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  If any of these characters do not display properly, or if the
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  In the primary text, possible errors are noted but not changed.
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  See end of text for full explanation of [brackets], {braces},
  (parentheses) and *asterisks*.]

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                        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 Scævola                                 26
     IV. Coriolanus                                     29
      V. Appius and Virginia                            35
     VI. Candaules and Gyges                            46
    VII. Crœsus 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 Prætextatus                           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 _Athenæum_--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 _quâ_ 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 _Æsop_,
    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 (_Beiträge
    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 Périers, who probably wrote some of the stories. Bonaventure des
Périers 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 è 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 ἄθεοι 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
régime_ 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 pædagogic 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 à 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 personæ_ 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 personæ_.
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 personæ_ 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 celèbre_ of one Calverly, who was
executed 5 August 1605; _Arden of Faversham_, also founded on a _cause
celèbre_ 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 celèbres_.

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 prædictiones 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 Barnabæ Gogæ 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 £50 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, Æt. 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 thõdiñce xvij{lb}, xv{s}.” and upon Lady Day
or New Year’s Day 1595. “To Willm̅ Painter and to S{r}. Stephen
Ridleston[49] Clarke of Thordñce 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. Æt. 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.* | Chosē
  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 Æthiopian 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 £7,075 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 £431 : 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 £120 : 3 : 4. Of this £1,441 : 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 £64 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
                                  £7,077 : 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 £1949 : 2 : 8 William Painter confesses in his answer to
owe £1079 : 17 : 3 which leaves unconfessed the sum of £869 : 5 : 5 of
which he himself prays to be disburdened for divers good and reasonable
considerations:--

 For Iron sold to the amount of                       £ 16 :  8 :  4
 For Powder sold for                                  £  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 £413 : 10 : 0, which brings him in £94 : 10 of which he has to pay
£33 : 3 : 2 leaving him £61 : 6 : 10.

The said William Painter owes £1200 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 £6,786 0_s_ 5½_d_; of payments during the last year
£3,960 17_s_ 6_d_; Balance due, £2,825 2_s_ 9½_d_. Also of debts due for
provisions brought into the stores, repairs, &c., during the year: total
£4055 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 Є 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 Cyrillic Є 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 £2,000 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 £11,000. 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. £40 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:
  Informac͠on 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. _Mediæval_: 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. _Mediæval_:
  Vincent Bellov. _Spec. Doct._ iv. 100; _Gesta Rom._, 135; _Violier_,
  113. III. _Modern_: Hans Sachs, i. 2, 184; 3, 21, _Ein schön spil
  von der geschicht der edlen Römerin Lucretia_, Strassburg, 1550,
  8vo; Kirchhof, vi. 67-70; _Eutrapelos, i. 92_; _Acerra_, ii. 51;
  _Histor. Handbüchlein_, 247; Albertinus, 279; Abraham à Sta. Clara,
  _Etwas für 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 SCÆVOLA.

The siege of Rome by Porsenna, and the valiaunt deliuerie thereof by
Mutius Scæuola, 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. _Mediæval_: Holkot _Narrat._ 175; _Gesta
  Rom._, Lat. 137; Germ. 89; _Violier_, 115; _Rosarium, i. 120_. III.
  _Modern_: Abr. à St. Clara; _Laubenhüt_, 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._--_Mediæval_: 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. CRŒSUS AND SOLON.

King Cræsus 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._--Ælian, 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._--Ælian, 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._--Ælian, 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 Cœl._, 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; Polyænus,
  _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 PRÆTEXTATUS.

The Hystorie of Papyrius Prætextatus [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. ÆSOP’S FABLE OF THE LARK.

A pretie tale drawne out of the Larke of Æsope.

  [_Source._--A. Gellius, _Noct. Att._ ii. 29.

  _Origin and Parallels._--_Cf._ Caxton’s _Æsop_, 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 _Æsop_, 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
  études juives_, t. xvii., and A. Wünsche 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._--_Mediæval_: 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.:_ Pitré, _Nov. pop. sic._ No. 163. Nerucci,
  _Nov. montalesi_, No. 45. Gianandrea, _Trad. Marchigiane_ (cf. T. F.
  Crane, _Academy_, 22 Mar. 1879). Schiefner, _Mahâkâtjâjana_, 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._--_Mediæval:_ _Guillaume de la Barre_, ed. P. Meyer;
  Jacob à 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._--_Mediæval:_ 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 Couçy.

  _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. § 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, § 4. _Med.:_ L. Valla. _Mod.:_ H. Stephen, _Traité
  preparatif à 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 PAMPELUNæ.

A pleasaunt discours of a great Lord to enioy a Gentlewoman of
Pampelunæ.

  [_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._: Andræ,
  _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. à 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
Æsop’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
Crœsus 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 Scævola                     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 Prætextatus               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
Scævola, 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 Crœsus                   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, à 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. Cælius 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
Cræsus 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
Æsope’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 Cræsus 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 Cære, 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 Scœuola, 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 Scæuola, 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, Fortunæ 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 Tabernæ Nouæ, 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 Cræsus 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 Cræsus, where he was liberallie
intertayned. This Cræsus was king of Lydia, sonne of Haliattes, that
brought to subiection great countries in Asia and Græcia, 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 Cræsus 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. Cræesus 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 Cræsus
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.” Cræsus 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, Cræsus 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 Cræsus 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.
Cræsus 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 Cræsus) 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 Cælius
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 Cræsus, 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 Ægiptians. The rest of his companie,
except his owne souldiours, fled from him, when they sawe him incountre
with the Ægiptian 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 Ægiptians 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 Ægipt. 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 pœna
& 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 Græcia: 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 Æmillius 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 Æmilius. 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, Prætextatis, 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 Prætextatus, 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 Æsope._


Æsope 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 Æsope 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, fœlicitas_, 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 Ægipt 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 præcedebat 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 the
handes of Gianetta your maide, as I haue perceiued by moste manifest
signes, which maide the yong man feruently doth loue. And yet (so farre
as I perceiue) the maide doth not knowe it: you therfore vnderstand now
what to doe, if you loue his life.” The gentleman and his wife hearing
this, was somewhat satisfied: for so muche as remedy might be founde to
saue his life, although it greued theim greatly, that the thing whereof
they doubted, should come to passe, whiche was the mariage betwene
Gianetta and their sonne. The Phisicion departed, and they repaired to
their sicke sonne, the mother saying vnto him in this wyse: “My sonne,
I would neuer haue thought, that thou wouldest haue kept secret from
mee, any parte of thy desire: specially, seing that without the same
thou doest remaine in daunger of death. For thou art, or ought to be
assured, that there is nothing that may be gotten, for thy contentment,
whatsoeuer it had bene, but it should haue bene prouided for thee, in as
ample maner as for my selfe. But sithe thou hast thus done, it chaunceth
that our Lord God, hath shewed more mercy vpon thee, then thou hast done
vpon thy selfe. And to the ende thou shalt not die of this disease, he
hath declared vnto me the cause of the same: whiche is none other, but
the great loue that thou bearest to a yonge maiden, wheresoeuer she bee.
And in deede thou oughtest not to be ashamed, to manifest thy loue,
because it is meete and requisite for thyne age. For if I wist thou
couldest not loue, I would the lesse esteme thee. Now then my good
sonne, be not afraid, franckly to discouer thine affection. Driue away
the furie and thought which thou hast taken, and wherof this sickenes
commeth, and comfort thy selfe. Being assured, that thou shalt desire
nothing at my handes, that may be done, but it shall be accomplished of
mee, that loueth thee better then mine owne life: and therefore expell
from thee this shame and feare. And spare not to tell me, if I be able
to doe any thing, in that whiche thou louest. And if thou perceiue, that
I be not carefull to bring it to passe, repute me for the cruellest
mother that euer bare childe.” The yonge gentleman hearing these woordes
of his mother, was first ashamed, but after thinking with him selfe,
that none was so well able to pleasure him as shee (driuing awaye all
shame) sayed to her in this wise: “Madame, there is none other thing
that hath made me to kepe my loue so secrete, but that, which I see by
commune proofe in many, who after they be growen to yeares of
discretion, doe neuer remembre that they haue bene yonge. But for so
much as herein I doe see your Ladiship discrete and wyse, I will not
onely affirme that to be true, whiche you haue perceiued in me, but also
I will confesse what it is, vpon condicion that the effect shall folowe
your promise, so farre as lieth in you, and whereby you shalbe able to
recouer my life.” Whereunto the mother trusting to much in that, which
she ought not to haue accomplished, for certaine consideracions, which
afterwardes came into her minde, answered him liberally: “That he might
boldly discouer all his desire, and that forthwith she would bring the
same to passe.” “Madame (sayde the yonge man then) the great beautie and
commendable qualities of your maiden Gianetta, whom as yet not only I
haue no power to intreate, to take pitie vpon me, but also I haue made
no wight in the world priuie of this my loue. The not disclosing and
secrecie of whose loue, hath brought me in case you see: and if so be
the thing, whiche you haue promised, doe not by one meane or other come
to passe, assure your selfe that my life is but shorte.” The Ladie
knowing, that it was more tyme to comforte, then to reprehende, sayd
vnto him smiling: “Alas, my sonne, were you sicke for this? Bee of good
chere and when you are whole let me alone.” The yonge gentleman being
put in good hope, shewed in litle time tokens and signes of great
amendement. Wherof the mother was marueilous glad, disposing her selfe
to proue, howe she might obserue that which she had promised. And on a
day calling Gianetta vnto her, demaunded in gentle wise, by waye of mery
talke, “If she had not gotten her a louer.” Gianetta with face al
blushing, aunswered: “Madame, I haue no nede therof, and much more
vnsemely for so poore a damosell as I am, to meditate or thincke vpon
louers, which am banished from my frendes and kinsfolke, remaining in
seruice as I doe.” To whom the Lady saide: “If you haue none, wee will
bestowe one vpon you, whiche shall content your minde, and make your
life more delectable and pleasaunt: for it is not meete that so faire a
maide as you be, should continue without a louer.” Whereunto Gianetta
answered: “Madame, waying with my selfe, that you haue taken me from my
poore father, and brought me vp as your doughter, it becommeth me to do
that whiche pleaseth you. Notwithstanding, I intende neuer to make any
complaint to you for lacke of such, but if it please you, to geue me a
husbande, I purpose dutifully to loue and honour him. For my
progenitours haue left me none other inheritaunce but honestie, whiche I
meane to kepe, so long as my life indureth.” These woordes to the Ladye,
semed contrary to that whiche shee desired to knowe, to atchieue her
promyse made to her sonne, although (lyke a wyse Ladie) to her selfe,
shee greatly praysed the Damosell, and sayde vnto her. “But Gianetta,
what if my Lorde the Kyng (whiche is a younge Prince, and you a fayre
mayden) would take pleasure in your loue, woulde you refuse him?”
Whereunto the mayde sodaynlye aunswered. “The Kyng maye well force mee,
but by consent he shall neuer obtayne the thing of mee that is
dishoneste.” The Ladye conceyuyng the courage, and stoutnesse of the
mayden in good parte, sayde no more vnto her, but thinking to put the
matter in proofe, she tolde her sonne, that when he was whole, she
woulde put them both in a chamber that he mighte haue his pleasure vppon
her. For she thought it dishonest to intreate her maide for her sonne,
because it was the office of a Ruffian. The yong man was nothing
contented therewith, whereby hee sodainlye waxed sicke againe: which the
ladye perceiuinge, opened her whole intent to Gianetta: but finding her
more constant than euer she was before, she told her husband all that
she had done, whoe agreed (althoughe against their willes) to giue her
to be his wife, thinkinge it better (their sonne lyuing) to haue a wife
vnagreeable to his estate, then to suffer him to die for her sake. Which
after great consultation, they concluded, whereof Gianetta was
maruelouslye well pleased, and with deuout harte gaue thankes to God for
that he had not forgotten her. And yet for all that, shee woulde neuer
name her selfe otherwise, then the doughter of a Picarde. The yong sonne
waxed whole incontinently, and was maried, the best contented man aliue,
and began to dispose himselfe, louingly to lead his life with her.
Perotto which did remaine in Wales with the other Marshall of the king
of England, semblably increased, and was welbeloued of his maister, and
was a very comely and valiaunt personage, that the like of him was not
to be found in all the Island, in such wise as at Torneis, Iustes, and
other factes of armes, there was none in al the Countrie, comparable
vnto him: wherefore by the name of Perotto the Picarde, hee was knowen
and renowmed. And like as God had not forgotten his sister, euen so he
shewed his mercifull remembraunce of him. For a certaine plague and
mortalitie, happened in that countrie, which consumed the one halfe of
the people there: besides that the most part of them that liued, were
fledde for feare into other countries, wherby the whole prouince, seemed
to be abandoned and desolate. Of which plague, the Marshall his maister,
his wife, and his sonne and many other brothers, neuewes, and kinsfolk
died, of whom remained no more, but his onely daughter, which was
mariageable, and some of his seruauntes, together with Perotto, whom
(after the plagues was somewhat ceased) the yong gentlewoman toke for
her husband, through the counsaile and consente of certaine of the
countrie people that were aliue, because he was a valiaunt and honest
personage, and of all that inheritaunce which her father lefte, shee
made him lord. A litle while after, the king of Englande vnderstanding
that the Marshall was dead, and knowing the valour and stoutnesse of
Perotto the Picarde, he made him to supplye the rowme of the deade
Marshall. In this sort in short time, it chaunced to the two innocent
children of the Erle of Angiers, which were left by him as lost and
quite forlorne. It was then the XVIII. yeare sithens the Erle fledde
from Paris, hauing in miserable sorte suffred manye aduentures. Who
seinge himselfe to begin to waxe olde, was desirous (being yet in
Irelande) to knowe (if hee could) what was become of his children.
Wherefore, perceyuinge that he was wholy altred from his wonted forme,
and feeling himselfe more lustie (throughe the longe exercise and labour
which he had susteined in seruice) then he was in the idle time of his
youth, he departed from his maister (verye poore and in ill apparel)
with whom hee had continued in seruice a long time, and came into
England to that place where he had left Perotto, and founde him to be
Marshall of the countrie, and saw that he was in health, lustie, and a
comelye personage, which reioysed him maruelously, but he would not make
himselfe to be knowen to him, till hee had seene what was become of his
doughter Gianetta: wherfore taking his iourney, he rested in no place,
till he came to London. And there secretely inquyring of the Lady, with
whom he had left his daughter, and of her state, he learned that his
doughter was her sonnes wife, whereof hee toke exceding great pleasure.
And from that time forth, he compted his aduersities past as nothing,
sith he had found his children liuing and in such great honour. And
desirous to see her (began like a poore man) to harbour himselfe neare
vnto her house, whereuppon a certaine daye, beinge seene of Giacchetto
Lamyens: (for that was the name of the husbande of Gianetta,) who
hauinge pitie vppon him because he was poore and old, commaunded one of
his seruaunts, to haue him into the house and to giue him meate for
God’s sake, which the seruaunt willingly did accomplish. Gianetta had
many children by Giacchetto, of which the eldest was but eight yeares
olde: the fayrest and beste fauoured children of the worlde. Who when
they sawe the Erle eate meate, they all came about him and began to make
much of him, as though by nature’s instruction they had knowen him to be
their Graundfather. And hee knowinge his nephewes, began to shew them
tokens of loue and kindnesse. By reason whereof the children would not
go from him, although their gouernour did call them away: wherfore the
mother beinge tolde the same, came oute of a chamber vnto the place
where the Erle was, and threatned to beate them if they would not do as
their maister bad them. The children began to crie, and said that they
would tary by that good man, that loued them better then their maister
did, wherat the Lady and the Erle began to laugh. The Erle not as a
father but like a poore man, rose vp to doe honour to his daughter
because shee was a noble woman: conceyuing marueilous ioy in his minde
to see her: but she knewe him not at all, neither at that instant, nor
after, because he was so wonderfully transformed and chaunged from that
forme he was wonte to be: Like one that was old and gray headed, hauinge
a bearde leane and weather beaten, resembling rather a common personne
then an Erle. And the Ladye seinge that the children woulde not departe
from him, but still cryed when they were fetched awaye, shee willed the
maister to let them alone. The children remayning in this sort with the
honest poore man, the father of Giacchetto came in the meane time, and
vnderstode this of their maister: He that cared not for Gianetta, said,
“Let them alone with a mischiefe, to keepe companye with beggers, of
whom they come: for of the mothers side, they be but verlettes children,
and therfore it is no marueile, though they loue their company.” The
Erle hearing those words, was very sorowfull, notwithstanding (holding
downe his head) he suffred that iniurie, as well as he had done manye
other. Giacchetto which knew the mirth and ioy that the children made to
the poore man (althoughe he was offended with those words)
neuerthelesse, made as much of the poore Erle as he did before. And when
hee sawe him to weepe he commaunded that if the honest poore man would
dwel there to do some seruice, he should be reteyned. Who aunsweared,
that he wouid tarrie there with a good will, but he said that he coulde
do nothinge els but keepe horse, whereunto he was accustomed all the
dayes of his life. To whom a horse was appointed to keepe, and dailye
when he had dressed his horse, he gaue himselfe to play with the
children. Whiles that Fortune thus dealt (according to the maner
abouesaid with the Erle of Angiers and his children, it chaunced that
the French king (after many truces made with the Almaynes) died, and in
his place was crowned his sonne, whose wife shee was that caused the
Erle to be banished. When the last truce with the Almaynes was expired,
the warres began to grow more sharpe, for whose aide the king of England
sent vnto him (as to his new kinseman) a greate nomber of people vnder
the gouernement of Perotto his Marshall, and of Giacchetto Lamyens,
sonne of his other Marshall, with whom the poore Erle went: and not
knowen of any manne, remained a greate while in the Campe as a seruaunt,
where notwithstanding, like a valiaunt man, with his aduise and deedes
he accomplished notable thinges (more then hee was required.) It
chaunced that in the time of the warres, the Frenche Queene was very
sore sicke, and perceyuing herselfe at the point of death, repenting her
of all her sinnes, and was confessed deuoutly to the Archbishop of
Roane, who of all men was reputed an holye and vertuous man: and amonges
all her other sinnes she tolde him of the great wronge that she had done
to the Erle of Angiers, and was not onely contented to reueale the same
to him alone, but also rehearsed the whole matter before many other
personages of great honour, desiring them that they would worke so with
the king, that if the Erle were yet liuinge or anye of his children,
they might be restored to their state againe. Not long after the Queene
departed, and was honourablie buried. Which confession reported to the
Kinge, (after certaine sorowfull sighes, for the iniuries done to the
valiaunt man) hee made Proclamation throughout all the Campe and in many
other places, that whosoeuer could bring forth the Erle of Angiers, or
any of his children, shoulde for euery of them receiue a great rewarde,
because he was innocente of that matter for which he was exiled, by the
onely confession of the Queene: and that he entended to exalte him to
his former estate, and more higher then euer hee was. Which thing the
Erle hearing (being in the habite of a seruaunt) knowing it to be true,
by and by he wente to Giacchetto, and prayed him to repaire to Perotto
that they might come together, because he woulde manifest vnto them the
thinge which the kinge sent to seeke for. And when they were all three
assembled together in a chamber the Erle saide to Perotto, that now he
thought to let him vnderstand what he was, saying these woordes:
“Perotto, Giacchetto whoe thou seest here hath espoused thy sister and
neuer had yet any dowrie. And because she maye not be destitute of her
Dowrie, I purpose that he and none other shall haue the reward, which
the king hath promised to be so great. Thou shalt manifest thy selfe
Perotto, to be the sonne of the Erle of Angiers, and Violenta the wife
of Giacchetto to be thy sister, and me to be the Erle of Angiers thy
father.” Perotto hearing this and stedfastly beholding him, began to
know him, and weeping, threw himselfe downe at his feete, and afterwards
imbracing him, said: “My deare father, you are right hartely welcome.”
Giacchetto hearing first what the Erle had saide, and after seinge what
Perotto did, he was incontinently surprised with so great marueile and
ioye that he knew not what to do: notwithstandinge, geuinge credite to
his words, as being ashamed of the opprobrious talke, which he had vsed
towards the Erle, as to a seruaunt, weeping, fell downe at his feete and
humblie asked pardon for all his rashe behauiours towards him: which was
curteously graunted vnto him by the Erle, who toke him vp. And after
euerye of them had a while debated of their Fortune, and had well
bewailed the same, and reioysed one with another, Perotto and Giacchetto
would haue newly apparrelled the Erle, but he in no wise would suffer
them. And beinge desirous that Giacchetto mighte haue assurance of the
rewarde promised, he woulde that he shoulde first present him to the
king after that sort in the habite of a seruaunte as he was, that hee
mighte make him the more ashamed. Then Giacchetto with the Erle (and
Perotto after) came before the king, and offred to present the Erle and
his children if it should please him to reward him according to the
Proclamation. The king incontinently caused to be brought forth a reward
of marueilous value, (as Giacchetto thoughte) and commaunded him
forthwith to present the Erle and his children according to his promise.
Giacchetto then tourned about, and placed before him the Erle his
seruaunt, and Perotto, saying: “Sir, beholde the father and the sonne,
the doughter which is my wyfe, is not here. But by God’s helpe you shal
see her shortly.” The king hearing this, behelde the Erle: and albeit he
was so greatlye chaunged from his former fauour, after hee had well
viewed him, he knew him, and with teares standinge in his eyes, hee
caused the Erle to rise vp, that kneeled before him, kissing and
imbrasing him, and very graciouslye receiued Perotto: and commaunded
forthwith that the Erle should be restored to apparell, seruaunt, horses
and furniture, according to his state and degree, which incontinentlye
was done: And moreouer the kinge greatly honoured Giacchetto, and
forthwith desired to know all their Fortunes passed. And when Giacchetto
had taken the great reward for bringing forth the Erle and his children,
the Erle said vnto him: “Take these royall rewards of the king, my
soueraigne Lord, and remember to tel thy father, that thy children, his
nephewes and mine, be no beggers borne of their mother’s syde.”
Giacchetto toke the reward, and caused his wife and his mother in Lawe
to come to Paris: likewise thither came the wife of Perotto, where, with
great ioy and triumphe, they taried a certaine space wyth the Erle, to
whom the kinge had rendred all his goodes, and had placed him in greater
aucthoritie, then euer hee was before. Then euery of them toke their
leaue and retourned home to their owne houses: and from that time forth
the said Erle, to thende of his life, liued in Paris, in greater honour
and aucthority, then euer he did before.




THE THIRTY-EIGHTH NOUELL.

_Giletta a Phisition’s daughter 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._


In Fraunce there was a gentleman called Isnardo, the Counte of
Rossiglione, who because he was sickely and diseased, kepte alwayes in
his house a Phisition, named maister Gerardo of Narbona. This Counte had
one onely sonne called Beltramo, a very yonge childe, amiable and fayre.
With whom there was nourished and brought vppe, many other children of
his age: amonges whom one of the doughters of the said Phisition, named
Giletta, who feruently fill in loue with Beltramo, more then was meete
for a maiden of her age. This Beltramo, when his father was deade, and
left vnder the royall custody of the king, was sente to Paris, for whose
departure the maiden was very pensife. A litle while after, her father
being likewise deade, shee was desirous to go to Paris, onelye to see
the yonge Counte, if for that purpose she could get any good occasion.
But being diligently loked vnto by her kinsfolke (because she was riche
and fatherlesse) she could see no conuenient waye for her intended
iourney: and being now mariageable, the loue she bare to the Counte was
neuer out of her remembraunce, and refused manye husbandes with whom her
kinsfolke woulde haue matched her, without making them priuie to the
cause of her refusall. Now it chaunced that she burned more in loue with
Beltramo than euer shee did before, because she hearde tell that hee was
growen to the state of a goodly yong gentleman. She heard by report,
that the French king had a swelling vpon his breast, which by reason of
ill cure was growen to be a Fistula, which did put him to marueilous
paine and griefe, and that there was no Phisition to be found (although
many were proued) that could heale it, but rather did impaire the griefe
and made it worse and worse. Wherfore the king, like one in dispaire,
would take no more counsell or helpe. Wherof the yong mayden was
wonderfull glad, thinckinge to haue by this meanes, not onely a lawfull
occasion to go to Paris, but if the disease were such (as she supposed,)
easelye to bringe to passe that shee mighte haue the Counte Beltramo to
her husbande. Whereuppon with such knowledge as she had learned at her
father’s hands before time, shee made a pouder of certaine herbes, which
she thought meete for that disease and rode to Paris. And the first
thing she went about when she came thither was to see the Counte
Beltramo. And then she repayred to the king, praying his grace to
vouchsafe to shew her his griefe. The king perceyuing her to be a fayre
yonge maiden and a comelie, would not hide it, but opened the same vnto
her. So soone as shee saw it shee put him in comforte, that shee was
able to heale him, saying: “Sir, if it maye please your grace, I truste
in God without anye greate paine vnto your highnesse, within eighte
dayes to make you whole of this disease.” The king hearing her say so,
began to mocke her, saying: “How is it possible for thee, beinge a yong
woman, to do that which the beste renowmed Phisitions in the world can
not?” Hee thancked her for her good will and made her a direct
aunsweare, that hee was determined no more to followe the counsaile of
any Phisition. Whereunto the maiden aunsweared: “Sir, you dispise my
knowledge because I am yonge and a woman, but I assure you that I do not
minister Phisicke by profession, but by the aide and helpe of God: and
with the cunninge of maister Gerardo of Narbona, who was my father, and
a Phisition of great fame so longe as he liued.” The king hearing those
words, sayd to himselfe: “This woman peraduenture, is sente vnto me of
God, and therefore why should I disdaine to proue her cunninge? for so
muche as she promiseth to heale me within a litle spac, without any
offence or griefe vnto me.” And being determined to proue her, he said:
“Damosel, if thou doest not heale me, but make me to breake my
determination, what wilt thou shal folow therof.” “Sir,” said the
maiden: {“}Let me be kept in what guard and keeping you list: and if I
do not heale you within these eight dayes, let me be burnt: but if I do
heale your grace what recompence shall I haue then?” To whom the kinge
aunswered: “Because thou art a maiden and vnmaried, if thou heale me
according to thy promise, I wil bestow thee vppon some gentleman, that
shalbe of right good worship and estimation.” To whom she aunsweared:
“Sir, I am very well content that you bestow me in mariage: but I
beseech your grace let me haue such a husband as myselfe shall demaund,
without presumption to any of your children or other of your bloud.”
Which request the king incontinently graunted. The yong maiden began to
minister her Phisicke, and in short space before her appointed time, she
had throughly cured the king. And when the king perceiued himselfe
whole, said vnto her: “Thou hast well deserued a husbande (Giletta) euen
such a one as thy selfe shalt chose.” “I haue then my Lord (quoth she)
deserued the Countie Beltramo of Rossiglione, whom I haue loued from my
youth.” The king was very loth to graunt him vnto her: but for that he
had made a promise which he was loth to breake, he caused him to be
called forth, and said vnto him: “Sir Countie, knowing full well that
you are a gentleman of great honour, oure pleasure is, that you returne
home to your owne house to order your estate according to your degree:
and that you take with you a Damosell which I haue appointed to be your
wife.” To whom the Countie gaue his humble thanks, and demaunded what
she was? “It is she (quoth the king) that with her medecines hath healed
me.” The Counte knew her wel and had already seen her, although she was
faire, yet knowing her not to be of a stocke conuenable to his nobility,
skornefully said vnto the king, “Will you then (sir) giue me a Phisition
to wife? It is not the pleasure of God that euer I should in that wise
bestow my selfe.” To whom the king said: “Wilt thou then, that wee
should breake our faith, which wee to recouer health haue giuen to the
damosell, who for a reward asked thee to husband?” “Sir (quoth Beltramo)
you may take from me all that I haue, and giue my person to whom you
please because I am your subiect: but I assure you I shal neuer be
contented with that mariage.” “Wel, you shall haue her, (said the king)
for the maiden is faire and wise, and loueth you most intirely: thinking
verely you shal leade a more ioyful life with her, then with a Lady of a
greater house.” The Countie therewithal held his peace, and the kinge
made great preparation for the mariage. And when the appointed day was
come, the counte in the presence of the king (although it were against
his wil) maried the maiden, who loued him better then her owne selfe.
Which done, the Counte determining before what he would do, praied
licence to retourne to his countrye to consummat the mariage. And when
he was on horsebacke hee went not thither but toke his iourney into
Tuscane, where vnderstanding that the Florentines and Senois were at
warres, he determined to take the Florentines parte, and was willingly
receiued and honourablie intertaigned, and was made captaine of a
certaine nomber of men, continuing in their seruice a long time. The new
maried gentlewoman, scarce contented with his vnkindnes, hopinge by her
well doinge to cause him to retourne into his countrye, went to
Rossiglione, where she was receiued of all his subiects for their Lady.
And perceyuing that through the Countes absence all thinges were spoiled
and out of order, shee like a sage Ladye, with greate diligence and
care, disposed his thinges in order againe: whereof the subiects
reioysed very much, bearing to her their harty loue and affection,
greatly blaming the Counte because he coulde not content himselfe with
her. This notable gentlewoman hauing restored all the countrie againe to
their auncient liberties, sent word to the Counte her husband, by two
knights, to signifie vnto him, that if it were for her sake that hee had
abandoned his countrie, vppon retourne of aunsweare, she to do him
pleasure, would departe from thence. To whom he chorlishly replyed: “Let
her do what she liste: for I do purpose to dwell with her, when she
shall haue this ring (meaning a ring which he wore) vpon her finger, and
a sonne in her armes begotten by mee.” He greatly loued that ring, and
kepte it very carefully, and neuer toke it from his finger, for a
certaine vertue that he knew it had. The knights hearinge the harde
condition of two thinges impossible: and seinge that by them he could
not be remoued from his determination, retourned againe to the Lady,
tellinge her his aunsweare: who, very sorowfull, after shee had a good
while bethoughte her, purposed to finde meanes to attaine the two
thinges, that thereby she might recouer her husbande. And hauinge
aduised her selfe what to doe, shee assembled the noblest and chiefeste
of her Countrie, declaring vnto them in lamentable wyse what shee had
alreadye done, to winne the loue of the Counte, shewinge them also what
folowed thereof. And in the ende saide vnto theim, that shee was lothe
the Counte for her sake should dwell in perpetuall exile: therefore shee
determined to spende the reste of her time in Pilgrimages and deuotion,
for preseruation of her Soule, prayinge theim to take the charge and
gouernemente of the Countrie, and that they would let the Counte
vnderstande, that shee had forsaken his house, and was remoued farre
from thence: with purpose neuer to returne to Rossiglione againe. Many
teares were shed by the people, as she was speaking those wordes, and
diuers supplications were made vnto him to alter his opinion, but all in
vaine. Wherefore commending them all vnto God, she toke her way with her
maide, and one of her kinsemen, in the habite of a pilgrime, well
furnished with siluer and precious Jewels: telling no man whither shee
wente, and neuer rested till shee came to Florence: where arriuinge by
Fortune at a poore widowes house, shee contented her selfe with the
state of a poore pilgrime, desirous to heare newes of her Lord, whom by
fortune she sawe the next day passing by the house (where she lay) on
horsebacke with his company. And althoughe shee knewe him well enoughe,
yet shee demaunded of the good wife of the house what hee was: who
aunsweared that hee was a straunge gentleman, called the Counte Beltramo
of Rossiglione, a curteous knight, and wel beloued in the City, and that
he was maruelously in loue with a neighbour of her’s, that was a
gentlewoman, verye poore and of small substance, neuerthelesse of right
honest life and good report, and by reason of her pouerty was yet
vnmaried, and dwelte with her mother, that was a wise and honest Ladye.
The Countesse well noting these wordes, and by litle and litle debating
euery particular point thereof, comprehending the effecte of those
newes, concluded what to do, and when she had well vnderstanded which
was the house, and the name of the Ladye, and of her doughter that was
beloued of the Counte: vppon a day repaired to the house secretely in
the habite of a pilgrime, where finding the mother and doughter in poore
estate amonges their familie, after she had saluted them, told the
mother that shee had to saye vnto her. The gentlewoman rysing vp,
curteously intertayned her, and being entred alone in a chamber, they
sate downe and the Countesse began to speake vnto her in this wise.
“Madame, me thincke that ye be one vpon whom Fortune doth frowne, so wel
as vpon me: but if you please, you may both comfort me and your selfe.”
The lady answered, “That there was nothing in the world wherof she was
more desirous then of honest comfort.” The Countesse proceeding in her
talke, said vnto her. “I haue neede now of your fidelitie and truste,
whereuppon if I do staye, and you deceiue mee, you shall both vndoe me
and your selfe.” “Tell me then what it is hardlie (said the
gentlewoman:) for you shall neuer bee deceiued of mee.” Then the
Countesse beganne to recite her whole estate of loue: tellinge her what
she was, and what had chaunced to that present daye, in such perfite
order as the gentlewoman beleeuinge her, because shee had partly heard
report before; began to haue compassion vppon her, and after that the
Countesse had rehearsed the whole circumstaunce, she continued her
purpose, saying: “Now you haue heard amonges other my troubles, what two
things they bee, which behoueth mee to haue, if I doe recouer my
husband, which I know none can helpe me to obtaine, but onelye you, if
it be true that I heare, which is, that the Counte my husband, is farre
in loue with your doughter.” To whom the gentlewoman sayd: “Madame, if
the Counte loue my doughter, I knowe not, albeit the likelyhoode is
greate: but what am I able to doe, in that which you desire?” “Madame,
aunsweared the Countesse, I will tell you: but first I will declare what
I meane to doe for you, if my purpose be brought to effecte: I see your
faire doughter of good age, readie to marie, but as I vnderstande the
cause, why shee is vnmaried, is the lacke of substance to bestowe her.
Wherefore I purpose, for recompence of the pleasure, which you shall doe
for mee, to giue so much readie money to marie her honourablie, as you
shall thincke sufficient.” The Countesse’ offer was very well liked of
the Ladie, because she was poore: yet hauing a noble hart, she said vnto
her. “Madame, tell me wherein I may do you seruice: and if it be a
thinge honest, I will gladlye performe it, and the same being brought to
passe, do as it shall please you.” Then said the Countesse: “I thincke
it requisite, that by some one whom you truste, you giue knowledge to
the Counte my husband, that your doughter is, and shalbe at his
commaundement: and to the intent she may be well assured that hee loueth
her in deede aboue anye other, she must pray him to sende her a ring
that hee weareth vppon his finger, which ring as she knoweth, he loueth
very dearely: and when he sendeth the ringe, you shal giue it vnto me,
and afterwards sende him woorde, that your doughter is readie to
accomplishe his pleasure, and then you shall cause him secretelye to
come hither, and place me by him (in steede of your doughter)
peraduenture God will giue me the grace, that I may be with child, and
so hauing this ring on my finger, and the childe in mine armes begotten
by him, I maye recouer him, and by your meanes continue with him, as a
wife ought to do with her husbande.” This thinge seemed difficulte vnto
the Gentlewoman: fearing that there woulde folowe reproche vnto her
doughter. Notwithstandinge, considering what an honest part it were, to
be a meane that the good Ladie might recouer her husbande, and that shee
mighte doe it for a good purpose, hauinge affiaunce in her honest
affection, not onely promised the Countesse to bring this to passe, but
in fewe dayes with greate subtiltie, folowing the order wherein she was
instructed, she had gotten the ringe, although it was with the Countes
ill will, and toke order that the Countesse in steede of her doughter
did lye with him. And at the first meeting, so effectuously desired by
the Counte: God so disposed the matter that the Countesse was begotten
with child, of two goodly sonnes, and her deliuery chaunced at the due
time. Whereuppon the gentlewoman, not onelye contented the Countesse at
that time with the companye of her husbande, but at manye other times so
secretly as it was neuer knowen: the Counte not thinkinge that he had
lien with his wife, but with her whom he loued. To whom at his vprising
in the morning, he vsed many curteous and amiable woords, and gaue
diuers faire and precious Jewels, which the Countesse kept most
carefully: and when she perceiued herselfe with child, she determined no
more to trouble the gentlewoman, but said vnto her. “Madame, thanckes be
to God and you, I haue the thing that I desire, and euen so it is time
to recompence your desert, that afterwards I may depart.” The
gentlewoman said vnto her, that if she had done anye pleasure agreeable
to her minde, she was right glad thereof which she did, not for hope of
reward, but because it appertayned to her by well doing so to doe.
Whereunto the Countesse said: “Your sayinge pleaseth me well, and for my
part, I doe not purpose to giue vnto you the thing you shal demaunde in
reward, but for consideration of your well doing, which dutie forceth me
to do.” The gentlewoman then constrained with necessity, demaunded of
her with great bashfulnesse, an hundred poundes to marie her daughter.
The countesse perceiuinge the shamefastnesse of the gentlewoman, and her
curteous demaunde, gaue her fiue hundred poundes, and so many faire and
costly Jewels, as almost amounted to like valour. For which the
gentlewoman more then contented, gaue most harty thankes to the
Countesse, who departed from the gentlewoman and retourned to her
lodging. The gentlewoman to take occasion from the Counte of anye
farther repaire, or sendinge to her house, toke her doughter with her,
and went into the country to her frends. The Counte Beltramo, within
fewe dayes after, being reuoked home to his owne house by his subiectes,
(hearinge that the Countesse was departed from thence) retourned. The
Countesse knowinge that her husbande was goone from Florence and
retourned home, was verye gladde, continuing in Florence till the time
of her childbedde, being brought a bedde of twoo sonnes, whiche were
very like vnto their father, and caused them carefully to be noursed and
brought vp, and when she sawe time, she toke her iourney (vnknowen to
anie) and arriued at Montpellier, and resting her selfe there for
certayne dayes, hearing newes of the Counte, and where he was, and that
vpon the daye of Al Sainctes, he purposed to make a great feaste, and
assembly of Ladies and Knightes, in her pilgrimes weede she repaired
thither. And knowing that they were all assembled, at the palace of the
Counte, readie to sitte downe at the table, shee passed through the
people without chaunge of apparell, with her twoo sonnes in her armes:
and when shee was come vp into the hall, euen to the place where the
Counte sat, falling downe prostrate at his feete, weeping, saying vnto
hym: “My Lorde, I am thy poore infortunate wyfe, who to th’intent thou
mightest retourne and dwel in thine owne house, haue bene a great whyle
begging aboute the worlde. Therefore I nowe beseche thee, for the
honoure of God, that thou wilt obserue the conditions, which the twoo
(knightes that I sent vnto thee) did commaunde me to doe: for beholde,
here in myne armes, not onely one sonne begotten by thee, but twayne,
and likwyse thy Ryng. It is nowe time then (if thou kepe promise) that I
should be receiued as thy wyfe.” The Counte hearing this, was greatly
astonned, and knewe the Ryng, and the children also, they were so like
hym. “But tell me (quod he) howe is this come to passe?” The Countesse
to the great admiration of the Counte, and of all those that were in
presence, rehersed vnto them in order all that, whiche had bene done,
and the whole discourse thereof. For which cause the Counte knowing the
thinges she had spoken to be true (and perceiuing her constant minde and
good witte, and the twoo faire young boyes to kepe his promise made, and
to please his subiectes, and the Ladies that made sute vnto him, to
accept her from that tyme foorth as his lawefull wyfe, and to honour
her) abiected his obstinate rigour: causing her to rise vp, and imbraced
and kissed her, acknowledging her againe for his lawefull wyfe. And
after he had apparelled her according to her estate, to the great
pleasure and contentation of those that were there, and of al his other
frendes not onely that daye, but many others, he kept great chere, and
from that time forth, hee loued and honoured her, as his dere spouse and
wyfe.




THE THIRTY-NINTH NOUELL.

_Tancredi Prince of Salerne, caused his daughter’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._


Tancredi Prince of Salerne, (an vniuersitie in the region of Italie) was
a curteous Lorde, and of gentle nature: had he not in his age imbrued
his handes with the bloud of his owne doughter. It chaunced that this
Prince in al his life time, had but that doughter: but more happie had
he ben if she had neuer ben borne. That doughter he loued so well, as a
father might loue his childe: and for the tender loue he bare her, he
was not able to suffer her to be out of his sight. And could not finde
in his harte to marie her, although she had many yeres passed the time
that she was mariageable: notwithstanding, in thende he gaue her to wife
to one of the sonnes of the Duke of Capua, with whom she continued no
long time, but was a widowe, and then retourned vnto her fathers house
againe. This Ladie was very faire and comely of bodie and face, as any
creature could be, yonge, lustie, and more wise peraduenture then a
woman ought to be. And thus dwelling with her louing father, she liued
like a noble Ladie, in great pleasure: and seing that her father for the
loue he bare vnto her, had no mynde or care to marie her agayne, and
also she thinking it skarce honest to require him thereunto, deuised
secretly (if it were possible) to retaine some valiaunt man to be her
louer. And seyng manye gentlemen and others, frequenting her fathers
court (as we commonly see in the courtes of princes) and marking the
behauiour and order of many (amonges all) there was a young man, one of
her fathers seruauntes that liked her well, whose name was Guiscardo, of
very base birth (but in vertue and honest condicions more noble then the
reste) and many times when she sawe him, she wonderfully delited in him,
alwayes praysing his doinges aboue all others. The younge man, not
hauing good consideration of him selfe, perceiuing her feruent
affection, so fixed his minde that he disposed the same vpon nothing els
but to loue her. One louing an other secretly in this sorte, and the
Ladie verie studious to finde occasion that she might talke with him,
vnwilling to committe the secrecie of her loue to any man, she imagined
a newe deuise to geue him knowledge thereof. And wrote a letter
signifying vnto him, what he should doe the next day, and howe he might
vse himselfe to come to talke with her: and then putting the letter into
the cane of a rede, she gaue it vnto Guiscardo in sporting wise, and
said. “Thou shalt this night make a paire of Bellowes for thy seruaunt
wherwith she may kindle the fire.” Guiscardo toke it, and thought that
shee did not geue it vnto him, without some special purpose went to his
chamber, and loking vpon the Cane perceiued it to be hollowe, and
openyng it founde the letter within whiche shee had written. And when he
had well perused it, vnderstandyng the tenour thereof, hee thought hym
selfe the happiest man in the worlde, and began to put hym selfe in
readinesse, to mete with his Ladie, by suche wayes and meanes, as shee
had to him appointed. There was in the corner of the Princes palace a
Caue, long time before made vnder the syde of a hille, whiche Caue
receiued light by certayne ventes made of force within the sayd
mountaine, and because the same was not frequented and vsed, it was
ouergrowen with busshes and thornes. Into which Caue was a discent by a
secrete payre of stayers, into one of the lowest chambers of the
Palaice, wherin the Ladie lay, which was out of all men’s minde, because
it was not occupied many a day before, and shut vp with a very strong
doore. But Loue (in the eyes wherof nothing is so secrete, but will come
to knoweledge) had brought the same againe into the remembraunce of the
amorous Lady. The opening of which doore (that no man might knowe it)
many dayes did trouble her wittes: afterwarde when she had founde the
waye, she went downe alone into the Caue, and viewing the vente,
whereunto she had geuen order for Guiscardo to come, she tolde him of
what height it was from the ground: for the execution whereof, Guiscardo
prepared a rope with knots and degrees to goe vp and downe, and putting
vpon him a leather coate, to kepe him from the thornes and bushes, went
downe the next night at the saide vente, vnknowen of any man: and
fastening one of the endes of the rope, to the stocke of a tree, that
grewe at the mouth of the vente, hee slipte downe into the Caue, and
taried there for the Ladie, who the next daye faining her selfe to slepe
after dinner, sent her maydes out of her chamber, and locked her selfe
within alone: and then opened the doore, and went downe into the Caue,
where finding Guiscardo, they marueilously reioysed one with an other.
And from thence went vp together into her chamber: where they remained
togethers, the moste parte of that day, to their great delight. And
hauing geuen good order for the affaires of their loue, and the secrete
vse therof, Guiscardo retourned into the Caue, and the Ladie locked the
doore, and came out amonges her maides. The next night after, Guiscardo
issued out of the vente vpon the rope, wherewith he descended and
conueied him selfe into his chamber. And hauing learned the waye, he
resorted thither many times after. But Fortune enuious of that pleasure,
so long and great, with dolorous successe, tourned the ioye of those
twoo louers into heauie and sorowefull ende. The Prince accustomed
sometimes to resorte alone into his doughter’s chamber, and there for a
whyle to tarie and talke with her, and so to departe. Vpon a daye after
dinner, when the Ladie (whose name was Gismonda) was in the garden with
all her maidens, he repaired vnknowen or seene of any man into her
chamber. But being loth to trouble his doughter of her pleasure, and
finding the wyndowes of her chamber shut and the curtens of her bedde
drawen, he satte down vpon a stoole at the beddes feete, and leaning his
head to the bedde the Curteine drawen ouer him (as he had bene hidden of
purpose) he fel a slepe. And the king being thus a slepe, Gismonda that
(in euill time) the same day had appointed Guiscardo to come, left her
maydens in the Gardeine, and entred very secretly into her chamber,
locking fast the doore after her, and not knowing any man to be there,
shee opened the doore of the Caue to Guiscardo, who was redie to wayte
for her comming. Then they caste them selues vpon the bedde, as they
were wonte to doe, solacing the time together, vntill it chaunced that
the Prince awaked, heard and sawe what Guiscardo and his doughter did.
Whereof being verie sorowfull, he would vpon the first sight haue cried
out: but that he thought it better for that time to holde his peace,
still to kepe him selfe secrete, to the intent that he might more
priuelie, and with lesse shame, accomplishe that which he purposed to
do. The twoo louers continued togethers a great time, as they were wont
to do, without any knowledge of the Prince his being there, and when
they saw time, they went downe from the bedde: and Guiscardo retourning
to the Caue, shee went foorthe of her chamber, from whence Tancredi (as
olde as he was) conueyed him selfe into the Gardeine out at a wyndowe of
the same, vnseen and not perceiued of any. Who like a pensife man, and
carefull euen vnto death, repaired to his owne chamber, and the next
night, about one of the clocke, he caused Guiscardo to be apprehended,
by an order that he had prescribed, at his comming forth of the Caue,
euen clothed as he was, with his leather coate: and by twoo men was
secretly conueyed to the Prince. Who so sone as he sawe him, sayd vnto
him with teares standing in his eies: “Guiscardo, the beneuolence and
goodnes towardes thee, haue not merited this outrage and shame, that
thou hast committed this daye in mine owne house, which I sawe with mine
owne eyes.” To whom Guiscardo gaue no other aunswere, but that Loue was
of greater force, then either any Prince or hym selfe. Then the Prince
commaunded him to be kept, in a chamber adioyning. The next day the king
(Gismonda being ignoraunt hereof) reuolued in his minde, diuers and
sundrye matters, and after diner as he was accustomed, he wente into his
doughter’s chamber, and caused her to be called vnto him, and shutting
the chamber doore, in lamentable speche sayd vnto her. “Gismonda, I had
so much affiaunce and truste in thy vertue and honestie, that it coulde
neuer haue entred into my mynde (althoughe it had bene tolde me, if I
had not sene it with mine owne propre eyes) but that thou haddest not
onely in deede, but also in thought, abandoned the companie of all men,
except it had bene thy husbande: whereof I shalbe right pensife and
sorowefull so longe as this litle remnaunt of life (that mine olde age
doth preserue) indureth in mee. And sithe thou couldest not conteyne
from suche dishonest loue, I woulde it had pleased God, that thou
haddest taken a manne, equall to thyne estate. But amonges so many that
do frequente my court, thou hast chosen this young man Guiscardo, whose
birthe is very vile and base, and brought vp (as it were for God’s sake)
from a childe to this present daye, in our Court. For which
consideration I am verie sore disquieted, not knowing how to take this
at thy handes: for with him (whom I haue caused to be taken this nighte
in going out of the Caue, and nowe kepte as prisoner) I have already
concluded what to do. But with thee what I shal do, God knoweth: of the
one side, the loue that I still beare thee, more then any father euer
bare to his doughter, doth drawe me: on the other side, a iust
displeasure and indignation, taken for thy great follie, doth moue me.
The one mocion would that I should pardon thee, the other forceth me
against my nature, to be cruell vnto thee. Notwithstanding, before I doe
make any certaine resolucion, I desire to heare what thou canst saye for
thy selfe.” When hee had spoken those woordes, he kissed her face,
weping verie bitterly like a childe that had ben beaten. Gismonda
hearing her father, and knowing that not only her secret loue was
discouered, but also her louer Guiscardo to be in pryson, conceiued an
inestimable sorowe, vttering the same many times, with outcries and
schreches, according to the maner of women, howe beit, her great courage
surpassed her weakenesse, and did sette a bolde face on the matter, with
marueilous stoutnesse determining, before she made any sute for her
selfe, no longer to liue, seing that her frende Guiscardo was alreadie
dead. Wherefore not like a sorowefull woman, or one taken in any faulte,
but as a desperate persone, with a drie and stoute countenaunce, not
troubled or vexed, she said thus to her father: “I doe not purpose,
deare father, to stande in deniall, nor yet by humble sute to make
requeste: for the one wyll nothyng auayle mee, and the other is to none
effecte. Moreouer I doe not intende by any meanes, to beseche your
clemencie and loue towardes mee, to be beneuolente and bontifull, but
confessinge the trouthe, I will first with true reasons and argumentes,
defende myne honour, and afterwardes prosecute in vertuous wyse, by
effectes, the stoutnesse of my courage. True it is, that I haue loued
and do loue Guiscardo, and will loue him so long as I liue, which shalbe
but a litle time. And if so be that a woman may loue a man after death,
I will not cease to loue him. But womanly frailtie and feminine
weakenesse hath not so much induced me hereunto, as the litle care you
haue had to bestow me in mariage, and the great vertues that daily I
haue seene in Guiscardo. You ought deare father to knowe, that your
selfe is of fleshe, and of fleshe you haue engendred me your doughter,
and not of Stone or Iron. In likewyse you ought, and must remember
(although now you be arriued to olde yeares) what yonge folkes bee, and
of what great power the lawe of youth is: and although you were (during
the force of your youthlie dayes) trayned and exercised in factes of
armes, yet nowe you oughte to knowe what great puissaunce resteth in the
idle and delicate life, as well in the aged, as amonges yonge people.
I am then as you be, begotten of fleshe, and my yeres so few, as yet but
yonge, and thereby full of lust and delight. Wherunto the knowledge
which I haue had alredy in mariage, forceth me to accomplishe that
desire: and to the same be added marueilous forces, against whiche it is
impossible for me to resiste, but rather to folowe, whereunto they drawe
me. I am become amorous like a yonge woman, and like a woman as I am,
and certainly I would haue imploied my whole force that waye, so farre
as I could not to committe any shame to you, or to my selfe in that,
whereunto my naturall offence hath forced me. To which thing, pitiful
loue, and gentle fortune haue founde out, and shewed a waye secret
enough, whereby without knowledge of any man, I am come to the effecte
of my desires: which thing I will not denie (who so euer tolde you of
it, or by what meanes so euer you are come to the knowledge of it) I
haue not taken Guiscardo to be my louer by chaunce, as many women haue
done, but I haue chosen him by long aduise and deliberation, aboue all
others, and haue brought him into me in this wise, inioying with our
wise continuance of longe time, the accomplishment of my desire, wherof
me thincke (althoughe I haue not offended but by loue) that you doe
purpose to prosecute rather the vulgar opinion, then the truth,
purposinge in this wise moste bitterly to comptroll me, saying: ‘That
you had not had such an occasion of anger, if I had chosen one that had
been a gentleman.’ Wherein you do not consider, that the faulte is not
mine, but rather to be ascribed to fortune, who ought to be blamed
because many times shee exalteth the vnworthie, and treadeth vnder foote
those that be most worthie: but nowe let vs leaue of further talke of
this matter, and consider the beginninge hereof. First of all you see,
that of one masse of fleshe we haue all receiued flesh, and that one
Creatour hath created euery lyuing creature, with force and puissaunce
equally, and wyth equall vertue: which vertue was the first occasion
that made the difference and distinction of vs all that were borne, and
be borne equall, and they that obtayned the greatest part of vertue, and
did the workes of her, were called noble, the rest continuing vnnoble.
And albeit contrary vse afterwards obscured this Law, yet therefore,
shee is not remoued ne abandoned from nature, or good maners. In
likewise hee that by vertue performeth all his doinges, doth manifestlie
shewe himselfe to be noble: and he that doth otherwise terme him, doth
commit the faulte, and not he that is so called. Behold all your
gentlemen, and examine well their vertue, their conditions and maner of
doinges. On the other part, behold the qualities and condicions of
Guiscardo: then if you please to giue iudgement wythout affection, you
shall say that he is righte noble: and that all your gentlemen be
villaines in respecte of him. The vertuous and excellencie of whom,
I beleeue cannot be placed in any other wight, as in hym, as well by
your owne report as by the choyse of mine owne eyes. Who euer praysed
man so, and with such ample commendacions praise worthie, wherein an
honest man ought to be praised, as you haue done? and truly not without
cause: for, if mine eyes be not deceiued, you neuer gaue hym anye praise
but that I haue knowen more in him then your wordes were able to
expresse. Notwithstanding, if I haue bin deceiued herein, it was you by
whom I haue bin deceiued: wil you then say that I couple myselfe with a
man of base condicion? Truly you cannot well say so. But if you will
saye, perchaunce with a poore man, I confesse it: and verely it is to
your shame, that you haue not vouchsafed to place in highe estate a man
so honest, being your owne seruaunt. Neuerthelesse, pouertie doth not
depriue anye parte of nobilitie, but riches hath. Manye kinges and
greate Princes, haue bin poore in olde time, and manye ploughmen and
sheepeheardes in times past, haue bin aduaunced to riche estate. And the
last doubt which troubleth you, is, that you be doubtfull what to doe
with me: caste boldly out of your minde that doubte, and if you do
intend in thextremity of your age to vse that which in your youth you
neuer did, I purpose to become cruel also. Use your cruelty against me,
for the auoyding whereof I haue not determined to make any supplication
to you as giltie of this faulte, if faultes may be rehearsed. Assuring
you, that if you do not vnto me, that which you haue done or will doe to
Guiscardo, mine owne handes shall doe it. Wherefore goe to, and let fall
your teares with women, and if you purpose to be cruell, kill him and
let me also drincke of the same Cuppe, if you thincke we haue deserued
it.” The king hearing the stout words of his doughter, thoughte not that
shee woulde haue done in deede, as her wordes pretended, and as she said
she would doe. Wherefore departing from her, and not willing to vse any
maner of crueltie towards her, hee thoughte by the destruction and
slaughter of Guiscardo, to coole her burning loue. And therefore
commaunded two of his seruauntes (that had Guiscardo in keeping) without
any noise, to strangle him the next nighte, and afterwardes plucking his
harte out of his bodie, to bringe it vnto him: who did as they were
commaunded. And the next day the king caused a faire Cuppe of gold to be
broughte vnto him, wherein he laid the harte of Guiscardo, which he sent
(by one of his trustiest seruauntes) vnto his doughter: and commaunded
him, when hee presented the same vnto her to say these wordes: “Thy
father hath sent thee this presente, to comforte thy selfe with the
thing, which thou doest chiefle loue, as thou haste comforted him of
that which he loued most.” Gismonda not amoued from her cruel
determination, caused to be brought vnto her (after her father was gone)
venemous herbes and rootes, which she distilled together, and made water
thereof to drincke sodenly if that came to passe which she doubted. And
when the kinges seruaunte was come vnto her, and deliuered his presente,
he said as he was commaunded. Gismonda toke the Cuppe with stoute
countenaunce, and couering it, so soone as she sawe the harte, and
vnderstoode the woordes, shee thoughte verelye that it was the hart of
Guiscardo, wherefore beholding the seruaunt, she saide vnto him: “Truly
it behoueth that such a hart as this is, shoulde be intombed in no worse
graue then in golde, which my father hath most wisely done.” Afterwards
lifting the Cuppe to her mouth, she kissed it, saying: “I haue in all
thinges, euen vnto this time (being the last ende of my life) alwayes
found the tender loue of my father towards mee: but nowe I knowe it to
be greater, then euer I did before. And therefore in my behalfe, you
shall render vnto him, the last thanckes that euer I shall giue him, for
so great a presente.” After those wordes, tourning herselfe towardes the
Cuppe, which shee helde faste, beholdinge the hart, shee said thus: “Oh
sweete harboroughe of my pleasures, cursed be the crueltye of him that
hath caused mee at this time to loke vppon thee with the eyes of my
face: it was pleasure ynoughe, to see thee euery hower, amonges people
of knowledge and vnderstanding. Thou hast finished thy course, and by
that ende, which fortune vouchsafed to giue thee, thou art dispatched,
and arriued to the ende wherunto all men haue recourse: thou hast
forsaken the miseries and traueyles of this world, and haste had by the
enemy himselfe such a sepulture as thy worthinesse deserueth. There
needeth nothing els to accomplishe thy funerall, but onely the teares of
her whom thou diddest hartelye loue all the dayes of thy lyfe. For
hauing wherof, our Lord did put into the head of my vmercifull father to
send thee vnto me, and truly I will bestow some teares vppon thee,
although I was determined to die, without sheading any teares at all,
stoutlie, not fearefull of any thinge. And when I haue powred them out
for thee, I will cause my soule, which thou hast heretofore so carefully
kepte, to be ioyned wyth thine. For, in what company can I trauell, more
contented, or in better safegard in places vnknowen, then with thy
soule? Truly I am well assured, that it is yet here within, that hath
respecte to the place, aswell of his owne pleasures, as of mine, being
assured (as she who is certaine, that yet he looueth me) that he
attendeth for myne, of whom he is greatly beloued.” When she had thus
sayd, she beganne to let fall (as thoughe there had been a fountaine in
her head) so many teares, as it was a myracle to beholde her, oftentimes
kissing the deade harte. Her maydens that stoode aboute her, knewe not
what hart that was, nor whereunto those woords did tende: but being
moued with compassion they all wepte: pitifullie demaundinge (althoughe
in vayne) the occasion of her sorowfull plaintes: and comforted her so
well as they could. Who after she had powred forth sufficient teares,
lifted vppe her heade and when she had wiped her eyes, she sayd: “Oh
louing hart, all my dutie is fulfilled towardes thee, hauinge nowe
nothinge to doe but onely to yelde foorth my ghoste, to accompany
thyne.” And this sayd, she caused the glasse of water, which she had
made the daye before, to be brought vnto her: and poured it out into the
cuppe where the hart laye, all bained with a multitude of teares: whiche
shee putting to her mouthe, without feare, dronke vp all. And that done
went into her bedde, with the cuppe in her hand, tossing her bodie as
decently as she could vppon the same, holding the harte of her dead
frende, so nere as shee coulde, vnto her owne. Her maidens seing this
(although they knewe not what water it was, that she dranke) sent worde
to the king, who fearing that whiche happened, incontinentlye wente
downe into his doughters chamber: where he arriued euen at that instante
that she had cast her selfe vpon the bedde, and being come to late to
succour her, with sweete woordes he began (seing her in those pangues)
to wepe bitterly. To whome his doughter sayde: “Father, kepe in those
vndesired teares and bestowe them not vpon me, for I desire them not:
who euer sawe man beside you, to bewayle the wilfulnesse of his owne
facte. Howe be it, if there do yet reste in you any sparke of that loue,
which you haue alwayes borne towardes me: graunt me this last requeste,
that although you were not contented that I should liue secretly and
couertly with Guiscardo, yet at lest, cause our bodies to bee openly
buried togethers, where it pleaseth you to bestowe them.” The anguishe
and sorowe would not suffer the Prince to aunsweare one worde for
weping. And the Ladie perceiuing her ende approche, cleped and strained
the dead hart harde to her stomacke, saying: “Farewell sweete harte in
God, for I am going to him.” And therewithall she closed her eyes, and
lost her senses, departing out of this dolorous life. In this maner
sorowefully ended the loue of Gismonda and Guiscardo, as you haue
hearde, whome the prince after he had wepte his fill, and taken to late
repentaunce for his crueltie: caused honorablie to be buried, and
intombed both in one graue, not without great sorowe of all the people
of Salerne.




