A modest mean to Marriage, pleasantly set forth by that famous Clerk Erasmus Roterodamus, and translated into English by N. L.  
Anno. 1568.  
¶ Imprinted at London by Henry Denham, dwelling in Pater noster row, at the sign of the Star.   

¶ To the right worshipful Master Francis Roger's Esquire, one of the Gentlemen pensioners unto the Queen's Majesty, Nicholas Leigh wisheth long & quiet life, with much increase of virtue and worship.  
WHEN I REMEMber (gentle Master Rogers) the ancient acquaintance and friendship, and the daily and accustomed meetings, recourse and familiarity that (among the rest) did happen and pass between us in times past, in those our young and tender years, and in those famous places of st●die, unto the which we were by our friends appointed and then sent for learning sake. And when moreover, I do remember, way, and consider therein on the one side, that state and condition of life, in the which I was then, with that, which for my part on the other side, I do now find and have long since felt and tasted of, I cannot but reckon and think that time most happily passed which I bestowed in the travail and study of good letters. For besides the inestimable fruit, & the incomparable pleasure & delectation, that the Muses do bring unto the studious, beside the sweet rest of mind, void of all worldly cares and troubles, the fair & pleasant walks, which we there (with a number of virtuous, and well disposed, and a sort of learned, civil, friendly and faithful companions) enjoyed, together with the wholesome and clean diet, not infected with outrageous or any surfeitings (a vice else where to much used) what honest and godly exercises had we then there to the furtherance and increase of virtue, & to the abandoning of vice? insomuch that in a manner it hath fared with me ever since my departing thence, as with one that being expelled and exuled from a second Paradise, replenished and adorned with all kind of flagrant & of most wholesome and sweet flowers and delights, is presently fallen as it were into a dark & an irksome thicket of bushes and brambles of the cares and troubles of this world, daily ready, not only to molest and perturb the quiet studious mind, but also so complete with an infinite number of displeasures, damages, and dangers on every side that (very much according to the ancient and wont proverb) I may now justly say vix fugiet Scyllam, qui vult vitare Charybdim. Wherefore that man's saying seemed not altogether void of reason, that said, that if there were any choice to be had as touching the estate of man, the better part and the first thereof was not to be borne at all, the next unto that was to die very shortly. And yet by the way nevertheless, as he that hath been once in any such kind of Paradise or place of pleasure, as is aforesaid, hath always now and then some motions and occasions, to cast his sorrowful eye with a mournful mind towards the same: even so I of late beholding and lamenting that changed place and state of life, and in the mean season perusing some pieces of mine old exercises which I had then and did there (whereof I was always bold partly to make you privy, as one among all others whose discreet judgement and towardness in learning together with the great courtesy and singular humanity and friendship, and the passing ready and great pleasantness of wit, joined therewith was then certes not a little had in admiration and embraced every where) happily I found certain lose papers of two Dialogues of the famous and excellent Clerk Erasmus of Roterodame, by me translated into english (partly for the pleasantness of the matter, as it seemed unto me then, partly also for the proof and trial of myself what I could do in translating, and lastly as the matter seemed sweet and pleasant, so not altogether void of godly and wholesome exhortations and lessons, for all sorts no less necessary than profitable. Which when I had with earnest view perused, and having in mind divers times to gratify your goodness with some friendly token of remembrance, forthwith I thought (renewing my wont exercises) to dedicate these two Dialogues unto you. Whose knowledge and learning I know, and gentleness therewithal to be such, that I am in an assured hope that (until I may give better) ye will vouchsafe in the mean season thankfully to accept these my recreations, and these few lines at my hands as a pledge and a poor present of the continual remembrance, and the unfeigned good will I bear towards you, & your virtuous demerits. Wherein notwithstanding, albeit peradventure the exercise of study and learning, and especially the matter itself therein contained may seem to be of very small importance or pleasure, & rather otherwise different or something disagreeable unto your vocation on every side, and also unto all such for the most part as in the room and place of arms, are called towards the service of the Prince's Majesty, and of their Country (Rara enim inter Arma & literas vel togas est amicitia vel societas) Yet I knowing the great reverence and the singular regard and estimation that you do bear, and always have borne towards the learned and towards good letters, for the pleasant and fruitful knowledge that you yourself have most happily and with great dexterity both reaped and tasted among them in times past, I doubt not but that (weighing the worthiness of the Author of them, and accepting the faithful endeavours of me the rude translator of them) you will be content to permit the same to pass under your wing, and so much (I know) the rather for that they both do tend to virtues purpose. The one of them being between a Wooer and his Fear, wherein albeit the natural overthwartness of the womanish mind, doth now and then burst out as out of the frailer and weaker vessel, yet is therein a godly kind of woeing without any scurrility, very pleasantly, lively, and plainly declared and set forth, to the good behaviour and honest inducement and furtherance of such as are yet to take that matter or enterprise in hand, far from provoking any vice, as the manner and guise of a number of lascivious Lovers and feigned wooers now adays is, whose crafty and counterfeit dealings, fond gestures and motions, and uncomely and vain communications and idle talks is better to be passed over with silence than paper to be stained therewith, or any time to be spent therein. The other is between a young man and a light Woman, who in times past had been further acquainted than honesty required, and he having been absent from her for a certain space, at last repaired to her house, who after her accustomed manner and wont, began to entice and allure him to their former follies, who perceiving her purpose therein, discreetly and properly persuaded her by divers and sundry godly and virtuous reasons to leave and forsake that kind of life, as of all other most detestable, and in the end making her thereby to loathe her frail and accustomed follies, bringeth her unto an honest and chaste conversation. Thus the effect of the whole matter you have in few words. Accept therefore (I pray you) this my simple doing in good part, weighing my good will in the friendly Balance of your accustomed gentleness, which I trust shall somewhat counterpoise the unworthiness of this my so gross and rude a translation of so worthy a writer. Vale.  
