The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Palace of Pleasure, Volume 1, by William Painter This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Palace of Pleasure, Volume 1 Author: William Painter Release Date: January 1, 2007 [EBook #20241] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PALACE OF PLEASURE *** Produced by Louise Hope, Carlo Traverso and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by the Bibliotheque nationale de France (BnF/Gallica) at http://gallica.bnf.fr and The Internet Archive at http://www.archive.org) [Transcriber's Note: This e-text is intended for readers who cannot use the "real" (utf-8) version of the file. Characters that could not be correctly displayed have been "unpacked" and shown between brackets: [OE] [oe] o+e ligature [~e] [~m] letters with overline or nasal mark [.:.] three dots ("therefore" symbol) One Greek word has been transliterated and shown between +marks+. The first seven pages of the printed book have been moved to the end of the e-text, before the Errata. In the primary text, possible errors are noted but not changed. Word-initial "u" and medial "v" are in the original. See end of text for full explanation of [brackets], {braces}, (parentheses) and *asterisks*.] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The *PALACE OF PLEASURE* _Elizabethan Versions of Italian and French Novels_ _from Boccaccio, Bandello, Cinthio, Straparola,_ _Queen Margaret of Navarre,_ _and Others_ Done Into English By WILLIAM PAINTER _Now Again Edited For The Fourth Time_ By JOSEPH JACOBS VOL. I. [Illustration: Publisher's Device] _London: Published by David Nutt in the Strand_ MDCCCXC Ballantyne Press Ballantyne, Hanson and Co. Edinburgh and London To _EDWARD BURNE-JONES_ TABLE OF CONTENTS. VOLUME I. Page Preface ix Introduction xi Preliminary Matter (From Haslewood) xxxvii Appendix of Documents Relating to Painter liii Analytical Table of Contents of the Whole Work lxiii Index of Novels xcii TOME I. Title (Facsimile of First Edition) 1 Dedication to Earl of Warwick 3 List of Authors 9 To the Reader 10 Novel I. Horatii and Curiatii 15 II. Rape of Lucrece 22 III. Mucius Scaevola 26 IV. Coriolanus 29 V. Appius and Virginia 35 VI. Candaules and Gyges 46 VII. Cr[oe]sus and Solon 49 VIII. Rhacon and Cartomes 53 IX. Artaxerxes and Sinetas 54 X. Chariton and Menalippus 56 XI. Cyrus and Panthea 58 XII. Abdolominus King of Scythia 69 XIII. Alexander and the Scythian Ambassadors 71 XIV. Metellus on Marriage 74 XV. Lais and Demosthenes 77 XVI. Fabricius and Pyrrhus 78 XVII. Camillus and Schoolmaster 80 XVIII. Papyrius Praetextatus 83 XIX. Plutarch's Anger 85 XX. Aesop's Fable of the Lark 86 XXI. Hannibal and Antiochus 88 XXII. Androdus (_Androcles_) 89 XXIII. Favorinus 91 XXIV. Sertorius 95 XXV. Sibylline Leaves 98 XXVI. Master and Scholar 99 XXVII. Seleucus and Antiochus 102 XXVIII. Timon of Athens 112 XXIX. Marriage of Widow and Widower 114 XXX. The Three Rings 116 XXXI. Borsieri and Grimaldi 119 XXXII. Alberto of Bologna 122 XXXIII. Rinaldo of Este 125 XXXIV. King of England's Daughter 130 XXXV. Randolpho Ruffolo 138 XXXVI. Andruccio 143 XXXVII. Earl of Angiers 156 XXXVIII. Giletta of Narbonne 171 XXXIX. Tancred and Gismonda 180 XL. Mahomet and Irene 190 XLI. Lady Falsely Accused 198 XLII. Didaco and Violenta 218 XLIII. Lady of Turin 240 XLIV. Aleran and Adelasia 249 XLV. Duchess of Savoy 285 XLVI. Countess of Salisbury 334 Advertisement to Reader 364 [Transcriber's Note on editors' introductions: Bracketed text [ ] is in the original. Brackets are also used to demarcate footnotes. In citations of older texts, letters originally printed as superscripts are shown in braces { }. For complete notes and errata, see the end of the text.] PREFACE. The present edition of Painter's "Palace of Pleasure," the storehouse of Elizabethan plot, follows page for page and line for line the privately printed and very limited edition made by Joseph Haslewood in 1813. One of the 172 copies then printed by him has been used as "copy" for the printer, but this has been revised in proof from the British Museum examples of the second edition of 1575. The collation has for the most part only served to confirm Haslewood's reputation for careful editing. Though the present edition can claim to come nearer the original in many thousands of passages, it is chiefly in the mint and cummin of capitals and italics that we have been able to improve on Haslewood: in all the weightier matters of editing he shows only the minimum of fallibility. We have however divided his two tomes, for greater convenience, into three volumes of as nearly as possible equal size. This arrangement has enabled us to give the title pages of both editions of the two tomes, those of the first edition in facsimile, those of the second (at the beginning of vols. ii. and iii.) with as near an approach to the original as modern founts of type will permit. I have also reprinted Haslewood's "Preliminary Matter," which give the Dryasdust details about the biography of Painter and the bibliography of his book in a manner not too Dryasdust. With regard to the literary apparatus of the book, I have perhaps been able to add something to Haslewood's work. From the Record Office and British Museum I have given a number of documents about Painter, and have recovered the only extant letter of our author. I have also gone more thoroughly into the literary history of each of the stories in the "Palace of Pleasure" than Haslewood thought it necessary to do. I have found Oesterley's edition of Kirchhof and Landau's _Quellen des Dekameron_ useful for this purpose. I have to thank Dr. F. J. Furnivall for lending me his copies of Bandello and Belleforest. I trust it will be found that the present issue is worthy of a work which, with North's "Plutarch" and Holinshed's "Chronicle," was the main source of Shakespeare's Plays. It had also, as early as 1580, been ransacked to furnish plots for the stage, and was used by almost all the great masters of the Elizabethan drama. Quite apart from this source of interest, the "Palace of Pleasure" contains the first English translations from the _Decameron_, the _Heptameron_, from Bandello, Cinthio and Straparola, and thus forms a link between Italy and England. Indeed as the Italian _novelle_ form part of that continuous stream of literary tradition and influence which is common to all the great nations of Europe, Painter's book may be termed a link connecting England with European literature. Such a book as this is surely one of the landmarks of English literature. INTRODUCTION. A young man, trained in the strictest sect of the Pharisees, is awakened one morning, and told that he has come into the absolute possession of a very great fortune in lands and wealth. The time may come when he may know himself and his powers more thoroughly, but never again, as on that morn, will he feel such an exultant sense of mastery over the world and his fortunes. That image[1] seems to me to explain better than any other that remarkable outburst of literary activity which makes the Elizabethan Period unique in English literature, and only paralleled in the world's literature by the century after Marathon, when Athens first knew herself. With Elizabeth England came of age, and at the same time entered into possession of immense spiritual treasures, which were as novel as they were extensive. A New World promised adventures to the adventurous, untold wealth to the enterprising. The Orient had become newly known. The Old World of literature had been born anew. The Bible spoke for the first time in a tongue understanded of the people. Man faced his God and his fate without any intervention of Pope or priest. Even the very earth beneath his feet began to move. Instead of a universe with dimensions known and circumscribed with Dantesque minuteness, the mystic glow of the unknown had settled down on the whole face of Nature, who offered her secrets to the first comer. No wonder the Elizabethans were filled with an exulting sense of man's capabilities, when they had all these realms of thought and action suddenly and at once thrown open before them. There is a confidence in the future and all it had to bring which can never recur, for while man may come into even greater treasures of wealth or thought than the Elizabethans dreamed of, they can never be as new to us as they were to them. The sublime confidence of Bacon in the future of science, of which he knew so little, and that little wrongly, is thus eminently and characteristically Elizabethan.[2] [Footnote 1: It was suggested to me, if I remember right, by my friend Mr. R. G. Moulton.] [Footnote 2: There was something Elizabethan in the tone of men of science in England during the "seventies," when Darwinism was to solve all the problems. The Marlowe of the movement, the late Professor Clifford, found no Shakespeare.] The department of Elizabethan literature in which this exuberant energy found its most characteristic expression was the Drama, and that for a very simple though strange reason. To be truly great a literature must be addressed to the nation as a whole. The subtle influence of audience on author is shown equally though conversely in works written only for sections of a nation. Now in the sixteenth century any literature that should address the English nation as a whole--not necessarily all Englishmen, but all classes of Englishmen--could not be in any literary form intended to be merely read. For the majority of Englishmen could not read. Hence they could only be approached by literature when read or recited to them in church or theatre. The latter form was already familiar to them in the Miracle Plays and Mysteries, which had been adopted by the Church as the best means of acquainting the populace with Sacred History. The audiences of the Miracle Plays were prepared for the representation of human action on the stage. Meanwhile, from translation and imitation, young scholars at the universities had become familiar with some of the masterpieces of Ancient Drama, and with the laws of dramatic form. But where were they to seek for matter to fill out these forms? Where were they, in short, to get their plots? Plot, we know, is pattern as applied to human action. A story, whether told or acted, must tend in some definite direction if it is to be a story at all. And the directions in which stories can go are singularly few. Somebody in the _Athenaeum_--probably Mr. Theodore Watts, he has the habit of saying such things--has remarked that during the past century only two novelties in plot, _Undine_ and _Monte Christo_, have been produced in European literature. Be that as it may, nothing strikes the student of comparative literature so much as the paucity of plots throughout literature and the universal tendency to borrow plots rather than attempt the almost impossible task of inventing them. That tendency is shown at its highest in the Elizabethan Drama. Even Shakespeare is as much a plagiarist or as wise an artist, call it which you will, as the meanest of his fellows. Not alone is it difficult to invent a plot; it is even difficult to see one in real life. When the _denouement_ comes, indeed--when the wife flees or commits suicide--when bosom friends part, or brothers speak no more--we may know that there has been the conflict of character or the clash of temperaments which go to make the tragedies of life. But to recognise these opposing forces before they come to the critical point requires somewhat rarer qualities. There must be a quasi-scientific interest in life _qua_ life, a dispassionate detachment from the events observed, and at the same time an artistic capacity for selecting the cardinal points in the action. Such an attitude can only be attained in an older civilisation, when individuality has emerged out of nationalism. In Europe of the sixteenth century the only country which had reached this stage was Italy. The literary and spiritual development of Italy has always been conditioned by its historic position as the heir of Rome. Great nations, as M. Renan has remarked, work themselves out in effecting their greatness. The reason is that their great products overshadow all later production, and prevent all competition by their very greatness. When once a nation has worked up its mythic element into an epos, it contains in itself no further materials out of which an epos can be elaborated. So Italian literature has always been overshadowed by Latin literature. Italian writers, especially in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, were always conscious of their past, and dared not compete with the great names of Virgil, Ovid, Horace, and the rest. At the same time, with this consciousness of the past, they had evolved a special interest in the problems and arts of the present. The split-up of the peninsula into so many small states, many of them republics, had developed individual life just as the city-states of Hellas had done in ancient times. The main interest shifted from the state and the nation to the life and development of the individual.[3] And with this interest arose in the literary sphere the dramatic narrative of human action--the Novella. [Footnote 3: See Burckhardt, _Cultur der Renaisance in Italien_, Buch II., especially Kap. iii.] The genealogy of the Novella is short but curious. The first known collection of tales in modern European literature dealing with the tragic and comic aspects of daily life was that made by Petrus Alphonsi, a baptized Spanish Jew, who knew some Arabic.[4] His book, the _Disciplina Clericalis_, was originally intended as seasoning for sermons, and very strong seasoning they must have been found. The stories were translated into French, and thus gave rise to the _Fabliau_, which allowed full expression to the _esprit Gaulois_. From France the _Fabliau_ passed to Italy, and came ultimately into the hands of Boccaccio, under whose influence it became transformed into the _Novella_.[5] [Footnote 4: On Peter Alphonsi see my edition of Caxton's _AEsop_, which contains selections from him in Vol. II.] [Footnote 5: Signor Bartoli has written on _I Precursori di Boccaccio_, 1874, Landau on his Life and Sources (_Leben_, 1880, _Quellen des Dekameron_, 1884), and on his successors (_Beitraege zur Geschichte der ital. Novelle_, 1874). Mr. Symonds has an admirable chapter on the _Novellieri_ in his _Renaissance_, vol. v.] It is an elementary mistake to associate Boccaccio's name with the tales of gayer tone traceable to the _Fabliaux_. He initiated the custom of mixing tragic with the comic tales. Nearly all the _novelle_ of the Fourth Day, for example, deal with tragic topics. And the example he set in this way was followed by the whole school of _Novellieri_. As Painter's book is so largely due to them, a few words on the _Novellieri_ used by him seem desirable, reserving for the present the question of his treatment of their text. Of Giovanne Boccaccio himself it is difficult for any one with a love of letters to speak in few or measured words. He may have been a Philistine, as Mr. Symonds calls him, but he was surely a Philistine of genius. He has the supreme virtue of style. In fact, it may be roughly said that in Europe for nearly two centuries there is no such thing as a prose style but Boccaccio's. Even when dealing with his grosser topics--and these he derived from others--he half disarms disgust by the lightness of his touch. And he could tell a tale, one of the most difficult of literary tasks. When he deals with graver actions, if he does not always rise to the occasion, he never fails to give the due impression of seriousness and dignity. It is not for nothing that the _Decamerone_ has been the storehouse of poetic inspiration for nearly five centuries. In this country alone, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dryden, Keats, Tennyson, have each in turn gone to Boccaccio for material. In his own country he is the fountainhead of a wide stream of literary influences that has ever broadened as it flowed. Between the fifteenth and the eighteenth centuries the Italian presses poured forth some four thousand _novelle_, all avowedly tracing from Boccaccio.[6] Many of these, it is true, were imitations of the gayer strains of Boccaccio's genius. But a considerable proportion of them have a sterner tone, and deal with the weightier matters of life, and in this they had none but the master for their model. The gloom of the Black Death settles down over the greater part of all this literature. Every memorable outburst of the fiercer passions of men that occurred in Italy, the land of passion, for all these years, found record in a _novella_ of Boccaccio's followers. The _Novelle_ answered in some respects to our newspaper reports of trials and the earlier _Last Speech and Confession_. But the example of Boccaccio raised these gruesome topics into the region of art. Often these tragedies are reported of the true actors; still more often under the disguise of fictitious names, that enabled the narrator to have more of the artist's freedom in dealing with such topics. [Footnote 6: Specimens of these in somewhat wooden English were given by Roscoe in his _Italian Novelists_.] The other _Novellieri_ from whom Painter drew inspiration may be dismissed very shortly. Of Ser Giovanne Fiorentino, who wrote the fifty novels of his _Pecorone_ about 1378, little is known nor need be known; his merits of style or matter do not raise him above mediocrity. Straparola's _Piacevole Notti_ were composed in Venice in the earlier half of the sixteenth century, and are chiefly interesting for the fact that some dozen or so of his seventy-four stories are folk-tales taken from the mouth of the people, and were the first thus collected: Straparola was the earliest Grimm. His contemporary Giraldi, known as Cinthio (or Cinzio), intended his _Ecatomithi_ to include one hundred _novelle_, but they never reached beyond seventy; he has the grace to cause the ladies to retire when the men relate their smoking-room anecdotes of _feminine impudiche_. Owing to Dryden's statement "Shakespeare's plots are in the one hundred novels of Cinthio" (Preface to _Astrologer_), his name has been generally fixed upon as the representative Italian novelist from whom the Elizabethans drew their plots. As a matter of fact only "Othello" (_Ecat._ iii. 7), and "Measure for Measure" (_ib._ viii. 5), can be clearly traced to him, though "Twelfth Night" has some similarity with Cinthio's "Gravina" (v. 8): both come from a common source, Bandello. Bandello is indeed the next greatest name among the _Novellieri_ after that of Boccaccio, and has perhaps had even a greater influence on dramatic literature than his master. Matteo Bandello was born at the end of the fifteenth century at Castelnuovo di Scrivia near Tortona. He lived mainly in Milan, at the Dominican monastery of Sta. Maria delle Grazie, where Leonardo painted his "Last Supper." As he belonged to the French party, he had to leave Milan when it was taken by the Spaniards in 1525, and after some wanderings settled in France near Agen. About 1550 he was appointed Bishop of Agen by Henri II., and he died some time after 1561. To do him justice, he only received the revenues of his see, the episcopal functions of which were performed by the Bishop of Grasse. His _novelle_ are nothing less than episcopal in tone and he had the grace to omit his dignity from his title-pages. Indeed Bandello's novels[7] reflect as in a mirror all the worst sides of Italian Renaissance life. The complete collapse of all the older sanctions of right conduct, the execrable example given by the petty courts, the heads of which were reckless because their position was so insecure, the great growth of wealth and luxury, all combined to make Italy one huge hot-bed of unblushing vice. The very interest in individuality, the spectator-attitude towards life, made men ready to treat life as one large experiment, and for such purposes vice is as important as right living even though it ultimately turns out to be as humdrum as virtue. The Italian nobles treated life in this experimental way and the novels of Bandello and others give us the results of their experiments. The _Novellieri_ were thus the "realists" of their day and of them all Bandello was the most realistic. He claims to give only incidents that really happened and makes this his excuse for telling many incidents that should never have happened. It is but fair to add that his most vicious tales are his dullest. [Footnote 7: The Villon Society is to publish this year a complete translation of Bandello by Mr. John Payne.] That cannot be said of Queen Margaret of Navarre, who carries on the tradition of the _Novellieri_, and is represented in Painter by some of her best stories. She intended to give a Decameron of one hundred stories--the number comes from the _Cento novelle antichi_, before Boccaccio--but only got so far as the second novel of the eighth day. As she had finished seven days her collection is known as the Heptameron. How much of it she wrote herself is a point on which the doctors dispute. She had in her court men like Clement Marot, and Bonaventure des Periers, who probably wrote some of the stories. Bonaventure des Periers in particular, had done much in the same line under his own name, notably the collection known as _Cymbalum Mundi_. Marguerite's other works hardly prepare us for the narrative skill, the easy grace of style and the knowledge of certain aspects of life shown in the _Heptameron_. On the other hand the framework, which is more elaborate than in Boccaccio or any of his school, is certainly from one hand, and the book does not seem one that could have been connected with the Queen's name unless she had really had much to do with it. Much of its piquancy comes from the thought of the association of one whose life was on the whole quite blameless with anecdotes of a most blameworthy style. Unlike the lady in the French novel who liked to play at innocent games with persons who were not innocent, Margaret seems to have liked to talk and write of things not innocent while remaining unspotted herself. Her case is not a solitary one. The whole literature of the _Novella_ has the attraction of graceful naughtiness in which vice, as Burke put it, loses half its evil by losing all its grossness. At all times, and for all time probably, similar tales, more broad than long, will form favourite talk or reading of adolescent males. They are, so to speak, pimples of the soul which synchronise with similar excrescences of the skin. Some men have the art of never growing old in this respect, but I cannot say I envy them their eternal youth. However, we are not much concerned with tales of this class on the present occasion. Very few of the _novelle_ selected by Painter for translation depend for their attraction on mere naughtiness. In matters of sex the sublime and the ridiculous are more than usually close neighbours. It is the tragic side of such relations that attracted Painter, and it was this fact that gave his book its importance for the history of English literature, both in its connection with Italian letters and in its own internal development. The relations of Italy and England in matters literary are due to the revivers of the New Learning. Italy was, and still is, the repository of all the chief MSS. of the Greek and Latin classics. Thither, therefore, went all the young Englishmen, whom the influence of Erasmus had bitten with a desire for the New Learning which was the Old Learning born anew. But in Italy itself, the New Learning had even by the early years of the sixteenth century produced its natural result of giving birth to a national literature (Ariosto, Trissino). Thus in their search for the New Learning, Englishmen of culture who went to Italy came back with a tincture of what may be called the Newest Learning, the revival of Italian Literature. Sir Thomas Wyatt and the Earl of Surrey "The Dioscuri of the Dawn" as they have been called, are the representatives of this new movement in English thought and literature, which came close on the heels of the New Learning represented by Colet, More, Henry VIII. himself and Roger Ascham. The adherents of the New Learning did not look with too favourable eyes on the favourers of the Newest Learning. They took their ground not only on literary lines, but with distinct reference to manners and morals. The corruption of the Papal Court which had been the chief motive cause of the Reformation--men judge creeds by the character they produce, not by the logical consistency of their tenets--had spread throughout Italian society. The Englishmen who came to know Italian society could not avoid being contaminated by the contact. The Italians themselves observed the effect and summed it up in their proverb, _Inglese italianato e un diabolo incarnato_. What struck the Italians must have been still more noticeable to Englishmen. We have a remarkable proof of this in an interpolation made by Roger Ascham at the end of the first part of his _Schoolmaster_, which from internal evidence must have been written about 1568, the year after the appearance of Painter's Second Tome.[8] The whole passage is so significant of the relations of the chief living exponent of the New Learning to the appearance of what I have called the Newest Learning that it deserves to be quoted in full in any introduction to the book in which the Newest Learning found its most characteristic embodiment. I think too I shall be able to prove that there is a distinct and significant reference to Painter in the passage (pp. 77-85 of Arber's edition, slightly abridged). [Footnote 8: See Prof. Arber's reprint, p. 8.] But I am affraide, that ouer many of our trauelers into _Italie_, do not exchewe the way to _Circes_ Court: but go, and ryde, and runne, and flie thether, they make great hast to cum to her: they make great sute to serue her: yea, I could point out some with my finger, that neuer had gone out of England, but onelie to serue _Circes_, in _Italie_. Vanitie and vice, and any licence to ill liuyng in England was counted stale and rude vnto them. And so, beyng Mules and Horses before they went, returned verie Swyne and Asses home agayne; yet euerie where verie Foxes with as suttle and busie heades; and where they may, verie Woolues, with cruell malicious hartes. [Sidenote: A trewe Picture of a knight of Circes Court.] A maruelous monster, which, for filthines of liuyng, for dulnes to learning him selfe, for wilinesse in dealing with others, for malice in hurting without cause, should carie at once in one bodie, the belie of a Swyne, the head of an Asse, the brayne of a Foxe, the wombe of a wolfe. If you thinke, we iudge amisse, and write to sore against you, heare, [Sidenote: The Italians iudgement of Englishmen brought vp in Italie.] what the _Italian_ sayth of the English Man, what the master reporteth of the scholer: who vttereth playnlie, what is taught by him, and what learned by you, saying _Englese Italianato, e vn diabolo incarnato_, that is to say, you remaine men in shape and facion, but becum deuils in life and condition. This is not, the opinion of one, for some priuate spite, but the iudgement of all, in a common Prouerbe, which riseth, of that learnyng, and those maners, which you gather in _Italie_: [Sidenote: The Italian diffameth them selfe, to shame the Englishe man.] a good Scholehouse of wholesome doctrine, and worthy Masters of commendable Scholers, where the Master had rather diffame hym selfe for hys teachyng, than not shame his Scholer for his learnyng. A good nature of the maister, and faire conditions of the scholers. And now chose you, you _Italian_ Englishe men, whether you will be angrie with vs, for calling you monsters, or with the _Italianes_, for callyng you deuils, or else with your owne selues, that take so much paines, and go so farre, to make your selues both. If some yet do not well vnderstand, [Sidenote: An English man Italianated.] what is an English man Italianated, I will plainlie tell him. He, that by liuing, and traueling in _Italie_, bringeth home into England out of _Italie_, the Religion, the learning, the policie, the experience, the maners of _Italie_.... These be the inchantements of _Circes_, brought out of _Italie_, to marre mens maners in England; much, by example of ill life, but more by preceptes of fonde bookes, [Sidenote: _Italian_ bokes translated into English.] of late translated out of _Italian_ into English, sold in euery shop in London, commended by honest titles the soner to corrupt honest maners: dedicated ouer boldlie to vertuous and honourable personages, the easielier to begile simple and innocent wittes. [Sidenote: pointing finger] It is pitie, that those, which haue authoritie and charge, to allow and dissalow bookes to be printed, be no more circumspect herein, than they are. Ten Sermons at Paules Crosse do not so moch good for mouyng men to trewe doctrine, as one of those bookes do harme, with inticing men to ill liuing. Yea, I say farder, those bookes, tend not so moch to corrupt honest liuing, as they do, to subuert trewe Religion. Mo Papistes be made, by your mery bookes of _Italie_, than by your earnest bookes of _Louain_.... [Sidenote: pointing finger] Therfore, when the busie and open Papistes abroad, could not, by their contentious bookes, turne men in England fast enough, from troth and right iudgement in doctrine, than the sutle and secrete Papistes at home, procured bawdie bookes to be translated out of the _Italian_ tonge, whereby ouer many yong willes and wittes allured to wantonnes, do now boldly contemne all seuere bookes that founde to honestie and godlines. In our forefathers tyme, whan Papistrie, as a standyng poole, couered and ouerflowed all England, fewe bookes were read in our tong, sauyng certaine bookes of Cheualrie, as they sayd, for pastime and pleasure, which, as some say, were made in Monasteries, by idle Monkes, or wanton Chanons: as one for example, [Sidenote: Morte Arthur.] _Morte Arthure_: the whole pleasure of which booke standeth in two speciall poyntes, in open mans slaughter, and bold bawdrye: In which booke those be counted the noblest Knightes, that do kill most men without any quarrell, and commit fowlest aduoulteres by subtlest shiftes: as Sir _Launcelote_, with the wife of king _Arthure_ his master: Syr _Tristram_ with the wife of king _Marke_ his vncle: Syr _Lamerocke_ with the wife of king _Lote_, that was his owne aunte. [Sidenote: pointing finger] This is good stuffe, for wise men to laughe att or honest men to take pleasure at. Yet I know, when Gods Bible was banished the Court, and _Morte Arthure_ receiued into the Princes chamber. What toyes, the dayly readyng of such a booke, may worke in the will of a yong ientleman, or a yong mayde, that liueth welthelie and idlelie, wise men can iudge, and honest men do pitie. And yet ten _Morte Arthures_ do not the tenth part so much harme, as one of these bookes, made in _Italie_, and translated in England. [Sidenote: pointing finger] They open, not fond and common ways to vice, but such subtle, cunnyng, new, and diuerse shiftes, to cary yong willes to vanitie, and yong wittes to mischief, to teach old bawdes new schole poyntes, as the simple head of an Englishman is not hable to inuent, nor neuer was hard of in England before, yea when Papistrie ouerflowed all. Suffer these bookes to be read, and they shall soone displace all bookes of godly learnyng. For they, carying the will to vanitie and marryng good maners, [Sidenote: pointing finger] shall easily corrupt the mynde with ill opinions, and false iudgement in doctrine: first, to thinke nothyng of God hym selfe, one speciall pointe that is to be learned in _Italie_, and _Italian_ bookes. [Sidenote: pointing finger] And that which is most to be lamented, and therfore more nedefull to be looked to, there be moe of these vngratious bookes set out in Printe within these fewe monethes, than haue bene sene in England many score yeare before. And bicause our English men made _Italians_ can not hurt, but certaine persons, and in certaine places, therfore these _Italian_ bookes are made English, to bryng mischief enough openly and boldly, to all states great and meane, yong and old, euery where. And thus yow see, how will intised to wantonnes, doth easelie allure the mynde to false opinions: and how corrupt maners in liuinge, breede false iudgement in doctrine: how sinne and fleshlines, bring forth sectes and heresies: And therefore suffer not vaine bookes to breede vanitie in mens wills, if yow would haue Goddes trothe take roote in mens myndes.... They geuing themselues vp to vanitie, shakinge of the motions of Grace, driuing from them the feare of God, and running headlong into all sinne, first, lustelie contemne God, than scornefullie mocke his worde, and also spitefullie hate and hurte all well willers thereof. Then they haue in more reuerence the triumphes of Petrarche: than the Genesis of Moses: They make more account of _Tullies_ offices, than _S. Paules_ epistles: of a tale in _Bocace_, than a storie of the Bible. Than they counte as Fables, the holie misteries of Christian Religion. They make Christ and his Gospell, onelie serue Ciuill pollicie: Than neyther Religion cummeth amisse to them.... For where they dare, in cumpanie where they like, they boldlie laughe to scorne both protestant and Papist. They care for no scripture: They make no counte of generall councels: they contemne the consent of the Chirch: They passe for no Doctores: They mocke the Pope: They raile on _Luther_: They allow neyther side: They like none, but onelie themselues: The marke they shote at, the ende they looke for, the heauen they desire, is onelie, their owne present pleasure, and priuate proffit: whereby, they plainlie declare, of whose schole, of what Religion they be: that is, Epicures in liuing, and +atheoi+ in doctrine: this last worde, is no more vnknowne now to plaine Englishe men, than the Person was vnknown somtyme in England, vntill som Englishe man tooke peines to fetch that deuelish opinin out of Italie.... I was once in Italie my selfe: but I thanke God, my abode there, was but ix. dayes: [Sidenote: _Venice_.] And yet I sawe in that litle time, in one Citie, more libertie to sinne, than euer I hard tell of in our noble [Sidenote: _London_.] Citie of London in ix. yeare. I sawe, it was there, as free to sinne, not onelie without all punishment, but also without any mans marking, as it is free in the Citie of London, to chose, without all blame, whether a man lust to weare Shoo or Pantocle.... Our Italians bring home with them other faultes from Italie, though not so great as this of Religion, yet a great deale greater, than many good men will beare. [Sidenote: Contempt of mariage.] For commonlie they cum home, common contemners of mariage and readie persuaders of all other to the same: not because they loue virginitie, nor yet because they hate prettie yong virgines, but, being free in Italie, to go whither so euer lust will cary them, they do not like, that lawe and honestie should be soche a barre to their like libertie at home in England. And yet they be, the greatest makers of loue, the daylie daliers, with such pleasant wordes, with such smilyng and secret countenances, with such signes, tokens, wagers, purposed to be lost, before they were purposed to be made, with bargaines of wearing colours, floures and herbes, to breede occasion of ofter meeting of him and her, and bolder talking of this and that, etc. And although I haue seene some, innocent of ill, and stayde in all honestie, that haue vsed these thinges without all harme, without all suspicion of harme, yet these knackes were brought first into England by them, that learned them before in _Italie_ in _Circes_ Court: and how Courtlie curtesses so euer they be counted now, yet, if the meaning and maners of some that do vse them, were somewhat amended, it were no great hurt, neither to them selues, nor to others.... An other propertie of this our English _Italians_ is, to be meruelous singular in all their matters: Singular in knowledge, ignorant in nothyng: So singular in wisedome (in their owne opinion) as scarse they counte the best Counsellor the Prince hath, comparable with them: Common discoursers of all matters: busie searchers of most secret affaires: open flatterers of great men: priuie mislikers of good men: Faire speakers, with smiling countenances, and much curtessie openlie to all men. Ready bakbiters, sore nippers, and spitefull reporters priuily of good men. And beyng brought vp in _Italie_, in some free Citie, as all Cities be there: where a man may freelie discourse against what he will, against whom he lust: against any Prince, agaynst any gouernement, yea against God him selfe, and his whole Religion: where he must be, either _Guelphe_ or _Gibiline_, either _French_ or _Spanish_: and alwayes compelled to be of some partie, of some faction, he shall neuer be compelled to be of any Religion: And if he medle not ouer much with Christes true Religion, he shall haue free libertie to embrace all Religions, and becum, if he lust at once, without any let or punishment, Iewish, Turkish, Papish, and Deuilish. It is the old quarrel of classicists and Romanticists, of the _ancien regime_ and the new school in literature, which runs nearly through every age. It might be Victor Cousin reproving Victor Hugo, or, say, M. Renan protesting, if he could protest, against M. Zola. Nor is the diatribe against the evil communication that had corrupted good manners any novelty in the quarrel. Critics have practically recognised that letters are a reflex of life long before Matthew Arnold formulated the relation. And in the disputing between Classicists and Romanticists it has invariably happened that the Classicists were the earlier generation, and therefore more given to convention, while the Romanticists were likely to be experimental in life as in literature. Altogether then, we must discount somewhat Ascham's fierce denunciation, of the Italianate Englishman, and of the Englishing of Italian books. There can be little doubt, I think, that in the denunciation of the "bawdie stories" introduced from Italy, Ascham was thinking mainly and chiefly of Painter's "Palace of Pleasure." The whole passage is later than the death of Sir Thomas Sackville in 1566, and necessarily before the death of Ascham in December 1568. Painter's First Tome appeared in 1566, and his Second Tome in 1567. Of its immediate and striking success there can be no doubt. A second edition of the first Tome appeared in 1569, the year after Ascham's death, and a second edition of the whole work in 1575, the first Tome thus going through three editions in nine years. It is therefore practically certain that Ascham had Painter's book in his mind[9] in the above passage, which may be taken as a contemporary criticism of Painter, from the point of view of an adherent of the New-Old Learning, who conveniently forgot that scarcely a single one of the Latin classics is free from somewhat similar blemishes to those he found in Painter and his fellow-translators from the Italian. [Footnote 9: Ascham was shrewd enough not to advertise the book he was denouncing by referring to it by name. I have failed to find in the Stationer's Register of 1566-8 any similar book to which his remarks could apply, except Fenton's _Tragicall Discourses_, and that was from the French.] But it is time to turn to the book which roused Ascham's ire so greatly, and to learn something of it and its author.[10] William Painter was probably a Kentishman, born somewhere about 1525.[11] He seems to have taken his degree at one of the Universities, as we find him head master of Sevenoaks' school about 1560, and the head master had to be a Bachelor of Arts. In the next year, however, he left the paedagogic toga for some connection with arms, for on 9 Feb. 1561, he was appointed Clerk of the Ordnance, with a stipend of eightpence per diem, and it is in that character that he figures on his title page. He soon after married Dorothy Bonham of Dowling (born about 1537, died 1617), and had a family of at least five children. He acquired two important manors in Gillingham, co. Kent, East Court and Twidall. Haslewood is somewhat at a loss to account for these possessions. From documents I have discovered and printed in an Appendix, it becomes only too clear, I fear, that Painter's fortune had the same origin as too many private fortunes, in peculation of public funds. [Footnote 10: See Haslewood's account, reprinted _infra_, p. xxxvii., to which I have been able to add a few documents in the Appendix.] [Footnote 11: His son, in a document of 1591, speaks of him as his aged father (Appendix _infra_, p. lvii.).] So far as we can judge from the materials at our disposal, it would seem that Painter obtained his money by a very barefaced procedure. He seems to have moved powder and other materials of war from Windsor to the Tower, charged for them on delivery at the latter place as if they had been freshly bought, and pocketed the proceeds. On the other hand, it is fair to Painter to say that we only have the word of his accusers for the statement, though both he and his son own to certain undefined irregularities. It is, at any rate, something in his favour that he remained in office till his death, unless he was kept there on the principle of setting a peculator to catch a peculator. I fancy, too, that the Earl of Warwick was implicated in his misdeeds, and saved him from their consequences. His works are but few. A translation from the Latin account, by Nicholas Moffan, of the death of the Sultan Solyman,[12] was made by him in 1557. In 1560 an address in prose, prefixed to Dr. W. Fulke's _Antiprognosticon_, was signed "Your familiar friend, William Paynter,"[13] and dated "From Sevenoke xxii. of Octobre;" and the same volume contains Latin verses entitled "Gulielmi Painteri, ludimagistri Seuenochensis Tetrastichon." It is perhaps worth while remarking that this _Antiprognosticon_ was directed against Anthony Ascham, Roger's brother, which may perhaps account for some of the bitterness in the above passage from the _Scholemaster_. These slight productions, however, sink into insignificance in comparison with his chief work, "The Palace of Pleasure." [Footnote 12: Reprinted in the Second Tome of the "Palace," _infra_, vol. iii. p. 395.] [Footnote 13: In his own book, and in the document signed by him, the name is always "Painter."] He seems to have started work on this before he left Seven Oaks in 1561. For as early as 1562 he got a licence for a work to be entitled "The Citye of Cyuelite," as we know from the following entry in the _Stationers' Registers:_-- W. Jonnes--Receyued of Wylliam Jonnes for his lycense for pryntinge of a boke intituled _The Cytie of Cyuelitie_ translated into englisshe by WILLIAM PAYNTER. From his own history of the work given in the dedication of the first Tome to his patron, the Earl of Warwick, it is probable that this was originally intended to include only tales from Livy and the Latin historians. He seems later to have determined on adding certain of Boccaccio's novels, and the opportune appearance of a French translation of Bandello in 1559 caused him to add half a dozen or so from the Bishop of Agen. Thus a book which was originally intended to be another contribution to the New Learning of classical antiquity turned out to be the most important representative in English of the Newest Learning of Italy. With the change of plan came a change of title, and the "City of Civility," which was to have appeared in 1562, was replaced by the "Palace of Pleasure" in 1566.[14] [Footnote 14: The Dedication is dated near the Tower of London 1 January 1566, which must have been new style (introduced into France two years before).] The success of the book seems to have been immediate. We have seen above Ascham's indignant testimony to this, and the appearance of the Second Tome, half as large again as the other, within about eighteen months of the First, confirms his account. This Second Tome was practically the Bandello volume; more than half of the tales, and those by far the longest, were taken from him, through the medium of his French translators, Boaistuau and Belleforest. Within a couple of years another edition was called for of the First Tome, which appeared in 1569, with the addition of five more stories from the Heptameron, from which eleven were already in the first edition. Thus the First Tome might be called the Heptameron volume, and the second, that of Bandello. Boccaccio is pretty evenly divided between the two, and the remainder is made up of classic tales and anecdotes and a few _novelle_ of Ser Giovanni and Straparola. Both Tomes were reprinted in what may be called the definitive edition of the work in 1575. Quite apart from its popularity and its influence on the English stage, on which we shall have more to say shortly, Painter's book deserves a larger place in the history of English Literature than has as yet been given to it. It introduced to England some of the best novels of Boccaccio, Bandello, and Queen Margaret, three of the best _raconteurs_ of short stories the world has ever had. It is besides the largest work in English prose that appeared between the _Morte Darthur_ and North's Plutarch.[15] Painter's style bears the impress of French models. Though professing to be from Italian _novellieri_, it is mainly derived from French translations of them. Indeed, but for the presence of translations from Ser Giovanni and Straparola, it might be doubtful whether Painter translated from the Italian at all. He claims however to do this from Boccaccio, and as he owns the aid of a French "crib" in the case of Bandello, the claim may be admitted. His translations from the French are very accurate, and only err in the way of too much literalness.[16] From a former dominie one would have expected a far larger proportion of Latinisms than we actually find. As a rule, his sentences are relatively short, and he is tolerably free from the vice of the long periods that were brought into vogue by "Ciceronianism." He is naturally free from Euphuism and for a very good reason, since _Euphues and his Englande_ was not published for another dozen years or so. The recent suggestion of Dr. Landmann and others that Euphuism came from the influence of Guevara would seem to be negatived by the fact that the "Letters of Trajan" in the Second Tome of Painter are taken from Guevara and are no more Euphuistic than the rest of the volume. [Footnote 15: Always with the exception of exceptions, the Bishop's Bible.] [Footnote 16: Mr. P. A. Daniel, in his edition of Painter's "Romeo and Juliet," in the New Shakespere Society's _Originals and Analogues_, i., 1876, gives the few passages in which Painter has misunderstood Boaistuau. For lexicographical use, however, it would be well to consult Painter's original for any very striking peculiarities of his vocabulary.] Painter's volume is practically the earliest volume of prose translations from a modern language into English in the true Elizabethan period after the influence of Caxton in literary importation had died away with Bourchier the translator of Froissart and of Huon of Bordeaux. It set the ball rolling in this direction, and found many followers, some of whom may be referred to as having had an influence only second to that of Painter in providing plots for the Elizabethan Drama. There can be little doubt that it was Painter set the fashion, and one of his chief followers recognised this, as we shall see, on his title page. The year in which Painter's Second Tome appeared saw George (afterwards Sir George) Fenton's _Certaine Tragicall Discourses writtene oute of Frenche and Latine_ containing fourteen "histories." As four of these are identical with tales contained in Painter's Second Tome it is probable that Fenton worked independently, though it was doubtless the success of the "Palace of Pleasure" that induced Thomas Marshe, Painter's printer, to undertake a similar volume from Fenton. The _Tragicall Discourses_ ran into a second edition in 1569. T. Fortescue's _Foreste or Collection of Histories ... dooen oute of Frenche_ appeared in 1571 and reached a second edition in 1576. In the latter year appeared a work of G. Pettie that bore on its title page--_A Petite Palace of Pettie his Pleasure_--a clear reference to Painter's book. Notwithstanding Anthony a Wood's contemptuous judgment of his great-uncle's book it ran through no less than six editions between 1576 and 1613.[17] The year after Pettie's first edition appeared R. Smyth's _Stravnge and Tragicall histories Translated out of French_. In 1576 was also published the first of George Whetstone's collections of tales, the four parts of _The Rocke of Regard_, in which he told over again in verse several stories already better told by Painter. In the same year, 1576, appeared G. Turberville's _Tragical Tales, translated out of sundrie Italians_--ten tales in verse, chiefly from Boccaccio. Whetstone's _Heptameron of Ciuill Discourses_ in 1582 was however a more important contribution to the English _Novella_, and it ran through two further editions by 1593.[18] Thus in the quarter of a century 1565-1590 no less than eight collections, most of them running into a second edition, made their appearance in England. Painter's work contains more than all the rest put together, and its success was the cause of the whole movement. It clearly answered a want and thus created a demand. It remains to consider the want which was thus satisfied by Painter and his school. [Footnote 17: The tales are ten--1. Sinorix and Camma [= Tennyson's _Cup_]; 2. Tereus and Progne; 3. Germanicus and Agrippina; 4. Julius and Virginia; 5. Admetus and Alcest; 6. Silla and Minos; 7. Curiatius and Horatia; 8. Cephalus and Procris; 9. Pigmalion and his Image; 10. Alexius.] [Footnote 18: M. Jusserand gives a list of most of these translations of French and Italian novels in his just issued _English Novel in the Elizabethan Age_, 1890, pp. 80-1. He also refers to works by Rich and Gascoigne in which novels occur.] The quarter of a century from 1565 to 1590 was the seed-time of the Elizabethan Drama, which blossomed out in the latter year in Marlowe's _Tamburlaine the Great_. The only play which precedes that period, _Gordobuc_ or _Ferrex and Porrex_, first played in 1561, indicates what direction the English Drama would naturally have taken if nothing had intervened to take it out of its course. _Gordobuc_ is severely classical in its unities; it is of the Senecan species. Now throughout Western Europe this was the type of the modern drama,[19] and it dominated the more serious side of the French stage down to the time of Victor Hugo. There can be little doubt that the English Drama would have followed the classical models but for one thing. The flood of Italian _novelle_ introduced into England by Painter and his school, imported a new condition into the problem. It is essential to the Classical Drama that the plot should be already known to the audience, that there should be but one main action, and but one tone, tragic or comic. In Painter's work and those of his followers, the would-be dramatists of Elizabeth's time had offered to them a super-abundance of actions quite novel to their audience, and alternating between grave and gay, often within the same story.[20] The very fact of their foreignness was a further attraction. At a time when all things were new, and intellectual curiosity had become a passion, the opportunity of studying the varied life of an historic country like Italy lent an additional charm to the translated _novelle_. In an interesting essay on the "Italy of the Elizabethan Dramatists,"[21] Vernon Lee remarks that it was the very strangeness and horror of Italian life as compared with the dull decorum of English households that had its attraction for the Elizabethans. She writes as if the dramatists were themselves acquainted with the life they depicted. As a matter of fact, not a single one of the Elizabethan dramatists, as far as I know, was personally acquainted with Italy.[22] This knowledge of Italian life and crime was almost entirely derived from the works of Painter and his school. If there had been anything corresponding to them dealing with the tragic aspects of English life, the Elizabethan dramatists would have been equally ready to tell of English vice and criminality. They used Holinshed and Fabyan readily enough for their "Histories." They would have used an English Bandello with equal readiness had he existed. But an English Bandello could not have existed at a time when the English folk had not arrived at self-consciousness, and had besides no regular school of tale-tellers like the Italians. It was then only from the Italians that the Elizabethan dramatists could have got a sufficient stock of plots to allow for that interweaving of many actions into one which is the characteristic of the Romantic Drama of Marlowe and his compeers. [Footnote 19: A partial exception is to be made in favour of the Spanish school, which broke loose from the classical tradition with Lope de Vega.] [Footnote 20: It is probable however that the "mixture of tones" came more directly from the Interludes.] [Footnote 21: _Euphorion_, by Vernon Lee. Second edition, 1885, pp. 55-108.] [Footnote 22: It has, of course, been suggested that Shakespeare visited Venice. But this is only one of the 1001 mare's nests of the commentators.] That Painter was the main source of plot for the dramatists before Marlowe, we have explicit evidence. Of the very few extant dramas before Marlowe, _Appius and Virginia_, _Tancred and Gismunda,_ and _Cyrus and Panthea_ are derived from Painter.[23] We have also references in contemporary literature showing the great impression made by Painter's book on the opponents of the stage. In 1572 E. Dering, in the Epistle prefixed to _A briefe Instruction_, says: "To this purpose we have gotten our Songs and Sonnets, our Palaces of Pleasure, our unchaste Fables and Tragedies, and such like sorceries.... O that there were among us some zealous Ephesian, that books of so great vanity might be burned up." As early as 1579 Gosson began in his _School of Abuse_ the crusade against stage-plays, which culminated in Prynne's _Histriomastix_. He was answered by Lodge in his _Defence of Stage Plays_. Gosson demurred to Lodge in 1580 with his _Playes Confuted in Five Actions_, and in this he expressly mentions Painter's _Palace of Pleasure_ among the "bawdie comedies" that had been "ransacked" to supply the plots of plays. Unfortunately very few even of the titles of these early plays are extant: they probably only existed as prompt-books for stage-managers, and were not of sufficient literary value to be printed when the marriage of Drama and Literature occurred with Marlowe. [Footnote 23: Altogether in the scanty notices of this period we can trace a dozen derivatives of Painter. See Analytical Table on Tome I. nov. iii., v., xi., xxxvii., xxxix., xl., xlviii., lvii.; Tome II. nov. i., iii., xiv., xxxiv.] But we have one convincing proof of the predominating influence of the plots of Painter and his imitators on the Elizabethan Drama. Shakespeare's works in the first folio, and the editions derived from it, are, as is well known, divided into three parts--Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies. The division is founded on a right instinct, and applies to the whole Elizabethan Drama.[24] Putting aside the Histories, which derive from Holinshed, North, and the other historians, the _dramatis personae_ of the Tragedies and Comedies are, in nineteen cases out of twenty, provided with Italian names, and the scene is placed in Italy. It had become a regular convention with the Elizabethans to give an Italian habitation and name to the whole of their dramas. This convention must have arisen in the pre-Marlowe days, and there is no other reason to be given for it but the fact that the majority of plots are taken from the "Palace of Pleasure" or its followers. A striking instance is mentioned by Charles Lamb of the tyranny of this convention. In the first draught of his _Every Man in his Humour_ Ben Jonson gave Italian names to all his _dramatis personae_. Mistress Kitely appeared as Biancha, Master Stephen as Stephano, and even the immortal Captain Bobabil as Bobadilla. Imagine Dame Quickly as Putana, and Sir John as Corporoso, and we can see what a profound influence such a seemingly superficial thing as the names of the _dramatis personae_ has had on the Elizabethan Drama through the influence of Painter and his men. [Footnote 24: In the _Warning for Fair Women_ there is a scene in which Tragedy, Comedy, and History dispute for precedence.] But the effect of this Italianisation of the Elizabethan Drama due to Painter goes far deeper than mere externalities. It has been said that after Lamb's sign-post criticisms, and we may add, after Mr. Swinburne's dithyrambs, it is easy enough to discover the Elizabethan dramatists over again. But is there not the danger that we may discover too much in them? However we may explain the fact, it remains true that outside Shakespeare none of the Elizabethans has really reached the heart of the nation. There is not a single Elizabethan drama, always of course with the exception of Shakespeare's, which belongs to English literature in the sense in which _Samson Agonistes_, _Absalom and Achitophel_, _Gulliver's Travels_, _The Rape of the Lock_, _Tom Jones_, _She Stoops to Conquer_, _The School for Scandal_, belong to it. The dramas have not that direct appeal to us which the works I have mentioned have continued to exercise after the generation for whom they were written has passed away. To an inner circle of students, to the 500 or so who really care for English literature, the Elizabethan dramas may appeal with a power greater than any of these literary products I have mentioned. We recognise in them a wealth of imaginative power, an ease in dealing with the higher issues of life, which is not shown even in those masterpieces. But the fact remains, and remains to be explained, that the Elizabethans do not appeal to the half a million or so among English folk who are capable of being touched at all by literature, who respond to the later masterpieces, and cannot be brought into _rapport_ with the earlier masters. Why is this? Partly, I think, because owing to the Italianisation of the Elizabethan Drama the figures whom the dramatists drew are unreal, and live in an unreal world. They are neither Englishmen nor Italians, nor even Italianate Englishmen. I can only think of four tragedies in the whole range of the Elizabethan drama where the characters are English: Wilkins' _Miseries of Enforced Marriage_, and _A Yorkshire Tragedy_, both founded on a recent _cause celebre_ of one Calverly, who was executed 5 August 1605; _Arden of Faversham_, also founded on a _cause celebre_ of the reign of Edward VI.; and Heywood's _Woman Killed by Kindness_. These are, so far as I remember, the only English tragedies out of some hundred and fifty extant dramas deserving that name.[25] As a result of all this, the impression of English life which we get from the Elizabethan Drama is almost entirely derived from the comedies, or rather five-act farces, which alone appear to hold the mirror up to English nature. Judged by the drama, English men and English women under good Queen Bess would seem incapable of deep emotion and lofty endeavour. We know this to be untrue, but that the fact appears to be so is due to the Italianising of the more serious drama due to Painter and his school. [Footnote 25: Curiously enough, two of the four have been associated with Shakespeare's name. It should be added, perhaps, that one of the _Two Tragedies in One_ of Yarington is English.] In fact the Italian drapery of the Elizabethan Drama disguises from us the significant light it throws upon the social history of the time. Plot can be borrowed from abroad, but characterisation must be drawn from observation of men and women around the dramatist. Whence, then comes the problem, did Webster and the rest derive their portraits of their White Devils, those imperious women who had broken free from all the conventional bonds? At first sight it might seem impossible for the gay roysterers of Alsatia to have come into personal contact with such lofty dames. But the dramatists, though Bohemians, were mostly of gentle birth, or at any rate were from the Universities, and had come in contact with the best blood of England. It is clear too from their dedications that the young noblemen of England admitted them to familiar intercourse with their families, which would include many of the _grande dames_ of Elizabeth's Court. Elizabeth's own character, recent revelations about Mistress Fitton, Shakespeare's relations with his Dark Lady, all prepare for the belief that the Elizabethan dramatists had sufficient material from their own observation to fill up the outlines given by the Italian novelists.[26] The Great Oyer of Poisoning--the case of Sir Thomas Overbury and the Somersets--in James the First's reign could vie with any Italian tale of lust and cruelty. [Footnote 26: The frequency of scenes in which ladies of high birth yield themselves to men of lower station is remarkable in this connection.] Thus in some sort the Romantic Drama was an extraneous product in English literature. Even the magnificent medium in which it is composed, the decasyllabic blank verse which the genius of Marlowe adapted to the needs of the drama, is ultimately due to the Italian Trissino, and has never kept a firm hold on English poetry. Thus both the formal elements of the Drama, plot and verse, were importations from Italy. But style and characterisation were both English of the English, and after all is said it is in style and characterisation that the greatness of the Elizabethan Drama consists. It must however be repeated that in its highest flights in the tragedies, a sense of unreality is produced by the pouring of English metal into Italian moulds. It cannot be said that even Shakespeare escapes altogether from the ill effects of this Italianisation of all the externalities of the drama. It might plausibly be urged that by pushing unreality to its extreme you get idealisation. A still more forcible objection is that the only English play of Shakespeare's, apart from his histories, is the one that leaves the least vivid impression on us, _The Merry Wives of Windsor_. But one cannot help feeling regret that the great master did not express more directly in his immortal verse the finer issues and deeper passions of the men and women around him. Charles Lamb, who seems to have said all that is worth saying about the dramatists in the dozen pages or so to which his notes extend, has also expressed his regret. "I am sometimes jealous," he says, "that Shakespere laid so few of his scenes at home." But every art has it conventions, and by the time Shakespeare began to write it was a convention of English drama that the scene of its most serious productions should be laid abroad. The convention was indeed a necessary one, for there did not exist in English any other store of plots but that offered by the inexhaustible treasury of the Italian _Novellieri_. Having mentioned Shakespeare, it seems desirable to make an exception in his case,[27] and discuss briefly the use he made of Painter's book and its influence on his work. On the young Shakespeare it seems to have had very great influence indeed. The second heir of his invention, _The Rape of Lucrece_, is from Painter. So too is _Romeo and Juliet_,[28] his earliest tragedy, and _All's Well_, which under the title _Love's Labour Won_, was his second comedy, is Painter's _Giletta of Narbonne_ (i. 38) from Bandello.