The Palace of Pleasure Beautified, adorned and well furnished, with Pleasant Histories and excellent novels, selected out of divers good and commendable Authors.  
¶ By William Painter Clerk of the Ordinance and Armoury.  
1566  
IMPRINTED AT London, by Henry Denham, for Richard tottel and William jones.   

  

To the Right Honourable, my very good Lord, Ambrose, Earl of Warwick, Baron Lisle, of the most excellent order of the Garter Knight, General of the queens majesties Ordinance within her highness Realms and Dominions, William Painter Clarke of the same office, prayeth long life, increase of Honour and felicity.  
PROVOKED, or rather vehemently incited & moved, I have been (right honourable my very good Lord) to imagine and devise all means possible to avoid that ugly vice of Ingratitude (which as it is abhorred among creatures void of reason and divine knowledge, so of men endued and full possessed with both, it is specially to be detested.) And to the intent I might not be touched with that unkind vice, audible to God and man, I have many times, with myself debated how I might by any means show myself thankful and benevolent to your honour, which hath not only by frequence talk unto my friends privately, but also upon myself openly employed benefits and commendation undeserved. The one I have received by friendly report of your dear and approved friends, the other I do feel and taste to my great stay and comfort. For when it pleased your Honour, of courteous inclination, upon the first view, willingly to consent and agree to the confirmation of that which I do enjoy: for that bounty then, ever sithence I have studied by what means I might commend my good will and affection to the same. Wherefore incensed with the generosity, and natural instinct of your noble mind, I have purposed many times to employ mine endeavour by some small beginnings, to give your honour to understand outwardly, what the inward desire is willing to do, if ability thereunto were correspondent. And as opportunity served, (respiring as it were from the weighty affairs of that Office wherein it hath pleased our most dread Sovereign Lady worthily to place you the chief and General) I perused such volumes of Noble Authors, as wherewith my poor Armoury is furnished: And amongs other, chanced upon that excellent Historiographer Titus Livius. In whom is contained a large Camp of noble facts and exploits achieved by valiant personages of the Roman state. By whom also is remembered the beginning and continuation of their famous common wealth. And viewing in him great plenty of strange Histories, I thought good to select such as were the best and principal, wherein travailing not far, I occurred upon some which I deemed most worthy the provulgation in our native tongue, reducing them into such compendious form, as I trust shall not appear unpleasant. Which when I had finished, seeing them but a handful in respect of the multitude, I fully determined to proceed in the rest. But when I considered mine own weakness, and the majesty of the Author, the cankered infirmity of a cowardly mind, stayed my conceived purpose, and yet not so stayed as utterly to suppress mine attempt. Wherefore advancing again the Ensign of courage, I thought good (leaving where I left in that Author, till I knew better how they would be liked) to adventure into divers other, out of whom I decerped and chose (raptim) sundry proper and commendable Histories, which I may boldly so term, because the authors be commendable and well approved. And thereunto have joined many other, gathered out of Boccaccio, Bandello, sir Giovanni Fiorentino, Straparole & other Italian and French authors. All which I have recueiled and bound together in this volume, under the title of the Palace of Pleasure, presuming to consecrate the same and the rest of my benevolent mind to your honour. For to whom duly appertaineth mine industry and diligence, but to him that is the Patron & Imbracer of my well doings? Whereunto also I may apply the words of that excellent Orator Tully in his first book of Offices. De benevolentia aeutem, quam quisque haebeaet erga nos, primum illud est in officio, ut et plurimum tribuamus, à quo plurimum diligimur. Of benevolence which each man beareth towards us, the chiefest duty is to give most to him, of whom we be most beloved. But how well the same is done, or how praise worthy the translation is, I refer to the skilful, craving no more praise therefore, than they shall attribute and give. To nothing seek I to aspire by this my presumption (right honourable) but cheerful acceptation of the same at your hands: desirous hereby to show myself studious of a friend of so noble vocation. And where greater things cannot be done, these small I trust shall not be forsaken and comtempned: which if I do perceive to be favoured, hereafter more ample endeavour shall be employed to achieve greater, if ability thereunto be consonant. In these histories (which by another term I call novels) be described the lives, gests, conquests and high enterprises of great Princes, wherein also be not forgotten the cruel acts and tyranny of some. In these be set forth the great valiance of noble Gentlemen, the terrible combats of courageous personages, the virtuous minds of noble dames, the chaste hearts of constant Ladies, the wonderful patience of puissant Princes, the mild sufferance of well disposed Gentlewomen, and in divers, the quiet bearing of adverse fortune. In these histories be depainted in lively colours, the ugly shapes of Insolency and Pride, the deform figures of Incontinency and Rape, the cruel aspects of Spoil, breach of order, treason, ill luck and mischief of States, and other persons. Wherein also be intermixed, pleasant discourses, merry talk, sporting practices, deceitful devices, and nipping taunts, to exhilarat the readers minds. And although by the first face and view, some of these may seem to entreat of unlawful Love, and the foul