Yours unfeignedly Nicholas Leigh.   

To the Reader.  
I HAVE (GENTLE Reader) set forth to thy view, two Dialogues of the Reverend & renowned Clerk Erasmus Roterodamus: whose learning, virtue, and authority is of sufficient force to defend his doings. But because I have changed his eloquent style, into our English phrase: and thereby altered his livery, and embased the perfit grace of his Muse, I am compelled to crave pardon of this my doings, consider I beseech thee (learned Reader) that if it had still rested in that Noble language wherein he left it, although thy knowledge had yielded thee greater felicity than this my travail can, yet thousands, which by this mine endeavour may draw out some sweet sap of these his pleasant and fruitful doings, might (thorough ignorance) have wanted this piece of delight. Therefore the offence (if any be) is made to Erasmus a man of that patience in his life, as I assure myself that this my bold dealing with him, can not a whit disquiet his ghost. Harm to thee at all it can not be, for that I have not digressed from mine Author. Pleasant and profitable I hope it will be to many of my country folks whose increase in virtue I greatly desire. Then suffer me I pray thee to rest with thy quiet and thankful judgement: whereby thou shalt urge me to attempt farther enterprise (perchance to thy delight.) Thus assuring myself of thy lawful favour, I rest void of care of the unlearneds reproach, if they beyond their skill shall covet to chat. And wishing to thee thy full delight in learning & to them increase of knowledge, I bid you both farewell.  
FINIS.   


Pamphilus, the Lover, Maria, the woman beloved.  
GOod morrow cruel, good morrow ruthless, good morrow (I say) thou stony hearted woman.  Maria. 
I wish you the same again Pamphilus as often, and as much as you please. And by what name you like best to be saluted. But in the mean while it seemeth you have forgotten my name, my name is Maria.  Pamphilus. 
It might more rightly have been Martia.  Maria. 
And why so I beseech you? what have I to do with Mars?  Pamphilus: 
For as that God counteth it but a pastime to murder and kill men, even so do you. Herein yet more cruel than Mars, for you murder him that heartily loveth you.  Maria. 
Good words I pray you, where is that heap of dead bodies whom I have murdered? where is the blood of them which by me are slain?  Pamphilus. 
One lifeless body thou seest present with thine eyes, if (pardie) thou seest me.  Ma. 
What say you man? do you both talk and walk, and yet dead? I pray to God I never meet with ghosts more to be feared.  Pam. 
Thus thou makest but a laughing matter of it. Nevertheless thou hast rest me woeful creature my life, and more cruelly dost murder me, than if thou should stab me into the body with a weapon, for now am I miserably torn and vexed with long torments.  Maria. 
Yea good Lord? tell me how many women with child have lost their fruit by meeting with you?  Pam. 
Yet this pale wan colour showeth me to be more bloodless than any shadow.  Ma. 
But this paleness (thanked be God) is died with some Violet colour, you are even so pale as a Cherry waxing ripe, or a Grape when he cometh to his purple skin.  Pam. 
Thus with disdain enough you mock a man in state rather to be pitied.  Ma. 
Why in case you believe not me, take the Glass, & believe your own eyes.  Pam. 
I would wish no better Glass, neither (I suppose) is there any, more clear, than that in which I presently behold myself even now.  Ma. 
What Glass speak you off?  Pam. 
Marry even your own eyes.  Ma. 
Ouertharter: how thou talkest always like thyself, but how prove you yourself to be dead? Do ghosts & shadows use to eat meat?  Pam. 
They do, but find no savour therein, no more do I.  Ma. 
And what, what do they eat I pray?  Pam. 
Mallows, leeks and lupines.  Ma. 
But you (I hope) let not to eat Capons and Partridges.  Pam. 
I grant, howbeit I feel no more pleasure in eating them, than if I should crash upon Mallows, or beets, without Pepper, wine and vinegar.  Ma. 
Alack for you good man, and yet you are in meetly good liking, & do ghosts speak also?  Pam. 
Even as I do with a very puling and faint voice.  Ma. 
But not long since, when I heard you checking with mine other suitor, your voice was not very feeble pardie. Moreover I beseech you tell me this, do ghosts use to walk? are they clad in garments? do they eftsoons sleep?  Pam. 
Yea more than all that, they practise the act of kind, but after their own manner.  Ma. 
Now by the faith of my body you are a pleasant trifler.  Pam. 
But what will you say, if I prove this by substantial and strong reasons (I mean) myself to be dead, and you to be a murderer?  Ma. 
God shield that (friend Pamphile) but let me hear your Sophistry.  Pam. 
First you will grant me this? (I suppose) that death is nought else but a separation of the soul from the body.  Ma. 
I grant.  Pamphilus. 
But grant it so that you revoke and call it not back again, afterward.  Ma 
No more I will.  Pam. 
Secondly, you will not deny but he which reaveth the soul, wherein consisteth life, is a murderer.  Ma. 
I consent.  Pam. 
You will I am sure grant me this likewise, which most grave and credible Authors have affirmed, & by the consent and judgement of all ages hath been holden truth and allowed, (I mean) that the soul of a man is not where he liveth, but where he loveth.  Ma. 
You must utter that after a more gross, and plain sort, for in good faith I perceive not your meaning.  Pam. 
And I am the more sorry, and evil at ease, because you do not perceive and feel this to be true, as well as I do.  Ma. 
Make me to feel it then.  Pam. 
As well mightest thou bid me, make an Adamant feel it.  Ma. 
Now truly I am a young wench, not a stone.  Pam. 
Truth, but more hard yet than the Adamant stone.  Ma. 
But proceed with your argument.  Pam. 
