching. M. Iohn Pontalais according to his custome, soun­ded vp his Drom at the end of the stréete, that was right ouer against the Churche, and caused it so sounde verie longe and loude, of purpose to make this Fryer hold his peace, to the end that the people should come foorth for to heare his playe. But it would not serue: for the more hee made his Drum to sound, the louder was the Fryer, and so they striued who should haue the maistery. The Fry­er was in a pelting chafe, and spake by the aucthoritie of a bald pate aloude saying: go some, and cause the drum to cease: but for all that no body went, vnlesse it were to looke vppon him, that made his Drum sounde more and more. When the Fryer perceiued he would not leaue off drumming, and that no bodie came back againe to bring an aunswere: truely said he, I will go my selfe, and so he came downe from the Pulpit, desiring the p [...]ople to stay vntill hee came againe. When he was in the stréete, in a great chafe he began to say to Pontalais: who made thée so bold to sound thy Drum before the Church doore whilest I am preaching? Pontalais beheld him and said: And who made thee so bold to preach whilest I am playing on my Drum? The Fryer beeing offended here with, tooke his seruauntes knife that stoode by him, and thrust into the Drum, making a great slitte in it, and so went backe a­againe to the Church, to make an ende of his Sermon. Pontalais toke his drum, and running after him, whel­med it on his heade, like a high Almaines hat, but that yt was somewhat greater, wherwithall the Fryer, euen in that case hee was, would néedes goe vp into the Pulpit, to shew the iniury and wrong done to him, & how ye word of God was disdained. But the people laughed so harte­ly séeing him couered with the Drum, that he could haue no audience, but was constrained to holde his peace: for they said it was no wise part to contend against a foole, [Page] that did not eare what mischiefe he did him.

¶ Of Mistris Furrier, that lodged a Gentleman at large.

IT is not longe time since there was a Gentlewo­man of a good desire, that was named Mistris Fur­rier, who somtimes followed the Court, which she did when her Husband was in some quarter. But for the most part she kept at Paris, and ther found she customers for her turne: for Paris is a paradise for women, a hel for mens Horses, and a Purgatorye for those that followe suits of Law. Vpon a day whē she was in the same Cit­tie, before the doore of her lodging, there passed by a gen­tleman with a frend of his, to whom he said alone as hee came by Mistrisse Furrier, because he would be heard: by God if I had such a beast to ride on this night, I think I should by tomorrowe morning be well forward on my iourney. Mistris Furrier hearing the Gentleman say so, whom she found to her minde (for he was lustie) called a litle halfepennie boy that was by her: goe thy wairs said she, and follow yonder same Gentleman that thou séest, and lose him not vntill thou séest where he goeth in, and then do so muche that thou maiest speake with him, and say vnto him, that the Gentlewoman that he saw at such a lodging euen now as he came by, hath her commended to him, and if that hee will take the paines to come vnto her this euening, she wil prepare him a bāquet, betwéen eight and nine of the clocke. The Gentleman did accept the message, and sent back word that he would come at y houre appointed. Ye must note, that their two lodgings was not far the one frō the other. The gentleman came at his time, and found Mistris Furrier tarrying for him: she bid him welcome, and made him a banquet, they tal­ked together, and the meane while the bed was made, in which the Gentleman laid him downe, according to the [Page 35] agréement made betwene them, & Mistris. Furryer came to bed to him: the Gentleman séeing his horse readie, fai­led not to do his diligence for the spéedie attaining of his iourney: but notwithstanding his great courage, he was tired in shorte time before his hackney was any thinge hot, in so much, he was constrained to leaue his stéede in the stable, and go his way. The next day, or certain daye after, Mistris Furrier (that had alwaies some errantes in the Citie) met the Gentleman, whom she saluted, saying vnto him: God morrow Sir with deux and ace. The Gē ­tleman béeing abashed saide vnto her: Mistris Furrier, if the Tables had beene good, I had made two trayes: Ne­uertheles you lodged me yesternight at large. It is true Sir said she, but I did not know that you had so small a traine.

¶ Of a Gentleman that had ridden post, and of a Cocke that could not tread the Hens.

THere was sometime a certaine Gentleman, which had bene absent from his house a long season, at the last finding opportunitie hee came home to see his Wife, who was young, faire, and pleasant: he tooke post a two days iourney from his place, where he arriued ve­rie late, when his Wife was in bed, he laide him downe by her, who incontinently awaked, béeing verie glad of companie, hoping verely to haue had some good turne yt night. But her ioy was soone turned: for her Husbād self him selfe so wearie with riding Poste, that for all the ioy and pleasure she made him, he continued still drow­sie, without proffering her any pleasure, whereof he did excuse him saying: Lady, ye great loue that I had toward you, hath caused me to hasten to sée you, and I haue rid­den poste all the way longe, therefore consideryng I am wearie, & sore beaten with riding, I pray you excuse me for this time. The Gentlewoman sounde not this to her mind: for some that haue experience say, there is nothing [Page] gréeueth a Woman more, then to be depriued of such pa­stime. Neuerthelesse, the Lady tooke patience perforce, and had no other thing for that night, but rising vp early in ye morning from her Lord, let him take his rest. With in an houre or two after, he rose, and in making him rea­die came and looked out at a Window, which opened to­ward a backe yard, and my Ladie his wife was by him, he spied a Cocke that would haue troden a Hen, & made his friskes about her many times, but at the laste did no­thing. My Lord that beheld his doinges, was angrie and said: sée this scuruie Cocke, he hath bene this houre about yonder Hen, and can do nothing: he is nought, and there­fore let him be taken a way, and another put in his stéed. The Ladie aunswered him tha my Lord, I pray you par­don him, it may be that he hath ridden Post all the night long. With that my Lorde helde his peace, and spake no more, hauing his combe cut with that aunswere.

¶ Of the Vicar of Brow, and of the good pranks that he did in his life time.

