Princeton University Library
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ANNEX LIB.
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JUNIONENSQUAREST BALDWAN
520 STONEMUSEUMPAIMERS REMONIO
WILLIAM SEYMOUR
THEATRE COLLECTION
E PRINCETON UNIVERSITY
Ex Libris
Si William Seymour/
EMPIRES METROPOLITAN OPERA


کر
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سن





SHAKESPEARE'S LIBRARY:
A COLLECTION OF THE
ROMANCES, NOVELS
POEMS, AND HISTORIES,
USED BY
SHAKESPEARE
AS THE FOUNDATION OF HIS DRAMAS.
NOW firsT COLLECTED, AND ACCURATELY REPRINTED FROM THE ORIGINAL
EDITIONS.
WITH INTRODUCTORY NOTICES,
By J. PAYNE COLLIER, Esq. F.S.A.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
THOMAS RODD,
9, GREAT NEWPORT STREET.


LONDON:
COMPTON AND RITCHIE, PRINTERS, MIDDLE STREET, CLOTH FAIR.


SHAKESPEARE'S LIBRARY.
VOL. II.
CONTENTS.
ROMEUS AND JULIET, a Poem, by Arthur Brooke.
RHOMEO AND JULIETTA; from Paynter's Palace of Pleasure.
GILETTA OF NARBONA, on which is founded ALL'S WELL THAT
ENDS WELL; from Paynter's Palace of Pleasure.
The Story of The Two LOVERS OF PISA, which Shakespeare
employed in his MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.
THE HISTORIE OF APOLLONIUS AND SILLA, containing part of
the plot of TWELFTH NIGHT; reprinted from Rich's Farewell
to Military Profession, 1606.
THE HISTORIE OF PROMOS AND CASSANDRA, closely resembling
the plot of MEASURE FOR MEASURE; from Whetstone's Hep-
tameron of Civil Discourses, 1582. .
Novels more or less resembling the MERCHANT OF VENICE:-
THE ADVENTURES OF GIANNETTO; from the Pecorone of
Ser Giovanni Fiorentino.
OF A JEW WHO WOULD FOR HIS DEBT HAVE A POUND OF
THE FLESH OF A CHRISTIAN; from the Orator of Alex.
Silvayn, translated by A. Munday, 1598.
The Story of THE CHOICE OF THREE CASKETS; from the
Gesta Romanorum, translated by Robinson.
(RECAP)
1789959
3925
829


CONTENTS.
THE STORY OF A MOORISH CAPTAIN, on which is founded the
Tragedy of OTHELLO; from the Heccatomithi of Cinthio.
QUEEN CORDILA, a Poem, by John Higgins ; from the Mirror
for Magistrates, 1587.
The Story of THE PAPHLAGONIAN UNKIND KING, on which is
founded the Epistode of Gloster and his Sons, in KING LEAR;
from Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, 1591.
THE HISTORY OF MAKBETH, from Holinshed's Chronicle.
The Story of THE SHEPHERDESS FELISMENA, from which Shake-
speare is said to have taken the plot of The Two GENTLEMEN
OF VERONA ; from the Diana of Montemayor, translated by
B. Young, 1598.
THE STORY TOLD BY THE FISHWIFE OF STAND ON THE
GREEN, the incidents of which are similar to some of those in
CYMBELINE; from Westward for Smelts, 1620.


SHAKS PEARE'S LIBRARY,
2 volumes, 8vo.
DIRECTIONS TO THE BINDER.
VOL. I.
Title, preface, and contents, four leaves
Greene's Pandosto, introduction, four leaves
Pandosto, pages 1 to 66
Rosalynd, pages 1 to 130
Hamlet, title, introduction, and preface, eight leaves
Hamblet, pages 131 to 182
Patterne of Painfull Adventures, title, dedication, table, three leaves
Pattern of Painful Adventures, pages 183 to 257
Apollonius, title and introduction, four leaves
Apollonius, pages 259 to 312.
VOL. II.
Title and contents, two leaves
Romeo, title, &c. five leaves, and pages 1 to 132
Galetta, title, &c. two leaves, and pages 3 to 12
Lovers of Pisa, title, &c. two leaves, and pages 15 to 24
Apollonius, title, &c. two leaves, and pages 27 to 49
Promos, title, &c. two leaves, and pages 53 to 62
Merchant of Venice, title, &c three leaves, and pages 65 to 110
Othello, title, &c. two leaves, and pages 1 to 24
Queen Cordila, title, &c. 3 leaves, and pages 27 to 40
Sidney's Arcadia, pages 41 to 50
Macbeth, title, &c. 2 leaves, and pages 53 to 77
Felismena, title, &c. two leaves, and pages 1 to 30
Cymbeline, title, &c. eight leaves, and pages 33 to 46.





ROMEO AND JULIET.
THE TRAGICAL HISTORY
OF
ROMEUS AND JULIET;
A POEM BY ARTHUR BROOKE:
AND
THE NOVEL
OF
RHOMEO AND JULIETTA,
FROM W. PAYNTER’S PALACE OF PLEASURE.
WITH AN INTRODUCTION.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED BY T. RODD, 2, GREAT NEWPORT STREET,
LONG ACRE.


The goodly hystory of the true and constant
love betweene
RUOMEO AND JULIETTA.
(Reprinted from the second volume of Paynter's
Palace of Pleasure.)


INTRODUCTION.
THE present publication consists of two portions—the one
a poem, by Arthur Brooke—the other a prose narrative, by
William Paynter. The first purports to be a translation
from Bandello : the second is a literal version of a story in
Belleforest's “ Histoires Tragiques.” It will be more conve-
nient to speak of them separately.
Only two copies of the earliest edition of the poem by
Brooke are known; one at Oxford, in Malone's Collection,
from which our re-impression has been made; and the other
at Cambridge, among Capel's books. The latter is defective
in the preliminary matter, wanting the prose address “To the
Reader;" so that the only known perfect exemplar is in the
Bodleian Library. Our heartiest acknowledgments are due
to the Rev. Dr. Bandinell, for the very kind assistance he
afforded in collating our transcript, by which means some
glaring and important errors, committed by Malone in his
reprint (first given in his “Supplement,” 1780, i, 276) have
been corrected, and the work is now presented to the reader
as nearly as possible as it issued from the press of Richard
Tottell, in 1562. It consists of eighty-four numbered leaves,
besides four of introduction. We have not thought it right
to correct even the obvious errors of the early press, in
order that the poem might be read in its most genuine state :
thus, on p. 17, 1. 28, the word “befylde" occurs, instead
of defylde : on p. 69, 1. 10, we meet with “tempted" for
tempered, &c. It was again entered by Tottell on the books
of the Stationers' Company in 1582; but if any such edition
were published, we have never had an opportunity of ex;
amining it. It was reprinted by R. Robinson in 1587, with


INTRODUCTION.
the following explanatory addition to the title, which Ritson
supposed to be the first title (Bibliogr. Poet. 144) “ contayn-
ing in it a rare example of true constancie, with the subtill
counsells and practises of an old fryer, and their ill event.”
“A new ballad of Romeo and Juliett” was entered on the
Stationers' books in 1596, by Edward White, but no copy of
it is known, and it was probably a different and a shorter
publication. Shakespeare's “Romeo and Juliet” was first
printed in 1597, and it has been conjectured by Malone that
it was written in the preceding year: it is therefore possible,
though not probable, that White, in the indefinite language
of the time, meant the play when he called it a “ballad,” and
that he wished to establish some prior claim to the publica-
tion of Shakespeare's tragedy.
It will be observed, that on the title page of Brooke's poem,
the story is said to have been “written first in Italian by
Bandell,” as if Brooke had versified the novel as he found
it in Bandello; but such is by no means the case, for he
much more closely follows the authority which we shall pre-
sently see that Paynter employed a few years afterwards.
However, he is not at all faithful to any preceding narra-
tive that has ever been pointed out, or that we have been
able to consult: the truth is, that Brooke's poem reads more
like an original work than a translation, though in the body
of it he several times (in imitation of the romance-writers of
Italy) speaks of his author, and inserts such expressions as
“the written story saith.” In some places Brooke writes as
if in the character of a minstrel, addressing a listening audi-
tory:-
“ If any man be here whom love hath clad with care,
To him I speake,” &c.
It is a production of singular beauty for the time, full of ap-
propriate and graceful imagery, and although the similes and
other figures may now and then be a little too highly wrought,
or not quite in the best taste, it places Brooke, in this style


INTRODUCTION.
iii
of writing, above any known competitor. Bernard Garter's
“Tragicall and true History, which happened betwene two
English Lovers,” (printed by R. Tottell in 1565) was com-
posed in decided imitation of Arthur Brooke's “Romeus
and Juliet,” perhaps in consequence of the success of it,
but it is inferior in every poetical quality. Those who
have hitherto spoken of Brooke's poem, have not spoken of
it as it deserves; and the commentators on Shakespeare
seem scarcely to have ventured (even if they had formed) an
opinion upon its merits. Here and there the author employs
a few archaisms, such as “gleade” for fire, “ blyn” for cease,
&c.; but in general the tale is told with much simplicity, and
the descriptions are sometimes elaborately minute, and afford
very striking and graceful pictures. One of these, in a single
couplet, may be quoted from p. 45, where Romeo and Juliet,
in their grief at his banishment, are standing together:-
“But on his brest her hed doth joylesse Juliet lay,
And on her slender necke his chyn doth ruthfull Romeus stay;"
which would afford an excellent and a touching subject for
any modern artist with taste and talent for illustration. It is,
at all events, much more pleasing and poetical than Dante's
simile in his Inferno, Canto xxix, where he likens two weep-
ing lovers, leaning against each other, to two pans reared up
to drain at a cottage door. Brooke's versification consists,
throughout, of alternate lines of twelve and fourteen syllables,
a measure that was frequently thus divided, for the conveni-
ence of printing: -
“ There is beyonde the Alps
a towne of auntient fame,
Whose bright renoune yet shineth cleare,
Verona men it name."
In our impression, as the width of the page would allow
it, the lines are printed at length. It will be found that the
author was partial to double rhimes, which he introduces
without constraint, and with considerable judgment, in order


iv
INTRODUCTION.
to lighten the weight of monosyllabic terminations. In this
and some other respects he writes likes a practised versifier,
and in the introductory lines “to the Reader” he tells us
that he had composed other works “in divers kindes of style,”
adding,
" The eldest of them, loe,
I offer to the stake; my youthfull woorke, &c.”
The whole passage reads as if Brooke intended by it to
apologise for the imperfections of an early production, which,
later in life, he thought fit to publish.
How old he might be in 1562 we have no means of know-
ing; but he tells us himself, on p. 31 of our reprint, where
he speaks in his own person, that he was unmarried. He
was dead in 1563 : in that year came out, “An Agreement of
sundry places of Scripture," collected by Arthur Brooke, and in
some verses prefixed, and subscribed Thomas Brooke, we are
informed that the author had perished by shipwreck. George
Turberville, among his “Epitaphes and Epigrammes,” 1567,
has one “On the death of Maister Arthur Brooke, drownde
in passing to Newhaven.” That it was the same Arthur
Brooke cannot be doubted, because Turberville mentions the
story of “Romeus and Juliet” as a proof that the person
who was drowned “for metre did excel.” This epitaph
supplies the only certain evidence that “The Tragicall His-
torye of Romeus and Juliet” was by Brooke; for, as our
readers will perceive, the title-page merely states “and nowe
in Englishe by Ar. Br.”
All it is necessary to say of William Paynter, and of his
portion of the following work, may be put in a shorter com-
pass. He was Clerk of the Armoury (Lansd. MS., No. 5)
to Queen Elizabeth, not long after she came to the throne ;
and he published “The goodly hystory of the true and con-
stant love betweene Rhomeo and Julietta," as part of the
second tome” of his “Palace of Pleasure," a collection of
stories derived from various sources, ancient and modern.


INTRODUCTION.
He dates the dedication of this " second tome,” the 4th of
November 1567, five years after Brooke's poem had ap-
peared, and “two years almost after the first tome of
“The Palace of Pleasure” had been published. Paynter's
novel, as we have already stated, is a literal translation from
Belleforest's “Histoires Tragiques, extraictes des Euvres de
Bandel, et mises en langue Françoise, les six premières par
Pierre Boaistuau, fc. et les suyvantes par François Belle-
forest," and as it forms the third history in that collection, it
follows that it was mis en langue Françoise by Boisteau, and
not by Belleforest. It is there called Histoire de deux
Amans, dont l'un mourut de venin, l'autre de tristesse; but
it differs from Bandello in more respects than amplification :
in his work it forms the ninth novel of the second part, and
is entitled La sfortunata morte di dui infelicissimi Amanti,
che l'uno di veleno, e l'altro di dolore morirono.
The original narrator of the story of Romeo and Juliet,
as far as has yet been ascertained, was Luigi da Porto, of
Vincenza, who died in 1529, and whose novel was not
printed until six years afterwards in Venice. It was re-
printed in 1539, and again in 1553, and obtained great no-
toriety. Whence Luigi da Porto derived his materials is
uncertain, but Douce (Illustrations of Shakespeare, ii, 193)
has pointed out a strong resemblance between some of the
chief incidents in Romeo and Juliet and those in the Greek
romance of Xenophon of Ephesus, called “The Love-adven-
tures of Abrocomas and Anthia.” It is pretty clear, however,
that Bandello borrowed from Luigi da Porto, and we are quite
sure that Boisteau followed Bandello (varying the conclusion),
and that Paynter translated Boisteau. Boisteau asserts, that in
his day the remembrance of the incidents was so recent, qu'a
peine en sont essuiez les yeux de ceux qui ont veu ce piteux
spectacle; which Paynter thus renders :—"The memory
whereof to thys day is so wel known at Verona, as unneths
their blubbred eyes be yet dry, that saw and beheld that la-
mentable sight.” This assertion seems to have been merely


INTRODUCTION.
gratuitous on the part of Boisteau, for Bandello says no-
thing of the kind, knowing, perhaps, how much older the
story really was than such a statement would lead readers to
imagine. Bandello merely observes, verrò à dirvi un pietoso
caso ed infortunio grandissimo, che à dui nobilissimi amanti
avenne. Paynter was only a servile copyist of his French
original, and there is certainly little grace or ease of style to
recommend his translation. Unlike Brooke, Paynter invented
and added nothing.
It was natural, therefore, that Shakespeare, when he took
up the story of Romeo and Juliet as a fit subject for the
stage, should turn from Paynter's hard, cold, and dry narra-
tive to Brooke's more attractive and interesting poem. To
those who read the play with an eye to the two pieces now
reprinted, it will be evident that Shakespeare was more in-
debted to Brooke than to Paynter, and Malone has thus enu-
merated his reasons for thinking so.
“1. In the poem, the Prince of Verona is called Escalus :
so also in the play. In Paynter's translation from Boisteau,
he is named Signor Escala, and sometimes Lord Bartholo-
mew of Escala. 2. In Paynter's novel, the family of Romeo
are called the Montesches : in the poem and in the play, the
Montagues. 3. The messenger employed by friar Lawrence
to carry a letter to Romeo, to inform him when Juliet would
awake from her trance, is in Paynter's translation called
Anselme : in the poem and in the play, friar John is em-
ployed in this business. 4. The circumstance of Capulet's
writing down the names of the guests whom he invites to
supper is found in the poem and in the play, but is not men-
tioned by Paynter; nor is it found in the original Italian
novel. 5. The residence of the Capulets in the original and
in Paynter is called Villa Franca : in the poem and in the
play, Freetown. 6. Several passages of Romeo and Juliet
appear to have been formed on hints furnished by the poem,
of which no traces are found either in Paynter's novel, or in
Boisteau, or in the original; and several expressions are


INTRODUCTION.
vii
borrowed from thence, which will be found in their proper
places.” (Malone's Shakespeare, by Boswell, vi, 3.)
These “ proper places” are, of course, the notes to Malone's
edition of Romeo and Juliet, and it is needless to repeat them
here. The result is to render it pretty clear that Shake-
speare made comparatively little use of Paynter's version,
while his obligations to Brooke were numerous and consi-
derable.
To what degree our great dramatist might also be in-
debted to some earlier and now lost tragedy must be matter
of mere conjecture. One point is quite certain from Arthur
Brooke's address “ to the Reader,” viz. that prior to 1562
the subject had been brought upon the English stage: his
words are the more remarkable, because he gives extraordi-
nary commendation to the piece, and the excellence of his
own work shews that he must have been a competent judge.
“Though (he says) I saw the same argument lately set foorth
on stage with more commendation then I can looke for, being
there much better set forth then I have, or can dooe.” Thus
we see that there was not only a play, but, in the estimation
of Brooke, a good play, upon the history of Romeo and Juliet
in the very commencement of the reign of Elizabeth; for the
term “lately,” would scarcely warrant us in going back be-
yond the year 1558. This fact furnishes the strongest evi-
dence of the popularity of the incidents, even before Brooke
made use of them; and the possibility that Shakespeare
availed himself, in 1596, of the work of some older playwright
is considered in “The History of English Dramatic Poetry
and the Stage,” ii, 416.
It ought be mentioned that, two years before Paynter pub-
lished his translation, what may be called “ the argument" of
it was thus stated by T. Peend, or Delapeend, in his “Plea-
sant Fable of Hermaphroditus and Salmacis,” 1565:—"A
noble mayden of the cytye Verona, in Italye, whyche loved
Romeus, eldest sonne of the Lorde Montesche, and beinge


vii
INTRODUCTION.
pryvely maryed togyther, he at last poysoned hymselfe for
love of her. She, for sorowe of his deathe, slewe selfe in
the same tombe with hys dagger.” This is inserted by way
of explanation of a passage in the poem, in which the names
“ Juliet and Romeus” are introduced.
In truth, the story must have been very familiar to every
body long before Shakespeare thought fit to adopt it for the
company to which he belonged. One early notice of it,
three-and-twenty years older than the date of the first edition
of “Romeo and Juliet,” is to be found in a volume of such
extreme rarity, that only a single copy of it (and that im-
perfect at the end) is known to remain. It is called “A
right excellent and pleasant Dialogue betwene Mercury and
a Souldier,” 8vo, 1574; and there the author, Barnabe Rich,
informs us that “ the pittifull history of Romeus and Julietta”
was represented upon tapestry, as if it were then not an un-
common subject for that species of domestic illustration. The
next allusion to it is in “The Gorgeous Gallery of Gallant
Inventions,” 1578; and in the following year we find it spoken
of in “ A poor Knight his Palace of private Pleasure;” while
Stanyhurst, in his Epitaph at the end of his hexametrical
translation of “The first foure bookes of Virgils Æneis,"
1582, places Juliet in the same line with Dido and Cleopatra.
The last instance to which it is necessary to allude is con-
tained in Melbancke's “ Philotimus—the Warre betwixt Na-
ture and Fortune,” 1583.
It will be observed that Brooke, Paynter, and Shakespeare
all conclude the story in the same manner : Juliet does not
wake from her trance in the tomb until Romeo is dead; but
in Luigi da Porto's narrative, and in Bandello's novel founded
upon it, she recovers her senses in time to hear him speak,
and to see him expire : instead of stabbing herself with his
dagger, she dies, as it were, of a broken heart, on the body
of her lover.


THE TRAGICALL HIS
torye of Romeus and Iuliet, writ-
ten first in Italian by Bandell,
and nowe in Englishe by
Ar. Br.
In ædibus Richardi Tottelli.
Cum Privilegio.





TO THE READER.
The God of all glorye created universallye all creatures, to sette
forth his prayse, both those whiche we esteme profitable in use
and pleasure, and also those, whiche we accompte noysome, and
lothsome. But principally he hath appointed man, the chiefest
instrument of his honour, not onely, for ministryng matter thereof
in man himselfe: but aswell in gatheryng out of other, the occa-
sions of publishing Gods goodnes, wisdome, & power. And in
like sort, everye dooyng of man hath by Goddes dyspensacion
some thynge, whereby God may, and ought to be honored. So
the good doynges of the good, & the evill actes of the wicked, the
happy successe of the blessed, and the wofull procedinges of the
miserable, doe in divers sorte sound one prayse of God. And as
eche flower yeldeth hony to the bee : so every exaumple ministreth
good lessons to the well disposed mynde. The glorious triumphe
of the continent man upon the lustes of wanton fleshe, incourageth
men to honest restraynt of wyld affections, the shamefull and
wretched endes of such, as have yelded their libertie thrall to fowle
desires, teache men to withholde them selves from the hedlong
fall of loose dishonestie. So, to lyke effect, by sundry meanes,
the good mans exaumple byddeth men to be good, and the evill
mans mischefe, warneth men not to be evyll. To this good ende,
serve all ill endes, of yll begynnynges. And to this ende (good
Reader) is this tragicall matter written, to describe unto thee a
coople of unfortunate lovers, thralling themselves to unhonest de-
sire, neglecting the authoritie and advise of parents and frendes,
B2


TO THE READER.
conferring their principall counsels with dronken gossyppes, and
superstitious friers (the naturally fitte instrumentes of unchastitie)
attemptyng all adventures of peryll, for thattaynyng of their wished
lust, usyng auriculer confession (the kay of whoredome, and trea-
son) for furtheraunce of theyr purpose, abusyng the honorable
name of lawefull mariage, to cloke the shame of stolne contractes,
finallye, by all meanes of unhonest lyfe, hastyng to most unhappye
deathe. This president (good Reader) shalbe to thee, as the
slaves of Lacedemon, oppressed with excesse of drinke, deformed
and altered from likenes of men, both in mynde, and use of body,
were to the free borne children, so shewed to them by their pa-
rentes, to thintent to rayse in them an hatefull lothyng of so filthy
beastlynes. Hereunto if you applye it, ye shall deliver my dooing
from offence, and profit your selves. Though I saw the same argu-
ment lately set foorth on stage with more commendation, then I
can looke for: (being there much better set forth then I have or
can dooe) yet the same matter penned as it is, may serve to lyke
good effect, if the readers do brynge with them lyke good myndes,
to consider it, which hath the more incouraged me to publishe it,
suche as it is. Ar. Br.


TO THE READER.
Amid the desert rockes, the mountaine beare
Bringes forth unformd, unlyke herselfe, her yonge ;
Nought els but lumpes of fleshe, withouten heare,
In tract of time, her often lycking tong
Geves them such shape, as doth, ere long, delight
The lookers on; or, when one dogge doth shake
With moosled mouth the joyntes too weake to fight,
Or, when upright he standeth by his stake,
(A noble creast,) or wylde in savage wood,
A dosyn dogges one holdeth at a baye,
With gaping mouth, and stayned jawes with blood;
Or els, when from the farthest heavens, they
The lode starres are, the wery pilates marke,
In stormes to gyde to haven the tossed barke ;-
Right so my muse
Hath now, at length, with travell long, brought forth
Her tender whelpes, her divers kindes of style,
Such as they are, or nought, or little woorth,
Which carefull travell and a longer whyle
May better shape. The eldest of them loe,
I offer to the stake; my youthfull woorke,
Which one reprochefull mouth might overthrowe:
The rest (unlickt as yet) a whyle shall lurke,
Tyll Tyme geve strength, to meete and match in fight
With Slaunder's whelpes. Then shall they tell of stryfe,
Of noble tryumphes, and deedes of martial might,
And shall geve rules of chast and honest lyfe.
The whyle, I pray, that ye with favour blame,
Or rather not reprove the laughing game
Of this thy muse.


THE ARGUMENT.
Love hath inflamed twayne by sodayn sight,
And both do graunt the thing that both desyre;
They wed in shrift by counsell of a frier ;
Yong Romeus clymes fayre Juliets bower by night.
Three monthes he doth enioy his cheefe delight:
By Tybalt's rage, provoked unto yre,
He payeth death to Tybalt for his hyre.
A banisht man, he scapes by secret flight:
New mariage is offred to his wyfe:
She drinkes a drinke that seemes to reve her breath ;
They bury her, that sleping yet hath lyfe.
Her husband heares the tydinges of her death ;
He drinkes his bane; and she, with Romeus knyfe,
When she awakes, her selfe (alas) she sleath.


ROMEUS AND IULIET.
THERE is beyonde the Alps, a towne of auncient fame,
Whose bright renoune yet shineth cleare, Verona men it name;
Bylt in an happy time, bylt on a fertile soyle :
Maynteined by the heavenly fates, and by the townish toyle.
The fruitefull hilles above, the pleasant vales belowe,
The silver streame with chanel depe, that through the towne doth flow;
The store of springes that serve for use, and eke for ease :
And other moe commodities, which profite may and please;
Eke many certayne signes of thinges betyde of olde,
To fyll the houngry eyes of those that curiously beholde;
Doe make this towne to be preferde above the rest
Of Lumbard townes, or at the least compared with the best.
In which whyle Escalus as prince alone did raigne,
To reache rewarde unto the good, to paye the lewde with payne,
Alas (I rewe to thinke) an heavy happe befell:
Which Boccace skant (not my rude tonge) were able forth to tell.
Within my trembling hande, my penne doth shake for feare,
And, on my colde amased head, upright doth stand my heare.
But sith shee doth commaunde, whose hest I must obaye,
In moorning verse, a woful chaunce to tell I will assaye.
Helpe, learned Pallas, helpe, ye Muses with your art,
Helpe, all ye damned feends to tell of joyes retournd to smart.
Help eke ye sisters three, my skillesse pen tindyte:
For you it causd which I (alas) unable am to wryte.
There were two auncient stockes, which Fortune high did place
Above the rest, indewd with welth, and nobler of their race,
Loved of the common sort, loved of the prince alike,
And like unhappy were they both, when Fortune list to strike.
Whose prayse with equal blast, Fame in her trumpet blew ;
The one was cliped Capelet, and thother Montagew.
A wonted use it is, that men of likely sorte,
(I wot not by what furye forsd) envye eche others porte.


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
So these, whose egall state bred envye pale of hew,
And then of grudging envyes roote, blacke hate and rancor grewe.
As of a little sparke, oft ryseth mighty fyre,
So of a kyndled sparke of grudge, in flames flashe oute theyr yre:
And then theyr deadly foode, first hatchd of trifling stryfe,
Did bathe in bloud of smarting woundes ; it reved breth and lyfe.
No legend lye I tell, scarce yet theyr eyes be drye,
That did behold the grisly sight, with wet and weping eye.
But when the prudent prince, who there the scepter helde,
So great a new disorder in his common weale behelde ;
By jentyl meane he sought, their choler to asswage ;
And by perswasion to appease, their blameful furious rage.
But both his woords and tyme, the prince hath spent in vayne :
So rooted was the inward hate, he lost his buysy payne.
When frendly sage advise, ne gentyll woords avayle ;
By thondring threats, and princely powre their courage gan he quayle.
In hope that when he had the wasting flame supprest,
In time he should quyte quench the sparks that boornd within their
brest.
Now whylst these kyndreds do remayne in this estate,
And eche with outward frendly shew dooth hyde his inward hate :
One Romeus, who was of race a Montague,
Upon whose tender chyn, as yet no manlyke beard there grewe,
Whose beauty and whose shape so farre the rest dyd stayne :
That from the cheefe of Veron youth he greatest fame dyd gayne,
Hath founde a mayde so fayre (he found so foule his happe)
Whose beauty, shape, and comely grace, did so his heart entrappe,
That from his owne affayres, his thought she did remove;
Onely he sought to honor her, to serve her and to love.
To her he writeth oft, oft messengers are sent,
At length (in hope of better spede) himselfe the lover went ;
Present to pleade for grace, which absent was not founde :
And to discover to her eye his new receaved wounde.
But she that from her youth was fostred evermore
With vertues foode, and taught in schole of wisdomes skilfull lore:
By aunswere did cutte of thaffections of his love,
That he no more occasion had so vayne a sute to move.


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
So sterne she was of chere, (for all the payne he tooke)
That, in reward of toyle, she would not geve a frendly looke.
And yet how much she did with constant minde retyre :
So much the more his fervent minde was prickt fourth by desyre.
But when he many monthes, hopelesse of his recure,
Had served her, who forced not what paynes he did endure:
At length he thought to leave Verona, and to prove
If chaunge of place might chaunge awaye his ill-bestowed love;
And speaking to himselfe, thus gan he make his mone:
“What booteth me to love and serve a fell unthankfull one,
Sith that my humble sute and labour sowede in vayne,
Can reape none other fruite at all but scorne and proude disdayne ?
What way she seekes to goe, the same I seeke to runne:
But she the path wherein I treade, with spedy flight doth shunne.
I can not live, except that nere to her I be;
She is ay best content when she is farthest of from me.
Wherfore henceforth I will farre from her take my flight;
Perhaps mine eye once banished by absence from her sight,
This fyre of myne, that by her pleasant eyne is fed,
Shall little and little weare away, and quite at last be ded.”
But whilest he did decree this purpose still to kepe,
A contrary repugnant thought sanke in his breast so depe:
That douteful is he now which of the twayne is best :
In syghs, in teares, in plainte, in care, in sorrow and unrest,
He mones the daye, he wakes the long and wery night;
So deepe hath love with pearcing hand, ygrav’d her bewty bright
Within his brest, and hath so mastred quite his hart:
That he of force must yeld as thrall ;—no way is left to start.
He can not staye his steppe, but forth still must be ronne,
He languisheth and melts awaye, as snow against the sonne.
His kyndred and alyes do wonder what he ayles,
And eche of them in friendly wyse his heavy hap bewayles.
But one emong the rest, the trustiest of his feeres,
Farre more than he with counsel fild, and ryper of his yeeres,
Gan sharply him rebuke, such love to him he bare:
That he was felow of his smart, and partner of his care.
“What meanst thou Romeus (quoth he) what doting rage
Dooth make thee thus consume away the best parte of thine age,


10
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
In seking her that scornes, and hydes her from thy sight,
Not forsing all thy great expence, ne yet thy honor bright,
Thy teares, thy wretched lyfe, ne thine unspotted truth,
Which are of force (I weene) to move the hardest hart to ruthe.
Now for our frendships sake, and for thy health I pray ;
That thou hencefoorth become thine owne ;-O give no more away
Unto a thankeles wight thy precious free estate:
In that thou lovest such a one, thou seemst thy selfe to hate.
For she doth love els where (and then thy time is lorne)
Or els (what bootest thee to sue) Loves court she hath forsworne.
Both yong thou art of yeres, and high in Fortunes grace:
What man is better shapd than thou? who hath a swetter face?
By painfull studies meane, great learning hast thou wonne :
Thy parentes have none other heyre, thou art theyr onely sonne.
What greater griefe (trowst thou ?) what wofull dedly smart
Should so be able to distraine thy seely fathers hart ?
As in his age to see thee plonged deepe in vyce,
When greatest hope he hath to heare thy vertues fame arise.
What shall thy kinsmen thinke, thou cause of all their ruthe?
Thy dedly foes do laugh to skorne thy yll employed youth.
Wherfore my counsell is, that thou henceforth beginne
To knowe and flye the errour which to long thou livedst in.
Remove the veale of love, that keepes thine eyes so blynde,
That thou ne canst the ready path of thy forefathers fynde.
But if unto thy will so much in thrall thou art,
Yet in some other place bestowe thy witles wandring hart.
Choose out some worthy dame, her honor thou and serve,
Who will geve eare to thy complaint, and pitty ere thou sterve.
But sow no more thy paynes in such a barrayne soyle:
As yeldes in harvest time no crop, in recompence of toyle.
Ere long the townishe dames together will resort :
Some one of bewty, favour, shape, and of so lovely porte,
With so fast fixed eye, perhaps thou mayst beholde :
That thou shalt quite forget thy love, and passions past of olde.”
The yong mans lystning eare receivde the holesome sounde,
And reasons truth yplanted so, within his head had grounde ;
That now with healthy coole ytempred is the heate,
And piecemeale weares away the greefe that erst his heart dyd freate.


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
17
To his approved frend a solemne othe he plight,
At every feast ykept by day, and banquet made by night,
At pardons in the churche, at games in open streate,
And every where he would resort where ladies wont to meete ;
Eke should his savage heart like all indifferently,
For he would view and judge them all with unallured eye.
How happy had he been, had he not been forsworne;
But twyse as happy had he been, had he been never borne.
For ere the moone could thrise her wasted hornes renew,
False Fortune cast for him, poor wretch, a myschiefe newe to brewe.
The wery winter nightes restore the Christmas games,
And now the season doth invite to banquet townish dames.
And fyrst in Capels house, the chiefe of all the kyn
Sparth for no cost, the wonted use of banquets to begyn.
No Lady fayre or fowle was in Verona towne,
No knight or gentleman of high or lowe renowne ;
But Capilet himselfe hath byd unto his feast,
Or by his name in paper sent, appoynted as a geast.
Yong damsels thether flocke, of bachelers a rowte,
Not so much for the banquets sake, as bewties to searche out.
But not a Montagew would enter at his gate,
For as you heard, the Capilets, and they were at debate.
Save Romeus, and he, in maske with hydden face :
The supper done, with other five did prease into the place.
When they had maskd a while, with dames in courtly wise,
All did unmaske, the rest did shew them to theyr ladies eyes ;
But bashfull Romeus with shamefast face forsooke
The open prease, and him withdrew into the chambers nooke.
But brighter then the sunne, the waxen torches shone :
That maugre what he could, he was espyd of every one.
But of the women cheefe, theyr gasing eyes that threwe
To woonder at his sightly shape and bewties spotles hewe;
With which the heavens him had and nature so bedect,
That Ladies thought the fayrest dames were fowle in his respect.
And in theyr head besyde, an other woonder rose,
How he durst put himselfe in throng among so many foes.
Of courage stoute they thought his cumming to procede :
And women love an hardy hart as I in stories rede.


12
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
The Capilets disdayne the presence of theyr foe,
Yet they suppresse theyr styrred yre, the cause I doe not knowe :
Perhaps toffend theyr gestes the courteous knights are loth,
Perhaps they stay from sharpe revenge, dreadyng the Princes wroth.
Perhaps for that they shamd to exercise theyr rage:
Within their house, gainst one alone, and him of tender age.
They use no taunting talke, ne harme him by theyre deede:
They neyther say, what makst thou here, ne yet they say God speede.
So that he freely might the Ladies view at ease:
And they also behelding him, their chaunge of fansies please.
Which Nature had hym taught to doe with such a grace,
That there was none but joyed at his being there in place.
With upright beame he ways the bewty of eche dame,
And judgd who best, and who next her, was wrought in natures frame.
At length he saw a mayd, right fayre of perfect shape,
Which Theseus or Paris would have chosen to their rape.
Whom erst he never sawe, of all she pleasde him most;
Within himselfe he sayd to her, thou justly mayst thee boste
Of perfit shapes renoune, and beauties sounding prayse,
Whose like ne hath, ne shalbe seene, ne liveth in our dayes.
And whilset he fixd on her his partiall perced eye,
His former love, for which of late he ready was to dye,
Is nowe as quite forgotte, as it had never been :
The proverbe saith, unminded oft are they that are unseene.
And as out of a planke a nayle a nayle doth drive,
So novell love out of the minde the auncient love doth rive.
This sodain kindled fyre in time is wox so great,
That onely death and both theyr blouds might quench the fiery heate.
When Romeus saw himselfe in this new tempest tost,
Where both was hope of pleasant port, and daunger to be lost :
He doubtefull, skasely knew what countenance to keepe;
In Lethies floud his wonted flames were quenchd and drenched deepe.
Yea he forgets himselfe, ne is the wretch so bolde
To aske her name, that without force hath him in bondage folde.
Ne how tunloose his bondes doth the poore foole devise,
But onely seeketh by her sight to feede his houngry eyes :
Through them he swalloweth downe loves sweete empoysonde baite:
How surely are the wareles wrapt by those that lye in wayte?


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
13
So is the poyson spred throughout his bones and vaines,
That in a while (alas the while) it hasteth deadly paines.
Whilst Juliet (for so this gentle damsell hight)
From syde to syde on every one dyd cast about her sight :
At last her floting eyes were ancored fast on him,
Who for her sake dyd banishe health and fredome from eche limme.
He in her sight did seeme to passe the rest as farre
As Phæbus shining beames do passe the brightnes of a starre.
In wayte laye warlike Love with golden bowe and shaft,
And to his eare with steady hand the bowstring up he raft.
Till now she had escapde his sharpe inflaming darte:
Till now he listed not assaulte her yong and tender hart.
His whetted arrow loosde, so touchd her to the quicke,
That through the eye it strake the hart, and there the hedde did sticke.
It booted not to strive, for why, she wanted strength;
The weaker aye unto the strong of force must yeld, at length.
The pomps now of the feast her heart gyns to despyse;
And onely joyeth when her eyen meete with her lovers eyes.
When theyr new smitten heartes had fed on loving gleames :
Whilst, passing too and fro theyr eyes, ymingled were theyr beames.
Eche of these lovers gan by others lookes to knowe,
That frendship in their brest had roote, and both would have it grow.
When thus in both theyr harts had Cupide made his breache:
And eche of them had sought the meane to end the warre by speache,
Dame Fortune did assent theyr purpose to advaunce :
With torche in hand a comly knight did fetch her foorth to daunce ;
She quit herselfe so well, and with so trim a grace,
That she the cheefe prayse wan that night from all Verona race.
The whilst our Romeus a place had warely wonne,
Nye to the seate where she must sit, the daunce once beyng donne.
Fayre Juliet tourned to her chayre with pleasant cheere,
And glad she was her Romeus approched was so neere.
At thone syde of her chayre her lover Romeo,
And on the other syde there sat one cald Mercutio ;
A courtier that eche where was highly had in pryce,
For he was coorteous of his speche, and pleasant of devise.
Even as a lyon would emong the lambes be bolde,
Such was emong the bashfull maydes, Mercutio to beholde.


14
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
With frendly gripe he ceasd fayre Juliets snowish hand :
A gyft he had that Nature gave him in his swathing band,
That frosen mountayne yse was never halfe so cold,
As were his handes, though nere so neer the fire he did them holde.
As soone as had the knight the vyrgins right hand raught,
Within his trembling hand her left hath loving Romeus caught.
For he wist well himselfe for her abode most payne,
And well he wist she lovd him best, unles she list to fayne.
Then she with slender hand his tender palm hath prest;
What joy, trow you, was graffed so in Romeus cloven brest ?
The soodain sweete delight had stopped quite his tong,
Ne can he claime of her his right, ne crave redresse of wrong.
But she espyd straight waye, by chaunging of his hewe
From pale to red, from red to pale, and so from pale anewe;
That vehment love was cause, why so his tong dyd stay,
And so much more she longde to heare what Love could teach him saye.
When she had longed long, and he long held his peace,
And her desire of hearing him, by sylence did encrease,
At last, with trembling voyce and shamefast chere, the mayde
Unto her Romeus tournde her selfe, and thus to him she sayde:
O blessed be the time of thy arrivall here:
But ere she could speake forth the rest, to her Love drewe so nere:
And so within her mouth, her tong he glewed fast,
That no one woord could scape her more, then what already past.
In great contented ease the yong man straight is rapt:
What chaunce (q'he) unware to me O lady mine is hapt?
That geves you worthy cause, my cumming here to blisse?
Fayre Juliet was come agayne unto her selfe by this :
Fyrst ruthfully she lookd, then sayd with smylyng chere:
Mervayle no whit my heartes delight, my only knight and fere,
Mercutious ysy hande had all to frozen myne,
And of thy goodness thou agayne hast warmed it with thyne.
Whereto with stayed brow, gan Romeus to replye
If so the Gods have graunted me suche favour from the skye,
That by my being here some service I have donne
That pleaseth you I am as glad, as I a realme had wonne.
O wel bestowed tyme, that hath the happy hyre,
Which I woulde wysh if I might have, my wished harts desire.


ROMEUS AND IULIET.
15
For I of God woulde crave, as pryse of paynes forpast,
To serve, obey, and honor you, so long as lyfe shall last :
As proofe shall teache you playne, if that you like to trye
His faltles truth, that nill for ought unto his ladye lye.
But if my tooched hand have warmed yours some dele,
Assure your self the heat is colde, which in your hand you fele,
Compard to suche quick sparks and glowing furious gleade
As from your bewties pleasant eyne, Love caused to proceаde ;
Which have to set on fyre eche feling parte of myne,
That lo, my mynde doeth melt awaye, my utwerd parts doe pyne.
And but you helpe all whole, to ashes shall I toorne ;
Wherefore (alas) have ruth on him, whom you do force to boorne.
Even with his ended tale, the torches daunce had ende,
And Juliet of force must part from her new chosen frend.
His hand she clasped hard, and all her partes did shake,
When laysureles with whispring voyce thus did she aunswer make:
You are no more your owne (deare friend) then I am yours
(My honour saved) prest tobay your will, while life endures.
Lo, here the lucky lot that sild true lovers finde,
Eche takes away the others hart, and leaves the owne behinde.
A happy life is love if God graunt from above,
That hart with hart by even waight doo make exchaunge of love.
But Romeus gone from her, his hart for care is colde ;
He hath forgot to ask her name that hath his hart in holde.
With forged careles cheere, of one he seekes to knowe,
Both how she hight, and whence she camme, that him enchaunted so.
So hath he learnd her name, and knowth she is no geast,
Her father was a Capilet, and master of the feast.
Thus hath his foe in choyse to geve him life or death,
That scarsely can his wofull brest keepe in the lively breath.
Wherefore with piteous plaint feerce Fortune doth he blame,
That in his ruth and wretched plight doth seek her laughing game.
And he reproveth love, cheefe cause of his unrest,
Who ease and freedome hath exilde out of his youthfull brest.
Twyse hath he made him serve, hopeles of his rewarde ;
Of both the ylles to choose the lesse, I weene the choyse were harde.
Fyrst to a ruthlesse one he made him sue for grace,
And now with spurre he forceth him to ronne an endles race.


16
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
Amyd these stormy seas one ancor doth him holde,
He serveth not a cruell one, as he had done of olde.
And therefore is content, and chooseth still to serve :
Though hap should sweare that guerdonles the wretched wight
should sterve.
The lot of Tantalus is Romeus like to thine ;
For want of foode amid his foode, the myser still doth pine.
As carefull was the mayde what way were best devise
To learne his name, that intertaind her in so gentle wise ;
Of whome her hart received so deepe so wyde a wound.
An auncient dame she calde to her, and in her eare gan rounde :
This old dame in her youth had nurst her with her mylke,
With slender nedel taught her sow, and how to spin with silke.
What twayne are those (quoth she) which prease unto the doore,
Whose pages in their hand doe beare, two torches light before ?
And then as eche of them had of his houshold name,
So she him named yet once agayne the yong and wyly dame.
And tell me who is he with vysor in his hand,
That yender doth in masking weede besyde the window stand.
His name is Romeus (said shee) a Montagewe,
Whose Fathers pryde first styrd the strife which both your hous-
holdes rewe.
The woord of Montagew her joyes did overthrow,
And straight in steade of happy hope, despayre began to growe.
What hap have I quoth she, to love my fathers foe ?
What, am I wery of my wele ? what, do I wishe my woe?
But though her grievouse paynes distraind her tender hart,
Yet with an outward shewe of joye she cloked inward smart ;
And of the courtlyke dames her leave so courtly tooke,
That none dyd gesse the sodain change by changing of her looke,
Then at her mothers hest to chamber she her hyde,
So well she faynde, mother ne nurce, the hidden harme descride.
But when she should have slept as wont she was, in bed,
Not halfe a winke of quiet slepe could harber in her hed.
For loe, an hugy heape of dyvers thoughtes arise,
That rest have banisht from her hart, and slumber from her eyes.
And now from side to side she tosseth and she turnes,
And now for feare she shevereth, and now for love she burnes.


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
And now she lykes her choyse, and now her choyse she blames,
And now eche houre within her head a thousand fansyes frames.
Sometime in mynde to stop amyd her course begonne,
Sometime she vowes, what so betyde, that tempted race to ronne.
Thus dangers dred and love within the mayden fought:
The fight was feerce, continuyng long by their contrary thought.
In tourning mase of love she wandreth too and fro,
Then standeth doutful what to doe, last, overprest with woe.
How so her fansies cease, her teares did never blyn,
With heavy cheere and wringed hands thus doth her plaint begyn.
Ah sily foole (quoth she) ycought in soottill snare:
Ah wretched wench, bewrapt in woe! ah caytife clad with care.
Whence come these wandring thoughtes to thy unconstant brest?
By straying thus from raysons lore, that reve thy wonted rest.
What if his suttel brayne to fayne have taught his tong,
And so the snake that lurkes in grasse thy tender hart hath stong ?
What if with frendly speache the traytor lye in wayte ?
As oft the poysond hooke is hid, wrapt in the pleasant bayte ?
Oft under cloke of truth hath Falshod served her lust;
And toornd theyr honor into shame, that did so slightly trust.
What, was not Dido so, a crouned queene, defamd ?
And eke, for such an heynous cryme, have men not Theseus blamd?
A thousand stories more, to teache me to beware,
In Boccace and in Ovids bookes too playnely written are.
Perhaps, the great revenge he cannot woorke by strength,
By suttel sleight (my honor staynde) he hopes to worke at length.
So shall I seeke to finde my fathers foe, his game;
So I befylde Report shall take her trompe of blacke defame,
Whence she with puffed cheeke shall blowe a blast so shrill
Of my disprayse, that with the noyse Verona shall she fill.
Then I, a laughing stocke through all the towne becomme,
Shall hide my selfe, but not my shame, within an hollow toombe.
Straight underneth her foote she treadeth in the dust
Her troublesom thought, as wholy vaine, ybred of fond distrust.
No, no, by God above, I wot it well, quoth shee,
Although I rashely spake before, in no wise can it bee,
That where such perfet shape with pleasant bewty restes,
There crooked craft and trayson blacke should be appoynted gestes.


18
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
Sage writers say, the thoughts are dwelling in the eyne;
Then sure I am, as Cupid raignes, that Romeus is myne.
The tong the messenger eke call they of the mynd;
So that I see he loveth me, shall I then be unkynd ?
His faces rosy hew I saw full oft to seeke;
And straight againe it flashed foorth, and spread in eyther cheeke.
His fixed heavenly eyne that through me quyte did perce
His thoughts unto my hart, my thoughts thei semed to rehearce.
What ment his foltring tunge in telling of his tale ?
The trembling of his joynts, and eke his cooller waxen pale ?
And whilst I talke with him, him self he hath exylde
Out of himself (as seemed me) ne was I sure begylde.
Those arguments of love Craft wrate not in his face,
But Natures hande, when all deceyte was banishd out of place.
What other certayn signes seke I of his good wil ?
These doo suffice; and stedfast I will love and serve him still,
Till Attropos shall cut my fatall thread of lyfe,
So that he mynde to make of me his lawful wedded wyfe.
For so perchaunce this new aliance may procure
Unto our houses such a peace as ever shall endure."
Oh how we can perswade our self to what we like,
And how we can diswade our mynd, if ought our mynd mislyke.
Weake arguments are stronge, our fansies streyght to frame
To pleasing things, and eke to shonne, if we mislyke the same.
The mayde had scarsely yet ended the wery warre,
Kept in her heart by striving thoughtes, when every shining starre
Had payd his borowed light, and Phæbus spred in skies
His golden rayes, which seemd to say, now time it is to rise.
And Romeus had by this forsaken his wery bed,
Where restles he a thousand thoughts had forged in his hed.
And while with lingring step by Juliets house he past,
And upwards to her windowes high his gredy eyes did cast:
His love that looked for him there gan he straight espie.
With pleasant cheere eche greeted is ; she followeth with her eye
His parting steppes, and he oft looketh backe againe,
But not so oft as he desyres; warely he doth refrayne.
What life were like to love, if dred of jeopardy
Ysowered not the sweete; if love were free from jelosy.


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
19
But she more sure within, unseene of any wight,
When so he comes, lookes after him till he be out of sight.
In often passing so, his busy eyes he threw,
That every pane and tooting hole the wily lover knew.
In happy houre he doth a garden plot espye,
From which, except he warely walke, men may his love descrye;
For lo, it fronted full upon her leaning place,
Where she is wont to shew her heart by cheerefull frendly face.
And lest the arbors might theyr secret love bewraye,
He doth keepe backe his forward foote from passing there by daye ;
But when on earth the Night her mantel blacke hath spred,
Well armd he walketh foorth alone, ne dreadfull foes doth dred.
Whom maketh Love not bold, naye whom makes he not blynde ?
He reveth daungers dread oft times out of the loves minde.
By night he passeth here a weeke or two in vayne;
And for the missing of his marke his griefe hath hym nye slaine.
And Juliet that now doth lacke her hearts releefe:
Her Romeus pleasant eyen (I mean) is almost dead for greefe.
Ech day she chaungeth howres (for lovers keepe an howre)
When they are sure to see theyr love, in passing by their bowre.
Impacient of her woe, she hapt to leane one night
Within her windowe, and anon the moone did shine so bright
That she espyde her love: her hart revived sprang ;
And now for joy she clappes her handes, which erst for woe she wrang.
Eke Romeus, when he sawe his long desired sight,
His moorning cloke of none cast off, hath clad him with delight.
Yet dare I say, of both that she rejoyced more:
His care was great, hers twise as great was all the time before ;
For whilst she knew not why he dyd himselfe absent,
Ay douting both his health and life, his death she dyd lament.
For love is fearefull oft where is no cause of feare,
And what love feares, that love laments, as though it chaunced weare.
Of greater cause alway is greater woorke ybred;
While he nought douteth of her helth, she dreads lest he be ded.
When onely absence is the cause of Romeus smart,
By happy hope of sight agayne he feedes his faynting hart.
What woonder then if he were wrapt in lesse annoye ?
What marvel if by sodain sight she fed of greater joye?
C 2


20
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
His smaller greefe or joy no smaller love doo prove;
Ne, for she passed him in both, did she him passe in love:
But eche of them alike dyd burne in equall flame,
The welbeloving knight and eke the welbeloved dame.
Now whilst with bitter teares her eyes as fountaynes ronne,
With whispering voyce, ybroke with sobs, thus is her tale begonne:
Oh Romeus (of your life) too lavas sure you are,
That in this place, and at thys tyme, to hasard it you dare.
What if your dedly foes, my kynsmen, saw you here?
Lyke lyons wylde, your tender partes asonder would they teare.
In ruth and in disdayne, I, wery of my life,
With cruell hand my mourning hart would perce with bloudy knyfe.
For you, myne own, once dead, what joy should I have heare ?
And eke my honor staynde, which I then lyfe doe holde more deare.
Fayre lady myne, dame Juliet, my lyfe (quod he)
Even from my byrth committed was to fatall sisters three.
They may in spyte of foes draw foorth my lively threed;
And they also, who so sayth nay, a sonder may it shreed.
But who, to reave my life, his rage and force would bende,
Perhaps should trye unto his payne how I it could defende.
Ne yet I love it so, but alwayes, for your sake,
A sacrifice to death I would my wounded corps betake.
If my mishappe were such, that here, before your sight,
I should restore agayne to death, of lyfe my borrowde light,
This one thing and no more my parting sprite would rewe,
That part he should before that you by certaine trial knew
The love I owe to you, the thrall I languish in,
And how I dread to loose the gayne which I doe hope to win:
And how I wishe for lyfe, not for my propre ease,
But that in it you might I love, you honor, serve and please,
Tyll dedly pangs the sprite out of the corps shall send :
And thereupon he sware an othe, and so his tale had ende.
Now love and pitty boyle in Juliets ruthfull brest;
In windowe on her leaning arme her weary hed doth rest :
Her bosome bathd in teares, to witnes inward payne,
With dreary chere to Romeus thus aunswered she agayne :
Ah my deere Romeus, keepe in these woords, (quod she)
For lo, the thought of such mischaunce already maketh me


ROMEUS AND JULJET.
21
For pitty and for dred welnigh to yelde up breath ;
In even ballance peysed are my life and eke my death.
For so my heart is knitte, yea, made one selfe with yours,
That sure there is no greefe so small, by which your mynde endures,
But as you suffer payne, so I doe beare in part
(Although it lessens not your greefe) the halfe of all your smart.
But these thinges overpast, if of your health and myne
You have respect, or pitty ought my teery weeping eyen,
In few unfained woords your hidden mynd unfolde,
That as I see your pleasant face, your heart I may beholde.
For if you doe intende my honor to defile,
In error shall you wander still, as you have done this whyle :
But if your thought be chaste, and have on vertue ground,
If wedlocke be the ende and marke which your desire hath found,
Obedience set aside, unto my parentes dewe,
The quarell eke that long agoe betwene our housholdes grewe,
Both me and myne I will all whole to you betake,
And following you where so you goe, my fathers house forsake.
But if by wanton love and by unlawfull sute
You thinke in ripest yeres to plucke my maydenhods dainty frute,
You are begylde ; and now your Juliet you beseekes
To cease your sute, and suffer her to live emong her likes.
Then Romeus, whose thought was free from fowle desyre,
And to the top of vertues haight did worthely aspyre,
Was fild with greater joy then can my pen expresse,
Or, till they have enjoyd the like, the hearers hart can gesse.
And then with joyned hands, heavd up into the skies,
He thankes the Gods, and from the heavens for vengeance downe
he cries,
If he have other thought but as his Lady spake ;
And then his looke he toornd to her, and thus did aunswer make :
Since, lady, that you like to honor me so much
As to accept me for your spouse, I yeld my selfe for such.
In true witnes wherof, because I must depart,
Till that my deede do prove my woord, I leave in pawne my hart.
Tomorrow eke bestimes, before the sunne arise,
To Fryer Lawrence will I wende, to learne his sage advise.


22
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
He is my gostly syre, and oft he hath me taught
What I should doe in things of wayght, when I his ayde have sought.
And at this selfe same houre, I plyte you here my fayth,
I will be here (if you think good) to tell you what he sayth.
She was contented well; els favour found he none
That night, at lady Juliets hand, save pleasant woordes alone.
This barefoote fryer gyrt with cord his grayish weede,
For he of Frauncis order was, a fryer as I reede.
Not as the most was he, a grosse unlearned foole,
But doctor of divinitie proceded he in schoole.
The secretes eke he knew in Natures woorkes that loorke;
By magiks arte most men supposd that he could wonders woorke.
Ne doth it ill beseeme devines those skils to know,
If on no harmefull deede they do such skilfulnes bestow;
For justly of no arte can men condemne the use,
But right and reasons lore crye out agaynst the lewd abuse.
The bounty of the fryer and wisdom hath so wonne
The townes folks herts, that welnigh all to fryer Lawrence ronne,
To shrive them selfe; the olde, the young, the great and small ;
Of all he is beloved well, and honord much of all.
And, for he did the rest in wisdome farre exceede,
The prince by him (his counsell cravde) was holpe at time of neede.
Betwixt the Capilets and him great frendship grew,
A secret and assured frend unto the Montegue.
Loved of this yong man more then any other geste,
The frier eke of Verone youth aye liked Romeus best ;
For whom he ever hath in time of his distres,
(As erst you heard) by skilfull lore found out his harmes redresse.
To him is Romeus gonne, ne stayth he till the morowe ;
To him he paynteth all his case, his passed joy and sorow.
How he hath her espyde with other dames in daunce,
And how that first to talke with her himselfe he did advaunce ;
Their talke and change of lookes he gan to him declare,
And how so fast by fayth and troth they both ycoupled are,
That neither hope of lyfe, nor dred of cruel death,
Shall make him false his fayth to her, while lyfe shall lend him
breath.


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
23
And then with weping eyes he prayes his gostly syre
To further and accomplish all theyr honest hartes desire.
A thousand doutes and moe in thold mans hed arose,
A thousand daungers like to come the olde man doth disclose,
And from the spousall rites he readeth him refrayne,
Perhaps he shalbe bet advisde within a weeke or twayne.
Advise is banishd quite from those that followe love,
Except advise to what they like theyr bending mynd do move.
As well the father might have counseld him to stay
That from a mountaines top thrown downe is falling halfe the way,
As warne his frend to stop amyd his race begonne,
Whom Cupid with his smarting whip enforceth foorth to ronne.
Part wonne by earnest sute, the fryer doth graunt at last;
And part, because he thinkes the stormes, so lately overpast,
Of both the housholdes wrath, this mariage might apease ;
So that they should not rage agayne, but quite for ever cease.
The respite of a day he asketh to devyse
What way were best, unknowne, to ende so great an enterprise.
The wounded man that now doth dedly paines endure,
Scarce pacient tarieth whilst his leeche doth make the salve to cure:
So Romeus hardly graunts a short day and a night,
Yet nedes he must, els must he want his onely hearts delight.
You see that Romeus no time or payne doth spare ;
Thinke, that the whilst fayre Juliet is not devoyde of care.
Yong Romeus powreth foorth his hap and his mishap
Into the friers brest ; but where shall Juliet unwrap
The secretes of her hart ? to whom shall she unfolde
Her hidden burning love, and eke her thought and cares so colde.
The nurce of whom I spake, within her chaumber laye,
Upon the mayde she wayteth still ; to her she doth bewray
Her new received wound, and then her ayde doth crave,
In her, she saith, it lyes to spill, in her, her life to save.
Not easely she made the froward nurce to bowe,
But wonne at length with promest hyre, she made a solemne vowe
To do what she commaundes, as handmayd of her hest ;
Her mistres secrets hide she will, within her covert brest.
To Romeus she goes, of him she doth desyre
To know the meane of mariage, by councell of the fryre.


24
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
On Saterday, quod he, if Juliet come to shrift,
She shalbe shrived and maried; how lyke you, noorse, this drift?
Now by my truth (quod she) God’s blessing have your hart,
For yet in all my life I have not heard of such a part.
Lord, how you yong men can such crafty wiles devise,
If that you love the daughter well, to bleare the mothers eyes.
An easy thing it is with cloke of holines
To mocke the sely mother, that suspecteth nothing lesse.
But that it pleased you to tell me of the case,
For all my many yeres perhaps I should have found it scarse.
Now for the rest let me and Juliet alone;
To get her leave, some feate excuse I will devise anone;
For that her golden lockes by sloth have been unkempt,
Or for unwares some wanton dreame the youthfull damsell drempt,
Or for in thoughts of love her ydel time she spent,
Or otherwise within her hart deserved to be shent.
I know her mother will in no case say her nay;
I warrant you, she shall not fayle to come on Saterday.
And then she sweares to him, the mother loves her well;
And how she gave her sucke in youth, she leaveth not to tell.
A prety babe (quod she) it was when it was yong;
Lord how it could full pretely have prated with it tong !
A thousand times and more I laid her on my lappe,
And clapt her on the buttocke soft, and kist where I did clappe.
And gladder then was I of such a kisse forsooth,
Then I had been to have a kisse of some olde lechers mouth.
And thus of Juliets youth began this prating noorse,
And of her present state to make a tedious long discoorse.
For though he pleasure tooke in hearing of his love,
The message aunswer seemed him to be of more behove.
But when these beldams sit at ease upon theyr tayle,
The day and eke the candle light before theyr talke shall fayle.
And part they say is true, and part they do devise,
Yet boldly do they chat of both, when no man checkes theyr lyes.
Then he vj crownes of gold out of his pocket drew,
And gave them her; a slight reward (quod he) and so adiew.
In seven yeres twise tolde she had not bowd so lowe
Her crooked knees, as now they bowe: she sweares she will bestowe


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
25
Her crafty wit, her time, and all her busy payne,
To helpe him to his hoped blisse; and, cowring downe agayne,
She takes her leave, and home she hyes with spedy pace ;
The chaumber doore she shuts, and then she saith with smyling face;
Good newes for thee, my gyrle, good tydinges I thee bring.
Leave off thy woonted song of care, and now of pleasure sing.
For thou mayst hold thy selfe the happiest under sonne,
That in so little while so well so worthy a knight hast woone.
The best yshapde is he, and hath the fayrest face,
Of all this towne, and there is none hath halfe so good a grace:
So gentle of his speche, and of his counsell wise :
And still with many prayses more she heaved him to the skies.
Tell me els what, (quod she) this evermore I thought ;
But of our mariage, say at once, what aunswer have you brought ?
Nay, soft, quoth she, I feare your hurt by sodain joye ;
I list not play quod Juliet, although thou list to toye.
How glad, trow you, was she, when she had heard her say,
No farther of then Saterday differred was the day.
Againe, the auncient nurce doth speake of Romeus,
And then (said she) he spake to me, and then I spake him thus.
Nothing was done or said that she hath left untolde,
Save onely one that she forgot, the taking of the golde.
There is no losse, quod she, (sweete wench) to losse of time,
Ne in thine age shalt thou repent so much of any crime.
For when I call to mynde my former passed youth,
One thing there is which most of all doth cause my endles ruth.
At sixtene yeres I first did choose my loving feere,
And I was fully ripe before, (I dare well say) a yere.
The pleasure that I lost, that yere so overpast,
A thousand times I have bewept, and shall, while life doth last.
In fayth it were a shame, yea sinne it were, ywisse
When thou mayst live in happy joy, to set light by thy blisse.
She that this mornyng could her mistres mynde disswade,
Is now becomme an oratresse, her lady to perswade.
If any man be here whom love hath clad with care,
To him I speake ; if thou wilt speede, thy purse thou must not spare,
Two sortes of men there are, seeld welcome in at doore,
The welthy sparing nigard, and the sutor that is poore.


26
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
For glittring gold is woont by kynd to moove the hart;
And often times a slight rewarde doth cause a more desart.
Ywritten have I red, I wot not in what booke,
There is no better way to fishe then with a golden hooke.
Of Romeus these two doe sitte and chat awhyle,
And to them selfe they laugh how they the mother shall begyle.
A feate excuse they finde, but sure I know it not,
And leave for her to goe to shrift on Saterday she got.
So well this Juliet, this wily wench dyd know
Her mothers angry houres, and eke the true bent of her bowe.
The Saterday betimes, in sober weed yclad,
She tooke her leave, and forth she went with visage grave and sad.
With her the nurce is sent, as brydle of her lust,
With her the mother sendes a mayde almost of equall trust.
Betwixt her teeth the bytte the Jenet now hath cought,
So warely eke the vyrgin walkes, her mayde perceiveth nought.
She gaseth not in churche on yong men of the towne,
Ne wandreth she from place to place, but straight she kneleth downe
Upon an alters step, where she devoutly prayes,
And there upon her tender knees the wery lady stayes;
Whilst she doth send her mayde the certain truth to know,
If fryer Lawrence laysure had to heare her shrift, or no.
Out of his shriving place he commes with pleasant cheere ;
The shamefast mayde with bashfull brow to himward draweth neere.
Some great offence (q'he) you have committed late,
Perhaps you have displeasd your frend by geving him a mate.
Then turning to the nurce and to the other mayde,
Go, heare a masse or two, quod he which straight way shalbe
sayde.
For, her confession heard, I will unto you twayne
The charge that I receivd of you restore to you agayne.
What, was not Juliet, trow you, right well apayde ?
That for this trusty fryre hath chaungde her yong mistrusting
mayde ?
I dare well say, there is in all Verona none,
But Romeus, with whom she would so gladly be alone.
Thus to the fryers cell they both foorth walked bin ;
He shuts the doore as soone as he and Juliet were in.


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
27
But Romeus, her frend, was entred in before,
And there had wayted for his love, two howers large and more.
Eche minute seemde an howre, and every howre a day,
Twixt hope he lived and despayre of cumming or of stay.
Now wavering hope and feare are quite fled out of sight,
For, what he hopde he hath at hande, bis pleasant cheefe delight.
And joyfull Juliet is healde of all her smart,
For now the rest of all her parts have found her straying hart.
Both theyr confessions first the fryer hath heard them make,
And then to her with lowder voyce thus fryer Lawrence spake:
Fayre lady Juliet, my gostly doughter deere,
As farre as I of Romeus learne, who by you standeth here,
Twixt you it is agreed, that you shalbe his wyfe,
And he your spouse in steady truth, till death shall end your life.
Are you both fully bent to kepe this great behest ?
And both the lovers said, it was theyr onely harts request.
When he did see theyr myndes in linkes of love so fast,
When in the prayse of wedlocks state somme skilfull talke was past.
When he had told at length the wife what was her due,
His duety eke by gostly talke the youthfull husband knew;
How that the wife in love must honor and obay,
What love and honor he doth owe, and dette that he must pay.
The woords pronounced were which holy church of olde
Appointed hath for mariage, and she a ring of golde
Received of Romeus; and then they both arose.
To whom the frier then said : Perchaunce apart you will disclose,
Betwixt your selfe alone, the bottome of your hart;
Say on at once, for time it is that hence you should depart.
Then Romeus said to her, (both loth to parte so soone)
Fayre lady, send to me agayne your nurce this after noone.
Of corde I will bespeake a ladder by that time;
By which, this night, while other sleepe, I will your windowe clime.
Then we will talke of love and of our olde dispayres,
And then with longer laysure had dispose our great affaires.
These said, they kisse, and then part to theyr fathers house,
The joyfull bryde unto her home, to his eke goth the spouse ;
Contented both, and yet both uncontented still,
Till Night and Venus child geve leave the wedding to fulfill.


28
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
The painfull souldiour, sore ybet with wery warre,
The merchant eke that nedefull things doth dred to fetch from farre,
The ploughman that for doute of feerce invading foes,
Rather to sit in ydle ease then sowe his tilt hath chose,
Rejoyce to heare proclaymd the tydinges of the peace;
Not pleasurd with the sound so much; but, when the warres do cease,
Then ceased are the harmes which cruel warre bringes foorth :
The merchant then may boldly fetch his wares of precious woorth ;
Dredelésse the husband man doth till his fertile feeld.
For welth, her mate, not for her selfe, is peace so precious held :
So lovers live in care, in dread, and in unrest,
And dedly warre by striving thoughts they kepe within their brest:
But wedlocke is the peace whereby is freedome wonne
To do a thousand pleasant thinges that should not els be donne.
The newes of ended warre these two have hard with joy,
But now they long the fruite of peace with pleasure to enjoy.
In stormy wind and wave, in daunger to be lost,
Thy stearles ship (O Romeus) hath been long while betost;
The seas are now appeasd, and thou, by happy starre,
Art comme in sight of quiet haven ; and, now the wrackfull barre
Is hid with swelling tyde, boldly thou mayst resort
Unto thy wedded ladies bed, thy long desyred port.
God graunt, no follies mist so dymme thy inward sight,
That thou do misse the chanel that doth leade to thy delight.
God graunt, no daungers rocke, ylurking in the darke,
Before thou win the happy port, wracke thy seabeaten barke.
A servant Romeus had, of woord and deede so just,
That with his life (if nede requierd) his master would him trust.
His faithfulnes had oft our Romeus proved of olde ;
And therefore all that yet was done unto his man he tolde.
Who straight, as he was charged, a corden ladder lookes,
To which he hath made fast two strong and crooked yron hookes.
The bryde to send the nurce at twylight fayleth not,
To whom the bridegroome yeven hath the ladder that he got.
And then to watch for him appointeth her an howre,
For, whether Fortune smyle on him, or if she list to lowre,
He will not misse to come to his appoynted place,
Where wont he was to take by stelth the view of Juliets face.


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
29
How long these lovers thought the lasting of the day,
Let other judge that woonted are lyke passions to assay:
For my part, I do gesse eche howre seemes twenty yere:
So that I deeme, if they might have (as of Alcume we heare)
The sunne bond to theyr will, if they the heavens might gyde,
Black shade of night and doubled darke should straight all over hyde.
Thappointed howre is comme; he, clad in rich araye,
Walkes toward his desyred home: good fortune gyde his way.
Approching nere the place from whence his hart had life,
So light he wox, he lept the wall, and there he spyde his wife,
Who in the windowe watcht the cumming of her lorde ;
Where she so surely had made fast the ladder made of corde,
That daungerles her spouse the chaumber window climes,
Where he ere then had wisht himselfe above ten thousand times.
The windowes close are shut; els looke they for no gest;
To light the waxen quariers, the auncient nurce is prest,
Which Juliet had before prepared to be light,
That she at pleasure might beholde her husbands bewty bright.
A carchef white as snowe ware Juliet on her hed,
Such as she wonted was to weare, attyre meete for the bed.
As soone as she hym spyde, about his necke she clong,
And by her long and slender armes a great while there she hong.
A thousand times she kist, and him unkist agayne,
Ne could she speake a woord to him, though would she nere so fayne.
And like betwixt his armes to faynt his lady is;
She fettes a sigh and clappeth close her closed mouth to his :
And ready then to sownde, she looked ruthfully,
That loe, it made him both at once to live and eke to dye.
These piteous painfull panges were haply overpast,
And she unto her selfe agayne retorned home at last.
Then, through her troubled brest, even from the farthest part,
An hollow sigh, a messenger she sendeth from her hart.
O Romeus, quoth she, in whome all vertues shyne,
Welcome thou art into this place, where from these eyes of myne
Such teary streames dyd flowe, that I suppose welny
The source of my bitter teares is altogether drye.
Absence so pynde my heart, which on thy presence fed,
And of thy safetie and thy health so much I stood in dred.


30
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
But now what is decreed by fatall desteny,
I force it not; let Fortune do and death their woorst to me.
Full recompensd am I for all my passed harmes,
In that the Gods have granted me to claspe thee in myne armes.
The chrystall teares began to stand in Romeus eyes,
When he unto his ladies woordes gan aunswere in this wise :
Though cruell Fortune be so much my dedly foe,
That I ne can by lively proofe cause thee (fayre dame) to knowe
How much I am by love enthralled unto thee,
Ne yet what mighty powre thou hast, by thy desert, on me,
Ne tormentes that for thee I did ere this endure,
Yet of thus much (ne will I fayne) I may thee well assure;
The least of many paynes which of thy absence sprong,
More paynefully then death it selfe my tender hart hath wroong.
Ere this, one death had reft a thousand deathes away,
But lyfe prolonged was by hope of this desyred day;
Which so just tribute payes of all my passed mone,
That I as well contented am as if my selfe alone
Did from the ocean reigne unto the sea of Inde.
Wherfore now let us wipe away old cares out of our mynde :
For, as the wretched state is now redrest at last,
So is it skill behinde our backe the cursed care to cast.
Since Fortune of her grace hath place and time assinde,
Where we with pleasure may content our uncontented minde,
In Lethes hyde we deepe all greefe and all annoy,
Whilst we do bath in blisse, and fill our hungry harts with joye.
And, for the time to comme, let be our busy care
So wisely to direct our love, as no wight els be ware;
Lest envious foes by force despoyle our new delight,
And us throwe backe from happy state to more unhappy plight.
Fayre Juliet began to aunswere what he sayde,
But foorth in hast the old nurce stept, and so her aunswere stayde.
Who takes not time (quoth she) when time well offred is,
An other time shall seeke for tyme, and yet of time shall misse.
And when occasion serves, who so doth let it slippe,
Is worthy sure (if I might judge) of lashes with a whippe.
Wherfore if eche of you hath harmde the other so,
And eche of you hath been the cause of others wayled woe,


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
31
Loe here a fielde (she shewd a fieldbed ready dight)
Where you may, if you list, in armes revenge your selfe by fight.
Whereto these lovers both gan easely assent,
And to the place of mylde revenge with pleasant cheere they went,
Where they were left alone, the nurce is gone to rest :
How can this be ? they restles lye, ne yet they feele unrest.
I graunt that I envie the blisse they lived in ;
O that I might have found the like, I wish it for no sin,
But that I might as well with pen their joyes depaynt,
As heretofore I have displayd their secret hidden playnt.
Of shyvering care and dred I have felt many a fit,
But Fortune such delight as theyrs dyd never graunt me yet.
By proofe no certain truth can I unhappy write,
But what I gesse by likelihod, that dare I to endite.
The blyndfold goddesse that with frowning face doth fraye,
And from theyr seate the mighty kinges throwes downe with hed-
long sway,
Begynneth now to turne to these her smyling face ;
Nedes must they tast of great delight, so much in Fortunes grace.
If Cupid, god of love, be god of pleasant sport,
I think, O Romeus, Mars himselfe envies thy happy sort.
Ne Venus justly might (as I suppose) repent,
If in thy stead (O Juliet) this pleasant time she spent.
This passe they foorth the night, in sport, in joly game;
The hastines of Phoebus steeds in great despyte they blame.
And now the vyrgins fort hath warlike Romeus got,
In which as yet no breache was made by force of canon shot,
And now in ease he doth possesse the hoped place:
How glad was he, speake you, that may your lovers parts embrace.
The mariage thus made up, and both the parties pleasd,
The nigh approche of dayes retoorne these seely foles diseasd.
And for they might no while in pleasure passe theyr time,
Ne leysure had they much to blame the hasty mornings crime,
With frendly kisse in armes of her his leave he takes,
And every other night, to come, a solemne othe he makes,
By one selfe meane, and eke to come at one selfe howre:
And so he doth, till Fortune list to sawse his sweete with sowre.


32
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
But who is he that can his present state assure ?
And say unto himselfe, thy joyes shall yet a day endure ?
So wavering fortunes whele, her chaunges be so straunge;
And every wight ythralled is by Fate unto her chaunge:
Who raignes so over all, that eche man hath his part,
(Although not aye, perchaunce, alike) of pleasure and of smart.
For after many joyes some feele but little paine,
And from that little greefe they toorne to happy joy againe.
But other somme there are, that living long in woe,
At length they be in quiet ease, but long abide not so ;
Whose greefe is much increast by myrth that went before,
Because the sodayne chaunge of thinges doth make it seeme the more.
Of this unlucky sorte our Romeus is one,
For all his hap turnes to mishap, and all his myrth to mone.
And joyfull Juliet an other leafe must toorne;
As wont she was (her joyes bereft), she must begin to moorne.
The summer of their blisse doth last a month or twayne,
But winters blast with spedy foote doth bring the fall agayne.
Whom glorious Fortune erst had heaved to the skies,
By envious Fortune overthrowne, on earth now groveling lyes.
She payd theyr former greefe with pleasures doubled gayne,
But now, for pleasures usery, tenfolde redoubleth payne.
The prince could never cause those housholds so agree,
But that some sparcles of their wrath as yet remaining bee;
Which lye this while raked up in ashes pale and ded,
Till tyme do serve that they agayne in wasting flame may spred.
At holiest times, men say, most heynous crimes are donne ;
The morowe after Easter day the mischiefe new begonne.
A band of Capilets did meete (my hart it rewes)
Within the walles, by Pursers gate, a band of Montagewes.
The Capilets as cheefe a yong man have chose out,
Best exercisd in feates of armes, and noblest of the rowte,
Our Juliets unkles sonne, that cliped was Tibalt;
He was of body tall and strong, and of his courage halt.
They neede no trumpet sounde to byd them geve the charge,
So lowde he cryde with strayned voyce and mouth outstretched
large :


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
33
Now, now (quod he) my friends, our selfe so let us wreake,
That of this dayes revenge and us our childrens heyres may speake.
Now once for all let us their swelling pryde asswage ;
Let none of them escape alive. Then he with furious rage,
And they with him, gave charge upon theyr present foes,
And then forthwith a skyrmishe great upon this fray arose.
For, loe the Montagewes thought shame away to flye,
And rather then to live with shame, with prayse did choose to dye.
The woordes that Tybalt usd to styre his folke to yre,
Have in the brestes of Montagewes kindled a furious fyre.
With Lyons hartes they fight, warely themselfe defende ;
To wound his foe, his present wit and force eche one doth bend.
This furious fray is long on eche side stoutly fought,
That whether part had got the woorst, full doutfull were the
thought.
The noyse hereof anon throughout the towne doth flye,
And partes are taken on every side ; both kindreds thether hye.
Here one doth graspe for breth, his frend bestrideth him ;
And he hath lost a hand, and he another maymed lim :
His leg is cutte whilst he strikes at an other full,
And who he would have thrust quite through, hath cleft his
cracked skull,
Theyr valiant harts forbode theyr foote to geve the grounde ;
With unappauled cheere they tooke full deepe and doutfull wounde.
Thus foote by foote long while, and shield to shield set fast,
One foe doth make another faynt, but makes him not agast.
And whilst this noyse is rife in every townes mans eare,
Eke, walking with his frendes, the noyse doth wofull Romeus heare.
. With spedy foote he ronnes unto the fray apace ;
With him, those fewe that were with him he leadeth to the place.
They pittie much to see the slaughter made so greate,
That wetshod they might stand in blood on eyther side the streate.
Part frendes (said he) part frendes, helpe, frendes, to part the fray,
And to the rest, enough, (he cryes) now time it is to staye.
Gods farther wrath you styrre, beside the hurt you feele,
And with this new uprore confounde all this our common wele.
But they so busy are in fight, so egar and feerce,
That through theyr eares his sage advise no leysure had to pearce.