THE FORTYETH NOUELL.

_Mahomet one of the Turkishe Emperours, executeth curssed crueltie
  vpon a Greeke maiden, whome hee tooke prisoner, at the wynning of
  Constantinople._


If you doe euer make any proofe of trial, to knowe of what trampe the
Arrowes of Loue be, and what fruite they brynge to them, that doe vse
and practise them: I am assured you shall be touched with some pitie
when ye vnderstande the beastlie crueltie of an Infidell louer towards
his Ladie. He of whome I wyll declare the historie, is Mahomet, not the
false Prophete, but the great graundfather of Soliman Otiman, Emperoure
of the Turkes, whiche raigned at that tyme. He it is, that to the shame
and eternall infamie of all Christian Princes of his tyme, did wynne
Constantinople, and tooke awaye the Easte Empire from Constantine,
a Christian Emperour, the yeare of our Lord 1453. Mahomet then hauing
obteined so great victorie at Constantinople, amonges the spoyle of that
riche Citie, there was founde a Greeke mayden, of suche rare and
excellent beautie, as she allured the eyes of euery wight, to wonder and
beholde her, as a thing miraculous, whose name was Hyerenee, of the age
of sixtene or seuentene yeares: whom a Capitaine to gratifie his Lorde,
did presente, a Iewell, (as hee thought) moste acceptable to him, aboue
all thinges of the worlde. The Emperour Mahomet, young and wanton
beyonde measure, after he had caste his eye upon the mayden, and had
grauen her beautie in his harte, gaue a straighte charge that shee
shoulde bee kepte for hym, hopinge after the tumulte of the warre was
ended, to bestowe conuenient tyme vpon her. The retracte sounded, and
the affaires of the Empire reduced to sure estate, remembring him selfe
of the beautie of Hyerenee, whiche had made a breache and entrie into
his harte, commaunded that shee should be brought foorth vnto him, and
hauing viewed her at his pleasure, hee felte him selfe so surprised with
that newe flame, that hee conceived none other delight but to playe and
dallie with her, in suche sorte as his spirites being in loues full
possession, loue dealt with hym so cruellie, as he coulde take no reste
daye nor night. Who yelded him selfe suche a praie to his darling
Hyerenee, that he felte none other contentation in his mynde but that
whiche he receiued of her. And this amorous passion indured the space of
three continuall yeares, taking suche vigor and increase by litle and
litle, that he began to forget that whiche appertained to the ornament
and honour of his Empire, leauing the whole administration of publique
causes to his Baschats, he him selfe being so negligent, as he reposed
in them all matters concerning the state of the Empire. During this
disorder, the vulgar people began secretly to grudge, as well for the
confusion and disorder of the Empire, as for the il gouernment of the
same, (and specially, because the Baschats corrupted with auarice
imployed them selues to their particuler profite, and to inriche them
selues with the spoile of the people.) The Ianissaries on the other
side, a warlike people, and brought vp in continuall exercise of Armes,
began with open voyce, to detracte and slaunder their lorde, commonlie
complaining howe hee consumed his life like an effeminate persone,
without inferring or doyng anye profite to the Empire. To bee shorte,
the matter came to suche desolation, as it might rather haue bene called
a sedition then a murmure: and yet there was none so hardie as durst
attempte to declare the same to the Emperour, knowing him to be of
nature terrible, cruell, and rigorous, that with a woorde woulde put him
to death that went about to withdrawe him from his desire. Therewithall
he was so dronke with the beautie of the Greeke, that the leste matter,
wherewith they might geue occasion to withdrawe him from his negligent
life, was enough to driue him into rage and furie. This poore Emperour
was so bewitched, as not onely hee consumed dayes and nightes with her,
but he burned with continual ielousie, whose beautie was so liuelie
painted in the inward partes of his hart and minde, that he remained
thus ouerwhelmed in beastly pleasure, euery man in particuler and all in
generall conspired against him, with one determinate minde, to yelde no
more obedience vnto him in time to come, and purposed to chose some
Emperour, that were more marciall and warlike, through whose succour and
counsaile they might not onely conserue the thinges gotten, but also
amplifie the boundes and limites of their Empire. Mustapha which was
brought vp with the Emperour, a gentle personage, franke of talke, and
so nere to his maiestie that he might go into his chamber, although the
Greeke was present: when he perceiued conuenient time, suche as he
desired to haue, repaired to the Emperour vpon a daye, who liking well
his deuises, walked with him alone in his Gardeine, to whom after he had
made great reuerence, according to their custome, he sayde: “My
souereigne lorde and maister, if I might speake freely, without seruile
feare, which staieth mee, or if the terrour of your displeasure might
not abash me, I would willingly declare vnto your maiestie that which
concerneth not onely your securitie and saulfegarde, but (which is more)
the saulfetie of your whole Empire.” Whom Mahomet aunswered with merie
countenance in these wordes. “Cast away such colde feare as staieth
thee, and speake hardly thy minde: Shewe me what it is that toucheth
me.” “I doubt, and it shall please your maiestie, leste I shall seeme
ouer presumptuous and rashe, if I discouer the secretes of my hart: but
our auncient education, the dutie of my conscience, with the experience
that you haue alwayes had of my fidelitie, haue so much forced mee, as
being no longer able to rule my selfe, (I am constrained, by what
vertuous prouocation I know not) to manifest thinges vnto you, that both
time and necessitye will make you to thincke them good and necessarie:
althoughe (it may so be) that now your eyes be so bounde vppe, in the
vaile of your disordinate affection, that you cannot digeste, or take
the same in good part. The life (my lorde) which you haue ledde, sithens
the taking of Constantinople, and the excessiue pleasures wherin you
haue bin plunged these three yeares, is occassion that not onely your
Souldiours and the rest of your popular people, but the most faithful
Lords of your Empire, do murmure, conspire, and coniure against you. And
pardon me (my lord) if I speake so vnreuerently, in thinges touching
your preseruation. For there is no man but doth very much marueile of
this great and newe alteration that appeareth in you, which doth so
abase you, and maketh you to degenerate from your auncient generositie
and valiaunce. Your owne selfe hath giuen ouer your selfe to be a spoile
and praye to a simple woman: that you wholie depend vpon her flatteries
and allurementes: reason or counsaile can take no place in your
passionate and afflicted hart. But I humblie beseech your maiestie to
enter a little into your selfe, and make a suruey of your life, that you
haue ledde these three yeares paste. The glory of your auncestours and
predecessours, acquired and wonne by sheading of so much bloud, kepte by
so great prudence, conserued by so happy counsell, haue they no
representation, or shew before your face? The remembraunce of theyr
memorable victories, doth it not touche the depthe of your conscience?
The magnanimitie and valiaunce whereby they be immortalized, and their
fame regestred throughe the whole world, is it extinguished in you?
Their Trophees and Monumentes grauen and aduaunced to all the corners of
the earth, be they throwen downe and defaced from the siege of your
remembraunce? But where is now the ardent desire which boiled in you
from your infancie, to make Italie tributarie vnto you, and to cause
your selfe to be crowned at Rome, Emperour aswel of Thorient, as of the
Occidente? This is not the way to amplifie and inlarge your Empire, but
rather to restraine and diminish the same. This is not the meane to
preserue it, but to dispoile it and make it lesse. If Ottoman the first
tronke or stocke of your gentle familye and kinred, had thus giuen
himselfe to be corrupted in idlenes, you had not now inherited the noble
kingdom of Greece, nor gouerned the countries of Galatia and Bithinia,
and many other prouinces, which enuironne the greate sea. Semblablie his
sonne Orcan (a liuely Image of his father and a folower of his valiaunt
factes) had not triumphed ouer Licaonia, Phrigia, Caria, nor dilated the
boundes of his Empyre to Hellesponte. What shall I speake of Amurates,
the successour of Orcan, who was the first that inuaded Europa,
conquered Thracia, Syria, Rafia and Bulgaria? And Baiazet likewyse, did
not he cut of the head of the greate Tamburlain, which called himselfe
the scourge of God, and brought into the field foure hundred thousande
Scithians a horsebacke, and sixe hundred thousande footmen? Shall I
passe ouer with silence the vertuous exploites of your grandfather
Mahomet, who conquered Macedonia and made the Countries to feele the
edge of his sword, euen to the sea Ionicum, lettinge passe many
wonderfull expeditions and iourneis by him made against the Lidians and
Scicilians? But nowe I cannot reuiue the memorie of your father Amurate,
but to my great sorow and griefe, who by the space of XL. yeres made the
Sea and earth to tremble and quake, and with the furie of his stronge
hand vsed such cruell reuengment ouer the Grekes, that the memorie of
the woundes do remaine at this present, euen to the mountaines of Thomao
and Pindus: he subiugated the Phocians, made tributarie Athenes, Beotia,
Aetolia, Caramania, and all the barbarous nations, from Morea to the
straits of Corinthe. What neede I here to bring in the cruel battell
that he fought with the Emperour Sigismunde and Philip Duke of Burgundia
wherin he ouerthrew the whole force of the Christians, toke the Emperour
prisoner, and the Duke of Burgundie also, whom he sent to Andrionopolis?
or to remember other fierce armies which he sent into Hungarie, wherof
your maiesty is a faithfull witnes, your selfe being stil there in your
owne person. Iudge, then, my Lord, what diligence and intollerable
trauell he vsed in his manifolde glorious enterprises and famous
victories. Do you thincke that if hee had bin idle in his palace,
amonges the Ladyes, you had inherited your Empyre, or had nowe bin Lord
of so many excellent Prouinces: which he is not sufficient to rule, that
cannot prouide to confirme and establish the same. There be many of your
subiectes and vassals at this day, which do obey and honour your
maiestie (more for feare then good loue they beare you) that woulde
rebell against you, if Fortune would turne her backe. The Christians of
longtime (as you know) haue sworne your ruine and destruction. Moreouer
they say that their high bishop the pope of Rome hath conuocated all his
prelates to vnitie, and reconciled the Princes and Monarches of
Christendome together, to ouer run you, and to take the Scepter out of
your hands, and to dispoile you of your Empire. But what know we whither
they wil ioyne their force with the power of the Persian Sophi, your
capital enemie, or with the Souldan or Aegipt, your auncient aduersary:
which if they come to passe (as God forbid) your Empire wilbe consumed.
Gather your wits then together from henceforth my Lord, and call againe
reason, which so many yeres you haue banished from you. Awake out of the
deepe sleepe which hath sealed vp your eyes: imitate and folow the trade
of your auncestors, which euer loued better one day of honour then a
hundred liuing yeares of shame and reproch. Attend to the gouernment of
your Empire: leaue of this effeminate life; receiue againe the smell of
your generosity and vertue: and if you cannot at one time cutte of and
remoue all that amorous heate which vndermineth so your hart, moderate
the same by litle and litle, and giue some hope to your people, which
thincke you to be vtterlye loste and desperate of recouerie. Or if so be
the Greeke do delighte you so much, who shall let you to carye her with
you in all your iourneis and expeditions? Why cannot you together both
enioy her beauty and vse the practise of armes? Mee thincke that your
pleasure shalbe greater after you haue wonne some victory, and subdued
some countrye to inioye her in your armes, then to remaine in a house
with eternal infamie and continuall grudging of your subiectes. But
proue I pray you, to separate your selfe certaine dayes from her and you
shall certainly iudge, how farre more passing the pleasures be so
differred, then those that be daily vsed. Yet one thinge more, and it
please your Maiestie, there resteth to be saide, which is, that all the
victories of your progenitours, or the conquestes which your selfe hath
made be to small purpose, if you doe not keepe them and increase them,
the keeping of a thing gotten being of no lesse glory and praise then
the conquest. Be now then a conquerour of your selfe, humblie beseching
your Maiestie, that if I haue spoken any thing disagreable to your
minde, according to your wonted clemencie to pardon the same, and to
impute the faulte to my bounden duty and the care that I haue of your
honour and safetye.” Mahomet after he had heard the longe discourse of
his slaue, stoode as still as a blocke, and fixing his eyes vppon the
grounde, with sodaine chaunge of colour, declared by outward signes, the
agitations and vnquietnes of his minde in such wise, as the poore slaue
Mustapha, seing in him those alterations, was in doubt of his life:
whose woords so pricked the Emperour’s harte, that he knew not what to
do, or whereupon to be resolued, and feeling his conscience troubled
with a furious battel: knowing euidentlye that Mustapha had spoken the
truth, and that he vttered the same like a trustie seruaunt to his
maister. But on the other side the beautie of the Greeke, was still
before his eyes, and the minde he had to abandon her, gaue him suche
alarme, that he seemed at that instante as though his hart had been
torne out of his belly. And thus moued with diuers tempestes, and
disquieted with sundry thoughtes, hauing his eyes inflamed with great
rage and furie, he said vnto him. “Althoughe thou hast spoken
vnreuerently inough, yet our education together, and the fidelitie that
I haue proued in thee in time paste, shalbe thy pardon for this time. To
the purpose. Before the Sunne doth compasse the Zodiacke, I will let it
be knowen to thee and other, what puissaunce and power I haue ouer my
selfe: whether I am able to bridle mine affection or not. Take order in
the meane time that all my noble men, the Baschats and the principall of
my men of warre, be assembled together to morowe, in the middes of the
greate halle of my palace.” This determination finished, the Emperour
went into the Greeke, with whom he reioysed all that day and night, and
made more of her than euer he did before. And the more to flatter her,
he dined with her, and commaunded that after dinner, she should adorne
herselfe with her most precious Iewels, and decke her with the costliest
apparell shee had. Whereunto the poore wenche obeied, not knowinge that
it was her funeral garmentes. On the other side, Mustapha vncertaine of
the Emperour’s minde, at the houre appointed caused all the nobilitie to
be assembled in the hall, euerye of theym marueilinge what moued the
Emperour so to do, sithens he had so long time shut vp himselfe, without
shewing his person abrode. Being thus assembled, and euerye man talking
diuerslye of this matter, accordinge as their affection serued: beholde,
the Emperour entred the hall, leading the Greeke by the hand, who being
adorned otherwise then she was wont to be, was accompanied and garnished
with beautie, so rare and excellent as she resembled rather an heauenly
Goddesse then a humaine creature. The Turke being come into the hall,
after that the Lords had made their reuerence, according to their wonted
maner, he holding still the faire Greeke by the left hande, and stoode
still in the middest of the same, loking furiously round about him, he
said vnto them. “So farre as I vnderstand, all ye do mutine and grudge,
because I (being vanquished with Loue) cannot be deuided nor yet content
my selfe day nor night, from the presence of this Greeke. But I do know
none of you all so continente and chaste in Loue, that if hee had in
possession a thing so rare and precious, so amiable, indowed with
beautie so excellent, but before he could forget her, and giue her ouer,
hee would three times be well aduised. What say you to the matter? Euery
of you shall haue free liberty franckly to tel me your minde.” But they
rapt with an incredible admiration, to see so faire a thing, sayde that
he had with greate reason passed his time wyth her. Wherunto the
barbarous cruel Prince aunsweared. “Well, now then I will make you to
vnderstand, that there is no earthlie thing that can bind vp, or
captiuate my sences so much, but that from henceforth I will folow the
glorie of mine auncestours, and immitate the valiaunce of the Ottomans,
which is so fixed in my breaste as nothinge but death is able to blotte
it out of my remembraunce.” Those wordes finished, incontinently with
one of his handes, hee catched the Greeke by the heare of the head, and
with his other hand he drew out his falchion from his side, and folding
his handes about her golden lockes, at one blow hee strake of her head,
to the great terrour of them all. When he had so done, he said vnto
them: “Now ye know, whether your Emperour is able to represse and bridle
his affections or not?” Within a while after, meaninge to discharge the
rest of his cholere, he addressed a Campe of foure score, or an hundred
thousand men: with whom percing Bousline, he besieged Belgrade, where
Fortune was so contrary vnto him, that he was put to flight, and loste
there a notable battaile against the Cristians, vnder the conduct of
Iohn Huniades, surnamed le Blanck, who was father of the worthie and
glorious king Mathie Coruin.




THE FORTY-FIRST NOUELL.

_A Ladie falslie 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._


In the countrie of Aquitane, there was sometime a Lord, whose lands and
lordships laye betweene Lismosine and Poictou, and for the antiquitye of
his house was renowmed both for bloude and wealth, amonges the chiefe of
all the Countrie. Being allied in kindred wyth the best, hee had full
accesse and fauour as well in the houses of the aunciente Dukes of
Guienne, and Countes of Poictou, as in the Royall Courtes of the French
kinges. This Lorde (whom Bandello the aucthour of this history affirmeth
to be Signor de la Rocca Soarda, but the translatour and augmentor of
the same in French called Francois de Belle Forest, leaueth out his
name, for good respect as he alleageth) kept a great Court and liberal
household, and singularlie delighted (after the maner of the French
nobilitie) in huntinge and hawking. His house also was had in greater
admiracion (the rudenes and ignoraunce of that tyme was such) because he
had gotten beastes of straunge countries, cheflie Lions, wherein he had
great pleasure aswell for the rarenesse of that beast in Fraunce, as for
a certain generositie that he knew to be in the same, which resembled
the magnanimitie and courage of noble men, whose minds and spirites doe
not esteeme thinges that be vaine and cannot be affraide in doing of
deedes, whereunto honour is offred for reward. This Lord maried a Ladie,
the doughter of one of his neighbours, a woman worthie for such a
husbande: whose beautie was so rare as there was none comparable vnto
her: which the more increased for that shee was indued with perfite
vertue, and furnished with so good behauiour as right good mindes and
wittes should be occupied, naie rather put to their shiftes to decide,
whether gifte were greatest, either the exquisite workemanshippe of her
excelling beautie, or whether nature had imploied al her cunning, to
frame a body to appeare before men miraculous, or els her honest porte,
her good grace, curtesie and graue mildnes, accompanied with vertue, not
vulgare or common to many men, which made this Ladie to shine like the
glisteringe Planet of Mars, amonges other the wanderinge starres. In
such wife as the very sauage and brute were forced with splendent fame,
to praise her to be such a woman whose equall they neuer knew to be in
all their Countrie, who made the house of her husband glorious and him a
contented man, to beholde such a starre to lie by his side, which
sufficed to illustrate and beautifie a whole countrie by her onely
presence, and to nobilitate a race, althoughe the bloud of auncestours
did faile, for the accomplishmente of their perfection. Such is the
great force of vertue which not onely did aduaunce her aboue other
creatures, but also did constraine the enuious to haue her in
admiration. But these admiratours and praisers of vertue, doe not vse
like indeuour for the merites of vertue, rather they imploie their onely
industrie to gather some profite of vertue and then (followinge the
nature of the dogge) they retourne to their vomite, and vomite forth
their venime hidden in their serpent’s breast. As it came to passe and
was euident in a certaine man, that was Stewarde of this nobleman’s
house (truly a very happye house, as well for the honest loue betwene
the Lord and the Lady, as for the vertue and clemency wherewith both the
one and the other were accompanied) who in the beginninge, as honestie
and dutie did require, was a louer of good maners and commendable
demeanour of his Lady and maistresse, afterwardes (forgetting the
fidelitie which he did owe vnto his Lorde, the nobilitie of his
predecessours, and the perill of his owne life) began to loue her and
serue her in harte, and to wishe for the fairest thing which outwardlye
did appeare to be in her, where he oughte not so much as with the loke
of his eye, to giue any atteint of liking, for the reuerence of him
which was the right owner and iuste possessor of the same. This maister
foole then, not measuring his forces, and lesse followinge the instincte
of reason, became so amourous of his Madame, as continually he imagined
by what meanes he mighte giue her to understand the paines and languores
wherein he liued for the loue of her. But (alas) these deuises vanished,
like a litle dispersed cloude at the rysinge of the Sunne: for thinking
vppon the vertue of his maistresse, his desires were soner remoued from
his hart, then he was able to impresse them in the seat of his
iudgement, therby to take anye certaine assuraunce. Notwithstandinge his
heade ceased not to builde Castels in the ayre, and made a promise to
himselfe to enjoye her whom he worshipped in his hart. For he toke such
paynes by his humble seruice, that in the ende he acquired some part of
his Laydes good grace and fauour. And for that he durste not be so bolde
to manifest vnto her the vehemence of his griefe, he was contented a
long time to shew a counterfaict ioy, which raised vnto him a liuely
spring of sorowes and displeasures, which ordinarily did frette and
boyle his minde so muche: as the force of his weping for vaine hope, was
able to suffocate the remnant of life, that rested in his tormented
hart, which caused certaine litle brokes of teares to streame downe,
assailing the minde of this foolishe Louer. This faire and chaste Ladie
was so resolued in the loue of her husbande, that she toke no regarde of
the countenaunces and foolishe fashiones of this maister Louer. Who
seing his mishappe to growe to dispaire, and from thence foorthe no
remedie, that whether by reioyse, well hoping of better lucke, or for
sodaine and miserable death, he determined to proue Fortune: and to see
if the water of his hope coulde finde any passage, stedfastlye
determined that if he were throwen downe hedlong into the bottome of
Refusal, and contempned for his seruice, not to retire againe, but
rather further to plondge for the accelerating of the ruine of him self,
and his desires: for he thought it impossible that his harte could
indure more intollerable heate of that invisible fier, then it had felt
alreadie, if he founde no meanes for the smoke to haue some vent and
issue. For whiche consideration, cleane besides him selfe, bewitched
with foolish Loue, like a beast throughly transformed into a thing, that
had no sense of a a reasonable man (such as they be accustomably, that
be inrolled in the muster bookes of Venus’ sonne) was purposed to open
to the Ladie (when occasion serued) both the euill, and also the griefe
that he susteined in bearing towarde her, so great and extreme
affection. Behold here one of the effects of humane follie: this was the
firste acte of the Tragedie, wherein loue maketh this brainlesse man to
playe the first and principall parte vpon the Stage. This poore
gentleman (otherwyse a good seruaunt, and carefull for the profite and
honoure of his maister) is nowe so voyde of him selfe and blinde in
vnderstanding as hee maketh no conscience to assaile her (to defraude
her of her greatest vertue) the simple name of whom ought to haue made
him tremble for feare, and to blushe for shame, rather then for her
beautie sake and naturall curtesie, to dispoyle her of her honestie, and
to attempte a thing vncertaine to winne and also more daungerous to
practise. Nowe whiles he liued in the attemte of his hoped occasion, it
chaunced that the Lady (thinking no malice at all) began to beholde the
Stewarde with a better eie and looke more familier, then any of the
gentlemen and domesticall seruauntes of the house, as well for the
painted honestie of this Galant, as to se him so prompte and readie to
obey her: and therefore vpon a daye as she walked in the Gallerie she
called him vnto her, and verie familierly communicated certaine affaires
touching the profite of the house. He that marched not but vpon one
foote, and burned with Loue, and whose harte leapte for ioye, and
daunced for gladnesse, thought that he had nowe obteined the toppe of
his felicitie, and the whole effect of his desire: sodainly he cast away
the dispaire of his former conceiptes, obiecting him selfe to the
daunger wherin he was to bee ouerwhelmed, if the Ladie accepted not his
request with good digestion. In the end, recouering force, he discoursed
in minde this wicked opinion, wherwith foolish and wilfull fleshly
louers doe blason and displaye the honour and chastitie of Ladies, when
they make their vaunte that there is no woman, be she neuer so chaste,
continente, or honest, but in the ende yeldeth, if she be throughly
pursued. O, the wordes and opinion of a beast, rather then of a man
knowing vertue. Is the nomber of chaste women so diminished that their
renowme at this daye is like a Boate in the middes of some tempestious
sea, whereunto the mariners do repaire to saue them selues? It is the
only vertue of Ladies which doeth constraine them to vomite foorthe
their poyson, when they see them selues deceiued, of their fonde and
vncomely demaundes. A man shall neuer heare those woordes precede, but
from the mouthes of the moste lasciuious, which delight in nothing els,
but to corrupte the good names of Ladies, afterward to make them
ridiculous to the worlde. Retourne we then to our purpose, this valiaunt
souldier of loue, willing to geue the first onset vpon his swete enemie,
began to waxe pale and to tremble like the Reede blowen with the wynde,
and knoweth not in what part, or by what meanes, to bestowe the firste
strokes of his assault. At length with foltring tongue and trembling
voyce, he speaketh to his Ladie in this wyse. “Alas, madame, how happie
were the course of our transitorie life, if the common passions received
no increase of troubles, by newe and diuers accidents, which seme to
take roote in vs, for the very great diminution of that libertie, which
euery man doth studie so much to conserue. But truly that studie is
vain, and the paine thereof vnprofitablie bestowed: for he inforceth him
selfe to liue free from passion, which in the middes of his inforcement,
feeleth him selfe to be violently constrained, and seeth the taking away
of his libertie, to be a certaine impeachemente, whiche thereunto hee
would geue. Alacke, I haue proued that mischiefe, and am yet in the
greatest excesse and pangues of my disease. I fele (alas) a diuersitie
of anguishes, and a sea of troubles, which tormente my minde, and yet I
dare not discouer the cause, seing that the thing, which is the
fountaine of my grief, to be of suche desert as my seruice paste, and
all that is to come, is not able to geue the proofe, if one speciall
grace and fauour, do not inlarge, the litle power that is in mee, to
counteruaile the greatnesse, and perfection of that which thus doth
variat and alter bothe my thoughtes and passions. Pardon mee (madame) if
I doe speake obscurelye, for the confusion of my minde maketh my woordes
correspondent to the qualitie of the same. Notwithstanding I wyll not
kepe silente from you that whiche I doe suffer, and muche lesse
dissemble what passion I indure, beyng assured for your vertue and
gentlenes, that you (moued with compassion) will succour me so muche as
shall lie in you, for preseruacion of the life of him that is the best
and most obedient seruaunt amonges them all that do you humble seruice.”
The Lady which neuer thought of the wickednesse which this insensate man
began to imagine, aunswered him verye curteously: “I am sorie trulye for
your mishap, and do marueile what should be the effect of that passion
which as you say, you feele with such dimunicion of that which is
perfect and accomplished in you: for I do see no cause that ought to
moue you to so straunge infirmitie, whereof you told mee, and wherewith
I had alreadie found fault although you had said nothing. I would to God
I knew which way to helpe you, aswel for my lord my husbandes sake, whoe
I am sure doth beare you good will, as for the honestie which hetherto I
haue knowen to be in you, wherein I thincke all other resembling you,
for vertue and good conditions doe deserue that accompt and
consideration.” He that thought her already to be taken in his nettes,
seing so faire a waye open and cleare, to disclose that which he had
kept couerte so long, in the depth of his hart, aunsweared. “Ah, madame,
are ye ignoraunte of the forces of Loue, and how much his assaultes can
debilitate the liuelihoode of the bodies and spirites of men? Knowe ye
not that he is blinde and naked, not caring whither hee goeth;
manifesting himselfe there, wher occasion is offred? Alas, madame, if
you haue not pitie vppon mee, and doe not regard that, which I do suffer
for the loue of you, I know not how I am able to auoyde death, which
will approche so sone to cutte of, and abridge my yeares, as I shall
vnderstande a refusall of that which the extreme Loue I beare you
(madame) forceth mee to require: which is to receiue a new seruice of
your auncient and faithfull seruiture: who inflamed by the brighte
beames of your diuine face, knoweth not how to chaunge his affection,
and much lesse to receiue helpe, but of the place where hee receiued the
pricke. Excuse (madame I beseech you) my rashnesse, and pardon my
follie: accuse rather, either your celestiall beautie, or els that
tyrant Loue who hath wounded me so luckelie, as I esteme mine euill
fortunate, and my wounde happie: sithe by his meane my thoughtes and
cogitations doe onelye tende to do you seruice, and to loue you in mine
hart, which is the Phenix of the fairest and moste curteous Ladies
within all our Prouince. Alas, that excellencie, which thus maketh me
your seruaunt shall one daye be my ruine, if by your good grace
(speaking it with weaping teares) you doe not fauour him, which liueth
not, but to obey you, and which lesing your good grace, will attempte to
depriue him selfe of life, which being depriued through your crueltie,
will go to complaine of his bolde attempt, and also of your rigor
amonges the ghostes and shadowes of them that bee alreadie dead for like
occassion.” The chaste Ladie was so wrapt of wittes for the straungenes
of the case, and for the griefe whiche she concerned, to see the
vnshamefast hardinesse of the varlette, as she could not tell how to
make him aunswere: but in the ende breaking silence, and fetching a
great sighe from the bottome of her harte, her face stayned with a
freshe Vermilion rudde, which beautified her colour, by reason of
disdaine conceiued against this impudent Orator, she aunswered him verie
seuerely. “O God, who would haue thought, that from a hart nobly brought
vp, and deriued from an honourable race, a vilanie so greate could haue
taken roote and spring vp with such detestable fruite? What maister
Stewarde? have ye forgotten the dutie of a seruaunt towarde his Lorde
and maister? Haue ye forgotten I saye, the dutie of a vertuous
gentleman, wel nourished and trayned vp towarde suche and so great a
ladie as I am? Ah, Thefe and Traitour! Is this the venime which thou
kepest so couert and secrete, vnder the swetenesse of thy counterfaicte
vertue? A vaunte varlet, a vaunt: goe vtter thy stuffe to them that be
like thy self, whose honour and honestie is so farre spent, as thy
loialtie is light and vayn. For if I heare thee speake any more of these
follies be assured that I wil mortifie that raging flame, which burneth
thy light beleuing harte, and wil make thee feele by effecte what manner
of death that is, wherein thou reposest the reste of thy trauell.” As
this deceiued Oratour was framing his excuse, and about to moderate the
iust wrath of his Ladie, displeased vpon good occasion, she not able to
abyde any more talke, sayde further. “And what signes of dishonestie
haste thou seen in mee, that moue thee to perswade a thing so wicked,
and vncomely for mine estate: yea and so preiudiciall to me, to my
frendes, and the house of thy maister, my Lorde and spouse? I can not
tell what it is that letteth me, from causing thee to be caste foorthe
amonges the Lions (cruell and capitall enemies of adulterie, amonges
themselues) sithe thy pretence is, by violating my chastitie to
dishonour the house, whereunto thou owest no lesse, then al the
aduancements thou hast: from the taste whereof thou hast abandoned
Vertue, the best thing wherwith thou were affected. Auoyde nowe,
therefore, let me heare no more of this, vppon paine of thy life,
otherwyse thou shalt feele the rewarde of thy temerite, and vnderstande
the bitternesse of the litle pleasure, whiche I haue conceiued of thy
follies.” So the good Ladie held her peace, reseruing in her harte, that
whiche should bee her helpe in time and place: howbeit she sayde nothing
hereof vnto her husbande, aswell for raising offence or slaunder, as for
prouoking him against him whiche susteined the punishement him selfe,
sithe that this refuse, did more straungely pinche him, nerer at the
harte then euer the Egle of Caucasus (whereof the Poetes haue talked so
muche) did tier the mawe of the subtile thefe Prometheus. And yet the
vnhappie stewarde not contented, with the mischiefe committed against
the honour of his maister, seing that it was but lost time to continue
his pursute, and that his gaine would bee no lesse then death, if she
according to her promised threates did therof aduertise her husband,
being a cholericke man, and lighte of beliefe, and because the said
Steward for such an enterprise had receiued a simple recompence,
althoughe correspondent to his desert, premeditated worse mischiefes,
more noisome then the first. He was in doubte, whether it were better
for him to tarie or to departe, sith two thinges in a maner, were
intollerable for him to suffer. For he coulde not forsake the house
where from his cradle he had been so finely brought vp, the lord wherof
made so much of him, as of his owne person. On the other side, he knewe
that so long as the Lady was aliue, he could haue no maner of ioy or
contentation. For that cause, conuerting extreeme loue (which once he
bare to the lady) into cruel hatred, vnseemly for a brutal beaste, and
into an insaciable desire of reueng, he determined to addresse so strong
an ambushe, trained with so great subteltie, that she was not able to
escape without daunger of her life and honour, whereof she declared
herselfe to be so carefull. Alas, what blindnes is that, which
captiuateth the wittes and spirite of him, that feedeth himselfe of
nothing els, but vpon the rage of fantastical despite and vpon the furie
of dispaire. Do wee not see, that after Reason giueth place to desired
reuenge of wrong thought to be receiued, man dispoyleth himselfe of
that, which appertayneth to the kinde of man, to put on the fierce
nature of the moste brute and cruell beastes, to runne headlonge without
reason toward the place wher the disordinate appetite of affections,
doth conduct him? whereof I will not aduouche any other example, but of
this traitour, who passionated not with Loue, but rather with rage and
fury, ceaseth not to espie all the actions and behauiour of his Ladie,
to the intente he mighte bringe to ende his deuised treason against her,
that thoughte (perchaunce) no more of his follies, but honestlie to
passe the time with her deare and wel beloued husbande. Truly, if this
Lady had been of the disposition of some women (that care not to moleste
theyr husbands, for the first Flie that buzzeth before their eyes,
conceyuing a friuolous and sodaine opinion of their chastitie, not so
much assailed, or to sharpely defended, chaunting glorious Hympnes and
high prayses of their victorie) certainly she had not tombled herselfe
into the daunger, wherunto afterwards she fell. Not for that I will
blame them that do reueale to theyr husbandes the assaults which they
receiue of importunate suters, that doe assaie to deflower their
Chastitie. Yet I will saye that Modestie in the same (as in euery other
humaine action) is greatly to be required, sith that such a one, by
thincking to extolle her honour and honestie, and to make proofe of her
Chastitye, rendreth the same suspicious, and giueth occasion to talke to
the people that is more apt and redie to slaunder and defame, then by
good report to prayse them, which by vertue do deserue commendation,
bringing the lyfe and fame of her husband, to such extremitie, as it had
been better vertuously to haue resisted the force of Loue, and the
flattering sute of such louers, then to manifest that which might haue
been kept secrete without preiudice of eyther. And truly that woman
deserueth greater glorie, which of herselfe defendeth her honestie, and
quencheth the flames liuelye kindled in the hartes of other, with the
coldnes of continencie, by that meanes vanquishing two, then she doth,
which manifesting the vice of an other, discloseth as it were,
a certaine apparaunce of her frailtie, and the litle reason wherewith
she is indewed, to vanquish him that confesseth to be her seruaunt, and
whose wil dependeth at her commaundement. And when the whole matter
shalbe rightlye iudged, shee that reuealeth imperfection of a Suter,
sheweth her opinion and minde to be more pliant to yelde, then indewed
with reason to abandone pleasure and to reiect the insolencie of the
same, sith Reason’s force doth easely vanquish light affections of
sensuall partes, whose fancies imprinted wyth ficklenes, do make them so
inconstant, as they perswade themselues to be so puissaunte and mightie,
as all thinges be, and rest at their commaundement. Retourning nowe then
to our former discourse, the Steward so laboured with might and maine,
till he had found meanes to be reuenged of the receiued refusall, with
such subtilty and Diuelish inuention as was possible for man to deuise,
which was this. Among the seruauntes of this greate Lorde there was one
no lesse yonge of witte and vnderstanding, then of age. And albeit that
he was fare and comely, yet so simple and foolishe as hee had much a do
to tell the nomber of sixe. This foole by reason of his follye and
simplicitye, was the onelye sporte and pastime of the Lord and Lady. The
Lady many times toke pleasure, to talke with this maister foole, to
bring him into a choler and chaufe, thereby to prouoke laughter. And
therefore all the houshold vsed to call him in mockerie, my Ladyes
darlinge. In whom the Lorde toke singular pleasure and delighte,
esteeming him so well as any of his other seruaunts. The malicious
Steward, seing the familiaritie of the lady with the foole (like one
that had already catched his pray within his snares) began also to make
much of that yonge Cockescome, in such wyse as he had brought him into
such fooles paradise, as he mighte make him do and saye what he liste.
Who seing him diligent to his desire, one day toke him aside, and after
he had whitled him well, he sayd vnto him. “Dicke, I can tell thee a
knacke, that thou shalt make my Lady laugh wel, but thou must say
nothing, till she do perceiue it.” The poore idiot glad to please his
maistres, was desirous to knowe what it was, and promised to doe
whatsouer he would bidde him. “Thou must (sayd the steward) in the
eueninge before she go into her chamber, hyde thy selfe vnder her bedde,
and tarry there till it be an hower or two before day, and then I wil
tell thee what thou must doe besides.” This plat deuised the foole the
same euening executed the deuise of hys diuelish counsaylour, who seing
his desire to take effecte, went to an olde gentleman, that was of great
honestie and vertue, for which he was of all men so wel knowen, as they
esteemed his word so true as the Gospell. To that gentleman this craftie
villaine, full of poison and malice, wholy bent to mischiefe, told and
reported the facte, not as it was in deede, but to the great preiudice
and dishonour of the Lady, geuing him to vnderstand how much she had
forgotten herselfe, how without the feare of God, reuerence of her
husband, and respect of her owne honesty, she had filthely giuen
herselfe ouer to him which was called her Dareling. The good gentleman
hearing this straung case, was astonned like one that had been stroken
with a flashe of lightening, then drawing nere to the accuser, he
aunswered. “Is it possible that suche wickednes can lye hidden in the
breast of our Madame? I sweare vnto thee by God, that if any other had
told it me besides you, I would not haue beleued it, and truly yet I am
in doubt thereof.” “No, no,” said this wicked blasphemer, “I will make
you see that, which you cannot beleue:” and hauing lessoned his foole,
in his conceiued follie, the next day he procured the gentleman thyther,
who seing the Ladies minion, going out of her chamber (which many times
lay seuerally from her husband) could not refraine weeping, lamenting
the ill fortune of his Lord, who thinkinge that he had had an honest
wyfe, was abused with an impudent and vnshamefast whore. Then he began
to frame a long Oracion, against the incontinencie of women, moued
rather through the good will hee bare to his mayster, then to the truth
of the matter, which vndiscretely he spake against the order of women
kynd. So ignorant was he of the treason and indeuour of the Steward, who
demaunded of him what was to be done in that matter? “What,” sayd the
old gentleman, “such wickednesse ought not to be vnpunished. My Lorde
must be aduertised hereof, that the house maye be purged of suche a
plague and infection, that he maye euidentlye vnderstande the hypocrisye
of her that so longe time hath kept close her incontinencie, vnder the
vaile of fayned chastitie. But the righteous God made openly to appeare
before mens eyes the secrete sinnes of the wicked, to thintent greater
slaunders should not increase.{”} The steward very ioyful that he had
gotten so honeste a man to be a witnesse of his accusation, approued his
aduise, for that it agreed wel with his intent. So they two together
went to the Lord, with countenaunce sad and heauie, correspondent to
their minde, and specially the Traitour, whose sense was so confounded
with gladnesse, that thinking to begin his tale his wordes so stucke in
his mouth as he was not able to vtter a word. Whereat the Lorde was
wonderfully abashed, marueyling what that timidite did meane, till he
had heard the vnfaithfull Stewarde tell his tale, who sayde to him in
this maner. “My Lord, I am sory that it is my lotte to declare vnto you
a matter hitherto vnknowen and not marked or taken heede of by any,
which wyl so much offend you, as any pleasure that euer till this day,
did please and content you. And God knoweth what griefe it is to me (in
your presence) to be an accuser of a person in the world, which I haue
esteemed nexte vnto you aboue anye other creature that lyueth: but being
in that place I am, I might (by good deserte) be accused of treason and
felonie if concealing such a detestable crime, I should leaue the dutie
of fidelitie to an other, lesse desirous to do you seruice then I am.
Who beleueth there is no second person, that desireth better to acquite
the goodnes and preferment which I haue receyued of your Lordship, then
I do. This it is my Lord: my lady misprising her duty to your Lordship,
and the honour of the house whereof shee came, hath not disdayned to
receiue into her chamber at inconuenient time, the foole that is called
her Darelinge, and in the place into which none but your honour, ought
to haue peaceable entrie: whereof this gentleman present (whom you know
to be without comparison) shalbe witnesse: touching myselfe the fayth
and trust, which alwayes I haue vsed in all vour affayres, and the litle
affection which I haue to things contrary to vertue, shal giue true
testimonie of that which I haue saide.” The Lorde hearing these pitiful
newes, which pearced his harte more deepe then anye two edged sword, at
the first was so astonied, that he could not tell what to say or do,
sauing the ardente furie of Cholere made him distill a certaine
Melancholique humour into his eyes, which receyued the superfluous
vapours of his braine. At length breakinge that forth, which troubled
him within, and grindinge his teethe for furie, with stutteringe and
vncertaine voice, fetching sighes betweene, saide: “O God, what newes be
these that I heare? Is it possible, that the fairest and chastest Lady
that liueth, hath in this wise defaced her honour: and so wickedly
blemished my reputation? Alas, if it so be, that she hath in this wise
disparaged herselfe, no trust is to be reposed in any other, what soeuer
she bee. Ah, God! vnder what Planet was I borne, that after so longe
pleasure receiued with my beloued fere and companion, I should by her
feele a displeasure, an hundred times worse then death? Is there no
remedie but that my house muste receiue and see an enterprise so
vilanous, but her onely meane, which ought rather to haue been the
ornamente and beautie of the same?” Then he chaused vp and downe the
chamber, without speaking any more wordes, with his eyes rolling in his
heade, making straunge countenaunces, which did well expresse the griefe
that vexed and tormented his minde. In the ende halfe pacifyed, he
tourned his face toward the accuser, saying: “My frende, if this be
true, which thou hast told mee, I sweare by God, that I will make her
feele the smarte, of such greeuous punishmente, as shalbe spoken of for
euer. But if my wyfe be slaundred, and accused wrongfully, assure thy
selfe that I will be reuenged vppon thee. I know the vertue of this
gentleman very well (hauing had good proofe thereof) and of thy
fidelitie I am nothing at all in doubt. But, alas! the loue that I beare
vnto my wife, and her former vertue, which maketh me to loue and esteeme
her so much, doth throughlye pearce my hart, and much adoe I haue to
liue hearing this reporte: which doth deface and blotte all the honestie
and vertue that euer remaiued in mee.” “And that was it my Lord,
(answeared the traitour) which did deceiue you. For the shewe of that
painted vertue did so delude you, that you be almoste bewitched from
vnderstanding the wronge, so manifestlye perpetrated against you, and
all your house. Now to thend, that you thincke not the accusacion to be
false, I trust (if it please you to assist me) to let you see the thing,
whereof wee haue giuen you intelligence.” “I will do (sayd the Lord)
what you will haue me, although it be to my great griefe and sorow.” “To
morow morning then (answeared the Traitour) one hower before day, I will
let you see the varlet goinge out of her chamber with so great ioy, as I
do conceiue heauines and griefe for the simple remembraunce of so greate
wickednes.” When they were agreed hereupon, this knaue most detestable,
weauing the toile wherin he himselfe was caughte, wente to suborne the
personage of his foole, holy made and instructed in his trumperie:
leauinge the poore Lord with a hamer working in his head, that he was
lyke to runne out of his wittes. So great is the furious force of the
poison of Ialosie, whych ones hauing dispersed the vemine ouer the harte
and intrayles of men, the wysest sorte haue lost the due discretion of
their wittes. In the morning about the hower that the amourous foole
(ignoraunt wherfore he went in) should issue out of his maistresse
chamber, the Stewarde rauished with inexplicable ioye and gladnesse,
like to the pleasure of hym that had attaynde the summe of his desires,
called hys Lorde to see that heauye and dolourous sighte. The good
gentleman, perceyuing the report to be true, and thincking that she had
vsed the foole to be her bedfelowe, was like to haue dyed for sorow, or
els to haue torne in peeces that vnhappy sotte, innocent of the euill
suspected by the Lorde, who durst not so much as thincke to do such a
wicked fact. In the ende geuing place to reason, he caused the poore
foole to be apprehended, and put in the bottome of a dongeon, and
beyonde measure was offended wyth his wyfe, for that he thought the
simplicitie of the imprisoned wretche, had not the face to demaund the
question, and therefore did verely beleeue that it was she that had
induced him to do the deede to satisfie her vnbrideled and filthy lust,
and therefore caused her to be shut vp, within a darke and stincking
prison, not meaninge to see her, or to heare her speake for her
iustification, ne yet woulde suffer that any man should take vppon hym
to stand in her defence, to bring witnesse of her innocency. “For” (sayd
he, replete wyth wrath and anger): “I do better beleue that which I haue
seene, and knowen by myne owne presence, then your wordes, vayne
reasons, and complaintes of no good ground and effecte as founden vppon
her, that hath to muche forgotten herselfe, and her dutye towardes mee.”
Moreouer vanquished with the Cholere (not without cause truly) of a
husband that thought himselfe by her onely meanes deceyued and betrayed,
sent word to the poore captiue, that she should then prouide for her
soules health, sith he was determined the very same day to make her play
a Tragedy, more cruell then that was pleasant, which she had already
done wyth her beloued, in extruding her to be deuoured of hys Lions,
which were the ministers for the execution of the Iustice ordayned
against her, as thoughe she had bin the most lasciuious and detestable
woman that euer the earth brought forth. The fayre and innocent lady,
knowing the humour and Cholere of her husband, and likewyse seing
(contrary to right order of all Iudgement) that she could not be heard
or suffred to make aunsweare, passed through the rigorous law of hym,
that thoughte her to be an Adultresse: and coulde not tell what to doe
but to lamente her ill fortune, gushing forth teares in such abundance,
as the most part of her attyre were wet and bedewed with the same, then
fortefying herselfe in the hope of the mercifull hande of Almightye God
the father of all consolacion, who neuer forgetteth them, which with
intire faith do call vppon him, and appeale to the succour of the holy
and precious name of his sonne Iesus Christe our sauiour, she with
compunction of hart, and sincere deuocion, with ioyned handes and knees
vppon the grounde, addressing her eyes to the heauens, prayed in this
wyse: “Alas, my God, I do knowe and confesse, that the multitude of my
sinnes do surpasse the sea sands, and am not ignoraunt, that this
vnhappie time is chaunced vnto me, for the punishment of my forepassed
offences. Notwithstandinge (Lord) accordinge to thy greate goodnes, haue
no respecte vnto my demerites and wickednes (whereof my life is ful) but
rather extende thy fauour and mercy vppon thy poore creature, whose
innocencie thou (which art the searcher of mennes hartes) doest well
vnderstande and knowe, I do not desire prolongation of miserable lyfe,
onely maye it please thee (O God) for thy goodnes and iustice sake, to
saue mine honour, and to graunt that my husbande maye see with what
integritie I haue alwayes honoured the holy band of mariage, by thee
ordayned, to thintent he may liue from henceforth quiet of his suspicion
conceyued of mee, and that my parentes may not sustaine the blot of
ignominie, which will make theym blushe, when they shall heare reporte
of my forepassed life.” She beinge in these contemplacions and holye
prayers, preparinge herselfe to receyue death, her husband caused her to
be conueyed into the Parke of Lions, which being straunge and terrible
at the first sight, did marueylouslie affray her, but remembring how
innocent she was, putting her hope in God, she went thither with such
constancie and courage, as if she had bin ledde to some ioyous banquet,
and the people which neuer heard tell before of suche a kinde of death,
was assembled in great multitude, tarying to see the ende of that
execution, and talking diuersly of that sodaine iudgement, prayed all
with one voyce, for the preseruation of the Ladie, of whose chastitie
they were alredy right well assured. Now as they attended for the time
of execution, the Lady was placed in the mid of the Parke, not without
teares and sighes of the Assistantes who murmured at the remembraunce of
the horror of a sight so furious. The innocent Ladye kneeled downe vpon
her knees, and both by gesture and mery countenaunce, shewed how ioyful
she went to suffer that which she had neuer deserued: then recommending
her soule to God, for whose saluation she stedfastly hoped, she
pronounced this praier a loude: “O my Lorde God, whiche diddest ones
deliuer Daniell from a daunger like to this, wherunto the false
accusation of the wicked, haue wrongfully cast me hedlond: and diddest
discharge Susanna from the slaunder of the peruerse and adulterous
Iudges, pleaseth the pitifully to behold thy poore creature. Pardon,
O Lorde! forgiue I humblie beseche thee, the simplicitie of my deare
husband, who dealeth thus with mee, rather through the circumuention of
deceiptfull cauilling slaunderers, then by his owne malice and crueltie.
Receiue, O my God, and mercifull father, receiue my soule betwene thy
blessed handes, which thou hast redemed by the bloudshedding of thy
sonne Iesus, vpon the Tree of the Crosse!” As she had ended these
wordes, she sawe the Lions come forth ramping, and bristling vp their
heare, stretching forth their pawes with roaring voice, cruelly looking
round about them, of whom the Lady thought to be the present pray. But
the goodnesse of God, who is a iust Iudge, and suffreth his owne elect
to be proued to the extremitie, of purpose to make their glorie the
greater, and the ruine of the wicked more apparaunt, manifested there an
euident miracle. For the Lions (being cruell of nature, and that time
hungrie and gredie of pray) in lieu of tearing the Ladie in pieces, to
gorge their rauening paunche, they fill to licking and fawning vppon
her, making so much of her as if they had familiarly ben nourished with
her own breastes. A thing no lesse pleasaunt to the Ladye then
merueilous to all the people standing round about, who seing a chaunce
so miraculous cried out, incontinently for the deliuerie of the Ladie,
and for vengeaunce to be taken of him, which so wickedly had protruded
her into that daunger: which for her vertue, ought to be extolled and
praised of the whole world. When the noble man was certified of this
straunge aduenture, hee caused his Steward to be apprehended and
imprisoned, whose conscience forced great remorse, yet not knowing the
ende of the Tragedie, condempned himselfe by his countenaunce. During
his imprisonement the deposition of the beloued foole was taken, who
saide: “That by the suggestion of the malicious Steward, many times
(ignoraunt to the Lady) he conueied himself in her chamber, not knowing
wherunto the intent of him that caused him so to do did tende.” The
other gentleman made excuse (although he was blame worthy) that he was
deceiued by the same false practise, that the Lorde himselfe was. The
Steward openly confessed the treason, which he had deuised against the
Ladie, and the whole occasion thereof, and thinking to be reuenged of
the refusall of loue by her denied, he framed this slaunder to make her
lose her life. Which the Lord hearing could not abide that his death
should any longer be respected, but without other forme of Lawe, he was
thrust out to the Lions, and was presently seased vpon, and torne in
peeces by those beastes, which by God’s iuste iudgement, did absteine
from the good ladie, for the punishement of the detestable sinne of this
varlet. In the meane time the chaste and innocent Ladie, being brought
before her husbande, after he had kissed and imbrased her, with humble
reuerence she sayde vnto him: “My Lorde, I render my humble thankes to
God, for that through his holy grace, and inscrutable Iustice, he hath
let you to vnderstande, twoo diuers affections, in two seuerall persones
of this worlde, which you loue so well. In one, the treason so
pernicious, which prouoked you to soile and imbrue your handes (not
without cause till this daye proued contrarie) in the bloud of your
faithfull and dere beloued wife. In thother, a will and minde so good to
obey you, and to persist in continuation of that effecte, which maketh
her generally to be praysed, and worthy of your earnest loue, for so
much as she is your very affectionate spouse. Notwithstanding, iustly
may I make my complaint of you, for that without excuse for my
discharge, or hearing any thing that might serue for my purgation, you
condempned her, for whose honour and defence you ought to haue imployed
both goodes and life. But God shalbe iudge betwene your litle
discretion, and my righteousnesse, betwene mine obedience and your
crueltie, wherewith you haue abused the nobilitie, of the race whereof I
came.” The husbande hearing this wise and iust complaint, on the one
side transported with ioye, leapt and rejoysed, to see his deare
companion in libertie, and declared to be innocent, on the other part he
blushed for shame, that hee had so lightly, and without better proofe
and triall condempned her, whom God by his grace had preserued from the
lions throates, and durste not lift vp his head, by reason his harte
freated at the remembraunce of his light credite and furie immoderate.
Finallie imbracing his wife, and kissing her louingly, said vnto her:
“Madame, and deare beloued wife, I can not denye but foolishely I haue
attempted to blemishe the honor of her, that whilome made me to shine
and glister amongst the best and chief of al this countrey, but he that
doth wel marke and beholde the galle and disdaine of a husband louing
his wyfe, and then vnderstandyng her litle care and greate
forgetfulnesse whiche shee hath, bothe of his honour and glorie of his
comforte, will easely excuse and pardon my fault, whiche I will not by
any meanes colour and cloke, but rather craue pardon at your handes,
assuring you that I will amende and requite the same, so well and in
suche wise as you and yours shall haue no cause but to be content and
satisfied.” “It suffiseth me, sir, (quod she) that my giltlesse offence
is knowen vnto you, and that I haue recouered place in your fauourable
acceptation: for I doe accompte mine aduersitie well imployed, sith
thereby you and your friendes may glorie, of the seuere iustice
ministred against malefacters, and I reioyce in resistaunce of the
assaultes of loue, and of death to guarde and kepe my chastitie pure and
inuiolable: and may serue for example to euery honourable Ladie, being
assailed with suche strong and mightie aduersaries, to kepe them selues
honest. For the croune is not due but to her that shall lawfully combate
to the ende.” After this the lorde by perswasion of his wife, commaunded
that the foole should be auoided the house, that his presence might not
grieue or torment her, ne yet renewe the memorie of a thing that neuer
was thought or doen. And not without cause: for the Lorde, whiche
reclined his eare to euery trifling report, and credited the woordes of
euery whistling pikethanke, had much a do to escape from doing thinges
unworthy his estate and calling. Of so great force truely is the venime
of such Serpentes, that seasing by little and little, the harte of him
disposed to receiue it in furie, maketh it to be in effect like the
nature of poyson and drogues corrupt: whereof men ought to be no lesse,
but rather more diligent and carefull then of meates, amonges persones
whom they suspect and feare, sithens that maladies and infections of
minde, be farre more daungerous then outward passions which torment the
body. Whereunto if the said nobleman was not hedefull, he felt the
dammage for penaunce of his inconsideration. Howbeit as thinges, both
good and ill amonges men, bee not still durable and perpetuall. Certaine
daies after, he began to solace hymselfe with his wife, and rode an
huntinge abroade, visited his neighbours, and at home made great feastes
and banquettes, whereunto his kindred and frends were inuited, to
congratulate this newe alliaunce, indeuouring thereby to satifye the
fault committed, and the better to gratifie and pleasure his wyfe, to
make her know how much more hee esteemed and regarded her then before:
hee caused the successe of his present historie to be ingrauen with
great industrie, and marueilous cunning in Marble, which he placed ouer
the gate of the first entrie into his Castell, aswell to immortalizate
the great chastitie of this fayre and vertuous wife, as to set forth a
Mirrour and example to euerye housholde seruaunt, and to all other
whatsoeuer they bee, to beware how they attempt any thing against the
honour of Ladies. For many times it chaunceth, that he which diggeth a
ditch, and setteth vp a Gallowes, is the first that doth fall, or is
stretched thereuppon. As you may see by this present discourse, which
setteth before your eyes what ende the fonde loue of them ordinarily
haue, which without reason, not measureing their owne ability, doe
suffer themselues to be guided and led into their sensuall lustes and
appetites: for ill successe faileth not in a beginning, the grounde
whereof abhorring reason, is planted and layed vppon the sandie
foundacion of pleasure, which is shaken and ouerthrowen, by the least
winde and tempest that Fortune can bluster against such building.