THe Vicar of Brow, who in manie places hath béene called the Vicar of Byon, hath done so many memo­riall actes in his life time, that whosoeuer would put them in print, should make a legend more great, thē Launcelot du lake or sir Tristram. And such fame had he, that when an other Priest hath done any notable thing, it is saide to the Vicar of Brow ▪ The Lymosines would haue vsurped this honour to their Vicar, but it fell to ye Vicar of Brow by all mens consent, of whom I will here recite certaine frates, & the rest I wil leaue for others to describe. This Vicar did all things by a particular iudg­ment of his owne, & to his mind he found all things not good, that had béen set foorth by his predecessors: as y An­themes, the Anwers, the Kirieli [...]on, the Sanctus, the Ag­nus Dei, and such like, but he would say & sing them after [Page 36] his maner. And aboue all the rest he could not abyde the order of the passion, as it is commonly sayd in the Chur­ches, but he would reade it cleane contrarie: for when Christ Iesus spake any thinge to the Iewes, or to Pilate, then would he speake it out a loude, ye euery one might heare and vnderstand, and if it were the Iews that spake or any other, he would reade it so softly, and with such a low voice, that with great paine might the people heare him. It happened that a Lady of fame and authoritie, ta­king her way towarde the Castel of Dun, there to kéepe her Easter, passed by Brow vppon a Good-fryday, about ten of the clocke before noone, and minding to heare the seruice, she came into the Church, where was the Vicar saying Seruice. When he came to the passion, he read it after his manner: and when he said, whome seeke ye, he made all the Church to ryng with his voice, but when he said Iesus of Nazareth, he spake so softly that no body could heare him, and in this order went forwarde with his passion. This Lady, who was very deuout, and for a Woman had good knowledge in the Scripture, noted well these Ecclesiasticall Ceremonies, and was greatly gréeued at this order of reading, and wished that she had not come to the Church: but she determined to speake to the Vicar, and to fell him her minde. After the Seruice was done, she sent for him to come, and speake with her. When he was come, she said vnto him: Maister Vicar I cannot tell where you haue learned to behaue your self so vnreuerently such a day as this is, wherein the Peo­ple ought to be in humilitye, but to heare you saye your Seruice, there is no deuotion at al. And why so my La­dy said he? why so said the Lady? you haue read the pas­sion to day like a mad man: for when Christ speaketh, then you speake like the commō Crier: and if Cayphas, Pylate, or any of the Iewes speake, then you speake [...] to your selfe. Is it well done of you? are you worthie to haue a cure? they yt do you right, should take away your [Page] Benefice, and make you acknowledge your fault. When the Vicar had long giuen eare vnto her, he answered, is this all you haue to say vnto me? Now by my soule it is true that is commonly said, there are many Folkes that speake of that wherein they haue no skill. My Lady I thinke I know what belonges to my office, aswell as another, and I would that all the world should know, that God is as well serued in my Parish according to my de­grée, as in any place within this hundred myle. I know that other Curates and Priests read the Passion after another manner, the which I can do I thank God, aswel as they if I wold, but it should appeare that they vnder­stand not what they read. For doth it become the Knaue Iewes, to speake as lowde as Iesus no, no, my Lady: Be you sure that in my Parish, God shalbe Maister, so long as I do liue, & let others do in their Parish according to their knowledge. When ye Lady hard this proper reply, she saide: now truely Maister Vicar you are a man of a good Spirit, it was so told me before, but I would neuer haue beléeued it, if I had not séene it.

¶ Of the same Vicar and his Mayde, and of his clothes that he did wish, and how he intertai­ned his Bishop, his great Horses, and the rest of his traine.

THE said Vicar had a Maid of twentie fiue yeares of age, or there about, which was faine to do him seruice day and night. And therfore he was many times put into the Comissaries Court, where he made amends by the purse. But for all this, the Bishop could not preuaile, and therefore vpon a time forbad him the kéeping of any mayd, vnder fiftie year old at the last: therfore he kéepeth one of twentie year old, and another of thirtie. The Bishop perceiuing this error worse then the first, charged him to kéepe none at all: to the which [Page 37] the Vicar was forced to obay, or at ye least he made sem­blaunce of so doing. And because he was a good Fellow, and would make good cheer, he found meanes enough to appease his bishop, and to get his fauour, who also passed oftē times by where he kept: for he would alwaies haue a cup of good wine for him, & now thē a pretty wenche to pleasure him also. Vpon a time the Bishop sent him worde, that he would come next day to supper to him, but he wold haue him prouide nothing but light meats, because he found him selfe not well at ease, and the phi­sitions had appointed him a dyet for his stomacke. The Vicar sent him word, that he should be welcome, and by and by he prouided good store of calues skins and sheeps skins, and put them all to boile in a great pan, minding therwith to feast the Bishop. Now, he had thē no Mayd, because he was forbidden to kéepe any. And about the tyme that he thought the Bishop would come, he pulled of his h [...]s [...] and shooes, and went and carried a pan full of linnen clothes, to a brooke that was in the waye, where the Bishop should passe, and wēt into the water vp to ye knées with a washing stoole before him, holding a bet­tel in his hands, wherwithall he beat his clothes. At the lost the Bishop came, and they of his traine that ryd be­fore spying the Vicar in the water beating of his cloths, shewed him to my Lord saying: I praye you my Lorde foe yonder the Vicar of Brow, how he standeth in the water washing of cloths. The Bishop seeing him in that sort, was wonderfully amazed, and could not tell whe­ther he should laugh or be angry, but comming neere the Vicar, that was very busie, making countenance as though he had not séene my Lorde, said vnto him: I pray thée what dost thou here? the Vicar starting vp as one taken, saide vnto him: my Lorde, I am washing my linnen. Art thou washing of thy linnen said the Bishop? art thou become a Launder? is this a séemly order for a Priest? wel, make thy account for this thy knauery to be [Page] depriued of thy benefice beside further punishment. And why so my Lord said the Vicar? you haue forbidden mée to keep a mayd, and therfore I must be faine to be mayd my selfe, for I haue no more cleane linnen. Well, thou vngratious Vicar, goe thy waies (quoth he) I will re­member thée, but wherewithall shall we sup? My Lorde quoth he, you shall haue a good supper God willing: take no thought for that, I haue prouided light meats. When supper time was come, the Vicar serued the Bishop, and at the first mease set before him these soddē calues skins, to whome the Bishop said: what meat is this thou brin­gest me? dost thou meane thus to mocke me? My Lorde saide the Vicar you sent me worde yesterdaye, that I should prepare for your Lordship light meates, I haue tried al kind of meats, but when it came to the dressing, they went all to the bottome of the pan, vntill at the last I found these skins, that swam aboue the water, they are therfore the lightest meats that I could finde. Thou was neuer good in all thy life saide the Bishop, nor ne­uer wilt be, thou knowest what wickednesse thou haste done me: well, I will teach thee to knowe with whome thou hast too doe. The Vicar notwithstanding, had very well prouided for supper meates of another kinde of di­gestion, the which he caused to be brought foorth, and did so well vse the Bishop, that therwithal he was pleased. After supper was done, the Bishop withdrew himself to rest: but the Vicar that knew my Lords complexiō, pro­uided him a prettie tender pidgeon to lye with him all night, and also for eche of my Lords men a Gossip: for it was their ordinarie and custome alwayes when they came to him. The Bishop going too bed, did the Vicar go his waies, for said he, I am now well pleased with thée, because thou knowest my diet. But I praye thee let my Horses be no worse vsed then my self, for I put my trust in thée. The Vicar forgot not these words, but tooke his leaue of the Bishop till the next morning. And straight [Page 38] waies sent into the town to borrow good store of Mares, and within a shorte time he founde enough to serue his turne: the which Mares he put amongst my Lords great Horses, which began to fling, kicke, and kéep a foule stir, in somuch that the Horsekéeper was faine to forsake his swéete heart, to appease the broile betwene the Horses & Mares. The next day in the morning, the Byshop wold néedes know what ayled his Horses to kéepe such a coile in the night. The Horse-kéeper thought to haue excused the matter, but he could not. My Lord said the Horsekée­per, the occasion was, because the Vicar had put Mares to your stone horses. The Byshop mistrusting suche a matter, sent by and by for him, to whome my Lord laide a thousand iniuries and reproches, wretch that thou art said he, wilte thou alwaies play the Iauell with mee in this maner? Thou hast spoiled my Horses, and yet thou carest not. The Vicar aunswered: My Lord, said you not to me yesternight, that your Horses should be as well v­sed as your selfe? I haue done to my power the best that I could do to them, they haue had hay and otes their bel­lie full, and they haue had straw vp to the hard bellie, so that they wāted but ech of them their female, which you had, and therfore I sought them the like in the Towne. A vengeance on thée thou vngratious Vicar (said the bi­shop) dost thou tell me of such things? hold thy peace, we will recken together, and then I wil reward thee accor­ding to thy doings, and so went his way for that time.