practices of the same, yet being thoroughly read and well considered, both old and young may learn how to avoid the ruin, overthrow, inconvenience, and displeasure, that lascivious desire, and wanton will, doth bring to the suitors and pursuers of the same. All which may render good example for all sorts to follow the best, and embrace the virtuous, contrariwise to reject the worst, and contemn the vicious. For which intent and purpose be all things, good and bad recited in histories, Chronicles, and monuments, by the first authors and elucubrators of the same. To whom then may the same (wherein be contained many discourses of nobility) be offered with more due desert than to him, that in nobility and parentage is not inferior to the best? To whom may facts and exploits of famous personages be consigned, but to him whose prowess and valiant acts be manifest and well known to Englishmen, but better to strangers, which have felt the puissance thereof? To whom may the combats, gests, and courses of the victorious be remembered, but to him, whose frequent use of mighty in country & terrible shock of shield & Lance: is familiar in the Court, & famous in the town and country? In whom may patient bearing of adversity, and constant sufferance of Fortune's threats more duly to the world appear, than in him that hath constantly sustained & quietly passed over the brunts of the same? To whom may be given a Theatre of the world, and stage of humane misery, more worthily, than to him that hath with comely gesture, wise demeanour, and orderly behaviour, been an actor in the same? Who is he that more condignly doth deserve to be possesin a Palace of Pleasure, than he that is daily resiant in a palace of renowned fame, guided by a Queen adorned with most excellent beauty and shape, endued and garnished with great learning, passing virtues and rare qualities of the mind. To whom (I say) may constancy of Ladies, and virtuous deeds of Dames, more aptly be applied, than to him that hath in possession a Lady and Countess of noble birth (whose sire was the old Earl of bedford, a grave and faithful councelor to her majesties most noble Progenitors, and father is the same, in dear estimation and regard with her highness, under whom he trustily & honourably serveth) whose courteous and countess like behaviour glistereth in the court amongs the troop of honourable Dames: and for her toward disposition, first preferred by the queens Majesty, into her secret chamber, and after advanced to be Countess of your noble Earldom. Besides all which rare gifts, by Nature engrafted in your honour, and by her bountifully bestowed upon the same, the perfect piety and brotherly love between you and the right noble and virtuous the Earl of Leicester, your honourable brother, is had in greatest admiration. Whose noble courage in deeds of honour and passing humanity to his inferiors, is very commendable to the world. But here I will stay myself, lest whilst I go about to extol your fames, I do (for want of skill in due praise) seem to diminish that which among all men by daily experience is sufficiently renowned. And as your honour doth with great prudence govern that office of the Ordinance (whereof I am a member) even so, the same hath with great care and diligence commended such to the queens Majesty, to join and serve in the same, as officers right worthy their vocations, specially the worshipful Edward Randolfe Esquire, Lieutenant of that office, a man for his experience and good advise rather fostered in the bosom of Bellona herself, than nursed in kentish soil (although in the schoolhouse of courtesy and humanity he appeareth full carefully to have been trained up by his virtuous parents) which is familiarly known unto me and other that domestically (as it were) do frequent his company. But alas my Lord, amongs the mid of my rejoice of those before remembered, I can not pretermit the lamentable loss of the best approved gonner that ever served in our time his Prince and country, Robert Thomas, the Master Gonner, who for skill and service both, a title of Prince of Gonners justly did deserve: And see the luck, when he thought best to signify his good will, to honour Hymeneus' bed, at Nuptial night, a clap of that he never feared did end his life. Such is the dreadful fury of Gonners' art, and hellish rage of Vulcan's work. And therefore that dangerous service in skilful men is specially to be recommended and cherished. Whereunto as your honour hitherto hath borne singular affection, by preferring to her Majesty such as from their infancy have been trained up in that necessary service, and very painfully have employed the same, in the time of the queens majesty that now is, and her progenitors, even so I humbly beseech your honour for continuance of the same, specially in those, that be endued with greatest experience, in whom only resteth the brunt of our defence. A service so commendable and needful, as none more. But what need I to provoke the willing mind, whose honour is more priest to cherish such, than I am able by wishing heart for to conceive. Finally yet once again, I humbly beseech your honour gratefully to accept this book, & at your leisure & convenient time to read & peruse the same. By revolving whereof your honour I trust shall be delighted with the rare histories & good examples therein contained, such as to my knowledge heretofore have not been made common to our countrymen, which with all my good will & endeavour I dutifully exhibit. Beseeching Almighty God favourably to defend and govern your honour, prosperously to maintain and keep the same, godly to direct my right honourable Lady in the steps of perfect virtue, bountifully to make you both happy parents of many children: and after the expense of N●stor years in this transitory life, mercifully to conduct you to the unspeakable joys of his kingdom.  
near the Tower of London the first of januarie. 1566. By your L. most bounden William Pamter.   