Those which are rapt in the spirit, or fallen into a trance (as they call it) neither hear, nor see, nor smell, nor feel any thing, no though you would kill them.  Ma. 
Surely I have hard say so.  Pa. 
And what think you to be the cause of this insensibility.  Ma. 
I would learn that of you which are a Philosopher.  Pam. 
Because (pardie) the soul or mind is in heaven, where it hath that which it vehemently loveth, & is not present with the body.  Ma. 
And what is next? what conclude you upon this?  Pam. 
Askest thou what O cruel? even this necessarily followeth, myself to be dead, and thyself to be a murderer.  Ma. 
Why, where is your soul become and God will?  Pam. 
There it is, where it loveth.  Ma. 
And who hath rest it from you? why sigh you man? speak and fear not, you shall not be hindered by me.  Pam. 
A certain cruel and pitiless maid, whom nevertheless I cannot find in my heart to hate, being by her spoiled of my life.  Ma. 
Ah, a loving heart, ah gentle nature. But why do you not again take from her, her soul, and serve her as they say, with the same sauce.  Pam. 
The happiest in the world, were I, if I could make that exchange (I mean) that her mind might come dwell in my breast, in sort as mine hath wholly dwelled in her body.  Ma. 
But will you give me leave now eftsoons a while to play the Sophister his part with you?  Pam. 
Nay the Sophistress part.  Ma. 
Is it possible that one and the same body both have the soul and be without the soul.  Pam. 
Not both together or at one time.  Ma. 
When the soul is away, than the body (you say) is dead.  Pam. 
Truth.  Ma. 
And it liveth not but when the soul is present withal?  Pam. 
Be it so verily.  Ma. 
How cometh this to pass then, that the soul being there where it loveth, the body yet whereout it is departed, nevertheless liveth? for if it liveth in one place, when it loveth in an other, by what reason is it called Exanime Corpus, as you would say, a lifeless body, since it hath life and sense in it.  Pam. 
By saint Marie you play the Sophistres meetelye well, howbeit you cannot snarl me in such chicken bands. That soul which after a sort governeth the body of a living creature being in such case is improperly called the soul, for in very deed it is a certain small portion of the soul, which remaineth behind, even as the savour of Roses tarrieth still in the hand of him, which bore them, when the very Roses themselves be done away.  Ma. 
I see well enough it is hard to take a fox in a pitch, but answer me to this also. Is not he a doer which murdereth.  Pam. 
What else.  Ma. 
And is not the party a sufferer, who is murdered?  Pam. 
Yes.  Ma. 
How cometh it to pass then, that since he which loveth is the doer and she which is beloved is but the sufferer, she should be infamed for a murderer, which is beloved. When as in very deed, he that loveth rather murdereth himself?  Pam. 
Nay, it is contrary, for he that loveth suffereth, she that is beloved doth.  Ma. 
That shall you never prove true with the consent of our chief Areopagites of Grammar.  Pam. 
But this will I prove true by the consent of the whole Parliament of Logicians.  Ma. 
But answer me to this again, love you with your will, or against your will?  Pam. 
With my will.  Maria. 
Ergo, sithence it is in free choice to love, or not to love, whoso loveth, is a murderer of himself, and wrongfully accuseth the poor wench beloved.  Pam. 
Why? I say not that the wench murdereth because she is beloved, but because she loveth not again the party which loveth her: for (truth it is) she is guilty of murder, which might save a man's life and will not.  Ma. 
I put case a young man cast his love upon one, which he ought not to love, or may not lawfully obtain, as an other man his wife, or a Virgin, which hath professed continual chastity, shall she love him again, so to preserve and save her lover?  Pam. 
But this young man loveth that, which to love is both lawful and godly, and standeth both with reason and equity, and yet nevertheless is cast away. That in case you set light by the crime of homicide, I will aguilt you also of sorcery and enchanting me.  Ma. 
Marry gods forbade man, what will you make of me a Circe's imp, a witch?  Pa. 
Yea and somewhat more cruel yet, than ever was Circe's. For I had rather be a groveling Hog or bear, then as I am, without life or soul.  Ma. 
And with what kind of sorcery I pray ye do I destroy men.  Pam. 
By evil aspect.  Ma. 
Will you then that I hurt you no more with looking upon you?  Pam. 
Not so for God's sake, but rather look more upon me.  Ma. 
If mine eyes be witches, how happeneth it then that other also do not consume away, whom I look upon as oft as you, therefore I fear me much, that bewitching is in your own eyes, not in mine.  Pam. 
Why think you it not enough to slay Pamphilus, except you triumph over him being dead.  Maria. 
Oh quaint handsome, nice dead body: when shall your funerals be provided for.  Pam. 
Sooner than you think iwis, except you remedy in time.  Ma. 
I remedy good Lord? am I able to do such a cure?  Pam. 
Yea surely: all were I dead, it lieth in you to raise me up again to life, and that with a light thing.  Maria. 
As you say, peradventure I might do it, if some body would help me to the herb Panaces, whereunto they ascribe so great a virtue.  Pam. 
There needeth none herbs to do it, only vouchsafe to love again, what is more easy to be performed? nay rather what is more due and just? otherwise you shall never acquit yourself of manspilling.  Maria. 
And before what judgement seat shall I be arraigned, before the severe Areopagetes and God will?  Pam. 
Not so, but before the tribunal seat of Venus.  Maria. 
Best of all, for they say she is a patiented and pitiful Goddess.  Pam. 
Say you so, there is not one amongst them all, whose wrath is more to be feared.  Ma. 
Why, hath she a thunderbolt?  Pam. 
No.  Maria. 
Hath she a three-forked mase like Neptune?  Pam. 
Not so.  Ma. 
Hath she a spear as Pallas?  Pam. 
Neither: but she is a Goddess of the Sea.  Maria. 
I come not within her kingdom.  Pam. 