[29] I suspect too that there are two plays associated with Shakespeare's name which contain only rough drafts left unfinished in his youthful period, and finished by another writer. At any rate it is a tolerably easy task to eliminate the Shakespearian parts of _Timon of Athens_ and _Edward III._, by ascertaining those portions which are directly due to Painter.[30] In this early period indeed it is somewhat remarkable with what closeness he followed his model. Thus some gushing critics have pointed out the subtle significance of making Romeo at first in love with Rosalind before he meets with Juliet. If it is a subtlety, it is Bandello's, not Shakespeare's. Again, others have attempted to defend the indefensible age of Juliet at fourteen years old, by remarking on the precocity of Italian maidens. As a matter of fact Bandello makes her eighteen years old. It is banalities like these that cause one sometimes to feel tempted to turn and rend the criticasters by some violent outburst against Shakespeare himself. There is indeed a tradition, that Matthew Arnold had things to say about Shakespeare which he dared not utter, because the British public would not stand them. But the British public has stood some very severe things about the Bible, which is even yet reckoned of higher sanctity than Shakespeare. And certainly there is as much cant about Shakespeare to be cleared away as about the Bible. However this is scarcely the place to do it. It is clear enough, however, from his usage of Painter, that Shakespeare was no more original in plot than any of his fellows, and it is only the unwise and rash who could ask for originality in plot from a dramatic artist. [Footnote 27: The other Elizabethan dramatists who used Painter are: Beaumont (I. xlii.; II. xvii.), Fletcher (I. xlii.; II. xvii., xxii.), Greene (I. lvii.), Heywood (I. ii.), Marston (I. lxvi.; II. vii., xxiv., xxvi.), Massinger (II. xxviii.), Middleton (I. xxxiii.), Peele (I. xl.), Shirley (I. lviii.), Webster (I. v.; II. xxiii.). See also I. vii., xxiv., lxvi.] [Footnote 28: Shakespeare also used Arthur Brook's poem. On the exact relations of the poet to his two sources see Mr. P. A. Daniel in the New Shakespere Society's _Originals and Analogies_, i., and Dr. Schulze in _Jahrb. d. deutsch. Shakespeare Gesellschaft_ xi. 218-20.] [Footnote 29: Delius has discussed _Shakespeare's "All Well" und Paynter's "Giletta von Narbonne"_ in the Jahrbuch xxii. 27-44, in an article which is also reprinted in his _Abhandlungen_ ii.] [Footnote 30: I hope to publish elsewhere detailed substantiation of this contention.] But if the use of Italian _novelle_ as the basis of plots was an evil that has given an air of unreality and extraneousness to the whole of Elizabethan Tragedy, it was, as we must repeat, a necessary evil. Suppose Painter's work and those that followed it not to have appeared, where would the dramatists have found their plots? There was nothing in English literature to have given them plot-material, and little signs that such a set of tales could be derived from the tragedies going on in daily life. But for Painter and his school the Elizabethan Drama would have been mainly historical, and its tragedies would have been either vamped-up versions of classical tales or adaptations of contemporary _causes celebres_. And so we have achieved the task set before us in this Introduction to Painter's tales. We have given the previous history of the _genre_ of literature to which they belong, and mentioned the chief _novellieri_ who were their original authors. We have given some account of Painter's life and the circumstances under which his book appeared, and the style in which he translates. We have seen how his book was greeted on its first appearance by the adherents of the New Learning and by the opponents of the stage. The many followers in the wake of Painter have been enumerated, and some account given of their works. It has been shown how great was the influence of the whole school on the Elizabethan dramatists, and even on the greatest master among them. And having touched upon all these points, we have perhaps sufficiently introduced reader and author, who may now be left to make further acquaintance with one another. HASLEWOOD'S Preliminary Matter. _OF THE TRANSLATOR._ William Painter was, probably, descended from some branch of the family of that name which resided in Kent. Except a few official dates there is little else of his personal history known. Neither the time nor place of his birth has been discovered. All the heralds in their Visitations are uniformly content with making him the root of the pedigree.[31] His liberal education is, in part, a testimony of the respectability of his family, and, it may be observed, he was enabled to make purchases of landed property in Kent, but whether from an hereditary fortune is uncertain. [Footnote 31: The Visitation Book of 1619, in the Heralds College, supplied Hasted with his account. There may also be consulted Harl. MSS. 1106, 2230 and 6138.] The materials for his life are so scanty, that a chronological notice of his Writings may be admitted, without being deemed to interrupt a narrative, of which it must form the principal contents. He himself furnishes us with a circumstance,[32] from whence we may fix a date of some importance in ascertaining both the time of the publication and of his own appearance as an author. He translated from the Latin of Nicholas Moffan, (a soldier serving under Charles the Fifth, and taken prisoner by the Turks)[33] the relation of the Murder which Sultan Solyman caused to be perpetrated on his eldest Son Mustapha.[34] This was first dedicated to Sir William Cobham Knight, afterwards Lord Cobham, Warden of the Cinque Ports; and it is material to remark, that that nobleman succeeded to the title Sept. the 29th, 1558;[35] and from the author being a prisoner until Sept. 1555, it is not likely that the Translation was finished earlier than circa 1557-8. [Footnote 32: Palace of Pleasure, Vol. II. p. 663.] [Footnote 33: The translation is reprinted in the second volume. Of the original edition there is not any notice in Herbert.] [Footnote 34: This happened in 1552, and Moffan remained a captive until Sept. 1555.] [Footnote 35: Brydge's _Peerage_, Vol. IX. p. 466. Banks's _Dormant Peerage_, Vol. II. p. 108.] In 1560 the learned William Fulke, D.D. attacked some inconsistent, though popular, opinions, in a small Latin tract called "Antiprognosticon contra invtiles astrologorvm praedictiones Nostrodami, &c." and at the back of the title are Verses,[36] by friends of the author, the first being entitled "Gulielmi Painteri ludimagistri Seuenochensis Tetrasticon." This has been considered by Tanner as our author,[37] nor does there appear any reason for attempting to controvert that opinion; and a translation of Fulke's Tract also seems to identify our author with the master of Sevenoaks School. The title is "Antiprognosticon, that is to saye, an Inuectiue agaynst the vayne and unprofitable predictions of the Astrologians as Nostrodame, &c. Translated out of Latine into Englishe. Whereunto is added by the author a shorte Treatise in Englyshe as well for the utter subversion of that fained arte, as well for the better understandynge of the common people, unto whom the fyrst labour semeth not sufficient. _Habet & musca splenem & formice sua bilis inest._ 1560" 12mo. At the back of the title is a sonnet by Henry Bennet: followed in the next page by Painter's Address. On the reverse of this last page is a prose address "to his louyng frende W. F." dated "From Seuenoke XXII of Octobre," and signed "Your familiar frende William Paynter."[38] [Footnote 36: These verses were answered by another Kentish writer. "In conuersium Palengenii Barnabae Gogae carmen E. Deringe Cantiani," prefixed to _the firste sixe bokes of the mooste christian poet Marcellus Palingenius, called the Zodiake of Life_. Translated by Barnabe Googe, 1561. 12mo. See Cens. Lit. Vol. II. p. 212. Where it appears that Barnaby Googe was connected with several Kentish families. He married a Darell. His grandmother was Lady Hales.] [Footnote 37: _Bibliotheca_, p. 570.] [Footnote 38: M.S. Ashmole, 302. Mr. H. Ellis has kindly furnished me with the above, during a late visit to Oxford, and observes that the reference to Tanner is wrongly stated, the article being in Ashmole's study.] By the regulations of the school, as grammar-master, he must have been a bachelor of arts, and approved by the Archbishop of Canterbury, and to the appointment was attached a house and salary of L50 per annum.[39] [Footnote 39: Hasted's _Hist. of Kent_, Vol. III. p. 98.] Of the appointment to the School I have not been able to obtain any particulars. That situation[40] was probably left for one under government, of less labour, as he was appointed by letters patent of the 9th of Feb. in the 2d of Eliz. (1560-1) to succeed John Rogers, deceased, as Clerk of the Ordinance in the Tower, with the official stipend of eightpence per diem, which place he retained during life. [Footnote 40: If Painter had laid in this School the foundation of that fortune, which he afterwards appears to have realised in land, he did no more than was done by a celebrated successor, Thomas Farnaby, a well-known annotator on Horace, who settled his male posterity at Keppington, in the parish of Sevenoaks, where they remained in rank and opulence, till the late Sir Charles Farnaby, Bart., who at one time in the present reign represented the County of Kent, sold that seat and estate to Francis Motley Austen, Esq., the present owner.] In 1562 there was a license obtained by William Jones to print "The Cytie of Cyvelite, translated into Englesshe by william paynter." Probably this was intended for the present work, and entered in the Stationers Register as soon as the translation was commenced, to secure an undoubted copy-right to the Publisher. Neither of the stories bear such a title, nor contain incidents in character with it. The interlocutory mode of delivery, after the manner of some of the originals, might have been at first intended, and of the conversation introducing or ending some of those taken from the collection of the Queen of Navarre, a part is even now, though incongruously, retained.[41] By rejecting the gallant speeches of the courtiers and sprightly replies of the ladies, and making them unconnected stories, the idea of civility was no longer appropriate, and therefore gave place to a title equally alliterative in the adoption of the Palace of Pleasure. [Footnote 41: George Whetstone has _An Heptameron of Civill Discourses_, &c. 1582.] Under this conjecture Painter was three years perfecting the Translation of the first volume of the Palace of Pleasure. He subscribes the dedicatory Epistle "nere the Tower of London the first of Januarie 1566," using the new style, a fashion recently imported from France.[42] It must be read as 1565-6 to explain a passage in another Epistle before the second volume, where he speaks of his histories "parte whereof, two yeares past (almost) wer made commune in a former boke," concluding "from my poore house besides the Toure of London, the fourthe of November, 1567." The two volumes were afterwards enlarged with additional novels, as will be described under a future head, and with the completion of this task ends all knowledge of his literary productions. [Footnote 42: In France the style was altered in 1564. _Clavis Calendaria_. Vol I. p. 64.] It no where appears in the Palace of Pleasure that Painter either travelled for information, or experienced, like many a genius of that age, the inclination to roam expressed by his contemporary, Churchyard, "Of running leather were his shues, his feete no where could reste."[43] [Footnote 43: _Bibliographical Miscellanies_, 1813. p. 2.] Had he visited the Continent, it is probable, that in the course of translating so many novels, abounding with foreign manners and scenery, there would have been some observation or allusion to vouch his knowledge of the faithfulness of the representation, as, in a few instances, he has introduced events common in our own history. He probably escaped the military fury of the age by being appointed "Clerk to the great Ordinance," contentedly hearing the loud peals upon days of revelry, without wishing to adventure further in "a game," which, "were subjects wise, kings would not play at." In the possession of some competence he might prudently adjust his pursuits, out of office, to the rational and not unimportant indulgence of literature,[44] seeking in the retirement of the study, of the vales of Kent, and of domestic society, that equanimity of the passions and happiness which must ever flow from rational amusement, from contracted desires, and acts of virtue; and which the successive demands for his favourite work might serve to cheer and enliven. [Footnote 44: This is confirmed by his making the following observation: "When labour resteth him selfe in me, and leisure refresheth other affairs, nothing delights more that vacant tyme than readinge of Histories in such vulgar speache, wherein my small knowledge taketh repast." _Epistle Dedicatory_, Vol. II. p. 4.] As the founder of the family[45] his money must be presumed to have been gained by himself, and not acquired by descent. It would be pleasing to believe some part of it to have been derived from the labours of his pen. But his productions were not of sufficient magnitude to command it, although he must rank as one of the first writers who introduced novels into our language, since so widely lucrative to--printers. Yet less could there accrue a saving from his office to enable him to complete the purchases of land made at Gillingham, co. Kent. [Footnote 45: Some of the following notices, probably, relate to branches of the family. --William Paynter "de Vkefielde," possessed lands at Horsemonden, Benynden, and Merden, co. Kent. He left three sons, Alexander, John and Robert. His will dated 25th Feb. 24. Hen. 7th. (1509) and proved in November following. --John P. Citizen and Freemason of London, by Will dated 26th Nov. 1532, proved 1537, gave to the children of his late brother Richard P. late of Littleport, co. Kent, 6s. 8d. each. He was to be buried at St. Albans, Wood Street, where on inquiry I am informed the Registers of that period do not exist. --John P. twice mayor of Dover, died 14th July, 1540, buried at Rainham, same co. See Weever's _Funeral Monuments_. --Edmonde P. Steward to the Bishop of Ely, held a patent place, and by his will dated 7th Sept. 14 Eliz. (1572) gave to his brother's daughter "Johane" forty pounds. Probably the eldest daughter of our Author.] At what period he married cannot be stated. His wife was Dorothy Bonham of Cowling, born about the year 1537, and their six children were all nearly adults, and one married, at the time of his death in 1594. We may therefore conclude that event could not be later than 1565; and if he obtained any portion with his wife the same date allows of a disposition of it as now required. It is certain that he purchased of Thomas and Christopher Webb the manor of East-Court in the parish of Gillingham, where his son Anthony P. resided during his father's lifetime. He also purchased of Christopher Sampson the manor of Twidall in the same parish with its appurtenances, and a fine was levied for that purpose in Easter Term 16 Eliz. Both the manors remained in the family, and passed by direct line from the above named Anthony, through William and Allington, his son and grandson, to his great grandson Robert, who resided at Westerham, in the same county, and obtained an Act of Parliament, 7 Geo. I. "to enable him to sell the manors of Twydal and East-Court."[46] [Transcriber's Note: The family tree in the following Footnote has been rearranged for this e-text. It is given first in "skeleton" form, showing the main line of descent; the full text is then given in list form. In the printed text, Joanna and her marriages are shown on a separate line, to the left of the following generation. Allington's wife is not named.] [Footnote 46: Hasted's _History of Kent._ art. Gillingham. The following pedigree of the family is collected from Hasted and the Harleian MSS. William = Dorothy | --------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | Joanna Dorothy Helena Anthony = Catherine Catherine Anna | William = Elizabeth | -------------------- | | | Allington Elizabeth Anna | Robert = Eleanora William Painter,[46a] of Twedall, parish of Gillingham, the author. Ob. 1594. = Dorothy, daughter of ---- Bonham, of Cowling. Ob. Oct. 19, | 1617, AEt. 80. | |---Joanna | = Nathaniel Partrich | = John Orwell |---Dorothy | = John Bagenhall |---Helena | = John Hornby |---Anthony | = Catherine, coheiress of Robt. Harris, Master in Chancery. | | | |---William of Gillingham, died about the time of the | Restoration of Charles II. | = Elizabeth, daughter of Walter Hickman, of Kew, Co. | | Surrey, Esq. relict of George Allington, jun. | | | |---Allington | | = [blank space in original text] | | | | | |---Robert, who obtained an act of parliament to | | alienate the manors of Twedall and East Court. | | = Eleanora, youngest daughter of Sir Thomas | | Seyliard, Bart. buried at Westerham. | | | |---Elizabeth.[46c] | |---Anna.[46c] | |---Catherine | = ---- Champ, Co. Suff. |---Anna.[46b] ARMS. _Gules, a chevron between three griffins' heads erased or, on a chief of the second an helmet sable between two pellets._ CREST. _A lizard_ (as supposed) _vert, escaping from the trunk of an old tree, proper._ [Footnote 46a: Also spelt Paynter and Payneter; but neither used by the above-named William Painter, if we may rely upon the repetition of ten printed authorities.] [Footnote 46b: That Anna was the youngest child, is doubtful, from her father only naming her, besides Helena, as entitled to a portion. She resided with her mother, unmarried, 1617.] [Footnote 46c: One of these married William Wiseman, a civilian.]] Not any part of the real Estate was affected by the will of William Painter, who appears, from its being nuncupative, to have deferred making it, until a speedy dissolution was expected. It is as follows: "In the name of God, Amen. The nineteenth day of February in the Year of our Lord God one thousand five hundred ninety four, in the seven and thirtieth year of the reign of our Sovereign Lady Elizabeth, &c. William Painter then Clerk of her Maj. Great Ordinance of the Tower of London, being of perfect mind and memory, declared and enterred his mind meaning and last Will and Testament noncupative, by word of mouth in effect as followeth, viz. Being then very sick and asked by his wife who should pay his son in law John Hornbie the portion which was promised him with his wife in marriage, and who should pay to his daughter Anne Painter her portion, and to the others his children which had nothing;[47] and whether his said wife should pay them the same, the said William Painter answered, Yea. And being further asked whether he would give and bequeath unto his said wife all his said goods to pay them as he in former times used to say he would, to whom he answered also, yea. In the presence of William Pettila, John Pennington, and Edward Songer. Anon after in the same day confirming the premises; the said William Painter being very sick, yet of perfect memory, William Raynolds asking the aforesaid Mr. Painter whether he had taken order for the disposing of his Goods to his wife and children, and whether he had put all in his wives hands to deal and dispose of and to pay his son Hornby his portion,[48] and whether he would make his said wife to be his whole Executrix, or to that effect, to whose demand the said Testator Mr. William Painter then manifesting his will and true meaning therein willingly answered, yea, in the presence of William Raynolds, John Hornbie and Edward Songer."[48] [Footnote 47: Dorothy P. (the Executrix) by her will, dated 3d July, 1617, gave a specific legacy to her granddaughter Thomasine Hornby, which was to be void if she sued or impleaded her executor, relative to any gift, legacy or bequest, under the above will; from which it may be concluded the portion of John Hornby's wife was never properly adjusted.] [Footnote 48: Proved in the Prerogative Court of Canterbury, 3d Feb. 1595.] He probably died immediately after the date of the will. Among the quarterly payments at the ordinance office at Christmas 1594 is entered to "Mr. Painter Clerke of thodince xvij{lb}, xv{s}." and upon Lady Day or New Year's Day 1595. "To Will[~m] Painter and to S{r}. Stephen Ridleston[49] Clarke of Thordnce for the like quarter also warranted xvij{lb}. xv{s}." He was buried in London.[50] After his death the widow retired to Gillingham, where she died Oct. 19th 1617. AEt. 80, and where she was buried.[51] [Footnote 49: His patent, dated 21st June 1595, gives all emoluments from the day of the death of William Painter.] [Footnote 50: In the will of Dorothy P., already noticed, is the following direction. "In case I dye or departe this life in the Citie of London, to be buryed in the same parish in London where my late loving husband Mr. William Paynter, Clerke of the great Ordinance of the Tower of London, was buryed, and as neere to the place where he was buryed as conuenyentlie may be, with some memoriall there to be engraven sett vp or placed as shalbe devised and appoynted by my executor and overseers hereafter named; yf elsewhere then allso at their like discretions and with the like memoriall." Had she set up such a memorial for her husband, the name would probably have been found in Stowe's _Survey of London_. It does not occur in the Registers of the Tower Chapel; Allhallows Barking; St. Catherine's; or Aldgate. At St. Dunstan's, Tower Street, the register has been destroyed, and also at St. Alban's, Wood Street, where there was probably a family vault, and not being the church frequented when he lived by the Tower, the name might have been forgotten by the widow.] [Footnote 51: Her Will was not proved until July 1620. It is unusually long, and the bequests are trifling. She particularizes all her grand-children, whom, in the language then used, she calls nephews and nieces. There had probably been some difference in the family to occasion the following passage, whereby she bequeaths the only memorial mentioned of our author. "Item, whereas my very welbeloued niephue William Paynter, and I, and all my children, nowe are and I trust in God so shall continue loving hartie and inward frends, whereof I receyue great ioye and contentment, vnto the which my saied neiphue, for a gentle remembraunce, I give and bequeethe my tablet of gould with a pearle to yt which sometymes was his graundfather's, beyng nowe all readie in his owne keeping and possession." The will is subscribed with a cross, which the feebleness of age might render necessary.] [For some additional points throwing light on the way in which Painter gained his fortune, see Appendix. Collier (_Extr. Stat. Reg._ ii. 107), attributes to Painter _A moorning Ditti vpon the Deceas of Henry Earle of Arundel_, which appeared in 1579, and was signed 'Guil. P. G.' [= Gulielmus Painter, Gent.].--J. J.] [Transcriber's Note on Bibliographical Notices: Bracketed text [ ] is in the original. Brackets are also used to demarcate footnotes. Text originally printed in blackletter ("Gothic") type is shown between *asterisks*. Single asterisks are in the original text. For complete notes and errata, see the end of the text.] _BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES._ Of the first volume of THE PALACE OF PLEASURE there were three editions, but of the second only two are known. Each of these, all uncommonly fair and perfect, through the liberal indulgence of their respective owners, are now before me; a combination which has scarcely been seen by any collector, however distinguished for ardour of pursuit and extensiveness of research, since the age of Q. Elizabeth. Their rarity in a perfect state may render an accurate description, though lengthened by minuteness, of some value to the bibliographer. The account of them will be given in their chronological order. _The Palace of Pleasure_ | Beautified, adorned and | *well furnished with Plea-* | _saunt Histories and excellent_ | *Nouells, selected out of* | diuers good and commen- | *dable authors.* | ¶ _By William Painter Clarke of the_ | _Ordinaunce and Armarie._ | [Wood-cut of a Bear and ragged Staff, the crest of Ambrose Earl of Warwick, central of a garter, whereon is the usual motto | HONI: SOIT: QVI: MAL: Y: PENSE.] | 1566. | _JMPRINTED AT_--*London, by Henry Denham,* | for Richard Tottell and William Iones.[52]--4to. Extends to sig. Nnnij. besides introduction, and is folded in fours. [Footnote 52: Herbert has this edition entered as printed by Thomas Marshe, upon the authority of Mr. William White, p. 856. It was licensed to Jones as "certen historyes collected out of dyuers Ryght good and profitable authours by William Paynter." ib. 1319.] This title is within a narrow fancy metal border, and on the back of the leaf are the Arms of the Earl of Warwick, which fill the page. With signature * 2 commences the dedication, and at ¶ 2 is "a recapitulacion or briefe rehersal of the Arguments of euery Nouell, with the places noted, in what author euery of the same or the effect be reade and contayned." These articles occupy four leaues each, and five more occupy the address "to the reader," followed by the names of the Authors from whom the "nouels be selected;" making the whole introduction, with title, 14 leaves. The nouels being lx. in number, conclude with folio 345, but there are only 289 leaves, as a castration appears of 56.[53] On the reverse of the last folio are "faultes escaped in the printing;" and besides those corrected, there are "other faultes [that] by small aduise and lesse payne may by waying the discourse be easely amended or lightly passed ouer." A distinct leaf has the following colophon: Imprinted at Lon | don, by Henry Denham, | *for Richard Tottell and* | *William Jones* | _Anno Domini_. 1566 | _Ianuarij_ 26. |*These bookes are to be solde at the long shoppe* | *at the Weast ende of Paules.* [Footnote 53: There is a lapse of signatures from O o. j. to A a a. j. and of folios from 145, (misprinted 135) to 201. What occasioned the castration it is impossible to conjecture; the volume is certainly perfect, as the table of Contents has no article for the omitted leaves.] This volume is rarely discovered perfect. The above was purchased at the late sale of Col. Stanley's library for 30l. by Sir Mark Masterman Sykes, Bt. The second Tome | of the Palace of Pleasure | *conteyning manifolde store of goodly* | Histories, Tragicall matters and | *other Morall argument,* | _very requisite for de-_ | *light & profit.* |_Chosen and selected out of diuers good and commen-_ | _dable Authors._ | By William Painter, Clarke of the | Ordinance and Armarie. | ANNO. 1567. | Imprinted at London, in Pater Noster Rowe, by Henrie | Bynneman, for Nicholas | England.[54] 4to. Extends, without introduction, to signature P. P. P. P. p. iiij. and is folded in fours. [Footnote 54: Herbert, 967. Entered in the Stationers' Register (as Mr. G. Chalmers obligingly informs me) in 1566-7, "to Nycholas Englonde."] A broad metal border, of fancy pattern, adorns the title page. At signature a. ij. begins the Epistle to Sir George Howard, which the author subscribes from his "poore house besides the Toure of London, the fourthe of Nouember 1567:" and that is followed by a summary of the contents and authorities, making, with the title, 10 leaves. There are xxxiiij novels, and they end at fo. 426. Two leaves in continuation have "the conclusion," with "divers faultes escaped in printyng," and on the reverse of the first is the printer's colophon. Imprinted at London | by Henry Bynneman | for Nicholas Englande | ANNO M.D.LXVII. | _Nouembris 8._ A copy of this volume was lately in the possession of Messrs. Arch, of Cornhill, Booksellers, with a genuine title, though differently arranged from the above, and varied in the spelling.[55] When compared, some unimportant alterations were found, as a few inverted commas on the margin of one of the pages in the last sheet, with the correction of a fault in printing more in one copy than the other, though the same edition.[56] [Footnote 55: It stands thus: The second Tome | of the Palace of Pleasure, | conteyning store of goodly Histories | Tragicall matters and other mo- | rall argument, very re- | quisite for delighte | and profit, | Chosen and selected out of | divers good and commen- | dable authors. | By William Painter, Clerke of the | Ordinance and Armarie | Anno. 1567.--Imprinted &c. Similar differences are found in the earliest stage of the English press. Thus a copy of Caxton's Cato, 1483, in possession of the Duke of Devonshire, has the first line ¶ Here begynneth the prologue or prohemye of the book callid: and in the fine copy belonging to the Library of Lee Priory, it stands Here begynneth the prologue or prohemye of the booke callyd.] [Footnote 56: The second volume is undoubtedly the rarest of the two. The industrious Langbaine does not appear to have seen it, as in the _Account of the English Dramatic Poets_, 1691, he refers more than once to the originals for stories contained in that volume.] *The Pallace* | *of Pleasure Beautified,* | _adorned and wel furnished with_ | Pleasaunt Historyes and excellent | Nouelles, selected out of diuers | *good and commendable Authours.* | ¶ By William Painter Clarke | of the Ordinaunce and | Armarie. | 1569. | _Jmprinted at London in_ | Fletestreate neare to S. Dunstones | *Church by Thomas Marshe.*--4to. Extends to K k. viij, & is folded in eights. The title is in the compartment frequently used by Marsh, having the stationers' arms at the top, his own initials at the bottom, and pedestals of a Satyr and Diana, surmounted with flowers and snakes, on the sides. It is a reprint of the first volume without alteration, except closer types. The introduction concludes on the recto of the eleventh leaf, and on the reverse of fo. 264 is the colophon. _Jmprinted at London in Flete_ | _streate neare unto Sainct Dunstones_ | Churche by Thomas Marshe | _Anno Domini._ 1569.[57] [Footnote 57: Dr. Farmer's copy was Vol. I. 1569, and Vol. II. 1567. Purchased at the sale by Mr. Payne for fifteen guineas. [Bibl. Farm. No. 5993.] The opinion Dr. Farmer entertained of their rarity may be given in his own words: "The _Two Tomes_, which Tom Rawlinson would have called _justa volumina_, are almost annihilated. Mr. Ames, who searched after books of this sort with the utmost avidity, most certainly had not seen them, when he published his _Typographical Antiquities_, as appears from his blunders about them: and possibly I myself might have remained in the same predicament, had I not been favoured with a copy by my generous friend, Mr. Lort." _Essay on the learning of Shakespeare._] THE PALACE | of Pleasure Beautified | *adorned and well furnished* | with pleasaunt Histories and | *excellent Nouels, selected out* | *of diuers good and commendable Authors. By William Painter Clarke* | of the Ordinaunce | and Armarie. | Eftsones perused corrected | and augmented. | 1575. | Imprinted at London | _by Thomas Marshe._--4to. Extends to signature O o, iiij. and is folded in eights.[58] [Footnote 58: Hence Tanner and others have been erroneously supposed to describe an edition in Octavo, and I have seen copies where the margin, cropped by the intolerable plough of the binder, might have been shown in proof of the conjecture.] Title in same compartment as the last. The introduction is given in nine leaves, and the novels commence the folio, and end at 279. The arguments of every novel, transposed from the beginning, continue for three leaves to reverse of O o iiij, having for colophon, Imprinted at London by | *Thomas Marshe*. Seven novels were added to the former number, and the language improved. THE SECOND | Tome of the Palace of | *Pleasure contayning store of goodlye* | *Histories, Tragical matters, & other* | Morall argumentes, very requi- | site for delight and | *profyte.* | Chos[~e] and selected out | _of diuers good and commendable au-_ | _thors, and now once agayn correc-_ | ted and encreased. | By Wiliam Painter, Clerke of the | _Ordinance and Armarie_. | Imprinted at _L_ondon | In Fleatstrete by Thomas | MARSHE.--4to. Has signature Z z 4, and is folded in eights. Title in the compartment last described. The introduction has seven leaves, and the "conclusion" is at fo. 360.[59] The summary of nouels, which stand as part of the introduction in the former edition, follows, making four leaves after discontinuing the folio. There is no printer's colophon, and the type throughout is smaller than any used before. The translator added one historic tale, and made material alterations in the text. [Footnote 59: Folios 225 and 6 are repeated, and several others are erroneously numbered.] With respect to the date the year 1582 has been several times given, and it is doubtful if I have discovered the source of the authority. Oldys, among the manuscript notes upon Langbaine, registers "W. Painter's Palace of Pleasure, &c. 4to. 1569, and in 2 vols. 1575, and 1582:" and Mr. Bindley, whose friendly assistance it is always gratifying to record, pointed out to my attention the catalogue of the library of the Honorable Bryan Fairfax,[60] where the volumes are increased in number, and with only a single date. It stands thus, Lot "336, Painter's Palace of Pleasure, 3 vols.[61] B.L. 1582:" again in the Osterley catalogue, p. 87, is No. "26, Palace of Pleasure, 1582."[62] To decide positively on such an unexpected repetition of the date made it desirable to obtain a sight of the copy.[63] That, with some difficulty, has been effected. On visiting Osterley, strange as it may appear, I found the two volumes bound in one, the same editions as those now printed from, and both wanting title pages!! [Footnote 60: Prepared for sale by auction by Mr. Prestage, of Savile Row, in April, 1756, and sold by private contract to Mr. Child. It forms the principal part of the library at Osterley Park.] [Footnote 61: It might be expected that the third volume was formed by adding the inferior performance of George Pettie, who imitated our author's title; but that was the article in the succeeding lot. Pettie's work is called: A petite Pallace | of Pettie his Pleasure: | contayning many pretie Histories | by him set foorth in comely colours | and most delightfully dis-coursed. | _Omne tulit punctum_, | _qui miscuit vtile dulci_. | Col. Printed at London, by R[ichard] W[atkins]. n.d. but entered in the Stationers' books 1576. Again by Wolfe, n.d. and other editions 1598, 1608, and 1613. The contents of the volume are described in an article by Mr. Utterson in the _British Bibliographer_, Vol. II. p. 392. For an Account of the author see Wood's _Ath. Oxon._ by Bliss, 1813, Vol. I. col. 552.] [Footnote 62: Class (or rather case, the library not being classed) IX.; division 2; shelf 7; book 26. This explains the numerals used in the Osterley Cat.] [Footnote 63: To the unequalled store of bibliography, possessed by the Rev. T. F. Dibdin there has lately been added a copy of the Fairfax catalogue, priced according to the private valuation. There may be found Caxton's Prince Arthur rated at only fifty-five shillings, and lot 336 (the P. of Pleasure) at _four guineas_: undoubtedly, from the above description in the catalogue, the copy was supposed UNIQUE.] There is not much temerity in decisively pronouncing that there never was an edition in three volumes; that the date of 1582 was intended by Oldys to be only applied to the second volume; and that that date was founded on an erroneous conjecture. Two of these points are already disposed of, and the last can require but few words. The translation of the tale of Sultan Soliman, from the circumstance of the dedication to Sir William Cobham, as shewn in a former page, must have been finished about 1557-8, and Painter, on the reprinting, mentions that fact as "twenty-two yeares past or thereabouts," which decides that the printing the above volume could not be later than 1580. The Palace of Pleasure, as enlarged by the Translator, is now reprinted. The text of the latest edition of each volume has been carefully preserved; except that, instead of numberless abbreviations, every word is given at length. The character of the work did not require such minuteness, being followed for authority; and the rejecting what might seem a disfigurement of the page, it is hoped, will obtain the sanction of the reader: and it may be observed, that in the later editions many words are contracted which were first printed at length, and others given at length which were before contracted. In the punctuation some slight alterations have been made, where the sense or uniformity materially required it. From Earl Spencer, with that marked attention which always distinguishes the interest his Lordship takes in every literary undertaking, I received the unsolicited offer of the use of the copy belonging to the library at Althorpe. As there was the first edition of the second volume, it proved a needful and valuable acquisition, and from that source several obscure passages have been corrected, and whole sentences restored, which, in the last edition, appear to have been negligently omitted in the hurry of the press. For the purpose of collation, Sir Mark Masterman Sykes, Bart. obligingly assisted me with his copy, purchased at the Roxburghe sale; and has since also favoured me with the first edition, to perfect the Bibliographical Notices. Of an hundred and one novels, the whole number, the larger portion have been traced, as supposed, to their respective originals. In attempting this task, I have derived material assistance from the extensive researches made in that class of literature by Mr. Weber, who, though personally unknown, most promptly supplied the wanted information. The ingenious conjecture as to the origin of the story of Gismonde and Guiscardo, is by Mr. Singer. It is probable that many of the stories were appropriated as soon as published by the dramatic writers to the purposes of the English Stage.[64] To the instances discovered by the indefatigable Langbaine I have made some addition. [Footnote 64: Malone, in a note on the _Historical Account of the English Stage_, has the following extract from Gosson's _Plays confuted in five Actions_, printed about the year 1580. "I may boldly say it (says Gosson) because I have seene it, that The _Palace of Pleasure_, _The Golden Asse_, _The AEthiopian Historie_, _Amadis of Fraunce_, _The Round Table_, bawdie comedies in Latin, French, Italian and Spanish, have beene _thoroughly ransackt_ to furnish the playe-houses in London."--_Reed's Shakespeare,_ Vol. III. p. 40.] From the application of Mr. Freeling to Mr. Crewe, I obtained an inspection of the earliest records preserved in the Ordnance Office; and the research was further facilitated by the assistance of Mr. Banovin. Sir Egerton Brydges, with his accustomed ardency to promote literary investigation, aided my endeavours to discover some trace of the translator as master of the school at Sevenoaks. To Mr. George Chalmers and Mr. Utterson, I am indebted for some bibliographical communications, and also to the Rev. T. F. Dibdin for long extracts made from the work by Herbert, preparatory to a new edition of the _Typographical Antiquities_. When the present edition was announced, it was intended to consist of only one hundred and fifty copies. In order, however, to meet the common hazard of the press, seven quires of each sheet were printed, making about one hundred and sixty-five saleable copies; seven were also taken off on vellum. JOSEPH HASLEWOOD. _Conduit Street, November 5th 1813._ [It is only necessary to add that Haslewood's edition was in two volumes, of which the first ran to 34 (Introductory Matter) + xviii. (Dedication and Table of Contents) + 492 pages. The Second Tome, which is mostly found bound in two parts, ran to xv. (Dedication and Table of Contents) + 700 pages. The present edition, it will be observed by the above, is really the fourth and a half edition--_i.e._, it is the fifth of the first Tome, and the fourth of the second. I have however ventured to neglect the reprint of the First Tome in 1569, and taken account only of complete editions. It follows Haslewood's reprint page for page and line for line, except in two points. The Tables of Contents of the two Tomes have been brought together, and their literary history connected directly with the Summary of Contents. In a few cases, where Haslewood inserted passages from the first edition, I have enclosed the interpolations in square brackets. The other point of difference between Haslewood's edition and the present is that we have divided the two Tomes into three volumes of as nearly equal size as possible. While Haslewood has been used as "copy" for the printer, it must be understood that every line has been collated with the British Museum copy of the original, and many thousands of corrections, mostly though not all of a minor kind, made in Haslewood's text. JOSEPH JACOBS. 4 Haselmere Road, Kilburn, _1st Aug. 1890._] [Transcriber's Note on Appendix: Letters originally printed as superscripts are shown in braces { }. Expanded abbreviations are shown in parentheses ( ). All other parentheses are in the original. All slashes / are in the original. For complete notes and errata, see the end of the text.] APPENDIX. _DOCUMENTS RELATING TO PAINTER._ I. ASSIGNMENTS TO PAINTER (Abstract). (_Record Office Dom. State Papers, Eliz._, xl. No. 36.) July 24, 1566. Assignment by Edward Randolph, Esq., to William Painter, Clerk of the Ordinance, Richard Webb, Master-Gunner of England, and Edward Partridge, Keeper of the Queen's Harquebutts, Dagges, and Curriers, of certain annuities or pensions for a term of years. II. PETITION OF HARTNELL, SAINT BARBE, AND PAINTER (Abst.). (_Brit. Mus. Lands. MS._ 51, No. 25.) Petition of Raulph Harknell, William Saintbarbe and William Painter to the Lord High Treasurer, c. 1586. Having lately been called before Sir W. Mildmay, Chanc{or} of the Exchequer, Mr. Fanshawe & Mr. Dodington for the sum of L7,075 and after conference the division was imposed upon Turville Bowland and Painter, and a brief was drawn, it pleased his Honour to will that if they could show cause why the said sums should not be burdened upon them they were to have allowance by petition which they have done and beseech his Honour to have regard to the present state of themselves their wives and children & by him to at once decide what sum they have to pay. With regard to their estates:-- Bowland's goods came to but L431 : 6 : 8. His land is given to three children, the eldest not twelve years old. As the land cannot be sold during their nonage he humbly begs that the land may be extended and prays that some allowance may be made for the education of the children. Turville's substance was chiefly in debts, his household stuff was of the value of L120 : 3 : 4. Of this L1,441 : 19 : 7 is to go to William Saintbarbe, the most part of which sum remains in the hands of the Earl of Warwick and Sir Philip Sydney. Notwithstanding he is willing to pay as much as His Honour shall think good. William Painter craves remembrance of a note of his estate delivered in 1586, expressing the particulars of all he has in the world to live upon in these his aged days, amounting to about L64 a year. He has a wife and five children all marriageable and unprovided for. He begs his Honour's favourable consideration of his case and promises to be the occasion of saving unto Her Majesty of far greater sums than what he owes to her. III. CHARGE AGAINST TURVILLE, BOWLAND, AND PAINTER (Abst.). (_Brit. Mus. Lansd. MS._ 55, No. 3.) Charge informed in the Exchequer by John Powell against Geoffrey Turville, Richard Bowland and William Painter. s d L7,077 : 8 : 1 Of which Upon G. Turville 2,715 : 2 : 8 " R. Bowland 2,413 : 2 : 8 " W. Painter 1,949 : 2 : 8 Of this sum of L1949 : 2 : 8 William Painter confesses in his answer to owe L1079 : 17 : 3 which leaves unconfessed the sum of L869 : 5 : 5 of which he himself prays to be disburdened for divers good and reasonable considerations:-- For Iron sold to the amount of L 16 : 8 : 4 For Powder sold for L 4 : 8 : 10 For things conveyed from the Storehouse at Woolwich 4 : 0 : 0 For unserviceable shot sent into Barbary 173 : 13 : 4 For Powder Munition &c. 205 : 0 : 0 For sale of Sulphur 10 : 10 : 0 Divers allowances 373 : 6 : 8 Work done at Portsmouth 8 : 6 : 8 He promises to pay what is due from him in reasonable time. The value of the Lands in Gillingham, Kent, belonging to William Painter is L413 : 10 : 0, which brings him in L94 : 10 of which he has to pay L33 : 3 : 2 leaving him L61 : 6 : 10. The said William Painter owes L1200 for land in mortgage and is indebted to divers persons besides. He humbly beseeches Her Majesty to have pitiful regard for his wife and marriageable children. IV. POWELL'S CHARGES AGAINST EARL OF WARWICK AND PAINTER (Abstract). (_Hatfield, Calendar_ iii., No. 581.) September, 1587. John Powell to the Queen, offers to expose frauds in the Ordnance Office, and begs the Queen to grant him a hearing before the Lord Chancellor, Lord Treasurer, Lord Admiral, and Earl Warwick, which last named he accuses of great oppressions, and one Painter of false recording the office books. V. W. PAINTER'S CONFESSION. (_Record Office State Papers, Domestic, Eliz._, vol. 224, No. 102.) [Sidenote: xxiij{clo} Junii 1589.] Willm Paint{er} confesseth that all those things that stande nowe charged upon Thearle of Warrewicke by the twoe bookes delivered by M{r.} Coniers and M{r.} Bartholme Vodoington were in truthe taken out of the Quenes stoare in the Towre of London and other places, and promiseth that before Michaelmas Tearme next he will in writing und{r.} his hand shewe discharge of so muche of the same as the said Earle is to be discharged of, and will charge his L. w{th} so muche thereof as in truth he ought to be charged w{th} by shewing of his owne warrant or other good proof that the same came to his L. hands or to suche as his Lo. did appoint for the receipt thereof, and the residue he will charge upon suche others as of right are to be charged therew{th}, and for his bett{r} instruction he placeth a coppie of the said twoe bookes delivered by the Audito{rs}. _signed_ W. PAINTER. _endorsed._ { 23 Junii, 1589. { M{r.} Painters aunsweare for the Charging the E. of { Warwick in the 2 books delivered to the Audito{rs} { of the Presse. VI. (_Record Office Dom. Pap. Eliz._ ccxxv., No. 38.) June 22, 1589. Answer of John Powell, Surveyor of the Ordnance, to the informations given against him by Mr. Wm. Paynter. Examined in the office of the Ordnance before Sir Robert Constable and the rest of the officers, and noted in the margin accordingly. VII. APPLICATION OF A. PAINTER IN BEHALF OF HIS FATHER (Abst.). (_Brit. Mus. Lansd. MS._ 67, f. 47.) April 6. 1591. He has many times besought his honour to accept of his serviceable endeavours with regard to his duty concerning the indirect government of the office of ordnance, the entries into the books &c. and as he knows that many irregularities have been committed for which he fears he and his aged father may be blamed he has thought it his duty to crave access to his Honour as well to advertise what has been heretofore done as to declare the manner how this office is managed, beseeching his honour, in regard his aged father is clerk of that office, whose duty it is to register all things, not to sign any proportion books of debt or monthe's books but by the delivery of the said clerk or his deputy. VIII. GRANT IN REVERSION OF PAINTER'S OFFICE (Docquet). (_Record Off. Dom. State Papers, Eliz._ ccxxxiii.) 1591. Grant in reversion of John Grenewaie of the office of Clerk of the Ordnance, with a fee of 8_d._ per diem, after the death of Wm. Paynter. IX. ACCOUNTS OF THE ORDNANCE (Abstract). (_Record Off. Dom. State Papers, Eliz._ ccxliii., No. 96.) Accounts by John Powell, Wm. Painter and Thos. Bedcock for provisions and stores delivered unto her Majesty's Ordnance up to 31 Dec. 1592. Total of debts L6,786 0_s_ 51/2_d_; of payments during the last year L3,960 17_s_ 6_d_; Balance due, L2,825 2_s_ 91/2_d_. Also of debts due for provisions brought into the stores, repairs, &c., during the year: total L4055 9_s_ besides Sir Rob. Constable's debt. With note that as the books of the office have been delivered to the two auditors, the writers cannot set down every particular debt but have done so as far as they could. X. SPECIFIC CHARGES AGAINST PAINTER. (_Brit. Mus.: Lansdown MS._ 73, No. 59.) Right Honorable whearas I heartofore exhibited Articles vnto yo{r} Lo{pp} therin revealing and Justlie accusing William Painter clerke of Thordynaunce of notorious Deceiptes and abuses (per)petrated by him in Thexecution of his saide office vnto whiche he hathe made some Answeare as is reported./ May it ffurther please yo{r} Lo I haue thoughte yt my parte to reveall such further and more deceiptes as I haue discovered of his lyke practizes and abuses when he tooke vppon him the charge and discharge of Thoffice as now his sonne seekethe to doe, which I Humblie prostrate heare inclosed. Cravinge of yo{r} good Lo for proofe of bothe my Articles I may haue Aucthoritie to examine suche wittnesses as I can produce by othe before some Baron of Thexchequer as to Remaine vppon recorde leaste Deceasinge her Ma{ties} seruece therbye be hindered and I in some sorte descredited in skeming to Informe your Lo{pp} w{th} matters I cannot proue./ So lyke wise if to yo{r} Ho yt shall seeme good to signe the warrantate here to fore by me (pre)sented Aucthorishinge me and others to (per)vse and vewe Thaccomptes of Sir Robert Constable Knyghte deceased and m{sr} willm Sugdon for Tower matters. I will bringe to lighte suche matters agaynste his sonne whearby yt shall appeare that he is a moste unfitt man to execute anie office of charge or truste vnder her ma{tie} beinge so corrupte a man as I will prooue him to be./ Pardon Right Ho my boldnes for Dutifull zeale did pricke me to discouer that I and sithence they are abroache care of my credite dothe continuallie vrge mee not to be negligent or alowe vntill I haue by good proues confirmed and established them. So restinge Readie to (per)forme the same and accordinge to my Bounden dutie to do her hignes anie service to my vttermoste./ I Humblie cease to trouble yo{r} Ho any further at this tyme. But never will omitt to pray Thalmightie to increase yo{r} Honor with all healthe and happines. Your Honors most humble _G. HOGGE._ _Endorsed_ November 1793 George Hogg to my L. Discouerie of certain abuses committed by W{m.} Paynter clerk of the Ordinance w{t}in his office. Wronges offered by Willm Painter Clerke of Thordenance entered in his Jornall booke ffor receiptes broughte into her ma{ties} Store Anno _1575_ and _1576_. Right Honorable, first ther was a receipte for one Laste and a half of Serpentine powder broughte into her Ma{ties} Store and debenter made by Painter for the same as made of forraigne Peeter the xiiij{th} of Julie _1576_, the which I will prooue vnto yo{r} Ho that yt was her Ma{ties} owen powder brought from Windso{r} Castell the verie same Somer./ Wherein he deceaved her Ma{tie}, and made her pay for that w{ch} was her owen./ Desyringe that my proofes may be taken bye Othe before one of the Barons of her M{ties} Exchecquer./ Secondlie, their was another Receipte made for xii{e} wh{t} of corne powder As made of fforraine provision and brought into her ma{ties} Store and debenter made for the same the xxj{th} of Julie _1576_ at the Rate of xij{d} the pownde, the w{ch} did amounte to the some in money of lx{lb} the w{ch} I will prove to be her ma{ties} Owen Powder as aforsayde./ Third, there was another Receipte made for One Laste of Serpentine powder by the sayd Painter at xj{d} the pownde/ and debenter made for the same the xxj{th} of Julie _1576_ as brought into her maties Store beinge made lykwyse of fforraigne provision the w{ch} I will proove no such matter receaved into her ma{ties} saide store and therefore her ma{tie} flatlie Deceaved by him of the Some of one c and x{lb} [.:.] /./ ffowerthlie there was lykewyse broughte into her Ma{ties} sayde store by one Constantine Watchindroppe the seconde of auguste _1576_ certaine bowstaves to the number of fower Thousande after syxe Score to the Hundrethe at the Rate of xiij{lb} the Hundrethe the which dothe Amounte to v{C} and xx{lb} and entred by Painter in his Jornall booke and debenter made for the same I will proove vnto yo{r} Ho notwithstandinge his debenter and entrie in his sayde booke that there was xj{c} of them neuer brought into her ma{ties} Store / and therfore her Ma{tie} Apparentlie Deceaved by him of the some of one{C} xliij{lb}. ffiftlie wheras there was a Deliverie made in Thoffice of Thordinance the xxvi{th} of Aprill _1576_ for Se{r}pentine Powder Delivered out of her Ma{ties} Store for the shootinge of Thordinance vppon the wharfe he did enter into his Jornall xx{c} wh{t} delivered whearas, I will proove vnto yo{r} Ho there was but v{c} Di delivered but heare he Dothe shewe his conninge in the discharginge of the kee(per) of the Store for the overcharge layd vppon the sayd kee(per) by him on his Receipte before specified the xxj{th} of Julie _1576_ whearas he did charge the kee(per) w{th} a laste of Powder which was never brought into the Store which he made her Ma{tie} pay for/ Syxtlie he made a Delyuerie of fower hundrethe wh{t} of Serpentine Powder the Laste of Aprill 1576 for the shootinge of Thordynaunce uppon May [E] vo accordinge to the olde accustomed manners I will Proove there was but j Two hundredthe wh{t} Delyvered whearin he hath abused her Ma{tie} as in the Article befor specified/. [Transcriber's Note: The symbol represented here by [E], similar to Cyrillic "E", has not been identified. The following "vo" may be an error for "v{o}" (with superscript "o"), meaning either "quinto" (5th) or "ultimo" (last).] XI. APPLICATION OF J. PAINTER (Abstract). _Brit. Mus. Lansd. MS._ 75, No. 55.) _Sept. 26. 1593._--The best experience of faithful and true endeavours is to be opposed by politic and malicious adversaries whose slanderous informations have lately been used against him which he has truely answered and has been examined by Sir Geo: Carewe with the copies of the monthe's books and therefore he trusts his Hon: will be satisfied. He hopes his slanderers will be punished, or it will be a precedent to others. He has served H.M. faithfully being encouraged by hopes of preferment. He yearly increases H.M. Store to the value of L2,000 by taking the returns of such munitions as return from the seas unspent in H.M. ships, which formerly were concealed and converted to private use. He has deciphered so many deceipts as amount to above L11,000. He is ready to show a number of abuses by which H.M. pays great sums of money which do not benefit her service, and finally by his experience he has been able to do Her Majesty profitable service, the particulars of which he is ready to show when required, and he trusts he deserves more favour and regard than to be utterly discredited and disgraced through the information of the person who through malice seeks to be revenged of him, because he saves H. M. L40 a year which this person sued for, for taking the aforesaid remains. XII. CHARGES AGAINST PAINTER'S SON. (_Brit. Mus.: Lansdown MS._ 78, No. 29.) Right Honourable, I thought it my duty to aduertise yo{r} ho: of dyw{r}se misdemeano{rs} comytted against her Ma{te} in and about the Tower, when yo{r} lo{p} shall please to command me to attend yo{u} in the meane tyme I hold it most fytt to give yo{u} to vnderstand that vnderstandinge of Mr. Anthonie Paynter should make his vawnt of his playnes and truth of thencising of his fathers place being deputye vnto him thus much I am able to averr that in false entryes false debentes ymbeseling of powder, and other deceipte as come XVc{Ii} as by informand re{cd} to be put in against him the last term begonn by hogg who had mistaking the daye ffor his father I send yo{r} lo{p} matter of XXVIj m{ll} Against him It is uery fitt if it may stand w{th} yo{r} ho: good liking all booke and recorde ap(per)teying to her Ma{e} be taken into the costody of some whom yo shall think mete to kepe them to her Ma{te} vse And so leaving the same to yo{r} honourable care I doe humbly take my leave the Tower this XXj{th} of february Y{r} ho: most humbly Att Commandme{t} N. Raynberd. _Endorsed_ 21 Feb. 1594 M{r} Rainberd steward of y{e} Tower to my l: Informa[~co]n against M{r} Paynter of abuses in his office. ANALYTICAL TABLE OF CONTENTS. [In the following notes, _Source_ refers to the origin whence Painter most probably obtained the tale; _Origin_ to the earliest appearance of it in literature: these often coincide. I have included all the information given by Haslewood.] I. HORATII AND CURIATII. The Romaines and the Albanes being at warres, for iniuries mutually inferred, Metius Suffetius, the Albane captaine, deuised a waye by a combate to ioygne bothe the cities in one. Victorie falling to the Romaines, the Romaine victor killed his sister and was condemned to die. Afterwardes, upon his father's sute, he was deliuered. [_Source and Origin._--Livy, i. 26. _Parallels._--I. _Ancient_: Cicero, _Pro Mil._ 37; Dionys. Hal. iii. 21, 22; Plutarch, _Par. Min._ 16; Valerius Max. vi. 36; Florus, i. 3; Zonar, vii. 6. II. _Mediaeval_: Holkot, _Moral._ 12. III. _Modern:_ Wolgemuth, ii. 74; Kirchhof, _Wendenmuth_, i. 13, vi. 61; Albertinus, _Lusthauss_, 1619, 191; Corneille, _Horace; Acerra Philologica_, 1708, ii. 15. _Painter_, Ed. I. (1566) i. 1; II. (1575)[65] i. 1; III. i. 1; IV. i. 15.] [Footnote 65: The reprint of 1569 is not taken into account in giving the pagination.] II. THE RAPE OF LUCRECE. Sextus Tarquinius ravished Lucrece. And she, bewailing the losse of her chastitie, killed herselfe. [_Source and Origin._--Livy, i. 57-60. _Parallels._--I. _Ancient_: Dionys. Hal. iv. 64; Cicero, _De Fin._ ii. 20-26; Val. Max. 6, i. 1; Ovid, _Fasti_, ii. 761; Aurel. _De Vir. Ill._ 9; Augustin, _De Civit. Dei_, i. 19. II. _Mediaeval_: Vincent Bellov. _Spec. Doct._ iv. 100; _Gesta Rom._, 135; _Violier_, 113. III. _Modern_: Hans Sachs, i. 2, 184; 3, 21, _Ein schoen spil von der geschicht der edlen Roemerin Lucretia_, Strassburg, 1550, 8vo; Kirchhof, vi. 67-70; _Eutrapelos, i. 92_; _Acerra_, ii. 51; _Histor. Handbuechlein_, 247; Albertinus, 279; Abraham a Sta. Clara, _Etwas fuer Alle_, ii. 623. _Painter_, Ed. I. i. 5; II. i. 5; III. i. 8; IV. i. 22. _Derivates._--There can be no doubt Shakspeare derived his _Rape of Lucrece_ from Painter, though he has expanded the four pages of his original into 164 stanzas. Heywood has also a play called _The Rape of Lucrece_.] III. MUCIUS SCAEVOLA. The siege of Rome by Porsenna, and the valiaunt deliuerie thereof by Mutius Scaeuola, with his stoute aunswere vnto the kinge. [_Source and origin._--Livy, ii. 12. 13. _Parallels._--I. _Ancient_: Plutarch, _Public_. 17; Valerius Max. 3. 3. I; Dionys. 5 27-30; Aurel. Vict. 72; Cicero, _pro Sext._ 21. 48; Flor. i. 105; Martial, i. 51; Orosius, ii. 5; Augustin, _De Civit._ v. 18; Zonar, vii. 12; Dio Cass. 45, 31; 46, 19; 53, 8. II. _Modern_: H. Sachs, I. 2. 156: 2. 3. 39; Kirchhof, i. 15; Acerra, i. 19; Albertinus, 287. _Painter_, I. i. 7; II. i. 7; III. i. 12; IV. 26. _Derivates._--A play called _Mutius Scevola_ was played at Windsor in 1577 (Fleay, _Hist. of Stage_, p. 380).] IV. CORIOLANUS. Martius Coriolanus goinge aboute to represse the common people of Rome with dearth of Corne was banished. For reuengement whereof he perswaded Accius Tullius king of the Volscians, to make warres upon the Romaynes, and he himselfe in their ayde, came in his owne person. The Citie brought to greate miserye, the fathers deuised meanes to deliuer the same, and sent vnto the Volscian campe, the mother, the wife and children of Coriolanus. Vpon whose complaintes Coriolanus withdrewe the Volscians, and the citie was reduced to quietnes. [_Source and Origin._--Livy, ii. 35 _seq._ _Parallels._--I. _Ancient_: Dionys. Hal. viii. 1; Zonar vii. 16; Plutarch _Coriolanus_; Val. Max. 5. 4. I; Dio Cass. (Exc. Vat.) 16 p. 148; Aur. Vict. 19. II. _Mediaeval_: Holkot _Narrat._ 175; _Gesta Rom._, Lat. 137; Germ. 89; _Violier_, 115; _Rosarium, i. 120_. III. _Modern_: Abr. a St. Clara; _Laubenhuet_, I. 301; _Acerra_, 2. 17; Albertinus, 291; Kirchhof, vi. 73-6, 82. _Painter_, I. i. 9; II. i. 9; III. i. 35; IV. i. 29. _Derivates._--It is possible that Shakespeare first got the idea of the dramatic capabilities of the story of Coriolanus from Painter though he filled in the details from North's Plutarch.] V. APPIUS AND VIRGINIA. Appius Claudius, one of the Decemuiri of Rome, goeth about to rauishe Virginia a yonge mayden, which indeuour of Appius, when her father Virginius vnderstode being then in the warres, hee repaired home to rescue his doughter. One that was betrouthed vnto her, clamed her, whereupon rose great contention. In the ende her owne father, to saue the shame of his stocke, killed her with a Bocher's knife, and went into the Forum, crying vengeance vpon Appius. Then after much contention and rebellion, the Decemuiri were deposed. [_Source._--Giovanni, _Pecorone_, giorn. xx. nov. 2. _Origin._--Livy, iii. 44, 47-57. _Parallels._--_Mediaeval_: Gower, _Conf. Amant._ vii.; Chaucer, _Cant. Tales_, Doctour's Tale; _Modern_: Macaulay, _Lays_. _Painter_, I. i. 13; II. i. 12; III. i. 31; IV. i. 35. _Derivates._--R. B., _A new tragical comedy of Apius and Virginia_, 1575.