¶ A Recapitulation or brief Rehearsal of the Arguments of every Novel, with the places noted, in what Author every of the same or th'effect be read and contained.  

Titus Livius.  ¶ The Romans and Albans being at wars, for injuries mutually inferred. Metius Suffetius, the Alban Captain, devised a way by a Combat to join both the Cities in one. victory falling to the Romans, the Roman victor killeth his sister, who notwithstanding is condemned to die. Afterwards upon his father's suit he is delivered. 
The first Novel. Folio. 1.  ¶ Sextus Tarqvinius ravisheth Lucrece who bewailing the loss of her chastity killeth herself. 
The two Novel. Folio. 5.  ¶ The siege of Rome by Porsenna, and the valiant delivery thereof by Mntius Scoevola. 
The three Novel. Folio. 7.  ¶ Martius Cortolanus going about to repress the common people of Rome with dearth of Corn, was vanished. For revengement whereof, he persuaded Accius' 〈◊〉. King of the Uuolcians to make wars upon the Romans, & he himself in their aid, came in his own person. The city brought to great misery the father's devised means to deliver the same, and sent into the Uuolscian camp, the mother, the wife & children, of Cortolanus Upon whose complaints Cortolanus withdrew the Uuolscians. And the city was reduced to quietness. 
The four Novel. Folio. 9  ¶ Appius Clandius one of the Decemuiri of Rome, goeth about to ravish Virginia a young maiden, which endeavour of Appius, when her father Virginius understood, being then in the wars, he repaireth home to rescue his daughter. One that was betrothed unto her, doth claim her, whereupon rose great contention. In the end her own Father, to save the shame of his stock, killed her with a Butcher's knife, and cometh into the Forum, and crieth vengeance upon Appius Then after much contention and rebellion, the Decemviri were deposed. 
The .v. Novel. Folio. 13.   