34
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
Then lept he in the throng, to part and barre the blowes
As well of those that were his frendes, as of his dedly foes.
As soone as Tybalt had our Romeus espyde,
He threw a thrust at him that would have past from side to side ;
But Romeus ever went (douting his foes) well armde,
So that the swerd (kept out by mayle) had nothing Romeus harmde.
Thou doest me wrong (quoth he) for I but part the fraye ;
Not dread, but other waighty cause my hasty hand doth stay.
Thou art the cheefe of thine, the noblest eke thou art,
Wherfore leave of thy malice now, and helpe these folke to parte.
Many are hurt, some slayne, and some are like to dye :
No, coward, traytor boy (q'he) straight way I mynd to trye,
Whether thy sugred talke, and tong so smothely fylde,
Against the force of this my swerd shall serve thee for a shylde.
And then, at Romeus hed a blow he strake so hard,
That might have clove him to the brayne but for his cunning ward.
It was but lent to him that could repay agayne:
And geve him death for interest, a well forborne gayne.
Right as a forest bore, that lodged in the thicke,
Pinched with dog, or els with speare ypricked to the quicke,
His bristles stiffe upright upon his backe doth set,
And in his fomy mouth his sharp and crooked tuskes doth whet;
Or as a lyon wylde, that rampeth in his rage,
His whelpes bereft, whose fury can no weaker beast asswage;
Such seemed Romeus in every others sight,
When he him shope, of wrong receavde tavenge himself by fight.
Even as two thunderboltes throwne downe out of the skye,
That through the ayre, the massy earth, and seas, have power to flye;
So met these two, and while they chaunge a blow or twayne,
Our Romeus thrust him through the throte, and so is Tybalt slayne.
Loe here the ende of those that styrre a dedly stryfe :
Who thyrsteth after others death, himselfe hath lost his life.
The Capilets are quaylde by Tybalts overthrowe,
The courage of the Mountagewes by Romeus sight doth growe.
The townes men waxen strong, the Prince doth send his force ;
The fray hath end. The Capilets do bring the brethles corce
Before the prince, and crave that cruell dedly payne
May be the guerdon of his falt, that hath their kinsman slaine.


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
35
The Montagewes do pleade theyr Romeus voyde of falt ;
The lookers on do say, the fight begonne was by Tybalt.
The prince doth pawse, and then geves sentence in a while,
That Romeus, for sleying him, should goe into exyle.
His foes would have him hangde, or sterve in prison strong ;
His frendes do think (but dare not say) that Romeus hath wrong.
Both housholds straight are charged on payne of losing lyfe,
Theyr bloudy weapons layd aside, to cease the styrred stryfe.
This common plage is spred through all the towne anon,
From side to syde the towne is fild with murmour and with mone.
For Tybalts hasty death bewayled was of somme,
Both for his skill in feates of armes, and for, in time to comme
He should (had this not chaunced) been riche and of great powre,
To helpe his frendes, and serve the state; which hope within a howre
Was wasted quite, and he, thus yelding up his breath,
More than he holpe the towne in lyfe, hath harmde it by his death.
And other somme bewayle (but ladies most of all)
The lookeles lot by Fortunes gylt that is so late befall,
(Without his falt) unto the seely Romeus;
For whilst that he from natife land shall live exyled thus,
From heavenly bewties light and his well shaped parts,
The sight of which was wont (faire dames) to glad your youthfull
harts,
Shall you be banishd quite, and tyll he do retoorne,
What hope have you to joy, what hope to cease to moorne ?
This Romeus was borne so much in heavens grace,
Of Fortune and of Nature so beloved, that in his face
(Beside the heavenly bewty glistring ay so bright,
And seemely grace that wonted so to glad the seers sight)
A certain charme was graved by Natures secret arte,
That vertue had to draw to it the love of many a hart.
So every one doth wish to beare a parte of payne,
That he released of exyle might straight retorne agayne.
But how doth moorne emong the moorners Juliet ?
How doth she bathe her brest in teares ? what depe sighes doth
she fet?
How doth she tear her heare ? her weede how doth she rent ?
How fares the lover hearing of her lovers banishment ?
D2


36
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
How wayles she Tybalts death, whom she had loved so well?
Her hearty greefe and piteous plaint, cunning I want to tell.
For delving depely now in depth of depe despayre,
With wretched sorowes cruell sound she fils the empty ayre;
And to the lowest hell downe falles her heavy crye,
And up unto the heavens haight her piteous plaint doth flye.
The waters and the woods of sighes and sobs resounde,
And from the hard resounding rockes her sorowes do rebounde.
Eke from her teary eyne downe rayned many a showre,
That in the garden where she walkd might water herbe and flowre.
But when at length she saw her selfe outraged so,
Unto her chaumber straight she hide; there, overcharged with wo,
Upon her stately bed her painfull parts she threw,
And in so wondrous wise began her sorowes to renewe,
That sure no hart so hard (but it of flint had byn,)
But would have rude the pitious plaint that she did languishe in.
Then rapt out of her selfe, whilst she on every side
Did cast her restles eye, at length the windowe she espide,
Through which she had with joy seene Romeus many a time,
Which oft the ventrous knight was wont for Juliets sake to clyme.
She cryde, O cursed windowe, acurst be every pane,
Through which (alas) to sone I raught the cause of life and bane,
If by thy meane I have some slight delight receaved,
Or els such fading pleasure as by Fortune straight was reaved,
Hast thou not made me pay a tribute rigorous ?
Of heaped greefe and lasting care? and sorowes dolorous ?
That these my tender partes, which nedeful strength do lacke
To beare so great unweldy lode upon so weake a backe,
Opprest with waight of cares and with these sorowes rife,
At length must open wide to death the gates of lothed lyfe ;
That so my wery sprite may somme where els unlode
His deadly lode, and free from thrall may seeke els where abrode;
For pleasant quiet ease and for assured rest,
Which I as yet could never finde but for my more unrest ?
O Romeus, when first we both acquainted were,
When to thy paynted promises I lent my listning eare,
Which to the brinkes you fild with many a solemne othe,
And I them judgde empty of gyle, and fraughted full of troth,


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
37
I thought you rather would continue our good will,
And seeke tappease our fathers strife, which daily groweth still.
I little wend you would have sought occasion how
By such an heynous act to breake the peace and eke your vowe ;
Whereby your bright renoune all whole yclipsed is,
And I unhappy, husbandles, of cumfort robde and blisse.
But if you did so much the blood of Capels thyrst,
Why have you often spared mine ? myne might have quencht it
first.
Since that so many times and in so secret place,
(Where you were wont with vele of love to hyde your hatreds face,)
My doutful lyfe hath hapt by fatall dome to stand
In mercy of your cruell hart, and of your bloudy hand.
What? seemd the conquest which you got of me so small?
What? seemd it not enough that I, poore wretch, was made your
thrall ?
But that you must increase it with that kinsmans blood,
Which for his woorth and love to me, most in my favour stood ?
Well, goe hencefoorth els where, and seeke an other whyle
Some other as unhappy as I, by flattery to begyle.
And, where I comme, see that you shonne to shew your face,
For your excuse within my hart shall finde no resting place.
And I that now, too late, my former fault repent,
Will so the rest of wery life with many teares lament.
That soone my joyceles corps shall yeld up banishd breath,
And where on earth it restles lived, in earth seeke rest by death.
These sayde, her tender hart, by payne oppressed sore,
Restraynd her teares, and forced her tong to keepe her talke in store;
And then as still she was, as if in sownd she lay,
And then agayne, wroth with herselfe, with feeble voyce gan say:
Ah cruell murthering tong, murthrer of others fame,
How durst thou once attempt to tooch the honor of his name?
Whose dedly foes doe yelde him dewe and erned prayse;
For though his freedome be bereft, his honor not decayes.
Why blamst thou Romeus for sleying of Tybalt,
Since he is gyltles quite of all, and Tibalt beares the falt ?
Whether shall he (alas) poore banishd man, now flye?
What place of succor shall he seeke beneth the starry skye?


38
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
Synce she pursueth him, and him defames by wrong,
That in distres should be his fort, and onely rampier strong.
Receive the recompence, O Romeus, of thy wife,
Who, for she was unkind her selfe, doth offer up her lyfe,
In flames of yre, in sighes, in sorow and in ruth,
So to revenge the crime she did commit against thy truth.
These said, she could no more ; her senses all gan fayle,
And dedly panges began straight way her tender hart assayle ;
Her limmes she stretched forth, she drew no more her breath :
Who had been there might well have seene the signes of present death.
The nurce that knew no cause why she absented her,
Did doute lest that some sodain greefe too much tormented her.
Eche where but where she was, the carefull beldam sought,
Last, of the chamber where she lay she haply her bethought ;
Where she with piteous eye her nurce child did beholde,
Her limmes stretched out, her utward parts as any marble colde.
The nurce supposde that she had payde to death her det,
And then, as she had lost her wittes, she cryed to Juliet:
Ah my dere hart (quoth she) how greeveth me thy death ?
Alas what cause hast thou thus soone to yelde up living breath ?
But while she handled her, and chafed every part,
She knew there was some sparke of life by beating of her hart,
So that a thousand times she cald upon her name ;
There is no way to helpe a traunce but she hath tryde the same :
She openeth wide her mouth, she stoppeth close her nose,
She bendeth downe her brest, she wringes her fingers and her toes,
And on her bosome colde she layeth clothes hot;
A warmed and a holesome juyce she powreth downe her throte.
At length doth Juliet heave fayntly up her eyes,
And then she stretcheth forth her arme, and then her nurce she
spyes.
But when she was awakde from her unkindly traunce,
Why dost thou trouble me (quoth she) what drave thee (with
mischaunce)
To come to see my sprite forsake my brethles corce ?
Goe hence, and let me dye, if thou have on my smart remorse.
For who would see her frend to live in dedly payne ?
Alas, I see my greefe begoone for ever will remayne.


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
39
Or who would seeke to live, all pleasure being past ?
My myrth is donne, my moorning mone for ay is like to last.
Wherfore since that there is none other remedy,
Comme gentle death, and ryve my hart at once, and let me dye.
The nurce with tricling teares, to witnes inward smart,
With holow sigh fetchd from the depth of her appauled hart,
Thus spake to Juliet, yclad with ougly care ;
Good lady myne, I do not know what makes you thus to fare ;
Ne yet the cause of your unmeasurde heavines.
But of this one I you assure, for care and sorowes stresse,
This hower large and more I thought (so god me save)
That my dead corps should wayte on yours to your untimely grave.
Alas, my tender nurce, and trusty frend, (quoth she)
Art thou so blinde that with thine eye thou canst not easely see
The lawfull cause I have to sorow and to moorne,
Since those the which I hyld most deere, I have at once forlorne.
Her nurce then aunswered thus, Me thinkes it fits you yll
To fall in these extremities that may you gyltles spill.
For when the stormes of care and troubles do aryse,
Then is the time for men to know the foolish from the wise.
You are accounted wise, a foole am I your nurce ;
But I see not how in like case I could behave me wurse.
Tibalt your frend is ded; what, weene you by your teares
To call him backe agayne ? thinke you that he your crying heares ?
You shall perceve the falt (if it be justly tryde)
Of his so sodayn death was in his rashnes and his pryde.
Would you that Romeus him selfe had wronged so,
To suffer himselfe causeless to be outraged of his foe?
To whom in no respect he ought a place to geve ?
Let it suffice to thee, fayre dame, that Romeus doth live,
And that there is good hope that he, within a while,
With greater glory shalbe calde home from his hard exile,
How well yborn he is, thy selfe I know canst tell,
By kindred strong, and well alyed, of all beloved well.
With patience arme thy selfe, for though that Fortunes cryme,
Without your falt, to both your greefes, depart you for a time.
I dare say, for amendes of all your present payne,
She will restore your owne to you, within a month or twayne,


40
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
With such contented ease as never erst you had ;
Wherefore rejoyce a while in hope, and be ne more so sad.
And that I may discharge your hart of heavy care,
A certaine way I have found out, my paynes ne will I spare,
To learne his present state, and what in time to comme
He mindes to doe; which knowne by me, you shall know all and
somme.
But that I dread the whilst your sorowes will you quell,
Straight would I hye where he doth lurke, to frier Lawrence cell.
But if you gyn eftsones (as erst you did) to moorne,
Whereto goe I, you will be ded, before I thence retoorne.
So I shall spend in wast my time and busy payne.
So unto you (your life once lost) good aunswere commes in vayne ;
So shall I ridde my selfe with this sharpe pointed knife,
So shall you cause your parents deere wax wery of theyr life ;
So shall your Romeus (despysing lively breath)
With hasty foote (before his time) ronne to untimely death.
Where if you can a while by reason rage suppresse,
I hope at my retorne to bring the salve of your distresse.
Now choose to have me here a partner of your payne,
Or promesse me to feede on hope till I retorne agayne.
Her mistres sendes her forth, and makes a grave behest
With reasons rayne to rule the thoughts that rage within her brest.
When hugy heapes of harmes are heapd before her eyes,
Then vanish they by hope of scape ; and thus the lady lyes
Twixt well assured trust, and doubtfull lewd dispayre:
Now blacke and ougly be her thoughts; now seeme they white and
fayre.
As oft in summer tide blacke cloudes do dimme the sonne,
And straight againe in clearest skye his restles steedes do ronne ;
So Juliets wandring mynd yclouded is with woe,
And by and by her hasty thought the woes doth overgoe.
But now is tyme to tell, whilst she was tossed thus,
What windes did drive or haven did hold her lover Romeus.
When he had slayne his foe that gan this dedly strife,
And saw the furious fray had ende by ending Tybalts life,
He fled the sharpe revenge of those that yet did live,
And doubting much what penal doome the troubled prince myght gyve,


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
41
He sought some where unseene to lurke a little space,
And trusty Lawrence secret cell he thought the surest place.
In doutfull happe ay best a trusty frend is tride ;
The frendly fryer in this distresse doth graunt his frend to hyde.
A secret place he hath, well seeled round about,
The mouth of which so close is shut, that none may finde it out ;
But roome there is to walke, and place to sitte and rest,
Beside a bed to sleape upon, full soft and trimly drest.
The flowre is planked so, with mattes it is so warme,
That neither wind nor smoky damps have powre him ought to
harme.
Where he was wont in youth his fayre frendes to bestowe,
There now he hydeth Romeus, whilst forth he goeth to knowe
Both what is sayd and donne, and what appoynted payne
Is published by trumpets sound; then home he hyes agayne.
By this unto his cell the nurce with spedy pace
Was comme the nerest way; she sought no ydel resting place.
The fryer sent home the newes of Romeus certain helth,
And promesse made (what so befell) he should that night by stelth
Comme to his wonted place, that they in nedefull wise
Of theyr affayres in time to comme might thorowly devyse.
Those joyfull newes the nurce brought home with mery joy;
And now our Juliet joyes to thinke she shall her love enjoye.
The fryer shuts fast his doore, and then to him beneth,
That waytes to heare the doutefull newes of life or els of death.
Thy hap quoth he, is good, daunger of death is none,
But thou shalt live, and doe full well, in spite of spitefull fone.
This onely payne for thee was erst proclaymde aloude,
A banishd man, thou mayst thee not within Verona shroude.
These heavy tidinges heard, his golden lockes he tare,
And like a frantike man hath torne the garmentes that he ware.
And as the smitten deere in brakes is waltring found,
So waltreth he, and with his brest doth beate the troden grounde.
He rises eft, and strikes his head against the wals,
He falleth downe againe, and lowde for hasty death he cals.
Come spedy death (quoth he) the readiest leache in love,
Since nought can els beneth the sunne the ground of griefe remove,


42
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
Of lothsome life breake downe the hated staggering stayes,
Destroy, destroy at once the lyfe that faintly yet decayes.
But you (fayre dame) in whome dame Nature dyd devise
With cunning hand to woorke that might seeme wondrous in our eyes,
For you, I pray the Gods, your pleasures to increase,
And all mishap, with this my death, for evermore to cease.
And mighty Jove with speede of justice bring them lowe,
Whose lofty pryde (without our gylt) our blisse doth overblowe.
And Cupide graunt to those theyr spedy wrongs redresse,
That shall bewayle my cruell death and pity her distresse.
Therewith a cloude of sighes he breathd into the skies,
And two great streames of bitter teares ran from his swollen eyes.
These thinges the auncient fryre with sorow saw and heard,
Of such begynning eke the ende the wise man greatly feard.
But loe, he was so weake by reason of his age,
That he ne could by force represse the rigour of his rage.
His wise and frendly woordes he speaketh to the ayre,
For Romeus so vexed is with care, and with dispayre,
That no advice can perce his close forstopped eares,
So now the fryer doth take his part in shedding ruthfull teares.
With colour pale and wan, with armes full hard yfold,
With wofull cheere his wayling frend he standeth to beholde.
And then our Romeus with tender handes ywrong,
With voyce with plaint made horce, w sobs, and with a foltring tong,
Renewd with novel mone the dolours of his hart;
His outward dreery cheere bewrayde his store of inward smart,
Fyrst Nature did he blame, the author of his lyfe,
In which his joyes had been so scant, and sorowes aye so ryfe;
The time and place of byrth he fiersly did reprove,
He cryed out (with open mouth) against the starres above:
The fatall sisters three, he said had done him wrong,
The threed that should not have been sponne, they had drawne foorth
too long.
He wished that he had before this time been borne,
Or that as soone as he wan light, his life he had forlorne.
His nurce he cursed, and the hand that gave him pappe,
The midwife eke with tender grype that held him in her lappe ;


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
43
And then did he complaine on Venus cruell sonne,
Who led him first unto the rockes which he should warely shonne :
By meane wherof he lost both lyfe and libertie,
And dyed a hundred times a day, and yet could never dye.
Loves troubles hasten long, the joyes he gives are short ;
He forceth not a lovers payne, theyr ernest is his sport.
A thousand thinges and more I here let passe to write
Which unto love this wofull man dyd speake in great despite.
On Fortune eke he raylde, he calde her deafe, and blynde,
Uirconstant, fond, deceitfull, rashe, unruthfull, and unkynd.
And to him selfe he layd a great part of the falt,
For that he slewe and was not slayne, in fighting with Tibalt.
He blamed all the world, and all he did defye,
But Juliet for whom he lived, for whom eke would he dye.
When after raging fits appeased was his rage,
And when his passions (powred forth) gan partly to asswage,
So wisely did the fryre unto his tale replye,
That he straight cared for his life, that erst had care to dye.
Art thou quoth he a man? thy shape saith, so thou art ;
Thy crying, and thy weping eyes denote a womans hart.
For manly reason is quite from of thy mynd outchased,
And in her stead affections lewd and fancies highly placed :
So that I stoode in doute, this howre (at the least)
If thou a man or woman wert, or els a brutish beast.
A wise man in the midst of troubles and distres
Still standes not wayling present harme, but seeks his harmes redres.
As when the winter flawes with dredfull noyse arise,
And heave the fomy swelling waves up to the starry skyes,
So that the broosed barke in cruell seas betost,
Dispayreth of the happy haven, in daunger to be lost,
The pylate bold at helme, cryes, mates strike now your sayle,
And tornes her stemme into the waves that strongly her assayle ;
Then driven hard upon the bare and wracke full shore,
In greater daunger to be wract then he had been before,
He seeth his ship full right against the rocke to ronne,
But yet he dooth what lyeth in him the perilous rocke to shonne ;
Sometimes the beaten boate, by cunning government,
The ancors lost, the cables broke, and all the tackle spent,


44
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
The roder smitten of, and over boord the mast,
Doth win the long desyred porte, the stormy daunger past :
But if the master dread, and overprest with woe
Begin to wring his handes, and lets the gyding rodder goe,
The ship rents on the rocke, or sinketh in the deepe,
And eke the coward drenched is : So, if thou still beweepe
And seke not how to helpe the chaunges that do chaunce,
Thy cause of sorow shall increase, thou cause of thy mischaunce.
Other account thee wise, proove not thy selfe a foole;
Now put in practise lessons learnd of old in wisdomes schoole.
The wise man saith, beware thou double not thy payne,
For one perhaps thou mayst abyde, but hardly suffer twayne.
As well we ought to seeke thinges hurtfull to decrease,
As to endevor helping thinges by study to increase.
The prayse of trew fredom in wisdomes bondage lyes,
He winneth blame whose deedes be fonde, although his woords be
wise.
Sickenes the bodies gayle, greefe, gayle is of the mynd;
If thou canst scape from heavy greefe, true fredome shalt thou finde.
Fortune can fill nothing so full of hearty greefe,
But in the same a constant mynd finds solace and releefe.
Vertue is alwayes thrall to troubles and annoye,
But wisdome in adversitie findes cause of quiet joye.
And they most wretched are that know no wretchednes,
And afther great extremity mishaps ay waxen lesse.
Like as there is no weale but wastes away somtime,
So every kynd of wayled woe will weare away in time.
If thou wilt master quite the troubles that the spill,
Endevor first by reasons help to master witles will.
A sondry medson hath eche sondry faynt disease,
But pacience, a common salve, to every wound geves ease.
The world is alway full of chaunces and of chaunge,
Wherefore the chaunge of chaunce must not seem to a wise man
straunge.
For tickel Fortune doth, in chaunging, but her kind,
But all her chaunges cannot chaunge a steady constant minde.
Though wavering Fortune toorne from thee her smyling face,
And sorow seeke to set him selfe in banishd pleasures place,


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
45
Yet may thy marred state be mended in a while,
And she eftsones that frowneth now, with pleasant cheere shall smyle.
For as her happy state no long whyle standeth sure,
Even so the heavy plight she brings, not alwayes doth endure.
What nede so many woordes to thee that art so wyse ?
Thou better canst advise thy selfe, then I can thee advyse.
Wisdome, I see, is vayne, if thus in time of neede
A wise mans wit unpractised doth stand him in no steede.
I know thou hast some cause of sorow and of care,
But well I wot thou hast no cause thus frantikly to fare.
Affections foggy mist thy febled sight doth blynde ;
But if that reasons beames agayne might shine into thy mynde,
If thou wouldst view thy state with an indifferent eye,
I thinke thou wouldst condemne thy plaint, thy sighing, and thy crye.
With valiant hand thou madest thy foe yeld up his breth,
Thou hast escapd his sword and eke the lawes that threatten death.
By thy escape thy frendes are fraughted full of joy,
And by his death thy deadly foes are laden with annoy.
Wilt thou with trusty frendes of pleasure take some part ?
Or els to please thy hatefull foes be partner of theyr smart?
Why cryest thou out on love? why doest thou blame thy fate?
Why dost thou so crye after death ? thy life why dost thou hate ?
Dost thou repent the choyce that thou so late didst choose ?
Love is thy Lord; thou oughest obay and not thy prince accuse.
For thou hast found (thou knowst) great favour in his sight,
He graunted thee, at thy request, thy onely hartes delight.
So that the gods envyde the blisse thou livedst in;
To geve to such unthankefull men is folly and a sin.
Me thinkes I heare thee say, the cruell banishment
Is onely cause of thy unrest ; onely thou dost lament
That from thy natife land and frendes thou must depart,
Enforsd to flye from her that hath the keping of thy hart :
And so opprest with waight of smart that thou dost feele,
Thou dost complaine of Cupides brand, and Fortunes turning wheele.
Unto a valiant hart there is no banishment,
All countreys are his native soyle beneath the firmament.
As to the fish the sea, as to the fowle the ayre,
So is like pleasant to the wise eche place of his repayre.


46
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
Though froward fortune chase thee hence into exyle,
With doubled honor shall she call thee home within a whyle.
Admyt thou shouldst abyde abrode a year or twayne,
Should so short absence cause so long and eke so greevous payne ?
Though thou ne mayst thy frendes here in Verona see,
They are not banishd Mantua, where safely thou mast be.
Thether they may resort, though thou resort not hether,
And there in suretie may you talke of your affayres together.
Yea, but this while (alas) thy Juliet must thou misse,
The onely piller of thy helth, and ancor of thy blisse.
Thy hart thou leavest with her, when thou dost hence depart,
And in thy brest inclosed bearst her tender frendly hart.
But if thou rew so much to leave the rest behinde,
With thought of passed joyes content thy uncontented mynde;
So shall the mone decrease wherwith thy mynd doth melt,
Compared to the heavenly joyes which thou hast often felt.
He is too nyse a weakeling that shrinketh at a showre,
And he unworthy of the sweete, that tasteth not the sowre.
Call now agayne to mynde thy first consuming flame ;
How didst thou vainely burne in love of an unloving dame ?
Hadst thou not welnigh wept quite out thy swelling eyne ?
Did not thy parts, fordoon with payne, languishe away and pyne ?
Those greefes and others like were happly overpast,
And thou in haight of Fortunes wheele well placed at the last !
From whence thou art now falne, that, raysed up agayne,
With greater joy a greater while in pleasure mayst thou raygne.
Compare the present while with times ypast before,
And thinke that fortune hath for thee great pleasure yet in store.
The whilst, this little wrong receive thou paciently,
And what of force must nedes be done, that doe thou willingly.
Foly it is to feare that thou canst not avoyde,
And madnes to desyre it much that cannot be enjoyde.
To geve to Fortune place, not ay deserveth blame,
But skill it is, according to the times thy selfe to frame.
Whilst to this skilfull lore he lent his listning eares,
His sighes are stopt, and stopped are the conduits of his teares.
As blackest cloudes are chaced by winters nimble winde,
So have his reasons chaced care out of his carefull mynde.


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
47
As of a morning fowle ensues an evening fayre,
So banisht hope returneth home to banish his despayre.
Now is affections veale removed from his eyes,
He seeth the path that he must walke, and reson makes him wise.
For very shame the blood doth flashe in both his cheekes,
He thankes the father for his lore, and farther ayde he seekes,
He sayth, that skilles youth for counsell is unfitte,
And anger oft with hastines are joind to want of witte ;
But sound advise aboundes in heddes with horish heares,
For wisdom is by practise wonne, and perfect made by yeares.
But aye from this time forth his ready bending will
Shalbe in awe and governed by fryer Lawrence skill.
The governor is nowe right carefull of his charge,
To whom he doth wisely discoorse of his affaires at large.
He telles him how he shall depart the towne unknowne,
Both mindful of his frendes safetie, and carefull of his owne
How he shall gyde him selfe, how he shall seeke to winne
The frendship of the better sort, how warely to crepe in
The favour of the Mantuan prince, and how he may
Appease the wrath of Escalus, and wipe the fault away ;
The choller of his foes by gentle meanes tasswage,
Or els by force and practises to bridle quite theyr rage:
And last he chargeth hym at his appointed howre
To goe with manly mery cheere unto his ladies bowre,
And there with holesome woordes to salve her sorowes smart,
And to revive (if nede require) her faint and dying hart.
The old mans woords have fild with joy our Romeus brest,
And eke the old wives talke hath set our Juliets hart at rest.
Whereto may I compare (o lovers) this your day ?
Like dayes the painefull mariners are woonted to assay;
For, beat with tempest great, when they at length espye
Some little beame of Phoebus light, that perceth through the skie,
To cleare the shadowde earth by clearenes of his face,
They hope that dreadles they shall ronne the remnant of their race;
Yea they assure them selfe, and quite behynd theyr backe
They cast all doute, and thanke the gods for scaping of the wracke;
But straight the boysterous windes with greater fury blowe,
And over boord the broken mast the stormy blastes doe throwe;


48
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
The heavens large are clad with cloudes as darke as hell,
And twise as hye the striving waves begin to roare and swell;
With greater daungers dred the men are vexed more,
In greater perill of their life then they had been before.
The golden sonne was gonne to lodge him in the west,
The full moone eke in yonder south had sent most men to rest ;
When restles Romeus and restles Juliet
In woonted sort, by woonted meane, in Juliets chamber met.
And from the windowes top downe had he leaped scarce,
When she with armes outstretched wide so hard did him embrace,
That welnigh had the sprite (not forced by dedly force)
Flowne unto death, before the time abandoning the corce,
Thus muete stood they both the eight part of an howre,
And both would speake, but neither had of speaking any powre ;
But on his brest her hed doth joylesse Juliet lay,
And on her slender necke his chyn doth ruthfull Romeus stay.
Theyr scalding sighes ascende, and by theyr cheekes downe fall
Their trickling teares, as christall cleare, but bitterer far then
gall.
Then he, to end the greefe which both they lived in,
Did kysse his love, and wisely thus hys tale he dyd begin :
My Juliet, my love, my onely hope and care,
To you I purpose not as now with length of woords declare
The diversenes and eke the accidents so straunge
Of frayle unconstant Fortune, that delyteth still in chaunge;
Who in a moment heaves her frendes up to the height
Of her swift turning slippery wheele, then fleetes her frendship
straight.
O wondrous change, even with the twinkling of an eye
Whom erst her selfe had rashly set in pleasant place so hye,
The same in great despyte downe hedlong doth she throwe,
And while she treades, and spurneth at the lofty state laid lowe,
More sorow doth she shape within an howers space,
Than pleasure in an hundred yeres ; so geyson is her grace.
The proofe wherof in me (alas) too plaine apperes,
Whom tenderly my carefull frendes have fosterd with my feers,
In prosperous hygh degree, mayntayned so by fate,
That (as your selfe did see) my foes envyde my noble state.


ROMEUS AND JULIET,
49
One thing there was I did above the rest desire,
To which as to the soveraigne good by hope I would aspyre.
Thol by our mariage meane we might within a while
(To worke our perfect happines) our parentes reconsile :
That safely so we might, (not stopt by sturdy strife)
Unto the boundes that God hath set, gyde forth our pleasant lyfe.
But now (alack) too soone my blisse is overblowne,
And upside downe my purpose and my enterprise are throwne.
And driven from my frendes, of straungers must I crave,
(O graunt it God) from daungers dread that I may suertie have.
For loe, henceforth I must wander in landes unknowne,
(So hard I finde the princes doome) exyled from myne owne.
Which thing I have thought good, to set before your eyes,
And to exhort you now to prove your selfe a woman wise,
That paciently you beare my absent long abod,
For what above by fatall doomes decreed is, that God—”
And more than this to say, it seemed, he was bent,
But Juliet in dedly greefe, with brackish teares besprent,
Brake of his tale begonne, and whilst his speche he stayde,
These selfe same wordes, or like to these, with dreery cheere she saide:
Why Romeus can it be, thou hast so hard a hart?
So farre removed from ruth? so farre from thinking on my smart?
To leave me thus alone (thou cause of my distresse)
Beseged with so great a campe of mortall wretchednesse,
That every hower now, and moment in a day,
A thousand times Death bragges, as he would reave my lyfe away?
Yet such is my mishap, (O cruell destenye)
That still I live, and wish for death, but yet can never dye:
So that just cause I have to thinke (as seemeth me)
That froward Fortune did of late with cruell Death agree
To lengthen lothed life, to pleasure in my payne,
And tryumph in my harme, as in the greatest hoped gayne.
And thou the instrument of Fortunes cruell will,
Without whose ayde she can no way her tyrant lust fulfill:
Art not a whit ashamde (as farre as I can see)
To cast me of, when thou hast culd the better part of me.
Whereby (alas) to soone, I, seely wretch, do prove,
That all the auncient sacred laws of friendship and of love


50
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
Are quelde and quenched quite, since he, on whom alway
My cheefe hope and my steady trust was woonted still to stay,
For whom I am becomme unto myself a foe,
Disdayneth me, his stedfast frend, and skornes my frendship so.
Nay Romeus, nay, thou mayst of two thinges choose the one,
Either to see thy castaway, as soone as thou art gone,
Hedlong to throw her selfe downe from the windowes haight,
And so to breake her slender necke with all the bodies waight,
Or suffer her to be companion of thy payne,
Where so thou goe (Fortune thee gyde), till thou retoorne agayne.
So wholy into thine transformed is my hart,
That even as oft as I do thinke that thou and I shall part,
So oft (me thinkes) my lyfe withdrawes it selfe awaye,
Which I retayne to no end els but to the end I may,
In spite of all thy foes, thy present partes enjoey,
And in distres to beare with thee the halfe of thine annoye.
Wherefore, in humble sort (Romeus) I make request,
If ever tender pity yet were lodgde in gentle brest,
O, let it now have place to rest within thy hart;
Receave me as thy servant, and the fellow of thy smart:
Thy absence is my death, thy sight shall geve me lyfe.
But if perhaps thou stand in dred to leade me as a wyfe,
Art thou all counsellesse ? canst thou no shift devise ?
What letteth but in other weede I may my selfe disguyse ?
What, shall I be the first ? hath none done so ere this,
To scape the bondage of theyr frendes? thy selfe can aunswer, yes.
Or dost thou stand in doute that I thy wife ne can
By service pleasure thee as much as may thy hyred man?
Or is my loyalte of both accompted lesse ?
Perhaps thou fearst lest I for gayne forsake thee in distresse.
What, hath my bewty now no powre at all on you,
Whose brightnes, force, and praise, somtime up to the skyes you blew?
My teares, my frendship and my pleasures donne of olde,
Shall they be quite forgote in dede ?"—When Romeus dyd behold
The wildnes of her looke, her cooler pale and ded,
The woorst of all that might betyde to her, he gan to dred;
And once agayne he dyd in armes his Juliet take,
And kist her with a loving kysse, and thus to her he spake :


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
51
« Ah Juliet, (quoth he) the mistres of my hart,
For whom (even now) thy servant doth abyde in dedly smart,
Even for the happy dayes which thou desyrest to see,
And for the fervent frendships sake that thou dost owe to mee,
At once these fansies vayne out of thy mynd roote out,
Except, perhaps, unto thy blame, thou fondly go about
To hasten foorth my death, and to thine owne to ronne,
Which Natures law and wisdoms lore teache every wight to shonne.
For, but thou change thy mynde, (I do foretell the end)
Thou shalt undoo thyselfe for aye, and me thy trusty frende.
For why, thy absence knowne, thy father wil be wroth,
And in his rage no narowly he will pursue us both,
That we shall trye in vayne to scape away by flight,
And vainely seeke a loorking place to hyde us from his sight.
Then we, found out and caught, quite voyde of strong defence,
Shall cruelly be punished for thy departure hence ;
I as a ravishor, thou as a careles childe,
I as a man who doth defile, thou as a mayde defilde ;
Thinking to leade in ease a long contented life,
Shall short our dayes by shamefull death : but, if (my loviny wife)
Thou banish from thy mynde two foes that counsell hath,
(That wont to hinder sound advise) rashe hastines and wrath ;
If thou be bend tobay the love of reasons skill,
And wisely by her princely powre suppresse rebelling will,
If thou our safetie seeke, more then thine owne delight,
Since suerty standes in parting, and thy pleasures growe of sight,
Forbeare the cause of joy, and suffer for a while,
So shall I safely live abrode, and safe torne from exile :
So shall no slaunders blot thy spotles life destayne,
So shall thy kinsmen be unstyrd, and I exempt from payne.
And thinke thou not, that aye the cause of care shall last;
These stormy broyles shall overblowe, much like a winters blast.
For Fortune chaungeth more than fickel fantasie ;
In nothing Fortune constant is save in unconstancie.
Her hasty ronning wheele is of a restles coorse,
That turnes the clymers hedlong downe, from better to the woorse,
And those that are beneth she heaveth up agayne :
So we shall rise to pleasures mount, out of the pit of pavne.
E 2


52
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
Ere fowre monthes overpasse, such order will I take,
And by my letters and my frendes such meanes I mynd to make,
That of my wandring race ended shalbe the toyle,
And I cald home with honor great unto my native soyle.
But if I be condemnd to wander still in thrall,
I will returne to you (mine owne) befall what may befall.
And then by strength of frendes, and with a mighty hand,
From Verone will I cary thee into a forein lande,
Not in mans weede disguisd, or as one scarcely knowne,
But as my wife and only feere, in garment of thyne owne.
Wherfore represse at once the passions of thy hart,
And where there is no cause of greefe, cause hope to heale thy smart.
For of this one thing thou mayst well assured bee,
That nothing els but onely death shall sunder me from thee.
The reasons that he made did seeme of so great waight,
And had with her such force, that she to him gan aunswere straight:
Deere Syr, nought els wish I but to obay your will;
But sure where so you go, your hart with me shall tary still,
As signe and certaine pledge, tyll here I shall you see,
Of all the powre that over you your selfe did graunt to me;
And in his stead take myne, the gage of my good will.-
One promesse crave I at your hand, that graunt me to fulfill;
Fayle not to let me have, at fryer Lawrence hand,
The tydinges of your health, and how your doutfull case shall stand.
And all the wery whyle that you shall spend abrode,
Cause me from time to time to knowe the place of your abode.
His eyes did gushe out teares, a sigh brake from his brest,
When he did graunt and with an othe did vowe to kepe the hest.
Thus these two lovers passe away the wery night,
In payne and plaint, not (as they wont) in pleasure and delight.
But now (somewhat too soone) in farthest east arose
Fayre Lucifer, the golden starre that lady Venus chose ;
Whose course appoynted is with spedy race to ronne,
A messenger of dawning daye, and of the rysing sonne.
Then freshe Aurora with her pale and silver glade
Did cleare the skyes, and from the earth had chased ougly shade.
When thou ne lookest wide, ne closely dost thou winke,
When Phæous from our hemysphere in westerne wave doth sinke,


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
53
What cooller then the heavens do shew unto thine eyes,
The same, (or like) saw Romeus in farthest esterne skyes.
As yet he saw no day, ne could he call it night,
With equall force decreasing darke fought with increasing light.
Then Romeus in armes his lady gan to folde,
With frendly kisse, and ruthfully she gan her knight beholde.
With solemne othe they both theyr sorowfull leave do take;
They sweare no stormy troubles shall theyr steady frendship shake.
Then carefull Romeus agayne to cell retoornes,
And in her chaumber secretly our joyles Juliet moornes.
Now hugy cloudes of care, of sorrow, and of dread,
The clearnes of their gladsome harts hath wholy overspread.
When golden crested Phæbus bosteth him in skye,
And under earth, to scape revenge, his dedly foe doth flye,
Then hath these lovers day an ende, theyr night begonne,
For eche of them to other is as to the world the sunne.
The dawning they shall see, ne sommer any more,
But blackfaced night with winter rough (ah) beaten over sore.
The wery watch discharged did hye them home to slepe,
The warders, and the skowtes were chargde theyr place and coorse
to keepe,
And Verone gates awyde the porters had set open,
When Romeus had of hys affayres with frier Lawrence spoken,
Warely he walked forth, unknowne of frend or foe,
Clad like a merchant venterer, from top even to the toe.
He spurd apace, and came, withouten stop or stay,
To Mantua gates, where lighted downe, he sent his man away
With woords of comfort to his olde afflicted syre ;
And straight, in mynd to sojorne there, a lodgeing doth he hyre,
And with the nobler sort he doth himselfe acquaynt,
And of his open wrong receaved the duke doth heare his plaint.
He practiseth by frends for pardon of exyle;
The whilst, he seeketh every way his sorowes to begyle.
But who forgets the cole that burneth in his brest ?
Alas his cares denye his hart the sweete desyred rest;
No time findes he of myrth, he findes no place of joye,
But every thing occasion geves of sorow and annoye.


54
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
For when in toorning skyes the heavens lampes are light,
And from the other hemysphere fayre Phæbus chaceth night,
When every man and beast hath rest from painfull toyle,
Then in the brest of Romeus his passions gyn to boyle.
Then doth he wet with teares the cowche whereon he lyes,
And then his sighes the chamber fill, and out aloude he cries
Against the restles starres in rolling skyes that raunge,
Against the fatall sisters three, and Fortune full of chaunge.
Eche night a thousand times he calleth for the day,
He thinketh Titans restles stedes of restines do stay;
Or that at length they have some bayting place found out,
Or (gyded yll) have lost theyr way and wandred farre about.
Whyle thus in ydel thoughts the wery time he spendeth,
The night hath end, but not with night the plaint of night he endeth.
Is he accompanied ? is he in place alone ?
In cumpany he wayles his harme, apart he maketh mone:
For if his feeres rejoyce, what cause hath he to joy,
That wanteth still his cheefe delight, while they theyr loves enjoy ?
But if with heavy cheere they shewe their inward greefe,
He wayleth most his wretchednese that is of wretches cheefe.
When he doth heare abrode the praise of ladies blowne,
Within his thought he scorneth them, and doth preferre his owne.
When pleasant songes he heares, wheile others do rejoyce,
The melody of musike doth styrre up his mourning voyce.
But if in secret place he walke some where alone,
The place itselfe and secretnes redoubleth all his mone.
Then speakes he to the beastes, to fethered fowles and trees,
Unto the earth, the cloudes, and to what so beside he sees.
To them he shewth his smart, as though they reason had,
Eche thing may cause his heavines, but nought may make him glad,
And (wery of the day) agayne he calleth night,
The sunne he curseth, and the howre when fyrst his eyes saw light.
And as the night and day their course do enterchaunge,
So doth our Romeus nightly cares for cares of day exchaunge.
In absence of her knight the lady no way could
Kepe trewse betwene her greefes and her, though nere so fayne
she would ;


56
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
Her face shall seeme so chaunged, her doynges eke so straunge,
That you will greatly wonder at so great and sodain chaunge.
Not onely she forbeares her meate, her drinke, and sleepe,
But now she tendeth nothing els but to lament and weepe.
No greater joy hath she, nothing contentes her hart
So much, as in the chaumber close to shut her selfe apart:
Where she doth so torment her poore afflicted mynde,
That much in daunger standes her lyfe, except somme helpe wefynde.
But (out alas) I see not how it may be founde,
Unlesse that fyrst we might fynd whence her sorowes thus
abounde.
For though with busy care I have employde my wit,
And used all the wayes I knew to learne the truth of it,
Neither extremitie ne gentle meanes could boote;
She hydeth close within her brest her secret sorowes roote.
This was my fyrst conceite, that all her ruth arose
Out of her coosin Tybalts death, late slayne of dedly foes ;
But now my hart doth hold a new repugnant thought;
Some greater thing, not Tybalts death, this chaunge in her hath
wrought.
Her selfe assured me that many dayes agoe
She shed the last of Tybalts teares; which woord amasd me so
That I then could not gesse what thing els might her greeve:
But now at length I have bethought me; and I doe beleve
The onely crop and roote of all my daughters payne
Is grudgeing envies faynt disease: perhaps she doth disdayne
To see in wedlocke yoke the most part of her feeres,
Whilst onely she unmaried doth lose so many yeres.
And more perchaunce she thinkes you mynd to kepe her so ;
Wherfore dispayring doth she weare her selfe away with woe.
Therfore (deere Syr) in time take on your daughter ruth ;
For why, a brickel thing is glasse, and frayle is frayllesse youth.
Joyne her at once to somme in linke of mariage,
That may be meete for our degree, and much about her age:
So shall you banish care out of your daughters brest,
So we her parentes, in our age, shall live in quiet rest.
Wherto gan easely her husband to agree,
And to the mothers skilfull talke thus straightway aunswerd he.


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57
Oft have I thought (deere wife) of all these thinges ere this,
But evermore my mynd me gave, it should not be amisse
By farther leysure had a husband to provyde;
Scarce saw she yet full XVI. yeres : too yong to be a bryde.
But since her state doth stande on termes so perilous,
And that a mayden daughter is a treasour daungerous,
With so great speede I will endevour to procure
A husband for our daughter yong, her sickenes faynt to cure,
That you shall rest content, (so warely will I choose)
And she recover soone enough the time she seemes to loose.
The whilst seeke you to learne, if she in any part
Already hath (unware to us) fixed her frendly hart;
Lest we have more respect to honor and to welth,
Then to our daughters quiet life, and to her happy helth :
Whom I do hold as deere as thapple of myne eye,
And rather wish in poore estate and daughterles to dye,
Then leave my goodes and her ythrald to such a one,
Whose chorlish dealing, (I once dead) should be her cause of mone."
This pleasaunt aunswere heard, the lady partes agayne,
And Capilet, the maydens sire, within a day or twayne,
Conferreth with his frendes for mariage of his daughter,
And many gentlemen there were with busy care that sought her ;
Both, for the mayden was well shaped, yong and fayre,
As also well brought up, and wise; her fathers onely heyre.
Emong the rest was one inflamde with her desire,
Who County Paris cliped was; an earle he had to syre.
Of all the suters him the father liketh best,
And easely unto the earle he maketh his behest,
Both of his owne good will, and of his frendly ayde,
To win his wife unto his will, and to perswade the mayde.
The wife dyd joy to heare the joyfull husband say
How happy hap, how meete a match, he had found out that day;
Ne did she seeke to hyde her joyes within her hart,
But straight she hyeth to Juliet ; to her she telles, apart,
What happy talke (by meane of her) was past no rather
Betwene the woing Paris and her carefull loving father.
The person of the man, the fewters of his face,
His youthfull yeres, his fayrenes, and his port, and semely grace,


58
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
With curious wordes she payntes before her daughters eyes,
And then with store of vertues prayse she heaves him to the skyes.
She vauntes his race, and gyftes that Fortune did him geve,
Wherby (she sayth) both she and hers in great delight shall live.
When Juliet conceived her parentes whole entent,
Wherto both love and reasons right forbod her to assent,
Within her selfe she thought rather then be forsworne,
With horses wilde her tender partes asonder should be torne.
Not now, with bashful brow, (in wonted wise) she spake,
But with unwonted boldnes straight into these woordes she brake:
Madame, I marvell much, that you so lavasse are
Of me your childe, (your jewell once, your onely joy and care,)
As thus to yelde me up at pleasure of another,
Before you know if I doe like or els mislike my lover.
Doo what you list, but yet of this assure you still,
If you do as you say you will, I yelde not there untill.
For had I choyse of twayne, farre rather would I choose
My part of all your goodes and eke my breath and lyfe to lose,
Then graunt that he possess of me the smallest part;
First, weary of my painefull lyfe, my cares shall kill my hart,
Els will I perce my brest with sharpe and bloody knife ;
And you, my mother, shall becomme the murdresse of my lyfe,
In geving me to him whom I ne can, ne may,
Ne ought, to love: wherefore, on knees, deere mother, I you pray,
To let me live henceforth, as I have lived tofore :
Ceasse all your troubles for my sake, and care for me no more ;
But suffer Fortune feerce to worke on me her will,
In her it lyeth to doe me boote, in her it lyeth to spill.
For whilst you for the best desyre to place me so,
You hast away my lingring death, and double all my woe.
So deepe this aunswere made the sorowes downe to sinke
Into the mothers brest, that she ne knoweth what to thinke
Of these her daughters woords, but all appalde she standes,
And up unto the heavens she throwes her wondring head and handes.
And, nigh besyde her selfe, her husband hath she sought;
She telles him all; she doth forget ne yet she hydeth ought.
The testy old man, wroth, disdainfull without measure,
Sendes forth his folke in haste for her, and byds them take no leysure:


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
59
Ne on her teares or plaint at all to have remorse,
But (if they cannot with her will) to bring the mayde perforce.
The message heard, they part, to fetch that they must fet,
And willingly with them walkes forth obedient Juliet.
Arrived in the place, when she her father saw,
Of whom (as much as duety would) the daughter stoode in awe,
The servantes sent away (the mother thought it meete),
The wofull daughter all bewept fell groveling at his feete,
Which she doth washe with teares as she thus groveling lyes :
So fast, and eke so plenteously distill they from her eyes :
When she to call for grace her mouth doth thinke to open,
Muet she is; for sighes and sobs her fearefull talke have broken.
The syre, whose swelling wroth her teares could not asswage,
With fiery eyen, and skarlet cheekes, thus spake her in his rage,
Whilst ruthfully stood by the maydens mother mylde :
Listen (quoth he) unthankfull and thou disobedient childe;
Hast thou so soone let slip out of thy mynde the woord,
That thou so often times hast heard rehearsed at my boord ?
How much the Romayne youth of parentes stood in awe,
And eke what powre upon theyr seede the fathers had by
lawe?
Whom they not onely might pledge, alienate, and sell,
(When they so stoode in neede) but more, if children did rebell,
The parentes had the powre of life and sodayn death.
What if those goodmen should agayne receave the livyng breth,
In how straight bondes would they the stubberne body bynde ?
What weapons would they seeke for thee? what tormentes would
they fynde ?
To chasten (if they saw) the lewdnes of thy lyfe,
Thy great unthankfulnes to me, and shamefull sturdy stryfe?
Such care thy mother had, so deere thou wert to me,
That I with long and earnest sute provyded have for thee
One of the greatest lordes that wonnes about this towne,
And for his many vertues sake a man of great renowne.
Of whom both thou and I unworthy are too much,
So rich ere long he shalbe left, his fathers welth is such,
Such is the noblenes and honor of the race
From whence his father came : and yet thou playest in this case


60
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
The dainty foole, and stubberne gyrle ; for want of skill
Thou dost refuse thy offred weale, and disobay my will.
Even by his strength I sweare, that fyrst did geve me lyfe,
And gave me in my youth the strength to get thee on my wyfe,
On lesse by Wensday next thou bende as I am bent,
And at our castle cald Freetowne thou freely doe assent
To Counte Paris sute, and promise to agree
To whatsoever then shall passe twixt him, my wife, and me,
Not onely will I geve all that I have away
From thee, to those that shall me love, me honor, and obay,
But also too so close and to so hard a gayle,
I shall thee wed, for all thy lyfe, that sure thou shalt not fayle
A thousand times a day to wishe for sodayn death,
And curse the day and howre when fyrst thy lunges did geve thee
breath.
Advise thee well, and say that thou art warned now,
And thinke not that I speak in sporte, or mynd to breake my vowe.
For were it not that I to Counte Paris gave
My fayth, which I must keepe unfalst, my honor so to save,
Ere thou go hence, my selfe would see thee chastned so,
That thou shouldst once for all be taught thy duetie how to knowe;
And what revenge of olde the angry syres did finde
Against theyre children that rebeld, and shewd them selfe
unkinde.
These sayd, the olde man straight is gone in hast away ;
Ne for his daughters aunswere would the testy father stay.
And after him his wife doth follow out of doore,
And there they leave theyr chidden childe kneeling upon the floore,
Then shee that oft had seene the fury of her syre,
Dreading what might come of his rage, nould farther styrre his yre.
Unto her chamber she withdrew her selfe aparte,
Where she was wonted to unlode the sorowes of her hart.
There did she not so much busy her eyes in sleping,
As overprest with restles thoughts in piteous booteless weeping.
The fast falling of teares make not her teares decrease,
Ne, by the powring forth of plaint, the cause of plaint doth cease.
So that to thend the mone and sorow may decaye,
The best is that she seeke somme meane to take the cause away.


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
61
Her wery bed betime the woful wight forsakes,
And to sainct Frauncis church to masse her way devoutly takes.
The fryer forth is calde; she prayes him heare her shrift;
Devotion is in so yong yeres a rare and precious gyft.
When on her tender knees the daynty lady kneeles,
In minde to powre foorth all the greefe that inwardly she feeles,
With sighes and salted teares her shryving doth beginne,
For she of heaped sorowes hath to speake, and not of sinne.
Her voice with piteous playnt was made already horce,
And hasty sobs,when she would speake, brake of her woordes parforce.
But as she may, peece meale, she powreth in his lappe
The mariage newes, a mischief newe, prepared by mishappe,
Her parentes promisse erst to Counte Paris past,
Her fathers threats she telleth him, and thus concludes at last:
Once was I wedded well, ne will I wed agayne ;
For since I know I may not be the wedded wyfe of twayne,
For I am bound to have one God, one fayth, one make,
My purpose is as soone as I shall hence my jorney take,
With these two handes, which joynde unto the heavens I stretch,
The hasty death which I desire, unto my selfe to reache.
This day (O Romeus) this day, thy wofull wife.
Will bring the end of all her cares by ending carefull lyfe.
So my departed sprite shall witnes to the skye,
And eke my blood unto the earth beare record, how that I
Have kept my fayth unbroke, stedfast unto my frende.
When this her heavy tale was tolde, her vowe eke at an ende,
Her gasing here and there, her feerce and staring looke,
Did witnes that some lewd attempt her hart had undertooke.
Whereat the fryer astonde, and gastfully afrayde
Lest she by dede perfourme her woord, thus much to her he sayde:
Ah Lady Juliet, what nede the woordes you spake ?
I pray you, graunt me one request, for blessed Maries sake.
Measure somewhat your greefe, holde here a while your peace,
Whilst I bethinke me of your case, your plaint and sorowes cease.
Such comfort will I geve you, ere you part from hence,
And for thassaltes of Fortunes yre prepare so sure defence,
So holesome salve will I for your afflictions finde,
That you shall hence depart agayne with well contented mynde.


62
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
His wordes have chased straight out of her hart despayre,
Her blacke and ougly dredfull thoughts by hope are waxen fayre.
So fryer Lawrence now hath left her there alone,
And he out of the church in hast is to his chaumber gone ;
Where sundry thoughtes within his carefull head arise ;
The old mans foresight divers doutes hath set before his eyes.
His conscience one while condems it for a sinne
To let her take Paris to spouse, since he himselfe hath byn
The chefest cause, that she unknowne to father or mother,
Not five monthes past, in that selfe place was wedded to another.
An other while an hugy heape of daungers dred
His restles thought hath heaped up within his troubled hed.
Even of it selfe thattempt he judgeth perilous ;
The execucion eke he demes so much more daungerous,
That to a womans grace he must himselfe commit,
That yong is, simple and unware, for waighty affaires unfit,
For if she fayle in ought, the matter published,
Both she and Romeus were undonne, himselfe eke punished.
When too and fro in mynde he dyvers thoughts had cast,
With tender pity and with ruth his hart was wonne at last ;
He thought he rather would in hasard set his fame,
Then suffer such adultery. Resolving on the same,
Out of his closet straight he tooke a litele glasse,
And then with double hast retornde where wofull Juliet was ;
Whom he hath found welnigh in traunce, scarce drawing breath,
Attending still to heare the newes of lyfe or els of death.
Of whom he did enquire of the appointed day;
On Wensday next, (quod Juliet) so doth my father say,
I must geve my consent; but (as I do remember)
The solemne day of mariage is the tenth day of September.”
Deere daughter, quoth the fryer of good chere see thou be,
For loe, sainct Frauncis of his grace hath shewde a way to me,
By which I may both thee and Romeus together
Out of the bondage which you feare assuredly deliver.
Even from the holy font thy husband have I knowne,
And, since he grew in yeres, have kept his counsels as myne owne.
For from his youth he would unfold to me his hart,
And often have I cured him of anguish and of smart;


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
63
I know that by desert his frendship I have wonne,
And I him hold as dere as if he were my propre sonne.
Wherfore my frendly hart can not abyde that he
Should wrongfully in ought be harmde, if that it lay in me
To right or to revenge the wrong by my advise,
Or timely to prevent the same in any other wise.
And sith thou art his wife, thee am I bound to love,
For Romeus frindship sake, and seeke thy anguishe to remove,
And dreadful torments, which thy hart besegen rounde ;
Wherfore, my daughter, geve good eare unto my counsels sounde.
Forget not what I say, ne tell it any wight,
Not to the nurce thou trustest so, as Romeus is thy knight ;
For on this threed doth hang thy death and eke thy lyfe,
My fame or shame, his weale or woe that chose thee to his wyfe.
Thou art not ignorant, (because of such renowne
As every where is spred of me, but chefely in this towne,)
That in my youthfull dayes abrode I travayled,
Through every lande found out by men, by men inhabited ;
So twenty yeres from home, in landes unknowne a gest,
I never gave my weary limmes long time of quiet rest,
But in the desert woodes, to beastes of cruell kinde,
Or on the seas to drenching waves, at pleasure of the winde,
I have committed them, to ruth of rovers hand,
And to a thousand daungers more, by water and by lande.
But not, in vayne (my childe) hath all my wandring byn;
Beside the great contentednes my sprete abydeth in,
That by the pleasant thought of passed thinges doth grow,
One private frute more have I pluckd, which thou shalt shortly know:
What force the stones, the plants, and metals have to woorke,
And divers other thinges that in the bowels of earth do loorke,
With care I have sought out, with payne I did them prove ;
With them eke can I helpe my selfe at times of my behove,
(Although the science be against the lawes of men)
When sodain daunger forceth me; but yet most cheefly when
The worke to doe is least displeasing unto God
(Not helping to do any sin that wrekefull Jove forbode.)
For since in lyfe no hope of long abode I have,
But now am comme unto the brinke of my appointed grave,


64
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
And that my death drawes nere, whose stripe I may not shonne,
But shalbe calde to make account of all that I have donne,
Now ought I from hence forth more depely print in mynde
The judgment of the Lord, then when youthes folly made me blynde,
When love and fond desyre were boyling in my brest,
Whence hope and dred by striving thoughts had banishd frendly rest.
Knowe therfore, (daughter) that with other gyftes which I
Have well attained to, hy grace and favour of the skye,
Long since I did finde out, and yet the way I knowe,
Of certain rootes, and savory herbes to make a kinde of dowe,
Which baked hard, and bet into a powder fine,
And dronke with conduite water, or with any kynd of wine,
It doth in halfe an howre astonne the taker so,
And mastreth all his sences, that he feeleth weale nor woe:
And so it burieth up the sprite and living breath,
That even the skilfull leche would say, that he is slayne by death.
One vertue more it hath, as mervelous as this ;
The taker, by receiving it, at all not greeved is ;
But painelesse as a man that thinketh nought at all,
Into a swete and quiet slepe immediately doth fall;
From which, (according to the quantitie he taketh)
Longer or shorter is the time before the sleper waketh ;
And thence (theffect once wrought) agayne it doth restore
Him that receaved unto the state wherein he was before.
Wherfore, marke well the ende of this my tale begonne,
And therby learne what is by thee hereafter to be donne.
Cast off from thee at once the weede of womannish dread,
With manly courage arme thy selfe from heele unto the head;
For onely on the feare or boldnes of thy brest
The happy happe or yll mishappe of thy affayre doth rest.
Receive this vyoll small and keepe it as thine eye ;
And on the mariage day, before the sunne doe cleare the skye,
Fill it with water full up to the very brim,
Then drinke it of, and thou shalt feele throughout eche vayne and lim
A pleasant slumber slide, and quite dispred at length
On all thy partes, from every part reve all thy kindly strength ;
Withouten moving thus thy ydle parts shall rest,
No pulse shall goe, ne hart once beate within thy hollow brest,


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
65
But thou shalt lye as she that dyeth in a traunce:
Thy kinsmen and thy trusty frendes shall wayle the sodain chaunce;
The corps then will they bring to grave in this churchyarde,
Where thy forefathers long agoe a costly tombe preparde,
Both for himselfe and eke for those that should come after,
Both deepe it is, and long and large, where thou shall rest, my
daughter,
Till I to Mantua sende for Romeus, thy knight;
Out of the tombe both he and I will take thee forth that night.
And when out of thy slepe thou shalt awake agayne,
Then mayst thou goe with him from hence; and, healed of thy payne,
In Mantua lead with him unknowne a pleasant life;
And yet perhaps in time to comme, when cease shall all the strife,
And that the peace is made twixt Romeus and his foes,
My selfe may finde so fit a time these secretes to dysclose,
Both to my prayse, and to thy tender parentes joy,
That daungerles, without reproche, thou shalt thy love enjoy.
When of his skilfull tale the fryer had made an ende,
To which our Juliet so well her eare and wits dyd bend,
That she hath heard it all and hath forgotten nought,
Her fainting hart was comforted with hope and pleasant thought,
And then to him she said-Doubte not but that I will
With stoute and unappauled hart your happy hest fulfill.
Yea, if I wist it were a venemous dedly drinke,
Rather would I that through my throte the certaine bane should sinke,
Then I (not drinking it) into his handes should fall,
That hath no part of me as yet, ne ought to have at all.
Much more I ought with bold and with a willing hart
To greatest daunger yelde my selfe, and to the dedly smart,
To comme to him on whome my life doth wholy stay,
That is my onely hartes delight, and so he shalbe aye.
Then goe (quoth he) my childe, I pray that God on hye
Direct thy foote, and by thy hand upon the way thee gye.
God graunt he so contirme in thee thy present will,
That no inconstant toy thee let thy promesse to fulfill.
A thousand thankes and more our Juliet gave the fryer,
And homeward to her fathers house joyfull she doth retyre ;


66
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
And as with stately gate she passed through the streete,
She saw her mother in the doore, that with her there would meete,
In mynd to aske if she her purpose yet did holde,
In mynd also, apart twixt them, her duety to have tolde ;
Wherfore with pleasant face, and with unwonted chere,
As soone as she was unto her approched sumwhat nere,
Before the mother spake, thus did she fyrst begin :
Madame, at sainct Frauncis churche have I this morning byn,
Where I did make abode a longer while (percase)
Then dewty would; yet have I not been absent from this place
So long a while, whithout a great and just cause why;
This frute have I receaved there ;—my hart, erst lyke to dye,
Is now revived agayne, and my afflicted brest,
Released from affliction, restored is to rest!
For lo, my troubled gost (alas too sore diseasde)
By gostly counsell and advise hath fryer Lawrence easde ;
To whome I dyd at large discourse my former lyfe,
And in confession did I tell of all our passed strife;
Of Counte Paris sute, and how my lord, my syre,
By my ungrate and stubborne stryfe I styrred unto yre;
But lo, the holy fryer hath by his gostly lore
Made me another woman now then I had been before.
By strength of argumentes he charged so my mynde,
That (though I sought) no sure defence my serching thought could
finde.
So forced I was at length to yeld up witles will,
And promist to be orderd by the friers praysed skill.
Wherfore, albeit I had rashely, long before,
The bed and rytes of mariage for many yeres forswore,
Yet mother, now behold your daughter at your will,
Ready (if you commaunde her ought) your pleasure to fulfill.
Wherefore in humble wise, dere madam, I you pray,
To goe unto my lord and syre, withouten long delay;
Of hym fyrst pardon crave of faultes already past,
And shew him (if it pleaseth you) his child is now at last
Obedient to his just and to his skilfull hest,
And that I will (God lending lyfe) on Wensday next, be prest


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
To wayte on him and you, unto thappoynted place,
Where I will, in your hearing, and before my fathers face,
Unto the Counte geve my fayth and whole assent,
And take him for my lord and spouse; thus fully am I bent;
And that out of your mynde I may remove all doute,
Unto my closet fare I now, to searche and to choose out
The bravest garmentes and the richest jewels there,
Which (better him to please) I mynd on Wensday next to weare ;
For if I did excell the famous Gretian rape,
Yet might attyre helpe to amende my bewty and my shape.
The simple mother was rapt in to great delight;
Not halfe a word could she bring forth, but in this joyfull plight
With nimble foote she ran, and with unwonted pace,
Unto her pensive husband, and to him with pleasant face
She tolde what she had heard, and prayseth much the fryer ;
And joyfull teares ranne downe the cheekes of this gray-bеrded syer.
With handes and eyes heaved up he thankes God in his hart,
And then he sayth: This is not (wife) the friers first desart;
Oft hath he shewde to us great frendship heretofore,
By helping us at nedefull times with wisdomes pretious lore.
In all our common weale scarce one is to be founde
But is, for somme good torne, unto this holy father bounde.
Oh that the thyrd part of my goodes (I doe not fayne)
But twenty of his passed yeres might purchase him agayne!
So much in recompence of frendship would I geve,
So much (in faith) his extreme age my frendly hart doth greve.
These said, the glad old man from home goeth straight abrode,
And to the stately palace hyeth where Paris made abode;
Whom he desyres to be on Wensday next his geast,
At Freetowne, where he myndes to make for him a costly feast.
But loe, the earle saith, such feasting were but lost,
And counsels him till mariage time to spare so great a cost,
For then he knoweth well the charges wilbe great ;
The whilst, his hart desyreth still her sight, and not his meate.
He craves of Capilet that he may straight goe see
Fayre Juliet ; wher to he doth right willingly agree.
The mother, warnde before, her daughter doth prepare;
She warneth and she chargeth her that in no wyse she spare
F 2


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ROMEUS AND JULIET.
Her curteous speche, her pleasant lookes, and commely grace,
But liberally to geve them forth when Paris commes in place :
Which she as cunningly could set forth to the shewe,
As cunning craftesmen to the sale do set their wares on rew;
That ere the County did out of her sight depart,
So secretly unwares to him she stale away his hart,
That of his lyfe and death the wyly wench hath powre.
And now his longing hart thinkes long for theyr appoynted howre
And with importune sute the parentes doth he pray
The wedlocke knot to knit soone up, and hast the mariage day.
The woer hath past forth the first day in this sort,
And many other more then this, in pleasure and disport.
At length the wished time of long hoped delight
(As Paris thought) drew nere; but nere approched heavy plight.
Against the bridall day the parentes did prepare
Such rich attyre, such furniture, such store of dainty fare,
That they which did behold the same the night before
Did thinke and say, a man could scarcely wishe for any more.
Nothing did seeme to deere ; the deerest thinges were bought;
And (as the written story saith) in dede there wanted nought,
That longd to his degree, and honor of his stocke;
But Juliet, the whilst, her thoughts within her brest did locke ;
Even from the trusty nurce, whose secretnes was tryde,
The secret counsell of her hart the nurce childe seekes to hide.
For sith, to mocke her dame, she did not sticke to lye,
She thought no sinne with shew of truth to bleare her nurces eye.
In chamber secretly the tale she gan renew,
That at the doore she tolde her dame, as though it had been trew.
The flattring nurce dyd prayse the fryer for his skill,
And said that she had done right well by wit to order will.
She setteth forth at large the fathers furious rage,
And eke she prayseth much to her the second mariage ;
And County Paris now she praiseth ten times more,
By wrong, then she her selfe by right had Romeus praysde before.
Paris shall dwell there still, Romeus shall not retourne;
What shall it boote her lyfe to languish still and mourne.
The pleasures past before she must account as gayne ;
But if he doe retorne, what then ?_for one she shall have twayne.


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69
The one shall use her as his lawful wedded wyfe,
In wanton love with equall joy the other leade his lyfe ;
And best shall she be sped of any townish dame,
Of husband and of paramour to fynde her chaunge of game.
These wordes and like the nurce did speake, in hope to please,
But greatly did these wicked wordes the ladies mynde disease;
But ay she hid her wrath, and seemed well content,
When dayly dyd the naughty nurce new argumentes invent.
But when the bryde perceved her howre approched nere,
She sought (the best she could) to fayne, and tempted so her cheere,
That by her outward looke no living wight could gesse
Her inward woe; and yet anew renewde is her distresse.
Unto her chaumber doth the pensive wight repayre,
And in her hand a percher light the nurce beares up the stayre.
In Juliets chamber was her wonted use to lye;
Wherfore her mistres, dreading that she should her work descrye,
As sone as she began her pallet to unfold,
Thinking to lye that night where she was wont to lye of olde,
Doth gently pray her seeke her lodgeing some where els;
And, lest she crafty should suspect, a ready reason telles.
Dere frend (quoth she) you knowe, to morow is the day
Of new contract; wherefore, this night, my purpose is to pray
Unto the heavenly myndes that dwell above the skyes,
And order all the course of thinges as they can best devyse,
That they so smyle upon the doynges of to morow,
That all the remnant of my lyfe may be exempt from sorow :
Wherefore, I pray you, leave me here alone this night,
But see that you to morow comme before the dawning light,
For you must coorle my heare, and set on my attyre.
And easely the loving nurse dyd yelde to her desire,
For she within her hed dyd cast before no doute ;
She little knew the close attempt her nurce childe went about.
The nurce departed once, the chamber doore shut close,
Assured that no living wight her doing myght disclose,
So powred forth into the vyole of the fryer,
Water, out of a silver ewer, that on the boord stoode by her.
The slepy mixture made, fayre Juliet doth it hyde
Under her bolster soft, and so unto her bed she hyed :


70
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
Where divers novel thoughts arise within her hed,
And she is so invironed about with deadly dred,
That what before she had resolved undoubtedly
That same she calleth into doute ; and lying doutfully
Whilst honest love did strive with dred of dedly payne,
With handes ywrong, and weping eyes, thus gan she to complaine:-
What, is there any one, beneth the heavens hye,
So much unfortunate as I? so much past hope as I ?
What, am I not my selfe, of all that yet were borne,
The depest drenched in dispayre, and most in Fortunes skorne ?
For loe the world for me hath nothing els to finde,
Beside mishap and wretchednes and anguish of the mynde ;
Since that the cruel cause of my unhappines
Hath put me to this sodaine plonge, and brought to such distres,
As (to the end I may my name and conscience save)
I must devowre the mixed drinke that by me here I have,
Whose woorking and whose force as yet I doe not know.
And of this piteous plaint began another doute to growe:
What doe I knowe (quoth she) if that this powder shall
Sooner or later then it should or els not woorke at all ?
And then my craft descride as open as the day,
The peoples tale and laughing stocke shall I remayn for aye.
And what know I (quoth she) if serpentes odious,
And other beastes and wormes that are of nature venomous,
That wonted are to lurke in darke caves under grounde,
And commonly, as I have heard, in dead mens tombes are found,
Shall harme me, yea or nay, where I shall lye as ded ?-
Or how shall I that alway have in so freshe ayre been bred,
Endure the loathsome stinke of such an heaped store
Of carkases, not yet consumde, and bones that long before
Intombed were, where I my sleping place shall have,
Where all my auncesters doe rest, my kindreds common grave ?
Shall not the fryer and my Romeus, when they come,
Fynd me (if I awake before) ystified in the tombe?”
And whilst she in these thoughtes doth dwell somwhat to long,
The force of her ymagining anon dyd waxe so strong,
That she surmysde she saw, out of the hollow vaulte,
(A griesly thing to looke upon) the carkas of Tybalt ;


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
71
Right in the selfe same sort that she few dayes before
Had seene him in his blood embrewde, to death eke wounded sore.
And then when she agayne within her selfe had wayde
That quicke she should be buried there, and by his side be layde,
All comfortles, for she shall living feere have none,
But many a rotten carkas, and full many a naked bone ;
Her dainty tender partes gan shever all for dred,
Her golden heares did stand upright upon her chillish hed.
Then pressed with the feare that she there lived in,
A sweat as colde as mountaine yse pearst through her slender skin,
That with the moysture hath wet every part of hers :
And more besides, she vainely thinkes, whilst vainly thus she feares,
A thousand bodies dead have compast her about,
And lest they will dismember her she greatly standes in dout.
But when she felt her strength began to weare away,
By little and little, and in her hart her feare increased ay,
Dreading that weakenes might, or foolish cowardise,
Hinder the execution of the purposde enterprise,
As she had frantike been, in hast the glasse she cought,
And up she dranke the mixture quite, withouten farther thought.
Then on her brest she crost her armes long and small,
And so, her senses fayling her, into a traunce did fall.
And when that Phoebus bright heaved up his seemely hed,
And from the East in open skies his glistring rayes dispred,
The nurce unshut the doore, for she the key did keepe,
And douting she had slept to long, she thought to breake her slepe;
Fyrst softly dyd she call, then lowder thus did crye,
Lady, you slepe to long, the earle will rayse you by and by.
But wele away, in vayne unto the deafe she calles,
She thinkes to speake to Juliet, but speaketh to the walles.
If all the dredfull noyse that might on earth be found,
Or on the roaring seas, or if the dredfull thunders sound,
Had blowne into her eares, I thinke they could not make
The sleping wight before the time by any meanes awake ;
So were the sprites of lyfe shut up, and senses thrald ;
Wherwith the seely carefull nurce was wondrously apalde.
She thought to daw her now as she had donne of olde,
But loe, she found her parts were stiffe and more than marble colde ;


72
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
Neither at mouth nor nose found she recourse of breth ;
Two certaine argumentes were these of her untimely death.
Wherfore as one distraught she to her mother ranne,
With scratched face, and heare betorne, but no woord speake
she can,
At last (with much adoe) Dead (quoth she) is my childe.
Now, (Out alas) the mother cryde and as a tyger wilde,
Whose whelpes, whilst she is gonne out of her denne to pray,
The hunter gredy of his game doth kill or cary away;
So rageing forth she ranne unto her Juliets bed,
And there she found her derling and her onely comfort ded.
Then shriked she out as lowde as serve her would her breth,
And then that pity was to heare) thus cryde she out on death:
Ah cruell death (quoth she) that thus against all right,
Hast ended my felicitie, and robde my hartes delight,
Do now thy worst to me, once wreake thy wrath for all,
Even in despite I crye to thee, thy vengeance let thou fall.
Whereto stay I (alas) since Juliet is gone ?
Whereto live I since she is dead, except to wayle and mone?
Alacke, dere chyld, my teares for thee shall never cease ;
Even as my dayes of lyfe increase, so shall my plaint increase :
Such store of sorow shall afflict my tender hart,
That dedly panges, when they assayle shall not augment my smart.
Then gan she so to sobbe, it seemde her hart would brast ;
And while she crieth thus, behold, the father at the last,
The County Paris, and of gentilmen a route,
And ladies of Verona towne and country round about,
Both kindreds and alies thether apace have preast,
For by theyr presence there they sought to honor so the feast ;
But when the heavy newes the bydden geastes did heare,
So much they mournd, that who had seene theyr countnance and
theyr cheere,
Might easely have judgde by that that they had seene,
That day the day of wrath and eke of pity [to] have beene.
But more then all the rest the fathers hart was so
Smit with the heavy newes, and so shut up with sodain woe,
That he ne had the powre his daughter to bewepe,
Ne yet to speake, but long is forsd his teares and plaint to keepe.


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
73
In all the hast he hath for skilfull leaches sent;
And, hearyng of her passed life, they judge with one assent
The cause of this her death was inward care and thought ;
And then with double force againe the doubled sorowes wrought.
If ever there hath been a lamentable day,
A day, ruthfull, unfortunate and fatall, then I say,
The same was it in which through Veron towne was spred
The wofull newes how Juliet was sterved in her bed.
For so she was bemonde both of the yong and olde,
That it might seeme to him that would the commen plaint behold,
That all the commen welth did stand in jeopardy ;
So universall was the plaint, so piteous was the crye.
For lo, beside her shape and native bewties hewe,
With which, like as she grew in age, her vertues prayses grewe,
She was also so wise, so lowly, and so mylde,
That, even from the hory head unto the witles childe,
She wan the hartes of all, so that there was not one,
Ne great, ne small, but did that day her wretched state bemone.
Whilst Juliet slept, and whilst the other wepen thus,
Our fryer Lawrence hath by this sent one to Romeus,
A frier of his house, there never was a better,
He trusted him even as himselfe, to whom he gave a letter,
In which he written had of every thing at length,
That past twixt Juliet and him, and of the powders strength ;
The next night after that, he willeth him to comme
To helpe to take his Juliet out of the hollow toombe,
For by that time, the drinke, he saith, will cease to woorke,
And for one night his wife and he within his cell shall loorke ;
Then shall he cary her to Mantua away,
(Till fickell Fortune favour him,) disguisde in mans aray.
Thys letter closde he sendes to Romeus by his brother ;
He chargeth him that in no case he geve it any other.
Apace our frier John to Mantua him hyes;
And, for because in Italy it is a wonted gyse
That friers in the towne should seeldome walke alone,
But of theyr covent ay should be accompanide with one
Of his profession, straight a house he fyndeth out,
In mynde to take some frier with him, to walke the towne about.


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
And, for he had been sent to Verone for a spye,
The doynges of the Capilets by wisdom to descrye,
And for he knew her death dyd tooch his maister most,
(Alas) too soone, with heavy newes he hyed away in post ;
And in his house he found his maister Romeus,
Where he, besprent with many teares, began to speake him thus :
Syr, unto you of late is chaunced so great a harme,
That sure, except with constancy you seeke your selfe to arme,
I feare that strayght you will brethe out your latter breath,
And I, most wretched wight, shalbe thoccasion of your death.
Know syr, that yesterday, my lady and your wyfe,
I wot not by what sodain grefe, hath made exchaunge of life ;
And for because on earth she found nought but unrest,
In heaven hath she sought to fynde a place of quiet rest;
And with these weping eyes my selfe have seene her layde,
Within the tombe of Capilets : and here withall he stayde.
This sodayne message sounde, sent forth with sighes and teares,
Our Romeus receaved too soone with open listening eares ;
And therby hath sonke in such sorow in his hart,
That loe, his sprite annoyed sore with torment and with smart,
Was like to breake out of his prison house perforce,
And that he might flye after hers, would leave the massy corce :
But earnest love that will not fayle him till his ende,
This fond and sodain fantasy into his head dyd sende:
That if nere unto her he offred up his breath,
That then an hundred thousand parts more glorious were his death :
Eke should his painfull hart a great deale more be eased,
And more also (he vainely thought) his lady better pleased.
Wherfore when he his face hath washt with water cleene,
Lest that the staynes of dryed teares might on his cheekes be seene,
And so his sorow should of every one be spyde,
Which he with all his care dyd seeke from every one to hyde,
Straight, wery of the house, he walketh forth abrode :
His servant, at the maisters hest, in chamber styll abode ;
And then fro streate to streate he wandreth up and downe,
To see if he in any place may fynde, in all the towne,
A salve meete for his sore, an oyle fitte for his wounde ;
And seeking long (alac too soone) the thing he sought, he founde.