¶ Of the same Vicar, and of the Carpe which he bought for his Dinner.

NOw to come againe to our Vicar of Brow. Vpō a Sunday in the morning, as hee was walking about the Parishe, hee espied a man come wal­king towards him, that broght in his hand a faire great Carp: he remembred that the next day was fish day, and it [Page] might possible be the Gange wéeke, he bought this Carp and paide for it. And because hee was alone, he tooke the Carpe, and tied it to his codpéece point, and so couered it with his Gowne, & in that order went to Church, where the Parish taried for him to heare Masse. When it came to the Offering, the Vicar turned his face towardes the people, with the basen in his hande to receiue the Offe­ringes, and the Carpe that was quicke, did oftentimes wag the taile, and made Maister Vicars white surplice to stirre, whereof the Vicar perceiued nothing: But the Wiues that were beneath in the Churche, perceiued it well ynough, and they looked one vppon an other hiding their eies, and laughing, with a thousand other gestures. And in the meane time, the Vicar stoode stil tarrying for them, but not one of them durst go: for they supposed the Carp hanging so nere his codpéece, to be some other kind of thing. The Vicar and those that were with him, stoode crying and calling, come to the Offering Wiues, you yt haue any deuotion: but yet they came not. When he per­ceiued that they wold not come, but were laughing one at an other, he knew well enough that there was some­what in the waye, in so much that at the last he remem­bred his Carpe, that wagged his tayle to and fro vnder his surplice. Well my Parishioners said hee, I perceiue what it is that made you so to laughe. No no, it is not it that you doe thinke, but it is a Carpe that I bought for my dinner tomorrow: and in saying so, he pulled vp his vestement, and showed them the Carpe, otherwise they would neuer haue come to the Offering. The good man tooke care for tomorrow, notwithstanding the woordes in the Scripture, Be not carefull for tomorrow: whiche for all that he did interprete for his owne aduantage: for when any man saide vnto him, Sir, God hath forbidden you to be carefull for tomorrow, and yet for all that you haue bought a Carpe for your dinner. It is said he, to ful­fill the precept of the Scripture: for when I am alreadie [Page 39] prouided, what néede I then care for tomorrowe? Some saye, that it was a Fryer that did hide a Pudding in his Gowne sléeue, that he stole at a certaine banquet: but all cōmeth to one matter. There is yet many prety tales of this Vicar of Brow, that are verie pleasant, which I wil leaue for others to set foorth.

¶ Of a pretie litle man named Terry, who being vpon his Mule, could not be seene aboue the pommell of his saddle.

IN the Town of Montpellier, there was a young man called the Prior Terry, who was of a good stocke, and well learned, but that he was vnable of his body: for hee had a botch on his backe, and an other on his stomacke, yt did let him to grow, so yt he was not aboue a cubit hie. Vpon a day hee chaunced to ride from Montpellier vnto Tholouse, in companie of certaine his frendes of Mont­pellier, they came to Thuberys to dinner: and because yt was in Sommer, and that the dayes were longe, his cō ­pany after dinner made no great hast to depart, but tar­ried vntill the heate of the daye was past, and also some of them laide them downe to sléepe: Wherewith Terrye was displeased, and therefore hee caused his Mule to bée brideled in an anger, and got vppon his backe, saying: Now sléepe your fyll, for I will be gone: So he rode his waye as fast as he could. When his companie knewe he was gone, not minding to let him goe alone, they dispat­ched as fast as they could after him: but Terrye by this time was ridden most part of his iourney. Now you shal vnderstand, that he caried one of the great Spanish felts to kéepe him from the Sun, béeing so broad that it coue­red almost both ye Mule & the man, rebating neuertheles somewhat as much as is reason. They that followed af­ter him, spying a fellow of the Country in a field not far from the high way, demaūded if he saw a man on a mule [Page] riding towards Narbona. The fellow aunswered thent saying: No, I saw no man, but I saw a gray Mule, that had a great felte Hat vpon his saddle, and he ran a great pace. These men began to laugh: for they knewe well it was Terrye, whose stature was so tall, that he could not be séene ouer the saddle.

¶ Of a Doctor that blamed Dauncing, and of a Gentlewoman that defended the same, with the reasons alleadged on eyther part.