Herodotus.  ¶ Candiules king of Lydia, showing the secrets of his wives beauty, to Gyges' one of his Guard: was by counsel of his wife, slain by the said Gyges, and deprived of his kingdom. 
The uj Novel. Folio. 19  ¶ King Croesus of Lydia reasoneth with the wiseman Solon, of the happy life of man. Who little esteeming his good advise, understood before his death, that no man (but by virtue) can in his life attain felicity. 
The vij Novel. Folio. 21.   

AElianus.  ¶ Of a Father that made suit, to have his own son put to death. 
The eight Novel. Folio. 24.  ¶ Water offered of good will to Artaxerxes the king of Persia, and the liberal reward of the king, to the giver. 
The ix Novel. Folio. 24.  ¶ The love of Chariton and Menalippus. 
The ten Novel. Folio. 25.   

Xenophon.  ¶ King Cyrus persuaded by Araspas, to dispose himself to love a Lady called Panthea, entereth into a pretty disputation and talk, of Love and beauty. Afterwards Araspas himself falleth in love with the said Lady, but she endued with great chastity, avoideth his earnest love. And when her husband was slain in the service of Cyrus, she killed herself. 
The xj Novel. Folio. 27.   

Quintus Curtius.  ¶ Abdolominus is from poor estate, advanced by Alexander the great, through his honest life to be king of Sydone. 
The twelve Novel. Folio. 33.  ¶ The Oration of the Scythian Ambassadors to Alexander the great, reproving his ambition, and desire of Empire. 
The xiij Novel. Folio. 34.   

Aulus Gellius.  ¶ The words of Metellus of marriage, and wiving, with the praise and dispraise of the same. 
The xiiij Novel. Folio. 36.  ¶ Of Lais and Demosthenes. 
The .v. Novel. Fol. 38.  ¶ C. Fabritius and Aemilius Consuls of Rome, being promised that king Pyrrhus for a some of money should be slain (which was a notable enemy to the Roman state) advertised Pyrrhus thereof by letters, and of other notable things, done by the same Fabritius. 
The xuj Novel. Folio. 38.  ¶ A Schoolmaster, traitorously rendering the noble men's sons of Fale●●a, to the hands of Camillus, was well acquitted and rewarded, for his pains and labour. 
The xvij Novel. Folio. 39  ¶ The History of Papyrius Pretextaetus. 
The xviij Novel. Folio. 41.  ¶ How plutarch did beat his man. And of pretty talk touching signs of anger. 
The xix Novel. Fol. 42.  ¶ A pretty tale of Aesop, of the Lark. 
The twenty Novel. Folio. 42.  ¶ A merry ieft uttered by Hannibal to king Antiochus. 
The xxj Novel. Folio. 44.  ¶ The marvelous knowledge of a Lion being acquainted with a man, called Androctus. 
The xxij Novel. Fol. 44.  ¶ A pretty disputation of the Philosopher Phaevorinus, to persuade a woman, not to put forth her child to nurse, but to nourish it herself with her own milk. 
The xxiij Novel. Folio. 45.  ¶ Of Sertorius a noble Roman captain. 
The xxiiij Novel. Folio. 48.  ¶ Of the books of Sibylla. 
The xxv Novel. Fol. 49.  ¶ A difference and controversy between a Master and a Scholar so subtle, that the judges could not give sentence. 
The xxuj Novel. Folio. 50.   

plutarch.  ¶ Seleveus King of Asia, gave his wife to his own son in marriage, being his mother in law: Who so fervently did love her, that he was like to die. Which by a discrete & wise invention was discovered to Seleveus by a Physician. 
The xxvij Novel. Folio. 51.  ¶ Of the strange and beastly nature of Timon of Athenes enemy to mankind, with his death, burial, and epitaph. 
The xxviij Novel. Folio. 57   

S. Jerome and Pietro Messia.  ¶ The marriage of a man and woman, he being the husband of xx. wives: and she the wife of xxii husbands. 
The xxix Novel. Folio. 59   