THE FORTY-SECOND NOUELL.

_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. Beinge 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._


There is no man but doth knowe, that Valencia is at this day, the chiefe
and onelye Rampar of Spaine, the true seate of Faith, Iustice and
humanity. And amonges all the rare and excellent ornamentes, that Citie
is wel furnished with so trimme Ladies and curteous gentlewomen, as they
know how to baite and feede yong men with foolish daliaunce, and idle
passetime. So that if there be any beetlehead or grosse person, the
better to allure and prouoke him to those follies, they tell him by a
common Prouerbe: That he must go to Valencia. In this citie there was in
old time as it is at this day, a verye aunciente stocke and familie
called Ventimiglia, oute of which be descended a great nomber of riche
and honourable knightes. Amonges whom, not long time paste, there was
one named Didaco, verye famous and renowmed to be the most liberall and
familiar gentleman of the City, who (for want of better businesse)
walked vppe and downe the citie, and so consumed his youth in triumphes,
maskes, and other expences, common and apte for such pilgrimes,
addressing his loue indifferently to al women, without greater affection
to one, then to an other, and continued that order, till vppon an holy
daye, he espyed a yonge maide of fimal yeares, but of very exquisite
beauty: which maiden sodainlye castinge her eye vppon him, so pearced
the knighte Didaco with her looke, that from that time forth shee entred
more neare his hart than any other. And after he had well marked her
dwelling place, he many times passed and repassed before the doore, to
espie if he might get some loke or other fauour of her, that began
already to gouerne the bridle of his thoughtes, and if it chaunced that
the gentleman beheld her, she shewed herselfe curteous and amiable,
indued with grace so good as he neuer departed ill contented out of the
streate. The gentleman continuing certaine time in those vanities, was
desirous to know a far of what she was, of what lineage and of what
vocation. And after he had curiously searched out all her original, he
vnderstoode by diuers reporte, that she was a Goldsmithes doughter,
whose father was dead certaine yeares before, hauinge no more but her
mother aliue, and two brethren, both of their father’s science.
Notwithstanding, of life she was chaste and honest, defamed with none,
although she was pursued of many. Her outward beautie did not so much
set her forth, as her grace and order of talke, who although brought vp
in a Citizen’s house, yet no Lady or gentlewoman in the Citie, was
comparable to her in vertue and behauiour. For from her tender yeares,
she was not onely giuen to her nedle (a meete exercise for mayds of her
degre,) but also was trayned vp to write and reade, wherein she toke so
greate pleasure, as ordinarilie shee caried a booke in her hande, which
she neuer gaue ouer, till she had gathered som fruit thereof. This
knight hauing receyued that first impression, of the valor and vertue of
Violenta (for that was her name) was further in loue then before: and
that which added more oile to the matche, was the continuall lookes,
wherewith she knew how to delighte him: and wyth them shee was so
liberall, that so oft as he passed through the streate she shot them
forth so cruelly, as his poore hart (feeling it selfe so tormented)
could not indure that new onset. By reason whereof, thincking to quench
the fire, that by litle and litle consumed him, he attempted her
chastity, with giftes, letters, and messengers, which he continued the
space of halfe a yeare or more. Whereunto Violenta geuing no place, in
the ende hee was constrayned to assayle her with his owne presence: and
one daye finding her alone at the doore, after he had made a verye
humble reuerence vnto her, he sayde: “Maistresse Violenta, considering
your order and the colde regard that you haue to my letters and
messages, I do remember the subtiltye that is attributed to the
Serpente, who with his taile stoppeth his eares, because he will not
heare the words, which hath power to constraine him to do against his
wil, which hath made me to leaue to write vnto you, and to desire
specially to speake vnto you, that mine affectuous accentes, my sorowful
words and feruent sighes mighte certifie you better then paper, the rest
of my passion, beleuing verely, that if the heauy sound of my greuous
complaints, may come to your delicate eares, they will make you to
vnderstand a part of that good and euill, which I feele continually in
my harte, although the loue which I beare you, be such as I cannot giue
such liuely experience outwardly, being but litle in comparison of them,
which may be seene within.” And pronouncing those words, there followed
so many teares, sobbes and sighes, as they gaue sufficient testimony,
that his tongue was the true and faithfull messenger of his hart.
Whereof Violenta some what ashamed, with a constante grace said vnto
him: “Senior Didaco, if you do yet remember your life past, and mine
honesty (which peraduenture you haue thought either rude or cruell) I
doubt not, that you haue any cause to maruaile of my presumption and to
attribute that to vice, which is familiar with vertue. For although that
you haue sollicited mee to loue you, by an infinite nomber of letters
and messages, yet it is so, that following the nature of maydes of my
degree, I haue neither allowed them, nor yet condempned them, as
wherunto accordingly I haue made no aunswere: not for despite or
contempt, but to let you know more certainly, that by fauouring your
enterprises, I should increase your griefe, which can receiue none ende
by the waye you pretende. For although that I haue made the firste
proofe vpon my selfe, and therefore of reason I ought to lamente them,
whiche be in semblable paine, yet I will not let slippe the bridle in
suche wise to my passion, that mine honestie shall remain in an other
man’s power, and (so it may be) at the mercie and curtesie of them, who
not knowing howe dere it is to me, shall thinke they haue made a pretie
conquest. And that I maye haue no cause to repent to late, I haue
stopped mine eares for feare, that I be not arested and stayed with the
violence of your charmes, a thing as you say proper to Serpentes. But I
haue fortefied my harte, and so armed my inwarde minde, as if God
continue that grace in me, which hitherto he hath done, I hope not to be
surprised. Although that I must needes confesse (to my shame) that I
haue receiued marueilous assaultes of loue, not onely for the common
renowme of your vertues, and through the curtesie and gentlenesse dayly
imparted to me by your letters, but specially by your presence, whiche
hath yelded vnto me experience and assuraunce of that, whiche all the
letters of the world could not do, nor all other messages were not able
to conceiue. And to the ende that I may not be vtterly ingrate, and that
you doe not departe from me, altogether miscontent, I doe promise you
nowe that from henceforth, you shall inioye the first place of my harte,
whereunto another shall neuer enter: if so be you can be content with
honest amitie, wherein you shall finde me in time to come so liberall,
in all that whiche honestie shall permitte, that I am contente to forgoe
the name of a presumptuous or cruell Damosell for your sake. But if you
meane to abuse me, or hope for anye thing of me, contrarie to mine
honour, you be meruailously deceiued. Wherefore if you thinke your
worthinesse to great to cary away a recompence so small, you shall doe
very wel both for me and yourselfe, in forgetting that is past, to cut
of all hope in time to come.” And she thinking to prolonge a further
discourse, the mother of Violenta which stil stode at the wyndowe al the
time that Senior Didaco was with her doughter, came downe to the doore,
interrupting their talke, saide to Didaco: “Sir, I suppose you take
great pleasure in the follie of my doughter, because you tarie and abide
here, rather to contriue your tyme, then for any other contentacion you
can receiue. For she is so euill taught, and of suche rude behauiour,
that her demeanour will rather trouble you, than geue you cause of
delight.” “Maistresse,” said Didaco, “although in the beginning I
purposed not to tary so long, yet when I entered in more familiar
acquaintaunce and had well experienced her good graces, I confesse that
I haue staied here longer then I thought. And were hee neuer so great a
Lorde, that liueth at this daie, I dare auouche that he might thinke his
tyme well spente, in hearing suche sober and honest talke, wherewith I
thinke my selfe so well satisfied and instructed, as all the daies of my
life I wyll witnesse, that vertue, curtesie, and sober behauiour is to
bee founde, as well in meane degrees and houses, as in them that be
right noble, amonges which meane families, although she be one (it maye
so be) that one more illustre and noble, can not bee more excellente,
and accomplished with better manners, then she: whiche is nowe well
manifested to me in this little discourse.” And after certaine other
common talke, Didaco took his leaue, and went home to his house, where
hee lyued fourtene or fiftene monethes without any reste, assaying by
all meanes to mortifie his desires, but it auayled not: For although he
was ryche, a trymme Courtiar, and an eloquent gentleman, and had
opportunitie to speake vnto her many times, and she gentle enough to
heare him, and to vnderstande his errantes, and was assured by frendes
that she for her part was also in loue, yet he was not able by humane
arte and pollicie, to conuerte her to his mynde. Wherewithall hee was
long tyme molested, and at lengthe pressed with griefe and annoyance,
hee was aduised to sende sixe hundred ducates to the mother, for a
reliefe to the mariage of her doughter, promising besides, that he would
assigne her an honest dowrie, when she found a man worthy to be her
husbande: vppon condicion that she would yelde to him some comforte, to
ease his affection. But shee whiche could not be wonne with loue, was
not able to be recouered with money: and was offended that Senior Didaco
had forgotten himselfe so farre as to thinke to gaine that for money,
which with so great paine, teares and sighes, had bene denied him. And
to make him vnderstande howe she was offended, shee sent woorde by him
that brought her the money, that he should goe and proue hereafter to
deceiue them that measured their honour with the price of profite, and
not to sette trappes to deceiue other that would buye nothing hurtfull
to vertue. And after Didaco was aduertised of her minde, and perceiued
that he lost time in all his enterprises, and was able no longer to
susteine his extreme paine and sorowe, whiche daily augmented, and when
hee had debated in his minde all the successe of his loue, he resolued
in the end vpon that which he thought moste profitable for his quiet,
whiche was to marye her. And although she was of no suche house, and yet
lesse indowed with substaunce, as he deserued, yet her beautie and
vertue, and other giftes of grace, wherewith she was inriched, made her
worthie of a great lorde. And resolued vpon this, hee repaired to
Violenta, to whom he said: “Maistresse Violenta, if the true touchstone
to knowe them that be perfecte louers (amonges other) is mariage,
certainly you haue gotten a husbande of me, if it please you to accepte
me for suche one, whom in time you shall make to vnderstande the
difference betweene goodes and vertue, and betweene honestie and
richesse.” Violenta then rauished with ioye, and incredible
contentation, somewhat abashed, sayd vnto him: “Senior Didaco, I knowe
not whether you pretende by woordes to proue my constancie, or els to
bring me into fooles paradise: but of one thing I can assure you, that
although I acknowledge my selfe inferiour to you in merites, goodes and
vertue, yet if that come to passe which you promise, I will not geue
place to you in loue, trusting if God sende us life together, you shall
well vnderstande one daye that you would not exchaunge my persone for a
greater Ladie, what so euer she be.” For confirmation whereof, Didaco
plucked from his finger an Emeralde of great value, which (when he had
kissed her) he gaue vnto her in the waye of mariage, praying her that
she would not disclose it for a certaine time, vntill he him selfe had
made all his frendes priuie vnto it. Notwithstanding, he willed her to
imparte the same to her twoo brethren, and to her mother, and he would
get some Priest of the countrie to solempnize the mariage within their
house: which was doen in a chamber, about fower of the clocke in the
morning, being onely present the mother, the brethren, the Prieste, and
a seruaunt of the house, brought vp there from her youthe, and his own
man, without making any other preparation of coste, requisite for suche
a matter. In this sorte they spent the day in great ioye and mirthe
(which they can conceiue, that be of base birth, and exalted to some
highe degree of honour) till night was come, and then euery man
withdrewe them selues, leauing the bride and her husbande to the mercie
of loue, and order of the night. Who being alone receiued equal ioye,
and like contentation, which they fele that being pressed with ardent
and greuous thirste, doe in the ende afterwardes with liuely ioye, and
all kinde of libertie, quenche that cruell discommoditie. And continued
in those pleasures till morning, that daye began to appeare, to whome
Violenta saide: “My honourable Lorde and dere husbande, sithe that you
be nowe in possession of that which you haue so greatly desired,
I humbly beseeche you, to consider for the time to come, howe and what
wyse your pleasure is that I shall vse my selfe. For if God graunt me
the grace to be so discrete in pleasing you, as I shalbe readie and
desirous to obey you, in all that you shall commaunde mee, there was
neuer gentleman’s seruaunt, that did more willingly please his maister,
then I hope to doe you.” Whereunto Didaco aunswered: “My sweete and
welbeloued wife, let vs leaue this humblenesse and seruice for this
time, to them whiche delight in them: for I promise you of my faith,
that I haue you in no lesse reuerence and estimation, then if you had
come of the greatest house in Cathalongne: as I will make you
vnderstande some other time, at more leasure. But till I haue giuen
order to certaine of mine affaires, I praye you to kepe our mariage
secrete, and bee not offended if many times I do resorte home to mine
own house, although ther shall no day passe (by my wil) but at night I
wil kepe you companie. In the mean time to buye you necessaries, I will
sende you a thousande, or twelue hundred Ducates, to imploye not vpon
apparell, or other things requisite to your degree (for I will prouide
the same my selfe at an other time) but vpon small trifles, such as be
apt and conuenient for householde.” And so departed Senior Didaco from
his wiue’s house: who did so louingly interteigne him as by the space of
a yeare, there was no daye wherein he was content without the view and
sight of his wife. And vpon his ofte resorte to their house, the
neighbours began to suspect that he kept the mayden, and rebuked her
mother and brethren, but specially Violenta, for suffering Didaco to vse
their house in suche secrete wise: and aboue al they lamented the ill
happe of Violenta, who being so wel brought vp till she was twentie
yeares of age, and maiden of such beautie, that there was none in all
the citie of Valencia but greatly did esteme her to be of singuler
honestie and reputation. Notwithstanding, degenerating from her
accustomed vertue, they iudged her to be light of behauiour, giuen to
lasciuious loue: and albeit that verie many times, such checkes and
tauntes were obiected, yet she made smal accompte of them, knowing that
her conscience by anye meanes was not charged with such reproch: hoping
therwithall that one daye she would make them to give ouer that false
opinion when her mariage should be published and knowen. But certaine
times feeling her selfe touched, and her honestie appaired, could not
conteine but when she sawe time with her husband, she prayed him verie
earnestlie to haue her home to his own house, to auoyde slaunder and
defamacion of neighbours. But sir Didaco knewe so well howe to vse his
wife by delaies and promises, as she agreed vnto him in all thinges, and
had rather displease the whole world together then offende him alone.
Being now so attached with the loue of the knight as she cared for
nothing els, but to please and content him in al things wherunto she
sawe him disposed, and like as in the beginning she was harde and very
slacke in loue, nowe she became so feruent and earnest in her affections
as she receiued no pleasure but in the sight of Didaco, or in that which
might content and please him best. Which the knight did easely perceiue,
and seing him selfe in full possession of her harte, began by litle and
litle to waxe cold, and to be grieued at that which before he compted
deare and precious, perswading himself that he should do wrong to his
reputation, if that mariage vnworthy of his estate, were discouered and
knowen in the citie: and to prouide for the same, he more seldome tymes
repaired to visite his wife Violenta: yea and when soeuer he resorted to
her, it was more to satisfie his carnall pleasure, then for any loue he
bare her. And thus forgetting both God and his own conscience, he
frequented other companies in diuerse places, to winne the good will of
some other gentlewoman. In the ende by sundrie sutes, dissimulations,
and hipocrisies, he so behaued him self, as he recouered the good wil of
the doughter of Senior Ramyrio Vigliaracuta, one of the chiefest
knightes, and of moste auncient house of Valentia. And (as we haue
declared before) because he was ritche and wealthie, and issued of a
noble race, her parentes did easely agree to the mariage: and the father
hauing assigned an honourable dowrie to his doughter, the Nupcials were
celebrated publikely with greate pompe and solemnitie, to the singuler
contentation of all men. The mariage done and ended, Sir Didaco and his
newe wife continued at the house of his father in lawe, where he liued a
certaine time in suche pleasure and delectation as they do that be newly
maried. Wherof the mother and brethren of Violenta being aduertised,
conceiued like sorowe, as accustomably they doe, that see the honor of
them that be issued of their owne bloud vniustly and without cause to be
dispoiled. And these poore miserable creatures, not knowing to whom to
make their complainte, liued in straunge perplexitie, bicause they knew
not the priest which did solempnise their mariage. On the other side
they had no sufficient proofe of the same. And albeit they were able to
verifie in some poinctes the first mariage of Didaco, yet they durst not
prosecute the lawe against two of the greatest Lordes of their citie:
and knowing the stoute hart of Violenta, they thought to conceale the
same from her for a time, but it was in vaine: for not long after shee
was certified thereof, not onely by the next neighbours, but by the
common brute of the Citie, which reported that in tenne yeres space,
there was not seen in Valencia, a Mariage more honourable or royall, nor
frequented with a nobler companie of Gentlemen and Ladies, then the same
was of the yong knight Didaco, with the doughter of Senior Ramyrio.
Wherewithall Violenta vexed beyonde measure pressed with yre and furie,
withdrewe herselfe into her chamber alone, and there began to scratche
and teare her face and heare, like one that was madde and out of her
wittes, saying: “Alas, alas, what payne and trouble, what vnmeasurable
tormentes suffreth nowe my poore afflicted mynde, without comfort or
consolation of any creature liuing? what dure and cruell penaunce doe I
susteine, for none offence at all? Ah! fortune, fortune, the enemy of my
felicitie and blisse, thou haste so depriued me of all remedie, as I
dare not so muche as to make any man know or vnderstand my mishap that
the same might be reuenged, which being doen would render such content
to my minde, that I should departe out of this worlde the beste
satisfied mayden that euer died. Alas, that the Goddes did not graunte
me the benefite, that I might haue come of noble kinde, to the intente I
might haue caused that trayterous ruffien, to feele the grieuous paine
and bitter tormentes, which my poore harte susteineth. Ah wretched
caitife that I am, abandoned and forlorne of all good fortune: nowe I
doe see that with the eies of my minde, which with those of my body
daseled and deceiued I could not see or perceiue. Ah cruell enemy of all
pitie, doest thou not knowe and feele in thy minde, the heauie and
sorowfull sounde of my bitter plaintes? Vnderstandest not thou my voyce
that crieth vengeaunce vpon thee for thy misdede? Can not thy crueltie
in nothing be diminished seing me dismembred with the terrour of a
thousand furious martirdomes? Ah ingrate wretche, is this nowe the
rewarde of my loue, of my faithfull seruice, and mine obedience?” And as
she thus bitterly tormented her selfe, her mother and brethren, and her
maide, whiche was brought vp with her from her tender yeres, went vp to
the chamber to Violenta, where they found her then so deformed with rage
and furie, that almoste she was out of their knowledge. And when they
went about to reduce her by al meanes possible from those furious
panges, and saw that it nothing auailed, they lefte her in the keeping
of the olde maiden, whom she loued aboue any other. And after the maiden
had vttered vnto her particularly many reasons, for the appeasing of her
griefe, she told her that if she would be quiet a litle while, she would
go and speake to the knight Didaco, and make him to vnderstand his
fault. And would with discrete order so deale with him, that he should
come home to her house, and therefore shee prayed her to arme herselfe
against this wickednes, and to dissemble the matter for a time, that
hereafter she might vse vpon him iust reuenge. “No, no Ianique” answered
Violenta, “that offence is very small and lighte, where counsaile is
receiued: and albeit that I cannot chose, but confesse thine aduise to
be very meete, yet there wanteth in me a minde to followe it: that if I
did feele any part in me disposed to obeye the same, I would euen before
thy face, separate that minde from my wretched bodie: for I am so
resolued in the mallice and hatred of Didaco, as he cannot satisfie me
without life alone. And I beliue the gods did cause me to be borne with
mine owne hands to execute vengeaunce of their wrath and the losse of
mine honour. Wherefore, Ianique, if from my youth thou diddest euer loue
me, shew now the same to me by effect, in a matter whereunto thy helpe
is moste necessary: for I am so outraged in my mischiefe, as I do enuie
the miserablest creatures of the world, remayning no more in me to
continue life in wailing and continuall sighes, but the title of a vile
and abhominable whore. Thou art a straunger and liuest here a beastly
life, ioyned with continuall labour: I haue twelve hundred crownes with
certaine Iewelles, which that false traitour gaue me, which he
predestinated by the heauens for none other purpose but to paie them
their hire, which shall do the vengeaunce vpon his disloyall persone.
I doe put the same money nowe into thy hands, if thou wilte helpe mee to
make sacrifice with the bodye of poore Didaco: but if thou doest denie
me thy helpe I will execute the same alone: and in case he do not die,
as I do intende, he shalbe murdred as I may, for the first time that I
shal see him with mine eyes, come of it what will, his life shalbe
dispatched with these two trembling hands which thou seest.” Ianique
seing her maistresse in these termes, and knowinge her stoute nature,
indued with a manly and inuincible stomacke, after shee had debated
manye thinges in her minde, she determined wholie to imploye herselfe
for her maistres in that shee was able to doe. Moued partly with pitie
to see her maistres dishonored with a defamed mariage, and partly
prouoked with couetousnes to gaine so great a summe of money, which her
maistres did offer if she would condiscende to her enterprise (thinking
after the facte committed, to flee into some other countrie.) And when
shee was throughlye resolued vppon the same, shee imbraced Violenta, and
said vnto her: “Maistres, if you will be ruled by mee, and giue ouer the
vehemencie of your wrathe and displeasure, I haue found a way for you to
be reuenged vppon Didaco, who hath so wickedly deceyued you: and albeit
the same cannot be doen secretly, but in the end it must be knowen, yet
I doubte not but the cause declared before the iudges, and they
vnderstandinge the wronge hee hath doen you, they wil haue compassion
vpon your miserie: who know right well that alwayes you haue been knowen
and esteemed for a very honest and vertuous maiden: and to the ende that
you be informed how this matter may be broughte to passe, first you must
learne to dissemble your griefe openlye, and to faine your selfe in anye
wise not to bee offended with the new mariage of the knight. Then you
shall write vnto him a letter with your owne hande, letting him therby
to vnderstande the paine that you suffer for the great loue you beare
him, and ye shal humblie beseech him, some times to come and visite you.
And sithe that frowarde fortune will not suffre you to be his wife, yet
that it would please him to vse you as his louer, that you maye possesse
the second place of his loue, sith by reason of his new wife you cannot
inioy the first. Thus the deceiuour shalbe begiled by thinkinge to haue
you at his commaundment as he was wont to doe: and being come hither to
lie with you, we will handle him in such wise, as I haue inuented, that
in one nighte he shal lose his life, his wife, and her whom hee thinketh
to haue for his louer: for when he is a bedde with you, and fallen into
his first sleepe, we will sende him into another place where in a more
sonder sleepe hee shall euerlastinglie continue.” Violenta all this time
which fed her bloudie and cruell harte with none other repaste but with
rage and disdaine, began to bee appeased, and founde the counsaile of
Ianique so good, as she wholy purposed to follow the same. And to begin
her enterprise, shee prayde Ianique for a time to withdrawe her selfe,
vntill shee had written her letter, by the tenor whereof shee should
vnderstande with what audacitie shee would prosecute the reste: and
being alone in her chamber, takinge penne and paper, she wrote to
Didaco, with fayned hart as followeth. “Senior Didaco I am perswaded,
that if you wil vouchsafe to read and peruse the contentes of these my
sorowful letters, you shalbe moued with some compassion and pitie, by
beholdinge the true Image of my miserable life, pourtrayed and painted
in the same, which through your disloyaltie and breach of promise is
consumed and spent with so many teares, sighes, tormentes and griefes,
that diuers times I maruaile howe Nature can so long support and defende
the violente assaultes of so cruell a martyrdome, and that she hath not
many times torne my feeble spirite out of this cruell and mortall
prison: which maketh me to thinke and beleeue by continuinge life, that
death himselfe hath conspired my miserie, and is the companion of my
affliction: considering that by no torment she is able to make diuision
betweene my soule and body. Alas, how many tenne hundred thousande times
in a day haue I called for death, and yet I cannot make her to recline
her eares vnto my cries. Alas, how many times am I vanquished with the
sharpe tormentes of sorowe, readie to take my leaue and last farewell of
you, being arriued to the extreme panges of death. Behold Didaco mine
ordinary delites, behold my pleasures, behold all my pastime. But yet
this is but litle in respect of that which chaunceth in the night: for
if it happen that my poore eyes doe fall a sleepe, weary with incessaunt
drawing forth of well springes of teares, slombring dreames cease not
then to vexe and afflict my minde, wyth the cruellest tormentes that are
possible to be deuised, representing vnto me by their vglie and horrible
visions, the ioye and contentacion of her, which inioyeth my place:
wherby the greatest ioy which I conceiue is not inferior to cruell
death. Thus my life maintayned with continuacion of sorowes and griefes,
is persecuted in most miserable wise: now (as you know) I dailye passe
my sorow, vnder painefull silence, thinkinge that your olde promisses,
confirmed with so many othes, and the assured proof which you still haue
had of my faith and constancie, would haue brought you to some order,
but now seing with mine eyes, the hard metall of your harte, and the
crueltie of my fate, which wholie hath subdued mee to your obedience,
for respect of mine honour: I am forced to complaine of him that beateth
mee and thereby despoileth mee both of mine honour and life, not
vouchsafing onely so much as ones to come vnto mee. And vncertaine to
whom I may make recourse, or where to finde redresse, I appeale vnto
you, to thende that seing in what leane and vglie state I am, your
cruelty maye altogether be satisfied, which beholdinge a sighte so
pitifull, wherein the figure of my tormente is liuely expressed, it may
be moued to some compassion. Come hither then thou cruell manne, come
hither I saye, to visite her whom with some signe of humanitie, thou
maiest staye or at least wise mollifie and appease the vengeaunce which
shee prepareth for thee: and if euer sparke of pitie did warme thy
frosen hart, arme thy selfe with greater crueltie then euer thou was
wont to doe, and come hither to make her sobbe her laste and extreme
sighes, whom thou haste wretchedly deceiued: for in doing otherwise thou
maiest peraduenture to late, bewaile my death and thy beastlye
crueltie.” And thinking to make a conclusion of her letter, the teares
made her woords to die in her mouth, and woulde not suffer her to write
any more: wherefore she closed and sealed the same, and then calling
Ianique vnto her she said: “Holde, gentle Ianique, carye these letters
vnto him, and if thou canste so well play thy part as I haue doen mine,
I hope wee shall haue shortly at our commaundemente him that is the
occasion of this my painfull life, more greuous vnto me then a thousand
deathes together.” Ianique hauing the letter, departed with diligence,
and went to the house of the father in lawe of Didaco, where quietly
shee waited till shee mighte speake with some of the house, which was
within a while after: for one of the seruauntes of Didaco whom she knew
right well, wente about certaine his maisters busines, and meeting
Ianique was abashed. Of whom she demaunded if the Lord Didaco were
within, and saide that she would faine speake with him: but if it were
possible she would talke with him secretly. Whereof Didaco aduertised,
came forth to her into the streate, to whom smilingly (hauing made to
him a fayned reuerence) she said: “Senior Didaco, I can neither write
nor reade, but I dare laie my life, ther is sute made vnto you by these
letters, which Madame Violenta hath sent vnto you. And in deede to say
the truth, there is great iniurie doen vnto her of your parte, not in
respecte of your new mariage: (for I neuer thought that Violenta was a
wife meete for you, considering the difference of your estates) but
because you wil not vouchsafe to come vnto her, seeming that you make no
more accompte of her and speciallye for that you prouide no mariage for
her in som other place. And assure your selfe she is so farre in loue
with you, that she is redie to die as she goeth, in such wise that
making her complaint vnto me this day weeping, she said vnto me: ‘Well,
for so much then as I cannot haue him to be my husbande, I would to God
he would mainteigne me for his frende, and certaine times in the weeke
to come to see mee specially in the night, lest he should be espied of
the neighbours.’ And certainly if you would followe her minde herein,
you shall do very well: for the case standeth thus, you may make your
auaunte that you be prouided of so faire a wife, and with so beautifull
a frende as any gentleman in Valentia.” And then Ianique deliuered him
the letter, which he receiued and redde, and hauing well considered the
tenor of the same he was incontinently surprised with a sodaine passion:
for hatred and pitie, loue and disdaine (as within a Cloude be conteined
hotte and colde, with many contrary winds) began to combate together,
and to vexe his hart with contrary minds, then pawsinge vpon answere, he
said vnto her: “Ianique, my dere frende recommende mee to the good grace
and fauour of thy maistres, and say vnto her, that for this time I will
make her no answere, but to morow at fower of the clocke in the morning
I will be at her house, and keepe her companie all the daye and nighte,
and then I will tell her what I haue doen sithens I departed last from
her, trusting shee shall haue no cause to be offended with me.” And then
Ianique taking her leaue, retourned towarde Violenta, telling her what
shee had doen. To whom Violenta answeared: “Ianique, if thou hast made a
good beginninge to our plotted enterprise, I likewise for my part haue
not slept. For I haue deuised that wee must prouide for a stronge roape,
which wee will fasten to the beddes side, and when hee shalbe a sleepe,
I will caste the other ende of the rope to thee, ouerthwart the bedde,
that thou maiest plucke the same with all thy mighte, and before thou
beginnest to pull I will with a knife cutte his throate, wherefore thou
muste prepare two great kniues, what soeuer they cost, but I pray thee
let me alone with doing of the facte, that I may dispatche him of his
life, which alone did make the first assault to the breach of mine
honour.” Ianique knew so well how to prouide for all that was requisite
for the execution of their enterprise, as there rested nothing but
opportunitie, to sort their cruel purpose to effect. The knight sir
Didaco, at the houre appointed, tolde his new wife that he must go into
the countrie, to take order for the state of his land, and that he could
not retourne, til the next day in the morning. Which she by and by
beleued: and the better to couer his fact, he caused two horse to be
made redie, and rode forth when the clocke strake iiii. And when he had
riden through a certain streat, he said to his man, which was wonte to
serue his tourne in loue matters: “Carie my horse to such a manour in
the countrie, and tarrie there all this day, and to morowe morning come
seeke mee in suche a place, when I am gone from the house of Violenta.
In the meane time set my horse in some Inne: for in any wise I will haue
no man know that I doe lie there.” Which doen the maister and the
seruaunte wente two seuerall wayes. The knight being come to the house
of Violenta, he found Ianique tarying for him, with good deuocion to vse
him according to his desert, and conueyed him to the chamber of
Violenta, and then she retourned about her busines. The knighte kissed
Violenta and bad her good morowe, asking her how she did? Whom Violenta
aunsweared: “Sir Didaco, you bid me good morrow in words, but in deede
you go about to prepare for me a heuie and sorowfull life. I beleeue
that your minde beareth witnes, of the state of my welfare: for you haue
broughte me to such extremitie, that you see right wel how nothing els
but my voice declareth me to be a woman, and therewithall so feeble a
creature, as I still craue and call for death or for pitie, although
both of thone and of the other, I am not heard at all: and yet thincke
not Didaco, that I am so farre out of my wittes to beleeue that the
cause of my writing the letter was for hope, that (you remembring my
bitter paines, and your owne hainous crime) I coulde euer moue you to
pitie: for I am perswaded that you wil neuer cease to exhauste and sucke
the bloud, honor, and life of them that credite your trumperies and
deceiptes, as nowe by experience I know by my selfe, with such deadly
sorow that I still attende and loke for the sorowful ende of my life.”
Didaco seing her thus afflicted, fearing that her cholere woulde further
inflame, began to cull her, and to take her now into his armes, telling
her that his mariage with the doughter of Vigliaracuta, was concluded
more by force then his owne will and minde, because they pretended to
haue a gift of all the lande and goods he had in succession after his
father was dead, which if they did obtain by law he should be a begger
all the dayes of his life, and that the same was doen to prouide for the
quiet state of them both, and notwithstanding hee had maried an other
wife, yet hee purposed to loue none but her, and meant in time to poison
his wife, and to spend the rest of his life with her. And thus seeming
to remedie his former fault, by surmised reports, chauntinge vppon the
cordes of his pleasaunt tongue, hee thought with Courtlike allurements,
to appease her, which had her wittes to well sharpened to be twise taken
in one trap, howbeit for feare of driuing him awaye, and to loose the
meane to accomplish that which she intended, she said vnto him with
forced smiling: “Sir Didaco, although you haue so ill vsed mee in time
paste, as I haue no greate cause to beleeue your presente woordes, yet
the loue that I beare you, is so rooted in my harte, as the faulte muste
be verye greate, which shoulde remoue the same: in consideration
whereof, I will constraine myselfe to beleeue that your woords be true,
vpon condicion that you will sweare and promise to lie with me here ones
or twyse a weeke. For me thinke that if I might at times inioye your
presence, I should remaine in some part of your grace and fauour, and
liue the best contented woman a liue.” Whereunto hee willingly agreed,
with a great nomber of other like protestations, prompte and redy in
them which meane deceipt. But in the poore miserable woman had perced
the same in the depth of her harte, and had credited all that he spake,
no doubte he woulde haue chaunged his minde. Thus either partes spente
the daye in cold and dissembled flatteries till darke nighte, with his
accustomed silence, did deliuer them the meane to exercise their cruell
facte. So sone as supper was doen, Didaco and Violenta walked vp and
downe together, talking of certaine common matters, till the knight
(pressed with slepe) commaunded his bed to be made redie: it neded not
then to inquire with what diligence Violenta and Ianique obeyed his
requeste: in whome onely as they thought consisted the happe, or
mishappe of their intent: to whom because Violenta might shewe her selfe
more affectionate, went first to bedde, and so sone as they were layde,
Ianique drewe the curteines and tooke away Didaco his swoorde, and
making as though she had a thing to do vnder the bedde, she fastened the
rope and raked vp the fire which was in the chimney, carying a stoole to
the beddes side, and layd vpon the same twoo great kechin knifes, which
doen she put out the candle, and, fayning to goe out of the chamber, she
shut the dore and went in againe. And then the poore infortunate knight,
thinking that he was alone in the chamber with Violenta, began to clepe
and kisse her, whereunto she made no refusal, but desirous to renew his
old priuate toies, she prayed him of al loue that he bare vnto her to
kepe truce for twoo or three howers, for that the night was long inough
to satisfie his desires, affirming that it was impossible for her to
wake, because fiue or sixe dayes before by reason of her griefes, she
had not slept at all, notwithstanding, she said, that after her first
sleepe she would willingly obey him: wherunto the gentleman was easely
perswaded, aswell bicause he hadde els where sufficiently staunched his
thurst, as also for that he was loth to displease her: and faining her
selfe to sleepe, she turned her face to the other side, and in that wyse
continued, till the poore gentleman was fallen into his sound slepe.
Then Ianique softly conueyed the rope ouer his bodye, and gaue it to
Violenta, and after she had placed it according to her minde, as they
together had deuised before, she deliuered thende to Ianique, who being
at the beddes side satte down vpon the grounde, and folding the rope
about her armes, hoisted her twoo feete against the bedde to pull with
greater force when nede required. Not long after, Violenta toke one of
the great knifes, and lifting her selfe vp softlye, she proued with her
hand, to seke a place most meete for her to stabbe a hole into her
enemies fleshe. And inchaunted with wrath, rage and furie, like another
Medea, thrust the poincte of the knife with suche force into his throte
as shee perced it through, and the poore vnhappie man thinking to
resiste the same, by geuing some repulse against that aduerse and heauie
fortune, was appalled, who feeling a new charge geuen vpon him againe,
specially being intricated with the roape, was not able to sturre hande
nor foote, and through the excessiue violence of the paine, his speache
and power to crie, was taken away: in such sorte that after he had
receiued tenne or twelue mortall woundes one after an other, his poore
martired soule departed from his sorowfull body. Violenta hauing ended
her determined enterprise, commaunded Ianique to light the candle, and
approching nere the knightes face, shee sawe by and by that he was
without life. Then not able to satisfie her bloudye harte, ne yet to
quenche her furious rage which boiled in her stomacke, she with the
poinct of the knife tare out the eyes from his head, crying out vpon
them with hideous voice, as if they had ben aliue: “Ah traiterous eyes,
the messengers of a minde most villanous that euer seiorned within the
bodie of man: come out of your shamelesse siege for euer, for the spring
of your fained teares is now exhausted and dried vp.” Then shee played
the Bocher vppon those insensible members, continuing still her rage,
and cruelly seazed vpon the tongue, which with her bloudy handes she
haled out of his mouth, and beholding the same with a murderous eie as
she was cutting it of, sayd: “Oh abhominable and periured tongue, how
many lies diddest thou frame in the same, before thou couldest with the
canon shot of this poysoned member, make breache into my virginitie:
whereof now being depriued by thy meanes, I franckly accelerate my self
to death, wherunto thou presently hast opened the way.” And when shee
had separated this litle member from the reste of the body (insaciable
of crueltie) with the knife ripped a violent hole into his stomacke, and
launching her cruel handes vpon his harte she tare it from the place,
and gashing the same with many blowes, she said: “Ah, vile hart, harder
then the Diamont whose andeuile forged the infortunate trappes of these
my cruel destenies! oh that I could haue discoured thy cogitations in
time past, as I doe now thy materiall substaunce, that I might haue bene
preserued from thine abhominable treason, and detestable infidelitie.”
Then fleashing her selfe vpon the dead body, as a hungry lion vpon his
praye, she lefte no parte of him vnwounded: and when shee had mangled
his bodye all ouer, with an infinite number of gashes, she cried out: “O
infected carrion, whilom an organ and instrumente of the moste
vnfaithfull and trayterous minde that euer was vnder the coape of
heauen. Nowe thou art payed with deserte, worthy of thy merites!” Then
shee sayed to Ianique (whiche with great terrour, had all this whyle
viewed her play this pageant) “Ianique I feele my selfe now so eased of
payne that come death when he will, he shal find me strong and lustie to
indure his furious assault, which of long time I haue assaied. Helpe me
then to traine this corps out of my father’s house, wherein I was first
defloured, then will I tell thee what thou shalt doe: for like as mine
honestie is stayned and published abrode, euen so will I the reuenge to
be manifeste, crauing that his bodie may be exponed to the viewe of all
men.” Whose request Ianique obeied: and then she and Violenta toke the
body, and threwe it out at one of the chamber wyndowes down vpon the
pauement of the streate, with all the partes which she had cut of. That
done she sayd to Ianique: “Take this casket with all the money within
the same, and shippe thy selfe at the next port thou shalt come to, and
get thee ouer into Africa to saue thy life so spedely as thou canst, and
neuer come into these partes again, nor to any other wher thou art
knowen.” Which Ianique purposed to doe, although Violenta had not
consailed her thereunto: and ready to departe, shee gaue a sorowefull
farewell to her maistres, and betoke her selfe to her good fortune: and
from that time forth, no man could tell whether she went, for all the
persute made after her. So sone as daye appeared, the firste that passed
by the streate espied the dead bodie, whiche by reason of the noyse and
brute made throughout the towne, caused many people to come and see it:
but no man knew what he was, being disfiguered as well by reason of the
eyes torne out of his head, as for other partes mutilated and deformed.
And about eight of the clocke in the morning, there was suche a
multitude of people assembled, as it was in maner impossible to come
nere it. The moste parte thought that some theues in the nighte had
committed that murder: whiche opinion seemed to be true, because he was
in his shurte: other some were of contrary opinion: and Violenta, whiche
was at the wyndowe, hearing their sundrie opinions came downe and with a
bolde courage and stoute voyce, that euery man might heare, said; “Sirs,
you do contend vpon a thing whereof (if I were demaunded the question of
the magistrates of this citie) I am able to render assured testimonie:
and without great difficultie this murder can not be discouered by any
other but by me.” Whiche woordes the people did sone beleue, thinking
that diuers gentlemen ielous of Violenta had made a fraye: for she had
now loste her auncient reputacion by meanes of Didaco, who (as the fame
and common reporte was bruted) did keepe her. When she had spoken those
wordes, the Iudges were incontinently aduertised as well of the murder
as of that whiche Violenta had said, and went thither with Sergeauntes
and Officers, where they founde Violenta, more stoute then any of the
standers by: and inquired of her immediatlye howe that murder came to
passe, but shee without feare or appallement, made this aunswere: “Hee
that you see here dead, is the Lorde Didaco: and because it apperteineth
to many to vnderstand the trouth of his death (as his father in lawe,
his wife and other kinsmen) I would in their presence, if it please you
to cause them to be called hither declare what I knowe.” The Magistrates
amased to see so great a Lorde so cruelly slayne, committed her to warde
til after dinner, and commaunded that all the before named should bee
summoned to appeare: who assembled in the palace, with such a number of
the people, as the iudges could skant haue place: Violenta in the
presence of them all, without any rage or passion, first of all
recompted vnto them the chast loue betwene Didaco and her, whiche hee
continued the space of fourtene or fiftene monethes, without receiuing
any fruicte or commoditie thereof. Within a whyle after (he being
vanquished with loue) maried her secretly at her house, and solempnized
the nuptialles by a Prieste vnknowen: declaring moreouer, how they had
liued a yere together in householde, without any occasion of offence, on
her part geuen vnto him. Then she rehersed before them his seconde
mariage with the doughter of such a man, being there present, adding for
conclusion, that sith he had made her to lose her honestie, shee had
sought meanes to make him to loose his life: which she executed with the
helpe of Ianique her mayde: who by her aduise being loth to liue any
longer, had drowned her selfe. And after she had declared the true state
of the matter, passed betwene them, shee sayd for conclusion, that all
that she had rehersed was not to incite or moue them to pitie or
compassion, thereby to prolong her life, whereof shee iudged her self
vnworthy: “For if you (quoth she) do suffer me to escape your handes,
thinking to saue my body, you shalbe the cause and whole ruine of my
soule, for with these mine owne handes, which you see before you, I will
desperatly cut of the thred of this my life.” And with those wordes she
held her peace: wherat the people amased, and moued with pitie, let fall
the luke warme teares from their dolourouse eyes and lamented the
misfortune of that poore creature: imputing the fault vppon the dead
knight, which vnder colour of mariage had deceiued her. The Magistrates
determining further to deliberate vpon the matter, caused the dead bodie
to be buried, and committed Violenta againe to warde, taking away from
her kniues and other weapons, wherewith they thought shee might hurt her
selfe. And vsed such diligent search and inquirie, that the Priest which
maried them was found out, and the seruaunt of Didaco that was present
at the mariage of Violenta, being examined, deposed how by his maister’s
commaundement he caried his horse into the countrie, and how he
commaunded him to come to him againe the nexte morning to the house of
Violenta. And all thinges were so well brought to light, as nothing
wanted for further inuestigation of the truthe, but onely the confession
of him that was dead. And Violenta by the common opinion of the Judges
was condempned to be beheaded: not only for that she had presumed to
punishe the knightes tromperie and offence, but for her excessiue
crueltie doen vpon the dead body. Thus infortunate Violenta ended her
life, her mother and brethren being acquited: and was executed in the
presence of the duke of Calabria, the sonne of king Frederic of Aragon:
which was that time the Viceroy there, and afterwardes died at Torry in
Fraunce: who incontinently after caused this historie to be registred,
with other thinges worthy of remembraunce, chaunced in his time at
Valencia. Bandell doth wryte, that the mayde Ianique was put to death
with her maistres: but Paludanus a Spaniard, a liue at that time,
writeth an excellent historie in Latine, wherin he certainly declareth
that she was neuer apprehended, which opinion (as most probable) I haue
folowed.