--Webster, _Appius and Virginia_. Hazlewood also refers to tragedies on the subject by Betterton, Crisp, Dennis, Moncrieff, Brooke, Bidlake, &c. Vincent Brooke, the actor, made his greatest hit in the part of Virginius.] VI. CANDAULES AND GYGES. Candaules king of Lidia, shewing the secretes of his wyues beautie to Gyges, one of his guarde: was by counsaile of his wife, slaine by the said Gyges, and depriued of his kingdome. [_Source and Origin._--Herodotus, i. 7-13. _Parallels._--Justin, i. 7. _Mod._: Guicciardini, 44; Federmann, _Erquickstunden_, 1574, 65; Albertinus, 186; Kirchhof, iv. 1. _Painter_, I. i. 19; II. i. 18; III. i. 32; IV. i. 46.] VII. CR[OE]SUS AND SOLON. King Craesus of Lydia reasoneth with the wyseman Solon, of the happie life of man. Who little esteeming his good aduise, vnderstoode before his death, that no man (but by vertue) can in this life attaine felicitie. [_Source and Origin._--Herod, i. 50 _seq._ _Parallels._--I. _Ancient_: Diod. xvi. 56; Plutarch, _Solon_. II. _Modern_: Albertinus, 235; Kirchhof, _Wendenmuth_, i. 4; Wanley, _Wonders of the Little World_, ed. 1774. III. li. 7. _Painter_, I. i. 21; II. i. 20; III. i. 35; IV. i. 49. _Derivates._--A tragedy under this name was written by Earl Stirling about 1601.] VIII. RHACON AND CARTOMES. Of a father that made suite, to haue his owne sonne put to death. [_Source and Origin._--AElian, i. 34. _Parallels._--Wanley, _Wonders_, IV. iii. 1. _Painter_, I. i. 24; II. i. 22; III. i. 39; IV. i. 53.] IX. ARTAXERCES AND SINETAS. Water offered of good will to Artaxerxes King of Persia, and the liberall rewarde of the Kinge to the giuer. [_Source and Origin._--AElian, i. 32. _Painter_, I. i. 24; II. i. 23; III. i. 40; IV. i. 54.] X. CHARITON AND MENALIPPUS. The loue of Chariton and Menalippus. [_Source and Origin._--AElian, ii. 17 [Melanippus]. _Painter_, I. i. 25; II. i. 24; III. i. 42; IV. i. 56.] XI. CYRUS AND PANTHEA. Kinge Cyrus perswaded by Araspas, to dispose himselfe to loue a ladie called Panthea, entreth into a pretie disputation and talke of loue and beautie. Afterwards Araspas himselfe falleth in loue with the saide ladie, but she indued with greate chastitie, auoydeth his earnest sute. And when shee heard tell that her husbande was slaine in the seruice of Cyrus, she killed herselfe. [_Source._--Probably Bandello, iii. 9. _Origin._--Xenophon (given as source by Painter). _Parallels._--_Anc._: Plutarch, _Moralia; De curiositate. Modern_: Belleforest; _Hist. trag._ iv. 265; Wanley, _Wonders_, I. xi. 30. _Painter_, I. i. 27; II. i. 25; III. i. 44; IV. i. 58. _Derivates--Warres of Cyrus, with the tragical Ende of Panthea_, a tragedy, was printed in 1594.] XII. ABDOLOMINUS KING OF SCYTHIA. Abdolominus is from poore estate, aduaunced by Alexander the Great, through his honest life, to be kyng of Sydone. [_Source and Origin._--Quinct. Curtius, IV. i. 19-16. _Parallels--Anc._: Diod. Sic. xvii. _Mod._: Wanley, _Wonders_, VI. xiv. _Painter_, I. i. 33; II. i. 31; III. i. 45; IV. i. 69.] XIII. ALEXANDER AND THE SCYTHIAN AMBASSADORS. The oration of the Scythian Ambassadours to Alexander the great, reprouing his ambicion, and desire of Empire. [_Source and Origin._--Quintus Curtius, ix. 2. _Painter_, I. i. 34; II. i. 32; III. i. 57; IV. i. 71.] XIV. METELLUS ON MARRIAGE. The woordes of Metellus of mariage, and wiuing with the prayse and dispraise of the same. [_Source._--Aulus Gellius, _Noct. Att._ i. 6. _Origin._--Livy, ii. 32. _Parallels._--I. _Ancient_: Plut. _Coriol._ 6. Dio. Halic. vi. 76. _Painter_, I. i. 36; II. i. 24; III. i. 60; IV. i. 74.] XV. LAIS AND DEMOSTHENES. Of Lais and Demosthenes. [_Source and Origin._--A. Gellius, _Noct. Att._ i. 8. _Parallels._--Repeated in Painter II. xiii. _Painter_, I. i. 38; II. i. 35; III. i. 63; IV. i. 77.] XVI. FABRICIUS AND PYRRHUS. C. Fabritius and Emillius Consuls of Rome, beyng promised that king Pyrrhus for a somme of money should be slayne (which was a notable enemie to the Romaine state) aduertised Pyrrhus thereof by letters, and of other notable thinges doen by the same Fabritius. [_Source._--A. Gellius, _Noct. Att._ i. 14. _Origin._--(?) Livy, _Epit._ xiii. _Parallels._--I. _Ancient_: Plutarch _Pyrr._ 18, 19; _An seni sit_, &c., 21; Cicero, _Pro C[oe]l._, 14, 24; _Brut._ 14, 55; 16, 61; _Phil._ i. 5, 11; _Cato_, vi. 16; Val. Max., viii. 13, 5; Sueton. _Tib._, 2; Justin, 18, 2; Ovid, _Fasti_, xvi. 203. _Painter_, I. i. 38; II. i. 36; III. i. 64; IV. i. 78.] XVII. CAMILLUS AND SCHOOLMASTER. A Scholemaister traiterously rendring the noble mens sonnes of Faleria to the hands of Camillus, was wel acquited and rewarded for his paines and labour. [_Source._--A. Gellius, _Noct. Att._ xvii. 24. _Origin._--Livy, v. 26. _Parallels._--I. _Ancient_: Plutarch, _Camillus_, 10; Dion. Halic. excerp. Vatec. 13, 1; Frontinus, _Strat._ iv. 4, 1; Polyaenus, _Strat._ viii. 7; Val. Max. vi. 5, 1; Aur. Victor, _De vir. ill._ 33; Zonar. vii. 32. II. _Modern_: _Enxemplos_, 187. III. _Modern_: Gallensis, _Commumilog._ 1489, i. 11; H. Sachs, III. ii. 46; Hanmer, _Hist. Roseng._ 1654, 437; _Acerra_, i. 100; Kirch, i. 18. _Painter_, I. i. 39; II. i. 37; III. i. 66; IV. i. 80.] XVIII. PAPYRIUS PRAETEXTATUS. The Hystorie of Papyrius Praetextatus [and how he misled his mother]. [_Source and Origin._--A. Gellius, _Noct. Att._ i. 23. _Parallels._--_Sabell. Exemp._ i. 3; Bruson, _Facet._ iv. 4; Wanley, _Wonders_, III. xlvii. 4. _Painter_, I. i. 41; II. i. 38; III. i. 69; IV. i. 83.] XIX. PLUTARCH'S ANGER. How Plutarche did beate his man, and of pretie talke touching signes of anger. [_Source and Origin._--A. Gellius, _Noct. Att._ i. 26. _Painter_, I. i. 42; II. i. 39; III. i. 71; IV. i. 85.] XX. AESOP'S FABLE OF THE LARK. A pretie tale drawne out of the Larke of AEsope. [_Source._--A. Gellius, _Noct. Att._ ii. 29. _Origin and Parallels._--_Cf._ Caxton's _AEsop_, ed. Jacobs, Ro. i. 20; vol. i. p. 238. _Painter_, I. i. 42; II. i. 40; III. i. 72; IV. i. 86. _Derivates._--A ballad on the subject, entitled _A mirror most true_, was licensed to Richard Jones 1576-7.] XXI. HANNIBAL AND ANTIOCHUS. A merie geste, uttered by Hanniball to King Antiochus. [_Source and Origin._--A. Gellius. _Painter_, I. i. 44; II. i. 41; III. i. 74; IV. i. 88.] XXII. ANDRODUS. The marueilous knowledge of a Lion, being acquainted with a man, called Androdus. [_Source._--A. Gellius, _Noct. Att._ v. 14, 10. _Origin and Parallels._--_Cf._ Caxton's _AEsop_, ed. Jacobs, Ro. iii. 1, vol. i. p. 243. _Painter_, I. i. 44; II. i. 41; III. i. 79; IV. i. 89.] XXIII. FAVORINUS. A pretie disputation of the philosopher Phauorinus, to perswade a woman not to put forth her child to nursse, but to nourishe it herselfe with her owne milke. [_Source and Origin._--A. Gellius, _Noct. Att._ xvii. 12. _Painter_, I. i. 45; II. i. 42; III. i. 77; IV. i. 91.] XXIV. SERTORIUS. Of Sertorius, a noble Romaine capitaine. [_Source and Origin._--A Gellius, _Noct. Att._ _Painter_, I. i. 48; II. i. 45; III. i. 81; IV. i. 95. _Derivates._--A tragedy with this title, by J. Bancroft, appeared in 1679, but it is scarcely likely to have been derived from Painter.] XXV. SIBYLLINE LEAVES. Of the bookes of Sybilla. [_Source._--A. Gellius, _Noct. Att._ i. 19. _Origin._--Pliny, _Hist. Nat._ xiii. 28. _Painter_, I. i. 49; II. i. 46; III. i. 84; IV. i. 98.] XXVI. MASTER AND SCHOLAR. A difference and controuersie betwene a maister and a scholler, so subtile that the iudges coulde not geue sentence. [_Source and Origin._--A. Gellius. _Painter_, I. i. 80; II. i. 46; III. i. 85; IV. i. 99.] XXVII. SELEUCUS AND ANTIOCHUS. Seleucus king of Asia, gaue his wife to his owne sonne in mariage, being his mother in lawe; who so feruently did loue her, that he was like to die, whiche by a discrete and wyse inuention, was discouered to Seleucus by a Phisition. [_Source and Origin._--Plutarch, _Demetrius_ (probably in Amyot's translation). _Parallels_.--Val. Max. v. 7; Wanley, _Wonders_, III. ix. 4. _Painter_, I. i. 51; II. i. 48; III. i. 88; IV. i. 102.] XXVIII. TIMON OF ATHENS. Of the straunge and beastlie nature of Timon of Athens, enemie to mankinde, with his death, buriall, and Epitaphe. [_Source and Origin._--Plutarch, _Marc Antonius_ (probably through Amyot's translation). _Parallels_.--Erasmus, _Adagio_; _Sabell. Exemp._ ii. 2; Reynolds, _Treatise of Passions_, c. 13; Wanley, _Wonders_, II. ix. 8. _Painter_, I. i. 57; II. i. 54; III. i. 98; IV. i. 112. _Derivates._--Shakespeare's _Timon of Athens_ (c. 1608) is founded on this, though much expanded. There is a play of _Timon_ anterior to Shakespeare's, and printed by Mr. Hazlitt.] XXIX. MARRIAGE OF WIDOW AND WIDOWER. The mariage of a man and woman, hee being the husband of xx. wiues: and shee the wife of xxii. husbandes. [_Source._--Pedro di Messia, _Selva di varie Lezzioni_, i. 34. _Origin._--St. Jerome. _Painter_, I. i. 59; II. i. 55; III. i. 100; IV. i. 114.] XXX. THE THREE RINGS. How Melchisedech a iewe, by telling a pretie tale of three Ringes, saued his life. [_Source._--Boccaccio, _Decameron,_ giorn. i., nov. 3. _Origin._--_Cento novelle antichi_, 72 (through Busone), _L'avventuroso Ciciliano_; _cf._ Landau, _Die Quellen_{2} 183. Probably original source was Jewish. _Cf._ G. Paris in _Revue des etudes juives_, t. xvii., and A. Wuensche in _Lessing-Mendelssohn Gedenkbuch_. _Parallels._--_Med.: Shebet Jehuda_ (Heb.), _Gesta Rom._ 89. Lessing, _Nathan der Weise_. _Painter._--I. i. 60; II. i. 56; III. i. 102; IV. i. 116.] XXXI. BORSIERI AND GRIMALDI. One called Guglielmo Borsiere with certaine wordes well placed, taunted the couetous life of Ermino Grimaldi. [_Source._--Boccaccio, _Dec._, giorn. i., nov. 8. _Origin._--Benvenuto Rambaldi. Commentary on _Inferno_ xvi. _Painter._--I. i. 61; II. i. 57; III. i. 105; IV. i. 119.] XXXII. ALBERTO OF BOLOGNA. Maister Alberto of Bologna, by a pleasaunt aunsweare made a gentlewoman to blushe, which had thoughte to haue put him out of countenaunce, in telling him that he was in loue with her. [_Source and Origin._--Boccaccio, _Dec._ i. 10. _Painter._--I. i. 63; II. i. 58; III. i. 108; IV. i. 122.] XXXIII. RINALDO OF ESTE. Rinaldo of Esti being robbed, arrived at Castel Guglielmo, and was succoured of a wydowe: and restored to his losses, retourning saulfe and sounde home to his owne house. [_Source._--Boccaccio, _Dec._ ii. 2. _Origin._--_Pantschatantra_ (Fables of Bidpai), II. iv. tr. Benfey, 183. _Parallels._--_Mediaeval_: von der Hagen, _Gesammtabenteuer_, No. 42; _Mod.:_ Lope de Vega, _Llegar en ocasion:_ Lafontaine, _L'oraison de St. Julien;_ La Moth, _Le Talisman_. _Painter._--I. i. 64; II. i. 60; III. i. 111; IV. i. 125. _Derivatives._--_The Widow,_ attributed to Ben Jonson, Fletcher and Middleton, seems to have been derived from this.] XXXIV. THE KING OF ENGLAND'S DAUGHTER. Three yonge men hauing fondlye consumed all that they had, became verie poore, whose nephewe (as he retourned out of Englande into Italie,) by the waye fell into acquaintaunce with an abbote, whome (vpon further familiaritie) he knewe to be the king of Englande's doughter, whiche toke him to husbande. Afterwardes she restored his vncles to all their losses, and sent them home in good state and reputation. [_Source and Origin._[66]--Boccaccio, _Dec._, giorn. ii., nov. 3. _Painter._--I. i. 68; II. i. 63; III. i. 116; IV. i. 130.] [Footnote 66: Landau, _Quellen_{2}, p. 331, points out that the tale is related to the "Youngest-best" folk tales, which deal with the successes of the youngest.] XXXV. LANDOLFO RUFFOLO. Landolpho Ruffolo being impooerished, became a pirate and taken by the Geneuois, was in daunger of drowning, who sauing himselfe vpon a litle coafer full of rich iewels, was receiued at Corfu, and beinge cherished by a woman, retourned home very riche. [_Source and Origin._--Boccaccio, _Decamerone,_ giorn. ii., nov. 4. _Painter._--I. i. 73; II. i. 68; III. i. 124; IV. i. 138.] XXXVI. ANDRUCCIO. Andreuccio of Perugia being come to Naples to buy horses, was in one night surprised, with three marueilous accidentes. All which hauinge escaped with one Rubie he retourned home to his house. [_Source._--Boccaccio, _Decamerone_, giorn. ii., nov. 5. _Origin._--Fabliau, _Boivin de Provins._ Barbazan, i. 357. _Parallels._--_Mod.:_ Pitre, _Nov. pop. sic._ No. 163. Nerucci, _Nov. montalesi_, No. 45. Gianandrea, _Trad. Marchigiane_ (cf. T. F. Crane, _Academy_, 22 Mar. 1879). Schiefner, _Mahakatjajana_, 23. _Painter._--I. 76; II. i. 71; III. i. 129; IV. i. 143.] XXXVII. THE EARL OF ANGIERS. The erle of Angiers being falsely accused, was banished out of Fraunce, and left his two sonnes in sondry places in Englande, and retourning (vnknowen) by Scotlande, founde theim in great authoritie, afterwardes he repayred in the habite of a seruaunte, to the Frenche kinges armie, and being knowen to be innocent, was againe aduaunced to his first estate. [_Source._--Boccaccio, _Decamerone_, giorn. ii., nov. 8. _Origin._--Dante, _Purg._ vi. 22, and frame of _Seven Wise Masters_. _Parallels._--_Mediaeval:_ _Guillaume de la Barre_, ed. P. Meyer; Jacob a Voragine, _Legenda aurea_, 176; _Gesta Rom._ 48; _Mod.:_ Goethe, _Vertriebener Graf_. _Painter._--I. i. 85; II. i. 78; III. i. 142; IV. i. 156. _Derivates._--Ayres, the German dramatist (+ 1605), who derived much from the English comedians, had a drama called _Graf von Angiers_.] XXXVIII. GILETTA OF NARBONNE. Giletta, a Phisition's doughter of Narbon, healed the French King of a Fistula, for reward whereof she demaunded Beltramo Counte of Rossiglione to husband. The Counte being maried against his will, for despite fled to Florence and loued another. Giletta his wife, by pollicie founde meanes to lye with her husbande, in place of his louer, and was begotten with childe of two sonnes: which knowen to her husband, he receiued her againe, and afterwards he liued in great honour and felicitie. [_Source._--Boccaccio, _Decamerone_, giorn. iii., nov. 9. _Origin._--? Terence _Hecyra_. _Parallels._--_Mediaeval:_ Somadeva _Katha-sarit-sagara_, 29; Von der Hagen, _Gesammt._ No. 32; Fauche _Tetrade_, ii. No. 6; _Mod.:_ Gipsy Tale, by F. Miklosich, _Denks. K. Akad._, Wien, xxiii. p. 14. _Denks. K. Akad._ _Painter._--I. i. 95; II. i. 87; III. i. 157; IV. i. 171. _Derivates._--The main plot of Shakespeare's _All's Well that Ends Well_ certainly comes from Painter.] XXXIX. TANCRED AND GISMONDA. Tancredi Prince of Salerne, caused his doughter's louer to be slayne, and sente his harte vnto her in a cup of golde: whiche afterwardes she put into poysoned water, and drinking thereof died. [_Origin._--Boccaccio, _Decamerone_, giorn. iv., nov. i. _Source._--Romance of Raoul de Coucy. _Parallels._--_Med.:_ Aretini, _De Amore Guiscardii_, F. Beroaldo, Latin verse, Paris, 1599; J. Fleury, _L'amour parfaite de Giusgardu_, Paris, 1493; A. Guasco in _ottava rima_, Venice, 1600; W. Walter, _Amorous hysterie of Guistard_, 1532; Howell, _Letters_, ed. Jacobs, p. 323; Wanley, _Wonders_, II. xii. 24. _Painter._--I. i. 100; II. i. 92; III. i. 166; IV. i. 180. _Derivates._--R. Wilmot, _Tancred and Gismund_ (performed 1568, printed 1591); Turberville, _Tragicall Tales_, iv.] XL. MAHOMET AND IRENE. Mahomet one of the Turkish Emperours, executeth curssed crueltie vpon a Greeke maiden, whome hee tooke prisoner, at the wynning of Constantinople. [_Source and Origin._--Bandello, Part i., nov. 10 (through French translation of Boaistuau, 1559, no. 2). _Parallels._--Belleforest, _ Histories tragiques_, i. _30 seq._; Knowles, _Turk. Hist._ 350 _seq._; Wanley, _Wonders_, IV. x. 6. _Painter._--I. i. 107; II. i. 94; III. i. 176; IV. i. 190. _Derivates._--Peele's _Famous play of the Turkish Mahomet and Hyren the Fair Greek_, played in 1594 and 1601 (not extant). Ayres had also a drama on _Mahomet_. Also, L. Carlell, _Osmond the Great Turk_, 1657; G. Swinhoe, _Unhappy fair Irene_, 1658; C. Goring, _Irene_, 1708; Dr. Johnson, _Irene_, 1749.] XLI. LADY FALSELY ACCUSED. A Ladie faslie accused of adultrie, was condempned to be deuoured of Lions: the maner of her deliuerie, and how (her innocencie being knowen) her accuser felt the paines for her prepared. [_Source and Origin._--Bandello (through Belleforest's translation, 1559, no. 2). _Painter._--I. i. 112; II. i. 103; III. i. 184; IV. i. 198.] XLII. DIDACO AND VIOLENTA. Didaco a Spaniarde, is in loue with a poore maiden of Valencia, and secretly marieth her, afterwardes lothinge his first mariage, because she was of base parentage, he marieth an other of noble birth. His first wyfe, by secrete messenger prayeth his company, whose request he accomplisheth. Being a bedde, shee and her maide killeth him. She throweth him into the streate: shee in desperate wise confesseth the facte before the Maiestrates, and is put to death. [_Source._--Boaistuau, 1559, no. 5. _Origin._--Bandello, Part i., nov. 42. _Painter._--I. i. 125; II. i. 114; III. i. 204; IV. i. 218.] _Derivates._--T. Achely put the story into verse, 1576. Beaumont and Fletcher's _Triumph of Death_, the second of their _Four Plays in One_.] XLIII. LADY OF TURIN Wantones and pleasaunt life being guides of insolencie, doth bring a miserable end to a faire ladie of Thurin, whom a noble man aduaunced to high estate: as appereth by this historie, wherein he executeth great crueltie vpon his sayde ladie, taken in adulterie. [_Source._--Boaistuau, 1559, no. 4. _Origin._--Bandello, Part ii., nov. 12. _Parallels._--Belleforest, i. 78 _seq._ Q. Margaret, _Heptameron_, nov. 32 (cf. Painter I. 57, _infra_ and parallels there). _Painter._--I. i. 135; II. i. 127; III. i. 226; IV. i. 240.] XLIV. ALERAN AND ADELASIA. The loue of Alerane of Saxone, and of Andelasia the doughter of the Emperour Otho the thirde of that name. Their flight and departure into Italie, and how they were known againe, and what noble houses of Italie descended of their race. [_Source and Origin._--Bandello, Part ii., nov. 27 (Belleforest, 1559, no. 1). _Parallels._--Belleforest, i. 57 _seq._ _Painter._--I. i. 20 (_sic_); II. i. 130; III. i. 245; IV. i. 249.] XLV. DUCHESS OF SAVOY. The Duchesse of Sauoie, being the kinge of England's sister, was in the Duke her husbandes absence, vniustlye accused of adulterie, by a noble man, his Lieutenaunte: and shoulde haue beene put to death, if by the prowesse and valiaunt combate of Don Iohn di Mendozza, (a gentleman of Spaine) she had not beene deliuered. With a discourse of maruelous accidentes, touchinge the same, to the singuler praise and commendation of chaste and honest Ladies. [_Source._--Boaistuau, 1559, no. 6. _Origin._--Bandello, Part ii., nov. 44 (from Val. Baruchius). _Parallels._--Belleforest, i. 107, _seq._ _Painter._--I. i. 226; II. i. 153; III. i. 271; IV. i. 285. _Derivates._--De la Peend, _History of John Lord Mandozze_, 1565 (_cf. Brit. Bibliographer_, ii. 523). De la Peend must have had proof sheets of Painter.] XLVI. THE COUNTESS OF SALISBURY. A King of England loued the daughter of one of his noble men, which was Countesse of Salesburie, who after great sute to atchieue that he could not winne, for the entire loue he bare her, and her greate constancie, hee made her his queene and wife. [_Source._--Bandello, Part ii., nov. 26 (through Boaistuau, no. 1). _Origin._--Froissart, i., cc. 77-89. (_N.B._--There is a confusion between Edward III. and the Black Prince, who was really the Countess' lover.) _Parallels._--Belleforest, i. Sec. 18. _Painter._--I. i. 258; II. i. 182; III. i. 320; IV. 334. _Derivates._--The Shakespearian part of _Edward III._ is derived from the work of Painter.] XLVII. GALGANO AND MADONNA MINOCCIA. A gentleman called Galgano, long time made sute to Madonna Minoccia: her husband sir Stricca (not knowing the same) diuers times praised and commended Galgano, by reason whereof, in the absence of her husband, she sent for him, and yelded herself vnto him, tellinge him what wordes her husband had spoken of him, and for recompence he refused to dishonest her. [_Source and Origin._--Ser Giovanne Fiorentino, _Peccorone_, I. i. _Parallels._--Masuccio, _Novellino_, 1450, nov. 21. _Painter._--I. i. 279; II. i. 199; III. i. 351; IV. ii. 3.] XLVIII. BINDO AND RICCIARDO. Bindo a notable Architect, and his sonne Ricciardo, with all his familie, from Florence went to dwell at Venice, where being made Citizens for diuers monuments by them done there, throughe inordinate expences were forced to robbe the Treasure house. Bindo beinge slaine by a pollicie deuised by the Duke and state, Ricciardo by fine subtelties deliuereth himselfe from foure daungers. Afterwards the Duke (by his owne confession) vnderstandinge the sleightes, giueth him his pardon and his doughter in mariage. [_Source and Origin._--Ser Giovanne, _Pecor._, giorn. ix., nov. 1. _Parallels._--_Anc.:_ Herod ii. 121, 122; Diod. Sic. i. 62; Pausanius ix. 37, Sec. 4. _Med.:_ L. Valla. _Mod.:_ H. Stephen, _Traite preparatif a l'Apologie_; Bandello, Part I. nov. xxv. _Painter._--I. i. 282; II. i. 202; III. i. 356; IV. ii. 8. _Derivates._--Henslowe's _Diary_, 4 Mar. and 5 June 1592, has references to a tragedy of Bindo and Ricardo, evidently derived from this.] XLIX. FILENIO SISTERNO. Philenio Sisterno, a Scholler of Bologna, being mocked of three faire Gentlewomen, at a banket made of set purpose he was reuenged on them all. [_Source and Origin._--Straparola, _Piac. Notti_, II., nov. 2. _Painter._--I. i. 289; II. i. 208; III. i. 366; IV. i. 18.] L. MULETEER'S WIFE. The piteous and chaste death of one of the muleters wiues of the Queene of Nauarre. [_Source and Origin._--Q. Margaret, _Heptameron_ 2. _Painter._--I. i. 296; II. i. 214; III. i. 377; IV. ii. 29.] LI. KING OF NAPLES. A king of Naples, abusing a Gentleman's wife, in the end did weare the hornes himself. [_Source and Origin._--Q. Margaret, _Heptameron_, 3. _Parallels._--_Bandello_, Part iv., nov. 10. _Painter._--I. i. 298; II. i. 216; III. i. 380; IV. i. 32.] LII. PRINCESS OF FLANDERS. The rashe enterprise of a Gentleman against a Princesse of Flaunders, and of the shame that he receyued thereof. [_Source and Origin._--Q. Margaret, _Heptameron_, 4. _Painter._--I. i. 302; II. i. 219; III. i. 386; IV. ii. 38.] LIII. AMADOUR AND FLORINDA. The loue of Amadour and Florinda: wherein be conteined mani sleightes and dissimulations, together with the renowmed chastitie of the said Florinda. [_Source and Origin._--Q. Margaret, _Heptameron_, 10. _Painter._--I. i. 306; II. i. 223; III. i. 393; IV. ii. 45.] LIV. DUKE OF FLORENCE. The incontinencie of a duke and of his impudencie to attaine his purpose, with the iust punishment which he receiued for the same. [_Source and Origin._--Q. Margaret, _Heptameron_, 12. _Painter._--I. i. 326; II. i. 270; III. i. 423; IV. ii. 75.] LV. FRANCIS I. AND COUNT GUILLAUME. One of the Frenche kinge's called Frauncis the firste of that name, declared his gentle nature to Counte Guillaume, that would haue killed him. [_Source and Origin._--Q. Margaret, _Heptameron_, 17. _Painter._--I. i. 330; II. i. 243; III. i. 429; IV. ii. 81.] LVI. GENTLEWOMAN OF PAMPELUNae. A pleasaunt discours of a great Lord to enioy a Gentlewoman of Pampelunae. [_Source and Origin._--Q. Margaret, _Heptameron_, 26. _Painter._--Not in I.; II. i. 245; III. i. 432; IV. ii. 84.] LVII. A STRANGE PUNISHMENT OF ADULTERY. A punishment more rigorous than death, of a husband towarde his wife that had committed adulterie. [_Source._--Q. Margaret, _Heptameron_, nov. 32. _Origin._--? Bandello, Part ii., nov. 10. _Parallels._--_Med._: _Gesta_, Gower; _Conf. Amant._ i. _Mod.:_ Bandello, iii., nov. 15; Belleforest, i. 297; Whetstone, _Heptameron_, 3rd day; Stollberg, _Ballad_. _Painter._--I. i. 332; II. i. 252; III. i. 445; IV. ii. 97. _Derivates._--Greene's _Planetomachio_ and Davenant's _Alborine_ have similar incidents, but whether derived from Painter it is difficult to say.] LVIII. PRESIDENT OF GRENOBLE. A President of Grenoble aduertised of the ill gouernement of his wife, took such order, that his honestie was not diminished, and yet reuenged the facte. [_Source and Origin._--Q. Margaret, _Hept._, nov. 36. _Parallels._--Bandello, Part i., nov. 35. _Painter._--I. i. 334; II. i. 254; III. i. 449; IV. ii. 101. _Derivates._--Shirley's _Love's Cruelty_.] LIX. GENTLEMAN OF PERCHE. A gentleman of Perche suspecting iniurie done vnto him by his friend, prouoked him to execute and put in proufe the cause of his suspicion. [_Source and Origin._--Q. Margaret, _Hept._, nov. 47. _Painter._--I. i. 336; II. i. 256; III. i. 452; IV. ii. 104.] LX. GENTLEMAN THAT DIED OF LOVE. The piteous death of an Amorous Gentleman, for the slacke comfort geuen him to late, by his beloued. [_Source and Origin._--Q. Margaret, _Hept._, nov. 9. _Painter._--Not in I.; II. i. 258; III. i. 455; IV. ii. 107.] LXI. LADY OF THE FRENCH COURT. A Gentlewoman of the Courte, very pleasauntly recompenced the seruice of a kinde seruaunte of her's, that pursued her with service of loue. [_Source and Origin._--Q. Margaret, _Hept._, nov. 58. _Painter._--Not in I.; II. i. 26; III. i. 461; IV. ii. 113.] LXII. ROLANDINE THE CHASTE. The honest and maruellous loue of a mayden of noble house, and of a gentleman that was base borne, and howe a Queene did impeche and let their mariage, with the wise aunswere of the mayde to the Queene. [_Source and Origin._--Q. Margaret, _Hept._, nov. 21. _Painter._--Not in I.; II. i. 263; III. i. 464; IV. ii. 116.] LXIII. THE PRUDENT LADY. The Wisedome of a woman to withdrawe the foolishe loue of her husband, wherewith he was tormented. [_Source and Origin._--Q. Margaret, _Hept._, nov. 37. _Painter._--Not in I.; II. i. 263; III. i. 483; IV. ii. 135.] LXIV. THE LADY OF TOURS. The notable charitie of a woman of Tours towards her husbande. [_Source and Origin._--Q. Margaret, _Hept._, nov. 38. _Painter._--Not in I.; II. i. 276; III. i. 487; IV. ii. 139.] LXV. MIRACLE AT LYONS.[67] The simplicitie of an old woman, that offered a burning candle to S. Iohn of Lions. [_Source and Origin._--_Hept._, nov. 65. _Painter._--I. i. 338; II. i. 277; III. i. 489; IV. ii. 141.] [Footnote 67: By error omitted in Table of Contents to Vol. II.] LXVI. DOCTOR OF LAWS. A Doctor of the Lawes boughte a cup, who by the subtiltie of two false varlets, lost both his money and the cuppe. [_Source._--"Out of a little Frenche booke called 'Comptes du Monde Avantureux.'" _Origin._--Massanio, _Novellino_, Part II. nov. 17. _Parallels._--_Mensa Philosophica_. _Painter._--I. i. 339; II. i. 278; III. i. 490; IV. ii. 142. _Derivates._--Marston's _Dutch Courtesan_, 1605; and Anon.: _The Cuckqueanes and Cuckolds Errant, a Comedye_, 1601, formerly in Haslewood's possession.] THE SECOND TOME. I. THE AMAZONS. The hardinesse and conquests of diuers stout, and aduenturous women, called Amazones, the beginninge, and continuance of their Reigne, and of the great iourney of one of their Queenes called Thalestris to visit Alexander the great: with the cause of her trauaile. [_Source and Origin._--Herod, iv. 110. _Parallels._--Acerra, ii. 58; Albertinus, 55; Kirchhof, _Wendenmuth_, iv. 182. _Painter._--I. ii. 1; II. ii. 1; III. ii. 1; IV. ii. 159.] _Derivates._--A Masque of the Amazons was played March 3, 1592 (Henslowe).] II. ALEXANDER AND SISIGAMBIS. The great pitie and continencie of Alexander the great and his louinge entertaynment of Sisigambis the wife of the great monarch Darivs after he was vanquished. [_Source and Origin._--Q. Curtius, x. 5. _Parallels._--Justin, xiii. 1. _Painter._--I. ii. 5; II. ii. 4; III. ii. 8; IV. ii. 166.] III. TIMOCLIA OF THEBES. Timoclia, a gentlewoman of Thebes, vnderstandinge the couetous desire of a Thracian knight, that had abused hir, and promised her mariage, rather for her goods than loue, well acquited hir selfe from his falshoode. [_Source and Origin._--Plutarch, _Alexander_, (Amyot). _Parallels._--Zonar, _Ann._ i. f. 32; Wanley, _Wonders_, III. xxx. 6. _Painter._--I. ii. 9; II. ii. 7; III. ii. 14; IV. ii. 172. _Derivates._--A play entitled _Timoclia_, doubtless derived from Painter, is mentioned in the Revel's Account. It was played at Merchant Taylors' in 1574. Fleay, _History_, 381.] IV. ARIOBARZANES. Ariobarzanes great steward to Artaxerxes king of Persia, goeth about to exceede his soueraigne lord and maister in curtesie; where in be conteyned many notable and pleasaunt chaunces, besides the great patience and loyaltie naturally planted in the sayd Ariobarzanes. [_Source and Origin._--i-Bandello, Pt. i., nov. 2. _Parallels._--Belleforest iv. f. 9 _seq._ _Painter._--I. ii. 11; II. ii. 9; III. ii. 18; IV. ii. 176.] V. ARISTOTEMUS THE TYRANT. Lucivs one of the garde to Aristotimvs the Tyrant of the cittye of Elis, fell in loue with a fayre mayden called Micca, the daughter of one Philodemvs and his cruelty done upon her. The stoutnesse also of a noble matron named Megistona in defence of hir husbande and the common wealth from the tyranny of the said Aristotimvs: and of other actes done by the subjects vppon that Tyrant. [_Source and Origin._--Bandello, Part iii. nov. 5. _Parallels._--Belleforest, t. iv. f. 234. _Painter._--I. ii. 32; II. ii. 26; III ii. 51; IV. ii. 209.] VI. TANAQUIL. The maruaylous courage and ambition of a gentlewoman called Tanaquil, the Queene and wife of Tarqvinivs Priscvs the fift Roman king, with his persuasions and pollicy to hir husbande for his aduauncement to the kingdom, her lyke encouragement of Servivs Tvllivs, wherein also is described the ambition of one of the II. daughters of Servivs Tvllivs the sixt Roman king, and her cruelty towards her owne natural father: with other accidents chaunced in the new erected common welth of Rome, specially of the last Romane king Tarqvinivs Svperbvs, who with murder atteined the kingdome, with murder maynteined it, and by the murder and insolent lyfe of his sonne was with al his progeny banished. [_Source and Origin._--Livy, i. 34-41. _Painter._--I. ii. 40; II. ii. 33; III. ii. 63; IV. ii. 221.] VII. SOPHONISBA. The vnhappy end and successe of the loue of King Massinissa, and Queene Sophonisba his wyfe. [_Source._--Bandello, Part i. nov. 41. _Origin._--Petrarch, _Trionfi_. _Parallels._--Belleforest, I. iii., f. 356; Trissino, _Sophonisba_ (tragedy), 1524; Raleigh, _Hist._ V. iii. 8; Wanley, _Wonders_, III. liii. 2. _Painter._--I. ii. 49; II. ii. 39; III. ii. 78; IV. ii. 236. _Derivates._--Marston, _Wonder of Women, or Sophonisba, her tragedy_, printed 1606; N. Lee, _Sophonisba, or Hannibal's Overthrow_, 1676; J. Thomson, _Sophonisba_, acted 28 Feb. 1730.[68]] [Footnote 68: The celebrated line, "O Sophonisba, Sophonisba O!" has kept its memory alive.] VIII. THEOXENA AND PORIS. The crueltye of a Kynge of Macedone who forced a gentlewoman called Theoxena, to persuade hir children to kill and poyson themselves: after which fact, she and hir husband Poris ended their lyfe by drowninge. [_Source and Origin._--Livy, xl. 4. _Painter._---I. ii. 39; II. ii. 48; III. ii. 94; IV. ii. 252.] IX. LADY OF HIDRUSA. A straunge and maruellous vse, which in old time was obserued in Hidrvsa, where it was lawfull, with the licence of a magistrate ordayned for that purpose, for every man, and woman that list, to kill them selues. [_Source and Origin._--Bandello, Part i., nov. 56. _Parallels._--Belleforest, t. iv., f. 214. _Painter._--I. ii. 61; II. ii. 50; III. ii. 98; IV. ii. 256.] X. THE EMPRESS FAUSTINA. The dishonest Loue of Favstina the Empresse, and with what remedy the same loue was remoued and taken away. [_Source and Origin._--Bandello, Part 1, nov. 36. _Parallels._--Belleforest, t. iv., f. 83. _Painter._--I. ii. 65; II. ii. 52; III. ii. 102; IV. ii. 260.] XI. TWO MAIDS OF CARTHAGE. Chera hid a treasure: Elisa going about to hang her selfe, and tying the halter about a beame found that treasure, and in place thereof left the halter. Philene the daughter of Chera going for that treasure, and busily searching for the same, found the halter, wherewithal for dispayre she would haue hanged hir selfe, but forbidden by Elisa, who by chaunce espied hir, she was restored to part of hir losse, leading afterwards a happy and prosperous lyfe. [_Source and Origin._--Cinthio, _Ecatomithi_, giorn. ix., nov. 8. _Parallels._--"Heir of Linne" in Percy; Guellette, _Contes tartares_. _Painter._--I. ii. 67; II. ii. 54; III. ii. 106; IV. ii. 264.] XII. LETTERS OF THE EMPEROR TRAJAN. Letters of the Philosopher Plutarch to the noble and vertuous Emperour Traiane, and from the sayd Emperour to Plutarch: the lyke also from the said Emperour to the Senate of Rome. In all which be conteyned godly rules for gouernment of Princes, obedience of Subiects, and their duties to common wealth. [_Source and Origin._--Guevara. _Painter._--I. ii. 76; II. ii. 62; III. ii. 121; IV. ii. 279.] XIII. LAMIA, FLORA AND LAIS. A notable History of three amorous Gentlewomen called Lamia, Flora, and Lais: conteyning the sutes of noble Princes and other great Personages made vnto them, with their answeres to diuers demaundes: and the manner of their death and funerals. [_Source and Origin._--"Pausanias and Manitius" (text). _Parallels._--Painter I. nov. xv.; for Lais, Fenton, _Wonderful Secretes_ 1569, ff. 65-7. _Painter._--I. ii. 123 [89]; II. ii. 73; III. ii. 143; IV. ii. 301.] XIV. ZENOBIA QUEEN OF PALMYRA. The lyfe and giftes of the most Famous Queene Zenobia with the Letters of the Emperour Avrelianvs to the sayde Queene, and her stoute aunswere thereunto. [_Source and Origin._--Tacitus, _Ann._ xii. 51. _Painter._--I. ii. 89 [95]; II. ii. 78; III. ii. 153; IV. 311. _Derivates._--A _Zenobia_ was played at the Rose Theatre in 1591.] XV. EUPHEMIA AND ACHARISTO. Euphimia the Kyng of Corinth's daughter fell in love with Acharisto, the seruaunt of her father, and besides others which required hir in mariage, she disdayned Philon the King of Peloponesvs, that loued hir very feruently. Acharisto conspiring against the King, was discouered, tormented, and put in prison, and by meanes of Euphimia deliuered. The King promised his daughter and kingdome to him that presented the head of Acharisto. Evphimia so wrought, as hee was presented to the King. The King gave him his daughter to wyfe and when he died made him his heyre. Acharisto began to hate his wyfe, and condemned hir to death as an adulteresse. Philon deliuered hir: and upon the sute of hir subiects, she is contented to mary him, and thereby he is made Kynge of Corinth. [_Source and Origin._--Cinthio, _Ecaton_, viii., nov. 10. _Painter._--I. 101; II. ii. 82; III. ii. 162; IV. ii. 320.] XVI. THE MARCHIONESS OF MONFERRATO. The Marchionesse of Monferrato, with a banket of Hennes, and certaine pleasant wordes, repressed the fond loue of Philip the French Kynge. [_Source._--Boccaccio, _Decamerone_, giorn. i., nov. 5. _Origin._--_Seven Wise Masters._ _Parallels._--_Anc._: II. Sam. c. xi. _Med._: Sindibad, and plls. _Painter._--I. ii. 112; II. ii. 91; III. ii. 180; IV. ii. 338.] XVII. ANSALDO AND DIANORA. Mistresse Dianora demaunded of maister Ansaldo a garden so faire in Ianuary, as in the moneth of May. Mayster Ansaldo (by meanes of an obligation which he made to a Nicromancer) caused the same to bee done. The husband agreed with the gentlewoman that she should do the pleasure which maister Ansaldo required, who hearinge the liberality of hir husband, acquited hir of hir promise, and the Necromancer discharged maister Ansaldo. [_Source._--Boccaccio, _Decamerone_, giorn. x., nov. 5. _Origin._--_Cukasaptati_, cf. _Forty Viziers_, c. 14. _Parallels._--_Med._: Chaucer, _Cant. Tales_. _Mod._: Andrae, _Chymische Hochzeit_; _cf._ Campbell, _West Highland Tales_, No. 19, and R. Kohler's variants in _Orient und Occedent_, ii. _Painter._--I. ii. 114; II. ii. 93; III. ii. 184; IV. ii. 342. _Derivates._--Beaumont and Fletcher, _Triumph of Honour_ (but perhaps from Chaucer); _Two Merry Milkmaids_.] XVIII. MITHRADANES AND NATHAN. Mithridanes enuious of the liberality of Nathan, and goinge aboute to kill hym, spake vnto him vnknowne, & being infourmed by himself by what meanes he might do the same he found him in a little wood accordingly as hee had tolde him, who knowinge him, was ashamed, and became his friende. [_Source._--Boccaccio, _Decamerone_, giorn. x., nov. 3. _Origin._--? Sadi, _Orchard_, story of Chatemtai and King of Yemen. _Painter._--I. ii. 118; II. ii. 96; III. ii. 190; IV. ii. 348.] XIX. CATHERINE OF BOLOGNA. Mayster Gentil of Carisendi being come from Modena, tooke a woman out of hir graue that was buried for dead, who after she was come agayne, brought forth a sonne, which mayster Gentil rendred afterwardes with the mother to mayster Nicholas Chasennemie her husband. [_Source and Origin._--Boccaccio's _Decamerone_, giorn. x., nov. 4. _Parallels._--_Storia di Ginevra_ (printed, Pisa, 1863); Bandello, Part ii., nov. 41; Marie de France, _Lai d'Eliduc_; Uhland, _Todten von Lustnau_. See Liebrecht's discussion, _Zur Volkskunde_, pp. 60-5. _Painter._--I. ii. 123; II. ii. 100; III. ii. 197; IV. ii. 355.] XX. THORELLO AND SALADINE. Saladine in the habite of a Marchaunt, was honourably receyued into the house of mayster Thorello, who went ouer the Sea, in company of the Christians, and assigned a terme of his wyfe when she should mary agayne. He was taken, and caried to the Sovldan to be his Faulconer, who knowing him, and suffering himself to be knowen, did him great honour. Mayster Thorello fell sicke, and by Magique Art, was caried in a night to Pavie, where he found his wyfe about to mary agayne, who knowinge him, returned home with him to his owne house. [_Source._--Boccaccio, _Decamerone_, giorn. x., nov. 9. _Origin._--Busone da Gubbio, _L'avventuroso Siciliano_. _Painter._--I. ii. 128; II. ii. 104; III. ii. 205; IV. ii. 363.] XXI. ANNE QUEEN OF HUNGARY. A Gentleman of meane callinge and reputation, doth fall in loue with Anne, the Queene of Hungarie, whom shee very royally requited. [_Source and Origin._--Bandello, Part i., nov. 45. _Painter._--I. i. 140; II. ii. 114; III. ii. 225; IV. ii. 383.] XXII. ALEXANDER DE MEDICE AND THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. The gentle and iust act of Alexander de Medices Duke of Florence, vpon a gentleman whom he fauoured, who hauing rauished the Daughter of a poore Myller, caused him to mary hir, for the greater honour and celebration whereof, he appoynted hir a rich and honourable Dowry. [_Source and Origin._--Bandello, Part ii., nov. 15. _Painter._--I. ii. 155; II. ii. 127; III. ii. 248; IV. ii. 406. _Derivates._--Fletcher, _Maid of the Mill_.] XXIII. THE DUCHESS OF MALFY. The infortunate mariage of a Gentleman, called Antonio Bologna, wyth the Duchesse of Malfi, and the pitiful death of them both. [_Source and Origin._--Bandello, Part i., nov. 26. _Parallels._--Belleforest, edit. 1565, nov. 19. _Painter._--I. ii., 169; II. ii. 139; III. ii. 271; IV. iii. 3. _Derivates._--Webster, _Duchess of Malfy_.] XXIV. THE COUNTESS OF CELANT. The disordered Lyfe of the Countesse of Celant, and how shee (causinge the County of Masino to be murdered,) was beheaded at Millan. [_Source and Origin._--Bandello, Part i. nov. 4 (Belleforest, 1565, no. 20). _Parallels._--Fenton, _Tragical Discourses_; Whetstone, _Castle of Delight_, _Heptameron_. _Painter._--I. ii. 195; II. ii. 160; III. ii. 312; IV. iii. 44. _Derivates._--Marston, _Insatiate Countess_.] XXV. ROMEO AND JULIET. The goodly Hystory of the true, and constant Loue between Rhomeo and Ivlietta, the one of whom died of Poyson, and the other of sorrow, and heuinesse: wherein be comprysed many aduentures of Loue, and other deuises touchinge the same. [_Source._--Bandello, Part ii., nov. 9 (through Boaistuau, 1559, no. 3). _Origin._--Luigi da Porto, 1535 (fr. Masuccio, 1476, nov. xxxiii.). _Parallels._--Belleforest, t. i.; _otto novelle rarissime_; A. Brooke, 1562; Lopez de Vega, _Los Castelveses y Monteses;_ F. de Roscas, _Los Vandos de Verona_; L. Groto, _Hadriana_, 1578. _Painter._--I. ii. 118; II. ii. 179; III. ii. 348; IV. iii. 80. _Derivates._--Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_ is partly founded on Painter, partly on Brooke's poem. The English comedians played it in Germany. Sloane MS., 1775, contains a Latin play on this subject.] XXVI. TWO LADIES OF VENICE. Two gentlemen of Venice were honourably deceiued of their Wyues, whose notable practises, and secret conference for atchieuinge their desire, occasioned diuers accidentes, and ingendred double benefit: wherein also is recited an eloquent oration, made by one of them, pronounced before the Duke and state of that Cittye: with other chaunces and acts concerninge the same. [_Source and Origin._--Bandello, Part i., nov. 15. _Parallels._--Belleforest, t. iii. p. 58. _Painter._--I. ii. 247; II. ii. 203; III. ii. 393; IV. iii. 125. _Derivates._--The underplot of Marston's _Insatiate Countess_ is derived from Painter, _cf. supra_.] XXVII. THE LORD OF VIRLE. The Lorde of Virle, by the commaundement of a fayre younge Wydow called Zilia, for hys promise made, the better to attaine hir loue, was contented to remayne dumbe the space of three yeares, and by what meanes he was reuenged, and obtayned hys suite. [_Source and Origin._--Bandello, Part iii., nov. 17. _Parallels._--Belleforest, t. i. f. 289; Fenton, _Trag. Disc._ hist. xi. _Painter._--I. ii. 268; II. ii. 22; III. ii. 425; IV. iii. 157.] XXVIII. LADY OF BOHEMIA. Two Barons of Hungarie assuring themselues to obtayne their sute to a fayre Lady of Boeme, receyued of hir a straung and maruelous repulse, to their great shame and Infamy, cursinge the tyme that euer they aduentured an enterprise so foolish. [_Source and Origin._--Bandello, Part i., nov. 21. _Parallels._--Whetstone, _Arbour of Vertue_. _Painter._--I. ii. 292; II. ii. 238; III. ii. 463; IV. iii. 195. _Derivates._--Massinger, _The Picture_.] XXIX. DIEGO AND GINEVRA. Dom Diego a Gentleman of Spayne fell in loue with fayre Gineura, and she with him: their loue by meanes of one that enuied Dom Diego his happy choyse, was by default of light credit on his part interrupted. He constant of mynde, fell into despayre, and abandoninge all his frends and liuing, repayred to the Pyrene Mountaynes, where he led a sauage lyfe for certayne moneths, and afterwardes knowne by one of hys freendes, was (by marueylous circumstaunce) reconciled to hys froward mistresse, and maryed. [_Source and Origin._--Bandello, Part i., nov. 27. _Parallels._--Belleforest, t. i., f. 382; Fenton, _Trag. Disc._, hist. xiii.; Whetstone, _Garden of Unthriftness_. _Painter._--I. ii. 309; II. ii. 252; III. ii. 490; IV. iii. 222.] XXX. SALIMBENE AND ANGELICA. A Gentleman of Siena, called Anselmo Salimbene, curteously and gently deliuereth his enemy from death. The condemned party seeing the kinde parte of Salimbene, rendreth into his hands his sister Angelica, with whom he was in loue, which gratitude and curtesie, Salimbene well markinge, moued in conscience, woulde not abuse hir, but for recompence tooke hir to his wyfe. [_Source._--Bandello, Part i., nov. 46. _Origin._--G. Sermini. _Parallels._--Fenton, _Trag. Disc._, hist i. _Painter._--I. ii. 350; II. ii. 286; III. ii. 556; IV. iii. 288.] XXXI. HELENA OF FLORENCE. A wydow called mistresse Helena, wyth whom a scholler was in loue, (shee louing an other) made the same scholler to stande a whole Wynter's night in the snow to wayte for hir, who afterwardes by a sleyght and pollicie, caused hir in Iuly, to stand vppon a tower starke naked amongs flies and gnats, and in the sunne. [_Source._--Boccaccio, giorn. viii., nov. 8. _Origin._--? _Fabliau_, Barbazan, i. 296. _Painter._--I. ii. 376; II. ii. 307; III. ii. 597; IV. iii. 329.] [Transcriber's Note: Question mark in original.] XXXII. CAMIOLA AND ROLAND. A gentlewoman and wydow called Camiola of hir own mind raunsomed Roland the kyng's sonne of Sicilia, of purpose to haue him to hir husband, who when he was redeemed vnkindly denied hir, agaynst whom very eloquently she inueyed, and although the law proued him to be hir husband, yet for his vnkindnes, shee vtterly refused him. [_Source and Origin._--Bandello, Part i., nov. xxxv. _Painter._--I. ii. 391; II. ii. 320; III. ii. 622; IV. iii. 354.] XXXIII. LORDS OF NOCERA. Great cruelties chaunced to the Lords of Nocera, for adultry by one of them committed with the captayne's wyfe of the forte of that citty, with an enterprise moued by the captaine to the cittyzens of the same for rebellion, and the good and dutyfull aunswere of them: with other pityfull euents rysing of that notable and outragious vyce of whoredom. [_Source and Origin._--Bandello, Part i., nov. 55. _Parallels._--Belleforest, t. ii. f. 162 (ed. 1565, no. 23). _Painter._--I. ii. 217; II. ii. 324; III. ii. 631; IV. iii. 363.] XXXIV. SULTAN SOLYMAN. The horrible and cruell murder of Sultan Selyman, late the emperor of the Turkes and father of Selym that now raigneth, done vpon his eldest sonne Mvstapha, by the procurement, and meanes of Rosa his mother in lawe, and by the speciall instigation of one of his noble men called Rvstanvs: where also is remembred the wilful death of one of his sons named Giangir, for the griefe he conceiued to see Mvstapha so miserably strangled. [_Source and Origin._--N. a Moffa. _Painter._--Not in I.; II. ii. 341; III. ii. 663; IV. iii. 395. _Derivates._--Latin Tragedy of same name _Solyman et Mustapha_ was played in 1581 (Fleay, _History_, 421).] XXXV. THE KING OF MOROCCO. The great curtesie of the kyng of Marocco, (a citty in Barbarie) toward a poore fisherman, one of his subiects, that had lodged the kyng, being strayed from his company in hunting. [_Source and Origin._--Bandello, Part i. nov. 57. _Parallels._--Belleforest, t. ii. f. 190 (ed. 1565, no. 24). _Painter._--I. ii. 410; II. ii. 348; III. ii. 684; IV. iii. 416.] INDEX OF NOVELS. [Double titles are repeated under both headings, _e.g._, "Romeo and Juliet" will also be found under "Juliet and Romeo." Roman numbers indicate the Tome of Painter.] Abdolominus i. 12 Acharisto and Euphemia ii. 15 Adelasia and Aleran i. 44 Adultery, Punishment of i. 57 AEsop's Fable of Lark i. 20 Alberto of Bologna i. 32 Aleran and Adelasia i. 44 Alexander and Scythians i. 13 Alexander and Sisigambis ii. 2 Alexander de Medici ii. 22 Amadour and Florinda i. 53 Amazons ii. 1 Androdus (Androcles) i. 22 Andruccio i. 36 Angelica and Salimbene ii. 30 Angiers, Earl of i. 37 Anne of Hungary ii. 21 Ansaldo and Dionora ii. 17 Antiochus and Hannibal i. 21 Antiochus and Seleucus i. 27 Appius and Virginia i. 5 Ariobarzanes ii. 4 Aristotemus ii. 5 Artaxerxes and Sinetas i. 9 Athens, Timon of i. 28 Bohemia, Lady of ii. 28 Bologna, Alberto of i. 32 Bologna, Katharine of ii. 19 Borsieri and Grimaldi i. 31 Camillus and Schoolmaster i. 17 Camiola and Roland ii. 32 Candaules and Gyges i. 6 Carthage, Maids of ii. 11 Carthomes and Rhacon i. 8 Chariton and Menalippus i. 10 Coriolanus i. 4 Countess of Celant ii. 24 Countess of Salisbury i. 46 Cr[oe]sus and Solon i. 7 Curiatii and Horatii i. 1 Cyrus and Panthea i. 11 Daughter of King of England i. 34 Demosthenes and Lais i. 15 Didaco and Violenta i. 42 Diego and Ginevra ii. 29 Dionora and Ansaldo ii. 17 Doctor of Laws i. 66 Duchess of Malfy ii. 23 Duchess of Savoy i. 45 Duke of Florence i. 54 Duke of Venice and Ricciardo i. 48 Earl of Angiers i. 37 Este, Rinaldo of i. 33 Euphemia and Acharisto ii. 15 Fabricius and Pyrrhus i. 16 Faustina ii. 10 Favorinus i. 23 Filenio Sisterno i. 49 Flanders, Princess of i. 52 Flora, Lamia, and Lais ii. 13 Florence, Duke of i. 54 Florence, Helena of ii. 31 Florinda and Amadour i. 53 Francis I. and Guillaume i. 55 Galgano and Minoccia i. 47 Gentleman of Perche i. 59 Gentleman that died of love i. 60 Giletta of Narbonne i. 38 Ginevra and Diego ii. 29 Gismonda and Tancred i. 39 Grenoble, President of i. 58 Grimaldi and Borsieri i. 31 Gyges and Candaules i. 6 Hannibal and Antiochus i. 21 Helena of Florence ii. 31 Hidrusa, Lady of ii. 9 Horatii and Curiatii i. 1 Hungary, Anne of ii. 21 Irene and Mahomet i. 40 Juliet and Romeo ii. 25 Katherine of Bologna ii. 19 King of England's Daughter i. 34 King of Naples i. 51 King of Morocco ii. 35 Ladies of Venice ii. 26 Lady falsely accused i. 41 Lady of Bohemia ii. 28 Lady of French Court i. 61 Lady of Hidrusa ii. 9 Lady of Pampluna i. 56 Lady of Tours i. 64 Lady of Turin i. 42 Lady, Prudent i. 63 Lais and Demosthenes i. 15 Lamia, Flora, and Lais ii. 13 Landolfo Ruffolo i. 35 Lark, Fable of i. 20 Laws, Doctor of i. 66 Letters of Trajan ii. 12 Lord of Virle ii. 27 Lords of Nocera ii. 33 Lucrece, Rape of i. 2 Lyons, Miracle at i. 65 Maids of Carthage ii. 11 Mahomet and Irene i. 40 Malfy, Duchess of ii. 23 Master and scholar i. 26 Medici, Alexander of ii. 22 Menalippus and Chariton i. 10 Metellus on Marriage i. 14 Minoccia and Galgano i. 47 Miracle at Lyons i. 65 Mithridanes and Nathan ii. 18 Monteferrato, Marchioness of ii. 16 Morocco, King of ii. 35 Mucius Scaevola i. 3 Muleteer's Wife i. 50 Naples, King of i. 51 Narbonne, Giletta of i. 38 Nathan and Mithridanes ii. 18 Nocera, Lords of ii. 33 Pampluna, Lady of i. 56 Panthea and Cyrus i. 10 Papyrius Praetextatus i. 15 Perche, Gentleman of i. 59 Plutarch's Anger i. 19 Poris and Theoxena ii. 8 President of Grenoble i. 58 Princess of Flanders i. 52 Prudent Lady i. 63 Pyrrhus and Fabricius i. 16 Rape of Lucrece i. 2 Rhacon and Carthomes i. 8 Ricciardo and Duke of Venice i. 48 Rinaldo of Este i. 33 Rings, The Three i. 30 Roland and Camiola ii. 32 Rolandine i. 62 Romeo and Juliet ii. 25 Ruffolo, Landolfo i. 35 Saladin and Thorello ii. 20 Salimbene and Angelica ii. 30 Salisbury, Countess of i. 46 Savoy, Duchess of i. 45 Scaevola, Mucius i. 3 Scholar and Master i. 26 Schoolmaster and Camillus i. 17 Scythians and Alexander i. 13 Seleucus and Antiochus i. 27 Sertorius i. 24 Sibylline Leaves i. 25 Sinetas and Artaxerxes i. 9 Sisigambis and Alexander ii. 2 Sisterno, Filenio i. 49 Solon and Cr[oe]sus i. 7 Sophonisba ii. 7 Sultan Solyman ii. 34 Tanaquil ii. 6 Tancred and Gismonda i. 39 Theoxena and Poris ii. 8 Thorello and Saladin ii. 20 Three Rings i. 30 Timoclea of Thebes ii. 3 Timon of Athens i. 28 Tours, Lady of i. 64 Trajan, Letters of ii. 12 Turin, Lady of i. 43 Venice, Duke of and Ricciardo i. 48 Venice, Two Ladies of ii. 26 Violenta and Didaco i. 42 Virginia and Appius i. 5 Virle, Lord of ii. 27 Widow and Widower i. 29 Zenobia ii. 14 * * * * * _The Palace of Pleasure_ Beautified, adorned and well furnished, with Pleasaunt Histories and excellent Nouelles, selected out of diuers good and commendable Authors. ¶ _By William Painter Clarke of the Ordinaunce and Armarie._ [Illustration: HONI SOIT QVI MAL Y PENSE 1566] _IMPRINTED AT_ London, by Henry Denham, for Richard Tottell and William Iones. * * * * * _To the Right Honourable, my very good Lord, Ambrose Earle of Warwike, Baron of Lisle, of the most noble order of the Garter Knight, Generall of the Queenes Maiesties Ordinaunce within her Highnes Realmes and Dominions._ Prouoked, or rather vehemently incited and moued, I haue been (right honorable my very good Lorde) to imagin and deuise all meanes possible to auoyde that vglie vice of ingratitude (which as it is abhorred amonge creatures voyde of reason and deuine knowledge, so of men indued and full possessed with both, specially to be detested.) And that I might not be touched with that vnkind vice, odible to God and man, I haue many times, with myselfe debated how I might by any meanes shew my selfe thanckfull and beneuolent to your honour, which hath not onely by frequent talke vnto my frendes priuately, but also vpon my selfe openly imployed benefits and commendation vndeserued. The one I haue receiued by frendly report of your dere and approued frends, the other I do feele and tast to my great stay and comfort. For when it pleased your honour of curteous inclination, vpon the first vew, willingly to consent and agree to the confirmation of that which I do enioy: for that bounty then, euer sithens I haue studied by what meanes I might commend my good will and affection to the same. Wherefore incensed with the generositie, and naturall instinct of your noble minde, I purposed many times to imploy indeuor by some small beginninges, to giue your honor to vnderstande outwardly, what the inwarde desire is willinge to do, if abilitie thereunto were correspondent. And as oportunitie serued (respiring as it were from the waighty affaires of that office wherin it hath pleased our most drad Soueraigne Ladye worthely to place you the chiefe and Generall) I perused such volumes of noble Authors as wherwith my poore Armarie is furnished: and amonges other chaunced vpon that excellent Historiographer Titus Liuius. In whom is contayned a large campe of noble facts and exploites atchieued by valiaunt personages of the Romaine state. By whom also is remembred the beginning and continuation of their famous common wealth. And viewing in him great plenty of straung Histories, I thought good to select such as were the best and principal, wherin trauailing not far, I occurred vpon some which I deemed most worthy the prouulgation in our natiue tongue, reducing them into such compendious forme, as I truste shall not appeare vnpleasant. Which when I had finished, seing them but a handfull in respect of the multitude I fully determined to procede in the rest. But when I considered mine owne weakenes, and the maiestie of the Authour, the cancred infirmitye of a cowardlye minde, stayed my conceyued purpose, and yet not so stayed as vtterlye to suppresse mine attempt. Wherefore aduauncing againe the Ensigne of courage, I thought good (leauing where I left in that Authour, till I knew better how they would be liked) to aduenture into diuers other, out of whom I decerped and chose (_raptim_) sondry proper and commendable Histories, which I may boldly so terme, because the Authors be commendable and well approued. And thereunto haue ioyned many other, gathered oute of Boccatio, Bandello, Ser Giouanni Fiorentino, Straparole, and other Italian and French Authours. All which I haue recueled and bound together in this volume, vnder the title of the Palace of Pleasure, presuming to consecrate the same and the rest of my beneuolent minde to your honour. For to whom duly appertayneth mine industry and dilligence, but to him that is the patrone and imbracer of my wel doinges? Whereunto also I may apply the words of that excellent Orator Tullie, in his firste booke of Offices. _De beneuolentia autem, quam quisq'; habeat erganos, primum illud est in officia, vt ei plurimum tribuamus, a quo plurimum diligimur._ Of beneuolence which ech man beareth towards vs, the chiefest duty is to giue most to him, of whom wee be most beloued. But how well the same is done, or how prayse worthy the translation I referre to the skilful, crauing no more prayse, than they shall attribute and giue. To nothing do I aspyre by this my presumption (righte honourable) but cherefull acceptation at your handes: desirous hereby to shew my selfe studious of a frend of so noble vocation. And where greater thinges cannot be done, these small I truste shall not be contempned: which if I doe perceiue, hereafter more ample indeuor shal be imployed to atchieue greater. In these histories (which by another terme I call Nouelles) be described the liues, gestes, conquestes, and highe enterprises of great Princes, wherein also be not forgotten the cruell actes and tiranny of some. In these be set forth the great valiance of noble Gentlemen, the terrible combates of couragious personages, the vertuous mindes of noble Dames, the chaste hartes of constant Ladyes, the wonderful patience of puissaunt Princes, the mild sufferaunce of well disposed gentlewomen, and in diuers, the quiet bearing of aduers Fortune. In these Histories be depainted in liuelye colours, the vglye shapes of insolencye and pride, the deforme figures of incontinencie and rape, the cruell aspectes of spoyle, breach of order, treason, ill lucke and ouerthrow of States and other persons. Wherein also be intermixed, pleasaunte discourses, merie talke, sportinge practises, deceitfull deuises, and nipping tauntes, to exhilarate your honor's minde. And although by the first face and view, some of these may seeme to intreat of vnlawfull Loue, and the foule practises of the same, yet being throughly reade and well considered, both old and yonge may learne how to auoyde the ruine, ouerthrow, inconuenience and displeasure, that lasciuious desire and wanton wil doth bring to their suters and pursuers. All which maye render good examples, the best to be followed, and the worst to be auoyded: for which intent and purpose be all things good and bad recited in histories, Chronicles and monumentes, by the first authors and elucubrators of the same. To whom then may these histories (wherin be contayned many discourses of nobilitie) be offered with more due desert than to him that in nobilitie and parentage is not inferiour to the best? To whom may factes and exploites of famous personages be consigned, but to him whose prowesse and valiant actes be manifest, and well knowen to Englishmen, but better to straungers, which haue felt the puissance thereof? To whom may the combats, gests, and courses of the victorious be remembred, but to him whose frequent vse of mightye incountrie and terrible shocke of Shielde and Launce: is familier in Court, and famous in towne and country? In whom may pacient bearing of aduersitie, and constante suffrance of Fortune's threates more duly to the world appeare, than in him that hath constantly susteyned and quietly passed ouer the bruntes thereof? To whom may be giuen a Theatre of the world, and stage of humaine misery, more worthely than to him that hath with comely gestures, wise demeanor, and orderly behauiour, been an actor in the same? Who is he that more condignelye doth deserue to be possest in a Palace of Pleasure, than he that is daily resiant in a Palace of renowmed fame, guided by a Queene adorned with most excellent beautie indued and garnished with great learning, passing vertues and rare qualities of the minde. To whom (I say) may constancie of Ladies, and vertuous dedes of Dames, more aptly be applied than to him that hath in possession a Lady and Countesse of noble birthe (whose sire was the old Earle of Bedford, a graue and faithfull councelor to her Maiesties most noble progenitors, and father is the same, in deare estimation and regard with her highnesse, vnder whom he trustily and honourably serueth) whose curteous and countesse like behauiour glistereth in court amongs the troupe of most honourable dames: and for her toward disposition, first preferred by her Maiesty into her secret Chamber, and after aduaunced to be Countesse of your noble Earldome. Besides all which rare giftes, by nature grated in your honor, and by her bountifully bestowed, the perfect piety and brotherly loue betweene you and the right noble and vertuous the Earle of Leycester your honourable brother is had in greatest admiration. Whose noble courage in deedes of honour and passing humanity to his inferiours, is very commendable to the worlde. But here I wyll staye, leste whilest I goe about to extolle your fames, I doe (for want of perfit skill in due prayse) seeme to diminishe that whiche among all men by commune proofe is sufficientlye renowmed. And as your honor doth with great prudence gouerne that office of the Ordinance (whereof I am a member) euen so, the same hath with greate care and diligence commended suche vnto her highnes, to ioyne and serue, right worthy their vocations, specially the worshipfull Edward Randolfe Esquire, Lieutenaunt of that office a man for his experience and good aduise rather fostred in the bosome of Bellona, than nourced in kentish soile (although in the scholehouse of curtesie and humanitie he appeareth ful carefully to haue ben trained vp by his vertuous parents) which is famiarly knowne vnto me and other that domestically (as it were) do frequent his companie. But alas my Lorde, among the mid of my reioyce of those before remembred, I cannot pretermit the lamentable losse of the best approued Gonner that euer serued in our time his Prince and countrie, Robert Thomas, the Maister Gonner, who for skill and seruice, a title of Prince of Gonners iustly did deserue: And see the lucke, when he thought best to signifie his good will, by honouring Hymeneus bed, at nuptial night, a clap of that he neuer feared did ende his life. Such is the dreadful furie of Gonners art, and hellish rage of Vulcane's worke. And therefore that daungerous seruice by skilful men is specially to be recommended and cherished. Whereunto as your honour hitherto hath borne singuler affection, by preferring to her Maiestie suche as from their infancie haue bene trayned vp in that necessarie seruice and very painefullye haue imployed their time, euen so I humbly beseche your honour for continuance of the same, specially in those, that be indewed with greatest experience, in whome only resteth the brunte of our defence. A seruice and science so rare and nedefull, as none more. But what neede I to prouoke your willing mynde, whiche is more prest to cherishe such, than I am able by wyshing heart for to conceiue? Finallie yet once againe, I humblie besech your honour gratefully to accept this booke, and at your Leisure and conuenient time to reade and peruse it. By reuoluing whereof your honour I trust shall be delighted with the rare Histories and good examples therin contained, such as to my knowledge heretofore haue not bene published. And which with all my good wil and indeuour I dutifully exhibite. Beseching almightie God fauourably to defende and gouerne your honour, prosperously to maintaine and keepe the same, godlye to directe my right honourable Ladie in the steppes of perfect vertue, bountifully to make you both happye parentes of manie children: and after the expence of Nestor's yeares in this transitorie life mercifully to conducte you both to the vnspeakeable ioyes of his kingdome. Nere the Tower of London the first of Ianuarie, 1566. By your L. most bounden WILLIAM PAINTER. _Authours out of whom these Nouelles be selected, or which be remembred in diuers places of the same._ GREEKE AND LATINE AUTHORS. Titus Liuius. Herodotus. Aelianus. Xenophon. Quintus Curtius. Aulus Gellius. S. Hierome. Cicero. Polidorus Virgilius. Aeneas Syluius. Paludanus. Apuleius. L. Caelius Rhodoginus. ITALIAN, FRENCH, AND ENGLISHE. Pietro Messia di Siuiglia. Boccaccio. Bandello. Ser Giouanni Fiorentino. Straporole. The Queene of Nauarre. A booke in French intituled Comptes du Monde. Francois Belleforest. Pierre Boaistuau, surnamed