Bocaccio.  ¶ How Melchisedech, a jew, by telling a pretty tale of three Kings, saved his life. 
The xxx Novel. Folio. 60.  ¶ One called Guglielmo Borsiere with certain words well placed, taunted the covetous life of Ermino Grimaldi. 
The xxxj Novel. Folio. 61.  ¶ Master Alberto of Bologna by a pleasant answer, made a Gentlewoman to blush, which had thought to have put him out of countenance, in telling him that he was in love with her. 
The xxxij Novel. Folio. 63.  ¶ Rinald. of Esti being rob, arrived at castle Guglielmo & was succoured of a widow: and restored to his losses, returning safe and sound home to his own house. 
The xxxiij Novel. Fol. 64.  ¶ Three young men having fondly consumed all that they had, became very poor, whose nephew (as he returned out of England into Italy, by the way) fill in acquaintance with an Abbot, whom (upon further familiarity) he knew to be the king of England's daughter, which took him to her husband. Afterwards she restored, his uncles to all their losses, and sent them home in good state and reputation. 
The xxxiiij Novel. Folio. 68  ¶ Land●lfo Ruffolo being inpoverished, became a Pirate, and taken by the Genevois, was in danger of drowning, who saving himself upon a little Coffer full of rich jewels, was received at Corsu, and being cherished by a woman, returned home very rich. 
The xxxv Novel. Folio 73.  ¶ Andreuccio of Perugia, being come to Naples, to buy horse, was in one night surprised, with three marvelous accidents. All which having escaped, with one Ruby he returned home to his house. 
The xxxuj Novel. Folio. 76.  ¶ The Earl of Angiers being falsely accused, was banished out of France, and left his two sons in sundry places in England, and returning (unknown) by scotland, found them in great authority, afterwards he repaired in the habit of a servant to the French kings army, and being known to be innocent, was again advanced to his first estate. 
The xxxvij Novel. Folio. 85.  ¶ Gilettae a physicians daughter of Narbona, healed the French king of a Fistula, for reward whereof, she demanded Beleramo Count of Rossigliont to husband. The Count being married against his will, for despite fled to Florence, and loved an other. G●●etta his wife, by policy found means to lie with her husband, in place of his Lover, and was begotten with child of two sons. Which known to her husband, he received her again, and afterwards she lived in great honour and felicity. 
The xxxviij Novel. Folio. 95.  ¶ ●ancredi prince of Salerne, caused his daughter's lover to be slain, and sent his heart unto her in a cup of Gold: which afterwards she put into poisoned water, and drinking thereof died. 
The xxxix Novel. Folio. 100   

Bandello.  ¶ Mahomet one of the Turkish Emperors, executeth cursed cruelty upon a Greek maiden, whom he took prisoner at the winning of Constantinople. 
The xl Novel. Folio. 107.  ¶ A Lady falsely accused of adultery, was condemned to be devoured of Lions, the manner of her delivery, and how (her innocency being known) her accuser felt the pain for her prepared. 
The xl Novel. Folio. 112.  ¶ Didaco a spaniard is in Love with a poor Maiden of Valentia, and secretly marrieth her, afterwards loathing his first marriage, because she was of base parentage, he marrieth another of noble birth. His first wife by secret messenger prayeth his company, whose request he accomplisheth. Being a bed she and her maid killeth him. She throweth him into the street. She in desperate wise confesseth the fact before the Magistrates, and is put to death. 
The xlij Novel. Folio. 125.  ¶ Wantonness and pleasant life being guides of Insolency, doth bring a miserable end to a fair Lady of Thurm, Whom a noble man advanced to high estate. Wherein he executeth great cruelty upon his said Lady taken in adultery. 
The xliij Novel. Folio. 135.  ¶ The love of Alerane of Saxon, and of Adelasia the daughter of the Emperor Otho the third of that name. Their flight and departure into Italy, and how they were known again, & what noble houses of Italy descended of their race. 
The xliiij Novel. Folio. 201.  ¶ The Duchess of Savoie being the King of England's sister, was in the Duke her husbands absence, iniustlye accused of adultery: by a noble man, his Lieutenant. And should have been put to death, if by the prowess and valiant combat of Don john di Mendozza (a Gentleman of Spain) she had not been delivered. With a discourse of marvelous accidents, touching the same, to the singular praise and commendation, of chaste and honest Ladies. 
The xlv Novel. Fol. 226.  ¶ A King of England, loved the daughter of one of his noble men, which was Countess of Salesburie, who after great suit to achieve that he could not win, for the entire love he bore unto her, and her great constancy, made her his Queen & wife. 
The xluj Novel. Folio. 258.   