76
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
An apothecary sate unbusied at his doore,
Whom by his heavy countenance he gessed to be poore.
And in his shop he saw his boxes were but fewe,
And in his window (of his wares) there was so small a shew ;
Wherfore our Romeus assuredly hath thought,
What by no frendship could be got, with money should be bought ;
For nedy lacke is lyke the poore man to compell
To sell that which the cities lawe forbiddeth him to sell.
Then by the hand he drew the nedy man apart,
And with the sight of glittring gold inflamed hath his hart:
Take fiftie crownes of gold (quoth he) I geve them thee,
So that, before I part from hence, thou straight deliver me
Somme poyson strong, that may in lesse than halfe an howre
Kill him whose wretched hap shalbe the potion to devowre.
The wretch by covetise is wonne, and doth assent
To sell the thing, whose sale ere long, too late, he doth repent.
In hast he poyson sought, and closely he it bounde,
And then began with whispering voyce thus in his eare to rounde :
Fayre syr (quoth he) be sure this is the speeding gere,
And more there is then you shall nede ; for halfe of that is there
Will serve, I undertake, in lesse then halfe an howre
To kill the strongest man alive; such is the poysons power.
Then Romeus, som what easd of one part of his care,
Within his bosome putteth up his dere unthrifty ware.
Retoorning home agayne, he sent his man away,
To Verone towne, and chargeth him that he, without delay,
Provyde both instruments to open wyde the toombe,
And lightes to shew him Juliet; and stay (till he shall comme)
Nere to the place whereas his loving wyfe doth rest,
And chargeth him not to bewray the dolours of his brest.
Peter, these heard, his leave doth of his maister take;
Betyme he commes to towne, such hast the paynfull man dyd make:
And then with busy care he seeketh to fulfill,
But doth dysclose unto no wight his wofull maisters will.
Would God, he had herein broken his maisters hest !
Would God, that to the fryer he had dysclosed all hys brest !
But Romeus the whyle with many a dedly thought
Provoked much, hath caused ynke and paper to be brought,


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
And in few lynes he dyd of all his love dyscoorse,
How by the fryers helpe, and by the knowledge of the noorse,
The wedlocke knot was knyt, and by what meane that night
And many moe he dyd enjoy his happy hartes delight;
Where he the poyson bought, and how his lyfe should ende ;
And so his wailefull tragedy the wretched man hath pend.
The letters closd and seald, directed to his syre,
He locketh in his purse, and then a post hors doth he hyre.
When he approched nere, he warely lighted downe,
And even with the shade of night he entred Verone towne;
Where he hath found his man, wayting when he should comme,
With lanterne, and with instruments to open Juliets toomme.
Helpe Peter, helpe, quod he, helpe to remove the stone,
And straight when I am gone fro thee, my Juliet to bemone,
See that thou get thee hence, and on the payne of death
I charge thee that thou comme not nere whyle I abyde beneath,
Ne seeke thou not to let thy masters enterprise,
Which he hath fully purposed to doe, in any wise.
Take there a letter, which, as soone as he shall ryse,
Present it in the morning to my loving fathers eyes ;
Which unto him perhaps farre pleasanter shall seeme,
Than eyther I do mynd to say, or thy grose head can deeme.
Now Peter, that knew not the purpose of his hart,
Obediently a little way withdrewe himselfe apart;
And then our Romeus (the vault stone set up upright)
Descended downe, and in his hand he bare the candle light.
And then with piteous eye the body of his wyfe
He gan beholde, who surely was the organ of his lyfe ;
For whom unhappy now he is, but erst was blyst;
He watred her with teares, and then a hundred times her kyst;
And in his folded armes full straightly he her plight,
But no way could his greedy eyes be filled with her sight:
His fearfull handes he layd upon her stomacke colde,
And them on divers parts besyde the wofull wight did hold.
But when he could not fynd the signes of lyfe he sought,
Out of his cursed box he drewe the poyson that he bought;
Wherof he gredely devowrde the greater part,
And then he cryde, with dedly sigh fetcht from his mourning hart :


78
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
Oh Juliet, of whom the world unwoorthy was,
From which, for worldes unworthines thy worthy gost dyd
passe,
What death more pleasant could my hart wish to abyde
Then that which here it suffreth now, so nere thy frendly syde ?
Or els so glorious tombe how could my youth have craved,
As in one selfe same vaulte with thee haply to be ingraved ?
What epitaph more worth, or halfe so excellent,
To consecrate my memorye, could any man invente,
As this our mutuell and our piteous sacrifice
Of lyfe, set light for love ?”—but while he talketh in this wise,
And thought as yet a while his dolors to enforce,
His tender hart began to faynt, prest with the venoms force;
Which little and little gan to overcomme hys hart,
And whilst his busy eyne he threwe about to every part,
He saw, hard by the corce of sleping Juliet,
Bold Tybalts carkas dead, which was not all consumed yet.
To whom (as having life) in this sort speaketh he:
Ah cosin dere, Tybalt, where so thy restles sprite now be,
With stretched handes to thee for mercy now I crye,
For that before thy kindly howre I forced thee to dye.
But if with quenched lyfe not quenched be thine yre,
But with revengeing lust as yet thy hart be set on fyre,
What more amendes, or cruell wreke desyrest thou
To see on me, then this which here is shewd forth to thee now?
Who reft by force of armes from thee thy living breath,
The same with his owne hand (thou seest) doth poyson himselfe to
death.
And for he caused thee in tombe too soone to lye,
Too soone also, yonger then thou, himselfe he layeth by.
These said, when he gan feele the poysons force prevayle,
And little and little mastred lyfe for aye beganne to fayle,
Kneeling upon his knees, he said with voyce full lowe, —
Lord Christ, that so to raunsome me descendedst long agoe
Out of thy fathers bosome, and in the virgins wombe
Didst put on fleshe, oh let my plaint out of this hollow toombe,
Perce through the ayre, and graunt my sute may favour finde;
Take pity on my sinneful and my poore afflicted mynde !


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
79
For well enough I know, this body is but clay,
Nought but a masse of sinne, to frayle, and subject to decay.
Then pressed with extreme greefe he threw with so great force
His overpressed parts upon his ladies wayled corse,
That now his wekened hart, weakened with tormentes past,
Unable to abyde this pang, the sharpest and the last,
Remayned quite deprived of sense and kindly strength,
And so the long imprisoned soule hath freedome wonne at length.
Ah cruell death, too soone, too soone was this devorce,
Twixt youthfull Romeus heavenly sprite, and his fayre earthy
corse.
The fryer that knew what time the powder had been taken,
Knew eke the very instant when the sleper should awaken;
But wondring that he could no kinde of aunswer heare,
Of letters which to Romeus his fellow fryer did beare,
Out of Saint Frauncis church hymselfe alone dyd fare,
And for the opening of the tombe meete instrumentes he bare.
Approching nigh the place, and seeing there the light,
Great horror felt he in his hart, by straunge and sodaine sight;
Tyll Peter, Romeus man, his coward hart made bolde,
When of his masters being there the certain newes he tolde :
There hath he been (quoth he) this halfe howre at the least,
And in this time, I dare well say, his plaint hath still increast.
Then both they entred in, where they (alas) dyd fynde
The bretheles corps of Romeus, forsaken of the mynde;
Where they have made such mone, as they may best conceve,
That have with perfect frendship loved, whose frend feerce death
dyd reve.
But whilst with piteous playnt they Romeus fate bewepe,
An howre too late fayre Juliet awaked out of slepe ;
And much amasde to see in tombe so great a light,
She wist not if she saw a dreame, or sprite that walkd by night.
But cumming to her selfe she knew them, and said thus:
What, fryer Lawrence, is it you? where is my Romeus ?
And then the auncient frier, that greatly stood in feare
Lest if they lingred over long they should be taken theare,
In few plaine woordes the whole that was betyde, he tolde,
And with his fingar shewd his corps out stretched, stiffe, and colde;


80
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
And then perswaded her with pacience to abyde
This sodain great mischaunce, and sayth, that he will soone provyde
In somme religious house for her a quiet place,
Where she may spend the rest of lyfe, and where in time percase
She may with wisdomes meane measure her mourning brest,
And unto her tormented soule call backe exiled rest.
But loe, as soone as she had cast her ruthfull eye
On Romeus face, that pale and wan fast by her side dyd lye,
Straight way she dyd unstop the conduites of her teares,
And out they gushe;—with cruell hand she tare her golden heares.
But when she neither could her swelling sorow swage,
Ne yet her tender hart abyde her sickeness furious rage,
Falne on his corps she lay long panting on his face,
And then with all her force and strength the ded corps did embrace,
As though with sighes, with sobs, with force, and busy payne,
She would him rayse, and him restore from death to lyfe agayne:
A thousand times she kist his mouth, as cold as stone,
And it unkist againe as oft; then gan she thus to mone :
Ah pleasant prop of all my thoughts, ah onely grounde
Of all the sweete delightes that yet in all my lyfe I founde,
Did such assured trust within thy hart repose,
That in this place and at this time, thy churchyard thou hast
chose ?
Betwixt the armes of me, thy perfect loving make ?
And thus by meanes of me to ende thy life, and for my sake ?
Even in the flowring of thy youth, when unto thee
Thy lyfe most deare (as to the most) and pleasant ought to be,
How could this tender corps withstand the cruell fight
Of furious death, that wonts to fray the stoutest with his sight ?
How could thy dainty youth agree with willing hart
In this so fowle infected place (to dwell) where now thou art ?
Where spitefull Fortune hath appoynted thee to be
The dainty foode of greedy woormes, unworthy sure of thee.
Alas, alas, alas, what neded now anew
My wonted sorowes, doubled twise, againe thus to renewe?
Which both the tyme and eke my patient long abode
Should now at length have quenched quite, and under foote have
trode ?


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
81
Ah wretch and caytive that I am, even when I thought
To find my painefull passions salve, I myst the thing I sought;
And to my mortall harme the fatall knyfe I grounde,
That gave to me so deepe, so wyde so cruell dedly wounde.
Ah thou, most fortunate and most unhappy tombe !
For thou shalt beare, from age to age, witnes in time to comme
Of the most perfect leage betwixt a payre of lovers,
That were the most unfortunate and fortunate of others
Receave the latter sigh, receave the latter pang,
Of the most cruell of cruell slaves that wrath and death ay wrang.”
And when our Juliet would continue still her mone,
The fryer and the servant fled, and left her there alone ;
For they a sodayne noyse fast by the place did heare,
And lest they might be taken there, greatly they stoode in feare.
When Juliet saw her selfe left in the vaulte alone,
That freely she might worke her will, for let or stay was none,
Then once for all she tooke the cause of all her harmes,
The body dead of Romeus, and claspd it in her armes ;
Then she with earnest kisse sufficiently did prove,
That more than by the feare of death, she was attaint by love;
And then past deadly feare, for lyfe ne had she care,
With hasty hand she did draw out the dagger that he ware.
“O welcome death (quoth she) end of unhappines,
That also art beginning of assured happines,
Feare not to darte me nowe, thy stripe no longer stay,
Prolong no longer now my lyfe, I hate this long delaye ;
For straight my parting sprite, out of this carkas fled,
At ease shall finde my Romeus sprite emong so many ded.
And thou my loving lord, Romeus my trusty feer,
If knowledge yet doe rest in thee, if thou these woordes dost heer,
Receve thou her, whom thou didst love so lawfully,
That causd (alas) thy violent death, although unwillingly;
And therefore willingly offers to thee her gost,
To thend that no wight els but thou might have just cause to boste
Thinjoying of my love, which ay I have reserved
Free from the rest, bound unto thee, that hast it well deserved :
That so our parted sprites from light that we see here,
In place of endlesse light and blisse may ever live yfere.”


S2
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
These said, her ruthlesse hand through gyrt her valiant hart:
Ah, ladies, helpe with teares to wayle the ladies dedly smart !
She grones, she stretcheth out her limmes, she shuttes her eyes,
And from her corps the sprite doth flye ;—what should I say?
she dyes.
The watchemen of the towne the whilst are passed by,
And through the gates the candle light within the tombe they spye;
Whereby they did suppose inchaunters to be comme,
That with prepared instrumentes had opend wide the tombe,
In purpose to abuse the bodies of the ded,
Which by their science ayde abusde, do stand them oft in sted.
Theyr curious harts desyre the truth herof to know;
Then they by certaine steppes descend, where they do fynd below:
In clasped armes ywrapt the husband and the wyfe,
In whom as yet they seemd to see somme certaine markes of lyfe.
But when more curiously with leysure they did vew,
The certainty of both theyr deathes assuredly they knew :
Then here and there so long with carefull eye they sought,
That at the length hidden they found the murthrers ;—so they
thought.
In dongeon depe that night they lodgde them under grounde:
The next day do they tell the prince the mischefe that they found.
The newes was by and by throughout the towne dyspred,
Both of the taking of the fryer, and of the two found ded.
Thether you might have seene whole housholdes forth to ronne,
For to the tombe where they did heare this wonder straunge was
donne,
The great, the small, the riche, the poore, the yong, the olde,
With hasty pace do ronne to see, but rew when they beholde.
And that the murtherers to all men might be knowne,
Like as the murders brute abrode through all the towne was
blowne
The prince did straight ordaine, the corses that wer founde,
Should be set forth upon a stage hye raysed from the grounde,
Right in the selfe same fourme, (shewde forth to all mens sight)
That in the hollow valt they had been found that other night;
And eke that Romeus man and fryer Lawrence should
Be openly examined; for els the people would


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
83
Have murmered, or faynd there were some waighty cause
Why openly they were not calde, and so convict by lawes.
The holy fryer now, and reverent by his age,
In great reproche set to the shew upon the open stage,
(A thing that ill beseemde a man of silver heares)
His beard as white as mylke he bathes with great fast-falling teares:
Whom straight the dredfull judge commaundeth to declare
Both, how this murther had been donne, and who the murthrers are;
For that he nere the tombe was found at howres unfitte,
And had with hym those yron tooles for such a purpose fitte.
The frier was of lively sprite and free of speche,
The judges woords appald him not, ne were his wittes to seeche.
But with advised heed a while fyrst did he stay,
And then with bold assured voyce aloud thus gan he say:
“My lordes, there is not one emong you, set togyther,
So that (affection set aside) by wisdome he consider
My former passed lyfe, and this my extreme age,
And eke this heavy sight, the wreke of frantike Fortunes rage,
But that, amased much, doth wonder at this chaunge,
So great, so sodainly befalne, unlooked for, and straunge.
For I, that in the space of lx yeres and tenne,
Since first I did begin, to soone, to lead my lyfe with men,
And with the worldes vaine thinges, my selfe I did acquaint,
Was never yet, in open place, at any time attaynt
With any cryme, in waight as heavy as a rushe,
Ne is there any stander by can make me gylty blushe;
(Although before the face of God, I doe confesse
My selfe to be the sinfulst wretch of all this mighty presse.)
When readiest I am and likeliest to make
My great accompt, which no man els for me shall undertake;
When wormes, the earth, and death, doe cyte me every howre,
Tappeare before the judgment seate of everlasting powre,
And falling ripe, I steppe upon my graves brinke,
Even then, am I, most wretched wight, (as eche of you doth thinke,)
Through my most haynous deede, with hedlong sway throwne downe,
In greatest daunger of my life, and damage of renowne.
The spring, whence in your head this new conceite doth ryse,
And in your hart increaseth till your vayne and wrong surmise:


84
ROMEUS AND JULIET.
May be the hugenes of these teares of myne, (percase,)
That so aboundantly downe fall by eyther syde my face ;
As though the memory in scriptures were not kept
That Christ our Saviour himselfe for ruth and pittie wept ;
And more, whoso will reade, ywritten shall he fynde,
That teares are as true messengers of mans ungyltie mynde.
Or els, (a liker proofe) that I am in the cryme,
You say these present yrons are, and the suspected tyme ;
As though all howres alike had not been made above !
Did Christ not say, the day had twelve? whereby he sought to prove,
That no respect of howres ought justly to be had,
But at all times men have the choyce of dooing good or bad;
Even as the sprite of God the hartes of men doth guyde,
Or as it leaveth them to stray from vertues path asyde.
As for the yrons that were taken in my hand,
As now I deeme, I neede not seeke to make ye understande
To what use yron first was made, when it began ;
How of it self it helpeth not, ne yet can helpe a man.
The thing that hurteth is the malice of his will,
That such indifferent thinges is wont to use and order yll
Thus much I thought to say, to cause you so to know
That neither these my piteous teares, though nere so fast they flowe,
Ne yet these yron tooles, nor the suspected time,
Can justly prove the murther donne, or damne me of the cryme:
No one of these hath powre, ne powre have all the three,
To make me other then I am, how so I seeme to be.
But sure my conscience, (if so my gylt deserve,)
For an appeacher, witnesse, and a hangman, eke should serve ;
For through mine age, whose heares of long time since were hore,
And credyt great that I was in, with you, in time tofore,
And eke the sojorne short that I on earth must make,
That every day and howre do loke my journey hence to take,
My conscience inwardly should more torment me thrise,
Then all the outward deadly payne that all you could devyse.
But (God I prayse) I feele no worme that gnaweth me,
And from remorses pricking sting I joy that I am free:
I meane, as touching this, wherewith you troubled are,
Wherewith you should be troubled still, if I my speche should spare.


86
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And how, the whilst, Paris the earle was offred to hys wyfe ;
And how the lady dyd so great a wrong dysdayne,
And how to shrift unto his church she came to him agayne ;
And how she fell flat downe before his feete aground,
And how she sware, her hand and blody knife should wound
Her harmeles hart, except that he some meane dyd fynde
To dysappoynt the earles attempt; and spotles save her mynde.
Wherfore, he doth conclude, (although that long before)
By thought of death and age he had refusde for evermore
The hidden artes which he delighted in, in youth,
Yet wonne by her importunenes, and by his inward ruth,
And fearing lest she would her cruell vowe dyscharge
His closed conscience he had opened and set at large;
And rather did he choose to suffer for one tyme
His soule to be spotted somdeale with small and easy cryme,
Then that the lady should, (wery of lyving breath,)
Murther her selfe, and daunger much her seely soule by death :
Wherfore his auncient artes agayne he puttes in ure,
A certaine powder gave he her, that made her slepe so sure,
That they her held for dead ; and how that frier John .
With letters sent to Romeus to Mantua is gone;
Of whom he knoweth not as yet, what is becomme;
And how that dead he found his frend within her kindreds tombe.
He thinkes with poyson strong, for care the yong man sterved,
Supposing Juliet dead; and how that Juliet hath carved,
With Romeus dagger drawne her hart, and yelded breath,
Desyrous to accompany her lover after death ;
And how they could not save her, so they were afeard,
And hidde them selfe, dreding the noyse of watchmen, hat they
heard.
And for the proofe of thys his tale, he doth desyer
The judge to send forth with to Mantua for the fryer,
To learne his cause of stay, and eke to reade his letter ;
And, more beside, to thend that they might judge his cause the better,
He prayeth them depose the nurce of Juliet,
And Romeus, man whom at unawares besyde the tombe he met.
Then Peter, not so much erst as he was, dismayd :
My lordes, (quoth he) too true is all that fryer Laurence sayd.


ROMEUS AND JULIET.
87
And when my maister went into my mystres grave.
This letter that I offer you, unto me then he gave,
Which he himselfe dyd write, as I do understand,
And charged me to offer them unto his fathers hand.
The opened packet doth conteyne in it the same
That erst the skilfull frier said ; and eke the wretches name
That had at his request the dedly poyson sold,
The price of it, and why he bought, his letters playne have tolde.
The case unfolded so and open now it lyes,
That they could wish no better proofe, save seeing it with theyr eyes:
So orderly all thinges were tolde and tryed out,
That in the prease there was not one that stoode at all in doute.
The wyser sort, to councell called by Escalus,
Have geven advyse, and Escalus sagely decreeth thus:
The nurce of Juliet is banisht in her age,
Because that from the parentes she dyd hyde the mariage,
Which might have wrought much good had it in time been knowne,
Where now by her concealing it a mischeefe great is growne ;
And Peter, for he dyd obey his masters hest,
In woonted freedome had good leave to lead his lyfe in rest :
Thapothecary high is hanged by the throte,
And for the paynes he tooke with him the hangman had his cote.
Bnt now what shall betyde of this gray-bearded syre?
Of fryer Laurence thus araynde, that good barefooted fryre?
Because that many times he woorthely did serve
The commen welth, and in his lyfe was never found to swerve,
He was discharged quyte, and no marke of defame
Did seeme to blot or touch at all the honor of his name.
But of him selfe he went into an hermitage,
Two myles from Veron towne, where he in prayers past forth his age;
Till that from earth to heaven his heavenly sprite dyd flye:
Fyve years he lived an hermite and an hermite dyd he dye.
The straungenes of the chaunce, when tryed was the truth,
The Montagewes and Capelets hath moved so to ruth,
That with their emptyed teares theyr choler and theyr rage
Has emptied quite ; and they, whose wrath no wisdom could asswage,
Nor threatning of the prince, ne mynd of murthers donne,
At length, (so mighty Jove it would) by pitye they are wonne.


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And lest that length of time might from our myndes remove
The memory of so perfect, sound and so approved love,
The bodies dead, removed from vaulte where they did dye,
In stately tombe, on pillers great of marble, rayse they hye.
On every syde above were set, and eke beneath,
Great store of cunning epitaphes, in honor of theyr death.
And even at this day the tombe is to be seene;
So that among the monumentes that in Verona been,
There is no monument more worthy of the sight,
Then is the tombe of Juliet and Romeus her knight.
9 Imprinted at London in Flete strete within Temble barre, at
the signe of the hand and starre, by Richard Tottill the xix
day of November, An. do. 1562.


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
89
THE TWENTY-FIFTH NOVELL.
The goodly hystory of the true, and constant love betweene Rhomeo
and Julietta, the one of whom died of poyson, and the other of
sorrow, and hevinesse : wherein be comprysed many adventures
of love, and other devises touchinge the same.
I am sure that they which measure the greatnesse of goddes
workes accordinge to the capacity of their rude, and simple under-
standinge, wyll not lightly adhibite credite unto thys history, so
wel for the variety of straunge accidents which be therein des-
cribed, as for the novelty of so rare, and perfect amity. But they
that have red Plinie, Valerius Maximus, Plutarche, and divers
other writers, do finde, that in olde time a great number of men
and women have died, some of excessive joy, some of overmutch
sorrow, and some of other passions : and amongs the same, love
is not the least, whych when it seazeth uppon any kynde and
gentle subject, and findeth no resistaunce to serve for a rampart to
stay the violence of his course, by little and little undermineth,
melteth and consumeth the virtues of naturall powers, in sutch
wyse as the spyrite yealdinge to the burden, abandoneth the place
of lyfe: which is verified by the pitifull, and infortunate death of
two lovers that surrendered their last breath in one toumbe at
Verona a citty of Italy, wherein repose yet to thys day: (with
great marvell) the bones, and remnauntes of their late loving
bodies : an hystory no lesse wonderfull than true. If then perticular
affection which of good right every man ought to beare to the
place where he was borne, doe not deceyve those that travayle, I
thincke they will confesse wyth me, that few citties in Italy, can
surpasse the sayd citty of Verona, as well for the navigable river
called Adissa, which passeth almost through the midst of the same,
and thereby a great trafique into Almayne, as also for the prospect
towards the fertile mountaynes, and pleasant valeys whych do
environ the same, with a great number of very clere and lyvely
fountaynes, that serve for the ease and commodity of the place.
Omittinge (bisides many other singularities) foure bridges, and an
infinite nnmber of other honourable antiquities dayly apparaunt
H


90
RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
unto those, that be to curious to viewe and looke upon them.
Which places I have somewhat touched, bycause thys most true
history which I purpose hereafter to recite, dependeth thereupon,
the memory whereof to thys day is so wel known at Verona, as
unneths their blubbred eyes be yet dry, that saw and beheld that
lamentable sight.
When the Senior Escala was lorde of Verona, there were two
families in the citty, of farre greater fame than the rest, aswell for
riches as nobility: the one called the Montesches, and the other the
Capellets : but lyke as most commonly there is discorde amongs
theym which be of semblable degree in honour, even so there
hapned a certayne emnity betweene them: and for so mutch as the
beginning thereof was unlawfull, and of ill foundation, so lykewyse
in processe of time it kindled to sutch flame, as by divers and
sundry devyses practised on both sides, many lost their lyves. The
lord Bartholmew of Escala, (of whom we have already spoken)
being lord of Verona, and seeing sutch disorder in his common
weale, assayed divers and sundry waies to reconcile those two
houses but all in vayne : for their hatred had taken sutch roote,
as the same could not be moderated by any wyse counsell
or good advice : betweene whom no other thing could be accorded,
but geving over armour, and weapon for the time, attending
some other season more convenient, and with better leysure to
appease the rest. In the time that these thinges were adoing,
one of the family of Montesches called Rhomeo, of the age of xx.
or XXI. yeares, the comliest and best conditioned gentleman that
was amonges the Veronian youth, fell in love with a young gentle-
woman of Verona, and in few dayes was attached with hir beauty,
and good behaviour, as he abandoned all other affaires and busines,
to serve and honour hir: and after many letters, ambassades,
and presents, he determined in the ende to speake unto hir, and
to disclose hys passions, which he did without any other practise.
But she which was vertuously brought up, knew how to make him
so good answere to cut of his amorous affections, as he had no
lust after that time to returne any more, and shewed hir selfe so
austere, and sharpe of speach, as she vouchsafed not with one looke
to behold him. But how mutch the young gentleman saw hir whist,
and silent, the more he was inflamed ; and after he had continued


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
91
certayne months in that service wythout remedy of his griefe, he
determined in the ende to depart Verona, for proofe if by chaunge of
the place he might alter his affection, saying to himselfe: “ What
do I meane to love one that is so unkinde, and thus doth disdayn
me: I am all hir owne, and yet she flieth from me: I can no longer
live, except hir presence I doe enjoy : and she hath no contented
mynde, but when she is furthest from me: I will then from henceforth
estraunge my selfe from hir, for it may so come to passe by not be-
holding hir, that thys fire in me which taketh increase and nourish-
ment by hir fayre eyes, by little and little may dy and quench.” But
minding to put in proofe what he thought, at one instant hee was
reduced to the contrary, who not knowing whereupon to resolve,
passed dayes and nights in marveilous playnts, and lamenta-
tions : for love vexed him so neare, and had so well fixed the gen-
tlewoman's beauty within the bowels of his heart, and mynde,
as not able to resist, hee faynted with the charge, and consumed by
little and little as the snow agaynst the sunne: whereof hys
parenttes, and kinred did marvayle greatly, bewaylinge hys
misfortune, but above all other one of hys companyons of riper
age, and counsell than hee, began sharply to rebuke him: for the
love that he bare him was so great as hee felt hys martirdome, and
was pertaker of hys passion : which caused him by ofte viewyng
his friend's disquietnesse in amorous panges, to say thus unto him:
“Rhomeo, I marvell mutch that thou spendest the best time of
thine age, in pursute of a thing, from which thou seest thy self
despised and banished, wythout respecte either to thy prodigall
dispense, to thine honor, to thy teares, or to thy myserable lyfe,
which be able to move the most constant to pity: wherefore I
pray thee for the love of our auncient amity, and for thyne health
sake, that thou wilt learn to be thine owne man, and not to alyenat
thy lyberty to any so ingrate as she is: for so farre as I conjec-
ture by things that are passed betwene you, either she is in love
wyth some other, or else determineth never to love any. Thou
arte yong, rich in goods and fortune, and more excellent in beauty
than any gentleman in thys cyty: thou art well learned, and the
onely sonne of the house wherof thou commest: what gryef would
it bee to thy poore olde father and other thy parentes, to see the
so drowned in this dongeon of vyce, specially at that age wherein
thou oughtest rather to put them in some hope of thy vertue ?
H 2


92
RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
begyn then from henceforth to acknowledge thyne error, wherein
thou hast hitherto lyved, doe away that amorous vaile or coverture
whych blyndeth thyne eyes and letteth thee to folow the ryghte
path, wherein thine auncestors have walked : or else if thou do
feele thy selfe so subject to thyne owne wyll, yelde thy hearte to
some other place, and chose some mistresse accordyng to thy
worthynesse, and henceforth doe not sow thy paynes in a soyle so
barrayne whereof thou reapest no fruycte: the tyme approcheth
when al the dames of the cyty shal assemble, where thou mayst
behold sutch one as shall make thee forget thy former gryefs.”
Thys younge gentleman attentyvely hearyng all the persuad-
yng reasons of hys fryend, began somewhat to moderate that heate
and to acknowledge all the exhortatyons which hee had made
to be directed to good purpose: and then determined to put
them in proofe, and to be present indifferently at al the
feasts and assemblies of the city, without bearing affection more
to one woman than to an other: and continued in thys manner of
lyfe, ii. or iii. monthes, thinking by that meanes to quench the
sparks of auncient flames. It chaunced then within few dayes
after, about the feast of Chrystmasse, when feasts and bankets
most commonly be used, and maskes accordinge to the custome
frequented, that Anthonie Capellet being the chief of that familye,
and one of the principall lords of the city too, made a banket, and
for the better solempnization thereof, invited all the noble men
and dames, to which feast resorted the moste parte of the youth of
Verona. The family of the Capellets (as we have declared in
the beginninge of thys hystory) was at variance with the Montes-
ches, which was the cause that none of that family repaired to '
that banket, but onelye the yong gentleman Rhomeo, who came
in a maske after supper with certaine other yong gentlemen : and
after they had remained a certayne space with their visards on,
at length they did put of the same, and Rhomeo very shamefast,
withdrew himself into a corner of the hall: but by reason of the
light of the torches which burned very bright, he was by and by
knowen and loked upon of the whole company, but specially of
the ladies, for besides his native beauty wherewyth nature had
adorned him, they marvelled at his audacity how hee durst presume
to enter so secretly into the house of that famyllye which had litle
cause to do him any good. Notwithstanding, the Capellets dis-


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
93
sembling their mallice, either for the honor of the company, or
else for respect of his age, did not misuse him eyther in worde
or deede: by meanes whereof wyth free liberty he behelde and
viewed the ladies at hys pleasure, which hee dyd so well, and wyth
grace so good, as there was none but did very well lyke the
presence of his person: and after hee had particularly given
judgement uppon the excellency of each one, according to his
affection, hee sawe one gentlewoman amonges the reste of sur-
passinge beautye who (althoughe hee had never seene hir tofore)
pleased him above the rest, and attributed unto hir in heart the
chyefest place for all perfection in beautye : and feastyng hir in-
cessantlye with piteous lookes, the love whych hee bare to his first
gentlewoman, was overcomen with this newe fire, that tooke sutch
norishement and vigor in his hart, as he was not able never to quench
the same but by death onely: as you may understande by one of
the strangest discourses, that ever any mortall man devised. The
yong Rhomeo then felyng himselfe thus tossed wyth thys newe
tempest, could not tell what countenaunce to use, but was so sur-
prised and chaunged with these last flames, as he had almost for-
gotten himselfe in sutch wise as he had not audacity to enquyre
what shee was, and wholly bente himself to feede hys eyes with
hir sighte, wherewyth hee moystened the sweete amorous venome,
which dyd so empoyson him, as hee ended hys dayes with a kinde
of most cruell death. The gentlewoman that dydde put Rhomeo
to sutch payne, was called Julietta, and was the daughter of Ca-
pellet, the mayster of the house wher that assembly was, who as
bir eyes did rolle and wander too and fro, hy chaunce espied
Rhomeo, which unto hir seemed to be the goodliest personage
that ever shee sawe: and love (which lay in wayte never untill
that time,) assayling the tender heart of that yong gentlewoman,
touched hir so at the quicke, as for any resistance she coulde make,
was not able to defende his forces, and then began to set at naught
the royalties of the feast, and felt no pleasure in hir heart, but
when she had a glimpse by throwing or receiving some sight or
looke of Rhomeo. And after they had contented eche others
troubled heart with millions of amorous lookes which oftentimes
interchangeably encountred and met together, the burning beames
gave sufficient testimony of loves privy onsettes.


94
RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
Love having made the heartes breache of those two lovers, as
they two sought meanes to speake together, fortune offered them a
very meete and apt occasion. A certayne lord of that troupe and
companye tooke Julietta by the hande to daunce, wherein shee
behaved hir selfe so well, and wyth so excellent grace, as shee
wanne that daye the prise of honour from all the damosels of
Verona. Rhomeo, havynge foreseene the place whereunto shee
mynded to retire, approched the same, and so dyscretelye used the
matter, as hee founde the meanes at hir returne to sit beside hir :
Julietta when the daunce was finished, returned to the very place
where she was set before, and was placed betwene Rhomeo and an
other gentleman called Mercutio, which was a courtlyke gentle-
man, very well be loved of all men, and by reason of his pleasaunt
and curteous behavior was in every company wel intertayned.
Mercutio that was of audacity among maydens, as a lyon is among
lambes, seazed incontynently upon the hande of Julietta, whose
hands wontedly were so cold both in wynter and sommer as the
mountayne yce, although the fire's heat did warm the same.
Rhomeo whych sat uppon the left side of Julietta, seynge that
Mercutio held hir by the right hand, toke hir by the other that he
myght not be deceived of his purpose, and strayning the same a
little, he felt himself so prest wyth that newe favor, as he remayned
mute, not able to aunswer: but she perceyvyng by his chaunge
of color, that the fault proceded of the vehemence of love,
desyryng to speake unto hym, turned hir selfe towards hym, and
wyth tremblyng voyce joyned with virginal shamefastnesse, inter-
medled with a certayn bashfulnesse, sayd to hym: “Blessed be the
howre of your neare approche :” but mynding to procede in further
talke, love had so closed up hir mouth, as she was not able to end
hir tale.
Wherunto the yong gentleman all ravished with joy and contenta-
tion, sighing, asked hir what was the cause of that ryght fortunate
blessing : Julietta, somwhat more emboldened with pytyful loke
and smyling countenance, said unto him: “Syr, do not marvell yf I
do blesse your comminge hither, bicause sir Mercutio a good tyme
wyth frosty hand hath wholly frosen mine, and you of your curtesy
have warmed the same agayne.” Wherunto immediatly Rhomeo
replyed: “Madame, if the heavens have ben so favorable to


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
95
employe me to do you some agreable service, being repaired hither
by chance amongs other gentlemen, I esteeme the same well
bestowed, craving no greater benefite for satisfaction of all my
contentations received in this world, than to serve obey and honor
you as long as my lyfe doth last, as experience shall yeld more
ample proofe when it shall please you to geve further assaye:
moreover, if you have received any heat by touche of my hand,
you may be well assured that those flames be dead in respect of
the lyvely sparkes and violent fire which sorteth from your fayre
eyes, which fire hath so fiercely inflamed all the most sensible parts
of my body, as if I be not succored by the favoure of your good
graces, I do attend the time to be consumed to dust.” Scarse had
he made an ende of those last words, but the daunce of the torche
was at an end: whereby Julietta, which wholly burnt in love,
straightly claspyng her hand with hys, had no leysure to make
other aunswer, but softly thus to say : “My deare frend, I know
not what other assured wytnesse you desire of love, but that I let
you understand that you be no more your own, than I am yours,
beyng ready and dysposed to obey you so farre as honour shal
permyt, beseechyng you for the present tyme to content your
selfe wyth thys aunswere, untyll some other season meeter to com-
municate more secretly of our affaires.” Rhomeo seeing himselfe
pressed to part of the company, and for that hee knew not by
what meanes he myght see hir agayne that was hys life and death,
demaunded of one of his friends what shee was, who made aunswer
that she was the daughter of Capellet, the lord of the house, and
mayster of that dayes feast (who wroth beyonde measure that
fortune had sent him to so daungerous a place, thought it impos-
sible to bring to end his enterprise begon.) Julietta covetous on
the other side, to know what yong gentleman he was which had so
curteously intertayned hir that nyght, and of whome shee felt
the new wound in hir heart, called an olde gentlewoman of honor
which had nurssed hir and brought hir up, unto whom she sayd
leaning upon hir shoulder : “Mother, what two yong gentlemen
be they which first goe forth with the two torches before them.”
Unto whome the old gentlewoman told the name of the houses
wherof they came. Then she asked hir againe, what young gen-
tleman that was which holdeth the visarde in his hand, wyth the


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RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
damaske cloke about hym. “ It is” (quod she) “ Romeo Mon-
tesche, the sonne of youre father's capytall enimye and deadly foe
to all your kinne.” But the mayden at the onely name of Mon-
tesche was altogyther amazed, despayrynge for ever to attayne to
husband hir great affectyoned fryend Rhomeo, for the auncyent
hatreds betweene those two families. Neverthelesse she knewe
so well how to dissemble hir grief and discontented minde, as the
olde gentlewoman perceived nothing, who then began to persuade
hir to retire into hir chamber : whom she obeyed, and being in bed,
thinking to take hir wonted rest, a great tempest of divers thoughtes
began to environ and trouble hir mynde, in sutch wyse as shee
was not able to close hir eyes, but turninge heere and there, fanta-
sied divers things in hir thought, sometimes purposed to cut of the
whole attempte of that amorous practise, sometimes to continue
the same. Thus was the poore pucell vexed with two contraries,
the one comforted bir to pursue hir intent, the other proposed the
immynente perill whereunto undyscretly she headlong threwe hir
self: and after she had wandred of long time in this amorous labe-
rinth, she knew not whereuppon to resolve, but wept incessantly,
and accused hir self, saying : “Ah, caitife and myserable creature,
from whence do rise these unaccustomed travayles which I feele
in mynde, provokynge mee to loose my reste: but infortunate
wretch, what doe I know if that yong gentleman doe love mee
as hee sayeth. It may be under the vaile of sugred woordes he
goeth about to steale away mine honore, to be revenged of my
parentes whych have offended his, and by that meanes to my ever-
lastyng reproche to make me the fable of the Verona people.”
Afterwardes sodainly as she condempned that which she suspected
in the beginning, sayd : “Is it possible that under sutch beautye
and rare comelynesse, dysloyaltye and treason may have theyr
syedge and lodgynge? If it bee true that the face is the faythfull
messanger of the myndes conceypte, I may bee assured that hee
doeth love mee: for I marked so many chaunged colours in his
face in time of his talke with me, and sawe hym so transported
and besides himselfe, as I cannot wyshe any other more certayne
lucke of love, wherein I wyll persyst immutable to the laste gaspe
of lyfe, to the intente I may have hym to bee my husband : for
it maye so come to passe, as this newe aliaunce shall engender a


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
97
perpetuall peace and amity betweene hys house and mine." Ar-
restinge then uppon this determynation styll, as she saw Rhomeo
passynge before hir father's gate, she shewed hir self with merry
countenance, and followed him so with loke of eye, untill she had
lost his sight. And continuing this manner of lyfe for certaine
dayes, Rhomeo not able to content himself with lookes, daily did
behold and marke the situation of the house, and one day amongs
others hee espyed Julietta at hir chamber window, bounding upon
a narrow lane, ryght over against which chamber he had a gardein,
which was the cause that Rhomeo fearing discovery of their love,
began the day time to passe no more before the gate, but so soone
as the night with his browne mantell had covered the earth, hee
walked alone up and downe that little streat: and after he had
bene there many times, missing the chiefest cause of his comming,
Julietta impacient of hir evill, one night repaired to hir window,
and perceived throughe the bryghtnesse of the moone hir friend
Rhomeo under hir window, no lesse attended for, than hee hym-
selfe was waighting. Then she secretly with teares in hir eyes,
and wyth voyce interrupted by sighes, sayd : “Signior Rhomeo,
me thinke that you hazarde your person to mutch, and commyt the
same into great daunger at thys time of the nyght, to protrude
your self to the mercy of them which meane you little good. Who
yf they had taken would have cut you in pieces, and mine honor
(which I esteme dearer than my lyfe), hindred and suspected for
ever.” “Madame,” aunswered Rhomeo, “my lyfe is in the hand
of God, who only can dispose the same: howbeyt yf any man had
soughte menes to beryeve mee of my lyfe, I should (in the pre-
sence of you) have made him knowen what mine ability had ben
to defend the same. Notwythstandyng Iyfe is not so deare, and
of sutch estimation wyth me, but that I coulde vouchsafe to sacry-
fice the same for your sake: and althoughe my myshappe had bene
so greate, as to bee dyspatched in that place, yet had I no cause
to be sorrye therefore, excepte it had bene by losynge the meanes,
and way how to make you understande the good wyll and duety
which I beare you, desyrynge not to conserve the same for anye
commodytye that I hope to have thereby, nor for anye other
respecte, but onelye to love, serve, and honor you, so long as
breath shal remaine in me.” So soone as he had made an end of


98
RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
his talke, love and pity began to seaze upon the heart of Julietta,
and leaning hir head upon hir hand, having hir face all besprent
wyth teares, she said unto Rhomeo: “Syr Rhomeo, I pray you
not to renue that grief agayne : for the onely memory of sutch
inconvenyence, maketh me to counterpoyse betwene death and
lyfe, my heart being so united with yours, as you cannot receyve
the least injury in this world, wherein I shall not be so great a
partaker as your self: beseechyng you for conclusion, that if you
desire your owne health and mine, to declare unto me in fewe
wordes what youre determynation is to attaine : for if you covet any
other secrete thing at my handes, more than myne honoure can
well allowe, you are marvelously deceived: but if your desire be
godly, and that the frendship which you protest to beare mee, be
founded uppon vertue, and to bee concluded by maryage, recei-
ving me for your wyfe and lawfull spouse, you shall have sutch
part in me, as whereof without any regard to the obedience and
reverence that I owe to my parentes, or to the auncient enimity of
oure famylyes, I wyll make you the onely lord and mayster over
me, and of all the thyngys that I possesse, being prest and ready
in all poyntes to folow your commaundement: but if your intent be
otherwyse, and thinke to reape the fruycte of my virginity, under
pretense of wanton amity, you be greatly deceived, and doe pray
you to avoide and suffer me from henceforth to lyve in rest amongs
myne equals.” Rhomeo whych looked for none other thyng, hold-
ing up his handes to the heavens, wyth incredible joy and con-
tentation, aunswered: “Madame, for so mutch as it hath pleased
you to doe me that honour to accepte me for sutch a one, I accorde
and consent to your request, and do offer unto you the best part
of my heart, which shall remayn with you for guage and sure tes-
timony of my saying, untill such time as God shall give me leave
to make you the entier owner and possessor of the same. And to
the intent I may begyn mine enterpryse, to morrow I will to the
frier Laurence for counsell in the same, who besides that he is my
ghostly father, is accustomed to give me instruction in al my other
secret affaires, and fayle not (if you please) to meete me agayne in
this place at this very hour, to the intent I may give you to under-
stand the device betwene him and me.” Which she lyked very
well, and ended their talke for that time. Rhomeo receyving none


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
99
other favour at hir hands for that night, but only wordes. Thys
fryer Laurence, of whom hereafter wee shall make more ample
mention, was an auncient doctor of divinity, of the order of the
fryers minors, who besides the happy profession which he had made
in study of holy writ, was very skilful in philosophy, and a great
searcher of natures secrets, and exceeding famous in magike
knowledge, and other hidden and secret sciences, which nothing
diminished his reputation, bicause hee did not abuse the same.
And this frier through his vertue and piety, had so well won
the citizens hearts of Verona, as he was almost the confessor
to them all, and of all men generally reverenced and beloved :
and many tymes for his great prudence was called by the lords
of the citty, to the hearing of their weighty causes. And amonges
other he was greatly favored by the lorde of Escale, that tyme
the principall governor of Verona, and of all the family of Montes-
ches, and of the Capellets, and of many other. The young Rho-
meo (as we have already declared) from his tender age, bare a
certayne particuler amity to frier Laurence, and departed to him
his secrets, by meanes whereof so soone as he was gone from Ju-
lietta, went strayght to the fryers Franciscans, where from poinct
to poinct he discoursed the successe of his love to that good father,
and the conclusion of mariage betwene him and Julietta, adding
upon the ende of talke, that hee woulde rather choose shamefull
death, than to fayle hir of his promise. To whom the good frier
after he had debated divers matters, and proposed al the inconve-
niences of that secret mariage, exhorted hym to more mature deli-
beration of the same : notwithstandinge, all the alleged persua-
sions were not able to revoke his promyse. Wherefore the frier
vanquished with his stubbornesse, and also forecasting in his mynde
that the mariage might be some meanes of reconciliation of those
two houses, in th’end agreed to his request, intreating him, that he
myght have one dayes respit for leysure to excogitate what was best
to be done. But if Rhomeo for his part was carefull to provide for his
affayres, Julietta lykewise did her indevour. For seeing that shee
had none about her to whom she might discover hir passions, shee
devised to impart the whole to hir nurse which lay in her chamber,
appoyncted to wayte uppon hir, to whom she committed the
intier secrets of the love betwene Rhomeo and hir. And although


100
RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
the olde woman in the beginninge resisted Julietta hir intent, yet
in the ende she knew so wel how to persuade and win hir, that she
promised in all that she was able to do, to be at her commaunde.
ment. And then she sent hir with all diligence to speake to
Rhomeo, and to know of him by what meanes they might be
maried, and that he would do hir to understand the determination
betwene fryer Laurence and him. Whom Rhomeo aunswered, how
the first day wherein he had informed fryer Laurence of the matter,
the sayde fryer deferred aunswere until the next, which was the very
same, and that it was not past one houre sithens he returned with
finall resolution, and that frier Laurence and he had devised, that
she the Saterday following, should crave leave of hir mother to go
to confession, and to repayre to the church of Saynct Francis,
where in a certayne chappell secretly they should be maried, pray-
ing hir in any wyse not to fayle to be there. Which thinge she
brought to passe with sutch discretion, as hir mother agreed to hir
request : and accompanied onely wyth hir governesse, and a young
mayden, she repayred thither at the determined day and tyme.
And so soone as she was entred the church, she called for the good
doctor fryer Laurence, unto whom answere were made that he was
in the shriving chappell, and forthwith advertisement was gieven
him of hir comming. So soone as fryer Laurence was certified of
Julietta, hee went into the body of the church, and willed the olde
woman and yong mayden to go heare service, and that when hee
had heard the confession of Julietta, he would send for them
agayn. Julietta beinge entred a little cell wyth frier Laurence,
he shut fast the dore as he was wont to do, where Rhomeo and he
had bin together shut fast in, the space of one whole hour before.
Then friar Laurence that after he had shrived them, says to Julietta:
“Daughter, as Rhomeo here present hath certified me, you be
agreed, and contented to take him to husband, and he likewise you
for his espouse and wyfe. Do you now still persist and continue
in that mynde ?” The lovers aunswered that they desired none
other thing. The fryer seeing theyr conformed and agreeable
willes, after he had discoursed somewhat uppon the commendation
of mariage dignity, pronounced the usuall woordes of the church,
and she having receyved the ring from Rhomeo, they rose up
before the fryer, who sayd unto them : “ If you have any other


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
101
thing to conferre together, do the same wyth speede: for I pur-
pose that Rhomeo shall goe from hence so secretly as he can.”
Rhomeo sory to goe from Julietta sayde secretly unto hir,
that shee shoulde send unto hym after diner the old woman,
and that he would cause to be made a corded ladder the same
evening, thereby to climbe up to her chamber window, where at
more leisure they would devise of their affaires. Things deter-
mined betwene them, either of them retyred to their house with
incredible contentation, attending the happy houre for consumma-
mation of their mariage. When Rhomeo was come home to his
house, he declared wholly what had passed betwen him and Julietta,
unto a servaunt of his called Pietro, whose fidelity he had so greatly
tryed, as he durst have trusted him with hys lyfe, and commaunded
him wyth expedition to provide a ladder of cordes wyth ii. strong
hookes of iron fastned to both endes, which hee easily did, because
they were mutch used in Italy. Julietta did not forget in the
evening about five of the clocke, to send the olde woman to
Rhomeo, who having prepared all things necessary, caused the
ladder to be delivered unto her, and prayed hir to require Julietta
the same evening not to fayle to bee at the accustomed place. But
if this jorney seemed long to these two passioned lovers, let other
judge, that have at other tymes assayed the lyke: for every minute
of an houre seemed to them a thousande yeares, so that if they had
power to commaund the heavens (as Josua did the sunne) the
earth had incontinently bene shadowed wyth darkest cloudes. The
appoyncted houre come, Rhomeo put on the most sumptuous
apparell hee had, and conducted by good fortune neere to the
place where his heart tooke lyfe, was so fully determined of hys
purpose, as easily hee clymed up the garden wall. Beinge arrived
hard to the wyndow, he perceyved Julietta, who had already so well
fastned the ladder to draw him up, as without any daunger at all,
he entred hir chambre, which was so clere as the day, by reason of
the tapers of virgin wax, which Julietta had caused to be lighted,
that she might the better beholde hir Rhomeo. Julietta for hir
part, was but in hir night kerchief: who so soone as she perceyved
him colled him about the neck, and after she had kissed and re-
kissed hym a million of times, began to imbrace hym betwene hir
armes, having no power to speake unto him, but by sighes onely,


102
RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
holding hir mouth close against his, and being in this traunce
beheld him with pitifull eye, which made him to live and die
together. And afterwards somewhat come to hir selfe, she sayd
with sighes deepely fetched from the bottom of hir heart : “ Ah
Rhomeo, the exampler of al vertue and gentlenes, most hartely
welcome to this place, wherein for your lacke, and absence, and
for feare of your person, I have gushed forth so many teares as the
spring is almost dry: but now that I hold you betwen my armes,
let death and fortune doe what they list. For I count my selfe
more than satisfied of all my sorrowes past, by the favour alone of
your presence.” Whom Rhomeo with weeping eye, giving over
silence aunswered : “Madame, for somutch as I never receyved so
mutch of fortune's grace, as to make you feele by lively experience
what power you had over me, and the torment every minute of the
day sustained for your occasion, I do assure you the least grief
that vexeth me for your absence, is a thousand times more payne-
full than death, which long time or this had cut of the threede of
my lyfe, if the hope of this happy journey had not bene, which
paying mee now the just tribute of my weepings past, maketh me
better content, and more glad, than if the whole worlde were at
my commaundement, beseeching you (without further memory of
auncient griefe) to take advice in tyme to come how we may con-
tent our passionate hearts, and to sort our affayres with sutch
wysedome and discretion, as our enimies without advantage may
let us continue the remnant of our dayes in rest and quiet.” And
as Julietta was about to make answere, the olde woman came in
the meane time, and sayd unto them: “He that wasteth time in
talke, recovereth the same to late. But for so mutch as eyther of
you hath endured sutch mutuall paynes, behold (quoth shee) a
campe which I have made ready:" (shewing them the fielde bed
which shee had prepared and furnished,) whereunto they easily
agreed, and being then betwene the sheets in privy bed, after they
had gladded and cherished themselves with al kinde of delicate
embracements which love was able to devise, Rhomeo unloosing
the holy lines of virginity, tooke possession of the place, which
was not yet besieged with sutch joy and contentation as they can
judge which have assayed like delites. Their marriage thus con-
sumate, Rhomeo perceyving the morning make to hasty approch,


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
103
tooke his leave, making promise that he would not fayle wythin a
day or two to resort agayne to the place by lyke meanes, and
semblable time, until fortune had provided sure occasion unfear-
fully to manyfest their marriage to the whole worlde. And thus
a month or twayne, they continued their joyful mindes, to their
incredible satisfaction, until lady Fortune envious of their prosperity,
turned hir wheele to tumble them into sutch a bottomlesse pit, as
they payed hir usury for their pleasures past, by a certayne most
cruell and pitifull death, as you shal understand hereafter by the
discourse that followeth. Now as we have before declared, the
Capellets and the Montesches were not so well reconciled by the
lord of Verona, but that there rested in them sutch sparks of
auncient displeasures, as either partes waited but for some light
occasion to draw togethers, which they did in the Easter holy
dayes, (as bloudy men commonly be most willingly disposed after
a good time to commit some nefarious deede) besides the gate of
Boursarie leading to the olde castel of Verona, a troupe of Capel-
lets rencountred with certayne of the Montesches, and without
other woordes began to set upon them. And the Capellets had
for chiefe of their glorious enterprise one called Thibault, cosin
germayne to Julietta, a yong man strongly made, and of good
experience in armes, who exhorted his companions with stout
stomakes to represse the boldnes of the Montesches, that ther
might from that time forth no memory of them be left at all. The
rumoure of this fray was disperssed throughout al the corners of
Verona, that succour might come from all partes of the citty
to depart the same. Whereof Rhomeo advertized, who walked
alonges the citty with certayne of his companions, hasted him
speadily to the place where the slaughter of his parents and alies
were committed: and after he had well advised and beholden
many wounded and hurt on both sides, he sayd to hys companions :
“My frends let us part them, for they be so flesht one upon an
other, as will all be hewed to pieces before the game be done.”
And saying so, he thrust himselfe amids the troupe, and did no
more but part the blowes on eyther side, crying upon them aloud:
“My freends, no more, it is time henceforth that our quarel cease.
For besides the provocation of God's just wrath, our two families
be slaunderous to the whole world, and are the cause that this


104
RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
common wealth doth grow unto disorder.” But they were so egre
and furious one agaynst the other, as they gave no audience to
Rhomeo his councel, and bent theymselves too kyll, dysmember
and teare eche other in pieces. And the fyght was so cruell and
outragious betweene them as they which looked on, were amased
to see theym endure those blowes, for the grounde was all covered
with armes, legges, thighes, and bloude, wherein no signe of coward-
nes appeared, and mayntayned their feyghte so longe, that none
was able to judge who hadde the better, untill that Thibault cousin
to Julietta inflamed with ire and rage, turned towardes Rhomeo
thinkinge with a pricke to runne him through. But he was so wel
armed and defended with a privye coate whiche he wore ordinarily
for the doubt he had of the Capellets, as the pricke rebounded :
unto whom Rhomeo made answeare: “Thibault thou maiest
know by the pacience which I have had untill this present tyme,
that I came not hether to fyght with thee or thyne, but to seeke
peace and attonemente betweene us, and if thou thinkest that for
default of courage I have fayled myne endevor, thou doest greate
wronge to my reputacion. And impute thys my suffrance to some
other perticular respecte, rather than to wante of stomacke. Wher-
fore abuse mee not but be content with this greate effusion of
bloude and murders already committed. And provoke mee not
I beseeche thee to passe the boundes of my good will and mynde.”
“Ah traitor," sayd Thibaulte, “ thou thinkeste to save thy selfe by
the plotte of thy pleasaunt tounge, but see that thou defende thy
selfe, els presently I will make thee feele that thy tounge shal not
gard thy corps, nor yet be the buckler to defende the same from
present death.” And saying so, he gave him a blow with such
furye, as hadde not other warded the same hee had cutte of his
heade from his shoulders, and the one was no readyer to lende, but
the other incontinentlye was able to paye agayne, for hee being
not onelye wroth with the blowe that hee had received, but offended
with the injury which the other had don, began to pursue his
ennemy with suche courage and vivacity, as the third blowe
with his swerd hee caused him to fall backewarde starke deade
uppon the ground with a pricke vehementlye thruste into his
throte, whiche hee followed till hys sworde appeared throughe the
hynder parte of the same, by reason wherof the conflicte ceassed.


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
105
For besides that Thibault was the chiefe of his companye he was
also borne of one of the noblest houses within the cittye, which
caused the potestate to assemble his souldiers with diligence for
the apprehension and imprisonment of Rhomeo, who seyeng yl
fortune at hand, in secrete wise convayed himselfe to fryer
Laurence at the friers Franciscanes. And the fryer understandinge
of his facte, kepte him in a certayne secret place of his covente
until fortune did otherwise provyde for his safe goinge abroade.
The bruite spred throughout the citty, of this chaunce don upon
the lorde Thibault, the Capellets in mourning weedes caused the
deade bodye to be caryed before the sygnory of Verona, so well to
move them to pytty, as to demaunde justice for the murder: before
whom came also the Montesches, declaryng the innocencye of
Rhomeo, and the wilfull assault of the other. The councell assem-
bled and witnesses heard on both partes, a straight commaunde-
mente was geven by the lorde of the citty to geeve over theire
weapons, and touchinge the offence of Rhomeo, because he hadde
killed the other in his owne defence, he was banished Verona for
ever. This common misfortune published throughout the citty,
was generally sorowed and lamented. Som complayned the death
of the lorde Thibault, so well for his dexteritye in armes as for the
hope of his great good service in time to come, if hee hadde not
bene prevented by sutch cruell death. Other bewailed (specially
the ladies and gentlewomen) the overthrow of yong Rhomeo,
who besides his beauty and good grace wherwith he was enriched,
had a certayne naturall allurement, by vertue whereof he drew
unto him the hearts of eche man, like as the stony adamante doth
the cancred iron, in sutch wise as the whole nation and people of
Verona lamented his mischaunce: but above all infortunate Julietta,
who advertised both of the death of hir cosin Thibault, and of
the banishment of hir husband, made the ayre sound with infinite
number of mornefull playnts and miserable lamentations. Then
feeling hirselfe to mutch outraged with extreeme passion, she
went into hir chamber, and overcome with sorrowe threwe hir selfe
upon hir bed, where she began to reinforce hir dolor after so
straunge fashion, as the most constant would have bene moved to
pitty. Then like one out of hir wits, she gazed heere and there,
and by fortune beholding the window whereat Rhomeo was wont
Ι


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RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
- to enter into hir chamber, cried out : “Oh unhappy windowe, oh
entry most unlucky, wherein were woven the bitter toyle of my
former mishaps, if by thy meanes I have receyved at other times
some light pleasure or transitory contentation, thou now makest me
pay a tribute so rigorous and paynefull, as my tender body not able
any longer to support the same, shall henceforth open the gate to
that lyfe where the ghost discharged from this mortal burden, shal
seeke in some place els more assured rest. Ah Rhomeo, Rhomeo,
when acquayntaunce first began betweene us, and reclined myne
eares unto thy suborned promisses, confirmed with so many othes,
I would never have beleeved that in place of our continued amyty,
and in appeasing of the hatred of our houses, thou wouldest have
sought occasion to breake the same by an acte so shamefull, whereby
thy fame shall be spotted for ever, and I miserable wretch deso.
late of spouse and companion. But if thou haddest beene so
gready after the Cappelletts bloud, wherefore didst thou spare the
deare bloud of mine owne heart when so many tymes, and in sutch
secret place the same was at the mercy of thy cruell handes? The
victory which thou shouldest have gotten over me, had it not bene
glorious inough for thine ambitious minde, but for more trium-
phant solempnity to bee crowned wyth the bloude of my dearest
kinsman? Now get thee hence therefore into some other place to
deceive some other, so unhappy as my selfe. Never come agayne
in place where I am, for no excuse shall heereafter take holde to
asswage mine offended minde: in the meane tyme I shall lament
the rest of my heavy lyfe, with sutch store of teares, as my body
dried up from all humidity, shall shortly search reliefe in earth.”
And having made an ende of those hir wordes, hir heart was so
grievously strayned, as shee coulde neyther weepe nor speake, and
stoode so immoveable, as if she had bene in a traunce. Then be-
ing somewhat come agayne unto hirselfe, with feeble voyce shee
sayd: “Ah, murderous tongue of other men's honor, how darest
thou so infamously to speake of him whom his very enimies doe
commend and prayse? How presumest thou to impute the blame
upon Rhomeo, whose unguiltines and innocent deede every man
alloweth ? Where from henceforth shall be hys refuge, sith she
which ought to bee the onely bulwarke, and assured rampire of his
distresse, doth pursue and defame him? Receyve, receyve then


RHOMEO AND JULIETT 1.
107
Rhomeo the satisfaction of mine ingratitude by the sacrifice which
I shal make of my proper lyfe, and so the faulte whiche I have
committed agaynste thy loyaltye, shall bee made open to the
worlde, thou being revenged and my selfe punished.” And think-
ing to use some further talke, all the powers of hir body fayled hir
wyth signes of present death. But the good olde woman whych
could not imagine the cause of Julietta hir long absence, doubted
very mutch that she suffred some passion, and sought hir up and
downe in every place wythin hir father's pallace, untill at length
shee founde her lying upon hir bed, all the outwarde parts of
hir body so colde as marble. But the good olde woman which
thought hir to bee deade, began to cry like one out of hir wittes,
saying: “Ah deare daughter, and noursechylde, howe mutch
doeth thy death now grieve mee at the very heart?” And as she
was feeling all the partes of hir body, shee perceyved some sparke
of lyfe to bee yet within the same, whych caused hir to call hir many
tymes by her name, til at length she brought her oute of her
sounde, then sayde unto her: “Why Julietta, myne owne deare
darelyng, what meane you by this tormoylinge of your selfe? I
cannot tel from whence this youre behaviour and that immode-
rate heavines doe proceede, but wel I wot that within this houre
I thought to have accompanied you to the grave.” “ Alas good
mother” (aunswered woful Julietta) “do you not most evidently
perceive and see what just cause I have too sorrow and complayne,
loosyng at one instante two persons of the world which wer unto
mee most deare?” “Methinke,” aunsweared the good woman,
“that it is not seemely for a gentlewoman of your degree to fall
into such extremetye: for in tyme of tribulation wysedome should
most prevaile. And if the lord Thibault be deade do you thinke
to get him agayn by teares ? What is he that doth not accuse his
overmutch presumption : woulde you that Rhomeo hadd done that
wronge to him, and hys house, to suffer himselfe outraged and
assayled by one to whom in manhoode and prowesse he is not
inferioure ? Sufficeth you that Rhomeo is alyve, and his affayres
in sutche estate whoe in tyme may be called home agayne from
banishmente, for he is a greate lorde, and as you know well allied
and favored of all men, wherefore arme your selfe from henceforth
with pacyence: for albeit that fortune doth estraunge him from
I 2


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RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
you for a tyme, yet sure I am, that hereafter shee will restore him
unto you agayne wyth greater jove and contentatyon than before.
And to the ende that wee bee better assured in what state he is,
yf you wyll promyse me to gyve over your heavynesse, I wyll to
daye knowe of fryer Laurence whether he is gone.” To which re-
quest Julietta agreed, and then the good woman repayred to S.
Frauncis, wher shee founde fryer Laurence who tolde her that the
same nyghte Rhomeo would not fayle at hys accustomed houre
to visite Julietta, and there to do hir to understande what he
purposed to doe in tyme to come. This jorney then fared like the
voiages of mariners, who after they have ben tost by greate and
troublous tempest seeyng some sunne beame pearce the heavens
to lyghten the lande, assure themselves agayne, and thinkinge to
have avoyded shipwracke, and sodaynlye the seas begynne to
swell, the waves do roare with sutch vehemence and noyse, as if
they were fallen agayne into greater danger than before. The as-
signed hour come, Rhomeo fayled not accordinge to hys promise
to bee in his garden, where he found his furniture prest to mount
the chamber of Julietta, who with displayed armes, began so
strayghtly to embrace hym, as it seemed that the soule would have
abandoned hir body. And they two more than a large quarter of
an hour were in sutch agony, as they were not able to pronounce
one word, and wetting ech others face fast closed together, the
teares trickled downe in sutch abundance as they seemed to be
throughly bathed therein, which Rhomeo perceyving thinking to
stay those immoderate teares, sayd unto hir : “Myne owne dearest
freend Julietta, I am not now determined to recite the particulars
of the straung happes of frayle and inconstaunte fortune, who in a
moment hoisteth a man up to the hyghest degree of hir wheele,
and by and by, in lesse space than in the twynckeling of an eye,
she throweth hym downe agayne so lowe, as more misery is pre-
pared for him in one day, than favour in one hundred yeares: whych
I now prove, and have experience in my selfe, which have bene
nourished delicately amonges my frends, and maynteyned in sutch
prosperous state, as you doe little know, (hoping for the full per-
fection of my felicity) by meanes of our mariage to have recon-
ciled our parents, and frends, and to conduct the residue of my
lyfe, according to the scope and lot determined by Almighty God:


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
109
and neverthelesse all myne enterprises be put backe, and my pur-
poses tourned cleane contrary, in sutch wise as from henceforth I
must wander lyke a vagabonde through divers provinces, and
sequestrate my selfe from my frends, wythout assured place of
myne abode, whych I desire to let you weete, to the intent you
may be exhorted, in tyme to come, paciently to beare so well
myne absence, as that whych it shal please God to appoint.” But
Julietta, al affrighted wyth teares and mortal agonies, would not
suffer hym to passe any further, but interruptinge his purpose,
sayd unto hym: “ Rhomeo, how canst thou be so harde hearted
and voyde of all pity, to leave mee heere alone, besieged with so
manye deadlye myseries? There is neyther houre nor minute,
wherein death doth not appeare a thousand tymes before mee, and
yet my missehappe is sutch, as I can not dye, and therefore doe
many festlye perceyve, that the same death preserveth my lyfe,
of purpose to delight in my gryefes, and tryumphe over my evyls.
And thou lyke the mynister and tyrante of hir cruelty, doest make
no conscience (for ought that I can see) having atchieved the
summe of thy desyres and pleasures on me, to abandon and for-
sake me: whereby I well perceyve, that all the lawes of amity
are deade and utterly extinguyshed, forsomutch as he in whom
I had greatest hope and confidence, and for whose sake I am be-
come an enimy to my self, doth disdayne and contemne me. No,
no Rhomeo, thou must fully resolve thy selfe uppon one of these
ii. points, either to see me incontinently throwen down head-
long from this high window after thee : or else to suffer me to ac-
company thee into that countrey or place whither fortune shall guide
thee : for my heart is so mutch transformed into thine, that so
soone as I shall understande of thy departure, presently my lyfe
will depart this wofull body: the continuance whereof I doe not
desire for any other purpose, but only to delight my selfe in thy
presence, to bee pertaker of thy misfortunes : and therefore if ever
there lodged any pity in the heart of gentleman, I beseeche the
Rhomeo with al humility, that it may now finde place in thee, and
that thou wilt vouchsafe to receyve me for thy servaunt, and the
faithful companion of thy mishaps: and if thou thinke that thou canst
not conveniently receyve me in the estate and habite of a wyfe, who
shall let me to chaunge myne apparell? Shall I be the first that have


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RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
used lyke shiftes, to escape the tyranny of parentes? Doste thou doubt
that my service will not bee so good unto thee as that of Petre thy
servaunte ? Wyll my loyaltye and fidelity be lesse than his? My
beauty which at other tymes thou hast so greatly commended, it is
not esteemed of thee? my teares, my love, and the aunciente pleasures
and delights that you have taken in mee shal they be in oblivyon?”
Rhomeo seeing hir in these alterations, fearing that worsse inconve-
nience would chaunce, tooke hir agayne betweene hys armes, and
kissing hir amorously, sayd: “ Julietta, the onely mistresse of
my heart, I pray thee in the name of God, and for the fervent
love whych thou bearest unto me, to doe away those vayne cogita-
tions, excepte thou meane to seeke and hazard the destruction of
us both: for yf thou persever in this purpose, there is no remedye
but wee muste both perish: for so soone as thyne absence shalbe
knowen, thy father will make sutch earnest pursute after us, that
we cannot choose but be discried and taken, and in the ende cruelly
punished, I as a theefe and stealer of thee, and thou as a dysobe-
dyent daughter to thy father : and so instead of pleasaunt and
quiet lyfe, our dayes shalbe abridged by most shamefull death.
But if thou wylt recline thy self to reason, (the ryght rule of
humane lyfe), and for the tyme abandon our mutuall delyghts, I
will take sutch order in the time of my banishment, as within three
or foure months wythoute any delay, I shalbe revoked home agayne :
but if it fall out otherwyse (as I trust not), howsoever it happen,
I wyll come agayne unto thee, and with the helpe of my fryendes
wyll fetch thee from Verona by strong hand, not in counterfeit
apparell as a straunger, but lyke my spouse and perpetuall com-
panion : in the meane time quyet your selfe, and be sure that
nothing else but death shall devide and put us a sunder.” The
reasons of Rhomeo so mutch prevailed with Julietta, as shee made
hym thys aunswere : “My deare fryend, I wyll doe nothing con-
trary to your wyll and pleasure : and to what place so ever you
repayre, my hearte shall bee your owne, in like sorte as you have
given yours to be mine : in the meane while I pray you not to
faile oftentimes to advertise me by frier Laurence, in what state
your affaires be, and specially of the place of your abode.” Thus
these two pore lovers passed the night togither, until the day
began to appeare which did dyvyde them, to their extreame


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
111
sorrow and gryef. Rhomeo havinge taken leave of Julietta, went
to S. Fraunces, and after he hadde advertysed frier Laurence of
his affaires, departed from Verona in the habit of a marchaunt
straunger, and used sutch expedytyon, as without hurt he arrived
at Mantuoa, (accompanied onely wyth Petre his servaunt, whome
hee hastily sente backe agayne to Verona, to serve his father)
where he tooke a house: and lyvyng in honorable companye,
assayed certayne monthes to put away the gryefe whych so tor-
mented him. But duryng the tyme of his absence, miserable
Julietta could not so cloke hir sorrow, but that through the evyll
colour of hir face, hir inwarde passion was discryed : by reason
whereof hir mother, who heard hir oftentimes sighing, and inces-
santly complayning, coulde not forbeare to say unto hir :
“ Daughter, if you continue long after thys sort, you wyll hasten
the death of your good father and me, who love you so dearely as
our owne lyves : wherefore henceforth moderate your heavinesse,
and endevor your self to be mery: think no more upon the death
of your cosin Thibault, whome (sith it pleased God to cal away) do
you thinke to revoke wyth teares, and so withstande his almightye
will ?” But the pore gentlewoman not able to dyssemble hir
griefe, sayd unto hir : “Madame, long time it is sithens the last
teares for Thibault were poured forth, and I beleve that the foun-
tayne is so well soked and dried up, as no more will spryng in that
place.” The mother which could not tell to what effect those
woords were spoken held hir peace, for feare she should trouble
hir daughter: and certayne dayes after seeing hir to continue in
heavinesse and continuall griefs, assaied by al meanes possible to
know, aswell of hir, as of other the housholde servauntes, the oc-
casion of their sorrow, but al in vayne : wherwith the pore mother
vexed beyonde measure, proposed to let the lord Antonio hir hus-
band to understand the case of hir daughter : and uppon a day
seeing him at convenient leisure, she sayd unto him : “My lord,
if you have marked the countenaunce of our daughter, and hir
kinde of behavior sithens the death of the lord Thibault hir cosyn,
you shall perceive so straunge mutation in hir, as it will make you
to marvell, for she is not onely contented to forgoe meate, drinke,
and slepe, but she spendeth her tyme in nothing else than in
weeping and lamentatyon, delighting to kepe hir selfe solytarye


112
RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
wythin hir chamber, where she tormenteth hir self so outragiously
as yf wee take not heede, hir lyfe is to be doubted, and not able
to knowe the oryginall of hir payne, the more difficulte shall bee
the remedye : for albeit that I have sought meanes by all extremity,
yet cannot I learne the cause of hir sicknesse : and where I thought
in the beginning, that it proceeded upon the death of hir cosin,
now I doe manifestly perceive the contrary, specially when she
hir self did assure me that she had already wept and shed the last
teares for him that she was mynded to doe: and uncertayne where-
uppon to resolve, I do thinke verily that she mourneth for some
despite, to see the most part of hir companions maried, and she
yet unprovyded, persuading with hir selfe (it may be) that wee
hir parents do not care for hir : wherefore deare husband, I
heartely beseech you for our rest and hir quiet, that hereafter ye be ·
carefull to provyde for hir some maryage worthy of our state.”
Whereunto the lord Antonio, willingly agreed, saying unto hir :
“ Wyfe, I have many times thought uppon that whereof you
speake, notwythstandyng sith as yet shee is not attayned to the
age of xviii. yeares, I thought to provide a husband at leysure :
neverthelesse, things beinge come to these termes, and knowing
that virgins chastity is a daungerous treasure, I wyll be mindfull of
the same to your contentation, and she matched in sutch wyse, as
she shall thynke the tyme hitherto well delayed. In the meane
while marke dylygently whyther she bee in love wyth any, to the
end that we have not so greate regard to goodes, or the nobylity
of the house wherein we mean to bestow hir, as to the lyfe and
health of our daughter who is to me so deare as I had rather die a
begger without landes or goods, than to bestow hir upon one
which shall use and intreat hir il.” Certayne dayes after that the
lorde Antonio had bruted the maryage of his daughter, many gen-
tlemen were suters, so wel for the excellency of hir beauty, as for
hir great rychesse and revenue. But above all others the alyaunce
of a young earle named Paris, the count of Lodronne. lyked the
lord Antonio: unto whom lyberally he gave his consent, and
told his wyfe the party uppon whom he dyd mean to bestow his
daughter. The mother very joy ful that they had found so honest a
gentleman for theyr daughter, caused her secretly to be called
before hir, doyng hir to understande what things had passed


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
113
betwen hir father and the counte Paris, discoursing unto hir the
beauty and good grace of the yong counte, the vertues for which
he was commended of al men, joyning thereunto for conclusion the
great richesse and favor which he had in the goods of fortune, by
means whereof she and hir fryends should live in eternal honor :
but Julietta which had rather to have ben torne in pieces than to
agree to that maryage, answered hir mother with a more than ac-
customed stoutnesse : “ Madame, I mutch marvel, and therewithal
am astonned that you being a lady discrete and honorable, wil be
so liberal over your daughter as to commit her to the pleasure and
wil of an other, before you do know how her mind is bent: you
may do as it pleaseth you, but of one thing I do wel assure you,
that if you bring it to passe, it shal be against my wil : and
touching the regard and estimation of counte Paris, I shal first lose
my lyfe before he shal have power to touch any part of my body :
which being done, it is you that shal be counted the murderer, by
delivering me into the handes of him, whome I neyther can, wil,
or know whiche way to love : wherefore I pray you to suffer me
henceforth thus to lyve, without taking any further care of me, for
so mutche as my cruell fortune hath otherwyse disposed of me.”
The dolorous mother which knewe not what judgement to fixe
upon hir daughter's aunswere, lyke a woman confused and be-
sides hir selfe went to seeke the lord Antonio, unto whom with-
out conceyling any part of hir daughter's aunswer, she dyd him
understand the whole. The good olde man offended beyonde
measure, commaunded her incontinently by force to be brought
before him, if of hir own good will she would not come : so soone
as she came before hir father, hir eyes full of tears, fel down at
his fete, which she bathed with the luke warme drops that dis-
tilled from hir eyes in great abundance, and thynkyng to open hir
mouth to crye him mercy, the sobbes and sighes many times
stopt hir speach, that shee remained dumbe not able to frame a
woorde. But the olde man nothing moved with his daughter's
teares, sayd unto hir in great rage : “Come hither thou unkynd
and dysobedient daughter, hast thou forgotten how many tymies
thou hast hearde spoken at the table, of the puissance and autho-
ryty our auncyente Romane fathers had over their chyldren ?
unto whome it was not onelye lawfull to sell, guage, and other-


114
RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
wyse dyspose them (in theyr necessity) at their pleasure, but also
which is more, they had absolute power over their death and lyfe ?
With what yrons, with what torments, with what racks would
those good fathers chasten and correct thee if they were a live
againe, to see that ingratitude, misbehavior, and disobedience
which thou usest towards thy father, who with many prayers and
requestes hath provided one of the greatest lords of this province
to be thy husband, a gentleman of best renoume, and indued wyth
all kynde of vertues, of whom thou and I be unworthy, both for
the notable masse of goods and substance wherewith he is enrich-
ed, as also for the honoure and generositie of the house whereof
hee is discended, and yet thou playest the parte of an obstinate
and rebellyous chyld agaynst thy fathers will. I take the omnipo-
tency of that Almightye God to witnesse, which hath vouchsafed
to bryng thee forth into this world, that if upon Tuesday nexte
thou failest to prepare thy selfe to be at my castell of Villafranco,
where the counte Paris purposeth to meete us, and there give thy
consent to that whych thy mother and I have agreed uppon, I will
not onely deprive thee of my worldly goodes, but also will make
thee espouse and marie a pryson so straight and sharpe, as a
thousande times thou shalt curse the day and tyme wherein thou
wast borne : wherfore from henceforth take advisement what thou
doest, for excepte the promise be kept which I have made to the
counte Paris, I will make thee feele how greate the just choler of
an offended father is against a chylde unkynde.” And without
staying for other answer of his daughter, the olde man departed
the chamber, and lefte hir uppon hir knees. Julietta knowing the
fury of hir father, fearing to incurre his indignation, or to provoke
his further wrath, retired for the day into hir chamber, and con-
trived that whole nyght more in weeping then slepyng. And the
next morning fayning to goe heare service, she went forth with
the woman of hir chamber to the fryers, where she caused father
Laurence to be called unto hir, and prayed him to heare hir con-
fession : and when she was upon hir knees before hym, shee began
hir confession wyth teares, telling him the greate mischyefe that
was prepared for hir, by the maryage accorded betweene hir father
and the counte Paris : and for conclusion sayd unto him : “ Sir,
for so mutch as you know that I cannot by God's law bee maried