But she hath a boy.  Maria. 
I fear no boys.  Pam. 
He is ready to revenge, and will pay home when he striketh.  Ma. 
And what shall he do to me?  Pam. 
What shall he do: the gods fore let him. I will prognosticate none evil unto one, whom I bear good will.  Ma. 
Yet tell me I pray you, I will take no conceit of it.  Pam. 
Then will I tell you if you shall disdain this lover, who doubtless is not unworthy your love, verily I believe, that same boy (peradventure at the commandment of his mother) will thirl into your heart a lance imbrued with to bad a poison, whereby you shall set your affection miserably upon some hoblout, who shall not love you any whit again.  Ma. 
Marry that were a plague in deed, of all other most to be detested. Certes I had rather to die, than to be entangled in the love of one which is deformed, & could not find in his heart to love me likewise again.  Pam. 
But it is not long time, since there was a right notable example of this evil, which I now speak off, showed in a certain young damsel.  Ma. 
In what place, and I may be so bold as to ask you?  Pam. 
At the City Aurelia.  Ma. 
How many years ago?  Pam. 
How many years, nay, it is scarce yet ten months,  Ma. 
And what was the Maids name? whereat stick you?  Pam. 
Nothing. I knew her as well as I knew you.  Ma. 
Why tell you me not her name then?  Pam. 
Because I like not the luck thereof, I had rather she had had any other name: She had even the very name that you have.  Ma. 
Who was her father?  Pam. 
He is yet man alive, and amongst the Lawyers is one of chief estimation, and of substantial wealth.  Ma. 
Tell me his name also.  Pam. 
Mauritius.  Ma. 
His surname.  Pam. 
His surname was Aglaus.  Ma. 
liveth the mother yet?  Pam. 
She departed of late.  Ma. 
Of what disease died she?  Pam. 
Of what disease, quoth you, for mere sorrow & heaviness. And the father himself albeit he is a man of a strong nature scaped very narrowly.  Ma. 
And may I learn at your hand also the name of the mother.  Pam. 
With all mine heart, who is he that knoweth not Sophrona. But what mean you by this questioning? Think you that I contrive fables for you.  Ma. 
Why should I think so, that is rather to be suspected in our kind, but tell on, what befell unto this maid.  Pam. 
This damsel was come of an honest stock (as I have said) and wanted no wealth to her preferment: for beauty and shape of body, also goodly to behold, what needeth many words, she was well worthy to have lain by a Prince his side. She had a wooer, who earnestly besought her good will, a man for parsonage & beauty not unlike herself.  Ma. 
And what was his name?  Pam. 
Alas, God bless me from the luck, his name also was Pamphilus, when he had done all that he could, and assayed all ways possible to obtain her good will, she still obstinately despised him. In fine, the young man pined away with sorrow, and died. Not long after, this wench began to dote upon such a handsome squire, as for his parsonage, I might more rightly call an Ape than a man.  Ma. 
What say you man?  Pam. 
She was so far fallen in the brakes with him, that I am not able to express.  Ma. 
What, so proper a wench with so unsightly a piece?  Pam. 
He had a head made like a sugar loaf, the hear thereof growing as it were by stitches and that knotted, unkempt, full of scurf and nits, and a good part of his scalp was bared by the disease called Alopecia, 
Alopecia is a disease that causeth the hear to pill off.  his eyes sunk into his head, his nostrils wide & turning upwards, a mouth like an Oven with rotten teeth, and a stamering tongue, a scurvy beard, a bunch back, a belly like a toad, and legs as right as a pair of horse hams.  Ma. 
Marry sir you describe him to be a very Thersites? 
Thersites a Prince, that came with the Greeks to the siege of Troy, which in p●rson and condition was of all other most deformed.   Pam. 
Nay besides all this, they say, he had but one of his ears.  Ma. 
Peradventure he had lost the other in some battle.  Pa. 
No surely, even in peace.  Ma. 
Who durst be so bold to do that?  Pam. 
Who but Dionysius that cutteth of ears at the Pillery.  Ma. 
Well, it may be yet that his substance at home was such as made a full mends for all the deformity that you have spoken of.  Pam. 
Nay surely: he had unthriftilye spent all, and aught more than he was worth, with this suchen an husband doth this so goodly a wench now lead her life.  Ma. 
You have declared a thing much to be pitied.  Pam. 
Surely it is true, the Goddess Nemesis would so have it, 
Nemesis, the Goddess of wrath or indignation.  that the injury of the young man, whom she despised might be requited of her.  Ma. 
I would rather wish to be destroyed with a thunderbolt out of hand, than to be yoked with such a mate.  Pam. 
Therefore beware how you provoke this Lady, who revengeth disdain, and frame your heart to love him again, who loveth you.  Ma. 
If that may suffice (lo) I love you again.  Pam. 
But I crave that love at your hand, which should be perpetual and to love me as your own. I seek a wife, not a friend.  Ma. 
I know that well enough, 
Deliberandum est diu, quod statuendum est semel.  but that thing requireth long deliberation, and much advisement, which when it is done, cannot be undone again.  Pam. 
I have deliberated upon it to long for my part.  Ma. 
Well (I reed you) take heed, lest love who is not the best counsellor beguile you, for men say that love is blind.  Pam. 
Nay, that love hath eyes which springeth upon judgement: I do not therefore take you to be such a one as you are, because I love you: but I love you for that I plainly see you to be such a one.  Ma. 
Beware I say, you mistake me not, you may be overseen, if you had worn the shoe, than you should perceive where it wringeth.  Pam. 
I must put it in a venture, although by many good tokens I conceive a hope of better luck.  Ma. 
Why, are you skilful in signs and tokens, are you become an Augur? 
Augurs be they which by certain signs in birds and beasts descry things to come.   Pam. 
Yea marry am I  Ma. 