Launay. Froisarde. Fabian. TO THE READER. Nothing in mine opinion can be more acceptable vnto thee (friendly Reader) then oft reading and perusing of varietie of Hystories, which as they be for diuersitie of matter pleasaunt and plausible, euen so for example and imitation good and commendable. The one doth reioyce the werie and tedious minde, many times inuolued with ordinarie cares, the other prescribeth a directe pathe to treade the tracte of this present life. Wherefore if in these newes or Nouelles here presented, there do appeare any thing worthy of regarde, giue thankes to the noble gentleman to whome this booke is dedicated, for whose sake onely, that paine (if any seme to bee) was wholy imployed. Inioy therefore with him this present booke, and curteously with frendly talke report the same, for if otherwise thou do abuse it, the blame shal light on thee, and not on me, which only of good will did meane it first. But yet if blaming tongues and vnstayed heades, wil nedes be busy, they shal sustain the shame, for that they haue not yet shewen forth any blamelesse dede to like effect, as this is ment of me, which when they do, no blame but prayse they can receiue. For prayse be they well worthy for to haue which in well doing do contende. No vertuous dede or zelous worke can want due prayse of the honest, though faulting fooles and youthly heades full ofte do chaunt the faultles checke, that Momus mouth did once finde out in Venus slipper. And yet from faultes I wyll not purge the same, but whatsoeuer they seme to be, they be in number ne yet in substaunce such, but that thy curteous dealing may sone amende them or forget them. Wherefore to giue the full aduertisement of the whole collection of these nouels, vnderstande that sixe of them haue I selected out of Titus Liuius, two out of Herodotus, certayn out of Aelianus, Xenophon, Aulus Gellius, Plutarche, and other like approued authors. Other Nouels haue I adioyned, chosen out of diuers Italian and Frenche wryters. Wherein I confesse my selfe not to be so well trayned, peraduenture as the fine heads of suche trauailers would desire, and yet I trust sufficiently to expresse the sense, of euerye of the same. Certaine haue I culled out of the Decamerone of Giouan Boccaccio, wherin be conteined one hundred Nouelles, amonges whiche there be some (in my iudgement) that be worthy to be condempned to perpetual prison, but of them such haue I redemed to the libertie of our vulgar, as may be best liked, and better suffered. Although the sixt part of the same hundreth may full well be permitted. And as I my selfe haue already done many other of thesame worke, yet for this present I haue thought good to publish only tenne in number, the rest I haue referred to them that be able with better stile to expresse the authour's eloquence, or vntil I adioyne to this another tome, if none other in the meane time do preuent me, which with all my heart I wishe and desire: because the workes of Boccaccio for his stile, order of writing, grauitie, and sententious discourse, is worthy of intire prouulgation. Out of Bandello I haue selected seuen, chosing rather to follow Launay and Belleforest the French Translatours, than the barren soile of his own vain, who being a Lombard, doth frankly confesse himselfe to be no fine Florentine, or trimme Thoscane, as eloquent and gentle Boccaccio was. Diuers other also be extracted out of other Italian and French authours. All which (I truste) be both profitable and pleasaunt, and wil be liked of the indifferent Reader. Profitable they be, in that they disclose what glorie, honour, and preferment eche man attaineth by good desert, what felicitie, by honest attempts, what good successe, laudable enterprises do bring to the coragious, what happy ioy and quiet state godly loue doth affecte the imbracers of the same. Profitable I say, in that they do reueale the miseries of rapes and fleshly actions, the ouerthrow of noble men and Princes by disordered gouernment, the tragical ends of them that vnhappely do attempt practises vicious and horrible. Wilt thou learne how to behaue thy selfe with modestie after thou hast atchieued any victorious conquest, and not to forget thy prosperous fortune amyd thy glorious triumphe, by committing a facte vnworthy of thy valiaunce: reade the first Nouel of the fortunate Romane Horatius? Wilt thou vnderstande what dishonour and infamie, desire of libidinous lust doth bring, read the rape of Lucrece? Wilt thou know what an vnkinde part it is vnnaturally to abuse the state of thine own countrie, reade Martius Coriolanus? Wilt thou learne what fruite is reaped of wicked luste, to dispoyle virgins and maydens of their greatest vertue see the hystorie of Appius Claudius and Sir Didaco the Spanish knight? Desirest thou to knowe howe closely thou oughtest to keepe the secrets of honorable mariage, peruse the history of Candaules? Dost thou covet to be aduertised what is true felicitie, reade of kyng Craesus and the wyse man Solon? Hath the Lady, Gentlewoman, or other of the feminine kinde a desire to beholde a mirrour of chastitie, let theim reade ouer the nouelles of the lady Panthea, of the Duchesse of Sauoy, of the Countesse of Salesburie, of Amadour and Florinda? Is the nobleman affected to vnderstand what happy end the vertue of loyaltie and fidelitie doth conduce, the Earle of Angiers may be to him a right good example? Will gentlemen learne howe to prosecute vertue, and to profligat from their minde, disordinate Loue, and affection, I referre theim to the Historie of Tancredi, and to Galgano of Siena? Is not the marchaunt contented with his goodes already gotten, but will needes go seeke some other trade, let him note and consider the daungers wherein the Aduenturer Landolpho was. Is he disposed to sende his factor beyonde the seas, about his affaires, let him first bidde him to peruse Andreuccio, and then commaunde him to beware of Madame Floredelice? If the yeoman intendeth to be carefull of his businesse, meaning to reape that he hath sowen in due time, let him take hede howe he repose any trust in friendes and kinsmen, least in haruest he be deceiued, which AEsope's larke doth pretely note. If the artificer will not faithfully deale according to the truste reposed in him, I would not wyshe him to suffer that whiche Bindo did, but aduisedly to reade the Historie, and trustelye to accomplishe that he taketh in hande. If scornefull speache or flouting sport do flowe in ripe wittes and lauishe tongues of womankinde let them beware they do not deale with the learned sort, least Maister Alberto with phisicke drougues, or Philenio with Sophist art do staine their face, or otherwise offende them with the innocencie of their great Graundmother Eue when she was somoned from Paradise ioye. If the poore mayden of base birth be aduaunced (by fortune's grace) to highe estate: let her fixe in mynde the lady of Thurin. Finallye, for all states and degrees, in these Nouelles be sette forth singuler documentes and examples, right commodious and profitable to them that will vouchsafe to reade them. Pleasaunt they be, for that they recreate, and refreshe weried mindes, defatigated either with painefull trauaile, or with continuall care, occasioning them to shunne and auoid heauinesse of minde, vaine fantasies, and idle cogitations. Pleasaunt so well abroade as at home, to auoyde the griefe of Winter's night and length of Sommer's day, which the trauailers on foote may vse for a staye to ease their weried bodye, and the iourneors on horsback for a chariot or lesse painful meane of trauaile, insteade of a merie companion to shorten the tedious toyle of wearie wayes. Delectable they be (no doubt) for al sortes of men, for the sad, the angry, the cholericke, the pleasaunt, the whole and sicke, and for al other with whatsoeuer passion rising either by nature or vse they be affected. The sad shal be discharged of heauinesse, the angrie and cholericke purged, the pleasaunt mainteined in mirthe, the whole furnished with disporte, and the sicke appaysed of griefe. These Nouelles then, being profitable and pleasaunt Histories, apt and meete for all degrees, I truste the indifferent Reader, of what complexion, nature and disposition so euer he bee, will accepte in good parte, althoughe perchaunce not so set foorth or decked with eloquent stile, as this age more braue in tongue then manners dothe require, and do praye thee to receiue them into thy curteous hands, with no lesse good wil (though not with like regard) then Alphonsus king of Arogon did Q. Curtius, out of whome be some of these selected, Who vpon a time beinge sicke at Capua, receiuing at the handes of diuers Phisitions manye medicines, in his greatest fit called for the historie of Q. Curtius, in whome hauing great delight for his eloquent description of gestes and factes of king Alexander, when he was restored to health, sayd: Farewell Auicen, Adieu Hipocrates and other Phisitians, welcome Curtius the restitutor and recouerie of my health. Whereby he declared what pleasure he had in the exercise and reading of Histories, not contempning for all that, the honorable science of Phisicke, which in extremities be holsomely vsed. What commoditie and pleasure histories doe yelde to the diligent serchers and trauailers in the same, Tullie in his fift booke _De finibus bonorum et malorum ad Brutam_, doth declare who affirmeth that he is not ignorant, what pleasure and profit the reading of Histories doth import. And after hee hath described what difference of commoditie, is betweene fained fables, and liuely discourses of true histories, concludeth reading of histories to be a certain prouacation and allurement to moue men to learne experience. If Tullie then, the Prince of Orators, doth affirme the profite and pleasure to be in perusing of histories, then fitlye haue I intituled this volume the Palace of Pleasure. For like as the outwarde shew of Princesse Palaces be pleasaunt at the viewe and sight of eche man's eye, bedecked and garnished with sumptuous hanginges and costlye arras of splendent shewe, wherein be wrought and bet with golde and sylke of sondrye hewes, the dedes of noble states: Euen so in this our Palace here, there bee at large recorded the princely partes and glorious gestes of renowmed wights represented with more liuely grace and gorgeous sight then Tapestrie or Arras woorke, for that the one with deadlye shape doth shewe, the other with speaking voyce declare what in their time they were. Vpon whom do wayte (as meete it is) inferiour persones, eche one vouchsafing to tell what hee was, in the transitorie trade of present life. Wherefore accepte the same in gratefull wise, and thinke vpon the mynde of him that did the same, which fraughted is with no lesse plentie of good will, then the coafers of kyng Craesus were, with store of worldlye pelfe. Farewell. THE PALACE OF PLEASURE. THE FIRST NOUELL. _The Romaines and the Albanes being at warres, for iniuries mutually inferred, Metius Suffetius the Albane captaine deuised a waye by a combate, to ioygne bothe the cities in one. Victorie falling to the Romaines, the Romaine victor killed his sister and was condemned to die. Afterwardes vpon his fathers sute he was deliuered._ As the name of Palace doth carie a port of Maiestie as propre for princes and greatest estates, and as a Palace and Court by glorious viewe of loftie Towers, doe set forth an outwarde showe of greate magnificence; and as that glittering sight without importeth a brauer pompe and state within, whose worthiest furniture (besides the golden and curious ornamentes) resteth in the Princely train of courtly personages, most communely indowed with natures comliest benefites and rarest giftes incident to earthly Goddes, as well for the mindes qualities, as for the bodies acts. So, here at our first entrie, I thought to staye as it were at the gate of this palace, to discouer the incountrie of sixe renowmed Gentlemen, brethren of equal numbre, that, by consent of either state, fought and vsed dedes of armes, not for sportes of Ladies, or for precious prises, but for Countrie quarell and libertie of Natiue soyle. For the vpper hand and vniting two most mighty Italian cities, that before bare eche other moste mortall spite and deadlye foode, whiche in ende after the bloudie skirmishe of those chosen brethren (for sauing of a bloudier battell) were conioyned in vnited Monarchie. An historie though dreadfull to hearing as fitter for the Campe then Courte, yet, for the worthinesse of the quarell, not to bee shunned from tendrest eares, for that it spreadeth foorth a victorious paterne of valiant Chiualrie. And so do the rest succeding, which speake of glorious chastitie, of inuincible mindes, of bold Aduentures for Countries saufetie, of naturall pietie in parentes and children, and the othe of other honorable causes, fitte to be displaied to eche degree, and practised by such, whose functions, principally do, or ought to aspire semblable valiaunce, for defence of that whiche their Elders by bloudie swette haue honorably gotten, and most carefully kept. But not by tedious proeme to holde the desirous minde from what is promised, thus it beginneth. Numa Pompilius the second king of the Romaines being dead, Tullus Hostilius succeded, which was a lustie and couragious younge Gentleman: And as Numa was giuen to peace, so was he to warres and valiance. It chaunced in his time that certaine peasauntes of the Romaine dition, and the like of the Albanes, were foraging and driuing of booties the one from the other. At that time raigned in Alba one C. Cluilius, from whence and from Rome, Ambassadours were sent to redemaunde the thinges stollen. Tullus commaunded his people that they should deliuer nothing till commaundement were giuen in that behalfe: for than he knewe right well that the Alban king would not restore at all, and therefore might vpon iust cause, proclaime warres. Hee receiued the Alban Ambassadours in verie courteous manner, and they as courteously celebrated his honourable and sumptuous intertaignement. Amitie proceded on either parties, till the Romanes began to demaunde the first restitution which the Albanes denied, and summoned warres to bee inferred vppon them within thirtie daies after. Whereupon the Ambassadours craued licence of Tullus to speake, which being graunted, they first purged themselues by ignoraunce, that they knewe no harme or iniurie done to the Romaines, adding further, that if any thing were done that should not please Tullus, it was against their willes, hoping he would remember that they were but Ambassadours, subiect to the commaundement of their Prince. Their comming was to demaunde a restitution, without whiche, they were straightlye charged to proclayme defiaunce. Whereunto Tullus aunswered: "Tell your maister, that the king of the Romaines doth call the Gods to witnes, whether of them first maketh the quarel, to thintent all men may expect the reuenge of those warres." Which answere the Albane Ambassadours retourned to their maister. Great prouision for the warres was made on both partes, much like to a ciuile contention, almost betwene the father and the sonne, for the citie of Lauinium was builded by the Troians, and Alba by the Lauinians, of whose stocke the Romaines toke their beginning. The Albanes seing that they were defied of the Romaines, began first to enter in armes, and with a maine power perced the land of the Romaines, and encamped within fiue miles of the citie, enuironing their campe with a trenche, which afterwardes was called Fossa Cluilia, of their capitaine, wherin Cluilius the king died. Then the Albanes appointed one Metius Suffetius, to be their Dictator. Tullus vnderstanding the death of their Prince, with great expedition marched into the countrie about Alba, pssiang by the Albanes campe in the night which by the watche and scoutes was skried. Then he retired to lodge as nere the enemie as hee could, sending an Ambassadour before, to require Tullus that he would come to parle before they fought, and than he had a thing to saye, no lesse profitable to the Romaines, then to the Albanes. Tullus not contempning that condition, agreed. Whereupon both did put them selues in readines, and before they ioyned, both the captaines with certain of their chiefe officers, came forth to talke, where Metius sayde these wordes: "The mutuall iniuries that hath been done, and the withholding and keping of thinges caried away, contrary to the truce, and that our king Cluilius, is the authour and beginner of these warres, I do heare and assuredly vnderstande for a trothe. And I do not doubte, Tullus, but thou also doest conceiue the same, to be the only occasion of this hostilitie. Notwithstandinge, if I may speake rather the truthe, then vtter any glosing woordes by waye of flatterie, the ambicious desire of both the Empires, doth moste of all stimulate and prouoke both the cities, being of one affinitie, and neighbours, to vse this force of Armes. But whether this my coniecture bee righte or wrong, they oughte to consider, whiche firste began the warres. The Albanes haue created me their Captaine of this enterpryse. I come to geue aduertisement to thee, O Tullus, of this one thing. Which is, that the Thuscans being a great nation, and of power right famous, doth inuirone vs both rounde about, and the nerer they be vnto you, the more knowledge you haue of them. They be mightie vpon lande, and of great power vpon Sea. Call to thy remembraunce and consider, that when thou geuest the signe and watch worde of the battell, our twoo armies shall bee but a ridiculous spectacle to them. So sone as they doe perceiue vs twoo to bee spent, and weried with fighting, they will bothe assayle the vanquished, and him also that doeth ouercome. Wherefore if the Goddes do fauour eyther of vs, let vs not shewe our selues to bee wearie of our libertie and franchise that is certaine, and hazard the dice to incurre perpetuall seruitude and bondage. Therfore let vs deuise some other waye, wherby the one of vs may gouerne the other without effusion of eithers bloud." This condition nothing displeased Tullus, although in courage, and hope of victorie, he was more fierce and bolder then the other. And being in consultation about the purpose, fortune ministred an apt occasion to them both: for in either campes there were thre brethren, of age and valiance semblable. The brethren that were in the Romaine campe were called Horatij, the other Curiatij. Whereupon a combate was thought meete betwene these sixe persones. After the Romaines had vsed their solempne maners of consecrating the truces, and other rites concerning the same, either partes repaired to the combate. Both the armies stode in readines before their campes, rather voyde of present perill then of care: for the state of either of their Empires, consisted in the valiance and fortune of a fewe. Wherfore theire mindes were wonderfullye bent and incensed vpon that vnpleasant sight. The signe of the combat was giuen. The thre yonge men of either side do ioigne with furious and cruel onset, representing the courages of two battelles of puissaunt armies. For the losse consisted in neither those three, but the publique gouernement or common thraldome of both the cities, and that was the future fortune, whiche they did trie and proue. So sone as the clashing armoure did sound at their first incountrie, and their glittering swordes did shine, an incredible horror and feare perced the beholders, and hope inclining to either partes, their voyce and myndes were whist and silent. But after they were closed together, not onely the mouing of their bodies, and doubtfull welding and handling of their weapons, but bloudye woundes appeared, two of the Romaines falling downe starke dead one vppon an other: But before the three Albanes were sore hurt. Whereat the Albane hoste shouted for ioye. The Romaine Legions were voyde of hope, amazed to see but one remayne against three: It chaunced that hee that liued whyche as hee was but one alone (an vnmeete matche for the rest) so he was fierce, and thought himselfe good enough for them all. Therefore to separate their fight, he flede backe, meaning thereby to geue euery of them their welcome as they followed. When he was retired a good space from the place wher they fought, loking back, he sawe them followe some distance one from an other, and as one of them approched, he let driue at him with great violence. And whiles the Albane hoste cried out vpon the Curiatij, to helpe their brother, Horatius had killed his enemie, and demaunded for the seconde battaile. Then the Romaines incouraged their champion with acclamations and shoutes, as fearefull men be wont to do vpon the sodaine, and Horatius spedeth himselfe to the fight. And before the other could ouertake him, which was not farre off, hee had killed an other of the Curiatij. Nowe were they equally matched one to one, but in hope and strengthe vnlike. For the one was free of wounde or hurte: cruell and fierce by reason of double victorie, the other faint for losse of bloud, and wearie of running, and who with panting breath, discomfited for his brethrens slaughter, slaine before him, is now obiected to fight with his victorious enemy. A match altogether vnequall. Horatius reioysing sayd, two of thy brethren I haue dispatched, the thirde, the cause of this battaill, I will take in hand: that the Romaines maye bee lordes of the Albanes. Curiatius not able to sustaine his blowe, fell downe, and lying vpon his backe, he thrust him into the throte with his sworde, whiche done he dispoyled him of his armure. Then the Romanies in great triumphe and reioyse intertaigned Horatius, and their ioye was the greater, for that the feare of their ouerthrowe was the nearer. This combate being ended, the Albanes became subiecte to the Romaines, and before Metius departed, he asked Tullus if hee would commaunde him any further seruice. Who willed him to kepe the younge souldiours still in intertaignement, for that hee woulde require their aide against the Veientes. The armie dissolued, Horatius like a Conquerour marched home to Rome, the three spoyles of his ennemies being borne before hym. The said Horatius had a sister, which was espoused to one of the Curiatij that were slaine, who meeting her brother in the triumphe, at one of the gates called Capena, and knowing the coate armure of her paramour, borne vpon her brothers shoulders, which she had wrought and made with her owne handes: She tore and rent the heare of her heade, and most piteouslye bewayled the death of her beloued. Her brother being in the pride of his victorie taking the lamentation of his sister, in disdainful part, drew oute his sword, and thruste her through speaking these reprochfull woordes: "Auaunt with thy vnreasonable loue, gette thee to thy spouse. Hast thou forgotten the deathe of thy two brethren that be slaine, the prosperous successe of thy victorious brother, and chiefelye the happye deliueraunce of thy countrie: Let that Romaine woman whatsoeuer she be, take like rewarde, that shall bewaile the death of the ennemie." Which horrible facte seemed most cruell to the fathers and people. For which offence he was brought before the kinge, whom he deliuered to be iudged according to the lawe. The law condempned him, then he appealed to the people. In which appeale P. Horatius his father spake these wordes: "My doughter is slaine, not without iust desert, which if it were not so, I would haue sued for condigne punishmente, to be executed vpon my sonne, according to the naturall pietie of a father: Wherfore I beseech you do not suffer me, whom you haue seene in time past, beautified with a noble race and progenie of children, nowe to be vtterlye destitute and voyde of all together." Then hee embrased his sonne amonges them all, and shewed the spoiles of the Curatiens, sayinge: "Can you abide to see this noble Champion (O ye Romaines) whom lately ye behelde to go in order of triumphe in victorious maner, to lye nowe bounde vnder the gibet, expecting for tormentes of death: Which cruell and deformed sight, the Albanes eyes can not well be able to beholde, goe to then thou hangman, and binde the handes of him, who hath atchieued to the Romaine people a glorious Empyre: Goe, I saye, and couer the face of him that hath deliuered this citie out of thraldome and bondage. Hang him vpon some vnhappie tree, and scourge him in some place within the Citie, either amongs these our triumphes, where the spoiles of our enemies do remaine, or els without the walles, amonges the graues of the vanquished. Whether can yee deuise to carrie him, but that his honourable and worthye actes, shal reueng the villanie of his cruel death." The people hearing the lamentable talke of his father, and seinge in him an vnmoueable minde, able to sustaine al aduersity, acquited him rather through the admiration of his vertue and valiance, then by iustice and equity of his cause. Such was the straite order of iustice amonges the Romaines, who although this yonge gentleman had vindicated his countrie from seruitude and bondage (a noble memorye of perfecte manhode) yet by reason of the murder done vppon his owne sister, were very straite and slacke to pardon: because they would not incourage the posteritie to like inconuenience, nor prouoke wel doers in their glorye and triumphe, to perpetrate thinges vnlawfull. THE SECOND NOUELL. _Sextus Tarquinius rauished Lucrece. And she bewayling the losse of her chastitie, killed her selfe._ Great preparation was made by the Romaines, against a people called Rutuli, who had a citie named Ardea, excelling in wealth and riches which was the cause that the Romaine king, being exhausted and quite voyde of money, by reason of his sumptuous buildinges, made warres vppon that countrie. In the time of the siege of that citie the yonge Romaine gentlemen banqueted one another, amonges whom there was one called Collatinus Tarquinius, the sonne of Egerius. And by chaunce they entred in communication of their wiues, euery one praysing his seueral spouse. At length the talke began to grow hot, whereupon Collatinus said, that words were vaine. For within few houres it might be tried, how much his wife Lucretia did excel the rest, wherefore (quoth he) if there be any liuelihod in you, let us take our horse, to proue which of oure wiues doth surmount. Wheruppon they roode to Rome in post. At their comming they found the kinges doughters, sportinge themselues with sondrye pastimes: From thence they went to the house of Collatinus, where they founde Lucrece, not as the other before named, spending time in idlenes, but late in the night occupied and busie amonges her maydes in the middes of her house spinning of woll. The victory and prayse wherof was giuen to Lucretia, who when she saw her husband, gentlie and louinglie intertained him, and curteouslye badde the Tarquinians welcome. Immediately Sextus Tarquinius the sonne of Tarquinias Superbus, (that time the Romaine king) was incensed wyth a libidious desire, to construpate and defloure Lucrece. When the yonge gentlemen had bestowed that night pleasantly with their wiues, they retourned to the Campe. Not long after Sextus Tarquinius with one man retourned to Collatia vnknowen to Collatinus, and ignorant to Lucrece and the rest of her houshold, for what purpose he came. Who being well intertayned, after supper was conueighed to his chamber. Tarquinius burninge with the loue of Lucrece, after he perceiued the housholde to be at reste, and all thinges in quiet, with his naked sworde in his hande, wente to Lucrece being a sleepe, and keeping her downe with his lefte hande, saide: "Holde thy peace Lucrece, I am Sextus Tarquinius, my sworde is in my hand, if thou crie, I will kill thee." The gentlewoman sore afrayed, being newely awaked oute of her sleepe, and seeing iminent death, could not tell what to do. Then Tarquinius confessed his loue, and began to intreate her, and therewithall vsed sundry minacing wordes, by all meanes attempting to make her quiet: when he saw her obstinate, and that she woulde not yelde to his request, notwithstanding his cruell threates, he added shameful and villanous speach, saying: That he would kill her, and when she was slaine, he woulde also kill his slaue, and place him by her, that it might be reported howe she was slaine, being taken in adulterie. She vanquished with his terrible and infamous threate, his fleshlye and licentious enterprice, ouercame the puritie of her chaste and honest hart, which done he departed. Then Lucrece sent a post to Rome to her father, and an other to Ardea to her husbande, requiringe them that they would make speede to come vnto her, with certaine of their trustie frendes, for that a cruell facte was chaunced. Then Sp. Lucretius with P. Valerius the sonne of Volesius, and Collatinus with L. Iunius Brutus, made hast to Lucrece: where they founde her sitting, very pensife and sadde, in her chamber. So sone as she sawe them she began pitiously to weepe. Then her husband asked her, whether all thinges were well, vnto whom she sayde these wordes. "No dere husbande, for what can be well or safe vnto a woman, when she hath lost her chastitie? Alas Collatine, the steppesof an other man, be now fixed in thy bed. But it is my bodye onely that is violated, my minde God knoweth is giltles, whereof my death shalbe witnesse. But if you be men giue me your handes and trouth, that the adulterer may not escape vnreuenged. It is Sextus Tarquinius whoe being an enemie, in steede of a frende, the other night came vnto mee, armed with his sword in his hand, and by violence caried away from me (the Goddes know) a woful ioy." Then euery one of them gaue her their faith, and comforted the pensife and languishing lady, imputing the offence to the authour and doer of the same, affirming that her bodye was polluted, and not her minde, and where consent was not, there the crime was absente. Whereunto shee added: "I praye you consider with your selues, what punishmente is due for the malefactour. As for my part, though I cleare my selfe of the offence, my body shall feele the punishment: for no vnchast or ill woman, shall hereafter impute no dishonest act to Lucrece." Then she drewe out a knife, which she had hidden secretely, vnder her kirtle, and stabbed her selfe to the harte. Which done, she fell downe grouelinge vppon her wound and died. Whereupon her father and husband made great lamentation, and as they were bewayling the death of Lucrece, Brutus plucked the knife oute of the wound, which gushed out with aboundance of bloude, and holding it vp said: "I sweare by the chast bloud of this body here dead, and I take you the immortall Gods to witnes, that I will driue and extirpate oute of this Citie, both L. Tarquinius Superbus, and his wicked wife, with all the race of his children and progenie, so that none of them, ne yet any others shall raigne anye longer in Rome." Then hee deliuered the knife to Collatinus. Lucretius and Valerius, who marueyled at the strangenesse of his words: and from whence he should conceiue that determination. They all swore that othe. And followed Brutus, as their captaine, in his conceiued purpose. The body of Lucrece was brought into the market place, where the people wondred at the vilenesse of that facte, euery man complayning vppon the mischiefe of that facinorous rape, committed by Tarquinius. Whervpon Brutus perswaded the Romaynes, that they should cease from teares and other childishe lamentacions, and to take weapons in their handes, to shew themselues like men. Then the lustiest and most desperate persons within the citie, made themselues prest and readie, to attempte any enterprise: and after a garrison was placed and bestowed at Collatia, diligent watche and ward was kept at the gates of the Citie, to the intent the kinge should haue no aduertisement of that sturre. The rest of the souldiours followed Brutus to Rome. When he was come thither, the armed multitude did beate a marueilous feare throughout the whole Citie: but yet because they sawe the chiefeste personages goe before, they thought that the same enterprise was taken in vaine. Wherefore the people out of all places of the citie, ranne into the market place. Where Brutus complained of the abhominable Rape of Lucrece, committed by Sextus Tarquinius. And thereunto he added the pride and insolent behauiour of the king, the miserie and drudgerie of the people, and howe they, which in time paste were victours and Conquerours, were made of men of warre, Artificers, and Labourers. He remembred also the infamous murder of Seruius Tullius their late kinge. These and such like he called to the peoples remembraunce, whereby they abrogated and deposed Tarquinius, banishing him, his wife, and children. Then he leuied an armie of chosen and piked men, and marched to the Campe at Ardea, committing the gouernemente of the Citie to Lucretius, who before was by the king appointed Lieutenant. Tullia in the time of this hurlie burlie, fledde from her house, all the people cursing and crying vengeaunce vpon her. Newes brought into the campe of these euentes, the king with great feare retourned to Rome, to represse those tumultes, and Brutus hearinge of his approche, marched another waye, because hee woulde not meete him. When Tarquinius was come to Rome, the gates were shutte against him, and he himselfe commaunded to auoide into exile. The campe receiued Brutus with great ioye and triumphe, for that he had deliuered the citie of such a tyraunte. Then Tarquinius with his children fledde to Caere, a Citie of the Hetrurians. And as Sextus Tarquinius was going, he was slaine by those that premeditated reuengemente, of olde murder and iniuries by him done to their predecessours. This L. Tarquinius Superbus raigned XXV yeares. The raigne of the kinges from the first foundation of the citie continued CCxliiii. yeares. After which gouernmente two Consuls were appointed, for the order and administration of the Citie. And for that yeare L. Iunius Brutus, and L. Tarquinius, Collatinus. THE THIRD NOUELL. _The siege of Rome by Porsenna, and the valiaunt deliuerie thereof by Mutius Sc[oe]uola, with his stoute aunswere vnto the kinge._ When P. Valerius and T. Lucretius were created Consuls, Porsenna kinge of Hetruria, vppon the instigation of the banished Tarquinians, came before the citie with a huge armie. The brute wherof did wonderfully appall the Senate: for the like occasion of terrour, neuer before that time chaunced to the Romaines, who did not onely feare their enemies, but also their owne subiects, suspecting lest they should be forced to retaine the kinges againe. All which afterwards, were through the wisedome and discretion of the fathers quietlye appeased, and the citie reduced to such vnitie and courage, as all sorts of people despised the name of king. When the enemies were approched, the rurall people abandoning their colonies, fled for rescue into the citie. The citie was diuided into garrisons: some kept the walles, and some the waye ouer Tiber, which was thought very safe and able to be defended. Althoughe the wodden bridge made ouer the Riuer, had almost been an open way for the enemies entrie, whereof Horacius Cocles, as fortune serued that day, had the charge. Who so manfully behaued himselfe, as after he had broken vp and burned the bridge, and done other notable exploites, he defended that passage with such valiance, that the defence therof seemed miraculous, to the great astonishment of the enemies. In fine Porsenna seing that he coulde litle preuaile in the assault, retourned to the Campe, determining neuerthelesse to continue his siege. At which time one Caius Mutius, a yonge gentleman of Rome, purposed to aduenture some notable enterprise: saying to the Senators these wordes: "I determine to passe the Riuer, and enter if I can, into the campe of the enemies, not to fetch spoile, or to reuenge mutuall iniuries, but to hazard greater matters, if the Gods be assistant vnto me." The senate vnderstanding the effect of his indeuour, allowed his deuise. And then hauinge a sword vnder his garment, went forth. When he was come into the throng, he conueighed himselfe as nere the kinges pauilion as he could. It chaunced that he was paying wages that day to his souldiours, by whom his Secretarie did sit in such apparell, almost as the king himselfe did weare. Mutius being afraide to demaunde which of them was the king, lest he should bewray himselfe, sodainly killed the Secretarie in steede of the king, and as he was making waye with his bloudie sworde to escape, he was apprehended and brought before the king, and with maruailous stoutnesse and audacitie, spake these wordes: "I am a citizen of Rome, and my name is Mutius, and beinge an enemy, I woulde faine haue killed mine enemie. For which attempt I esteeme no more to die, then I cared to commit the murder. It is naturally giuen to the Romaines, both valiantly to do and stoutly to suffer. And not I alone haue conspired thy death, but a greate nomber of vs, haue promised the like, and hope to prosecute semblable prayse and glorie: wherfore if this beginninge do not please thee, make thy selfe ready euerye houre to expect like perill, and to fight for thy selfe. And make accompt, that euery day euen at the dore of thine owne lodging, thy enemye armed doth waite for thee: we alone yong gentlemen of the Citie do stand at defiance, and pronounce vppon thee this kinde of battaile. Feare no armies or other hostilitie, for with thee alone, and with euerye one of vs these warres shalbe tryed." The king astonied with that bold and desperate enterprise, fell into a great rage and furie, commaundinge Mutius presentlye to be consumed with fyre, vnlesse he would out of hand tell him the order of the purposed and deuised treason. "Behold O king (quoth hee) how litle they care for theyr bodies, that do aspire and seeke for fame and glorie." And then he thrust his right hand into the fire, and rosted the same in the flame, like one that had been out of his wits. The king amazed wyth the straungnes of the fact, stepped downe from the seate, and caused him to be taken from the fire, saying: "Away, frend (quoth the king) thou hast killed thy selfe, and aduentured hostilitie vppon thy selfe rather then against mee. Surely I would thincke mine estate happie, if like valiaunce were to be found wythin the boundes of my countrye. Wherfore by law of Armes I set the at libertie to go whither thou list." Whereunto Mutius for acquiting that desert, aunswered: "For as much as thou hast thus honourably delt with me, I wil for recompence of this benefite, saye thus muche vnto thee, whych by threates thou shouldest neuer haue gotten at my handes. Three hundred of vs that be yonge noble men of Rome, haue conspired thy death, euen by the like attempt. It was my lot to come first, the reste when fortune shall giue opportunitie, euerye one in his tourne will giue the aduenture." Whereupon he was dismissed, and afterwards was called Scaeuola, for the losse of his right hande. Then peace was offered to the Romaynes, who vpon conditions that the enemies garrisons should be withdrawen from Ianiculum, and that the country wonne of the Veientines, should be restored againe, gaue hostages. Amonges whom there was a gentlewoman called Cloelia deliuered into the handes of the Hetrurians, who deceyuinge her keepers, conueighed herselfe and the other pledges from their enemies, and swimming ouer the riuer of Tiber, arriued at Rome in safetye, which being redemaunded by Porsenna, were sent backe againe. The king driuen into a wonderfull admiration for the desperate and manly enterprises, done by the Romaine Nation, retourned the maiden home againe to Rome. In whose honour the Romaines erected an Image on horse backe, placed at the vpper ende of the streate called Sacra via. And so peace was concluded betweene Porsenna and the Romaynes. THE FOURTH NOUELL. _Martius Coriolanus goinge aboute to represse the common people of Rome with dearth of Corne was banished. For reuengement whereof he perswaded Accius Tullius king of the Volscians, to make warres upon the Romaynes, and he himselfe in their ayde, came in his owne person. The Citie brought to greate miserye, the fathers deuised meanes to deliuer the same, and sent vnto the Volscian campe, the mother, the wife and children of Coriolanus. Vpon whose complaintes Coriolanus withdrewe the Volscians, and the citie was reduced to quietnes._ In the yeare that Titus Geganius and Publius Minutius were Consuls, when all thinges were quiet abrode, and dissention at home appeased, an other great mischiefe inuaded the citie. First a dearth of victuals, for that the land was vntilled, by the peoples departure, then a famine, such as chaunceth to the besieged: which had brought a great destruction of people, had not the Consuls forseene the same, by prouision in forren places. They sent purueiors into Scicilia: but the malice of the cities adioyning, stayed the prouision that was made a farre of. The Corne prouided at Cumas was stayed for the goodes of Tarquinius by Aristodemus the tyrant, that was his heire. The next yere followinge, a greate masse of Corne was transported oute of Scicile, in the time of the Consuls, M. Minutius and A. Sempronius. Then the Senate consulted, vppon the distribution of the same vnto the people. Diuers thought that the time was then come, to bridle and suppresse the people, that thereby they mighte the rather recouer those priuileges, which were extorted from the fathers. Amonges whom Martius Coriolanus a yonge gentleman was the chiefest, who being an enemie to the Tribune authoritie, said these woords. "If the people will haue victuals and corne at that price, whereat it was assised and rated in time past, then it is meete and necessarie, that they render to the fathers, their auncient aucthoritie and priuilege: for to what purpose be the plebeian Magistrates ordained? For what consideration shall I suffer my selfe to be subiugate vnder the authoritie of Sicinius, as though I were conuersaunte amonges theeues? Shal I abide these iniuries any longer to continue, then is necessarie? I that could not suffer Tarquinius the king, shal I be pacient with Sicinius? Let Sicinius depart if he will, let him draw the people after him: the way yet is open to the sacred hill, and to the other mountaines. Let them rob vs of our corne which they toke away from our owne land, as they did three yeares paste, let them enioy the victuals which in their furie they did gather. I dare be bold to saye thus much, that being warned and tamed, by this present penurie, they had rather plow and til the land, then they would suffer the same to be vncultured, by withdrawing themselues to armure. It is not so easy to be spoken, as I thincke it may with facilitie be brought to passe, that vpon conditions the prices of victuals should be abated, the fathers might remoue the aucthoritie of the Tribunes and disanul all those lawes, which against their wills were ratefied and confirmed." This sentence seemed cruel to the fathers, and almost had set the people together by the eares, whoe woulde haue torne him in peeces, had not the Tribunes appointed a day for his appearance. Whervpon their furie for that time was appeased, Coriolanus seinge the peoples rage to encrease, and consideringe that they should be his Iudge, when the day of his apparance was come, he absented himselfe, and therfore was condempned. Then he fled to the Volscians, of whom he was gently interteigned: and lodged in the house of Accius Tullius, the chiefe of that citie, and a deadly enemie to the Romaynes. Vpon daily conference and consultation had betwene them, they consulted by what sleight or pollicie, they might comence a quarrell against the Romaines. And because they doubted, that the Volscians would not easely be perswaded thereunto, beinge so oft vanquished and ill intreated, they excogitated some other newe occasion. In the meane time T. Latinius one of the plebeian sorte, perceyuing that the Romaynes went about to institute great pastimes, conceiued a dreame, wherein hee sawe Iuppiter to speake vnto him, and said that he liked not the towardnes of those games, and in case the same were not celebrated, with great royaltie and magnificens, they would ingender perill to the citie, which dreame he declared to the Consuls. Then the Senate gaue order, that the same shoulde be addressed with great pompe and triumphe: whereunto through th'instigacion of Accius, a greate nomber of the Volscians resorted. But before the plaies begunne, Tullius according to the compact agreed vpon, betwene him and Coriolanus, secretely repaired to the Consuls, and taking them a syde, declared that he had to say vnto them a matter touching the publique wealth of their citie, in these words. "I am forced against my will to signifie vnto you a matter, that toucheth the condition of mine owne subiects and countrie men. I come not to accuse them, as thoughe they had already admitted any thinge, but I come to giue you a premonition, lest they should perpetrate some occasion, contrary to the order of your Citie. The disposition of my countrie men, is more inconstant then I would wish: which we haue felt, to our great losse and decaie. The cause of oure security at this present, is rather suffered by your pacience, then by our desert. Here be at this instant a great multitude of Volscians: Here be games prepared, and the citie throughlye bent to behold them. I do remember what was done vpon like occasion in this citie by the Romain youth: I tremble to thincke, what may be rashly attempted, wherfore I thought good both for your owne sakes and for auoyding of mutual displeasure, to foretel you of these things. And for mine owne part I purpose immediatlye to returne home, because I wil auoide the daunger and peril, that maye chaunce by my presence." When he had spoken those words, he departed. The Consuls immediatly recompted the request of Accius to the Senate: who more esteming the personage, from whence the same did procede, then the matter that was spoken, determined to prouide a remedie for the same, and immediatlye caused the Volscians to auoide the citie, sending officers about, to commaund them to depart that night: vpon which sodain edict, at the first they began to marueile. And afterwards they conceiued great griefe and offence, for that their vnneighbourlye entertaignment, and as they were passing out of the citie in a long traine, Tullius being vpon the top of the hill called Ferrentine, to waite for the people, as they passed by, called vnto him the chiefe and principal parsonages, to prouoke them to take that aduauntage, and then assembled the multitude in the valleie, hard by the high way, to whom he pronounced these words. "Forgetting all iniuries and displeasures past, done by the Romaine people against the Volscians, how can you abide the shame you suffer this daye, wherein to oure great reproch, they begin to ostentate and shew forth their plaies. Do not you beleeue, that euen to day, they triumph ouer you? Is not your departure (thincke ye) ridiculous to all the Romaines, to strangers, and other cities adioyning? Be not your wiues and children (trow ye) now passing homewards, laughed to scorne? What thincke ye your selues to be, which were warned to depart, at the sound of the trumpet? What (suppose ye) wil all they thinke, which do meete this multitude retiring homewards, to their great reproch and shame? Truly excepte there be some secrete occasion, whereby we should be suspected to violate the plaies or commit some other crime, and so forced to relinquish the company and fellowship of the honest, I know not what should be the cause of this repulse? Were we lyuing, when we made such festination to depart? If it may be called a departure, and not a running away, or shamefull retire. I perceiue ye did not accompt this to be a citie of our enemies, wher I thinck if ye had taried but one day longer, ye had all beene slaine. They haue denounced warres vppon you, which if you be men of courage, shall redounde to the vtter destruction of them, which first gaue the defiaunce." The Volscians perceyuing themselues greatly derided, for considerations before remembred, determined by common accord, to inferre warres vppon the Romaines, vnder the conduction of Actius Tullius, and Coriolanus. After they had recouered diuers of the Romaine cities, they proceded further, and in sondrie places spoiled and destroyed the same, encamping themselues fiue miles from Rome, besides the trenches called Fossas Cluilias. In the meane time contention rose betwene the people and the fathers, howbeit the feare of forren partes, linked their mindes together, in the bands of concord. The Consuls and fathers reposed their whole confidence in battel, which the common people in no wise could abide. Wherfore they were constrained to assemble the Senate, in which consult was determined, that Ambassadours should be sent to Coriolanus to demaund peace: who retourned them againe with a froward answere, to this effect: that first they should restore to the Volscians their countrie, which they had conquered, and that done, he willed them to seke for peace. Yet they sent againe Ambassadours, but in no wise they were suffered to come into their campe. Then the priestes cladde in their ornamentes, and other diuine furniture, were sent humblye to make peticion for peace: And yet they coulde not perswade theim. Then the Romaine Dames repayred to Veturia the mother of Coriolanus, and to his wyfe Volumnia. But whether the same was done by common consent, or by the aduise of the feminine kind, it is vncertaine. It was appointed that Veturia, being an auncient gentlewoman, and mother of Coriolanus and Volumnia his wife, with her two yonge children, should repaire to the campe, to the intent that they by their pitiful lamentacion, might defende the citie, which otherwise by force, was not able to be kept. At their arriuall, Veturia was knowen by one of her sonnes familier frends, standing betwene her doughter in law, and her two neuies, who caried word immediatlye to Coriolanus, how his mother, his wife and children, were come into the Campe to speake with him. Coriolanus hearing him say so, descended from his seate, like one not wel in his wits, and went forth to embrace his mother. The old gentlewoman from supplications, fell into a great rage, speakinge these woordes. "Abide a while before I do receiue thy embracementes, let me knowe whether I am comen to mine enemie, or to my sonne, or whether I am a prisoner in thy Campe, or thy mother. Alacke how long haue I prolonged these auncient yeares, and hoare heares most vnhappie, that nowe first I do behold thee an exile, and then view thee mine enemie. Canst thou finde in thy harte, to depopulate and destroy this thy country, wherin thou wast begotten and brought vp? Could not thy rage and furie be appeased, when thou diddest first put foote into the limites of this thy country? Did not natural zeale pearce thy cruel hart, when thou diddest first cast thine eyes upon this citie? Is not the house of thy mother, and her domesticall Goddes, conteyned within the walles of yonder Citie? Do not thy sorrowful mother, thy deare wife and children, inhabite within the compasse of yonder citie? (O I, cursed creature!) if I had neuer had childe, Rome had not been now assailed. If I had neuer brought forth a sonne, I should haue laied mine old bones and ended my life in a free countrie. But I coulde neuer haue susteined, or suffred more miserie, then is nowe fallen vnto mee, nor neuer more dishonour, then to beholde thee in pitifull plight, a traytour to thy natife soile. And as I am the moste wretched wight of all mothers, so I trust I shal not long continue in that state. If thou procede in this enterprise, either sodaine death, or perpetuall shame bee thy rewarde." When his mother had ended these woordes, the whole traine of gentlewomen, brake into pitifull teares: bitterly bewayling the state of their Countrie, whiche at lengthe did mitigate the stomacke of Coriolanus. And when he had imbraced his wife and children, hee dismissed them. Then hee withdrewe the Volscian campe from the citie, and out of the Romaine Prouince. Vpon the displeasure of whiche facte, he died. It is sayd that when he was an old man, hee vsed many times to speake and vtter this sentence. "That verie miserable it is, for an olde man to liue in banishement." The Romains disdaigned not to attribute to women, their due prayse: for in memorie of this deliuerie of their Countrie, they erected a Temple, Fortunae Muliebri, to Womens Fortune. THE FIFTE NOUELL. _Appius Claudius, one of the Decemuiri of Rome, goeth about to rauishe Virginia, a yonge mayden, which indeuour of Appius, when her father Virginius vnderstode being then in the warres, hee repaired home to rescue his doughter. One that was betrouthed vnto her, clamed her, whereupon rose great contention. In the ende her owne father, to saue the shame of his stocke, killed her with a Bocher's knife, and went into the Forum, crying vengeance vpon Appius. Then after much contention and rebellion, the Decemuiri were deposed._ Spurius Posthumius Albus, Aulus Manlius, and P. Sulpitius Camerinus, were sent Ambassadours to Athenes, and commaunded to wryte out the noble Lawes of Solon, and to learne the Institutions, orders, and Lawes of other Greeke cities. Vpon whose retourne, the Tribunes were verie instant that at length lawes might be enacted and confirmed. And for that purpose certaine officers were appointed, called Decemuiri: with soueraigne authoritie and power to reduce the same into wryting, whiche were thought meete and profitable for the common wealth. The principall and chiefe of which nomber was Appius Claudius, who committed no lesse filthy facte, then was done by Tarquinius, for the rape of Lucrece. The sayde Appius conceiued a libidinous desire, to rauishe a yong virgine, the doughter of one Lucius Virginius, then a captain in the warres at Algidum, a man of honest and sober life, whose wife was also of right good behauiour, and their children accordingly brought vp, and instructed. They had betrouthed their doughter, to one L. Icilius of the order of the Tribunes, a man of great stoutnesse and tried valiance in the cause of the people. This yong maide being of excellent beautie, Appius at the first began to woe by giftes and faire promises: but when he sawe that she was impregnable, he deuised by wicked and cruell pollicie, to obteine her, committing the charge of that enterprise to one of his frendes, called Marcus Claudius, who went about to proue and maintaine, that the maide was his bondwoman, and in no wise would giue libertie to her friendes to haue time to answere the processe made in that behalfe, thinking by that meanes, in the absence of her father, hee might at his pleasure enioye her. As the virgine was going to schole in the Forum, the said Claudius, the minister of mischief, layd handes vpon her, claimed her to be his bondwoman, for that she was borne of a seruile woman, and commaunded her to folow him. The mayde being afraide was amazed, and the Nursse that wayted vpon her, cried out. Whereupon the people ran out of their doores, to knowe the cause of the sturre. Claudius seing the maide like to be rescued by the multitude that was assembled, said, that there was no neede of that hurlie burlie, for that he attempted nothing by force, but that he was able to proue by lawe. Whereupon he cited the mayde to appere, her frendes promised that she should according to the Lawe, make her apperance. Being come before the consistorie, where Appius set in iudgement, Claudius began to tell a tale and processe of the cause, whereof Appius being the deuiser, vnderstode the effect. The tenor of the tale was, that the maide was borne in his house, and was the doughter of his owne bondwoman, who afterwardes being stolen awaye, was caried to the house of Virginius, and supposed to be his childe, which thing he said, he was well able to proue and would referre the iudgement of his cause to Virginius him selfe: vnto whom the greater part of his iniurie did apertaine. In the meane time, he sayde, that it was meete the maide should folowe her maister: wherunto the Aduocates of the mayde replied, and said, that Virginius was absent about the affaires of the commonwealth, but if he were aduertised of the matter, they knewe wel he would bee at home within twoo dayes after: wherefore, they sayd, that it were against equitie and iustice, that processe and suite should bee made for clayme of chyldren in the absence of the parentes, requiring them to deferre the matter tyll the retourne of the father. Appius not regarding the iustice of the case, to the intent hee myght satisfie his owne luste and pleasure, ordeyned in the meane tyme, that Claudius the Assertor and playntife, shoulde haue the keping and placing of the mayde, till the father were returned. Against whiche wrong, many did grudge, although none durst withstand it. But as fortune chaunced immediatly after that decree and order was so pronounced: Publius Numitorius, the maydes vncle by her mother's side, and Icilius her beloued, were comen home: vpon whose retourne, incontinentlye Icilius approched nere to Appius, and being put backe by the Sergeant, hee cried out a loude in these wordes: "Thou oughtest to put me back from hence (O Appius) with a sworde that thou mightest without let, enioye the thing thou wouldest haue kepte close and secrete. It is I that purpose to mary this maide, who I doubte not, is very honest and chaste: wherefore cal together thy Sergeantes, and cause the roddes and axes, to be made prest and ready. For I assure thee, the spouse of Icilius shall not remayne out of her father's house. No! although thou hast taken away from the Romaine people their Tribunes aide and appeales, whiche be twoo strong fortes and holdes of their common libertie. Is authoritie geuen thee, libidinously to abuse our wyues and children? Exercise thy crueltie behinde our backes, and vppon our lives if thou liste, so that thou doe not contaminate and defile the vertue of chastitie. Whereunto if thou inferre any damage or iniurie, I will for mine owne parte, and for the loue of my beloued, crie out for the ayde of the Romaines that be present, and Virginius shall do the like of the souldiours, in the quarell of his owne doughter. And all wee together, will implore for the succour of Goddes and men. And truste to it, that thou shalt not enioye thy purpose before some of vs haue lost our liues. Wherefore Appius I aduise thee, take hede in time, for when Virginius doth come, hee will seke remedie to defende his doughter, and will knowe in what condition and sorte shee is ordred, if shee be referred to the seruitude of this man. And for my part, my life shall soner fayle in defending her libertie, then my faithe to her betrouthed." Appius perceiuing the constancie of Icilius, and that the people was in a great mutine and sturre, differred the cause of Virginia til the next daye: whose frends hoped by that time, that her father would be at home: wherefore with all expedition they addressed messengers vnto him in the campe, bicause the saufgarde of his doughter consisted in his presence. In the meane time the Assertor required the mayde, offering to put in baile; the like offer made Icilius, of purpose to contriue and spende the time, till the ariuall of Virginius. The multitude of their owne accordes, helde vp their hands promising to become suretie for Icilius, vnto whome hee gaue thankes, weping for ioye, to se their kinde behauiour, and said: "I thanke you moste hartely my beloued frendes, to morowe I wil vse your frendly offer, but at this present I haue sureties sufficient." Whereupon Virginia was bailed. Then Appius repaired home, and wrote to his frendes in the campe, that in no wyse they should giue Virginius leaue to come to Rome, whiche vngracious deuise came to late, and tooke none effecte. Whereupon Virginius retourned home, and in poore and vile apparell, repaired to the Forum, after whom followed a great nomber of matrones and aduocates. Then he began to require them all of succour and ayde, alledging that he was a Souldiour, and one that aduentured him selfe, for the saufegarde and defence of them al: with such like perswasions to the multitude. Semblable wordes were vttered by Icilius. All which doinges being viewed and marked by Appius, in a greate furie he ascended the consistorie. Then M. Claudius the plaintife began to renewe his sute: and before the father of the mayden could make answere to that plea, Appius gaue sentence that the mayde was bonde: which sentence semed so cruell, as it appalled the whole multitude. And as Claudius was laying handes vppon the virgine, Virginius stepped to Appius, and said: "I haue betrouthed my doughter to Icilius, and not to thee Appius. My care in the bringing of her vp, was to marrie her, and not to suffer her to be violated and defloured. It is your maner, like sauage and cruell beastes, indifferentlye thus to vse your fleshly affections: I can not tell whether the multitude here present will supporte this enormitie, but I am sure the armed Souldiours, and men of warre, will not suffer it." Marcus Claudius being repulsed by the women, and Aduocates that were present, silence was proclaymed by the Trumpet. Then Appius began to declare how he vnderstoode, that all the night before, certaine companies were assembled within the citie, to excite and moue sedicion, for whiche cause hee came with armed men, not to hurte any that was quiet, but according to the authoritie of his office to bridle and represse those, that were troublers of the publique state. "Wherefore goe Seargeant (quod he) make roume emonges the multitude, that the maister may enioye his seruante." Which wordes he thundered out with great furie, and therewithall the multitude gaue place, leauing the poore Puselle to be a praye to the ennemy. Her father seeing that hee was voyde of succoure and helpe, to defende the innocencie of his doughter, spake to Appius in this sorte: "I firste doe beseche thee Appius, if I haue vsed any vnreasonable woordes against thee, to pardone mee, and to impute the same to the Father's griefe and sorowe. Suffer mee I praye thee, to examine the Noursse, in the presence of the wenche, of the whole circumstance of this matter, to the intent that if I be but a supposed father, I maye departe hence with quiet conscience satisfied and contented." Virginius hauing licence to talke with his doughter and Noursse, departed a side into a place called Cloacina, where the shoppes be, nowe called Tabernae Nouae, and plucking a sharpe knife from