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
115
twice, and that I have but one God, one husband, and one faith,
I am determined when I am from hence, with these two hands
which you see joyned before you, this day to end my sorowful
lyfe, that my soule may beare wytnesse in the heavens, and my
bloude uppon the earth of my faith and loyalty preserved.”
Then havyng ended hir talke, shee looked about hir, and seemed
by hir wylde countenaunce, as though she had devised some
sinister purpose : wherefore frier Laurence, astonned beyonde
measure, fearyng least she would have executed that which she
was determyned, sayd unto hir : “Mistresse Julietta, I pray you
in the name of God by little and little to moderate youre con-
ceived griefe, and to content your self whilst you bee heere, untill
I have provided what is best for you to doe, for before you part
from hence, I will give you sutch consolation and remedy for
your afflictions, as you shall remaine satysfied and contented.”
And resolved uppon thys good minde, he speedily wente out
of the churche unto his chamber, where he began to consider of
many things, his conscience beyng moved to hinder the marriage
betwene the counte Paris and hir, knowing by his meanes she had
espoused an other, and callynge to remembraunce what a daunge-
rous enterprise he had begonne by committyng hymself to the
mercy of a symple damosell, and that if shee fayled to bee wyse
and secrete, all theyr doyngs should be discried, he defamed, and
Rhomeo hir spouse punished. Hee then after he had well debated
upon infinite numbre of devises, was in the end overcome with
pity, and determined rather to hazarde his honour, than to suffer
the adultery of the counte Paris with Julietta : and being deter-
mined hereupon, opened his closet, and takynge a vyall in his
hande, retourned agayne to Julietta, whom he founde lyke one
that was in a traunce, wayghtinge for newes, eyther of lyfe or
death : of whome the good olde father demaunded upon what
day hir maryage was appoynted. “The firste daye of that ap-
poyntment (quod shee) is uppon Wednesdaye, whych is the daye
ordeyned for my consente of maryage accorded betweene my
father and counte Paris, but the nuptiall solemnitye is not before
the x. day of September.” “Wel then” (quod the religious
father) “be of good cheere daughter, for our Lord God hathe
opened a way unto me both to deliver you and Rhomeo from the


116
RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
prepared thraldom. I have knowne your husband from his cradle,
and hee hath daily committed unto me the greatest secretes of hys
conscience, and I have so dearely loved him agayne, as if hee had
been mine owne sonne: wherefore my heart can not abide that
anye man should do him wrong in that specially wherein my
counsell may stande him in stede. And for somutch as you are his
wyfe, I ought lykewyse to love you, and seke meanes to delyver
you from the martyrdome and anguish wherewyth I see your
heart besieged : understande then (good daughter) of a secrete
which I purpose to manifest unto you, and take heede above all
thinges that you declare it to no living creature, for therein con-
sisteth your life and death. Ye be not ignorant by the common re-
port of the cityzens of this city, and by the same published of me,
that I have travailed throughe all the provinces of the habytable
earthe, wherby duryng the continuall tyme of xx. yeres, I have
soughte no rest for my wearied body, but rather have many times
protruded the same to the mercy of brute beasts in the wyldernesse,
and many times also to the mercilesse waves of the seas, and to
the pity of common pirates, together with a thousand other daun-
gers and shipwracks uppon sea and land: so it is good daughter
that all my wandring voyages have not bene altogethers unpro-
fitable. For besides the incredible contentation received ordina-
rily in mind, I have gathered some particular fruyct, whereof by
the grace of God you shall shortly feele some experience. I have
proved the secrete properties of stones, of plants, metals, and other
thinges hydden within the bowels of the earth, wherewith I am
able to helpe my selfe againste the common lawe of men, when
necessity doth serve: specyally in thynges wherein I know mine
eternal God to be least offended. For as thou knowest I beynge
approached as it were, even to the brymme of my grave, and that
the tyme draweth neare for yeldynge of myne accompte before the
audytor of all audytors, I oughte therefore to have some deepe
knowledge and apprehension of God's judgement more than I
had when the heat of inconsidered youth did boyle within my lusty.
body. Know you therefore good daughter, that with those graces,
and favours which the heavens prodigally have bestowed up-
on me, I have learned and proved of long time the com-
position of a certayne paaste, which I make of divers soporiferous


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
117
simples, which beaten afterwards to pouder, and dronke wyth a
quantyty of water, within a quarter of an houre after, bringeth the
receiver into sutch a sleepe, and burieth so deepely the senses
and other sprites of life, that the cunningest phisitian will judge
the party dead : and besides that it hath a more marvellous effect,
for the person which useth the same feeleth no kinde of griefe,
and according to the quantity of the dough, the pacient remayneth
in a sweete sleepe, but when the operation is wrought and done,
hee returneth into his first estate. Now then Julietta receive myne
instruction, put of all feminine affection by taking uppon you a
manly stomacke for by the only courage of your minde consisteth
the hap or mishap of your affayres. Beholde here I geve you a
vyale which you shall keepe as your owne propre heart, and the
night before your mariage, or in the morninge before day, you
shal fil the same up with water, and drink so mutch as is contayned
therein. And then you shall feele a certayne kynde of pleasaunt
sleepe, which incrochinge by litle and litle all the partes of your
body, wil constrayne them in sutch wyse, as unmoveable they shal
remayne: and by not doing their accustomed dueties, shall loose
their naturall feelinges, and you abide in sutch extasie the space
of forty houres at the least, without any beating of poulse or other
perceptible motion, which shall so astonne them that come to see
you, as they will judge you to be deade, and accordinge to the cus-
tome of our citty, you shal be caried to the churchyarde hard by
our church, where you shal be intoumbed in the common monument
of the Capellets your auncestors, and in the meane tyme we will
send word to lord Rhomeo by a speciall messanger of the effect
of our device, who now abideth at Mantua. And the night follow-
ing I am sure he will not fayle to be heere, then he and I
together will open the grave, and lift up your body, and after the
operation of the pouder is past, hee shall convey you secretly to
Mantua, unknowen to all your parents and frends. Afterwards
(it may be) tyme, the mother of truth, shall cause concord be-
twene the offended city of Verona and Rhomeo. At which time
your common cause may be made open to the generall contenta-
cion of all your frends.” The words of the good father ended, new
joy surprised the heart of Julietta, who was so attentive to his
talke as she forgat no one poynct of hir lesson. Then she sayd


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RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
unto him : “ Father, doubt not at all that my heart shall fayle in
performaunce of your commaundement: for were it the strongest
poyson, or most pestiferous venome, rather woulde I thrust it into
my body, than to consent to fall into the hands of him, whom I
utterly mislike: with a right strong reason then may I fortifie my
selfe, and offer my body to any kinde of mortall daunger to approch
and draw neare to him, upon whom wholly dependeth my life and
all the solace I have in this world.” “Go your wayes then my
daughter” (quod the frier) “ the mighty hand of God keepe you, and
hys surpassing power defende you, and confirme that will and good
mynde of yours, for the accomplishment of this worke.” Julietta
departed from frier Laurence, and returned home to hir father's
pallace about xi. of the clock, where she found hir mother at the
gate attending for hir: And in good devotion demaunded if shee
continued still in hir former follies? But Julietta with more glad-
some cheere than she was wont to use, not suffering hir mother to
aske agayne, sayd unto hir: “ Madame I come from S. Frauncis
church, where I have taried longer peradventure than my duety
requireth : how be it not without fruict and great rest to
my afflicted conscience, by reason of the godly persuasions of our
ghostly father frier Laurence, unto whom I have made a large
declaration of my life. And chiefly have communicated unto him
in confession, that which hath past betwene my lord my father
and you, upon the mariage of counte Paris and me. But the good
man hath reconciled me by his holy words, and commendable
exhortations, that where I had minde never to mary, now I am
well disposed to obey your pleasure and commaundement. Wher-
fore, madame, I beseech you to recover the favor and good wyll of
my father, aske pardon in my behalfe, and say unto him (if it please
you) that by obeying his fatherly request, I am ready to meete
the counte Paris at Villafranco, and there in your presence to
accept him for my lorde and husband: In assurance whereof, by
your pacience, I meane to repayre into my closet, to make choise
of my most pretious jewels, that I being richly adorned, and
decked, may appeare before him more agreeable to his mynde,
and pleasure.” The good mother rapt with exceeding great joy,
was not able to aunswere a word, but rather made speede to seeke
out hir husband the lord Antonio, unto whom she reported the


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
119
good will of hir daughter, and how by meanes of frier Laurence
hir minde was chaunged. Whereof the good olde man marvellous
joyfull, praysed God in heart, saying : “Wife this is not the firste
good turne which we have received of that holy man, unto whom
euery cittizen of this common wealth is dearely bounde. I would
to God that I had redeemed xx. of his yeares with the third
parte of my goods, so grievous is to me his extreme olde age.”
The selfe same houre the lord Antonio went to seeke the counte
Paris, whom hee thought to perswade to goe to Villafranco. But
the counte told him agayne, that the charge would be to great,
and that better it were to reserve that cost to the mariage day, for
the better celebration of the same. Notwithstanding if it were his
pleasure, he would himselfe goe visite Julietta : and so they went
together. The mother advertised of his comming, caused hir
daughter to make hir selfe ready, and to spare no costly jewels
for adorning of hir beauty agaynst the counte's comming, which
she bestowed so well for garnishing of hir personage, that before
the counte parted from the house, shee had so stolne away his
heart, as he lived not from that time forth, but upon meditation of
hir beauty, and slacked no time for acceleration of the mariage day,
ceasing not to be importunate upon father and mother for th’ende
and consummation thereof. And thus with joy inough passed forth
this day and many others until the day before the mariage, against
which time the mother of Julietta did so well provide, that there
wanted nothing to set forth the magnificence and nobility of their
house. Villafranco whereof we have made mention, was a place
of pleasure, where the lord Antonio was wont many tymes to
recreate himselfe a mile or two from Verona, there the dynner was
prepared, for so mutch as the ordinary solemnity of necessity muste
be done at Verona. Julietta perceyving hir time to approache
dyssembled the matter so well as shee coulde: and when tyme
forced hir to retire to hir chamber, hir woman would have waited
uppon hir, and have lyen in hir chambre as hir custome was: but
Julietta sayd unto hir: “Good and faithfull mother, you know that
to morrow is my maryage day, and for that I would spend the most
parte of the nyght in prayer, I pray you for this time to let me,
alone, and to morrow in the mornyng about vi. of the clocke come
to me agayne to helpe make mee readie.” The good olde woman


120
RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
willing to follow hir minde, suffred hir alone, and doubted
nothyng of that which she did meane to do. Julietta beinge
within hir chambre having an eawer ful of water standing uppon
the table filled the viole which the frier gave her : and after she
had made the mixture, she set it by hir bed side, and went to bed.
And being layde, new thoughtes began to assaile hir, with a con-
ceipt of grievous death, which brought hir into sutch case as she
could not tell what to doe, but playning incessantly sayd: “ Am
not I the most unhappy and desperat creature, that ever was
borne of woman? For mee there is nothyng left in this wretched
worlde but mishap, misery, and mortall woe, my distresse hath
brought me to sutch extremity, as to save mine honor and con-
science, I am forced to devoure the drynke whereof I know not the
vertue : but what know I (sayd she) whether the operatyon of thys
pouder will be to soone or to late, or not correspondent to the due
tyme, and that my fault being discovered, I shall remayne a fable
to the people? What know I moreover, if the serpents and other
venomous and crauling wormes, whych commonly frequent the
graves and pittes of the earth wyll hurt me, thynkyng that I am
deade. But howe shall I indure the stynche of so many carions
and bones of myne auncestors whych rest in the grave, yf by
fortune I do awake before Rhomeo and fryer Laurence doe come
to help me?” And as shee was thus plunged in the deepe contem-
platyon of thynges, she thought that she saw a certayn vision or
fansie of her cousin Thibault, in the very same sort as shee sawe
him wounded and imbrued wyth bloud, and musing how that she
must be buried quick amongs so many dead carcases and deadly
naked bones, hir tender and delycate body began to shake and
tremble and hir yellowe lockes to stare for feare, in sutch wyse as
fryghtened with a terroure a cold sweate beganne to pierce hir heart
and bedewe the rest of al her membres, in sutch wise as she
thought that an hundred thousand deathes did stande about hir,
haling her on every side, and plucking her in pieces, and feelyng
that hir forces diminyshed by lyttle and lyttle, fearing that through
to great debilyty she was not able to do hir enterpryse, like a
furious and insensate woman, with out further care, gulped up the
water wythin the voyal, then crossing hir armes upon hir stomacke,
she lost at that instante all the powers of hir body, restyng in a


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
121
traunce. And when the morning lyght began to thrust his head
out of his oryent, hir chaumber woman which had lockte hir in
with the key, did open the doore, and thynkyng to awake hir,
called her many tymes, and sayde unto hir: “Mistresse, you sleepe
to long, the counte Paris will come to raise you.” The poore olde
woman spake unto the wall, and sange a song unto the deafe. For
if all the horrible and tempestuous soundes of the world had bene
cannoned forth out of the greatest bombardes, and sounded
through hir delycate eares, hir spyrites of lyfe were so fast bounde
and stopt, as she by no meanes coulde awake, wherewith the pore
olde woman amazed, began to shake hir by the armes and handes,
whych she found so colde as marble stone. Then puttyng hande
unto hir mouthe, sodainely perceyved that she was deade, for shee
perceyved no breath in hir. Wherefore lyke a woman out of hir
wyttes, shee ranne to tell hir mother, who so madde as a tigre
berefte of hir faons hied hir selfe into hir daughter's chaumber,
and in that pitiful state beholdynge hir daughter, thynkyng hir to
be deade, cried out: “Ah cruell death, which hast ended all my joye
and blysse, use the last scourge of thy wrathfullire agaynst me, least by
sufferyng mee to lyve the rest of my woefull dayes, my torment doe
increase.” Then she began to fetch sutch strayning sighes, as hir
heart did seeme to cleave in pieces. And as hir cries began to encrease,
behold the father, the counte Paris, and a great troupe of gen-
tlemen and ladies, which were come to honour the feaste, hearing
no sooner tell of that which chaunced, were stroke into sutch sor-
rowfull dumpes as he which had beheld their faces would easily
have judged that the same had ben a day of ire and pity, specially
the lord Antonio, whose heart was frapped with sutch surpassing
woe, as neither teare nor word could issue forth, and knowing not
what to doe, straight way sent to seeke the most expert phisitians
of the towne, who after they had inquired of the life past of Juliet-
ta, deemed by common reporte, that melancoly was the cause of
that sodayne death, and then their sorows began to renue a fresh.
And if ever day was lamentable, piteous, unhappy, and fatall, truly
it was that wherein Julietta hir death was published in Verona :
for shee was so bewayled of great and small, that by the common
playnts, the common wealth seemed to be in daunger, and not
without cause : for besides hir naturall beauty (accompanied with
K


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RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
many vertues wherewith nature had enriched hir) she was else
so humble, wise and debonaire, as for that humility and curtesie
she had stollen away the hearts of every wight, and there was
none but did lament hir misfortune. And whilest these thinges
were in this lamented state, frier Laurence with diligence dispatch-
ed a frier of his covent, named frier Anselme, whom hee trusted
as himselfe, and delivered him a letter written with hys owne
hande, commaunding him expressely not to give the same to any
other but to Rhomeo, wherein was conteyned the chaunce which
had passed betwene him and Julietta, specially the vertue of
the pouder, and commaunded him the nexte ensuinge nighte
to speede himselfe to Verona, for that the operation of the pou-
der that time would take ende, and that he should cary wyth
him back agayne to Mantua his beloved Julietta, in dissembled ap-
parell, untill fortune had otherwise provided for them. The frier
made sutch hast as (too late) hee arrived at Mantua, within a while
after. And bicause the maner of Italy is, that the frier tra-
vayling abroade ought to take a companion of his covent, to doe
his affaires wythin the city, the fryer went into his covent, and
for that he was within, it was not lawfull for him to come oute
againe that day, bicause that certayn dayes before, one relygious
of that covent it was sayd, dyd dye of the plague: wherefore
the magistrates appoynted for the health and visitation of the sick,
commaunded the warden of the house that no friers should wan-
der abrode the city, or talke with any citizen, untill they were li-
censed by the officers in that behalfe appoynted, which was the
cause of the great mishap, which you shal heare hereafter. The
frier being in this perplexitye, not able to goe forth, and not know-
yng what was contayned in the letter, deferred hys jorney for that
day. Whilst things were in thys plyght, preparation was made at
Verona, to dve the obsequies of Julietta. There is custome also
(whych is common in Italy,) to place all the best of one lignage and
familye in one tombe, whereuppon Julietta was intoumbed, in
the ordinary grave of the Capellettes, in a churcheyarde, hard
by the churche of the fryers, where also the lord Thibault was
interred, whose obsequies honorably done, every man returned :
whereunto Pietro, the servaunt of Rhomeo, gave hys assystance:
for as we have before declared, hys mayster sente hym backe


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
, 12:3
agayne from Mantua to Verona, to do his father service, and to
advertise him of that which should chaunce in hys absence there :
who seeyng the body of Julietta, inclosed in toumbe, thinkyng
with the reste that shee had bene dead in deede, incontinently tooke
poste horse, and with dylygence rode to Mantua, where he founde
his mayster in his wonted house, to whome he sayde, wyth hys
eyes full of teares: “Syr, there is chaunced unto you so straunge
a matter as if so be you do not arme your selfe with constancye, I
am afrayd that I shall be the cruell minyster of your death : be
it known unto you sir, that yesterday morning my mistresse Ju-
lietta left hir lyfe in thys worlde to seeke rest in an other : and
wyth these eyes I saw hir buryed in the churchyarde of S. Fraun-
cis.” At the sounde of whych heavye message, Rhomeo begann
woefullye to lamente, as thoughe hys spyrites gryeved wyth the
tormente of hys passion at that instant would have abandoned his
bodye. But stronge love which woulde not permytte him to
faynt untyl the extremity, framed a thoughte in hys fantesie, that
if it wer possyble for him to dye besides hir his death should be
more gloryous, and shee (as he thought) better contented: by rea-
son whereof, after hee had washed his face for feare to discover
his sorrowe, hee wente out of his chamber, and commaunded hys
man to tarry behynd him, that he myght walke through out all
the corners of the citye, to fynde propre remedye (if it were possy-
ble) for hys gryefe. And amonges others, beholdynge an apotica-
ryes shop of lyttle furnyture and lesse store of boxes and other
thinges requisite for that scyence, thought that the verye poverty
of the mayster apothecarye would make hym wyllingle yeld to that
which he pretended to demaunde: and after he had taken hym
aside, secretly sayde unto hym: “Syr, if you be the mayster of the
house, as I thynke you be, beholde here fifty ducates, whych I
gyve you to the intent you delyver me some strong and vyolente
poyson that within a quarter of an houre is able to procure death
unto hym that shall use it.” The couetous apothecarye entysed by
gayne, agreed to his request, and fayning to gyve hym some
other medycine before the peoples face, he speedily made ready a
strong and cruell poyson, afterwardes he sayd unto him softly:
“Syr, I gyve you more than is needefull, for the one halfe is able
to destroy the strongest manne of the world :” who after he hadde


124
RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
receyved the poyson, retourned home, where he commaunded his
man to departe with diligence to Verona, and that he should make
provision of candels, a tynder boxe, and other instrumentes meete
for the opening of the grave of Julietta, and that above all things
hee shoulde not fayle to attende hys commynge besides the
churchyarde of S. Frauncis, and uppon payne of life to keepe hys
intente in silence. Which Pietro obeied in order as hys maister
had requyred, and made therin sutch expedityon, as he arrived in
good time to Verona, taking order for al things that wer com-
maunded him. Rhomeo in the meane while beyng solycyted
wyth mortall thoughtes caused incke and paper to be broughte
unto hym, and in few words put in wryting all the discourse of his
love, the mariage of him and Julietta, the meane observed for con-
summation of the same, the helpe that he had of frier Laurence,
the buying of his poyson, and last of all his death. Afterwardes
having finished his heavy tragedy, hee closed the letters, and
sealed the same with his seale, and directed the superscription
thereof to hys father : and puttynge the letters into his pursse, he
mounted on horsebacke, and used sutch dylygence, as he arrived
uppon darke nyght at the citye of Verona, before the gates were
shut, where he founde his servuante, tarying for hym with a lan-
terne and instrumentes as is before sayd, meete for the opening of
the grave, unto whome hee said: “Pietro, helpe mee to open this
tombe, and so soone as it is open I commaunde thee uppon payne
of thy life, not to come neere mee, nor to stay me from the thing
I purpose to doe. Beholde, there is a letter which thou shalt pre-
sent to morrow in the mornyng to my father at his uprysing,
which peradventure shall please him better than thou thinkest.”
Pietro, not able to imagine what was his maisters intent, stode
somewhat aloofe to beholde his maisters gestes and countenance.
And when they had opened the vaulte, Rhomeo descended downe
two steppes, holdyng the candel in his hand and began to behold
wyth pityfull eye, the body of hir, which was the organ of his
eyes, and kyst it tenderly, holdyng it harde betwen his armes,
and not able to satisfie him selfe with hir sight, put hys fearefull
handes uppon the colde stomacke of Julietta. And after he had
touched her in many places, and not able to feele anye certayne
judgemente of lyfe, he drewe the poyson out of hys boxe, and


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
125
swallowyng downe a great quantytye of the same, cryed out:
“O Julietta, of whome the worlde was unworthye, what death
is it possyble my hearte coulde choose oute more agreeable
than that whych yt suffereth harde by thee? what grave more
gloryous, than to bee buried in thy tombe? what more woorthy
or excellent epytaphe can bee vowed for memorye, than the
mutuall and pytyfull sacryfice of our lyves ?" And thinkinge
to renue his sorrowe, his hearte began to frette through the
vyolence of the poyson, which by lyttle and lyttle assailed the
same, and lookyng about hym, espyed the bodye of the lorde
Thibault, lying nexte unto Julietta, whych as yet was not al to-
gether putrified, and speakyng to the bodye as though it hadde
bene alyve, sayde: “In what place so ever thou arte (0 cousyn
Thibault) I most heartely do crye the mercy for the offence whych
I have done by depryving of thy lyfe: and yf thy ghost doe
whyshe and crye out for vengeaunce vppon mee. what greater or
more cruell satysfaction canste thou desyre to have, or henceforth
hope for, than to see him whych murdered thee, to bee empoy-
soned with his owne handes, and buryed by thy side ?" Then
endynge hys talk, felyng by lyttle and lyttle that his lyfe began
to fayle, falling prostrate uppon his knees, wyth feeble voyce hee
softely sayd: “O my Lord God, which to redeeme me didest
discend from the bosom of thy father, and tookest humane fleshe
in the wombe of the vyrgine, I acknowledge and confesse, that
this body of myne is nothing else but earth and dust.” Then
seazed uppon wyth desperate sorrow, he fell downe uppon the
body of Julietta with sutch vehemence, as the heart faint and at-
tenuated with too great torments, not able to beare so hard a
vyolence, was abandoned of all his sense and naturall powers, in
sutch sorte as the siege of hys soule fayled him at that instant,
and his members stretched forthe, remayned stiffe and colde.
Fryer Laurence whych knew the certayne tyme of the pouders
operation, marvelled that he had no answere of the letter which
he sent to Rhomeo by his fellowe fryer Anselme, departed from
S. Frauncis and with instruments for the purpose, determined to
open the grave to let in aire to Julietta, whych was ready to wake:
and approchyng the place, hee espied a lyght within, which made
him afraide untyll that Pietro whych was hard by, had certyfied


126
RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
hym that Rhomeo was with in, and had not ceased there to
lamente and complayne the space of halfe an houre: and when
they two were entred the grave and finding Rhomeo without lyfe,
made sutch sorrowe as they can well conceyve whych love their
dear fryende wyth lyke perfection. And as they were making
theyr complaints, Julietta rising out of hir traunce, and beholding
light within the toumbe, uncertayne wheather it were a dreame
or fantasie that appeared before his eyes, comming agayne to hir
selfe, knew frier Laurence, unto whom she sayd : “Father, I pray
thee in the name of God to perfourme thy promise, for I am
almost deade.” And then frier Laurence concealing nothing from
hir, (bycause he feared to be taken through his too long abode in
that place) faythfully rehearsed unto hir, how he had sent frier
Anselme to Rhomeo at Mantua, from whom as yet hee had re-
ceyved no aunswere. Notwithstanding he found Rhomeo dead in
the grave, whose body he poyncted unto, lyinge hard by hir,
praying hir sith it was so, paciently to beare that sodayne mis-
fortune, and that if it pleased hir, he would convey hir into some
monastery of women where she might in time moderate hir sorrow,
and give rest unto hir minde. Julietta had no sooner cast eye
uppon the deade corps of Rhomeo, but began to breake the foun-
tayne pipes of gushing teares, which ran forth in sutch aboun-
dance, as not able to support the furor of hir griefe, she breathed
without ceasing upon his mouth, and then throwen hir selfe uppon
his body, and embracing it very hard, seemed that by force of
sighes and sobs, she would have revived, and brought him againe
to ilfe, and after she had kissed and rekissed hym a million of
times, she cried out: “Ah the sweete rest of my cares, and the
onely port of all my pleasures and pastimes, hadst thou so sure a
hearte to choose thy churchyarde this in place betwene the armes
of thy perfect lover, and to ende the course of thy life for my
sake in the floure of thy youth when lyfe to thee should have bene
most deare and delectable ? how had this tender body power to
resist the furious cumbat of death, very death it selfe here present?
how coulde thy tender and delicate youth willingly permit that
thou shouldest approch into this filthy and infected place, where
from henceforth thou shalt be the pasture of worms unworthy of
thee ? Alas, alas, by what meanes shall I now renue my playnts,


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RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
father fryer Laurence, and Pietro the servaunte of deade Rhomeo
(whych had hid themselves under a stall) whom they caryed to
pryson, and advertysed the lord of Escala, and the magistrates of
Verona of that horrible murder, which by and by was published
throughoute the city. Then flocked together al the citizens,
women and children leavyng their houses, to loke uppon that
pityful sighte, and to the ende that in presence of the whole cytie,
the murder should be knowne, the magistrates ordayned that the
two deade bodies should be erected uppon a stage to the view
and sight of the whole world, in sutch sorte and manner as they
were founde withyn the grave, and that Pietro and frier Laurence
should publikely bee examyned, that afterwardes there myght be
no murmure or other pretended cause of ignoraunce. And thys
good olde frier beynge uppon the scaffold, havinge a whyte bearde
all wet and bathed with teares, the judges commaunded him to
declare unto them who were the authors of that murder, sith at
untimely houre hee was apprehended with certayne irons besides
the grave. Fryer Laurence, a rounde and franke man of talke,
nothyng moved with that accusation, answered them with stoute
and bolde voyce: “My maisters, there is none of you all (if you
have respect unto my forepassed life, and to my aged yeres, and
therewithall have consideration of this heavy spectacle, where-
unto unhappy fortune hathe presently brought me) but doeth
greatly marvell of so sodaine mutation and change unlooked for,
for so mutch as these three score and ten or twelve yeares sithens I
came into this worlde, and began to prove the vanities thereof, I
was never suspected, touched, or found guilty of any crime which
was able to make me blushe, or hide my face, although (before
God) I doe confesse my self to be the greatest and most abhomi-
nable sinner of al the redeemed flocke of Christ. So it is notwyth-
standing, that sith I am prest and ready to render mine accompte,
and that death, the grave and wormes do dailye summon this
wretched corps of myne to appeare before the justyce seate of God,
still wayghtyng and attending to be carried to my hoped grave,
this is the houre 1 say, as you likewise may thinke wherein I am
fallen to the greatest damage and prejudice of my lyfe and honest
porte, and that which hath ingendred thys synyster opynyon of
mee, may peradventure bee these greate teares which in abundaunce


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
129
tryckle downe my face as though the holy scriptures do not wit-
nesse, that Jesus Christ moved with humayne pitty, and compas-
sion, did weepe, and pour forth teares, and that many times teares
be the faythfull messengers of a man's innocency. Or else the most
likely evidence, and presumption, is the suspected hour, which (as
the magistrate doth say) doth make mee culpable of the murder, as
though all houres were not indifferently maile equall by God
their Creator, who in his owne person declareth unto us that there
be twelve houres in the day, shewing thereby that there is
no exception of houres nor of minutes, but that one may doe
eyther good or ill at all times indifferently, as the party is guided
or forsaken by the sprite of God : touching the irons which were
founde about me, needefull it is not now to let you understand for
what use iron was first made, and that of it selfe it is not able to
increase in man eyther good or evill, if not by the mischievous
minde of hym which doth abuse it. Thus mutch I have thought
good to tell you, to the intent that neyther teares nor iron, ne yet
suspected houre, are able to make me guilty of the murder, or
make me otherwyse than I am, but only the witnesse of mine
owne conscience, which alone if I were guilty should be the
accuser, the witnesse, and the hangman, whych, by reason of
mine age and the reputation I have had amonges you, and the
little time that I have to live in this world shoulde more torment
me within, than all the mortall paynes that coulde be devised :
but (thankes be to myne eternall God) I feele no worme that
gnaweth, nor any remorse that pricketh me touching that fact,
for which I see you all troubled and amazed : and to set your
harts at rest, and to remove the doubts which hereafter may tor-
ment your consciences, I sweare unto you by all the heavenly
parts wherein I hope to be, that forthwith I will disclose from
first to last the entire discourse of this pitifull tragedy, whych
peradventure shall drive you into no lesse wondre and amaze, than
those two poore passionate lovers were strong and pacient, to ex-
pone themselves to the mercy of death, for the fervent and indis-
soluble love betwene them.” Then the fatherly frier began to re-
peate the beginning of the love betwene Julietta, and Rhomeo,
which by certayne space of time confirmed, was prosecuted by
wordes at the first, then by mutual promise of mariage, unknown


130
RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
to the world. And as within few dayes after, the two lovers
feelinge themselves sharpned and incited with stronger onset, re-
paired unto him under colour of confession, protesting by othe
that they were both maried, and that if he woulde not solempnize
that mariage in the face of the church, they should be constrayned
· to offend God to live in disordred lust: in consideration whereof,
and specially seeing their alliaunce to be good, and comfortable in
dignity, richesse and nobility on both sides, hoping by that meanes
perchaunce to reconcile the Montesches, and Capellets, and that
by doing sutch an acceptable worke to God, he gave them the
churches blessing in a certayne chappel of the friers church
whereof the night following they did consummate the mariage
fruicts in the pallace of the Capellets. For testimony of which
copulation, the woman of Juliettaes chamber was able to depose :
Adding moreover, the murder of Thibault, which was cousin to
Julietta : by reason whereof the banishment of Rhomeo did
followe, and howe in the absence of the sayd Rhomeo, the mariage
being kept secret betwene them, a new matrimony was intreated
wyth the counte Paris, which misliked by Julietta, she fell pros-
trate at his feete in a chappell of S. Frauncis church, with full
determination to have killed hirself with hir owne hands, if he
gave bir not councell how she should avoyde the mariage agreed
betwene hir father and the counte Paris. For conclusion, he
sayd, that although he was resolved by reason of his age, and
nearenesse of death to abhorre all secret sciences, wherein in his
younger yeares he had delight, notwithstanding, pressed with im-
portunity, and moved with pitty, fearing lest Julietta should do
some cruelty agaynst hirselfe, he strayned his conscience, and
chose rather with some little fault to grieve his minde, than to
suffer the young gentlewoman to destroy hir body, and hazarde
the daunger of hir soule : and therefore he opened some part of
his auncient cunning, and gave her a certayne pouder to make hir
sleepe, by meanes whereof she was thought to be deade. Then he
tolde them how he had sent frier Anselme to cary letters to Rhomeo
of their enterprise, whereof hitherto he had no aunswere. Then
briefly he concluded how he found Rhomeo dead within the grave,
who as it is most likely did impoyson himselfe, or was otherwise
smothered or suffocated with sorow by findinge Julietta in that


RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
131
state, thinking shee had bene dead. Then he tolde them how
Julietta did kill hirselfe with the dagger of Rhomeo to beare him
company after his death, and how it was impossible for them to
save hir for the noyse of the watch which forced theym to flee
from thence. And for more ample approbation of his saying, he
humbly besought the lord of Verona and the magistrats to send
to Mantua for frier Anselme to know the cause of his slack re-
turne, that the content of the letter sent to Rhomeo might be
seene: to examine the woman of the chamber of Julietta, and
Pietro the servaunt of Rhomeo, who not attending for furder re-
quest, sayd unto them: “My lordes, when Rhomeo entred the
grave, he gave me this pacquet, written as I suppose with his owne
hand, who gave me expresse commaundement to deliver it to his
father.” The pacquet opened, they founde the whole effect of this
story, specially the apothecaries name, which sold him the poyson,
the price, and the cause wherefore he used it, and all appeared to
be so cleare and evident, as there rested nothing for further veriti-
cation of the same, but their presence at the doing of the parti-
culers thereof, for the whole was so well declared in order, as they
were out of doubt that the same was true: and then the lord
Bartholomew of Escala, after he had debated with the magistrates
of these events, decreed that the woman of Julietta hir chamber
should bee banished, because shee did conceale that privy mariage
from the father of Rhomeo, which if it had beene knowne in
tyme, had bred to the whole citty an universall benefit. Pietro
because he obeyed hys maysters commaundement, and kept close
hys lawfull secrets, according to the well conditioned nature of a
trusty servaunt, was set at liberty. The poticary taken, rackt, and
founde guilty, was hanged. The good olde man frier Laurence, as
well for respect of his auncient service which he had done to the
common wealth of Verona, as also for his vertuous life (for the
which hee was specially recommended) was let goe in peace, with-
out any note of infamy. Notwithstanding by reason of his age,
he voluntarily gave over the world, and closed himselfe in an
hermitage, two miles from Verona, where he lived v. or vi. yeares,
and spent hys tyme in continuall prayer, until he was called out of
this transitory worlde, into the blisfull state of everlasting joy.
And for the compassion of so straunge an infortune, the Montes-


132
RHOMEO AND JULIETTA.
ches, and Capellets poured forth sutch abundaunce of teares, as
with the same they did evacuate their auncient grudge and choler,
whereby they were then reconciled: and they which coulde not
bee brought to attonement by any wisedome or humayne councell,
were in the ende vanquished and made frends by pity: and to im-
mortalizate the memory of so intier and perfect amity, the lord of
Verona ordayned, that the two bodies of those miraculous lovers
should be fast intoumbed in the grave where they ended their lyves,
in which place was erected a high marble piller, honoured
with an infinite number of excellent epytaphes, which
to this day be apparaunt, with sutch noble memory,
as amongs all the rare excellencies, wherewith
that city is furnished, there is none more
famous than the monument of Rhomeo
and Julietta.


THE STORY
OP
OP
GILETTA OF NARBONA,
ON WHICH IS FOUNDED
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
Reprinted from the first tome of
THE PALACE OF PLEASURE, 1566.





INTRODUCTION.
The story of “Giletta of Narbona" is a translation from the
Italian, and it forms Nov. 9, Giorn. iii, of the Decameron.
Paynter, in his version in tome i of his “ Palace of Pleasure,”
4to, 1566, somewhat amplifies the title, in order to render
it a sort of argument to the story, but in Boccaccio it is,
perhaps, sufficiently explanatory: it runs thus:-"Giglietta
di Nerbona guarisce il Re di Francia d'una fistola; domanda
per marito Beltramo di Rossiglione; il quale contra sua
voglia sposatala, a Firenze se ne va per isdegno; dove
vagheggiando una giovane, in persona di lei Giglietta giacque
con lui, e hebbene due figlioli; perchè egli poi havutala cara
per moglie la tiene.” Whether Shakespeare did or did not
understand Italian, he need not in this instance have taken
the trouble to resort to that language, for Paynter rendered
his original very literally, and there is little doubt, for
various reasons, that our great Dramatist availed himself of
the version he found already made to his hands.
It will be seen on comparison that Shakespeare adopted all
the main incidents from the novel, with some important ad-
ditions to the characters. He anglicised Beltramo into
Bertram, and changed Giglietta into Helena, and these are
the only names given by Boccaccio : the characters of the
Countess, the Clown, and Parolles, are new in Shakespeare,
and there is no hint in the Italian of any part of the comic
scenes in which the latter is engaged, and which so admira-
bly heighten the effect of the more serious portions of the
play. The Countess is a delightful creation; and the Clown
is the domestic fool, a jester in the disguise of a half-witted
menial, the nature of whose duties and situation is illustrated
with peculiar force in Armin's “Nest of Ninnies,” 1608,
B 1 *


INTRODUCTION.
recently reprinted by the Shakespeare Society from the sole
existing copy in the Bodleian Library. There is no work in
our language so curious and valuable, in respect to the
manners of the times, as regards a character so conspicuous,
not only in the plays of Shakespeare, but in those of many
of his contemporaries; and it is extraordinary that it seems
to have been entirely unknown to the late Mr. Douce, who
has left behind him so much learning on the subject.
Regarding William Paynter, the collector and translator of
the two volumes of which “The Palace of Pleasure” consists,
it is, of course, not necessary to repeat here what we have
said of him in the “ Introduction” to Parts VII and VIII,
which contain the “Romeus and Juliet” of Arthur Brooke,
and the “Rhomeo and Julietta ” of Bandello and Boisteau, as
rendered by Paynter. His version of the tale of Giglietta
di Nerbona is faithful, and that seems to have been the
principal excellence at which he aimed, for he was certainly
not an elegant writer of English, even for the time at which
he flourished: he seldom or never attempts any of the graces
of style, and seems generally satisfied with the first word
that presented itself to his mind, if it conveyed sufficiently the
meaning of his author. He was a man of no fancy, and of
very limited original powers of any kind.


THE THIRTY-EIGHTH NOVELL.
Giletta a phisician's doughter of Narbon, healed the Frenche
Kyng of a fistula, for reward wherof she demaunded
Beltramo counte of Rossiglione to husbande. The counte
beyng maried againste his will, for despite fled to Florence
and loved an other. Giletta his wife, by pollicie founde
meanes to lye with her husbande, in place of his lover, and
was begotten with child of two soonnes : whiche knowen
to her husbande, he received her againe, and afterwardes
he lived in greate honor and felicitie.
IN Fraunce there was a gentleman called Isnardo, the
counte of Rossiglione, who bicause he was sickly and dis-
eased, kepte alwaies in his house a phisicion, named maister
Gerardo of Narbona. This counte had one onely sonne called
Beltramo, a verie yonge childe, pleasaunt and faire. With
whom there was nourished and broughte up, many other
children of his age: emonges whom one of the doughters of
the said phisicion, named Giletta, who ferventlie fill in love
with Beltramo, more then was meete for a maiden of her age.
This Beltramo, when his father was dedde, and left under the
roial custodie of the kyng, was sente to Paris, for whose
departure the maiden was verie pensife. A little while after,
her father beyng likewise dedde, she was desirous to goe to
Paris, onely to see the younge counte, if for that purpose she
could gette any good occasion. But beyng diligently looked
unto by her kinsfolke (bicause she was riche and fatherlesse)
she could see no conveniente waie for her intended journey :
and being now mariageable, the love she bare to the counte
was never out of her remembraunce, and refused many hus-
bandes with whom her kinsfolke would have placed her, with-
out making them privie to the occasion of her refusal). Now
it chaunced that she burned more in love with Beltramo than
B2


GILETTA OF NARBONA.
ever she did before, bicause she heard tell that hee was growen
to the state of a goodly yonge gentlemanne. She heard by
reporte, that the Frenche kyng had a swellyng upon his breast,
whiche by reason of ill cure was growen to a fistula, and
did putte him to merveilous paine and grief, and that there
was no phisicion to be founde (although many were proved)
that could heale it, but rather did impaire the grief and made it
worsse and worsse. Wherfore the kyng, like one that was in
dispaire, would take no more counsaill or helpe. Wherof the
yonge maiden was wonderfull glad, and thought to have by
this meanes, not onelie a lawfull occasion to goe to Paris, but if
the disease were suche (as she supposed,) easely to bryng to
passe that she might have the counte Beltramo to her husbande.
Whereupon with suche knowledge as she had learned at her
fathers handes before time, shee made a pouder of certain
herbes, whiche 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 repaired to the kyng, praying his grace to vouchsaufe to
shewe her his disease. The kyng perceivyng her to be a
faire yonge maiden and a comelie, would not hide it, but
opened the same unto her. So soone as she sawe it, shee
putte hym in comforte, that she was able to heale hym,
saiyng : “Sire, if it shall please your grace, I trust in God
without any paine or grief unto your highnesse, within eighte
daies I will make you whole of this disease.” The kyng
hearyng her saie so, began to mocke her, saiyng : “How is
it possible for thee, beyng a yong woman, to doe that whiche
the best renoumed phisicions in the worlde can not ?" He
thanked her for her good will, and made her a directe answere,
that he was determined no more to followe the counsaile of
any phisicion. Whereunto the maiden answered : “Sire,
you dispise my knowledge bicause I am yonge and a woman,
but I assure you that I doe not minister phisicke by profes-
sion, but by the aide and helpe of God: and with the cun-
nyng of maister Gerardo of Narbona, who was my father,


GILETTA OF NARBONA.
5
and a phisicion of greate fame so longe as he lived." The
kyng hearyng those wordes, saied to hymself: “This woman,
peradventure, is sent unto me of God, and therefore why
should I disdain to prove her cunnyng ? sithens she promiseth
to heale me within a litle space, without any offence or grief
unto me.” And beyng determined to prove her, he said :
“Damosell, if thou doest not heale me, but make me to
breake my determinacion, what wilt thou shall folowe thereof."
“Sire,” saied the maiden: “Let me be kept in what guarde
and kepyng you list: and if I dooe not heale you within
these eight daies, let me bee burnte: but if I doe heale your
grace what recompence shall I have then? To whom the
kyng answered: “Bicause thou art a maiden and unmaried,
if thou heale me accordyng to thy promisse, I wil bestowe
thee upon some gentleman, that shalbe of right good worship
and estimacion.” To whom she answeared : “Sire, I am
verie well content that you bestowe me in mariage : but I
will have suche a husbande as I my self shall demaunde, with-
out presumpcion to any of your children or other of your
bloudde.” Whiche requeste the kyng incontinently graunted.
The yong maiden began to minister her phisicke, and in shorte
space before her appoincted tyme, she had throughly cured
the kyng. And when the king perceived himself whole,
said unto her: "Thou hast well deserved a husbande (Giletta)
even suche a one as thy selfe shalt chose.” “I have then my
lorde (quod she) deserved the countie Beltramo of Rossi-
glione, whom I have loved from my youthe.” The kyng
was very lothe to graunte hym unto her: but bicause he had
made a promis which he was lothe to breake, he caused hym
to be called forthe, and saied unto hym: “Sir counte, bi-
cause you are a gentleman of greate honor, our pleasure is,
that you retourne home to your owne house, to order your
estate according to your degree: and that you take with you
a damosell whiche I have appoincted to be your wife.” To
whom the counte gave his humble thankes, and demaunded
what she was ? "It is she (quoth the kyng) that with her


GILETTA OF NARBONA.
medecines hath healed me.” The counte knewe her well,
and had alredie seen her, although she was faire, yet knowing
her not to be of a stocke convenable to his nobilitie, disdain-
fullie said unto the king, “Will you then (sir) give me a
phisicion to wife? It is not the pleasure of God that ever I
should in that wise bestowe my self.” To whom the kyng
said: “ Wilt thou then, that we should breake our faithe,
whiche we to recover healthe have given to the damosell,
who for a rewarde thereof asked thee to husband ?” Sire
(quoth Beltramo) you maie take from me al that I have, and
give my persone to whom you please, bicause I am your sub-
ject : but I assure you I shall never be contented with that
mariage.” “Well, you shall have her, (saied the kyng) for
the maiden is faire and wise, and loveth you moste intirely:
thinkyng verelie you shall leade a more joyfull life with her,
then with a ladie of a greater house.” The counte there-
withal helde his peace, and the king made great preparacion
for the mariage. And when the appoincted daie was come,
the counte in the presence of the kyng (although it were
againste his will) maried the maiden, who loved hym better
then her owne self. Whiche dooen, the counte determinyng
before what he would doe, praied licence to retourne to his
countrie to consummat the mariage. And when he was on
horsebacke he went not thither, but tooke his journey into
Thuscane, where understandyng that the Florentines and
Senois were at warres, he determined to take the Florentines
parte, and was willinglie received and honourablie inter-
teigned, and made capitaine of a certaine nomber of men, con-
tinuyng in their service a longe tyme. The newe maried
gentlewoman, scarce contented with that, and hopyng by her
well doyng to cause hym to retourne into his countrie, went
to Rossiglione, where she was received of all his subjectes
for their ladie. And perceivyng that through the countes
absence all thinges were spoiled and out of order, she like a
sage lady, with greate diligence and care, disposed all thynges
in order againe : whereof the subjectes rejoysed verie muche,


GILETTA OF NARBONA.
bearyng to her their hartie love and affection, greatlie blamyng
the counte bicause he could not contente himself with her.
This notable gentlewoman having restored all the countrie
againe, sent worde thereof to the counte her husbande, by
two knightes of the countrie, whiche she sent to signifie unto
hym, that if it were for her sake that he had abandoned
his countrie, he should sende her worde thereof, and she
to doe hym pleasure, would depart from thence. To
whom he chorlishlie saied : “Lette her doe what she list :
for I doe purpose to dwell with her, when she shall have
this ryng (meanyng a ryng which he wore) upon her
finger, and a soonne in her armes begotten by me.” He
greatly loved that ryng, and kepte it verie carefullie, and
never tooke it of from his finger, for a certaine vertue that he
knewe it had. The knightes hearyng the harde condicion
of twoo thinges impossible: and seyng that by them he could
not be removed from his determinacion, thei retourned againe
to the ladie, tellinge her his answere: who, verie sorowfull,
after she hadde a good while bethought herself, purposed to
finde meanes to attaine to those twoo thynges, to the intente
that thereby she might recover her husbande. And havyng
advised with her self what to doe, she assembled the noblest
and chiefest of her countrie, declaring unto them in lament-
able wise what shee had alredie dooen, to winne the love of
of the counte, shewyng them also what folowed thereof. And
in the ende saied unto them, that she was lothe the counte
for her sake should dwell in perpetuall exile: therefore she
determined to spende the rest of her tyme in pilgrimages
and devocion, for preservacion of her soule, praiyng them to
take the charge and governemente of the countrie, and that
they would lette the counte understande, that she had forsaken
his house, and was removed farre from thence: with purpose
never to retourne to Rossiglione againe. Many teares were
shedde by the people, as she was speakyng these wordes,
and divers supplicacions were made unto him to alter his
opinion, but al in vaine. Wherefore commending them all


GILETTA OF NARBONA.
unto God, she tooke her waie with her maide, and one of her
kinsemen, in the habite of a pilgrime, well furnished with
silver and precious jewelles: tellyng no man whither shee
wente, and never rested till she came to Florence: where
arrivyng by fortune at a poore widowes house, she contented
her self with the state of a poore pilgrime, desirous to here
newes of her lorde, whom by fortune she sawe the next
daie passing by the house (where she lay) on horsebacke
with his companie. And although she knewe him well
enough, yet she demaunded of the good wife of the house
what he was: who answered that he was a straunge gentle-
man, called the counte Beltramo of Rossiglione, a curteous
knighte, and wel beloved in the citie, and that he was mer-
veilously in love with a neighbor of hers, that was a gentle-
woman, verie poore and of small substaunce, neverthelesse of
right honest life and report, and by reason of her povertie
was yet unmaried, and dwelte with her mother, that was a
wise and honest ladie. The countesse well notyng these
wordes, and by litle and litle debatyng every particular
point thereof, comprehendyng the effecte of those newes, con-
cluded what to doe, and when she had well understanded
whiche was the house, and the name of the ladie, and of her
doughter that was beloved of the counte: upon a daie repaired
to the house secretelie in the habite of a pilgrime, where
finding the mother and doughter in poore estate emonges
their familie, after she hadde saluted them, tolde the mother
that she had to saie unto her. The gentlewoman risyng up,
curteouslie interteigned her, and beyng entred alone into a
chamber, thei satte doune, and the countesse began to saie
unto her in this wise. “Madame, me thinke that ye be one
upon whom fortune doeth frowne, so well as upon me: but
if you please, you maie bothe comfort me and your self.”
The ladie answered, “That there was nothyng in the worlde
whereof she was more desirous then of honest comforte.”
The countesse procedyng in her talke, saied unto her. “I
have nede now of your fidelitie and trust, whereupon if I doe


GILETTA OF NARBONA.
staie, and you deceive mee, you shall bothe undoe me and
your self.” “Tel me then what it is hardelie (saied the gen-
tlewoman :) if it bee your pleasure: for you shall never bee
deceived of me.” Then the countesse beganne to recite her
whole estate of love: tellyng her what she was, and what had
chaunced to that present daie, in such perfite order that the
gentlewoman belevyng her woordes, bicause she had partlie
heard report thereof before, beganne to have compassion upon
her, and after that the countesse had rehearsed all the whole
circumstaunce, she continued her purpose, saiyng: “Now you
have heard emonges other my troubles, what twoo thynges
thei bee, whiche behoveth me to have, if I do recover my hus-
bande, whiche I knowe none can helpe me to obtain, but onely
you, if it bee true that I heare, whiche is, that the counte my
husbande, is farre in love with your doughter.” To whom
the gentlewoman saied : “Madame, if the counte love my
doughter, I knowe not, albeit the likelihoode is greate: but
what am I able to doe, in that whiche you desire?” “Madame,
answered the countesse, I will tell you: but first I will
declare what I mean to doe for you, if my determinacion be
brought to effect: I see your faier doughter of good age,
redie to marie, but as I understand the cause why she is
unmaried, is the lacke of substance to bestowe upon her.
Wherfore I purpose, for recompence of the pleasure, whiche
you shall dooe for me, to give so much redie money to marie
her honorably, as you shall thinke sufficient.” The countesse'
offer was very well liked of the ladie, bicause she was but
poore: yet having a noble hart, she said unto her, “Ma-
dame, tell me wherein I maie do you service: and if it be a
thing honest, I will gladlie performe it, and the same being
brought to passe, do as it shal please you.” Then saied the
countesse: “I thinke it requisite, that by some one whom you
truste, that you give knowledge to the counte my husbande,
that your doughter is, and shalbe at his commaundement :
and to the intent she maie bee well assured that he loveth her
in deede above any other, that she praieth him to sende her


10
GILETIA OF NARBONA.
a ring that he weareth upon his finger, whiche ring she
heard tell he loved verie derely: and when he sendeth the
ryng, you shall give it unto me, and afterwardes sende hym
woorde, that your doughter is redie to accomplishe his plea-
sure, and then you shall cause him secretly to come hither,
and place me by hym (in steede of your doughter) peradven-
ture God will give me the grace, that I maie bee with childe,
and so havyng this ryng on my finger, and the childe in
myne armes begotten by him, I shall recover him, and by
your meanes continue with hym, as a wife ought to doe with
her husbande.” This thing semed difficulte unto the gentle-
woman: fearyng that there would folowe reproche unto her
doughter. Notwithstandyng, consideryng what an honest
parte it were, to be a meane that the good ladie should re-
cover her husband, and that she should doe it for a good
purpose, havyng affiaunce in her honest affection, not onely
promised the countesse to bryng this to passe, but in fewe
daies with greate subtiltie, folowyng the order wherein she
was instructed, she had gotten the ryng, although it was
with the countes ill will, and toke order that the countesse
in stede of her doughter did lye with hym. And at the first
meetyng, so affectuously desired by the counte: God so dis-
posed the matter that the countesse was begotten with child,
of twoo goodly sonnes, and her delivery chaunced at the due
time. Whereupon the gentlewoman, not onely contented the
countesse at that tyme with the companie of her husbande,
but at many other times so secretly that it was never knowen:
the counte not thinkyng that he had lien with his wife, but
with her whom he loved. To whom at his uprisyng in the
mornyng, he used many curteous and amiable woordes, and
gave divers faire and precious jewelles, whiche the countesse
kepte moste carefullie: and when shee perceived herself with
childe, she determined no more to trouble the gentlewoman,
but saied unto her. “Madame, thankes be to God and you,
I have the thyng that I desire, and even so it is tyme to
recompence your desert, that afterwardes I maie departe.”


GILETTA OF NARBONA.
11
The gentlewoman saied unto her, that if she had doen any
pleasure agreable to her mind, she was right glad thereof
whiche she did, not for hope of rewarde, but because it ap-
perteined to her by well doyng so to doe. Whereunto the
countesse saied : “Your saiyng pleaseth me well, and like-
wise for my parte, I dooe not purpose to give unto you the
thing you shall demaunde of me in rewarde, but for con-
sideracion of your well doyng, which duetie forceth me to so
dooe.” The gentlewoman then constrained with necessitie,
demaunded of her with greate bashefulnesse, an hundred
poundes to marie her doughter. The countesse perceivyng
the shamefastnesse of the gentlewoman, and hearyng her
curteous demaunde, gave her five hundred poundes, and so
many faire and costly jewels whiche almoste amounted to
like valer. For whiche the gentlewoman more then con-
tented, gave moste hartie thankes to the countesse, who de-
parted from the gentlewoman and retourned to her lodging.
The gentlewoman to take occasion from the counte of any
farther repaire, or send yng to her house, tooke her doughter
with her, and went into the countrie to her frendes. The
counte Beltramo, within fewe daies after, beyng revoked
home to his owne house by his subjectes, (hearyng that the
countesse was departed from thence) retourned. The coun-
tesse knowynge that her housband was gone from Florence
and retourned into his countrie, was verie glad and contented,
and she continewed in Florence till the tyme of her childbedde
was come, and was brough a bedde of twoo soones, whiche
were verie like unto their father, and caused them carefullie to
be noursed and brought up, and when she sawe tyme, she toke
her journey (unknowen to any manne) and arrived at Mon-
pellier, and restyng her self there for certaine daies, hearyng
newes of the counte, and where he was, and that upon the
daie of All Sainctes, he purposed to make a great feast and
assemblie of ladies and knightes, in her pilgrimes weede she
wente thither. And knowyng that thei were all assembled,
at the palace of the counte, redie to sitte doune at the table,


12
GILETTA OF NARBONA.
she passed through the people witbout chaunge of apparell,
with her twoo sonnes in her armes: and when she was come up
into the hall, even to the place where the counte was, fallying
doune prostrate at his feete, wepyng, saied unto him : “My
lorde, I am thy poore infortunate wife, who to th'intent thou
mightest returne and dwel in thine owne house, have been
a great while beggyng about the worlde. Therefore I now
beseche thee, for the honour of God, that thou wilt observe
the condicions, whiche the twoo knightes (that I sent unto
thee) did commaunde me to doe: for beholde, here in myne
armes, not onelie one soonne begotten by thee, but twaine,
and likewise thy rynge. It is now tyme then (if thou kepe
promis) that I should be received as thy wife.” The counte
hearyng this, was greatly astonned, and knewe the rynge, and
the children also, thei were so like hym. “But tell me (quod
he) how is this come to passe ?” The countesse to the great
admiracion of the counte, and of all those that were in
presence, rehearsed unto them in order all that, whiche had
been doen, and the whole discourse thereof. For whiche
cause the counte knowyng the thynges she had spoken to be
true (and perceivyng her constaunt minde and good witte, and
the twoo faier yonge boies to kepe his promisse made, and
to please his subjectes, and the ladies that made sute unto
him, to accept her from that time forthe as his lawfull wife,
and to honour her) abjected his obstinate rigour: causyng her
to rise up, and imbraced and kissed her, acknowledgyng
her againe for his lawfull wife. And after he had apparelled
her according to her estate, to the greate pleasure and
contentacion of those that were there, and of all his
other frendes not onely that daie, but many
others, he kepte great chere, and from
that tyme forthe, he loved and ho-
noured her, as his dere spouse
and wife.


THE STORY
OF THE
TWO LOVERS OF PISA,
WHICH SHAKESPEARE EMPLOYED IN HIS PLAY OF
THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.
Reprinted from "TARLTONS Newg OUT OF PURGATORY.”





INTRODUCTION.
“The Two Lovers of Pisa” was printed at an early date
in a tract called “Tarlton's News out of Purgatory.” This
novel is not, as has been usually supposed and asserted, a
translation from Il Pecorone of Giovanni Fiorentino, but more
properly from Le tredici Piacevoli Notti of Straparola. The
two Italian tales have, however, a strong resemblance; and a
comparison of them has been rendered easy, because both are
contained in the Appendix to Mr. Halliwell's “First Sketch of
the Merry Wives of Windsor," printed for the Shakespeare
Society. The main incident, however, of concealing a lover
in a heap of family linen, as Falstaff is hidden in the buck-
basket, is found in Il Pecorone, and is not in the story as re-
lated by Straparola : the words of Giovanni Fiorentino are
worth quoting :—"La donna era à sedere al fuoco con Bucci.
volo, e sentendo bussar l'uscio, subitamente si pensò che fosse
il maestro, e prese Buccivolo, e nascose lo sotto un monte di
panni di bucato, il quali non erano ancora rasciutti, e per lo
tempo gli haveva ragunati in su la tavola à pie d'una fines-
tra.” This important circumstance is preserved in another
production, as far as we now know, of a date considerably
subsequent to the time of Shakespeare, but of which there may
have been an earlier edition, although the style seems more
modern than the close of the sixteenth century: it is called
“The Fortunate, the Deceived, and the Unfortunate Lovers,"
4to, 1632, and it has been referred to by Steevens. Mr.
Halliwell informs us (p. 101) that a copy of a much later
date is preserved among Capell's books in the library of
Trinity College, Cambridge; and he is quite correct, for it
was, in fact, reprinted in 1685.
“ Tarlton's News out of Purgatory” is silent respecting the
half-dry clothes from the wash, so that, if Shakespeare de-
rived the incident from the Italian, it must have been from
B 7 *


INTRODUCTION.
the original novel in Il Pecorone, or from some early version
of it with which we are not now acquainted : as we have
said, the story of “ The Two Lovers of Pisa” bears a much
closer resemblance to Straparola than to Giovanni Fiorentino.
Richard Tarlton, as many of our readers are aware, was a
very celebrated actor, who died not long after the date when
it is probable Shakespeare came to London : he was buried
in 1588, and his extraordinary popularity long survived him.
The “News out of Purgatory” must have been printed soon
after his decease, perhaps in 1589: it has no date on the title-
page, but in 1590 came out an answer to it, called “The
Cobler of Caunterburie, or an Invective against Tarlton's
Newes out of Purgatorie,” of which a second edition ap-
peared in 1608, and a third under a new name, “The Tinker
of Turvey" (with some alterations at the beginning and end,
in order to give it the appearance of a different work) in 1630.
The truth is, that although “ The Cobler of Caunterburie”
professes to be “an invective against Tarlton's News out of
Purgatory,” it is a direct imitation of it, in form and substance,
as well as in style. However, we have here nothing to do with
“The Cobler of Caunterburie,” farther than as the printing of
it with the date of 1590 ascertains that “Tarlton's News out
of Purgatory,” containing the Novel of “ The Two Lovers of
Pisa,” was published before it.
Excepting as regards the “buck-basket” of Shakespeare,
and the panni di bucato of Giovanni Fiorentino, the coin-
cidences between the comedy and the novel are rather
general than particular, consisting mainly of the manner in
which a gallant takes the husband of the lady with whom he
wishes to have an intrigue into his confidence, and thus ob-
tains his assistance. Of course, we hear of no such personage
as Falstaff either in Straparola or in Giovanni Fiorentino :
he was, and must necessarily have been, a character of
Shakespeare's invention.


THE TWO LOVERS OF PISA.
IN Pisa, a famous cittie of Italye, there lived a gentleman
of good linage and landes, feared as well for his wealth, as
honoured for his vertue; but indeed well thought on for
both, yet the better for his riches. This gentleman had one
onelye daughter called Margaret, who for her beauty was
liked of all, and desired of many : but neither might their
sutes, nor her own prevaile about her father's resolution, who
was determyned not to marrye her, but to such a man as
should be able in abundance to maintain the excellency of
her beauty. Divers young gentlemen proffered large foeff-
inents, but in vaine: a maide shee must be still; till at last
an olde doctor in the towne, that professed phisicke, became
a sutor to her, who was a welcome man to her father, in that
he was one of the welthiest men in all Pisa. A tall stripling
he was, and a proper youth, his age about fourscore; his
head as white as milke, wherein for offence sake there was
left never a tooth : but it is no matter; what he wanted in
person he had in the purse; which the poore gentlewoman
little regarded, wishing rather to tie herself to one that might
fit her content, though they lived meanely, then to him with
all the wealth in Italye. But shee was yong and forcst to
follow her father's direction, who upon large covenants was
content his daughter should marry with the doctor, and
whether she likte him or no, the match was made up, and in
short time she was married. The poore wench was bound to
the stake, and had not onely an old impotent man, but one
that was so jealous, as none might enter into his house with-
out suspicion, nor shee doo any thing without blame: the
least glance, the smallest countenance, any smile, was a
manifest instance to him, that shee thought of others better


16
THE TWO LOVERS OF PISA.
then himselfe: thus he himselfe lived in a hell, and tormented
his wife in as ill perplexitie. At last it chaunced that a
young gentleman of the citie comming by her house, and
seeing her looke out at her window, noting her rare and ex-
cellent proportion, fell in love with her, and that so ex-
treamelye as his passion had no meanes till her favour might
mittigate his heart sicke content. The young man that was
ignorant in amorous matters, and had never been used to
courte anye gentlewoman, thought to reveale his passions to
some one freend, that might give him counsaile for the
winning of her love; and thinking experience was the surest
maister, on a daye seeing the olde doctor walking in the
churche, that was Margarets husband, little knowing who
he was, he thought this was the fittest man to whom he might
discover his passions, for that hee was olde and knewe much,
and was a physition that with his drugges might help him
forward in his purposes: so that seeing the old man walke
solitary, he joinde unto him, and after a curteous salute, tolde
him he was to impart a matter of great import unto him;
wherein if hee would not onely be secrete, but endeavour to
pleasure him, his pains should bee every way to the full con-
sidered. You must imagine, gentleman, quoth Mutio, for so
was the doctors name, that men of our profession are no
blabs, but hold their secrets in their hearts bottome; and
therefore reveale what you please, it shall not onely be con-
cealed, but cured, if either my art or counsaile may doo it.
Upon this Lionell, (so was the young gentleman called,)
told and discourst unto him, from point to point, how he was
falne in love with a gentlewoman that was married to one of
his profession; discovered her dwelling and the house, and
for that hee was unacquainted with the woman, and a man
little experienced in love matters, he required his favour to
further him with his advise. Mutio at this motion was stung
to the hart, knowing it was his wife hee was fallen in love
withall: yet to conceale the matter, and to experience his
wives chastity, and that if she plaide false, he might be re-


THE TWO LOVERS OF PISA.
17
vengde on them both, he dissembled the matter, and an-
swered, that he knewe the woman very well, and com-
mended her highly; but saide, she had a churle to her
husband, and therefore he thought shee would bee the more
tractable: trie her man, quoth hee; fainte hart never woonne
faire lady; and if shee will not bee brought to the bent of your
bowe, I will provide such a potion as shall dispatch all to
your owne content; and to give your further instructions for
opportunitie, knowe that her husband is foorth every after
noone from three till sixe. Thus farre I have advised you,
because I pitty your passions as my selfe being once a lover:
but now I charge thee, reveale it to none whomsover, lest it
doo disparage my credit, to meddle in amorous matters. The
young gentleman not onely promised all carefull secrecy, but
gave him harty thanks for his good counsell, promising to
meete him there the next day, and tell him what newes.
Then hee left the old man, who was almost mad for feare his
wife should any way play false. He saw by experience,
brave men came to besiege the castle, and seeing it was in a
woman's custodie, he had so weake a governor as himselfe,
he doubted it would in time be delivered up: which feare
made him almost franticke, yet he drivde of the time in great
torment, till he might heare from his rival. Lionello, be
hastes him home, and sutes him in his braverye, and goes
down towards the house of Mutio, where he sees her at her
windowe, whom he courted with a passionate looke, with such
an humble salute as shee might perceive how the gentleman
was affectionate. Margaretta looking earnestlye upon him, and
noting the perfection of his proportion, accounted him in her
eye the flower of all Pisa; thinkte herselfe fortunate if she
might have him for her freend, to supply those defaultes that
she found in Mutio. Sundry times that afternoone he past
by her window, and he cast not up more loving lookes then
he received gratious favours: which did so incourage him,
that the next daye betweene three and sixe hee went to her
house, and knocking at the doore, desired to speake with the


18
THE TWO LOVERS OF PISA.
mistris of the house, who hearing by her maid's description
what he was, commaunded him to come in, where she inter-
teined him with all curtesie.
The youth that never before had given the attempt to
covet a ladye, began his exordium with a blushe: and yet
went forward so well, that hee discourst unto her howe hee
loved her, and that if it might please her so to accept of his
service, as of a freende ever vowde in all duetye to bee at
her commaunde, the care of her honour should bee deerer to
him then his life, and hee would bee ready to prise her dis-
content with his bloud at all times.
The gentlewoman was a little coye, but before they part
they concluded that the next day at foure of the clock hee
should come thither and eate a pound of cherries, which was
resolved on with a succado des labras; and so with a loath
to depart they took their leaves. Lionello, as joyfull a man
as might be, hyed him to the church to meete his olde doctor,
where he found him in his olde walke. What newes, syr,
quoth Mutio ? How have you sped ? Even as I can wishe,
quoth Lionello; for I have been with my mistresse, and have
found her so tractable, that I hope to make the olde peasant
her husband look broad-hedded by a paire of browantlers.
How deepe this strooke into Mutio's hart, let them imagine
that can conjecture what jelousie is; insomuch that the olde
doctor askte, when should be the time. marry, quoth Lion-
ello, to morrow at foure of the clocke in the afternoone; and
then maister doctor, quoth hee, will I dub the olde squire
knight of the forked order.
Thus they past on in chat, till it grew late; and then
Lyonello went home to his lodging, and Mutio to his house,
covering all his sorrowes with a merrye countenance, with
full resolution to revenge them both the next day with ex-
tremitie. He past the night as patiently as he could, and
the next daye after dinner awaye hee went, watching when it
should bee four of the clocke. At the houre justly came
Lyonello, and was intertained with all curtesie: but scarse


THE TWO LOVERS OF PISA.
19
had they kist, ere the maide cried out to her mistresse that her
maister was at the doore; for he hasted, knowing that a
horne was but a litle while on grafting. Margaret at this
alarum was amazed, and yet for a shifte chopt Lyonello into
a great driefatte full of feathers, and sat her downe close to
her woorke: by that came Mutio in blowing; and as though
hee came to looke somewhat in haste, called for the keyes of
his chambers, and looked in everye place, searching so nar-
rowlye in evrye corner of the house, that he left not the
very privie unsearcht. Seeing he could not finde him, hee
saide nothing, but fayning himselfe not well at ease, staide at
home, so that poore Lionello was faine to staye in the dri-
fatte till the old churle was in bed with his wife; and then
the maide let him out at a backe doore, who went home with
a flea in his eare to his lodging.
Well, the next daye he went againe to meete his doctor,
whome hee found in his woonted walke. What news, quoth
Mutio? How have you sped? A poxe of the olde slave,
quoth Lyonello, I was no sooner in, and had given my
mistresse one kisse, but the jealous asse was at the doore;
the maide spied him, and cryed, her maister: so that the
poore gentlewoman for verye shifte, was faine to put me in a
driefatte of feathers that stoode in an olde chamber, and there
I was faine to tarrie while he was in bed and asleere, and
then the maide let me out, and I departed.
But it is no matter; twas but a chaunce; and I hope to
crye quittance with him ere it be long. As how, quoth
Mutio ? Marry thus, quoth Lionello : she sent me woord by
her maide this daye, that upon Thursday next the olde churle
suppeth with a patient of his a mile out of Pisa, and then I
feare not but to quitte him for all. It is well, quoth Mutio;
fortune bee your freende. I thank you, quoth Lionello; and
so after a little more prattle they departed.
To bee shorte, Thursdaye came; and about sixe of the
clocke foorth goes Mutio, no further than a freendes house of
his, from whence he might descrye who went into his house.
C 2


20
THE TWO LOVERS OF PISA.
Straight he sawe Lionello enter in; and after goes hee, inso-
muche that hee was scarselye sitten downe, before the mayde
cryed out againe, my maister comes. The good wife that
before had provided for afterclaps, had found out a privie
place between two seelings of a plauncher, and there she
thrust Lionello; and her husband came sweting. What
news, quoth shee, drives you home againe so soone, husband ?
Marrye, sweete wife, quoth he, a fearfull dreame that I had
this night, which came to my remembrance ; and that was
this: Me thought there was a villeine that came secretly into
my house with a naked poinard in his hand, and hid him-
selfe; but I could not finde the place : with that mine nose
bled, and I came backe; and by the grace of God I will
seeke every corner in the house for the quiet of my minde.
Marry, I pray you doo, husband, quoth she. With that he
lockt in all the doors, and began to search every chamber,
every hole, every chest, every tub, the very well; he stabd
every featherbed through, and made havocke, like a mad
man, which made him thinke all was in vaine, and hee
began to blame his eies that thought they saw that which
they did not. Upon this he reste halfe lunaticke, and all
night he was very wakefull; that towards the morning he
fell into a dead sleepe, and then was Lionello conveighed
away.
In the morning when Mutio wakened, hee thought how by
no meanes hee should be able to take Lyonello tardy; yet he
laid in his head a most dangerous plot, and that was this.
Wife, quoth he, I must the next Monday ride to Vicensa to
visit an olde patient of mine; till my returne, which will be
some ten dayes, I will have thee stay at our little graunge
house in the countrey Marry very well content, husband,
quoth she: with that he kist her, and was verye pleasant, as
though he had suspected nothing, and away hee flinges to
the church, where hee meetes Lionello. What sir, quoth he,
what newes? Is your mistresse yours in possession ? No,
a plague of the old slave, quoth he: I think he is either a


THE TWO LOVERS OF PISA.
21
witch or els woorkes by magick : for I can no sooner enter in
the doores, but he is at my backe, and so he was againe yester-
night; for I was not warme in my seate before the maide cried,
my maister comes; and then was the poore soule faine to
conveigh me between two seelings of a chamber in a fit place
for the purpose : wher I laught hartely to myself, too see how
he sought every corner, ransackt every tub, and stabd every
featherbed,—but in vaine ; I was safe enough till the morning,
and then when he was fast a sleepe, I lept out. Fortune
frowns on you, quoth Mutio : I, but I hope, quoth Lionello,
this is the last time, and now shee will begin to smile; for on
monday next he rides to Vicensa, and his wife lyes at a
grange house a little of the towne, and there in his absence
I will revenge all forepassed misfortunes. God send it be so,
quoth Mutio; and so took his leave. These two lovers longd
for monday, and at last it came. Early in the morning
Mutio horst himselfe, and his wife, his maide and a man, and
no more, and away he rides to his grange house; where
after he had brok his fast he took his leave, and away to-
wards Vicensa. He rode not far ere by a false way he re-
turned into a thicket, and there with a company of cuntry
peasants lay in an ambuscado to take the young gentleman.
In the afternoon comes Lionello gallopping; and assoon as
he came within sight of the house, he sent back his horse by
his boy, and went easily afoot, and there at the very entry was
entertaind by Margaret, who led him up the staires, and con-
vaid him into her bedchamber, saying he was welcome into
so mean a cottage: but, quoth she, now I hope fortun shal
not envy the purity of our loves. Alas, alas, mistres (cried
the maid,) heer is my maister, and 100 men with bim, with
bils and staves. We are betraid, quoth Lionel, and I am but
a dead man. Feare not, quoth she, but follow me; and
straight she carried him downe into a lowe parlor, where
stoode an olde rotten chest full of writinges. She put him
into that, and covered him with old papers and evidences,
and went to the gate to meet her husband. Why signior


22
THE TWO LOVERS OF PISA.
Mutio, what means this hurly burly, quoth she? Vile and
shameless strumpet as thou art, thou shalt know by and by,
quoth he. Where is thy love ? All we have watcht him,
and seen him enter in : now quoth he, shal neither thy tub of
feathers, nor thy seeling serve, for perish he shall with fire,
or els fall into my hands. Doo thy woorst, jealous foole,
quoth she; I ask thee no favour. With that in a rage he
beset the house round, and then set fire on it. Oh! in what
a perplexitie was poore Lionello, that was shut in a chest,
and the fire about his eares? And how was Margaret pas-
sionat, that knew her lover in such danger? Yet she made
light of the matter, and as one in a rage called her maid to
her and sald: Come on, wench; seeing thy maister mad
with jelousie hath set the house and al my living on fire, I
will be revengd upon him ; help me heer to lift this old
chest where all his writings and deeds are; let that burne
first; and assoon as I see that on fire, I will walk towards
my freends: for the old foole will be beggard, and I will refuse
him. Mutio that knew al his obligations and statutes lay
there, puld her back, and bad two of his men carry the chest
into the feeld, and see it were safe; himself standing by, and
seeing his house burnd downe, sticke and stone. Then
quieted in his minde he went home with his wife, and began
to flatter her, thinking assuredly that he had burnd her
paramour; causing his chest to be carried in a cart to his
house at Pisa. Margaret impatient went to her mothers, and
complained to her and to her bretheren of the jealousie of her
husband; who maintained her it be true, and desired but a
daies respite to prove it. Wel, hee was bidden to supper
the next night at her mothers, she thinking to make her
daughter and him freends againe. In the meane time he to
his woonted walk in the church, and there præter expecta-
tionem he found Lionello walking. Wondring at this, he
straight enquires, what newes? What newes, maister doctor,
quoth he, and he fell in a great laughing: in faith yesterday
I scapt a scowring; for, syrrah, I went to the grange house,


THE TWO LOVERS OF PISA.
23
where I was appointed to come, and I was no sooner gotten
up the chamber, but the magicall villeine her husband beset
the house with bils and staves, and that he might be sure no
seeling nor corner should shrowde me, he set the house on
fire, and so burnt it down to the ground. Why, quoth
Mutio, and how did you escape ? Alas, quoth he, wel fare a
womans wit! She conveighed me into an old chest ful of
writings, which she knew her husband durst not burne; and
so was I saved and brought to Pisa, and yesternight by her
maide let home to my lodging. This, quoth he, is the plea-
santest jest that ever I heard; and upon this I have a sute to
you. I am this night bidden foorth to supper; you shall be
my guest: onelye I will crave so much favour, as after supper
for a pleasant sporte to make relation what successe you have
had in your loves. For that I will not sticke, quoth he; and
so he carried Lionello to his mother in lawes house with him,
and discovered to his wives brethren who he was, and how
at supper he would disclose the whole matter: for quoth he,
he knowes not that I am Margarets husband. At this all the
brethren bad him welcome, and so did the mother too; and
Margaret she was kept out of sight. Supper time being
come, they fell to their victals, and Lionello was carrowst
unto by Mutio, who was very pleasant, to draw him to a
merry humor, that he might to the ful discourse the effect
and fortunes of his love. Supper being ended, Mutio
requested him to tel to the gentlemen what had hapned
between him and his mistresse. Lionello with a smiling
countenance began to describe his mistresse, the house and
street where she dwelt, how he fell in love with her, and
how he used the counsell of this doctor, who in al his af-
faires was his secretarye. Margaret heard all this with a
greate feare; and when he came at the last point she caused
a cup of wine to be given him by one of her sisters wherein
was a ring that he had given Margaret. As he had told how
he escapt burning, and was ready to confirm all for a troth,
the gentlewoman drunke to him; who taking the cup, and


24
THE TWO LOVERS OF PISA.
seeing the ring, having a quick wit, and a reaching head,
spide the fetch, and perceived that all this while this was his
lovers husband, to whome hee had revealed these escapes.
At this drinking the wine, and swallowing the ring into his
mouth, he went forward : Gentlemen, quoth he, how like
you of my loves and my fortunes ? Wel, quoth the gentle-
men; I pray you is it true? As true, quoth he, as if I
would be so simple as to reveal what I did to Margaret's
husband: for know you, gentlemen, that I knew this Mutio
to be her husband whom I notified to be my lover; and for
that he was generally known throughout Pisa to be a jealous
fool, therefore with these tales I brought him into this para-
dice, which indeed are follies of mine own braine : for trust
me, by the faith of a gentleman, I never spake to the woman,
was never in her companye, neither do I know her if I see
her. At this they all fell in a laughing at Mutio, who was
ashamde that Lionello had so scoft him: but all was well,
they were made friends; but the jest went so to his hart,
that he shortly after died, and Lionello enjoyed the ladye :
and for that they two were the death of the old man, now
they are plagued in purgatory, and he whips them with
nettles.


THE HISTORIE
OF
A POLONIUS AND SILLA;
CONTAINING PART OF THE PLOT OF
TWELFTH NIGHT.
Reprinted from Rich his FAREWELL TO MilitaRIE PROFESSION, 1606.