THE FORTY-THIRD NOUELL.

_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._


The auncient and generall custome of the gentlemen, and gentlewomen of
Piedmonte, was daily to abandon famous cities and murmures of common
wealthes to retire to their Castels in the countrie, and other places of
pleasure, of purpose to beguile the troublesome turmoyles of life, with
greatest rest and contentation. The troubles and griefes wherof they do
feele, that intermedle with businesse of common wealth, which was with
great care obserued before the warres had preposterated the order of
auncient gouernement, til which time a harde matter it had ben to finde
an idle gentleman in a hole citie. Who rather did resort to their
countrie houses with their families, which were so well gouerned and
furnished, that you should haue departed so well satisfied and
instructed, from a simple gentleman’s house as you should haue doen from
a great citie, were it neuer so wel ruled by some wife and prouident
Senatour. But sithens the world began to waxe olde, it is come again to
very infancie, in suche sorte that the greatest nomber of cities are not
peopled in these dayes but with a many of Carpet Squiers, that make
their refiance and abode there, not to profite, but to continew their
delicate life, and they do not onely corrupt themselues, but (which is
worse) they infecte them that keepe them companie, whiche I will
discourse somewhat more at large, for so much as the gentlewoman, of
whome I describe this historie, was brought vp al the time of her youth,
in one of the finest and most delicate cities of Piedmonte. And feeling
as yet some sparke of her former bringing vp, she could not be reformed
(being in the countrie with her husbande) but that in the ende she fill
into great reproche and shame, as you shall vnderstande by the content
of that whiche foloweth. In the time that Madame Margaret of Austriche,
doughter of Maximilian the Emperour, went in progresse into Sauoie,
towardes her husbande: there was a great Lorde, a valiaunt and courteous
gentleman, in a certaine countrie of Piedmonte, whose name I will not
disclose, aswell for the reuerence of his nerest kynne, which doe yet
liue, as for the immoderate cruell punishemente, that he deuised towards
his wife, when he toke her in the fault. This great Lorde, although he
had goodly reuenues and Castelles in Piedmonte, yet for the most parte
of his time, he followed the Courte, by commaundement of the Duke, that
interteyned him next his owne persone, vsing commonly his aduise in all
his greatest affaires. This Lorde at that tyme maried a mayden in
Thurin, of meane beautie, for his pleasure, not esteming the place from
whence shee came. And because he was well nere fiftie yeares of age when
he maried her, she attired her selfe with such modestie, as she was more
like a wydow then a maried woman: and knewe so well how to vse her
husbande, the space of a yere or two, as he thought him selfe the
happiest man aliue, that he had founde out so louing a wyfe. This woman
being serued, and reuerenced with great honour, waxed werie of to muche
reste and quiet, and began to be inamoured of a Gentleman her neighbour,
whom in a litle tyme she knewe so well to vse by lookes, and other
wanton toies, as he did easely perceiue it, notwithstanding for the
honour of her husband, he would not seme to knowe it, but a farre of.
Nowe this warme loue by litle and litle, afterwardes began to grow hot,
for the yong woman wearie of such long delay, not able to content her
self with lookes, vpon a day finding this yong gentleman in conuenient
place, as he was walking harde by her house, began to reason with him of
termes, and matters of loue: telling hym that he liued to solitarie, in
respect of his yong yeares, and howe shee had alwayes bene brought vp in
Townes, and places of great companie and resorte, in such wyse as now
being in the Countrie, shee could not easely digeste the incommoditie of
being a lone, specially for the continuall absence of her husbande, who
scarce three monethes in a yeare remayned at home in his owne house. And
so falling from one matter to another, loue pricked them so sore, as in
fine they opened a waye to that whiche troubled them so mutch, and
specially the woman: who forgetting her honour, which ordinarily dothe
accompanie great Ladies, priuely she told hym the loue that she had
borne hym of long tyme, whiche notwithstanding shee had dissembled,
wayting when hee should haue geuen the fyrst onsette, for that Gentlemen
ought rather to demaunde, then to be requyred of Ladies. This Gentleman
vnderstanding (by halfe a woorde) the cause of her disease, told her:
“That although his loue was extreme, neuerthelesse, deming himself
vnworthy of so high degree, he stil concealed his grief, which because
he thought it coulde not come to passe, feare forced him to kepe it
silent. But sithe it pleased her so much to abase her selfe, and was
disposed to doe him so much honour to accepte him for her seruaunte, he
would imploye his indeuour, to recompence that with humilitie and humble
seruice, whiche fortune had denied hym in other thinges.” And hauing
framed this foundacion to their loue, for this tyme they vsed no other
contentment one of an other but onely deuise. But they so prouyded for
their affaires to come, that they neded not to vse longer oration. For
beyng neyghbours, and the husbande manye tymes absent, the hyghe waye
was open to bryng their enterpryses to desired affecte. Which they full
well acquieted, and yet vnable wysely to maister and gouerne their
passions, or to moderate theim selues by good discretion, the seruauntes
of the house (by reason of the frequented communication of the Gentleman
with the Gentlewoman) began to suspecte theim, and to conceiue sinister
opinion of their maistresse, although none of theim durste speake of it,
or make other semblaunce of knowledge. Loue holding in full possession
the hartes of these twoo louers, blynded theim so muche, as leauing the
brydle to large for their honour, they vsed theimselues priuely and
apertlye at all tymes one with an other, without anye respect. And when
vpon a tyme, the Lorde retourned home to his owne house (from a certayne
voyage, wherein he had bene in the Duke’s seruice) he found his wyfe to
be more fine and gorgeous then she was wont to be, whiche in the
beginning dyd wonderfully astonne him. And perceiuing her sometimes to
vtter wanton woordes, and to applie her mynde on other thynges, when he
spake vnto her, he began diligently to obserue her countenaunce and
order, and being a man broughte vp in courtlye trade, and of good
experience, hee easely was perswaded that there was some ele vnder that
stone, and to come to the trouthe of the matter, hee made a better
countenaunce, then he was wonte to doe, which she knewe full well howe
to requite and recompence: and liuing in this simulation, either of them
attempted to beguile the other, that the simplest and leste craftie of
them both could not be discouered. The yong gentleman, neighbour of the
Lord, grieued beyond measure, for that he was come home, passed and
repaired many tymes before his Castell gate, thinking to get some looke
of his Ladie’s eye: but by any meanes she could not for feare of her
husbande, who was not so foolishe, that after he sawe him goe before his
gate so many times, without some occasion, but that he easely iudged
there was a secret amitie betwene them. Certaine dayes after, the
gentleman to insinuate himselfe into the Lord’s fauour, and to haue
accesse to his house, sent him a very excellent Tercelet of a Faucon,
and at other times he presented him with Veneson, and vmbles of Dere,
which he had killed in hunting. But the Lorde (which well knew that
flatterie many times serued the torne of diuerse, to beguile foolish
husbands of their faire wiues) that he might not seme vngrateful, sent
him also certain straung things. And these curtesies continued so long,
that the Lorde desirous to lay a baite, sent to praye him to come to
dyner: to which requeste the other accorded liberally, for the deuocion
he had to the sainct of the Castell. And when the table was taken vp,
they went together to walk abroade in the fieldes. And that more frendly
to welcome him, he prayed his wife to goe with them, whereunto she made
no great deniall. And when they had debated of many thinges, the Lord
said vnto him: “Neighbour and frende, I am an old man and Melancholie,
as you know, wherfore I had neede from henceforth to reioyce my self.
I pray you hartely therefore to come hither many times, to visit vs and
therewithal to participate such fare as God doth send. Vsing the thinges
of my house, as they were your owne.” Whiche the other gratefully
accepted, humblie praying that his Lordshyp would commaunde him and that
he had, when he pleased, and to commaunde him as his very humble and
obedient seruaunt. This Pantere layed, the yong gentleman ordinarely
came ones a daye to visite the Lorde and his wife. So long this
pilgrimage continued, vntill the Lorde (vpon a time, faining himselfe to
be sicke) commaunded that no man should come into his chamber, because
all the night before he was ill at ease, and could take no reste.
Whereof the gentleman was incontinently aduertised by an old woman hired
of purpose for a common messenger, of whom a none we purpose to make
remembraunce. Being come to the Castell, he demaunded how the Lord did,
and whether he might go see him, to whom aunswer was made, that he could
not, for that he was fallen into a slomber. Madame now was in the garden
alone, roming vp and down for her pleasure, and was aduertised that the
Gentleman was come. Who being brought into the gardeine, and certified
of the Lordes indisposition, began to renew his old daliaunce with the
Ladie, and to kisse her many times, eftsones putting his hand into her
bosome, and vsing other pretie preparatifes of loue, which ought not to
be permitted but only to the husband. In the meane time, while they twoo
had ben there a good space, the husband slept not, but was departed out
of his chamber, the space of two houres and more, and was gone vp to the
highest place of all his Castell, wher at a very litle window, he might
discrie al that was done, within the compasse of his house. And there
seing al their curteous offers and proffers, hee waited but when the
gentleman should haue indeuoured himself to precede further, that he
might haue then discharged his mortal malice vpon them both. But they
fearing that their long abode in the gardein might ingender some
displeasure, retourned into the Castell, with purpose in time to content
their desires, so sone as opportunitie serued. The Lorde noting all the
demeanour betwene them, retourned to his chamber, and so went againe to
his bed, faining to be sicke, as he did all the daye before. Supper time
come, the lady went to know his pleasure, whether he would sup in his
chamber or in the hall: he answered (with a disguised cherefull face)
that he began to feele himselfe well, and that he had slept quietly
sithens diner, and was determined to suppe beneth, sending that night
for the gentleman, to beare him companie at supper: and could so well
disemble his iust anger, as neither his wife, nor the Gentleman
perceiued it by any meanes. And so the Lorde with his Lady still
continued, the space of fiftene dayes, or three wekes, making so much of
her (as though it had ben the firste moneth that he maried her) in suche
sorte, as when the poore miserable woman thought to haue gotten victorie
ouer her husband and frend, it was the houre that fortune did weaue the
toyle and nette to intrappe her. The Lorde which no longer could abide
this mischief, driuen into an extreame choler, seing that he was able to
finde no meanes to take them (himselfe being at home) deliberated either
sone to die or to prouide for the matter: and the better to execute his
determination, he counterfaited a letter from the Duke of Sauoie, and
bare it secretly to the post him selfe alone, and commaunded him next
daye to bring it to his Castell, whereby he fained that the Duke had
sent the same vnto him. Whiche matter the post did handle so well, as he
brought the letter, when he was at supper, with botes on his legges all
durtie and raied, as though he were newly lighted from his horse. And
the better to maintain his wife in her error, after he had reade the
letter, he gaue it to her to reade: which conteined no other thing but
that the Duke commaunded him presently with all diligence, himselfe and
his traine to come vnto him, to be dispatched vpon ambassage into
Fraunce. That doen he said vnto her: “Wife, you see how I am constrayned
to depart with spede (to my great grief) bid my men therfore to be ready
in the morning, that they may go before and wayte for me at Thurin,
where my Lord the Duke is at this present. I my self will departe from
hence to morow at night after supper, and will ride in post in the
freshe of the night.” And the better to deceiue this poore vnhappie
woman, he went into his Closet, and took his caskette, wherin was the
moste parte of his treasure, and deliuering the same vnto her, sayde:
“That fearing leste hee shoulde tarie long in Fraunce, he would leaue
the same with her to help her when she wanted.” And after all this
traine was gone, hee caused one of the yeomen of his chamber to tary
behynde, whose fidelitie he had at other times proued: and all that daye
he ceased not to cherishe and make much of his wyfe. But the poore soule
did not forsee, that they were the flatteries of the Crocodile, which
reioyseth when he seeth one deceiued. When he had supped, he made a
particuler remembraunce to his wife how the affaires of his house should
be disposed in his absence: and then toke his leaue, giuing her a Iudas
kisse. The lorde vnethes had ridden twoo or thre miles, but that his
wife had sent the olde woman to carye worde to her louer, of the
departure of her husband, and that he might saufly come and lie with her
in the castell, for that all the seruauntes were ridden forth with their
maister, sauing one yeoman and her twoo maydes, whiche doe neuer vse to
lie in her chamber. Vpon this glad newes the Gentleman thought no scorne
to appeare vppon that warning, and the old woman knew the way so well,
as she brought him straight into the ladies chamber, whom loue inuegled
in such wise, as they lay together in the bedde where the lord was wont
to lye. And the olde woman laye in an other bed in that chamber, and
shut the dore within. But while these twoo poore passionate louers
thought they had attayned the toppe of all felicitie, and had inioyed
with full saile the fauours of the litle God Cupide, Fortune desirous to
departe them, for the last messe of the feast prepared so bitter
Comfettes, as it cost them both their liues, with such cruell death, as
if they which make profession of semblable things doe take example,
wyues will get them better names, and husbandes shalbe lesse deceiued.
The Lorde that night made no longer tracte of time, but lighted from his
horse, at the keper of one of his Castles houses, whom he knewe to be
faythfull. To whome in the presence of the yeoman of his chamber, he
discoursed the loue betwene the gentleman and his wyfe, and commaunded
them with all spede to arme themselues, and with a case of pistolets to
follow him, whom they obeyed. And beyng come to the Castell gate he
saide to the keper of his castell: “Knocke at the gate, and fayne thy
selfe to be alone, and saye that I passing by thy house did leaue a
remembraunce with thee, to cary to my ladie. And because it is a matter
of importaunce, and requireth hast, thou were compelled to bring it this
night.” Knocking at the gate somewhat softely (for feare lest they
whiche were in the chambers should heare) a yeoman rose whiche laye in
the courte, knowing the voyce of the keper (because he was one, whome
his lorde and maister dyd greatly fauour) opened the gate, and the
firste thyng they did, they lyghted a torche, and wente vp all three to
the Lordes chamber, not sufferyng anye man to cary newes to the Ladie,
of theyr approche. Being come to the chamber doore, the keeper knocked,
whiche immediatly the olde woman hearde, and without opening the doore,
asked who was there. “It is I (quod the keeper,) that haue brought a
letter to my ladie, from my Lorde my maister, who ryding this nyght in
post to Thurin, passed by my house, and very earnestly charged me by no
meanes to fayle but to deliuer it this night.” The Ladie aduertised
hereof, who could not mistruste that her owne man (whome she tooke to
bee simple, and voyde of guyle) would haue framed a platte for suche a
treason, sayde to the olde woman: “Receiue the letter at the doore, but
in any wyse let him not come in, and I will accomplishe the contentes.”
The olde woman, which thought onely but to receiue the letter betwene
the doore, was astoned when the keper who (giuing her a blow with his
foote vpon the stomacke) threwe her backward, where she laie more then a
quarter of an houre, without speaking or mouing. And then they three
entring the chamber in great rage, with their pistolets in their handes,
found the two miserable louers starke naked, who seing them selues
surprysed in that state, were so sore ashamed as Eue and Adam were, when
their sinne was manifested before God. And not knowing what to doe,
reposed their refuge in lamenting and teares, but at the verie same
instaunt, they bounde the armes and legges together, of the poore
gentleman with the chollers of their horse, which they brought with them
of purpose. And then the Lorde commaunded that the twoo maydes, which
were in the Castell, and the reste of the seruantes, should be called to
assiste them, to take example of that faire fight. And all the meane
people being gathered in this sort together, the lorde tourning him self
vnto his wife, saied vnto her: “Come hither thou vnshamefast, vile, and
detestable whore, like as thou hast had a harte so traiterous and
vnfaithfull, to bring this infamous ruffian in the night into my
castell, not only to robbe and dispoile me of mine honour, which I
preferre and esteme more then life: but also (whiche is more to be
abhorred) to infring and breake for euer, the holie and precious bande
of mariage, wherewithall wee be vnited and knit together. So will I
forthwith, that with these thyne owne handes, with whiche thou gauest me
the firste testimonie of thy faith, that he presently shalbe hanged and
strangled in the presence of all menne, not knowing howe to deuise anye
other greater punishimente, to satisfie thyne offence, then to force
thee to murder hym, whome thou haste preferred before thy reputation,
aboue myne honour, and estemed more then thine owne life.” And hauing
pronounced this fatall iudgement, he sent one to seeke for a greate
naile of a Carte, which he caused to be fastened to the beame of the
chamber, and a ladder to be fetched, and then made her to tie a Coller
of the order belonginge to theeues and malefactours, about the necke of
her sorowfull louer. And because she alone was not able to do that
greuous and waightie charge, hee ordayned that like as the olde woman
had bin a faithfull minister of his wiue’s loue, so shee should put her
hand in performing the vttermost of that worke. And so these two
wretched women, were by that meanes forced to suche extremitie, as with
their owne handes, they strangled the infortunate Gentleman: with whose
death the Lord not yet satisfyed, caused the bedde, the clothes, and
other furnitures (wherupon they had taken their pleasures past) to be
burned. He commaunded the other vtensiles of the chamber to be taken
away, not suffring so much straw, as would serue the couche of two
dogges, to be left vnconsumed. Then he said to his wife: “Thou wicked
woman, amonges al other most detestable: for so much as thou hast had no
respecte to that houourable state, whereunto fortune hath aduaunced
thee, being made by my meanes of a simple damosell, a greate Ladie, and
because thou hast preferred the lasciuious acquaintaunce of one of my
subiects, before the chast loue, that thou oughtest to haue borne me: my
determination is, that from henceforth thou shalt kepe continuall
company with him, to the vttermost day of thy life: because his
putrified carcase hath giuen occasion to ende thy wretched body.” And
then hee caused all the windowes and doores to be mured, and closed vp
in such wyse, as it was impossible for her to go oute, leauing onely a
litle hole open, to giue her bread and water: appointing his Steward to
the charge thereof. And so this poore miserable woman, remained in the
mercie of that obscure and darke prison, without any other company, then
the deade body of her louer. And wheu shee had continued a certaine
space in that stinking Dongeon, without aire or comfort, ouercome with
sorrow and extreme paine, she yelded her soule to God.




THE FORTY-FOURTH NOUELL.

_The loue of Alerane of Saxone, and of Adelasia the daughter 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._