IN the towne of Mauns there was in times past a Doctor of Diuinitie, a man of great knowledge & singlenes of life. And although hee was a Deuine, yet was he acquainted with ciuill orders, and therin he wuld behaue himselfe very modestlie and wel: for which cause he was desired into good and honest companie often times. Vpon a day, in an assembly of the chiefest & prin­cipall of the Towne (he being of the number) there was as it chaunced dauncing after Supper, the which he be­held for a time: during which dauncing, he toke occasion to talk with a Gentlewomā called ye Bayliuisse of Silla, a woman, who for her vertue, modestie, and honest beha­uiour, was well estéemed in worshipful and honourable companie, verie forward in all thinges that she did, and specially in dauncing, wherein shee tooke more delighte then in any thing els, and hauing spent much time in ci­uill communication, at the laste they began to talke of dauncing: whereof the Doctor said, that there is nothing wherein men & women were so much ouerséene as in it. The Bayliuisse replied to the contrarie saying, that no thing did reuiue the mind more then it, & that the mea­sure in dauncing would neuer enter into the mind of a dull man, which doth declare ye partie to be nimble, feate of actiuitie, & to haue measure in his doings: there are al­so said she, young folkes, that are of so heauie a moolde, [Page 40] that you shall sooner learne an Oxe to amble, then them to daunce: and also you may sée what mindes they haue. Of dauncing there commeth pleasure both to them that daunce, and to them that looke on. And I am of this opi­nion, that if you durst tell the trueth, you your selfe take great pleasure to beholde them, for there is none be they neuer so melancholy, and heauye, but will reioyce to sée them foot it so finely with the gesture of their bodie. The Doctor vnderstanding what she had said, left the termes of dauncing for a time, holding this Gentlewoman ne­uerthelesse with other talke: yet not so far from the pur­pose, but that he might fall in hand with the former whē he thought good. Within a quarter of an houre after, as he sawe occasion offered, he demaunded of Mistris Ba­liuisse, if she were standing at a window, or vpon a gal­lerie, and should sée from whence she was in some great and broad place a dossen or sixtéen Persons, together hād in hand, that did leape, and skip, and turne about, going forwarde and backwarde, whether she would not iudge them very Fooles. Indéed said she, if they kept no mea­sure I saye quoth he, although they kepte measure, and had neither drum, flute, taber, nor minstrell. I confesse (saide the Gentlewoman) the sight would be very vn­séemly. Why then (said the Doctor) can a hollow piece of wood, or a paile that is stopped at both ends with parch­ment, haue such power to delight your cares, which of it selfe seemeth folly? and why not, said the Gentlewo­man? know you not of what power musicke is? the me­lodie and pleasant sound of the instrument, entreth into the parties minde, and then the minde commandeth the bodie, which is for no other thing, but to show by signes and mouings the dispositiō of the soule, in ioye and glad­nesse: for such men as are sad and sorrowful, show a con­trarie countenance. Furthermore in all places the cir­cumstance and meaning of thinges are to be considered, as you your selfe dayly preach. A minstrell that should [Page] playe to himselfe alone, were to be estéemed as a Prea­cher that should goe into the pulpit to preache without audience: the dauncers that are without an instrument, are as People in a place of audience without talking: wherefore in vaine blame you dancings, vnlesse our féet and eares were taken away. And I ensure you said she, if I were dead, and could heare a minstrell, I would rise again and daūce. They that play at tennys, take a great deale more paines to runne after a litle baule of leather stuft with haire, and they followe it with such a desire, that it séemeth sometymes they would kill themselues, they are so eager, and yet haue they no Instrumentes of musicke as the Dauncers haue. Neuerthelesse they find therein great pleasure, and merueilous recreation: and therefore Maister Doctor, in my opinion moderat mirth discretly vsed, and daūcing indifferently practised, is ra­ther profitable, then otherwyse hurtfull. The Doctor would haue replyed, but he was compassed about with Women, that made him holde his peace, fearing they would haue taken him to haue daunced, and God know­eth how well it would haue become him.

¶ Of a Priest, and of a Mason that confessed him selfe vnto him.

THere was in the Countrie a Priest, that was not litle proude for that he had read his Cato, & some­what more, for he had read also Sintaxis, and his Fauste precor gellida, and therefore he would be knowne, and spake with a great brauery, vsing wordes that filled ye mouth, because he would be estéemed a great Doctor: and also in his confession he had such tearmes, that hee made the poore People amazed. Vppon a tyme he had vnder his confession a poore man that was a Ma­son, to whome he sayd: howe saiest thou Fréend, art thou not ambitious? the poore Man aunswered, no: for he [Page 41] thought that was a word that belonged to great Lords, and noble Men, and in a maner did repent himselfe that he was come to be confessed of this Priest, of whome hee heard much talking, that hee was a great Clarke, and spake so hyghlye that fewe could vnderstande him, the which he knewe by the same worde ambitious: for pos­sible though he heard the word before, yet he knewe not well what it meant. The Priest againe began to aske him, art thou not a Fornicator? art thou not a Glutton? art thou not superbious? hee saide still no. Arte thou not Iracondious? no neither. The Priest perceiuing that he said still no, began to wonder, asking againe, arte thou not concupiscent? no Sir sayd he. What art thou then sayd the Priest? I am sayd hee a poore Mason, behold here my truell. There was also another that aunswered in like manner to his confessor, the which is somwhat in better order. It was a Shepheard, whom ye Priest did aske, howe sayest thou? hast thou kept the Commaunde­ments of God with all thy heart? no said the Shepheard. Hast thou kept the Commandements of the Church? no neither. Then saide the Priest vnto him, what hast thou thē kept? I neuer kept nothing but shéep, said the Shep­heard. Yet there is another of one, who after he had de­clared all his faultes vnto the Priest, the Priest asked him againe, well Fréende, what haue you els on your conscience? any thing? hee aunswered nothing, but that hee remembred vppon a tyme he had stolne a halter: wel said the Priest, to steale a halter is no great matter, you may easily ynough make restitution. Yea but saide the man, there was a Horse tyed at the ende. Ha Sirha sayd the Priest that is another manner of matter, there is difference betweene a Horse and a halter. You must therefore restore the Horse, and the first tyme that you come againe to me to be confessed, I will absolue you for the halter.

¶ Of a Gentleman that in the night tyme cryed after his hawkes, and of the Carter that wip­ped his horses.