INTRODUCTION.
It is not necessary to say much of Barnaby Rich's “History
of Apollonius and Silla,” and of its connexion with “Twelfth
Night.” The novel was originally published in 1581, 4to,
and we give the following exact copy of the title-page of the
tract, because only a single copy of that date is known:-“Riche
his Farewell to Militarie profession : conteinyng verie pleas-
aunt discourses fit for a peaceable tyme: Gathered together
for the onely delight of the courteous Gentlewomen, bothe of
Englande and Irelande, for whose onely pleasure thei were
collected together, and unto whom thei are directed and dedi-
cated by Barnabe Riche, Gentleman. Malim me divitem esse
quam vocari. Imprinted at London, by Robart Walley,
1581.” The extreme rarity of this edition of the book is
proved by the fact that neither Ames, Herbert, nor Dibdin,
have included it in any list of works from Walley's press.
It was reprinted in 1606, 4to; and in a manuscript note to
his copy of that impression Malone speaks of a copy of 1583:
it may then have been republished, as the work could not
fail to have been popular; but no such edition appears to
exist in any public or private collection, and it is not at all
impossible that Malone mistook, and meant the impression of
1581, as he does not seem to have been aware of any in that
year. It is among Bishop Tanner's books, at Oxford, and it
is therefore included in the Catalogue recently issued of the
printed works in the Bodleian Library.
Our re-impression has been made from the edition of 1606,
because a copy of the original in 1581 was not found until
after Part IX of the present work had been printed: the
differences are merely literal, for in other respects the edition
of 1606 exactly follows that of 1581.
It was supposed until lately that Shakespeare, in compos-
C y *


INTRODUCTION.
ing “ Twelfth Night,” had employed the edition of 1606, be-
cause Malone conjectured that that play was not written, at
the earliest, until 1607 (Mal. Shaksp., by Boswell, ii, 441).
It turns out, however, that “Twelfth Night” was in being in
1602 (Hist. of Engl. Dram. Poetry and the Stage, i, 327),
having been acted on February 2d, in that year, in the
Middle Temple Hall: consequently Shakespeare, as far as
he was indebted to Rich's story, must have resorted to an
earlier impression than that of 1606. It may, however, be a
question, whether our great Dramatist was not under obliga-
tions to one, or even to two Italian comedies, called Gľ In-
ganni and Gl Ingannati, in which characters and incidents
occur similar to those in “Twelfth Night.” The part of the
plot in which Viola, disguised as a page, is made the medium
of courtship between her lover and her rival, is common to
various old novels and dramas in different languages: our
readers will hereafter find that it belongs to the story of
Felismena, in the “ Diana" of Montemayor, which appeared
in English in 1598. Translations of the comedies Gl' In-
ganni and Gl Ingannati are about to be printed by the
Shakespeare Society, and an analysis of the former is con-
tained in “Farther Particulars regarding Shakespeare and
his Works,” 8vo, 1839.


APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
DURING the time that the famous citty of Constantinople,
remained in the handes of the Christians, amongst many
other noble men, that kept their abiding in that florishing
citty, there was one whose name was Apolonius, a worthy
duke, who being but a very yong man, and even then newe
come to his possessions which were very great, levied a
mighty bande of men, at his owne proper charges, with whom
hee served against the Turke, during the space of one whole
yeere, in which time although it were very short, this young
duke so behaved himselfe, as well by prowesse and valiance
shewed with his owne hands, as otherwise, by his wisdome
and liberality, used towards his souldiors, that all the world
was filled with the fame of this noble duke. When he had
thus spent one yeeres service, he caused his trompet to sound
a retrait, and gathering his company together, and imbarking
themselves he set saile, holding his course towards Constan-
tinople: but beeing upon the sea, by the extremity of a
tempest which sodainely fell, his fleete was severed some one
way, and some an other, but hee him selfe recovered the Ile
of Cypres, where he was worthily received by Pontus duke
and governour of the same ile, with whom hee lodged, while
his shippes were new repairing.
This Pontus that was lord and governour of this famous
ile, was an auncient duke, and had two children, a sonne
and a daughter, his son was named Silvio, of whom hereafter
we shal have further occasion to speake, but at this instant
he was in the parts of Africa, serving in the warres.
The daughter her name was Silla, whose beauty was so
pereles, that she had the soveraignty amongst all other
dames, as well for her beauty as for the noblenesse of her
birth. This Silla having heard of the worthinesse of Apolo-


28
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
nius, this yong duke, who besides his beauty and good graces,
had a certaine natural allurement, that being now in his
company in her fathers court, she was so strangly attached
with the love of Apolonius, that there was nothing might
content her but his presence and sweet sight, and although
she saw no maner of hope, to attaine to that she most
desired : knowing Apolonius to be but a guest, and ready to
take the benefit of the next wind, and to depart into a
straunge countrye, whereby shee was bereaved of all possi-
bility ever to see him againe, and therefore strived with
her selfe to leave her fondnesse, but al in vaine, it would not
bee, but like the fowle which is once limed, the more shee
striveth, the faster she tyeth her selfe. So Silla was now
constrained perforce her will to yeeld to love, wherefore from
time to time, shee used so great familiarity with him, as her
honour might well permitte, and fedde him with such amorous
baites, as the modestye of a maide, could reasonably afforde,
which when shee perceived, did take but small effect, feeling
her selfe out raged with the extremity of her passion, by the
onely countenance that she bestowed upon Apolonius, it
might have bene well perceived, that the very eyes pleaded
unto him for pitie and remorse. But Apolonius comming but
lately from out the field, from the chasing of his enemies,
and his fury not yet throughly desolved, nor purged from
his stomacke, gave no regard to those amorous entisements,
which by reason of his youth, he had not bin acquainted
withall. But his minde ran more to heare his pilots, bring
newes of a merry wind, to serve his turne to Constantinople
which in the ende came very prosperously: and giving Duke
Pontus hearty thankes for his great entertainement, taking
his leave of himselfe, and the ladie Silla his daughter,
departed with his company, and with a happy gale arived
at his desired porte; Gentlewoman according to my promise,
I will here for brevities sake, omit to make repetition of
the long and dolorous discourse recorded by Silla, for this
sodaine departure of her Apolonius, knowing you to be as


APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
29
tenderly hearted as Silla her selfe, whereby you may the
better conjecture the furie of her fever.
But Silla the further that she saw her selfe bereaved of
al hope, ever any more to see her beloved Apolonius, so
much the more contagious were her passions, and made the
greater speed to execute that she had premeditated in her
minde, which was this: Amongest many servants that did
attend upon her, there was one whose name was Pedro, who
had a long time waited upon her in her chamber, whereby
shee was well assured of his fidelity and trust : to that Pedro
therefore shee bewraied first the fervencie of her love borne
to Apolonius, conjuring him in the name of the Gods
[Goddess] of Love her selfe, and binding him by the duety
that a servant ought to have, that tendereth his mistresse
safety and good liking, and desiring him with teares trickling
downe her cheekes, that hee would give his consent to aide
and assiste her, in that she had determined, which was for
that she was fully resolved to goe to Constantinople, where
she might againe take the view of her beloved Apolonius, that
hee according to the trust she had reposed in him, would not
refuse to give his consent, secretly to convey her from out
her fathers court according as she would give him direc-
tion, and also to make himselfe partaker of her journey,
and to waite upon her, till she had seen the ende of her
determination.
Pedro perceiving with what vehemencie his lady and
mistresse had made request unto him, albeit hee sawe many
perilles and doubts, depending in her pretence, notwithstand-
ing, gave his consent to bee at her disposition, promising her
to further her with his best advice, and to bee ready to obey
whatsoever shee would please to commaund him. The match
beeyng thus agreed upon, and all things prepared in a readi-
nesse for their departure: it happened there was a galley of
Constantinople, ready to depart, which Pedro understanding
came to the captaine, desiring him to have passage for him-
selfe, and for a poore maide that was his sister, which were


APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
bounde to Constantinople upon certaine urgent affaires, to
which request, the captaine graunted, willing him to prepare
aboarde with all speed, because the winde served him presently
to depart.
Pedro now commyng to his misters [mistress), and tellyng
her how he had handeled the matter with the captaine, she
likyng verie well of the devise, disguisyng her selfe into
verie simple atyre, stoole away from out her fathers court,
and came with Pedro, whom now she called brother aboarde
the gallye, where al things being in readinesse and the wind
serving verie wel, they launched forth with their oores, and
set saile, when they were at the sea, the captaine of the
galley taking the vew of Silla, perceiving her singular beautie,
he was better pleased in beholdyng of her face, then in
takyng the height either of the sunne or starre, and thinking
her by the homlinesse of her apparell, to be but some simple
maiden, calling her into his cabin, he beganne to breake with
her after the sea fashion, desiring her to use his owne cabin
for her better ease : and during the time that she remained
at the sea, she should not want a bed, and then whispering
softly in her eare, he saied, that for want of a bedfellow, he
himselfe would supply that rome. Silla not being acquainted
with any such talke, blushed for shame, but made him no
answer at all, my captaine feeling such bickering within
himselfe, the like whereof he had never indured upon the
sea : was like to be taken prisoner aboard his owne ship, and
forced to yeeld himselfe captive without any cannon shot,
wherefore to salve all sores, and thinking it the readiest way
to speed, he began to breake with Silla in the way of marriage,
telling her how happy a voyage she had made, to fal into
the lyking of such a one as himselfe was, who was able to
keepe and maintaine her like a gentlewoman, and for her
sake would likewise take her brother into his fellowship,
whom hee would by some meanes prefer in such sort, that
both of them should have good cause to thinke themselves
thrise happy, shee to light of such a husband, and he to light


APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
31
of such a brother. But Silla nothing pleased with these
preferments, desired him to cease his talke, for that she did
thinke her selfe indeede to be too unworthy such a one as
hee was, neither was she minded yet to marry, and therefore
desired him to fixe his fancie upon some that were better
worthy then her selfe was, and that could better like of his
courtesie then she could do, the captaine seeing himselfe thus
refused, being in a great chafe, he said as followeth
“Then seeing you make so little accompt of my courtesie,
proffered to one that is so far unworthy of it, from hence-
forth I will use the office of my authority, you shall know
that I am the captaine of this shippe, and have power to
commaund and dispose of things at my pleasure; and seeing
you have so scornfully rejected me to be your loyall husband,
I will now take you by force, and use you at my will, and
so long as it shall please me, will keepe you for mine owne
store, there shall be no man able to defend you, nor yet to
perswade me from that I have determined.” Silla with these
words being stroke into a great feare, did thinke it now too
late, to rew her rashe attempt, determined rather to dye with
her owne hands, then to suffer her selfe to be abused in such
sort, therefore she most humbly desired the captaine so much
as he could to save her credit, and seeing that she must
needes be at his will and disposition, that for that present
he would depart, and suffer her till night, when in the darke
he might take his pleasure, without any maner of suspition
to the residue of his companie. The captaine thinking now
the goale to be more than halfe wonne, was contented so
farre to satisfie her request, and departed out leaving her
alone in his cabin.
Silla, being alone by her selfe, drue out her knife readie
to strike her selfe to the heart, and falling upon her knees
desired God to receive her soule, as an acceptable sacrifice
for her follies, which she had so wilfully committed, craving
pardon for her sinnes, and so forth continuing a long and
pittifull reconciliation to God, in the middest whereof there


32
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
sodainly fell a wonderfull storme, the terrour whereof was
such, that there was no man but did thinke the seas would
presently have swallowed them, the bilowes so sodainly arose
with the rage of the winde, that they were all glad to fall
to heaving out of water, for otherwise their feeble gallie
had never beene able to have brooked the seas, this storme
continued all that day and the next night, and they being
driven to put romer before the winde to keepe the gallie a
head the billow, were driven upon the maine shore, where
the gallie brake all to peeces, there was every man pro.
viding to save his owne life, some gat upon hatches,
boordes, and casks, and were driven with the waves too and
fro, but the greatest number were drowned, amongst the
which Pedro was one, but Silla her selfe being in the cabyn
as you have heard, tooke holde of a chest that was the cap-
taines, the which by the onely providence of God brought
her safe to the shore, the which when she had recovered, not
knowing what was become of Pedro her man, shee deemed
that both he and all the rest had beene drowned, for that she
saw no body upon the shore but her selfe, wherefore, when
she had a while made great lamentations, complaining her
mishappes, shee beganne in the end to comfort her selfe
with the hope, that she had to see her Apolonius, and found
such meanes that she brake open the chest that brought her to
land, wherein shee found good store of coine, and sondrie
sutes of apparell that were the captaines, and now to pre-
vent a number of injuries, that might bee proffered to a
woman that was left in her case, shee determined to leave her
owne apparell, and to sorte her selfe into some of those sutes,
that being taken for a man, shee might passe through the
countrie in the better safety, and as shee changed her apparell
shee thought it likewise convenient to change her name,
wherefore not readily happening of any other, shee called
her selfe Silvio, by the name of her owne brother, whom you
have heard spoken of before.
In this maner she travailed to Constantinople, where she


APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
33
inquired out the pallace of the Duke Apolonius, and thinking
her selfe now to bee both fit and able to play the serving-
man, she presented her selfe to the duke craving his service,
the duke very willing to give succour unto strangers, per-
ceiving him to be a proper smogue yong man, gave him
entertainment: Silla thought her selfe nowe more than
satisfied for all the casualties that had happened unto her in
her journey, that shee might at her pleasure take but the view
of the Duke Apolonius, and above the rest of his servantes
was verie diligent and attendaunt upon him, the which the
duke perceiving, beganne likewise to growe into good liking
with the diligence of his man, and therefore made him one of
his chamber, who but Siluio then was most neare about him,
in helping of him to make him readie in a morning in the
setting of his ruffes, in the keeping of his chamber, Silvio
pleased his maister so wel, that above all the rest of his
servantes about him, he had the greatest credit, and the duke
put him most in trust.
At this verie instaunt, there was remainyng in the Cittie
a noble Dame a widdowe, whose husband was but lately
deceased, one of the noblest men that were in the partes of
Grecia, who left his lady and wife large possessions and great
livings. This ladyes name was called Julina, who besides
the aboundance of her wealth, and the greatnesse of her
revenues, had likewise the soveraigntie of all the dames of
Constantinople for her beautie. To this lady Julina, Apolo-
nius became an earnest suter, and according to the manner
of wooers, besides faire wordes, sorrowfull sighes, and piteous
countenāces, there must be sending of loving letters, chaines,
braceletes, brouches, ringes, tablets, gemmes, juels, and pre-
sents I know not what : so my duke, who in the time that
he remained in the Ile of Cypres, had no skill at all in the
arte of love, although it were more then half profferred unto
him, was now become a scholler in loves schoole, and had
alreadie learned his first lesson, that is, to speake pittifully, to
looke ruthfully, to promise largely, to serve diligently, and to


34
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
please carefully: now he was learning his second lesson,
that is to reward liberally, to give bountifuily, to present
willingly, and to write lovingly. Thus Apolonius was so
busied in his new study, that I warrant you there was no
man that could chalenge him for plaiyng the truant, he
followed his profession with so good a will: and who must
bee the messenger to carrie the tokens and love letters, to
the lady Julina, but Siluio his man, in him the duke reposed
his only cofidence, to goe betwene him and his lady.
Now gentlewomen, doe you thinke there could have
beene a greater torment devised wherewith to afflict the heart
of Silla, then herself to be made the instrument to worke her
owne mishap, and to plaie the atturney in a cause, that
made so much against herself. But Silla altogether desirous
to please her maister, cared nothing at all to offend her selfe,
followed his businesse with so good a will as if it had been
in her own preferment.
Julina nowe having many times, taken the gaze of this
yong youth Siluio, perceivyng him to bee of such excellent
perfect grace, was so intangeled with the often sight of this
sweete temptation, that she fell into as great a liking with
the man, as the maister was with her selfe: and on a time
Silvio beyng sent from his maister, with a message to the
lady Julina, as he beganne very earnestly to solicite in his
maisters behalfe, Julina interrupting him in his tale, saied :
Silvio it is enough that you have saied for your maister,
from henceforth either speake for your self, or say nothing
at all. Silla abashed to heare these words, begā in her mind
tɔ accuse the blindnes of love, that Julina neglecting the good
of so noble a duke, wold preferre her love unto such a one,
as nature it selfe had denied to recopence her liking.
And now for a time, leaving matters depending as you
have heard, it fell out that the right Silvio indeede (whom
you have heard spoken of before, the brother of Silla,) was
come to his fathers courte into ye Ile of Cypres, where under-
stāding, that his sister was departed, in maner as you have


A POLONIUS AND SILLA.
35
heard conjectured, that the very occasion did proceede of
some liking had betweene Pedro her man (that was missing
with her) and her selfe, but Silvio who loved his sister, as
dearly as his owne life, and the rather for that she was his
naturall sister, both by father and mother, so the one of them
was so like the other, in countenance and favour, that there
was no man able to descerne the one from the other by their
faces, saving by their apparell, the one being a man, the other
a woman.
Silvio therefore vowed to his father, not onely to seeke
out his sister Silla, but also to revenge the villanie, which
he conceived in Pedro, for the carrying away of his sister,
and thus departing, having travailed through many citties and
townes, without hearing any maner of newes, of those he
went to seeke for, at the last he arrived at Constantinople,
where as he was walking in an evening for his owne recrea-
ation, on a pleasant greene yarde, without the walles of the
citie, he fortuned to meete with the lady Julina, who likewise
had been abroad to take the aire, and as she sodainly cast
her eyes upon Silvio, thinking him to be her olde acquaint-
ance, by reason they were so like one another, as you have
heard before, said unto him, Sir Silvio, if your hast be not the
greater, I pray you let me have a little talke with you, seeing
I have so luckely met you in this place.
Silvio wondering to heare himselfe so rightly named,
being but a stranger, not of above two dayes continuance in
the citie, very courteously came towards her, desirous to
heare what she would say.
Julina commanding her traine something to stand back,
sayd as followeth. Seeing my good will and friendly love,
hath beene the onely cause to make me so prodigall to offer,
that I see is so lightly rejected, it maketh me to thinke, that
men be of this condition, rather to desire those things, which
they cannot come by, then to esteeme or value of that, which
both largely and liberallie is offered unto them, but if the
liberalitie of my proffer, hath made to seeme lesse the value
D 2


36
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
of the thing that I meant to present, it is but in your owne
conceipt, considering how many noble men there hath beene
here before, and be yet at this present, which hath both
served, sued, and most humbly intreated, to attaine to that,
which to you of myselfe, I have freely offered, and I perceive
is despised, or at the least very lightly regarded.
Silvio wondering at these wordes, but more amazed that
shee could so rightly call him by his name, could not tell
what to make of her speeches, assuring himselfe that shee
was deceived, and did mistake him, did thinke notwithstand-
ing, it had bene a point of great simplicity, if he should
forsake that, which fortune had so favourably proffered unto
him, perceiving by her traine, that she was some lady of
great honour, and viewing the perfection of her beauty, and
the excellency of her grace and countenance, did thinke
it unpossible that she should be despised, and therefore
aunswered thus.
Madame, if before this time, I have seemed to forget my
selfe, in neglecting your courtesie, which so liberally you
have meant unto me: please it you to pardon what is past,
and from this day forewardes, Silvio remaineth ready prest to
make such reasonable amendes as his ability may any waies
permit, or as it shall please you to commaund.
Julina the gladdest woman that might bee, to heare these
joyfull newes, said: Then my Silvio see you faile not to
morrow at night to sup with me at my owne house, where I
will discourse farther with you, what amends you shall
make me, to which request Silvio gave his glad consent, and
thus they departed very well pleased. And as Julina did
thinke the time very long, till she had reapt the fruite of her
desire : so Silvio he wisht for harvest before corne could
growe, thinking the time as long, till hee saw how matters
would fall out, but not knowing what lady she might bee,
he presently (before Julina was out of sight) demaunded of
one that was walking up, what shee was, and how she was
called, who satisfied Silvio in every point, and also in what


APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
37
part of the towne her house did stand, whereby he might
inquire it out.
Silvio thus departing to his lodging, passed the night
with verie unquiet sleepes, and the next morning his mind
ran so much of his supper, that he never cared, neither for his
breakfast, nor dinner, and the day to his seeming passed
away so slowely, that hee had thought the stately steedes had
bin tired, that drawe the chariot of the sunne, or else some
other Josua had commaunded them againe to stande, and
wished that Phaeton had beene there with a whippe.
Julina on the other side, she had thought the clocke-
setter had plaied the knave, the day came no faster fore-
wards, but sixe a clocke being once strucken, recovered com-
fort to both parties; and Silvio hastening himselfe to the
pallace of Julina, where by her he was friendly welcomed,
and a sumptuous supper being made readie, furnished with
sundrie sorts of delicate dishes, they sate them downe, passing
the supper time with amorous lookes, loving countenances,
and secret glaunces conveighed from the one to the other,
which did better satisfie them, then the feeding of their
daintie dishes.
Supper time being thus spent, Julina did thinke it very
unfitly, if she should turne Silvio to go seeke his lodging in
an evening, desired him therefore, that he would take a bed
in her house for the night, and bringing him up into a faire
chamber, that was very richly furnished, she found such
meanes, that when all the rest of her household servants were
a bed and quiet, she came her selfe to beare Silvio companie,
where concluding upon conditions, that were in question be-
tweene them, they passed the night with such joy and con-
tentation, as might in that convenient time be wished for,
but onely that Julina, feeding too much of some one dish
above the rest, received a surfeit, whereof she could not be
cured in fortie weekes after, a naturall inclination in all
women which are subject to longing, and want the reason to
use a moderation in their diet: but the morning approaching,


38
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
Julina tooke her leave, and conveighed her selfe into her
owne chamber, and when it was faire day light, Silvio making
himself readie, departed likewise about his affaires in the
towne, debating with himselfe how things had happened,
being well assured that Julina had mistaken him, and there-
fore for feare of further evils, determined to come no more
there, but tooke his journey towards other places in the
parts of Grecia, to see if he could learne any tidings of his
sister Silla.
The Duke Apolonius having made a long sute and never
a whit the neerer of his purpose, came to Julina to crave
her direct answer, either to accept of him, and of such con-
ditions as he proffered unto her, or els to give him his last
farewell.
Julina, as you have heard, had taken an earnest pennie
of an other, whom he [she] had thought had beene Silvio
the dukes man, was at a controversie in her selfe, what she
might doe: one while she thought, seeing her occasion served
so fit, to crave the duke's good will, for the marrying of his
man, then againe, she could not tell what displeasure the
duke would conceive, in that she should seeme to preferre
his man before him selfe, did thinke it best therefore to con-
ceale the matter, till she might speake with Silvio, to use his
opinion how these matters should be handled, and hereupon
resolving her selfe, desiring the duke to pardon her speeches,
said as followeth.
Sir Duke, for that from this time forwardes I am no longer
of my selfe, having given my full power and authority over
to an other, whose wife I now remaine by faithfull vowe and
promise : and albeit, I knowe the world will wounder, when
they shall understand the fondnesse of my choise, yet I trust
you your selfe will nothing dislike with me, sith I have
meant no other thing, then the satisfying of mine owne con-
tentation and liking.
The duke hearing these wordes, aunswered: Madam, I
must then content my selfe, although against my wil, having


APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
39
the lawe in your owne hands, to like of whom you list, and to
make choise where it pleaseth you.
Julina giving the duke great thankes, that would content
himselfe with such pacience, desired him likewise, to give his
free consent and good wil, to the partie whom she had chosen
to be her husband.
Nay surely madam (quoth the duke) I will never give my
consent, that any other man shall enjoy you then my selfe,
I have made too great accompt of you, then so lightly to
passe you away with my good will: but seeing it lieth not
in me to let you, having (as you say) made your owne choise,
so from hence forwards I leave you to your owne liking,
alwaies willing you well, and thus will take my leave.
The duke departed towards his owne house very sorrow-
full, that Julina had thus served him, but in the meane space
that the duke had remained in the house of Julina, some of
his servantes fell into talke and conference, with the servantes
of Julina, where debating betweene them, of the likelihood
of the marriage, betweene the duke and the ladie, one of the
servants of Julina said: that he never sawe his lady and
mistresse, use so good countenance to the duke himselfe, as
shee had done to Silvio his man, and beganne to report
with what familiarity and courtesie, she had received him,
feasted him, and lodged him, and that in his opinion, Silvio
was like to speede before the duke or any other that were
suters.
This tale was quickly brought to the duke himself, who
making better inquiry into the matter, found it to bee true
that was reported, and better considering of the words, which
Julina had used towards himselfe, was very well assured
that it could be no other then his owne man, that had thrust
his nose so far out of joynt, wherefore without any further re-
spect, caused him to bee thrust into a dungeon, where he was
kept prisoner, in a verie pitifull plight.
Poore Silvio, having got intelligence by some of his
fellowes, what was the cause that the duke his maister did


40
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
beare such displeasure unto him, devised all the meanes he
could, as well by meditation [mediation] by his fellowes, as
otherwise by petitions, and supplications to the duke, that he
would suspend his judgement, till perfect proofe were had in
the matter, and then if any manner of thing did fall out
against him, wherby the duke had cause to take any greefe,
he would confesse himselfe worthy not onely of imprisonment,
but also of most vile and shamefull death: with these peti-
tions he daiely plied the duke, but all in vaine, for the duke
thought hee had made so good proofe, that he was throughlie
confirmed in his opinion against his man.
But the ladie Julina wondering what made Silvio, that he
was so slacke in his visitation, and why hee absented himselfe
so long from her presence, began to thinke that all was not
well, but in the end, perceiving no decoction of her former
surfet, received as you have heard, and finding in her selfe,
an unwounted swelling in her bellie, assuring her selfe to bee
with child, fearing to become quite banckrout of her honour,
did thinke it more then time to seeke out a father, and made
such secret search, and diligent enquirie, that shee learned the
truth how Silvio, was kepte in prison, by the duke his
maister, and minding to find a present remedie, as well for
the love she bare to Silvio, as for the maintainaunce of her
credit and estimation, shee speedily hasted to the pallace of
the duke, to whom she saied as followeth.
Sir Duke, it may be that you will thinke my comming to
your house in this sorte, doeth something passe the limites
of modestie, the which I protest before God, proceedeth of
this desire, that the worlde should know, how justly I seeke
meanes to maintaine my honour, but to the end I seeme not
tedious with prolixitie of woords, not to use other then direct
circumstaunces, knowe sir, that the love I beare to my onely
beloved Silvio, whom I doe esteeme more then ail the
jewelles in the world, whose personage I regard more then
my owne life, is the onely cause of my attempted journey,
beseeching you, that all the whole displeasure, which I un-


APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
41
derstand you have conceived against him, may be imputed
unto my charge, and that it would please you lovingly to
deale with him, whom of my selfe I have chosen rather for
the satisfaction of mine honest liking, then for the vaine
preheminences or honourable dignities looked after by am-
bitious mindes.
The duke having heard this discourse, caused Silvio pre-
sently to be sent for, and to be brought before him, to whom
he saied : Had it not been sufficient for thee, when I had re-
posed my selfe in thy fidelitie, and the trustinesse of thy
service, that thou shouldest so traiterously deale with me,
but since that time hast not spared, still to abuse me with so
many forgeries, and perjured protestations, not onely hateful
unto me, whose simplicitie thou thinkest to be such that by
the plotte of thy pleasant tongue, thou wouldest make mee
beleeve a manifest untroth, but most abominable be thy
doings in the presence and sight of God, that hast not spared
to blaspheme his holy name, by calling him to be a witnesse
to maintaine thy leasinges, and so detestably wouldest thou
forsweare thy selfe, in a matter that is so openly knowne.
Poore Silvio whose innocencie was such, that he might
lawfully sweare, seeing Julina to be there in place, aunswered
thus.
Most noble duke, well understanding your conceived
greefe, most humbly I beseech you paciently to heare my ex-
cuse, not minding thereby to aggravate or heape up your
wrath and displeasure, protesting before God, that there is
nothing in the world, which I regarde so much, or doe esteeme
so deare, as your good grace and favour, but desirous that
your grace should know my innocencie, and to cleare my
selfe of such impositions, wherewith I knowe I am wrong-
fully accused, which as I understand should be in the practi-
sing of the lady Julina, who standeth here in place, whose
acquitaunce for my better discharge, now I most humbly
crave, protesting before the almightie God, that neither in
thought, word, nor deede, I have not otherwise used my selfe,


42
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
then according to the bonde and duetie of a servant, that is
both willing and desirous, to further his maisters sutes, which
if I have otherwise sayed then that is true, you madame
Julina, who can verie wel decide the depthes of all this
doubt, I most humbly beseech you to certifie a troth, if I have
in any thing missaied, or have otherwise spoken then is
right and just.
Julina having heard this discourse which Silvio had made,
perceivyng that he stood in great awe of the dukes dis-
pleasure, aunswered thus : Thinke not my Silvio that my
comming hither is to accuse you of any misdemeanour to-
wardes your maister, so I doe not denay, but in all such
imbassages wherein towardes me you have been imployed,
you have used the office of a faithfull and trustie messenger,
neither am I ashamed to confesse, that the first daie that
mine eyes did behold, the singular behaviour, the notable
curtesie, and other innumerable giftes wherwith my Silvio is
endued, but that beyond al measure my heart was so inflamed,
that impossible it was for me, to quench the fervent love, or
extinguish the least part of my conceived torment, before I
had bewraied the same unto him, and of my owne motion,
craved his promised faith and loialty of marriage, and now
is the time to manifest the same unto the world, which hath
been done before God, and betweene our selves : knowing
that it is not needefull, to keepe secret that, which is neither
evill done, nor hurtfull to any persone, therefore (as I saied
before) Silvio is my husband by plighted faith, who I hope
to obtaine without offence, or displeasure of any one, trusting
that there is no man, that will so farre forget himselfe, as to
restraine that, which God hath left at libertie for every
wight, or that will seeke by crueltie, to force ladyes to marrie
otherwise, then according to their owne likyng. Feare not then
my Silvio to keepe your faith and promise, which you have
made unto me, and as for the rest : I doubt not thinges will
so fall out, as you shall have no maner of cause to complaine.
Silvio amased to heare these wordes, for that Julina by


44
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
for all this I shall finde, then the thing is done without preju-
dice, or any hurt to my conscience, consideryng that by the
professed faith, thou didest accoumpt mee for thy wife, and I
received thee for my spouse and loyall husband, swearyng by
the almightie God, that no other then you have made the
conquest and triumph of my chastitie, whereof I crave no other
witnesse then your selfe, and mine owne conscience.
I praie you gentlewomen, was not this a foule oversight of
Julina, that would so precisely sweare so great an oth, that
she was gotten with child by one, that was altogether un-
furnisht with implementes for such a tourne. For Gods love
take heede, and let this be an example to you, when you be
with child, how you sweare who is the father, before you
have had good proofe and knowledge of the partie, for men
be so subtill, and full of sleight, that God knoweth a woman
may quickly be deceived.
But now to returne to our Silvio, who hearing an othe
sworne so divinely that he had gotten a woman with
child, was like to beleeve that it had bin true in very deede,
but remembring his owne impediment, thought it impossible
that he should committe such an acte, and therfore halfe in
a chafe, hee saied. What lawe is able to restraine the fool-
ish indescretion of a woman, that yeeldeth herselfe to her
owne desires, what shame is able to bridle or withdrawe her
from her mind and madnesse, or with what snaffell is it possi-
ble to holde her back, from the execution of her filthinesse,
but what abhomination is this, that a lady of such a house
should so forget the greatnesse of her estate, the alliaunce
whereof she is descended, the nobility of her deceased hus-
band, and maketh no conscience to shame and slaunder her
selfe, with such a one as I am, beeing so far unfit and un-
seemely for her degree, but how horrible it is to heare the
name of God so defaced, that we make no more account, but
for the maintainance of our mischiefs, we feare no whit at
all to forsweare his holy name, as though he were not in all
his dealings most righteous true and just, and will not onely


APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
45
lay open our leasings to the worlde, but will likewise punish
the same with sharpe and bitter scourges.
Julina not able to indure him to proceede any further in
his sermon, was alreadie surprised with a vehement griefe,
began bitterly to cry out, uttering these speeches following.
Alas, is it possible that the soveraigne justice of God, can
abide a mischiefe so great and cursed, why may I not now
suffer death, rather then the infamy which I see to wander
before mine eies. Oh happy and more then right-happy had
I bin, if inconstant fortune had not devised this treason,
wherein I am surprised and caught, am I thus become to be
intangled with snares, and in the handes of him, who in-
joying the spoiles of my honour, will openly deprive mee of
my fame, by making mee a common fable to all posterity in
time to come, ah traitour and discourteous wretch, is this the
recompence of the honest and firme amity which I have borne
thee, wherein I have deserved this discourtesie, by loving thee
more then thou art able to deserve, is it I, arrant theefe is
it I, upon whom thou thinkest to worke thy mischiefes, doest
thou thinke me no better worth, but that thou maiest pro-
digally wast my honour at thy pleasure, didest thou dare
to adventure upon me, having thy conscience wounded with
so deadly a treason: ah unhappy and above all other most
unhappy, that have so charely preserved mine honour, and
now am made a prey to satisfie a yong mans lust, that hath
coveted nothing but the spoile of my chastity and good name.
Herewithall the teares so gushed downe her cheekes, that
she was not able to open her mouth to use any further
speech.
The duke who stoode by all this while, and heard this
whole discourse, was wonderfully moved with compassió to-
wards Julina, knowing that from her infancie she had ever
so honourably used her selfe, that there was no man able to
detect her of any misdemeanour, otherwise then beseemed a
lady of her estate, wherefore being fully resolved that Silvio


46
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
his man had committed this villanie against her, in a great
furie drawing his rapier, he said unto Silvio.
How canst thou (arrant theefe, shew thy selfe so cruell
and carelesse to such as doe thee honour, hast thou so little
regard of such a noble lady, as humbleth her selfe to such a
villaine as thou art, who without any respect either of her
renowne or noble estate, canst be content to seeke the wracke
and utter ruine of her honour, but frame thy selfe to make
such satisfaction as she requireth, although I know unworthy
wretch, that thou art not able to make her the least part of
amends, or I sweare by God, that thou shalt not escape the
death which I will minister to thee with mine owne hands,
and therefore advise thee well what thou dooest.
Silvio having heard this sharpe sentence, fell downe on
his knees before the duke craving for mercie, desiring that
he might be suffered to speake with the lady Julina apart,
promising to satisfie her according to her owne contentation.
Well (quoth the duke) I take thy worde, and there withall
I advise thee that thou performe thy promise, or otherwise
I protest before God, I will make thee such an example to the
world, that all traitours shall tremble for feare, how they
doe seeke the dishonouring of ladies.
But now Julina had conceived so great griefe against Silvio,
that there was much adoe, to perswade her to talke with him,
but remembring her owne case, desirous to heare what ex-
cuse he could make, in the end she agreed, and being brought
into a place severallie by themselves, Silvio began with a
pitious voyce to say as followeth.
I know not madam, of whom I might make complaint,
whether of you or of my selfe, or rather of fortune, which
hath conducted and brought us both into so great adversitie,
I see that you receive great wrong, and I am condemned
against all right, you in perill to abide the bruite of spight-
full tongues, and I in danger to loose the thing that I most
desire; and although I could alledge many reasons to proove


APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
47
my sayings true, yet I referre my selfe to the experience
and bountie of your minde. And here with all loosing his
garments downe to his stomacke, and shewed Julina his
breasts and prety teates, surmounting farre the whitenesse
of snow it selfe, saying: Loe madam, beholde here the party
whom who have chalenged to be the father of your childe,
see I am a woman the daughter of a noble duke, who onely
for the love of him, whom you so lightly have spoken of,
have forsaken my father, abandoned my countrey, and in
manner as you see am become a serving man, satisfying
my selfe, but with the onely sight of my Apolonius, and now
madam, if my passion were not vehement, and my tormentes
without comparison, I would wish that my fained griefes
might be laughed to scorne, and my dissembled paines to bee
rewarded with floutes. But my love beeing pure, my travaile
continuall, and my griefes endlesse, I trust madam you wil
not only excuse me of crime, but also pitty my distresse, the
which I protest I would stil have kept secret, if my fortune
would so have permitted.
Julina did now thinke her selfe to be in a worse case then
ever she was before, for now she knew not whom to challenge
to be the father of her child, wherefore, when she had told
the duke the verye certaintye of the discourse, which Silvio
had made unto her, shee departed to her owne house, with
such griefe and sorrowe, that she purposed never to come out
of her owne dores againe alive, to be a wonder and mocking
stocke to the world.
But the duke more amazed, to heare this straunge discourse
of Silvio came unto him, whom when he had viewed with
better consideration, perceived in deede that it was Silla,
the daughter of Duke Pontus, and imbracing her in his armes,
he said
Oh the branche of al vertue and the flowre of curtesie it
selfe, pardon me I beseech you of all such discourtesies, as I -
have ignorantly committed towards you : desiring you that
without farther memorie of auncient griefes, you will accept


48
AFOLONIUS AND SILLA.
of me, who is more joyfull and better contented with your
presence, then if the whole world were at my commaunde-
ment. Where hath there ever bin founde such liberality in
a lover, which having beene trained up and nourished
amongest the delicacies and banquets of the court, accompa-
nied with traines of many faire and noble ladies living in
pleasure, and in the middest of delights, would so prodigally
adventure your selfe, neither fearing mishaps, nor misliking
to take such pains, as I knowe you have not bin accustomed
unto. O liberality never heard of before! O fact that can
never be sufficiently rewarded! O true love most pure and
unfained: heere with all sending for the most artificiall
workemen, he provided for her sondry suites of sumpteous
apparell, and the marriage day appointed, which was celebrat-
ed with great triumph through the whole citty of Constanti-
nople, every one praising the noblenesse of the duke, but so
many as did behold the excellent beauty of Silla, gave her
the praise above all the rest of the ladies in the troupe.
The matter seemed so wonderfull and straunge that the
hruite was spread throughout al the parts of Grecia, in so much
that it came to the hearing of Silvio, who as you have heard,
remained in those parts to enquire of his sister, he being the
gladdest man in the world, hasted to Constantinople, where
comming to his sister he was joyfully received, and most
lovingly welcomed, and intertained of the duke, his brother in
law. After he had remained there two or three daies, the
duke revealed unto Silvio, the whole discourse how it hap-
pened, betweene his sister and the lady Julina, and how his
sister was chalenged, for getting a woman with child: Silvio
blushing with these wordes, was striken with great remorse
to make Julina amends; understanding her to bee a noble
lady, and was left defamed to the world through his default,
hee therefore bewraied the whole circumstance to the duke,
whereof the duke beeing very joyfull, immediately repaired
with Silvio to the house of Julina, whom they found in her
chamber, in great lamentation and mourning. To whom the


APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
49
duke saide, take courage madam for behold here a gentleman,
that wil not sticke, both to father your child and to take
you for his wife, no inferiour person, but the sonne and heyre
of a noble duke, worthy of your estate and dignity.
Julina seeing Silvio in place, did know very well that lie
was the father of her childe, and was so ravished with joy,
that she knew not whether she were awake, or in some
dreame. Silvio imbracing her in his armes, craving forgive-
nesse of all that was past : concluded with her the marriage
day, which was presently accomplished with great joy and
contentation to all parties : and thus Silvio having attained
a noble wife, and Silla his sister her desired husband, they
passed the residue of their daies with such delight, as those
that have accomplished the perfections of their felicities.
FINIS.





THE HISTORY
OF
PROMOS AND CASSANDRA,
CLOSELY RESEMBLING THE PLOT OF
SHAKESPEARE'S MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
Reprinted from
“WHETSTONE's HEPTAMERON OF Civil DISCOURSES," 1582.
E
2





THE RARE HISTORIE
PROMOS AND CASSANDRA,
Reported by Madam ISABELLA.
forrarenes
ftherof, is live-
ly set out in
a comedie, by
of the whole
yet never pre.
stage.
A bard lawe
nent persons.
At what time Corvinus, the scourge of the Turkes, rayned This historie
as kinge of Bohemia, for to well governe the free cities of the
his realme, hee sent divers worthy majestrates. Among the the reporter
rest, he gave the Lorde Promos the lieutennauntship of Julio; worke," but
who in the beginning of his government, purged the cittie of sented upon
many ancient vices, and severely punished new offenders.
In this cittie, there was an olde custome (by the suffering
of some majestrates, growne out of use) that what man so
ever comitted adulterie, should lose his head; and the
woman offender should ever after be infamously noted, by for inconti-
the wearing of some disguised apparrell : for the man was
helde to bee the greatest offender, and therefore had the
severest punishment.
Lorde Promos, with a rough execution, revived this sta-
tute, and in the hyest degree of injurie brake it hymselfe,
as shall appeare by the sequell of Andrugioes adventures.
This Andrugio, by the yeelding favour of fayre Polina,
trespassed against this ordinaunce, who through envie was
accused, and by Lorde Promos condemned to suffer execution.
The wofull Cassandra, Andrugioes sister, prostrates her
selfe at Lorde Promos feete, and with more teares then
wordes thus pleaded for her brothers lyfe.
Most noble Lorde, and worthy judge, voutchsafe, mee the
favour to speake, whose case is so desperate, as unlesse you


PROMOS AND CASSANDRA.
feuce.
Justice, is
more renown
ed by lenytie,
tie.
beholde mee with the eyes of mercie, the frayle trespasse of
condemned Andrugio, my brother, will bee the death of sor-
rowfull Cassandra, his innocent sister. I wil not presume
to excuse his offence, or reproche the lawe of rigor; for in
the generall construction, hee hath done most evill, and the
Lawe adjudg. law hath judged but what is right : but (reverent judge,)
generall of- pardon the necessitie maketh mee here tel, that your wisdome
already knoweth. The most soveraigne justice is crowned
with laurell, although shee bee gyrt with a sword, and this
priveledge shee giveth unto her administrators; that they
shall mitigate the severetie of the law, according to the
na quallyty of the offence. Then, that Justice bee not robbed of
then severi her gratious pitty, listen good Lorde Promos, to the nature of
my brothers offence, and his able meanes to repayre the in-
jurie. Hee hath defyled, no nuptiall bed, the stayne wherof
dishonoureth the guyltlesse husband: hee hath committed no
violent rape, in which act the injuried mayde can have no
amends. But with yeelding consent of his mistresse An-
drugio hath onlye sinned through love, and never ment but
with marriage to make amendes.
A good cause I humbly beseeche you to accept his satisfaction, and by
this example you shall be as much beloved for your clemen-
cye, as feared for your severitie. Andrugio shalbe well
warned, and hee with his sister, wofull Cassandra, shall ever
remayne, your Lordships true servantes.
Promos eares were not so attentive to heare Cassandras
ruethful tale, as his eyes were settled to regarde her excellent
beautie. And Love, that was the appointed headsman of
eth no degre. Andrugio, became now the soveraigne of his judges thought.
But because he would seeme to bridle his passions, he aun-
swered: fayre damsell, have patience, you importune me
with an impossybylytie: he is condempned by lawe, then
Princes pre-without injurie to lawe, he can not be saved.
ab ve lave. Princes and their deputies prerogatives (quoth she) are
above the lawe. Besides, lawe, truelie construed, is but
lent of the the amends of injurie; and where, the faulte may bee valued,
A good cause
to moove
pytie.
Love favour
rogatire, are
The true in-
lawe.


PROMOS AND CASSANDRA.
55
upon an evyl
11 scourge unto
request.
and amendes had, the breache of lawe is sufficiently re-
payred.
Quoth Lorde Promos : your passions mooveth more then
your proofes, and for your sake I wyll reprive Andrugio, and a good turne
studie how to do you ease without apparant breache of lawe. cause.
Cassandra, recomforted, with humble thankes receyved
his favoure, and in great haste goeth too participate this hope Aucthorytie.
with her dying brother : but oh, that aucthorytie, should j'estrates, is a
have power, to make the vertuous to doo amisse, as well the good."
as throughe correction to enforce the vicious to fall unto
goodnesse.
Promos is a witnes of this priviledge, who not able to
subdue his incontinent love, and (withal) resolved that Cas-
sandra would never be overcome with fayre wordes, large
promises, or riche rewardes, demaunded the spoyle of her A monstrous
virginitie for raunsome of her brothers lybertie.
Cassandra ymagyned at the first, that Lorde Promos
used this speache but to trie her behaviour, aunswered
hym so wisely, as, if he had not ben the ryvall of vertue, he ben
could not but have suppressed his lewde affection, and have les, may re-
subscribed to her just petition : but to leave circumstaunces, wicked.
Promos was fiered with a vicious desyre, which must be
quenched with Cassandraes yeldyng love, or Andrugio must
dye.
Cassandra, mooved with a chaste disdayne, departed with
the resolution, rather to dye her selfe, then to stayne her
honour; and with this heavie newes, greeted her condemned
brother. Poore man, alas, what should he do! Life was
sweete; but to be redeemed with his sisters infamie could
not but be alwayes unsaverie.
To perswade her to consente was unnaturall: too yealde to
death was more greevous.
To choose the leaste of these evylles was difficult: to studie A hard choice
long was daungerous.
Fayne would he lyve, but shame cloased his mouth when
he attempted to perswade his sister.
Unlesse they
be reprobate.
good exam-
ples, may re-
fourme the
of two esyls.


PROMOS AND CASSANDRA.
57
A cause that
may excuse
the breach of
knowne, that thou receavedst dishonor to give thy brother
lyfe: if it be secreat, thy conscience wyl be without scruple ma excuse
of guiltinesse. Thus, knowne, or unknowne, thou shalt be honour.
deflowred, but not dishonested, and for amends wee both shall
lyve.
This further hope remaineth ; that as the gilliflower both
pleaseth the eye and feedeth the sence, even so the vertue
of thy chast behaviour may so grace thy bewty, as Promos
filthie lust may bee turned into faithfull love, and so move A faint hope.
him to salve thy honour in making thee hys wife, or for
conscience forbeare to doe so heynous an injurie.
Soveraigne maddame, and you faire gentlewomen, (quoth
Isabella) I intreate you in Cassandras behalfe, these reasons
well wayed, to judge her yeelding a constrainte, and no con-
sent; who, werie of her owne life, and tender over her bro-
thers, with the teares of her lovely eyes bathed his cheekes,
with this comfortable sentence.
Lyve Andrugio, and make much of this kisse, which Alovyng kys.
breatheth my honour into thy bowels, and draweth the in-
famie of thy first trespasse into my bosome.
The sharpe incounters betweene life and death so occupied
Andrugios sences, that his tongue had not the vertue to bid
her fare well. To greeve you with the hearing of Cassandras
secreate plaints were an injurie, vertuous ladies, for they
concluded with their good fortune, and everlasting fame; but
for that her offence grew-neyther of frayltie, free wyl, or any a good con-
motion of a woman, but by the meere inforcement of a man, Cassandra.
because she would not staine the modest weedes of her kynde,
shee attired her selfe in the habit of a page, and with the
bashfull grace [of] a pure virgin, shee presented wicked
Promos Andrugioes precious ransome.
This devill, in humaine shape, more vicious then Hylio-
gabalus of Rome, and withall, as cruell as Denis of Sicyll, a damnable
receaved this juell with a thousande protestations of favour.
But what should I say? in the beginnyng of his love Promos
was metamorphosed into Priapus: and of a feende what may
sideration in
offence.


58
PROMOS AND CASSANDRA.
we expect, but vengeaunce heaped upon villany? And
therefore, let it not seeme straunge, that after this helhound
had dishonoured Cassandra, hee sent his warrant to the
gayler pryvely to execute Andrugio, and, with his head
crowned with these two breefes, in Promos name to present
Cassandra:
A villanous
ingratitude.
Fayre Cassandra, as Promos promist thee,
From pryson loe, he sendes thy brother free.
.
An especiall
providence of
God.
A signe of an
honest na-
ture
This was his charge, whose cursed wyll had ben executed
ciall had not God, by an especiall providence, at the howre of his
of death possessed Andrugio with the vertues of the two brave
Romanes, Marcus Crassus, and Marius, the one of whiche by
the force of his tongue, and the other by the motions of his
eyes caused the axe to fall out of the headsmans hand, and
mollyfyed his cruell mynde.
With lyke compassion the gayler (in hearinge Andrugios
hard adventure) left his resolution; and uppon a solempne
othe, to live unknowne, yea, to his deare sister, he gave him
of au life, and in the dead of the night, betooke him to God, and to
good fortune : which done, this good gayler tooke the head
of a yonge man newe executed, who somewhat resembled
Andrugio, and according to lewde Promos commaundement
made a present thereof to Cassandra. How unwelcome this
present was, the testimonie of her former sorowes somewhat
come present. discover ; but to give her present passion a true grace were
the taske of Prometheus, or such a one as hath had experience
of the anguishes of hell.
O! quoth shee, sweete Andrugio, whether shall I firste
lament thy death, exclaime of Promos injurie, or bemone
my owne estate, deprived of honour ? and which is worse,
cannot die but by the violence of my owne hands. Alas
the least of these greefes, are to heavie a burden for a man,
then all, joyned in one poore womans hearte, can not be eased
but by death; and to be avenged of injurious fortune, I wil
forth with cut my fillet of life. But so shall Promos lewdnesse
An unwel-


PROMOS AND CASSANDRA.
59
well prevent-
escape unpunished : what remedie? I am not of power to
revenge: to complayne, I expresse my owne infamie, but
withal proclaime his vilanie : and to heare his lewdnes re-
proved woulde take away the bitternesse of my death. I
will goe unto the king, who is just and mercifull: hee shall
heare the ruthfull events of Promos tyrrannie; and to give
him example of vengeaunce, I will seale my complaintes with
my dearest bloode.
Continuing this determination, Cassandra buried her
imagined brothers heade, and with speed jornyed unto king
Corvinus court; before whose presence when shee arrived,
her mourninge attyre, but especially her modest countenaunce,
moved him to beholde her with an especiall regarde.
Cassandra (uppon the graunt of audience) with her eyes
overcharged with teares, reported the alreadie discoursed ac-
cidentes, with suche an apparaunce of greefe, as the king and A. mischiefe
his attendants were astonied to heare her; and sure had shee ed.
not been happily prevented, shee had concluded her deter-
mination with chast Lucretias destiny. The king comforted
her with many gratious words, and promised to take such
order, that (although he could not be revived) her brothers A noble fa-
death should fully be revenged, and her crased honour re-
payred without blemish of her former reputation.
Cassandra, upon these comfortable wordes, a lytell suc-
coured her afflicted hart, and with patience attended the jus-
tice of the king; who with a chosen companie made a pro-
gresse to Julio, and entred the town with a semblaunce of
great favour towardes Promos, by that colour to learne what pollye.
other corrupte majestrates ruled in the cittie: for well he
knewe, that byrdes of a feather would flie together, and
wicked men would joyne in affection to boulster each others
evil.
After this gratious king had by heedfull intelligence un-
derstoode the factions of the people, unlooked for of the ma-
gistrates, he caused a proclamation to be published, in which
was a clause, that if anie person coulde charge anie magis- s Ryal grace.
vour.
A
necessarie


60
PROMOS AND CASSANDRA.
The clamors
of the poore,
and the con-
sciences of
the rich, Iyke
hell.
of Cassandra.
An unusual
place for a CO
judge.
trate or officer with anie notable or haynous offence, treason,
murder, rape, sedition, or with any such notorious crime,
where they were the judges of the multitude, hee woulde
himselfe bee the judge of them, and doe justice unto the
meanest.
The clamors Uppon this proclamation it was a hell to heare the excla-
cientes comimations of the poore, and the festered consciences of the rich
* appeared as lothsome as the river of Stix.
Among manie that complayned, and received judgement of
comfort, Cassandras processe was presented, who, lead be-
tweene sorrow and shame, accused Promos to his face.
Sorrowe and The evidence was so playne, as the horrour of a guiltie
attendantes conscience reaved Promos of all motions of excuse; so that
holding up his hande among the worst degree of theeves, the
litle hope that was leaft moved him to confesse the crime,
and with repentance to sue for mercy.
0! (quoth the king) such espetial mercy were tyrannie to a
place for a common wealth. No, Promos no: Hoc facias alteri, quod
tibi vis fieri: you shall be measured with the grace you be-
towed on Andrugio.
A necessarie O God! (quoth hee) if men durst bark as dogges, manie a
judge in the world would be bewrayed for a theefe. It be-
hoveth a Prince to know to whom he committeth authoritie,
Princes beres least the sword of justice, appointed to chasten the lewde,
evyll officers wound the good; and where good subjects are wronged, evill
officers receave the benefit, and their soveraignes beareth the
blame.
Well, wicked Promos, to scourge thy impious offences,
I heere give sentence, that thou foorthwith marry Cassandra,
to repayre her honour by thee violated, and that the next
day thou lose thy head, to make satisfaction for her brothers
death.
*This just judgement of the good kinge in the first point
was foorth with executed; but sacred is the authoritie, that
The good the vertues of the good are a sheelde unto the lewde : so
sweete Cassandra, who (simply) by vertue overcame the
no
regarde in a
prince.
the blame of
Ajust jud
ment.
protect
lewde.
the


PROMOS AND CASSANDRA.
61
The duetie of
ly showen.
tfon without The comon
weale, is to
be regarded
vate favour.
Sive bonum
fama est.
spight of fortune, in this marriadge was charged with a new
assault of sorrow, and preferring the dutie of a wife before
the naturall zeale of a sister, where she before prosecuted a wyfe, true
the revenge of her brothers death, shee now was an humble"
suter to the kinge for her husbands lyfe.
The gracious kinge sought to appease her with good
words, but hee could not do her this private favour without T
injurie unto the publyke weale; for though (quoth he) your before apei.
sute be just, and the bounden dutie of a wife, yet I in fulfill-
yng the same should do injustly, and (generally) injure my
subjects: and therfore, good gentlewoman, have patience,
and no doubt vertue in the ende will give you power over
all your afflictions.
There was no remedie: Cassandra must departe out of
hope to obtayne her sute; but as the experience, is in
dayly use, the dooinges of princes post through the world on
Pegasus backe, and as theyr actions are good or badde, fine malum,
so is their fame. With the lyke speede the kynges jus-
tice, and Promos execution was spred abroad, and by the
tonge of a clowne was blowen into Andrugioes eares, who
tyll then lyved lyke an outlawe in the desart wooddes.
But upon these newes, covertly in the habyt of an hermyt, tions,od
by the divine motion of the sowle who directes us in thinges seule, romana
that be good, and the flesshe in actions of evyll, Andrugio fesh.
goes to see the death of his capitall enemie; but on the other
parte regardyng the sorrow of his sister, he wisshed him lyfe
as a friende.
To conclude, as well to geve terrour to the lewde, as com-
fort to his good subjectes, the kyng (personallie) came to see
the execution of Promos; who, garded with officers, and
strengthened with the comfortable perswasions of his ghostly
fathers, among whom Andrugio was, meekely offered his a gratefull
lyfe as a satisfaction for his offences, which were many more
then the lawe tooke knowledge of: and yet, to say the trueth,
suche was his repentance, as the multitude did both forgeve
and pittie him; yea, the king wondred that his lyfe was go-
Good mo-
bons,
ceede frointhe
pro.
evyll front the
parte.


62
PROMOS AND CASSANDRA.
eth death, and
no other sa
tisfaction.
verned with no more vertue, consideryng the grace he showed
at his death.
Andrugio behouldyng this ruethfull spectackle was so
overcome with love towardes his sister, as to give her com-
fort he franckly consented anew to emperill his own life;
and followinge this resolution, in his hermyts weede, upon
his knees he humblye desired the kinge too give hym leave
to speake. The kyng (gratiously) graunted hym audience.
Wherupon (quoth he), regarded soveraigne, if lawe may
(possibly) be satisfied, Promos true repentance meritteth
pardon.
Murther ask. Good father (quoth the king) he can not live, and the lawe
tiofaether, sa- satisfied, unlesse (by miracle) Andrugio be revived.
Then (quoth the hermyt) if Andrugio lyve, the law is
satisfied, and Promos discharged.
I (quoth the king,) if your praier can revive the one, my
mercie shall acquite the other.
I humbly thanke your Majestie (quoth Andrugio); and
discoveryng himselfe, shewed the providence of God and the
meane of his escape: and tendrynge his sisters comfort above
his owne safetie, hee prostrated him selfe at his Majesties
feete, humblye to obay the sentence of his pleasure. The
kinge uppon the reporte of this straunge adventure, after
good deliberation, pardoned Promos, to keepe his worde, and
are withall, houldyng an opinyon that it was more benefitiall for
their word. “O the citizens, to be ruled by their olde evell governour, new re-
fourmed, then to adventure uppon a newe, whose behaviours
were unknowne, and to perfect Cassandras joye, he par-
least evinu is doned her brother Andrugio, with condition, that he should
marrie Polina. Thus, from betweene the teethe of daunger
every partie was preserved, and in the ende establyshed in
their hartes desire.
Princes
are
of two, the
least evill is
least daun-
gerous.


INTRODUCTION.
The story of “The Merchant of Venice," as regards the
penalty of flesh for the non-payment of money at a stipulated
time, is unquestionably of oriental origin. It was, however,
written in Italian, by Giovanni Fiorentino, as early as 1378,
although not printed until nearly two centuries afterwards.
Whether it had previously found a place in the Gesta Ro-
manorum may be a question of difficult solution, but we cer-
tainly trace it there at a very early date. It has recently been
printed by Mr. Wright, in his "Latin Stories of the Thirteenth
and Fourteenth Centuries,” which he compiled for the Percy
Society, and which includes many other interesting and highly
curious early narratives illustrative of our ancient litera-
ture. It is there entitled (p. 114) De Milite conventionem
faciente cum Mercatore ; but the merchant is not represented
as a Jew, and the contract is, “conventio talis erit, quod mihi
cartain unam de sanguine tuo facias, quod si diem inter nos
non tenueris assignatam, libere habeam sine conditione omnes
carnes tui corporis evellere cum gladio acuto.” In the novel
in Il Pecorone of Giovanni Fiorentino, the lender of the
money (under very similar circumstances, and the wants of
the Christian borrower arising out of nearly the same events)
is a Jew, and there also we have the
- "equal pound
Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken
In what part of your body pleaseth me.”
The words in the Italian are, “che 'l Giudeo gli potesse
levare una libra di carne d'addosso di qualumque luogo
e' volesse,” which are so nearly like those of Shakespeare, as
to lead us to believe that he followed here some literal transla-
E
9


INTRODUCTION.
tion of the novel in Il Pecorone. None such has, however,
reached our time, and the version we have printed at the foot
of the Italian was made and published in 1755.
The translation which we may suppose to have existed in the
time of Shakespeare was not the occasion of the “Declama-
tion,” as it is called, in the work entitled “The Orator," printed
in 1598, because that was “englished” from the French of
Silvayn, by Anthony Munday, under the assumed name of
Lazarus Piot. We know that Shakespeare's “ Merchant of
Venice” was written before 1598, because in that year
it is mentioned by Francis Meres, in his Palladis Tamia
1598; and the “Declamation," with “The Christian's An-
swer," as given by Munday, does not seem to refer to
the same incidents as those in the play, because we are told
that “the ordinary judge of the place appointed him (the
Jew) to cut a just pound of the Christian’s flesh; and if he
cut either more or less, then his own head should be smitten
off.” Nothing is here hinted at of the intervention of Portia,
nor is any thing said of the consequences of shedding “one
drop of Christian blood.”
It seems at least a plausible supposition that “The Merchant
of Venice” had been preceded by some drama upon similar
incidents; for in his “School of Abuse,” 1579 (Shakespeare
Society's reprint, p. 30) Stephen Gosson especially praises a
play called “The Jew," which, he adds, “represented the
greediness of worldly chusers, and bloody minds of usurers.”
The words “ the greediness of worldly chusers” lead us to
notice the final portion of our present publication, for they
seem to refer to that part of the plot of “The Merchant of
Venice” which relates to the choice of the caskets. The work
known as the Gesta Romanorum is here again resorted to;
and as certain portions of it had been translated and published
as early as 1577, by Robinson, we have reprinted what re-
lates to the selection of one out of three caskets by a young
princess. The connecting link between this story and Shake-
speare's play is the description of the caskets themselves,


INTRODUCTION.
and of the inscriptions upon them, which closely resemble
those given in “The Merchant of Venice." Tyrwhitt was of
opinion that Shakespeare “followed some unknown novelist,
who saved him the trouble of working the two stories into
one.” Such may have been the fact; but it is also not at
all impossible, and Gosson seems to hint as much, that in the
old play of “The Jew,” which had been “shown at the Bull”
before 1579, the incidents regarding the pound of flesh and
the three caskets were united.





66
GIORNATA QUARTA.
nessuno, e hammi scritto più volte ch' io te gli mandi. E
sotti dire ch' egli è il più ricco mercatante che sia oggi tra’
Cristiani. E però voglio che come io son morto, tu te ne
vada a lui, e gli porti questa lettera; e se tu saprai fare, tu
rimarrai ricco uomo. Disse il figliuolo. Padre mio, io sono
apparecchiato a fare ciò che voi mi comandate; di che il pa-
dre gli diè la benedizione, e ivi a pochi dì si morì, e tutti i
figliuoli ne fecero grandissimo lamento, e fecero al corpo quello
onore che si gli conveniva. E poi ivi a pochi dì, questi due
fratelli chiamarono Giannetto, e sì gli dissero: Fratello nostro,
egli è vero che nostro padre fece testamento, e lasciò eredi
noi, e di te non fe veruna menzione; nondimeno tu se' pure
nostro fratello, e per tanto a quell'ora manchi a te, che a noi,
quello che c'è. Rispose Giannetto: Fratelli miei, io vi rin-
grazio della vostra proferta; ma quanto a me, l'animo mio è
d'andare a procacciare mia ventura in qualche parte; e così
son fermo di fare, e voi v' abbiate l'eredità segnata e bene-
detta. Onde i fratelli veggendo la volontà sua, diedergli un
cavallo e danari per le spese. Giannetto prese commiato da
loro, e andossene a Vinegia, e giunse al fondaco di messere
Ansaldo, e diegli la lettera che 'l padre gli aveva dato innan-
The father replied, My dear Giannetto, there is no creature living to
whom I wish better than to you; and therefore 'tis my desire that you
leave this city after my death, and that you go to Venice to your god-
father, whose name is Ansaldo; he has no child, and has wrote to
me often to send you there to him; and I can tell you, he is the richest
merchant amongst the Christians: and therefore it is my request, that
as soon as I am dead, you go and carry this letter to him, and if you
behave well, you will be certainly a rich man. The son answered, I
am ready to do whatever my dear father shall command: upon which
he gave him his benediction, and in a few days died.
The sons all made great lamentation at his death, and paid all neces-
sary honours to his corpse. Some days after, the two brothers sent for
Giannetto, and told him, Brother, it is true that our father made a will,
and we two are left his heirs, without any mention of you: nevertheless,
you are our brother, and shall have the command of every thing as
much as we ourselves; you shall not want till we are in want. Gian-


68
GIORNATA QUARTA.
e cortesia dove si conveniva, e sempre rendeva onore a
messere Ansaldo, più che se fosse stato cento volte suo padre.
E seppesi si sаviamente mantenere con ogni maniera di gente,
che quasi il comune di Vinegia gli voleva bene, veggendolo
tanto savio e con tanta piacevolezza, e cortese oltre a misura;
di che le donne e gli uomini ne parevano innamorati, e mes-
sere Ansaldo non vedeva più oltre che lui, tanto gli piacevano
i modi e le maniere sue. Nè si faceva quasi niuna festa in
Vinegia, che 'l detto Giannetto non vi fosse invitato, tanto gli
era voluto bene da ogni persona. Ora avvenne che due suoi
cari compagni volsero andare in Alessandria con loro merca-
tanzie con due navi, com'erano usati di fare ogni anno; onde
eglino il dissero a Giannetto, dicendo : Tu devresti dilettarti
del mare con noi, per vedere del mondo, e massimamente
quel Damasco e quel paese di là. Rispose Giannetto: In
buona fe ch' io verrei molto volentieri, se 'l padre mio mes-
sere Ansaldo mi desse la parola. Disser costoro : Noi fare-
mo sì ch' e' te la darà, e sarà contento. E subito se n'anda-
rono a messer Ansaldo, e dissero : Noi vi vogliamo pregare,
che vi piaccia di dare parola a Giannetto che ne venga in
questa primavera con noi in Alessandria, e che gli forniate
every one in the house, that Giannetto should be obeyed, and served
with more attention than had been paid to himself. He then delivered
him the keys of his ready money; and told him, Son, spend this money
in dressing and equipping yourself in the manner you like best; keep
a table to entertain company, and make yourself known: I shall leave
it to you to do as you think best; and remember, that the more you
gain the good will of every body, the more you will be dear to me.
Giannetto now began to visit and frequent the gentlemen of Venice,
to give entertainments, had a number of servants, and bought good
horses to assist at all tiltings and tournaments, and such like exercises,
at which he excelled; being adroit, expert, and well-bred, and knowing
how to do the honours on all the occasions that offered; particularly to
Ansaldo, he was more obedient and courteous than if he had been an
hundred times his father. He conducted himself so discreetly with all
sorts of people, that almost every body in Venice was fond of him, and
loved him greatly. Ansaldo could think of nothing but him; so much


GIORNATA QUARTA.
69
qualche legno o nave, acciò ch'egli vegga un poco del mondo.
Disse messere Ansaldo : Io son contento, se piace a lui. Ris-
posero costoro : Messere, egli è contento. Per che messer
Ansaldo subito gli fe fornire una bellissima nave, e fella ca-
ricare di molta mercatanzia, e guernire di bandiere e d'armi
quanto fe mestiero. E dipoi ch' ella fu acconcia, messere
Ansaldo comandò al padrone et a gli altri che erano al servi-
zio della nave, che facessero ciò che Giannetto comandasse
loro, e che fosse loro raccomandato; però ch' io non lo mando,
diceva egli, per guadagno che io voglia ch'e' faccia, ma perch'
egli vada a suo diletto veggendo il mondo. E quando Gian-
netto fu per montar, tutta Vinegia trasse a vedere, perchè di
gran tempo non era uscita di Vinegia una nave tanto bella e
tanto ben fornita, quanto quella. Et a ogni persona incre-
sceva della sua partita; e così prese commiato da messere
Ansaldo e tutti i suoi compagni, e entrarono in mare, e alza-
rono le vele, e presero il camino d'Alessandria nel nome di
Dio e di buona ventura. Ora essendo questi tre compagni in
tre navi, e navicando più e più dì, avvenne che una mattina
innanzi giorno il detto Giannetto vide un golfo di mare con
un bellissimo porto, e domandò il padrone come si chiamava
was he pleased with his good manners and behaviour. There was
scarce any party of pleasure in Venice to which Giannetto was not in-
vited, so much was he esteemed by all.
Now it happened, that two of his most intimate acquaintance had
designed to go with two ships, laden with merchandize, to Alexandria,
as was usual every year; they told Giannetto he would do well to take
pleasure in a voyage at sea with them, to see the world, and more espe-
pecially Damascus, and the countries near it. Giannetto said, In good
faith I would go willingly if my father Ansaldo will give leave. We
will manage so well with him, his companions answered, as to make
him content. They go to Ansaldo, and beg his permission for Gian-
netto to go in the spring with them to Alexandria; and desire him to
provide him a ship, that he may see a little of the world. Ansaldo
said he would give leave if the other desired it. They answered, it
was his desire. Ansaldo immediately provided a very fine ship, and
loaded it with merchandize, and adorned it with streamers, and fur-


70
GIORNATA QUARTA.
quel porto; il quale gli rispose: Messere, quel luogo è d' una
gentildonna vedova, la quale ha fatto pericolare molti signori.
Disse Giannetto : Come? Rispose costui : Messere, questa
è una bella donna e vaga, e tiene questa legge; che chiunque
v' arriva, convien che dorma con lei, e s' egli ha a far seco,
convien ch' e' la tolga per moglie, et è signora del porto e di
tutto 'l paese. E s' egli non ha a fare con lei, perde tutto
ciò ch'egli ha. Pensò Giannetto fra se un poco, e poi disse :
Trova ogni modo che tu vuoi, e pommi a quel porto. Disse
il padrone : Messere, guardate ciò che voi dite, però che
molti signori vi sono iti, che ne sono rimasi diserti. Disse
Giannetto: Non ť impacciare in altro; fa quel ch' io ti
dico; e così fu fatto, che subito volsero la nave, e calaronsi
in quel porto, che i compagni dell'altre navi non se ne furono
accorti niente. Per che la mattina si sparse la novella, come
questa bella nave era giunta in porto; tal che tutta la gente
trasse a vedere, e fu subito detto alla donna, sì ch'ella
mandò per Giannetto, il quale incontanente fu a lei, e con
molta riverenza la salutò, et ella lo prese per mano, e doman-
dollo chi egli era e donde, e se e' sapeva l' usanza del paese.
Rispose Giannetto che sì, e che non v'era ito per nessuna
nished it with arms as many as were necessary; and as soon as it was
ready, he gave orders to the captain and sailors to do every thing
Giannetto commanded. He told them, he did not send him in hopes
of great gain, but to see the world at his pleasure. And when Gian-
netto was going on board, all Venice was gathered to see him; for
there had not, for a long time, so fine a ship been seen to sail from
thence. Every body was concerned at his departure. He took bis
leave of Ansaldo and his acquaintance; and putting out to sea, they
hoisted the sails, and stood for Alexandria. The three friends with
their ships sailing in company for some days, it happened one morning
early, that Giannetto saw a gulph, with a fine port, and asked the
captain how the port was called ? He replied, That place belongs to
a widow lady, who has ruined many gentlemen. In what manner ?
says Giannetto. He answers, This lady is a fine and beautiful woman,
and has made a law, that whosoever arrives here is obliged to go to
bed with her, and if he can have the enjoyment of her, he must take


GIORNATA QUARTA.
71
altra cosa. Et ella disse: E voi siate il ben venuto per cen-
to volte; e così gli fece tutto quel giorno grandissimo onore,
e fece invitare baroni e conti e cavalieri assai, ch' ella ave-
va sotto se, perch' e' tenessero compagnia a costui. Piacque
molto a tutti i baroni la maniera di Giannetto, e 'l suo essere
costumato e piacevole e parlante; sì che quasi ogniuno se
ne innamorò, e tutto quel giorno si danzò e si cantò, e fecesi
festa nella Corte per amore di Giannetto; e ogniuno sarebbe
stato contento d'averlo avuto per signore. Ora venendo la
sera, la donna lo prese per mano, e menollo in camera e disse:
E' mi pare ora d' andarsi a letto. Rispose Giannetto: Ma-
donna, io sono a voi ; e subito vennero due damigelle, l'una
con vino, e l'altra con confetti. Disse la donna: lo so che
voi avete colto sete, però bevete. Giannetto prese de' con-
fetti, e bevve di questo vino, il quale era lavorato da far dor-
mire, et egli nol sapeva, et ebbene una mezza tazza, perchè
gli parve buono, e subitamente si spogliò e andossi a ripo-
sare. E come egli giunse nel letto, così fu addormentato.
La donna si coricó a lato a costui, che mai non si risentì in-
fino alla mattina, ch'era passata terza. Per che la donna
quando fu giorno si levò, e fe cominciare a scaricare la nave,
her for his wife, and be lord of the port, and all the country; but if he
cannot enjoy her, he loses every thing he has brought with him.
Giannetto, after a little reflection, tells the captain to do every thing
in his power to get into the port. The captain bids him consider what
he had commanded; that many persons had gone in who had been
stripped of every thing. Giannetto tells him not to trouble himself on
that score; do what I order. He was obeyed; and in an instant they
turn the ship, and slide into the port so easily that the other ships per-
ceived nothing.
In the morning the news was spread of a fine ship being arrived in
the port, so that every body ran to see it. The lady was informed
soon of it, and sent for Giannetto, who waited on her immediately,
and salutes her with a low bow. She, taking him by the hand, asks
him who he is ? from whence he came ? and if he knew the custom of
the country? He answers in the affirmative; and that the knowledge
of that custom was his only reason for coming. The lady replies, You


72
GIORNATA QUARTA.
la quale trovò piena di molta ricca e buona mercatanzia.
Ora essendo passata la terza, le cameriere della donna anda-
rono al letto a Giannetto, e fecerlo levare e dissergli che s'an-
dasse con Dio; però ch' egli aveva perduto la nave, e ciò
che vera; di che' e' si vergognò, e parvegli avere mal fatto.
La donna gli fece dare un cavallo e danari per le spese, et
egli se n' andò tristo e doloroso, e vennesene verso Vinegia;
dove, come fu giunto, non volle andare a casa per vergogna,
ma di notte se n'ando a casa d' un suo compagno, il qual si
maravigliò molto e gli disse: Oimè! Giannetto, ch' è questo?
Et egli rispose : La nave mia percosse una notte in uno scog-
lio, e ruppesi e fracassossi ogni cosa, e chi andò qua, e chi
là; io m' attenni a un pezzo di legno, che mi gittò a proda, e
così me ne sono venuto per terra, e son qui. Giannetto stette
più giorni in casa di questo suo compagno, il quale andò un di
a visitare messere Ansaldo, e trovollo molto maninconoso.
Disse messere Ansaldo: Io ho sì grande la paura, che questo
mio figliuolo non sia morto, o che 'l mare non gli faccia male,
ch' io non trovo luogo, e non ho bene; tanto è l'amore ch' io
gli porto. Disse questo giovane : Io ve ne so dire novelle,
ch'egli ha rotto in mare e perduto ogni cosa, salvo ch' egli
are a hundred times welcome; and that day paid him great honours,
and sent for her barons, counts, and knights in great number, who were
her subjects, to keep Giannetto company. These nobles were highly
delighted with the good breeding and manners of Giannetto; every one
was in raptures with him, and the whole day was spent in musick
and dancing, and feasting at the court, in honour of him; and all
would have been rejoiced to have him for their lord.
The night being come, the lady taking him by the hand, and leading
hiin to her chamber, said, It seems to be time to go to bed. Giannetto
tells the lady he is entirely devoted to her service; and immediately
two damsels enter with wine and sweet meats. The lady says, she is
sure he must be thirsty; and entreats him to taste the wine: he takes
the sweet meats and drinks some of the wine, which was prepared with
ingredients to cause sleep; this he was ignorant of, and drank half the
cup, as he found it to his taste. He then undresses himself, and goes
into the bed, where he instantly falls asleep; the lady lays in the bed


GIORNATA QUARTA.
73.
è campato. Disse messere Ansaldo : Lodato sia Dio! pur
ch' egli sia campato, io son contento; dell'avere ch' è per-
duto, non mi curo. Ov'è? Questo giovane rispose : Egli
è in casa mia; e di subito messere Ansaldo si mosse, e volle
andare a vederlo. E com' egli lo vide, subito corse ad ab-
bracciarlo e disse : Figliuol mio, non ti bisogna vergognar di
me, ch'egli è usanza che delle navi rompano in mare; e però,
figliuol mio, non ti sgomentare ; poichè non t hai fatto male,
io son contento, e inenosselo a casa sempre confortandolo.
La novella si sparse per tutta Vinegia, e a ogniuno incres-
ceva del danno che aveva avuto Giannetto. Ora avvenne
ch’indi a poco tempo quei suoi compagni tornarono d' Ales-
sandria, e tutti ricchi; e com' eglino giunsero, domandarono
di Giannetto, e fu loro detta ogni cosa; per che subito cor-
sero ad abbracciarlo, dicendo : Come ti partisti tu, o dove an-
dasti ? che noi non potemmo mai sapere nulla di te, e tor-
nammo indietro tutto quel giorno, nè mai ti potemmo vedere,
nè sapere dove tu fossi ito; e n' abbiamo avuto tanto dolore,
che per tutto questo camino non ci siamo potuti rallegrare,
credendo che tu fossi morto. Rispose Giannetto: E' si levò
un vento in contrario in un gomito di mare, che meno la nave
by his side: he never wakes till late in the morning; but the lady rose
with the sun, and gave orders to unload the vessel, which she found
full of rich and costly merchandise. After nine o'clock, the women
servants of the lady go to the bedside, order Giannetto to rise and be
gone, for he had lost the ship and every thing belonging to it. He was
much ashamed; and then perceived that he had been guilty of great
folly. The lady gave him a horse, and money for his pocket, and he
leaves the place very sorrowful and melancholy, and goes forwards on
the way towards Venice. When he arrives, he dares not return home
for shame; but at night goes to the house of a friend, who is surprised
to see him, and inquires of him the eause of his return? He answers,
his ship had struck on a rock in the night, and was broke in pieces, and
every thing destroyed; he held fast a great piece of wood, which threw
him on shore, and so he came there by land.
He staid many days in the house of this friend, who going one day
to make a visit to Ansaldo, and finding him very disconsolate: I fear,


74
GIORNATA QUARTA.
mia a piombo a ferire in uno scoglio ch' era presso a terra,
che appena campai, e ogni cosa andò sottosopra. E questa è
la scusa che Giannetto diè, per non iscoprire il difetto suo.
E sì fecero insieme la festa grande, ringraziando Iddio pur
ch'egli era campato, dicendo : A quest' altra primavera, con
la grazia di Dio, guadagneremo ciò che tu hai perduto a
questa volta, e però attendiamo a darci buon tempo senza
maninconia. E così attesero a darci piacere e buon tempo,
com'erano usati prima. Ma pure Giannetto non faceva se
non pensare, com' egli potesse tornare a quella donna, ima-
ginando e dicendo: Per certo e' conviene ch' io l'abbia per
moglie, o io vi morrò; e quasi non si poteva rallegrare. Per
che messere Ansaldo gli disse più volte : Non ti dare manin-
conia, che noi abbiamo tanta roba, che noi ci possiamo stare
molto bene. Rispose Giannetto: Signor mio, io non sarò
mai contento, se io non rifò un' altra volta questa andata.
Onde veggendo pure messere Ansaldo la volontà sua, quando
fu il tempo gli fornì un' altra nave di più mercatanzia che la
prima, e di più valuta; tal che in quella mise la maggior
parte di ciò ch'egli aveva al mondo. I compagni, quando
ebbero fornite le navi loro di ciò che faceva mestiero, entra-
says Ansaldo, so much, that this son of mine is either dead, or that the
sea does not agree with him, that I have no rest day or night; so great
is my love to him. The friend told him, he could tell him news of him;
that he had been shipwreckt, and had lost his all; but that he himself
was safe. God be praised, says Ansaldo; if he be alive, I am satisfy'd:
I do not value the loss of the ship: where is he? The young man
reply'd, He is at my house. Ansaldo instantly gets up, and runs to find
him, and when he saw him, embracing him, My dear son, says be, you
need not fear my displeasure for what has happened ; it is a common
accident; trouble yourself no farther; as you have received no hurt,
all is well. He takes him h me, all the way telling him to be chearful
easy.
The news of this accident was soon known all over Venice, and every
one was concerned for the loss Giannetto had sustained. Some time
after this, his companions arrived from Alexandria very rich, and de-
manded what was become of their friend, and having heard the story,


GIORNATA QUARTA.
75
rono in mare con Giannetto insieme, e fecer vela e presero
lor viaggio. E navicando più e più giorni, Giannetto stava
sempre attento di rivedere il porto di quella donna, il quale
si chiamava il porto della donna del Belmonte. E giugnendo
una notte alla foce di questo porto, il quale era in un gomito
di mare, Giannetto l' ebbe subito conosciuto, e fe volgere le
vele e 'l timone e calovvisi dentro, tal che i compagni, ch'
erano nell' altre navi, ancora non se n' accorsero. La donna
levandosi la mattina, e guardando giù nel porto, vide svento-
lare le bandiere di questa nave, e subito l' ebbe conosciute, e
chiamò una sua cameriera e disse: Conosci tu quelle ban-
diere ? Disse la cameriera: Madonna, ella pare la nave di
quel giovane che ci arrivò, ora fa uno anno, che ci mise co-
tanta dovizia con quella sua mercatanzia. Disse la donna :
Per certo tu dì il vero; e veramente che costui non meno che
gran fatto debbe essere innamorato di me; però ch' io non
ce ne vidi mai nessuno, che ci tornasse più che una volta.
Disse la cameriera : Io non vidi mai il più cortese nè il più
grazioso uomo di lui. La donna mandò per lui donzelli e
scudieri assai, i quali con molta festa lo visitarono, et egli
con tutti fece allegrezza e festa; e così venne su nel castello
they ran to see and embrace him, asking him in what manner he
parted from them ? where he went ? that they could hear nothing of
him; that they sailed backwards and forwards all that day, and could
not see nor hear any tidings of his ship. They told him their uneasiness
had been so great during the voyage, that the pleasure was spoiled by
the fear of hearing news of his death. Giannetto tells them, a contrary
wind blowing from an arm of the sea, drove his ship plum against a rock
near shore, and with difficulty he saved himself; but every thing was
wreckt. This was the excuse Giannetto forged, not to be obliged to
make known his folly. They rejoiced with him, and returned thanks
to God for his safety; telling him that next spring, by God's assistance,
he might gain as much as he had lost the last; and therefore, say they,
let us enjoy ourselves, and not be dejected: and they amused and di-
verted themselves as usual. But Giannetto had no thoughts other
than of his return to the lady; and was resolved to marry her, or die
in the attempt: and with these thoughts could hardly be chearful.