By what augural signs I pray you, do you conjecture that it shallbe thus? hath the night crow taken her flight before you?  Pam. 
She flieth for fools.  Ma. 
What, have you seen a cowple of doves come flying towards you on the right hand?  Pam. 
No such thing, but I have known for the space of certain years the virtuous and honest behaviour of your parents, that is a bird not lest to be regarded (I think) to be come of a good stock. Moreover, I am not ignorant with what wholesome instructions, and virtuous examples you have been traded and brought up by them. And truly good education is of more effect than good Parentage. This is an other sign which moveth me to conceive a good hope, beside this, between my parents, which I hope I need not to be ashamed of and yours, have (as I suppose) been, no small love and friendship. Yea we ourselves from our biggins (as they say) have been brought up together, & not much unlike one unto another in nature and disposition. Now our age, substance, estimation, and blood are as well between us two, as between both our parents in a manner equal. Lastly that which in friendship is the chief thing, your manners seemeth not the worst to square unto my mind and liking, for it may be that a thing is simply and of itself right excellent and yet not apt and meet for some use. How my manners frameth unto your mind again I know not. These, these be the birds (my joy) which putteth me in an assured hope, that a conjunction between us two, shall be right joyful, pleasant, stable, & sweet, so that you could find in your heart to sing that song, which I so much desire to hear.  Maria. 
What song is that you would have me to sing.  Pam. 
I will teach you the tune thereof. Sum tuus, 
I am thine.  say you again, Sum tua.  Ma. 

Be thou mine.  The song in deed is short, but me thinks it hath a very long end, and much matter dependeth thereon.  Pam. 
What forceth it for the length, so it be pleasant & sweet unto you.  Ma. 
I love you so well that I would not have you do that, whereof you should hereafter repent & beshrew yourself.  Pa. 
I pray you never speak of any repentance.  Ma. 
Peradventure you should otherwise esteem of me, when either age or sickness shall change this form or favour.  Pam. 
Why? this body of mine (O my dear) shall not always continue in this estate, thus priest and lusty, but I respect not so much this flourishing and beautiful house, as I do him that dwelleth therein.  Maria. 
What mean you by that you speak of him that dwelleth within?  Pam. 
Verily I mean your well disposed and virtuous mind, whose beauty always increaseth with age.  Ma. 
What, your sight is yet more pleasant than Linx, if you can espy that, through so many coverings.  Pam. 
Yea certes with my mind I do right well espy your mind: moreover (I say) in those children which God shall send us, we shall as it were, wax young again.  Maria. 
But in the mean time virginity is lost.  Pam. 
Truth, in good faith, tell me if you had a goodly orchyarde plat, whether would you wish nothing should therein grow but blossoms, or else had you rather (the blossoms fallen away) behold your trees fraught and laden with pleasant fruit?  Maria. 
How slily he reasoneth.  Pam. 
At the least answer me to this: whether is it a better sight for a Vine to lie upon the ground and rot, or the same to embrace a pole, or an elm, and load it full with purple grapes?  Maria. 
Now sir answer me to this again, whether is it a more pleasant sight a Rose trim and milkewhite, yet growing on his stalk, or the same plucked with the hand, and by little and little withering away?  Pam. 
Certes in mine opinion the rose is the happiest, and cometh to the better end, which withereth and dieth in the hand of man, delighting in the mean while both the eyes and nostrils, than tother which withereh on the bush, for there must it needs whither also at length, even as that wine hath better luck which is drunken, than that which standeth still, and is turned into vinigar. And yet the flowering beauty of a woman doth not decay forthwith as soon as she is married, for I know some myself, who before they were married, were pale coloured, faint, and as it were pined away, who by the friendly fellowship of an husband, have warred so fair, and well-favoured, that you would think they never came to the flower of their beauty till then.  Ma. 
But for all your saying, virginity is a thing much beloved and liked with all men.  Pam. 
I grant you, a young woman, a virgin, is a fair, & goodly thing, but what by course of kind is more unseemly than an old wrinkled maid: Had not your mother been contented to lose that flower of her virginity, surely we had not had this flower of your beauty. So that in case (as I hope) our marriage be not barren, for the loss of one virgin we shall pay God many.  Ma. 
But they say chastity is a thing wherein God is much delighted.  Pam. 
And therefore do I desire to couple myself in marriage with a chaste maiden, that with her I may lead a chaste life. As for our marriage it shall rather be a marriage of our minds, than of our bodies, we shall increase unto Christ, we shall increase unto the common wealth. How little shall this matrimony differ from virginity? & peradventure hereafter we shall so live together, as blessed Marie lived with joseph, no man cometh at the first to perfection.  Maria. 
What is that I heard you say even now, must virginity be violated and lost, thereby to learn chastity?  Pam. 
Why not, even as by drinking of wine moderately, we learn by little and little to forbear wine utterly, which of these two seemeth unto thee to be more temperate, he that sitting in the mids of many dainty dishes, abstaineth from them all, or he which forbeareth intemperancy, having none occasion to move him unto the same?  Ma. 
I suppose him to have the more confirmed habit of temperance whom plenty always priest can not corrupt.  Pam. 
Whether deserveth more the praise of chastity, he that geldeth himself, or he which keeping his members all and sound abstaineth from all woman's company?  Ma. 
Verily by my consent the latter shall have the praise of chastity, that other of mad folly.  Pam. 
Why? those which by vow have abjured matrimony do they not after a sort geld themselves:  Maria. 
Verily it seemeth so.  Pam. 
Thus you see, it is no virtue to forbear women's company.  Maria. 
Is it no virtue?  Pam. 
Mark me this, if it were simply a virtue to forbear the company of a woman, than should it be also a vice to use the company of a woman, but sometime it befalleth that it is sin to refuse the act, and a virtue to use it.  Ma. 