THere is a kind of people yt haue cholerick humors, or melancholy, or flegmatick, it must néeds be one of ye thrée: for the Sanguine complexion is alwayes good (so they say) whereof the vapour forgeth into the braine, that maketh them become fantasticall, lunaticke, erra­ticke, scismatick, and all the acticks that may be spoken, for the which there is found no remedye by any purga­gation, that may be giuen. Therfore hauing a desire to helpe such afflicted People, and to pleasure their wyues, Fréends, parēts, and kindred, and al those that shall haue to doe, I will here in fewe wordes, breefly declare an example that came to passe and happened, how they shal doe, when they haue any body so takē, chiefly with night dreames, for it is a great paine to rest neither daye nor night. There was a Gentleman in the Countrey and Land of Prouince, a mā of reasonable good years, & rich, which greatly loued hunting, & tooke there in so great de­light and pleasure in the daye time, that in the night hee would ryse vp in his sléep, and begin to cry, to halow, and whup after his hounds, as if he had béene abroade in the day time. Wherewith he was sore displeased, and so were his Fréendes: for there could not sléepe one bodye that was in the house for him. And also many times he wakened and diseased the Neighbours, he wold cry out so loude and so long time after his birds. But for other quallities he was reasonable, & also he was well known aswell for his honestye and gentlenesse, as for this his imperfection, which was so troublesome, that by reason therof, all the World called him the Faulconer. Vppon a day in following his hawkes, he was far from home, and strayed so far that the night ouertooke him, so that he [Page 42] knew not whither to go. But he turned so long through Mountaines and woods, that at the last béeing very late, he came to a house that was vppon the hye waye alone, whereas the goodman dyd sometimes lodge foote Folkes that were belated in the night, because there was no o­ther lodging neare hande. When hee came thither, the good man of the house was in bed, & his houshold, whome he caused for to ryse, desiring him yt hee might haue lod­ging for that night, because it was both colde and fowle weather. The goodman opened the doore, and let him in, and put his Horse in the stable amongest the neat, and showed him a bed on the ground, for there was no cham­ber aboue. There was at that tyme in the house a Car­ter, newe come from the faire of Pesenest, which was layd in another bed hard by, who awaked at the Gentle­mans comming, wherewith hee was angry, for he was wearie with trauaile, and was but newe fallen a sléep: and such People of their nature are not very courteous. At his soddaine waking he sayd to the Gentleman, who the Deuill brought you hether so late? This Gentle­man béeing alone, and in a place vnknowne, spake as he could, saying: my Freend, the occasion is in following my Hawkes. Suffer me I praye thée to tarrie here vn­till the morning, and then I will awaye. This Carter béeing better awaked, and looking earnestlye vppon the Gentleman, began straight waye to knowe him, for hee had séene him often tymes a Aix in Prouince, and had oftentimes hard tell, what a Sléeper he was. The Gen­tleman knewe not him, but in pulling of his clothes hee said: Fréend, I praye thée be not offended with mée for this one night, for I haue an impediment, which is to crye in the night after my Hawkes, for I loue hawking so that me thinke euery night I am at the game. O ho, sayde the Carter, it taketh me after the same manner, for I thinke I am alwayes whipping of my Horses and dryuing my Cart, and I can by no means leaue it. Well [Page] said the Gentleman, one night will soone be passed ouer, we will therefore beare one with another. He goeth to bed, but he was very litle entered into his first sléep, but that he started out of his bed, and went crying about the house, sa haw, sa haw, sa haw, whup whup whup. At this crie the Carter awaked, and taketh his whip that stood by him, and yerked the Gentleman to and fro about the house, crying ha, rée, brown, bayard, dun, go, what brown, hob, hob, why, hay, ho, ree: he so yerked the poore Gentle­man ye neede not to aske howe, who waked with the yerkes of the whip, and instéede of cryinge after his Hawkes he changed his tune, and cried out for help, say­ing I am slain: but the Carter fetched him to and fro stil about the house, vntill at the last the poore Gentleman was faine to get him vnder the table and there couch & speake not a worde, tarring there vntill the Carter had passed his rage ouer, who when he perceiued yt the Gen­tleman had hidden himselfe, set down his whip, went to bed, and begā to snort like one that had béene in his dead sléep. The goodman of the house rose, lighted a candell, & found the Gentleman hidden vnderneath the boordē, in such a litle corner, as wold scant serue a cat to go in, and all his bodye and legs were so painted with lashes, as if it had béene the picture of Christ: the which surely was a great miracle: for neuer after that did he once ryse vp to cry after his Hawkes, as before he was wont to doe in his sléepe, whereat his Fréends and kindred did much merueile that knew his quallitie: but he tould thē, what had happened. Neuer one man was more bound for an­other, then was the Gentleman to the Carter, who had healed him of such an infirmitie as that was.

¶ Of the good widowe woman that had a sup­plication to presente, and she gaue it to the Counsellor Fowle.

[Page 45]THere was a certaine Wydowe Woman that had a matter in law at Paris, and thither she went to sée how it went forward, wherein she made great labor and diligēce, although she did not well know how to do her businesse, but she put her trust yt the Lords of ye Parliament would haue respect to her age, wydow­hod, and the right of of her cause. Vppon a morning very early, sooner then she was wont, she did not enter into her garden to gether violets, but she tooke her supplica­tion in her hand, the which declared of certain iniuries, and wrongs that were doone to her late Husbande, she goeth withal to ye pallaice, against the Coūsellors should come in, and went to the first that came in, to whome she presented her supplication, and he tooke it, and in taking of it, the good Wife made to him her complaints, because he should vnderstand the matter better. When ye Coun­sellour who was for spirituall matters, saw and vnder­stood by the Wife that they were temporall crimes and faults he sayd to the Wydow: good Woman, it is not to me that you shuld giue your supplicatiō, it must be vnto Maister Counsellour Fowle. The good Wyfe not know­ing what he meant by Consellour Fowle, thought that it should be deliuered to the fowlest and blackest Counsel­lor, because peraduenture she sawe that the first Coun­sellor was a faire mā and wel made. She began to looke vpō the Counsellors one after another, to sée which was faire, & who was foule, wherein she was very busie: at ye last comes one, that was none of the fairest men in the world, at the least in the wydows sight, because he had a long beard & was shauen. The good wife thought she had found her man, to whome she gaue her supplication, and said. Sir it was told me, yt it must be a fowle Counsellor that must deale with my supplication. I haue viewed al those yt are gone in, but me think there is none so fowle as you: therefore I pray you declare it. The Counsellor that vnderstood very well wat she meant, thought no ill [Page] of the womans simplicitie, but tooke her supplicatiō, and in declaring it to ye chamber, failed not but got the Wy­dows matter dispatcht & ended according to her request.

¶ Of the Bastard Son of a noble mā, that would haue suffered him self to haue beene hanged, in hope to be reuenged, and how hee was an­gry with him that saued his life.