76
GIORNATA QUARTA.
e nel cospetto della donna. E quando ella lo vide, con gran-
dissima festa e allegrezza l' abbracciò, et egli con molta ri-
verenza abbracciò lei. E così stettero tutto quel giorno in
festa e in allegrezza, però che la donna fece invitare baroni e
donne assai, i quali vennero alla Corte a far festa per amore
di Giannetto; e quasi a tutti i baroni n’ increscieva, e volen-
tieri l'averebbono voluto per signore per la sua tanta piace-
volezza e cortesia; e quasi tutte le donne n'erano innamorate,
veggendo con quanta misura e' guidava una danza, e sempre
quel suo viso stava allegro, che ogniuno s'avvisava ch' e'
fosse figliuolo di qualche gran signore. E veggendo il tempo
d'andare a dormire, questa donna prese per mano Giannetto
e disse : Andianci a posare, e andaronsi in camera, e posti a
sedere, ecco venire due damigelle con vino e confetti, e quivi
beverono e confettaronsi, e poi s' andarono a letto, e com' egli
fu nel letto, così fu addormentato. La donna si spogliò e co-
ricossi a lato a costui, e brevemente, e' non si risentì in tutta
notte. E quando venne la mattina, la donna si levò, e subito
mandò a fare scaricare quella nave. Passato poi terza, e
Giannetto si risentì, e cercò per la donna e non la trovò; alzò
il capo e vide ch' egli era alta mattina ; levossi e cominciossi
Ansaldo told him frequently, not to be cast down; says he, We have
enough left to live very comfortably. Giannetto said, he should never
be happy till he was at liberty to make another voyage. Ansaldo
perceiving his intention, when the time was come, provided another
ship of more value, and with more merchandizes than the first; and,
indeed, freighted it with almost all he was worth in the world. His
companions, when their ships had every thing in order, set sail, with
Giannetto; and sailing along for several days together, he was all at-
tention to discover once more the port of the lady, which was called
The port of the lady of Belmonte. Coming one night to the mouth of
it, which was in a gulph of the sea, he immediately knew it to be the
saine, and shifting sails and rudder, he entered so secretly, that his
companions in the other ships had no apprehension that his ship was
missing
The lady the next morning looking on the port from the bedchamber,
and seeing the streamers of the ship playing in the wind, knew it; and


78
GIORNATA QUARTA.
stare pianamente. Egli è usanza del mare ad altri dare, ad
altri togliere. La novella andò per tutta Vinegia di questo
fatto, e ogniuno diceva di messere Ansaldo, e gravemente gli
incresceva del danno ch'egli aveva avuto, e convenne che
messere Ansaldo vendesse di molte possessioni per pagare i
creditori che gli avevano dato la roba. Avvenna che quei
compagni di Giannetto tornarono d'Alessandria molto ricchi;
e giunti in Vinegia fu lor detto come Giannetto era tornato,
e come egli aveva rotto e perduto ogni cosa; di che essi si
maravigliarone dicendo : Questo è il maggior fatto che si ve-
desse mai; e andarono a messere Ansaldo e a Giannetto, e
facendogli gran festa, dissero: Messere, non vi sgomentate,
che noi intendiamo d' andare questo altro anno a guadagnare
per voi; però che noi siamo stati cagione quasi di questa
vostra perdita, da che noi fummo quegli, che inducemmo
Giannetto a venire con noi da prima, e però non temete, e
mentre che noi abbiamo della roba, fatene come della vostra.
Messere Ansaldo gli ringraziò, e disse che bene aveva ancora
tanto che ci potevano stare. Ora avvenne che stando sera e
mattina Giannetto sopra questi pensieri, e' non si poteva ral-
legrare, e messere Ansaldo lo domandò quello ch' egli aveva
entreated him to go to rest: when they were seated in the chamber,
the two damsels enter with wine and sweet meats; and having eat and
drank of them, they go to bed, and immediately Giannetto falls asleep,
the lady undressed lying by his side; but, in short, he waked not the
whole night. In the morning, the lady rises, and gives orders to strip
the ship. After nine o'clock, he awakes, seeks for the lady, finds
nothing; raises his head from the pillow, and finding it is late, gets up,
and is ashamed of what has happened.
He has a horse and money given to him, and is told to be gone, and
away he goes sorrowful and sad, and never stops till he gets to Venice;
and at night goes to the house of the same friend, who when he saw
him, with great wonder and astonishment asked him what was the
matter? I am undone, says Giannetto, my cursed ill fortune first
brought me to Venice. His friend answered, You may well curse your
fortune, for you are the cause of the ruin of Ansaldo, who was the great-
est and richest merchant of any of the Christians; and your shame ought


GIORNATA QUARTA.
79
et egli rispose : Io non sarò mai contento, s' io non racquisto
quello ch' io ho perduto. Disse messere Ansaldo : Figliuol
mio, io non voglio che tu vi vada più ; però ch' egli è il meg-
lio che noi ci stiamo pianamente con questo poco che noi ab-
biamo, che tu lo metta più a partito. Rispose Giannetto:
Io son fermo di fare tutto quel ch' io posso, perch' io mi ripu-
terei in grandissima vergogna s' io stessi a questo modo. Per
che veggendo messere Ansaldo la volontà sua, si dispose a
vendere ciò ch' egli aveva al mondo, e fornire a costui un'
altra nave; e così fe che vendè, tal che non gli rimase niente,
e fornì una bellissima nave di mercatanzia. E perchè gli
mancavano dieci mila ducati, andò a un Giudeo a Mestri, e
accattogli con questi patti e condizioni, che s' egli non glie
l'avesse renduti dal detto dì a San Giovanni di giugno pros-
simo a venire, che 'l Giudeo gli potesse levare una libra di
carne d'addosso di qualunque luogo e' volesse; e così fu con-
tento messere Ansaldo, e 'l Giudeo di questo fece trarre
carta autentica con testimoni, e con quelle cautele e solen-
nità, che intorno a ciò bisognavano, e poi gli annoverò dieci-
mila ducati d'oro, de' quali danari messere Ansaldo fornì ciò
che mancava alla nave; e se l' altre due furone belle, la ter-
to be greater than the loss you have suffered. Giannetto lived privately
many days in the house of his friend, not knowing what to do or say,
in the design of returning to Florence without seeing Ansaldo. At
last he took a resolution of seeing him, and accordingly waited on him.
When Ansaldo saw him, he rose from his chair, and rnnning to em-
brace him, told him he was welcome: Giannetto with tears returned
his embraces. Ansaldo, when he had heard his tale, Do not grieve,
my dear son, says he, be assured that I cannot be angry, since I find
you safe ; we have still enough remaining to live decently; the sea
enriches some men, others it ruins.
All Venice heard the story, and was concerned for Ansaldo: this
misfortune obliged him to sell some estates to satisfy his creditors, who
furnished the goods. The companions of Giannetto returned again
from Alexandria very rich, and when at Venice they were informed of
this accident, they said it was the most extraordinary accident that
could happen : they made a visit to Ansaldo and Giannetto, and with


80
GIORNATA QUARTA.
za fu molto più ricca e me fornita; e così i compagni forni-
rono le loro due, con animo che ciò ch' eglino guadagnassero
fosse di Giannetto. E quando fu il tempo d'andare, essendo
per movere, messere Ansaldo disse a Giannetto: Figliuol mio,
tu vai e vedi nell' obligo ch' io rimango; d'una grazia ti pre-
go, che se pure tu arrivassi male, che ti piaccia venire a ve-
dermi, sì ch' io possa vedere te innanzi ch'io moia, e andron-
ne contento. Giannetto gli rispose : Messere Ansaldo, io
farò tutte quelle cose ch' io creda piacervi. Messere Ansaldo
gli diè la sua benedizione, e così presero commiato e anda-
rono a loro viaggio. Avevano questi due compagni sempre
cura alla nave di Giannetto, e Giannetto andava sempre av-
visato e attento di calarsi in questo porto di Belmonte. Per
ch'e' fe tanto con uno de' suoi nocchieri, che una notte e
condusse la nave nel porto di questa gentildonna. La mat-
tina rischiarato il giorno, i compagni ch'erano nell' altre due
navi ponendosi mente intorno, e non veggendo in nessun lu-
ogo la nave di Giannetto, dissero fra loro : Per certo questa
è la mala ventura per costui, e presero per partito di seguire
il camin loro, facendosi gran maraviglia di ciò. Ora essendo
questa nave giunta in porto, tutto quel castello trasse a ve-
great kindness told them not to take too much to heart what was
passed. We propose to make, say they, the next year, a voyage on
your account: we have been the cause of this your loss, as we advised
Giannetto at first to venture to sea; therefore fear nothing; as long
as we have any thing, it will be at your disposal as much as if it was
your own. Ansaldo returned them his thanks, and said he had still
enough not to be troublesome to his friends. Poor Giannetto's head
was day and night full of the thoughts of his bad success, and he could
not put on a face of chearfulness : when Ansaldo enquired what was
the matter, he confessed, he could never be contented till he should be
in a condition to regain all that he lost. My dear child, you shall go
no more, says Ansaldo; it will be better to stay here, content with the
little we have left, than to risque another voyage.
Giannetto told him, he had made a firm resolution, to do all in his
power to go again; that he could not bear the shame of living in the
manner he must do. When Ansaldo found him resolved, he began to


GIORNATA QUARTA.
81
dere, sentendo che Giannetto era tornato, e maravigliandosi
di ciò molto, e dicendo : Costui dee essere figliuolo di qual-
che grand' uomo, considerando ch' egli ci viene ogni anno con
tanta mercanzia e con si be' navigli; che volesse Iddio, ch'
egli fosse nostro signore; e così fu visitato da tutti i mag-
giori, e da baroni e cavalieri di quella terra, e fu detto alla
donna come Giannetto era tornato in porto. Per che ella si
fece alle finestre del palazzo, e vide questa bellissima nave, e
conobbe le bandiere, e di ciò si fece ella il segno della santa
croce, dicendo : Per certo che questi è qualche gran fatto, et
è quell' uomo che ha messo dovizia in questo paese; e man-
dò per lui. Giannetto andò a lei con molte abbracciate, e si
salutarono e fecersi riverenza, e quivi s' attese tutto quel gi-
orno a fare allegrezza e festa, e fessi per amor di Giannetto
una bella giostra, e molti baroni e cavalieri giostrarono quel
giorno, e Giannetto volle giostrare anch'egli, e fece il dì mi-
racoli di sua persona, tanto stava bene nell' armi e a cavallo;
e tanto piacque la maniera sua a tutti i baroni, che ogniuno
lo desiderava per signore. Ora avvenne che la sera, essendo
tempo d'andare a posarsi, la donna prese per mano Giannetto
e disse : Andiamo a posarci; et essendo sull' uscio della ca-
sell every thing he had, and equip another ship; and so he did, and
disposed of all he was worth, and left himself destitute, to furnish this
other fine ship with merchandize: but, as he wanted still ten thousand
ducats, he apply'd himself to a Jew at Mestri, and borrowed them on
condition, that if they were not paid on the feast of St. John in the
next month of June, that the Jew might take a pound of flesh from any
part of his body he pleased. Ansaldo agreed, and the Jew had an obli-
gation drawn, and witnessed, with all the form and ceremony necessary;
and then counted him the ten thousand ducats of gold; with which
Ansaldo bought what was still wanting for the vessel. This last ship
was finer and better freighted than the other two, and his companions
made ready for the voyage, with a design that whatever they gained
should be for their friend. When it was time to depart, Ansaldo told
Giannetto, that since he well knew of the obligation to the Jew, he
entreated him in case any misfortune happened, that he would return
to Venice, that he might see him before he died; and then he could


82
GIORNATA QUARTA.
mera, una cameriera della donna, cui incresceva di Giannetto,
si gl' inchinò così all'orecchio, e disse pianamente : Fa vista
di bere, e non bere stasera. Giannetto, intese le parole, e
entrò in camera, e la donna disse: Io so che voi avete colto
sete, e però io voglio che voi beate prima che v’andiate a
dormire; e subito vennero due donzelle, che parevano due
agnioli, con vino e confetti al modo usato, e sì attesero a dar
bere. Disse Giannetto: Chi si terrebbe di non bere, veg-
gendo queste due damigelle tanto belle ? di che la donna rise.
E Giannetto prese la tazza, e fe vista di bere e cacciosselo
giù pel seno, e la donna si credette ch' egli avesse bevuto, é
disse fra 'l suo cuore: Tu conducerai un'altra nave, che
questa hai tu perduta. Giannetto se n'andò nel letto, e
sentissi tutto chiaro e di buona volontà, e parevagli mille
anni che la donna ne venisse a letto; e diceva fra se mede-
simo: Per certo io ho giunta costei; sì ch' e' ne pensa una
il ghiotto, e un'altra il tavernaio. E perche la donna ve-
nisse più tosto nel letto, cominciò a far vista di russare e dor-
mire. Per che la donna disse: Sta bene; e subito si spogliò
leave the world with satisfaction: Giannetto promised to do every
thing that he conceived might give him pleasure. Ansaldo gave him
his blessing, they take their leave, and the ships set out.
The two companions observed carefully the ship of Giannetto, while
he had nothing in his head but to contrive in what manner to steal into
the port of Belmonte; and he prevailed with one of the sailors in the
night to sail the vessel into the port of the lady. The morning being
clear, his companions looking round, and not seeing any where the
vessel, said to themselves, Giannetto has certainly bad luck; but con-
tinued their course, wondering greatly where the ship could be gone.
The ship being arrived in port, all ran from the castle, hearing Gian-
netto was come again, and wondering much at his return. He must
undoubtedly, say they, be the son of some great personage, as he
comes every year with such rich merchandize, and fine ships : would
to God he was our master! He was visited by all the principal men
of the country, and it was told to the lady, that Giannetto was arrived
in port. She saw from the window the vessel, and knew the streamers;
and making the sign of the cross, cries! This is certainly a bold un-


GIORNATA QUARTA,
8:3
e andò a lato a Giannetto, il quale non aspettò punto, ma
comunque la donna fu entrata sotto, così si volse a lei, e ab-
bracciolla e disse : Ora ho quel ch' io ho tanto desiderato, e
con questo le donò la pace del santissimo matrimonio, e in
tutta notte non gli uscì di braccio; di che la donna fu più che
contenta, e si levò la mattina innanzi giorno, e fece mandare
per tutti i baroni e cavalieri, e altri cittadini assai, e disse
loro : Giannetto è vostro signore, e però attendete a far festa;
di che subito per la terra si levò il romore, gridando : Viva
il signore, viva il signore, e dà nelle campane e ne gli stro-
menti sonando a festa; e mandossi per molti baroni e conti
ch'erano fuor del castello, dicendo loro : Venite a vedere il
signor vostro; e quivi si cominciò una grande e bellissima
festa. E quando Giannetto uscì della camera, fu fatto cava-
liere e posto sulla sedia, e dato gli fu la bacchetta in mano, e
chiamato signore con molto trionfo e gloria. E poi che tutti
i baroni e le donne furono venute a Corte, egli sposò questa
gentildonna con tanta festa, e con tanta allegrezza, che non
si potrebbe nè dire nè imaginare. Per che tutti i baroni e
dertaking ! This is the man who has already left so great riches in this
country; and immediately sent for him.
Giannetto goes to the castle, salutes, embraces her, and makes his
bows, and the day is spent in joy and feasting; and to honour him, a
tournament is ordered, and many barons and knights tilted that day.
Giannetto did wonders, so well did he understand the lance, and was
so graceful a figure on horseback: he pleased so much, that all were
again desirous to have him for their lord.
The lady, when it was the usual time, taking him by the hand,
begged him to take his rest. When he passed the door of the chamber,
one of the dainsels of the lady, laying her mouth to his ear, in a
whisper said to him, Make a pretence to drink the liquor, but touch
not one drop this evening. He understood what she meant, and when
the lady said, I know you must be thirsty, I must have you drink before
you go to bed, immediately two damsels, handsome as angels, with
wine and sweet meats, in the usual manner, entered the room, and pre-
sented the wine. Who can refuse wine from such beautiful hands ?
cries Giannetto : at which the lady smiled. Giannetto takes the cup,
G 2


84
GIORNATA QUARTA.
signori del paese vennero alla festa a fare allegrezza, giostrare,
armeggiare, danzare, cantare e sonare, con tutte quelle cose
che s'appartengono a far festa. Messer Giannetto, come
magnanimo, cominciò a donare drappi di seta e altre ricche
cose ch' egli aveva recate, e diventò virile, e fecesi temere a
mantenere ragione e giustizia a ogni maniera di gente, e cosi
si stava in questa festa e allegrezza, e non si curava nè ricor-
dava di messere Ansaldo cattivello, ch' era rimaso pegno per
dieci mila ducati a quel Giudeo. Ora essendo un giorno
messer Giannetto alla finestra del palazzo con la donna sua,
vide passare per piazza una brigata d'uomini con torchietti
in mano accesi, i quali andavano a offerire. Disse messer
Giannetto: Che vuol dir quello ? Rispose la donna : Quella
è una brigata d' artefici che vanno a offerire alla Chiesa di
San Giovanni, perch' egli è oggi la festa sua. Messer Gian-
netto si ricordò allora di messere Ansaldo, e levossi dalla
finestra, e trasse un gran sospiro, e tutto si cambiò nel viso, e
andava di giù in su per la sala più volte, pensando sopra
questo fatto. La donna il domandò quel ch' egli aveva.
and making as if he had drank, pours the wine into his bosom. The
lady thinking he had drank, says aside to herself with great joy, You
must go, young man, and bring another ship, for this is condemned.
Giannetto went to bed, and finding himself brisk and in great spirits,
he thought it a thousand years till the lady came to bed, comforting
himself with the hopes that he had caught her now certainly, and that
she would find, she was mistaken in her man; and in order to entice
her soon to bed, he began to snore as if he slept soundly. The lady
perceiving this, said, this will do, and laid herself down by his side.
Giannetto loses no time, but turning to the lady, embraces her, saying,
Now am I in possession of my utmost wishes. He gave her immedi-
ately the strongest proofs of his affection, and lay all night in her arms.
The lady was highly pleased with her lover, and early in the morning
sent for her principal subjects, telling them, that Giannetto was their
lord ; and gave them orders to pay all possible honours to him. Imme-
diately the news is spread through the whole territory; the people
crying, Long live our new master! long live our new master! the bells
and musical instruments inviting all to joy and mirth. The nobles who


GIORNATA QUARTA.
85
Rispose messer Giannetto: Io non ho altro. Per che la
donna il cominciò a esaminare, dicendo: Per certo voi avete
qualche cosa, e non lo volete dire ; e tanto gli disse che mes-
ser Giannetto le contò come messere Ansaldo era rimaso
pegno per dieci mila ducati, e questo di corre il termine, dice-
va egli, e però ho gran dolore che mio padre moia per me;
perchè se oggi e' non glie li dà, ha a perdere una libra di car-
ne d'addosso. La donna disse : Messere, montate subita-
mente a cavallo et attraversate per terra, che andrete più tosto
che per mare, e menate quella compagnia che vi piace, e por-
tate cento mila ducati, e non restate mai che voi siate a Vine-
gia; e se non è morto, fate di menarlo qui. Per che egli
subito fe dare nella trombetta, e montò a cavallo con venti
compagni, e tolse danari assai e prese il camino verso Vinegia.
Ora avvenne che compiuto il termine, il Giudeo fe pigliare
messere Ansaldo, e volevagli levare una libra di carne d' ad-
dosso; onde messere Ansaldo lo pregava, che gli piacesse d'
indugiargli quella morte qualche dì, acciocchè se il suo Gian-
netto venisse, almeno e' lo potesse vedere. Disse il Giudeo :
were not at the castle, were sent for to appear there, and behold
their master, and assist at all the rejoicings. When Giannetto came
out of his chamber, be was knighted, and placed in the chair of state ;
had the scepter put into his hand, and was proclaimed sovereign of the
country, with great pomp and splendour; and when the lords and ladies
were come to the castle, he married the lady in great ceremony.
Nothing can be imagined equal to the joy on that occasion, as every
one endeavoured to excell in tilting, dancing, musick, and every amuse.
ment, and diversion, practiced at such solemnities.
Giannetto, who was of a disposition that did honour to his exalta-
tion, gave presents of every thing of value he had brought with him :
he governed excellently well, and caused justice to be administered
impartially to all sorts of people. He continued some time in this
happy state, and never had entertained a thought of poor Ansaldo,
who had given his bond to the Jew for ten thousand ducats. But one
day, as he stood at the window of the palace with his bride, he saw a
number of people pass along the piazza, with lighted torches in their
hands, who were going to make their offerings. What is the meaning


GIORNATA QUARTA.
87
di dire il contrario per nessuno, se non pregarlo. Talchè
tutti i mercatanti di Vinegia vi furono su a pregare questo
Giudeo, et egli sempre più duro che mai. Per che messer
Giannetto glie ne volle dare venti mila, e non volse, poi venne
a trenta mila, e poi a quaranta mila, e poi a cinquanta mila;
e così ascese infino a cento mila ducati. Ove il Giudeo
disse : Sai com'è? se tu mi desse più ducati che non vale
questa città, non gli torrei per esser contento; anzi i' vuo' fare
quel che dicon le carte mie. E così stando in questa quis-
tione, ecco giugnere in Vinegia questa donna vestita a modo
di giudice, e smontò a uno albergo, e l' albergatore domandò un
famiglio: Chi è questo gentil uomo? Il famiglio, già avvi-
sato dalla donna di ciò che 'l doveva dire essendo di lei inter-
rogato, rispose : Questo si è un gentil uomo giudice che vien
da Bologna da studio, e tornasi a casa sua. L'albergatore
ciò intendendo, gli fece assai onore, et essendo a tavola il giu-
dice disse all' albergatore: Come si regge questa vostra città ?
Rispose l'oste : Messere, faccisi troppa ragione. Disse il
giudice : Come? Soggiunse l'oste : Come, messere, io ve
that if his dear Giannetto arrived, he might have the pleasure of em-
bracing him before his death : the Jew replied he was willing to wait,
but, says he, if he comes an hundred times over, I will cut off the
pound of flesh, according to the words of the obligation: Ansaldo an-
swered, that he was content.
Every one at Venice who had heard of this affair was much con-
cerned : several merchants would have jointly paid the money; the
Jew would not hearken to the proposal, but insisted that he might
commit this homicide, to have the satisfaction of saying, that he had
put to death the greatest of the Christian merchants. Giannetto
making all possible haste to Venice, his lady soon followed him in a
lawyer's habit, with two servants following her. Giannetto when he
came to Venice, goes to the Jew, and (after embracing Ansaldo) tells
him, he is ready to pay the money, and as much more as he should
demand. The Jew said, he would take no money, since it was not
paid at the time due; but that he would have the pound of flesh.
And now this was much talked of, and every one blamed the Jew: but
as Venice was a place where justice was strictly administered, and the


88
GIORNATA QUARTA.
lo dirò. E ci venne da Firenze un giovane, il quale aveva
nome Giannetto, e venne qui a un suo nonno che ha nome
messere Ansaldo, et è stato tanto aggraziato e tanto costu-
mato, che gli uomini e le donne di questa terra erano innamo-
rati di lui. E non ci venne mai in questa città nessuno tanto
aggraziato quanto era costui. Ora questo suo nonno in tre
volte gli fornì tre navi, le quali furono di grandissima valuta,
e ogni otta glie ne incontrò sciagura, sì che alla nave da sezzo
gli mancò danari; tal che questo messere Ansaldo accattò
dieci mila ducati da un Giudeo con questi patti, che s' egli
non glie li avesse renduti da ivi a San Giovanni di giugno
prossimo che venia, il detto Giudeo gli potesse levare una
libra di carne d'addosso dovunque e' volesse. Ora è tornato
questo benedetto giovane, e per que' dieci mila ducati glie ne
ha voluto dare cento mila, e 'l falso Giudeo non vuole; e
sonvi stati a pregarlo tutti i buoni uomini di questa terra, e
non giova niente. Rispose il giudice : Questa quistione è
agevole a diterminare. Disse l'oste : Se voi ci volete durar
fatica a terminarla, sì che quel buon uomo non muoia, voi n
Jew had his pretensions grounded on publick and received forms,
nobody dared to oppose him, and their only resource was entreaty;
and when the merchants of Venice applied to him, he was inflexible.
Giannetto offered him twenty thousand which he refused; then thirty
thousand, afterwards forty, fifty, and at last an hundred thousand
ducats. The Jew told him, if he would give him as much gold as the
city of Venice was worth, he would not accept it; and says he, you
know little of me, if you think I will desist from my demand.
The lady now arrives at Venice, in her lawyer's dress; and alighting
at an inn, the landlord asks of one of the servants who his master was ?
The servant having learned his lesson, answered, that he was a young
lawyer who had finished his studies at Bologna, and was returning to
his own country. The landlord upon this shews his guest great
civility: and when he attended at dinner, the lawyer inquiring how
justice was administred in that city; he answered, justice in this place
is too severe. How comes that ? says the lawyer. I will tell how, says
the landlord: you must know, that some years ago there came here a
young man from Florence, whose name was Giannetto, he was recom-


GIORNATA QUARTA.
89
acquisterete la grazia e l'amore del più virtuoso giovane che
nascesse mai, e poi di tutti gli uomini di questa terra. Onde
questo giudice fece andare un bando per la terra, che qualun-
que avesse a diterminare quistion nessuna, venisse da lui;
ove fu detto a messer Giannetto come e' v'era venuto un giu-
dice da Bologna, che determinarebbe ogni quistione. Per
che messer Giannetto disse al Giudeo: Andiamo a questo
giudice. Disse il Giudeo : Andiamo; ma venga chi vuole,
che a ragione io n' ho a fare quanto dice la carta. E giunti
nel cospetto del giudice, e fattogli debita riverenza, il giudice
conobbe messer Giannetto, ma messer Giannetto non conobbe
già lui, perchè con certe erbe s'era trasfigurata la faccia.
Messer Giannetto e il Giudeo dissero ciascuno la ragion sua,
e la quistione ordinatamente innanzi al giudice; il quale prese
le carte e lessele, e poi disse al Giudeo : Io voglio che tu ti
tolga questi cento mila ducati, e liberi questo buon uomo, il
qual anco te ne sarà sempre tenuto. Rispose il Giudeo : Io
non ne farò niente. Disse il giudice : Egli è il tuo meglio.
E’l Giudeo, che al tutto non ne voleva far nulla. E d'ac-
mended to the care of a relation who is called Ansaldo : he behaved
here so well as to possess the esteem and affections of every living
creature, and never was a youth so well beloved. Now this Ansaldo
sent him out three times, each time with a ship of great value; he,
every time, was unfortunate: and to furnish the last, Ansaldo was forced
to borrow ten thousand ducats of a Jew, on condition, that if he did
not repay them in June, at the feast of St. John, the Jew might take
a pound of his flesh. This excellent young man is now returned, and
offers to pay an hundred thousand ducats: the wicked Jew won't take
them, although the best merchants in the city have applied to him, but
to no purpose. Says the lawyer, this question may be easily answered.
If you can answer it, says the landlord, and will take the trouble to do
it, and save this worthy man from death, you will get the love and
esteem of a most deserving young man, and of all the best men of this
city. The lawyer caused a proclamation to be made, that whoever had
any law matters to determine, they should have recourse to him: so it
was told to Giannetto, that a famous lawyer was come from Bologna,
who could decide all cases in law. Giannetto proposed to the Jew to


90
GIORNATA QUARTA.
cordo se n'andarono all'ufficio diterminato sopra tali casi, e
l' giudice parlò per messere Ansaldo e disse: Oltre fa venir
costui; e fattolo venire, disse il giudice : Orsù lievagli una
libra di carne dovunque tu vuoi, e fa i fatti tuoi. Dove il
Giudeo lo fece spogliare ignudo, e recossi in mano un rasoio,
che per ciò egli aveva fatto fare. E messer Giannetto si volse
al giudice, e disse: Messere, di questo non vi pregava io.
Rispose il giudice : Sta franco, che egli non ha ancora spic-
cata una libra di carne. Pure il Giudeo gli andava addosso:
Disse il giudice : Guarda come tu fai; però che se tu ne leve-
rai più o meno che una libra, io ti farò levare la testa. E
anco io ti dico più, che se n'uscirà pure una gocciola di
sangue, io ti farò morire; però che le carte tue non fanno
menzione di spargimento di sangue, anzi dicono che tu gli
debba levare una libra di carne, e non dice nè più nè meno.
E per tanto, se tu se' savio, tieni que' modi che tu credi fare
il tuo meglio. E così subito fe mandare per lo giustiziere, e
fegli recare il ceppo e la mannaia, e disse : Com' io ne vedrò
uscire gocciola di sangue, così ti farò levare la testa. Il Giu-
apply to this lawyer. With all my heart, says the Jew; but let who will
come, I will stick to my bond. When they came to this judge, and had
saluted him, he immediately knew Giannetto; but he did not remember
him: for he had disguised his face with the juice of certain herbs.
Giannetto, and the Jew, each told the merits of the cause to the judge ;
who, when he had taken the bond and read it, said to the Jew, I must
have you take the hundred thousand ducats, and release this honest
man, who will always have a grateful sense of the favour done to him.
The Jew replied, I will do no such thing. The judge answered, it will
be better for you. The Jew was positive to yield nothing. Upon
this they go to the tribunal appointed for such judgments: and our
judge speaks in favour of Ansaldo; and desiring that the Jew may stand
forth, Now, says he, do you (to the Jew) cut a pound of this man's
flesh where you chuse. The Jew ordered him to be stripped naked;
and takes in his hand a razor, which had been made on purpose. Gian-
netto seeing this, turning to the judge, this, says he, is not the favour I
asked of you. Be quiet, says he, the pound of flesh is not yet cut off.
As soon as the Jew was going to begin, take care what you do, says the


92
GIORNATA QUARTA.
e uccellato. Onde veggendo il Giudeo ch'egli non poteva
fare quello ch' egli avrebbe voluto, prese le carte sue, e per
istizza tutte le tagliò, e così fu liberato messere Ansaldo, e
con grandissima festa messer Giannetto lo rimenò a casa; e
poi prestamente prese questi cento mila ducati, e andò a
questo giudice, e trovollo nella camera che s' acconciava per
volere andar via. Allora messer Giannetto gli disse : Mes-
sere, voi avete fatto a me il maggior servigio che mai mi fosse
fatto; e però io voglio che voi portiate questi danari a casa
vostra; però che voi gli avete ben guadagnati. Rispose il
giudice : Messer Giannetto mio, a voi sia gran mercè, ch' io
non n' ho di bisogno; portategli con voi, sì che la donna vos-
tra non dica che voi abbiate fatto male masserizia. Disse
messer Giannetto: Per mia fe ch'ella è tanto magnanima, e
tanto cortese e tanto da bene, che se io ne spendessi quattro
cotanti che questi, ella sarebbe contenta; però ch' ella voleva
che io ne arrecassi molto più che non sono questi. Sog-
giunse il giudice: Come vi contentate voi di lei ? Rispose
messer Giannetto: E' non è creatura al mondo, a cui io vo-
glia meglio che a lei; perch' ella è tanto savia e tanto bella,
thousand ducats, and a curse confound you all. The judge replies, I
will give you nothing: if you will have the pound of flesh, take it ; if
not, I will order your bond to be protested and annulled. Every one
present was greatly pleased; and deriding the Jew, said, he who laid
traps for others, is caught himself. The Jew seeing he could gain
nothing, tore in pieces the bond in a great rage. Ansaldo was re-
leased, and conducted home with great joy by Giannetto. The hundred
thousand ducats he carried to the inn to the lawyer, whom he found
making ready to depart. You have done me, says he, a most important
service, and I entreat you to accept of this money to carry home, for I
am sure you have earned it. I thank you, replied the lawyer, I do not
want money; keep and carry it back to your lady, that she may not
have occasion to say, that you have squandered it away idly. Says
Giannetto, my lady is so good and kind, that I might venture to spend
four times as much, without incurring her displeasure ; and she ordered
me, when I came away, to bring with me a larger sum. How are you
pleased with the lady ? says the lawyer. I love her better than any
earthly thing, answers Giannetto: Nature never produced any woman


GIORNATA QUARTA.
93
quanto la natura l'avesse potuta far più. E se voi mi volete
fare tanta grazia di venire a vederla, voi vi maraviglierete
dell'onore ch' ella vi farà, e vedrete s' egli è quel ch' io dico
o più. Rispose il giudice : Del venire con voi, non voglio,
però che io ho altre faccende; ma poi che voi dite ch' ella è
tanto da bene, quando la vedrete, salutatela per mia parte.
Disse messer Giannetto: Sarà fatto; ma io voglio che voi
togliate di questi danari. E mentre che e' diceva queste
parole, il giudice gli vide in dito uno anello, onde gli disse :
Io vuo' questo anello, e non voglio altro danaio nessuno.
Rispose messer Giannetto: Io son contento, ma io ve lo do
mal volentieri; però che la donna mia me lo dono, e dis-
semi ch' io lo portassi sempre per suo amore, e s' ella non
me lo vederà, crederà ch' io l' abbia dato a qualche femina,
e così si cruccierà con meco, e crederà ch' io sia innamo-
rato, e io voglio meglio a lei che a me medesimo. Disse
il giudice: E' mi par esser certo, ch'ella vi vuole tanto
bene, ch' ella vi crederà questo; e voi le direte che l'
avete donato a me. Ma forse lo volevate voi donare a
qualche vostra manza antica qui ? Rispose messer Gian-
so beautiful, discreet, and sensible, and seems to have done her utmost
in forming her. If you will do me the favour to come and see her, you
will be surprised at the honours she will shew you; and you will be
able to judge whether I speak truth or not. I cannot go with you,
says the lawyer, I have other engagements; but since you speak so
much good of her, I must desire you to present my respects to her. I
will not fail, Giannetto answered ; and now, let me entreat you to
accept of some of the money. While he was speaking, the lawyer
observed a ring on his finger, and said, if you will give me this ring, I
shall seek no other reward. Willingly, says Giannetto; but as it is a
ring given me by my lady, to wear for her sake, I have some reluctance
to part with it, and she may think, not seeing it on my finger, and will
believe, that I have given it to a woman that I love, and quarrel with
me, tho' I protest I love her much better than I love myself. Certain-
ly, says the lawyer, she esteems you sufficiently to credit what you tell
her, and you may say you made a present of it to me; but I rather
think you want to give it to some former mistress here in Venice. So
great, says Giannetto, is the love and reverence I bear to her, that I
would not change her for any woman in the world, she is so accom-


94
GIORNATA QUARTA.
netto: Egli è tanto l'amore e la fe ch' io le porto, che non
è donna al mondo, a cui io cambiassi, tanto compiutamente
è bella in ogni cosa ; e così si cavò l'anello di dito e diello al
giudice, e poi s' abbracciarono, facendo riverenza l' un all,
altro. Disse il giudice: Fatemi una grazia. Rispose messer
Giannetto: Domandate. Disse il giudice : Che voi non re-
stiate qui; andatene tosto a vedere quella vostra donna.
Disse messer Giannetto: E' mi pare cento mila anni ch' io la
riveggia, e così presero commiato. Il giudice entrò in barca
e andossi con Dio, e messer Giannetto fece cene e desinari, e
donò cavalli e danari a que' suoi compagnoni, e così fe più di
festa, e mantenne corte, e poi prese comiato da tutti i Vini-
ziani, e menossene messere Ansaldo con seco, e molti de' suoi
compagni antichi se n' andarono con lui; e quasi tutti gli uo-
mini e le donne per tenerezza lagrimarono per la partita sua;
tanto s' era portato piacevolmente nel tempo ch'egli era stato
a Vinegia con ogni persona; e così si partì e tornossi in Bel-
monte. Ora avvenne che la donna sua giunse più dì innanzi,
e fe vista d' essere stata al bagno, e rivestissi al modo femi-
nile, e fece fare l'apparecchio grande, e coprire tutte le strade
di zendado, e fe vestire molte brigate d'armeggiatori. E
plished in every article. After this he takes the ring from his finger,
and presents it to him; and embracing each the other, I have still a
favour to ask, says the lawyer. It shall be granted, says Giannetto.
It is, replied he, that you do not stay any time here, but go as soon as
possible to your lady. It appears to me a thousand years till I see her,
Giannetto answered: and immediately they take leave of each other.
The lawyer embarked, and left Venice. Giannetto made entertain-
ments, and presents of horses and money to his former companions ;
and having made a great expence for several days, he took leave of his
Venetian friends, and carried Ansaldo with him, and some of his old
acquaintance accompanied them. Everybody shed tears at his de-
parture, both men and women; his amiable deportment had so gained
the good-will of all. In this manner he left Venice, and returned to
Belmonte.
The lady arrived some days before ; and having resumed her female
habit, pretended to have spent the time at the baths; and now gave
orders to have every thing prepared, and the streets lined with tapestry,


GIORNATA QUARTA.
95
quando messer Giannetto e messere Ansaldo giunsero, tutti i
baroni e la corte gli andarono incontra, gridando : Viva il sig-
nore, viva il signore. E come e' giunsero nella terra, la donna
corse ad abbracciare messere Ansaldo, e finse esser un poco
crucciata con messer Giannetto, a cui voleva meglio che a se.
Fecesi la festa grande di giostrare, di armeggiare, di danzare
e di cantare per tutti i baroni e le donne e donzelle che vi
erano. Veggendo messer Giannetto che la moglie non gli
faceva così buon viso com' ella soleva, andossene in camera,
e chiamolla e disse : Che hai tu? e volsela abbracciare. Disse
la donna : Non ti bisogna fare queste carezze, ch' io so bene
che a Vinegia tu hai ritrovate le tue manze antiche. Messer
Giannetto si cominciò a scusare. Disse la donna: Ovº è l'
anello ch' io ti diedi ? Rispose messer Giannetto: Ciò ch' io
mi pensai, me n' è incontrato, e dissi bene che tu te ne pen-
seresti male. Ma io ti giuro per la fe ch' io porto a Dio e a
te, che quello anello io lo donai a quel giudice che mi die
vinta la quistione. Disse la donna: Io ti giuro per la fe ch'
io porto a Dio e a te, che tu lo donasti a una femina, e io lo
so, e non ti vergogni di giurarlo. Soggiunse messer Gian-
netto: Io prego Iddio che mi disfaccia del mondo, s' io non ti
and filled with men armed for the tiltings and exercises. And when
Giannetto and Ansaldo were landed, all the court when out to meet
them, crying, Long live our sovereign lord ! long live our sovereign
lord! When they arrived at the palace, the lady ran to embrace An-
saldo; but feigned anger against Giannetto, tho' she loved him exces-
sively: yet the feastings, tilts and diversions went on as usual, at which
all the lords and ladies assisted. Giannetto seeing that his wife did
not receive him with her accustomed good countenance, called her,
and inquiring the reason, would have saluted her. She told him, she
wanted not his caresses: I am sure, says she, you have been lavish of
them to some of your former mistresses at Venice. Giannetto began
to make excuses. She asked him where was the ring she had given
him? It is no more that what I expected, cries Giannetto, and I was
in the right to say you would be angry with me; but, I swear by all
that is sacred, and by your dear self, that I gave the ring to the lawyer
who gained our cause. And I can swear, says the lady, with as much
solemnity, that you gave the ring to a woman; and I know it certainly:


96
GIORNATA QUARTA.
dico il vero, e più ch' io lo dissi col giudice insieme, quando
egli me lo chiese. Disse la donna: Tu vi ti potevi anco rima-
nere,'e qua mandare messere Ansaldo, e tu goderti con le tue
manze, che odo che tutte piangevano quando tu ti partisti.
Messer Giannetto cominciò a lagrimare, e a darsi assai tribu-
lazione, dicendo : Tu fai sacramento di quel che non è vero, e
non potrebbe essere. Dove la donna veggendolo lagrimare,
parve che le fosse dato d'un coltello nel cuore, e subito corse
ad abbracciarlo, facendo le maggiori risa del mondo; e mos-
trogli l'anello, e dissegli ogni cosa, com' egli aveva detto al
giudice, e come ella era stata quel giudice, e in che modo
glielo diede. Onde messer Giannetto di questo si fece la
maggior maraviglia del mondo; e veggendo ch'egli era pur
vero, ne cominciò a fare gran festa. E uscito fuor di camera
lo disse con alcuno de' suoi baroni e compagni, e per questo
erebbe e moltiplicò l' amore fra loro due. Dapoi messer
Giannetto chiamò quella cameriera che gli aveva insegnato
la sera che non beesse, e diella per moglie a messere Ansal-
do; e così stettero lungo tempo in allegrezza e festa, mentre
che durò la lor vita.
therefore swear no more. Giannetto said, if what he had told her was
not true, he wished every misfortune to fall on him, that might destroy
him; and that he said all this to the lawyer, when he asked for the ring.
The lady replied, you would have done better to stay at Venice with
your mistresses, and have sent Ansaldo here ; for I hear they all wept
when you came away. Giannetto's tears began to fall, and in great
sorrow he assured her that what she supposed could not possibly be
true. The lady seeing his tears, which were daggers in her bosom,
ran to embrace him, and in a fit of laughter shewed the ring, told
every thing which he had said to the lawyer; that she was herself the
lawyer; and how she obtained the ring. Giannetto was greatly asto-
nished, finding it all true, and was highly delighted with what he had
heard ; and went out of the chamber, and told the story to the nobles
and to his companions; and this heightened greatly the love between
him and his lady. He then called the damsel who had given him the
good advice the evening not to drink the liquor, and gave her to An-
saldo for a wife : and they spent the rest of their lives in great felicity
and contentment.


CHRISTIAN'S FLESH FOR HIS DEBT.
99
hath broken his promise manie times, or that putteth another
in danger to lose both credit and reputation, yea and it may
be life and al for greife? Were it not better for him to lose
that which I demand, then his soule, alreadie bound by his
faith? Neither am I to take that which he oweth me, but he
is to deliver it me: And especiallie because no man know-
eth better then he where the same may be spared to the least
hurt of his person, for I might take it in such a place as hee
might thereby happen to lose his life : what a matter were it
then, if I should cut of his privie members, supposing that
the same would altogether weigh a just pound? Or els his head,
should I be suffered to cut it off, although it were with the
danger of mine owne life? I beleeve I should not; because
there were as little reason therein, as there could be in the
amends whereunto I should be bound: or els if I would cut
off his nose, his lips, his eares, aud pull out his eies, to make
of them altogether a pound, should I be suffered ? Surely I
thinke not, because the obligation dooth not specifie that I
ought either to chuse, cut, or take the same, but that he ought
to give me a pound of his flesh. Of every thing that is
sold, he which delivereth the same is to make waight, and he
which receiveth, taketh heed that it be just: seeing then that
neither the obligation, custome, nor law doth bind me to cut,
or weigh, much lesse unto the above mentioned satisfaction,
I refuse it all, and require that the same which is due should
bee delivered unto me.
The Christians Answere.
It is no strange matter to here those dispute of equitie
which are themselves most unjust; and such as have no faith
at all, desirous that others should observe the same inviolable
the which were yet the more tollerable, if such men would
bee contented with reasonable things, or at the least not altoge-
ther unreasonable: but what reason is there that one man should
unto his own prejudice desire the hurt of another ? as this
H 2


100 OF A JEW WHO WOULD HAVE A POUND OF A
Jew is content to lose nine hundred crownes to have a pound
of my flesh, whereby is manifestly seene the antient and
cruell hate which he beareth not only unto Christians, but
unto all others which are not of his sect; yea, even unto the
Turkes, who overkindly doe suffer such vermine to dwell
amongst them, seeing that this presumptuous wretch dare not
onely doubt, but appeale from the judgement of a good and
just Judge, and afterwards he would by sophisticall reasons
proove that his abhomination is equitie: trulie I confesse that
I have suffered fifteene daies of the tearme to passe, yet who
can tell whether he or Iis the cause thereof. As for me I
thinke that by secret meanes he hath caused the money to bee
delaied, which from sundry places ought to have come unto
me before the tearm which I promised unto him; Otherwise,
I would never have been so rash as to bind my selfe so
strictly: but although he were not the cause of the fault, is it
therefore said, that he ought to bee so impudent, as to goe
about to proove it no strange matter that he should be willing
to be paied with mans flesh, which is a thing more natural
for Tigres, then men, the which also was never heard of: but
this divell in shape of a man, seeing me oppressed with
necessitie propounded this accursed obligation unto me.
Whereas hee alleageth the Romanes for an example, why
doth he not as well tell on how for that crueltie in afflicting
debtors over greevously, the Commonwealth was almost
overthrowne, and that shortly after it was forbidden to im-
prison men any more for debt. To breake promise is, when
a man sweareth or promiseth a thing, the which he hath no
desire to performe, which yet upon an extreame necessitie is
somewhat excusable; as for me, I have promised, and accom-
plished my promise, yet not so soone as I would; and al-
though I knew the danger wherein I was to satisfie the
crueltie of this mischeevous man with the price of my flesh
and blood, yet did I not flie away, but submitted my selfe
unto the discretion of the Judge who hath justly repressed his
beastlinesse. Wherein then have I falsefied my promise, is


CHRISTIAN'S FLESH FOR HIS DEBT. 101
it in that I would not, (like him) disobey the judgement of
the Judge? Behold I will present a part of my bodie unto
him, that he may pay himselfe, according to the contents of
the judgement, where is then my promise broken ? But it is
no marvaile if this race be so obstinat and cruell against us,
for they doe it of set purpose to offend our God whom they
have crucified : and wherefore ? Because he was holie, as he
is yet so reputed of this worthy Turkish nation : but what
shal I say? Their own bible is full of their rebellion against
God, against their Priests, Judges, and leaders. What did
not the verie Patriarks themselves, from whom they have
their beginning ? They sold their brother, and had it not been
for one amongst them, they had slaine him even for verie
envie. How manie adulteries and abhominations were com-
mitted amongst them? How manie murthers? Absalon did
not he cause his brother to be murthered ? Did he not per-
secute his father? Is it not for their iniquitie that God hath
dispersed them, without leaving them one onlie foot of ground?
If then, when they had newlie received their law from God,
when they saw his wonderous works with their eies, and had
yet their Judges amongst them, they were so wicked, what
may one hope of them now, when they have neither faith
nor law, but their rapines and usuries? And that they be-
leeve they do a charitable work, when they do some great
wrong unto anie that is not a Jew? It may please you then,
most righteous Judge, to consider all these circumstances,
having pittie of him who doth wholy submit himselfe unto
your just clemencie: hoping thereby to be delivered from this
monsters crueltie.


THE STORY OF THE THREE CASKETS. 103
them his dreame, charging them to tell him the signification
thereof, upon paine of death: and if they told him the inter-
pretation thereof he promised them great reward.
Then said they, Deere Lord, tell us your dreame, and
we shall declare unto you what it betokeneth. Then the
emperour told them from the beginning to the ending, as it is
aforesaid. When the philosophers heard this, with glad
cheere, they answered and said. My lord, the dreame that
you saw betokeneth good, for the empire shal be more clearer
then it is. The moone that is more pale on the one side
then on the other, betokeneth the empres, that hath lost part
of her coulour through the conception of a son, that she hath
conceived. The little bird betokeneth the sonne that she
shall beare. The two beasts that feede this bird betokeneth
all the wise men and rich men of this empire, which shall
obey thy sonne. These other beasts that bowed their breasts
to the bird, betokeneth that many other nations shall doe him
homage. The bird that sung so sweetly to this little bird,
betokeneth the Romanes, which shall rejoyce and sing, be-
cause of his birth. Lo, this is the very interpretation of your
dreame.
When the emperour heard this, he was right joyfull.
Now, soone after that the empresse travailed in child-birth,
and was delivered of a faire sonne, of whose birth was great
and wonderfull joy made.
When the king of Ampluy heard this, hee thought in him-
selfe thus: Lo, I have warred against the emperour all the
dayes of my life, and now hee hath a sonne the which will
revenge all the wrongs that I have done and wrought against
his father, when hee coinmeth to a full age, therefore it is
better that I send to the emperour and beseech him of trewse
and peace, that his sonne may have nothing against me when
hee commeth to man-hood. When hee had thus thought in
himselfe, he wrote to the emperour, beseeching him to have
peace. When the emperour saw that the king of Ampluy
wrote to him more for feare then for love, hee wrote againe


THE THREE CASKETS.
105
lightened, and then the whale durst not adventure toward
the ship, for feare of the light. At the cock-crowing, this
yong lady was so weary of the great tempest and trouble of
the sea, that she slept, and within a little after the fire sur-
ceased, and with that came the whale and devoured this
virgin. But when she wakened and found her selfe swal-
lowed up in the whales belly, shee smote fire, and within a
little while shee wounded the whale with a knife in many
places, and when the whale felt himselfe wounded, according
to his nature, he began to swim to land.
There was at that time dwelling in that country an earle
that was a noble man, named Parris, the which for his recre-
ation walked by the sea shore, and as he was walking thus,
he saw where the whale was comming towards the land,
wherefore he turned home againe, and gathered many strong
men and came thether againe, and caught the whale, and
wounded him very sore, and as they smote, the mayden that
was in his belly cried with an high voice and said, O gentle
friends have mercie and compassion on me, for I am a kings
daughter and a true virgin from the houre of my birth unto
this day. When the earle heard this he wondred greatly
and opened the side of the whale and tooke her out. And
when she was thus delivered, shee told him forthwith whose
daughter she was, and how shee had lost all her goods in the
sea, and how shee should have beene married unto the em-
perours sonne. And when the earle heard this hee was right
glad, wherefore hee comforted her the more, and kept her
still with him till she was well refreshed. And in the
meane time he sent messengers to the emperour, giving him
to know how the kings daughter was saved.
Then was the emperour right glad of her safety and
comming, and had great compassion on her, saying : Ah faire
lady, for the love of my sonne thou hast suffered much woe,
neverthelesse if thou be worthie to be his wife, soone shall I
prove.
And when he had thus said, he commanded to bring forth
cu,


106
THE STORY OF
three vessels, the first was made of pure gold, beset with
precious stones without, and within full of dead mens bones,
and thereupon was ingraven this posey: Whoso chooseth me
shall finde that he deserveth.
The second vessel was made of fine silver, filled with
earth and wormes, and the superscription was thus: Whoso
chooseth me shall find that his nature desireth.
The third vessel was made of lead, full within of precious
stones, and the superscription, Who so chooseth mee shall
finde that God hath disposed to him.
These three vessels the emperour shewed to the maiden
and said, Lo, here daughter, these be faire vessels, if thou
choose one of these, wherein is profit to thee and to other,
then shalt thou have my sonne: but if thou choose that
wherein is no profit to thee nor to none other, soothly thou
shalt not marrie him.
When the mayden saw this, she lift up her hands to God
and said: Thou Lord that knowest all things, grant me grace
this houre so to choose, that I may receive the emperours
sonne. And with that shee beheld the first vessell of gold,
which was engraven, and read the superscription, Who so
chooseth me, &c. saying thus: Though this vessel be full
precious and made of pure gold, neverthelesse I know not
what is within, therefore my deare lord, this vessel will I not
choose.
And then shee beheld the second vessel that was of pure
silver, and read the superscription, Who so chooseth mee
shall finde that his nature desireth. Thinking thus within
her selfe, If I choose this vessel, what is within it I know
not, but well I wot there shall I finde that nature desireth,
and my nature desireth the lust of the flesh, therefore this
vessel will I not choose. When she had seene these two
vessels, and given an answere as touching them, shee beheld
the third vessell of lead, and read the superscription, Who so
chooseth mee, shall finde that God hath disposed. Thincking
within her selfe this vessel is not passing rich, nor throughly


THE THREE CASKETS.
107
precious : neverthelesse, the superscription saith : Who so
chooseth mee, shall finde that God hath disposed: and with-
out doubt God never disposeth any harme, therefore now I
will choose this vessell, by the leave of God.
When the emperour saw this, hee said, O faire mayden
open thy vessell, and see if thou hast well chosen or no. And
when this yong lady had opened it, shee found it full of fine
gold and precious stones, like as the emperour had told her
before.
And then said the emperour, O my deere daughter, be-
cause thou hast wisely chosen, therefore shalt thou marry
my sonne. And when he had so said, he ordained a marriage,
and married them together with great solempnitie and much
honour, and they lived peaceably a long time together.
THE MORALL.
This emperour betokeneth the Father of heaven, the
which was long time without a natural sonne, therefore many
men were in danger of perishing in hell. The empresse
conceived when the angell Gabriel sayd, Loe, thou shalt con-
ceive and beare a childe. And then the firmament began to
cleere when this little childe lightened the world with his
birth. The moone began to waxe pale, when the face of the
Virgin Mary was overshadowed by vertue of the grace of
the Holy Ghost; and not onely her face was thus shadowed,
but also her body, for shee conceived with childe as an other
woman, wherefore Joseph would have forsaken her privily,
and gone away. The little bird that came from the one side
of the moone, betokeneth our Lord Jesu Christ, which at
midnight was borne of the Virgin Mary, wrapped in clothes,
and laid in an oxes crib. The two beasts betokeneth the
oxe and the asse that Joseph brought with him, which


THE THREE CASKETS.
109
they in sin. And anon, when the Divell perceiveth this, he
devoureth the sinner in his evill thoughts, delights, consent,
and worke; therefore if any of us feele our selves in this life
under the power of the Divell, let him doe as the maiden
did, smite the Divell with the knife of bitter repentance, then
kindle the fire of charitie, and without doubt hee shall have
the land of good life.
The earle that came with his servants to slay the whale,
betokeneth a discreete preacher, which dwelleth beside the
sea, that is, beside the world, and not in the world; that is,
not drawing to worldly delectation, but is ready with good
words of holy Scripture, to kill the Divell, and to destroy his
power. Wee must all cry with an high voice as did this
mayden, knowledging our sinnes, and then shall wee be de-
livered from the Divell, and nourished with vertuous exercise.
The emperour sheweth this maiden three vessels; that is,
God putteth before man life and death, good and evill, and
which of these hee chooseth hee shall obtaine; therefore saith
Salomon, Ante hominem mors et vita, Death and life is set
before man, choose which him list. And yet man is uncer.
taine whether he were best to choose life before death.
By the first vessell of gold full of dead mens bones, we
shall understand some worldly men, both mightie men and
rich, which outwardly shine as gold, in riches and pompes of
the world; neverthelesse, within they bee full of dead mens
bones; that is, the workes that they have wrought in this
world be dead in the sight of God, through deadly sinne;
therefore if any man choose such a life, he shall have that hee
deserveth, that is, hell. And such men be like tombes that
be white and richly painted and arayed without, and covered
with cloth of golde and silke, but within there is nothing but
dry bones. By the second vessel of silver we ought to un-
derstand some justices and wise men of this world, which
shine in faire speech, but within they be ful of wormes of
the earth; that is, their faire speach shall availe them no more
at the day of judgement then the wormes of the earth, and,


110 MORALL TO THE STORY OF THE THREE CASKETS.
peradventure lesse; for then shall they suffer everlasting
paine, if they die in deadly sinne.
By the third vessel of lead, full of golde and precious stones,
we ought to understand a simple life and a poore, which the
chosen soules choose, that they may be married to our blessed
Lord Jesu Christ by humilitie and obeysance, and such men
beare with them precious stones; that is, faith and her fruit-
full works, pleasing to God; by the which, at the judgement
day, they be espoused to our Lord Jesu Christ, and obtaine
the heritage of heaven, unto the which bring us our Saviour
Jesu Christ, Amen.


THE STORY
ON WHICH IS FOUNDED THE
TRAGEDY OF OTHELLO.
FROM THE
HECATOMITHI OF CINTHIO;
WITH AN ENGLISH TRANSLATION.





INTRODUCTION.
THE novel upon which “ Othello” was founded was trans-
lated into English by W. Parr, in 1795, and that version we
have appended to our reprint of the original by Cinthio, in
his Hecatommithi, Decad. III, Nov. 7. The narrative is not
known in our language at an earlier date: it may have existed
in the time of Shakespeare, and may have been since lost, or
he may have been sufficiently acquainted with Italian to glean
such incidents as suited his purpose; and this, in fact, is nearly
the whole extent of his obligation. Shakespeare has devi-
ated from the novel in several places, particularly in the con-
clusion, where, according to Cinthio, Desdemona is killed, not
by Othello, but by Iago, in a most clumsy and unpoetical
manner, his weapon being a stocking filled with sand-una
calza piena di rena : Othello is an accomplice in the murder,
and, in order to conceal it, they afterwards pull down the ceil-
ing of the room upon the dead body, having first spezzatale
la testa. Our great dramatist improved upon his original in
other respects, by introducing the character of Roderigo, and
by making Emilia the dupe of Iago in stealing the em-
broidered handkerchief, to which no magical virtues are im-
puted in the novel. Shakespeare perceived at once, that for
Iago to purloin it from Desdemona, while she was playing
with his child, could not be rendered an effective dramatic inci-
dent: besides, the mere circumstance of making Iago a father
was to form some alliance between him and the finer and ten-
derer feelings of our nature. The disappointed passion of Iago
for Desdemona is thrust into the foreground in the Italian
novel, and the villain derives no impulse towards his crime from
envy of the advancement of Cassio. In short, the novel is,
in all respects, a very poor and ill-constructed composition;
and a comparison of it with Shakespeare's “Othello” illus-
A 2


INTRODUCTION.
trates most forcibly, not only the exhaustless resources, but
the wonderful judgment of our great dramatist.
It is to be observed that the only name introduced by
Cinthio is that of Desdemona : Othello is called by him
the Moor, Cassio the lieutenant, and Iago the ensign or an-
cient. Of Brabantio we hear nothing, and are merely told
generally, that Desdemona's relations did all in their power
to induce her to marry some other person.
From whence Shakespeare obtained the names of his cha-
racters must remain a question until, perhaps, some old
translation or adaptation of Cinthio's novel is discovered,
where they may be found. The only other work in which
Othello occurs was pointed out by Malone, viz. “God's Re-
venge against Adultery,” by Reynolds, where a person
called Othello is represented as “an old German soldier.”
Farmer truly states that Iago is the name given to the Prince
of Saxony in the old romance of “Euordanus," 1605; but
that work was printed three years after the date when
Othello was acted : he omitted to remark that Emilia is also
a name in the same work, which is another slight circum-
stance connecting it with Shakespeare's tragedy. As Farmer
does not quote the title of the production correctly, we may be
allowed to add it here: it is, “The first and second part of the
History of the famous Euordanus, Prince of Denmark. With
the strange Adventures of lago, Prince of Saxonie: And of
both theyr severall fortunes in Love. At London, printed by
I. R. for R. B., and are to be sold in Paules Church-yard at
the signe of the Sun. 1605.” 4to, B. L.
Several portions of this work might be adduced to shew
that Shakespeare was acquainted with it; and it is the more
worthy of attention, because it appears to be an original ro-
mance, not translated, like many others, from a foreign
original.


NOVELLA VII.
Un capitano Moro piglia per mogliera una cittadina Vene-
ziana, un suo alfiero l'accusa di adulterio al marito; cerca,
che l'alfiero uccida colui, ch'egli credea l'adultero ; il capi..
tano uccide la moglie, e accusato dall' alfiero, non confessa
il Moro, ma essendovi chiari indizj, è bandito; e lo
scelerato alfiero, credendo nuocere ad altri, procaccia a se
la morte miseramente.
Fù già in Venezia un Moro, molto valoroso, il quale, per
essere prò della persona, e per aver dato segno, nelle cose
della guerra, di gran prudenza, e di vivace ingegno, era molto
caro a que' signori, i quali nel dar premio agli atti virtuosi
avanzano quante republiche fur mai. Avenne, che una vir-
tuosa donna, di maravigliosa bellezza, Disdemona chiamata,
tratta non da appetito donnesco, ma dalla virtù del Moro,
s'innamorò di lui : ed egli, vinto dalla bellezza, e dal nobile
pensiero della Donna, similmente di lei si accese, ed ebbero
tanto favorevole amore, che si congiunsero insieme per ma-
trimonio, ancora che i parenti della donna facessero ciò, che
poterono, perchè, ella altro marito si prendesse, che lui: e
vissero insieme di sì concorde volere, e in tanta tranquillità,
THERE was once in Venice a Moor of great merit, who for his per-
sonal courage, and the proofs he had given of his conduct, as well as
his vigorous genius in the affairs of war, was held in great esteem by
those gentlemen who, in rewarding patriotic services, excel all the re-
publics that ever existed. It happened that a virtuous woman of great
beauty, called Desdemona, not drawn by female appetite, but by the
virtue of the Moor, fell in love with him ; and he, subdued by the
charms and noble sentiments of the lady, became equally enamoured
of her. Their passion was so successful that they were married,
although her relations did all in their power to make her take another
husband. They lived together in such peace and concord while they


THE MOOR OF VENICE.
mentre furono in Venezia, che mai tra loro non fù non dirò cosa,
ma parola men, che amorevole. Occorse, che i signori Venezi-
ani fecero mutazione delle genti d'arme, ch' essi sogliono te-
nere in Cipri: ed elesseno per capitano de' soldati, che là
mandavano, il Moro. Il quale, ancora che molto lieto fosse
dell'onore, che gli era offerto (però che tal grado di dignità
non si suol dare se non agli uomini, e nobili, e forti, e fedeli,
e che abbiano mostrato avere in se molto valore) si scemava
nondimeno la sua allegrezza, qualora egli si poneva innanzi la
lunghezza, e la malagevolezza del viaggio, pensandosi, che
Disdemona ne dovesse rimanere offesa : la donna, che altro
bene non aveva al mondo, che il Moro, ed era molto contenta,
del testimonio, ch'aveva avuto il marito della sua virtù da
così possente, e nobile repubblica non vedea l'ora, che il
marito, colle sue genti, si mettesse in camino, ed ella andasse
seco in compagnia in così onorato luogo, ma le dava gran
noia il vedere il Moro turbato. E, non ne sapendo la ca-
gione, un giorno mangiando gli disse; Che vuole egli dir,
Moro, che poi, che vi è stato dato dalla Signoria così onorato
grado, ve ne state tanto maninconico?; a Disdemona disse il
were at Venice, that there never passed between them either word or
action that was not expressive of affection. The Venetians resolving
to change the garrison which they maintain in Cyprus, elected the
Moor to the command of the troops which they destined for that
island. Although he was extremely pleased with the honour proposed
to him (as it is a dignity conferred only on those who are noble, brave,
trusty, and of approved courage) yet was his joy diminished when he
reflected on the length and inconvenience of the voyage, supposing that
Desdemona must be very averse to undertaking it. His wife, who
valued nothing in the world but her husband, and rejoiced exceedingly
in the testimony of approbation so lately shewn him by a powerful and
celebrated republic, was extremely impatient for the departure of the
troops, that she might accompany him to a post of so much honour.
But she was very much vexed at seeing the Moor disturbed ; and, not
knowing the reason, said to him one day at dinner, “ How can you be
so melancholy after having received from the Senate so high and so


THE MOOR OF VENICE.
Moro, Turba la contentezza del ricevuto onore, l'amore,
che io ti porto, perchè io veggo, di necessità, delle due cose
deverne avvenir l'una: overo, ch'io ti meni con esso meco a
pericoli del mare: overo, che per non ti dar questo disagio ti
lasci in Venezia. La prima non mi potrebbe essere se non
grave, perchè ogni fatica, che tu ne sostenessi, ed ogni pericolo,
che ci sopravenisse, mi recherebbe estrema molestia. La se-
conda, devendoti lasciare, mi sarebbe odioso a me medesimo;
perchè, partendomi da te, mi partirei dalla mia vita. Disde-
mona, ciò inteso ; deh, disse, marito mio, che pensieri son
questi che vi vanno per l' animo ? a che lasciate, che cosa tal
vi turbi? voglio io venire con voi, ovunque andrete, Sì bene
cosi devessi passare in camicia per il fuoco, come son per
venire per acqua con voi, in sicura, e ben guarnita nave : e,
se pure vi saranno pericoli, e fatiche, io con voi ne voglio es-
sere a parte, e mi terrei d'essere poco amata da voi, quando,
per non mi avere in compagnia nel mare, pensaste di lasci-
armi in Venezia, o vi persuadeste, che più tosto mi volessi star
quà sicura, ch'essere con voi in uno istesso pericolo. Però
voglio, che vi apparecchiate al viaggio, con tutta quella alleg-
honourable a distinction ?”—“ My love for you, Desdemona,” replied
the Moor, “disturbs my enjoyment of the rank conferred upon me,
since I am now exposed to this alternative-I must either endanger
your life by sea, or leave you at Venice. The first would be terrible, as
I shall suffer extremely from every fatigue you undergo, from every
danger that threatens you: the second would render me insupportable
to myself, as parting from you would be parting from my life.”—“Ah!
husband,” returned Desdemona, “why do you perplex yourself with
such idle imaginations ? I will follow you wherever you go, though it
were necessary to pass through fire instead of only going by water in a
safe and well equipped vessel. If there are dangers in the way, I will
share them with you; and, indeed, your affection for me could not be
great, if you thought of leaving me at Venice to save me from a sea-
voyage, or believed that I would rather remain here in security than
share with you both danger and fatigue. I insist, therefore, on your
preparing for the voyage with all that cheerfulness which your dignity
B 2


THE MOOR OF VENICE.
rezza, che merita la qualità del grado, che tenete. Gettò al-
lora le braccia al collo tutto lieto il Moro alla mogliera, e con
un affettuoso bacio le disse : Iddio ci conservi lungamente in
questa amorevolezza, moglie mia cara : ed indi a poco, pig-
liati i suoi arnesi, e messossi ad ordine per lo cammino, entrò
colla sua donna, e con tutta la compagnia, nella galea : e date
le vele al vento, si mise in cammino : e con somma tranquil-
lità del mare, se n'andò in Cipri. Aveva costui nella com-
pagnia un alfiero di bellissima presenza, ma della più scele-
rata natura, che mai fosse uomo del mondo. Era questo
molto caro al Moro, non avendo egli delle sue cattività notizia
alcuna. Perchè, quantunque egli fosse di vilissimo animo, co-
priva nondimeno, colle alte, e superbe parole, e colla sua pre-
senza, di modo la viltà, ch'egli chiudea nel cuore, che si scopri-
va nella sembianza un Ettore, o un Achille. Avea simil-
mente menato questo malvagio la sua moglie in Cipri, la
quale era bella, ed onesta giovane: e per essere Italiana,
era molto amata dalla moglie del Moro, e si stava la maggior
parte del giorno con lei. Nella medesima compagnia era
anche un capo di squadra, carissimo al Moro; andava spes-
ought to inspire.” The Moor then tenderly embraced his wife, saying,
“ May Heaven long preserve us in this degree of reciprocal affection.”
Soon afterwards, having settled his affairs and prepared the necessary
stores, he went on board the galley with his wife and his company, and
sailed for Cyprus with a favourable wind. He had in his company an
ensign of a very amiable outward appearance, but whose character was
extremely treacherous and base. He had imposed on the Moor's sim-
plicity so successfully, that he had gained his friendship; for although
he was, in fact, a very great coward, yet his carriage and conversation
were so haughty and full of pretension, that you would have taken
him for a Hector or an Achilles. This rascal had also conducted his
wife with him to Cyprus, who was a handsome and discreet woman ;
and, being an Italian, Desdemona was so fond of her, that they passed
the greatest part of their time together. In the same company was also
a lieutenant, to whom the Moor was much attached. The lieutenant
went often to the Moor's house, and dined frequently with him and his


THE MOOR OF VENICE.
sissime volte questo a casa del Moro,e spesso mangiava con lui
e con la moglie. Laonde la donna che lo conosceva così grato al
suo marito, gli dava segni di grandissima benivolenza. La qual
cosa era molto cara al Moro. Lo scelerato alfiero, non curan-
do punto la fede data alla sua moglie, nè l'amicizia, nè la fede,
nè l'obligo, ch'egli avesse al Moro, s' innamorò di Disdemona
ardentissimamente; e voltò tutto il suo pensiero a vedere, se
gli poteva venir fatto di godersi di lei: ma non ardiva di di-
mostrarsi, temendo, che, se il Moro se ne avedesse, non gli
desse subito morte. Cercò egli con varj modi, quanto più
occultamente poteva, di far accorta la donna, ch' egli l'
amava. Ma ella, ch'avea nel Moro ogni suo pensiero, non
pensava punto nè all'alfiero, nè ad altri. E tutte le cose,
ch' egli facea, per accenderla di lui, non più operavano, che se
fatto non le avesse. Onde s'imaginò costui, che ciò avenisse,
perchè ella fosse accesa del capo di squadra ; e pensò voler-
losi levar dinanzi agli occhi, e non pure a ciò piegò la
mente, ma mutò l'amore, ch'egli portava alla donna, in acer-
bissimo odio; e si diè, con ogni studio, a pensare, come gli
potesse venir fatto, che ucciso il capo di squadra, se non po-
----
---
-
---
wife. Desdemona seeing that the Moor was so fond of him, shewed
him every mark of attention and civility, with which the Moor was
much pleased. The detestable ensign, forgetting his duty to his own
wife, and violating all the laws of friendship, honour, and gratitude with
which he was bound to the Moor, fell passionately in love with Desde-
mona, and thought only how he might enjoy her. He dared not how-
ever avow himself, for fear the Moor, if he discovered it, should instantly
put him to death. He sought by all the private means in his power to
make Desdemona conscious of his love. But she was so entirely taken
up with the Moor, that she thought neither of him nor of any one else ;
and all that he did to engage her affections produced not the least
effect. He then took it into his head, that this neglect arose from her
being pre-engaged in favour of the lieutenant; and not only determined
to get rid of him, but changed his affection for her into the most bitter
hatred. He studied, besides, how he might prevent in future the Moor
from living happily with Desdemona, should his passion not be gratified


THE MOOR OF VENICE.
tesse goder della donna, il Moro anco non ne godesse. E
rivolgendosi per l'animo varie cose tutte scelerate, e malvagie,
alla fine, deliberò di volerla accusare di adulterio al marito,
e dargli ad intendere, che l'adultero era il capo di squadra;
ma sappendo costui l'amore singolare, che portava il Moro a
Disdemona, e l' amicizia, ch' egli avea col capo di squadra,
conosceva apertamente, che se con astuta froda non faceva in-
ganno al Moro, era impossibile a dargli a vedere nè l'uno, nè
l'altro. Per la qual cosa si mise ad aspettare, che il tempo,
e il luogo gli aprisse la via da entrare a così scelerata im-
presa. E non passò molto, che il Moro, per aver messo
mano alla spada il capo di squadra, nella guardia, contra un
soldato, e dategli delle ferite, lo privò del grado: la qual cosa
fù gravissima a Disdemona. E molte volte aveva tentato
di rappacificare il marito con lui. Tra questo mezzo disse il
Moro allo scelerato alfiero, che la moglie gli dava tanta sec-
cagine per il capo di squadra, che temea finalmente, di non
essere astretto a ripigliarlo. Prese da ciò il mal' uomo argo-
mento di por mano a gli orditi inganni, e disse; Ha forse Dis-
demona cagione di vederlo volentieri. Et perchè? disse
after he had murdered the lieutenant. Revolving in his mind a variety
of methods, all impious and abominable, he at last determined to ac
cuse her to the Moor of adultery with the lieutenant. But knowing
the Moor's great affection for Desdemona, and his friendship for the
lieutenant, he plainly saw that unless his deceit was very artfully con-
ducted, it would be impossible to make him think ill of either of them.
For this reason he determined to wait till time and place afforded him
a fit opportunity for entering on his wicked design; and it was not long
befi re the Moor degraded the lieutenant for having drawn his sword
and wounded a soldier upon guard. This accident was so painful to
Desdemona, that she often tried to obtain for him her husband's pardon.
In the mean time the Moor had observed to the ensign, that his wife
teazed him so much in favour of the lieutenant, that he feared he should
be obliged at last to restore him to his commission. This appeared to
that villain the proper moment for opening his scheme of treachery
which he began by saying, “ Perhaps Desdemona is fond of his com-