a Bocher that stode by, he thrust the same to the harte of his doughter, sayinge: "By this onely meanes (doughter) I can make thee free:" And looking againe to the iudgement seate, he said: "This bloud Appius I consecrate and bestowe vpon thee." Whiche done, with his sworde he made waye, to passe through the thronge to conueighe him selfe out of the citie. Then Icilius and Numitorius tooke vp the dead bodie, and shewed it to the people, who cryed out vpon the wickednesse of Appius, bewayling the vnhappie beautie of that fayre maiden, and deplored the necessitie of the father. The women exclaimed in lamentable wyse, saying: "Is this the condicion and state of them that bring foorth children? Be these the rewardes of chastitie?" With suche like pitifull cries, as women are wonte to make vpon suche heauie and dolorous euentes. Virginius being arriued in the campe, whiche then was at the mount Vicelius, with a traine of fower hundred persones, that fled out of the Citie, shewed to the Souldiours the bloudie knife, that killed his doughter, whiche sighte astonied the whole Campe: in so muche as euery man demaunded, what was the cause of that sodain chaunce. Virginius could not speake for teares, but at length he disclosed vnto them, the effecte of the whole matter, and holding vp his handes towardes the heauens, sayd: "I beseche you (deare companions) do not impute the wickednesse of Appius Claudius vpon mee, ne yet that I am a paricide and murderer of mine own children: the life of my dear doughter had bene more acceptable to me then mine owne life, if so be shee might haue continued a free woman, and an honest virgine. But when I sawe she was ledde to the rape like a bondwoman, I considered, that better it wer her life to be loste, then suffered to liue in shame: wherefore my naturall pitie was conuerted to a kynde of crueltie. And for myne owne parte, I doe not passe to lyue long after her, if I thought I should not haue your helpe and succour to reuenge her death. Consider that your selues haue doughters, sisters, and wyues, thinke not therefore, that the fleshlye desire of Appius is satisfied with the death of my doughter. And the longer that he doth continue in this securitie, the more vnbrideled is his appetite. Let the calamitie of an other be a sufficient document for you, to beware like iniuries. My wife is dead, by naturall fate and constellation, and bicause my doughter could continewe no longer in honeste and chaste life, death is befallen vnto her: whiche although it be miserable, yet the same is honourable. There is nowe no place in my house for Appius to satisfie his filthie luste: and I will fayle of my purpose, if I do not reuenge the death of my doughter with so good will vpon his fleshe, as I did discharge the dishonour and seruitude of her from his violent and cruell handes." This succlamation and pitifull complainte, so stirred the multitude, that they promised all to helpe and relieue his sorowe. Whereupon, the whole Campe were in a mutine and marched in order of battayle to the mounte Auentine, where Virginius perswaded the Souldiours, to chose ten principall Captaines, to bee head and chiefe of that enterprise: whiche with honourable titles of the field, should be called Tribuni. And Virginius him selfe being elected the chiefe Tribune, sayde these wordes to the Souldiours: "I praye you reserue this estimation, whiche you conceiue of me, vntill some better tyme and apter occasion, as well for your commoditie, as for my selfe. The death of my doughter, will suffer no honour to bee pleasaunt or welcome to me, duringe my life. Moreouer in this troubled state of the common wealth, it is not meete for them to be your gouernours, that be subiect and occurrant to enuie and reproch, if my seruice shall bee profitable vnto you when you haue thus created me a Tribune, it shall be no less commodious if I doe still remaine a priuate man." When he had spoken those wordes, they chose tenne Tribunes. And like as the campe at the mounte Auentine, was prouoked and stirred to this sedition, euen so by meanes of Icilius and Numitorius before remembred, the Armie then beinge against the Sabines began to reuolte and made the like nomber of Tribunes, which in array of battaile, marched through the citie, at the gate Colina, with banner displaied, to ioyne with the campe vpon the mount Auentine. And when both the campes were assembled, they chose out two amonges the twenty Tribunes, to be their generalles, called M. Opius and Sextus Manilius. The Senate, careful and pensife for these euentes, eftsons assembled, but no certaine determinations was agreed vpon. At length they concluded, that Valerius and Horatius, should bee sent to the mount Auentine to perswade the people, but they vtterlye refused the message, vnlesse the Decemuiri were first deposed. The Decemuiri made aunswere, that they would not geue ouer their authoritie, til such time as those lawes were ratified, which were treated vpon, before they wer elected to that office. Of all these contentions the people was aduertised by M. Duillius their Tribune. And when both their armies were ioyned at the mount Auentine, aforesayd, al the multitude of the citie, men, women, and children, repaired thither in sorte, that Rome was like a forlorne and abandoned place. The fathers seing the citie thus relinquished, Horatius and Valerius, with diuers of the fathers, exclamed in this wise. "What do ye expect and looke for, ye fathers conscript? Will ye suffer al thinges to runne to extreame ruine and decay? Shall the Decemuiri still persiste in their stubburne and froward determinacions? What maner of gouernement is this (O ye Decemuiri) that ye thus lay holde vpon and enioye? Will ye pronounce and make lawes within your owne houses, and the limites of the same? Is it not a shame to se in the Forum a greater nomber of your catchpolles and Sergeantes, then of other sober and wise Citizens? But what will ye doe, if the enemie vpon the sodaine, dothe approche the walles? What will ye do if the people vnderstanding that we care not for their departure, do in armes assaile vs? Will ye finishe your gouernement, with the ouerthrowe of the citie: But either wee must expell and abandon the people, or els wee must admitte the Tribunes. We shall soner wante our Fathers and Senatours, then they their plebeian officers. They bereued and toke awaye from vs the fathers a newe kinde of authoritie, which was neuer sene before, who now feeling the sweetnesse thereof, will neuer geue it ouer. For we can not so well temper our authoritie and gouernement, as they be able to seke helpe and succour." The Decemuiri perceiuing that they were hated, so well of the Senate, as of the people, submitted themselues. And therupon Valerius and Horatius were sent to the campe, to reuoke the people vpon suche conditions as they thought moste meete. Then the Decemuiri were commaunded, to take heede of the peoples furie. So sone as the Commissioners were come to the campe, they were received with great ioye and gladnesse of the people, because they were the beginners of that sturre, and supposed that they would make an ende of the commocion, for whiche cause they rendred to them their humble thankes. Then Icilius was appointed to speake for the people, who required to haue the authoritie of the Tribunes restored, and their appeale renewed, with restitution of those lawes, which before the erection of the Decemuiri, were ratified and confirmed. They demaunded also an impunitie and free pardon to those that firste encouraged and incited the Souldiers to that enterprise, and the restoring of their liberties. They required to haue their enemies the Decemuiri, to be deliuered into their handes. Whom they threatened to put to death by fire. Whereunto the Commissioners aunswered in this wise: "Your requestes bee so reasonable, that they ought willingly to be graunted. All which ye desire to obtaine, as a defence and comfort for your libertie, and not to persecute and infeste others. Your furie and anger ought rather to be pardoned, then permitted or graunted. Yee beare a face and seeme to detest and hate seueritie, and ye your selues incurre, and runne headlong into all kinde of crueltie: and before ye be made free your selues, ye desire to bee Lordes ouer your aduersaries. Shall our citie neuer bee voide of tortures and oppressions: sometime of the fathers towardes the people, sometime of the people towardes the fathers: you had more neede of a shilde to defende you, then of a sworde to fight. That man is of a base state and courage we suppose, that liueth in a citie and beareth him self so vpright, as neither he inferreth iniurie to others, ne yet suffereth wrong him selfe. If ye shew your selues so terrible, then it is to be supposed, that after ye haue recouered your lawes and magistrates, and be placed again in your former authoritie and preeminence: ye will also ordeine and appointe lawes ouer vs, that shall concerne our liues and goodes, and euery other light matter. But for this present I would wishe you, to be contented with your former freedome." After the commissioners had willed theim to consulte vppon some determinate aunswere, they retourned to Rome, to make reporte to the Senate, of the peoples requestes. The Decemuiri perceiuing, that contrarie to their expectation, no likelihode was of any persecution, to be done vpon them, condescended to those demaundes. Appius being a man of nature cruell and malicious, measuring the malice of others, by his owne maligne disposition, spake these woordes: "I am not ignoraunte what fortune is nowe imminente: for I do plainely see that whiles weapons be deliuered to our aduersaries, the combate is deferred against vs: with bloude, enuie muste be rewarded. I will not any longer delaie the time, but depriue my selfe of the decemuirate." When the Senate was aduertised by the Commissioners, Valerius and Horatius, of the peoples aunswere, they decreed that the Decemuiri should be deposed, and that Q. Furius the chief bishop, should create that plebeian Tribunes. Wherin also was enacted, that the departure of the people, and mutine of the souldiours should be pardoned. When these lawes were renewed, the Decemuiri went foorth, and openly in the assemblie deposed them selues, to the great ioye and comforte of them all. All whiche being reported to the people: both the souldiours, and the rest of the multitude, were somoned to appeare before the commisioners, unto whom they spake these wordes. "We now besech you al, to retourne into your countrie, to your domesticall goddes, your wiues, and children, which we truste shal be right good, happie and profitable vnto you, and to the common wealth. But your modestie and sober behauiour, for that no mans grounde is violated and destroyed, considering many thinges, could not suffice the hugenesse of this multitude, that part of modestie, I saye, cary with you into the citie, to your immortall fame and glorie. Get ye therfore to the mounte Auentine, from whence ye departed, where, as in a place moste happie ye renewed the foundacions of your auncient libertie, and there yee shall create your Tribunes: the chiefe bishop shal be present, to kepe the comitialles." Then the Romaine people made Aulus Virginius, Lucius Icilius, and P. Numitorius the Tribunes, who with their assistantes, first aduanced and confirmed the libertie of the people. Afterward Virginius was appointed to be the accuser, and Appius chosen to be the defendant. At the day appointed, Appius resorted to the Forum, with a great companie of yong gentlemen, of the patricial order, where Virginius began to renewe the cruel and abhominable facte, which Appius committed in the time of his authoritie, and said: "Oration was first deuised and found out, for ambiguous and doubtfull causes: therefore I will neither consume time, in accusing him before you, from whose crueltie, ye haue by force defended your selues, nor yet I wyll suffer hym to coyne to his former wickednesse, any impudente aunswere for his defence. Wherefore Appius, all those thynges whiche wyckedlye and cruellye one vpon an other, thou haste done these twoo yeares past, I doe freely forgeue thee: but if thou canst not purge thyselfe of this one thing, that against the order and forme of lawe (thou thy selfe being judge) wouldest not suffer the freman, to enioye the benefite of his freedome, during the processe made of seruitude, I will presently commaunde the to pryson." Appius Claudius being nowe a prysoner, and perceiuing that the iust complaintes of Virginius did vehemently incite the people to rage and furie, and that the peticions and prayers of his frendes in no wise could mollifie their hartes, he began to conceiue a desperation, and within a whyle after slewe him selfe. Spurius Oppius, also an other of the Decemuiri, was immediatly sent to prison, who before the daye of his iudgement died. The reste also of that order fled into exile, whose goods were confiscate. M. Claudius also the assertor was condempned: howbeit Virginius was contented he should be banished the citie, and then he fled to Tybur. Thus vpon the filthie affection of one noble man, issued paricide, murder, rebellion, hatred, depriuing of magistrates, and great mischiefes succedinge one in an others necke; whereupon the noble and victorious citie, was lyke to be a praye to forren nations. A goodlie document to men of like calling, to moderate them selues, and their magisterie with good and honest life, thereby to giue incouragement of vertue, to their vassalles and inferiours: who for the most parte doe imitate and followe the liues and conuersation of their superiours. THE SIXTH NOUELL. _Candaules king of Lidia, shewing the secretes of his wyues beautie to Gyges, one of his guarde: was by counsaile of his wife, slaine by the said Gyges, and depriued of his kingdome._ Of all follies wherewith vayne men be affected, the follie of immoderate loue is moste to bee detested. For that husband, which is beautified with a comely and honest wife, whose rare excellencie doth surpasse other, aswel in lineaments, proporcion, and feature of bodie, as with inwarde qualities of minde: if he can not retaine in the secrecie and silence of his breast, that excelling gifte and benefite, is worthy to be inaugured with a Laurel crown of follie. Beautie eche man knoweth, is one of natures ornamentes, by her wisedome ordeined, not to enter in triumphe, as victours vse vpon gaine of victorie, with brauerie to ostentate their glorie, by sound of Shalme and Dromme, but thankefully for the same, to proclaime the due praise to the authour of nature. For there is nothing more fraile and fading, then the luring lookes of dame beauties eies, altogether like the flaring Marigold floure, which in the moste feruent heate of the Sommers day, doth appeare most glorious, and upon retire of the nights shadowe, appeareth as though it had neuer bene the same. And therfore he that conceiueth, reioyce in her vncertayne state, is like to him that in his slombring dreame, doth imagine he hath founde a perelesse iewell, of price inestimable, beset with the glistring Diamonde: and perfectly awaked, knoweth he hath none such. If God hath indued a man with a wife that is beautifull and honest, hee is furnished with double pleasure; such, as rather thankes to him, then vain ostentation is to be remembred: otherwise, he doateth, either in Jelosie or openeth proude vauntes therof, to suche as he thinketh to be his most assured frendes. What ioye the sequele therof doth bring, let the historie insuing reporte. Candaules king of Lydia, had a marueilous beautifull gentlewoman to his Queene and wife, whome hee loued very dearlye, and for that great loue whiche he bare her, thought her the fayrest creature of the worlde. Being in this louing concept, hee extolled the prayse of his wife, to one of his guarde called Gyges, the sonne of Dascylus (whom he loued aboue all the reste of his housholde, and vsed his counsayle, in all his weightie causes) within a whyle after he sayde vnto Gyges these woordes. "It semeth vnto mee Gyges, that thou doest not greatlye beleue the woordes whiche I speake vnto thee, of the beautie of my wyfe, but because eyes bee better witnesses of thinges then eares, thou shalt see her naked." With these woordes Gyges being amazed cryed out, saying: "What woordes be these (sir king) me thynke you are not well aduised, to require mee to viewe and beholde the Lady my maistres in that sorte? For a woman seene naked, doth with her clothes, put of also her chastitie. In olde tyme honest thinges were deuised for mannes instruction, emonges which was vsed this one thyng. That euery man ought to beholde, the thinges that were his owne. But sir, I do beleue assuredly that she is the fairest woman in the world, wherfore desire me not to thynges that bee vnlawefull." In this sorte Gyges replied, and yet feared lest some daunger might happen vnto hym. Whome Candaules encouraged, saying: "Bee of good chere, and be not afrayde, that either I or my wyfe, goe about to deceiue thee, or that thou shalt incurre anye daunger. For I wyll take vpon me so to vse the matter, as she by no meanes shall knowe that thou haste seene her. I wyll place thee behynde the portall of our chamber. When I goe to bedde, my wyfe commonly doth followe. And she being in the Chamber, a chayre is sette readye, vppon whiche shee layeth her clothes, as she putteth them of. Whiche done shee sheweth her selfe a good tyme naked: and when she ryseth from her chayre to goe to bedde, her backe beyng towarde thee, thou mayest easilye conueyghe thy selfe out again, but in any wyse take heede, she doe not see thee, as thou goest out. Whereunto I praye thee, to haue a speciall regarde." Gyges seyng that by no meanes, hee could auoyde the vayne requeste of the king, was readie at the tyme appoynted. Candaules about the howre of bedde tyme, went into the Chamber, and conueighed Gyges into the same, and after the kyng the queene followeth, whome Gyges behelde at her going in, and at the putting of her clothes{.} When her back was towardes him, (as he was going out) she perceiued him. The queene vnderstanding by her husbande, the circumstance of the facte, neyther for shame did crie out, ne yet made countenaunce as though shee had seen Gyges; but in her minde purposed, to reuenge her husbandes follie. For emonges the Lydians (as for the most part, with all other nations) it is coumpted a great shame, to see a naked man. The gentlewoman counterfaited her grief, and kepte silence. In the morning when she was redie, by such of her seruaunts, whome she beste trusted, shee sent for Gyges, who thought that shee had knowen nothing of that whiche chaunced. Being come before her presence; she sayde vnto hym, "Gyges I offer vnto thee nowe twoo conditions, take whether thou wylte. For eyther thou must kill Candaules, and take mee to thy wyfe, and the kyngdome also, or els thou must dye thy selfe, that thou maiest vnderstande, how in all thynges not meete to be knowen, it is not necessarye to obeye Candaules. For eyther hee muste needes dye, whiche gaue thee that counsayle, or thy selfe, which diddest see me naked, and thereby committed a thing vnlawfull." Whiche words for a while, did wonderfully amase Gyges, then he besought the Queene that she woulde pardon him from that vnlawfull choise. When he saw that he coulde not perswade her; he required her to shewe him by what meanes he might attempt that enterprise. "Marie (quoth she) euen in that place where thou sawest me naked, when he is a sleepe thou shalt commit that facte." After they had deuised the treason, night approched. And Gyges with stoute courage, bent himselfe thereunto, for he saw no remedye, but that he must kill, or els be killed. Wherefore with a Dagger which the Queene deliuered him, he killed Candaules, when he was a sleepe; and so gotte from him both his wife and kingdome. A goodly example to declare, that the secrets of Marriage, ought not to be disclosed: but with reuerence to be couered, lest God do plague such offences with death or other shame, to manifest to the world, howe dearely hee esteemeth that honourable state. THE SEUENTH NOUELL. _King Craesus of Lydia reasoneth with the wyseman Solon, of the happie life of man. Who little esteeming his good aduise, vnderstoode before his death, that no man (but by vertue) can in this life attaine felicitie._ A noble Gentleman of Athens called Solon, by th' appointement of the Athenians, made lawes for that citie, and because none of the same lawes shoulde be abrogated, for the space of tenne yeares, hee bounde the Citizens by othe. And that the same mighte the better be obserued; he himselfe traueyled into farre countries, as into Egipt to visite king Hamasis, and so to Sardis to kinge Craesus, where he was liberallie intertayned. This Craesus was king of Lydia, sonne of Haliattes, that brought to subiection great countries in Asia and Graecia, and gathered together an innumerable masse of moneye and riches. Who three or foure dayes after the arriuall of Solon (which was led aboute by his seruauntes, to viewe his notable wealth and substaunce) said vnto Solon these wordes. "My frende of Athens, because thy famous wysedome is well knowen to the worlde, and I haue heard tell of the excellencie therof, and of the greatnes of thy trauaile, where thou hast attaigned to the singuler knowledge of Philosophie; I desire to learne of thee (now hauing seene my great treasures) who is the happiest man and most blessed, that thou knowest in this world." Thinking he would haue iudged him to be the same. But Solon made aunswere, that, "Tellus was the happiest; who was an Athenien, and had vertuous and honest sonnes, and they likewise had honest children, all which were that time liuing. And when by the space of many yeares he had ledde a vertuous and godly life, he died an honourable death in the warres which the Athenians had with theyr neighbours, at the battaile of Eleusina. Wher he was indued with sumptuous funerals, to his great honour and prayse." Then Craesus asked him: "Who was happie next Tellus;" thinking hee would haue attributed to him the second place. "Forsoth (quoth he) that is Cleobis and Bito, which were Argiues, and liued a contented life. And in all pastimes to proue force and maisterie, they bare away the prise and victorie. And of them these thinges be remembred; when the feastfull day of Iuppiter was celebrated amonges the Argiues; their mother should be caried to the Temple in a Chariot, drawen with a yoke of Oxen, which were not come out of the countrie at the appointed time. The yonge men seinge that the hower was come, entred into the yoke themselues, and drewe the chariotte the space of XLV. stades to the Temple. After this acte seene of all the people there, th'ende of their life was such, as certainly God gaue to vnderstand by them, that better it is to die, then liue. For the Argiues that were assembled about Bito and Cleobis, with shoutes and acclamations, praised the good willes of those children, and the women themselues said, 'That happie was the mother, which brought forth such lineage.' Their mother then ioyfull for that fact, and of the reputation of her sonnes, kneeled downe before the Image of Iuno, humbly beseechinge her to giue her sonnes the thinge that were best for a man to attaine vnto. Her prayer ended, she made her sacrifice, which done, the two yonge men presently died in the temple. In token of whose noble liues, the Argiues erected two Images at Delphos." And to them Solon appointed the second place of blisfulnes. Craeesus moued with these words, said vnto Solon. "Thou straunger of Athens, is our felicitie in such litle reputation with thee that thou doest preferre before vs these priuate men?" Solon aunswered: "Sir shal I assure you of humaine things, knowing that God enuieth the state of men, and troubleth them so often: in length of time many thinges be seen, which men would not see, and many thinges be suffred, that men would not suffer. Let vs assigne to mans life the terme of LXX. yeres: in which yeares are the nomber of XXV.M.CC. dayes, in which computation the leape moneth, which is February, is not comprehended. But if you wil that other yeres be longer, by reason of that moneth, to th' end the howers may be adioyned to them, that want then the leape monethes, maketh the time to amount (aboue LXX. yeares) to XXV. monethes, and the dayes of those monethes amount to M.V.C. But admit that LXX. yeares with their leape monethes, be the total summe of man's life, then is producted the summe of XXV. M. CC. dayes. Truly one day is not like an other in effect, euen so Craesus I conclude, that man is ful of miserie. But althoughe your grace, seeming both in wealth, and also in multitude of men, to be a riche and mightie king, yet I cannot aunswere fullye your demaunde, before I see howe well you doe ende your life: for the rich man is not more happie, because he hath long life, except to his riches fortune graunt that he lead a good and honest life. Many men be very rich, and yet for all that be not blessed and happie: and manye that haue but meane wealth, be fortunate. He that is rich and wealthie, and therewithal not happie, excelleth him that is fortunate and happy onely in two thinges, but th'other surmounteth the riche man in many thinges. The two thinges wherein the rich excelleth th'other be these. Th'one in satisfying his lust and affection, th'other in power and abilitie, to susteine harde fortune and aduersitie; and as the meane man is inferiour to the rich in these two points, which by fortune be denied him, yet he doth excell him, because he neuer hath experience of them; he liueth in good and prosperous health, he neuer feeleth aduersitie, he doth nothing that is wicked, he is a father of good children, he is indued with formosity and beautie, who if (besides all those thinges) he die well, it is he to aunswere your demaunde that worthely may be called happie; for before he die he cannot be so called: and yet fortunate he may be termed. For to obtaine all (whiles you be a liuing man) it is impossible: for as one countrie is not able to serue it selfe with all commodities, but hauing one it lacketh an other: yet the same countrie that hath most commodities is the beste: and as a man's bodie hauing one perfection is not perfect, because in hauing one he lacketh another: euen so he that hath most vertue, and is indued with greatest nomber of the aforesaid commodities, and so quietly departeth his life, he in mine opinion is worthy to be intitled with the name of a king. A man must expect th'ende of euery thinge whereunto it tendeth: for God plucketh vppe by the rootes many men, to whom hee hath giuen abundaunce of wealth and treasure." Craesus misliking the woordes of Solon suffred him to depart saying: "He was a foole that measured present pleasures with no better regard." After whose departure, the gods began to bende their indignation and displeasure vpon him, because he thoughte himselfe the happiest man aliue. Long time after, Craesus receyuing courage and comfort from Apollo at Delphos, attempted warres against Cyrus kinge of Persia, who in those warres was ouerthrowen, and taken prisoner after he had raigned XIIII. yeares, and was broughte by the Persians to Cyrus. Then Cyrus caused a stacke of woode to be piled vp, and Craesus fettred with giues, was set vpon the same: who then remembring the saying of Solon, that no liuing man was blessed, or in all pointes happie, cried out in lamentable wyse, "O Solon! Solon! Solon!" which Cyrus hearing, caused his interpreters to demaund of him, what the same Solon was. Craesus with much difficultie toulde what he was, and declared all the talke betwene him and Solon. Wherof when Cyrus heard the report, he acknowledged himselfe to be also a man, and sore repented that he went about to burne him, which was equal vnto him in honour and riches, confessing nothing to be stable and certaine in the life of man. Wherupon he commaunded the fire to be taken awaye, which then began to flame. And so with much a doe, he was deliuered. Then Cyrus asked him, who gaue him counsaile to inuade his countrie, to make his frende his foe. "Euen my selfe (saide Craesus) through vnhappie fate, by the perswasion of the Greekish God which gaue me counsaile, to make warres vpon thee: for there is no man so madde, that had rather desire warre then peace. For in peace sonnes burie their fathers, but in warres, fathers burie their children. But that these thinges be come to passe, I maye thancke the deuil's good grace." Afterward Cyrus intertained him very honourablie, and vsed his counsell, which he found very holsome and good. THE EIGHTH NOUELL. _Of a father that made suite, to haue his owne sonne put to death._ There was a man borne in Mardus (which is a Countrie adioyning vnto Persia) called Rhacon, that had seuen children. The yongest of them (named Cartomes,) afflicted diuers honest men with greate harmes and mischiefes. For which cause the father began to reforme him with words, to proue if he would amend. But he litle waying the good discipline of his father, it chaunced vpon a time that the Iustices of the countrie, repaired to the Sessions in that towne, where the father of the childe did dwell, Who taking his sonne, and binding his handes behinde him, brought him before the Iudges. To whom hee remembred by waye of accusation, all the mischiefes, which his sonne from time to time had committed, and desired the Iudges, that he might be condempned to die. The Iudges amazed with that request, would not themselues giue sentence against him, but brought both the father and the sonne, before Artaxerxes the king of Persia: in whose presence the father still persisted in the accusation of his sonne. "Why (quoth the king) canst thou finde in thy harte, that thine owne sonne should be put to death before thy face?" "Yea truly (quoth the father,) for at home in my garden, when the yong Lactuse begin to growe, I cutte of the bitter and sower stalkes from them: for pitie it were the mother Lactuse should sustaine sorow, for those bastard and degenerate shrubbes: which beinge taken awaye, she prospereth and encreaseth to great sweetenesse and bignes. Euen so (O kinge) if he be hanged that hurteth my whole familie, and offendeth the honest conuersation of his brethren, both my selfe shalbe increased, and the reste of my stocke and linage shall in like sort prosper and continue." The king hearing those words, did greatly praise the wisedom of Rhacon, and chose him to be one of his Iudges, pronouncing these wordes before the multitude. "Hee that dare thus seuerely and iustly pronounce sentence vpon his owne child, doubtles he wil shew himselfe to be an incorrupt and sincere Iudge vpon the offences of other." Then the kinge deliuered the yongman, from that presente faulte, threatninge him with most cruell death, if after that time, he were apprehended with like offence. THE NINTH NOUELL. _Water offered of good will to Artaxerxes King of Persia, and the liberall rewarde of the Kinge to the giuer._ There was a certaine Persian called Sinetas, that farre from his owne house mette king Artaxerxes, and had not wherwith to present him. For it was an order amonges the Persians, instituted by law, that euery man which met the king, should giue him a present. Wherfore the poore man because he would not neglecte his dutie, ranne to a Riuer called Cyrus, and taking both his hands full of water, spake to the king in this wise. "I beseech God that your maiestie may euermore raigne amonges vs. As occasion of the place, and mine ability at this instant serueth, I am come to honour your maiesty, to the intent you may not passe without some present, for which cause I giue vnto you this water. But if your grace had ones encamped your selfe, I would go home to my house, for the best and dearest thinges I haue to honour your maiestie withall. And peraduenture the same shall not be much inferiour to the giftes, which other now do giue you." Artaxerxes delighted with this fact, sayde vnto him. "Goode fellowe I thancke thee for this presente, I assure thee, the same is so acceptable vnto me, as the most precious gift of the worlde. First, because water is the best of all thinges, then because the Riuer, out of the which thou diddest take it, doth beare the name Cyrus. Wherefore I commaunde thee to come before me when I am at my campe." In speakinge those wordes, he required his Eunuches to take the present, and to put it into a cuppe of gold. The king when he was lodged in his pauilion, sent to the man a Persian robe, a Cuppe of Golde, and a thousande Darices, (which was a coigne amonges the Persians, wherupon was the Image of Darius) willinge the messenger to saye vnto him, these wordes. "It hath pleased the king, that thou shouldest delighte thy selfe, and make mery with this gold, because thou diddest exhilarate his minde, in not suffering him to passe, without the honour of a present: but as necessitie did serue thee, diddest humblie salute him with water. His pleasure is also, that thou shalt drincke of that water in this Cuppe of gold, of which thou madest him partaker." Artaxerxes hereby expressed the true Image of a princely minde, that would not disdaine cherefully to behold the homelie gifte (in our estimation rude, and nothing worth) at the handes of his poore subiect: and liberally to reward that duetifull zeale, with thinges of greate price and valour. To the same Artaxerxes, riding in progresse through Persia, was presented by one called Mises, a very great Pomegranate in a Siue. The king marueiling at the bignes therof, demaunded of him out of what garden he had gathered the same: he aunswered, out of his owne. Wherat the king greatlye reioysinge, recompenced him with princelye rewards, saying: "By the Sunne (for that was the common oth of the Persian kinges) this man is able with such trauaile and diligence in my iudgement to make of a litle citie, one that shal be large and great." Which wordes seeme to declare, that all thinges by care, sufficiente paine and continual labour, may against nature, be made more excellent and better. THE TENTH NOUELL. _The loue of Chariton and Menalippus._ Nowe will I rehearse a fact of the tyrant Phalaris farre discrepante from his conditions, because it sauoureth of great kindnes and humanitye, and seemeth not to be done by him. Chariton was an Agrigentine borne, which is a towne in Sicilia, and a great louer of beauty, who with ardent affection loued one Menalippus, which was also borne in that Citie, of honest conditions and of excellente forme and comelines. This tyraunt Phalaris hindred Menalippus in a certaine sute: for he contending in iudgement with one of Phalaris frendes, the tyraunt commaunded him to giue ouer his suite: whervnto, because he was not obedient, he threatned to put him to death, except he would yelde. Notwithstanding, Menalippus ouer came him in law, and the noble men which were the frends of Phalaris, would giue no sentence, but brought the matter to a Nonesuite; which the yong man takinge in ill part, said he had receiued wrong, and confessed to his frend Chariton the wrong he had sustained, requiring his ayde to be reuenged upon the tyrant. He made other yonge men priuie to his conspiracie, such as he knewe woulde be ready and apte for that enterprise. Chariton perceyuinge the rage and furie of his frende, knowinge that no man would take his parte for feare of the tyraunt, began to disswade him, sayinge, that he himselfe went aboute the like attempte, a litle before, to deliuer his country into libertie from present seruitude, but he was not able to sort the same to any effect, without great daunger: wherefore he praied hym to commit the consideration thereof vnto him, and to suffer him to espie a time apt and conuenient. Menalippus was content: Chariton reuoluing with himselfe that deuise, woulde not make his deare frend a partaker of the fact least it shoulde be perceiued, but he alone took vppon him to do the deede, that onely himselfe might sustaine the smart; wherefore taking a sword in his hande, as he was seeking way to giue the assault vpon the tyraunt, his enterprise was disclosed, and Chariton apprehended by the Guarde, which for the tyrauntes defence, diligently attended about him. From thence he was sent to the Jaole, and examined vpon interrogatories to bewraye the rest of the conspiratours; for which hee suffered the racke, and the violence of other tormentes. Afterwardes, Menalippus remembring the constancie of his frende, and the crueltye by him stoutly suffered, went to Phalaris and confessed vnto him that not onely he was priuy to that treason, but also was the aucthour thereof. Phalaris demaundinge for what cause he did it, tolde him the consideration before rehearsed, which was the reuokinge of sentence, and other iniuries done vnto him. The tyraunt maruaylinge at the constant frendshippe of those twaine, acquited them both, but vppon condition that both shoulde depart oute of the citie and countrie of Sicilia. Neuerthelesse, he gaue them leaue to receiue the fruites and commodities of their reuenues. In record and remembrance of whose amitie, Apollo sang these Verses. _The raysers vp of heauenly loue, amonges the humaine kinde: Were good Chariton and Menalippe, whose like vnneths we finde._ This Phalaris was a most cruell tyraunte of the citie of Agrigentine in Scicilia, who besides other instrumentes of new deuised tormentes, had a Bull made of Brasse, by the art and inuention of one Perillus: into which Bull, all such as were condemned to death were put, and by reason of extreame heate of fire made vnder the same, those that were executed, yelled foorth terrible soundes and noyses, like to the lowing of a Bull. For which ingine and deuise, Perillus thinking to obtaine great reward, was for his labour, by commaundement of the tyraunt, throwen into the Bull, being the first that shewed the proofe of his deuise. Within a while after, also Phalaris himselfe, for his great crueltie, was by a general assault, made vpon him by the people, haled into the same Bull and burned: and althoughe this tyraunte farre excelled in beastlye crueltie, yet there appeared some sparke of humanitie in him, by his mercye extended vpon Chariton and Menalippus, the two true louers before remembred. The same Phalaris wrote many proper and short Epistles, full of vertuous instructions, and holsome admonitions. THE ELEUENTH NOUELL. _Kinge Cyrus perswaded by Araspas, to dispose himselfe to loue a ladie called Panthea, entreth into a pretie disputation and talke of loue and beautie. Afterwards Araspas himselfe falleth in loue with the saide ladie, but she indued with greate chastitie, auoydeth his earnest sute. And when shee heard tell that her husbande was slaine in the seruice of Cyrus, she killed herselfe._ Before the beginning of this Historie, I thought good by way of Proeme, to introduce the wordes of an excellente writer called Lodouicus Caelius Rhodoginus, who saith that S. Hierome the most holy and eloquent father, affirmeth that vertues are not to be pondered by the sexe or kinde, by whom they be done, but by the chaste and honest minde; wherewith if euer any woman was affected, truly it was the fayre Ladie Panthea: for which I would no man should blame me of vngodlines, or indiscretion, in that I do remember a woman mentioned in profane authours, because at this present I am not minded to make vewe of Christe his secretes which are his deuine Scriptures, wherein be contayned the Ghostly liues of sacred dames, wherein also aboundantly doth shine and glitter, the celestiall mercie of our heauenly Father. But let the Reader remember that we be now conuersant in the auncient monuments of other profane aucthours, and out of them do select most pleasant places to recreat ech weary minde. This Panthea therfore as Xenophon writeth, and partly as S. Hierome reporteth, was the wyfe of Abradatas a noble personage, and in warlicke factes very skilfull, dearely beloued of Cyrus king of Persia, with whom this Lady Panthea was captiue, at the ouerthrow of the Assyrians. King Cyrus then after his enemyes were vanquished, hearinge tell of this gentlewoman, called vnto him one of his dearest frends named Araspas which was a Median borne, the very minion, playe felow, and companion of Cyrus from his youth: to whom for the great loue that he bare him, he gaue the Median robe of from his owne backe at his departure from Astiages into Persia. To this gentleman, king Cyrus committed the custodie of the ladie, and of her tente. Abradatas her husbande (when she was taken prisoner) was before sente in ambassage to the king of Bactria by the Assirian king, to intreate of peace, because he was his familiar frend. When Araspas had receiued the keeping of the ladie: he asked Cyrus whether he had seen her, "No truly" said Cyrus. "Then haue I (saide Araspas): and haue chosen her specially for your owne person. And when we came into her pauilion, none of us could tell which was she, for she set vppon the grounde, with all her women about her, and her apparell was like vnto her maides. But we desirous to know which was the maistres, beheld them all, and by and by shee seemed to excell them all, although she satte with her face couered, loking downe vpon the grounde: and when we bad her to rise vp, all the rest rose up also. She did farre surmounte her maides, as well in making and lineamentes of body, as in good behauiour and comelinesse, although she was clad in simple apparell: the teares manifestly ranne downe her eyes vppon her garments, distilling downe euen to her feete; to whom he that was most auncient amonges vs said: 'Be of good chere lady: we heare tell that you haue a very valiaunte man to your husbande, such one whose practize and experience is well knowen and tryed amongs greatest princes, notwithstanding we haue chosen for you a gentleman, that is not inferiour to him, either in beautie, force, wisedome or valiaunce. And we do verely beleeue, that if there be any man in this world, worthie of admiration, it is Cyrus our Prince and Lorde, whose paragon wee haue chosen you to bee.' When the Lady hearde them saye so, she tare the attirement from her head and body, she cried out, and all her maides skriched with her. At which times the greatest part of her face appeared, and so did her necke and handes: And assure your selfe (Cyrus) to vs that viewed her well, it seemed impossible, that such a creature coulde be borne of mortall parentes in Asia. Therefore sir, looke vppon her in any wise." To whom Cyrus said, "The more praise ye giue her, the lesse minde I haue to see her, if shee be such one as you haue saide." "And whye so?" (quoth Araspas). "Because (sayde Cyrus) if I should go to see her, hearing you make this reporte of her beautie (leasure not seruinge me thereunto) I am afraide, lest she would sone alure me to go many times to behold her. Whereby I might perchaunce, grow negligent in my matters of greatest importance." The yong gentleman smiling, said, "Thincke you Cyrus, that the beauty of a woman, can force a man vnwilling, to attempt a thinge that should not be meete for him. If nature haue that force in her, she would compell all men alike. Do you not see, that fire burneth all men after one sort, because it is his nature? Beautifull thinges be not had in equall estimation, some be of great price, some not so, some do regarde this, some that. For loue is a voluntarie thing, and euery man loueth what he list. The brother is not in loue with the sister, but of another she is loued. The father is not in loue with the doughter, and yet she is beloued of another. For feare and law are able enough to restraine loue. But if there were a law made to commaund men, that they which did not eate, should not be hungrie, and they that did not drinke, should not be a thirst, and that no man should be cold in Winter, and hotte in Sommer, that lawe coulde not compell men to obeye: for men by nature be subiect to those infirmities. But to loue, is a thinge free and voluntarie. Euery man loueth thinges that be his owne, as his apparell and other his necessaries." Wherunto Cyrus replied: "If loue be voluntary: how can it be that a man may abandon the same, when he liste? But I haue seene men weepe for sorowe of loue: I haue knowen them that haue beene slaues to loue, who before they haue loued, haue thoughte thraldome, the greatest euill: geuing awaye manye thinges, which had beene better for them to haue kept: and haue prayed to God to be exonerated of loue, aboue all other diseases, and yet coulde not be deliuered, being bound with stronger imprisonment then if they had beene tied with chaines, yelding themselues to their louers, seruing them with all obedience. And when they be hampered with such mischiefes, they seeke not to auoide them." "They do so in deede as you saye (aunswered the yong man:) And therefore such louers be miserable, wishing still to die and yet still continue in their woe and calamitie: And where there be a thousande wayes to bereue them of life, yet they do not die. Some of them fall to stealing and robbing of other men. But when they haue robbed and stolen anye thing thou with the first thinkinge theft vnnecessary, doest condemne them as theeues, whom thou dost not pardon, but punish. In like maner the beautifull doe not councell men to loue them, or couet that is not lawful: But miserable men shewing themselues inferiour to all lustes and desires, doe in the ende accuse Loue to be the authour of their miserie. Good and honest men, althoughe they desire golde, beautifull horses and faire women, yet they can well ynoughe abstaine from them all, as not subiect to them more then is meete: For I my selfe haue beholden this woman, which seemeth to be a surpassing faire wight: and yet I am now with you, I ryde and do other thinges accordinge to my dutie." "Peraduenture (said Cyrus) you went soner awaye, then loue coulde haue time to fasten vppon you: For fire touchinge a man, doth not straite burne him: And woode is not by and by in flame, yet would I not willingly touch fire, nor behold beautiful persons: and I would giue you counsaile Araspas, to beware how you suffer your eyes to rolle, and wander vpon faire women: for the fire burneth them, that touch it: and beautifull folke, do kindle them, that behold them a farre of, in such wise as they burne for loue." "I warrant you Cyrus (sayd Araspas:) for if I do continually loke vpon them, I wil not so be drowned in loue, as the same shall prouoke me to do any thing that doth not become mee." "You saye well, sayd Cyrus, Therfore keepe this woman as I bid you, and loke wel vnto her: For peraduenture she is taken in good time." And so they departed: The yong gentleman marking the singuler beautie of the Lady, and perceyuing her great honesty, he hauing custodie of her, thoughte he woulde do her pleasure, and by gesture sawe that she was not ingrate and vnthanckfull, but very diligent: She caused her seruauntes to prepare all thinges in readines at his comming in: and if he were by chaunce sicke, shee toke order that he shoulde lacke nothinge: vpon which occasions, he fell in loue with her: and no maruaile, for she was (as before is saide) a woman very fayre and amiable. Afterwards king Cyrus desirous to send a spie into the countrie of Lydia, to learne what the Assyrians did: Araspas which had the keepinge of the fayre Lady, seemed most mete for that purpose. But Araspas chaunced to fall in loue with the Ladie, in suche wise as he was forced to breake his minde vnto her, for the satisfying of his pleasure: which request, like a faithfull and louing woman to her absent husband, she denyed. Howbeit she would not accuse Araspas to Cyrus, being a fraide to set variaunce betweene frendes. Araspas thinkinge it a great shame and reproche vnto him, not to obtaine his desire: threatened the Lady, that if she would not yeld to his request, he would haue it perforce. Then the woman fearing violence, kepte the thing no longer secrete, but sente one of her Eunuches to Cyrus, to discouer the whole matter: which when he heard, he laughed hartely at Araspas, that sayde and made his vaunte that he was superiour to loue, sending Artabasus with the Eunuch, to commaund him not to force the woman: but if he could by fayre meanes allure her, he would not be against him. When Artabasus came to Araspas, he rebuked him, both for his infidelity in the thinge committed vnto his charge, and also for his wickednesse, iniurie, and incontinencie. Wherwithall Araspas wepte for sorowe, beinge oppressed wyth shame, and confounded with feare, for the displeasure of Cyrus: whiche thing Cyrus vnderstanding, called him, and priuely sayd thus vnto him. "I see Araspas that you be afraied of me, and much ashamed: but be contente, for I knowe that the goddes haue bene vanquished with loue, and haue learned what thinges the wisest men haue suffered for loue: and I haue accused my selfe, bicause I could not conteine, being in companie with faire personages: and of this mishappe happened to you, I my selfe am the occasion, for I compelled you to that inuincible matter." Araspas making aunswere sayd: "You be in this thing, O Cyrus, euen like vnto your selfe, as you be in all other: you be mercifull, and full of clemencie: but the brute that shall rise hereof is, that whiche maketh me moste pensife, for so sone as the rumour of my calamitie is dispersed, mine enemies will reioyce, and my frendes will counsaill me to flee, lest youre maiestie do hainously take reuenge of mine offence." "Well Araspas, said Cyrus, by that opinion and brute, you shall do me greatest seruice, and profite very muche my confederates." "How can that be (said Araspas)? where in for that respect shall I be able to doe you any seruice?" "If presently (quoth Cyrus) you do make as though you fledde from me, and by going to myne enemies, you maye wynne of them great credite." "Verely (sayd Araspas) I suppose that I and my frendes, might raise a rumour indeede, that I am fled from you for feare." "So may you (sayd Cyrus) returne vnto vs againe, when you knowe our enemies secretes; for I thinke they will make you priuie to all their counsell and deuises: and you being in credit, shall be made priuie to all their appointementes whiche wee desire to knowe." "I will euen nowe depart (sayd Araspas) for it is very likely, that this my departure, may seme to be an argument of trouth, bicause I seme to flie for feare of punishement." "Can you in that maner forsake faire Panthea" (quoth Cyrus). "Truely (said he) it euidently nowe appeareth, that I am endewed with two mindes: with the one I haue plaied the philosopher, with loue that vntrue Sophistre: for ther is no one minde which is good and badde, and at one time is rapt with the loue of good and euil thinges, ne yet at one instant can wil and will not together. Wherefore it is manifest, that ther be two mindes; when the good minde ruleth, it doth things that be honest, when the euill is superiour, it worketh ill: and now the good minde, by making you his frende and confederate, doth puissantly gouerne." "Well (sayde Cyrus) if you goe, you must beware, that your credite may increase amonges them: tell them hardly the somme of our indeuours, but in suche wise as our doinges may bee lettes to their practises. And this shall hinder their deuises muche, if you saie that we determine to inuade their countrie: for hearing this, they will not assemble their whole power, euery man fearing his priuate part: and see that you tary with them a good space, and looke which partes they meane sonest to approche, the same be moste conuenient for vs to knowe: and bid them to be ready, whensoeuer they thinke time: for when you shall depart from them, although they know you to be priuie to their order, yet they must needes kepe the same, and be afrayd to alter it, lest they confounde them selues through their sodaine chaunge." Thus Araspas departing, telling his moste trustie seruauntes what hee would have done in this matter, went his waye: but Panthea hearing that Araspas was gone, sent to Cyrus this message conteining these woordes. "Bee not sorie Cyrus, for the departure of Araspas to your enemies, for if you wyll suffer mee to sende for my husbande, I doe promyse you, that he shalbe a farre more assured frende then Araspas was. And I knowe he wyll come with so great power (for your ayde) as hee is able to make, for the father of the Assirian kyng, whiche nowe raigneth, was his frende. But this kyng vppon a tyme, went about to make a diuorcement, betweene my husbande and mee: therefore, knowyng that this kyng, doth disdayne my husbandes good fortune, by hauing mee to wife, I am sure hee woulde sone be perswaded to serue so noble a Prince as you be." Cyrus hearing her saye so, commaunded her to sende for her husbande, which she did. Abradatas knowing his wiues tokens, and vnderstanding the effecte of her message, spedely came to Cyrus with two thousand horsemen. They that were the Persian spies, sent to Cyrus, declaring what he was. Cyrus commaunded that forthwith he should be brought vnto his wife. When the wife and husbande sawe eche other, they imbraced like twoo that mette after suche troublesome aduentures. Then Panthea tolde her husbande the goodnes, temperance, and clemencie of Cyrus towarde her. Who hearing of her interteignement, sayde: "What shall I doe Panthea, to render thankes to Cyrus, for you and mee?" "What other thing (saide Panthea) but to indeuour your selfe, to bee suche a trustie frende to him, as he hath bene to you." Then Abradatas went to Cyrus, and when he sawe hym, he tooke him by the right hande and sayde: "For the pleasures that you haue done mee, O Cyrus, I haue no more to saye, but that I assure my selfe vnto you, as your frende, your seruaunt and confederate: and what soeuer I see you desyre, I shall imploye my selfe, to the vttermoste of my power, to ayde and helpe you in the same." To whome Cyrus sayde, "I accepte you, and for this tyme dismisse you, to goe and suppe with your wife: then you shall agayne be placed in my Tente about me amonges your frendes and myne." And when Abradatas sawe the preparation of Cyrus, that hee made against his enemies, he addressed to make prouision of armure, and thinges meete for the fielde for hym selfe. His wyfe Panthea, had made of her treasure, a curate and helmet of golde, and likewyse his vambraces, and had furnished the horses of the chariot with brasen barbes. When Cyrus had spoken diuerse oracions, for the incoraging of his armie, and had taken order, howe all thinges might prosperously succede, diuided his captaines into seuerall battailes, appointing euery of them their charge: Abradatas shewed him selfe verie braue, and marciall in his Chariot: who being about to put on a linnen breast plate, according to his countrie maner, his wife Panthea brought him an armure of golde, and a purple gowne down to his feete, after robe fashion, and a crimsen skarfe. These thinges had she priuely wrought for her husbande, knowing the measure of his harnesse, whiche when her husband sawe, he marueiled, and said to Panthea. "Wife, haue you not defaced your jewels, to make this armure?" "Truelye (said Panthea) I haue a more precious jewell then this; for if you proue a valiant gentleman to other, as you haue done a louing and trustie husband to me, you are my dearest jewell." In saying thus, she armed him, and would that no man should haue sene her: for the teares trickled downe her chekes. Abradatas being in the fronte of the armie, armed after this maner, appered a gallant and braue captayne, whose nature and complexion agreed to his comelinesse. And taking the raines of the chariot in his hands, he prepared him selfe to mounte vp. Then Panthea, all other being commaunded to stande backe, saide: "Truely Abradatas, if there be women, that esteme their husbandes better then their owne liues, I thinke you knowe that I am one of them. Therefore what neede I to expresse euery particular thing: my factes, as I thinke, do perswade you more then woordes. And thus indeuouring my selfe towardes you, our mutuall loue is such, as I had rather be buried quicke with you, being a noble man, then to liue in shame. I regarde you with the beste, and my selfe not as the worste. Great thankes we owe to Cyrus, for his Princely interteignement of me, being a captiue and chosen for him selfe, not like a prysoner with shame, but free, without spot or blemishe to mine honor: and vsed me, as though I had bene his brothers wyfe. And after Araspas departed from him, whiche had the custodie of me, I promised him, that if hee would giue mee leue to sende for you, that you should become more loiall and assured to him, then euer Araspas was." Abradatas delited with her chaste communication, and tenderly laying his hand vpon her head: looking vp to heauen, made this praier. "O most mightie Iuppiter, graunte that I may shewe my selfe an housbande meete for Panthea, and a frende worthy of Cyrus, who hath so curteously dealt with vs." Thus speaking at the entrie of the chariot seate, he went vp, and being set downe, the gouernour of the chariot made fast the seate. Panthea hauing nowe nothing to embrace, kissed the chariot seate, and so he went forth. But Panthea followed him priuelie, till he tourned and spied her, to whome he sayde: "Be of good conforte Panthea, Adieu and farewell." Then her Eunuches and women, conueighed her to her own chariot, couering the same with curteines. Cyrus after the battaile and victorie, had against Craesus, called diuerse of his men vnto him, and demaunded if they sawe Abradatas. "For I marueile (sayde hee) that he commeth not vnto me: for before the battell many times he appered in my presence." Whereunto one of his men answered: "The cause is (sir) that he is not aliue, for hee was slayne in the battaile, as he inuaded the AEgiptians. The rest of his companie, except his owne souldiours, fled from him, when they sawe him incountre with the AEgiptian battaile. And then his wife Panthea tooke him vp, and laid him in her owne wagon; conueighing him to a certayne place, by the ryuer Pactolus. And (they say) that her Eunuches doe digge a graue to burie him. His wife sitteth vpon the ground, apparelled with those furnitures that he did weare, leaning her head vpon her knees." With whiche wordes, Cyrus was driuen into greate sorowe, clapping him selfe vppon the thighe, and by and by mounted on his horse, and taking with him M. horsemen, he went to mourne for his frende Abradatas. Moreouer he commaunded Gadatas and Gobryas, to carrie the fairest apparell they coulde get, to his good and honest frende that was dead, and to assemble his oxen and horse, and all his beastes and cattell, whersoeuer they were, that they might be sacrificed to Abradatas. But when he sawe Panthea sitting vpon the ground and the dead corps lying by her, he wept for sorowe, and said: "Alake good woman, thou trustie and faithfull wife, doest thou thus depart and leaue vs alone." And with those words he tooke her by the right hand, and therewithall was presented the dead hand of Abradatas, which the AEgiptians in the battaile had cut of: whiche when Cyrus sawe, hee then lamented more then he did before: and Panthea cried out. Who comforted by Cyrus, kissed the dead hand, bestowing the same againe in place, so well as she coulde, and sayde: "Thus it is chaunced Cyrus, but why do you beholde the dead body? This death I knowe (quoth she) hee hath suffred for my sake, being none of the lest aduentures whiche he hath hazarded for me. And perchaunce Cyrus, he would haue done no lesse for you. For I exhorted him (like a foole as I was) to attempte this aduenture, to thintent he might haue shewed him selfe a frende of worthy remembraunce; whiche request he accepted, to pleasure you and me: he hath valiantly bestowed his life and is dead, and I vnhappy caitife that gaue him first counsayle, do sitte here aliue." Cyrus for a certayn space holding his peace, powred forth aboundance of teares, and then said: "This gentleman (lady Panthea) hath a commendable ende, for he died in victorie; but take these furnitures, and adorne him there withall:" for Gobryas and Gadatas were come with riche and costly apparel. Then hee sayde: "Bee sure he shalbe honoured with greater thinges then these. A monument also, according to his worthinesse, shalbe erected vpon his graue. Sacrifice shalbe offered, meete for a man so valiant and puissaunt. Thou likewyse shalt not be left comfortles; for in consideration of thy great chastitie and vertue, I will honour thee and appointe a garrison to conuey thee into what place thou arte disposed to goe." To whom Panthea sayd: "Be of good chere Cyrus, I wyll not hide from you the place, wherein I am determined to bestowe my selfe." Cyrus hearing her say so, went away pitying the woman that was bereued of suche a husbande, and lamenting the man that had lefte suche a wife behinde him, and was like no more to see her againe. But Panthea commaunded her Eunuches to go out of the place, till she had satisfied her selfe with teares, and lamentations for her husbande: for she prepared to kil her selfe, requiring her nursse to tarie by her, and commaunded her, that when she was dead, she should shroude her and her husbande in one garment. The nursse perswaded the Ladie, with humble wordes and supplications, from her determined death, but she could not preuaile: and when she sawe that her maistres tooke her woordes in ill parte, she satte downe and wepte. But Panthea with a sworde, whiche she had prepared long time for that purpose, killed her selfe, and laying her head vpon her husbandes breaste, she yelded from her chaste bodie, her innocent ghost. The Nursse seing that, cried out, and couered them both, as she was commaunded. Cyrus vnderstanding the woman's facte, was amazed, and spedely went to see if she might be holpen. The Eunuches (being three in nomber) seing their maistres dead, they likewyse drewe out their swordes, and killed theimselues in the place, where they were commaunded to stande. In memorie of which facte, Cyrus erected a noble monument to the perpetuall prayse of chastitie and honest loue. Which (as Xenophon reporteth) remained to his daies, with their names ingrauen in Syrian letters. THE TWELFTH NOUELL. _Abdolominus is from poore estate, aduaunced by Alexander the Great, through his honest life, to be kyng of Sydone._ Alexander the mightie and noble Emperour, after he had subdued Darius the Persian kyng: at length came to Sydone, a famous citie, by reason of the auncient fame of the first founders. The same citie was vnder the gouernement of Strato, and mainteined by the puissaunce of Darius, who yelding more by force of the people, then by free wil, was thought vnworthy to raigne and rule there. Alexander at the request of his frende Ephestion, willed him to appointe one to be king, whom the citizens should thinke moste worthy of that state. After profers of Ephestion to diuers of the yonge gentlemen of that citie, and refusall made of their partes, they alledged that none ought to enioy the dignitie of their king, but such as were descended of the royall bloud. Thinking none to be more meete for that state then one Abdolominus, who being of the royall race, for pouertie was inforced to inhabite a litle cotage without the citie. His good life was the cause of his pouertie, as it is to many other: and labouring in his daily trauell, vnderstoode not the brute of the warre that troubled all Asia. Ephestion and the yonge gentlemen repaired vnto him with garmentes to garnishe him like a king, and founde him making cleane his garden, whome they saluted, and saide: "You must exchaunge your homelie clothes with these riche robes, wherewith wee here present you. Washe your bodie that nowe is foule and vncleane, take vppon you the courage of a kyng, and in this state (wherof you be worthy) expresse the same sobrietie and continencie you doe presently vse. And when you sitte in your regall seate, vsing the authoritie of life and death ouer your subiectes, do in no wise forget the fortune, wherin you were before you were made king, ne yet for what purpose you did receiue it.