THere was vpon a time a noble mans bastard, whose wisdome was but after a manner: for hee thought that euery body should haue done him honour as to a Prince, because he ws Bastard to such a noble house. And besides this he thought that all the world did know his quallity, his birth & his name: for oftētimes he went straying about the Countreye with a Companie of no great valewe, and he would be in all Companies good and bad, al was one to him, he played away his Horses, at all times when he had new giuen him, and his appa­rell by yt way where he went, and many times for want of a Horse he was faine to go on foot. Vpon a time being left but in all ill plight, he passed by the Country of Ro­uergie, cōming toward Fraunce, to get him a new Horse, and he passed by wood, where certaine Théeues had newly slain a man. The Prouost Martial that followed vpon the théeues, met by chaūce this Bastard clad like a Soldiour: of whom he asked from whence he came. The Bastarde aunswered him nothing, but stubbornly asked what he had to do from whence he came: yes said ye Pro­uost I haue to do, and to know: art not thou one of those that hath killed yonder man? what mā said the bastard? thou néedest not aske what man said the Prouost, I will make thée tel me others newes or euer thou goest. Why what wilt thou do said ye bastard? The Prouost made no more to doe, but caused him to be apprehended, and that was woorse led him away by force, & going by the way [Page 44] the Bastard saide, is it to me that thou hast a quarrell, & I haue suffered thée all this while? the Prouost thinking that he did threaten him with his fellows, kept his men about him, and led him straight to the next Towne, and there condemned him to bee hanged. But in asking him what he was, and what was his name, he aunswered no other thing, but I will teach you to know what I am, & what is my name: thou art a hanger of men, art thou? no force. Vpon these threatening wordes the Prouost con­demned him, & carried him out to be hanged, & made him go vp the Ladder, which prouoked the Bastard to great anger, saying his death should be the dearest to him, of al that euer he hanged in his life. When he was a high vp­pon the ladder, there was by fortune amongst the rest to sée the Execution a man of that Countrey, which before time had béene at the Court, that knew this bastard, and because he would be sure, he came néerer to the Ladder, so that he knewe verily that it was he. This man called to M. Prouost, saying: what will ye doe M. Prouost? stay your handes, it is such a noble mans son, take héed what you do, as you meane to aunswere it. The Bastard hea­ring this man declare what he was, willed him to holde his peace with a mischiefe, let the Prouost alone said he, for to teach him to hang folkes. When the Prouost hard him named, he caused him to come downe, and to be loo­sed, to whom the bastard said moreouer: Wel, you would haue hanged me, it should haue béen the dearest hanging M. Prouost, that euer thou hanged in thy life. But why diddest not thou let him alone (speaking to the man that did saue him verie angerlie?) Iudg now I pray you what wil this man had, that would haue suffered him selfe to bee hanged, and would haue beene reuenged afterward: but who would once thinke that he was a Noble mans sonne, and also a Gentleman. The poore man was not of his mind that the French Kinge would haue sent to the Kinge of England, who then had war against Fraunce, [Page] for manie iniuries & wrongs that Fraunce had offered, the which Gentleman said vnto the French Kinge: Sir, and it like your grace, I am yours body life and gooddes, the which I will indeuour with all my power to bestow in your Graces seruice like an obedient Subiecte: but if you send me into England in these troubles. I shall ne­uer returne again, which is for a matter of no such great waight, but that it may be deferred vntill the Kinge of England haue pacified his anger: for now that he is thus bent against you and your kingdome, he will not sticke to cut off my head. By the faith of a Gentleman said the French king, if he do so I wilbe reuenged, or it shall cost me fortie thousand mens liues. Yea mary Sir saide the Gentleman, but of all those heades there will not be one that will serue my turne, it is a small comfort to a man that his death shalbe reuenged. Indéed, a man for the re­spect of his honour, and for the common wealth, will bee the more willing to offer his heade to be stricken off, for that it is a vertuous act, and a honourable execution.

¶ Of a Taylor that would steale from himselfe, and of the graye cloth that he restored againe to his Gossip the Hosyer.

A Taylor of the Towne of Poytiers named Lyon, was a good workman of his occupation, and could as wel make a garment for a woman as for a mā, but sometimes he would cut out thrée quarters behinde in stéed of two, or thrée sléeues in a cloke, and sow on but twoo: and he had so practised this legerdemaine, that hee could not refraine it in nothing that he did cut out. If he had cut out a garment for himself, he would haue thoght his cloth had deceiued him, if he cut not somthing beside the garment to cast into the chest. As in like manner an other, who was so great a théefe, that when he found no­thing to steale, he wold rise from his bed, and steale mo­ney [Page 47] out of his owne purse. I will not saye that Taylors bee Théeues, for they take no more then onely that which is brought them, no more then the Ioyners: & as the Mayd said to her Mistrisse that hyred her: wot ye what Dame? I will serue you well, but looke you? what meanest thou by that said the woman? My féete are swift to séeke a new seruice if I like not, and this all the faulte I haue: for in all other things you shal find me as diligent as is possi­ble. Also our Taylor could verie wel his occupation but that he had his fault. It chaunced so that he made a cloke of Roan russet for a Gossip of his that was a Hosier, who had occasion to ride abroad, whereof he had stollen a good quarter. The Hosier perceiued it well enough, but saide nothing, knowing by his owne occupation that euerie man must séeke to liue by theirs. One day in ye morning, the Hosier passing by the Taylors doore with his cloake on, the Taylor asked him how he did, and willed him to take a Hering with him to breakfast, for it was in Lent. He was content, so they wente vp together to roste this Hering: the Taylor called to his apprentice that was in the shop saying, bring me the gridyron that is below: the boy thought that he had called for the gray russet cloth y was lefte of the cloake, and that he would haue restored it againe to his Gossip the Hosier: he tooke the cloth, and carried it vp to his Maister. When the Hosier sawe this great péece of cloth, why sayd he, is this of my cloth? and will no lesse serue thy turne then this? Now surely I sée there is small honestie in thée. The Taylor perceiuing that he was bewraied, saide vnto him: why doest thou thinks that I would haue kepte it from thée that art my Gossip: Dost thou no [...] sée that I haue called for it to giue it thée againe? I spare thy cloth, and thou saiest I steale it from thée. The Hosier was well pleased with this an­swered: so he brake his fast, and tooke hence his remnant of cloth. But the Taylor gaue his prentise a lesson, to make him wiser: an other time.

¶ Of Chykouan the Taborer, that caused his Fa­ther in Law, to appeare before the Iudge be­cause he did not dye, and the sentence that the Iudge gaue.