The auncient histories of Princes (as wel vnder the name of kinge, as of
the title of Duke, which in time paste did gouerne the Countrie of
Saxone) do reporte that Otho the seconde of that name, which was the
first Emperour that lawfullye raigned (after the Empire ceassed in the
stock of Charles the great) had of his wife Matilde doughter of the king
of Saxone, one sonne which succeded him in the Imperial crowne, called
Otho the third, who for his vertuous education and gentle disposition,
acquired of all men the surname of _The loue of the world_. The same
Emperour was curteous and mercifull, and neuer (to any man’s knowledge)
gaue occasion of griefe to any person, he did good to euery man, and
hurt none: likewise he thought that kingdome to be well gotten, and
gotten to be better kept, where the king, Prince or Ruler therof, did
studie and seeke meanes to be beloued, rather then feared, sith loue
ingendreth in it selfe a desire of obedience in the people. And contrary
wise, that Prince which by tyrannic maketh himself to be feared, liueth
not one houre at rest, hauing his conscience tormented indifferently,
both with suspition and feare, thinking stil that a thousand swords be
hanging ouer his head, to kill and destroye him. Otho then vnder his
name of Emperour, couered his clemencie with a certaine sweete grauite
and Princely behauiour. Who notwithstanding declared an outward shew of
curtesie, to make sweete the egreness of displeasure, which they feele
and taste that be subiect to the obeysaunce of any new Monarchie. Man
being of his owne nature so louing of himselfe, that an immoderate
libertie seemeth vnto him sweeter, more iust and indurable, than
aucthorities rightly ordained, the establishment whereof seemeth to
represente the onely gouernment of that first kinge, which from his high
throne, giueth being aud mouing to al thinges. That good Emperour then
knowinge verye well the mallice of men, who although he was a good man
of warre, hardye of his hands, and desirous of glorie, yet moderated so
well the happie successe of his enterprises, as his grace and gentlenes
principally appeared, when he had the vpper hand, for that he cherished
and well vsed those whom he had subdued vnder his obedience: his force
and felicitie was declared when he corrected and chastised rebells, and
obstinate persons, which wilfully would proue the greate force of a
Princes arme iustly displeased, and to others what fauour a king could
vse towards them, whom he knew to be loyal and faithfull: giuing cause
of repentaunce to them which at other times had done him displeasure.
And to say the truth, he mighte be placed in the ranke of the most
happie princes that euer were, if the priuate affaires of his owne house
had so happily succeeded, as the renowme which hee wanne in the science
of warfare, and in the administration of the common wealth. But nothing
being stable in the life of man, this emperour had in him, that which
diminished the glorie of his wisedome, and (resembling an Octauius
Augustus) the vnhappie successe of his owne house did somewhat obscure
the fame of his noble factes, and those insolent doinges serued vnto him
as a counterpoyse to prosperous fortune, which may be easely perceiued,
by the progresse and continuation of this historie. This good Prince had
one daughter, in whom nature had distributed her giftes in such wise, as
she alone might haue vaunted her self to attaine the perfection of all
them, which euer had any thing, worthy of admiration, were it in the
singularitie of beauty, fauour and courtesie, or in her disposition and
good bringing vp. The name of this fayre Princesse was Adelasia. And
when this Ladie was very yong, one of the children of the Duke of
Saxone, came to the Emperour’s seruice, whose kinsman he was. This yonge
Prince, besides that he was one of the fayrest and comliest gentlemen of
Almaigne, had therwithall, together with knowledge of armes, a passing
skill in good sciences, which mitigated in him the ferocitie both of his
warlike knowledge, and of the nature of his countrey. His name was
Alerane, who seing himsefe the yongest of his house, and his
inheritaunce very small, indeuoured to conciliate every man’s fauour and
good will, to remoue his owne fortune, and to bring himselfe in
esteemation with the Emperour, wherein all thinges hee imployed so well
his indeuour, as through his worthines he wanne commendation and report,
to be the most valiaunte and stoutest gentleman in all the Emperour’s
Court, which praise did greatly commend the tendernes of his yong
yeares, and was therewithall so sober, and of so gentle spirite, that
although he excelled his companions in all things, yet he auoyded cause
of offence (shewinge himselfe familiar amonge all the Courtiers.) Euery
man (which is a greate matter) praised him and loued him, and he thought
himself most happie, that by any meanes could fashion himself to imitate
the vertue that made Alerane’s name so renowmed. And that which made him
fuller of admiracion, and brought him into fauour with his Lord and
maister was, that vpon a day the Emperour being in hunting alone in the
middes of a launde, and in a desert place, it chaunced that a Beare
issuinge out of her caue, was assayled of Hunters: the fierce beaste,
auoyding the toyles and flyinge the pursute of the dogges, came with
greate vehemencie and speede from a mountaine, and was vpon the Emperour
or he was ware, separated from his companie and without his sword. But
Alerane by good fortune was at hand, who more careful for the safetie of
his Prince than for his owne life, encountred the beare, and killed him
in the presence of the Emperour and many other. All which beholding (to
their great astonishmente) the dexteritie and hardines of Alerane at
those small yeares, (for then hee was not aboue the age of XVII.) the
Emperour imbracing him, did highly commende him, tellinge them that were
by, that his life was saued chiefely by God’s assistaunce, and nexte by
the prowesse of Alerane. The newes hereof was so bruted abroade, as
there was no talke but of the valiaunce and stoutenes of this yong man
of warre, which caused fair Adelasia (moued by naturall instigation, and
with the opinion and reporte of the vertue toward in that yonge Prince)
to feele a certaine thing (I cannot tell what) in her minde, which
inflamed her senses and hart. And she had no sooner cast her eyes vpon
Alerane, but loue, which had prepared the ambushe, so pearsed her
delicate breast, as he toke ful possession of her: in such wyse as the
Princesse was so straungelye in loue wyth the yonge Prince, that she
neuer founde pleasure and contentment but in that which was done or said
by her louer, whom she accompted the chiefe of all the men of his time.
In this burning heate, she felt the passions of Loue so vehement, and
his pricks so sharpe, that she could not euaporate the cloudes which
darkened her spirites and continually tormented her minde. And albeit
that the little occasion, which she saw, for their comminge together in
time to come, did disswade her from pursuing the thing which she most
desired: yet the tyrant Loue shewed himselfe very extreame in that
diuersitie of thoughts, and variety of troubles which vexed the spirite
of the Princesse: for shee could not so well dissemble that, which
honour and age commaunded her to keepe secrete, but that Alerane which
was (as we haue alreadie said) well expert and subtile, perceiued the
inwarde disease of Adelasia. Moreouer there was betweene them a naturall
conformitie and likelyhode of conditions, which made them to agree in
equall desires, to feede of like meates, their passionate mindes were
martired with equall sorowe and paine, departed as wel in the one as in
the other. For Alerane by taking careful heede to the lookes which the
Princesse continually did stealingly cast vpon him, saw the often and
sodaine chaunces of colour, wherein sometimes appeared ioye, which by
and by did ende with infinite nomber of sighes, and with a countenance
agreeable to that, which the hart kept secrete and couert, whereby he
assured himselfe vnfainedly to be beloued, which caused him to do no
lesse (for satisfaction of such like merite and desert done by Adelasia)
but to beare vnto her like affection, forcinge her by all diligence and
seruice to continue still that good will toward him, yelding himselfe a
pray to the selfe same Loue. Who ruling thaffections of the Princesse,
(as braue and pleasaunt as she was) made her sorowfull and pensife, and
altered her in such wise as she thought the companie wherein she was did
impeach her ioy, which companie she imagined to conceiue the like
pleasure that she did, when at libertie and alone shee reuolued her
troubles, and fansied her contentation in her minde. Alerane on the
other side slept not, but as though he had receiued the first wound by
the handes of the blinde little archer Cupide, ceassed not to thincke of
her, whose image ordinarelye appeared before his eyes, as engrauen more
liuely in his minde than anye forme may be insculped vppon mettall or
marble. And yet neither the one nor the other, durste discouer the least
passion of a greate nomber which oppressed their besieged hartes, and
which suffered not to liue in anye reste this faire couple of loyall
louers. The eyes alone did thoffice of the handes and tongue, as trustie
secretaries, and faithful messengers of the effects of the minde. That
which kindled the fier moste, was their frequente talke together, which
was but of common matters, withoute vtteraunce of that which the hart
knewe well enoughe, and whereof the eyes gaue true testimonie. A passion
truly most intollerable for a yonge Princesse, as well because she neuer
had experience of semblable sorow, as for her tender age, and yet more
for a naturall abashmente and shame, which with the vaile of honor doth
serue, or ought to serue for a bridle, to euery Ladie couetous of fame,
or like to be the ornament or beauty of her race. Adelasia then floting
in the tempestuous seas of her appetites, guided by a maister which
delighteth in the shipwracke of them he carieth, vanquished with an
immoderate rage of loue, tormented with grief vnspeakeable, offended
with her owne desires, beinge alone in her chamber, began to complaine
her sorowes, and saide: “Ah, what passion is it that is vnknowen vnto
me, that ingendreth an obliuion of that which was wont to delighte and
contente me? From whence commeth this new alteration, and desire
vnaccustomed, for solitarie being alone, is the reste and argumente of
my troubles? What diuersities and chaunges be these that in this sorte
do poise and weigh my thought? Ah, Adelasia, what happie miserie dost
thou finde in this free prison, where pleasure hath no place till the
enemies haue disquieted the life, with a Million of painefull aud
daungerous trauailes? What is this to say, but that againste the nature
of maidens of my yeres I will not, or cannot be quiet day nor night, but
take my repast and feeding vpon cares and thoughtes? Alacke, I thought
then to finishe my sorowes and griefes, when (being alone) I began to
frame the plot of my tormentes and paines, with so many formes and
deuises in my fansie, as I do make wishes and requestes vpon the thing I
loue and esteeme aboue all, vppon which all mine affections do depende
and take their beginning. What is this to saye, but that my maydes do
offende mee, when with discrete wordes they go about to diuert me from
my follies and pleasaunt noysome thoughtes? Wherefore should not I take
in good part the care which they haue of my health, and the paine which
they take to remember me of my torment? Alas, they know not wherein
consisteth the force of mine euil, and much lesse is it in their power
to remedie the same. Euen so I would haue none other plaister but him
that hath giuen me the wound, nor none other meate but the hunger that
drieth me vp, I craue none other comfort but the fire which burneth mee
continuallye, the force wherof pearceth the sucke and marie within my
bones. Ah Alerane, Alerane, the floure and mirror of all prowesse and
beautie: it is thou alone that liueste in mee, of whom my minde
conceyueth his hope, and the hart his nourishment. Alas: that thy
worthines should be the ouerthrow of mine honour, and thy perfection the
imperfection of my life. Ah Loue, Loue, how diuersly thou dealest with
mee. For seing mine Alerane, I am attached with heate in the middes of
ise that is full oolde. In thinking of him, I do both rest and trauaile
continually. Nowe I flee from him, and sodainly againe I desire him. In
hearing him speake, the suger and hony, that distilleth from his mouth,
is the contentmente of my minde, till such time as his words appeare to
be different from my desire. For then, ah Lord: my rest is conuerted
into extreme trauaile, thy honye into gall, and wormewoode more bitter
than bitternes it selfe, the hope of my minde is become dispayre so
horrible, as the same onely wil breede vnto me, (if God haue not pittie
vpon me) a short recourse of death.” After these wordes, shee rested a
longe time without speaking, her armes a crosse, and her eyes eleuate on
highe, which ranne downe like a Ryuer of teares, and seemed to be so
rauished, as a man would haue iudged her rather a thing withoute life,
than a creature sensible, and labouring for life, till, recouering her
spirites againe, as comming from an extasie and sounde, she beganne her
plaintes againe in this sort: “What? must such a Princesse as I am,
abase my selfe to loue her owne subiect, yea and her kinseman, and
specially not knowing yet how his minde is disposed? Shall I be so
vnshamefast, and voyde of reason, to surrender my selfe to anye other
but to him, whom God and fortune hath promised to be my espouse? Rather
death shall cut of the threde of my yeres, than I wil contaminate my
chastitie, or that any other enioy the floure of my virginitie, than he
to whom I shal be tied in mariage. Ah: I say and promise muche, but
there is a tormenter in my minde which dealeth so rigorouslie with my
reason, as I cannot tel wherupon wel to determine. I dare not thincke
(which also I ought not to do) that Alerane is so foolish to despise the
loue of one, that is the chiefeste of the doughters of the greatest
Monarches of the world, and much lesse that hee should forget himselfe,
in such wise to forsake mee, hauing once enioyed the best and dearest
thing that is in mee, and whereof I meane to make him the onelye and
peaceable possessor. Truly the vertue, gentlenes, and good nurriture of
Alerane, doe not promise suche treason in him, and that great beautie of
his, cannot tell how to hyde such rigor as hee will refuse one that is
no deformed and ill fauoured creature, and which loueth him with such
sinceritie, as wher she shall lose the meanes to inioy him, there shee
shal feele, euen forthwith, the miserable ende of her sorowfull dayes.”
And then againe she helde her peace, tossed and turmoiled with diuers
thoughtes fleetinge betweene hope and feare: by and by she purposed to
deface from her hart the memorie of Loue, which alreadie had taken to
faste footinge, and would not be separated from the thing, which heauen
himselfe seemed to haue prepared, for the perfection and glorie of his
triumphe. Loue then constrayned her, to resolue vppon her laste
determination. Then continuinge her talke, sighing without ceasing, she
said: “Chaunce what may to the vttermost, I can but wander like a
Vagabonde and fugitiue with mine owne Alerane (if hee will shew me so
much pleasure to accept mee for his own): for sure I am, the Emperour
wil neuer abide the mariage, which I haue promised: and sooner will I
die, than another shall possesse that which Alerane alone deserueth:
hauinge a long time vowed and dedicated the same vnto him. And
afterwards let the vulgar sort blabbe what they liste of the bolde and
foolishe enterprises of Adelasia, when my harte is contented and desire
satisfied, and Alerane enioyeth her that loueth him more than her selfe.
Loue verily is not liable to the fansie of the parentes, nor yet to the
will euen of them that subiungate themselues to his lawes. And besides
that I shall not be alone amongest Princesses, that haue forsaken
parentes and countries, to folow their loue into straunge regions. Faire
Helena the Greeke, did not she abandon Menelaus her husbande and the
rich citie of Sparta, to follow the faire Troian, Alexander sailing to
Troie? Phedria and Ariadne, despised the delicates of Creta, lefte her
father a very old man, to go with the Cecropian Theseus. None forced
Medea the wise furious lady (but loue) to departe the isle of Colchos,
her owne natiue countrey, wyth the Argonaute Iason. O good God, who can
resist the force of loue, to whom so many kinges, so many Monarches, so
many wise men of al ages haue done their homage? Surely the same is the
onely cause that compelleth me (in makinge my selfe bolde) to forget my
dutie towardes my parentes, and specially mine honour, which I shall
leaue to be reasoned vpon by the ignoraunt which considereth nothing but
that which is exteriourly offred to the viewe of the sighte. Ah: how
much I deceiue my selfe, and make a reckeninge of much without mine
hoste: and what know I if Alerane (although hee do loue me) will loose
the good grace of the Emperour; and forsake his goods, and (so it maye
bee) to hazard his life, to take so poore and miserable a woman as I am?
Notwithstanding I wil proue fortune, death is the worst that can
chaunce, which I wil accelerate rather than my desire shall loose his
effecte.” Thus the fayre and wise Princesse concluded her vnhappie
state: and all this time her best frende Alerane, remained in greate
affliction, and felt such feare as cannot be expressed with woordes,
onely true louers know the force, altogether like to that wherof the
yong Prince had experience, and durst not discouer his euill to her,
that was able to giue him her allegeaunce, much lesse to disclose it to
any deare frende of his, into whose secrecie he was wont to commit the
most parte of his cares, which was the cause that made him feele his
hart to burne like a litle fier in the middes of a cleare riuer, and saw
him selfe ouerwhelmed within the waters, hotter than those that be
intermixed with Sulphure, and do euaporate and sende forth ardente
smokes in an Æthna hill or Vesuue mountaine. The Princesse impaciente to
endure so long, could no longer keepe secrete the flames hidden within
her, without telling and vtteringe them to some, whom her minde liked
best, and there to render them wher she thought they toke their essense
and beinge, casting away all shame and feare, which accustomablie doth
associate Ladies of her estate and age. One day, she toke secretly
aside, one that was her gouernesse named Radegonde, a gentlewoman, so
vertuous, wise and sober, as anye other that was in the Emperour’s
Courte, who for her approued manners and chaste life, had the charge of
the bringing vppe and nourishing of Adelasia, from her infancie. To this
gentlewoman then the amorous princesse deliberated to communicate her
secretes, and to let her vnderstande her passion, that shee might find
some remedie. And for that purpose they two retired alone within a
closet, the poore louer tremblinge like a leafe (at the blaste of the
westerne winde, when the Sunne beginneth to spread his beames) sighinge
so strangely, as if her bodye and soule would haue departed, said thus:
“The trust which euer I haue found in that naturall goodnes that
appeareth to be in you, my mother and welbeloued Ladie, ioyned with
discretion and fidelitie, wherwith all your actes and affayres be
recommended, do presently assure me, and make me bolde in this my
trouble, to participate vnto you my secretes, which be of greater
importance without comparison, than anye that euer I tolde you,
perswading my selfe that the thing which I shall tell you, whatsoeuer it
be (be it good or ill) you will accept it in suche wyse, as your
wysedome requireth, and to keepe it so close as the secrete of such a
Ladie as I am doth deserue. And that I maye not holde you longe in
doubte what it is, know ye, that of late the valor, prowesse, beautye,
and curtesie, of Senior Alerane of Saxon, hath founde such place in my
hart, as (in despite of my self) I am so in loue with him, that my life
is not deare vnto me but for his sake, my hart taketh no pleasure but in
his glorie and vertue, hauing chosen him so vertuous a Prince for my
frend, and one day (by God’s sufferaunce) for my lawfull spouse and
husband. I haue assaied a thousand meanes, and so many wayes, to cast
him of and to blot him out of my remembraunce: but, alas! vnhappie
caytife, fortune is so froward and so vnmercifull to my endeuour, as the
more I labour and go aboute to extinguishe in me, the memorie of his
name and commendable vertues, so much the more I do enlarge and augmente
them, the flames of which loue do take such increase, as I do litle or
nothinge esteeme my life without the enioyinge the effecte of my desire,
and the taste of suche licour, which nourishing my hope in pleasure, may
quenche the fier that doth consume me: otherwise I see no meanes
possible but that I am constrayned, either to lose my good wittes
(whereof already I feele some alienation) or to ende my dayes with
extreme anguishe, and insupportable hartes sorowe. Alas, I know well
that I shall loose my time, if I attempt to pray the Emperour my father
to giue me Alerane to husbande, sith he doth already practise a mariage
betwene the king of Hungarie and me: and also that Alerane (although he
be a Prince of so noble bloud and honourable house, as the Saxon is) yet
he is to base to be sonne in lawe to an Emperour. In these my
distresses, it is of you alone, of whom I looke for ayde and counsaile,
beinge certaine of your prudence and good iudgement: and therefore I
pray you to haue pitie vpon mee, and haue remorse vpon this immoderate
passion that doth tormente mee beyonde measure.” Radegonde hearing
Adelasia disclose this talke, wherof she would neuer haue thought, was
so confounded and astoned, that of long time she could not speake a
word, holding her head downe, reuoluing a thousand diuers matters in her
minde, knewe not well what to aunswere the Princesse. Finally gatheringe
her spirites vnto her, shee aunswered her with teares in her eyes,
saying: “Alas, madame, what is that you saye? Is it possible that the
wisest, vertuous, and most curteous Princesse of Europa could suffer
herselfe in this sort (through her onely aduise) to be transported to
her owne affections and sensuall appetites? Is it well doen that you
seing in me, a discretion and modestie, doe not imitate the puritie
thereof? Be these the godly admonicions which heretofore I haue giuen
you, that you will so lightly defile your father’s house with the blot
of infamie, and your self with eternal reproch? Would you, Madame, that
vpon the ende of my yeares I should begin to betraye my Lord the
Emperour, who hath committed to my hands the most precious iewell of his
house? Shal I be so vnconstant in mine old dayes to become an
vnshamefast minister of your fonde and foolishe loue, a thing which I
neuer did in the ardent time of youth? Alas, madame, forget I beseech
you this foolish order, cast vnder your feete this determination
wickedly begonne, such as to the blemishinge of the honourable brightnes
of your fame, maye cause the ruine of vs all. Follow the counsell of
your deare nourice Radegonde, whoe loueth you better than her owne
soule. Quenche these noisome and parchinge flames which haue kindled,
and throwen forth their sparkes into your chaste and tender harte. Take
heede, I beseech you, that a vaine hope doe not deceiue you, and a
foolishe desire abuse you. Alas, thincke that it is the parte of a sage
and prudente minde, to restraine the first motions of euerye passion,
and to resiste the rage that riseth in our willes, and the same very oft
by succession of time, bringeth to it selfe to late and noysome
repentance. This your thought procedeth not of loue: for hee that
thincketh to sustain himselfe with venim sugred with that drogue, in the
ende he seeth himselfe so desperately impoysoned, as onely death is the
remedie for suche disease: a louer truly may be called the slaue of a
tyrant most violent, cruell, and bloudie that may be found, whose yoke
once put on, can not be put of, but with painful sorrowe and
vnspeakeable displeasure. Do you not know Madame, that loue and follie
be two passions so like one an other, that they engender like effectes
in the minds of those that do possesse them: in such wise as the
affection of the paciente cannot be concealed? Alas, what shall become
of you and him that you loue so well, if the Emperour do know and
perceiue your light and fond determinations. Shew Madame, for God’s
sake, what you be. Let the ripe fruits of your prudence so long time
tilled, appeare abrode to the worlde: expell from you this vnruled loue,
which if you suffer frankly to enter into your hart, assure your selfe
he wil take such holdfaste of the place, that when you thincke to
extrude the enemie out, it is he that will driue away that small portion
of force and reason that resteth in you: and then the comfort of your
miseries, wil be the lamentation of your losses, and a folowing
repentaunce for that which cannot be by any meanes recouered.” Adelasia
burning in loue and fretting with anger, not able to abide contrarie
replie to her minde, began to loke furiouslie vppon the Ladie that gave
her suche holsome admonicion, to whom she said with more than womanly
stoutnes, these words: “And what are you, good gentlewoman, that dare so
hardly prescribe lawes to Loue that is not subiect or tied vnto the
fantasie of men? Who hath giuen you commission to take the matter so
hote against that I haue determined to doe, say you what you can? No,
no, I loue Alerane and wil loue him whatsoeuer come of it: and sithe I
can haue none other helpe at your handes, or meete counselle for mine
ease and comfort: be assured that I will endeauour to finde it in my
selfe: and likewise to prouide so well as I can for mine affaires, that
eschewing the alliaunce which the Emperour prepareth, I will liue at
hartes ease with him, whom (in vaine) you go about to put out of my
remembraunce: and if so be I chaunce to fayle of my purpose, I haue a
medicine for my calamities which is death, the laste refuge of all
miseries: which will be right pleasaunt vnto me, ending my life, in the
contemplation and memorie of the sincere and perfecte loue that I beare
to mine Alerane.” Radegonde no lesse abashed, than surprised with feare,
hearinge the resolution of the Princesse, could not at the first make
any aunswere, but to make her recourse to teares, the most familiar
weapons that women haue. Then seing by the countenaunces of Adelasia,
that the passion had set in foote to deepe for any to attempt to plucke
oute the rootes, from that time forth shee wiped her eyes, not without
euident demonstration (for all that) of her great griefe conceyued, with
infinite sighes, turning her face to the Ladie, shee said to her with
pleasaunter countenaunce than before: “Madame, sith your mishap is such
as withoute Alerane you cannot bee quiet or pacifyed in minde, appease
your plaintes, wipe awaye your teares, shew your countenaunce ioyful,
and setting aside all care, put on good corage, and repose in mee all
your anguishe and trouble. For I doe promise you and sweare by the fayth
that I do owe you Madame, come whatsoeuer shall vnto me, I will deuise
in practising your rest to beginne mine owne sorow. And then you shall
see how much I am your frend, and that the words which I haue spoken do
not proceede els where, but from the desire that I haue to doe you
seruice, seeking al wayes possible your aduauncement.” Adelasia at these
last words felt such a motion in her minde, as much a doe she had for
the exceeding great ioy and pleasure she conceiued, to staie her soule
from leapinge forth of that corporall prison (like the spirite of that
Romaine Ladie which once lefte the bodye to descende into the Elisien
fields, to vse the perfection of her ioy with the blessed soules there,
when she saw her sonne retorne safe and sounde from the battaile of
Thrasimene besides the lake of Peruse, where the Consull Flaminius was
ouercome by Hanniball): but in the ende, the hope to haue that which
Radegonde had promised, made her to receiue hart againe, and to clepe
her counseler, sayinge: “God forbid, deare mother, that the thing you do
for me should rebound to your mishap or discontentmente, sithe the
affection which you haue consisteth in the onely pitie and conseruation
of a poore afflicted maiden. And your desire tendeth to the deliuerance
of the most passionate Princesse that euer was borne of mother: and
beleeue that fortune will bee so fauourable, that what mischiefe soeuer
chaunce, you remayninge without paine, I shall be shee that alone shal
beare the penaunce: wherefore once againe I beseech you, (sayd shee
embracinge Radegonde) to bringe that to passe whereof you giue assured
hope.” “Care not you Madame,” sayde Radegonde “I truste within a while
to make you proue the effecte of my promise: and will cause you to
speake vnto him whom you desire so muche: onely be meerye and forgette
these straunge fashions, in tormentinge your selfe so muche before your
maides, to the intente that, which hitherto hath bin kepte secrete, maye
not be reueyled to your great shame and hinderaunce, and to the vtter
ruine and ouerthrow of me.” During all this time, Alerane liued in
despaire, and hardy cowardise, for although he saw the amorous gestes of
Adelasia, yet he durst fixe no certain iudgement of his owne
satisfaction, although his harte tolde him, that he was her onely
fauoured friend, and promised him that, which almost he feared to
thinke, whiche was to haue her one day for friend, if the name of spouse
were refused. Thus tormented with ioye and displeasure, wandering
betwene doubt and assuraunce of that he hoped, the selfe same daye that
Adelasia pratised with Radegonde, for the obtaining of her ioye, and
secrete ministerie of her loue, he entred alone into a garden, into
whiche the Princesse chamber had prospect, and after he had walked there
a good space in an Alley, viewing diligently the order of the fruitful
trees of so diuers sortes, as there be varietie of colours, within a
faire meade, during the verdure of the spring time, and of so good and
sauorours taste as the harte of man could wyshe: he repaired vnder a
Laurel tree so well spred and adorned with leaues, about whiche tree you
might haue seene an infinite number of Myrtle trees of smell odoriferous
and sweete, of Oringe trees laden with vnripe fruite, of pliable
Mastickes and tender Tameriskes: and there he fetched his walkes a long
the thycke and greene herbes, beholding the varietie of floures, whiche
decked and beautified the place, with their liuely and naturall colours.
He then rauished in this contemplation, remembring her which was the
pleasure and torment of his minde, in sighing wise began to saye: “O
that the heauens be not propitious and fauourable to my indeuours: sithe
that in the middes of my iolities, I fele a new pleasaunt displeasure,
which doth adnihilate all other solace, but that which I receiue through
the Image painted in my harte, of that diuine beautie, whiche is more
varieted in perfection of pleasures, than this paradise and delicious
place, in varietie of enamel and painting, although that nature and art
of man, haue workemanlye trauailed to declare and set forth their
knowledge and diligence. Ah, Adelasia, the fairest Lady of al faire and
most excellent Princesse of the earth: is it not possible for me to
feede so well of the viewe and contemplation of thy heauenly and
angelicall face, as I doe of the sight of these faire and sundry
coloured floures? may it not be brought to passe that I may smell that
sweet breath which respireth through thy delicate mouth, being none
other thing than Baulme, Muske, and aumbre, yea and that which is more
precious, and for the raritie and valour hath no name, euen as I do
smell the Roses, Pincks, and Violets, hanging ouer my head, frankely
offering themselues into my handes? Ah, infortunate Alerane, there is no
floure that ought to be so handled, nor sauor, the sweetnesse whereof
ought not to bee sented without desert merited before. Ah! Loue, Loue,
that thou hast fixed my minde vpon so high thinges: alas I feare an
offence so daungerous, which in the ende will breede my death: and yet I
can not withdrawe my harte from that sincke of Loue, although I would
force my selfe to expell it from me: alas, I haue red of him so many
times, and haue heard talke of his force, as I am afraide to boorde him,
and yet feare I shall not escape his gulfe. Alas, I knowe well it is he,
of whom is engendred a litle mirth and laughing, after whiche doth
followe a thousand teares and weapinges, which for a pleasure that
passeth away so sone as the whirlewinde, doth giue vs ouer to great
repentaunce, the sorowe whereof endureth a long time, and sometimes his
bitternesse accompanieth vs euen to the graue. The pacientes that be
tainted with that amorous feuer, although continually they dye, yet they
can not wholy see and perceiue the default and lacke of their life,
albeit they do wyshe and desire it still. But, alas, what mishap is this
that I doe see the poyson whiche causeth my mischiefe, and doe knowe the
waye to remedye the same, and yet neuerthelesse I can not or will not
recouer the helpe: did euer man heare a thing so straunge as a sicke man
seking helpe and fynding recouerie, should yet reiecte it?” Saying so,
he wepte and syghed so piteously as a litle chylde threated by his
mother the nourice. Then roming vp and downe vppon the grasse, he seemed
rather to be a man straught and bounde with chaines, than like one that
had his wittes and vnderstanding. Afterwardes being come againe to
himselfe, hee retourned to his first talke, saying: “But what? am I more
wyse, more constant and perfecte, than so many Emperours, kynges,
Princes, and greate lordes, who notwithstanding their force, wisedome,
or riches, haue bene tributarie to loue? The tamer and subduer of
monsters and tyrants, Hercules (vanquished by the snares of loue), did
not he handle the distaffe in stead of his mightie mace? The strong and
inuincible Achilles, was not he sacrificed to the shadowe of Hector
vnder the colour of loue, to celebrate holy mariage with Polixena,
doughter to king Priamus? The great dictator Iulius Cæsar, the
Conquerour of so many people, Armies, Captaines, and Kinges, was
ouercome with the beautie and good grace of Cleopatra, Queene of Egipt.
Augustus his successour, attired lyke a woman, by a yoeman of his
chamber, did he not take away Liuia from him that was first maried vnto
her? and that common enemy of man and of all curtesie, Claudius Nero,
appeased yet some of his furie for the loue of his Ladie? What straunge
things did the learned, wise, and vertuous Monarche Marcus Aurelius
indure of his well beloued Faustine? and that greate Captaine Marcus
Antonius the very terror of the Romaine people and the feare of straung
and barbarous nations did homage to the child Cupido for the beautie of
Queene Cleopatra, which afterwardes was the cause of his vtter
ouerthrow. But what meane I to alledge and remember the number of
louers, being so infinite as they be? Wherefore haue the poetes in time
past fained in their learned and deuine bookes the loues of Iupiter,
Apollo, and Mars, but that euery man may knowe the force of loue to be
so puissaunt as the Gods themselues have felt his force to be inuincible
and ineuitable? Ah: if sometimes a gentleman be excused for abassing
himself to loue a woman of base birth and bloud, why should I bee
accused or apprehended for louing the daughter of the chiefest Prince of
Europe? Is it for the greatnesse of her house and antiquitie of her
race? Why, that is all one betwene vs twoo, and toke his original of the
place, whereof at this daye, my father is the chiefe and principall. And
admitte that Adelasia be the doughter of an emperour: ah, loue hath no
regarde to persons, houses, or riches, rather is he of greater
commendation whose enterpryses are most famous and haute gestes extende
their flight farre of. Now resteth then to devise meanes how to make her
vnderstand my payne: for I am assured that she loueth me, sauing that
her honour and yong yeres doe let her to make it appeare more manifest:
but it is my propre dutie to make requeste for the same, considering her
merites and my small desertes in respect of her perfections. Ah:
Alerane, thou must vnlose the tongue which so long time hath ben tied
vp, through to much fonde and fearful shame. Set aside the feare of
perill, whatsoeuer it be, for thou canst not employe thy selfe more
gloriously than vpon the pursuit of suche a treasure that semeth to be
reserued for the fame of thy mind so highly placed, which can not
attaine greater perfections, except the heauens do frame in their
impressions a second Adelasia (of whom I think dame nature her selfe
hath broken the moulde) who can not shake of Alerane from the chiefest
place, in whom he hath laid the foundation of his ioye that he hopeth to
finde in Loue.” During these complaintes, Radegonde, that sawe him
rauished in that extasie, coniecturing the cause of his being alone,
caused him to be called by a page: who hearing that, was surprised with
a new feare intermixt with a secrete pleasure, knowing very well, that
she being the gouernesse of his lady, vnderstode the greatest priuities
of her harte, hoping also that she brought him gladsome newes, and
setting a good chere vpon his face all mated and confused for troubles
past, hee repayred to the lady messanger, who was no lesse ashamed, for
the tale that she must tell, than he was afeard and dombe, by sight of
her whom he thought did bring the areste and determination, either of
ioye or of displeasure. After curtesie and welcoms done betwene them,
the lady preambled a certayne short discourse touching the matter, to do
the Saxone Prince to vnderstande the good will and harty loue of
Adelasia towarde him, praying him that the same might not be discouered,
sith the honor of his lady did consiste in the secrecie thereof,
assuring him, that he was so in fauour with the Princesse as any true
and faithfull louer could desire to be for his content. I leaue to your
consideration, in what sodayne ioye Alerane was, hearing suche gladsome
newes whiche he loked not for, and thought he was not able to render
sufficient thankes to the messanger, and much lesse to extolle the
beautie and curtesie of his Lady, who without any of his merites done
before, (as he thought) had him in so good remembraunce. Beseching
moreouer Radegonde, that she would in his name do humble commendations
to his Lady, and therewith to confirme her in the assuraunce of his
perfect good will, and immutable desire, euerlastingly at her
commaundement, onely praying her that he might saye vnto Adelasia three
wordes in secrete, to thintent shee might perceiue his harte, and see
the affection wherewith he desired to obey her al the dais of his life.
The messanger assured him of al that he required, and instructed him
what he had to doe for the accomplishement of that he loked for, which
was, that the next day at night she would cause him to come into her
warderobe, which was adioyning to the Chamber of his Lady, to the ende
that when her maydes were a bed, he might repaire to the place where he
might easely visite his maistresse, and say vnto her what he thought
good. The compact thus made, the Lady returned to the Princesse, that
wayted with good deuotion for the newes of her beloued. And hearing the
reporte of Radegonde, shee was not contente that she should make
repeticion of the same, twise or thrise but a Million of times and euen
till nighte, that she slept vpon that thought with the greatest rest,
that she had receiued in long time before. The morrowe at the houre that
Alerane should come, Adelasia fayning her self to be ill at ease, caused
her maydes to goe to bed, making her alone to tarie with her that was
the messanger of her loue, who a litle while after went to seeke
Alerane, whiche was a building of Castels in the ayre, fantasying a
thousand deuises in his minde: what might befall of that enterprise he
went about: notwithstanding he was so blinded in folly, as without
measuring the fault which he committed, he thought vpon nothing but
vppon the present pleasure, which semed to him so great as the chambre
wherein hee was, seemed not sufficient to comprehend the glory of his
good houre. But the Princesse on the other part, felte a maruellous
trouble in her minde, and almoste repented that she had so hardely made
Alerane to come into a place vndecent for her honour, and at a time so
inconuenient. Howbeit seing that the stone was throwen, shee purposed
not to pretermitte the occasion, which being balde can not easely be
gotten againe if she be once let slip. And whiles she traueiled in these
meditations and discoursed vppon that shee had to doe, Radegonde came
in, leading Alerane by the hande, whom she presented to the Princesse,
saying to her with a verie good grace: “Madame, I deliuer you this
prysoner, whom euen nowe I founde here, betwene your chambre and that
wherin your maydes lye: now consider what you haue to doe.” Alerane in
the meane tyme, was fallen downe vpon his knees before his sainct,
wholly bent to contemplate her excellent beautie and good grace, which
made him as dumbe as an Image. Shee lykewyse beholding hym that made her
thus to erre in her honestie, forced through shame and loue, could not
forbeare to beholde him, the power of her mynde wholy transferred into
her eyes, that then yelded contentation of her harte whiche shee so long
desired. In the ende Alerane holding the handes of Adelasia many tymes
did kisse them, then receiuing courage, he brake of that long silence
and began to saye thus: “I neuer thought (madame) that the sight of a
thing so long desired, had bene of such effect, as it would haue
rauished both the mynde and bodye of their propre duties and naturall
actions, if nowe I had not proued it in beholding the diuinitie of your
beautie moste excellent. And truely madame Radegonde dyd rightly terme
this place here, my pryson, considering that of long tyme I haue partly
loste this my libertie, of the whiche I feele nowe an intire alienation:
of one thing sure I am, that being your prysoner as I am in deede, I may
make my vaunt and boast, that I am lodged in the fairest and
pleasauntest pryson that a man can wyshe and desire. For which cause
Madame, be wel aduised how you do vse and entreate your captive and
slaue, that humbly maketh petition vnto you, to haue pitie vpon his
weakenesse, which he will accept as a grace vnspeakeable, if of your
accustomed goodnesse it may please you to receiue him for your owne, for
that henceforth hee voweth and consecrateth his life, goodes, and
honour, to your commaundemente and seruice.” And saying so, his stomake
panted with continuall sighes and from his eyes distilled a ryuer of
teares, the better to expresse and declare the secret force, that made
hym to vtter these woordes. Which was the cause that Adelasia embrasing
hym very louingly made aunswere thus: “I knowe not (Lorde Alerane) what
pryson that is, where the prisoner is in better case, than the pryson of
whom he termeth himselfe to be the slaue, considering that I fele in me
such a losse of my selfe, as I can not tell whether to go, or where to
retire, but euen to him that craueth the same fredome, whereof I my
selfe doe make requeste. Alas, my welbeloued Alerane, into what
extremity am I brought: the very great loue that I beare you, forceth me
to forget my dutie, and the ligneage wherof I come, yea and mine honor,
which is more to bee estemed than all the reste. But I repose in you
such affiance, as you will not deceiue so simple a Ladie as I am,
vtterly voyde of guyle and deceit. Who, if you be tormented, liueth not
without griefe and sorrowe altogether like vnto yours. If you doe sighe,
I am wholly spent and consumed in teares. Do you desire reste? Alas: I
wishe and craue the same vnto vs both, that be now sundred and deuided,
whiche can not be aquired except they be vnited which before were wholly
separated.” Radegonde interrupting their talke, smilingly said: “And how
can this separation be combined, where the parties them selues do liue
in such disiunctions?” “You say true, madame,” saide Alerane, “for the
perfection of vnitie consisteth in the knitting of that which is
separated. Wherfore madame (sayd he to Adelasia) I humbly besech you,
aswel for your comfort as my rest, not to suffer this diuision to be to
long, sith the outward bound shall combine the same so inwardly, as very
death shall not bee able hereafter to deface or diminishe the same.” “If
I may assure my selfe,” sayde she, “of your fidelitie, it so may come to
passe, as I wold giue you a very great libertie, but hearing tell so
many times of the inconstancie and fickle trust of men, I will be
contented with my first fault, without adding any further aggrauation,
to fasten and binde that, which I do specially esteme.” “Alas, madame,”
sayd Alerane, “doe you thinke that the prouf of my fidelitie may receiue
greater perfection, by enioying the pleasure, that I hope for than it
doth alredy? No, no, madame, and therefore be sure of my harte and
stedfastnesse: for soner shall my body fayle, than defaulte in me to
serue and honor you, if not according to the worthinesse of your estate,
yet by al meanes, so farre as my power shal stretch. And can you finde
in your hart to conceiue, that your Alerane would play the traitour with
her, for whose seruice he feareth not to aduenture a thousand liues if
God had geuen him so many?” Adelasia be sprent all with teares, was in
an extasy or traunce. Which Alerane perceiuing and saw that Radegonde
was gone into the warderobe, to suffer them to talke their fill, he
began to take possession of her mouthe, redoubling kisse vpon kisse,
sometimes washed with teares, sometime dried vp, with frequent vse
thereof, leauing neither eye nor cheke vnkissed: and seing the pacience
of his Ladye, he seased vpon her white, harde, and round breastes, whose
pappes with sighes moued and remoued, yelding a certaine desire of
Alerane to passe further. Which Adelasia perceiuing, dissembling a swete
anger and such a chase as did rather accende the flames of the amorous
Prince, than with moiste licour extinguishe the same, and making him to
geue ouer the enterprise, she fiercely sayd unto him: “How now, (Sir
Alerane) how dare you thus malapertly abuse this my secret frendship, in
suffering you to come so frankely into my chamber. Thinke not that
although I haue vsed you thus familiarly, that I can be able to suffer
you to attempt any further: for (if God be fauourable to conserue me in
my right wittes) neuer man shal haue that aduauntage to gather the
floure of my virginitie, but he with whom I shall be ioyned in mariage.
Otherwyse I shall bee unworthy, bothe of my honourable state, and also
of that man what soeuer he be, worthy of estimation and preferrement.”
“So I thynke to Madame,” aunswered Alerane: {“}for if it woulde please
you to doe me that honour, to receiue me for your faythfull and loyall
espouse, I sweare vnto you by him that seeth and heareth all thynges,
that neuer any other shall bee maistresse of Alerane’s harte, but the
fayre Princesse Adelasia.” She that asked no better, after mutche talke
betwene them, in the ende condescended that Alerane should geue his
faith to marrie her, and to conuey her out of the Courte, till the
Emperour were appeased for their committed fault. Thus had the Saxon
Prince, the full possession of his desires, and carried away the pray so
long time sought for. Radegonde was she, that receiued the othes of
their espousalles, and capitulated the articles of their secrete
mariage. And after the determination made of their flying awaye, and a
daye thereunto appointed, the two louers entred the campe, to make
proufe by combate of their hardinesse and assaye of their trauayle in
time to come, wherein they thought for euer to perseuere and continue.
Beyng a bedde then together, they did consumate the bande that
strayghtly doth bynde the harte of louers together, intiring the vnion
diuided, whiche before they thought imperfect and could not be
accomplished but by inward affections of the minde. And God knoweth howe
this new maried couple vsed their mutuall contentation: but sure it is,
that they continued together vntil the morning had vncouered from the
night her darkenes, euen to the point of day, that Alerane was somoned
by Radegonde to depart, who to conclude his former ioye, very louingly
kissed his newe wife, and sayd vnto her: “Madame, the felicitie that I
fele nowe, by enioying that which vniteth me so nerely being
indissoluble and neuer hereafter to be broken, semeth so great that no
perill whatsoeuer doth happen, can make me forget the least part of my
ioye. So it is that seing the state of our present affaires, and fearing
the daunger that may chaunce, I will for this time take my leaue of you,
and goe about to put the same in order, that no negligence may slacke
your ioye and desired pleasure.” “Ah, sir,” (saith she) “that my harte
forethinketh both the best and worste of our intended enterprise. But to
the intent we may proue our fortune, by whose conduction we must passe,
I doe submitte my selfe to the wisedome of your mynde, and to the good
successe that hetherto hath accompaignied all your indeuours.” And then
they kissed and embraced again, drinking vp one anothers teares, which
distilled from them in such aboundaunce. Thus Alerane departed from his
Ladies chamber, and went home to his owne house, where he solde all his
goodes at small price, making men to vnderstand, that he would employ
the money otherwise in things whereof he hoped to recouer greater gaine.
With that money he bought precious stones, and pretie Iewels, that he
might not be burdened with cariage of to much gold, or other money, and
then he put his males and bougets in readinesse to go with his wife,
either of them in the habite and apparell of pilgrimes, faire and softly
a foote, that they might not be discouered: which was done in the night.
The Princesse faining her selfe to be sicke, made her maydes to
withdrawe themselues into their chamber, and then she went into the
garden where Alerane firste made his plaintes, as you haue heard before:
in whiche place her husbande taried for her. God knoweth whether they
renewed their pastime begon the daye of their mariage, but fearing to be
taken, they began to playe the comedie, the actes whereof were very
long, and the scrolle of their miseries to prolixe to carie, before they
came to the catastrope and ende of their comicall action. For leauing
their sumptuous and riche apparell, they clothed themselves with
pilgrims attire, taking the skallop shell and staffe, like to them that
make their pilgrimage to S. Iames in Gallisia. The Princesse toke the
personage of a yong wench, ruffling her heare whiche she had in time
past so carefully kempt, curled, and trimmed with gold and Iewels of
inestimable value, wherein consisteth the chiefest grace of the beautie
and ornament of the woman. Who is able to deny, but that this naturall
humour and passion, borne so sone as we, whiche they call Loue, is not a
certayne essence and being, the force and vigor whereof, not able to
abide comparison? Is it no small matter, that by the only instinction of
loue’s force, the doughter of so great a Prince, as the Emperour of the
Romaines was, shoulde wander like a vagabonde in dissembled tire, and
poorely cladde, to experiment and proue the long trauaile of iourneyes,
the intemperature of the ayre, the hazarde to meete with so many theeues
and murderers, which wayte in all places for poore passengers, and
moreouer, to feele the bitternesse of trauayle, neuer tasted before, the
rage of hunger, the intollerable alteration of thirst, the heate of
hotte Sommer, the coldenesse of wynter’s yce, subiect to raines, and
stormy blastes: doth it not plainely demonstrate that loue hath either a
greater perfection, than other passions, or els that they which feele
that alteration, be out of the number of reasonable men, endued with the
brightnesse of that noble qualitie. This fayre Lady recouering the
fields with her husband, with determination to take their flight into
Italie, was more ioyfull, freshe, and lusty, than when she liued at ease
amonges the delicates and pleasures, which she tasted in her father’s
court. See howe fortune and loue are content to be blinde, closing vp
the eyes of them, that followe their trace, and subdue themselues to
their edictes, and vnstable dispositions. And truely this rage of loue
was the only meane to dulcorate and make swete the bitter gal of griefe
whiche those twoo louers felte, defatigated almoste with tedious
trauaile, iudging their wearinesse a pastime and pleasure, being guided
by that vnconstante captaine, whiche maketh dolts and fooles wyse men,
emboldeneth the weake hearted and cowardes, fortifieth the feeble, and
to be shorte, vntieth the pursses and bagges of couetous Carles and
miserable Misers. Nowe whyles our faire pilgrimes, without any vowed
deuocion, were abrode at their pleasures (beyng wery with the waye they
had traueyled all nighte) the morrowe after their departure, all the
Emperour’s house was in a great hurly burly and stirre for the absence
of Adelasia. The wayting maydes cried out, and raged without measure,
with such shrichinges, that the Emperour moued with pitie, although his
griefe and anger was great, yet he caused euery place there aboutes to
be searched and sought, but all that labour was in vaine. In the ende,
perceiuing the absence of Alerane, suspected that it was he that had
stolen away his fayre doughter, whiche brought him into such passion and
frensie, as he was like to runne out of his wyttes and transgresse the
bondes of reason. “Ah, traytour,” sayd the good Prince, “is this the
guerdon of good turnes, bestowed vpon thee, and of the honour thou hast
receiued in my company? Do not thinke to escape scot free thus without
the rigorous iustice of a father, deserued by disobedience, and of a
Prince, against whom his subiect hath committed villany. If God geue me
lyfe, I wyll take such order, as the posteritie shall take example by
that iuste vengeaunce whiche I hope to take of thee (arrant theefe, and
despoyler of my honor and consolation.) And thou vnkynde doughter shalte
smartely feele the wrong done to thy kynde, and welbeloued father, who
thought to prouide for thee, more honourably than thy disloyaltie and
incontinencie, so farre as I see, doe merite and deserue, sythe that
without my leaue, and respect of thy vocation, thou hast gotten thee a
husband worthy of thy folly, with whom I hope to make thee vnderstand
thy fault, and my displeasure whiche I receiue through thy shamefull
acte, so reprochfull, specially in her which is the doughter of such a
father as I am, descended of the moste royall race within the circuit of
Europe.” Many other things the Emperour sayd, in great rage and furie:
and in thend commaunded, that one should go into Saxone, to knowe if
Alerane had conueied his stolen doughter thither: but he could bring no
newes at all from thence. He assaied then if he could learne any
tidinges of them by other meanes, causing by sound of Trumpet to be
cried in all the townes confining that if any persone could bring him
worde, or do him to vnderstande certaine and sure newes of those twoo
fugitiues, he would geue them that, wherewith they should be contented
all the daies of their life. But he wan so much by this thirde serche,
as he did by the firste twoo. Whiche thing the Maiestie of God, semed to
permit and suffer as wel for the happie successe that chaunced
afterwardes, as for the punishing of the rashe enterprise of two louers,
whiche liued not very long in prosperitie and ioy, but that they felte
the hande of God, who sometime suffereth the faithfull to fall, to make
him acknowledge his imbecillitie, to the ende he may confesse, that all
health, sustenaunce, reste, and comfort, is to be attended and looked
for at the handes of God. When Alerane and his Lady were gone out of a
citie with in the Emperour’s lande called Hispourge being come into a
certaine wilde and desert place, they fell into the lapse of certaine
theues, whiche stripped Alerane into his shirte, and had done as mutch
to the poore princesse, if certaine Marchauntes had not come betwene,
which forced the theues to flie. Alerane was succoured with some clothes
to couer his bodie, and releued with a litle summe of money, which being
spent, those twoo kinges children were constrained to begge, and aske
for God’s sake reliefe to sustaine their infortunate life. Whiche
distresse was so difficulte for Alerane to disgest, as he was like
(standing vppon his feete) to die for sorrowe and want, not so mutch for
the aduersitie whereunto he was brought through his owne fault, as the
pitie that he toke vpon his deare beloued Lady, whome he sawe in so
lamentable state, and knew that she might attaine her auncient dignitie
and honour againe, if she listed to preferre rewarde or prise before his
life, for which she spared not the very last drop of her bloud. She
knowing the dolor and anguishe that her husband endured, comforted him
very wisely with ioyfull countenaunce, saying: “Howe now, deare husband,
thinke you that fortune is or ought to be still fauourable to Princes
and greate Lordes? Do you not knowe that great bulkes and shippes do
soner perishe and drowne in maine seas and riuers amiddes the raging
waues and surges, than in narrow floudes and brookes, where the water is
still and calme? Doe you not see great trees, whose toppes doe rise
aloft, aboue high hilles and stepe mountaines, soner shaken and tossed
with blustering windie blastes, than those that be planted, in fertile
dales and low valleis? Haue you forgotten so many histories, by you
perused and read with so great delight, when you were in the Emperour’s
Court? Doe not they describe the chaunge of Monarches, the ruine of
houses, the destruction of one realme acquired, by the establishing and
raigne of an other? What Prince, Monarch or Captaine was euer so happy,
as hath not felt some griefe and misfortune? Alas, sweete heart, thinke
that God doth chastise vs with his roddes of tribulation, to make vs to
know him: but in the meane time, he kepeth for vs a better fortune that
wee looke not for. Moreouer he neuer forsaketh them which with a good
heart do go vnto him, hauing their affiaunce in his great goodnesse and
infinite mercie.” Alerane hearing the wise talke of his wife, could not
forbear weeping, and sighing aunswered her in this maner: “Ah, Lady, in
beautie and wisedom incomparable, it is not the present fortune that
causeth my minde to wander and straye from the siege of constancie,
knowing well the qualities and number of fortune’s snares, and how
ielous she is of humaine ioye and felicitie. I am not ignorant that she
layeth her ambushes, and doeth beset the endeuours, soner of personages
that bee noble and of highe parentage, than of those whose heartes be
base and vnnoble, and their victories not able to attain any iote of
honour and fame. But, good God, (saide he, embracing his deare beloued
spouse) it is for you, madame, that I endure tormente, hauing made you
to abandon the pompe of your estate, and bereued from you a king to be
your husband, causing you thus to feele an horrible and new kinde of
punishmente, hunger and famine (I meane) in the middes of the deserts
and wilde places, and therewithall haue ioyned you in companie with an
infortunate felowshippe, who in stead of comfort and solace, ministreth
teares and sighes. O God, most high and puissant, howe profounde and
darke are thy iudgementes, and howe righteous is thy iustice.
I acknowledge mine offence to be the cause of thyne anger, and the
originall of our trespasse, and that this paine chauncheth to vs for our
sinnes, which haue so wickedly betraied the best Prince of the world,
and forsaken the companie of him, at whose bountifull handes I haue
receiued better entertainement and greater honour, than I deserued. Ah,
Emperour Otho, that thou art so well reuenged nowe, with cowardly fraude
and deceipt committed against thee by Alerane of Saxone, taking away her
from thee, which was the staffe and future staye of thy reuerend age.”
And as he was perseuering in this talke, Adelasia (seeing him in that
contemplation) plucked him by the arme, saying: “Sir, it is time to
consider our own affaires: we haue trauailed I can not tell howe farre
without rest, me think (our fortune being no better) that we ought to
remaine in some place attending for the grace and mercy of God, who
(I hope) wil not forsake vs.{”} They were then in Liguria in the desarts,
betweene Ast and Sauonne, a countrie in that time well peopled, and
furnished with huge and darke forestes, garnished with many trees, great
and highe. By the aduise then of Adelasia, the Saxone Prince forced by
necessitie (the maistresse of all artes) retired into those forestes
where he practised the occupation of a Collier, and some said that
nature taught him the order howe to cutte his woode, to make readie his
pittes, and to knowe the season and tyme when his coales were burned
enough. Great paines he susteined about his businesse, and went himself
to sell his coales, which he bare vpon his shoulders, to the next market
townes, tyll he had gayned so mutche as bought him an asse, wherewith he
dayly trauailed to vtter his coales, and other deuises which neede had
forced him to learne. In this time Adelasia was deliuered of a goodly
child, whom they named William. And afterwards, by succession of time,
she bare sixe sonnes more. For they dwelt almost XVIII. or XX. yeares in
that poore and miserable life, and had dressed vp a litle lodging within
a caue, that was faire and brode, wherein verye trimly and well they had
bestowed themselues. When the eldest of their sonnes was growen to the
stature of a pretie stripling, the father sent him sometime to Sauonne,
and sometime to Ast, to sell their litle merchandise, for reliefe of
their houshold. But the boy, whose bloud could not conceale and hide the
nobilitie of his birth, hauing one day sold certaine burdens and loades
of woode and coale: bought with that money a faire yong hauke, which he
caried vnto his father. The good man gently rebuked his sonne, and said,
that suche game belonged not to men of their degree, and that they had
muche a do to liue, without employing their money vppon such trifles.
Long time after, William being arriued to the age of XVI yeares, went to
Sauonne, to sell certaine ware by his father’s commaundement, and with
the money he bought a very fayre sword, which when his father saw, with
teares in his eyes, he went aside and said to himselfe: “Ah vnfortunate
ladde, that thy hard lucke should do thee this great wrong: truely
neither the pouertie of thy parentes, nor the place of thy bringinge vp,
can deface in thee the secrete shining brightnes of thine auncestors
vertue, nor the prediction of thy courage and manhode in time to come,
if God giue the grace to aduaunce thee, to the seruice of some noble
Prince.” Notwithstanding for that time he ceassed not sharply to rebuke
and threaten his sonne, in such wyse as the yong man hauing a harte
greater than his force, determined secretly to depart from his parentes.
Now fortune chaunced so wel and apt for his purpose as then and at the
verye same time, the Hongarians were entred Italye to spoile and robbe
the countrie, against whom the Emperour marched in greate expedicion,
with an huge and goodly armie, of purpose to force them to leaue his
lande in peace. William hauinge knowledge hereof, proceeded towarde the
Emperour’s campe, where hee shewed in deede great hope (being of so smal
yeares) of his future valiaunce and prowesse, by the deedes of armes
that hee did, during that warre. Which ended and the enemie put to
flighte, the Emperour wente into Prouance, to put in order his affaires
in his realme of Arles, which then was subiecte to the Empire.
Afterwards he retired into Italy with deliberation to seiorne at Sauonne
for a certaine time, which displeased William nothing at all, because he
should remaine harde by his parentes, who were very carefull for his
well doing, vtterly ignoraunt where he was become. And notwithstanding a
hope (what I knowe not) made them expect of their sonne som good fortune
in time to come, who was now grown great and of goodly perfection, one
of the most valiaunt souldiours that were in the wages and seruice of
his Maiestie. Which very brauely he declared in a combate, that he
fought man to man with an Almaine souldiour, that was hardy, big made,
and feared of all men, whom neuerthelesse he ouercame in the presence of
the Emperor his graundfather. Who, I know not by what natural
inclination, daily fixed his eye vpon that yong champion, and began to
bear him more good will than anye other in his courte, which was an
occasion, that an auncient gentleman, serving in the Princes Courte,
stedfastly beholding the face, behauiour and countenaunce of William,
seemed to see a picture of the Emperour when he was of his age, which
was more exactlye viewed by diuers other, that were broughte vp in their
youth with Otho. Wherof being aduertised, he caused the yong man to be
called forth, of whom he demaunded the names of his parentes, and the
place where hee was borne. William that was no lesse curteous, humble
and welmanered, than wise, valiant and hardie, kneeled before the
Emperour with a stoute countenaunce, resemblinge the nobilitie of his
auncestours, answered: “Most sacred and renowmed Emperour, I haue
nothinge whereof to render thanckes to fortune, but for the honour that
your Maiestie hath done vnto me, to receiue mee into your noble seruice.
For the fortune and condition of my parentes, be so base, that I blushe
for shame to declare them vnto you. Howbeit being your humble seruaunte,
and hauing receiued fauour of your maiestie, not commonly emploied, your
commaundement to tell you what I am, I will accomplish as well for my
bounden dutie, wherewith I am tied to your maiestie, and to satisfie
that which it pleaseth you to commaund me. Be it knowen therefore vnto
your maiestie, that I am the sonne of two poore Almaines, who flying
their owne countrie, withdrew themselues into the desarts of Sauonne,
where (to beguile their hard fortune) they make coals, and sel them, to
sustaine and relieue their miserable life: In which exercise I spent all
my childhod, although it were to my great sorowe. For my hart thought
(Sir) that a state so vile, was vnworthy of my coragious minde, which
dailye aspired to greater thinges, and leauing my father and mother,
I am come to your seruice, to learne chiualry and vse of armes, and
(mine obedience saued to your maiestie) to find a way to illustrate the
base and obscure education, wherein my parents haue brought me vp.” The
Emperour seinge the courteous behauiour of the yonge man, by this wise
aunswere, remembring the similitude of his face, which almoste resembled
them both, suspected that he was the sonne of Alerane and his doughter
Adelasia, whoe for feare to be knowen, made themselues citizens of those
desertes, albeit that William had told him other names, and not the
proper appellations of his father and mother. For which cause his hart
began to throbbe, and felte a desire to see his doughter, and to
cherishe her with like affection, as thoughe he had neuer conceiued
offence and displeasure. He caused then to be called vnto him a
gentleman, the nere kinsmanne of Alerane, to whom he said with merie
countenaunce and ioyful cheere: “You do know as I thincke, the wrong and
displeasure that your cosin Alerane hath done me, by the rape and
robberie committed vppon the person of my doughter: you are not
ignoraunt also of the reproch wherwith he hath defiled all your house,
committed a felonie so abhominable in my courte, and againste mine owne
person, which am his so soueraigne Lorde. Notwithstanding, sith it is
the force of Loue, that made me forget him till this time, rather than
desire of displeasure, I am very desirous to see him, and to accepte him
for my sonne in lawe, and good kinsman, verye willing to aduaunce him to
that estate in my house, which his degree and bloud do deserue. I tell
you not this without speciall purpose. For this yong souldiour, which
this daye so valiantly and with such dexteritie vanquished hys
aduersary, by the consente of all men, which haue knowen me from my
youth, doth represente so well my figure and lineamentes of face, which
I had when I was of his age, as I am persuaded, and do stedfastly
beleeue, that he is my neuew, the sonne of your cosin Alerane and my
doughter Adelasia. And therefore I will haue you to goe with this yonge
man, into the place where hee shall bring you, and to see them that be
his parents, because I purpose to do them good, if they be other than
those whom I take them. But if they be those two that I so greatly
desire to see, doe mee so much pleasure as I may satisfie my hart with
that contentation, swearing vnto you by the crowne of my Empire, that I
will do no worse to them, nor otherwise vse them, than mine own proper
person.” The gentleman hearing the louing and gentle tearmes of the
Emperour, saide vnto him: “Ah, Sir, I render humble thankes vnto your
maiestie, for the pitie that you haue, vpon our dishonored race and
ligneage of Saxone, dedecorated and blemished throughe Alerane’s
trespasse against you. I pray to God to recompence it (we being vnable)
and to giue you the ioye that you desire, and to mee the grace that I
may do some agreeable seruice both in this and in all other things. I am
readie (Sir) not onely to go seeke my cosin (if it be he that you
thincke it is) to carie vnto him those beneficiall newes which your
maiestie hath promised by word, but rather to render him into your
hands, that you may take reuengement vppon him for the iniurie that he
hath done to the whole Empire.” “No, no,” said the Emperour, “the
desired time of reuenge is paste, and my mallice against Alerane hath
vomited his gall. If in time paste I haue thristed to pursue the ruine
and ouerthrowe of those two offenders, nowe I goe about to forsee and
seeke their aduauncement and quiet, considering the longe penaunce they
haue taken for their fault, and the fruite that I see before mine eyes,
which is such that it maye by the smell and fragrant odour thereof,
supporte the weaknesse and debilitie of my olde yeares, and constraineth
mee (by the vertue thereof) to haue pittie vpon his parents, which
(through their owne ouerthrowe) haue almost vtterly consumed me.” Those
words ended the good Prince gaue euident testimonie of desire to see his
onely doughter, by the liuely colour that rose in his face, and by
certaine teares running downe along his hoare and frostie beard. Then he
caused William to come before him, and commaunded him to conduct the
gentleman to that part of the forest where his father dwelled. Whereunto
the yonge man readily and with all his harte obeyed. Thus the Lorde
Gunforde (for so was Alerane’s cosin called) accompanied with his litle
cosin, and manye other gentlemen, went toward the place, wher the
collier princes remained. And when they were neere the craggie caue, the
lodging of Alerane, the whole companie lighted of their horse, and
espied him busie about the lading of his coales to sende to Ast. For the
arriuall of the Emperour to Sauonne, staied Alerane from going thither
himselfe, by reason his conscience still grudged for his fault committed
against him. Alerane seing this goodly companie, was abashed, as though
hornes had sodenly started out of his head, and yet the sighte of his
sonne richly furnished, and in the company of Gunfort his cosin, did
more astonne him. For he suspected incontinentlye that hee was
discouered, and that the Emperour had sente for him to be reuenged of
the faulte so long time paste committed. And as he had imagined diuers
thinges vppon his harde fortune within his fancie, his sonne came to
embrace him vppon his knees, and to kisse his hands, with an honest and
humble reuerence, saying to Gunfort: “Sir, this is he of whom I told the
Emperour, and of him I toke my being: This is my father.” All this while
the good father embraced his sonne very hard, and weeping for extreme
ioy, said vnto him: “Alas, my sonne, if thy comming be so happie vnto
mee as it is ioyfull, if thy newes be good and prosperous, which thou
bringest: thou doest reuiue thy father half deade, and from lamentable
despaire thou doest replenishe and fill him with suche hope, as one day
shall be the staie of his age, and the recouery of his greatest losses.”
The sonne not able to abide the discourse of his parents affaires, could
not comprehend any thing at that pitiful meting: but stode stil so
astonned, as though he had bin fallen from the clouds. Now during this
time, that the father and the sonne thus welcomed one an other: Gunfort
toke heede to al the countenaunce and gestures of Alerane. There was no
part of the collier’s bodie that he forgat to view: and yet remembring
the voyce of his cosin, and seing a wound that he had in his face, was
sure that it was hee. And then with his armes stretched forth he came to
clepe Alerane about the necke, whom he made to loke redde with his warme
teares, saying: “Ah: Alerane, the present torment now, but in time past,
the pleasaunce rest, of oure race. What eclipse hath so longe obscured
the shining sunne of thy valiaunt prowesse? why haste thou concealed so
longe time, thy place of retire from him, which desired so much thine
aduauncement? Hast thou the harte to see the teares of thy cosin Gunfort
running downe from his eies vppon thy necke, and his armes embracinge
thee with such loue and amitie, as he cannot receiue the like, except he
be something moued by thee, in seing thy louing entertainment? Wilt thou
denie that, which I knowe, by a certaine instinct and naturall
agreement, which is, that thou art Alerane the sonne of the Duke of
Saxone, and so renowmed throughout all Germany? Doest thou pretende
(throughe thine owne misfortune so rooted in thy harte by liuinge in
these wildernesse) to depriue thy sonne of the honor, which the heauens
and his good fortune haue prepared for him? Ah cruel and pitilesse
father, to suffer thy progenie to be buried in the tombe of obliuion,
with eternall reproche. O vnkinde kinsman toward thy kindred, of whom
thou makest so small accompte, that wilt not vouchsafe to speake to thy
cosin Gunfort, that is com hither for thy comfort, and the aduauncement
of thy familie.” Alerane sore ashamed, as well for the remembrance of
his auncient fault, as to see himselfe in so poore estate before the
emperour’s gallants, answered Gunfort, saying: “My Lord and cosin,
I beseech you to beleeue, that want of desire to make my complaint vnto
you, and lacke of curtesie to entertaine you, haue not made me to forget
my dutie towardes you, being as well my neare kinseman, as such one to
whom I haue done wrong and very great iniurie by offending the Emperour.
But you do knowe of what puissance the prickes of conscience bee, and
with what worme she gnaweth the harte of them, which feele themselves
culpable of crime. I am (as you saide) the present missehap of our
house, for the opinion that the Emperour hath conceiued of my folly, and
shal be the rest (if you wil do me so much pleasure to rid me out of
this miserable life) both of you and of the minde of a father iustly
displeased against his doughter, and the quiet of a Prince offended with
his subiecte: for I sweare vnto you by my fayth, that I neuer soe much
desired life, as I nowe do couet death, for that I am assured, that I
being deade, my poore companion and welbeloued wife, shall liue at her
ease, enioyinge the presence and good grace of her father.” “What meane
you so to saye,” answered Gunfort, “the Emperour is so well pleased and
appeased, as he hath sworne vnto mee to receiue you as his sonne in law,
and my Lady your wife as his deare beloued doughter, whom I pray you to
cause to come before vs, or to signifie vnto vs where shee is, that I
may doe reuerence unto her as to my Princesse and soueraigne Ladie.”
William was all amased, and almost besides himselfe, hearing this
discourse, and thought hee was either in a dreame or els inchaunted,
till that Alerane called his wife by her proper name, who was so
appalled to hear the word of Adelasia, that her hart was sodainly
attached with terror and feare, when she saw so great a company about
her husband: and then her sonne came to doe his dutie, not as to his
mother onely, but as to the doughter of an Emperour, and the wife of a
Prince of Saxon. She againe embraced and kissed him, although shee was
surprised with feare and shame, and so moued with that sodaine sighte,
as she had much a doe to keepe herselfe from fainting and falling downe
betweene the armes of her sonne, and thought that she had passed the
place where Gunfort was, who going towarde her, after his reuerence and
deutie done, made her vnderstand the charge hee had, and the good will
of the Emperour, which determined to receiue her againe with so good
order and entertainement as might be deuised. Which earnest words made
them to resolue vppon the proufe of fortune, and to credite the promises
that Gunfort made them in the Emperour’s behalfe. Thus they forsoke the
Caue, their Coales and fornaces, to reenter their former delightes and
pleasures. That nighte they lodged at a village not farre from the
foreste, where they tarried certaine dayes, to make apparell for these
straunge Princes, and so wel as they could to adorne and furnish
Adelasia, (who being of the age almost of XXXIV. or XXXV. yeares, yet
manifested some part of the perfection of that deuine beautie, and
modest grauitie, which once made her marueilous and singuler aboue all
them that liued in her dayes.) In the time that this royle company had
furnished and prepared themselues in readinesse, Gunfort sente a
gentleman of that troupe toward the Emperour, to aduertise him of the
successe of their iourney. Wherof he was exceeding ioyful, and attended
for the comming of his children, with purpose to entertaine them in
louing and honourable wise. When all thinges were in readinesse and the
traine of Adelasia in good order, according to the worthines of the
house whereof she came, they rode toward Sauonne, which iourney seemed
to them but a sport, for the pleasure mixte with compassion that eche
man conceiued, in the discourse that Alerane made vpon his misfortunes
and chaunces, as well in his iourneis, as of his abode and continuaunce
in the desarts. Which William calling to remembraunce, praised God, and
yelded him thanckes for that it had pleased him to inspire into his
minde, the forsaking of his parentes, considering that the same onely
fault, was the cause of their restitution, and of his aduauncement and
glorie, being the sonne of such a father, and the neuew of so great a
Monarche. The fame of whose name made all men quake and tremble, and who
then had commaunded all the troupe of the Gentlemen of his Court, to go
and seeke the forlorne louers, so long time lost and vnknowen. To be
short, their entrie into Sauonne, was so royal and triumphant, as if the
Emperor himself would haue receiued the honour of such estate, and
pompe. Which he commaunded to be done as well for the ioy that he had
recouered the thing, which he accompted lost, as to declare and
acknowledge to euery wight, that vertue cannot make herselfe better
knowen: than at that time, when the actions and deedes of great
personages be semblable in raritie and excellencie to their nobilitie.
For a Prince is of greater dignitie and admiration than he commonly
sheweth himselfe, which can neuer enter into the heade of the popular
sort, who waie the affections of other with the balance of their owne
rude and beastly fansies. As the Greeke poet Euripides in his tragedie
of Medea, doth say:

  _Ill luck and chaunce thou must of force endure,
  Fortune’s fickle stay needs thou must sustaine:
  To grudge therat it booteth not at all,
  Before it come the witty wise be sure:
  By wisedom’s lore, and counsell not in vaine,
  To shun and eke auoyde. The whirling ball,
  Of fortune’s threates, the sage may well rebound
  By good foresight, before it light on ground._

The Emperour then hauing forgotten, or wisely dissembling that which he
could not amende, met his doughter and sonne in lawe at the Palace gate,
with so pleasaunt cheere and ioyfull countenance, as the like long time
before he did not vse. Where Alerane and Adelasia being light of from
their horse, came to kisse his handes (and both vppon their knees) began
to frame an oration for excuse of their fault, and to pray pardon of his
maiestie. The good Prince rauished with ioy, and satisfied with
repentaunce, stopped their mouthes with sweete kisses and hard
embracings. “O happie ill time (said he) and sorowful ioy, which now
bringeth to me a pleasure more great than euer was my heauy displeasure.
From whence commeth this my pleasaunt ioye? O wel deuised flight, by the
which I gaine that (by preseruinge my losse once made and committed)
which I neuer had: if I may say so, considering the ornament of my
house, and quietnesse of my life.” And saying so, hee kissed and
embraced his litle neuewes, and was loth that Adelasia should make
rehersall of other talke but of mirthe and pleasure. “For (said he) it
sufficeth me that I haue ouerpassed and spent the greatest part of my
life in heauinesse, vtterly vnwilling to renewe olde sores and wounds.”
Thus the mariage begon, vnknowen and againste the Emperour’s will, was
consummate and celebrated with great pompe and magnificence, by his owne
commaundement, in the Citie of Sauonne, where he made sir William
knight, with his owne hand. Many goodly factes at the tourney and tilte
were done and atchieued, whereat William almost euery day bare away the
prise and victorie, to the great pleasure of his father and contentacion
of his graundfather, who then made him marques of Monferrat. To the
second sonne of Alerane, he gaue the Marquisat of Sauonne, with all the
appurtenances and iurisdictions adioyning, of whom be descended the
Marqueses of Caretto. The third he made Marques of Saluce, the race of
whom is to this daye of good fame and nobilitie. Of the fourth sonne
sprange out the original of the house of Cera. The fifte was Marques of
Incise, whose name and progeny liueth to this daye. The sixt sonne did
gouerne Pouzon. The seuenth was established Senior of Bosco, vnder the
name and title of Marques. And Alerane was made and constituted ouerseer
of the goods and dominions of his children, and the Emperor’s
Lieutenaunt of his possessions which he had in Liguria. Thus the
emperoure by moderatinge his passion vanquished himselfe, and gaue
example to the posteritie to pursue the offence before it do take roote:
but when the thinge cannot be corrected, to vse modestie and mercie
which maketh kinges to liue in peace, and their Empire in assuraunce.
Hauinge taken order with all his affayres in Italye, hee tooke leaue of
his doughter and children, and retired into Almaine. And Alerane liued
honourably amonges his people, was beloued of his father in lawe, and in
good reputacion and fame, arriued to old yeares, still remembring that
aduersitie oughte not to bring us to dispaire, nor prosperitie to
insolencie or ill behauiour, and contempt of thinges that seeme small
and base, sithe there is nothing vnder the heauens that is stable and
sure. For he that of late was great and made all men to stoupe before
him, is become altogether such a one as though he had never beene, and
the poore humble man aduaunced to that estate, from whence the firste
did fall and was deposed, makinge lawes sometimes for him, vnder whom he
liued a subiect. And behold of what force the prouidence of God is, and
what poise his balance doth containe, and how blame worthy they be that
referre the effectes of that deuine counsel to the inconstant and
mutable reuolucion of fortune that is blinde and vncertaine.




THE FORTY-FIFTH NOUELL.