{"} The matter semed to Abdolominus like a dreame, and demaunded of theim, if their wittes were sounde, that did deride him in that sorte. But when he sawe them bynde by othe their doynges to bee of trouthe, he washed him self, and taking the garment, which was purple and golde, went with them into the place. The fame was diuersly bruted of this facte: some fauoured the cause, and some did froune against it. But suche as were riche, did reproue his pouertie and base estate, to those that were neare aboute Alexander, which made the kynge to sende for him. And when he had long beholden his manner and order sayd: "Your personage doth not degenerate from the fame of your progenitors, but I would fayne knowe, howe pacient you were in the tyme of your pouertie." "I would to God (quoth Abdolominus) I could beare my prosperitie in lyke case now I am kyng. These handes did get that I desired. And hauing nothing, I lacked nothing." Whiche woordes made Alexander conceiue a good opinion of hym, to whome he restored the riches of the kyng before, and diuers other thinges, taken awaye by the Persians. THE THIRTEENTH NOUELL. _The oration of the Scythian Ambassadours to Alexander the great, reprouing his ambicion, and desire of Empire._ Tvllie in the firste booke of his Offices, saieth, that very miserable, is ambicion and desire of honour: and that moste men, whiche be giuen to cupiditie of gouernement, honor and glorie, bee forgetfull of Iustice. The truthe of whiche graue wordes, vttred by a Prince of eloquence, the rude and barbarous Ambassadours of Scythia, in plaine and homelie talke, boldly did pronounce to king Alexander (surnamed Magnus) when hee was about to inuade their countrie. For when he had within three dayes finished twelue thousand boates, to transporte his armie ouer the famous ryuer of Tanais, (whiche deuideth Asia from Europa) against the poore Scythians, twenty Ambassadours of the Scythians came to Alexanders campe to speake with hym, to proue if they coulde by woordes withdrawe his entended purpose: Before whome when they were placed, the eldest of them spake these wordes. "If the Goddes had giuen thee a bodie according to the immoderate desyre of thy mynde, the whole worlde coulde not be able to holde thee. With one of thy handes thou wouldest touche the Oriente, and with thy other hande the Occidente. And when thou haste gotten that, thou wylt desyre to knowe, where the brightnesse of the Diuine Maiestie is placed. Thus thou couetest after the thing, thou art not able to receyue. Out of Europa thou marchest into Asia, and out of Asia thou passest into Europa. Afterwardes, if thou doest vanquishe all mankynde, thou must make warre with woodes and Snowes, with Ryuers and wylde beastes. What? doest thou not knowe, that great trees growe long, and yet be rooted out of the grounde in a moment? He is a foole that looketh after the fruite, and doeth not measure the height of the tree wheron it groweth. Take hede lest whyle thou doest contende to clymme to the toppe, thou fallest downe with the bowes whiche thou doest imbrace. The lion also sometyme is made the foode of the smalest byrdes: and rust consumeth iron. There is nothing so firme, that is not in perill of the weake. What haue we to doe with thee? We neuer touched thy lande. What thou arte, and from whence thou commest, is it not lawefull for vs to bee ignoraunte, that liue in the waste wooddes? Wee can not be subiecte to any man, and wee desyre not to rule. Wee haue certaine giftes peculiar vnto vs, bicause thou shalt not be ignoraunte of the state of our nacion: the yoke of Oxen, the Plough, the Darte, and the Bowl: those things we vse, both with our frends and against our enemies. Vnto our frendes wee giue the fruictes, gotten with the labour of our Oxen. And with them in our Bowle, we sacrifice wine to the Goddes. Our enemies we strike with the Darte a farre of, and with the Speare nere at hande. After that sorte in tyme paste, wee ouercame the kyng of Scythia, and afterwardes the kyng of Media and Persia, and the waye was open vnto vs into AEgipt. But thou whiche doest boaste, that thou art come to persecute theues, art the common thefe of all nacions, whereunto thou makest thy repayre. The countrie of Lidia thou haste taken. Thou haste enioyed Syria. Thou doest possesse Persia, and the Bactrianes bee vnder thy power. Thou doest goe into India, and nowe thou extendest thy vnstable and gredie handes vppon our cattell. What neede haste thou of those ryches, whiche doe make thee so hungrie? Thou art the first of all men whiche with sacietie hast gotten famine, that the more thou hast, the more gredely thou couetest after thinges thou hast not. Doest thou not remember how long thou hast sticked about Bactria? And whiles thou goest about to bring them in subiection, the Sogdians begin to reuolte. Thus warre doth grow vnto thee of thy victorie. For be thou neuer so great, and puissant ouer other, yet there be none that can indure to be gouerned by straungers. Passe nowe Tanais, thou shalt perceiue what breadth it beareth, and yet thou shalt neuer ouertake the Scythians, whose pouertie is swifter then the armie, which carieth the spoyle of so many nacions. For when thou shalt thinke vs to be farre of, thou shalt see vs within thy campe, with like swiftnesse we folowe and flee awaye. I heare that our desertes and voide places, be mocked by the Greeke prouerbes, we couet rather those desertes and places vnhabited, then cities and plentifull soyles. Therefore holde fast thy fortune, for she is tickle and can not be holden against her will. Folow thou the counsaile that is good, specially whyles the time doth serue. Bridle thy felicitie, and thou shalt rule it the better. Our countriemen say, that Fortune is without feete, and that she hath onely handes and wynges, but when she stretcheth forth her hand, shee will not suffer her winges to be touched. Finally, if thou be a God thou oughtest to geue benefites to mortall men, and not to take away the commodities they haue already: but if thou bee a man, consider that thou art alway the same that thou arte. It is a foolishe part to remember those things, and to forget thy selfe. Those people that fele not thy warres, thou maiest use as thy frendes. For frendship is most firme and stable emonges equall, and those seeme to be equall that haue not vsed force and violence emonges them selues. Beware thou take them not for thy frendes whome thou doest subdue, and bring in obedience. There is no frendship betwene the maister and the seruaunt, and in peace the lawe of Armes is obserued. Beleue not that the Scythians doe bynde frendship with any othe: for they make their othe by obseruation of faith. The maner of the Greekes is to iustifie their factes, by inuocation of their Goddes to witnesse: but wee know, that Religion consisteth in faith her self. They which do not reuerence to men, do begile the Goddes. Thou hast no nede of him to be thy frende of whose frendship thou standest in doubt. Thou hast vs as kepers of Asia and Europa: for we should touche the countrie of Bactria, were it not for Tanais, whiche deuideth vs. And beyonde Tanais all is ours so farre as Thracia, and the fame is that Thracia bordreth vppon Macedonia: wee being neighbours, to bothe thy dominions, chose nowe whether thou wylte haue vs frendes or foes." These were the woordes of the Scythians. Howe be it these homelie and plaine aduertisementes, could not diuerte kyng Alexander from his intended enterpryse, and according to his desired successe, he ouercame them. THE FOURTEENTH NOUELL. _The woordes of Metellus of mariage, and wiuing with the prayse and dispraise of the same._ In the presence of many learned men of Rome, Metellus surnamed Numidicus, for his victories and triumphe ouer Iugurtha king of Numidia, a countrie in Africa, in the tyme of his office of Censor, made an Oration before the Romain people, of mariage of wyues, vppon Occasion that hee hymselfe, by diuers of his frendes, was perswaded to that state. Against whiche hee used manye vehemente inuectiues and termes, whiche Aulus Gellius omitteth, for that hee was loth to offend (when report therof should be bruted) the nice eares, and louing mindes of the matrones, and dames of that citie: knowing well that both they, and their successours, would not forget reprochefullie to combate with his spirite and shadowe, when they were not able (being preuented by earthly vermine) by anye meanes to impeche his corps, in tombe fast closed and buried. But when I do remember, howe the same was said, and also noysed emongs a bande of heathen soules, whose mindes for want of godly skill, could not disgest such hainous blastes, as sounded in a time prophane, wherin no sacred voyce of christian lore was breathed vnto redemed flocke: I call to mynde that now I may in time of grace, right frankely write, without offence to humble state of matrone kinde, in these our daies, inspired with spirit of humble hart, whose eares no taunting talke can griue: wherefore with blushles face, and vnstaied penne, I meane the woordes, of that well learned wighte, in open audience to pronounce, and by this booke, to suche elected sort for to declame: but loth for to offende, as one well bet in mariage schole, I must, _a p[oe]na & culpa_, forgiuenes craue: lest some shreude heathen dame (for other doubt I not) doe from her graue _Al' Arme_ crie out: and then to fight with buried ghostes: my manhode will not serue, but by and by with posting legges, and flying fast I will retire. But doubtes here be brought foorth, where doubting cause is none. Gellius therfore in persone of the vnmaried knight, in wordes right fewe, this sentence of the maried state, doth vtter and proclayme. "O ye Romaines, if we could be without wiues, then all we should wante that griefe. But bicause nature hath so prouided, that neither with them we can liue and passe our time conueniently, nor yet by any meanes be without them satisfied, we ought rather to make preparation, for perpetuall health, then for short pleasure." With which wordes, diuers of the Romaines were displeased, and founde fault with Metellus who (for that he went about, to exhorte the people to mariage) ought not by any meanes, to confesse any griefes and incommodities to be in the same. But in these wordes he seemed rather to disswade and terrefie, then to perswade and incourage; but contrarely he ought, rather to haue affirmed no sorowes and perplexities, to be in wedlocke, and if perchaunce any chaunced to be, they were but light, and easie to be borne and suffered, which for greater commodities and pleasures, might full well be forgotten, and those that were, happed not through natures vice, but by the default and ill behauiour of some maried folke. Howbeit, Titus Castritius supposed that Metellus spake well and worthely. "For (said he) a Censor ought to speake like a Censor, a Rhetorician like one that professed Rhetorike: it is giuen to Rhetoricians, to vse false sentences, bolde, subtile and captious: if so be, they be likely, and may by any action moue the hartes of men." Moreouer he sayde, "that it was a shame for a Rhetorician, in an euil matter, to leaue out any thing vntouched." "But truely Metellus (quoth he) is a holy man indued with grauitie and fidelitie, and that it was not decent for so honorable a personage, as he was, to speake any thing to the Romaine people, but that hee thought to be true, and likely to seme true to all men: specially sithe he intreated of such a matter, as by daily knowledge, common experience, and frequented vse of life, might well be comprehended and knowen. Therfore in geuing to vnderstande, a griefe notorious to al men, he hath deserued by that oration, a fame of a diligent and faithfull man, bicause (to be short) he easely and redely perswaded, that a citie can not prosper and continue, without the vse of Matrimonie, which of all things is most assured and true." This Titus Castritius was a teacher of Rhetorike in Rome, and in the same citie for declamation and teaching, was in greatest reputacion: a man of right great grauitie and authoritie: and of the Emperour Adrian, for his vertue and learning well estemed. THE FIFTEENTH NOUELL. _Of Lais and Demosthenes._ Phocion a peripatetique Philosopher, in a booke which he made, intituled Cornucopia, writeth this historie of Demosthenes and Lais the harlot of Corinthe, saying: that Lais by reason of her excellent beautie, and pleasaunt fauour, demaunded for the vse of her body, a great somme of money: vnto whom was resorte of all the ryche men of Graecia: but she woulde not admitte them to that facte, except they would first giue vnto her, her demaunde. The quantitie of whiche somme was exceading greate, whereof rose the prouerbe. _Non cuiuis homini contingit, adire Corinthum._ _Not euery man can well attaine To goe to Corinthe towne._ He that traueiled to Corinthe to Lais, not able to giue and bestowe, that somme vpon her went in vaine. To this woman that noble Philosopher Demosthenes secretly repayred, praying her to giue him leaue: but shee demaunding of him tenne thousand Denarios (amounting very nere to three hundred pounde of our money) astonied at the wantonnesse of the woman, and discouraged with the greatnesse of the somme, retourned backe again, saying: I come not to buye repentaunce so dere. THE SIXTEENTH NOUELL. _C. Fabritius and AEmillius Consuls of Rome, beyng promised that king Pyrrhus for a somme of money should be slaine (which was a notable enemie to the Romaine state) aduertised Pyrrhus thereof by letters, and of other notable thinges doen by the same Fabritius._ When Pyrrhus king of Epirus inferred warres vpon the Romaynes and was come into Italie, and there had prosperously fought, and atchieued the victory of two or three battailes, wherby the Romanes were brought to great distresse and most part of Italie had reuolted: one Timochares Ambraciensis, a frend of king Pyrrhus, secretely repaired to C. Fabritius then Consul, and told him, if he would giue him a reward, he would poyson the kinge, which hee said, he mighte easely bringe to passe because his sonnes, at table waited vpon king Pyrrhus cuppe. Hereof Fabritius wrote to the Senate requiring their aduise. The Senate depeached Ambassadours to the king commaunding them to saye nothing of Timochares, but to giue the kinge warning circumspectly to loke wel about him, to preuent such treason, as by those that were nerest him might be attempted. Thus much is written in the historie of Valerius Antiates. But Quadrigarius in the third booke, writeth that it was one Nicias and not Timochares, that went to Fabritius, and that those Ambassadours were not sente by the Senate, but by the Consuls, and that the kinge rendred praise and thanckes to the Romaines, restoring to them, all the prisoners, which he had taken. The Consuls that time were C. Fabritius and AEmilius. The tenour of which letters then sent to king Pyrrhus, the said Cl. Quadrigarius affirmeth to be this. "The Romaine Consuls send salutations to king Pyrrhus. We for thine iniuries, displeasures and wronges iustlie offended, for the valiaunte stomackes remayninge in vs, do studie and indeuour like enemies, to continue warres vpon thee: but it seemeth good vnto vs for the loue we beare to our faith, and for common example, to wishe thee well to do, whom by armes we be not able to vanquishe. There came vnto vs one Nicias, thy familiar frende, to demaunde rewarde of vs, if secretely he did kill thee: whiche we vtterlye denied, and required him for that fact, to loke for no reward at our hands. Whereupon wee thought good to giue thee aduertisement hereof, lest if any such thing did chaunce, the cities should not thincke that we were priuie to the fact: for wee delite not to fight with giftes, rewards and treason.--Thou in the meane time, except thou take heede, art like to die: Farewel." This was the aunciente order amonges the Romaines, that neuer were pleased by the cowardly ouerthrow of other, to winne fame and glorye. And because I rede an other excellente historie of the same Fabritius, I haue thought good to adde the same to this Nouell. When peace was concluded, betwene the Romaines and the Samnites, the Ambassadours of the Samnites repaired vppon a time to this Fabritius, who after they had remembred vnto him diuers and sundrie thinges, frendlye done in their behalfe, they offered vnto him for reward, a great summe of money, intreating him to receiue the same: which the Samnites did (as the report was) because they sawe, that he wanted many thinges, for the furniture of his house and maintenaunce, thinking the same also not to be sufficiently decente for his estate and calling: which Fabritius perceyuing, with his bare handes, hee touched his eares and eyes, and then strooked his face downeward, his noase, his mouth and throate, and the rest of his bodie, to the bottome of his bealie, answearing the Ambassadours in this wise. "That whiles hee was able to rule and gouerne all those members which he touched, he was sure to lacke nothing: wherefore (quoth he) these members, which be profitable and necessarye for my vse, will not suffer mee to receiue this moneye, whereof they knowe I haue no neede." Hereby reprehending the foolish indeuour of these Samnites, in offring to him a bribe, which hee was neur accustomed to take for any cause, what soeuer he accomplished. Who stil shewed himselfe a man sincere and incorrupt. THE SEUENTEENTH NOUELL. _A Scholemaister traiterously rendring the noble mens sonnes of Faleria to the hands of Camillus, was wel acquited and rewarded for his paines and labour._ Warres were addressed by the Romaines against the Falisques (a people of Italye, the ruines of the chiefe citie wherof do yet appeare sixe miles from Viterba) and an armye conscribed and sent thether, vnder the conduct of Furius Camillus. The Falisques vppon the approch of the Romaines, were constrayned to retire within their citie, thinking the same to be their most assured refuge. And they to continue their siege, incamped a mile from the citie, and determined throughly to besiege it, which in deede had like to haue beene of verye long continuance except fortune had giuen to the Romaine Captaine, for his tried and well approued valiaunce, victorie in time, which chaunced after this maner. It was a custome amonges the Falisques (obserued also in these oure dayes) to haue their children instructed by one Scholemaister, and him also to vse for their guide and companion in all games and pastimes. Amonges theym there was a Scholemaister, which taughte noble mennes sonnes, who in the time of peace, teachinge those children, and vsinge for theyr exercise to leade them abroade in the fieldes, kepte still that order, for all the warres before the gates, sometime wyth shorte walkes, sometime wyth longer for their disportes: and continuinge varietie of talke wyth his schollers longer then he was wont to do, at length he brought them to the Romaine campe, euen to the tent of Camillus, hoping thereby (by like) to haue beene well welcomed, and liberally rewarded: saying to Camillus, as detestable woords as the facte was traiterous and wicked: which was in effect--"That he was come with that present vnto him, to yelde those children into his hands whose parents were the principall of that Citie: and therby knew for certainty that the citie would surrender." Camillus seeing that fact, and hearing those words, said vnto him. "Thou arte not come (villane) to a people and Captaine, with this thy trayterous offer, semblable to thy selfe. We haue no aliaunce with the Falisques confirmed by compacte or humaine promise, but amitie wherunto nature doth bind vs, is and shall be for euermore betweene vs. Warre so well as peace, hath his law and right: which we haue learned to obserue with no lesse Justice, then constancie. We make no warre against boies, whom wee spare, whensoeuer we inuade or take any cities: but against armed men we fight, yea, and against such, as without offence, or prouocation of our partes, assailed the Romaines campe at the siege of the Veiens. Thou hast vanquished them so much as lyeth in thee, with a new kinde of victorie atchieued by treason: but I will subdue them by pollicie of the Romaines, by vertue, indeuour and armes, euen as I did the Veiens." When he had spoken those wordes, he caused this trayterous scholemaister to be striped starke naked, and binding his handes behinde him, deliuered him to the children, with roddes in their handes, to whippe him home to the citie. When hee was in this order retourned, the people of the citie flocked together to see this sight. Then the magistrates assembled in counsaile, vpon this straunge occasion, and where before they were incensed with maruailous wrath and furie, rather desirous of vtter ouerthrow, then peace. Now their mindes were quite altered, and peace vniuersally demaunded. The fidelitie of the Romaines, and iustice of Camillus, both in Forum and Court was celebrated, and by general conformitie, Ambassadours were sente into the campe to Camillus, and from thence by Camillus sufferance, to the Senate of Rome, of purpose to yelde themselues to their gouernment, who being brought before the Senate spake these woordes. "Wee (fathers conscripte) vanquished by you and your Captaine, (where at neither God nor man oughte to be offended) haue yelded our selues to you, thinking that wee shall liue more happie, and better contented vnder your gouernmente, then by our owne lawes and liberties: a thing that maketh the victor more glorious and praise worthie, then anye other. By the successe of these warres, two holsome examples bee manifested to mankinde. Ye doe preferre fayth in warres before certaine victorie, and we, induced by that faith, haue of our owne accord, presented victorie unto you. We be at your commaundement: sende hither commissioners, to receiue our weapons, our pledges and our citie, which standeth with the gates wide open. We hope well, that neither ye shall haue occasion to be miscontented with oure fidelitie, nor wee offended with your gouernment and Empyre." For which facte greate thankes were attributed to Camillus, both by the Falisques and Romaynes. Here appeared the face and true Image of that greate vertue, Justice, wherewith this noble man was truly affected. His noble nature was not able to abide any trayterous fact, done by vnnaturall Citizens, toward their owne countrie. No vngratitude of his owne countrie men, could withdrawe his nature from the zeale and loue he bare to his countrie. His condempnation by vnkinde Apuleius Saturninus the Tribune, for which he fledde to Ardea, could not let or impeach his magnanimitie from giuinge the Galles an ouerthrowe when they had sacked Rome, and sharpely besieged the Capitole: who in his absence (created Dictator,) by gathering together such Romaines as were fledde, vnwares set vpon the couetous Galles, as they were in controuersie for paimente of a golden summe of money, and thereby restored his countrie to libertie. Wherefore worthely might he be intitled, with the honourable name of a second Romulus. For as Romulus was the first builder and peopler of that citie, so was Camillus the vindicator and deliuerer of the same. THE EIGHTEENTH NOUELL. _The Historie of Papyrius Pratextatus._ The same historie is written by Cato, in an oration which he made to his souldiours against Galba, contayninge in effecte as foloweth. The Senatours of Rome vsed before this time, to enter into the Senate house with their sonnes, Praetextatis, that is, in long robes garded about the skirtes with purple silke. When the Senate debated of graue and waightie matters, they euer deferred the same till the next day, forbiddinge that those causes should not be published, before they were throughly decreed. The mother of this yong gentleman Papyrius, which had been with his father in the Senate house, asked of him, what the fathers had done in the Senate house that day? Papyrius aunswered, that in any wise, he ought not to tell the secretes of the same. The mother more desirous to know then she was before, went about by faire meanes, foule wordes and correction, to vnderstand the secretes of the Senate, and the cause why the same were kept so silente. Wherefore she more earnestlye endeuoured to learne the same of her sonne. The yong man by compulsion of his mother, toke occasion to inuent a pleasaunt and mery lie, in this wise. "Mother (quoth he) the Senate doth deliberate and consult, whether it be more commodious and profitable for the common wealthe, that one man should haue two wiues, or whether one wife shoulde haue two husbandes." When the old Ladie heard this she was abashed, and in fearefull wise goeth to the other Ladies and matrones of Rome, tellinge them, where about their husbands did consult. The next day the women flocked together in great traines, and in lamentable wise repaired to the Senate, beseching them that one woman might rather be maried to two husbands, then two wiues to one man. The Senatours entring into the Court, marueyled what toyes were in the womens heads, to make that demaunde. The yong gentleman Papyrius stepped foorth, declaring how importunate his mother was, to know whereuppon they consulted the day before, and therefore he deuised that fained tale, to pacifie her desire. The Senatours hearing and perceyuing his good and honeste disposition, greatly commended and extolled his fidelity and witte. Howbeit, they made a lawe that from that time forth, none of their sonnes should come into the house with their father, but onely Papyrius. Who afterwardes receiued the surname of Praetextatus, to honour and beautifie his name, for his notable wysedome in keeping secretes, and holding his peace, in the time of that youthly age. THE NINETEENTH NOUELL. _How Plutarche did beate his man, and of pretie talke touching signes of anger._ Avlus Gellius demaunding of the Philosopher Taurus, whether a wise man could be angrie? Taurus after he had disputed much of that affection, turned to Gellius and said: "This is mine opinion of the angrie man: but what the Philosopher Plutarche iudgeth thereof, I thincke it not a misse to tell thee. Plutarche had a bondman which was an vnthrift and wicked verlet, but geuen to learning and to disputation of Philosophie, whom vppon a time he did beate, making him to put of his coate, and to be whipped, for what offence I know not: he began to beate him: the fellow cryed out, that he had deserued no cause, why he ought to be so beaten. At length in continuance of his beating, he gaue ouer his crying complaintes, and began to vtter earneste and serious woordes, saying. 'It was not Plutarche the Philosopher, that beate him: (he said) it was a shame for Plutarche to be angrie, and how he had heard him many times dispute of that vice of anger, and yet he had written a goodly booke thereof:' with manye such words. 'Why, (quoth Plutarche, with gentle and quiet debating of the matter:) thou lubbor, do I seeme to be angry with thee? Doest thou either by my countenaunce, by my talke, by my colour, or words, perceyue that I am angrie? Nether mine eyes be fierce, nor my mouth troubled: I cry not out a loude: I chaufe not in rage or fume: I speake no vnseemely woordes, whereof I take repentaunce: I tremble not. All which be signes and tokens of anger: which pretie notes of that vnseemely passion, ought to minister to all men, occasion to auoyde that vice.'" THE TWENTIETH NOUELL. _A pretie tale drawne out of the Larke of AEsope._ AEsope of Phrygia is not vnworthely demed a wise man. For so much as he admonisheth and perswadeth those thinges that be profitable, not seuerely or imperiously as Philosophers doe, but by pretye and pleasaunt fables he indueth the mindes of men with holsome and prouident instructions. As by this fable of the birdes neste, he pretily and aptly doth premonish that hope and confidence of thinges attempted by man, ought to be fixed and trusted in none other but in him selfe. A litle birde (saith he) called the Larke, builded her neste in a Wheate field, and when the Wheate was ready to be ripped, her yonge began to fledge. Therefore flyinge abroade to seeke meate for them, shee warned them that if there fortuned anye newes to be done or spoken in her absence, they should giue diligent heede thereunto, and to tell her when she retourned. Within a while after, the Owner of the corne called a yong man, his sonne, vnto him, (saying) "Doest thou see this Wheate now ripe and ready to be cut, lacking nothing but helpe to reape the same? Gette thee therefore to morowe in the morninge (so soone as the daye doth breake) vnto my frendes and neighbours, and praye them to come and helpe me in with this Corne:" and so departed. When the damme retourned, the yonge Larkes in trembling and fearefull wise, peping and chirping about their mother, prayed her to make hast to seeke some other place: for the owner of the Wheat had sent for his frends, to be there the next day by times to haue it in. Their damme bad them to be of good cheere: "If the owner (quoth she) do referre it to his frendes, I am sure the Wheate shal not be cutte downe to morowe, and therefore wee shall not neede to feare." The next day the damme flew abrode again for foode, and the owner waited at the houre appointed for his frendes. The Sunne was vp, whose beames shone hot, and nothing was done: his frendes came not. Then he said againe to his sonne: "Me thincke sonne (quoth he) our neighbours be slepers and tarrie long. Goe, call I pray thee, our kinsfolke and cosins, that they maye helpe vs to morowe betimes." Which saying the yong Larkes ones againe afraid, tolde their damme when she returned: the damme still perswaded them to be of good cheere and not to feare: "For kinsfolke in these dayes, be so slacke to do good deedes (quoth she) and to helpe their owne stocke and kinred, that they bee loothe to take paines, specially at so short and sodaine warning: neuerthelesse, faire byrdes, (quoth shee) harken what shalbe said againe and tell mee." The next morning the old Larke went forth againe for food and forage, and the kinsfolke and cosins came not, according to the owners request. At length the owner saide to his sonne: "Adieu my frendes and kinsemen: to morow in the morning, bring hither two Sickles, the one for mee, and the other for thy selfe, and wee with our owne hands, wil cut downe this Wheate." The mother Larke, hearing her yong ones tel this tale at her retourne: "Ye marie my babes (quoth shee) now it is time to be gone: for the thing whereof the owner hath spoken so long, shal now be done in deede, sith he purposeth to do the same himselfe, and trusteth to none other." Whereuppon the Larke toke vp her yong ones, and went to inhabite in some other place. And the corne accordinglye, was cutte downe by the owner. This fable AEsope reporteth, premonishing men to beware of lighte hope, and vaine truste, to be reposed in frends and kinsfolke. And the same Q. Ennius in his Satyres, very elegantlye in trim verses hath described the two laste, whereof worthie to be had in harte and memorie, I haue thought good to remember. _Alwayes fixe fast in breast, in prompt and ready wise: This prouerbe olde and true, a sentence of the wise: The thing do not expect, by frends for to atchieue: Which thou thyselfe canst doe, thy selfe for to relieue._ THE TWENTY-FIRST NOUELL. _A merie geste, vttered by Hanniball to king Antiochus._ Antiochus making great preparation and furniture, to inferre warres vpon the Romaines, decked his armie with Siluer and Golden Ensignes and Pendentes, wherein he had plentie of wagons, chariots and Elephantes with towers, his bande of horsemen glittered gloriouslie, with golden bridles, trappers, barbes, and such like. The king beholdinge, in glorious and reioysing wise, his gaye and beautifull armie: loked towards Hannibal, and said: "How saiest thou Hannibal? thinkest thou that these thinges be not ynough and sufficient to match with the Romaynes?" Hannibal mocking and deluding the cowardnes and weakenes of his souldiours, clad in those precious and costlie furnitures, saide. "All these thinges be ynough and ynough againe for the Romaines, although they were the most couetous men of the world." The king vnderstoode Hannibal, that he had meant of the nomber of his souldiours, and of their brauerie. But hee meant of the pray and spoile, which the Romaines should winne and gette. THE TWENTY-SECOND NOUELL. _The marueilous knowledge of a Lion, being acquainted with a man, called Androdus._ There chaunced to be certaine playes and games at Rome, wher were many monstruous and cruel beastes: but amonges all those beastes, the hugenesse and cruell aspectes of the Lions were had in greatest wonder, especially of one: which Lion was of an huge and greate bignesse, hauinge a terrible voyce, his clawes stretched forth, his bristles and heare vprighte, beholdinge with his fierce and deadly eyes, all the multitude standing by. There was brought in to fight with the lion amonges al the rest, one Androdus a Dacian borne, the bondman of a great personage, of the Consular order, whom the Lion beholding a farre of, sodenly stoode still: and afterwards by litle and litle, in gentle sort he came vnto the man, as though he had knowen him: Wagging his taile like a Spaniel fawning vpon his maister, and licked the handes and legges of the poore felow, which for feare was almost dead. This Androdus perceyuing the flatteries of this fierce beast, recouered comforte, and earnestly viewed and marked the Lion. Then they began to enter into mutual acquaintaunce, one reioycing at an others meting. Upon which straung euent, the people raysed great shoutes and acclamations: wherupon Androdus was called before the Emperoure, and demaunded the cause, why that most cruell beast did in that sorte, fawne and fauour him aboue all other. Androdus tould a maruaylous and straunge historye of the cause thereof, saying: "If it please your Maiestie, when my Lorde and maister did by the office of Proconsull gouerne Africa, I throughe his causelesse stripes and dailye whippinges, was forced to runne awaye. And when I had gotten pardon of the liefetenaunte of that countrie, to remaine there, I withdrew my selfe into the deserts and voide places: and lacking meate to ease the paine of hunger, I determined by some meanes, to seeke mine owne death. It chaunced about the midde of the day, when the Sunne was feruent hot, I entred into a Caue, which was farre from habitation, verye wide and large. Whereunto, within a while after, this Lion resorted, hauing one of his feete bloudie and hurt: for paine whereof, he vttered much mone and sorrow, bewayling the griefe, and anguishe of the sore. When I saw the Lion my hart began to quake for feare, but beinge come in, as it were into his owne habitation (for so it shoulde appeare,) perceyuinge me to go aboute to hide myselfe a farre of, he like a milde and gentle beast came vnto me, holding vp his foote, reaching the same to me, as though he desired helpe and reliefe at my handes. Wherewithall I plucked out of his foote a stubbe, which stucke betweene the pawes thereof, and taking a litle salue, which I had in my bosome, I thrust it into the bottome of the wounde, and diligently without any further feare, I dryed vp the wound, and wiped away the bloud thereof: wherewith the lion being eased, resting his foote in my handes, he laye downe to refreshe him selfe. From that day duringe the space of three yeares, the Lion and I continued together, and liued with like fare: the fattest and best morsels of those beastes, which he prayed, he did euer bring me into the Caue: which meate because I had no fire, I rosted in the heate of the Sunne, and did eate the same with good stomacke. But when I began to waxe weary of that kinde of diet, vpon a time the Lion being abroad, I forsoke the Caue, and trauailing almost the space of three dayes, I was espied and taken of the souldiours, and brought home to my maister out of Africa to Rome: who immediatlie condempned mee to be deuoured of beastes. And now I perceiue that this lion sithens I lefte his companie is taken, and doth acquite that good tourne and cure, which I shewed him then." The people hearing the discourse of this straunge fact, made suite that the felow might be pardoned, and set at libertie: and the Lion by generall voyce was giuen vnto him for reward. Afterwards Androdus caried the Lion abrode the citie in a litle corde, and had muche money giuen him: and the Lion was decked and beautified with flowers, and euery man that met them, did vse to say:--"This is the Lion the frend of this man, and this is the man, the Phisition of the Lion." THE TWENTY-THIRD NOUELL. _A pretie disputation of the philosopher Phauorinus, to perswade a woman not to put forth her child to nursse, but to nourishe it herselfe with her owne milke._ It was told to the Philosopher Phauorinus, that the wife of one of his Sectators and scholers was brought a bedde of a sonne. "Let vs go (quoth Phauorinus) to visite the childwife, and to gratulate the father for the ioy of his sonne." When they were entred the house, after hee had saluted the good man, according to the custome, he asked the wife how she did, and prayed the Gods to sende her good footing, and then inquired of her trauel, and painfull panges. When he vnderstode that her trauel was greate, and her bodye weake with watchinge, howbeit somewhat comforted with sleepe which she had taken, he determined to enter into further talke. "I doubt not gossip (quoth he) but that you purpose to nourish your sonne your selfe." The mother of the woman hearing him say so, began to pray pardon, and said, that her doughter might not both sustaine paine in the birth, and also trouble to nourish it herselfe. "I pray thee mother, said Phauorinus, to suffer thy doughter to be the whole and intire mother of her owne sonne. What kinde of halfe and vnperfecte mothers be they, which so sone as they be deliuered do, against nature, by and by thruste the child awaye from them? Can they nourishe with their owne bloud, the thing which they see not, and wil they not vouchsafe to bestow their milke vppon that, which is now a lyuing creature, crying out before their faces for the mothers helpe, and dutie? O thou vnkinde woman, doest thou thincke that nature hath giuen thee two breastes for nothinge els, but to beautifie and adorne thy bodie, and not to giue sucke to thy children? In like sort many prodigious and monstruous women, haue dried vp and extinguished that moste sacred fountaine of the body, the educatour of mankinde: not without peril of their persons: as though the same were a disgracing of their beautie and comlinesse. The like also some do attempt by deuises and subtile secretes to extrude theyr conceptions, that the swelling of their body might not irrigate and wrinckle their faces, and that their paineful labours and great burdens, do not make them looke olde in their youthly dayes. And like as it is generally to be abhorred, that man in his first beginnings, (when he is fashioned and inspired with life, and in the handes of the cunning and wise woman, dame Nature,) should be killed and slaine: euen so with not much lesse detestation it is to be had and compted, when he is perfecte and borne and the childe of thine owne bloude, to be depriued from his due sustenance. But it is no matter (wil som say) with whose milke hee be nourced, so hee receiue milke and liue. The like may be said to that man which is so dull in perceyuing the prouidence of nature, that what matter had it been in whose bodye, and with whose bloud, he himselfe had been formed and brought into light. Hath not she which nowe respireth, and with beauty waxeth white and fayre, the same bloud now in her breastes, which was before remayninge in her wombe? Is not the wysedome of nature manifest in this, that after the cunning workman the bloud, hath framed in the inward parts euery body of man, straight way when the time of byrthe approcheth, the same bloude infudeth himselfe into the vpper partes, and is readie to nourishe the rudimentes of lyfe and lighte, offeringe acquaintaunce and familiar sustinance to the new borne? Wherefore in vaine is not that report and beliefe, that like as the force and nature of the generation seede is able to shape the similitudes of the mind and body, euen so the qualities and properties of the Milke, do auayle to like effect. Which thinge is not onelye marked in men, but also in brute beastes. For if Kiddes be sockled vp wyth Ewes Milke, and Lambes wyth Goates, the woll of thone will grow more rough and hard, and the heare of the other more tender and soft. In trees also and fruites, there is for the most part, a greater force and power in the nature of the soile and water where they grow, eyther for the pruning and planting, then there is if straunge impes and seedes be grifted and sowen there. And many times you see, that a fruitfull tree, caried and set in an other place, decayeth, throughe the nature of the ground more barren. What reason is this then, to corrupt the noble nature of this borne childe, whose body and minde, is well begunne wyth naturall beginninges to infect the the same wyth the degenerate food of straung Milke. Specially if she to whom you shall put forth this childe to giue sucke, be eyther a bonde and seruile woman, and (as commonly it chauncheth) of a forren and barbarous nation, be she wicked, ill fauoured, whorish or drunken. For diuers times without difference, children be put foorth to suche Noursses, whose honestie and conditions, in the tyme of the putting foorth, be vtterly vnknowen. Shall we suffer therefore, this our infant to be corrupted with pestiferous milke? Shall we abyde a newe nature and spirite, to bee renued in his mynde and bodye, deriued from that whiche is moste vile and wicked? Muche like to the same, whiche many tymes wee see and wonder, howe diuers chyldren borne of chaste and honest women, haue bodies and qualities farre discrepant from their honest parentes. Wherefore very trimlie and cunningly Maro folowing Homeres verses, doth say, speaking of the cruel nature of Achilles: _Sir Peleus that gentle knight, was not thy father sure, Nor yet thy dame faire Thetis was whose grace the Goddes did lure: The raging Sea, and stonie rockes, did bring thee forth to light: Thy nature is so bloudie bent, so fierce in cruell fight._ He did not herein reprehende the birth of Achilles, but the nature of the cruell and sauage beaste that broughte him vp; for he added this of his owne. _And the Hircan Tigres did giue him sucke._ And truely the condicion of the Noursse, and nature of the milke, disposeth almost the greater part of the childes condition, whiche (notwithstanding the fathers seede, and creation of the bodie and mynde, within the mothers wombe) doth nowe in the beginning of his nouriture, configurate and frame a newe disposition in him. Moreouer who can saye the contrarie, but that such women as put their children from them, deliuering them to bee nourced of other, doe cut of, naye, rather doe wype awaye and extinguyshe, that bande and increase of mynde and affection, that doeth consociate and ioyne in nature, the parentes towarde their children. For when the childe is put forth to an other place and remoued from the mothers sighte, the vigor and tendernesse of her affection, is by litle and little forgotten, and out of memorie, and the derest care of her tender babe, groweth to vtter silence. The sending awaye of the chylde to an other Nourice is not muche inferiour to the forgetfulnesse that chaunceth when death dothe take it awaye. Agayne, the affection, the loue, and familiaritie of the chylde, is prone to her that giueth it sucke. And so as it is euidently seene in them that be put foorth, the chylde taketh no knoweledge, or desire of the owne mother, that brought it forth. Therefore, when the elementes and beginnings of natural pietie and loue be ones abandoned and defaced, howe soeuer suche children, in that sorte brought vp, shall seeme to loue the parentes, yet for the moste part, it is no pure and naturall affection, but rather a suposed and Ciuile loue." Thus this noble Philosopher giueth counsayle to euery good mother, not to be ashamed or grieued, to bringe vp her childe with her own Milke, after her greatest payne past, whom before with her owne bloud, she disdained not to feede in her owne bodie. THE TWENTY-FOURTH NOUELL. _Of Sertorius a noble Romaine capitaine._ Like as in a good captaine, chosen out by any prince and monarche, to serue in his warres and exploytes, manhode and valiaunce is to be desired and wished: euen so in the same a politique minde, to forecaste and preuente, as well the saufetie and good gouernement of his owne charge, as the anoyaunce of the enemie is to be desired. Cicero in his oration _Pro lege Manilia_, affirmeth fower thinges, mete to be in a Generall or Lieutenaunte. That is to saye: _Scientia rei militaris, virtus, authoritas, f[oe]licitas_, Knowledge of warfare, Manhode, Authoritie, and good Fortune. Knowledge and experience, in choyce of his souldiours, in trayning the ignoraunt, in lodging the campe, in politique order howe to dispose the Scoutes and watche, in making the approche, and defence of the armie lodged, with other necessarie orders, incident to the same. In manhode, boldlie to aduenture, warely to retire, paciently to suffer misfortune, hardly to lie, sparely to fare, stoutlie to abide stormes and colde weather. In authoritie wiselie to gouerne, gently to speake, iustly to threaten, deseruedly to punishe, mercifully to forgiue, liberally to deuide, and louingly to be obeied. And in felicitie and good successe, to honour God: to be faithfull to the prince, to preuente the enemy, not to triumphe before the victorie. To be constant in froward fortune, and coragious in extremitie. Al which and many other, are very mete and requisite in him, that shalbe put in trust, by his soueraigne Lorde or Ladie, to aduenture the painful charge of a Deputie, General, Lieutenaunt, or Captaine. Whereof, or in the chiefest of the same this noble gentleman Sertorius, a captaine of the Romaine citie, in time of Marius and Sylla, when the citie of Rome were at ciuile discention, had greate skil and knowledge. For besides his experience in the warres (as Plutarche saith in his life) hee was very abstinente from pleasures, and continente in other disorders, a rare thing in men of his calling. But because I purpose not to staye in the full discourse of his vertues and qualities, I meane but to touche in this Nouell, so muche as Aulus Gellius (in whom I am now conuersant) doth of him make remembraunce. Referring the studious reader, desirous to know the state of his life and doinges, to the plentifull recorders of such memorable and worthie personages: Plutarche _de vitis illustrium_, and Appianu's _de ciuili Romanorum bello_. Which beinge Greeke authours, be very eloquently translated in the Latine, thone by Gulielmus Xilander 1561, and thother by Sigismundus Gelenius 1554. This Sertorius was of a pregnaunt witte, and therewithall a noble Captaine, very skilfull in the vse and gouernement of an armye. In distresse and harde aduentures hee practised for pollicie, to make lies to his souldiours, to proue if they coulde preuaile. He vsed counterfait letters, to imagine dreames, and to conferre false religions, to trye if those thinges could serue his tourne, in comforting and couraging his souldiours. Amonges al the factes of Sertorius, this insuing was very notable and famous. A white Stagge of exceeding beauty and liuely swetenesse, was giuen vnto him by a Lusitanian: He perswaded euery man, that the same was deliuered vnto him by the Goddes, and how the Goddesse Diana had inspired that beaste to admonishe and teache what was meete and profitable: and when he wente about to cause his souldiours to aduenture anye hard and difficile exploit: he affirmed, that the Stagge had giuen him warning thereof, which they vniversally beleued, and willingly obeyed, as though the same had been sent downe from the Gods in deede. The same Stagge vpon a time, when newes came that the enemye had made incursion into his campe, amased with the haste and turmoile, ranne awaye and hid him selfe in a marishe harde adioyning. Afterwardes being sought for, hee was supposed to be dead. Within fewe dayes after, tidinges was brought to Sertorius that the Stagge was founde. The messenger was commaunded by him to holde his peace, and threatened to be punished, if he did disclose it. The next day, the same messenger was appointed sodainly, to bring the Stagge into the place, where he and his frendes, did consulte together. When they were assembled he tolde them howe the daye after that he had lost his Stagge, he dreamed that he was come againe, and according to his custome, tolde him that was needefull to be done. Then Sertorius making a signe, to haue the order fulfilled, whiche he had geuen the daye before, by and by the Stagge brake into the chamber. Wherewithall a great shoute was made, and an admiration raysed of that chaunce. Whiche credulitie of the barbarous countries, serued Sertorius tourne in his weightie affaires. A worthy matter also, is to be remembred of him, that no Souldiour that euer serued him, of those vnciuile countries (that tooke his part) did neuer reuolte or forsake him, although those kinde of people be moste inconstant. THE TWENTY-FIFTH NOUELL. _Of the bookes of Sybilla._ In auncient Chronicles, these things appere in memorie, touchinge the bookes of Sybilla. A straunge and vnknowen old woman, repaired to the Romaine kyng Tarquinius Superbus, bearing in her armes nine bookes, which she sayde were deuine Oracles, and offered them to be solde. Tarquinius demaunded the price. The woman asked a wonderfull somme. The king making semblaunce as though the olde woman doted, began to laughe. Then shee gotte fyre in a chafing dishe, and burned three bookes of the nyne. She asked the kyng again, if he would haue the sixe for that prise, wherat the king laughed in more ample sorte, saying: "that the olde woman no doubt did dote in deede." By and by she burned other three, humbly demaunding the king the like question, if he would buye the reste for that price. Wherevpon the kyng more earnestlye gaue hede to her requeste, thinking the constante demaundes of the woman not to be in vain, bought the three bookes that remained for no lesse price, then was required for the whole. Therewithall the woman departed from Tarquinius, and was neuer seene after. These bookes were kept in the Capitole at Rome, whereunto the Romaines resorted, when they purposed to aske counsayle of the Goddes. A good example for wyse men to beware, howe they despyse or neglecte auncient bookes and monumentes. Many the like in this Realme haue bene defaced, founde in Religious houses, whiche no doubte woulde haue conduced great vtilitie and profite both to the common wealth and countrie, if they had bene reserued and kepte, whiche bookes by the ignoraunt, haue ben torne and raised, to the great griefe of those that be learned, and of them that aspire to learning and vertue. THE TWENTY-SIXTH NOUELL. _A difference and controuersie betwene a maister and a scholler, so subtile that the iudges coulde not geue sentence._ Diuers thinges be written, whiche although they seme of litle importaunce, yet they be wittie and comfortable to recreate honest mindes and deserue to be had in remembraunce. Emongs whiche Aulus Gellius (who reporteth tenne of the former Histories, selected out of his booke _De noctibus atticis_) remembreth this pretie controuersie. In Athenes there was a yong man, called Euathlus, who being desirous to be an Orator, and a pleading Aduocate, to the intent he might postulate, according to the accustomed maner of Athenes in those daies, accorded vpon a price, with a renowned Oratour named Protagoras, that he should instruct him that arte, for a price agreed vpon betwene them, vpon condicion that the Scholler should pay the one half of the money before hande vnto his maister, and the reste at such time as he should proue to be an Aduocate, so well instructed, as the first matter, which he did pleade, he should obtaine sentence on his side, and gayne for his labour and industrie. But if sentence were pronounced against hym, he should not be bound to paye the same. Vppon this conclusion, the Maister taughte hym with greate diligence, the vttermoste of his knowledge in that arte. The Scholler againe learned and receyued his teaching, with greate prompitude and readinesse of witte. When Protagoras hadde taught him the vttermost of his knowledge: the Scholler Euathlus, to defraude hym of the reste of his money, determined neuer to be Aduocate, whose craft Protagoras perceiuing, cited him by writte, to appeare before the iudge, to aunswere the reste of the bargaine. When they were both come in the Iudges presence, Protagoras spake to his scholer in this wyse: "Euathlus, the bargaine betweene vs, thou canst not chose but confesse and acknowledge, whiche in effect is this. It was agreed that I should teache thee, the arte of pleading, and in the first matter whiche thou diddest pronounce and sentence giuen on thy parte, thou shouldest paye me the other halfe of the money (for the first moitie I receiued before hande) and nowe to auoyde the satisfaction thereof (although thou knowest, that I haue full well deserued it) thou to defraude me of my duetie, refusest to be an Aduocate. But I wil tell thee, this thy determination is but vayne and frustrate: for I haue intangled thee in suche nettes, as thou canst not escape: but by one meane or other thou shalt be forced to pay mee. For if the Iudge doe condempne thee, then maugre thy head thou shalt be constrayned: and if contrariwyse sentence be giuen on thy side, thou shalt be likewyse bounde to paye me, by thy verie couenaunt, sithens thou art bounde, when thou pleadest first, and sentence should be giuen in thy behalfe. Doe nowe then what thou liste, for in fine thou fhalt be forced to paye me, in despite of thy teethe." All the assistantes held with Protagoras, affirming his suite to be very reasonable. Notwithstanding Euathlus with a bolde spirite, aunswered for him selfe in this maner: "Sir Protagoras, it semeth vnto you that I am conuicted, but staye a whyle and giue me leaue to speake: and then you shall perceiue in what wyse I will confounde your argument. Here you haue brought your action against me, wherof I truste vpon my reasonable answere before the Iudges, to be discharged. For if by this your pleading, by circumstaunces and arte of an Oratour, whiche you haue vsed in all your discourse, the matter shall fall so out as sentence be giuen on your side, then the bargayne made betwene vs is voyde and of none effecte, bicause I losing the profite of my firste pleading: wherein by our agrement sentence should be geuen on my behalfe, the same bargaine is not accomplished. For you should be payde the moitie of the money behinde, with that commoditie, which I did gayne by my first pleading: for whiche cause, there is no reason but I must bee discharged of your demaunde." After this debating of the matter, the Iudges wayed with argumentes of both parts whiche semed so doubtfull vnto them, that knowing not howe to giue sentence, they suspended the processe. The same Aulus Gellius, reciteth an other lyke question, whiche hee referreth to Plinie, as the firste authour thereof. There was a lawe (sayeth hee) in a certayne citie, that what so euer hee were, that committed any valiaunte facte of armes, the thyng that he demaunded, whatsoeuer it were, should be graunted vnto him. It chaunced that a certayne persone did this worthy acte, and required that a man's wife (whom he derely loued) should be giuen vnto him: whiche wyfe by force and vertue of the lawe, was accordingly deliuered. But afterwardes the man, from whome his wyfe was taken, did the lyke facte, and demaunding his wyfe to be redeliuered vnto him agayn, sayde vnto him that had her: "If thou wilt obserue the lawe, thou must of force deliuer vnto me, my wyfe, but if thou do not like the lawe, thou oughtest yet to render her vnto me, as mine owne." The other aunswered him in like sorte: "If thou obserue the lawe, this woman is myne, for I haue first wonne her by the lawe: but if thou do not approue the lawe, thou hast no right to demaunde her, shee nowe being myne." THE TWENTY-SEUENTH NOUELL. _Seleucus king of Asia, gaue his wife to his owne sonne in mariage, being his mother in lawe: who so feruently did loue her, that he was like to die, whiche by a discrete and wyse inuention, was discouered to Seleucus by a Phisition._ Although the wyse Philosopher Plutarche, elegantly and brieflye describeth this historie, in the life of Demetrius: yet bicause Bandello aptlye and more at large doth discourse the same, I thought good to apply my pen to his stile. Who saith that Seleucus king of Babylon, a man verie victorious in battaile, was amongs the successors of Alexander the great, the moste happie and fortunate: He had a sonne called by his father's name Antiochus. After the deceasse of his wife, his sonne increased and gaue great hope of valiaunce in future time, to become a valiant gentleman worthy of suche a father. And being ariued to XXIIII. yeres of age, it chaunced that his father fell in loue with a very faire yonge gentle woman, discended of great parentage (called Stratonica) whom he tooke to wife, and made her Queene, and by her had one sonne. Antiochus seing his mother in lawe, to be (besides her great beautie) a curteous and gentle Lady, began to be very amerous of her, whose hart war so set on fire (without apparent shew) that incredible it is to expresse the loue that he bare her. And yet he thought that loue to be vnnaturall because she was his father's wife, and therefore durst not discouer it to any man. And the more secrete he kept it the more the heate began to boile and consume him. But bicause he sawe that loue had fixed so deepe footing, that he was not well able to retire, hee determined after long sorow and great turmoile, to seke some quiet hauen to reste his weather beaten barke, that had ben tossed with the waues of pensife and sorowfull cogitacions. His father had many kingdomes and Prouinces innumerable vnder his Empire. At whose handes Antiochus craued licence to visite some of them for his disport and recreation, of purpose to proue if he could auoide that vnseasonable loue, wherewith his hart was suppressed. But he was no soner out of his father's house, but his harte was vexed with greater tormentes then before, being depriued from the sight of faire Stratonica, whose presence did better content him, then all the pleasures and sportes of the worlde. Neuerthelesse, desirous to vanquishe his indurate affections, he continued abroade for a certaine time, during whiche space, vnable to quenche the fire, he led a more desolate and troublesome life, then he did before. In the end victorious loue toke him prisoner and caried him home againe to his father's house. Who seing the great loue that his father bare to his wife, and the ioyfull tyme that hee spent with faire Stratonica, transported into many carefull panges, many times complained to him selfe in this wise. "Am I Antiochus the sonne of Seleucus? Am I he that my father loueth so well, honoreth so much, and estemeth better then al his realmes and dominions? Alas if I be Antiochus in deede, the sonne of so louing a father, where is the duetifull loue, and bounden reuerence that I ought to beare vnto him? Is this the duetie of a sonne towardes his father? Ah wretche and caitife that I am. Whether hath grosse affection, vayne hope, and blynde loue caried me? Can loue be so blynde? Shall I be so voyde of sence, that I know not my mother in law from an other woman who loueth me no lesse, and entertaigneth me so wel, as if she were mine own mother, that laboured with painful panges, to bring me into light? Which being true, as it is most true, why then do I loue her? nay rather more then loue her. Why doe I seke after her? What meane I to hope for her? Why doe I precipitate so fondlye into the snares of blynde and deceiptfull loue, and into the trappe of deceiptfull hope? Can I not perceyue that these desyres, these vnstayed appetites, and vnbrydeled affections, doe proceade from that whiche is dishonest? I see well enough that the waye I take leadeth mee into great inconuenience. And what reproche should I sustayne, if this vnreasonable loue were made common to the world? Ought not I rather to suffer infamous death, then to see my father depryued of suche a wyfe, whome hee so derely loueth? I wyll giue ouer this vnsemely loue, and reuerting my mynde to some other wyght, I wyll accomplishe the duetie of a good and louinge sonne towardes his father." Reasoning thus with hym selfe, hee determyned wholly to giue ouer his enterpryse. And hee had no soner purposed so to doe, but sodaynly the beautie of the Lady appeared, as it were in a vision, before the face of his mynde, and felte the flames to growe so hotte, as hee, vppon his knees, craued a thousande pardons of the louing God, for the abandoning of his gentle enterpryse. And therewithal contrarie imaginations began to ryse, whiche so contended with mutuall resistaunce, as they forced hym thus to saye. "Shall not I loue this Ladie, because shee is my fathers wife? Shall not I prosecute my suite, for all that shee is my mother in lawe? Ah cowarde, fayntharted, and worthy to bee crowned a Prince of follye, if therefore I should giue ouer my former mynde. Loue prescribeth no suche lawe to her suters as pollicie doth to man. Loue commaundeth the brother to loue the sister, loue maketh the doughter to loue the father, the brother his brothers wife, and many times the mother, her sonne in lawe: whiche being lawfull to other, is it not lawful to me? If my father being an old man, whose nature waxeth cold, hath not forgotten the lawes of loue, in louing her whom I loue: shal I being a yong man, subiect to loue, and inflamed with his passions, be blamed for louing her? And as I were not blame worthy, if I loued one that were not my fathers wife, so must I accuse Fortune, for that she gaue her not to wyfe to an other man, rather then to my father, bicause I loue her, and would haue loued her, whose wyfe so euer she had bene. Whose beautie (to say the trouth is such) whose grace and comelinesse so excellent, that shee is worthy to be receiued, honoured, and worshipped of all the worlde, I thinke it then conuenient for me to pursue my purpose, and to serue her aboue al other." Thus this miserable louer, trauersing in seuerall mindes, and deluding his own fansie, chaunged his mynde a thousand times in an hower. In thende, after infinite disputations to him selfe, he gaue place to reason, considering the great disconuenience that would insue his disordinate loue. And yet not able to geue it ouer: And determining rather to die, then to yelde to such wicked loue or to discouer the same to any man. By litle and litle he consumed, as sleting snow against the warme Sone: wherwith he came to suche feble state, that he could neither slepe, nor eate, and was compelled to kepe his bedde, in suche wyse, that with superfluous paine he was brought to marueylous debilitie. Whiche his father perceiuing, that loued him very tenderly, conceiued great griefe and sorowe: and sent for Erasistratus, (which was a very excellent Phisition and of great estimation) whom very instantly he praied diligently to loke vnto his sonne, and to prouide for him such remedie as was conuenient for the greatnesse of his disease. Erasistratus viewyng and beholding all the partes of the yonge gentlemans body, and perceiuing no signe of sickenes, eyther in his vrine or other accident, whereby hee coulde iudge his body to be diseased; after many discourses, gaue iudgement, that the same infirmitie proceaded from some passion of the mynde, whiche shortelye woulde coste hym his life. Whereof he aduertised Seleucus. Who louing his sonne after a fatherly maner, and speciallye, because he was indued with vertue and good condicions, was afflicted with vnspeakeable griefe. The yong gentleman was a marueilous towarde youth, so actiue and valiaunte as anye that liued in his tyme, and therewithall verie beautifull and comely. Whiche made hym to be beloued of all men. His father was continuall in his chamber, and the Queene her selfe oftentimes visited him, and with her own handes serued him with meates and drinkes: whiche bicause I am no Phisition, I knowe not whether the same did the yong man any pleasure, or whether it did him hurt or good. But I suppose, that her sight was ioyfull vnto hym, as of her in whom he had placed his comfort, all his hope, quietnesse, and delight. But beholding before his eyes so many times the beautie of her whome so greatly he desired to enioye, hearing her speake that was the cause of his death, and receiuing seruice of meates and drinkes at her handes whome he loued better then the balles of his eyes: vnto whom he durst not make any request or praier, whether his grief surmounted all other, and therefore continually pined and consumed, I thinke it of reason to be beleued. And who doubteth but that he feling him self to be touched with those her delicate handes, and seing her to sitte by him, and so many times for his sake to fetche so many syghes, and with suche swete woordes to bidde hym be of good chere, and that if he wanted any thing to tell her, and praied him with pleasaunt woordes, to call for that he lacked, and that for his sake she would gladly accomplish what he desired: who douteth I say, but he was marueilously tormented with a thousande cogitations? Nowe conceiuing hope, and now dispaire, and still concluding with him selfe, rather to dye then to manifeste his loue. And if it bee a griefe to all yonge men, (be they of neuer so meane and base condicion) in theyr youthlye tyme, to lose their lyfe, what shall we thynke of Antiochus, beyng a younge man of freshe and flourishyng age, the sonne of a ryche and mightie kyng, that looked if hee escaped after the death of his father to bee heyre of all, did willingly craue death, of that small disease: I am assured that his sorowe was infinite. Antiochus then beaten with pitie, with loue, with hope, with desyre, with fatherly reuerence, and with a thousande other thynges (lyke a shyppe tossed in depest Seas) by litle and litle beganne to growe extremely sicke. Erasistratus that sawe his bodye whole and sounde, but his minde greuously weakened, and the same vanquished with sundrie passions. After hee had with him selfe considered this straunge case, hee for conclusion founde out that the yonge man was sicke of loue, and of none other cause. Moreouer he thought that many times, wise and graue men, through ire, hatred, disdaine, melancholie, and other affections, could easily faine and dissemble their passions, but loue if it be kept secrete, doth by the close keping therof, greater hurt then if it be made manifest. And albeit that of Antiochus he coulde not learne the cause of his loue, yet after that imagination was entred into his head, he purposed to finde it out by continual aboade with him, and by great diligence to obserue and marke all his actions: and aboue all to take hede to the mutacion of his poulces, and whereupon their beating did alter. This deliberation purposed, he sat downe by the bed side, and tooke Antiochus by the arme, and helde him faste where the poulses ordinarily do beate. It chaunced at that very instant, that the Queene Stratonica entred into the chamber, whom so sone as the yonge man sawe comming toward him, sodainly the poulse which were weake and feble, began to reuiue through mutation of the bloud. Erasistratus feling the renforcing of the poulce, to proue howe long it would continewe, he remoued not at the comming of the Queene, but still helde his fingers vpon the beating of the poulces. So longe as the Queene continued in the chamber, the beating was quicke and liuely, but when she departed, it ceased, and the wonted weakenes of the poulces retourned. Not long after the Queene came againe into the chamber, who was no soner espied by Antiochus, but his poulces receiued vigor, and began to leape, and so still continued. When she departed the force and vigor of the poulce departed also. The noble phisition seing this mutation, and that still it chaunced vpon the presence of the Queene: hee thought that he had founde out the cause of Antiochus sickenesse: but he determined better to marke the same the next daye, to be the better assured. The morowe after, Erasistratus satte downe againe by the yonge gentleman and took him again by the arme, but his poulce made no motion at all. The king came to see his sonne, and yet for all that his poulces were still: and beholde the Queene came no soner in, but sodainly they reuiued, and yelded suche liuely mouing, as if you woulde haue sayde:--"Yonder is shee that setteth my harte on fyre. Beholde where she is that is my life and death."