THE MOOR OF VENICE.
il Moro, io non voglio, rispose l'alfiero, por mano tra marito,
e moglie : ma, se terrete aperti gli occhi, voi stesso lo vi ved-
rete. Nè per diligenza, che facesse in Moro, volle l' alfiero
più oltre passare: benchè lasciarono tali parole, così pun-
gente spina nell'animo del Moro, che si diede con sommo stu-
dio a pensare ciò che volessero dire tali parole, e se ne stava
tutto maninconioso. La onde, tentando un giorno la moglie
di ammolire l'ira sua verso il capo di squadra, e pregandolo
a non voler mettere in oblio la servitù, e l'amicizia di tanti
anni, per un picciolo fallo; essendo massimamente nata pace,
fra il soldato ferito ed il capo di squadra, venne il Moro in ira,
e le disse : Gran cosa è questa, Disdemona, che tu tanta cura
ti pigli di costui, non è però egli nè tuo fratello, nè tuo pa-
rente, che tanto ti debba essere a cuore. La donna, tutta
cortese, e umile; non vorrei, disse, che voi vi adiraste con
meco, altro non mi muove, che il dolermi di vedervi privato
di così caro amico, qual sò, per lo testimonio di voi medesimo,
che vi è stato il capo di squadra: non ha però egli commesso sì
grave errore, che gli debbiate portar tanto odio. Ma voi Mori
siete di natura tanto caldi, ch'ogni poco di cosa vi muove ad ira,
pany.”—“ And why?” said the Moor.“ Nay,” replied he, “I do not
chuse to meddle between man and wife; but if you watch her properly,
you will understand me.” Nor would he, to the earnest entreaties of
the Moor, afford any further explanation. These words had stung the
Moor so severely, that he endeavoured perpetually to find out their
meaning, and became exceedingly melancholy. Whereupon, when his
wife sometime afterwards repeated her solicitations that he would
forgive the lieutenant, and not sacrifice the service and friendship of so
many years to one slight fault, particularly as the lieutenant and the
soldier were friends again, the Moor grew angry, and said to her, “ It is
somewhat extraordinary, Desdemona, that you should take so much
trouble about this fellow; he is neither your brother nor your relation,
that he should claim so much of your affection.” His wife with much
sweetness and humility replied, “ I have no other motive for speaking,
than the pain it gives me to see you deprived of so excellent a friend
as you have always told me the lieutenant was to you. I hope you


THE MOOR OF VENICE.
e a vendetta. A queste parole più irato rispose il Moro, tale
lo potrebbe provare, che non sel crede: vedrò tal vendetta delle
ingiurie, che mi son fatte, che ne resterò sazio. Rimase la
donna tutta sbigottita a queste parole: e, veduto fuor del suo
costume, il marito, contra lei riscaldato, umilmente disse;
altro, che buon fine, a parlarvi di ciò non mi ha indotta, ma
perchè più non vi abbiate di adirar meco, non vi dirò più mai
di ciò parola. Veduta il Moro la instanza, che di nuovo gli
avea fatta la moglie, in favore del capo di squadra, s' ima-
ginò che le parole, che gli avea detto l' alfiero, gli avessero
voluto significare, che Disdemona fosse innamorata di lui, e
se n' andò a quel ribaldo tutto maninconioso, e cominciò a
tentare, ch' egli più apertamente gli parlasse. L'alfiero, in-
tento al danno di questa misera donna, dopo l' aver finto
di non voler dir cosa, che fosse per dispiacergli, mostrandosi
vinto da' preghi del Moro, disse ; Io non posso negare, che non
m' incresce incredibilmente, di avervi a dir cosa, che sia per
esservi più di qualunque altra molesta: ma, poi che pur vo-
lete, ch' io la vi dica, e la cura, che io debbo avere dell' onor
vostro, come di mio signore, mi sprona anche a dirlovi, non vo-
will not be angry with me; yet his fault does not merit so much of your
hatred: but you Moors are of so warm a constitution, that every trifle
transports you with anger and revenge.” The Moor, still more irritated
by these words, replied, “ Perhaps one who suspects it not may learn
that by experience; I will be revenged for the injuries done to me, so
thoroughly, that I shall be satisfied.” His wife was much terrified by
these expressions, and seeing him, for the first time, in a passion with
her, submissively answered, “I have none but the purest motives for
speaking on the business : but not to displease you in future, I promise
never to speak of it again.” The Moor, on this new application made
by his wife in favour of the lieutenant, imagined that the ensign's words
meant that she was in love with him: he therefore went to that
scoundrel in a state of great dejection, and endeavoured to make him
speak more intelligibly. The ensign, bent on the ruin of this poor
woman, after feigning an unwillingness to say any thing to her disad-
vantage, and at last pretending to yield to the vehement entreaties of


THE MOOR OF VENICE.
9
glio ora mancare nè alla vostra dimanda, nè al debito mio.
Devete adunque sapere, che, non per altro, è grave alla donna
vostra il veder il capo di squadra in disgrazia vostra, che per
lo piacere, ch' ella si piglia con lui, qualora egli in casa
vostra viene: come colei, a cui già è venuta anoia questa
vostra nerezza. Queste parole passarono il cuore al Moro
insino alle radici : Ma, per saper più oltre (ancora, ch' egli
credesse vero quanto avea detto l'alfiero, per lo sospetto,
che già gli era nato nell' animo) disse, con fiero viso; non sò
io che mi tenga, che non ti tagli questa lingua, tanto audace,
che ha avuto ardir di dar tal infamia alla donna mia.
L'alfiero allora, non mi aspettava, disse, capitano, di questo
mio amorevole ufficio, altra mercede; ma, poi che tanto oltre
mi ha portato il debito mio, ed il desiderio dell'onor vostro :
io vi replico, che così sta la cosa, come intesa l' avete, e se
la donna, col mostrar di amarvi, vi ha così appannati gli occhi,
che non abbiate veduto quel, che veder devevate, non è mica
per ciò, che io non vi dica il vero. Perchè il medesimo capo
di squadra l' ha detto a me, come quegli, cui non pareva la
sua felicità compiuta, se non ne faceva alcuno altro consa-
the Moor, said, “I cannot conceal the pain I feel in being under the
necessity of making a discovery which will be to you so very shocking ;
but since you insist on it, and the attention which I ought to pay to
the honour of my commanding-officer, prompts me to speak, I will not
now refuse to satisfy your demand and my own duty. You must know,
then, that Desdemona is only displeased at seeing you angry with the
lieutenant, because, when he comes to your house, she consoles herself
with him for the disgust which your blackness now occasions her to
feel.” These words penetrated to the very bottom of the Moor's heart;
but to be better informed (although his previous suspicion made him
give great credit to the ensign’s information) he assumed a threatening
countenance, and said, “ I know not what prevents me from cutting out
that insolent tongue of yours that has so impudently attacked the
honour of my wife.” The ensign then replied, “ I expected no other
reward for this friendly office of mine; but since my duty has made me
go so far, and my regard for your honour still remains, I tell you again


10
THE MOOR OF VENICE.
pevole; e gli soggiunse : e, se io non avessi temuta l'ira
vostra, gli avrei dato, quando ciò mi disse, quella mercede,
coll' ucciderlo, della quale egli era degno. Ma poscia, che il
farvi saper quello, che più a voi, che a qualunque altro ap-
partiene, me ne fà avere così sconvenevole guiderdone: me
ne vorrei essere stato cheto, che non sarei, tacendo, incorso
nella disgrazia vostra. Il Moro allora tutto cruccioso, se non
mi fai, disse, vedere cogl’occhi quello, che detto mi hai, viviti
sicuro, che ti farò conoscere, che meglio per te sarebbe, che tu
fossi nato mutolo. Agevol mi sarebbe stato questo, soggiunse
il malvagio, quando egli in casa vostra veniva, ma ora, che,
non per quello che bisognava, ma per vie più lieve cagione,
l'avete scacciato, non mi potrà essere se non malagevole,
che ancora che io stimi, ch' egli di Disdemona si goda, qual-
ora voi gliene date lagio, molto più cautamente lo dee fare
ora, che si vede esservi venuto in odio, che non facea di pri-
ma. Ma anco non perdo la speranza di potervi far vedere
quel, che creder non mi volete. E con queste parole si dis-
partirono. Il misero Moro, come tocco da pungentissimo
strale, se n'andò a casa, attendendo che venisse il giorno, che
that the case is so; and if her feigned affection for you has blindfolded
you to such a degree that you have not seen what is so very visible,
that does not at all lessen the truth of my assertion. The lieutenant
himself, who is one of those who are not content with their own enjoy-
ments when some other is not made acquainted with them, told me so;
and,” added he, “if I had not feared your displeasure, I would have
given him at the time that death be merited. But since the informa-
tion I give you, which concerns you more than any one else, makes you
treat me so very improperly, I am sorry I did not hold my tongue, that
I might have avoided giving you offence.” The Moor then answered,
in great agitation, “ If you do not make me to see with my own eyes
the truth of what you tell me, be assured that I will make you wish you
had been born dumb.”—“ This would have been easy enough," replied
the villain, “when he came to your house: but now that you have
driven him away for a much lighter reason than that which ought to
have banished him thence, it will be difficult to prove it. For though


THE MOOR OF VENICE.
11
l' alfiero gli facesse veder quello, che lo devea far, per sem-
pre, misero. Ma non minor noia dava al maladetto alfiero la
castità, ch' egli sapeva, che osservava la donna, perchè gli
parea non poter ritrovar modo a far credere al Moro quello,
che falsamente detto gli aveva : e, voltato in varie parti il
pensiero, pensò lo scelerato a nuova malizia. Andava sovente
la moglie del Moro, come ho detto, a casa della moglie dell'
alfiero, e se ne stava con lei buona parte del giorno, onde
veggendo costui ch' ella talora portava seco un pannicello da
naso, ch'egli sapeva, che le avea donato il Moro, il qual
pannicello era lavorato alla moresca sottilissimamente, ed era
carissimo alla donna, e parimente al Moro, si pensò di torgli-
ele secretamente, e quindi apparecchiare l'ultimo danno. E
avendo egli una fanciulla di tre anni, la quale era molto
amata di Disdemona, un giorno, che la misera donna a casa
di questo reo si era andata a stare, prese egli la fanciulla in
braccia, ed alla donna la pose: la quale la prese, e la si recco
al petto; questo ingannatore, che eccellentemente giocava di
mano, le levò da cintola il pannicello così accortamente, ch'
ella punto non se ne avide, e da lei, tutto allegro, si diparti.
I think yet that he continues to enjoy Desdemona whenever you give
him an opportunity, he must necessarily proceed with greater caution
now than he did before he had incurred your displeasure. But I do
not despair of making you see that which upon my word you will not
believe.” They then separated. The poor Moor went home with a
barbed arrow in his side, waiting impatiently for the day when the en-
sign should shew him what was to render him for ever miserable. But
the known purity of Desdemona's conduct gave no less uneasiness to
the villanous ensign, because he was afraid he should not be able to
convince the Moor of what he had so falsely assured him. He applied
himself therefore to the invention of new malice, and devised other ex-
pedients. I have already said that Desdemona went frequently to the
ensign's house, and passed great part of the day with his wife. The
villain had observed that she often brought with her a handkerchief
that the Moor had given her, and which, as it was very delicately
worked in the Moorish taste, was very highly valued by them both; he


12
THE MOOR OF VENICE.
Disdemona, ciò non sappendo, se ne andò a casa: e occupata da
altri pensieri, non si avide del pannicello. Ma, indi ad alquanti
giorni, cercandone, e nol ritrovando, stava tutta timida, che il
Moro non gliele chiedesse, come egli sovente facea Lo scelerato
alfiero, pigliatosi commodo tempo, se ne andò al capo di squa-
dra, e con astuta malizia gli lasciò il pannicello a capo del letto,
nè se ne avide il capo di squadra, se non la seguente mattina,
che levandosi dal letto, essendo il pannicello caduto in terra, vi
pose il piede sopra: nè sapendosi imaginare, come in casa l'a-
vesse, conoscendolo cosa di Disdemona, deliberò di dargliele:
ed attendendo che il Moro fosse uscito di casa, se ne andò all'
uscio di dietro, ed ivi picchiò; volle la Fortuna, che parea, che
coll' alfiero congiurata si fosse alla morte della meschina: che
in quell' ora appunto, il Moro si venne a casa : ed udendo
picchiare l'uscio, si fece alla finestra: e tutto cruccioso, disse, chi
picchia là ? Il capo di squadra, udita la voce del Moro, te-
mendo ch' egli non scendesse a danno suo, senza rispondere
parola si diede a fuggire. Il Moro, scese le scale : e aperto
l'uscio, uscì nella strada, e cercando di lui nol ritrovò. Onde
entrato in casa, pieno di mal talento, dimandò alla moglie, chi
determined to steal it, and by its means complete her ruin. He had a
little girl of three years old that was much caressed by Desdemona ;
and one day, when that unhappy woman was on a visit to this villain,
he took up the child in his arms and presented it to Desdemona, who
received it and pressed it to her bosom. In the same instant this de-
ceiver stole from her sash the handkerchief, with such dexterity, that she
did not perceive him; and went away with it in very high spirits. Des-
demona went home, and, taken up with other thoughts, never recollected
her handkerchief till some days after; when, not being able to find it,
she began to fear that the Moor should ask her for it, as he often did.
The infamous ensign, watching his opportunity, went to the lieutenant,
and, to aid his wicked purpose, left the handkerchief on his bolster. The
lieutenant did not find it till the next morning, when, getting up, he set
his foot upon it as it had fallen to the floor. Not being able to imagine
how it came there, and knowing it to be Desdemona's, he determined to
carry it back to her; and, waiting till the Moor was gone out, he went


THE MOOR OF VENICE.
13
fosse colui che la giù picchiava. La donna rispose quel, che
vero era, che nol sapeva. Ma il Moro disse, mi ha egli paruto
il capo di squadra ; Non so io, disse ella, se sia stato nè egli,
nè altri. Rattenne il Moro il furore, quantunque d'ira ar-
desse, nè prima volle far cosa alcuna, che parlasse, coll' al-
fiero, al quale subitamente se n'andò, e gli disse quanto era
occorso, e lo pregò ad intendere dal capo di squadra tutto
quello, ch' egli poteva intorno a ciò. Egli, lieto di così fatto
avenimento, gli promise di farlo. E al capo di squadra
parlò un giorno costui, che il Moro era in luogo, onde gli po-
teva vedere insieme ragionare. E parlandogli di ogni altra
cosa, che della donna, faceva le maggiori risa del mondo: e
mostrando di maravigliarsi, facea di molti atti, e col capo, e
colle mani, come, che udisse cose maravigliose. Il Moro, tosto
che gli vide partiti, andò verso l'alfiero, per saper ciò che co-
lui detto gli avesse. Questo, dopo aversi fatto lungamente
pregare, al fin gli disse, non mi ha egli celato cosa alcuna, e
mi ha detto, che si ha goduto della moglie vostra ogni volta,
che voi coll' esser fuori, gli ne avete dato tempo: e che
l'ultima fiata, che egli è stato con lei, gli ha ella donato quel
to the back-door and knocked. Fortune, who seemed to have conspired
along with the ensign the death of this poor woman, brought the Moor
home in the same instant Hearing some one knock he went to the
window, and, much disturbed, asked who is there? The lieutenant
hearing his voice, and fearing that when came down he should do him
some mischief, ran away without answering. The Moor came down, and
finding no one either at the door or in the street, returned full of sus-
picion to his wife, and asked if she knew who it was that had knocked.
She answered with great truth that she knew not. “But I think,”
said he, “it was the lieutenant ;"—“It might be he,” said she, “or any
one else.” The Moor checked himself at the time, though he was
violently enraged, and determined to take no step without first con-
sulting the ensign. To him he immediately went, and related what
had just happened, begging him to learn from the lieutenant what he
could on the subject. The ensign rejoiced much in this accident, and
promised to do so. He contrived to enter into discourse with him one


14
THE MOOR OF VENICE.
pannicello da naso, che voi, quando la sposaste, le deste in
dono. Il Moro ringraziò l' alfiero, e gli parve, che se ri-
trovava, che la donna non avesse il pannicello, potesse essere
chiaro, che così fosse, come gli avea detto l'alfiero. Per la
qual cosa un giorno, dopo desinare entrato in varj ragiona-
menti colla donna, le chiese il pannicello. L'infelice che di
questo avea molto temuto, a tal dimanda, divenne nel viso tutta
fuoco; et per celare il rossore, il quale molto bene notò il Moro,
corse alla cassa, e finse di cercarlo. E dopo molto averlo
cercato; non so, disse, com' ora non lo ritrovi, l' avreste voi
forse avuto? s'avuto lo avessi, disse egli, perchè te lo
chiederei io? ma ne cercherai più agiatamente un'altra
volta. Et partitosi cominciò a pensare, come devesse far mo-
rire la donna, ed insieme il capo di squadra, si chè a lui non
fosse data colpa della sua morte. E pensando giorno, e notte
sopra ciò, non poteva fare, che la donna non si avedesse,
ch'egli non era quegli, che verso lei, per adietro essere soleva.
E gli disse più volte, che cosa avete voi, che così vi turbi?
Voi che solevate essere il più festoso uomo del mondo, siete
ora il più maninconico, che viva ? Trovava il Moro varie
day in a place where the Moor might see them. He talked with him
on a very different subject, laughed much, and expressed by his mo-
tions and attitudes very great surprise. The Moor as soon as he saw
them separate went to the ensign, and desired to know what had passed
between them. The ensign, after many solicitations, at last told him
that he had concealed nothing from him. He says he has enjoyed your
wife every time that you have stayed long enough from home to give
him an opportunity; and that in their last interview she had made him
a present of that handkerchief which you gave her. The Moor thanked
him, and thought that if his wife had no longer the handkerchief in her
possession, it would be a proof that the ensign had told him the truth.
For which reason one day after dinner, among other subjects, he asked
her for this handkerchief. The poor woman, who had long apprehended
this, blushed excessively at the question, and, to hide her change of
colour, which the Moor had very accurately observed, ran to her ward-
robe and pretended to look for it. After having searched for some


16
THE MOOR OF VENICE.
petto al marito, e cercate con ogni studio, ch'egli in voi co-
nosca amore, e fede ; ciò faccio io, disse ella, ma nulla mi
giova. Il Moro, in questo mezzo tempo, cercava tutta via di
più certificarsi di quello, che non avrebbe voluto ritrovare: e
pregò l'alfiero, che operasse di modo che potesse vedere il
pannicello in podestà del capo di squadra: e benchè ciò fosse
grave al malvagio, gli promise nondimeno di usare ogni dili-
genza, perchè egli di ciò si certificasse. Aveva il capo di
squadra una donna in casa, che maravigliosi trapunti faceva
sulla tela di rensa, la quale veggendo quel pannicello, ed in-
tendendo, ch'era della donna del Moro, e ch'era per esserle
reso, prima ch' ella l'avesse, si mise a farne un simile: e
mentre ella ciò faceva, s'avide l'alfiero, ch'ella appresso una
finestra si stava, e da chi passava per la strada poteva essere
veduta, onde fece egli ciò veder al Moro, il quale tenne cer-
tissimo che l'onestissima donna fosse in fatto adultera; E
conchiuse coll' alfiero, di uccidere lei, ed il capo di squadra,
trattando ambidue tra loro come ciò si devesse fare lo pregò
il Moro, ch'egli volesse essere quegli, che il capo di squadra
uccidesse, promettendo di restargliele obligato eternamente.
women never to marry against their parents' consent, and the Italians in
particular, not to connect themselves with men from whom they are
separated by nature, climate, education, and complexion. But as I
know him to be the confidential of your husband, whom he consults on
all occasions, I intreat you, if you have heard any thing that might ex-
plain this mystery and be of use to me, not to deny me your assist-
ance." These words were accompanied with a flood of tears.
The ensign's wife, who knew all (as her husband had in vain en-
deavoured to prevail upon her to become an accomplice in the murder of
Desdemona), but durst tell her nothing for fear of her husband, only
said, “ Take care not to give the Moor any cause for suspicion, and do
all in your power to convince him of your affection and fidelity.”—
“Why so I do,” said she, “but to no purpose.” The Moor, in the
mean time, did all in his power to prove what he desired not to find
true, and begged the ensign to make him see the handkerchief in pos-
session of the lieutenant. Although this was a difficult undertaking,


THE MOOR OF VENICE.
17
me
E ricusando egli di voler far cosa tale come malagevolissima,
e di molto pericolo, per essere il capo di squadra non meno
accorto, che valoroso, dopo molto averlo pregato, datagli
buona quantità di danari, lo indusse a dire, che proverebbe
di tentar la fortuna. Fatta questa resoluzione, uscendo una
sera il capo di squadra di casa di una meretrice, colla quale
egli si sollazzava, essendo la notte buia, gli si accostò l' alfiero
colla spada in mano, e gli dirizzò un colpo alle gambe, per
farlo cadere, ed avenne, ch' egli gli tagliò la destra coscia a
traverso, onde il misero cadde: e gli fù addosso l'alfiero, per
finire di ucciderlo. Ma avendo il capo di squadra, che co-
raggioso era, e avezzo nel sangue, e nelle morti, tratta la
spada, e, così ferito come egli era, dirizzatosi alla difesa,
gridò ad alta voce; io sono assassinato. Per la qual cosa,
sentendo l' alfiero correr gente, ed alquanti de' soldati, ch' ivi
attorno erano alloggiati, si mise a fuggire, per non vi essere
colto: e, data una volta, fe vista anch'egli di essere corso al
romore. E ponendosi tra gli altri, vedutagli mozza la gamba,
giudicò che se bene non era morto, morirebbe ad ogni modo
di quel colpo; e, quantunque fosse di ciò lietissimo, si dolse
yet the villain promised to do all in his power to give him a satisfactory
proof of this. The lieutenant had a woman in the house, who was a notable
embroiderer in muslin, and who, struck with the beauty of Desde-
mona's handkerchief, determined to copy it before it should be returned
to her. She set about making one like it, and while she was at work,
the ensign discovered that she sat at a window where any one who
passed in the street might see her. This he took care to point out to
the Moor, who was then fully persuaded that his chaste and innocent
wife was an adultress. He agreed with the ensign to kill both her and
the lieutenant; and, consulting together about the means, the Moor
intreated him to undertake the assassination of the officer, promising
never to forget so great an obligation. He refused, however, to attempt
what was so very difficult and dangerous, as the lieutenant was equally
brave and vigilant; but with much entreaty and considerable presents,
he was prevailed on to say that he would hazard the experiment. One
dark night, after taking this resolution, he observed the lieutenant


18
THE MOOR OF VENICE.
nondimeno col capo di squadra, come s' egli suo fratello fosse
stato. La mattina la cosa si sparse per tutta la città, ed andò
anche alle orecchie di Disdemona, onde ella, ch' amorevole era,
e non pensava ch’indi le devesse avenir male, mostrò di aver
grandissimo dolore di così fatto caso; di ciò fece il Moro pes-
simo concetto. E andò a ritrovar l'alfiero, e gli disse ;
Tu sai bene, che l'asina di mia moglie è in tanto affanno,
per lo caso del capo di squadra, ch' ella è per impazzare. E
come potevate, disse egli, pensar altrimente, essendo colui
l'anima sua ? Anima sua, eh? replicò il Moro, io le trarrò
ben' io l'anima del corpo, che mi terrei non essere uomo, se
non togliessi dal mondo questa malvagia. E discorrendo
l'uno con l'altro, se di veleno, o di coltello si devea far morir
la donna, nè accettandosi questo, nè quello da loro, disse
l'alfiero; un modo mi è egli venuto nella mente, che vi so-
disfarà, e non se ne avrà sospetto alcuno; ed egli è tale.
La casa, ove voi state, è vecchissima, e il palco della camera
vostra ha di molte fessure; voglio, che con una calza piena
di rena percuotiamo Disdemona, tanto ch' ella ne muoia, per-
chè non appaia in lei segno alcuno di battitura: morta, ch'ella
coming out of the house of a female libertine where he usually passed
his evenings, and assaulted him sword in hand. He struck at his legs
with a view of bringing him to the ground, and with the first blow cut
him quite through the right thigh. The poor man instantly fell, and
the ensign ran to him to put him to death. But the lieutenant, who
was courageous, and familiar with wounds and slaughter, having drawn
his sword notwithstanding his desperate situation, and raised himself
for defence, cried out Murder as loud as he could. The ensign, per-
ceiving that some people were coming, and that the soldiers quartered
thereabouts had taken the alarm, fled for fear of being caught, and, turn-
ing about again, pretended likewise that he had been brought there by
the noise. Placing himself anong the rest, and seeing that the leg was
cut off, he concluded that, though he was not dead, he must die of
wound: and, although he was exceedingly rejoiced at all this, yet he
condoled with the lieutenant as much as if he had been his brother.
The next morning this accident was spread all over the city, and came


THE MOOR OF VENICE.
19
sarà, faremo cadere parte del palco, e romperemo il capo alla
donna, fingendo, che una trave nel cadere rotto gliel' abbia,
ed uccisa : e, a questo modo, non sarà persona, che di voi pi-
gli sospetto alcuno, stimando ognuno la sua morte essere ve-
nuta a caso. Piacque al Moro, il crudel consiglio: e, aspet-
tato il tempo, che convenevole gli parve, essendo egli una
notte con lei nel letto, ed avendo già nascoso l'alfiero
in un camerino, che nella camera entrava, l' alfiero, secondo
l'ordine tra lor dato, fe non so che strepito nel camerino: e,
sentitolo, subitamente disse il Moro alla moglie; hai tu sen-
tito quello strepito? L'ho sentito, disse ella ; levati sog-
giunse il Moro, e vedi che cosa è. Levosi l'infelice Disde-
mona : e, tosto ch' ella fu appresso il camerino, n'usci l' al-
fiero, il quale, essendo forte, e di buon nerbo, colla calza, che
in punto aveva, le diede una crudel percossa, nel mezzo
della schiena, onde la donna subito cadde, senza poter trarne
appena fuori il fiato. Ma con quella poca voce, che potè
avere, chiamò il Moro, che l' aiutasse; ed egli, uscito del letto,
le disse, Sceleratissima donna, la mercede hai della tua dis-
onestà, così si trattano quelle, che fingendo di amare i loro
to the ears of Desdemona, who being very compassionate, and not sus.
pecting that this could occasion mischief to herself, expressed the
greatest concern for the lieutenant's misfortune. The Moor drew from
hence the worst of inferences, and said to the ensign, “ You must know
that my simpleton of a wife is almost mad with sorrow for the lieutenant's
accident.”—“How could it be otherwise," said he, “ as he is her life and
soul ?”—“How,” said the Moor, “her life and her soul! I will separate
her soul from her body. I should disgrace my manhood if I killed her
not.” And discoursing together if poison or the dagger would be best,
and not liking either the one or the other, the ensign said, “ A method
has occurred to me that would satisfy you without creating the least
suspicion. The house where you live is very old, and the ceiling of
your chamber is broken in many places. Desdemona might be beaten
to death with a stocking full of sand, and no marks of this would remain
on the body: when she is dead we will pull down a part of the ceiling,
and bruise your wife's head; then give out that a beam in falling has
c2


THE MOOR OF VENICE.
21
avesse perduto, colla sua donna, tutto il dolce della vita, ed anco
se medesimo; gli venne lo scelerato in tanto odio, che non
aveva occhio, col quale vedere lo potesse: se non avesse
avuto timore della inviolabile giustizia de' Signori Veneziani,
l'avrebbe palesemente ucciso. Ma non potendo far questo,
con sua salvezza, gli levò la insegna, e più nol volle nella
compagnia, onde nacque tanta aspra nimicizia tra l'uno, e
l'altro, che non si potrebbe imaginare la maggiore, nè la più
grave. Per la qual cosa l'alfiero, peggiore di tutti gli sce-
lerati, voltò tutto il pensiero a danni del Moro. E ritrovato
il capo di squadra, che già era risanato, e con una gamba di
legno se n'andava in vece della tagliata, gli disse; Venuto è
il tempo, che tu possi far vendetta della tua tagliata gamba :
e quando tu vuoi venire con esso meco a Venezia, io ti
dirò, chi è stato il malfattore, che quì non ardirei di dirloti,
per molti rispetti : ed io ne farò, per te, testimonio in giudizio.
Il capo di squadra, che si ritrovava fieramente offeso, e non
blow that the ensign had given her, said, “That, since the justice of this
world was refused her, she attested the Divine Justice in favour of her
honour and her truth;" and invoking the Divine Assistance, she was
finished by the impious ensign, who struck a third time. Afterwards
they placed her in bed; and after breaking her skull, they drew down,
as they had determined beforehand, a part of the ceiling. The Moor
then called out for help, as the house was falling. The neighbours on
this alarm ran thither, and found Desdemona dead under the beams.
Her life had been so virtuous that every one lamented her fate; and the
following day she was buried, to the great sorrow of the whole island.
But God, who is a just observer of the hearts of men, suffered not so
great a crime to pass without the punishment that was due to it. So
that the Moor, who had loved Desdemona more than his eyes, finding
himself deprived of her, began to regret her so extremely, that he almost
lost his senses, and went about the house looking for her in every room.
Reflecting besides that the ensign had been the cause of his losing along
with her all the enjoyments of life, and even his own faculties, that villain
became so insupportable to him, that he could not bear the sight of him;
and had he not feared the strict and impartial justice of the Venetians,
he would have put him openly to death. But not being able to do this


22
THE MOOR OF VENICE.
sapeva perchè; ringraziò l' alfiero, e seco a Venezia se ne
venne. Ove giunti, che furono, egli gli disse, che il Moro era
stato quegli, che gli avea tagliato la gamba, per opinione,
che gli era nata nella testa, che egli si giacesse con Disdemona:
e che per questa medesima cagione egli aveva ucciso lei, e
poscia data voce, che il palco caduto ucciso l'avesse. Il
capo di squadra, inteso ciò, accusò il Moro alla Signoria, e
della gamba a lui tagliata, e della morte della donna, ed in-
dusse per testimonio l'alfiero, il quale disse; che l'uno, e
l' altro era vero, perchè il Moro aveva tutto communicato
seco, e l' avea voluto indurre a fare l'uno, e l'altro maleficio:
e che, avendo poscia ucciso la moglie, per bestial gelosia,
che gli era nata nel capo, gli avea narrato la maniera, ch'egli
avea tenuto in darle morte. I Signori Veneziani, intesa la
crudeltà, usata dal Barbaro, in una lor cittadina, fecero dar
delle mani addosso al Moro in Cipri, e condurlo a Venezia,
e con molti tormenti cercarono di ritrovare il vero. Ma vin-
with safety to himself, he degraded him from his commission, and per-
mitted him no longer to remain in the company. Hence arose between
them the most bitter enmity that can be conceived; and the ensign, the
greatest of all villains, studied only how he might be revenged on the
Moor. He went to the lieutenant, who was cured and walked about
with his wooden leg, and said to him, “ The time is now come when you
may be revenged for the loss of your leg; and if you will come with me
to Venice, I will tell you who the assassin was. Here I dare not inform
you for many reasons; but there I will be your witness in a court of
justice.” The lieutenant, who felt himself violently exasperated against
the person, though unknown to him, thanked the ensign, and came away
with him to Venice. When they were arrived, the ensign told him that
the Moor was the person who had cut off his leg, because he suspected
him of adultery with his wife, and that for the same reason he had mur-
dered her, and afterwards given out that she had been killed by the
ceiling's falling in upon her. The lieutenant on hearing this, imme-
diately accused the Moor before the Council of the injury done to him-
self and the murder of Desdemona; and the ensign being called as a
witness, asserted the truth of both these accusations, and added that the
Moor had communicated to him the whole project, with a view of per-


THE MOOR OF VENICE.
23
cendo egli col valore dell'animo, ogni martorio, il tutto nego,
così constantemente, che non se ne potè mai trarre cosa al-
cuna. Ma se bene, per la sua constanza, egli schifò la morte,
non fù però, che dopo essere stato molti giorni in prigione,
non fosse dannato a perpetuo esilio, nel quale finalmente fù
da' parenti della donna, com' egli meritava, ucciso. Andò
l'alfiero alla sua patria : e non volendo egli mancare del suo
costume, accusò un suo compagno, dicendo, ch'egli ricercato
lo avea di ammazzare un suo nimico, che gentiluomo era,
per la qual cosa fù preso colui, e messo al martorio: e ne-
gando egli esser vero, quanto dicea l'accusatore, fù messo al
martorio anco l alfiero per paragone. Ove, fù talmente col-
lato che gli si corropero le interiora: onde, uscito di prigione,
e condotto a casa, miseramente se ne morì; tal fece Iddio
vendetta della innocenza di Disdemona. E tutto questo
successo narrò la moglie dell' alfiero, del fatto consapevole,
poi ch' egli fù morto, come io lo vi ho narrato.
suading him to execute both these crimes; and when he had murdered
his wife from the impulse of a furious jealousy, he had related to him
the manner in which he had put her to death. The Venetian magis-
trates hearing that one of their fellow-citizens had been treated with
so much cruelty by a barbarian, had the Moor arrested in Cyprus and
brought to Venice, where, by means of the torture, they endeavoured
to find out the truth. But the Moor possessed force and constancy of
mind sufficient to undergo the torture without confessing any thing;
and though by his firmness he escaped death at this time, he was, after
a long imprisonment, condemned to perpetual exile, in which he was
afterwards killed, as he deserved to be, by his wife's relations.
The ensign returned to his country, where, still continuing his old
practices, he accused one of his companions of having attempted to
murder a nobleman who was his enemy. The man was taken up and
put to the torture, and, denying firmly the crime laid to his charge, his
accuser was also put to the torture; where he was racked so violently
that his vitals were injured, and upon being conducted home he died
in great agony. Thus was the Divine vengeance executed against those
who had murdered the innocent Desdemona.
The ensign's wife, who had been informed of the whole affair, after
his death thus circumstantially related the story.





INTRODUCTION.'
The two following productions relate to Shakespeare's
“King Lear,” which, as our readers may be awarė, was
three times printed in 1608, and was, perhaps, produced
in 1605. The narrative, “How Queen Cordila in despair
slew herself, the year before Christ 800,” is taken from the
fourth edition of that celebrated work, “The Mirror for Ma-
gistrates.” The particular portion here reprinted was written
by John Higgins, who dates his dedication “At Winceham
the 7. day of December. 1586.” There is nothing to connect
Shakespeare's tragedy particularly with this specimen of
supposed auto-biography, but there can be little doubt that he
was well acquainted with so popular a performance as “The
Mirror for Magistrates,” which went through various editions
prior to the year 1610, when it appeared, with a continuation
by Richard Niccols. Higgins would seem to have been the
first (Harding in his Chronicle excepted) who put the story of
Lear and his daughters into verse; and he was followed in
1590 by Spenser, who briefly introduces the chief circum-
stances into his “Faerie Queene,” Book II, Canto 10. What
is headed “Lenvoy,” in our reprint from Higgins, is not found
in the edition of 1610: it certainly is no necessary portion of
the poem, but we have transferred it to our pages from the
impression of 1587, for the sake of completeness. We may
C 6 *


INTRODUCTION.
add, that the reprint of “The Mirror for Magistrates," in
1610, affords several various readings of some importance,
thus, stanza 7 there begins-
“He had three daughters faire, the first hight Gonerell:"
stanza 17 opens as follows:
“Betwixt their husbands twaine they causde him to agree
To part the realme,” &c.
and the first line of stanza 18 is this :-
“ As thus in his distress he lay lamenting fates."
Other differences may be seen by a comparison of the text
we have supplied from the earlier impression, and it is not
necessary here to dwell upon them farther. Warner's
“ Albion's England,” Book III, c. 14, also contains the history
of Lear and his daughters, the youngest of whom he names
Cordella : Spenser softened it to Cordelia ; and as far as we
now know, Shakespeare first altered the spelling of Leir (as it
is printed in the older play, and in other authorities) to
Lear.
The “Story of the Paphlagonian unkind King” has been
considered, and with much appearance of probability, the origin
of the episode of Gloster and his sons in the same tragedy.
It is from Sir Philip Sidney's “ Arcadia," a work which, it
is demonstrable from other plays, Shakespeare had diligently
read, even if, without such proof, we could suppose him igno-
rant of a production of such extraordinary celebrity. Sidney
having been killed in 1586, the “ Arcadia” was a posthumous
production, which first came out in 4to in 1590 (not 1591,


INTRODUCTION.
as is erroneously stated on p. 41), under the following title :-
“The Countesse of Pembrokes Arcadia, written by Sir
Philippe Sidnei.—London Printed for William Ponsonbie.
Anno Domini 1590.”
This impression is generally called “imperfect,” and there
is no doubt that in 1593 a more complete edition was pub-
lished in folio, in which the three books of the 4to, 1590, with
additions, were divided into five books, and the enumeration
and separation of chapters omitted. It is believed that Sir
P. Sidney's sister, the Countess of Pembroke, arranged and
superintended the folio of 1593; but the poems called
“Astrophel and Stella” were not added until 1598, although
most of them had been surreptitiously printed in 1591, under
the editorial care of the celebrated Thomas Nash, who pre-
fixed to them a very interesting epistle, which may be seen at
length on p. xxi of the Introduction to the reprint of his
" Pierce Penniless,” 1592, by the Shakespeare Society.
The principal differences between the 4to, 1590, and the
folio, 1593, of the “Arcadia" consist in the obvious want of
a conclusion to the former, and in the misarrangement of the
many poems inserted in various parts of the work. The tale
we have furnished from it, chap. 10, Book II, of the 4to im-
pression, is precisely the same (orthography excepted) in all
the editions, the Countess of Pembroke not having thought it
fit to add or to alter any thing. Upon the resemblances be-
tween it and the incidents in which Gloster and his sons are
engaged in “King Lear” we need not dwell; but although
Shakespeare adopted the circumstances, it was evidently ne-
cessary that he should change the names.





HOW QUEENE CORDIL A,
in dispaire, slew her selfe, the yeare
before Christ, 800.
If any woefull wight have cause to wayle her woe,
Or griefs are past do pricke us Princes tell our fall :
My selfe likewise must needes constrayned eke doe so,
And shew my like misfortunes and mishaps withall.
Should I keepe close my heavy haps and thrall,
Then did I wrong: I wrong'd my selfe and thee,
Which of my facts a witnes true maist bee.
A woman yet must blush when bashfull is the case,
Though trueth bid tell the tale and story as it fell:
But sith that I mislike not audience, time, nor place,
Therefore I cannot keepe my woes in counsaile well.
No greater ease of heart than griefes to tell,
It vaunteth all the dolours of our minde,
Our carefull hearts thereby great comfort finde.
3.
For why to tell that may recounted bee agayne,
And tell it as our cares may compasse ease :
That is the salve and medicine of our payne,
Which cureth corsies all and sores of our disease :
It doth our pinching panges and paynes apease :
It pleads the part of an assured friend,
And tells the trade, like vices to amend.


QUEENE CORDILA.
4.
Therefore if I more willing bee to tell my fall,
With my mishaps to ease my burdened breast and minde:
Some others haply may avoide and shunne the thrall,
And thereby for distresse more aid and comfort finde.
They keeping measure, whereas I declin'd,
May bee as prompt to flie like brute and blame
As I to tell, or thou to write the same.
Wherefore if thou wilt afterwards record
What Queene Cordila tells to ease her inward smarte,
I will recite my story tragicall ech word,
To thee that gev'st an eare, and ready art.
But lest I set the horse behinde the cart,
I minde to tell ech thing in order, so,
As thou maist see and shew whence sprang my woe.
My grandsire Bladud hight, that found the bathes by skill,
A fethered king that practis'd highe to soare
Whereby hee felt the fall, God wot against his will,
And never went, road, raygnd, nor spake, nor flew no more.
After whose death my father Leire therefore
Was chosen king, by right apparent heyre,
Which after built the towne of Leircestere.
7.
Hee had three daughters, first and eld’st hight Gonerell,
Next after her his yonger Ragan was begot:
The third and last was I the yongest, nam'd Cordell.
Us all our father Leire did love to well, God wot.
But minding her that lov’d him best to note,
Because hee had no sonne t'enjoy his land,
Hee thought to guerdon most where favour most hee fand.


QUEENE CORDILA.
29
What though I yongest were, yet men mee judg’d more wise
Then either Gonerell, or Ragan more of age:
And fairer farre :*wherefore my sisters did despise
My grace and giefts, and sought my wrecke to wage.
But yet though vice on vertue dye with rage,
It can not keepe her underneath to drowne :
For still she flittes above, and reaps renowne.
9.
My father thought to wed us unto princely peeres,
And unto them and theirs devide and part the land.
For both my sisters first hee cald (as first their yeares
Requir’d) their mindes, and love, and favoure t’understand.
(Quoth hee) all doubts of duty to aband,
I must assay your frendly faithes to prove:
My daughters, tell mee how you doe mee love.
10.
Which when they aunswered him they lov’d their father more
Than they themselves did love, or any worldly wight:
He praised them, and sayd hee would therefore
The loving kindnes they deserv'd in fine requite.
So found my sisters favour in his sight,
By flattery faire they won their father's heart,
Which after turned hym and mee to smart.
11.
But not content with this, hee asked mee likewise
If I did not him love and honour well.
No cause (quoth I) there is I should your grace despise:
For nature so doth binde and duty mee compell,
To love you, as I ought my father, well.
Yet shortely I may chaunce, if Fortune will,
To finde in heart to beare another more good will.


QUEENE CORDILA.
20.
What more despite could develish beasts devise,
Then joy their fathers woefull days to see?
What vipers vile could so their King despise,
Or so unkinde, so curst, so cruell bee?
From thence agayn hee went to Albany,
Where they bereav'd his servants all, save one,
Bad him content him selfe with that, or none.
21.
Eke at what time hee ask'd of them to have his gard,
To gard his noblegrace where so hee went:
They cald him doting foole, all his requests debard,
Demaunding if with life hee were not well content:
Then hee to late his rigour did repent
Gaynst mee, my sisters' fawning love that knew,
Found flattery false, that seem'd so faire in vew.
22.
To make it short, to Fraunce he came at last to mee,
And told me how my sisters evell their father usde.
Then humbly I besought my noble King so free,
That he would aide my father thus by his abusde:
Who nought at all my humble hest refusde,
But sent to every coast of Fraunce for aide,
Whereby King Leire might home bee well conveyde.
23.
The souldiours gathered from ech quarter of the land
Come at the length to know the noble Prince's will:
Who did commit them unto captaynes every band,
And I likewise of love and reverent meere good will
Desir'd my Lord, hee would not take it ill,
If I departed for a space withall,
To take a part, or ease my father's thrall.


QUEENE CORDILA.
33
24.
Hee graunted my request : thence wee arived here,
And of our Britaynes came to aide likewise his right
Full many subjects, good and stout that were :
By martiall feats, and force, by subjects sword and might,
The British kings were fayne to yeeld our right:
Which wonne, my father well this realme did guide
Three yeares in peace, and after that hee dyde.
25.
Then I was crowned Queene this realme to hold,
Till five yeares past I did this Island guyde :
I had the Britaynes at what becke I would,
Till that my loving King, mine Aganippus dide.
But then my seat it faltered on ech side,
My sisters sonnes began with mee to jarre :
And for my crowne wagde with mee mortall warre.
26.
The one hight Morgan Prince of Albany,
And Conidagus King of Cornwall and of Wales :
Both which at once provided their artillery,
To worke mee woefull woe, and mine adherents bales
What neede I fill thine eares with longer tales ?
They did prevaile by might and powre, so fast
That I was taken prisoner at last.
27.
In spitefull sorte they used then my captive corse :
No favour shewde to mee, extinct was mine estate :
Of kinred, prynces, bloud, or peere was no remorce,
But as an abject vile, and worse, they did mee hate.
To lie in darksome dungeon was my fate,
As t'were a thiefe, mine aunsweres to abide,
Gaynst right and justice, under Jailour's guide.
D


QUEENE CORDILA.
28.
For liberty at length I su'd to subjects were:
But they kept mee in prison close, devoide of trust:
If I might once escape, they were in dread and feare
Their fawning friends with mee would prove untrue and just.
They told mee take it patiently I must,
And bee contented that I had my life:
Sith with their mother's I began the strife.
29.
Whereby I sawe might nothing mee prevaile to pray,
To pleade, or prove, defend, excuse, or pardon crave:
They heard mee not, despis'd my plaints, sought my decay,
I might no lawe, nor love, nor right, nor justice have.
No friends, no faith, nor pittie could mee save:
But I was from all hope of freedome bard,
Condem'd, my cause like never to bee heard.
30.
Was ever noble Queene so drencht in wrecks of woe,
Depos'd from princely powre, bereft of liberty,
Depriv'd of all these worldly pompes her pleasures fro,
And brought from wealth to neede, distresse, and misery,
From pallace proude in prison poore to lie,
From kingdoms twayne, to dungeon one, no more,
From Ladies wayting, unto vermine store ?
31.
From light to darke, from holesome aire to lothsom smell,
From odoure sweete to smart, from ease to greevous paine,
From sight of princely wights, to place where theves doe dwell,
From dainty beds of downe, to bed of strawe full fayne :
From bowres of heavenly hewe, to dennes of daine :
From greatest haps that worldly wights atchive,
To more distresse than any wretch alive?


QUEENE CORDILA.
35
32.
When first I left my friends in Fraunce did me exalte,
And eke my noble King, mine Aganippus true :
And came to England, for their heynous facts and faulte,
Which from his right and kingdome quite our father threwe,
To take his realme: to raigne and treason knewe,
I thinke of all misfortunes was the worst :
Or else I deeme the causers al accurst.
33.
For marke my haplesse fall that fortune did me send,
As thus in prison vile on live I lingring lay,
When I had mourned long, but found no faythfull fren
That could me helpe, or ayde, or comfort any way,
Was serv'd at meate as those that kinges betray
With fare God wote was simple, bare, and thin,
Could not sustayne the corps it entred in.
34.
Andwhen the sighes, and teares, and playntes nigh burst my hart,
And place, and stenche, and fare nigh poysond every pore :
For lacke of frends to tell my seas of giltlesse smart,
And that mine eyes had sworne to take sweete sleepe no more,
I was content, sith cares oppresse me sore,
To leave my foode, take mourning, playnts, and crye,
And lay mee downe, let griefe and nature trye.
35.
Thus as I pining lay, my carcas coucht on strawe,
And felt the payne erst never creature earthly knewe,
Mee thought by night a grizely ghost in darkes I sawe,
Eke nearer still to mee with stealing steps shee drewe:
Shee was of colour pale and deadly hewe,
Her clothes resembled thousand kinds of thrall,
And pictures plaine of hastened deathes withall.
D 2


36
QUEENE CORDILA.
36.
I musing lay in paines, and wondred what shee was,
Mine eyes stood still, mine haire rose up for feare an end,
My flesh it shoke and trembled; yet I cryde (alas)
What wight art thou, a foe or els what fawning frend?
If death thou art, I pray thee make an end.
But th’art not death. Art thou some fury sent,
My woefull corps, with paynes, to more torment?
37.
With that shee spake: “I am (quoth shee) thy frend Despayre,
Which in distresse each worldly wight with speede do ayde.
I rid them from their foes, if I to them repayre.
To long from thee by other caytives was I stayde.
Now, if thou art to dye no whit afrayde,
Here shalt thou choose of Instruments (beholde)
Shall rid thy restlesse life, of this be bolde.”
38.
And therewithall shee threwe her garments lap aside,
Under the which a thousand thinges I sawe with eyes :
Both knives, sharpe swordes, poynadoes all bedyde
With bloud, and poysons prest which shee could well devise.
“There is no hope (quoth shee) for thee to rise,
And get thy crowne or kyngdome refte agyne:
But for to live long lasting pyning payne.
39.
Lo here (quoth shee) the blade that Did of Carthage hight,
Whereby shee was from thousand panges of payne let passe:
With this shee slewe herselfe, after Æneas' flight,
When hee to sea from Tyrian shoares departed was.
Doe choose of these thou seest from woes to passe,
Or bide the end, prolong thy paynfull dayes,
And I am pleasde from thee to packe my wayes.”


38
QUEENE CORDILA.
44.
“ If any wrong deserve the wrecke, I pray you skyes,
And starres of light, (if you my plight doe rue)
O Phæbus cleere, I thee beseech and pray likewise,
Beare witnes of my playnts well knowne to Gods are true
You see from whence these injuryes they grue.
Then let like vengeaunce hap and light on those,
Which undeserved were my mortall foes.
45.
“God graunt immortall strife betweene them both may fall,
That th' one the other may, without remorce, distroye:
That Conidagus may his cosin Morgan thrall,
Because hee first decreast my wealth, bereft my joye.
I pray you Gods he never be a Roy :
But caytife may be payde with such a frend,
As shortly may him bring to sodayne end.
46.
"Farewell my realme of Fraunce, farewell, Adieu,
Adieu mes nobles tous, and England now farewell :
Farewell Madames my Ladyes, car ie suis perdu,
Il me fault aler desespoir m'adonne conseil
De me tuer, no more your Queene farewell.
My cousens mee oppresse with mayne and might,
A captive poore, gaynst Justice all and right.”.
47.
And therewithall the sight did fayle my dazeling eyne,
I nothing sawe save sole Dispaire bad mee dispatch:
Whome I behelde: shee caught the knife from mee I weene,
And by hir elbowe carian death for me did watch.
“Com on (quod I) thou hast a goodly catch.”
And therewithall Dispaire the stroke did strike,
Whereby I dyde, a damned creature like:


QUEENE CORDILA.
39
48.
Which I to late bewayle, let those a live beware;
Let not the losse of goods or honours them constrayne
To playe the fooles, and take such carefull carke and care;
Or to dispayre for any prison, pine, and payne;
. If they be giltlesse let them so remayne ;
Farre greater follye is it for to kill,
Themselves dispayring, then is any ill.
49.
Sith first thereby theyr enmyes have that they desire,
By which they prove to deadly foes unwares a frende :
And next they cannot live, to former blisse t’spyre,
If God do bring theyr foes in time to sodayne ende.
They lastly, as the damned wretches, sende
Theyr soules thereby to darkesome Stygian lake,
Which kill the corps that mighty Jove did make.
LENVOY.
When as this desperate Queene had ended thus
Her tale, and tolde the haplesse grace she had :
As of her playnte som poyntes I did discusse,
Her sisters dealings were (mee thought) to bad.
Her cosens cruell both, for kingdomes mad.
Her owne estate most pityfull to see,
A Queene by kinred captive kepte to bee.


40
QUEENE CORDILA.
2.
So wise a Queene, so fayre a Princesse wrongde,
So dutifull in parents plight of yore:
By rebells vile hir cousens to bee throngde,
Such hatred hir ambiciously that bore.
Who ever saw such cruelty before?
Cordilaes state most pitifull to see,
By kinred cloce in prison kepte to bee.
3.
But next from Wales in warlike armoure came
With wounded corps Morganus th' Albane king,
In woefull wise his doubtfull tale to frame.
And of his auntes distresse reports each thing.
Hee from Glamorgan this for truth doth bring,
That who by slaughter seekes a prince to bee,
As traytoure falles beneath his first degree.


EXTRACT FROM SIDNEY'S ARCADIA,
EDITION OF 1591.
BOOK II, CHAP. 10.
The pitifull state and storie of the Paphalgonian unkinde
King, and his kind sonne ; first related by the son, then
by the blind father. The three Princes assaulted by
Plexirtus and his traine : assisted by their King of Pontus
and his troupes. Plexirtus succoured and saved by two
brothers, that vertuously loved a most vicious man. Be-
seeged by the new King : he submitteth, and is pardoned.
The two Princes depart to aide the Queene of Lycia.
It was in the kingdome of Galacia, the season being (as in
the depth of winter) very cold, and as then sodainely growne
to so extreame and foule a storme, that never any winter (I.
thinke) brought foorth a fowler child : so that the princes
were even compelled by the haile, that the pride of the winde
blew into their faces, to seeke some shrowding place within
a certaine hollow rocke offering it unto them, they made it
their shield against the tempests furie. And so staying
there, till the violence thereof was passed, they heard the
speach of a couple, who not perceiving them (being hidde
within that rude canapy) helde a straunge and pitifull dispu-
tation which made them steppe out; yet in such sort, as they
might see unseene. There they perceaved an aged man,
and a young, scarcely come to the age of a man, both poorely
arayed, extreamely weather beaten; the olde man blinde,
the young man leading him: and yet, through all those
iniseries, in both these seemed to appeare a kind of noble-
nesse, not sutable to that affliction. But the first words they


42 THE PAPHALGONIAN UNKINDE KING,
heard, were these of the old man. Well Leonatus (said he)
since I cannot perswade thee to lead me to that which should
end my griefe, and thy trouble, let me now entreat thee to
leave me : feare not, my miserie cannot be greater then it is,
and nothing doth become me but miserie; feare not the dan-
ger of my blind steps, I cannot fall worse then I am. And
doo not, I pray thee, doo not obstinately continue to infect
thee with my wretchednes. But flie, flie from this region,
onely worthy of me. Deare father (answered he) doo not
take away from me the onely remnant of my happinesse :
while I have power to doo you service, I am not wholly
miserable. Ah my sonne (said he, and with that he groned,
as if sorrow strave to breake his harte), how evill fits it me
to have such a sonne, and how much doth thy kindnesse up-
braide my wickednesse? These dolefull speeches, and some
others to like purpose (well shewing they had not bene borne
to the fortune they were in), moved the princes to goe out
unto them, and aske the younger what they were. Sirs
(answered he, with a good grace, and made the more agre-
able by a certaine noble kinde of pitiousnes), I see well you
are straungers, that know not our miserie so well here
knowne, that no man dare know, but that we must be miser-
able. In deede, our state is such, as though nothing is so
needfull unto us as pittie, yet nothing is more daungerous unto
us, then to make our selves so knowne as may stirre pittie.
But your presence promiseth, that cruelty shall not over-
runne hate. And if it did, in truth our state is soncke below
the degree of feare.
This old man (whom I leade) was lately rightfull prince of
this countrie of Paphlagonia, by the hard-harted ungrateful-
nes of a sonne of his, deprived, not onely of his kingdome
(whereof no forraine forces were ever able to spoyle him) but
of his sight, the riches which nature graunts to the poorest
creatures. Whereby, and by other his unnaturall dealings,
he hath bin driven to such griefe, as even now he would have
had me to have led him to the toppe of this rocke, thence to


AND HIS KINDE SONNE.
43
cast himselfe headlong to death : and so would have made
me (who received my life of him) to be the worker of his
destruction. But, noble gentlemen (said he) if either of you
have a father, and feele what duetifull affection is engraffed
in a sonnes hart, let me intreate you to convey this afflicted
Prince to some place of rest and securitie. Amongst your
worthie actes it shall be none of the least, that a king, of such
might and fame, and so unjustly oppressed, is in any sort by
you relieved.
But before they could make him answere, his father began
to speake: Ah my sonne (said he), how evill an historian
are you, that leave out the chiefe knotte of all the discourse :
my wickednes, my wickednes. And if thou doest it to spare
my eares (the onely sense nowe left me proper for know-
ledge), assure thy selfe thou dost mistake me. And I take
witnesse of that sunne which you see (with that he cast up
his blinde eyes, as if he would hunt for light), and wish my
selfe in worse case then I do wish my selfe, which is as evill
as may be, if I speake untruely; that nothing is so welcome
to my thoughts, as the publishing of my shame. Therefore,
know you, gentlemen (to whom from my harte I wish that it
may not prove ominous foretoken of misfortune to have mette
with such a miser as I am), that whatsoever my sonne (O
God, that trueth binds me to reproch him with the name of
my sonne) hath said, is true. But, besides those truthes, this
also is true: that, having had in lawful inariage, of a mother
fitte to beare royall children, this sonne (such one as partly
you see, and better shall knowe by my shorte declaration), and
so enjoyed the expectations in the world of him, till he was
growen to justifie their expectations (so as I needed envie no
father for the chiefe comfort of mortalitie, to leave an other
ones-selfe after me), I was caried by a bastarde sonne of
mine (if, at least, I be bounde to beleeve the words of that
base woman my concubine, his mother) first to mislike, then
to hate, lastly, to destroy, to doo my best to destroy, this
sonne (I thinke you thinke) undeserving destruction. What


44 THE PAPHALGONIAN UNKINDE KING,
waies he used to bring me to it, if I should tell you, I should
tediously trouble you with as much poysonous hypocrisie,
desperate fraude, smoothe malice, hidden ambition, and smil-
ing envie, as in any living person could be harbored. But I
list it not, no remembrance (no, of naughtines) delights me,
but mine own: and, me thinks, the accusing his traines
might in some manner excuse my fault, which certainly I
loth to doo. But the conclusion is, that I gave order to some
servants of mine, whom I thought as apte for such charities
as my selfe, to leade him out into a forrest, and there to kill
him.
But those theeves (better natured to my sonne then my
selfe) spared his life, letting him goe, to learne to live poore-
ly: which he did, giving himselfe to be a private souldier, in
a countrie hereby. But as he was redy to be greatly ad-
vaunced for some noble peeces of service which he did, he
hearde newes of me: who (dronke in my affection to that
unlawfull and unnaturall sonne of mine), suffered my self so
to be governed by him, that all favors and punishments
passed by him, all offices, and places of importance, distri-
buted to his favourites; so that ere I was aware, I had left
my self nothing but the name of a king: which he shortly
wearie of too, with many indignities (if any thing may be
called an indignity which was laid upon me), threw me out
of my seat, and put out my eies; and then (proud in his
tyrannie) let me goe, neither imprisoning, nor killing me:
but rather delighting to make me feele my miserie ; miserie,
indeed, if ever there were any; full of wretchednes, fuller of
disgrace, and fullest of guiltines. And as he came to the
crowne by so unjust meanes, as unjustlie he kept it, by force
of stranger souldiers in cittadels, the nestes of tyranny,
and murderers of libertie; disarming all his own countrimen,
that no man durst shew himself a wel-willer of mine : to say
the trueth (I think) few of them being so (considering my
cruell follie to my good sonne, and foolish kindnes to my un-
kinde bastard): but if there were any who fell to pitie of so


AND HIS KINDE SONNE.
45
great a fall, and had yet any sparkes of unstained duety lefte
in them towardes me, yet durst they not shewe it, scarcely with
giving me almes at their doores; which yet was the onelie
sustenaunce of my distressed life, no bodie daring to shewe
so much charitie, as to lende me a hande to guide my darke
steppes: till this sonne of mine (God knowes, woorthie of a
more vertuous, and more fortunate father) forgetting my ab-
hominable wrongs, not recking danger, and neglecting the
present good way he was in doing himselfe good, came
hether to doo this kind office you see him performe towards
me, to my unspeakable griefe; not onely because his kindnes
is a glasse even to my blind eyes, of my naughtines, but that
above all griefes, it greeves me he should desperatly adven-
ture the losse of his soul-deserving life for mine, that yet owe
more to fortune for my deserts, as if he would cary mudde
in a chest of christall. For well I know, he that now raign-
eth, how much soever (and with good reason) he despiseth
me, of all men despised; yet he will not let slippe any ad-
vantage to make away him, whose just title (ennobled by
courage and goodnes) may one day shake the seate of a never
secure tyrannie. And for this cause I craved of him to leade
me to the toppe of this rocke, indeede I must confesse, with
meaning to free him from so serpentine a companion as I am.
But he finding what I purposed, onelie therein since he was
borne, shewed himselfe disobedient unto me. And now,
gentlemen, you have the true storie, which I pray you pub-
lish to the world, that my mischievous proceedinges may be
the glorie of his filiall pietie, the onely reward now left for so
great a merite. And if it may be, let me obtaine that of you,
which my sonne denies me: for never was there more pity
in saving any, then in ending me; both because therein my
agonies shall ende, and so shall you preserve this excellent
young man, who els wilfully followes his owne ruine.
The matter, in it self lamentable, lamentably expressed by
the old prince (which needed not take to himselfe the ges-
tures of pitie, since his face could not put of the markes


46 THE PAPHALGONIAN UNKINDE KING,
thereof) greatly moved the two princes to compassion, which
could not stay in such hạrts as theirs without seeking reme-
die. But by and by the occasion was presented: for Plex-
irtus (so was the bastard called) came thether with fortie
horse, onely of purpose to murder this brother; of whose com-
ming he had soone advertisement, and thought no eyes of
sufficient credite in such a matter, but his owne; and there-
fore came him selfe to be actor, and spectator. And as soone
as he came, not regarding the weake (as he thought) garde
of but two men, commaunded some of his followers to set
their handes to his, in the killing of Leonatus. But the
young prince (though not otherwise armed but with a sworde)
how falsely soever he was dealt with by others, would not
betray himselfe : but bravely drawing it out, made the death
of the first that assaulted him, warne his fellowes to come
more warily after him. But then Pyrocles and Musidorus
were quickly become parties (so just a defence deserving as
much as old friendship), and so did behave them among that
companie (more injurious then valiant), that many of them
lost their lives for their wicked maister.
Yet, perhaps had the number of them at last prevailed, if
the king of Pontus (lately by them made so) had not come
unlooked for to their succour. Who (having had a dreame
which had fixt his imagination vehemently upon some great
daunger, presently to follow those two princes whom he most
deerely loved) was come in all hast, following as well as he
could their tracke with a hundreth horses in that countrie,
which he thought (considering who then raigned) a fit place
inough to make the stage of any tragedie.
But then the match had ben so ill made for Plexirtus, that
his ill-led life, and worse-gotten honour, should have tumbled
together to destruction; had there not come in Tydeus and
Telenor, with fortie or fiftie in their suit, to the defence of
Plexirtus. These two were brothers, of the noblest house of
that country, brought up from their infancie with Plexirtus :
men of such prowesse, as not to know feare in themselves,


AND HIS KINDE SONNE.
47
and yet to teach it others that should deale with them : for
they had often made their lives triumph over most terrible
daungers; never dismayed, and ever fortunate; and truely no
more setled in their valure, then disposed to goodnesse and
justice, if either they had lighted on a better friend, or could
have learned to make friendship a child, and not the father
vertue. But bringing up (rather then choise) having first
knit their minds unto him (indeed, craftie inough, eyther to
hide his faultes, or never to shew them, but when they might
pay home) they willingly held out the course, rather to satis-
fie him, then al the world; and rather to be good friendes
then good men : so, as though they did not like the evill he
did, yet they liked him that did the evill; and, though not
councellors of the offence, yet protectors of the offender.
Now, they having heard of this sodaine going out, with so
small a company, in a country full of evil-wishing minds to-
ward him (though they knew not the cause), followed him;
till they found him in such case as they were to venture their
lives, or else he to loose his : which they did with such force
of minde and bodie, that truly I may justly say, Pyrocles and
Musidorus had never till then found any that could make
them so well repeate their hardest lesson in the feates of
armes. And briefly so they did, that, if they overcame not,
yet were they not overcome, but caried away that ungrate-
full maister of theirs to a place of securitie; howsoever the
princes laboured to the contrary. But this matter being thus
far begun, it became not the constancie of the princes so to
leave it; but in all hast making forces both in Pontus and
Phrygia, they had in fewe dayes lefte him but only that one
strong place where he was. For feare having bene the onely
knot that had fastned his people unto him, that once untied
by a greater force, they all scattered from him, like so many
birdes, whose cage had bene broken.
In which season the blind king (having in the chief cittie
of his realme set the crowne upon his sonne Leonatus head)
with many teares (both of joy and sorrow) setting forth to the


48 THE PAPHALGONIAN UNKINDE KING,
whole people his owne fault and his sonnes vertue, after he
had kist him, and forst his sonne to accept honour of him (as
of his newe-become subject), even in a moment died, as it
should seeme: his hart broken with unkindnes and affliction,
stretched so farre beyond his limits with this excesse of com-
fort, as it was able no longer to keep safe his roial spirits.
But the new king (having no lesse lovingly performed all
duties to him dead, then alive) pursued on the siege of his
unnatural brother, asmuch for the revenge of his father, as
for the establishing of his owne quiet. In which seige, truly
I cannot but acknowledge the prowesse of those two brothers,
then whom the princes never found in all their travell two
men of greater habilitie to performe, nor of habler skill for
conduct.
But Plexirtus, finding that, if nothing els, famin would at
last bring him to destruction, thought better by humblenes to
creepe, where by pride he could not march. For certainely
so had nature formed him, and the exercise of craft con-
formed him to all turnings of sleights, that, though no man
had lesse goodnes in his soule then he, no man could better
find the places whence arguments might grow of goodnesse
to another : though no man felt lesse pitie, no man could tel
better how to stir pitie: no man more impudent to deny,
where proofes were not manifest; no man more ready to
confesse with a repenting maner of aggravating his owne
evil, where denial would but make the fault fowler. Now,
he tooke this way, that, having gotten a pasport for one (that
pretended he would put Plexirtus alive into his hands) to
speak with the king his brother, he him selfe (though much
against the minds of the valiant brothers, who rather wished
to die in brave defence) with a rope about his necke, bare-
footed, came to offer himselfe to the discretion of Leonatus.
Where what submission he used, how cunningly in making
greater the faulte he made the faultines the lesse, how artifi-
cially he could set out the torments of his owne conscience,
with the burdensome comber he had found of his ambitious


AND HIS KINDE SONNE.
49
desires; how finely seeming to desire nothing but death, as
ashamed to live, he begd life in the refusing it, I am not
cunning inough to be able to expresse : but so fell out of it,
that though, at first sight, Leonatus saw him with no other
eie then as the murderer of his father; and anger already
began to paint revenge in many colours, ere long he had not
only gotten pitie, but pardon; and if not an excuse of the
fault past, yet an opinion of a future amendment: while the
poore villaines (chiefe ministers of his wickednes, now be-
traied by the author therof), were delivered to many cruell
sorts of death; he so handling it, that it rather seemed, he
had rather come into the defence of an unremediable mis-
chiefe already committed, then that they had done it at first
by his consent.
In such sort the princes left these reconciled brothers
(Plexirtus in all his behaviour carying him in far lower de-
gree of service then the ever-noble nature of Leonatus would
suffer him), and taking likewise their leaves of their good
friend the king of Pontus (who returned to enjoy their bene-
fite, both of his wife and kingdome), they privately went
thence, having onely with them the two valiant brothers, who
would needs accompanie them through divers places; they
foure dooing actes more daungerous, though lesse famous, be-
cause they were but privat chivalries: till hearing of the faire
and vertuous Queen Erona of Lycia, besieged by the puis-
sant king of Armenia, they bent themselves to her succour,
both because the weaker (and weaker as being a ladie), and
partly, because they heard the king of Armenia had in his
company three of the most famous men living for matters of
armes, that were knowne to be in the worlde. Whereof one
was the Prince Plangus (whose name was sweetened by
your breath, peerlesse ladie, when the last daie it pleased
you to mention him unto me), the other two were two great
princes (though holding of him), Barzanes and Euardes, men
of giant-like both hugenes and force : in which two espe-
cially the trust the king had of victory was reposed. And


INTRODUCTION.
BUCHANAN, in his History of Scotland, speaking of the in-
cidents of Macbeth's reign, observes, “Some of our writers do
here record many fables, which are like Milesian tales, and fitter
for the stage than for å history, and therefore I omit them.”
(Book VII, edit. Edinb. 1821, vol. I, p. 352). These ex-
pressions are remarkable; but we do not suppose that Shake-
speare saw and took advantage of the recommendation of the
Scottish historian, but finding the story, as it is related in
his usual historical authority, Holinshed, well adapted to his
purpose, he applied it to that purpose. We have, therefore,
inserted the whole that Holinshed records, and, on comparison,
the reader will find not a few instances in which the obliga-
tions of Shakespeare are to be distinctly and even verbally
traced. It seems clear, that our great dramatist derived his
notion and knowledge of "the weird sisters” from this source;
and the passage in which the old chronicler first introduces
them is curiously explanatory of some parts of Macbeth
relating to them: “But afterwards (he says) the common
opinion was, that these women were either the weird sisters,
that is (as ye would say), the goddesses of destinie, or else
some nymphs or feiries indued with knowledge of prophesie
by their necromatical science, bicause every thing came to
F 2 *


INTRODUCTION.
passe as they had spoken.” In the first folio of Shakespeare's
Plays (1623) the word “ weird” is spelt weyward, which has
occasioned some doubt as to its etymology; but Holinshed
uses the right orthography, and, by the explanation he
affords, supports those who contend that “weird” is derived
from the Saxon "wyrd”-fatum—“the weird sisters—the
goddesses of destinie.”


THE HISTORY OF MAKBETH.
AFTER Malcolme succeeded his nephue Duncane the sonne
of his daughter Beatrice: for Malcolme had two daughters,
the one which was this Beatrice, being given in marriage
unto one Abbanath Crinen, a man of great nobilitie, and
thane of the Iles and west parts of Scotland, bare of that
mariage the foresaid Duncane; the other called Doada, was
maried unto Sinell the thane of Glammis, by whom she had
issue one Makbeth a valiant gentleman, and one that if he
had not béene somewhat cruell of nature, might have béene
thought most woorthie the governement of a realme. On the
other part, Duncane was so soft and gentle of nature, that
the people wished the inclinations and maners of these two
cousins to have béene so tempered and interchangeablie be-
stowed betwixt them, that where the one had too much of
clemencie, and the other of crueltie, the meane virtue betwixt
these two extremities might have reigned by indifferent
partition in them both, so should Duncane have proved a
woorthie king, and Makbeth an excellent capteine. The
beginning of Duncans reigne was verie quiet and peaceable,
without anie notable trouble; but after it was perceived how
negligent he was in punishing offenders, manie misruled
persons tooke occasion thereof to trouble the peace and quiet
state of the common-wealth, by seditious commotions which
first had their beginnings in this wise.
Banquho the thane of Lochquhaber, of whom the house of
the Stewards is descended, the which by order of linage hath
now for a long time injoied the crowne of Scotland, even till
these our daies, as he gathered the finances due to the king,
and further punished somewhat sharpelie such as were notori-
ous offendors, being assailed by a number of rebels inhabiting


56
THE HISTORY OF MAKBETH.
Them of the westerne Iles suing for pardon, in that they
had aided Makdowald in his tratorous enterprise, he fined at
great sums of monie: and those whome he tooke in Lochqu-
haber, being come thither to beare armor against the king,
he put to execution. Herupon the Ilandmen conceived a
deadlie grudge towards him, calling him a covenant-breaker,
a bloudie tyrant, and a cruell murtherer of them whome the
kings mercie had pardoned. With which reprochfull
words Makbeth being kindled in wrathfull ire against them,
had passed over with an armie into the Iles, to have taken
revenge upon them for their liberall talke, had he not beene
otherwise persuaded by some of his friends, and partlie
pacified by gifts presented unto him on the behalfe of the
Ilandmen, seeking to avoid his displeasure. Thus was jus-
tice and law restored againe to the old accustomed course, by
the diligent means of Makbeth. Immediatlie whereupon
woord came that Sueno king of Norway was arrived in Fife
with a puissant armie, to subdue the whole realme of Scot-
land.
But here to the intent it maie be the better perceived, what
this Sueno was, I will som what touch from whence he de-
scended. That Sueno, who (as ye have heard) conquered
the realme of England, being also king of Denmarke and
Norwaie, had thrée sonnes, Harold, Sueno, and Canute; the
first he made king of England, the second king of Norwaie,
and the third king of Denmarke. Harold injoied not the
same dominion of England past thrée yéeres after his fathers
deceasse, but was slaine by Etheldred or Egeldred, whom
his father Sueno had chased into Normandie. But the same
Etheldred kept not long the kingdome in peace, for Canute
king of Denmarke, to revenge his brothers death, landed in
England with a mightie host, and sleaing Etheldred, re-
covered the kingdome to the use of the Danes: but yet one
Edmund sonne to the foresaid Etheldred, surnamed Ironside,
mainteined the warre against Canute for a season, till at length
by both their consents they agreed to fight a combat singu-


THE HISTORY OF MAKBETH.
57
larlie man to man, so to trie the matter betwixt them, who
should reigne as king over the Englishmen.
In this fight when they had continued a long space, and
shewed right notable proofes of their manhood : “ Edmund
(saith Canute) sith it hath pleased almightie God, that thou
shouldest thus trie the force of my hand without hurt or
wound, I thinke it bée likewise his pleasure, that thou
shouldest injoy part of the realme: go to therefore, I receive
thée as partener with me in the kingdome, so that (if thou be
contented let us divide the kingdome betwixt us without anie
more contention.” Edmund gladlie accepted this condition
of agreement, supposing it better to have halfe the kingdome,
than to stand to the doubtfull triall of loosing the whole : for
he had received a wound at Canutes hands, though Canute
understood not so much : againe, he foresaw that occasion
hereafter might be offered, whereby he might without all trou-
ble come to injoy the whole. Hereupon either of them lept
beside their weried horsses in that fierce and earnest fight, and
imbracing each other became good friends, in dividing the
realme according to the above mentioned motion of Canute.
That part of England that lieth over against France was
assigned unto Canute; and the other, that is, the north parts
unto Edmund. In the meane time Emma the wife of Ethel-
dred, with hir two sonnes (which she had by the same
Etheldred) Alured and Edward, fled over into Normandie,
doubting least this concord betwixt Canute and Edmund
should turne smallie to hir advancement.
But now touching the arrivall of Sueno the Norwegian
king in Fife (as before is expressed) ye shall understand, that
the pretense of his comming was to revenge the slaughter of
his uncle Camus, and other of the Danish nation slaine at
Barre, Crowdane, and Gemmer. The crueltie of this Sueno
was such, that he neither spared man, woman, nor child, of
what age, condition, or degrée soever they were. Whereof
when K. Duncane was certified, he set all slouthfull and
lingering delaies apart, and began to assemble an armie in


THE HISTORY OF MAKBETH.
59
his enimies out of all suspicion of anie enterprise ment
against them, till all things were brought to passe that might
serve for the purpose. At length, when they were fallen at
a point for rendring up the hold, Duncane offered to send
foorth of the castell into the campe great provision of vittels
to refresh the armie, which offer was gladlie accepted of the
Danes, for that they had béene in great penurie of sustenance
manie daies before.
The Scots héereupon tooke the juice of mekilwoort berries,
and mixed the same in their ale and bread, sending it thus
spiced and confectioned, in great abundance unto their eni-
mies. They rejoising that they had got meate and drinke
sufficient to satisfie their bellies, fell to eating and drinking,
after such greedie wise, that it séemed they strove who might
devoure and swallow up most, till the operation of the berries
spread in such sort through all the parts of their bodies, that
they were in the end brought into a fast dead sleepe, that in
manner it was unpossible to awake them. Then foorthwith
Duncane sent unto Makbeth, commanding him with all dili-
gence to come and set upon the enimies, being in easie point
to be overcome. Makbeth making no delaie, came with his
people to the place, where his enimies were lodged, and first
killing the watch, afterwards entered the campe, and made
such slaughter on all sides without anie resistance, that it
was a woonderfull matter to behold, for the Danes were so
heavie of sléepe, that the most part of them were slaine and
never stirred : other that were awakened either by the noise
or other waies foorth, were so amazed and dizzie headed upon
their wakening, that they were not able to make anie defense:
so that of the whole number there escaped no more but onelie
Sueno himselfe and ten other persons, by whose helpe he got
to his ships lieng at rode in the mouth of Taie.
The most part of the mariners, when they heard what
plentie of meate and drinke the Scots had sent unto the campe,
came from the sea thither to be partakers thereof, and so were
slaine amongst their fellowes: by meanes whereof when Sueno


60
THE HISTORY OF MAKBETH.
perceived how through lacke of mariners he should not be
able to conveie awaie his navie, he furnished one ship
throughlie with such as were left, and in the same sailed
backe into Norwaie, cursing the time that he set forward on
this infortunate journie. The other ships which he left behind
him, within three daies after his departure from thence, were
tossed so togither by violence of an east wind, that beating
and rushing one against another, they sunke there, and lie in
the same place even unto these daies, to the great danger of
other such ships as come on that coast: for being covered
with the floud when the tide commeth, at the ebbing againe
of the same, some part of them appéere above water.
The place where the Danish vessels were thus lost, is yet
called Drownelow sands. This overthrow received in man-
ner afore said by Sueno, was verie displeasant to him and
his people, as should appéere, in that it was a custome manie
yeeres after, that no knights were made in Norwaie, except
they were first sworne to revenge the slaughter of their
countriemen and friends thus slaine in Scotland. The Scots
having woone so notable a victorie, after they had gathered
and divided the spoile of the field, caused solemne processions
to be made in all places of the realme, and thanks to be given
to almightie God, that had sent them so faire a day over their
enimies. But whilest the people were thus at their proces-
sions, woord was brought that a new fléet of Danes was
arrived at Kingcorne, sent thither by Canute king of Eng-
land, in revenge of his brother Suenos overthrow. To resist
these enimies, which were alreadie landed, and busie in
spoiling the countrie; Makbeth and Banquho were sent with
the kings authoritie, who having with them a convenient
power, incountred the enimies, slue part of them, and chased
the other to their ships. They that escaped and got once to
their ships, obteined of Makbeth for a great summe of gold,
that such of their friends as were slaine at this last bickering,
might be buried in saint Colmes Inch. In memorie whereof,
manie old sepultures are yet in the said Inch, there to be


THE HISTORY OF MAKBETII.
61
seene graven with the armes of the Danes, as the maner of
burieng noble men still is, and héeretofore hath béene used.
A peace was also concluded at the same time betwixt the
Danes and Scotishmen, ratified (as some have written; in this
wise : That from thencefoorth the Danes should never come
into Scotland to make anie warres against the Scots by anie
maner of meanes. And these were the warres that Duncane
had with forren enimies, in the seventh yéere of his reigne.
Shortlie after happened a strange and uncouth woonder,
which afterward was the cause of much trouble in the realme
of Scotland, as ye shall after heare. It fortuned as Makbeth
and Banquho journied towards Fores, where the king then
laie, they went sporting by the waie togither without other
companie, save onelie themselves, passing thorough the
woods and fields, when suddenlie in the middest of a laund,
there met them thrée women in strange and wild apparell,
resembling creatures of elder world, whome when they atten-
tivelie beheld, woondering much at the sight, the first of them
spake and said; “All haile Makbeth, thane of Glammis”
(for he had latelie entered into that dignitie and office by the
death of his father Sinell.) The second of them said; “Haile
Makbeth thane of Cawder.” But the third said; “ All haile
Makbeth that héereafter shalt be king of Scotland.”
Then Banquho; “What manner of women (saith he) are
you, that seeme so little favourable unto me, whereas to my
fellow heere, besides high offices, ye assigne also the king-
dome, appointing foorth nothing for me at all ?” “Yes (saith
the first of them) we promise greater benefits unto thée, than
unto him, for he shall reigne in deed, but with an unluckie
end: neither shall he leave anie issue behind him to succeed
in his place, where contrarilie thou in deed shalt not reigne
at all, but of thée those shall be borne which shall governe
the Scotish kingdome by long order of continuall descent.”
Here with the foresaid women vanished immediatlie out of
their sight. This was reputed at the first but some vaine fan-
tasticall illusion by Makbeth and Banquho, insomuch that


THE HISTORY OF MAKBETH.
63
ye have heard) greatlie incouraged him hereunto, but speci-
allie his wife lay sore upon him to attempt the thing, as she
that was verie ambitious, burning in unquenchable desire to
beare the name of a quéene. At length therefore, communi-
cating his purposed intent with his trustie friends, amongst
whome Banquho was the chiefest, upon confidence of their
promised aid, he slue the king at Enuerns, or (as some say)
at Botgosuane, in the sixt yeare of his reigne. Then having
a companie about him of such as he had made privie to his
enterprise, he caused himselfe to be proclaimed king, and
foorthwith went unto Scone, where (by common consent) he
received the investure of the kingdome according to the
accustomed maner. The bodie of Duncane was first con-
veied unto Elgine, and there buried in kinglie wise; but
afterwards it was removed and conveied unto Colmekill, and
there laid in a sepulture amongst his predecessors, in the
yeare after the birth of our Saviour, 1046.
Malcolme Cammore and Donald Bane the sons of king
Duncane, for feare of their lives (which they might well
know that Mackbeth would seeke to bring to end for his
more sure confirmation in the estate) fled into Cumberland,
where Malcolme remained, till time that saint Edward the
sonne of Etheldred recovered the dominion of England from
the Danish power, the which Edward received Malcolme by
way of most friendlie enterteinment: but Donald passed over
into Ireland, where he was tenderlie cherished by the king
of that land. Mackbeth, after the departure thus of Duncanes
sonnes, used great liberalitie towards the nobles of the realme,
thereby to win their favour, and when he saw that no man
went about to trouble him, he set his whole intention to
mainteine justice, and to punish all enormities and abuses,
which had chanced through the féeble and slouthfull admini-
stration of Duncane. And to bring his purpose the better
to passe without anie trouble or great businesse, he devised
a subtill wile to bring all offendors and misdooers unto justice,
soliciting sundrie of his liege people with high rewards, to


64
THE HISTORY OF MAKBETH.
challenge and appeale such as most oppressed the commons,
to come at a day and place appointed, to fight singular com-
bats within barriers, in triall of their accusations. When
these théeves, barrettors, and other oppressors of the innocent
people were come to darren battell in this wise (as is said)
they were streight waies apprehended by armed men, and
trussed up in halters on gibbets, according as they had justlie
deserved. The residue of misdooers that were left, were
punished and tamed in such sort, that manie yeares after all
theft and reiffings were little heard of, the people injoieng
the blissefull benefit of good peace and tranquilitie. Mack-
beth shewing himselfe thus a most diligent punisher of all
injuries and wrongs attempted by anie disordered persons
within his realme, was accounted the sure defense and buck-
ler of innocent people; and hereto he also applied his whole
indevor, to cause yoong men to exercise themselves in vertu-
ous maners, and men of the church to attend their divine
service according to their vocations.
He caused to be slaine sundrie thanes, as of Cathnes, Suther-
land, Stranaverne, and Ros, because through them and their
seditious attempts, much trouble dailie rose in the realme. He
appeased the troublesome state of Galloway, and slue one
Makgill a tyrant, who had manie yeares before passed
nothing of the regall authoritie or power. To be briefe, such
were the woorthie doings and princelie acts of this Mackbeth
in the administration of the realme, that if he had atteined
thereunto by rightfull means, and continued in uprightnesse
of justice as he began, till the end of his reigne, he might
well have béene numbred amongest the most noble princes
that anie where had reigned. He made manie holesome
laws and statutes for the publike weale of his subjects.
But this was but a counterfet zeale of equitie shewed by
him, partlie against his naturall inclination to purchase
thereby the favour of the people. Shortlie after, he began
to shew what he was, in stead of equitie practising crueltie.
For the pricke of conscience (as it chanceth ever in tyrants,


THE HISTORY OF MAKBETH.
65
and such as atteine to anie estate by unrighteous means)
caused him ever to feare, least he should be served of the
same cup, as he had ministred to his predecessor. The
woords also of the thrée weird sisters, would not out of his
mind, which as they promised him the kingdome, so likewise
did they promise it at the same time unto the posteritie of
Banquho. He willed therefore the same Banquho with his
sonne named Fleance, to come to a supper that he had pre-
pared for them, which was in deed, as he had devised,
present death at the hands of certeine murderers, whom he
hired to execute that deed, appointing them to meete with
the same Banquho and his sonne without the palace, as they
returned to their lodgings, and there to slea them, so that he
would not have his house slandered, but that in time to come
he might cleare himselfe, if anie thing were laid to his charge
upon anie suspicion that might arise.
It chanced yet by the benefit of the darke night, that
though the father were slaine, the sonne yet by the helpe of
almightie God reserving him to better fortune, escaped that
danger: and afterwards having some inkeling (by the admo-
nition of some friends which he had in the court) how his
life was sought no lesse than his fathers, who was slaine not
by chance medlie (as by the handling of the matter Makbeth
would have had it to appeare) but even upon a prepensed
devise : whereupon to avoid further perill he fled into Wales.
1 But here I thinke it shall not much make against my
purpose, if (according to th' order which I find observed in
the Scotish historie) I shall in few words rehearse the origin-
all line of those kings, which have descended from the foresaid
Banquho, that they which have injoied the kingdome by so
long continuance of descent, from one to another, and that
even unto these our daies, may be knowen from whence they
had their first beginning.
Fleance therefore (as before is said) fled into Wales, where
shortlie after by his courteous and amiable behaviour, he grew
into such favour and estimation with the prince of that


66
THE HISTORY OF MAKBETH.
countrie, that he might unneath have wished anie greater ;
at length also he came into such familiar acquaintance with
the said princes daughter, that she of courtesie in the end
suffered him to get hir with child; which being once under-
stood, hir father the prince conceived such hatefull displeasure
towards Fleance, that he finallie slue him, and held his
daughter in most vile estate of servitude, for that she had
consented to be on this wise defloured by a stranger. At
the last yet, she was delivered of a sonne named Walter,
who within few yeares prooved a man of greater courage
and valiancie, than anie other had commonlie béene found,
although he had no better bringing up than (by his grand-
fathers appointment) among the baser sort of people. How-
beit he shewed ever even from his infancie, that there reigned
in him a certeine stoutnesse of stomach, readie to attempt high
enterprises.
It chanced that falling out with one of his companions,
after manie tawnting words which passed betwixt them, the
other to his reproch objected that he was a bastard, and be-
gotten in unlawfull bed; wherewith being sore kindled, in
his raging furie he ran upon him and slue him out of hand.
Then was he glad to flée out of Wales, and comming into
Scotland to séeke some friendship there, he happened into
the companie of such Englishmen, as were come thither with
quéene Margaret, and behaved himselfe so soberlie in all his
demeanours, that within a while he was highlie esteemed
amongest them. Not long after by such means atteining to
the degree of high reputation, he was sent with a great power
of men into the westerne lles, into Galloway, and other parts
of the realme, to deliver the same from the tyrannie and
injurious oppression there exercised by divers misgoverned
persons; which enterprise according to his commission he
atchived, with such prudent policie and manhood, that imme-
diatlie upon his returne to the court, he was made lord steward
of Scotland, with assignement to receive the kings rents and
duties out of the parts of the realme.