_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._


Loue commonly is counted the greatest passion amongs all the most
greuous, that ordinarily do assault the sprites of men, which after it
hath once taken hold of anye gentle subiecte, followeth the nature of
the corrupt humour, in those that haue a feauer, which taking his
beginning at the harte, desperseth it selfe incurablye, through all the
other sensible partes of the bodie: whereof this present historie giueth
vs amplie to vnderstand, being no lesse maruelous than true. Those that
haue read the aunciente histories and chronicles of Spaine, haue sene in
diuers places the occasion of the cruell ennimitie which raigned by the
space of XL. yeares, betweene the houses of Mendozza and Tolledo,
families not onely righte noble and aunciente, but also most aboundante
in riches, subiectes and seignories of all the whole realme. It happened
one day that their armies being redie to ioyne in battaile, the Lord
Iohn of Mendozza chief of his armie, a man much commended by al
histories, had a widow to his sister, a very deuout Lady, who after she
vnderstode the heauie newes of that battaile, falling downe vppon her
knees, praied God incessauntly, that it would please him to reconcile
the two families together, and to make an ende of so manye mischiefes.
And as she vnderstode that they were in the chiefest of the conflicte,
and that there were a greate nomber slaine on both partes, she made a
vow to God, that if her brother retorned victorious from that
enterprise, she would make a voyage to Rome on foote. The ouerthrowe
fell (after much bloudshead vpon them of Tolledo. Mendozza brought away
the victorie, with the lesse losse of his people. Wherof Isabell
aduertised, declared vnto her brother the vow that she had made. Which
seemed very straung vnto him, specially how she durst enterprise so
longe a voyage on foote, and thoughte to turne her purpose, howbeit she
was so importunate vppon him, as in the ende hee gaue her leaue, with
charge that she should go wel accompanied and by small iourneis, for
respect of her health. The Ladie Isabell being departed from Spaine,
hauing trauersed the mountaines Pirenees, passed by Fraunce, went ouer
the Alpes, and came to Thurin, where the Duke of Sauoye had then for
wyfe, a sister of the kinge of Englande, whoe was bruted to be the
fairest creature of the weste partes of the world. For this cause the
Lady Isabel desired greatly in passing by to see her, to know whether
truth did aunswere the great renowne of her beauty. Wherein she had
fortune so fauourable, that entring into Thurin, she found the Duchesse
vpon her Coche, goinge abroade to take the ayre of the fields: which the
Lady Isabell vnderstandinge, stayde to behold her, being by fortune at
that present at the doore of her Coche. And then with great admiration,
considering the wonderfull beautie of that princesse, iudging her the
chiefest of beautie of al those that she had euer seene, she spake
somewhat loude in the Spanish tongue, to those of her companie, in this
maner: “If God woulde haue permitted that my brother and this Princesse
might haue married together, euery man might well haue said, that there
had bin mette the moste excellente couple for perfection of beautie,
that were to be found in all Europa.” And her wordes in deede were true:
for the Lord Mendozza was euen one of the fairest knightes that in his
time was to be found in all Spaine. The Duchesse whoe vnderstoode the
Spanishe tongue very well, passing forth, behelde all that companie: and
fayninge as thoughe shee had not vnderstande those woordes, thoughte
that shee surely was some greate Lady. Wherefore when shee was a litle
paste her, she saide to one of her pages: “Marke whether that ladye and
her companye go to their lodging, and say vnto her, that I desire her,
(at my returne) to come and see mee at my Castell.” Which the page did.
So the Duchesse walking a long the riuer of Poo, mused vppon the words
spoken by the Spanishe Ladye, which made her not longe to tarie there,
but toke the waye backe againe to her Castel, where being arriued, she
founde the Lady Isabell, who at the Duchesse request, attended her with
her company: and after dutiful reuerence, the Duchesse with like
gratulacion, receiued her very courteouslie, taking her a part, and
demaunding her of what prouince of Spaine shee was, of what house, and
what fortune had brought her into that place. And then the Lady Isabell
made her to vnderstand, from the beginninge, the occasion of her long
voyage, and of what house she was: the duchesse vnderstanding her
nobilitie, excused her selfe, for that shee had not done her that honour
which shee deserved, imputinge the faulte vpon the ignorance of her
estate. And after diuers other curteous communications the Duchesse
pressed her to know whereunto the wordes tended that shee had spoken of
her, and of the beautie of her brother. The Spanishe lady somewhat
abashed, saide vnto her: “Madame, if I had knowen so much of your skill
in our tongue, as now I do, I would haue beene better aduised before I
had soe exalted the beautie of my brother, whose praise had beene more
commendable in the mouth of another: yet thus much I dare affirme
(without affection be it spoken), as they that know him can report, that
hee is one of the comliest Gentlemen that Spaine hath bredde these
twenty yeares. But of that which I haue saide touching your beautie, if
I haue offended, muche a doe shall I haue to get the same pardoned,
because I cannot repent mee, nor say otherwise, except I should speake
contrary to truth. And that durste I enterprise to be verified by
yourselfe, if it were possible that nature for one quarter of one houre
onelye had transported into some other that which with right great
wonder she sheweth to be in you.” Wherunto the Duchesse to the ende shee
woulde seeme to excuse her prayse, aunswered with a litle bashfulnes,
which beautified much her liuely colour, saying: “Madame if you continue
in these termes, you will constraine me to thincke, that by chaunging of
place you haue also chaunged your iudgemente: for I am one of the leaste
to be commended for beauty of all this lande, or els I will beleeue that
you haue the beautie and valour of my Lorde your brother soe printed in
your minde, as all that whiche presenteth it selfe vnto you, hauinge
anye apparaunce of beautie, you measure by the perfection of his.” And
at that instante the Ladie Isabell, whoe thoughte that the duchesse had
taken in euill parte the comparison that she had made betweene her
brother and her, somwhat in choler and heate, said vnto her: “Madame,
you shall pardon mee for that I haue so much forgotten my selfe, to
presume to compare your beautie to his: whereof if he be to be
commended, yet I maye well be blamed, being his sister, to publishe the
same in an vnknowen place: notwithstanding, I am wel assured, that when
you shall speake, euen with his enemies, that yet besides his beautie,
they will well assure him to be one of the gentlest and best condicioned
gentlemen that liueth.” The Duchesse seinge her in these alterations,
and so affected to the praise of her brother, toke great pleasure in her
speach, and willingly woulde haue had her to passe further, had it not
bin for feare to offende her, and to put her in a choler. And to
thintent to turne her from that matter, she commaunded the table to be
couered for supper, where she caused her to be serued honourably of all
the most delicate and most exquisite meates that were possible to be
gotten. Supper done, and the tables vncouered, after they had a little
talked together, and that it was time to withdrawe themselues, the
Duchesse the more to honor her, would that she should lodge in her
chamber with her, where the pilgrime (wearied with the way) toke very
good rest. But the Duchesse pricked with the strange talke of the Lady
Isabell, hauing a hammer working in her head, could not sleepe. And had
so wel the beauty of the unknowen knight graued in the bottom of her
hart, as thinking to close her eyes, she thought that he flew
continuallye before her like a certaine fansie or shadowe. In sorte,
that to know further what he was, she would gladly haue made greater
inquirie. Then sodainlye after a little shame and feare intermingled
with a certain womanhoode longe obserued by her, and therewithall the
fidelitie which shee bare to the Duke her husbande, presentinge it selfe
before her, shee buried altogether her first counsell which died and
tooke ende, euen so sone almoste as it was borne. And so tossed with an
infinite number of diuers thoughtes passed the night, vntill the daye
beginning to lighten the world with his burning lampe, constrained her
to ryse. And then the Lady Isabel, ready to departe, went to take leaue
of the Duchesse, who willingly would haue wished that she had neuer sene
her, for the newe flame that she felt at her harte. Neuerthelesse,
dissembling her euill, not able to holde her any longer, made her to
promise by othe, at her retourne from her voyage, to repasse by Thurin,
and after she had made her a very liberall offer of her goodes, taking
her leaue, she left her to the tuicion of God. Certaine dayes after the
departing of the Spanish lady, the Duchesse thinking to quenche this new
fier, the same began further to flame, and the more that hope failed
her, the more did desire encrease in her. And after an infinite number
of sundrie cogitacions, Loue got the victorie. And she resolued with her
selfe in the ende, whatsoeuer might come thereof, to communicate her
cause to one of her beloued damsels called Emilia, and to haue her
aduise, in whom she wonted to repose her trust in all her secrete
affaires, and causing her to be called for secretely, she said vnto her:
“Emilia, I beleue that if thou hast taken any good heede to my auncient
maner of behauiour, euer since I departed from England, thou haste
knowen me to be the very ramper and refuge of all afflicted persons. But
now my destenies be turned contrarie. For I haue nowe more neede of
counsel than any other liuing creature, and hauing no person about me
worthy to be priuie of my misfortune, but thou, my first and last refuge
is to thee alone: of whom I hope to receiue consolation in a matter
whiche toucheth me no lesse than my life and honour.” And then the
Duchesse declared vnto her priuily, how since the departing of the Lady
Isabell she had had no reste in her minde, and how she was enamoured of
a knight whome she neuer sawe, whose beautie and good grace had touched
her so nere, as being altogether vnable any longer to resiste her
mishap, she knew not to whom to haue recourse, but to the fidelitie of
her counsell: adding thereunto for conclusion, that she loued him not
dishonestly, or for hope she had to satisfie any lasciuious appetite,
but onely to haue a sight of him: whiche (as shee thought) would bring
unto her such contentation, as ther by her grief shoulde take ende.
Emilia who euer loued her maistresse as she did her owne heart, had
great compassion vpon her, when she vnderstode the light foundation of
her straunge loue: neuerthelesse desiring to please her euen to the last
point of her life, she said vnto her: “Madame if it wil please you to
recreate your selfe from these your sorrowes, and to respite me onely
twoo dayes, I hope to prouide by some good meanes that you shal shortly
see him who vndeseruedly doth worke you all this euill.” The Duchesse
nourished with this hope, desired her effectually to thinke vppon it:
promising vnto her, that if her woordes came to good effect, she would
make her such recompence as she her self should confesse she had not
done pleasure to an ingrate or vnthankefull woman. Emilia which had the
brute to be one of the moste subtile and sharpe witted dames of all
Thurin, slept not during the time of her prescription. But after she had
searched an infinite number of meanes to come to that which she desired,
there was one that semed moste expedient for that purpose, and of least
perill aboue other. And her time of delaye expired, shee went to Madame
the Duchesse, and sayd: “Madame, God knoweth howe many troubles my minde
hath sustayned, and how much I haue striued with mine own conscience to
satisfie your commaundement, neuerthelesse, after I had debated thinges
so substantially as was possible, I coulde deuise nothing more worthy
your contente, than that whiche I wyll nowe declare vnto you, if it wyll
please you to heare mee. Whiche to be short is, that for the execution
of this our enterpryse, it behoueth you to fayne your selfe to be sicke,
and to suffer your selfe to be trayned into suche maladies as there
shall rather appeare in you token of death, than hope of lyfe. And being
brought into such extremitie, you shall make a vowe (your health
recouered) to go within a certayne time to Saint Iames on pilgrimage,
which thing you may easely obtayne of the Duke your husbande. And then
may you make your voyage liberally with the Ladye Isabell, who will
passe this waye vpon her retourne, without discouering your affection
vnto her, and wyll not fayle by reknowledging the curtesie that you haue
vsed towardes her in these partes, to conduct you by her brother’s
house, wher you may see him at your ease, that maketh you to suffer this
great torment. And I will aduertise you furthermore of one thing, which
till this time I haue kept close, whiche is: that for as mutch as we two
togethers cannot without great difficultie accomplishe our businesse, it
hath seemed good vnto me to know of you, if you would that a third
persone shalbe called hereunto, who is so much at my commaundement as I
dare comit my trust vnto him. It is maister Fraunces Appian the
Millanor, your phisitian, who (to say the very truth vnto you) hath bene
so affectioned to mee this yeare or two, as he hath not ceassed by al
meanes possible, to wynne me (but to honest loue) for he pretendeth to
marry me. And because that hetherto I haue made small accompt of him,
and haue not vsed any fauour towards him, nor hitherto any good
entertainement, I assure my self seing the great amitie that he beareth
me, that if I did but fauorably behold him fiue or sixe times with
pleasaunt lookes, adding therunto a few kisses, he would hazard a
thousand liues for my sake if he had them, to content me. And for as
much as I know him to be a diligent man, learned, and of great
reputation, and one that may stande vs to great stead in this busines,
I thought good not to conceale or kepe from your knowledge my aduise
herein.” The Duchesse vnderstanding all this pretie discourse, so apt
for her affections (rauished with great ioye) embraced hard Emilia, and
saide vnto her: “Emilia my deare friend, if thou diddest knowe in what
wise I do esteme thee, and what I meane in time to come, to bestowe vpon
thee, I am well assured, albeit thou hast hetherto sufficiently shewed
thy good will, yet thou wilt hereafter doe me greater pleasure promising
thee, by the faithe of a Prince, that if our enterprise doe well
succeede, I will not vse thee as a seruaunt, but as my kinswoman and the
best beloued frend I haue. For I holde my selfe so satisfied with that
thou hast sayd vnto me, as if fortune be on our side, I see no maner of
impediment that may let our enterprise. Goe thy way then, and entertaine
thy Phisitian, as thou thinkest best, for it is very expedient that he
be a partie, and for the rest let me alone: for neuer was there any
Lazar that better coulde dissemble his impotencye, than I knowe how to
counterfeit to be sicke.” The Duchesse being departed from Emilia, began
to plaine her selfe bitterly, faining sometime to fele a certain paine
in her stomack, sometime to haue a disease in her head, in such sort, as
after diuers womanly plaintes (propre to those that feele themselues
sicke) she was in the end constrayned to laye her self downe, and knew
so well howe to dissemble her sicknesse, as (after she had certaine
dayes kept her bedde) there was mutch doubt of her health. And during
this time Emilia had layed so many amorous baytes to seede her
Phisitian, that he whiche knewe very well the moste happy remedies for
the body, could not now finde out any that was able to heale the maladie
of his owne minde. Emilia hauing noseled maister Appian with amorous
toyes, began to make him vnderstande the originall of the Duchesse
sickenesse, the effectes of her passion, the order that she had vsed
during the furious course of the same: adding thereunto for conclusion,
that if he would keepe the matter secrete, and ayde them with his
counsell, she would by and by promise hym mariage by woordes, for the
present tyme, and that from thenceforth she would neuer denie him any
fauour or priuitie. That onely reserued which no man can honestly
demaunde, till the mariage be solempnized in the face of the church. In
witnesse wherof she kissed him with great affection. The Phisitian more
eased there withall, than if he had sene his Hippocrates or Galen,
raysed againe from death, promised rather to lose his life than she
should want his helpe. And for the better beginning of this enterprise,
they wente presentlye to visite the Duchesse: in whom they found her
pulse so to beate, the tongue so charged, the stomacke so weakened by
continuall suffocation of the matrice, that the pacient was in verye
great perill of death. Whereunto euery man did easely geue credite for
the reputation and great experience of the Phisitian: and maister Appian
hauing commauuded all the chamber to be voyded, made the Duchesse to
vnderstande in fewe wordes, how it behoued her to gouerne her selfe. And
the better to cloke her cause, he brought her at that instant a little
perfume, by receiuing the sauour wherof she should often times fal into
certaine litle soundinges, and by vsing the perfume it woulde diminishe
her colour for a time, and make her looke as though she had kepte her
bed halfe a yeare before: neuerthelesse it should doe her no other
displeasure, and that in three or foure dayes, with certaine other
drugges, hee would restore her colour so freshe as euer it was. Whiche
counsell the Duchesse liked best of any thing in the world. And they
three together played their partes so wel, as the common brute
throughout all the citie was, that the Duchesse was in great daunger of
death. The duke being aduertised of these thinges, caused all the
phisitians of Thurin to assemble, to prouide for the health of the
Duchesse: who being come together, with the Duke into her bedde chamber,
a litle after she had receiued maister Appian’s perfumes: and seing her
to sowne diuers times before them, were in great dispaire of her health.
And after they had somewhat debated the matter with Maister Appian, not
knowing wherupon to resolue, they said vnto the Duke, that it behoued
him to prouide for her soule, for that they saw in her the ordinarie
tokens and messangers of death. The poore Duke being sorowfull beyond
measure, for that he loued the Duchesse entierly, sent for the
Suffragane of the Bishop of Thurin, a man of uery holy life, to thintent
he might geue her ghostly councell. To whom she confessed her self with
a voyce so feeble, that it seemed to be more than halfe dead. Her talke
was not long, but yet she made him beleue that nature failed her, and
that by litle and litle she drewe towardes her ende: desiring him to
haue her and her poore soule in remembraunce when he made his orisons
and praiers. The Suffragan being gone, the Duke and others, with a great
number of Gentlemen and Ladies, went into the chamber. But she began
then to enter into so great rauing, as euery body was afeard of her. And
after that she had tossed her selfe in her bed like a senselesse
creature, her speach fayled her. Whereat those present, stricken with no
smal wonder, thinking the soule would straight wayes haue departed the
body, some of them cried vpon her, Madame remember Iesus, som other
S. Barbara. But wilie Emilia more priuie of her counsell than the rest,
taking her tenderly by the arme, cried upon her with a loude voice:
“Madame call vpon S. Iames, who hath so often succoured you in youre
aduersities.{”} And with that the Duchesse awaked as it wer out of a
heauy sleepe, and rowling her eyes to and fro, with a straunge trembling
of all her members, began to pronounce with an interrupted voyce: “O
glorious Apostle, in whome from my tender youth, I haue euer had my
stedfast trust and hope, be now mine intercessor in this cruel assault
of death, to Iesus Christ. And I make a vowe nowe vnto thee, that if I
may recouer health, I will my self in person, go honor thy sacred body,
in the proper place where it reposeth.” And hauing ended her fayned
prayer, she counterfaited a sleepe, and so continued the space of twoo
or three houres, whiche caused all the companie to withdrawe themselues,
excepte the poore Duke, who would not depart from her vntil she waked,
and in the meane time ceassed not to praye to God for the health of his
loyall spouse. After shee had so well plaied this pageaunt by the space
of an houre or twoo, faining then to awake, she began to stretche forth
her armes and legges with suche force, as whosoeuer had heard the noyse,
would easely haue iudged that she had bene deliuered from some great
torment. And beholding the Duke her husband, with a pitifull eye (who
had leaned his head nere vnto her’s in the bed) she cast her stretched
armes negligently vpon his neck, and kissing him sayd; “Now may I safely
kisse you my Lorde, that within these three houres was in such pitifull
plight, as I thought my self for euer depriued of that benefit. Thankes
be geuen to God and that good Sainct to whom I made my vow I am
presently so wel eased, as if I fele myself no worse, I will yet deteine
you (husband) a while from an other mariage.” But the poore Duke
altogether rauished with ioye, hauing his white beard all tempered with
teares, knew not what answere to make, but behelde her with such
admiration, as he seemed to be besides himself. And in the meane time
certayn whiche wer at the dore, hearing them speake, entred the chamber,
who finding the Duchesse somwhat better then she was, published her
recouerie incontinently throw al the citie, whereof the citizens being
aduertised (because they loued her dearly) made processions and other
thankesgeuing to God, as in cases like are accustomed. Within a whyle
after, the Duchesse began by litle and litle to taste her meates, and to
vse suche diet as shee recouered her former health. Except the newe
plague which pynched her tender harte for the Lorde Mendozza, whiche she
could not cure, but by the presence of him that bare the oyntment boxe
for that sore. And so long she continued in the amorous thoughtes, till
the Lady Isabell retourned from her pilgrimage, who came to the castell
according to her promise. And after friendly gretinges one of an other,
the Duchesse made her to vnderstande how since her departure she had
neuer almost commen out of her bed, for that she had been afflicted with
a moste grieuous sickenesse. Neuerthelesse by the helpe of God, and the
intercession of good S. Iames (to whom she had vowed her selfe) she had
recouered health. And if she could obtaine leaue of the Duke her
husband, she would thinke her selfe happy to make a voyage thither in
her companie. Which the Spanishe Lady persuaded by all meanes possible,
shewing vnto her many commodities, she should finde in Spayne, and the
honorable company of Gentlemen and Ladies, who at her arriuall there (if
it would please her to doe them so muche honor as to visite them in
passing by) would leaue nothing vndone for the best manner of
entertainement that possibly might be deuised. And by this meane the
Ladye Isabell thought to pricke her forward, who was in dede but to
quicke of the spurre already, and thinking euery houre VII. determined
one morning thereof to moue the Duke her husbande, to whom she sayd: “My
Lorde, I beleue that you doe sufficiently well remember my trouble
paste, and the extreme martyredome that I suffred in my late sickenesse,
and namely of the vowe whiche I made for recouery of my health. Nowe
finding my selfe whole and strong, my desire is that with your licence I
might accomplishe my voyage, specially with so good opportunitie: for
the noble woman of Spayne of whome I have heretofore told you, is
returned, and it should be a great ease to vs both to go in companie
together. And for so much as it is a matter of necessitie, and that
early or late, I must aduenture to paye my vowed debte, it is best both
for my commoditie and also for my honour, to goe in her companie.”
Whereunto the good Duke did willingly accorde: who neuer had any manner
of suspicion that sutch a treason was lodged in the harte of so great a
Princesse. And hauing giuen order for all things requisite for her
departing, she tooke a certaine number of Gentlemen and damsels, amongst
which, Maister Appian and Emilia were not forgotten, and being all
apparelled in pilgrimes weedes, by long trauaile and weary iourneis,
after they had passed the cold Alpes, they came into the countie of
Rossilion, and entred into Spayne: and then the Duchesse feling her
selfe to approche the place where her harte of long tyme had taken hold,
desired the Lady Isabell and her company earnestly, not to make it
knowen to any persone what she was. And so traueiling by small
iourneyes, and deuising of diuerse matters, they arriued within two
litle dayes iourney to the place where the Lorde of Mendozza kept his
ordinarie housholde. For which cause the Spanishe lady entreated the
Duchesse not to be offended, if she sent some one of her men before to
geue aduertisement of their comming, which the Duchesse graunted. And
the messenger finding the Lord of Mendozza readie to receiue them, and
hauing done him to vnderstand of the coming of the Duchesse, of the
first talke betwene her and his syster, of the great entertainement that
she had geuen them, of the singuler beautie with the which she was
adorned: he was not so grosse but that he knewe by and by, that the
Duchesse at those yeares, had not bene so liberall of her labour, to
make such a voiage one foote, without some other respect: and
dissembling what he thought, caused thirty or fortie of his gentlemen
incontinently to make them ready. To whome making as though hee would
goe hunte the Hare, he went to meete the Duchesse: and hauing discouered
them a farre of in a fielde, the Lady Isabelle did forthwith knowe
theim. Who aduertised the Duchesse that he which ridde vppon the whyte
Ienet of Spayne, was the Lorde of Mendozza her brother, and that the
other were his servauntes. The Prince then after he had made his horse
to vaute three or foure times aloft in the ayre, with an excellent grace
and marueilous dexteritie lighted from his horse, and kissing her hand,
sayd vnto her: “Madame, I beleue that if the wandering knightes of olde
tyme, who haue eternized their memorie, by an infinite numbre of
renowmed victories, had had so muche good lucke, as many tymes in their
aduentures to meete with such pilgrimes as you be, they woulde
willinglye haue abandoned the Launce and Murrion, to take the Staffe and
Scrippe.” The Duchesse then beyng comparable with anye ladye of her
tyme, for her education and comely talke, assayled with ioye, feare, and
shame, that no lacke of dutie might be founde in her, sayde vnto hym:
“And in deede my Lorde like as if the knightes of whom you speake, had
tasted of some good hap (as you terme it) by meting with such pilgrimes:
so also we hope that the Saint to whome we be vowed, in the honor of
whom we haue enterprised this perillous voyage, will receiue vs in good
parte: otherwyse our payne were altogether loste, and our iourney euil
imployed.” And after they had geuen this first amorous atteint, the Lord
of Mendozza taking her by the arme, conducted her vnto his castell,
deuising of pleasaunt matters. And he was greatlye astonned, to see so
rare a beautie, as appeared in the Princesse: whiche neither the
wearinesse of the waye, nor the parching beames of the Sunne, coulde in
any wyse so appaire, but that there rested ynough, to drawe vnto her the
very hartes of the moste colde and frosen men of the world. And albeit
the Lorde of Mendozza tooke great pleasure and admiration in beholding
her, yet was it nothing in respect of the Duchesse: who after she had
aduised and well marked the beautie, excellency, and other good giftes
of grace, in the Lorde of Mendozza, she confessed that al that which she
had heard of his sister, was but a dreame in comparison of the proufe,
which discouered it selfe vpon the first viewe: seeming vnto her by good
iudgement, that all the beauties of the worlde were but paintinges, in
respect of the perfection of that whiche shee sawe with her eyes. Wherin
she was not deceiued, albeit that her feruent loue might haue bewitched
her senses. For all the histories in Latine, Spanishe, and Italian, the
whiche make mention of Mendozza, geue vnto him the firste place in
beautie of all the Princes and Lordes that were in his tyme. The poore
Duchesse, after she had manifested by outwarde gestures, and
countenaunces, to the Lord of Mendozza, that which was in the inward
part of her harte, without receiuing the full satisfaction of his sight,
whiche she desired, determined (hauing soiourned three dayes in his
castell) to departe the nexte morning (vnwares to the knight), to
performe her voyage. And so soone as the light of the daye began to
appeare, she went to the chamber of the Lady Isabell, whom she thanked
affectuously, aswell for her good companye, as for the great courtesie
and humanitie, that she had receiued in her house. And hauing taken
leaue of her, departed with her traine. The knight Mendozza, about an
houre or two after her departure, aduertised thereof, was greatly
troubled, what the matter might be that she was gone without taking
leaue of him. And after that he had a little thought therupon, he easely
perceiued, that all the fault therof was in him selfe: and that this
great Princesse had abandoned her countrie, of purpose by all iudgement
to visite him, and that he had shewed himself very slacke for her
satisfaction, in that he had not offred her his seruice: wherat being
iustly greued, she did not vouchsafe to geue him a farewell. And so
accusing himselfe, he determined to followe after her, accompanied
onelye with twoo pages. And beyng on horsebacke, it was not long before
hee espied her in the hyghe waye to Saint Iames, where lighting, hee
walked twoo myles with her, reasonyng the matter without intermission:
desiring her amonges other thynges, to let hym vnderstand what
displeasure shee had concerned in his house, that caused her so spedy
and secret a departure: adding thereunto, that if her pleasure were, he
would accompanie her to the place whether she was vowed, and would also
reconduct her in his owne persone to Thurin, in so honourable sorte, as
she should finde cause to be contented. Then passing further, with
sighes sayd vnto her: “Madame, fortune had done me a great benefite, if
when my sister made her vowe to go to Rome, I had lost the battaile
against mine enemies, and that her vowe had bene without effect. For it
might haue bene that I should haue remained quiet by the losse of some
of my people. But alas, I fele now, since your comming into this
countrie, a battaile so cruel, and assault so furious in my harte, as
not being able any longer to resiste it, I finde my selfe vanquished,
and caught captiue, in such sorte as I know not to whom to complain, but
to you, which is the motion of all my disquietnesse: and yet, which
grieueth me most, you dissemble as though you did not vnderstand it. And
to bring me to my last end, you are departed this day out of my house,
not daining to see me, or to appease me with one farewel, which hath so
further inflamed my passion, as I die a thousand times a day. Beseching
you for the time to come, to entreate me more fauourably, or you shall
see me, in that state, wherein you would be loth to see your enemy:
which is, most cruel death.” And in dede, he shewed sufficiently, how
great the grief was that pressed him, and how well the passion that he
felt, was agreable to the wordes which he spake: for in pronouncing his
wordes he sighed so in his tale, and changed his colour so often, and
had his face so besprent with teares, as it semed his soule attached
with superfluous sorrowe, would at that very instant haue abandoned his
bodye. Which the Princesse perceiuinge, touching at the quicke the very
spring of all his euill, sayd vnto him: “Seignior Mendozza, I know not
what you wold that I should do more for you, nor for what occasion you
do pretende, that I should be the cause of your death: for if the
occasion thereof should happen through my default, my life by strengthe
or abilitie, could not endure one houre after, for the sorowe I should
conceiue therof. Thinke me to be yours, and be not offended, I besech
you, if openly I doe no longer talke with you: for I would not to winne
al the goodes in the world, that any of this traine which doth accompany
me, should perceiue any one sparke of the great kindled fire, wherin my
harte burneth day and night for you, being assured that if you had felt
one houre of my payne, in place to accuse me of crueltie, your self
complaining, wold pitie the griefe whiche I haue sustained for your long
absence: for without the continual presence of your persone,
representing it selfe in the eyes of mine understanding, with a firme
hope once to haue seen you: it had bene impossible for me, to resist the
long and hard assaulte, wherwith loue hath euery houre assailed me. But
one thing I must nedes confesse vnto you, that by reason of the cold
welcome which you made me in the beginning, I thought it preceded of
some euill opinion conceiued of me or peraduenture that you had thought
me ouer liberall of mine honour, to haue left the countrie where I
commaunde, to render my selfe subiect to your good grace, which caused
me without leaue to depart your house. But now that I do know by your
countenaunce and teares, the contrarie, I acknowledge my fault, and
desire you to forget it. With full promise that vppon my retourne from
my voiage of S. Iames, I will make you amendes, in the very same place,
wher I committed the fault: and remaining your prisoner for a certaine
time, I wil not depart from you, vntill I have satisfied, by sufficient
penance the greatnes of my trespas. In the meane time you shal content
your selfe with my good will: and without passing any further retorne
againe home to your castell, for feare least some suspicious persone in
my company should conceiue that in me, which all the dayes of my life I
neuer gaue occasion so much as once to thinke.” To whome the Lorde of
Mendozza obeied, more to content her than otherwise, for hee had the
beauties and good behauiours of the Princesse, so imprinted in the moste
pleasaunt place of his harte, as he would haue desired neuer to haue
departed her companie. But like as they determined iocundly, to imploy
and satisfie their desire, at her retorne from her voyage, euen so
fortune in the meane while did beset the same, and so fully brake the
threde of their enterprises, as the issue had not so good successe, as
was their prefixed hope. Now leaue we the Duchesse to perfourme her
voyage, and the Lord of Mendozza to entertain his amorous passions, and
let vs digresse to the duke, who about X. or XII. dayes after the
Duchesse his wife was departed, began to fele her absence, which not
being able to susteine for the great loue he bare vnto her, and
specially knowing the great fault that he had committed (being the
sister of a king and wife of such a Prince) so to let her go like an
vnfeathered shaft, in so long a voyage: determined with him selfe (for
feare least if any misfortune happening vnto her, the same should touch
his honour) to call together his counsel, and to prouide some remedie.
The counsel assembled, and the cause proponed, euerie of them told the
Duke that he had ouer lightly consented to the will of the Duchesse, and
that if she should chaunce to incure any inconuenience, all men would
impute it to his reproch wherof they would haue aduertised him at the
beginning, sauing for feare they had to displease him: adding for
conclusion, that it was most expedient the Duke should put himselfe on
the sea to goe seeke her in Galisia. Which he did, and imbarked him
selfe with a great companie of gentlemen, to whome the winde was so
fauourable, as he ariued at S. Iames before her: and hauing made
enquirie for her, vnderstode she was not come. Neuerthelesse he was
aduertised by certaine pilgrims, that it could not be long before she
would be there, for that they had left her not paste three or foure
dayes iourney from thence, traueiling with her trayne, by small
iourneis: wherof the Duke was exceading glad, and sent certaine of his
gentlemen to mete her vpon the way, as she came, who rode not farre
before they met the Duchesse with her companie, and did her to
vnderstand of the Duke’s arriuall, and of the cause of his comming from
Thurin. Which tidinges was not very ioyfull to her, and by her will
would have wished that he had not taken so much paynes: neuerthelesse,
preferring honor before affection, she made the more haste to see him,
and at her arriuall seemed to bee glad of his comming, and to lament the
payne that he had taken by committing himselse in so many daungers for
her sake. Afterwardes they entred into the churche with great deuotion,
where when the Duchesse had made certaine particuler praiers, shee began
to perceiue that God had withstanded her lasciuious wil, and pitying the
good Duke her husband, would not permit him to be deceiued in suche
disloyal sort, repentantly bewayling her forepassed faulte. And feling
herself pressed euen at the very soule with a certaine remorse of
conscience, she was so victorious over her affections, as she determined
wholly to forget Mendozza and his beautie: praysing God neuerthelesse
that it had pleased him to graunt her the grace so well to dispose her
matters, that her affections had not exceeded the bondes of honor:
determining from thenceforth, not onely to put Mendozza in vtter
obliuion, but also for euer clerely to cut of his amorous prastise, and
therfore would not so much as bid him once farewell, nor yet to let him
in any wise vnderstand those newes. And so settled in this deliberation,
solicited her husbande very instantly to departe, whiche he did, and all
thinges prepared to the Sea, they toke againe their course to Thurin,
and had the wynde so prosperous, as from thence in fewe dayes after,
they arriued at Marsellis; and wearye of the Seas, he caused horses to
be prepared to ryde from thence to Thurin by land, wher he and his wife
liued together in right great ioy and amitie. The Lorde of Mendozza
greatly payned with the long absence of the Duchesse, sent a gentleman
of purpose to Galisia to know the cause of her long tarying. Who brought
certain newes that the Duke was comen in persone to fetche his wife, and
that he caried her awaye with him by Sea; wherewithal he was
marueilously out of pacience, determining neuerthelesse one daye when
his affaires were in good order, to go visite her at Thurin. During the
time that these thinges remained in this estate, as well of the one
side, as of the other: the Almaines prepared a great army, and entred
into Fraunce, where they wasted and burned al the countrey as they
passed. The king being aduertised hereof, sent for the Duke of Savoie,
to goe mete them with the men of armes of Fraunce. But before his
departure from Thurin, he lefte for his Lieutenant generall, the Earle
of Pancalier, by the aduise and counsell of whome he intended that all
the affaires of the Duchie should be ruled and gouerned in his absence,
and that he should in so ample wyse be honoured and obeyed, as his owne
persone. This Earle of Pancalier was a nobleman, verie prudent in his
doinges, and knewe right well how to gouerne the common wealth, who
seing that hee had the whole countrie at his commaundement, and hym
selfe many tymes in presence of the Duchesse, viewing her so fayre and
comelie, could not so well rule his affections, but that by litle and
litle he fell into loue with her, in such wyse as hee forgat hym selfe,
making no conscience to offer his seruice vnto her. But the Princesse,
who was resolued to lyue a good woman, abhorred all his lasciuious
orations, requiring hym to bee better aduysed another tyme, before he
presumed to vtter sutche talke, excepte to sutch that were his equals.
Telling hym that a man ought not to bee so vnshamfast to offer his
seruice to anye great Ladie, or to make other sute vnto her, before hee
hadde fyrste knowen by her gesture or woordes, some lykelyhoode of loue:
which he could not deeme in her, for so much as she neither to him or to
any other had euer, (til that day in all her life) shewed such fauour,
as other suspicion could be conceiued, but that which was conuenable and
meete for her honour. Which when the Countie of Pancalier vnderstoode,
he toke his leaue of her, ashamed of that he had done. But he folowing
the custome of louers, not thinking himselfe cast of for the first
refuse, eftsones renewed his requestes: and framing a louing stile,
besought her to haue pitie vppon him, and to respect the greatnesse of
his passion: and that he could not prolonge his life without the fauour
of her good grace, who onely was the very remedie of his euill. The
Duchesse pestred with such like talke, said vnto him: “Sir Countie, me
thinke you ought to haue satisfyed your selfe with my first deniall,
without further continuance in the pursuing of your rash enterprise.
Haue you forgotten the place that you keepe, and the honour whereunto my
Lorde the Duke my husbande hath exalted you? Is this nowe the loyall
reward that you render vnto him for creating you his Lieutenaunt ouer
all his landes and seignories, to demaund the preheminence of his bedde?
Assure your selfe for final warning, that if euer hereafter you shal
againe fall into like error, I sweare vnto you by the faith of a
Princesse, that I will make you to be chastised in suche sort, as al
semblable traytors and disloyal seruants shal take example.” The Earle
seeing himselfe refused, and thus rebuked, and in doubt that the
Princesse woulde make her husbande to vnderstande his enterprise upon
his retourne, chaunging his greate loue into hatred more then mortall,
determined whatsoeuer should come thereof, to inuente all meanes
possible, vtterly to destroye the Duchesse. And after that he fansied
diuers thinges in minde, he deuised (by the instinct of the deuil) to
cause one of his nephewes, being of the age of XVIII. or twentie yeares,
which was his heire apparant, for that he had no children, and was one
of the fayrest and best condicioned gentlemen of all Thurin, to sort
that deuilish attempt to purpose. And finding opportunitie, one daye hee
saide to the yonge man (that depended wholly vppon him) these words:
“Nephew, thou knowest that all the hope of liuing thou hast in this
world resteth in me alone, of whom I make so good accompte as of my
childe. And for that it pleased God to giue me no children, I haue
constituted and ordeined thee my sole and ouely heyre with ful hope that
from henceforth thou wilt dutifully acknowledge thy selfe most bounde
vnto mee, and therefore obedient in all thinges which I shal commaunde
thee, specially in that which may be most for thine aduancemente. The
Duke as thou knowest, is absent, olde, and crooked, and at all houres in
the mercy of death throughe the daungers of the warres. Nowe if he
should chaunce to die, my desire is to mary thee with some great Lady:
yea and if it were possible with the Duchesse her selfe, which God
knoweth what profite it would bring both to thee and thy frendes, and in
my iudgement an easie matter to compasse, if thou wilt dispose thy selfe
after my counsell, or at leaste wise, if thou canst not come to the
title of husband, thou maiest not faile to be receiued as her frend.
Thou art a comly gentleman, and in good fauour with the Duchesse, as I
haue oftentimes percieued by her communication, albeit that holdinge
fast the bridle of her honor, shee hath been afraid hetherto to open
herselfe vnto thee. Spare not my goods, make thy selfe braue and gallant
from henceforth whatsoeuer it coste, and be dilligente to please her in
all that thou maiest, and time shall make thee know that which thy
tender yeares hath hitherto hidden from thee.” The poore yonge man
giuing faith to the vnfaithfull inuentions of his vncle (whom hee
counted as his father) began oft to frequent the presence of the
Duchesse, and shamefastlye to solicite her by lookes and other offices
of humanitie, as nature had taught him, continuing that order the space
of a moneth. Which by the Duchesse wel viewed and marked, she was
diligent for her part to accept the honest and affectionate seruice
which the yong man dailye did vnto her, and shewed vnto him likewise a
certaine more curteous fauour than to the rest of the pages, as wel for
the birth and beautie wherwithal nature had enriched him, as for that
she saw him enclined to do her better seruice than the rest, not
thinking of any dishonest appetite in the yong man, nor the malice of
his vncle, who conceiued none other felicitie but in reuenge of the
Duchesse, his ennemie, and not able to beare the cruell mallice rooted
in his harte, determined to play double or quit. And callinge his nephew
before him he said vnto him: “My childe, I do perceiue and see that thou
art one of the most happiest gentlemen of al Europe, if thou knewest how
to folow thine owne good luck. For the Duchesse not onely is amorous of
thee, but also consumeth for the earnest loue shee beareth thee. But as
thou knowest women be shamefast and woulde be sued vnto in secrete, and
do delight to be deceiued of men, to thend it might seeme how with
deceit or force they were constrained to yeld to that which of their own
minds they would willingly offer, were it not for a litle shamefastnes
that doth withdrawe them. And thereof assure thy sefe, for I haue
oftentimes experimented the same, to my great good lucke. Wherfore
credite my councel, and follow mine aduise. And thou thy selfe shalt
confesse vnto me, before to morrow at this time, that thou art the
happiest man of the world. I will, then, that this night when thou seest
conuenient time, thou shalt conueye thy selfe secretlye into the chamber
of the Duchesse, and there hide thy selfe vnder her bedde, for feare of
being espied: where thou shalt remaine vntil an houre after midnight,
when all men be in the depth of their sleepe. And when thou perceiuest
euery man at rest, thou shalte closely rise, and approching the Duchesse
bed, thou shalt tell what thou art, and I am sure for the earnest loue
she beareth thee, and for the long absence of her husband, she wil
curteouslie receiue thee betwene her armes, and feast thee with such
delights as amorous folke doe embrace their louers.” The simple yong man
giuing faith to the words of his vncle that was honoured as a king
(thinking perhaps that it proceeded by the perswasion of the Duchesse)
followed his commaundement, and obeied whollie his traiterous and
abhominable hest. Who (oportunitie found) accomplished from pointe to
point, that which his cruel vncle had commaunded. And a litle before
midnight, fearing least his treason shoulde be discouered, toke with him
three councellors, and certaine other of the guarde of the castell.
Whereunto as Lieutenaunt to the Duke, he might both enter and issue at
al times when he list, and not opening the cause of his intent, went
straight to the portall of the Duchesse chamber, and knockinge at the
dore, said that the Duke was come. Which being opened, hee entred in
with a nomber of lightes, accompanied with the guarde, hauinge a rapier
readye drawen in his hande, like a furious man besides himselfe, began
to looke rounde about, and vnder the bedde of the Duchesse: from whence
he caused his owne proper nephew to be drawne. To whom, without geuing
him leisure to speake, for feare lest his malice should be discouered,
he saide: “O detestable villaine thou shalt die.” And therewithall he
thruste the rapier into him, to the hard hiltes, and doubling another
blowe to make him faile of his speache, hee pearced his throte, so
fiercely, as the poore innocente after he had a little staggered, fell
downe deade to the grounde. When he had put up his rapier, he turned
towards the Counsellers, and saide vnto them: “My frends, this is not
the first time I haue espied the lasciuious and dishonest loue betweene
this my lecherous nephew and the Duchesse, whom I haue caused to die to
honourably in respect of his desert, for by the very rigor of the law,
he deserued to haue bin burnt quick, or els to be torne in peeces with
foure horses. But my Ladie the Duchesse I meane not to punishe, or to
prouide chastisement for her: For you be not ignoraunt, that the
auncient custome of Lombardie and Sauoye requireth that euery woman
taken in adulterie, shal be burned aliue, if within a yeare and a day
she finde not a Champion to fight the combate for her innocencie. But
for the bounden duetie that I beare to my Lord the Duke, and for respect
of the estate which he hath committed to my charge, I will tomorrow
dispatch a poaste, to make him vnderstande the whole accident as it is
come to passe. And the Duchesse shall remaine in this chamber, with
certaine of her maids, vnder sure keeping and safegarde.” All this time
the Duchesse who had both iudgemente and spirite so good as any
Princesse that raigned in her time, suspected by and by the treason of
the Earle. And with a pitifull eye beholding the dead body of her page,
fetching a deepe sighe, cried out: “Oh, innocent soule: which sometime
gauest life to this bodye that nowe is but earth, thou art nowe in place
where thou seest clearelye the iniquitie of the murderer, that latelye
did put thee to death.” And hauing made an ende of this exclamation with
her armes a crosse, shee remained as in a sowne with out mouing either
hande or foote. And after she had continued a while in that state, shee
desired the Counsellers to cause the bodye to be buried, and to restore
it to the earth whereof it had the first creation. “For (quoth she) it
hath not deserued to be tied to the gibet, and to be foode for birds of
the ayre.” Which they graunted not without a certaine greuous suspicion
betweene her and the page. For so muche as she excused not herselfe, but
the innocencie of him, without speaking any worde of her owne particular
iustification. This pitifull aduenture was out of hande published
through all the Citie, with so great sorrow and murmure of the people,
as it seemed the enemies had sacked the towne. For there was not one,
from the very least to the greateste of al, but did both loue and
reuerence the Duchesse, in such sort as it seemed vnto them, that this
misfortune was fallen vpon euery one of their children. The Earle of
Pancalier did nothing all that day, but dispatch the poastes. And hauing
caused all the whole matter to be registred as it was seen to be done,
he commaunded the Counsellers, and them of the Garde, to subscribe his
letters. And all the matter being put in order he sent away two currors
with diligence, the one into Englande to aduertise the king her brother,
and the other to the Duke: who being arriued, ech man in his place,
presented their charges. Whereunto both the brother and the husband gaue
full credite without any maner of difficultie: perswaded principally
thereunto by the death of the nephew: who (as it was very likely) had
not been put to death by his owne vncle, and of whom he was also the
very heire, without his most greueous fault, praysinge greatly the
fidelitie of the Earle, that had not pardoned his owne proper bloud, to
conserue his dutie and honour to his soueraigne Lorde. And it was
concluded betweene them, by deliberate aduise and counsaile, as well of
those of the king of England, as by a great nomber of learned men of
Fraunce, whom the French kinge made to assemble for that respect in
fauour of the Duke, that the custome should be so inuiolably kepte, as
if the Duchesse were the most simple damsell of all the countrie: to the
ende that in time to come, greate Lordes and Ladyes which be as it were
lampes to giue lighte to others, might take example. And that from
thenceforth they should not suffer their vertues to be obscured by the
clouds of such execrable vices. The king of England to gratifie the
Earle of Pancalier: who (in his iudgement) had shewed himself right
noble in this act, sent him an excellent harnesse, with a sword of the
selfe same trampe by the Currour, with letters of aunsweare written with
his owne hand, how he vnderstode the maner of his proceedings. And the
messenger vsed such diligence, as within few daies he arriued at Thurin.
Shortly after that the king of England had sent back the Currour, the
Duke of Sauoie retorned his, whom he staied so much the longer, because
the matter touched him most neere: for he would that the matter should
be debated by most graue and deliberate counsell. And when he had
resolued what to do, he wrote to the counsellers and other Magistrates
of Thurin, aboue al things to haue respecte that the custome should be
inuiolably obserued, and that they should not in any case fauour the
adultery of his wife, vpon paine of death. Then in particuler, hee wrote
his letters to the Earle, whereby he did greatly allow his fidelitie,
for the which he hoped to make him suche recompence, as both he and his
should taste therof during their liues. The Currour of the duke arriued,
and the matter proponed in counsell, it was iudged, that (followinge the
auncient custome) a piller of marble should be placed in the fieldes
neere Thurin: which is betweene the bridge of the riuer Poo and the
Citie, wherupon should be written the accusation of the Earle of
Pancalier against the Duchesse, which the Duchesse vnderstanding (hauing
none other companie but Emilia, and a yong damsell) dispoiled herselfe
of her silken garmentes, and did put on mourninge weede, martired with
an infinite nomber of sondrie tormentes, seing herselfe abandoned of al
worldly succour, made her complaints to God: beseeching him with teares
to be protector of her innocencie. Emilia who vnderstode by her that
shee was vniustlie accused, and seing the iminent perill that was
prepared for her, determined by her accustomed prudence to prouide
therfore. And after she had a litle comforted her she saide vnto her:
“Madame, the case so requireth that now you must not consume time in
teares and other womanish plaints, which can nothing diminishe your
euill. It seemes most expediente vnto mee, that you fortefie your selfe
againste your enemye, and finde some meane to sende maister Appian in
poaste to the Duke of Mendozza, one of the best renowmed in prowesse of
all the knightes in Spaine, whoe being aduertised of your misfortune,
wyll prouide so well for your affaires, (that your honour being
recouered) your life shall remaine assured. Wherefore if you will follow
mine aduise, you shall write him an earnest letter (as you know right
wel how to indite) which Appian shal present on your behalfe. For if you
follow not this counsel, I know none els (as the world goeth now) that
will hazarde his life vnder the condicion of so straunge a lotte as
yours is, specially hauing respect to the renowne and magnanimitie of
the Earle, who as you know, is in reputation to be one of the most
valiaunt men and most happy in armes that is in all Sauoie or
Lombardie.” “My deare frende (quoth the Duchesse) doe what thou wilt:
for I am so resolued and confirmed in my sorowe, as I haue no care
either of death or life, no more than if I had neuer been borne. For
neither in the one nor in the other, can I forsee anye remedie for mine
honour alreadie lost.{”} “Madame (quoth Emilia) let us for this time
leaue the care of honour in the hands of God, who knoweth both howe to
keepe it and restore it, as shall seeme good vnto him. And let vs giue
order for our parte that there be no want of diligence, for feare of
being ouertaken.” And hauing made an ende of her tale, shee gaue her
incke and paper, sayinge vnto her: “Now Madame I shall see at this
pinche, if your harte will serue you at a neede or no.” The Duchesse
withdrew her selfe a part, and after she had longe discoursed in her
minde of that which was paste betweene the knight and her, she wrote
vnto him as followeth: “My Lord Mendozza, I do not write these letters
vnto you, vppon any hope to be deliuered by your meane from the poinaunt
pricke of fierce death which doth now besiege me, knowing death alwayes
to be the true port and sure refuge of all afflicted persons. For since
that God willeth it, nature permitteth it, and my heauie fortune
consenteth to it, I will receiue it with righte good will, knowinge that
the graue is none other but a strong rampier and impregnable cartel,
wherein we close our selues against the assaults of life, and the
furious stormes of fortune. It is farre better (as appeareth manifestly
by me) with eyes shut to waite in graue, than no longer to experimente
life (the eyes beinge open) liuing with so many troubles vpon earth. But
gladly woulde I bringe to remembraunce, and set before your eyes how
sometime I abandoned the place which was no lesse deare vnto me than
mine owne country where I was borne, and delicatelye nourished in honor
and delightes, to extende my selfe into an infinite nomber of perills,
contrarye to the deutie of those that be of mine estate, losinge the
name of a Princesse to take the title of a caytife pilgrim, for the
onely seruent and vnmeasured loue which I bare you, before I did euer
see you, or by anye meanes bounde thereunto by any your preceding
benefites. The remembraunce whereof (as I thinke) ought now to deliuer
such an harde enterprise, to the port of your conscience, that breaking
the vaile of your tender hart, you shoulde therefore take pitie and
compassion of my straunge and cruell fortune. Which is not onely reduced
to the mercy of a most dolorous prison, and resteth in the power of a
bloudie and mercilesse tyrant: but (which is worse) in the continuall
hazarde of a shamefull death. Which I do not much lament hauing long
desired to accelerate the same with mine owne hands, to finde rest in an
other worlde: were it not that by death I shoulde leaue an eternall blot
to my good name, and a perpetuall heritage of infamie to my house and
kindred. Wherefore if it so be, that frendship loketh for no rewarde, or
that frendship cannot be paid but by the tribute of an other, make me
now to taste the auncient fruite of frendship. And if pitie be the sole
and onely keye of Paradise, displaye it now on the behalfe of her, who
(forsaken of al humaine succour) attendeth but the fatall houre to be
throwen into the fier as a poore innocent lambe in sacrifice. And for
that the bearer shal make you vnderstand the rest by mouth (whom it may
please you to credite as mine owne selfe) I will make an ende of my
heauie letter. Beseching God to giue a good life vnto you, and to mee an
honorable death.” The letter closed and sealed vp with the seale of the
Duchesse, shee commaunded Emilia to deliuer it to Appian, and to require
him to vse diligence, not ceasing to ride day and night vntil he come to
the place where they left the knight Mendozza, giuinge charge to make
him vnderstande (at length) her innocencie and false accusation. Appian
being dispatched, was so affected to please his maistresse, and so
desirous to see her deliuered of her imprisonmente, as hee ceassed not
to trauaile day and night, till he came within the frontiers of Spaine.
And after that he had ridden yet two or three dayes iourney, approching
nere the place wher he thought to find the knight Mendozza, he began to
inquire of the host of the inne where he laye that nighte, as well of
his good health, as of his other affayres, whoe made him aunswere, that
it wente euen so euill with him at that present, as with the poorest
gentleman of al Spaine: although that he were in deede a very great
Lorde. “For (quoth he) within these few monethes past, his ennemies of
Tolledo, whom he hath diuers times vanquished, have so wel allied
themselues together out of al partes of Spaine, that they haue brought a
great armie to the field. And fortune of the warre hath been so
fauourable unto them, that they discomfited Mendozza and all his armie.
Who hath retired himselfe, with those few of his people that hee could
saue aliue, into a litle towne of his, where yet to this present he is
besieged. And so it is (as euery man sayth) that he doth his endeuour
maruellouslie well, in such sort as his ennemies cannot enter the
towne.” Master Appian then demaunded of him, if the towne besieged were
farre of. And he answered, that it was about VII. or VIII. poastes. Then
withoute making any longer inquirie, he toke a guide that accompanied
him euen almoste to the campe. And when he sawe the towne a farre of, he
sent the guide backe againe, and went the same daye to offer his seruice
to a certaine captaine of lighte horsemen, who receiued him into wages,
and then he bought armour to serue his purpose. And maister Appian
besides his learning was a wise and polliticke man, and determined so
sone as any skirmishe did begin to be formost, and in deede he vsed the
matter so well, as hee suffred himselfe to be taken prisoner and to be
caried into the towne. And being within, he desired those that had taken
him, to conduct him to the Lorde of Mendozza their chieftaine: whoe knew
him by and by, for that in the voyage which the Duchesse made into
Spaine, he saw him euer more neere her then any other of her gentlemen.
And after that the Lord of Mendozza had demaunded of him by what meanes
he entred the towne, vpon his aunswere, he perceyued that he was a man
of good experience, and well affected to the seruice of his maistres,
that durst hazard his life in such wise to obey her desire.
Incontinently maister Appian deliuered vnto him the Duchesse letter:
which when he had read, he retired into his chamber with maister Appian,
hauing his face all bedewed with teares: and because that the letter did
import credite, he prayed maister Appian to declare his charge. Who said
unto him, “My lady the Duchesse which is at this day the most afflicted
Princesse vnder the coape of Heauen, commendeth herselfe vnto your
honour, and doth humbly besech you not to be offended for that at her
last being in Galisia, shee departed withoute accomplishing her promise
made vnto you: prayinge you to impute the fault vpon the importunitie of
the Duke her husband: whom being constrained to obey, she could not
satisfye the good will that she bare vnto you.{”} Then he began to
declare in order howe the Earle of Pancalier fell in loue with her, and
not beinge able to obtaine his desire, caused his nephew to hide him
vnder her bedde: and how hee had slaine him with his owne handes.
Finallye, the imprisonmente of the Duchesse, and the iudgemente giuen
againste her. Wherat the Lord of Mendozza was greatly astonned: and when
hee had heard the whole discourse, hee began to conceiue some euill
opinion of the duchesse: thinkinge it to be incredible, that the earle
of Pancalier woulde so forget himselfe, as to murder his owne proper
nephewe and adopted sonne, to be reuenged of a seely woman.
Neuerthelesse, he dissembled that which he thoughte, in the presence of
maister Appian, and said vnto him: “Appian my frende, if mine aduerse
fortune did not speake sufficiently for me, I could tel thee here a long
tale of my miseries: but thou seest into what extremitie I am presently
reduced, in sorte that I am vtterly vnable to succour thy maistresse, I
my selfe stil attending the houre of death: and all the pleasures which
presentlye I can doe for thee, is to set thee at libertie from the
perill prepared for vs.” And without longer talke, hee caused a hot
skirmishe to be giuen to his enemies, to set Appian at large: who being
issued forth, made certaine of his men to conduct him to place of
suretie. Appian seinge no way for Mendozza to abandon his citie for
peril of death prepared for him and his, thoughte his excuse reasonable.
And to attempt some other fortune, he vsed such diligence, as he in
short time was retourned to Thurin, wher hauing communicated the whole
matter to Emilia, she went straight to the Duchesse, to whom she said:
“Madame, God giue you the grace to be so constant in your aduersities,
as you haue an occasion to be miscontented with the heauy newes that
Appian hath brought you.” And then she began to recompt vnto her the
misfortune of Mendozza, the thraldome wherunto his enemies had brought
him, and for conclusion, that there was no hope of helpe to be expected
at his handes. Which when the Duchesse vnderstoode she cryed out: “Oh,
poore vnhappy woman, amongste all the most desolate and sorowfull: thou
mayst well now say that the lighte of thy life from henceforth beginneth
to extinguishe and growe to an ende: seing the succour of him, vpon whom
depended thine assuraunce, is denied thee. Ah, ingrate knight: now knowe
I righte well (but it is to late) that of the extreme loue which I did
beare thee, sprong the first roote of all mine euil, which came not by
any accident of fortune, but from celestiall dispensation and deuine
prouidence of my God: who now doth permit that mine hipocrisie and
counterfaite deuotion shall receiue condigne chastisemente for my
sinne.” And then Emilia, seing her so confounded in teares, said vnto
her: “Madame, it doth euil become a greate and wise Princesse, (as you
hitherto haue euer been reputed) to tormente her selfe, sith that you
know howe all the afflictions which we receive from heauen, be but
proues of oure fidelitie: or as your selfe confesseth by your
complaintes, to bee iust punishment for our sinnes. Nowe then be it the
one or the other, you ought to be fortified against the hard assault of
your sorow: and to remit the whole to the mercie of God, who of his
aboundant grace, will deliuer you of your trouble, as he hath done many
others when they thought themselues forsaken of all helpe, by causinge
certaine dropps of his pitie to raine down vpon them.” “Alas, deare
hart,” (quoth the Duchesse,) “how easie a matter it is for one that that
is hole to comforte her that is sicke: but if thou feltest my griefe
thou wouldest helpe me to complaine: so greuous a matter it is vnto mee,
with life to loose mine honour. And I must confesse vnto thee, that I
sustaine a very cruel assault both againste death and life, and I cannot
either with the one or with the other, haue peace or truce in my selfe.
Ne yet do know how to dissemble my sorrowe, but that in the ende the
same will be discouered by the fumes of myne ardente sighes, which
thinking to constraine or retaine, I do nothinge els but burie my selfe
within mine owne bodye: assuringe thee, that greater is one droppe of
bloude that swelteth the harte within, then all the teares that maye be
wept in the whole life without. Wherefore I pray thee leaue mee a litle
to complaine my dolor, before I go to the place from whence I shal neuer
retorne.” Emilia, that willingly would haue sacrificed herselfe to
redeeme the Princesse from perill, not beinge able anye longer to endure
the hard attempte wherewith pitie constrayned her hart, was forced to
goe forth and to withdraw herselfe into another chamber, where she began
to lament after so straunge maner, as it seemed that it had been shee
that was destened to death. Whiles these ladies continued thus in their
sorowes, the knight Mendozza toke no rest by day or night, ne ceassed
continually to thincke vpon the distresse of the Duchesse. And after
that he had well considered the same, hee accused himselfe for fayling
her at that greate neede, saying: “Now do I well knowe that I am for
euer hereafter vtterly vnworthy to beare armes, or to haue the
honourable title of knight, sith the same order was giuen me, wyth
charge to succour afflicted persons, specially Ladies, whose force onely
consisteth in teares. And yet neuerthelesse, I (like a caytife) haue so
shamefullye neglected my dutye towards the chiefe person of the worlde,
to whom I am greatly bounden, as I die a thousand times that day wherein
I thincke vpon the same. It behoueth mee then from henceforth to
establishe new lawes to my deliberation, and that I breake the gate of
mine auncient rigor: louing much better to die in honour, poore, and
disinherited, than to liue puissant, vnhappie, and a cowarde. Wherfore
let fortune worke her wil: sithens the Duchesse did forsake her
countrie, to come to see me in her prosperitie, I may no lesse do now,
but visite her in her aduersitie.” Pressed and solicited inwardlye with
this newe desire, determined whatsoeuer happened to go to her rescue,
and hauinge giuen order to all that was necessary for the defence of the
Citie: putting his confidence in the fidelitie of those that were
within, caused all his Captaynes to be called before him: whom hee did
to vnderstande, how he was determined to go seeke succour, to leuie the
siege of his enemies. Duringe which time he constituted his nere
kinsman, his Liefetenaunte generall, and the nexte morning before the
daye appeared hee gaue a great alarme to his ennemies, wherein hee
escaped vnknowen. Being mounted vppon a Ienet of Spaine and out of
daunger, he toke post horse, and made such expedition as hee arriued at
Lions, where he prouided the beste armour that he could get for money,
and two excellent good horses, whereof the one was a courser of Naples.
And hauing gotten a certaine unknowen page, toke his waye to Thurin,
where beinge arriued, hee lodged in the suburbs, demaunding of his host
if there dwelt anye Spaniards in the towne, whoe made aunsweare, that
hee knewe but one, which was a good olde religious father, that for the
space of twentie yeares was neuer out of Thurin, a man of vertuous life,
and welbeloued of all the Citizens, and had the charge of a certaine
conuente. Neuerthelesse his lodginge was aparte from his brethren, to
solace himselfe, and to auoide the incommoditie of his age. The knight
hauinge learned of his hoste the place wher this good father dwelled,
went with diligence betimes in the morning, to see him, and said vnto
him in the Spanish tongue: “Father, God saue you: I am a Spaniarde comen
hither into this country for certaine mine affaires, towardes whom you
mighte doe a charitable deede, if it woulde please you to suffer mee to
remayne with you foure or fiue dayes onelye, crauinge nothinge els but
lodginge: for my seruaunte shall prouide for other necessaries.” Whiche
the good father willingly graunted, muche maruelling at his goodlye
personage. And whiles the seruante was gone to the towne to bye
victualls, the good father demaunded of him, of what countrye in Spaine
hee was, whiche the knighte francklye confessed. And the fatherlye man
then hauinge his face all be sprent with teares, sayde: “Praysed be the
name of GOD, that he hath giuen mee the grace before I dye, to see so
great a Lorde in my poore house, of whom I am both the subiecte and
neighbour.” And then he began to tell him how for deuocion he had
forsaken his natiue countrey and had bestowed himselfe there, the better
to withdrawe him from worldly vanitie. Neuerthelesse he said: that he
knew his father, his mother, and his graundfather. Desiring him to vse
his house at commaundement, where he should be obeyed as if he were in
his owne: and then the lord of Mendozza said vnto him, that he was
departed from Spaine of purpose to see Fraunce, and there to make his
abode for a time. And that passing by Lions one aduertised him of the
infortunate chaunce of the Duchesse, whom if he thought to be innocent
of the crime whereof she was accused, he would defend her to the
sheading of the last drop of his bloude. Neuerthelesse he would not
hazard his life or soule to defend her, if he knew her to be guiltie.
Which wordes the good man greatly allowed, saying vnto him: “My Lord,
touchinge her innocencie, I beleue there is at this day no man liuing,
but herselfe and the Earle, her accuser, that can iudge. But one thinge
I can well assure you, that wee heere, do deeme her to be one of the
beste Princesses, that euer raigned in this countrie, specially for that
a yeare paste she went on foote to S. Iames, with suche deuotion and
humilitie, as there was no man but pitied to see her so mortified for
her soules healthe. And to combate with the Earle of Pancalier, you
seeme vnto me very yong: for besides the continual exercise that he hath
alwayes had in armes, he is withal esteemed to be one of the strongest,
readiest, and most redoubted knights of all Lombardie: the victorie
notwithstanding is in the hand of God, who can giue it to whom he
pleaseth: which hee made manifest in the yong infante Dauid, against the
monstrous Giante Golias.” To whome the knighte aunswered: “Father, I
have deuised a waye how to prouide against the scruple of my conscience,
touchinge the doubte conceyued by mee, whether the combat that I shall
take in hande against the earle of Pancalier, be iust or not, which is,
that I vnder colour of confession, might vnderstand of the duchesse, the
trouth of the matter. And therfore if you thinke good I may cause my
head and beard to be shauen, and apparelling my selfe in such habite as
you do weare, we two may easely (as I thinke) with the leaue of her
keepers, go into the Duchesse Chamber, to exhort her to pacience: for
about this time of the yeare, the day is expired.” Wherunto the good
father without any great difficultie, consented, aswell for respect of
his good zeale, as for his reuerent duty to the nobility of the stock
whereof he came. And so all things prouided, they wente together towards
the castle of the Duchesse. And he that had seen the knight Mendozza in
his fryer’s apparell, would vnethes haue discerned him, to be so great a
Lorde as he was: for besides his dissembled gestures and countenaunces,
wherwith he knew right wel how to behaue himselfe, he was so leane and
poore, aswell for the care of the battell he lost, and ouerthrowe of his
people, as for the mishap of the Duchesse, and the peril of his life at
hand, by reason of the combate betweene the Earle and him, as he
resembled rather a holy S. Hierome, mortified in some desert, then a
Lorde, so noble and valiaunt as he was. Arriued at the castell, the olde
father addressed himself to the guarde and sayd: “Maisters, because the
time for the death of the miserable duchesse doth approche, we be come
hither to geue her such spirituall comforte, as wherwith God hath
inspired vs, hoping that hee will this daye geue vs the grace to induce
her to die paciently, to the intent that by losse of the bodye, her
soule may be saued.” Wherunto they accorded willinglye, and caused the
chamber to be opened vnto them. They within the chamber went forth
incontinently, thinking that the Gouernour had caused the good fathers
to come to heare the last confession of the poore Duchesse, who was so
sorowefull and pensife as she was forced to kepe her bed: which came
very well to passe, for the knight Mendozza, comming neare vnto her
bedde, with his face towardes her, so counterfayted hym selfe as he
coulde not in any manner of wyse be knowen. And the good olde father
fryer taried in a corner of the chamber a farre of, that he might heare
none of their talke: and as the Lorde of Mendozza leaned vpon her
bedsyde, he sayde vnto her in the Italian tongue, which was so familiar
to him as the Spanishe: “Madame, the peace of our Lorde be with you.”
Wherunto the lady aunswered: “Father why speake you of peace, sithe I am
in continuall warre, depriued of al contentation, and doe but attende
the last end of my calamitie, whiche is a moste cruell and shamefull
death, without desert.” And then the Lorde of Mendozza, who had consumed
the moste parte of his youthe in good letters, saide vnto her: “I beleue
madame you be not ignoraunt howe miseries and tribulations, fall not by
accident or fortune, but by the prouidence or dispensation of God,
before whome one litle sparrowe onely is not forgotten, as the prophete
Amos doth manifeste vnto vs when he sayth: ‘there is none euil in the
Citie that I haue not sent thither:’ whiche is also apparaunt in Job,
whome the Deuil could not afflicte before he had first obtayned licence
of God. And it is necessarye for you to knowe, that tribulations and
affliction bee tokens of the fore chosen and elected people of God, and
the true markes of our saluation: so that if you consider the order of
all the Scriptures, from the beginning of the worlde vntyll this tyme,
you shall fynde that they whome God hath alwayes best loued and
cherished, he hath commaunded to drinke of the cup of his passion, and
to be more afflicted than others: examples whereof be common in the
Scriptures. As when Abell was afflicted by Caine his brother, Isaac by
his brother Ismaell, Ioseph by his brethren, Dauid by Absolon his sonne,
the children of Israel (the electe people of God) by Pharao: whiche
thinges beinge profoundlye considered by Sainct Paule, he sayde: ‘If we
had not an other hope in Iesus Christe, than in the lyfe present, we
might well say that we were the most miserable of al others. And yet
moreouer, saith he, it is litle or nothing that we endure, in respect of
that which Iesus Christe hath suffered.’ Who (although he framed the
whole worke of the worlde) was called the Carpenter’s sonne, for
preaching he was sclaundered, he was caried vp to a mountaine to be
throwen down, he was called Glotton, Dronkard, louer of Publicanes and
sinners, Samaritane, Seducer, Diuell: saying, that in the name of
Belzebub he did cast out Diuels. But let vs consider, madame, a litle
further, what thinges were done vnto him, hee was naked to clothe vs,
prisoner and bounde to vnbinde vs from the chain of the Diuell, made a
sacrifice to cleanse vs of all our inward filth, we doe see that he
suffred his side to be opened, to close vp hell from vs, we see his
handes whiche in so comely order made both heauen and earth for the loue
of vs, pearced with pricking nailes, his head crowned with three sharped
thornes to crowne vs with heauenly glorie. Let vs way that by his dolour
came our ioye, our health grew of his infirmitie, of his death was
deriued our life: and should we be ashamed to haue our head touched with
a fewe thornes of trouble? Strengthen your self then (madame) in the
name of God, and make you ready to receiue death in the name of him that
was not ashamed to indure it for you. Is his strong hande any thing
weakened? Is it not in him to ouerthrow the furie of your enemie, and so
to humble your aduersarie that he shall neuer be able to be relieued?
How many poore afflicted persones haue there bene seene to be abandoned
of all succour, whom he hath behelde with his pitiful eye, and restored
to greater ease and contentation, then euer they were in before? learne
then from henceforth, to comforte your selfe in God, and say as the
great doctor holy Ignatius sayd in his Epistle to the Romaines: ‘I
desire that the fier, the gallowes, the beastes, and all the tormentes
of the Diuil might exercise their crueltie vpon me, so as I may haue
fruition of my Lorde God.’” And after that the knight had made an ende
of his consolation, the Duchesle was so rapte in contentation, as it
seemed her soule had already tasted of the celestiall delightes, and
would flie euen vp into heauen. And then feeling her selfe lightened
like one that had escaped some furious tempest of the seas, she began to
confesse her selfe vnto him from point to point, without omitting any
thing of that whiche she thought might greue her conscience. And when
she came to the accusation of the Earle, she prayed God not to pardon
her sinnes, if she had committed in deede or thought, any thing
contrarie to the dutie of mariage, except it were one dishonest
affection that she had borne to a knight of Spaine, whom vnder pretence
of a fained deuotion she had visited in Spayne, not committing any thing
sauing good will whiche shee bare vnto him. “Which maketh me thinke
(quod she) that God being moued against myne hypocrisie, hath permitted
this false accusation to be raysed against me by the Earle of Pancalier,
whiche I will paciently suffer, sithe his will is so.” Her confession
finished, she plucked of a rich diamonde from her finger, saying: “Good
father, albeit I haue heretofore bene a riche Princesse, as you knowe,
yet nowe myne ennemies haue taken awaye all my goodes from me (this
diamond except) which my brother the kyng of Englande gaue me, when I
was maried to the Duke of Sauoie. And because I can not otherwise doe
you good, I geue it vnto you, praying you to remember me in your
prayers, and to kepe it for my sake: for it is of a greater price then
you thinke, and may serue one daie to supply the necessitie of your
conuent.” The confession ended and the diamond receiued, the twoo friers
retourned home to their conuent. And so sone as they were arriued there,
the Lorde of Mendozza sayde vnto hym: “Father, nowe doe I know
certainly, that this poore woman is innocent, wherefore I am resolued to
defende her so long as life doth last. And I feele my selfe so touched
and pressed in mynde, as I thinke it long till I be at the combat.
Wherefore I praye you if it chaunce that fortune be contrary vnto me,
after my death, make it to be openly knowen what I am, and chiefly that
the Duchesse may vnderstande it, for speciall purpose. And if it fortune
that I escape with life (which can not be but by the death of the Earle)
be secrete vnto me in these thinges which I haue declared vnder the
vayle of confession.” The good father promised so to doe. And hauing
passed all that day and night in praiers and supplications, he armed
himselfe, and made ready his courser. And when the dawning of the daye
began to appeare, he went in his armour to the gates of the Citie, and
calling one of the Guarde, he sayd vnto him: “Good fellowe, I pray thee
bidde the Counte of Pancalier to prepare him selfe, to mainteine the
false accusation, which he hath falsely forged against the Duchesse of
Sauoie. And further tell him, that there is a knight here, that will
make him to denie his horrible vilany before hee parte the fielde, and
will in the presence of al the people cut out that periured toung, which
durst commit such treason against an innocent Princesse.” This matter
was in a moment published throughout all the citie, in such sorte, as
you might haue sene the churches full of men and women, praying to God
for the redemption of their maistresse. During the time that the guarde
had done his ambassage, the Lord of Mendozza went towardes the piller
where the accusation was written, attending when the accuser should come
forth. The Earle of Pancalier aduertised hereof, began incontinently to
feele a certaine remorse of conscience, which inwardly gript hym so
nere, as he endured a torment lyke to very death. And being vnable to
discharge himself therof, would willingly haue wished that he had neuer
attempted the dishonour of the Lady. Neuerthelesse that he might not
seeme slacke in that he had begonne, he sent woorde to the knight, that
he mould write his name vppon the Piller, to whome Mendozza made
aunswere, that he might not know his name, but the combat he would make
him feele before the daye went downe. The Earle of Pancalier made
difficultie of the combat, if firste he knewe not the name of hym with
whom he should haue to doe. The matter well aduised, it was clearely
resolued by the Iudges, that the statutes made no mention of the name,
and therefore he was not bounde thereunto, but that the statute did
expreslye fauour the defendant, geuing vnto him the election of the
armour, and semblablie it was requisite that the persone accused should
be brought forth in the presence of the twoo Champions. Which thinges
vnderstanded by the Earle, albeit that he trusted not his quarell, yet
making a vertue of necessitie, and not vnlearned in the order of such
conflictes, forthwith armed hymselfe, and came into the place ordayned
for the campe, where he founde his enemy armed in a black armour, in
token of mourning. Immediately after they sent for the Duchesse, who
ignoraunt of the matter wondered much when she vnderstode that there was
a knight in the field all armed in black, seming to be a noble man, that
promised some great matter by his dexteritie and bolde countenaunce, and
would also mainteine against the Earle of Pancalier his accusation to be
false. The poore Duchesse then not being able to imagine what he should
be, greatly troubled in mind, and comming forth of the Castel was
conducted in a litter couered with black cloth, accompanied with more
then two hundreth ladies and damsels, in semblable attire vnto the place
where the Iudges, the people and the two knightes were, who did but
attend her comming. And after they had wayted her going vp to a litle
stage ordained for that purpose, the Deputies for the assurance of the
campe, demaunded of her these wordes, saying: “Madam, for that you be
accused of adulterie by the Earle of Pancalier here present, and the
custome requireth that you present a Knight within the yeare and daye,
by force of armes to trye your right: are you determined to accepte him
that is here present, and to repose your selfe vpon him, both for your
fault and innocencie?” The Duchesse aunswered: that shee committed all
her right into the mercie of God, who knew the inwarde thoughtes of her
harte, and to the manhode of the knight, albeit she thought that she had
neuer seen him. And when she had ended those woordes, she fell downe
vppon her knees, then lifting vp her eyes all blubbered with teares
towardes heauen, she prayed: “O Lorde God, which art the very veritie it
self, and knowest the bytternesse that I fele in my harte, to see my
self falsely accused, shew forth now the treasure of thy grace vpon me
wretched Princesse: and as thou diddest deliuer Susanna from her
trouble, and Iudith from Holofernes, deliuer me from the hande of a
tiraunt: who like a lion hungrie for my bloud, deuoureth both myne
honour and life.” And hauing made an ende of her prayer, shee remained
vnmoueable as if shee had bene in a traunce. And nowe the knight
Mendozza, offended to see the Earle to praunce his horse vp and downe
the campe, making him to vaut and leape, with a countenaunce very
furious sayd vnto him: “Traytour Counte, because I am certayne that the
accusation which thou hast forged against this Princesse, is inuented by
the greatest villany of the world, I do maintaine here before al the
people, that thou hast falsely accused her, and that thou liest in thy
throte, in all that thou hast contriued against her, and that thou haste
deserued to bee put into a sacke, to bee caste into the Riuer for the
murder that thou haste committed vppon thy Nephewe, the innocent bloud
of whom doth nowe crie for vengeance to be taken for thy synne before
God.” And scarce had he made an ende of his woordes, but the Earle
aunswered him with a marueilous audacitie: “Infamous villain, which
hidest thy name for feare lest thy vices should be knowen, thou arte
nowe fouly deceiued by thinking to warrant her, who hath offended
against the Duke her husbande, by her whoredome and adulterie: and for
that thou hast parled so proudly, and wilt not be knowen, I can not
otherwyse thinke but that thou art some one of her ruffians: and
therefore I doe mainteine, that thou thy selfe doest lie, and that thou
deseruest to be burnt in the same fire with her, or els to be drawen
with foure horses by the crosse pathes of this towne, to serue for an
example in the worlds to come, not onely for all lasciuious Ladies and
Damsels, but also for such abhominable whoremongers, as be lyke thy
selfe.” Incontinently after, the Harraulde of armes began to make the
accustomed crie, and the Knightes to put their launces in their restes:
they let run their horses with such violence, as ioyning together their
shieldes, their bodies and heads, they brake their staues, euen to their
Gauntlets, so roughly, as they fel both down to the ground without
losing, neuerthelesse, the raines of the bridles. But the heate of the
harte, and desire to vanquishe, made them readily to get vp againe, and
hauing cast away the troncheons of their staues, layd handes on their
swordes, and there began so straunge and cruell a sturre betwene them,
as they which were the beholders were affrighted to see them able to
endure so much: for they were so fleshed one vppon another, and did so
thicke bestowe their strokes without breathing, as the lookers on
confessed neuer to haue seene any combat in Piemonte betwene twoo single
persons, so furious, nor better followed then that of the Earle and of
the knight Mendozza. But the Spanishe knight encouraged with the Iustice
of his quarell, and the rewarde of his fight, seemed to redouble his
force: for euen when euery man thought that power must needes fayle him,
it was the houre wherin he did best behaue himselfe. In such sort, as
his enemy not being able any longer to susteine his puissaunt strokes,
being wounded in diuers partes of his bodye, did nowe no more but
defende himselfe, and beare of the blowes which were bestowed vpon hym
without intermission: whiche the Spanishe knight perceiuing, desirous to
make an ende of the combat, made so full a blowe with all his force ypon
the top of his helmet, as he wounded his head very sore. Wherewithall
the harte of the Earle began very muche to faint, and staggering here
and there like a dronken man or troubled in his senses, was constrained
to fall downe from his horse: and then the Lorde of Mendozza dismounting
him selfe, and takyng holde vpon the corps of his shield, plucked it so
rudely to him, as he ouerturned him on his other syde. Then with the
pomell of his sworde he did so swetely bumbast him, as he made his
helmet to flye of his head: and setting his foote vpon his throte, made
as though with the point of his swearde he woulde haue killed hym,
saying: “Counte, the houre is now come that thou must goe make an
accompt with God of thine vntrouth and treason which thou hast committed
against the Duchesse.” “Ah, sir knight (quoth the Earle) haue pitie vpon
me, and kil me not I beseche thee, before I haue a litle bethought me of
my conscience.” “Villaine (quoth the Spaniard) if I had any hope of
thine amendement, I would willingly geue thee dalay of life: but being a
traytour as thou art, thou wilt neuer ceasse to afflicte innocentes.
Neuerthelesse if thou wilt acknowledge thy fault publikely, and require
pardon of the Duchesse, I wil willingly leaue thee to the mercy of the
Duke, although that if I did obserue the rigour of the lawe, I should
cause the presently to receiue the payne prepared for the Duchesse.” To
whom he obeied for safegarde of his life, and kneeling on his knees
before the Duchesse in the presence of al the people, made a long
discourse of his loue towardes her, of the repulse that she gaue him,
and that for reuenge, he ayded him self with his nephewe, thinking to
ouerthrowe her chastitie. Finally, howe he had slayne his Nephewe, to
induce the Duke to iudge her to be culpable of the adulterie. And then
tourning his face towardes the Duchesse, sayde vnto her: “Madame it
behoueth me to confesse that the losse of this one life is to litle to
paye the tribute of the curelesse faulte that I haue committed against
you. Yet sithe it is so, I beseche you by preferring pitie and mercy
before the rigor of your iustice, you will permit that I may liue yet
certayn dayes to make a view of my life past, and to prouide for the
scruple of my conscience.” Then new ioye approched to garnishe the
spirite of the Duchesse, and both the soule and the harte began to shewe
theim selues ioyful, in such wyse, as she was a long tyme without power
to speake, and did nothing els but ioyne her handes and lifte vp her
eyes to heauen, saying: “O Lorde God, praysed be thy holy name, for that
thou hast caused the bright beames of thy diuinitie, to shyne vpon the
darkenesse of my sorrowfull life, enforcing so well the mynde of this
traytour the murderer of mine honour by the prickes of thy rigorous
iustice, openly to acknowledge before all men, the iniurie that he hath
done me.” And without speaking any more wordes, she torned her face for
feare lest she should make him any other aunswere. Then all the people
began to laude and magnifie God, and to sing psalmes for ioye of the
deliueaunce of their Duchesse, who was brought backe and reconducted
into the Citie, with so great triumphe, as if she had made a seconde
entrie. Whilest these things were adoing, the Deputies for the suretie
of the campe caused the wounded Earle to be borne to pryson. The knight
Mendozza stale secretly awaye, and after that he had in the next village
dressed certaine small woundes that he had receiued in the combat, he
toke his way into Spain. In the meane time, the Duchesse caused him to
be sought for in euery place, but it was not possible to know any more
newes of him, than if he had ben neuer seene. Whereat being grieued
beyond measure, she made her mone to Emilia, to know wherefore he should
so absent himself from her. “Madame (quoth Emilia,) he is sure some
French knight, or els it may be some kinsman of your own, that is come
out of England into these partes for certayne other affaires: and
fearing least he should bee staied here, will not be knowen, reseruing
the manifestation of himself till an other tyme more apte for his
purpose.” “Let him bee what he may bee (sayde the Duchesse) for so long
as my soule shall remayne within this bodye, I wyll doe hym homage
during life: for the whiche I am so duelye bounde debtour vnto him, as
neuer subiecte was to his soueraigne Lorde.” In this tyme whylest these
matters went thus at Thurin, the Duke of Sauoie, the Lieutenant generall
for the king against the Almaines, encountring with his enemies in a
skirmishe, by fortune was slayne: whereof the king of England being
aduertised, and specially of the deliuerie of his syster, desirous to
haue her about him, sente for her to marrie her agayne, and to leaue
vnto her the entier gouernement of his householde: and to gratifie her
at her firste arriuall, he gaue the rule of his daughter vnto her, which
was of the age of sixtene or seuentene yeares, with whom by certayne
meanes there was a mariage practized for the Prince of Spayne. Let vs
now leaue the Duchesse to liue in honor with her brother, and retorne we
to the Lorde of Mendozza, who being arriued nere vnto his Citie,
vnderstode incontinently that they which had besiedged it had leuied
their campe. For that they of the towne had so well done their endeauour
as not onely their enemies were not able to enter, but also they had in
a certain skirmishe taken the Lord Ladolpho their chieftaine prisoner,
who was yet to that present detained: because meanes were made for peace
to be concluded on al sides: neuerthelesse they durst doe nothing
without hym: whereat the Lorde of Mendozza beyng replenyshed with greate
ioye to see his affaires prosper so well in all partes, entred the
Citie: and the articles of the peace communicated vnto him, hee founde
them verie profitable for him: and being concluded and approued by him
he began to solace himselfe in his owne house, without taking care for
any thing saue onely from thenceforth to thinke by what meane he might
goe to see the Duchesse, and recount vnto her the issue of his affaires.
But fortune prepared him a more readie occasion than he thought of: for
the kyng of Spaine being aduertised of certaine talkes that had bene
bruted of the mariage of his sonne with the daughter of the king of
Englande, determined with speede to send a great companie of noble men
thyther, to demaunde his daughter in mariage: of the which the Lorde of
Mendozza, as wel for his nobilitie, as for the knowledge he had in
languages and other good disciplines, was elected chiefe, with speciall
commission to accorde the mariage in case it should so please the kyng.
The Ambassadours vsed suche expedition, that they arriued at London,
where the kynge for that presente made his abode: who aduertised of
their comming, gaue commandement to the Princesse his daughter, and to
the Duchesse his sister, to prepare them selues to receyue a great
companye of Lordes of Spayne, whiche that daye would come to his Courte
to treate of the aforesayde mariage. And God knoweth if the ladies
spared oughte of that, whiche they thought might augmente their beautie.
The king also for his part, to doe them more honour, wente to meete them
in persone, and at their arriuall, gaue them a moste friendly welcome:
but sodaynly as they presented themselues to doe their reuerence to the
ladies, the Duchesse who incontinently knew the Lord of Mendozza, began
so to deteste him as she was not able to rule her selfe, but (with a
sodayne mutation of colour) she abandoned the companie: the Lorde of
Mendozza knowyng the originall of her griefe, lefte not his dutie vndone
towardes the Princesse and other ladyes which accompanied her,
dissembling to haue taken no regarde to the absence of the Duchesse. And
Emilia, who had followed her mistresse into the chambre, fearynge leaste
there were some sodaine mischaunce happened, demaunded of her, wherfore
she was retired from a company so honourable: and sayd that she did
great wrong to her owne estimation: to whom the Duchesse (with extreme
choler) made aunswere: “Why Emilia, thinkest thou that I haue the harte
to suffer my hand to be kissed by that moste trayterous and moste
cowardly knight of the world, who made no conscience to abandone me in
the greatest necessitie of my life? where as I, contrary to the dutie of
all the lawes of honour, and contrary to my sexe, did so muche abase my
selfe as to visite hym in Spayne. Naye rather my dayes shall ceasse
their course than myne affection shall euer reuiue in him: he shall
neuer receiue any other fauour of me, but as of his most cruell and
mortall enemy.” And then Emilia smiling, sayd vnto her: “In good
earnest, madame, I thought that the sharpenesse of your imprisonement,
with the other tormentes paste, whiche you indured, might haue put all
these matters quite in obliuion, and woulde so haue mortified you, that
you had wholly lost all desire of reuenge: but so farre as I can
perceiue, I am deceiued of mine accompte, seying that sodaynly so soone
as you behelde the knight Mendozza, you began to flie, as if your
ghostly enemie had come before you, in his moste hideous and horrible
forme.” Yet could not Emilia perswade her, to shewe her selfe abroade
before dynner, tyll the king sent for her, with woorde that if she came
not, he would himselfe fetche her. And then a little shamefast colour
began to renew her alablaster cheekes, which rendred her so ruddye and
fayre, as the Spanyards confessed neuer to haue seene in any parte of
the worlde, where they had bene, one so faire and beautifull a wydow.
The tables couered for dynner, the king tooke his place, and for their
more honourable entertaynement, caused them to be set at his owne table:
and made the Lorde of Mendozza to be placed right ouer against the
Duchesse his sister: who was so inflamed and moued with choler, as shee
duste not lift vp her eyes for feare least vpon the sodayne she should
bee perceyued: whiche eyes sparkeling sometymes with greate yre,
resembled properlye twoo starres of the night, that shoote forth their
brightnesse vpon the earth, when all thinges be in silence. And all this
tyme the Lorde of Mendozza conceyued suche pleasure at these pretie
toyes, as he would not haue chaunged his ioy for the best Citie in all
Englande: and as the Duchesse in this order did firmely fix her eyes,
shee sawe by fortune a ryche diamonde that Mendozza ware vpon his
finger, wherupon hauing oftentymes caste her eyes, she sodaynly knew
that it was the very same that shee had geuen to the good father that
confessed her at Thurin, the daye before shee was leadde to the Piller,
and began then to imagine with her selfe, how it might be that he could
come by the same: and not knowing what to saye, immediatly after shee
had dyned and the tables taken vp, she caused maister Appian her
Phisitian to be called vnto her: whome she desyred to know of the Lord
of Mendozza, by what meanes he came by the Diamonde that he ware vpon
his finger: which Appian did. And after he had talked with the knight of
certain common matters, he sayde vnto hym: “My Lorde, you haue a very
fayre Diamonde there, whiche as I thinke I haue sene before this tyme,
wherefore sir I praye you tel me where you had it.” To whome the Lorde
of Mendozza answered in laughing wise: “Maister Appian, where I had the
ring, is to secret for you to know, but tell my lady the Duchesse, that
the knowledge thereof onely appertayneth vnto her.” Whiche aunswere
Appian declared to the Duchesse: and albeit that she tooke no great
pleasure in the aunswere, yet neuerthelesse very desyrous to vnderstande
the truth, she repayred to the Knight whiche the same time walked alone
in a Gallerie, who after he had kyssed her handes, began to discourse of
his fortunes past, declaring vnto her, that he repented of the refusall
that he made to maister Appian for her succour, and howe within a while
after he rode to Thurin: adding the deuise whereby he had heard her
confession, and how the Diamonde came into his handes, putting her in
remembraunce from worde to worde, of all his talke with her, during the
tyme that he was in frier’s weede, then finally his victorie against the
Earle, his secret flyght, and all the whole as before hath bene
declared. Whereat the Duchesse no lesse abashed than rapt with ioy and
admiration, fel downe in a swoune betwene his armes, holding her mouth
so faste closed against his, that it seemed she would drawe the soule
out of his bodye, to ioyne and vnite with her’s: and after she had
remayned a whyle in this traunce, shee cried out: “O poore harte so long
tyme plagued, whiche hast for the space of a yeare nowe passed, bene
tossed with so many tempestes and diuers assaultes of fortune: receiue
at this present the medicine apt for thy health, sithens thou enioyest
him betwene thine armes, that by the pryce of his blood, valiant force
and extreme trauailes, hath raised thee from death to life: let fortune
from henceforth doe her will in that she is able to deuise against me:
and yet wyll I, for this onely benefite, confesse my selfe this daye to
be eternally bounde vnto her.” “Madame (quod the knight) I pray you let
vs not renewe the memorie of our former griefes: wherein, if by any
meane I haue done you good, I was but the organe or instrumente thereof:
for God, who is the righter of all wrong, did neuer suffer iustice
without his due acquitall, howe long so euer he taried. So (you not
beyng in any wyse culpable) if I had neuer enterprysed the combate
whereunto I was bounde, our Lorde God would haue raysed some other to
achieue the same.” “Well then my Lord, (quoth the Duchesse) sithens it
pleaseth you not, that I renewe my dolours past, which have taken ende
by your meane, I shall humbly beseche you to excuse mee, if this daye I
haue not geuen you that honour and good entertainement whiche you
deserued: assuring you that before you shall departe this countrey, I
wyll make you amendes according vnto your own discretion.” “Madame,
(quod the knyght) for all the wronges that euer you did vnto me, (if
they may be called wronges) the curtesie, fauour and gentlenesse which
alreadie I haue receiued, doth at one instant requite and recompence.
Neuerthelesse if it may please you to receyue me for your seconde
husbande, sithe it hath pleased God to call your first out of this lyfe
into an other: that is and shal bee the fulnesse of all the felicitie
that I looke for in this worlde.” “My Lorde Mendozza, (sayd the
Duchesse) the recompence whiche you demaunde of me, is very little in
respect of the amendes and satisfaction whiche I ought to make you. But
of one thing I can well assure you, that if I had the whole world at my
commaundement, and that I were the greatest Princesse of the earth, in
all kinde of beauties and giftes of grace, I would willingly submitte my
self vnto you, in consideration of your worthinesse, and benefits
bestowed vpon me with so willing a minde, as presently I do yelde vnto
your request: and I must nedes confesse, that I am now greatly bounde to
fortune, that hath deliuered me into your handes, from whome I hope
never to be seuered so long as my soule shall reste within my body:
being predestinated as I beleue to no other ende but to serue and obey
you.” And as they thought to make a longer discourse of their talke,
Emilia told them that the king was in counsell, and that the other
Lordes of Spaine attended his comming: who with his company being come
before the king, and hauing done their reuerence vnto him, he began to
declare his charge, and how they were of purpose sente to his maiestie
in the behalfe of the king of Spaine, to demaunde the Lady his doughter
in mariage, for his sonne the Prince of Spaine: which he had chosen
aswel to haue his alliance (a matter by him only desired) as for the
beautie and good grace, for the which she was specially recommended. And
if so bee, he had willed to haue chosen his matche els where, that there
was not at that day any Prince in al Europa, that woulde not willingly
haue accorded vnto him. To whom the king answered: “My frendes, I feele
my selfe so much honored, for that it hath pleased the king to send vnto
me, as if he had not preuented me, I had thought to haue sent vnto him
for the same purpose. And albeit that herein he hath vanquished me in
ciuilitie and courtesie, yet I will not faile if I can to surmount him
in amitie. For he hath bound me during life, in such wise as he, and my
Lord his sonne, may boldly vaunt themselves to haue a king of England
and a realme from henceforth at their commaundement.” The mariage
concluded, the Duchesse diligentlye made sute to talke with the king
alone, to communicate vnto him the agreement betweene the Lord of
Mendozza and her. And perceiuing that the king was gone into his
chamber, she went vnto him, and being alone with him, hauing her face al
bedewed with teares, kneling, she said vnto him: “My Lord, when I
consider my miseries paste, and the cruell assaultes that I haue
receiued of fortune, being not onely committed to the mercy of a moste
cruell prison, but (which is more) at the very last point of a shamefull
death, I am so afflicted, that the onely remembraunce of those miseries
terrifieth me, and causeth a certaine extreme bitternesse to rise in my
hart. And when on the other side, I thinke of the great goodnesse that
Almightie God hath shewed vnto me, by stretching forth his mighty hand
to deliuer me out of that perill, chieflie to make mee triumphe ouer the
death of mine enemy: I feele such comforte of minde as all the delightes
of the world be but griefes, in respect of the ioye, pleasure and
contentacion that I receiue: wherein nothing offendeth me so much as
hetherto that I haue not acknowledged the benefit receiued of him, who
was elected of God to be my deliuerer: neuerthelesse sir, by your onely
word, you may both satisfie him, and content mee, yea and (as it were)
prolong the dayes of my life.” The king, who loued his sister no lesse
than his daughter, seeing her pitifull complainte and teares, and to
speake with such affection, toke her vppe, and holdinge her by the arme,
said vnto her: “Deare sister and frende, if I have not to this present
satisfied him that was the cause of your deliueraunce, I cannot be
accused of ingratitude, for that hitherto I haue not knowen him, ne yet
your selfe doth knowe what he is, (as you haue oftentimes tolde me:) but
of one thing you maye be assured, and I sweare vnto you at this present,
by my Scepter, that so sone as I shall vnderstande what he is, I will
vse him in such wise as he shall thincke himselfe satisfied and
contented, thoughe it did coste me the one halfe of my kingdome: for the
pleasure which he hath done vnto you bindeth not you alone, but mee
also, to be partaker of that band, both our honours being iointly bound
thereunto.” “Alas, my Lord, (said the Duchesse) it is the knighte
Mendozza, chiefe of this ambassade, to whom, if it please you to giue
your consent that we two might marrie, all auncient bands and debtes
shal remain extinct, and so by a smal reward you shal restore life to
two persons, almost dead, for the excessiue loue which one beareth the
other.” And therewithal she began to declare to the king, thoriginal and
processe of the whole discourse. First, the voyage of the sister of
Mendozza into Piemont: her owne peregrination to S. Iames, the honest
amitie betweene her and Mendozza, the message of maister Appian to
Mendozza, his refusall of that request, his retorne after to Thurin, her
confession, the Diamonde knowen againe, finally, how all the whole had
passed betwene them: the counterfaite deuocion to Sainct Iames onelye
reserued, which, for her honour’s sake, shee woulde not tell him. The
kinge vnderstanding this straunge discourse, was so rapte with ioye and
appalled with gladnesse, as hee could not for a longe time make any
aunswere. When his passion was moderated, hee said to his sister: “But
be you well assured, that hee will receiue you for his wyfe.” “Yea, my
Lord, (quoth shee) I ought well to be assured of it, since he himselfe
hath made the requeste.” “And truly, (quoth the kinge) GOD forbidde that
I should be the cause to breake so holy an accorde: for if the Lorde of
Mendozza were inferiour in qualitie, nobility, and goods, than hee is:
yet hath hee so much done both for you and mee, as we may not honestlie
refuse him. Howe much more then be we bounde to him: being a greate
Lorde as hee is, issued of noble and famous families of Spaine, rich in
goodes, and hauinge hazarded his life for the conseruation of your
honour: and therewithall seeketh mine alliaunce. Goe your wayes, (dere
sister and frend) goe your wayes, make much of him, and entreate him as
you thincke beste. And when I haue walked two or three tornes here, I
will come vnto him, to communicate more amplie of these matters.” Scarce
had the Duchesse leysure to aduertise the Lorde of Mendozza of that
which was concluded betweene the kinge and her, but he came downe into
the hall, where the moste parte of the Spanishe gentlemen walked, and
with a very ioyfull countenaunce wente to the knight. To whom hee said:
“My Lorde Mendozza, I praye you to embrace mee: for so farre as I see,
I haue a better intereste in you than I thought.” And the Lorde of
Mendozza thinking to embrace him, his knee vppon the ground, was
immediatelye desired to stand vp, Whom the kinge cleeping aboute the
necke, saide vnto him so loude as euerye man mighte heare: “Sir knighte,
by the GOD of Heauen, since that I might commaunde in the realme of
Englande, I haue not entertayned Gentleman nor Prince, to whom I have
bin more endebted than to you: nor neuer was there any dearer vnto mee
than you, for the greate gratitude and kindnesse, wherewith you haue
bound me, and wherby I shal not from henceforth be satisfied, vntil I
haue in some thinge acknowledged the bonde wherein I am bounde vnto
you.” When hee had spoken those woordes, hee began to declare from point
to point, in the presence of all the assemblie, the contentes of the
whole before declared historie. Whereat there was none in all the
company, but was greatly astonned at the prudence of Mendozza, by so
well dissembling, and accomplishing so great enterprises, without making
them manifest. And the king of Englande commaunded that the mariage of
him and his sister shoulde be published throughe out his realme, that
all his nobilitie might be assembled. And for his greater honour,
the kinge did from thenceforth constitute him his high Constable of
England, and reposed himselfe in him, as vppon a firme piller, for the
administration of the wayghtiest affaires of his realme. The mariage
solempnized and consummate with the Duchesse, he retourned into Spaine,
to accompanye the Prince into England, whose mariage was celebrated
at London, with the king of England’s daughter, in such pompe and
solempnitie, as semblable Princes be commonlie accustomed to do in such
like cases.