--Then Erasistratus was wel assured and certaine that Antiochus was feruently inflamed with his mother in lawe, but that shame constrained him to conceale the hotte firebrandes that tormented him, and to keepe theim close and secrete. Certified of this opinion, before he would open the matter, he considered what way were best to geue knowledge therof to king Seleucus. And when hee had well debated of this matter, he deuised this waye: hee knew that Seleucus loued his wife beyonde measure, and also that Antiochus was so deare vnto him as his own life. Whereupon he thus sayde vnto the kyng. "Noble Seleucus, thy sonne is affected with a greuous maladie, and that (which is worse) I deme his sickenesse to be incurable." At whiche woordes, the sorowefull father began to vtter pitifull lamentation, and bitterly to complayne of Fortune. To whome the Phisition sayde.--"If it please you (my Lorde) to vnderstande the occasion of his disease, this it is: The maladie that affecteth and languisheth your sonne, is Loue: and the loue of such a woman, which except he enioy, there is no remedie but death." "Alas (quoth the kinge, weeping with bitter teares) and what woman is shee, but that I maye procure her for him, which am kinge of all Asia, and am able with intreatie, money, giftes, or other pollicie whatsoeuer, to make her obediente and willinge to my sonnes requeste. Tell me onely the name of the woman, that I maye prouide for my sonnes health, yea, thoughe it coste me all my goodes and realme to, if otherwise shee cannot be gotten: for if he die what shall I doe with my kingdome." Whereunto Erasistratus aunswered. "If it like your grace, your sonne is in loue with my wife, but because the loue of another man's wife seemeth vnto him vnreasonable, he dareth not to manifest it for shame, but rather wisheth to die, then to open his minde. Howbeit, I by certaine euidente signes, do well perceiue it." When Seleucus hearde these words, he said. "O Erasistratus! thou being so worthie a man, to whom fewe in goodnesse and humilitie be comparable, so deare and wel beloued of mee, and beareth the bruite to be the very hauen and harborough of wisedome, wilt thou not saue my sonne, which is a yonge man, nowe vppon the floure of his youth, and most worthy of life: for whom the empyre of all Asia is worthely reserued? O Erasistratus! the sonne of thy frend Seleucus, is thy king, who through loue and silence, is at the pointe of death, thou seest that for modestie, and honestie sake, at this his last and doubtfull passage, he had rather chose to die, then by speaking to offend thee, and wilte thou not helpe him? This his silence, this discretion, that his reuerence which hee sheweth, oughte to moue thee to compassion. Thincke my wel beloued Erasistratus, that if he loue ardently, that he was forced to loue: for vndoubtedly, if he could not loue, he would doe the best he could not to loue: yea, and with all his endeauour to resist it: but who is able to prescribe lawes to loue? Loue I knowe, not onelye forceth men, but also commaundeth the immortal Gods: and when they be not able to resist, what can man's pollicie preuaile? Wherefore, who knoweth not what pitie mine owne deare Antiochus doth deserue? who being constrained, can none otherwise do: but to be silent in loue, is a most euident signe of a noble and rare vertue. Dispose thy minde therefore, to helpe my sonne: for I assure thee that if thou do not loue the life of Antiochus, Seleucus life must needes be hated of thee: he cannot be hurt, but I likewise muste be touched with griefe." The wise Phisition, seing that his aduise came to passe as he thought before, and that Seleucus was so instant vpon him for the health of his sonne: the better to proue his minde and his intention, spake vnto him in this wise. "It is a common saying, my most dradde soueraigne Lord, that a man when he is whole, can giue to him that is sicke and weake, very good counsel. You perswade me to giue my welbeloued wife to another man, and to forgoe her whom I moste feruently doe loue, and in lackinge her, my life also must faile. If you do take from me my wyfe, you take with her my life. Doubtfull it is my Lord, if Antiochus your sonne were in loue with the queene Stratonica, your graces' wyfe, whether you would be so liberall vnto him of her, as you woulde that I should be of mine." "I would it were the pleasure of the Gods (sodenly aunswered Seleucus) that he were in loue with my best beloued Stratonica, I sweare vnto thee, by the reuerence that I haue always borne to the honourable memorie of my father Antiochus, and my graundfather Seleucus: and I sweare by all the sacred Gods, that freelye and forthwith, I would render her into his hands (althoughe shee be the dearest beloued vnto mee,) in suche wise as all the worlde should know what the dutie of a good and louing father ought to be to such a sonne, as is my intirely beloued Antiochus: whoe (if I bee not deceiued) is moste worthie of all helpe and succour. Alas! this is a great vertue, in concealing that notable passion as an earnest affection of loue: and is it not worthie to be consecrated to eternall memorie? Is he not worthie of all helpe and comfort? Doth hee not deserue to be pitied and lamented of all the worlde? Trulye he is worse then a cruel enemie, naye he is rather more fierce and vnnatural then a sauage beast, that at such moderate behauiour as my sonne vseth, wil not take compassion." Many other wordes the good father spake, manifestly declaring, that he for the health of his sonne, would not onely sticke to bestowe his wife, but also willingly his lyfe for his preseruation. Wherefore the Phisition thought it not good any longer to keepe secrete the cause, but toke the king aside, and said vnto him in this wyse. "The health of your sonne (my deare Lorde and Soueraigne) is not in my handes, but the same resteth in you, and in your wife Stratonica: whom (as I, by certaine signes doe manifestly know,) he ardentlie doth loue. Your grace now doth knowe from henceforth what to do, if his life be dere vnto you." And telling the king the maner of his loue, he ioyfully toke his leaue. The king now doubted but of one thing, which was how to perswade his sonne to take Stratonica to wife: and howe to exhorte his wyfe, to take his sonne to husbande. But it chaunced for diuers causes, that easelye ynough he perswaded them both. And perchaunce, Stratonica made a good exchaunge, in taking a yong man, to forsake him that was olde. After Seleucus had made the accord betwene his wife and his sonne, he caused al his army to assemble, which was very great: to whom he said in this maner. "My dere and louinge souldiours, which sith the death of Alexander the great, haue (with mee) atchieued a thousande glorious enterprises: I thincke it meete and conueniente that yee be partakers of that which I purpose to bringe to passe. Ye doe knowe that vnder mine Empyre, I have LXXII. kingdomes, and that I beinge an olde man, am not able to attende so greate a charge: wherefore (louinge companions) I purpose to deliuer and ridde you from griefe of idlenesse, and my selfe from trouble and toyle, reseruing to mee onely so much as lyeth betweene the Sea and the riuer Euphrates. All the rest of my dominions I giue to my sonne Antiochus, vppon whom in marriage, I haue bestowed my wife Stratonica, which thinge ought to contente you, because my will and pleasure is such." And when he had tolde them the loue and sicknes of his sonne, and the discrete deuise of the gentle Phisition, in the presence of all his armie, the mariage was celebrated betwene Stratonica and Antiochus. Afterwards he crowned them both kinge and Queene of Asia, and with royall pompe and triumphe, the desired mariage was consummate. The armye hearing and seing these thinges, very highly commended the pietie of the father towards his sonne. Antiochus then continued with his welbeloued wife in ioy and quietnes, liuing together in great felicitie. This was not hee that for matters of AEgipt did make warres with the Romaines: but he that onely inferred warres vpon the Gallatians, which out of Europa passed into Asia, out of which countrie hee chased them, and ouercame them. Of this Antiochus came Seleucus, which was father of Antiochus surnamed the great, that attempted very notable warres against the Romaines, and not his great graundfather, that maried his mother in law. Finally this Seleucus (of whom I recompt this historie) by giuing his wife to his sonne, did accomplish a miraculous act, and worthy (in deede) of sempiternall remembraunce, and greatlye to bee commended therefore, who although he had achieued infinite victories ouer his enemies, yet there was none of them all so great as the victorie of himselfe, and his passions. For certainly Seleucus did vanquish his owne appetites, by depriuing himselfe of his wife, whom hee loued and esteemed, aboue all worldly thinges. THE TWENTY-EIGHTH NOUELL. _Of the straunge and beastlie nature of Timon of Athens, enemie to mankinde, with his death, buriall, and Epitaphe._ Al the beastes of the worlde do applye theimselues to other beastes of theyr kind, Timon of Athens onely excepted: of whose straunge nature Plutarche is astonied, in the life of Marcus Antonius. Plato and Aristophanes do report his marueylous nature, because hee was a man but by shape onely, in qualities hee was the capitall enemie of mankinde, which he confessed franckely vtterly to abhorre and hate. He dwelt alone in a litle cabane in the fieldes not farre from Athenes, separated from all neighbours and company: he neuer wente to the citie, or to any other habitable place, except he were constrayned: he could not abide any mans company and conuersation: he was neuer seen to goe, to any mannes house, ne yet would suffer them to come to him. At the same time there was in Athenes another of like qualitie, called Apemantus, of the very same nature, differente from the naturall kinde of man, and lodged likewise in the middes of the fields. On a day they two being alone together at dinner, Apemantus said vnto him: "O Timon what a pleasant feast is this, and what a merie companie are wee, being no more but thou and I." "Naie (quoth Timon) it would be a merie banquet in deede, if there were none here but my selfe." Wherein he shewed how like a beast (in deede) he was: for he could not abide any other man, beinge not able to suffer the company of him, which was of like nature. And if by chaunce hee happened to goe to Athenes, it was onelye to speake with Alcibiades, who then was an excellente Captaine there, wherat many did marueile: and therefore Apemantus demaunded of him, why he spake to no man, but to Alcibiades. "I speake to him sometimes, said Timon, because I know that by his occasion, the Atheniens shall receiue great hurt and trouble." Which wordes many times he told to Alcibiades himselfe. He had a garden adioyning to his house in the fields, wherin was a Figge tree, wheruppon many desperate men ordinarily did hange themselues: in place whereof, he purposed to set vp a house, and therefore was forced to cutte it downe, for which cause hee went to Athenes, and in the markette place, hee called the people about him, saying that hee had newes to tell them: when the people vnderstoode that he was about to make a discourse vnto them, which was wont to speake to no man, they marueiled, and the citizens on euery parte of the citie, ranne to heare him: to whom he saide, that he purposed to cutte downe his Figge tree, to builde a house vpon the place where it stoode. "Wherefore (quoth he) if there be any man amonges you all in this company, that is disposed to hange himselfe, let him come betimes, before it be cutte downe." Hauing thus bestowed his charitie amonges the people, hee retourned to his lodging, wher he liued a certaine time after, without alteration of nature; and because that nature chaunged not in his life time, he would not suffer that death should alter, or varie the same. For like as he liued a beastly and chorlish life, euen so he required to haue his funerall done after that maner. By his last will, he ordeined himselfe to be interred vpon the sea shore, that the waues and surges might beate and vexe his dead carcas. Yea, and that if it were possible, his desire was to be buried in the depth of the Sea: causing an Epitaphe to be made, wherin was described the qualities of his brutishe life. Plutarche also reporteth an other to be made by Calimachus, much like to that which Timon made himselfe, whose owne soundeth to this effect in Englishe Verse. _My wretched catife dayes, expired now and past: My carren corps intered here, is fast in grounde: In waltring waues of swel- ling Sea, by surges cast, My name if thou desire, The Gods thee doe confounde._ THE TWENTY-NINTH NOUELL. _The mariage of a man and woman, hee being the husband of xx. wiues: and shee the wife of xxii. husbandes._ Men commonly do reproue the honour of widowes, because they being twise or thrise wedded, doe marrie againe: and albeit by outward apparaunce, they which soe blame them seeme to haue reason, yet no man ought to iudge the secrecie of the hart. Mariage is holy and ought be permitted, and therfore by any meanes not to be reproued. Although it cannot be denied, but that the chast life is most perfecte, notwithstanding, that perfection in nothing doth diminishe the other. The widowe marying againe doth not offende God by mariage, and to the world she committeth the lest faulte. And because, manye olde and aunciente widowes, in these dayes, may not after three or fower mariages be dismaied and terrified from that state, I will recite an Historie, auouched by S. Hierome, in an Epistle _Ad Gerontiam viduam de monogamia_, whom for his holines and vertue, wee ought to beleue. It is also pretely set forth by Pietro Messia de Seuiglia, an excellent authour, a gentleman of Spaine, in the 34 Chapter of the first parte of his worke, called _La Selua di varie Lezzioni_. S. Hierome sayth, that in the time of Pope Damasus, he sawe and knew in Rome, one woman lawfully maried to XXII. men, and was the widowe of XXII. husbands: there was also a man which had had XX. wiues, and was then the widower of the XX. Both which being free, and of equall state and condition, they made suite one to other: and that either of them might proue whether should be the victor, in buryinge ech other, they maried together, which mariage was in great admiration amonges the Romaines: who musinge which of them should die first, promised that at the funerall, they would beautie the corpes, both with their presence, and also with tokens of victorie. It chaunced (sore against her will I dare say) that the woman died first. At the celebration of whose buriall, all the Romaine husbandes laied their heades together, howe they mighte exornate and garnish the funeralles. They concluded, to goe before the corpes with Laurel garlands vppon their heades, singing verses of praise for the obtaining of such a victorious conquest. Now where the women went, I cannot tell: for I finde written, that _populus totius vrbis praecedebat feretrum_; wher _populus_, as I take it, signifieth the whole route of men and women. And yet I thincke womens' hartes coulde skarce aforde to go before: therefore I thincke they came behinde like mourners, bearinge braunches without leaues, their beades in their handes, praying for all christen soules. But giuing women leaue to mourne for such an ouerthrow, I woulde wishe all my frendes that be widowes, to folow the noble Romaine matrone and widowe called Annia, who (when her frendes and familiers, exhorted her to marie againe, because She was yong and beautifull) aunsweared that she would not. "For, quoth she, if it be my fortune to haue a good husband, as I had before, I shall still be afraied, lest death should take him away: but if it be my chaunce to matche with one that is euill, howe can I be able quietly to beare that, hauing had so good a husbande before." Declaringe thereby, that being ones well matched, great heede ought to be taken, how to chose the nexte, leaste in making hastie choise, leasure for repentaunce should folow. THE THIRTYETH NOUELL. _How Melchisedech a iewe, by telling a pretie tale of three kinges, saued his life._ Saladine, whose valiaunce was so great, that not onely the same from base estate aduaunced him to be Souldan of Babilon, but also thereby hee wanne diuers victories ouer the Saracene kinges and christians: who throughe his manifolde warres and magnificent triumphes, hauing expended al his treasure, and for th'execution of one exploite, lackinge a great summe of money, knewe not where to haue the same so redily as he had occasion to imploy it. At length he called to remembraunce a rich iewe named Melchisedech, that lent out money for interest in Alexandria, whose greedie and couetous nature was such, that with his good will he would not do it, and to force him the Souldan was very loth. Howbeit, compelled by necessity, he cast his wits about him to finde a meanes how the iew might serue his tourne, and thereuppon founde out a sleight and waye by a colourable force. Who causing the iew to be called before him, intertayned him familiarly, making him to sit downe besides him, and said to him these words. "Sir, I do learne by report of diuers, that you are verye wise and well learned in thinges touching God, for which cause I would gladly know of you which of the three lawes you iudge to be most sincere and true: the Iewishe law, the Saracene law, or the Christian lawe?" The Iewe which in deede was very wise, perceiued wel that Saladine went about to intrappe him in wordes, thereby to raise some quarell against him, and thought that it was not good for him to praise one of those lawes more then another, leste Saladine mighte take aduauntage of him. Wherefore, to make a wise and discrete aunswere that he might not be ouer shotte, he sharpened his wittes, and sodainly came into His remembraunce this aunswere. "My Lorde, the question which you haue proponed is excellent, and to declare vnto you that which I knowe, I muste tell you a tale, the better to open my meaninge, which if it shall please you to heare, is this. I doe remember (if I be not deceiued) that many times I haue heard tell, how vppon a time there was a Noble man which was very rich, and had amonges his other treasures, a verye beautifull ringe of great price and estimation: which for the valour and beautie, hee was very desirous perpetually, to leaue vnto his successors: willing and ordeining that the same sonne which should haue that ring by the gift of his father, after his decease, should be taken and reputed for his heire, and should be honoured and magnified of the reste as the chiefest. He to whom the same ring was left, obserued semblable order in his posteritie, and did the like that his predecessor had done before him. In short time, this Ryng succeded from hand to hand to many successors. And last of al it came to the hand of one that had three goodly sonnes, vertuous and very obedient to their father, who loued them all indifferently and in equall maner, which knowing the order for the disposition of that Ring, curious to be best esteemed and beloued, euery of them prayed his father so well as seuerally they could, (which then was aged) that when hee died he would giue him the Ring. The good man which loued one no better then another, knew not which of them to chose, to whom he might dispose it, and thought best to promise the same to euery of them to satisfie all three. Secretely he procured an excellente Goldsmith to make two other Rings, which accordinglye were made so like vnto the first, as the owner himselfe vnnethes knew one from the other. And when he was vpon his death bedde, he secretly gaue to euery of his sonnes a Ring. Who after the death of their father desirous to enter the inheritaunce and honour, one goinge about to displace another, euery of them to declare what title he had to enioy the same, brought forth his Ringe: and the ringes were founde so like, that the true Ring could not be knowen. Therefore the processe for the title remained in doubt and yet continueth till this daye. And so I say vnto you my Lord of the thre lawes giuen by God the father to those three people, whereof you haue made the question: euery of those Nations thinketh to enioy the inheritaunce of God, and to obserue the true lawe and his commaundementes: but which of them hath the truest law, that remaineth in doubt like the question of the Rings." Saladine perceyuing that Melchisedech knew right well how to auoide the snare which hee had laied for him: determined therefore to open and disclose vnto him his necessitie, to proue if he would do him that pleasure: which hee did, telling him his intent and meaninge, if he had not framed him that wyse aunsweare. The Iewe liberally lent him the summe of moneye that he demaunded, which Saladine wholie repaied vnto him againe, besides other very great rewardes that he gaue him, vsing him still for his frende, and afterwards maintayned him next his person, in great and honourable state. THE THIRTY-FIRST NOUELL. _One called Guglielmo Borsiere with certaine wordes well placed, taunted the couetous life of Ermino Grimaldi._ Longe sithens there was a gentleman at Genoua called M. Ermino Grimaldi, whoe as all men thoughte, was the richest of possessions and ready money within that citie, and therin farre excelled all other citizens which then were knowen in Italie. And as he did surpasse al other Italians in substance and wealth, so in auarice and wretchednes he surmounted beyond measure the most couetous and miserable of the worlde. For he kept his purse so close that he did not onely neglecte to do good to other, but also to himselfe, by sparinge many things necessary for his owne person: he indured much hardnes in meate and drinke because he would spend nothinge: contrary to the common custome of the Geneuois, who be wonte very nobly and honourably to maintaine themselues in apparell and fare. For which cause his surname Grimaldi deseruedly was taken away, and was called of euery man nothing els but M. Ermino the couetous. It chaunced in those dayes, that as he by spending nothing multiplied his goods. There ariued at Genoua an honest gentleman and well spoken, a Courtier of good interteignement, named Guglielmo Borsiere, (nothing like the Courtiers in these dayes that to their great shame, for their corrupt and rude maners would be called and reputed gentlemen, which in deede maye bee counted Asses, broughte vppe and noseled rather in the filthye conditions of the vilest menne, then in Courtes.) In those dayes Courtiers occupied themselues, in treatinge of peace and endinge of quarelles that bredde strife and dissention amonges gentlemen, or in makinge of mariages, amities, and attonementes, and with mery woordes and pleasaunt, did recreate troubled mindes, and exhilarated with pastimes other Courtiers, not with sharpe reprehensions, but like fathers rebuking the liues of the wicked, and that for no gaine or reward. Where some of the Courtiers of oure age do imploye their time, in ill reportes one of another, and do disseminate debate and strife, vtteringe a thousande vnhappie and vile wordes, yea and that (which is worst of all) in common audience. Their maner is to reproue and checke one an other with iniuries, reproches and nipping girdes, with false and deceiuable flatteries, villanously and dissemblingly, to begile poore and needie gentlemen. He is also the proprest man and best beloued of some great men of like conditions, and of them is best rewarded that can vse the vilest and most abhominable talke, or can do semblable deeds, which redoundeth to the great shame and dishonour, of the chiefe and principall that beare the swaie in Courte: proofe wherof is euident enough for that the vertues past, haue forsaken the presente sort, who liue in the ordure and filth of all vices. But to procede in that which I haue begon, (although vpon iust occasion I haue a litle more digressed then I thought,) I say that the foresaid Guglielmo Borsiere, was honoured and visited of the gentlemen of Genoua, who making his abode for a certaine time in the Citie, and hearing tel of the miserie and couetousnes of M. Ermino, had great desire to see him. M. Ermino hearing tell that this Guglielmo Borsiere was an excellente man, and therefore (although a couetous man) yet hauing in him some sparke of gentilitie, he receiued him with friendlye woords and good countenaunce, entringe into communication with him of diuers and sundrie matters, and in talking brought him with certaine other Citizens to one of his houses which was very faire and newe, where (after hee had shewed him his house) he said vnto him: "M. Guglielmo, you that haue seene and heard many things, can you shew vnto me any new deuise neuer seene before, that I may cause the same to be painted in the hall of this my house." To whom M. Guglielmo (hearing his fonde demaunde) aunsweared: "Sir I can shewe you nothing but that which hath beene knowen before, excepte Nesinges or such like. But if it please you sir I wil gladly teach you one, which I thincke you neuer saw." M. Ermino glad to heare of that, said: "I pray you sir tell mee what it is," (not thinking he would haue made that aunswere). To whom M. Guglielmo redely said: "Cause the figure of Liberality to be painted." At which aunsweare M. Ermino was so sodenlye ashamed, as he was forced to chaunge his minde in maner cleane contrarye to his accustomed vse, and trade of life, saying: "M. Guglielmo, I will cause the same to be painted in such wise, as neither you nor any man els, shall haue occasion iustly to obiect the same against me." And from that time forth (such was the force of that taunt) hee was the most liberall and bountefull gentleman that dwelte in Genoua, and one that honoured straungers and citizens more then euer did any in his time. THE THIRTY-SECOND NOUELL. _Maister Alberto of Bologna, by a pleasaunt aunsweare made a gentlewoman to blushe, which had thoughte to haue put him out of countenaunce, in telling him that he was in loue with her._ Not manye yeares paste there was at Bologna a notable Phisition, renowmed throughe out the whole worlde, called Maister Alberto, whoe beinge old, almost LX. yeares of age, had such an excellent wit, that although naturall heate was expired in his bodie, yet hee disdayned not to conceiue some amorous flames of loue. Seing at a banket a verye fayre gentlewoman a widowe called (as some saye) Madonna Margherita de Ghisilieri, she pleased his fansie so well, that he fixed her so fast in the siege of his remembraunce, as if he had been a yonge man of rype and youthlye yeares. In such wise as that nighte he coulde take no reste, if the day before hee had not seene the faire and beautifull face of this faire gentlewoman. For which cause sometimes a foote, and sometimes on horsebacke as he thought best, he continually vsed to passe before her lodginge, which was the cause that shee and diuers other gentlewomen did marke th'occasion of his ofte passing to and fro that waye. And many times they iested and dalied amongest them selues to see a man of such yeares and experience to be in loue, thinking that the displeasaunt passion of loue, could fasten no hold but in the fonde mindes of yonge people and no where els. Wherefore Maister Alberto daily passing to and fro the house of that gentlewoman, it chaunced vppon an holye daye, that shee sittinge with other dames before her doore, and sawe Maister Alberto a farre off, comming towards them, she with the rest determined curteously to receiue him, and reuerently to salute him, and afterwardes merely to talke and sporte of his loue, which accordingly they did. The gentlewoman rising vp conueyed him into a court, of ayre fresh and pleasaunt, where they caused to be brought forth excellent wynes and comfites, and in the ende with manye cherefull and pleasaunt woordes, one of them asked him how it was possible, he could be in loue with that fayre gentlewoman, speciallye sithens manye fayre and trimme yonge menne, did loue her. Maister Alberto perceyuinge himselfe touched and gested at, very honestlye aunsweared with smyling countenaunce: "Maistres, no wyse man whatsoeuer hee be oughte to marueile whye I am in loue, especiallye with you (lookinge vppon her whom hee loued) because your beautye and woorthines dothe well deserue the same. And althoughe naturally the forces which be incident to exercises of Loue, do faile and decaie in olde men, good wil therfore is not in them depriued, nor the iudgement in knowledge, the which ought to be beloued. But because they haue greater experience then yonge men haue, therefore by nature they better know the qualitie of loue. The hope that moueth mee an olde man to loue you, that is soe well beloued of yong men, is this: I haue many times been conuersaunte in places where I haue seene gentlewomen for their collation and pleasure after dinner, oftentimes to eate Lupines and Leekes, and albeit that in the Leeke, there is nothing good or holsome, yet the heade thereof is less hurtful, and most pleasaunt to the mouth, whereof generally (through a folish lust) ye women holde the heade in your hands and chawe the leaues, which not onely be euil and nought, but also of an ill fauoured smel and sauour. And what doe I knowe (maistres) if in the choise of your frendes ye do the like? which if ye do, no doubt it is I, whom you haue chosen to be your frende, and haue forsaken all other." This gentlewoman somwhat ashamed blushing with the rest, said: "Maister Alberto, you haue ful wel and curteouslye paied vs home, and aunsweared oure presumptuous obiection. Notwithstandinge I doe esteeme and accept your amitie and loue, as I oughte to regard the loue of a wise and honest personage. And so (mine honestie and honour saued) al that I haue to do you pleasure, is to be assured at your commaundement." Therewithall M. Alberto rose vp, thanking the gentlewoman, and with much sport and pleasaunt talke taking his leaue of the company departed. In this maner the gentlewoman giuing ouer her scoffes and tauntes, whereby she thoughte to putte Mayster Alberto out of conceyt, was put to silence her selfe. Whereof I (in the name of Pansilo Filostrato and Dioneo) by waye of intreatie do beseech yee Ladies, Pampinea, Fiammetta, Philomena, and other gentlewomen, to beware howe ye doe contriue your holy day talke, by waste wordes issuing forth your delicate mouthes, in carping, gauding, and iesting at young gentlemen, and speciallye olde men, and Maister Alberto of Bologna, that for loue like the grene stalkes or graye heades of Lekes, doe desire to sauer your mouthes, and by honest recreation and pleasure to gratifie your comlie personages, lest before the banket be done, and all the comfites spente, ye departe with blushing cheekes, hanging downe your heades, not shaming to looke your mother in the face from whence you came: I meane the earth. Where dame nature hath formed you by your comely grace, and your fayre face, to beholde eche man, and to vtter pleasaunt talke intermixed with honestie and vertue. THE THIRTY-THIRD NOUELL. _Rinaldo of Esti being robbed, arriued at Castel Guglielmo, and was succoured of a wydowe: and restored to his losses, retourning saulfe and sounde home to his owne house._ In the tyme of Azzo Marques of Ferrara, there was a marchaunt named Rinaldo of Esti, come to Bologna to do certaine affaires. Whiche when hee had dispatched, in retourning homewardes, it chaunced as he departed out of Ferrara, and riding towardes Verona, hee mette certayne men on horsebacke, whiche semed to be Marchauntes, but in verie deede were arrant theues: with whome he kepte companie, and without suspicion what they were, rode together familiarly talking. These good felowes seing this Marchaunt and thinking that he had money about hym, determined to robbe him, when they sawe their aduauntage, and to the intent he should not suspecte them, they rode lyke graue men of honest conuersation, debating with him of honest causes, and faithfull, shewing them selues counterfactely, to be lowly and gentle. Uppon whiche occasion, he thought him selfe moste happy that he had mette with such companie, because he and his seruaunt rode together alone. And as they were talking of diuers matters (as chaunceth in communication) they fel in talke of prayers, that men do make vnto God. And one of the theues (for they were three in nomber) sayd vnto Rinaldo: "And you gentleman, what praier bee you accustomed to saye, when you ryde by the waye?" To whom Rinaldo answered: "To tel you the truth, I am a man very playne, and rude in those matters, and I haue a fewe prayers at my fingers endes: suche as myne auncestours vsed before me. And I let go currant II. S. for XXIIII D. But neuerthelesse, I haue alwayes accustomed, when I ryde by the way, to say in the morning at my going forth of my lodging, a _Pater noster_ and an _Aue Maria_, for the soule of the father and mother of sainct Iulian: and after that, I pray to God and sainct Iulian, to sende me good lodging the night folowing. And full oft in my time I haue founde, in trauailing of Countries many great daungers, all whiche hauing escaped, it hath bene my fortune always (when night approched) to chaunce vppon good lodging: whiche maketh me stedfastly beleue that sainct Iulian (vnto whose honour I saye the same) hath obteined this benefite of God for me, and I thought that daye wherein I neglected, to saye in the morning that prayer, I could neither saulfely trauell, ne yet at night obtain good harborough." He that demaunded the question, asked him: "And haste thou said them this morning?" "Yea verely," answered Rinaldo. Then he whiche already knewe howe the matter would go, said to him selfe, thou shalt haue enough to doe anone, for if thou haue not sayde them this morninge, it may so happe that thou shalt lodge full ill this night. And afterwardes hee saide, "I haue likewyse trauayled in my dayes a great waye, and neuer said those praiers, but I haue heard many men greatly prayse them (although) I could neuer perceiue but that I haue bene well lodged. And peraduenture this night you shal proue, which of vs two shal haue best lodging, you that haue sayd them, or I which haue not said them. It is most true that I haue accustomed, in stede of that praier, to saye that verse _Dirupisti_, or the antheme _Intemerata_, or the _De profundis_, which are (as my graundmother did teach and instructe me) of verie great effecte and vertue." And speaking thus of diuers thinges, alwayes riding, expecting the place and time, to accomplish their wicked intent: it chaunced that approching nere to Castel Guglielmo, when they had passed ouer a ryuer, these three theues, late in the euening in a darke place, did sette vppon him and robbed him, dismounting him from his horse, and left him there in his shyrte. And as they were going awaye, they sayde vnto hym: "Goe and seeke if thy sainct Iulian, will helpe thee to good lodging this nighte, for our saincte wyll helpe vs to good." And repassing through the Riuer, they went their waye. The seruaunt of Rinaldo, seyng the theues sette vppon his maister (like a cowarde) helped him nothing, but tourned his brydle and neuer left galloping vntill he came to Castell Guglielmo: where because it was nighte, he lodged in an Inne, without any further care for his Maister. Rinaldo being stil there in his shyrte, bare footed and bare legged, in the great Frost and Snowe, not knowing what to doe, and seing night already approche, quaking, and his teethe clacketing in his head, began to looke about hym, if he coulde see anye place there for hym to resorte for succour, that he might not dye for colde: but (seyng none at all, because a litle before, the warres had with fyre consumed all thynges) being sore afflicted for colde, he began to make spede towardes the Castell Guglielmo, not knowyng that his seruaunt was fledde thither: thynking that if he might come in, God would sende hym some succour, but darke night ouertooke him a good waye of, before hee coulde come to the Castell, almoste the space of a mile, by whiche meanes he arriued there verye late, the gates being shutte vp and the bridges drawen, that he could not goe in. By reason whereof hee was verie sorowefull and discomforted, lamentable casting his eyes about, to espie if it wer possible that at the lest he might shroude him selfe free from the snowe: and by chaunce he sawe a house vpon the walles of the Castell, vnder whiche he determined to reste tyll it was daye, and repairing thether, he found vnder the house a doore, (whiche was locked) vnder which doore gathering a litle strawe that he founde thereabout, he sat down very heauie and pensife: making his complaint many tymes vnto saincte Iulian, that the faith which he reposed in him had nowe deceiued him. But saincte Iulian taking pitie vpon him, without any further delaye, prepared him (as it chaunced) a good lodging: for there dwelled in that Castell a woman whiche was a wydowe so faire a persone as might be seene, whom the Marques Azzo lou d as his life, and kepte her there for his owne pleasure. And the same woman dwelte in the house, vnder the porche wherof Rinaldo was gone to reste him selfe, vnto whome the daye before, the Marques resorted to disport him selfe that night, and in her house had secretly caused a bathe to be made, and a great supper to be prepared. All which being readie, and the good wyfe expecting nothing els but the comming of the Marques, it chaunced that one of his men called at the gates of the Castell, with newes to the Marques, that sodainly he must ryde awaye; wherefore he sent woorde to the wydowe, that shee should not attende his comming: who, not a litle displeased with the message, not knowing what to doe, determined to enter the Bathe whiche was prepared for the marques, and when she had supped to goe to bedde. This Bathe was harde by the doore whereunto poore Rinaldo was approched. The widowe being in the Bathe, hearing the plaintes and trembling voyce of Rinaldo, thought it had been the noyse of a Storke. Whereupon she called her mayde and saide vnto her: "Goe vp, and looke ouer the walles, to know who is at the doore and what he would haue." The mayde, according to her maistres commaundement, went to the doore, and the night being somewhat cleare, sawe Rinaldo sitting in his shyrte, bare legged, shaking for colde, as is before said, and asked him what he was. Rinaldo with his teethe shyuering in his head, coulde scarse well speake, or vtter a woorde, but yet so brieflie as he coulde, he tolde her what he was, howe and for what purpose he was come thither. Afterwardes he piteously began to praye her (if she could) not to suffer him that night to sterue for colde. The maide pitying his estate, returned to her maistres, and tolde her what she sawe: who likewyse hauiug compassion vppon him, remembring that she had the keye of the dore (whiche sometimes serued the turne, when the marques was disposed secretly to come in) she sayde to her mayde: "Go open the doore softly, for we haue prepared a supper, and here is no man to eate it: and also here is lodging sufficient to harbour him." The mayde greatly praysing her maistres for her curtesie, wente forth and opened the doore. And when he was let in, they sawe him to be almoste frosen for colde: sayinge vnto him, dispatche good felowe, goe into the Bathe, being yet hotte. Whiche thinge he right willingly did, not looking that he should be bidden againe, and being recomforted with the warmth therof, he felt him selfe reuiued from death to life. The good wyfe caused certayne apparel of her late dead husband, to be searched out for him, and when he had put them on, they were so mete, as though they had bene made of purpose, and waiting what it should please the good wife to commaunde him, he began humbly to thanke God and saincte Iulian, that hee was deliuered from that euill nighte (contrarie to his expectation) to so good a lodging. After this the fayre wydowe, somewhat reposing her selfe, caused a great fyre to be made in one of her great chambers, into the whiche shee came, and demaunded her mayde what maner of man he was. The maid aunswered: "Maistres, nowe he is in good apparell, he is a verie handsome felowe, and seemeth to be of good reputation and honestie." "Goe thy wayes (quod her maistres) and call hym hether. Bidde him come to the fyre, and tell hym that he shall suppe with me, for perchaunce he hath eaten no meate this nighte." Rinaldo came into the chamber, and seing the wydowe, he made to her great reuerence: thanking her for her kindnesse shewed vnto him. When the wydowe had seene him, and heard him speake, perceiuing him to be suche a one as her mayde reported, shee intertaigned him in curteous wyse, causing him familiarly to sitte downe before the fire, and demaunded what mishap brought him to that place. To whome Rinaldo rehersed the whole discourse. For she had heard at the comming of Rinaldo his seruaunt to the Castell, a brute of his roberie, whiche made her to beleue him the better: She tolde him also, that his man was come to the towne, and howe hee might easely finde him the next morning. And after meate was serued to the table, Rinaldo and she washed together, and then sat down to supper. He was a goodly personage, faire and pleasaunt to beholde, yonge and of good behauiour, vpon whom the woman many times did cast her eyes, and liked him well. To be shorte, this lecherous Lady, burning inwardlye with amourous desyre, abused her selfe with hym, in steede of the Marques. But when the morning began to shewe foorth her light, the wydowe, to the intent no suspicion might bee hadde, gaue him certayne base and course apparell, and filled his purse with money, praying him to kepe her counsell, and first tolde him whiche way he should take to seeke his man, letting him out at the doore whereat he came in. Who seming as though he had traueiled a great waye that morning, when the gates were opened, went into the Castell, and founde his seruaunte. And then putting vppon hym suche apparell as was in his male, and being about to mounte vpon his man's horse, it came to passe, like as it had bene a diuine miracle, that the three theues, whiche had robbed him the night before, were taken for doing an other robberie a little whyle after, and were brought to the Castell, and vppon their confession, his horse, apparell, and money, were restored to him againe, losing nothing but a payre of garters. Wherefore Rinaldo thanking God and saint Iulian, mounted vppon his horse and retourned whole and saulfe to his owne house. And the nexte daye, the three theues were conueied foorth, to blesse the worlde with their heeles. THE THIRTY-FOURTH NOUELL. _Three yonge men hauing fondlye consumed all that they had, became verie poore, whose nephewe (as he retourned out of Englande into Italie,) by the waye fell into acquaintaunce with an abbote, whome (vpon further familiaritie) he knewe to be the king of Englandes doughter, whiche toke him to husbande. Afterwardes she restored his vncles to all their losses, and sent them home in good state and reputation._ There was sometyme in the citie of Florence, a knight called Sir Tebaldo, who as some saie, was of the house of Lamberti: and as other affirme, of Agolanti. But leauing the variaunce of whether house he was, true it is, that hee was in that time a notable riche and wealthy knight, and had three sonnes. The firste called Lamberto, the seconde Tebaldo, and the thirde Agolante, all faire and goodly yonge men: and the eldest of whiche was not XVIII. yeares of age. When the sayde Sir Tebaldo died, to them (as his lawefull heires) he lefte all his landes and goodes. Who being verie ryche in readie money and possessions, continued their life without gouernement at their owne pleasures, and without brydle or stay they began to consume their goodes. They kepte a greate and franke house, and many Horses of great value, with Dogges and Haukes of sundrie kyndes, giuing liberall giftes, and obseruing diuerse gestes at Tilte and Torney: doing also that whiche not onely did appertayne and belonge to Gentlemen, but also that whiche was incident to the trade and course of youthe. They continued not long in this order, but their substaunce lefte them by their father, was very muche consumed. And their reuenues (not able to mainteine their expences) began to decrease, whereupon they were fayne to morgage and sell their inheritaunce, in suche wyse as in the ende they grewe to extreme pouertie. And then penurie did open their eyes, in like sorte as before riches had closed them vp. For whiche cause, Lamberto vpon a daye did cal his other twoo brethren vnto him, and tolde them of what honour their father was, to what value his rychesse did amounte, and nowe to what pouertie they were come through their disordinate expences: giuing them counsaile (so well as he could) that before miserie did growe any further vpon them, by selling that whiche was lefte, they shoulde goe their waye: whiche they did. And without leaue taken of any man, or other solempnitie, they departed from Florence, and taried in no place before they were arriued in Englande. Where taking a litle house in the citie of London, they liued with litle expences, and began to lende out their money to vsurie: and Fortune was so fauourable vnto them by that trade, that in few yeares they had gayned a verie notable somme of money, whiche made them one after an other, to retire agayne to Florence with their substaunce: where they redemed a great part of their inheritaunce, and bought other lande, and so gaue them selues to mariage: continuing neuerthelesse in Englande, their money at interest. They sent thither to be their factour, a yonge man their nephewe, called Alexandro. And they three dwelling still at Florence, began agayne to forget to what miserie their inordinate expences hadde brought them before. And albeit they were charged with housholde, yet they spent out of order, and without respect, and were of great credite with euery Marchaunt: whose expences, the money that Alexandro many times did send home, did helpe to supporte for certaine yeares, which was lent out to diuers gentlemen and Barons of the countrey, vpon their Castelles, Manours, and other reuenues, wherof was receiued an incredible profite. In the meane time the three brethren spent so largely, as they borowed money of other, fixing all their hope from Englande. It chaunced that warres happened betwene the king of England, and one of his sonnes, whiche bredde muche diuision in that lande, some holding of one parte, and some of an other. By meanes whereof, all the Manours and morgaged landes, were taken awaye from Alexandro, hauing nothing wher vpon any profite did ryse. Howebeit he dailye trusted that peace shoulde bee concluded betweene the father and the sonne, and that all thinges should be surrendred, as well the principall as the interest: determining vppon that hope not to departe the Countrie. The three brethren whiche were at Florence, not limitting any order to their disordinate expences, grewe daylye worse and worse. But in processe of tyme, when all hope was paste of their recouerye, they loste not onely their credite, but the creditours desirous to be payde, were fayne to sende them to pryson. And because their inheritaunce was not sufficient to paye the whole debte, they remayned in pryson for the reste, and their wiues and children wer dispersed, some into the countrie, and some hether and thether, out of order, not knowing how to do, but to abide a poore and miserable life for euer. Alexandro which of long time taried for a peace in Englande, and seing that it came not to passe, considering also with him selfe (ouer and besides his vaine abode, for recouerie of his debtes) that he was in daunger of his life, he purposed to retourne into Italie. And as he trauailed by the waye alone, and departed from Bruges, by fortune he perceiued an abbot clothed in white, in like maner about to take his iourney, accompanied with many Monkes, and a great traine: hauing much cariage and diuers baggages before. After whome rode twoo olde knightes, the kinsmen of the king, with whom Alexandro entred acquaintance by reason of former knowledge, and was receiued into their companie. Alexandro then riding with them frendlye, demaunded what Monkes they were that rode before with so great a trayne, and whether they went. To whome one of the knightes aunswered, that he which rode before, was a yonge gentleman their kinsman, which was newly chosen Abbot of one of the best Abbaies in England. And because he was verie yonge, and not capable by the decrees, of suche a dignitie, they went with him to Rome, to obteine of the holy father a dispensation for his age, and for a confirmation of that office. But they willed him to disclose the same to no man. And so this newe Abbot, riding sometimes before and sometimes after, as wee see ordinarelie that Lordes doe when they trauell in the countrie, it chaunced that the Abbot espying Alexandro riding besides him, which was a faire yonge man, honest, curteous, and familier, who at the first meting did so marueilously delight him, as any thing that euer he sawe in his life, and calling him vnto him, he began familiarly to talke, and asked what he was, from whence he came, and whether he went. To whom Alexandro declared liberally all his state, and satisfied his demaunde, offering vnto him (although his power was litle) al the seruice he was able to do. The Abbot hearing his courteous offer and comely talke, placed in good order, considering more particulerly the state of his affaires, and waying with him selfe, that albeit his traine was small yet neuerthelesse he semed to be a gentleman, and then pitying his mishappes, he recomforted him familiarly, and saide vnto him: That hee ought dailye to liue in good hope, for if he were an honest man, God would aduaunce him againe not only to that place from whence fortune had throwen him downe, but also to greater estimation: praying him that sithens he was going into Thuscane, whether he likewyse went, that it would please him to remaine in his companie. Alexandro thanked him humblie of his comfort, and said vnto him that he was redie to imploy him selfe where it should please him to commaunde. The Abbot thus riding, (into whose minde newe thoughts entred vpon the sight of Alexandro) it chaunced, after manie daies iournies, they arriued at a village that was but meanly furnished with lodging. The Abbot desirous to lodge there, Alexandro intreated him to light at the Inne of an hoste which was familiarly knowen vnto him, and caused a chamber to be made redie for him selfe in the worste place of the house. And the Marshall of the Abbot's lodgings, being alreadie come to the towne, (which was a man very skilfull in those affaires) he lodged al the traine in that village, one here, an other there, so well as he could. And by that time the Abbot had supped, night was farre spente, and euerie man repaired to his lodging. Alexandro demaunded the hoste wher he should lie? To whom the hoste made aunswere "Of a trouthe Maister Alexandro I knowe not, for you see that all my house is so full, as I and my housholde are faine to lie vpon the benches: howe be it, I haue certaine garrettes, harde adioyning to the lorde Abbottes chamber, where I may place you very well, and I wyll cause my folkes to beare thither a pallet, where if you please, you may lodge this night." To whome Alexandro said. "But how shall I passe through the Abbot's chamber, the rowme being so streight as not one of his Monkes is able to lie there. But if I had knowen it before, the Curteins had bene drawen, I would haue caused his Monkes to haue lien in the Garret, and I my self would haue lodged where they do." Wherunto the hoste saide, "It is doen nowe, but (me thinke) you may if you liste lie there so well, as in any place of the house. The Abbot being asleepe, and the Courteins drawen, I wyll softly and without noyse conueye a pallette thyther." Alexandro perceiuing that the same might be done, without any anoiaunce to the Abbot, agreed and conueyed him selfe, so secretlye as hee coulde, through the chamber. The abbot whiche was not a sleepe (but gaue him selfe to thinke and imagine vpon his newe desires) heard the wordes that were spoken, betweene the hoste and Alexandro, and likewise vnderstanding where Alexandro lay, was verie well contente in him selfe, and began to saye: "The Lorde hath sent me a tyme fauourable to satisfie my desyres, whiche if I doe not nowe receiue, peraduenture the like will neuer be offred againe." Wherfore perswading with him selfe to take that present occasion, and supposing likewyse, that euery man was a sleepe, he called Alexandro so softlie as he could, and willed him to come and lie beside him: who after many excuses, when his clothes were of came vnto him. The Abbot laying his arme ouer him, began to attempte suche amorous toyes, as be accustomed betweene twoo louers: whereof Alexandro meruayled muche, and doubted that the Abbot being surprysed with dishonest loue, had called him to his bedde of purpose to proue him. Whiche doubt the Abbot (either by presumption, or some other acte done by Alexandro) vnderstanding: incontinently began to smyle, and to putte of his shyrte whiche he ware, and toke Alexandro's hande, and laide it ouer his stomacke, saying vnto him: "Alexandro, cast out of thy mynde thy vnhonest thought, and fele here the thing which I haue secrete." Alexandro laying his hande ouer the Abbottes stomacke, perceiued that he had twoo breastes, rounde and harde, the skinne whereof was verie fine and tender, whereby he perceiued that hee was a woman, whom incontinently hee embraced, and without looking for any other inuitation, he would haue kissed her, but she saide vnto him: "Before thou approche any nearer, marke what I shall saye vnto thee. I am a woman and not a man, as thou maiest perceiue, but being departed a maid from my house, I am going to the Pope, to praye him to place me in mariage. But when I first viewed thee, the other daye, whether it was through thy good fortune, or my mishap, loue attached me in suche wyse as neuer woman loued man, as I do thee, and therefore I do purpose to take thee to husbande before all other: but if thou wilt not take me to wife get the hence and retourne to thyne owne bedde." Alexandro although hee knewe her not, yet hauing regarde vnto the companie and traine that folowed her, iudged her to be some noble and riche Ladie: on the other parte, he sawe that she was a personage right beautifull and faire, therefore without any further consideration, he answered. "That for so muche as her pleasure was such, he was verie well contented." Shee then sitting vp in her bedde, hauing a litle table (wherin the picture of Christe was