In what case is it so?  Pam. 
In case the husband requireth of his wife the debt of marriage, even so often as he shall do it, especially if he requireth it for the desire of generation.  Ma. 
But what if he be fleshfond and wanton, may she not lawfully deny it him?  Pam. 
She may admonish him of his fault and rather gently persuade him to bridle his affections, to give him a flat nay when he fraineth upon her, she may not. Albeit I here very few men complain of their wife's uncourtesy this way.  Ma. 
Yet me thinks liberty is sweet.  Pam. 
Nay rather virginity is a heavy burden. I shall be to you a King, and you shall be to me a Queen. And either of us shall rule the family, as we think good, take you this to be a bondage?  Ma. 
The common sort calleth marriage an halter.  Pam. 
Now on my faith they are well worthy an halter that so termeth it. Tell me I pray you is not your soul bound unto your body?  Ma. 
I think so.  Pa. 
Yea surely even as a bird unto her cage, & yet if ye should ask him the question, whether he would be loosed or no, I suppose he would say nay. And why so? because he is willingly and gladly bound thereunto.  Ma. 
We have little to take to neither of us both.  Pam. 
So much the less endangered to fortune are we, that little you shall increase at home with saving, which as they countervaileth a great revenue, and I abroad with diligence.  Ma. 
An household of children bringeth innumerable cares.  Pam. 
On the other side again, the same children bringeth infinite pleasures, and oftentimes requiteth the parent's natural pains to the uttermost, with great overplusse.  Ma. 
Then to lead a barren life in marriage is a great misery.  Pam. 
Why are you not now barren? tell me whether had ye rather never be borne, or borne to die.  Ma. 
Certes I had rather be borne to die.  Pam. 
So that barrenness is yet more miserable which neither had, nor shall have child, even as they be more happy which have already lived, than they which never have, nor shall hereafter be borne to live.  Ma. 
And what be those, I pray you which neither are, nor shall be.  Pam. 
For he that cannot find in his heart to suffer and abide the changes, & chances, whereunto all we indifferently be subject, as well men of poor estate, as Kings, & Emperors, he is not to dwell here, let him get him out of this world. And yet, whatsoever shall mischance unto us two, yours should be but the one half thereof, the greater part I will always take unto mine own self. So that if any good thing do happen unto us our pleasure shall be double if any evil betid us, you shall have but the one half of the grief, and I the other. As for myself, if God so would, it were unto me a pleasure, even to end my life in your arms.  Ma. 
Men can better sustain and bear with that which chanceth according to the common course and rule of nature. For I see that some parents are more troubled with their children's evil manners, than with their natural deaths.  Pam. 
To prevent such misfortune, that it happen not unto us, it resteth for the most part in our power.  Ma. 
How so?  Pam. 
For commonly parents, which be good and virtuous, have good & virtuous children, I mean as concerning their natural disposition, for doves do not hatch Puthockes: wherefore we will first endeavour to be good ourselves, and our next care shall be, that our children may even from the mother's breast, be seasoned with virtuous counsels, and right opinions, for it skilleth not a little what liquor you pour into a new vessel at the first. finally, we shall provide that they may have even at home in our house a good example of life to follow.  Ma. 
Hard it is to bring that to pass that you say. 
Difficilia que pulchra. Godly things be hard.   Pam. 
No marvel, for commendable, and good it is. And for that also are you hard to be entreated and won, the more deficile and hard it is, the more good will and endeavour shall we put there unto.  Maria. 
You shall have me a matter soft and pliant, see you that you do your part in forming and shaping me as you ought.  Pam. 
But in the mean while say those three words which I require of you.  Ma. 
Nothing were more easy for me to do, but words be winged, and when they be flown out once do not retire, I will tell you what were a better way for us both. You shall treat with your Parents and mine, and with their will and consent let the matter be concluded.  Pam. 
Ah you set me to woo again, it is in you, with three words to dispatch the whole matter.  Ma. 
Whether it lieth in me so to do (as you say) I know not, for I am not at liberty. And in old time marriages were not concluded without the will & consent of their parents or elders. But howsoever the case be, I suppose our marriage shall be the more lucky, if it be made by the authority of our parents. And your part it is to seek and crave the good will, for us to do it, it were unseemluly: virginity would seem always to be taken with violence, yea though sometime we love the party most earnestly.  Pam. 
I will not let to seek their good will, so that I may always be in an assurance of your consent.  Ma. 
You need not doubt thereof, be of good cheer (my Pamphile)  Pam. 
You are herein more scrupulus yet than I would wish you to be.  Ma. 
Nay marry, way, and consider you well with yourself, before, whereunto you have set your mind and will. And do not take into your counsel, this blind affection borne towards my person, but rather reason, for that which affection decerneth is liked for a season, but that which reason aviseth is never misliked.  Pam. 
Certes thou speakest like a witty wench: wherefore I intend to follow thy counsel.  Ma. 
You shall not repent you thereof, but how he sirrah there is now fallen into my mind a doubt, which vexeth me sore.  Pam. 
Away with all such doubts for God's sake.  Ma. 
Why will you have me marry myself to a dead man?  Pam. 
Not so, for I will revive again.  Maria. 
Now, lo you have voided this doubt, far ye well my Pamphile.  Pam. 
See you I pray that I may so do.  Ma. 
I pray God give you a good night, why fetch you such a sigh man?  Pam. 
A good night say you? I would to God you would vouchsafe to give me that, which you wish me.  Ma. 
Soft and fair, I pray you your harvest is as yet but in the green blade.  Pam. 
Shall I have nothing of yours with me at my departure.  Ma. 
Take this Pomander to there your heart with.  Pam. 
Yet give me a kiss withal I pray thee.  Ma. 
I would keep my virginity whole, and undefiled for you.  Pa. 
Why doth a kiss take aught away from your virginity?  Ma. 