THE FORTY-SIXTH NOUELL.

_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._


This historie ensuinge, describing the perfect figure of womanhode, the
naturall qualitie of loue incensinge the hartes indifferentlye of all
nature’s children, the liuely image of a good condicioned Prince, the
zealous loue of parentes and the glorious reward that chastitie
conduceth to her imbracers, I deeme worthie to be annexed to the former
Nouell, wherein as you haue hearde, bee contayned the straunge
aduentures of a fayre and innocente Duchesse: whose life tried like
gould in the fornace, glittereth at this daye like a bright starry
planet, shining in the firmament with moste splendent brightnesse aboue
all the rest, to the eternal prayse of feminine kinde. And as a noble
man of Spaine, by heate of Loue’s rage, pursued the louinge trace of a
king of England’s sister: euen so a renowmed and most victorious Prince
(as the Auctour of theim both affirmeth) thorow the furie of that
passion, which (as Apuleus sayth) in the firste heate is but small, but
aboundinge by increase, doth set all men on fier, maketh earnest sute by
discourse of wordes to a Lady herselfe, a Countesse, and Earle’s
doughter, a beautifull and faire wighte, a creature incomparable, the
wife of a noble man his own subiect: who seing her constante forte to be
impregnable, after pleasaunte sute and milde requeste, attempteth by
vndermining to inuade, and when with siege prolixe, hee perceiueth no
ingenious deuise can atchieue that long and painfull worke, he threateth
mighte and maine, dire and cruell assaultes, to winne and gette the
same: and laste of all surrendred into his hands, and the prisoner
cryinge for mercie, he mercifully is contented to mitigate his conceyued
rigour, and pitifully to release the Lady, whom for her womanlye
stoutnesse and coragious constancie hee imbraceth and entertayneth for
his owne. This greate and worthy king, by the first viewe of a delicate
Ladie, thorowe the sappe of loue soaked into his noble harte, was
transported into manye passions, and rapte with infinite pangues, which
afterwards bredde him great disquietnes. This worthie Prince (I say) who
before that time like an Alexander, was able to conquere and gain whole
kingdomes, and made all Fraunce to quake for feare, at whose approch the
gates of euery Citie did flie open, and fame of him prouoked ech
Frenchman’s knee to bowe, whose helmet was made of manhods trampe, and
mace well steeled with stoute attemptes, was by the weakest staye of
dame Nature’s frame, a woman (shaped with no visage sterne or vglie
loke) affrighted and appalled: whose harte was armed with no lethal
sworde or deadly launce, but with a curat of honour and weapon of
womanhode, and for all his glorious conquests, she durst by singuler
combat to giue refusall to his face: which singuler perseueration in
defence of her chastitie inexpugnable, esclarisheth to the whole flocke
of womankinde the brighte beames of wisedome, vertue and honestie. No
prayers, intreatie, suplication, teares, sobbes, sighes, or other like
humaine actions, poured forth of a Princesse hart, could withdrawe her
from the boundes of honestie. No promise, present, practise, deuise,
sute, freinde, parent, letter or counsellour, could make her to stray
oute of the limites of vertue. No threate, menace, rigour, feare,
punishmente, exile, terror, or other crueltie, could diuert her from the
siege of constancie. In her youthly time till her mariage day, shee
delighted in virginitie: from her mariage day during her widow state,
she reioysed in chastity: the one she conserued like a hardie Cloelia,
the other she kept like a constant Panthea. This notable historie
therfore I haue purposed to make common, aswel for encouragement of
Ladies to imbrace constancie, as to imbolden them in the refusal of
dishonest sutes, for which if they do not acquire semblable honour,
as this Lady did, yet they shall not be frustrate of the due reward
incidente to honour, which is fame and immortall prayse. Gentlemen may
learne by the successe of this discourse, what tormentes be in Loue,
what trauailes in pursute, what passions like ague fittes, what
disconueniences, what loste labour, what plaints, what griefes: what
vnnatural attemptes be forced. Many other notorious examples be
contayned in the same, to the greate comforte and pleasure as I trust,
of the wel aduised reader: and although the auctour of the same,
perchaunce hath not rightlye touched the proper names of the aucthours
of this tragedie, by perfecte appellations: as Edward the third for his
eldest sonne Edward the Prince of Wales (who as I read in Fabian) maried
the Countesse of Salesburie, which before was Countesse of Kent, and
wife vnto sir Thomas Holland: and whose name, (as Polidore sayth) was
Iane, daughter to Edmond Earle of Kent, of whom the same Prince Edward
begat Edward that died in his childish yeres, and Richard that
afterwards was king of England the second of that name, and for that she
was kin to him, was deuorced: whose sayde father maried Philip, daughter
to the earle of Henault, and had by her VII. sonnes: and Ælips for the
name of the sayde Countesse, beinge none suche amonges our vulgare
termes, but Frosard remembreth her name to be Alice, which in deede is
common amonges vs: and the Castell of Salesburie, where there is none by
that name, vppon the frontiers of Scotlande, albeit the same Frosard
doth make mention of a castell of the Earle of Salesburie’s, giuen vnto
him by Edward the third when he was sir William Montague and maried the
saide Lady Alice for his seruice and prowesse against the Scottes: and
Rosamburghe for Roxboroughe: and that the said Edwarde when hee saw that
hee could not by loue and other perswasions attaine the Countesse but by
force, maried the same Countesse, which is altogether vntrue, for that
Polydore and other aucthors do remember but one wife that hee had, which
was the sayde vertuous Queene Philip, with other like defaults: yet the
grace of the historie for all those errours is not diminished. Whereof I
thoughte good to giue this aduertisemente: and waying with my selfe that
by the publishing hereof no dishonour can dedounde to the illustre race
of our noble kinges and Princes, ne yet to the blemishinge of the fame
of that noble kinge, eternized for his victories and vertues in the
auncient Annales, Chronicles and Monuments, forren and domesticall,
(because all nature’s children be thral and subiecte to the infirmities
of their first parentes,) I do with submission humblie referre the same
to the iudgement and correction of them, to whom it shall appartaine:
which beinge considered, the Nouell doth begin in this forme and order.

There was a kinge of Englande named Edwarde, which had to his first wyfe
the doughter of the Counte of Henault of whom hee had children, the
eldest whereof was called also Edward, the renowmed Prince of Wales, who
besides Poictiers subdued the French men, toke Iohn the French king
prisoner, and sent him into England. This Edwarde father of the Prince
of Wales, was not onely a capitall eunemie of the Frenchmen, but also
had continual warres with the Scottes his neighbours, and seing himself
so disquieted on euery side, ordayned for his Lieutenant vpon the
frontiers of Scotland, one of his Captaynes, named William, Lord
Montague: to whom because he had fortified Roxborough, and addressed
many enterprises against the enemies, he gaue the Earledome of
Sarisburie, and maried him honourablie with one of the fairest Ladies of
England. Certaine dayes after, kinge Edward sent him into Flaunders, in
the companie of the Earle of Suffolke, where fortune was so contrarie,
as they were both taken prisoners, by the Frenchmen, and sente to the
Louure at Paris. The Scottes hearing tell of their discomfiture, and how
the marches were destitute of a gouernour, they speedely sente thether
an armie, with intente to take the Countesse prisoner, to rase her
Castle, and to make bootie of the riches that was there. But the Earle
of Sarisburie before his departure, had giuen so good order, that their
successe was not such as they hoped: for they wer so liuely repelled by
them that wer within, as not able to endure their furie, in steede of
making their approches, they were constrayned to go further of. And
hauinge intelligence by certaine spies, that the king of England was
departed from London, with a great armie, to come to succour the
Countesse, perceyuing that a farre of, they were able to do litle good,
they were faine shortly to retire home again to their shame. King Edward
departed from London, trauayling by great iourneyes with his armye
towardes Sarisburie, was aduertized, that the Scottes were discamped,
and fled againe into Scotland. Albeit they had so spoyled the castle in
manye places, as the markes gaue sufficiente witnesse, what their
intente and meaning was. And althoughe the kinge had thoughte to
retourne backe againe vppon their retire, yet being aduertised of the
great battrie, and of the hotte assault they had giuen to the Castell,
he went foorth to visit the place. The Countesse whose name was Ælips,
vnderstanding of the kinge’s comming, causing all things to bee in so
good readinesse, as the shortnesse of the time could serue, furnished
her selfe so well as shee could with a certaine nomber of Gentlewomen
and Souldiours that remained, to issue forth to meete the king, who
besides her natural beautie, for the which she was recommended aboue all
the Ladies of her prouince, was enriched with the furniture of vertue
and curtesie, which made her so incomparable, that at one instante, she
rauished the hartes of all the Princes and Lordes that did behold her,
in such wise, as there was no talke in all the armie but of her graces
and vertue, and specially of her excellent and surpassing beauty. The
kinge hauing made reuerence vnto her, after hee had well viewed all her
gestures and countenaunces, thoughte that hee had neuer seen a more
goodlier creature. Then rapte with an incredible admiration he said vnto
her: “Madame Countesse, I do beleeue, that if in this attire and
furniture wherein you now be, accompanied with so rare and excellente
beautie, ye had beene placed vppon one of the rampiers of your Castell,
you had made more breaches with the lokes and beames of your sparkling
eyes, in the hartes of your ennemyes, than they had beene able to haue
done in your castel, with their thundring ordinaunce.” The Countesse
somewhat shamefast and abashed, to heare herselfe so greatly praysed of
a Prince so greate, began to blushe and taint with roseall colour, the
whitenesse of her alablaster face. Then lifting vp her bashfull eyes,
somewhat towards the king, she said vnto him: “My soueraigne Lord, your
grace may speake your pleasure, but I am well assured, that if you had
seen the nomber of shotte, which by the space of XII. houres were
bestowed so thicke as hayle, vpon euery part of the fort, you might haue
iudged what good wil the Scots did beare vnto mee and my people. And for
my selfe I am assured, that if I had made proufe of that which you saye,
and submitted myselfe to their mercie, my bodye nowe had been dissolued
into duste.” The king astonned with so sage and wise aunswere, chaunging
his minde, went towarde the castell: where after interteignement and
accustomed welcome, he began by litle and litle, to feele himselfe
attached wyth a newe fier. Which the more he laboured to resist, the
more it inflamed: and feelinge this new mutacion in himselfe, there came
into his mind, an infinite nomber of matters, balancing betwene hope and
feare, somtimes determining to yeld vnto his passions, and somtimes
thinking clerely to cut them of, for feare least by committinge himselfe
to his affections, the vrgent affayres of the warres, wherewith hee was
inuolued, should haue ill successe. But in the ende vanquished wyth
Loue, hee purposed to proue the hart of the Countesse, and the better to
attayne the same he toke her by the hande, and prayed her to shewe him
the commodities of the fortresse. Which shee did so well, and with so
good grace intertaigne them all the whyle wyth infinite talke of diuers
matters, that the litle grifts of loue which were scarcely planted,
began to growe so farre as the rootes remayned fast grounded in the
depthe of his harte. And the kyng not able any longer to endure such a
charge in his minde, pressed with griefe, deuised by what meanes he
might enioye her, which was the cause of his disquiet. But the Countesse
seing him so pensife, without any apparaunt occasion, sayde vnto him:
“Sir, I doe not a litle maruell to see you reduced into these
alterations: for (me thincke) your grace is maruelously chaunged within
these two or thre houres, that your highnes vouchsaued to enter into
this castel for my succour and reliefe in so good time, as al the dayes
of my life, both I and mine be greatly bound vnto you, as to him which
is not onely content liberally to haue bestowed vpon vs the goods which
we possesse, but also by his generositie, doth conserue and defend vs
from the incursions of the enemie. Wherein your grace doth deserue
double prayse, for a deede so charitable: but I cannot tell nor yet
deuise, what should bee the cause that your highnesse is so pensife and
sorowful, sith without great losse on your parte, your enemies
vnderstandinge of your stoute approche, be retired, which ought, as I
suppose, to driue awaye the Melancholie from your Stomacke, and to
revoke your former ioy, for so much as victorie acquired withoute
effusion of bloud, is alwayes most noble and acceptable before God.” The
king hearing this angel’s voyce, so amiably pronouncing these words,
thinking that of her owne accord shee came to make him mery, determined
to let her vnderstand his griefe, vpon so conueniente occasion offred.
Then with a trembling voice he said vnto her: “Ah Madame, how farre be
my thoughtes farre differente from those which you do thincke me to
haue: I feele my hart so opprest with care, as it is impossible to tell
you what it is, howbeit the same hath not beene of long continuance,
being attached therewithall, since my comminge hether, which troubleth
me so sore, as I cannot tell whereupon well to determine.” The Countesse
seing the king thus moued, not knowing the cause whye, was vncertaine
what aunswere to make. Which the king perceyuing, said vnto her,
fetching a deepe sighe from the bottome of his stomacke: “And what say
you Madame thereunto, can you giue mee no remedie?” The Countesse, which
neuer thoughte that any such discurtesie could take place in the kinge’s
hart, taking things in good part, said vnto him: “Syr, I know not what
remedie to giue you, if first you do not discouer vnto me the griefe.
But if it trouble you, that the Scottishe kinge hath spoyled your
countrie, the losse is not soe greate, as therewith a Prince so mightie
as you be, neede to be offended: sithens by the grace of God, the
vengeaunce lieth in your handes, and you may in time chasten him, as at
other times you haue done.” Whereunto the kinge seinge her simplicitie,
aunsweared: “Madame, the beginninge of my griefe ryseth not of that, but
my wounde resteth in the inwarde parte of my harte, which pricketh mee
so soore, as if I desire from henceforth to prolonge my life, I muste
open the same vnto you, reseruing the cause thereof so secrete, as none
but you and I must be partakers. I must now then confesse vnto you, that
in comminge to your Castell, and castinge downe my head to behold your
celestiall face, and the rest of the graces, wherewith the heauens haue
prodigally endued you, I haue felt (vnhappie man as I am) such a sodaine
alteration, in al the most sensible partes of my body, as knowing my
forces diminished, I cannot tel to whom to make complaint of my libertie
lost (which of long time I haue so happily preserued) but onely to you,
that like a faithfull keeper and onely treasurer of my hart, you may by
some shining beame of pitie bring againe to his former mirth and ioye,
that which you desire in me: and by the contrarie, you may procure to me
a life more painefull and greeuous than a thousand deathes together.”
When he had ended these woordes, hee helde his peace, to let her speake,
attendinge none other thing by her aunswere, but the last decree either
of death or life. But the Countesse with a grauitie conformable to her
honestie and honour, without other mouing, said vnto him: “If any other
besides your grace had been so forgetful of himself to enter in these
termes, or to vse such talke vnto me, I knowe what should be mine
aunswere, and so it might be, that he shoulde haue occasion not to be
well contented, but knowing this your attempt to proceede rather from
the pleasantnes of your hart, than for other affection, I wil beleue
from henceforth, and perswade my selfe, that a Prince so renowmed and
gentle as you be, doth not thincke, and much lesse meane, to attempt any
thing against mine honour, which is a thousand times dearer vnto mee
than life. And I am perswaded, that you do not so litle esteeme my
father and my husband, who is for your seruice prisoner in the hands of
the Frenchmen, our mortal enemies, as in their absence to procure vnto
them such defamation and slaunder. And by making this request your grace
doth swarue from the bounds of honestie very farre, and you do greate
iniury to your fame, if men should know what termes you do vse vnto me.
In like maner, I purpose not to violate the faith, which I haue giuen to
my husband, but I intend to keepe the same vnspotted, so long as my
soule shalbe caried in the Chariot of this mortall body. And if I should
so far forget my self, as willingly to commit a thing so dishonest, your
grace oughte for the loyal seruice of my father and husband toward you,
sharpely to rebuke me, and to punish me according to my desert. For this
cause (most dradde soueraigne Lord) you which are accustomed to
vanquishe and subdue other, bee nowe a conquerour ouer your selfe, and
throughly bridle that concupiscence (if there be any) vnder the raynes
of reason, that being quenched and ouercome, they may no more reuiue in
you, and hauing liuely resisted the first assaultes, the victorie is but
easie, which shalbe a thousande times more glorious and gainefull for
you, than if you had conquered a kingdome.{”} The Countesse had scarce
made an ende of her tale, but one came to tell them that the Tables were
couered for dinner: the king well fedde with Loue, dined for that time
very soberly, and not able to eate but vppon amorous dishes, did caste
his lokes inconstantly here and there, and still his eyes threw the last
loke vppon that part of the table where the Countesse sate, meaninge
thereby to extinguish the boiling flames, which incessantly did burne
him, howbeit by thinking to coole them, he further plonged himselfe
therein. And wandering thus in diuers cogitacions, the wise aunsweare
that the Countesse made, like a vaunt currour, was continually in his
remembraunce, and was well assured of her inuincible chastitie. By
reason whereof, seing that so hard an enterprise required a longer
abode, and that a hart so chast, could not so quickly be remoued from
purpose, carefull on the other side to giue order to the waightie
affayres of his realme, disquieted also on euery side, through the
turmoile of warres, determined to depart the next day in the morning,
reseruing till another time more conuenient the pursute of his loue.
Hauing taken order for his departure, in the morning he wente to seeke
the Countesse, and taking his leaue of her, praied her to thinke better
of the talke made vnto her the daye before, but aboue al, he besought
her to haue pitie vpon him. Wherunto the Countesse aunswered, that not
onely shee praied God incessantly to giue him victory ouer his outward
enemies, but also grace to tame the carnal passion, which did so torment
him. Certaine dayes after that king Edward was arriued at London, which
was the place of his ordinarie abode, the Countesse of Sarisburie was
aduertised, that the Earle her husband, being out of pryson, consumed
with griefe and sicknes, died by the way homewards. And because they had
no children, the Earledome retourned to the kinge, which first gaue the
same vnto him. And after she had lamented the death of her husband the
space of manye dayes, shee returned to her father’s house, which was
Earle of Warwike. And for so much as he was one of the king’s priuie
Counsel, and the most part of the affayres of the Realme passed by his
aduise and counsell, he continued at London, that hee might be more
neare vnto the kinge’s person. The king aduertised of the comming of the
Countesse, thoughte that fortune had opened a way to bring his
enterprise to desired effect, specially for that the death of her
husband, and the witnesse of his earnest good will, woulde make her more
tractable. The kinge seing all thing (as he thought) to succede after
his desire, began to renue his first affections, seeking by all meanes
to practise the good will of the Countesse, who then was of the age of
XXVI. yeares. Afterwards he ordeyned many triumphes at the Tilt and
Torney, Maskes, Momeries, Feastes, Banquettes, and other like pastimes,
whereat ladies accustomablye doe assemble, who made much of theym all,
and secretely talked wyth them. Notwithstanding he could not so well
disguise and counterfaite his passions, but that he still shewed
himselfe to beare beste good will to the Countesse. Thus the kinge could
not vse such discretion in loue, but that from his secret fier, some
euident flames did issue oute: but the Countesse which was a wise and
curteous Ladye, did easely perceiue, how the king by chaunging the
place, had not altered his affection, and that hee still prosecuted his
talke begon at Sarisburie. She despising all his amorous countenaunces,
continued her firme and chaste minde: and if it chaunced that sometimes
the king made more of her than discretion required, sodainly might haue
been discried a certaine palenesse in her face, which declared the litle
pleasure that she toke in his toyes, with a certaine rigour appearinge,
that yelded to the king an assured testimonie that he laboured in vaine.
Neuerthelesse, she, to cut of all meanes of the kinges pursute, kept
still her father’s house, shewinge herself in no place where the king
mighte see her. The king offended, seing himselfe depriued and banished
her presence, whom he esteemed as the comfort of his life, made his
secretarie priuie to the whole matter, whose fidelity he had wel proued
in matters daungerous, with mind to pursue her by other way, if it
chaunced that she persisted in her wonted rigor and refusal. Howbeit
before he preceded any further, sithe he could not secretely talke with
her, he purposed to send her a letter, the tenor whereof insueth:

“Madame, if you please by good aduise to consider the beginning of my
Loue, the continuance of the same, and then the last issue wherunto it
tendeth, I am assured that laying your hand on your hart, you wil accuse
your selfe, not only of your curst and froward stomacke hitherto
appearing, but also of that newe ingratitude, which you shewe vnto me at
this houre, whoe not contented to bathe and plondge mee into the
missehappe of my paines paste, but by a newe onset, to abandon your
selfe from my presence, as from the sighte of your mortall eunemie:
wherein I finde that heauen and all his influences, doe crie out for
myne ouerthrowe, whereunto I doe agree, since my life taking no vigor
and increase, being onely sustained by the fauour of your diuine graces,
can not be maintained one onely minute of a daye, without the liberall
helpe of your sweetenesse and vertue: beseching you, that if the hartie
prayers of any mortal tormented man, may euer haue force and power to
moue you to pitie, it may please you miraculously to deliuer from
henceforth this my poore miserable afflicted mynde, either from death or
martyrdome:

  He that is more yours than his ownne,
  Edward, the desolate king of England.”