painted) indowed him with a ringe, doing the order of espousalles, and afterwards embracing one an other, to their great contentation and pleasure, they ioyfully continued together that night. And after they had deuised and concluded the order and meanes to order their affaires from that time foorth, Alexandro, so sone as it was daye, rose vp and went out of the chamber that waye he came in, without knowledge to any man where he lay that night. Then right ioyfull and glad, he proceaded in his iourney with the abbot and his companye, and within fewe daies arriued at Rome. And when they had remained there a certain time, the Abbot taking with him but the twoo knightes and Alexandro, went to the Pope: where doing to him their due reuerence, the Abbot began to speake in this wyse. "Holie father (as your holinesse doth better knowe then any other) euery man that purposeth to liue an honest life, ought to auoyde (so muche as lieth in him) all occasions that may drawe him to the contrary. Which to th'intent I that am desirous to leade an honest life, may fully performe, am secretly fled and arriued here, in the habite wherin you see, with a good porcion of the king of Englandes treasure, who is my father: that your holines may bestow me in mariage, for so muche as my father woulde giue me to wife (which am a yonge gentlewoman as you see) to the Scottishe king, a very riche and welthy Prince, but yet very olde and decrepite. And his olde age was not so much the occasion of my departure, as the feare which I conceiued (through the frailtie of my youth to be maried vnto him,) to commit a thing that should be contrarie to the lawe of God, and the honour of the bloud roiall of my father. And in coming hitherwardes, being in this deepe deliberation with myself, almighty God, who only knoweth assuredly, what is nedeful and necessary for vs al, did place before mine eies (through his gracious mercy as I trust,) him that he thinketh mete to be my husband, which is this yonge gentleman (pointing to Alexandro) whom you see standing besides me. The honestie and worthinesse of whome is well able to matche with any great lady, how honorable so euer she be, although per aduenture, the nobilitie of his bloud is not so excellent as that which procedeth from the roiall and Princely stock. Him then haue I chosen to be my husband, him I will haue and none other, whatsoeuer my father shall say, or any other to the contrarie. Wherefore the principall occasion that moued me to come hither, is now dispatched. But I will accomplishe and performe the rest of my voyage, as well to visite the holy and reuerent places (wherof this citie is ful) and your holinesse: as also that the contract of mariage (hitherto only made in the presence of God, betwene Alexandro and me,) may be consumate openly in the presence of you, and consequently in the sight of all men: Wherfore I humbly beseche your fatherhode, to be agreable vnto that whiche it hath pleased God and mee to bring to passe, and that you would giue vs your benediction, to the intent we may liue together in the honour of God, to the perfection and ende of our life." Alexandro greatly marueiled, when he vnderstoode that his wife was the doughter of the king of Englande, and was rapte with an vnspeakeable ioye. But much more marueiled the two knightes, which were so troubled and appalled, that if they had bene in any place els, sauing in the presence of the Pope, they woulde haue killed Alexandro, and peraduenture the lady her self. On the other part the Pope was verie much astonned, both at the habite and apparell of the Lady, and also of her choise. But knowing that the same could not be vndone, he was content to satisfie her request. And first of all he comforted the two knightes, whom he knewe to be moued at the matter, and reduced them in amitie, with the lady and Alexandro: then he gaue order what was beste to be done. And when the mariage daie, by him appointed, was come, hee caused the Ladie to issue forth, clothed in roiall vestures, before al the Cardinalles, and many other great personages that were repayred to the great feaste, of purpose by hym prepared. Whiche Ladie appeared to be so fayre and comelie that not without deserte shee was praysed and commended of all the assemblie. In like maner Alexandro, gorgeouslie apparelled, both in outwarde apparaunce and condicions, was not like one that had lent monie to Vsurie, but of a more Princelie grace and was greatelye honoured of those twoo knightes, where the Pope solempnely celebrated (againe) the espousalles. And after that ryche and royall mariage was ended, he gaue them leaue to departe. It seemed good to Alexandro, and likewise to the Lady, to goe from Rome to Florence, in whiche citie, the brute of that accidente was alreadie noysed, where being receiued of the citizens with great honour, the Ladie deliuered the three brethren out of prison, and hauing firste payde euerie man their debte, they with their wiues, were repossessed in their former inheritaunce. Then Alexandro and his wife, with the good will and ioyfull gratulations of all men departed from Florence, and taking with them Agolante, one of their vncles, arriued at Paris, where they were honourably interteigned of the Frenche king. From thence the twoo knightes went into England, and so perswaded the king, that they recouered his good will towardes his doughter: and sending for his sonne in lawe, hee receiued them both with great ioy and triumphe. And within a whyle after, he inuested his saide sonne with the order of knight hode, and made him Earle of Cornewale, whose wisedome proued so great, as hee pacified the father, and the sonne whereof insued, surpassing profite and commoditie for the whole Realme, whereby also he gained and got the loue and good will of all the people; and Agolante his vncle, fully recouered all debtes, due vnto him in Englande. And the Earle when he had made his vncle knightes suffered him to retourne in riche estate to Florence. The Earle afterwardes liued with his wife in great prosperitie (and as some do affirme) both by his own pollicie and valiaunce, and with the aide of his father in lawe, he recouered and ouercame the Realme of Scotlande, and was there crowned Kyng. THE THIRTY-FIFTH NOUELL. _Landolpho Ruffolo being impooerished, became a pirate and taken by the Geneuois, was in daunger of drowning, who sauing himselfe vpon a litle coafer full of rich iewels, was receiued at Corfu, and beinge cherished by a woman, retourned home very riche._ It is supposed, that the sea coast of Reggium (in Calabria) in the most delectable part in all Italy, wherin (hard by Salerno) there is a countrye by the Sea Side, which the inhabitauntes doe terme the coast of Malfy, so full of litle cities, gardeines, fountaines, riche men and marchauntes, as any other people and countrie. Among which said cities, there was one called Rauello, where in time past (althoughe in these dayes there be very rich men), there dwelte a notable man of substaunce, called Landolpho Ruffolo: who being not contented with his riches, but desirous to multiplye them double, was in hazarde to lose himselfe, and all that he had. This man, (as all other marchauntes be accustomed) after he had considered with himselfe what to doe, boughte a very greate shippe, and sraughted the same with sondrye kindes of marchaundize of his owne aduenture, and made a voyage to the Isle of Cypri, where he found (besides the commodities which he brought) many other shippes arriued there, laden with such like wares: by which occasion it happened, that hee was forced not onelye to sell the same good cheape, but also was constrained (if hee woulde dispatch his goodes) to giue them almost for nought, whereby he thoughte that he was vtterly vndone. And being greatly troubled for that losse, not knowing what to doe, and seing how in so litle a time, of a rich man he was come to begger state, he thoughte either to die, or els by piracie to recouer his losses, to the intent he might not returne to the place poore, from whence he was departed riche. And hauing founde a copeseman for his great barque, with the money thereof, and with other which hee receiued for his marchandise, he boughte a small pinnas, meete for the vse of a pirate, which he armed and furnished with al thinges necessary for that purpose: and determined to make himselfe riche with the goodes of other men, and chiefelye hee ment to set vppon the Turkes: whereunto fortune was more fauourable then to his former trade: and by chaunce, by the space of one yeare, he robbed and toke so many Foistes and galleis of the Turkes, as he had recouered not onely that which he loste by marchaundise, but also more then twise so muche as whereunto those losses did amounte. Wherfore, well punished with the first sorow of his losses, knowing his gaines to multiplie, as he needed not returne the seconde time, he thoughte with himselfe that the same which he had gotten was sufficiente: and therefore determined presently to returne to his owne house with his gotten goods. And fearing the hinderance which he susteined in traffique of Marchaundise, hee purposed to imploie his moneye no longer that wayes, but in that barque wherewith hee had gained the same, with his ores hee tooke his course homeward: and being vppon the maine Sea, in the night the wind rose at the Southeast, which was not onely contrary to his course, but also raised such a tempest, as his smal barque was not able to indure the Seas. Wheruppon he toke harborough in a Creke of the Sea, whiche compassed a litle Ilande, there expecting for better wind. Into which creke within a while after, with much a do for auoyding of that tempest, arriued two great Argoseis of Genoa, that were come from Constantinople: the mariners of which greate shippes, when they sawe the litle barque, they closed vp the waye, that the pinnas could not goe out. And then vnderstanding of whence he was, and knowinge by report, that he was very riche, determined (being men naturally giuen to spoile and loue of money,) to take her. And setting a shore part of their men, well armed and furnished with crossebowes, they conueied themselues to keepe and defende that none within the Pinnas (except they woulde be shot through) was able to escape: then retiring into their skiftes, with helpe of the Tide they approched Landolpho his barque, which without any great difficultie, in a small space they toke with all the company, not loosing so much as one man. And carying Landolpho aborde one of their cockes, and all within borde his little Pinnas, they soncke the same and al the Mariners, and kept Landolpho, suffering him not to haue about him any kind of armure, not so much as an haberion. The next day the winde chaunged, and the shippes hoisted vp sailes toward Leuant, and all that day prosperouslie sailed on their voyage. But vpon the closing of the night, a storme rose againe, and separated the two ships, one from another, and by force of the wind, it chaunced the ship wherein poore Landolpho was, strake with great violence vpon a sande, in the Iland of Cephalonia: and as one would throw a glasse against a wall, euen so the shippe opened, and fell in peeces, whereby the sorowfull Mariners that stoode aboue, (the seas being couered with goodes, coaffers and plancks of the ship that swam aboue water, which chaunceth many times in such like accidents, the night being darke and the billowes going high and streinable,{)} such as were able to swim, began to take holde of those thinges which Fortune gaue vnto them. Amonges whom wretched Landolpho, seinge death before his face (which he so greatly desired, and so many times craued the day before, rather then to retourne home in that poore estate) was afraied, and caught hold of a borde amonges the rest, trusting it might chaunce that God woulde pardon him of drowninge, and sende him some refuge for his escape. And as hee was a horseback, and fletinge vpon a plancke, so wel as he could, (driuen here and there with the Sea and winde) he helde faste the same till it was day lighte: which when he perceiued, he looked about him and saw nothing but the cloudes, the Seas, and a coaffer, swimminge aboue water, which was driuen so nere him, that it made him manye times to feare that it would be his ouerthrow. And the nerer it came, the more hee laboured to put it backe (so well as he could) with his hande, although his force and power was gone: but how soeuer it chaunced, a gale of winde blew out of the skies, and strake the coaffer against the borde whereuppon Landolpho was, who by that meanes driuen backe, was forced to giue ouer the plancke, and with a billow was beaten vnder the water, and afterwardes, remounting aloft againe, hee swam more through feare then force. And seing the borde caried a farre of from him, fearinge lest he should not be able to fasten the same againe, he drewe toward the coafer which was nere ynough vnto him, and laying his breaste vpon the couer thereof, he made it go (so right as he could) with his armes. And in this maner driuen by the Sea, now here now there, without eating (as hauing not wherwithall) and drinking more then he would, he continued al that day and night following not knowing wher he was, for he sawe nothing but sea. The next morning, eyther by the will of God, or throughe the windes force, Landolpho (which was then transfformed into a sponge) holding faste with both his handes the brimme of the coafer, (like as we see them that feare to be drowned, do take hold of the next thinge that commeth to hande,) arriued at the shore of the Isle of Corfu, wher by fortune, a poore woman was scowring her vessell with Sand and salt water, who seing him draw nere, and perceyuing in him no forme or fashion of a man, was afraid, and crying out ranne backe. He not able to speake, and see but very litle, could say nothinge, but as the Sea droue him nere the shore, the woman discryed the likenes of a coafer, and beholding the same more aduisedlye, saw at length his armes vpon the same and therewithal his face, marueiling with her selfe who it should be: wherfore moued with compassion, she wente into the Sea a litle waye, which then was calme, and catching him by the heare, she pluckte him and the coafer to lande: and with much a doe vnfolded his armes that were about the coafer, causing her maide that was with her to carrie the coafer vpon her head: and she bare him to lande, (like a litle childe,) which done, she put him into a hotte house, and with warme water, by frotting and robbing him, his naturall heate, and other his sences lost, began to come againe into their former course. And when he saw time she toke him out, cherishing and comfortinge him with wynes and brothes, and so well as shee could, made him at length to recouer his force in such wise as he knew wher he was. Then the woman deliuered him his coafer, which he had saued, and badde him to seeke his aduenture. And thus this good wife delt with Landolpho, who litle esteemed the coafer, but yet he considered that it coulde not be of so small value, but that it was able to beare his charges for certaine dayes. Howbeit, feelinge it to be lighte, he was cleare voyde of hope to haue anye succour and reliefe thereof. Neuerthelesse (when the good wyfe was out of the doores) he brake open the same to see what was within, where he found many precious Jewels, some bound together and some loose, wherein he had pretie skill: and knowing them to be of great value, giuing thanckes to God, which had not yet forsaken him, was wholy recomforted. Howbeit, for so much as in a litle space he had bin twise cruellye distressed and tormented by Fortune, fearing the third time, he thought that it was needeful for him to take heede how to dispose his things in safetie till he came home to his owne house. Wherefore hauing bestowed those precious Jewels in certaine ragges and cloutes so well as he could, he said to the good wife that he had no neede of the coafer, but if shee woulde giue him a bagge, he would bestow the same vppon her: which the good wife willingly did. And Landolpho geuing her so great thanckes as he coulde, for the kindnes which he had found at her hands, toke his leaue, and imbarking himselfe, he passed to Branditio, and from thence from place to place till hee came to Trani, where findinge diuers of the Citie wherein he dwelt, that were Drapers, he was apparelled of them (in a maner for Gods sake) to whom he told the discourse of all his fortune, except the coafer, who lent him a horse, and sente diuers in his company to bring him home to Rauello. And when he was in safety arriued, he thanked God that had brought him thither, where he searched his bouget with more leasure then he did at the first, and founde that he had manye stones of so greate value, that sellinge them at price reasonable, for lesse then they were worth, his substaunce did amount to so much more then it was when he departed from his house. And when he had founde the meanes to dispatch and sell his Jewels, he sent to Corfu a good peece of money, to the woman that toke him oute of the Sea, to recompence the kindnes, that he had found at her handes: and the like to them of Trani, that had giuen him apparell, the rest he toke to himselfe and would be no more a Marchaunte, but liued at home in honest estate to the ende of his life. THE THIRTY-SIXTH NOUELL. _Andreuccio of Perugia being come to Naples to buy horses, was in one night surprised, with three marueilous accidentes. All which hauinge escaped with one Rubie he retourned home to his house._ There was at Perugia a yong man, called Andreuccio di Pietro, a horse corser, who vnderstanding of a horse faire at Naples, did put fiue hundred Crownes in his pursse, and neuer traueling before from his owne house, went thither with certaine other marchants, who arriued at Naples vpon a Sonday at night. The next morninge, accordinge to the instructions giuen him by his host, he went to the fayre, where he viewed and saw many horses, whereof diuers did very well like him, and demaunded their prises: but with none he could agree of price. And to shew himselfe a right well able man to paye for that he boughte, many times (like a dolte and foole as he was) hee drew out his pursse stuffed with crownes, in the presence of them that passed to and fro. It chaunced that a yonge woman of Scicilia (which was very fayre, but at euery man's commaundement, and that for little hire) passed by as he was shewinge his purse, not marked or perceiued by Andreuccio, who sodenlye saide to her selfe: "What is she in all this towne, that should be like vnto me, if all those crownes were mine?" And so passed forth. There was with this yong peate, an old woman, a Scicilian also, who so sone as she espied Andreuccio, forsoke her companion and ran affectuouslye to imbrace him. Which the yong woman perceyuinge (not speaking a word) she gaue good heede to that they said: Andreuccio tourninge himselfe to the olde woman, immediatlye knew her, and reioysed muche that he had so happely met her: whom after greate gratulacions and manye welcomes, she promised to visite at his lodginge, which done, she departed from Andreuccio, and hee retourned to buy his horsse, howbeit that morning he bought none at all. The yonge dame, which had first seene this pursse, and marked the acquaintaunce between the old woman and him, to assaie by what meanes she might get that moneye, or at leaste some part thereof, subtelly asked the old woman what man that was, of whence, what he did there, and how he knew her. To whom the olde woman particularlye recompted her whole acquaintaunce, how she dwelt of long time in Scicilia with his father, and afterwards at Perugia. And likewise she told her when he retourned, and for what cause hee was come to Naples. This iollie wenche, wholy informed of Andreuccio his parentes, and of their names, made a plat and foundation, by subtill and craftie meanes, how to obtaine her purpose: and when she was come home to her house, she sent the old woman about businesse for that day, because she might not retourne to Andreuccio. She had dwelling with her a pretie girle, well noseled and brought vp in doing of arrantes, whom about euening, she sent to the lodging of Andreuccio to make inquirie for him: where by fortune she chaunced to finde him standing alone at his hostes doore, whom the girle did aske if he knew not an honest man of Perugia called Andreuccio di Pietro, that hosted there: "Yes my girle (quoth he) I am the same man." Then she toke him a side, and saide vnto him. "Sir, there is a gentlewoman of this towne, that would gladly speake with you, if it were your pleasure." Which when Andreuccio heard, by and by hee called to minde, and seemed to himselfe that hee was a goodly yonge man of person, and that withoute doubte the same woman was in loue with him, because in all Naples he thought ther was none so proper a stripling as himselfe: whom incontinently he aunsweared, that he would waite vpon her, demaunding when he should come and to what place. To whom she made answere. "Euen when it pleaseth you sir, for my maistresse attendeth at home for you.{"} Andreuccio vpon that, withoute any word spoken to his hoste, whither he was gone, said to the wench. "Go thou before, and I will follow." And the girle did conduct him to her maistres house, which dwelt in a streate called Marpertugio, a name shewing the honestie of the streate, wher she dwelt. But he knowing and suspecting nothing, thought the place to be right honest that he went vnto, and the wife likewise honest and good, and boldlie entred the house, the wenche going before: and mountinge vp the staiers, this yonge gristle called her maistres, sayinge vnto her that maister Andreuccio was come. Who redie at the vpper steppe, seemed as though she attended for him. This Ladie was fine and had a good face, well apparelled and trimmed after the beste maner. And seinge maister Andreuccio at hand, descended two steppes of the staiers with her armes open to imbrace him, foldinge the same aboute his necke, and paused a certaine space without speaking any word, as thoughe great loue and earneste affection enforced her so to doe. Then weeping, she kissed his face, and with a voice halfe vttered betwene howling and speaking, she said vnto him: "O Andreuccio mine owne deare hart, most hartely welcome." Andreuccio marueyling at those tender words, all amazed aunsweared: "Gentlewoman, and you also well found out." Afterwards she toke him by the hand and conueied him vp into a parlour, and from thence (without further talke) into a chamber, which was all perfumed with Roses, with flowers of Orenges, and other sweete smelles: where he sawe a bedde well furnished, and diuers sortes of apparell placed vppon presses (accordinge to the maner of that countrie) and many other faire and riche ornaments. By reason whereof Andreuccio, which was but a freshe water Souldiour, thought that shee had been a great ladie. And they two sittinge together vppon a cheste, at her bed's feete, she began thus to saye vnto him. "Andreuccio, I am assured you do greatly wonder at these faire words, this curteous interteignement, and at the teares which I let fall. And no marueile, although you do not know mee, and peraduenture neuer heard tel of me before: but I wil declare vnto you a thing more straunge and marueilous then that is: and to tell you plaine, I am your owne sister, and I say vnto you, that sith it hath pleased my Lord God, to shew me so much grace and fauour, that I doe now see one of my brethren before I die (althoughe I desire to see them all) I care not when hee do call mee from this wretched world: I am so in minde comforted and releued. And where it may chaunce, that you neuer vnderstoode so much before this time, I will tell you the whole discourse. So it is, that Pietro my father and yours, dwelt of long time (whereof it is possible, that you haue heard report) at Palermo, where through the goodnesse and frendlye behauioure of him, there be yet some remayninge that did beare him singular good wil and frendship. But amonges other which loued him moste, my mother (which was a gentlewoman, and then a widow) without doubt did loue him best: in such wise, that shee forgetting the loue of her father, and of her brethren, and the loue of her owne honour and reputation, they dealed so together as they begat mee, and am here as you see. Afterwardes when your father and mine had occasion to depart from Palermo, he retourned to Perugia, leauing my mother behinde, and me his yong doughter, neuer after that (so farre as I knowe) caringe neither for my mother or me: whereof if he were not my father, I coulde blame him very much, consideringe his ingratitude towards my mother. Albeit, he ought to vse towards mee so muche affection and fatherlye loue as to his owne doughter, being come of no kitchin maide, ne yet of anye base woman: for my mother otherwise not knowinge what he was, did commit into his handes (moued of mere loue) both herselfe and all that she had. But what? thinges ill done, and so longe time past, are more easie to be reprehended then amended. Thus the matter went, he left mee a litle infante at Palermo, where when I was growen to yeares, my mother which was riche, gaue mee to wife, to one of the house of Gergenti, a gentleman of great honesty and reputation, who for the loue of my mother and me, retourned to dwell at Palermo, where greatly fauouringe the faction of the Guelphi, hee began to practise a certaine enterprise with oure king Charles, which being knowen to king Frederick, before the same enterprise could take effect, we were forced to flie out of Scicilia: at what time I had thought to haue been the chiefest ladie, that euer dwelte in that Island. Wherfore taking with vs such fewe things as wee were able to carie (fewe I maye well call them, in respect of them we possessed) and leauinge our houses and Palaces, we came vnto this citie: where we found kinge Charles so beningne towards vs, that he hath recompenced part of our losses, which we sustened in his seruice. For he hath giuen vs possessions and houses, with good prouision of housholde to my husband and your brother in law, as you now see and perceiue: and in this maner I do remaine here, where (sweete brother) I thancke God (and not you) that at this present I see you:" and therwithall she toke him about the necke, weeping tenderly, and then kissed his face againe. Andreuccio hearing this tale spoken in order, and digested from poinct to poinct with good vtterance, wherof no word stucke betwene her teeth, or was impeached by default of tongue, and remembring how it was true that his father dwelt at Palermo, knowing also by himselfe the maner of yong men, which in their youth be prompte and willinge to loue, and seinge her tender teares, her imbracinges and honeste kisses, thoughte all that shee had spoken to be moste certaine and true. And after shee had done her tale, he answered in this wise: "Madame you may not thincke vnkindnesse, if I doe marueile at this, for that in verye deede, I haue no acquaintaunce of you, no more then if you had neuer beene borne: but whether my father hath spoken of you or of your mother at any time, truly I do not now remember: but so much the more I do reioyce that I haue founde a sister here (as I truste) because I am here alone: and certainely I knowe none so honourable, but you may seeme agreeable vnto him so well as to mee, which am but a poore marchaunt: howbeit, I do beseeche you to tell me how you did know that I was in the City." To whom she aunsweared: "This morning a poore woman which oftentimes repaireth to my house, gaue mee knowledge thereof, because of long time (as she told me) she did dwell with your father at Palermo and at Perugia: and because I thought it more conuenient and meete, to bidde you home to mine owne house then to seke you in another man's, I thought good to send for you." After these words, she began in order to inquire of the state of his parents, calling them by their proper names: whereunto Andreuccio made aunswere, that now he perceiued he had better cause to giue credite vnto her words then before. Their discourse and talke of thinges being long and the weather hot, shee called for Greke wine and comfits, and made Andreuccio to drinke. Who after the banquet, desirous to depart to his lodging (for it was about supper time) shee by no meanes woulde suffer him, but making as though she were angrie, said vnto him: "Oh God! I see now most euidently, that you do make little accompte of mee, being your owne sister whom you neuer sawe before, and in her house: whereunto you ought to resorte when so euer you come to towne: and will you nowe forsake the same to suppe in an Inne? But of trouth you shall not chose but take part of my supper: and althoughe my husbande be not at home (whereof I am righte sorie,) yet you shall knowe that his wife is able to make you some good chere." To whom Andreuccio, not knowing wel what to say els, made this aunsweare: "I do loue you as I oughte to loue a sister: but if I goe not to mine Inne, I know they will tarie for mee all this night before they go to supper, to my great reproch and shame." "Praised be God (quoth she then) I haue seruauntes to aduertise your host that you be here with me, to the intente hee shall not tarrie for you. But pleaseth you sir, to do me this great curtesie, that I may sende for your companions hither to beare you company, that afterwardes, if you will needes depart, ye may goe all together." Andreuccio aunsweared, that he would send for none of his company that night: but for so much as she was so importunate, he himselfe was righte well content to satisfie her request. Then she made as thoughe shee had sent to his Inne to giue word that they should not tarie for him: and after much communication supper was placed vppon the table, serued in with manye deuises and sondrie delicates abundantly, and she with like sleights continued the supper till it was darke night. And when they rose from the table, Andreuccio made hast to departe, but shee would not suffer him, tellinge him that Naples was a towne so straight of orders that none might walke abrode in the night, and specially straungers; and that like as she had sent word how they should not tary for him at supper, euen so she had done for his bedde. All which Andreuccio beleeuing, and taking pleasure that he was with his sister, (deceiued though he were of his false beliefe) was wel contented to tarie. Their talke and communication after supper was of purpose dilated and protracted, and one part of the night being spent, she left Andreuccio in his chamber going to bedde, and a litle boye to waite vpon him to see that he lacked nothinge, and shee with her women went into another chamber. The time of the yeare was very hotte, wherefore Andreuccio being alone, striped himselfe and laid his hose and doublette vnder his beddes head, and desirous to go to the priuie, he asked the boie where it was, who pointing to the doore in a corner of the chamber, said vnto him: "Goe in there." Andreuccio safely wente in, and chaunced by Fortune to set his foote vpon a borde, which at both endes was loose from the ioyst whereuppon it lay, by reason whereof the bord and he tombled downe into the Iakes: and God so loued him, that in the fall he receiued no hurt although it were of a good height, sauing he was imbroined and arraied with the dunge of the place, wherof the Iakes was full. Which place (to the intent you may the better vnderstand what is said, and what shall follow) euen as it was I wil describe vnto you. There was in a litle straighte entrie (as manye times we see betweene two houses) certaine bordes laied vppon two Ioistes, betwene the one house and the other: vpon which was placed the seate of the priuie, one of which bordes was the same that fill downe with Andreuccio, who now being in the bottome of the Iakes, sorowfull for that sodaine chaunce, cried oute to the boie for helpe. But the boie so soone as hee hearde, that hee was fallen, wente in to tell his maistres, whoe by and by ranne into his chamber to seeke for his clothes: and when she had founde them, and in the same his money, which Andreuccio like a foole, without mistruste, still caried about him: she now possessed the thing for which she had before laied the snare, in fayning her selfe to be of Palermo and the doughter of one of Perugia. And caring no longer for him, she straight way shut fast the priuy doore whereat he went forth when he fell. Andreuccio seing that the boie would not aunswere, began to cry out a loude, but all was in vaine: wherfore suspecting the cause, and beginning somewhat to late to vnderstande the deceipt, he lept ouer a litle wall which closed the place from the sight of the streat. And when he was in the open streate he went to the dore of the house, which he knew well ynough, makinge a noise, rapping hard and long at the doore, but it was in vaine: for which cause he began to complaine and lamente, like vnto one that manifestly saw his misfortune, saying: "Alas, in howe litle time haue I lost fiue hundred crownes and a sister." And after many other words, he began againe to bounse at the doore, and to crie out. He rapped so long and cryed so loude, as he waked manye of the neighbours there aboutes, who not able to suffer that noyse, rose out of their beds, and amonges others one of the maides of the house (fayning her selfe to be slepie) looked out at the window and said in great rage: "What noise is beneath?" "Oh" saide Andreuccio, "do yee not know me? I am Andreuccio, the brother of madame Floredelice?" "Thou hast droncke to much me thinketh, (quoth the maide) go sleepe and come againe to morow: I know none called Andreuccio, nor yet do vnderstand what thou meanest by those foolish words, get thee hence good man and let vs sleepe I pray thee." "Why (quoth Andreuccio) doest thou not heare me what I say? thou knowest me well ynough if thou wilt, but if the Scicilian kinred be so sone forgotten, giue me my clothes which I haue left behinde me, and I will go hence with al my hart." Whereat the maide laughed and saide: "I thincke the man is in a dreame:" and with that she tourned her selfe and shut fast the window. Andreuccio now sure and certaine of his losses, attached with incredible sorow, conuerted his anger into rage, thoughte to recouer by anoiaunce that which he could not get with fayre wordes. Wherefore takinge vp a bigge stone, he began againe with greater blowes to beate at the doore. Which when manye of the neighbours (that before were waked oute of their sleepe and risen) did heare, thinking that it was some troublesome felow that counterfeited those words to anoye the good wife of the house, and all they likewise troubled with the noyse: loking out of the windowes, began to rate him with one voice (like a sorte of Curres of one streate, which doe baule and barke at a straunge Dogge that passeth by) sayinge: "This is to much shame and villanie, to come to the houses of honest women at that time of the night, and to speake such fonde wordes. Wherefore (good man) gette thee hence for God's sake, and let vs sleepe: if thou haue any thing to do with the good wife, come againe to morrow and disquiet vs no more to night." With which woordes, as poore Andreuccio was somewhat appeased, one that was within the house, a ruffian (that kept the good wife) whom Andreuccio neuer saw, nor heard before: looked out of the windowe, and with a bigge and horrible voice, demaunded who was beneath? Whereat Andreuccio lifting vp his head, saw one, that so far as he could perceiue, seemed to be a long lubber and a large, with a blacke beard, and a sterne visage, looking as though he were newly rysen from bedde, ful of sleepe, gaping and rubbing his eyes. Whom Andreuccio aunsweared in fearefull wise, saying: "I am the good wiue's brother of the house." But the Ruffian interrupting his answeare, speaking more fiercely then at the first, said: "I know not who thou arte, but if I come downe, I will so codgel and bombaste thee, as thou shalte not be able to sturre thy selfe, like an asse and dronken beast as thou art, which all this night wilt not suffer vs to slepe." And with these wordes turning himselfe aboute, he shutte the windowe. Diuers of the neighbours (which knewe better the conditions of that terrible Ruffian) speakinge faire to Andreuccio, saide vnto him: "For God's sake good man, depart hence in time, and suffer not thy selfe to be slaine:" "Gette thee hence (quoth an other) and saye not but thou haddest warning." Whereat Andreuccio being appalled, and with the Ruffians woordes and sight amazed, moued likewise by the counsaile of the neighbours that spake to him as he thoughte, in charitable wyse, toke his waye to retourne to his Inne, the sorowfulles man that euer liued, and in greatest despaire, for losse of his money. Turninge that way, wherein he was guided by a litle girle the day afore, and anoyed with the stenche that he felt about him: desirous to goe to the sea side to washe him, hee declined to muche on the left hande, taking the waye vp to the streat called La Ruga Catellana, and as hee was marching vp the highest parte of the citie, by chaunce he sawe twoo men before him, with a lanthorne light in one of their handes, coming towardes him, for auoyding of whom (because he feared that it was the watche, or some other ill disposed persones) he hidde him selfe in an olde house harde by. But they (as of purpose) went to the very same place: where one of them discharging hym selfe of certain instrumentes of yron, whiche he bare vpon his backe, both of them did vewe and surueie those yrons, debating of diuers thinges touching the same, and as they were talking togethers, one of them sayde: "What meaneth this? I smel the foulest stenche, that euer I felte in all my life." And when he had sayd so, he lifted vp the Lanthorne and espied miserable Andreuccio couching behinde the wall, and being afrayde, asked who it was, Andreuccio helde his peace. But they approching neare him with their lighte, demaunded what hee made there, so filthely araied. To whom Andreuccio rehersed the whole aduenture as it chaunceth. Who considering the cause of that misfortune, sayd one to an other: this no doubt was done in the house of Scarabone Butta Fuoco: and tourning towardes Andreuccio, one of them sayde vnto him. "Good man, although thou hast lost thy money, yet thou hast great cause to prayse God that it was thy chaunce to falle, and not to enter againe into the house: for if thou haddest not fallen, assure thy selfe that when thou haddest bene a slepe, thy throte had bene cutte, and so with thy money shouldest haue loste thy life. But what auaileth it nowe to wepe and lament: for thou shalt so sone plucke the starres out of the Skye, as euer recouer one peny of thy losse: and without doubt he will kill thee, if hee vnderstande that thou make any wordes thereof." When they had sayde so, and had giuen him that admonition, they comforted him in this wyse. "Good felowe, we doe lament thy state: And therefore, if thou wilt ioyne thy self with vs, about an enterprise, which we haue in hande: we warraunt thee, thou shalt get a great deale more than thou hast loste." Andreuccio like one in extreame dispaire, was content. The daie before was buried one Messer Philippo Minutulo, an Archebishop of Naples, in riche pontificalles and ornamentes, with a Rubie vpon his finger, that was worth fiue hundred Ducates of golde, whome they purposed to robbe and dispoile, telling Andreuccio the whole order of their intent: who more couetous, then well aduised, went with them. And going towardes the great church: Andreuccio his perfume began to sente very strong, whereupon one of them sayde. "Is it not possible to deuise a waye, that this shitten beaste may washe him selfe in some place, that he stinke no more thus filthelie?" "Yes, (quod the other) there is a pitte here harde by, ouer whiche there hangeth a pulley, and a great bucket, where we may presently washe him." When they were come to the pitte, they founde the rope hanging still vpon the pulley, but the bucket was taken away: wherefore they thought beste to tie him to the rope, and to let him downe the pitte to washe him selfe: and that when he was washed, he should wagge the rope, and they woulde hoiste him vp againe. Whiche they did. But it chaunced that whiles he was thus clensing him selfe in the pitte: the watche of the citie (because they swette and the night was very hot), being drie and thirstie came to the pitte to drinke. The other twoo perceiuing the watche at hande, left Andreuccio in the pitte and ranne awaye. The watche whiche was come thether to drinke, perceiued not those two that were fledde; and Andreuccio being still in the bottome, when he had clensed him selfe, began to wagge the rope. The watche sitting downe by the pittes syde caste of their clokes and layde downe their halbardes and other weapons, and began to drawe vp the rope, thinking that the bucket full of water was tied to the same. When Andreuccio was haled vp, to the brincke of the pitte, hee forsoke the rope, and cast him selfe with one of his handes vpon the syde of the same. When the watche sawe that, they for feare ranne away so faste as they could without speaking any worde. Wherof Andreuccio did marueile very much: and if he had not taken good holde, he had fallen agayne downe to the bottome, to his great hurt, and peraduenture not without peril of his life. Notwithstanding being out of the pitte, and finding halberdes and other weapons there, which he knew wel his fellowes brought not with them: he then began muche more to wonder. But betwene feare and ignoraunce of that which happened, complaining him self of his harde fortune, without touching of any thing, he determined to go from thence, and wandred he could not tell whether. But as he was departing from that place, he met his fellowes, retiring backe to drawe him vp. And when they perceiued him alredie haled out of the pitte, they wer wonderfully abashed, and asked who drewe him out? Andreuccio made aunswere, that he coulde not tell, rehearsing to them in order, what had chaunced, and of the things he founde without. They vnderstanding the matter, laughed and tolde him againe the cause, wherefore they ran awaye, and what they were that drewe him vp. And without further talke (being then about midnight, they repaired to the great churche: into the whiche they easely entred: and wente to the Tombe, whiche was of Marble, verie huge and weightie: the couer whereof being verye great, with their crowes of yron, and other tooles, they lifted vp so farre, as one man was able to enter, which doen, one asked an other, who should goe in? "Not I" quod one: "And not I" (quod the other) "No, nor I" quod Andreuccio. The other twoo hearing Andreuccio saye so, stepped vnto hym, saying: "Wilte thou not goe in? by the faythe wee owe to God: if thou goe not in, we will so beate thee, with one of these yron barres, as thou shalt neuer sturre againe out of this place." Andreuccio being made their common riding foole, greately fearing when he heard them saye so, went in: and when he was in the graue, he sayde vnto him selfe. "These good felowes do make me goe in, because they would deceiue me: for when I haue geuen them all that is here, and I readie to come out, they meane to runne awaie to saue them selues, and to leaue me behinde without any parte thereof." Wherfore he purposed first, to take his owne porcion to him selfe: and remembring the Ring of great valour, whereof they tolde him: so sone as he was in the graue, he pulled it of from the Archebishop's finger, and put it vpon his own: and afterwardes taking the Crosse, the Miter and the Gloues, dispoyling him euen to his shyrt, he gaue them all saying. "That there was nothing els." But they pressing vpon him that there was a ring behinde, willed him throughly to make searche for it: howebeit he still aunswered that he could not finde it. And because he would make them to tarie a litle longer, he fained as though he had made a further searche. The other so subtile and malicious as he, bad him to seke stil: and when they saw time, they toke away the proppes that staied vp the Tombe, and ran awaye, leauing poore Andreuccio fast shutte in the graue. Whiche when Andreuccio perceiued, what chaunced to him then, eche man may consider: then he assaied some times with his shoulders, sometimes with his head, to remoue the couer, but all was in vaine. Wherefore euen for verie sorowe, he fell in a sownde vpon the dead bodie of the Bishop. And if a man had seene them both at that instant, it coulde not well haue bene discerned, whether was the dead corps, the Archebishhope dead, or poore Andreuccio dying: but after he was come to him self, he began piteously to complaine, seing hee was arriued to one of these twoo endes, either in the Tombe to die for hunger, and with the stenche of the dead bodie, putrifying with wormes, if no man came to open it: or els to be hanged as a thiefe, if hee were founde within: and as he was in these considerations tormented with sorowe: he heard a noyse in the church of diuers men, who as he thought came to the like facte, that he and his felowes had done before, wherewith his feare began much more to augmente. But after they had opened the graue and stayed it vp, it came in question amongs them who should go in. And when they had contended a good space about the same, a priest that was in the companie sayde. "Why are ye afrayde? doe ye thinke that hee will eate you? the dead neuer eate men: I will go in my selfe." And when he had sayde so, he laied him downe vpon his breste at the side of the graue, and thrusting his feete in before, he went downe. Andreuccio seeing that, erected him selfe vpright and caught the Priest by one of the legges, making as though he would haue drawen him in: which when the priest perceiued, he cried out a loude, speeding him self out so fast as he could. Wherewithal the reste dismaied almoste out of their wittes, leauing the graue open, toke their legges and ran, as though a hundred thousand deuels had bene at their tailes: whiche seing, Andreuccio (more ioyful then he looked for) lepte out of the graue, and ran as faste as he could out of the Churche, at the place where he came in. At what time dayelight began to appeare, and he with the ringe on his finger, wandred he wiste not whether, tyll he came to the Seaside, and at length recouered his Inne, where he founde his companie and his hoste al that night, taking greate care for him. To whome recompting that whiche chaunced, his hoste gaue him aduise incontinently, to get him out of Naples, whiche presently he did: and retourned to Perugia, hauing bestowed his v. C. crownes vpon a rynge, whiche he thought to haue imploied vpon horses: for whiche cause he made that iourney. THE THIRTY-SEUENTH NOUELL. _The erle of Angiers being falsely accused, was banished out of Fraunce, and left his two sonnes in sondry places in Englande, and retourning (vnknowen) by Scotlande, founde theim in great authoritie, afterwardes he repayred in the habite of a seruaunte, to the Frenche kinges armie, and being knowen to be innocent, was againe aduaunced to his first estate._ The Romaine Empire being transferred from the Frenche, vnto the Almanes, there rose a great discencion betwene both the nacions, and in the ende a cruell and continuall warre. For whiche cause, as well for the defence of his kingdome, as to offende his ennemies, the Frenche king and one of his sonnes, with all the power of their owne Realme and of their frendes and allies, assembled a great hoste of menne to encountre with their enemies: and before they proceaded, because they would not leaue their realme without a gouernour, knowing Gualtieri, Erie of Anglers, to be a gentle and sage knight, and their moste trustie frend, and that he was a man moste expert in the art of warfare, seming vnto them (notwithstanding) more apt to pleasure, then paine, lefte him Lieutenaunt generall in their place, for the gouernement of the whole kingdome of Fraunce: and preceded in their enterprise. The Erle then began with great knowledge, and by good order, to execute his office committed vnto hym, doynge nothinge withoute the consente of the Queene and her fayre daughter in lawe, althoughe they were lefte to be vnder his custodie and gouernement, yet neuertheles, he honoured them as his Maistresses and superiours. The Erle Gaultieri was a beautiful personage, about the age of fourtie yeares, so familiar and well condicioned, as any gentleman could be, and be sides that, hee was the moste excellent and trimmest knight that was knowen in those dayes, and one moste comelie in his apparell. It chaunced that the king and his sonne, being at the warres aforesaide, the wife of the Erle died in the meane whyle, leauing him onely twoo litle yong children, a sonne and a doughter, whiche he had by her. He then frequenting the court of the aforesaid ladies, talking many times with theim about the affaires of the Realme: the wife of the kinges sonne, fixed her eyes vpon him, and with great affection (for his persone and vertues) feruently embraced hym with secrete loue. And knowing her selfe to bee yonge and freshe, and him to be without a wyfe, thought (sodainly) to bring to passe, that whiche shee desired, and thinking that nothing could lette it but onelye shame to discouer it, shee purposed vtterlye to abandone the same. And vppon a daye beyng alone, shee sente one to seeke the Erle, as though shee would haue communicated with him of other matters. The Erle whose mynde was farre different from the Ladies, incontinentlye came vnto her: who beyng sette downe together vppon a bedde (whiche she desired) alone in a chamber, he asked her twyse vpon what occasion she sent for hym: and she hauing nothing to saye vnto hym, pressed in the ende, and rapte with loue waxed verie shamefaste and almoste wepinge, and quaking for feare, with faynte woordes, began to saye as foloweth. "My derely beloued and louing frende, and Lorde, you may easely knowe (beyng a wyse man as you bee) the frailtie of men and women: and by diuers considerations, the weakenesse to be more in the one, then in the other. Wherefore (before a iust iudge) one fault of diuerse qualities, ought not of reason to receiue one like punishement. Moreouer who is he that will saye, that a poore man or woman, which getteth their liuing with the labour of their bodie, ought not more to be reprehended if they become amourous, and subiect to their lustes, then the riche Ladye whiche taketh no care for her liuing, or wanteth any thing that shee desireth. Truely I beleue there is none that will saye so: for which reason I suppose that the things beforesayd, ought to serue the greatest part of the excuse to the aduauntage of her that doth possesse them: if it happen that shee geue her selfe fully to the conductions of loue: and the superflusage of her saide excuse ought to consiste, in that shee hath chosen her a sage and vertuous frende, if shee that loueth hath done so in dede. Whiche twoo thinges as they ought to be (in my iudgement) so they are in me, and many other also: whiche ought to induce me to loue, accordingly as my youth requireth, and the great distaunce that is betweene my husbande and mee. It behoueth nowe then, that they should aduaunce them selues in your presence, for the defence of my burning loue: and if the same do raine in you, whiche haue power in the wise, then I beseche you to geue me counsayle and aide in the thing which I shal demaunde. True it is, that for the long absence of my husbande (not able to resist the prickes of the fleshe, and the force of loue) whiche be of suche great effect, that they haue many times past and yet daily do vanquishe and ouercome, not only feble and weake women, but also the strongest men. I liuing in ease and idlenes as you se, and forced to folowe the pleasures of loue and to become amourous: and as I do knowe well, that suche thinges (if they were knowen) should not be reputed honest. Neuerthelesse, the same being kepte secrete, I truste shall not be reprocheful. Notwithstanding dame Loue is so fauourable vnto mee, that not onely shee hath geuen me true iudgement in choise of a frende, but hath reueiled vnto me that it is you whiche is worthy to be beloued, of such a Ladie as I am. For if I be not greatlye deceiued, I doe make accompte that you be the fayrest personage, the semeliest, the moste curteous, and wysest gentleman, in all the Realme of Fraunce. And as I maye saye, by reason of his absence, that I am without a husband so may you affirme that you be without a wife: wherefore I beseche you, for the loue that I beare vnto you, that you will not denye me your loue and frendship, and that you will haue pitie vpon my young yeares, whiche doubtles do consume for you, as I see against the fierie flames." At which worde the teares ran downe in such aboundance, as where she thought to make further supplication and praiers, she had no more power to speake. But holding downe her head, like one that was ouercome, she threw her self downe into the Erles lappe, who like a faithfull knight, began to blame (with sharpe rebukes) her fonde and foolishe loue: pushing her from hym, as shee was about to clepe him aboute the necke, and swoore great othes, that rather hee woulde be drawen in peces then consent to suche a thing, to bee done by him, or any other, against the honour of his Lorde and maister. Whiche woordes the Ladie hearing, sodainly forgat her loue, and in great rage, sayde vnto him: "Shall I then be frustrate, thou arrent villayne, in this wyse of my desired ioye? but sithens thou goest about, to seke my destruction, I will cause thee to be put to death, or els to be banyshed the worlde." When she had sayde so, by and by she caught her selfe by the heare of the head, and almoste tare it of cleane, and then layde handes vppon her garmentes, renting the same in peeces, and afterwardes cried out aloude: "Helpe, helpe, the Erle of Angiers wil rauyshe me by force." The Earle seeing that (and farre more doubting of the enuie, and malice of the Courte, then his owne conscience, for any committed facte, fearing also, that more credite would be geuen to the wickednesse of the Ladie, then to his innocencie) conueighed him selfe from that place, and so soone as hee coulde, hee wente out of the palace, and fledde home to his owne house, where without any further aduise, he placed his children on horsebacke, and so well as he coulde caried them to Callice. At the brute and noyse of the ladie, many people assembled: who seing and hearing the occasion of her crie, not onely beleued her wordes, but also affirmed, that the pompouse state of the Erle, was vsed by him to bring to passe, th'effect of his desire. Then they ranne to the houses of the Erle, in great furie, to arreste his persone: but not finding hym there, they firste sacked his houses, and afterwardes ouerthrewe them to the grounde. The newes hereof (so wicked as might be deuised) arriued at the king and dolphins Campe, whereof they were so troubled and offended, as they condempned the Earle, and all his progenie to perpetuall exile: promising great giftes and rewardes, to them that would present them quicke or dead. The Erle being offended in his conscience, for that he was fled, innocent of the facte, made himself culpable therof, and arriued at Callice with his children, dissembling what he was, and sodainlye passed ouer into England, and in poore apparell, trauailed vp to London. And before he entred the citie, he gaue his children diuers admonicions, but specially of two things: First, that they should beare paciently the pouertie, wherunto fortune (without their offence) had brought theim. Afterwardes, that wisely they should take hede, at no time to manifeste and declare from whence they came, and whose children they were, as they loued the price of their owne lyues. The sonne was named Lewes, almoste of the age of nyne yeares, and the doughter called Violenta, was about the age of VII. bothe whiche chyldren, as their age could suffer them, did well obserue their fathers hest, as afterwardes it did right wel appeare. And because that this might the better be brought to passe, it semed good vnto him, to alter their names, naming the son Perotto, and the doughter Gianetta. And when they were arriued at London, in maner of beggers, they craued their almosse, and being by fortune for that purpose, one morning at a church doore, it came to passe that a great Lady, which was one of the Marshalles of Englandes wiues, in going out of the church, sawe the Erle and his two litle children begging their almose, of whom she demaunded, what countrie man he was, and whether those children were his owne, or not. To whom the Erle answered, that he was a Picarde, and by reason of a wicked facte, done by his eldest sonne (that was an vnhappie boye) he was forced to departe his countrie, with those his twoo children. The Ladie whiche was pitifull, fixed her eyes vpon the girle, who pleased her verie much, because she was beautifull, gentil, and amiable, saying: "Good man, if thou be content to leaue vnto mee, this thy litle doughter, which hath a good face, I will willingly take her, and if she become a duetiful maiden, when shee is mariagable, I wil marie her in honest wise." This demaunde greatly pleased the Erle, who redely aunswered, that hee was contented, and with teares trickeling downe his eyes he deliuered and commended his pretie doughter vnto her. And when he had thus well bestowed her, he determined to tarrie no longer there, but in begging his almose, traueiled through the countrie, with his sonne Perotto, and went into Wales, not without great labour and paine, as one neuer accustomed to trauayle on foote. Where dwelte one other of the kyng of Englandes Marshalles, that was of great authoritie, and kepte a noble house: to whose courte the Erle and his sonne oftentymes repayred, to practise and begge their liuing: where one of the Marshalles sonnes, and other Gentlemens chyldren, doyng certayne chyldyshe sportes and pastymes, as to runne and leape, Perotto began to entermedle hym selfe amonges them (who in those games dyd so excellentlye well, as none was his better) whiche thyng diuers tymes the Marshall perceiuing, well pleased with the order of the chylde, asked of whence hee was. It was tolde him that hee was a poore man's sonne, which many tymes came thyther, to begge his almose. The Marshall desiring to haue the childe, the Erle, whiche prayed vnto God for nothing els, liberallye gaue hym vnto hym, although it greeued hym to departe from him. The Erle then hauing bestowed his sonne and his doughter, determined no longer to tarrie in England, but so well as he coulde, he passed ouer into Irelande, and when he was arriued at Stanforde, he placed him selfe in the seruice of a man of armes, belonging to an Erle of that countrie, doing all thinges that did belong vnto a seruing man, or page: and not knowen to any man, hee continued there a long time, with great paine and toile. Violenta named Gianetta, that dwelt with the Ladie at London, grewe so in yeares, in beautie, in personage, and in such grace and fauour of her lord and lady, and of all the reste of the house, and so well beloued of al them that knew her, that it was maruailous to see. All men that sawe her maners and countenaunce, iudged her to be worthy of great honour and possessions, by reason wherof, the lady that receiued her of her father, not knowing what shee was, but by his reporte, purposed to marrie her honourablie, according to her worthinesse. But God the rewarder of all mens desertes, knowing her to be a noble woman, and to beare (without cause) the penaunce of an other man's offence, disposed her otherwise, and to the intent, that this noble gentlewoman might not come into the handes of a man of ill condicions, it must be supposed that that whiche came to passe was by God's own will and pleasure, suffred to be done. The gentlewoman, with whome Gianetta dwelte, had but one onely sonne by her husband, whiche both shee and the father, loued verie dearelye: as well because hee was a sonne, as also that in vertue and good merites hee greatlye excelled. For hee surpassed all other in good condicions, valiaunce, goodnes, and beautie of personage, being about sixe yeares elder then Gianetta: who seyng the mayden, to be both fayre and comelye, became so farre in loue with her, as he estemed her aboue all thinges of the worlde. And because he thought her to be of base parentage, he durst not demaunde her of his father and mother to wyfe. But fearing that he should lose their fauour, he kept his loue secret, wherby he was worse tormented, then if it had bene openly knowen. And thereby it chaunced, through Loue's malice, he fel sore sicke: for whose preseruation, were many Phisitions sent for, who marking in him all signes and tokens of sickenes, and not knowing the disease, were altogether doubtfull of his health: wherof the father and mother tooke so great sorowe and griefe, as was possible, and many times with pitifull praiers, they demaunded of him the occasion of his disease. To whome he gaue for aunswere, nothing els but heauie sighes, and that he was like to consume, and die for weakenesse. It chaunced vpon a daye there was brought vnto him a Phisicion, that was very yonge, but in his science profoundlie learned, and as he was holding him by the poulces, Gianetta (who for his mother's sake, attended him very carefully, entered vpon occasion into the chamber, where he lay sicke, and so sone as the yonge gentleman perceiued her, and that she spake neuer a woorde, or made any signe, or demonstration towardes him, he felte in his hart to arise his most amorous desire, wherefore his poulces began to beate aboue their common custome: whiche thing the Phisicion immediatly perceiued and marueiled, standing still to see howe long that fitte would continue. Gianetta was no soner gone out of the Chamber, but the beating of the poulces ceased: wherefore the Phisicion thought, that he had founde out some part of the gentleman's disease, and a litle while after seming to take occasion to speake to Gianetta holding him still by the armes, he caused her to bee called in, and she incontinently came, but she was no soner entred the chambre but the poulces began to beate againe: and when she departed, the beating ceased. Wherupon the Phisicion was throughly perswaded that he vnderstode the effecte of his sickenes, and therwithall rose vp and taking the father and mother aside, sayde vnto them: "The health of your sonne doth not consiste in the helpe of Phisicions, but remaineth in