Would you think it well done that I should be free of kisses unto other men?  Pam. 
Nay marry I would have my kisses spared for myself.  Ma. 
I keep them for you then. And yet there is an other thing in the way, which maketh me that I dare not at this time give you a kiss.  Pam. 
What is that.  Ma. 
You say that your soul is already gone well near altogether into my body, and a very small part thereof tarrieth behind in your own, so that I fear in time of a kiss, that which remaineth might happen to start out after it, & then were you altogether without a soul. Have you therefore my right hand in token of mutual love, and so far you well. Go you earnestly about your matters. And I for my part in the mean while, shall pray unto Christ, that the thing which you do, may be unto the joy and felicity of us both. Amen   

Of the young man and the evil disposed woman.  Lucretia. Sophronius. 
IEsu mercy my old loving Friend Sophronius, are you at length come again unto us? now me thinks you have been away even a world space, truly at the first blush I scarce knew you.  Sophronius. 
And why so mine old acquaintance Lucres?  Lucres. 
Why so? because at your departing you had no beard at all, now you become a handsome beardling. But what is the matter my sweet heart: for me thinks you are waxed more stern and grave countenanced then to fore you had wont.  Sophronius. 
I would gladly talk with you friendly in some place apart from all company.  Lucres. 
Why are we not here alone (my lust?)  Sophronius. 
No, let us go ourselves into some place yet more secret and privy.  Lu. 
Be it so, let us go into my inward chamber, if ought you list to do.  Sophronius. 
Yet me thinketh this place is not close & secret enough.  Lucres. 
Why? whence comes this new shamefastness upon you? I have a Closet wherein I lay up my jewels and array, a place so dark that uneath the one of us shall see the other.  So. 
Look round about it, if there be any cranny or rift.  Lu. 
Here is not a cranye nor rift to be seen.  So. 
Is there no body near that mought listen and hear us?  Lu. 
No verily not a fly (my joy) why doubt you? why go you not about your purpose?  So. 
Shall we here beguile the eyes of God?  Lu. 
Not so, for he seeth thorough all things?  So. 
Or shall we be out of the sight of his Angels?  Lu. 
Neither, for no body can hide him out of their sight.  So. 
How happeneth it then, that we be not ashamed to do that before the eyes of God, and in the presence of his holy Angels, which we would be ashamed to do in the sight of men?  Lu. 
What a strange thing is this, came you hither to preach? put ye on, one of Saint Frances cowls, and get ye up into the Pulpit, and let us hear you there my young Beardling.  So. 
Neither would I think it much so to do, if by that mean I might call you back from this kind of life, not only most foul & shameful, but also most miserable.  Lu. 
And why so good sir? I must get my living one way or other, every man liveth and is maintained by his craft, & science, this is our trade our lands and revenues.  So. 
I would to God (good friend Lucres) that you, voiding for a while this drunkenness of the mind, could find in your heart rightly to ponder and consider with me, the thing as it is.  Lu. 
Keep your sermon till an other time, now let us take our pleasure (my good friend Sophronie)  So. 
All that you do, you do it for lucre and gains I am sure.  Lu. 
Therein you have gone near the mark.  So. 
Well, you shall lose noparte of that, which you make your account upon, I will give you even four times as much only, to lend me your attentive care.  Lu. 
Say on then even what you please.  So. 
First answer me to this. Have you any that beareth you evil will?  Lu. 
more than one.  So. 
And ●re there not some again, whom you hate likewise?  Lu. 
Even as they deserve at my hand.  So. 
Now if it lay in thee to pleasure them wouldst thou in faith do it?  Lu. 
Nay sooner would I give them their bane.  So. 
Very well, consider now, consider I say whither ought thou mayest do to them more pleasant and better liked, then to let them see thee lead this manner of life, so shameful and wretched. On the other side, what canst thou do more to the grief and misliking of them, which be thy very friends in deed?  Lu. 
Such was my lot, and destiny.  So. 
Moreover, that which is counted to be the most hard, and heavy hap of those which are cast out into islands, or banished unto the people most in humane and barbarous, the same have you of your own free will, and election, taken unto yourself.  Lu. 
And what is that?  So. 
Hast not thou of thine accord renounced & forsaken all natural affections and loves, your father, mother, brethren, sistrene, aunt, great aunt, & whomsoever beside nature hath linked unto thee for they in untie deed, are full evil ashamed of thee, and thou darest not once come into their sight.  Lu. 
Nay marry, me thinks I have luckily changed mine affects, in that for a few lovers, now I have won me very many, among whom you are one, whom I have accounted off as my natural brother.  So. 
Let pass this light accustomed talk, & way the matter as it is, in earnest. And first believe me this (my Lucres) she that hath so many lovers, hath no love at all. They that resort unto thee, do not take thee for their love, but rather for their lust, see how thou hast debased thyself wretched Woman. Christ held thee so dear, that he vouchsafed to redeem thee with his most precious blood, to the end, thou mightest partake with him in his heavenly kingdom. And thou makest thyself a common Gonge, or muckhill whereunto fowl and filthy, scald, and scurvy, doth at their pleasure resort, to shake off their filth and corruption. That if thou be yet free and not infected with that loathsome kind of lepry, commonly called the french pocks, assure thyself thou cannot long be without it. Which if it chance thee to have, what in more miserable and wretched case than thou, yea, though other things were as thou wouldst wish (I mean) thy substance and fame, what shalt thou then be, but a lump of quick carrion: you thought it a great matter to be obedient unto your mother, now you live in servitude, under a filthy bawd. It went to your heart to hear the good advertisements of your father, here you must often times take in good part, even the stripes of drunkards, and madbraines, you could away with no manner of work, when you were with your friends, to help towards your living, but in this place what trouble, what continual watcking are you feign to sustain?  Lu. 