The letter written with his own hande, and sealed with his seale, he
commaunded the Secretarie to go to the Countesse, at her father’s house,
and secretly to deliuer the same. The Countesse hauing red and perused
it, sayd to the Secretarie: “My frende, you shall tell the kyng, that I
doe besech him most humbly, to sende me no more letters or messages
touching the matters whereof he hath written: for I am in such wyse
resolued in the aunswere, which I made him in my castle, as I wyll
persiste immutable, to the ende of my life.” The Secretaire retorninge
the aunswere of the Countesse, the king rapte with an impacient and
extreme choler, desired eftsones to giue another attempt: and consuming
by litle and litle in this amorous fier, began to sort out of the limits
of reason. And almoste out of his wittes, demaunded of his Secretarie:
“Do you thinke it expedient that I make request to her father, whose
counsell I want in other thinges?” To whome the Secretarie boldly
aunswered, that he thought it vnreasonable to seeke ayde at a father’s
handes to corrupt the doughter: faithfully telling to the king, the
reproche and infamie that would followe thereof, as well for the olde
seruice, that her father hadde done to his auncestours, as for his great
prowesse in armes for which he was so greatly commended. But loue, the
mortall enemie of all good counsell, so blinded the eyes of the kyng,
that without anye further deliberation, he commaunded the Secretarie to
go seke the father, to demande his counsell for matters of importance:
whiche the Earle vnderstanding, obeyed incontinently, where the king
alone in a chamber lying vpon a bed, after hee had commaunded him to
shut the dore and to sit downe by him, sayde these wordes: “My lorde,
I haue caused you to come hither for a certaine occasion, whiche
toucheth me so nighe, as the losse or preseruation of my life. For neuer
through any assaut of fortune (the sharpenesse wherof I haue often felt)
haue I bene vanquished with so great disquiet, as nowe. For I am so
vexed with my passions, as being ouercome by them, I haue none other
refuge, but to a most unhappie death that euer man can suffer, if
presently I bee not holpen. Knowe ye therefore, that I deeme him onely
to be happy that by Reason can rule his wyttes, not suffering hym selfe
to be caried into vayne desires: in whiche pointe wee do differ from
beastes, who being lead onely by naturall order, doe indifferently runne
headlong, whether their appetite doth guide them: but we with the
measure of Reason, ought to moderate our doinges with suche prouidence,
as without straying we may choose the right way of equitie and iustice:
and if at any time, the weake fleshe doth faint and giue ouer, we haue
none to blame but our selues: who deceiued by the fading shadow and
false apparaunce of things, fal into the ditche by our selues prepared.
And that which I do alleage, is proued, not without manifest reason,
wherof I nowe doe fele experience, hauing let slip the raynes of the
bridle to farre ouer my disordinate affections, beyng drawen from the
right hande, and traiterously deceiued. And neuerthelesse I can not tell
howe to retire to take the right waye, or howe to retourne my back from
that which doth me hurt. Wherefore nowe (vnfortunate and miserable that
I am) I acknowledge my selfe to be like vnto him, that followeth his
game in the thicket of a woode, rushing through thicke and thynne at all
aduentures, not knowing howe to finde the waye he entred in, but rather
the more he desireth to follow the trace, the more in the ende he is
wrapped in the bushes. So it is my Lorde, that I can not and may not for
all my foresayd allegations, so colour my fault, or purge myne error,
but that I must confesse and acknowledge it to be in me: but I speake to
this ende, that seeking a farre of the originall of my griefe, you would
helpe me to complayne, and thereby to take pitie vpon me. For to tell
you the truthe, I am so intricated in the labarinthe of my vnbrideled
will, as the more I doe aspire to the better (alas) the worsse I am.
Haue not I good cause to complaine my Lorde, that after so manye famous
victories achieued by Sea and Lande, wherewith I haue renowmed the
memorie of my name in all places, am now bound and daunted with an
appetite so outragious, as I can not helpe my selfe, whereby myne owne
life, or rather death, is consumed in suche anguishe and mortall paine,
as I am become the very mansion of all mischiefs, and onely receptacle
of all miseries? What sufficient excuse for my fault may I henceforth
alleage, that in the end will not display it to be both vnprofitable and
voyde of reason? But what shall be the buckeler of my shame, if not my
youthly age, which pricketh me forewarde to loue like a sharpe nedle,
the force whereof I haue so ofte repelled, as nowe being vanquished,
I haue no place for rest, but in thy mercy, who in my father’s dayes
diddest liberally spende thy bloud, in manye notable enterprises in his
seruice, whiche afterwardes thou haste so well continued, that in many
daungerous affaires, I haue diuers times proued the fidelitie of thy
counsell, whereby I haue brought to passe thinges of great importaunce,
and therein hitherto neuer founde thee slacke and vnfaythfull. Whiche
when I remember doe prouoke me to be bolde to declare vnto you mine
entent, whiche by youre onely worde you may procure, the fruite whereof
being gotten, you shall winne the heart of a king, to be vsed as you
liste for euer. And the more the thing shal seeme harde, difficult or
painefull, the greater shall your merite be, and the more firmely shall
he be bounde, whiche doth receive it. Consider then my Lorde, howe
profitable it is, to haue a king at your commaundement. You haue also
foure sonnes, whom you cannot honourably aduaunce with out my fauour:
swearing unto you by my regall Scepter, that if you comfort me in these
my troubles, I will endue the three yongest with so large possessions,
as they shall haue no cause to be offended with their eldest brother.
Remember likewyse, what rewardes I haue bestowed vpon them that serue
me. And if you haue knowen how liberall I haue bene towardes other,
thinke then I praye you, how bountifully you bynde me towardes you, vpon
whome my life and deathe dependeth.” The king ending his sorowfull
complainte, stopped by sobbes and sighes, helde his peace. And the Earle
who tenderly loued his Prince, hearing this pitifull discourse, (the
faithfull witnesse of his inward passion) and not able to coniecture the
occasion, was maruellously troubled in him selfe, and without longer
aduise, ouercome with pitie, he made a liberall and very sodayne offer
to the king of his life, his children, and of all that he was able to
doe. “Commaunde, my soueraigne Lorde (quod he with weaping teares) what
it shall please you to haue me doe, if it be, euen to bestowe my life
for your sake. For by the faithe and fealtie that I do owe to God and to
your grace, I sweare, that many dayes and yeares paste, I haue bound my
selfe inuiolably, and all mine abilitie without exception, so long as
this tongue is able to sturre, and breathe shall remaine within this
bodye, faithfully and truely to serue your maiestie, not onely for that
dutie bindeth me, but if it were for your sake, to transgresse and
exceede the bondes of mine honour.” But the good olde Earle, whiche
neuer thought that a request so vniust and dishonest would haue
proceeded out of the mouth of a king, with franke and open harte made
that liberall offer. The king then hauing sounded the depth of the
Earle’s affection, chaunging colour, his eyes fixed on the grounde,
sayde vnto him: “Your doughter the Countesse of Sarisburie, (my Lorde)
is the onely medicine of my trauayles, whome I doe loue better than mine
owne life, and doe feele my selfe so inflamed with her heauenly beautie,
as without her grace and fauour I am not able hereafter to liue: for
this consideration, sith you desire to doe me seruice, and to preserue
my life, I praye you to deale with her, that she with compassion may
looke vpon me. Crauiug this request at your handes, not without extreme
shame, considering as well your honorable state, as your auncient
merites imploied vpon me and my progenitours: but according to your
modestie and accustomed goodnesse, impute the faulte vpon amorous loue,
which in such wise hath alienated my libertie, and confounded my heart,
that now ranging out of the boundes of honour and reason, I feele my
selfe tormented and vexed in mynde. Whereby I am prouoked to make this
request, and not able to expel the mortall poyson out of my hart, which
hath diminished my force, intoxicated my sense, and hath depriued my
minde from all good counsell, as I can not tell what to doe but to seeke
to you for helpe, hauing no kinde of rest but when I see her, when I
speake of her, or thinke vppon her. And I am at this present reduced
into so pitiful plight as being not able to wynne her by intreaties,
offers, presentes, sutes, ambassages and letters, my onely and last
refuge and assured port of all my miseries, resteth in you, either by
death to ende my life, or by force to obtayne my desire.” The Earle
hearing the vnciuile and beastly demaunde of his soueraigne Lorde,
blushing for shame, and throughly astonned, filled also with a certaine
honest and vertuous disdayne, was not able to dissolue his tongue to
render a worthy aunswere to the afflicted Prince. Finally, like one
awaked from his dead sleepe, he said vnto him: “Sir, my wittes fayle, my
vertue reuolteth, my tongue is mute, at the wordes that proceede from
you, whereby I fele my selfe brought into two straunge and perillous
pointes, as passing either by one or other, I must nedes fall into very
great daunger. But to resolue vpon that which is most expedient, hauing
geuen vnto you my faithe in pledge, to succour and helpe you euen to the
abandoning of honor and life, I will not be contrarie to my woordes. And
touching my daughter, for whom you make request, I will reueale vnto her
the effecte of your demaunde: yet of one thing I must tell you, sir,
power I haue to entreate her, but none at all to force her. Inough it is
that she vnderstand of me, what hart and affection you beare vnto her.
But I doe maruell, yea and complaine of you, pardon me (most drad
soueraigne) and suffer me without offence to discharge my grief before
your presence, rather than to your shame and mine eternal infamie, it
should be manifested and published abrode by other. I say, that I
maruell, sir, what occasion moued you to commit such reproch in my stock
and bloud, and by an act so shamefull and lasciuious, to dishonour the
same: whiche neuer disdained to serue both you and yours, to the
vttermost of their powers. Alas, vnhappy father that I am, is this the
guerdon and recompence that I and my children shall expect for our
trusty and faithfull seruice? O sir, for God’s sake, if you liste not to
be liberall of your owne, seke not to dishonour vs, and to inflict vpon
our race such notable infamie. But who can loke for worse at the handes
of his mortall and cruell enemie? It is you, euen you it is (most noble
Prince) that doth rauishe my daughter’s honor, dispoyle me of my
contentation, ye take from my children hardinesse to shewe their faces,
and from all our whole house, the auncient fame and glorie. It is you
that doth obscure the clearenesse of my bloud, with an attempt so
dishonest and detestable, as the memorie thereof shall neuer be
forgotten. It is you that doth constraine me to be the infamous minister
of the totall destruction of my progenie, and to be a shamelesse
Pandarus of my daughter’s honor. Doe you thinke to helpe and succour me,
when others shall attempt to obiect vnto my face this slaunder and
reproche? but if your selfe doe hurt me, where shall I hereafter seke
reliefe and succour. If the hande which ought to helpe me, be the very
same that doth giue me the wounde, where shall the hope bee of my
recouerie? For this cause, may it please your maiestie, whether iustlie
I do make my complainte, and whether you geue me cause to aduaunce my
cries vp into the heauens, your selfe shall be the iudge: for, if like a
iudge in deede you doe geue ouer your disordinate affection, I then
appeale to the iudgement of your inuincible minde, of late accomplished
with all curtesie and gentlenesse. On the other side, I doe lament your
fortune, when I thinke vpon the reasons which you haue alleaged, and the
greater cause I haue to plaine, because I haue knowen you from your
youth, and haue alwayes deemed you at libertie and free from such
passions, not thral or subiect to the flames of loue, but rather geuen
to exercise of armes. And nowe seing you to become a prisoner of an
affection vnworthy your estate, I can not tell what to thinke, the
noueltie of this sodain chaunce semeth to be so straunge. Remember sir,
that for a litle suspicion of adulterie, you caused Roger Mortimer to be
put to death. And (being skarce able to tell it without teares) you
caused your owne mother miserablie to die in pryson: and God knoweth
howe simple your accusations were, and vpon howe light ground your
suspicion was conceived. Do not you knowe howe wounderfully you be
molested with warres, and that your enemies, trauell day and night to
circumuent you, both by Sea and Lande? Is it nowe tyme then to geue your
selfe to delightes, and to captiuate your mynde in the pleasures of
Ladies? Where is the auncient generositie and nobilitie of your bloud?
Wher is magnanimitie and valour, wherewith you haue astonned your
eunemies, shewed your selfe amiable to your frends, and wonderfull to
your subiects? Touching the last point, wherin you threaten, that if my
doughter doe not agree to your desire, you will forcibly enioye her,
I can neuer confesse that to be the fact of a valiaunt and true king,
but of a vile, cowardly, cruell and libidinous Tryaunt. I trust it be
not the pleasure of God, that nowe at the age you be of, you wil begin
to force Gentlewomen that be your humble subiects, which if you do, this
iland shall lose the name of a Realme, and hereafter shalbe deemed none
other, but a sanctuarie of theues and murderers. If then, (to conclude
this my sorowefull and heauie complaint) you may, or can by your
flatteries, promisses and presentes, allure my doughter to your
vnbrideled appetites, I shall haue occasion to bewayle her dishonestie,
and to deeme her, as an incontinent daughter, degenerated from the
vertues of her progenitors. But touching your owne persone, I haue
nothing to saye, but that herein you doe followe the common sort of men,
that be sutors to Ladies, willing to please their fansies. There resteth
onely nowe for me to aunswere the fauour, whiche in time to come you
promise to me and my children: I couet not after any thing reprochfull
to me or them, or to any of our posteritie, that may make vs ashamed,
knowing in what contempt and reputation they be, which being borne of
base parentage, be arriued to goods and honour, by gratifying and
obeying Princes and kinges in their dishonest lustes and appetites.
Remember sir, that within these fewe dayes, being in campe against the
Scottes, you vpbrayded a certaine man (which shalbe namelesse) for being
a minister of your father’s loue, who from the state of a barber, was
aduaunced to the degree of an Earle, and how you sayd, that if in time
to come he amended not his manners, you would sende him to the shop
againe. And for my part, I am of opinion, that honest pouertie hath euer
bene the auncient and greatest inheritaunce amonges the noble Romaines,
which if it be condemned by the ignoraunt multitude, and if we therefore
should geue place, making greater accompt and estimation of richesse and
treasures, then of vertue: I doe say for mine own part, that by the
grace of God, I am abundantly prouided, for the maintenance of me and
mine, not like an ambicious man or couetous, but as one satisfied with
the good wil of fortune. I do most humbly then besech you (sir) for
conclusion, to take in good parte, that which my dutie and honour do
constraine me to speake. And so by your grace’s leaue, I will departe
towarde my daughter, to let her vnderstande from point to point your
maiestie’s pleasure.” And without tarying for other replie of the kyng,
he went his way discoursing diuers thinges in his minde, vpon that which
had passed betwene the king and him. The reasons which the Earle had
made, so pearced the affections of the passionate Prince, as vncertaine
what to saye, he condemned himselfe, knowing verie well, that the Earle
not only vpon right and iust cause, had pronounced these wordes: but
also that he had done the office of a faithfull seruaunt and trustie
counseller, in such sort, as feling his conscience touched at the
quicke, he could not excuse himself from committing a dishonest charge
to a father so commendable and vertuous in the behalfe of his daughter.
Thus he determined to chaunge his opinion. Afterwardes when he had
throwen forth many sighes, hee spake these wordes to himselfe.
“O miserable man, cut of this amorous practise, howe arte thou defrauded
of right sense to cast thy mynd vpon her, whom thou oughtest to vse with
such reuerence as thou wouldest doe thine own proper sister, for the
seruice which thou and thy progenitors haue receiued of the good Earle
her father? Open the eyes of thine vnderstanding and knowe thy selfe,
geue place to reason, and reforme thy vnshamefull and disordinate
appetites. Resist with al thy power this wanton will which doth enuiron
thee. Suffer not this tyraunt loue to bewitch or deceiue thee.” Sodainly
after he had spoken those wordes, the beautie of the Countesse
representing it self before his eyes, made him to alter his minde again,
and to reiect that which he before allowed, saying thus: “I feele in
minde the cause of mine offence, and thereby doe acknowledge the wrong,
but what shall I doe? sithe I am not able any longer to withstande
beautie, that cruell murderer, whiche doth force and maister me so much?
Let fortune then and loue doe what they list, the faire Countesse shalbe
myne, whatsoeuer come of it. Is it a notable vice in a king to loue his
subiecte’s daughter? Am I the first vpon whome such inconuenience hath
come?” This talke ended, he deluded himself, and thinking vpon the
contrary, he accused himself again, and then from this he altered again
to the other. And being in this perplexitie, he passed daye and night,
with such anguish and dolor, as euery man doubted his health: and
floting thus betwene hope and dispaire, he resolued in thend to attend
the father’s answere. The Earle then being gone out of the king’s
chambre, aggrauated with sorowfull thoughtes, full of rage and
discontent, thought good to delay the matter till the next day, before
he spake to his daughter: and then calling her vnto him, and causing her
to sit against him, he reasoned the matter in such wise. “I am assured,
deare daughter, that you will no lesse maruell than be astonned to heare
what I shal say vnto you, and so much the more, when you doe see, how
farre my tale shall exceade the order of Reason. But for so much as of
twoo euils the least is to be chosen, I doubt not, but like a sage and
wise woman, which I haue alwayes knowen you to be, you will stay vpon
that whiche I haue determined. Touching my self, sith it hath pleased
God to geue me knowledge of good and il, hitherto I haue still preferred
honour before life, bicause (after mine opinion) it is a lesse matter to
die innocently, than to liue in dishonour and shame of the worlde. But
you know what libertie he hath, which is vnder the power of another,
being sometime constrayned to make faire weather of thinges not onely
cleane contrarie to his mynde, but also (which is worse) against his
owne conscience, being oftentymes forced according to the qualitie of
the tyme, and pleasure of the state, to chaunge his maners, and to put
on newe affections. Whereof I haue thought good to put you in
remembraunce, because it toucheth the matter, whiche I purpose to tell
you. Thus it is (deare daughter) that yesterday after dynner, the kyng
sent for mee, and being come before him, with a very instant and pitiful
prayer, he required me (his eyes full of teares) to doe a thing for hym
that touched his life. I whiche (besides that I am his subiect and
seruaunt) haue alwayes borne a particuler affection to his father and
him, without deliberation what the matter should be, betrothed to him my
faith to obey his request, if it coste me the price of mine honour and
life. He assuring himselfe of my liberall promise, after many wordes
ioyned with an infinite number of sighes, discouering vnto me the
secrete of his harte, told me, that the torment which he indured,
proceded no where els but of the feruent loue that he bare vnto you.
But, O immortall God, what man of any discretion would haue thought that
a king could be so impudent and vnshamefast, as to committe to a father
a charge so dishonest towardes his own daughter?” The Earle hauing
recited in order the historie past betwene hym and the kyng, sayde thus
vnto her: “Consider you, swete daughter, myne vnaduised and simple
promisse, and the vnbrideled mynde of an amorous kyng, to whome I made
aunswere, that intreate you thereunto I was able, but force you I coulde
not. For this cause (deare daughter) I doe praye you at this instant to
obeye the kynge’s pleasure, and thereby to make a present by your father
of your honest chastitie, so dearely estemed and regarded by you,
specially, that the thing may so secretly be done as the fault be not
bruted in the eares of other. Neuerthelesse, the choyse resteth in you,
and the key of your honour is in your own hands, and that which I haue
sayde vnto you, is but to kepe promise with the king.” The Countesse all
the while that her father thus talked, chaunged her colour with a comly
shamefastnesse, inflamed with a vertuous disdaine, that he whiche had
behold her then, would haue thought her rather some celestial goddesse
than a humaine creature: and after long silence, with an humble grauitie
she began thus to make her aunswere: “Your wordes haue so confounded me,
and brought me into such admiration (my Lorde and right honourable
father) that if all the partes of my bodie were conuerted into tongues,
they could not bee sufficient worthely to expresse the least part of my
sorrowe and disquietnesse: and truely very iustly may I complayne of
you, for the litle estimation you haue of me, which am deriued of your
owne fleshe: and for the ransome of the fraile and transitorie life
which you haue geuen me vpon earth, you wyll for recompence nowe
defraude me of myne honour: whereby I do perceiue that not onely al
nature’s lawes be cancelled and mortified in you, but which is worse,
you doe exceede therin the cruelties of beastes, who for all their
brutishenesse be not so vnnatural to do wrong to their owne yong, or to
offer their fruite to the mercie of an other, as you haue done yours to
the pleasure of a Kyng: for notwithstandynge the straight charge and
aucthoritie whiche you haue ouer mee, to commaunde me being your right
humble and very obedient daughter, yet you oughte to thinke and
remember, that you haue neuer seene in mee any acte, mocion, signe, or
woorde, to incite you to moue sutch dishonest talk. And although the
king many times, with infinite number of prayers, presentes, messages
and other such allurementes of persuasion hath displayed and vttered all
the art of his mynde to seduce and corrupt me, yet he was neuer able to
receiue other aunswere of me, but that honor was a thousand times derer
vnto me then life, which still I meant to kepe secret from your
knowledge euen as I haue done from other of mine aliaunce, for feare
least you should be induced to commit some trespas, or conspire against
our king, foreseing the straunge accidentes whiche haue chaunced for
like matters, to the ruine of many cities and prouinces. But, good God,
my doubt is nothing to purpose, sithe that your selfe is the shamelesse
post of an act so dishonest: and to conclude in fewe wordes, daily I had
good hope, that the king seing me at a point still to conserue my
chastitie inuiolable he would give ouer to pursue me any longer, and
would haue suffered me hereafter to liue in quiet with mine equals, but
if so be he doe continue obstinate in his olde folly, I am determined
rather to die, than to doe the thing that shall hurt me and pleasure
him: and for feare that he take from me by force that which of mine owne
accord I will not graunt, following your counsell, of twoo euilles I
will chose the least, thinking it more honourable to destroy and kill my
selfe with mine own handes, then to suffer such blot or shame to obscure
the glorie of my name, being desirous to committe nothing in secrete,
that sometime hereafter being published, may make me ashamed and chaunge
colour. And wher you say that you haue sworne and gaged your faith to
the king, for the assuraunce of your promise, it was very ill done,
before you did consider, what power fathers haue ouer their children,
whiche is so well defined by the lawe of God, as they be not bound to
their parentes in that which is against his deuine commaundementes: much
lesse may they bynde vs to things incestuous and dishonest, which
specially and straightly be inioyned vs not to perfourme, if we therunto
be required: and it had bene farre more decent, and excusable before
God, if when you made that foolyshe promise to the kyng you had promised
him, rather to strangle mee with youre owne handes, than to consent to
let me fall into a faulte so abhominable: and to thend I may tell you
the last determination, and conclusion of that whiche I am determined by
good aduise and immutable counsell: thus it is. You shall tell the king,
that I had rather lose my life after the moste cruell and shameful maner
that may be deuised, then to consent to a thing so dishonest, hauing
long time fixed this saying in mind, ‘_That honest death doth honor and
beautifie the forepassed life._’” The father hearing the wise aunswere
of his daughter, gaue her his blessing, in his hart praysing her godly
minde, beseching God to helpe her and to kepe her vnder his protection,
and to confirme her in that holy and vertuous determination. Then feling
him greatly comforted, he repaired to the king, to whom he said:
“Pleaseth your grace, to thintent I might obserue my promise, I sweare
by the faith that I doe owe vnto God and you, that I haue done what I
can with my daughter, disclosing vnto her your whole minde and pleasure,
and exhorting her to satisfy your request, but for a resolute aunswere
she saith, that rather she is contented to suffer most cruel death than
to commit a thing so contrarie to her honour. You know (sir) what I sayd
vnto you still, that I might entreate her, but force her I could not:
hauing then obeied your commaundement, and accomplished my promise, it
may please you to geue me leaue to go home to one of my Castels, from
henceforth to recline my selfe to quietnesse, and to ease my decrepite
and feeble age.” Which the king willingly graunted. The same daye hee
departed from the Courte with his sonnes and went home to his Countrie,
leauing at London his wife and daughter and the reste of his housholde,
thinking therby to discharge himself of those thinges with out the
kinge’s displeasure. The king on the other side was no soner aduertised
of the Earle’s departure, and that he had left his daughter behinde him
at London, but he knew the father’s minde and purpose, and fell in suche
dispaire of his loue, as he was like to haue runne out of his wittes for
sorrowe. The nightes and dayes were all one to him, for hee could take
no rest, he gaue ouer vse of armes and administration of iustice,
hunting and hauking, wherin before that time he had great delight: and
all his study was many times to passe and repasse before the gate of the
Countesse, to proue if he might attaine to haue some sight of her: and
thinges were brought to so pitifull state, that within fewe dayes the
citizens and other gentlemen began to perceiue the raging loue of their
Prince, euery of them with common voice blaming the crueltie of the
Countesse that was vnmarried, who the more she proued the king inflamed
with her loue, the more squeymish she was of her beautie. The peres and
noble men seing their king reduced to such extremitie, moued with pitie
and compassion, began secretly to pratise for him, some with
threatninges, some with flatteries and persuasions: some went to the
mother, declaring vnto her the eternall rest and quiet prepared for her
and all her friendes, if she would persuade her daughter to encline to
the kinge’s mind, and contrariwyse the daunger iminent ouer her head.
But all these deuises were in vayne, for the Countesse moued no more
then a harde rocke beaten with diuerse tempestes: and at lengthe seing
that euery man spake diuersly, as their affections ledde them, shee was
so troubled and pensife in harte, as fearing to bee taken, and that the
kyng vanquished with his strong passion, by succession of tyme would vse
his force, and violentlye oppresse her, founde meanes to get a great
sharpe knife, whiche she caried about her secretly vnder her gowne, of
purpose, that if she sawe perill to be defloured, shee might kill her
selfe. The Courtiers offended with the martyrdome of their master, and
desyrous to gratifie and seeke meanes to doe hym pleasure, conspyred all
against the Earle’s familie, lettyng the kynge to vnderstande that it
were most expedient, for that thinges were out of hope, to cause Ælips
to be brought to his Palace, that there he might vse her by force.
Wherunto the king (being dronke in his own passion) did willingly agree:
notwithstanding, before hee passed any further, for that hee faithfully
loued the Countesse, he determined to aduertise her mother of that
whiche he intended to doe, and commaunded his Secretarie to go seke her
with diligence, and without concealing any thing from her knowledge, to
instructe her of the whole. The Secretarie finding the mother of the
countesse, said vnto her: “Madame, the king hath willed me to say vnto
you that he hath done what he can, and more then his estate requireth,
to win the grace and loue of your daughter, but for that she hath
despised his long sute, disdained his presence, and abhorred his griefes
and complaintes, knowing not what to do any more, his last refuge is in
force, doing you to vnderstande hereof, to the intent that you and shee
may consider what is to be done in this behalf: for he hath determined
whether you will or no, to fetch her out openly by force, to the great
dishonour, slaunder and infamie of al your kinne. And where in time
past, he hath loued and fauoured the Earle your husband, he meaneth
shortly to make him vnderstand what is the effect of the iust
indignation of such a Prince as he is.” The good Lady hearing this
sodaine and cruell message, was astonned in such wise, as she thought
how she sawe her daughter already trained by the heares of her head, her
garmentes haled and torne in pieces, with rufull and lamentable voyce
crying out to him for mercy: for this cause with blubbering teares,
trembling for feare, she fell down at the Secretarie’s feete, and
straightlye imbracing his knees, sayde vnto hym: “Maister Secretarie, my
deare louing friend: beseche the king in my name to remember the payne
and seruice done by our auncestours. Intreate him not to dishonoure my
house in the absence of the Earle my husbande: and if you be not able by
your perswasion to molifie his hard hart, desire him for a while to take
pacience, vntill I haue aduertised my daughter of his will and pleasure,
whom I hope to perswade, that shee shall satisfie the kinge’s request.”
When she had made this aunswere, the Secretary declared the same to the
kinge, who madde with anger and passioned with loue, was content, and
neuerthelesse commaunded his gentlemen to be in readinesse to seeke the
Countesse. In the meane time the mother of faire Ælips went to her
daughter’s chamber, and after she had commaunded all her maids, which
accompanied her, to withdraw themselues out of the chamber, shee began
in few woordes to recite vnto her the message done vnto her by the
Secretary: finally with sobbinge sighes she said vnto her: “The dayes
haue been (deare daughter) that I haue seene thee to keepe thy state
amonges the chiefeste of all the Ladies of this Realme: and I haue
counted my self most happie that euer I did beare the in my wombe, and
haue thoughte, by meanes of thy beautie and vertue, one day to see thee
become the ioye and comfort of all thy frendes: but now my cogitacions
be turned cleane contrary, through thine vnluckie fate: nowe I thincke
thee to be borne not onely for the vniuersall ruine of all oure familie,
but also (which greeueth me most) to be an occasion and instrument of my
death, and desolation of all thy frendes: but if thou wilt somewhat
moderate thy rygor all this heauines shortly may be tourned to ioye: for
our king and soueraign Lorde is not onely in loue with thee, but for the
ardent affection and amitie that he beareth thee, is out of his wittes,
and now doth conspire against vs, as though we were traytors and
murderers of our Prince: in whose handes (as thou knowest) doth rest the
life, honor and goods both of thy selfe and of vs all: and what glory
and triumphe shall be reported of thee to our posterity, when they shal
know how by thy obstinate crueltie, thou haste procured the death of
thine old father, the death of thy hooreheaded mother, and the
destruction of thy valiaunt and coragious brethren, and dispoyled the
rest of thy bloud of their possessions and abilitie? But what sorrowe
and griefe will it be, to see them wander in the world like vagabounds
banished from their liuings, and remaine in continuall pouertie, without
place and refuge of their miserie? who in steede of blessing or
praysinge the houre of thy birth, will cursse the in their minds a
thousand times, as the cause of all their ouerthrow and ill fortune.
Thinke and consider vpon the same (deare daughter) for in thee alone
resteth the conseruacion of our liues, and hope of all our frendes.”
This lamentable discourse ended, the afflicted Countesse not able anye
longer to resiste that pangue, began to waxe so faint as wyth her armes
a crosse she fell downe halfe deade vpon her doughter: who seinge her
without mouinge and without any apparaunce of life, and all the partes
of her bodye to waxe cold, she quicklye layde her downe, and then with
helpe and other thinges apt for sowninges, shee made her come to
herselfe againe, and thinking wholy to recouer her, she earnestly
promised to do what she would haue her, saying vnto her: “Do awaye your
teares (Madame) moderate your tormentes, reuoke your former ioye, and be
of good cheere, for I am disposed to obey you. God defende that I should
be the cause of the paine which I see you to suffer: nowe am I ready to
goe with you to the kinge, where if it shall please you, wee two
withoute other company will do our owne errande and attempt the
beginning of our enterprise.” The mother full of ioye, lifting vp her
hands to the heauens, tenderly embraced her daughter, and manye times
did kisse her, and after shee had commaunded her Coche to be made
readye, she wente forth with her doughter, accompanied onelye with two
Gentlewomen to the kinge’s Palace. Being come thither, they sente worde
to the Secretary, that brought her the message, who conducted them to
the kinge’s chamber, and presenting them before him, sayde: “Syr,
beholde the companye which you haue so long time desired: who are come
to do your grace humble reuerence.” The king greatly astonied, went
forth to meete them, and with ioyful countinaunce saide: “Welcome, Lady
Countesse, and your long desired company. But what good fortune hath
broughte you hither nowe?” The Countesse hauing made her obeysance, yet
all frighted with feare, aunswered him: “Beholde here my Lorde your
fayre Ælips so long time wished for, who taking repentaunce for her
former cruelty and rigor, is come to render herselfe at your
commaundement.” Then the king beholding the yong Countesse tremblinge
for feare, like a leafe shaken with the winde (with her eyes fixed on
the grounde) approching neer her, toke her by the hande, and kissing
her, sayd: “Welcome, my life and soule.” But she no more moued than a
fierce lion enuironed with cruell beastes, stood still and helde her
peace, her harte so constrayned for sorrow and despite, as she was not
able to aunsweare a word. The kinge who thoughte that such passion
proceeded of shame, commaunded the Gentlewomen, that were in her
company, to departe the chamber, sauing the mother which broughte her to
the entrie of his chamber, who withdrawing herselfe backe, left her to
the mercy of loue and the kinge. So sone as the king was entred the
chamber he shutte the doore after him. Which Ælips perceiuinge beganne
to feele a furious combate betweene her honour and life, fearing to be
defloured, and seing her abandoned of al humaine succour, falling downe
prostrate at his feete, she sayd vnto him: “Gracious and redoubted
Prince, sithe my heauy fortune hath broughte mee hither, like an
innocente Lambe to the sacrifice, and that my parents amazed through
your furie, are become rauishers of me against my will, and contrary to
the duety of their honor, haue deliuered me into your handes, I humbly
beseech your maiestie, if there remaine in your noble personage any
sparke of vertue and Princely affection, before you passe any further to
satisfy your desire, to let me proue and vnderstande by effecte, if your
loue be such, as oftentimes by letters and mouth you haue declared vnto
me. The requeste which I will make vnto you shall be but easie, and yet
shall satisfie mee more than all the contentacion of the world.
Otherwise (sir) doe not thinke that so longe as my life doth continue,
I am able to do that which can contente your desire. And if my sute
shall seeme reasonable, and grounded vppon equitie, before I doe open
and declare the same more at large, assure the performaunce thereof vnto
me by oth.” The king hearing her prayer to be so reasonable, wherunto
rather then to refuse it, he swore by his Scepter, taking God to
witnesse and all the heauenly powers for confirmacion of that which he
pretended to promise: saide vnto her: “Madame, the onely maistresse and
keper of my louing harte, sith of your grace and curtesie you haue
vouchsafed to come vnto my Palace, to make request of my onely fauoure
and good will, which now I irreuocably do consent and graunt, swearing
vnto you by that honourable sacramente of Baptism, whereby I was
incorporated to the Church of God, and for the loue that I beare you
(for greater assuraunce I cannot giue) I will not refuse any thing, that
is in my power and abilitie, to the intent you may not be in doubt
whether I do loue you, and intend hereafter to imploy my selfe to serue
and pleasure you: for otherwyse I should falsify my faith, and more
feruently I cannot bind my selfe if I shoulde sweare by all the othes of
the worlde.” The fayre Countesse sitting still vpon her knees, although
the king many times prayed her to rise vp, reuerently toke the king by
the hand, saying: “And I do kisse this royal hand for loyall testimonie
of the fauour which vour grace doth shew me.” Then plucking out a sharpe
knife, which was hidden under her kirtle, all bathed and washed in
teares, reclining her pitifull eyes towardes the king, that was appalled
with that sight, she said vnto him: “Sir, the gift that I require, and
wherfore your faith is bound, is this. I most humblie desire you, that
rather then to dispoile me of mine honour, with the sworde girded by
your side, you do vouchsafe to ende my life, or to suffer me presently,
with this sharpe pointed knife in my hand to thrust it to my hart, that
mine innocent bloud, doing the funerall honour, may beare witnesse
before God of my vndefiled chastity, as being vtterly resolued
honourablie to die. And that rather then to lose mine honoure, I may
murther my selfe before you wyth this blade and knife in present hand.”
The king burning with amorous heate, beholding this pitifull spectacle,
and consideringe the inuincible constancie and chastitie of the
Countesse, vanquished by remorse of conscience, ioyned with like pitie,
taking her by the hand, said: “Rise vp Lady, and liue from henceforth
assured: for I will not ne yet pretende all the dayes of my life, to
commit any thing in you against your will.” And plucking the knife out
of her hand, exclaimed: “This knife hereafter shall bee the pursiuant
before God and men of this thine inexpugnable chastitie, the force
whereof wanton loue was not able to endure, rather yelding place to
vertue, which being not alienated from me, hath made me at one instant
victorious ouer my selfe, which by and by I will make you to vnderstande
to your greate contentacion and greater maruel. For assuraunce wherof I
desire none other thing of you, but a chaste kisse.” Which receyued, hee
opened the doore and caused the Countesse to come in with the Secretarie
and the gentlewomen, and the same time hee called also the Courtiers and
Piers of the Realme, which were then in the base Court of the Palace,
among whom was the Archbishop of Yorke, a man of great reputacion and
singuler learning, to whom with the knife in his hand he recited
particulerly the discourse of his loue: and after he toke the Countesse
by the hande, and sayde vnto her: “Madame, the houre is come that for
recompence of your honest chastity and vertue, I wil and consent to take
you to wife, if you thincke good.” The Countesse hearinge those wordes
began to recoloure her bleake and pale face with a vermilion teinte and
roseal rudde, and accomplished with incredible delight and ioye, falling
downe at his feete, said vnto him “My Lord, for asmuch as I neuer loked
to be aduaunced to so honourable state as fortune nowe doth offer, for
merite of a benefit so high and great which you present vnto me,
vouchsauing to abase your selfe to the espousal of so poore a Lady, your
maiesties pleasure being such, behold me ready at your commaundement.”
The king taking her vp from kneeling on the ground, commaunded the
Bishop to pronounce with highe voice the vsual words of Matrimonie. Then
drawing a riche Diamond from his finger hee gaue it to the Countesse,
and kissing her, saide: “Madame, you be Queene of England, and presently
I doe giue you thirty thousande angells by the yeare for your reuenew.
And the Duchie of Lancaster being by confiscation fallen into my hands,
I guie also vnto you, to bestowe vppon your selfe and your frends.” Al
which inrolled according to the maner of the countrie, the king
(accomplishing the mariage) rewarded the Countesse for the rigorous
interestes of his so long loue, with suche hap and content as they may
iudge which haue made assay of like pleasure, and recouered the fruite
of so long pursute. And the more magnificentlye to solemnize the
mariage, the kinge assembled all the Nobilitie of Englande, and somoned
them to be at London the first day of July then folowinge, to beautifie
and assist the Nupcialles and coronation of the Queene. Then he sente
for the father and brethren of the Queene, whom he embraced one after an
other, honouring the Earle as his father, and his sonnes as his
brethren, wherof the Earle wonderfully reioysed, seinge the conceyued
hope of his daughter’s honour sorted to so happie effecte, as well to
the perpetual fame of him and his, as to the euerlasting aduauncement of
his house. At the appointed day the Queene was broughte from her
father’s house apparelled with Royall vestures, euen to the Palace, and
conducted with an infinite nomber of Lords and Ladies to the Church,
where when seruice was done, the kinge was maried (againe) openly, and
the same celebrated, shee was conueyed vp into a publike place, and
proclamed Queene of England, to the exceedinge gratulacion and ioye
incredible of all the subiectes.




AN ADUERTISEMENT

To the Reader.


After these tragicall Nouelles and dolorous Histories of Bandello,
I haue thoughte good for thy recreacion, to refresh thy mind with some
pleasaunt deuises and disportes: least thy spirites, and sences should
be apalled and astonned with the sondrie kindes of cruelties remembred
in the vij. of the former nouelles. Which be so straunge and terrible as
they be able to affright the stoutest. And yet considering that they be
very good lessons for auoyding like inconueniences, and apt examples for
continuacion of good and honest life, they are the better to be borne
with, and may with lesse astonnishment be read and marked. They that
follow, be mitigated and sweetened with pleasure, not altogether so
sower as the former be. Prayinge thee moste hartely, paciently to beare
with those that shall occure, either in these that folow, or in the
other that are past before.




END OF VOL I.


BALLANTYNE PRESS: EDINBURGH AND LONDON.


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[The following seven pages, here separated by single rows of asterisks,
originally appeared at the beginning of the printed book.]

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  Anglistica & Americana


  Georg Olms Hildesheim

       *       *       *       *       *

                WILLIAM PAINTER

             THE PALACE OF PLEASURE

       *       *       *       *       *

  Anglistica & Americana

  A Series of Reprints Selected by
  Bernhard Fabian, Edgar Mertner,
  Karl Schneider and Marvin Spevack

  3


  1968

  Georg Olms Verlagsbuchhandlung
  Hildesheim

       *       *       *       *       *

                WILLIAM PAINTER


             The Palace of Pleasure

            Edited by Joseph Jacobs

                     (1890)

                     Vol. I



    1968
    Georg Olms Verlagsbuchhandlung
    Hildesheim

       *       *       *       *       *

Note

The present slightly reduced facsimile is reproduced from a copy in the
possession of the University of Münster (Englisches Seminar).

Shelfmark: XVI 4043/4.

    M. S.


  Reprographischer Nachdruck der Ausgabe London 1890
  Printed in Germany
  Herstellung: fotokop wilhelm weihert, Darmstadt
  Best-Nr. 5101932

       *       *       *       *       *

            THE PALACE OF PLEASURE

                    VOL. I.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Of this Edition five hundred and fifty copies have been printed,
five hundred of which are for sale._

       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *

_Errors and Anomalies (transcriber’s list)_

The printed book did not include an Errata list. It is therefore
impossible to tell whether irregularities of spelling, punctuation and
typography in the primary text are unique to the Jacobs edition (1890),
or whether they were deliberately carried over from Haslewood (1813)
and/or Painter (1566 and later).

  Brackets [ ] and footnotes:
  Brackets are used to demarcate footnotes and Transcriber’s Notes,
  each of which is clearly identified. All other bracketed text is in
  the original.
  Footnote labels were changed from symbols (*, †, ‡ ...) to continuous
  numbering. Note that the bracketed numerals [89] and [95] are in the
  original text; footnote numbering ends at [68].

  Braces { }:
  In older texts quoted in the introduction, letters originally printed
  as superscripts are shown in braces.
  In the primary text, missing or invisible punctuation--chiefly
  quotation marks--is shown in {braces}.
  Braces do not occur in the original.

  Parentheses ( ):
  In older texts quoted in the introduction, expanded abbreviations are
  shown in parentheses. All other parentheses are in the original.

  Asterisks *:
  In the Bibliographical Notices and on the title page, text originally
  printed in blackletter (“Gothic”) type is shown between asterisks.
  Single asterisks are in the original text.

  Slash /:
  All slashes / are in the original.


_Inconsistencies_

at least five children : their six children
  _The first reference is from Jacobs’s introduction, the second from
  Haslewood’s._

Giovanne : Giovanni (Boccaccio)
  _Jacobs’s introduction favors the spelling in “e”._

renowm(e) : renown(e)
  _In the primary text, the word is spelled with “m” far more often
  than with “n”._
the end(e) : thend(e) and similar pairs
  _both forms are used_


_Introduction, including quotations of older material_

See above about {braces} and (parentheses).

[Table of Contents] Randolpho Ruffolo
  _novel has “Landolpho”_
Footnote 3: See Burckhardt, _Cultur der Renaisance in Italien_
  _spelling “Renaisance” unchanged_
the number comes from the _Cento novelle antichi_
  _text reads “autichi”_
_Inglese italianato è un / diabolo incarnato_ (in Jacobs text)
  _accent on “è” missing in original_
doth easelie allure / the mynde to false opinions
  _“t” in “the” printed upside-down_
by the time Shakespeare / began to write
  _text reads “Shakepeare”_
At any rate / it is a tolerably easy task
  _text reads “any-/rate” at line break_
See Cens. Lit. Vol. II. / p. 212. Where it appears
  _punctuation and capitalization unchanged_
Willm Paint{er} confesseth
  _printed “Paint confesseth” with curved line over “t”_
as brought into her maties Store
  _text unchanged: error for ma{ties} with superscript?_
_Source._--Boccaccio, _Decamerone_
  _text reads “Boccaccio’s, _Decamerone_”_
_Source and Origin._--Herod, iv. 110.
  _text reads “Origen”_
that had abused hir, and promised her mariage
  _text reads “marlage”_


_Introduction: Punctuation_

at the Dominican monastery of Sta. Maria delle / Grazie
  _period after “Sta.” missing in original_
“In case I dye
  _text appears to have single quote for double_
PENSE.] | 1566. | _JMPRINTED AT_--*London, by Henry Denham,*
  _closing bracket after “PENSE.” missing in original_
Anno. 1567.--Imprinted &c.
  _text has close quote at end of paragraph_
Deceaved by him of the some of one{C} xliij{lb}.
  _period (full stop) at end of paragraph missing or invisible_
[... in 1577 (Fleay, _Hist. of Stage_, p. 380).]
  _text has final period (full stop) outside closing bracket_
_Parallels._--Justin, i. 7.
  _period (full stop) after “Parallels” missing_
_Painter_, I. i. 27; II. i. 25; III. i. 44; IV. i. 58.
  _text has closing bracket at end of line_
Val. Max., viii. 13, 5; Sueton. _Tib._, 2
  _text has colon : for semicolon ;_
_Painter_, I. i. 48; II. i. 45; III. i. 81; IV. i. 95.
  _text has closing bracket at end of line_
_Parallels_.--Val. Max. v. 7
  _period (full stop) after “Parallels” missing_
_Parallels_.--Erasmus, _Adagio_;
  _period (full stop) after “Parallels” missing_
Footnote 66: Landau, _Quellen_{2}, p. 331
  _text reads “_Quellen_,{2}” (comma before superscript numeral)_
_Denks. K. Akad._
  _final period (full stop) missing or invisible_
_Amorous hysterie of Guistard_, 1532; Howell, _Letters_
  _text reads “... Guistard_; 1532, Howell”_


_Primary Text_

  _Missing or invisible punctuation--chiefly quotation marks--is shown
  in {braces} without further annotation._

De beneuolentia autem, quam quisq’; habeat erganos
  _abbreviation for “quisque”_
he that is daily resiant / in a Palace of renowmed fame
  _variant form of “resident”_
I my selfe haue already done many other of thesame
  _error for “the same” (two-word form used consistently)_
pssiang by the Albanes campe in the night
  _error for “passing”_
if I may speake rather the truthe, / then vtter any glosing woordes
  _probably a variant spelling of “glozing”_
and the valiaunt deliuerie thereof by Mutius Scœuola [4939
  _error for “Scævola” (spelling used elsewhere)_
King Cræsus of Lydia [5655
  _spelling consistent throughout story_
she is tickle and can not be / holden against her will [6429
  _error for “fickle”?_
infect the the same wyth the degenerate food [7039
  _duplicate “the the” in original at line break_
their beades / in their handes [7725
  _not an error_
whom the Marques Azzo lou d / as his life [8072
  _“e” invisible: “loued”_
he gaue them all saying. “That there was nothing els.”
  _error for “saying, ” with comma?_
that had no sense of a a reasonable man
  _duplicate “a a” in original at line break_
he espyed a yonge maide of fimal yeares
  _word “fimal” unidentified_
maister Appian hauing commauuded
  _error for “commaunded”_
  _this and the following four items (through the first “alablaster”)
  all occur in story XLV_
my sole and ouely heyre
  _error for “onely”_
“how easie a matter it is for one that that is hole
  _duplicate “that that” in original at mid-line_
and to sing psalmes for ioye of the deliueaunce of their Duchesse
  _error for “deliueraunce”_
colour began to renew her alablaster cheekes
whitenesse of her alablaster face
  _standard spelling for the period_
the fauour which vour grace doth shew me
  _error for “your” or physical flaw; in the font used, “v” is
  indistinguishable from the top part of “y”_
I guie also vnto you
  _error for “giue”_