68
THE HISTORY OF MAKBETH.
earle of Buchquhane and lord of Baudzenot. The eldest
daughter was maried to James that was the sonne and heire
of William earle of Dowglas. The second daughter was
maried to John Dunbar, brother to George of Dunbar earle of
March, and was made to the advancement of his further fame
earle of Murrey. He begot on hir one onelie daughter, that
was maried to the Dowglas, and so Dowglas came to the
earledome of Murrey. The third daughter was maried unto
John Lioun, that was after made lord of Glammis.
Moreover, the foresaid Robert that was the first of the
Stewards which ware the crowne in Scotland, maried Ewfame
daughter to the earle of Rosse, and got on hir two sonnes,
Walter earle of Atholl, and David earle of Stratherne. This
Walter sollicited Robert duke of Albanie, to slea David
Steward duke of Rothsaie. And after that James the first
was returned home foorth of England, hée did what he could
to moove him to slea all the linage of the said duke, still
being in hope after the dispatch of his kinsmen to come to
the crowne himselfe, which hope mooved him to procure his
nephue Robert Steward, and Robert Graham his daughters
son, to slea king James the first also, for the which crime the
same Walter was after convicted and destroied with all his
sonnes. His brother David earle of Buchquhane died without
issue, and so the lands of both these brethren returned againe
to the crowne, without anie memorie of their bloud. Of
Robert Steward duke of Albanie, came duke Murdo, who
maried the earle of Lennox daughter, and got on hir thrée
sonnes, Walter, Alexander, and James.
Duke Murdo himselfe with his two first sonnes were slaine
at Striveling by king James the first, and the third brother
James in revenge thereof burnt Dumbertane, and was after
chased into Ireland, where he deceassed without issue.
Robert the third of that name maried Annabill Drommond,
daughter to sir John Drommond of Strobhall knight, and got
on hir David and James. The first died in Falkland, and
the other atteined the crowne, and was called James the first


70
THE HISTORY OF MAKBETH.
marieng first the ladie Magdalen daughter to Francis the
French king, had no issue by hir, for that she died in the yéere
next after hir comming into Scotland, and then shortlie after
the said James the fift maried the ladie Marie de Lorrein,
duchesse of Lonvile, a widow, and by hir had he issue Marie
quéene of Scotland, that tooke to husband Henrie Steward lord
Dernlie, by whome she had issue Charles James, now king
of Scotland. But to returne unto Makbeth, in continuing
the historie, and to begin where I left, ye shall understand
that after the contrived slaughter of Banquho, nothing pros-
pered with the foresaid Makbeth: for in maner everie man
began to doubt his owne life, and durst unneth appeare in the
kings presence; and even as there were manie that stood in
feare of him, so likewise stood he in feare of manie, in such
sort that he began to make those awaie by one surmized
cavillation or other, whome he thought most able to worke
him anie displeasure.
At length he found such sweetnesse by putting his nobles
thus to death, that his earnest thirst after bloud in this behalfe
might in no wise be satisfied: for ye must consider he wan
double profit (as hée thought) hereby: for first they were rid
out of the way whome he feared, and then againe his coffers
were inriched by their goods which were forfeited to his use,
whereby he might better mainteine a gard of armed men
about him to defend his person from injurie of them whome
he had in anie suspicion. Further, to the end he might the
more cruellie oppresse his subjects with all tyrantlike wrongs,
he builded a strong castell on the top of an hie hill called
Dunsinane, situate in Gowrie, ten miles from Perth, on such
a proud height, that standing there aloft, a man might behold
well neere all the countries of Angus, Fife, Stermond, and
Ernedale, as it were lieng underneath him. This castell
then being founded on the top of that high hill, put the
realme to great charges before it was finished, for all the
stuffe necessarie to the building could not be brought up
without much toile and businesse. But Makbeth being once


THE HISTORY OF MAKBETH.
71
determined to have the worke go forward, caused the thanes
of each shire within the realme, to come and helpe towards
that building, each man his course about.
At the last, when the turne fell unto Makduffe thane of
Fife to build his part, he sent workemen with all néedfull
provision, and commanded them to shew such diligence in
everie behalfe, that no occasion might bée given for the king
to find fault with him, in that he came not himselfe as other
had doone, which he refused to doo, for doubt least the king
bearing him (as he partlie understood) no great good will,
would laie violent hands upon him, as he had doone upon
diverse other. Shortlie after, Makbeth comming to behold
how the worke went forward, and bicause he found not
Makduffe there, he was sore offended, and said; I perceive
this man will never obeie my commandements, till he be
ridden with a snaffle: but I shall provide well inough for
him. Neither could he afterwards abide to looke upon the
said Makduffe, either for that he thought his puissance over
great: either else for that he had learned of certeine wizzards,
in whose words he put great confidence (for that the prophesie
had happened so right, which the thrée faries or weird sisters
had declared unto him) how that he ought to take heed of
Makduffe, who in time to come would seeke to destroie him.
And suerlie hereupon had he put Makduffe to death, but
that a certeine witch, whome hee had in great trust, had told
that he should never be slaine with man borne of anie wo-
man, nor vanquished till the wood of Bernane came to the
castell of Dunsinane. By this prophesie Makbeth put all
feare out of his heart, supposing he might do what he would,
without anie feare to be punished for the same, for by the
one prophesie he beléeved it was unpossible for anie man to
vanquish him, and by the other unpossible to slea him. This
vaine hope caused him to doo manie outragious things, to the
gréevous oppression of his subjects. At length Makduffe, to
avoid perill of life, purposed with himselfe to passe into
England, to procure Malcolme Cammore to claime the crowne


72
THE HISTORY OF MAKBETH.
of Scotland. But this was not so secretlie devised by Mak-
duffe, but that Makbeth had knowledge given him thereof:
for kings (as is said) have sharpe sight like unto Lynx, and
long ears like unto Midas. For Makbeth had in everie
noble mans house, one slie fellow or other in fée with him, to
reveale all that was said or doone within the same, by which
slight he oppressed the most part of the nobles of his realme.
Immediatlie then, being advertised whereabout Makduffe
went, he came hastily with a great power into Fife, and
foorthwith besieged the castell where Makduffe dwelled,
trusting to have found him therein. They that kept the
house, without anie resistance opened the gates, and suffered
hiin to enter, mistrusting none evill. But neverthelesse
Makbeth most cruellie caused the wife and children of
Makduffe, with all other whom he found in that castell, to
be slaine. Also he confiscated the goods of Makduffe, pro-
clamed him traitor, and confined him out of all the parts of
his realme; but Makduffe was alreadie escaped out of danger,
and gotten into England unto Malcolme Cammore, to trie what
purchase hée might make by means of his support, to revenge
the slaughter so cruellie executed on his wife, his children,
and other friends. At his comming unto Malcolme, he de-
clared into what great miserie the estate of Scotland was
brought, by the detestable cruelties exercised by the tyrant
Makbeth, having committed manie horrible slaughters and
murders, both as well of the nobles as commons, for the
which he was hated right mortallie of all his liege people,
desiring nothing more than to be delivered of that intollerable
and most heavie yoke of thraldome, which they susteined at
such a caitaifes hands.
Malcolme hearing Makduffes woords, which he uttered in
verie lamentable sort, for méere compassion and verie ruth
that pearsed his sorrowfull hart, bewailing the miserable state
of his countrie, he fetched a deepe sigh; which Makduffe
perceiving, began to fall most earnestlie in hand with him,
to enterprise the delivering of the Scotish people out of the


74
THE HISTORY OF MAKBETH.
sions; and therefore to shew you what mischiefe may insue
on you through mine unsatiable covetousnes, I will rehearse
unto you a fable. There was a fox having a sore place on
him overset with a swarme of flies, that continuallie sucked
out hir bloud: and when one that came by and saw this
manner, demanded whether she would have the flies driven
beside hir, she answered no: for if these flies that are alreadie
full, and by reason thereof sucke not verie egerlie, should be
chased awaie, other that are emptie and fellie an hungred
should light in their places, and sucke out the residue of my
bloud farre more to my greevance than these, which now
being satisfied doo not much annoie me. Therefore saith
Malcolme, suffer me to remaine where I am, least if I atteine
to the regiment of your realme, mine unquenchable avarice
may proove such; that ye would thinke the displeasures
which now grieve you, should seeme easie in respect of the
unmeasurable outrage, which might insue through my com-
ming amongst you."
Makduffe to this made answer, “how it was a far woorse
fault than the other: for avarice is the root of all mischiefe,
and for that crime the most part of our kings have beene
slaine and brought to their finall end. Yet notwithstanding
follow my counsell, and take upon thée the crowne. There
is gold and riches inough in Scotland to satisfie thy gréedie
desire.” Then said Malcolme againe, “I am furthermore
inclined to dissimulation, telling of leasings and all other kinds
of deceit, so that I naturallie rejoise in nothing so much as to
betraie and deceive such as put anie trust or confidence in my
woords. Then sith there is nothing that more becommeth a
prince than constancie, veritie, truth, and justice, with the
other laudable fellowship of those faire and noble vertues
which are comprehended onelie in soothfastnesse, and that
lieng utterlie overthroweth the same; you sée how unable I am
to governe anie province or region: and therefore sith you have
remedies to cloke and hide all the rest of my other vices, I
praie you find shift to cloke this vice amongst the residue.”


THE HISTORY OF MAKBETH.
75
Then said Makduffe: “This yet is the woorst of all, and
there I leave thee, and therefore saie; Oh ye unhappie and
miserable Scotishmen, which are thus scourged with so manie
and sundrie calamities, ech one above other! Ye have one
curssed and wicked tyrant that now reigneth over you,
without anie right or title, oppressing you with his most
bloudie crueltie. This other that hath the right to the
crowne, is so replet with the inconstant behaviour and mani-
fest vices of Englishmen, that he is nothing woorthie to
injoy it: for by his owne confession he is not onelie avari-
tious, and given to unsatiable lust, but so false a traitor withall,
that no trust is to be had unto anie woord he speaketh.
Adieu Scotland, for now I account my selfe a banished man
for ever, without comfort or consolation :" and with those
woords the brackish teares trickled downe his chéekes verie
abundantlie.
At the last, when he was readie to depart, Malcolme tooke
him by the sleeve, and said: “Be of good comfort Makduffe,
for I have none of these vices before remembred, but have
jested with thée in this manner, onelie to proove thy mind :
for diverse times héeretofore hath Makbeth sought by this
manner of meanes to bring me into his hands, but the more
slow I have shewed my selfe to condescend to thy motion and
request, the more diligence shall I use in accomplishing the
same.” Incontinentlie héereupon they imbraced ech other,
and promising to be faithfull the one to the other, they fell in
consultation how they might best provide for all their busi-
nesse, to bring the same to good effect. Soone after, Makduffe
repairing to the borders of Scotland, addressed his letters with
secret dispatch unto the nobles of the realme, declaring how
Malcolme was confederat with him, to come hastilie into
Scotland to claime the crowne, and therefore he required
them, sith he was right inheritor thereto, to assist him with
their powers to recover the same out of the hands of the
wrongfull usurper.
In the meane time, Malcolme purchased such favor at


76
THE HISTORY OF MAKBETH.
king Edwards hands, that old Siward earle of Northumberland
was appointed with ten thousand men to go with him into
Scotland, to support him in this enterprise, for recoverie of
his right. After these newes were spread abroad in Scotland,
the nobles drew into two severall factions, the one taking part
with Makbeth, and the other with Malcolme. Héereupon
insued oftentimes sundrie bickerings, and diverse light skir-
mishes: for those that were of Malcolmes side, would not
jeopard to joine with their enimies in a pight field, till his
comming out of England to their support. But after that
Makbeth perceived his enimies power to increase, by such aid
as came to them foorth of England with his adversarie Mal-
colme, he recoiled backe into Fife, there purposing to abide in
campe fortified, at the castell of Dunsinane, and to fight with
his enimies, if they ment to pursue him; howbeit some of his
friends advised him, that it should be best for him, either to
make some agréement with Malcolme, or else to Alée with all
speed into the Iles, and to take his treasure with him, to the
end he might wage sundrie great princes of the realıne to take
his part, and reteine strangers, in whome he might better trust
than in his owne subjects, which stale dailie from him: but
he had such confidence in his prophesies, that he beléeved he
should never be vanquished, till Birnane wood were brought
to Dunsinane; nor yet to be slaine with anie man, that should
be or was borne of anie woman.
Malcolme following hastilie after Makbeth, came the night
before the battell unto Birnane wood; and when his armie had
rested a while there to refresh them, he commanded everie
man to get a bough of some trée or other of that wood in his
hand, as big as he might beare, and to march foorth therewith
in such wise, that on the next morrow they might come
closelie and without sight in this manner within view of his
enimies. On the morrow when Makbeth beheld them com-
ming in this sort, he first marvelled what the matter ment,
but in the end remembred himselfe that the prophesie which
he had heard long before that time, of the comming of Birnane





THE STORY OF
THE SHEPERDESS FELISMENA,
FROM WHICH SHAKESPEARE IS SAID TO HAVE
TAKEN THE PLOT OF
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.
FROM BOOK II. OF THE “DIANA” OF GEORGE DE
MONTEMAYOR,
TRANSLATED BY BARTH. YOUNG, 1598.


INTRODUCTION.
THE present portion of our publication would not have
been included by us, (and we only give the earlier part of
the tale as a specimen) but for the opinion of Farmer and
others, “ that the story of Proteus and Julia, (in The
Two Gentlemen of Verona') might be taken from a similar
one in the “Diana” of George of Montemayor.” The objec-
tion to this notion is, that there can be no reasonable doubt
that “The Two Gentlemen of Verona” was one of Shake-
speare's earliest plays, while the “Diana” was not translated
by Bartholomew Young until 1598, in which year Francis
Meres mentions “ The Two Gentlemen of Verona” as a
known play. (Palladis Tamia, 1598, 8vo, sig. O o 2).
The opinion that other incidents of that play were derived
from Sidney's “Arcadia,” first printed 1591, 4to, is more
plausible; but the resemblance is too slight and casual to
warrant any decided conclusion of the kind. The source of
the plot of “The Two Gentlemen of Verona” is yet to be dis-
covered. It is not impossible that the “ History,” called (in
the Revels Accounts, by Mr. P. Cunningham, p. 189) “ Felix
and Philiomena,” may have been a drama upon the ensuing
incidents, one of the names having been mis-written.
wai
sourd


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THE SHEPERDESS FELISMENA.
You shall therefore knowe (faire nymphes) that great
Vandalia is my native countrie, a province not far hence,
where I was borne, in a citie called Soldina, my mother
called Delia, my father Andronius, for linage and posses-
sions the chiefest of all that province. It fell out that as my
mother was married many yeeres and had no children, (by
reason whereof she lived so sad and malecontent that she en-
joyed not one merry day) with teares and sighes she daily im-
portuned the heavens, and with a thousand vowes and devout
offerings, besought God to grant her the summe of her de-
sire: whose omnipotencie it pleased, beholding from his im-
periall throne her continuall orisons, to make her barren
bodie (the greater part of her age being now spent and gone)
to become fruitfull. What infinite joy she conceived thereof,
let her judge, that after a long desire of any thing, fortune
at last doth put it into her handes. Of which content my
father Andronius being no lesse partaker, shewed such
tokens of inward joy as are impossible to be expressed. My
mother Delia was so much given to reading of ancient
histories, that if, by reason of sicknes or any important busi-
nesse, she had not bene hindred, she would never (by her
will) have passed the time away in any other delight; who
(as I said) being now with childe, and finding herselfe on a
night ill at ease, intreated my father to reade something unto
her, that, her minde being occupied in contemplation thereof,
she might the better passe her greefe away. My father, who
studied for nothing els but to please her in all he might,
began to reade unto her the historie of Paris, when the three
Ladies referred their proude contention for the golden apple
to his conclusion and judgement. But as my mother held it
for an infallible opinion that Paris had partially given that
2 B


THE SHEPERDESS FELISMENA.
sentence, (perswaded thereunto by a blinde passion of beautie)
so she said, that without all doubt he did not with due reason
and wisedome consider the goddesse of battels; for, as
martiall.and heroicall feates (saide she) excelled all other
qualities, so with equitie and justice the apple should have
bene given to her. My father answered, that since the apple
was to be given to the fạirest, and that Venus was fairer
than any of the rest, Paris had rightly given his judge-
ment, if that harme had not ensued thereof, which afterwardes
did. To this my mother replied, that, though it was written
in the apple, That it should be given to the fairest it was
not to be understood of corporall beautie, but of the intellec-
tuall beautie of the mind. And therefore since fortitude was
a thing that made one most beautiful, and the exercise of
arms an exterior act of this vertue, she affirmed, that to the
goddesse of battels this apple should be given, if Paris had
judged like a prudent and unappassionate judge. So that
(faire nymphes) they spent a great part of the night in
controversie, both of them alledging the most reasons they
could to confirme their owne purpose. They persisting in
this point, sleepe began to overcome her, whom the reasons
and arguments of her husband coulde not once moove; so
that being very deepe in her disputations, she fell into as
deepe a sleepe, to whom, (my father being now gone to his
chamber) appeered the goddesse Venus, with as frowning a
countenance as faire, and saide, I marvell, Delia, who hath
mooved thee to be so contrarie to her, that was never oppo-
site to thee? If thou hadst but called to minde the time
when thou wert so overcome in love for Andronius, thou
wouldest not have paide me the debt (thou owest me) with so
ill coine. But thou shalt not escape free from my due anger;
for thou shalt bring forth a sonne and a daughter, whose
birth shall cost thee no 'lesse than thy life, and them their
contentment, for uttering so much in disgrace of my honour
and beautie: both which shall be as infortunate in their love
as any were ever in all their lives, or to the age wherein,


THE SHEPERDESS FELISMENA.
againe, and my brother was caried to the mightie and in-
vincible king of Portugall his court (whose noble fame and
princely liberalitie was bruted over all the world) where,
being growen to yeeres able to manage armes, he atchieved
as valiant and almost incredible enterprises by them, as he
suffered unfortunate disgraces and foiles by love. And with
all this he was so highly favoured of that magnificent king,
that he would never suffer him to depart from his court.
Unfortunate I, reserved by my sinister destinies to greater
mishaps, was caried to a grandmother of mine, which place
I would I had never seene, since it was an occasion of such
a sorrowfull life as never any woman suffered the like.
And bicause there is not any thing (faire nymphes) which I
am not forced to tell you, as well for the great vertue and
desertes which your excellent beauties doe testifie, as also for
that for my minde doth give me, that you shall be no small
part and meanes of my comfort, knowe, that as I was in my
grandmothers house, and almost seventeene yeeres olde, a
certaine yoong gentleman fell in love with me, who dwelt no
further from our house then the length of a garden terrasse,
so that he might see me every sommers night when I walked
in the garden. When as therefore ingratefull Felix had be-
held in that place the unfortunate Felismena (for this is the
name of the wofull woman that tels you her mishaps) he was
extremely enamoured of me, or else did cunningly dissemble
it, I not knowing then whether of these two I might beleeve,
but am now assured, that whosoever beleeves lest, or nothing
at all in these affaires, shall be most at ease. Many daies
Don Felix spent in endeavouring to make me know the
paines which he suffered for me, and many more did I spende
in making the matter strange, and that he did not suffer
them for my sake: and I know not why love delaied
the time so long by forcing me to love him, but onely that
(when he came indeed) he might enter into my hart at once,
and with greater force and violence. When he had, there-
fore, by sundrie signes, as by tylt and tourneyes, and by


THE SHEPERDESS FELISMENA.
came to helpe me to bedde, God knowes how desirous I was
to have her entreat me againe to take the letter, but she
woulde never speake unto me about it, nor (as it seemed)
did so much as once thinke thereof. Yet to trie, if by
giving her some occasion I might prevaile, I saide unto her:
And is it so, Rosina, that Don Felix, without any regard to
mine honour, dares write unto me? These are things,
mistresse, (saide she demurely to me againe) that are com-
monly incident to love, wherefore I beseech you pardon me,
for if I had thought to have angred you with it, I would have
first pulled out the bals of mine eies. How cold my hart
was at that blow, God knowes, yet did I dissemble the matter,
and suffer my selfe to remaine that night onely with my
desire, and with occasion of little sleepe. And so it was, in-
deede, for that (me thought) was the longest and most painfull
night that ever I passed. But when, with a slower pace
(then I desired) the wished day was come, the discreet and
subtle Rosina came into my chamber to helpe me to make me
readie, in dooing whereof, of purpose she let the letter closely
fall, which, when I perceived, What is that that fell downe ?
(said I), let me see it. It is nothing, mistresse, saide she.
Come, come, let me see it (saide I): what! moove me not, or
else tell me what it is. Good Lord, mistresse (saide she), why
will you see it: it is the letter I would have given you yes-
terday. Nay, that it is not (saide I) wherefore shewe it me,
that I may see if you lie or no. I had no sooner said so but
she put it into my handes, saying, God never give me good
if it be anie other thing; and although I knewe it well in-
deede, yet I saide, what, this is not the same, for I know that
well enough, but it is one of thy lovers letters: I will read it,
to see in what neede he standeth of thy favour. And open-
ing it, I founde it conteined this that followeth.
“I ever imagined (deere mistresse) that your discretion and
wisedome woulde have taken away the feare I had to write
unto you, the same knowing well enough (without any letter
at all) how much I love you, but the very same hath so cun-


THE SHEPERDESS FELISMENA.
I was
ut she
zmed)
if by
her:
ard to
nings
Com-
ningly dissembled, that wherein I hoped the only remedie of
my griefes had been, therein consisted my greatest · harme.
If according to your wisedome you censure my boldnes, I
shall not then (I know) enjoy one hower of life; but if you
do consider of it according to loves accustomed effects, then
will I not exchange my hope for it. Be not offended, I
beseech you, (good ladie) with my letter, and blame me not
for writing unto you, untill you see by experience whether I
can leave of to write: and take me besides into the posses-
sion of that which is yours, since all is mine doth wholly
consist in your hands, the which, with all reverence and duti-
full affection, a thousand times I kisse.”
When I had now seene my Don Felix his letter, whether
it was for reading it at such a time, when by the same he
shewed that he loved me more than himselfe, or whether he
had disposition and regiment over part of this wearied soule,
to imprint that love in it whereof he wrote unto me, I began
to love him too.well, (and, alas, for my harme !) since he was
the cause of so much sorrow as I have passed for his sake.
Whereupon, asking Rosina forgivenes of what was past (as
a thing needfull for that which was to come) and committing
the secrecie of my love to her fidelitie, I read the letter once
againe, pausing a little at every worde (and a very little
indeede it was) bicause I concluded so soone with my selfe, to
do that I did, although in verie truth it lay not otherwise in
my power to do. Wherefore, calling for paper and inke, I
answered his letter thus.
"Esteeme not so slightly of mine honour, Don Felix, as
with fained wordes to thinke to enveagle it, or with thy vaine
pretenses to offend it any waies. I know wel enough what
manner of man thou art, and how great thy desert and pre-
sumption is; from whence thy boldnes doth arise (I gesse),
and not from the force (which thing thou wouldst faine per-
swade me) of thy fervent love. And if it be so (as my sus-
picion suggesteth) thy labor is as vaine as thy imagination
presumptuous, by thinking to make me do any thing contrarie
IR


THE SHEPERDESS FELISMENA.
11
quaint me with his departure; which when I knew, how sor-
rowfull I remained, she may imagine that hath bene at any
time tormented with like passion. To tell you now the
life that I led in his absence, my sadnes, sighes, and teares,
which every day I powred out of these wearied eies, my
toong is far unable: if then my paines were such that I can-
not now expresse them, how could I then suffer them? But
being in the mids of my mishaps, and in the depth of those
woes which the absence of Don Felix caused me to feele,
and it seeming to me that my grieefe was without remedie,
if he were once seene or knowen of the ladies in that court
(more beautifull and gracious then my selfe), by occasion
whereof, as also by absence (a capitall enemie to love) I
might easily be forgotten, I determined to adventure that,
which I think never any woman imagined; which was to
apparell my selfe in the habit of a man, and to hye me to the
court to see him, in whose sight al my hope and content re-
mained. Which determination I no sooner thought of then I
put in practise, love blinding my eies and minde with an in-
considerate regarde of mine owne estate and condition. To
the execution of which attempt I wanted no industrie; for,
being furnished with the helpe of one of my approoved friends,
and treasouresse of my secrets, who bought me such apparell
as I willed her, and a good horse for my journey, I went not
onely out of my countrie, but out of my deere reputation,
which (I thinke) I shall never recover againe; and so
trotted directly to the court, passing by the way many acci-
dents, which (if time would give me leave to tell them)
would not make you laugh a little to heare them. Twenty
daies I was in going thither, at the ende of which, being come
to the desired place, I took up mine inne in a streete less fre-
quented with concurse of people: and the great desire I
had to see the destroier of my joy did not suffer me to thinke
of any other thing, but how or where I might see him. To
inquire of him of mine host I durst not, lest my comming
might (perhaps) have bene discovered; and to seeke him
foorth I thought it not best, lest some inopinate mishap might


12
THE SHEPERDESS FELISMENA.
have fallen out, whereby I might have bene knowen.
Wherefore I passed all that day in these perplexities, while
night came on, each hower whereof (me thought) was a whole
yeere unto me. But midnight being a little past, mine host
called at my chamber doore, and told me if I was desirous to
heare some brave musicke, I should arise quickly, and open
a window towards the street. The which I did by and by,
and making no noise at all, I heard how Don Felix his page,
called Fabius (whom I knew by his voice) saide to others
that came with him, Now it is time, my masters, bicause
the lady is in her gallerie over her garden, taking the fresh
aire of the coole night. He had no sooner saide so, but they
began to winde three cornets and a sackbot, with such skill
and sweetenesse, that it seemed celestiall musicke; and then
began a voice to sing, the sweetest (in my opinion) that ever
I heard. And though I was in suspence, by hearing Fabius
speake, whereby a thousand doubtes and imaginations (re-
pugnant to my rest) occurred in my minde, yet I neglected
not to heare what was sung, bicause their operations were
not of such force that they were able to hinder the desire,
nor distemper the delight that I conceived by hearing it.
That therefore which was sung were these verses :-
Sweete mistresse, harken unto me, In death there is no helpe, be sure,
(If it greeves thee to see me die) But in thy will, where it doth lie;
And hearing, though it greeveth thee, For all those illes which death doth cure,
To heare me yet do not denie. Alas! they are but light to trie:
O grant me then this short content,
For forc'd I am to thee to flie.
My sighes do not make thee relent,
Nor teares thy hart do mollifie.
My troubles do not trouble thee,
Nor hope to touch thy soule so nie :
O! from a will that is so free,
What should I hope when I do crie?
Nothing of mine doth give thee payne, How can I mollifie that brave
Nor thou think'st of no remedie: And stony hart of pittie drie ?
Mistresse, how long shall I sustaine Yet mistresse, turne those eies (that have
Such ill as still thou dost applie? No peeres) shining like stars in skie;
But turne them not in angrie sort,
If thou wilt not kill me thereby :
Tho' yet, in anger or in sport,
Thou killest onely with thine eie.


14
THE SHEPERDESS FELISMENA.
heavenly melodie, that the whole worlde (I thinke) could not
affoord sweeter musick to the eare nor delight to any minde,
not subject to the panges of such predominant greefe and
sorrow as mine was. But then fower voices, passing well
tuned and set togither, began to sing this song following:
A SONG.
That sweetest harme I doe not blame,
First caused by thy fairest eies,
But greeve, bicause too late I came,
To know my fault, and to be wise.
I never knew a worser kinde of life,
To live in feare, from boldnesse still to cease :
Nor, woorse then this, to live in such a strife,
Whether of bothe to speake, or holde my peace ?
And so the harme I do not blame,
Caused by thee or thy faire eies;
But that to see how late I came,
To know my fault, and to be wise.
I ever more did feare that I should knowe
Some secret things, and doubtfull in their kinde,
Bicause the surest things doe ever goe
Most contrarie unto my wish and minde.
And yet by knowing of the same
There is no hurt; but it denies
My remedie, since late I came,
To knowe my fault, and to be wise.
When this song was ended, they began to sound divers
sorts of instruments, and voices most excellently agreeing to-
gither, and with such sweetnes that they could not chuse but
delight any very much who were so farre from it as I.
About dawning of the day the musicke ended, and I did


16
THE SHEPERDESS FELISMENA.
come thither out of hand. And being in this supposed joy
which his sight did promise me, I saw him comming along
with a great traine of followers attending on his person, all
of them being bravely apparelled in a liverie of watchet
silke, garded with yellow velvet, and stitched on either side
with threedes of twisted silver, wearing likewise blew,
yellow, and white feathers in their hats. But my lorde Don
Felix had on a paire of ash colour hose, embrodered and
drawen foorth with watchet tissue; his dublet was of white
satten, embrodered with knots of golde, and likewise an em-
brodered jerkin of the same coloured velvet; and his short
cape cloke was of blacke velvet, edged with gold lace, and
hung full of buttons of pearle and gold, and lined with a
razed watchet satten: by his side he ware, at a paire of em-
brodered hangers, a rapier and dagger, with engraven hilts
and pommell of beaten golde. On his head, a hat beset full
of golden stars, in the mids of everie which a rich orient
pearle was enchased, and his feather was likewise blew,
yellow, and white. Mounted he came upon a faire dapple
graie jennet, with a rich furniture of blew, embrodered with
golde and seede pearle. When I saw him in this rich equi-
page, I was so amazed at his sight, that how extremely my
sences were ravished with sudden joye I am not able (faire
nymphes) to tell you. Truth it is, that I could not but shed
some teares for joy and greefe, which his sight did make me
feele, but, fearing to be noted by the standers by, for that
time I dried them up. But as Don Felix (being now come
to the pallace gate) was dismounted, and gone up a paire of
staires into the chamber of presence, I went to his men, where
they were attending his returne; and seeing Fabius, whom I
had seene before amongst them, I tooke him aside, and saide
unto him, My friend, I pray you tell me what Lord this is,
which did but even now alight from his jennet, for (me thinkes)
he is very like one whom I have seene before in an other
farre countrey. Fabius then answered me thus: Art thou
such a novice in the court that thou knowest not Don Felix?


THE SHEPERDESS FELISMENA.
17
I tell thee there is not any lord, knight, or gentleman
better knowne in it than he. No doubt of that (saide I), but
I will tell thee what a novice I am, and how small a time I
have beene in the court, for yesterday was the first that ever
I came to it. Naie then, I cannot blame thee (saide Fabius)
if thou knowest him not. Knowe, then, that this gentleman
is called Don Felix, borne in Vandalia, and hath his chiefest
house in the antient cittie of Soldina, and is remaining in this
court about certaine affaires of his fathers and his owne.
But I pray you tell me (said I) why he gives his liveries
of these colours ? If the cause were not so manifest, I woulde
conceale it (saide Fabius), but since there is not any that
knowes it not, and canst not come to any in this court who
cannot tell thee the reason why, I thinke by telling thee it I
do no more then in courtesie I am bound to do. Thou must
therefore understand, that he loves and serves a ladie heere in
this citie named Celia, and therefore weares and gives for his
liverie an azure blew, which is the colour of the skie, and
white and yellow, which are the colours of his lady and mis-
tresse. When I heard these words, imagine (faire nymphes)
in what a plight I was; but dissembling my mishap and
griefe, I answered him : This ladie certes is greatly behold-
ing to him, bicause he thinkes not enough, by wearing her
colours, to shew how willing he is to serve her, unlesse
also he beare her name in his liverie; whereupon I gesse
she cannot but be very faire and amiable. She is no lesse,
indeede, (saide Fabius) although the other whom he loved
and served in our owne countrey in beautie farre excelled
this, and loved and favoured him more then ever this did.
But this mischievous absence doth violate and dissolve those
thinges which men thinke to be most strong and firme. At
these wordes (faire nymphes) was I faine to come to some
composition with my teares, which, if I had not stopped from
issuing foorth, Fabius could not have chosen but suspected,
by the alteration of my countenance, that all was not well
with me. And then the page did aske me, what countrey-


18
THE SHEPERDESS FELISMENA.
man I was, my name, and of what calling and condition I
was: whom I answered, that my countrey where I was
borne was Vandalia, my name Valerius, and till that time
served no master. Then by this reckoning (saide he)
we are both countrey-men, and may be both fellowes in one
house if thou wilt; for Don Felix my master commanded
me long since to seeke him out a page. Therefore if thou
wilt serve him, say so. As for meate, drinke, and apparell,
and a couple of shillings to play away, thou shalt never want;
besides pretie wenches, which are not daintie in our streete,
as faire and amorous as queenes, of which there is not anie
that will not die for the love of so proper a youth as thou
art. And to tell thee in secret (because, perhaps, we may
be fellowes), I know where an old cannons maide is, a
gallant fine girle, whom if thou canst but finde in thy hart to
love and serve as I do, thou shalt never want at her hands
fine hand-kerchers, peeces of bacon, and now and then wine
of S. Martyn. When I heard this, I could not choose bụt
laugh, to see how naturally the unhappie page played his
part by depainting foorth their properties in their lively
colours. And because I thought nothing more commodious
for my rest, and for the enjoying of my desire, then to follow
Fabius his counsel, I answered him, thus : In truth, I deter-
mined to serve none; but now, since fortune hath offered me
so good a service, and at such a time, when I am constrained
to take this course of life, I shall not do amisse if I frame my-
selfe to the service of some lord or gentleman in this court,
but especially of your master, because he seemes to be a
woorthy gentleman, and such an one that makes more reckon-
ing of his servants then an other. Ha, thou knowest him
not so well as I (said Fabius); for I promise thee, by the faith
of a gentleman (for I am one indeede, for my father comes of
the Cachopines of Laredo), that my master Don Felix is the
best natured gentleman that ever thou knewest in thy life,
and one who useth his pages better then any other. And
were it not for those troublesome loves, which makes us
-
-.-


20
THE SHEPERDESS FELISMENA.
it so; but I have done her (me thinkes) the greater injurie,
having placed my love first in an other, and not in her. Of
these wrongs (saide I to my selfe) I know who beares the
woorst away. And (disloyall) he, pulling a letter out of his
bosome, which he had received the same hower from his
mistresse, reade it unto me, thinking he did me a great favour
thereby, the contents whereof were these :-
Celias letter to Don Felix.
Never any thing that I suspected, touching thy love, hath
beene so farre from the truth, that hath not given me occasion
to beleeve more often mine owne imagination then thy inno-
cencie; wherein, if I do thee any wrong, referre it but to the
censure of thine owne follie. For well thou mightest have
denied, or not declared thy passed love, without giving me
occasion to condemne thee by thine owne confession. Thou
saiest I was the cause that made thee forget thy former love.
Comfort thy selfe, for there shall not want another to make
thee forget thy second. And assure thy selfe of this (Lord
Don Felix) that there is not any thing more unbeseeming a
gentleman, then to finde an occasion in a gentlewoman to
leese himselfe for her love. I will saie no more, but that in
an ill, where there is no remedie, the best is not to seeke out
any.
After he had made an end of reading the letter, he said
unto me, What thinkest thou, Valerius, of these words ?
With pardon be it spoken, my Lord, that your deedes are
shewed by them. Go to, said Don Felix, and speake no
more of that. Sir, saide I, they must like me wel, if they
like you, because none can judge better of their words that
love well then they themselves. But that which I thinke
of the letter is, that this gentlewoman would have beene the
first, and that fortune had entreated her in such sort, that all
others might have envied her estate. But what wouldest


THE SHEPERDESS FELISMENA.
21
thou counsell me? said Don Felix. If thy griefe doth suffer
any counsell, saide. I, that thy thoughts be divided into this
second passion, since there is so much due to the first.
Don Felix answered me againe, sighing, and knocking me
gently on the shoulder, saying, How wise art thou, Valerius,
and what good counsell dost thou give me if I could follow
it. Let us now go in to dinner, for when I have dined, I
will have thee carie me a letter to my lady Celia, and then
thou shalt see if any other love is not woorthy to be forgot-
ten in lieu of thinking onely of her. These were wordes
that greeved Felismena to the hart, but bicause she had him
before her eies, whom she loved more than her-selfe, the
content, that she had by onely seeing him, was a sufficient
remedie of the paine, that the greatest of these stings did
make her feele. After Don Felix had dined, he called me
unto him, and giving me a speciall charge what I should do
(because he had imparted his griefe unto me, and put his
hope and remedie in my hands), he willed me to carie a letter
to Celia, which he had alreadie written, and, reading it first
unto me, it said thus:-
Don Felix his letter to Celia.
The thought, that seekes an occasion to forget the thing
which it doth love and desire, suffers it selfe so easily to be
knowne, that (without troubling the minde much) it may be
quickly discerned. And thinke not (faire ladie) that I
seeke a remedie to excuse you of that, wherewith it pleased
you to use me, since I never came to be so much in credit
with you, that in lesser things I woulde do it. I have con-
fessed unto you that indeede I once loved well, because that
true love, without dissimulation, doth not suffer any thing to
be hid, and you (deare ladie) make that an occasion to forget
me, which should be rather a motive to love me better. I
cannot perswade me, that you make so small an account of
your selfe, to thinke that I can forget you for any thing that
is, or hath ever been, but rather imagine that you write


21
THE SHEPERDESS FELISMENA.
when your beautie and wisedome is so great, and the others
80 small that there is no reason to thinke that he will
(though he hath woorthelie forsaken her for your sake) or
ever can forget you for any woman else in the worlde. Doest
thou then know Felismena (said Celia), the lady whom thy
master did once love and serve in his owne countrey? I
know her (saide I), although not so well as it was needfull for
me to have prevented so many mishaps, (and this I spake
softly to my selfe). For my fathers house was neere to hers;
but seeing your great beautie adorned with such perfections
and wisedome, Don Feliz can not be blamed, if he hath for-
gotten his first love only to embrace and honour yours. To
this did Celia answer, merily and smiling, Thou hast learned
quickly of thy master to sooth. Not so, faire ladie, saide I,
but to serve you woulde I faine learne: for flatterie cannot
be, where (in the judgement of all) there are so manifest
signes and proofes of this due commendation. Celia began in
good earnest to ask me what manner of woman Felismena
was, whom I answered, that, touching her beautie, Some
thought her to be very faire; but I was never of that opinion,
bicause she hath many daies since wanted the chiefest thing
that is requisite for it. . What is that? said Celia. Content
of minde, saide I, bicause perfect beautie can never be, where
the same is not adjoyned to it. Thou hast the greatest
reason in the world, said she, but I have seene some ladies
whose lively hewe sadnes hath not one whit abated, and
others whose beautie anger hath encreased, which is a
strange thing me thinkes. Haplesse is that beauty, saide I,
that hath sorrow and anger the preservers and mistresses of
it, but I cannot skill of these impertinent things: And yet
that woman, that must needes be molested with continuall
paine and trouble, with greefe and care of minde and with
other passions to make her looke well, cannot be reckoned
among the number of faire women, and for mine owne part
I do not account her so. Wherein thou hast great reason,
said she, as in all things else that thou hast saide, thou hast


THE SHEPERDESS FELISMENA.
25
showed thy selfe wise and discreete. Which I have deerely
bought, said I againe : But I beseech you (gracious lady) to
answer this letter, because my lord Don Felix may also have
some contentment, by receiving this first well emploied
service at my hands. I am content, saide Celia, but first
thou must tell me if Felismena in matters of discretion be
wise, and well advised? There was never any woman
(saide I againe) more wise then she, bicause she hath beene
long since beaten to it by her great mishaps : but she did
never advise her selfe well, for if she had (as she was
accounted wise) she had never come to have bene so con-
trarie to her selfe. Thou speakest so wisely in all thy
answeres, saide Celia, that there is not any that woulde not
take great delight to heare them: which are not viands
(said I) for such a daintie taste, nor reasons for so ingenious
and fine a conceit (faire lady), as you have, but boldly affirm-
ing, that by the same I meane no harme at all. There is not
any thing, saide Celia, whereunto thy wit cannot attaine, but
because thou shalt not spende thy time so ill in praising
me, as thy master doth in praying me, I will reade thy let-
ter, and tell thee what thou shalt say unto him from me.
Whereupon unfolding it, she began to read it to her selfe, to
whose countenance and gestures in reading of the same,
which are oftentimes outwarde signes of the inwarde disposi-
tion and meaning of the hart, I gave a watchfull eie. And
when she had read it, she said unto me, Tell thy master,
that he that can so well by wordes expresse what he meanes,
cannot choose but meane as well as he saith: and comming
neerer unto me, she saide softly in mine eare, And this for the
love of thee, Valerius, and not so much for Don Felix. thy
master his sake, for I see how much thou lovest and tenderest
his estate. And from thence, alas (saide I to my selfe), did all
my woes arise. Whereupon kissing her hands for the great
curtesie and favour she shewed me, I hied me to Don Felix
with this answer, which was no small joy to him to heare it,
and another death to me to report it, saying manie times to


26
THE SHEPERDESS FELISMENA.
my selfe (when I did either bring him home some joyfull
tydings or carrie letters or tokens to her), O thrise unfortunate
Felismena, that with thine owne weapons art constrained to
wounde thy ever-dying hart, and to heape up favours for him,
who made so small account of thine. And so did I passe
away my life with so many torments of minde, that if by the
sight of my Don Felix they had not beene tempered, it coulde
not have otherwise beene but that I must needes have lost it.
More then two monethes togither did Celia hide from me the
fervent love she bare me, although not in such sort, but that
by certaine apparant signes I came to the knowledge thereof,
which was no small lighting and ease of that griefe, which
incessantly haunted my wearied spirites; for as I thought it
a strong occasion, and the onely meane to make her utterly
forget Don Felix, so likewise I imagined, that, perhaps, it
might befall to him as it hath done to many, that the force
of ingratitude, and contempt of his love, might have utterly
abolished such thoughtes out of his hart. But, alas, it happened
not so to my Don Felix; for the more he perceived that his
ladie forgot him, the more was his minde troubled with greater
cares and greefe, which made him leade the most sorrowfull
life that might be, whereof the least part did not fall to my
lot. For remedie of whose sighes and pitious lamentations;
poore Felismena (even by maine force) did get favours from
Celia, scoring them up (whensoever she sent them by me) in
the catalogue of my infinite mishaps. For if by chaunce he
sent her anie thing by any of his other servants, it was so
slenderly accepted, that he thought it best to send none unto
her but my selfe, perceiving what inconvenience did ensue
thereof. But God knowes how many teares my messages
cost me, and so many they were, that in Celias presence I
ceased not to powre them foorth, earnestly beseeching her
with praiers and petitions not to entreat him so ill, who loved
her so much, bicause I would binde Don Felix to me by the
greatest bonde, as never man in like was bounde to any
woman. My teares greeved Celia to the hart, as well for


THE SHEPERDESS FELISMENA.
29
semble, tolde him that I could not speake with Celia, because
she was visited of certaine gentlewomen her kinsewomen.
But the next day in the morning it was bruted over all the
citie, that a certaine trance had taken her that night, wherein
she gave up the ghost, which stroke all the court with no
small woonder. But that, which Don Felix felt by her sud-
den death, and how neere it greeved his very soule, as I am
not able to tell, so cannot humane intendement conceive it, for
the complaints he made, the teares, the burning sighes, and
hart-breake sobbes, were without all measure and number.
But I saie nothing of my selfe, when on the one side the
unlucky death of Celia touched my soule very neere, the
teares of Don Felix on the other did cut my hart in two
with greefe: and yet this was nothing to that intollerable
paine which afterwards I felt. For Don Felix heard no
sooner of her death, but the same night he was missing in
his house, that none of his servants nor any bodie else could
tell any newes of him.
Whereupon you may perceive (faire nymphes) what cruell
torments I did then feele: then did I wish a thousand times for
death to prevent all these woes and myseries, which after-
wards befell unto me : for Fortune (it seemed) was but wearie
of those which she had but till then given me. But as all
the care and diligence which I emploied in seeking out my
Don Felix was but in vaine, so I resolved with my selfe to
take this habite upon me as you see, wherein it is more then
two yeeres since I have wandered up and downe, seeking
him in manie countryes: but my Fortune hath denied me to
finde him out, although I am not a little now bounde unto
her by conducting me hither at this time, wherein I did you
this small piece of service. Which (faire nymphes) beleeve
me, I account (next after his life in whom I have put all my
hope) the greatest content that might have fallen unto me.


LEGENDS AND STORIES
OF THE
MIDDLE AGES,
RESEMBLING PART OF THE PLOT OF
SHAKESPEARE'S PLAY OF
CYMBELINE.


INTRODUCTION.
minstrel, whose dress and instrument he assumes. He ar-
rives in this disguise, and is admitted into the presence of
Liziart: he sings a passage from the poem of Guillaume de
Courtney. He happens afterwards to hear the conversation
of Liziart and Gondrée, and, by their discourse, he is con-
vinced of the innocence of Oriant, and determines to go in
search of her.
“The subsequent details of the romance are numerous and
various. It is sufficient to say that, in the end, Gerard finds
his love again, delivering her from the consequences of an
accusation that hung over her. He conducts her to the king,
who is convinced of her innocence. The romance finishes
by a combat between Gerard and Liziart, who is vanquished,
but does not die without rendering justice to her whom he
had so basely outraged.”.
Such is the outline of the fable of the romance of “ Le
Compte de Poitiers,” and we need only follow it by a detail
of some of the leading incidents of the “Roman de Compte
de Poitiers,” to prove the intimate relation of one to the other.
The “Roman de la Violette” was printed in 1834, in a style
superior even to that in which “ Le Compte de Poitiers”
had appeared in 1831. We are again indebted to Renouard
and the “ Journal de Savans.”
“The following is the analysis of the first part of the ro-
mance of the Count de Poitiers.'
“In the beginning there are quotations from several works,
which shew that it must have been composed after them :
• Vous avés maintes fois oï
Chanter du lignage Aimeri,
De Karloman le poissant,
Et d'Ollivier, et de Rolland,
Et de Guillaume fiere-brache
Et de Rainouart a le mache.'
“Pepin held his court at Paris, and had at his table several
knights and counts, among whom--


INTRODUCTION.
vii
“The treacherous nurse gives the duke these tokens, that he
may use them against the countess.
"The duke presents himself before King Pepin, and he
says to the count:-
• Ensagnes ai qui font à croire
Ves chi X de cheveux sors,
Qui plus reluisent que fins ors
Vés qui l'anel qui li donastes
A icel jor que l'espousastes;
Et ceste ensagne de cendal
Fu pris au bon samit roial
Que votre feme avoit vestu:
J'ai gaagnié et vous perdu.'
“Pepin commands the countess to come to Paris, and the
count gives his nephew Geoffroi the charge of fetching her.
She arrives, and denies having yielded, but Pepin pronounces
in favour of the duke.
“The Count de Poitiers leaves the court with his wife.
The third day they enter a thick forest, and dismounting
from his horse, the husband bitterly reproaches the unfortu-
nate lady, who tries to undeceive him. At the instant the
enraged count, drawing his sword, has seized her by the hair,
a lion appears, and rushes suddenly upon them: the count
defends himself.
Mais li lions se resvertue
Contre le comte s'est dreciés.'
“At last the count stabs and overcomes the animal. Having
conquered the lion, he departs, abandoning his wife, who
from grief and terror falls into a swoon.
• Sor i perron de marbre bis
Que sanglent en a tot le vis.'
“Harpin, a relation of the duke’s, passing by the forest,
finds the lion dead, and the lady in despair, and he compels
her to go with him.
·


viii
INTRODUCTION.
“The count de Poitiers, after many adventures, is attacked
by a great serpent and kills it-an uninteresting and ill-
chosen episode, and merely a repetition of his victory over
the lion.
"On his road the count meets with a peasant, and wishes
to change his own scarlet vesture for the peasant's rags, but
he is refused. A pilgrim is more accommodating, and gives
him his dress, and stains his face, so that he may not be dis-
covered.
• Plus noirs est d'airement boulli.'
“ The count arrives at Poitiers disguised as a pilgrim, and
going to the duke, who was at table, and not being badly
received, he does not then avenge himself, but, yielding to a
feeling of generosity that he thinks he owes to the hospitality
of his enemy, he says to himself,
. Dans Dus s’ui mais vous occhoie
Trop mal traison feroie.'
“He seats himself at a great charcoal fire, and is witness
of a conversation between the duke and the nurse who had
betrayed the countess, and he is convinced of his wife's inno-
cence. He resolves to go in search of her, and determines to
prove the falsehood of the accusation, and to punish the duke.
“He returns to the pilgrim whose dress he had borrowed,
and receives his own again. He goes to his relation Harpin:
he is soon informed that Harpin is going to marry a lady
that he forces to the altar. The priest arrives: the lady,
whom he asks-
*Dame volé le à signor prendre ?'
answers firmly,
· Chertes ains me l'arroie pendre
Ja voir n'aurai mari ne dru
Quant j'ai mon bon seignor perdu.'
“Witnessing this refusal, the count determines to deliver the
victim. He rushes upon Harpin, and recognises his wife he
.


xiv
INTRODUCTION.
and declared his master's harsh instructions. The lady vehe-
mently protested her innocence of any crime against her
husband, besought the compassion of her conductor, and
promised to conceal herself in some distant and obscure
abode. Her life was spared, and the servant returned to his
master with some of Ginevra's clothes, reporting that he had
killed her, and left her body to the ferocity of beasts of prey.
“Ginevra disguised herself in the garments of a man, and
entered into the service of a Catalonian gentleman, who carried
her to Alexandria. Here she was fortunate enough to at-
tract the attention of the Sultan, who solicited her from her
master. She soon became a favourite, and, under the name
of Sicurano, was appointed captain of the guard. For the
security of both Christian and Turkish merchants, who re-
sorted to the fair of Acre, the Sultan annually sent an officer
with a band of soldiers. Sicurano was employed on this
service, where, being in the shop of a Venetian merchant,
she cast her eye upon a purse and girdle, which she recog-
nised as her own. Without declaring her discovery, she
enquired to whom they belonged, and whether they were for
sale. Ambrogiulo, who had arrived with a stock of mer-
chandize, now stepped forward, and replied, that the trinkets
were his, and begged Sicurano, since he admired them, to
accept of them. Sicurano asked him why he smiled; when
Ambrogiulo related, that the purse and girdle were presents
to him from a married lady of Genoa, whose love he had
enjoyed; and that he smiled at the folly of her husband, who
had laid five thousand against one thousand florins, that the
virtue of his wife was incorruptible.
“The jealousy and revenge of Bernabo were now explained
to Ginevra, and the base artificer of her ruin now stood be-
fore her. She feigned pleasure at Ambrogiulo's story, culti-
vated his acquaintance, and took him with her to Alexandria.
Her next care was to have Bernabo, now reduced to great
distress, brought privately to Alexandria. Then, watching a
favourable opportunity, she prevailed on the Sultan to compel


INTRODUCTION.
XV
Ambrogiulo to relate publicly every circumstance of his
villany. Bernabo confessed that he had caused his wife to
be murdered on the supposition of her guilt with Ambrogiulo.
You perceive, said Sicurano to the Sultan, how little reason
the unhappy lady had to be proud either of her gallant or
her husband. If you, my lord, will punish the deceiver, and
pardon the deceived, the traduced lady shall appear in your
presence. The Sultan assented; Sicurano fell at his feet,
and, discarding her assumed demeanour, declared herself to
be Ginevra : the display of the mole on her breast banished
every doubt. Ambrogiulo was then put to a cruel death,
and his immense wealth was given to Ginevra. The
Sultan pardoned Bernabo, and making Ginevra a princely
donation of jewels and money, provided a ship, and suffered
her and her husband to depart for Genoa.”
It remains to say a few words respecting the English ver-
sion of the same story, where the scene is laid in this coun-
try during the troublesome reign of Henry VI. It is con-
tained in a publication called “Westward for Smelts,” which
was entered on the books of the Stationers' Company, in
January, 1619-20, and published with the date of 1620 on
the title-page. Malone tells us (Shakspeare, by Boswell
xiii, 229) that this work was first published 1603; but no
copy of that date exists, and the entry in the Stationers' Re-
gisters seems to establish that it was then a new publication.
The only known copy of the edition of 1620 is among
Capell's books in the library of Trinity College, Cambridge;
and we feel confident that there was no earlier impression,
and that Malone had been misinformed when he spoke of the
existence of a copy dated 1603. Had such an impression
been issued, Shakespeare might possibly have availed himself
of it, if, as Malone thought, Cymbeline were produced in 1609.
We print it, not because our great dramatist ever saw it,
since it did not come out until four years after his death,
but on account of its connexion with “Cymbeline,” with the
two French Romances, with the French Miracle-play, and





THE
TALE TOLD BY THE FISHWIFE
of
STAND ON THE GREEN.
In the troublesome reigne of King Henry the sixt, there
dwelt in Waltam (not farre from London) a gentleman, which
had to wife a creature most beautifull: so that in her time
there were few found that matched her, (none at all that ex-
celled her) so excellent were the gifts that nature had be-
stowed on her. In body was she not onely so rare, and
unparaleld, but also in her gifts of minde: so that this
creature it seemed, that Grace and Nature strove who should
excell each other in their gifts toward her. The gentleman
her husband thought himselfe so happy in his choise, that
he beleeved, in choosing her, he tooke hold of that blessing
which heaven proffereth every man once in his life. Long
did not this opinion hold for current, for in his height of love
he began so to hate her, that he sought her death: the cause
I will tell you. Having businesse one day to London, he
tooke his leave very kindly of his wife, and accompanied
with one man, he rode to London : being toward night, he
tooke up his inne, and to be briefe, he went to supper
amongst other gentlemen. Amongst other talke at table, one
tooke occasion to speake of women, and what excellent crea-
tures they were, so long as they continued loyall to man.
To whom answered one saying: This is truth, Sir: so is the
Divel good so long as he doth no harme, which is meaner :
his goodnes and womens loyaltie will come both in one yeere,
but it is so farre off, that none in this age shall live to see it.
This gentleman loving his wife dearely (and knowing her
to be free from this uncivill gentlemans generall taxation of
2D


36 THE TALE TOLD BY THE FISHWIFE OF
women) in her behalfe, said : Sir, you are too bitter against the
sexe of women, and doe ill (for some ones sake that hath
proved false to you) to taxe the generalitie of women-kinde
with lightnesse; and but I would not be counted uncivill
amongst these gentlemen, I would give you the reply that
approved untruth deserveth. You know my meaning, Sir:
construe my words as you please : excuse me, gentlemen, if
I be uncivill: I answere in the behalfe of one, who is as free
from disloyaltie, as the sunne from darknes, or the fire from
cold. Pray, Sir, said the other, since wee are opposite in
opinions, let us rather talke like lawyers, that wee may bee
quickly friends againe, then like souldiers which end their
words with blowes. Perhaps this woman that you answere
for is chaste, but yet against her will: for many women are
honest 'cause they have not the meanes, and opportunitie to
bee dis-honest (so is a thiefe true in prison, 'cause he hath
nothing to steale :) had I but opportunitie, and knew this same
saint you so adore, I would pawne my life and whole estate,
in a short while to bring you some manifest token of her dis-
loyaltie. Sir, you are yong in the knowledge of womens
slights, your want of experience makes you too credulous;
therefore be not abused. This speech of his made the gentle-
man more out of patience then before, so that with much adoe
he held himselfe from offering violence; but his anger being
a little over, he said, Sir, I doe verily beleeve, that this
vaine speech of yours proceedeth rather from a loose and ill
manner'd minde, then of any experience you have had of
womens loosenes: and since you thinke your selfe so cun-
ning in that (divellish art) of corrupting womens chastitie, I
will lay downe heere a hundred pounds, against which you
shall lay fifty pounds, and before these gentlemen I promise
you, if that within a moneths space you bring me any token
of this gentlewomans disloyaltie, (for whose sake I have
spoken in the behalfe of all women) i doe freely give you
leave to injoy the same; conditionally you not performing
it, I may enjoy your money. If that it be a match, speake,


38 THE TALE TOLD BY THE FISHWIFE OF
house, and perceiving her to bee free from lustfull desires,
the third night he fained himselfe to bee something ill, and
so went to bed timelier then he was wont. When he was
alone in his chamber, he began to think with himselfe that
it was now time to do that which he determined; for if he
tarried any longer, they might have cause to think that he
came for some ill intent, and waited opportunity to execute
the same: therefore he resolved to doe something that night,
that might winne him the wager, or utterly bring him in
despaire of the same. With this resolution he went to her
chamber, which was but a paire of staires from his, and find-
ing the doore open, hee went in, placing himselfe under the
bed : long had he not lyne there, but in came the gentlewo-
man with her maiden; who having been at prayers with her
houshold, was going to bed. She preparing herselfe to bed-
ward, laid her head-tyre and those jewels she wore on a
little table thereby: at length hee perceived her to put off a
littel crucifix of gold, which dayly she wore next to her heart,
this jewell he thought fittest for his turne, and therefore ob-
served where she did lay the same. At length the gentle-
woman having untyred her selfe, went to bed : her maid
then bolting of the doore, took the candle, and went to bed
in a withdrawing roome onely separated with arras. This
villaine lay still under the bed, lissning if hee could heare
that the gentlewoman slept: at length he might heare her
draw her breath long : then thought hee all sure, and like a
cunning villaine rose without noise, going straight to the
table, where, finding the crucifix, he lightly went to the
doore, which he cunningly unbolted. All this performed he
with so little noise, that neither the mistris nor the maid
heard him. Having gotten into his chamber, he wished for
day, that he might carry this jewell to her husband as signe
of his wives disloyaltie; but his wishes but in vaine, he laid
him downe to sleepe: happy had shee beene had his bed
proved his grave. In the morning so soone as the folkes
were stirring, he rose and went to the horse-keeper, praying


STAND ON THE GREEN.
39
him to helpe himn to his horse, telling him that hee had tooke
his leave of his mistris the last night. Mounting his horse,
away rid he to London, leaving the gentlewoman in bed;
who when she rose, attiring her selfe hastily ('cause one
tarried to speake with her) missed not her crucifix: so passed
she the time away, as shee was wont other dayes to doe, no
whit troubled in minde, though much sorrow was toward her;
onely shee seemed a little discontented that her ghest went
away so unmannerly, she using him so kindely. So leaving
her, I will speake of him, who the next morning was betimes
at London; and comming to the inne, hee asked for the
gentleman, who then was in bed, but he quickly rose and
came down to him, who seeing him return'd so suddenly, he
thought hee came to have leave to release himselfe of his
wager. But this chanced otherwise, for having saluted him,
he said in this manner : Sir, did not I tell you that you were
too yong in experience of womans subtilties, and that no
woman was longer good then she had cause, or time to doe
ill? this you beleeved not, and thought it a thing so unlikely,
that you have given me a hundred pounds for the knowledge
of it. In briefe, know, your wife is a woman, and therefore
a wanton, a changeling : to confirme that I speake, see heere
(shewing him the crucifix) know you this? If this be not
sufficient proofe, I will fetch more.
At the sight of this, his bloud left his face, running to
comfort his faint heart, which was ready to breake at the
sight of this crucifix, which he knew she alwayes wore next
her heart, and therefore he must (as he thought) goe some-
thing neere, which stole so private a jewell. But remem-
bring himselfe, he cheeres his spirits, seeing that was sufficient
proofe, and he had wonne the wager, which hee commanded
should be given to him. Thus was the poore gentleman
abused, who went into his chamber, and being weary of this
world (seeing where he had put onely his trust, he was de-
ceived) he was minded to fall upon his sword, and so end all
was was the poor weary of this


40 THE TALE TOLD BY THE FISHWIFE OF
his miseries at once : but his better genius perswaded him
contrary, and not so (by laying violent hand on himselfe)
to leape into the Divels mouth. Thus being in many
mindes, but resolving no one thing, at last he concluded to
punish her with death, which had deceived his trust, and
himselfe utterly to forsake his house and lands, and follow
the fortunes of King Henry. To this intent he called his
man, to whom he said : George, thou knowest I have ever
held thee deare, making more account of thee, then thy other
fellowes, and thou hast often told me that thou diddest owe
thy life to me, which at any time thou wouldest bee ready to
render up to doe me good. True, Sir, (answered his man) I
said no more then, then I will now at any time, whensoever
you please, performe. I believe thee, George (replyed he :)
but there is no such need : I onely would have thee doe a thing
for me, in which is no great danger, yet the profit which thou
shalt have thereby shall amount to my wealth: for the love
that thou bearest to me, and for thy own good, will thou do
this? Sir (answered George) more for you love, then any
reward, I will doe it, (and yet money makes many men
valiant) pray tell me what it is ? George (said his master)
this it is, thou must go home, praying this mistris to meete
me halfe the way to London; but having her by the way,
in some private place kill her: I meane as I speake; kill her,
I say, this is my command, which thou hast promised to
performe, which if thou performest not, I vow to kill thee
the next time thou commest in my sight. Now for thy
reward it shall be this: Take my ring, and when thou hast
done my command, by vertue of it, doe thou assume my
place till my returne, at which time thou shalt know what
my reward is, till then govern my whole estate : and for thy
mistris absence, and my own, make what excuse thou please :
so be gone. Well, Sir (said George) since it is your will,
thou unwilling I am to doe it, yet I will performe it. So
went he his way toward Waltam, and his master presently


STAND ON THE GREEN.
41
rid to the court, where hee abode with King Henry, who a
little before was inlarged by the Earle of Warwicke, and
placed in the throne againe.
George beeing come to Waltam, did his dutie to his mis-
tris, who wondered to see him, and not her husband, for
whom she demanded of George : he answered her, that hee
was at Enfield, and did request her to meet him there. To
which shee willingly agreed, and presently rode with him
toward Enfield. At length, they being come into a by-way,
George began to speake to her in this manner: Mistris, I pray
you tel me what that wife deserves, who through some lewd
behaviour of hers, hath made her husband to neglect his
estate, and meanes of life, seeking by all meanes to dye, that
he might be free from the shame which her wickednesse
hath purchased him? Why George (quoth shee) hath thou
met with some such creature? Be it whomsoever, might I
be her judge, I should thinke her worthy of death : how
thinkest thou ? Faith, mistris (said he) I thinke so too, and
am so fully perswaded that her offence deserveth that punish-
ment, that I purpose to bee executioner to such a one my
selfe. Mistris, you are this woman: you have so offended
my master (you know best how your selfe) that he hath left
his house, vowing never to see the same till you be dead,
and I am the man appointed by him to kill you; therefore,
those words which you meane to utter, speake them presently,
for I cannot stay. Poore gentlewoman! at the report of these
unkinde words (ill deserved at her hands) she looked as one
dead, and uttering aboundance of teares, she at last spake
these words: And can it be, that my kindnes and loving
obedience hath merited no other reward at his hands then
death? It cannot be; I know thou onely tryest me, how
patiently I would endure such an unjust command. [’le tell
thee heere, thus with body prostrate on the earth, and hands
lift up to heaven, I would pray for his preservation, those
should be my worst words; for deaths fearfull visage shewes
pleasant to that soule that is innocent. Why then prepare


42 THE TALE TOLD BY THE FISHWIFE OF
your selfe (said George :) for by heaven I doe not jest.
With that shee prayed him stay, saying, And is it so ? then,
what should I desire to live, having lost his favour (and
without offence) whom I so dearely loved, and in whose sight
my happinesse did consist? come, let me die. Yet, George,
let mee have so much favour at thy hands, as to commend
me in these few words to him: Tell him, my death I willing-
ly imbrace, for I have owed him my life (yet no otherwise
but by a wives obedience) ever since I call’d him husband;
but that I am guilty of the least fault toward him, I utterly
deny, and doe (at this houre of my death) desire that
heaven would powre down vengeance upon me, if ever I
offended him in thought. Intreat him that he would not
speake ought that were ill on mee, when I am dead, for in
good troth I have deserved none. Pray heaven blesse him.
I am prepared now; strike prethee hoine, and kill me and my
griefes at once.
George seeing this, could not withhold himselfe from
shedding teares, and with pitie he let fall his sword, saying :
Mistris, that I have used you so roughly, pray pardon me, for
I was commanded so by my master, who hath vowed, if I let
you live, to kill me; but I being perswaded that you are
innocent, I will rather undergoe the danger of his wrath, then
to staine my hands with the bloud of your cleere and spot-
lesse brest. Yet let mee intreat you so much that you
would not come in his sight, (lest in his rage he turne your
butcher) but live in some disguise till time have opened the
cause of his mistrust, and shewed you guiltlesse, which (I
hope) will not be long.
To this she willingly granted (being loth to die causelesse)
and thanked him for his kindnes; so parted they both, having
teares in their eyes. George went home, where he shewed
his masters ring for the government of the house, till his
master and mistris returne, which he said lived a while at
London, 'cause the time was so troublesome, and that was a
place where they were more secure then in the countrey.


44 THE TALE TOLD BY THE FISHWIFE OF
thinking him to be one whom her husband loved, went to
him, and finding him not dead, she caused one to helpe her
with him to a house thereby: where opening of his brest, to
dresse his wounds, she espied her crucifix; at sight of which
her heart was joyfull, (hoping by this to find him that was
the originall of her disgrace) for she remembring her selfe,
found that she had lost that crucifix ever since that morning
he departed from her house so suddenly. But saying nothing
of it at that time, she caused him to be carefully looked unto,
and brought up to London after her, whither she went with
the king, carrying the crucifix with her. On a time, when
hee was a little recovered, shee went to him, giving him the
crucifix, which shee had taken from about his necke: to
whom hee said, Good gentle youth, keep the same; for now
in my misery of sicknes, when the sight of that picture
should be most comfortable, it is to me most uncomfortable,
and breedeth such horrour in my conscience (when I think
how wrongfully I got the same), that so long as I see it, I
shall never be in rest. Now knew she that he was the man
that caused the separation twixt her husband and her selfe;
yet said shee nothing, using him as respectively as she had
before; only she caused the man, in whose house he lay, to
remember the words he had spoken concerning the crucifix.
Not long after, she being alone, attending on the king,
beseeched his grace to doe her justice on a villain that had
bin the cause of all the misery she had suffered. He loving
her (above all his other pages) most dearely, said: Edmund,
(for so had she named her selfe), thou shalt have what right
thou wilt on thy enemy; cause him to be sent for, and I will
be thy judge my selfe. She being glad of this (with the
kings authority) sent for her husband, whom she heard was
one of the prisoners that was taken at the battell of Barnet,
she appointing the other, now recovered, to be at the court
the same time. They being both come (but not one seeing
of the other), the king sent for the wounded man into the
presence; before whom the page asked him, how he came by


STAND ON THE GREEN.
45
the crucifix ? He, fearing that his villany would come forth,
denyed the words hee had said before his oast, affirming he
bought it. With that she called in the oast of the house
where he lay, bidding him boldly speeke what he had heard
this man say concerning the crucifix. The oast then told
the king, that in the presence of this page he heard him in-
treat, that the crucifix might be taken from his sight, for it
did wound his conscience, to thinke how wrongfully he had
gotten the same.' These words did the page averre; yet he
utterly denyed the same, affirming that he bought it, and if
that he did speake such words in his sicknesse, they pro-
ceeded from the lightnesse of his braine, and were untruthes.
She, seeing this villains impudency, sent for her husband
in, to whom she shewed the crucifix, saying, Sir, doe you
know, doe you know this ?-It was my wives, a woman
vertuous, till this divell (speaking to the other) did corrupt
her purity, who brought me this crucifix as a token of her
inconstancie.
With that the king said, Sirra, now are you found to be a
knave; did you not even now affirme you bought it? To
whom he answered (with fearefull countenance), And it like
your grace, I said so, to preserve this gentlemans honour,
and his wives, which by my telling of the truth would have
beene much indamag’d; for indeed she being a secret friend
of mine, gave me this as a testimony of her love.
The gentlewoman, not being able longer to cover her selfe
in that disguise, said, And it like your majesty, give mee
leave to speake, and you shall see me make this villaine
confesse, how hee hath abused that good gentleman. The
king having given her leave, she said: First, Sir, you con-
fessed before your past, and my selfe, that you had wrong-
fully got this jewell: then, before his majestie you affirmed
you bought it, so denying your former words : Now you
have denyed that which you so boldly affirmed before, and
have said it was this gentlemans wives gift. With his
majesties leave, I say thou art a villaine, and this is likewise








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