From whence (and God will) comes this new prating preacher.  So. 
Now I pray thee, have this also in thy mind. The flower of beauty, which is the bait that allureth men to love thee, in short time it shall fade, and decay. And what shalt thou then do, unhappy creature, what dunghill shall be more vile, and unregarded than thou then? than lo, thou shalt of an hoore, become a bawd, yet every one of you cometh not unto that promotion, but if that befalleth thee, what is more abominable, or nearer reproacheth even to the wicked occupation of the devil.  Lu. 
Truth it is in good faith, Sophronie in a manner all that you have hitherto said. But how cometh this new holiness upon you, who were wont to be amongst all the little goods, yet one of the least, for no man repaired hither, either oftener or at more untimely hours, than yourself? I hear say you have been at Room lately.  So. 
I have so in deed.  Lucres. 
Why men are wont to come from thence worse than they went thither. How happeneth the contrary to you?  So 
I will tell you, because I went not to Rome, with that mind, and after that sort, other commonly go to Rome, even of set purpose to return worse, & so doing they want none occasions when they come there, to be as they purposed. But I went thither in the company of an honest virtuous man, by whose advise, in steed of a bibbing bottle, I carried with me, a handsome little book the new testament of Erasmus translation.  Lu. 
Of Erasmus? And they say he is an heretic and an half.  So. 
Why hath the name of that man come hither also?  Lu. 
None more famous with us.  So. 
Have you ever seen his person?  Lu. 
Never, but in good faith I would I might, because I have heard so much evil of him.  So. 
Perhaps of them that be evil themselves.  Lu. 
Nay truly, even of reverend personages.  So. 
What be they.  Lucres. 
I may not tell you that.  So. 
And why so I pray.  Lu. 
Because if you should blab it out, and it come unto their ears. I should lose no small part of my living.  So. 
Fear thou not, thou shalt speak it to a stone.  Lu. 
hearken hither in thine ear then,  So. 
A fond wench, what needeth it to lay mine ear to thine, seeing we be alone? except it were that God should not hear it. Oh living God, I see thou art a religious whore, thou dost thy charity upon Mendicants.  Lu. 
Well, I get more by these Mendicants & simple beggars, 
Mendicant Friars.  than by you rich folk.  So. 
So I think, they spoil and prowl from honest matrons to cast at whores tails.  Lu. 
But tell on your tale concerning the book.  So. 
I will so do, and better it is. Therein Paul taught me a lesson, who being endued with the spirit of truth could not lie, that neither whores, nor whore haunters shall inherit the kingdom of heaven. When I had read this, I began to consider with myself in this wise. It is a small thing, which I look to be heir of by my father, and yet nevertheless rather I had to shake hands with all wanton women, then to be set beside that inheritance, how much more than doth it sit me on, to beware that my father in heaven doth not disinherit me of that far more excellent inheritance, for against mine earthly father, which goeth about to disinherit me, or to cast me off, the civil laws do offer a remedy, but if God list to cast of, or disinherit, there is no help at all. Whereupon, I forthwith utterly forefended myself, the use and familiarity of all evil disposed women.  Lu. 
That is if you be able to live chaste.  So. 
It is a good part of the virtue of continency, heartily to covit and desire the same, if it will not so be, well, the uttermost remedy is to take a Wife. When I was come to Rome, I powered out the hole sink of my conscience into the bosom of a certain Friar penitentiary, who with many words, right wisely exhorted me to purity, and cleanness of mind and body, and unto the devout reading of holy scripture, with oft prayer & soberness of life, for my penance he enjoined me nought else, but that I should kneel on my knees before the high altar, and say the Psalm Miserere mei deus. And if I had money to give in almoys unto some poor body a Carolyne. And whereas I marveled much, that for so many times, as I had confessed myself to have played the brothel, he laid upon me so small a penance, he answered me right pleasantly thus. Son (quoth he) if thou truly repent, if thou change thy conversation, I pass not on thy penance, but if thou proceed still therein, thy very lust itself shall at the length bring thee to pain and penance enough I warrant thee, though the Priest appointeth thee none, for example look upon myself, whom thou seest now, blear eyed, palsy shaken, and crooked, and in time paste I was even such a one as thou declarest thyself to be. Thus lo have I learned to leave it.  Lu. 
Why then for aught that I can see I have lost my Sophronius.  So. 
Nay rather thou hast him safe, for before he was in deed lost, as one which neither loved thee nor himself. He now loveth thee with a true love, and thirsteth thy salvation.  Lu. 
What advise you me then to do, friend. Sophronius?  So. 
As soon as possible you may to withdraw yourself from this kind of life, you are yet but a girl (to speak off) and the spot of your misdemeanour may be washed away. Either take an husband (so doing we will contribute some thing to prefer you) either else get you into some godly College or Monestery which receiveth those that have done amiss, upon promise of amendment, or at the leastwise departing from this place, betake yourself into the service of some virtuous and well disposed Matron. And to which of these you list to incline your mind, I offer you my friendly help and furtherance.  Lu. 
Now I beseech you with all my heart Sophronie look about & provide for me, I will follow your counsel.  So. 
But in the mean while convey yourself from out of this place.  Lu. 
Alack so soon,  So. 
Why not, rather this day than to morrow? namely since lingering it is damage, and delay is dangerous.  Lu. 
Whether should I then repair, where should I stay myself?  So. 
You shall pack up all your apparel and jewels, & deliver it unto me in the evening, my servant shall closely carry it, unto a faithful honest Matron. And within a while after, I will lead you out, as it were to walk with me and you shall secretly abide in that Matron's house, at my charge, until I provide for you: And that time shall not be long.  Lu. 
Be it so my Sophronius, I betake myself wholly unto you.  So. 
For so doing hereafter, you shall have joy.   
FINIS.