IT is not verie longe since that in the Towne of Amboyse there was taborer, that euerie man cal­led Chykouan, a man merrie and full of pleasaunt wordes, for the which he was welcome in euerie place. He tooke to Wife an old mans Daughter in the Town of Amboyse, a man that meaned good faith, and had pas­sed his time hauing no childe but one onely Daughter. And because that Chykouan had no other means to sine but his Tabor, hee requested of this good man some mo­ney with the marriage of his Daughter, that he mighte buy some Implementes towards houshold. But this old man would giue him none, saying for his excuse to Chy­kouan: My sonne, aske me no money, for I can geue you none at this time: but you sée well that I am at the end of my daies ready to go to the graue, I haue no heire but my Daughter, you shall haue my house, and all my moo­uables when I am gone, for I cannot liue aboue a yeare or two at the most. The good man told him so many rea­sons, that he was content to take his Daughter without money, but he said vnto him: you shall vnderstand that I doe vpon your worde, that which I would not doe to another: but will you fulfill that truly which you haue pro­mised? What els said the old man? I neuer yet deceiued any man in all my life, and therefore God defend that I should begin now. Wel then said Chykouan, I wil haue no other contract but your promisse. The day of mariage was come, Chykouan goeth from his house to fetche his Wife at her Fathers, and he himselfe brought her to the Church with his Tabor and pipe: when he had brought her to Church, yet all is not done said said he, Chykou [...]n [Page 48] hath fetcht his Wife is Church, and nowe hee must goe fetch himselfe. He goeth backe againe to his house, and then he brought himself to to the Church with his tabor and pipe, where he marryed his Wife, and then brought her home, so that he was himselfe both Bridegroome and mynstrell, and gained his owne money, he plaid the good husband with her, and they liued alwaies together ioy­fully. At the end of two yéeres, perceiuing that his father in law did not die, he tarried yet two monethes, yea thrée months, but he liued stil. He bethought him for his plea­sure and to make sport, to sommon his Father in lawe, & for that purpose sent to him a sergeant, to warne him to the Court. This good olde man, that neuer before had to do in the Court, and that knew not what suche adiorne­mentes meant, was the heauiest man in the world to sée himselfe adiorned, and also at the request of his sonne in law, whom he had séene the day before, and had saide no­thing to him of it. He went out of hande to Chykouan, & made his complaint, shewing him that he had done him great wronge thus to adiorne him, and he not knowing wherefore it was. No said Chykouan, I will tell you tomorrow at the Court, and so could get no other thinge of him, but must néedes come to the Court. When as they came before the Iudge, Chykouan began to declare his matter himselfe saying My Lord Iudge. I haue maried this mans daughter here as all men know, I neuer had one pennie with her, as he himselfe can tell, but hee pro­mised me when I did marrie her, that I should haue his house and all his goods, & that he wold not liue aboue one yeare, or two at the most, I haue tarryed this two yeare and thrée monethes longer, and yet I haue neither his home nor any other thinge, I require that he die, or els to giue me his house and mouables according to promis. The good man defended his cause by his Attorney, that aunswered briefly what he had to say. The Iudg hauing heard the debates on both sides with their reasons alled­ged, [Page] and knowing the [...] intent of Chykouan, and his foo­lish demaund vpon the old mans vnsure promis, for his foolish adiornment did condemne Chykouan to paye all his Fathers costes and charges, and besides that twenty frankes turnoys to the King. Yet said the Iudge percei­uing thou art a poore man. I wil moderate the sentence, it shall be but a Capon, and the charge that the goodman hath béene at, and you shall go together like frendes, and eat your part, & after his death you shall haue his house, if it be not solde before, or morgaged, or fallen by casual­tie of fire. And thus the Iudges appointment was accor­ding to Chykouans demaunde, whome he made affrayde with his first sentence, but at the laste did moderate the same, as a Iudge may do in such a case.

¶ Of two poyntes to make a woman hold her tongue.

A Certaine young man béeing in talke with a Wo­man of Paris, who made her vaunt that shee was Maister, said vnto her: If I were your Husband, I would breake you well enough from your will. You said shee? why what can you doe more then other men? you wold be made to come vnder as well as others I warrāt you. No no said he, I know two poyntes to haue the vp­per hand of a Woman, Say you so said she? and what be the pointes I pray you? The young man in shutting his hande showed her his fitt, saying that was one, and then in closing the other hand said that was the other, where­at there was good laughing. For the Woman thought yt he would haue shewed some reason by learning, to haue the vpper hand of a Woman: but trust me, I think there is neither these pointes nor any other, that can perswade a Woman, if once she haue gotten the head to raunge at her owne pleasure.

¶ Of the Lord of Vauldry, & the pranks that he playd.

IT is not longe since was liuing the Lord of Vauldry, whose doinges made him knowen of Princes, and al­most of all the world, the Acts that he did in his life time with such a terrible and fearefull desperatenes, and the good fortune that he had withall, that no man but onely he durst presume to doe the like. And as it is commonly said, that a wise man should haue died thereof a hundred times. As whē he strangled a Cat with his téeth, hauing both his handes bounde behind him. And an other tyme when he would trie the goodnes of a buffe leather Ier­kin, or a Iack of mayle, I know not whether, but to trie it he pithed a naked sword against a wal, with the point toward him, and ran against the sword with such might, that he ran himselfe through the bodie: and yet neuerthe­lesse he dyed not, he may say he had good lucke. Amongst other of his desperate follyes, there is yet one that deser­ueth well to haue the hearing. He passed on Horsebacke vpon a time ouer Seye bridges, not farre from Angyers, which for bridges of wood are very high from the water, and hee bare behinde him on his Horse an other Gentle­mā, who iesting with M. Vauldry, said vnto him: tel mée now M. Vauldry, thou that art so full of inuentions, and that canst play so many prankes, if thou sawest now thy enemies at both endes of the bridge, that wayted for thy comming to slay thée, and thou haddest no shift but to goe forward or backward, what wouldst thou do? Then said Vauldry vnto him, dost thou aske me what I would do? thou shalt sée what. And without any more adoo set spurs to his horse, and leapte with him cleane ouer the bridge into the riuer of Loyre, and kept his horse backe so wel, that he escaped with his horse, but if the gentleman that was behinde him escaped as well as he, truely hee was [Page] more happy at the least then wise. For it is great foolish­nes of him to put himselfe behinde a desperate foole, and to moue such wordes vnto him knowing when a man is in such a place, he is not sure from daunger.

¶ Of a Mooncke, that aunswered altogether by Syllables.

A Certaine Mooncke trauailing the Countrey, ary­ued in an Inne at supper time: the host willed him to sit downe among others, that had alredy begun supper: but the Mooncke to ouer take them, began to lay on loade with his teeth, and with such an appetite as though he had eate no meat in thrée or foure days be­fore. The olde Lad had put himselfe in his dublet, the better to fyll his paunche: the which béeing perceiued, be one that sat at the table. He began to aske ye Mooncke many questions; that were not greatly to his minde, for he was busie filling of his bellie, because he would not lose muche tyme, he aunswered the partie that spake to him altogether in sillables: and I thinke he was practi­sed with this language long before, for he was very ex­pert in it. The questions, and the answeres were these: what garment doe you were? strong: what wyne do ye drinke? red: what flesh doe ye eat? béefe: Howe many Moonks are ye? nyne: how like you this wine? good: you drinke no such at home? no. What eat ye vpon frydaies? egs: how many haue ech of you? two. And this while, hee lost not one mouthful of meat, for his téeth were stil go­ing, and yet aunswered well and readily to all his de­maundes. If he said his mattins so short, but of doubt he was a notable Piller of the Church.

¶ Of a certaine Studient in the lawe, and of the Poticarie, that taught him phisicke.

[Page 47]THere was vpon a time a certaine Scholler, that had dwelled at Tholowse a certaine time, passing by a litle towne not far from Cahors in Quercy, named saint Antonies, there for to practise his texts of law, not that hee had greatly therin profited, for he had most stu­died humaine letters, wherein he had very good know­ledge. But hée thought, séeing hee began to professe the lawe, not to straye or wander from the same, vntill hee could aunswere therein aswel as another. So soon as he was come to saint Antonies (as in such litle Townes a man is quickly spyed and marked) there came a Pot­ticarie to be acquainted with him, saying: Syr, you are welcome to the towne, and so began to fall in talke with him: who amongest other talke, spake certaine wordes as touching Phisicke. When the Potticarie had hard him speake, hee sayd vnto him: Sir, so far as I can per­ceiue you are a Phisition. No that I am not said he, but I haue read somwhat of Phisicke. I know well enough Sir, that you wil not declare what you are, because you meane not to tarrye long in this Towne. But truely Sir, if you would, you should not finde it least for your profit. We haue at this present neuer a Phisition in these quarters, he that we had, is lately dead, and dyed worth thrée or foure thousand pound. If that you wil re­maine and dwel here (for here is god being) I wil lodge you in my house, and so you and I shall liue well, when ye are once knowne. Sir said he Poticarie, I pray you take the pains to come and dine with me. The Scholler vnderstanding the Poticaries words, that was no foole, for he had trauailed into many places, to sée and knowe fashions, was contēt to go with him to dyner, & thought this to himselfe: I will trye the chaunce, and if this man will do as he saith, I shall make good shifte, for this is a rude Countrey, and there is not one body that knoweth me, and therefore we will sée what will come to passe. The Potticarie, brought him to his house to diner. After [Page] diner, hauing alwayes this talke in their mouthes, they agréed together to be Coosins. And for to make our tale short, the Poticarie made the Scholler beléeue that hee was a Phisition. And then yt Schooler said vnto him first of all, you shall vnderstande that I neuer had great pra­ctise in our art as you do thinke. But my minde was, to haue gone to Paris, to haue studied another yeare, and then to haue fallen to the practise at the Towne from whence I came. But séeing I haue foūd you, and that I know you are a mā that can show me pleasure, and I in like manner vnto you, let vs looke about to doe our bu­sinesse, for I am content at your request to tarry. Sir sayd the Potticarie, take no care, I wil teach you all the practise of phisick in lesse then fiftéen dayes. I haue of a long time vsed ye company of phisitions, both in Praunce and in other places, I know their fashions, and their re­ceipts all by hart. Moreouer in this Country, ye néed but set a good countenance on it, and go by gesse, & you shalbe counted the best Phisition in all the Worlde: and then the Poticarie began to teach him, howe he should write an ounce, half ounce, a quarter of an oūce, a dram, a handfull, a quantity. And another day, hee taught him the names of drugs that were most common, and to mixe, to straine, to still, to make compounds, and simples, and such like thinges. This continued ten or twelue dayes, during the which tyme he kept his chamber, causing the Poticarie to say that he was not wel. The which Poti­carie blazed abroade that this phisitiō was the best lear­ned man, that euer came to that towne. Whereof they of the Towne were verye glad, and began to entertaine him, and to make much of him so soon as he came abroad, they stryuing who should make him the best chéere. And you would haue said that already they longed to be sick, to trye this new phisition, and to set him a worke to the ende he might haue a better will & desire to tarry there. But M. Doctor made himself to be sought for, & entered [Page 51] not haunting the Companie of many Folkes, but kept a great coūtenance & set a good face on the matter, & aboue other thinges he did not depart from the Potticarie, that had taught him his running: in shorte tyme there came vryns to him from all partes. Now in those places they must iudge by the vrynes, whether the patient be a mā, or a woman, & in what part their paine and sicknes lay, and of what age they were. But this Phisition could do more then that, for he could tel thē who was their father & mother, and whether they were maried, or no, and how many Children they had, to conclude he could tell all e­uen from the old to the newe, and all by the helpe of his M. the Poticarie. For when he saw any body brought a water, the Poticarie would question with them whilest the phisition was aboue, and would aske them, from end to end all these former things. And then he caused them stay▪ vntill he was gone vp & declared to M. Doctor all yt he had learned of them that brought the vrins. The phi­sition, taking their waters, would hould them vp & looke on them, putting his hand betweene the brinall and the light, & would shake it, and turne it with al the gestures in such cases required. Thē he would say, it is a womās water, yea truely Sir it is so, she had a great paine in her left side vnder the brest, or paine in the head (as the Potticarie had giuen him instructions) it is not thrée monethes since she was deliuered of a Daughter. The bringer of this vrine did begin greatly to maruell at his great knowledge, & would goe awaye, and declare vnto euery body what the phisitiō had said, So yt from mouth to mouth the report went, that there to the towne was come such an od Fellowe, that there was not his like to be found. And if by fortune his Poticarie was not by, or at hand, thē would he draw the worme out of their nose himself, in saying very sicke, to which the bringer of the vrine would saye he or she, by the meanes whereof hée wold say after a litle pawsing, is not this a mans water? [Page] Yea truely Sir, it is a mans water would the Bringer say, I spyed that by and by, would the Phisition say, but whē he came to minister and giue phisicke vnto any one, then would he haue alwayes his Poticarie, who spake one vnto another phisick lattin, which was in those days fine stuffe. And vnder this lattin, the Potticarie would name him the whole receipt, making a showe as though they spake of other things. In the which, I leaue you to consider whether it were not a good sight to sée a Phi­sition write vnder a Potticarie. In effect whether it was because of the good opinion the People had on him, or by any other chaunce, those that were sick, felt them­selues well by his ordinances and appointements, they thought not themselues well that came not to this Phi­sition, and they were perswaded, that it was good beeing sick whilest he was there: for they thought if hee went once his waye, they should neuer recouer again the like, and happy was he yt could present him with the greatest gifts. So that in six or seuen months, he had gotten good store of crownes, and also his Potticarie by means one of another: and therefore he prepared him selfe to depart from saint Antonies, saying that he had received letters from his Countrey, by the which he hard newes that hée must néedes depart for a tyme, but he would not faile to returne againe shortlye. It was to Paris that he came, where afterwards he fell to studie phisicke. And it may be afterward for all his further knowledge, hee was not so good a Phisition, as when he was prentis: I meane, his doings came not so prosperously to passe: and many times fortune helpeth more those that are ignorant, thē those that haue knowledge and skil: for a man of know­ledge, vseth too much discretiō in his doings, he thinketh of the circumstance, and hath a feare, and a doubt, which giueth vnto men a mistrust in themselues, that doth dis­courage them to deale in many things. And as it is com­monly sayd, better it is to fall into the handes of a lucky [Page 52] phisition, then to him that is learned, and hath good skill. The Phisition of Italy knew this wel inough, who whē he had nothing to do, did write two or thrée hundred kind of receiptes, for diuers sicknesses & diseases, of the which he tooke a great number, & put them in the pocket of his coat, or into his bosome: so that when any body came vn­to him with vrines, he drewe out one of the receipts by chaunce (as the lottes are drawen at the Lottary) and gaue it to the bringer of the vryne, saying vnto him or her, Dio te la dagae buonae: and if it sped well so it was, and if it sped ill, Suo damuo: for thus goeth the world.

FINIS.

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