Sir Giovanni Fiorentino.  ¶ A Gentleman called Galgano long time made suit to Madonna Minoccia, her husband (not knowing the same,) diverse times praised and commended the same Gentleman to his Lady: by reason whereof, in the absence of her husband, she sent for him and yielded herself unto him, telling him what words her husband had spoken of him, for recompense whereof he refused to dishonest her. 
The xlvij Novel. Fol. 279.  ¶ Bindo a notable Archietect, and his son Ricciardo with all his famlie, from Florence, came to dwell at Venice, where being made citizens for diverse monuments by them made there, through his inordinate expenses is forced to rob the Treasure house. Bindo being slain by a policy devised by the Duke & the State, Ricciardo by fine subtleties delivereth himself from four dangers. Afterwards the Duke (by his own confession) understanding the sleight, giveth him his pardon, and his daughter in marriage. 
The xlviij Novel. Folio. 282.   

Out of Straparole.  ¶ Philenio Sisterno a Scholar of Bologna being mocked of three fair Gentlewomen, at a banquet made of set purpose, was revenged upon them all. 
The xlix Novel. Fol. 289.   

Out of Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre.  ¶ The piteous and chaste death of one of the Muleteers wives of the Queen of Navarre. 
The D. Novel. Fol. 296.  ¶ A king of Naples abusing a Gentleman's wife, in the end did wear the horns himself. 
The. Lj. Novel. Fol. 298.  ¶ The rash enterprise of a gentleman against a Princess of Flaunders, and of the damage and shame which he received thereof. 
The. Lij. Novel. Fol. 302.  ¶ The love of Amadour and Florinda wherein be contained many sleights and dissimulations together with the renowned chastity of the said Florinda. 
The. Liij. Novel. Fol. 306.  ¶ The incontinency of a Duke and of his impudency. 
The. Liiij. Novel. Folly 326.  ¶ One of the French kings called Francis the first of the name declared his gentle nature to Count Guillaume, that would have killed him. 
The. Lv. Novel. Fol. 330.  ¶ A punishment more rigorous than death, of a husband towards his wife that had committed adultery. 
The. Luj. Novel. Fol. 332.  ¶ A Precedent of Grenoble advertised of the ill government of his wife, took such order that his honesty was not diminished and yet revenged the fact. 
The. Lvij Novel. Fol. 334.  ¶ A Gentleman of perch suspecting injury done unto him by his friend, provoked him to execute and put in proof the cause of his suspicion. 
The. Lviij. Novel. Fol. 336.  ¶ The Simplicity of an old woman that offered a burning candle to saint john of Lions. 
The. Lix. Novel. Fol. 338.   

Out of a little French book called Comptes du Monde.  ¶ A Doctor of the Laws bought a cup, and by the subtlety of two false varlets lost both his money and the cup. 
The. Lx. Novel. Fol. 339.    

To the Reader.  
NOTHING in mine opinion can be more acceptable unto thee (friendly Reader), than oft reading & daily perusing of variety of Histories, which as they be for diversity of matter pleasant and plausible, even so for example and imitation right good and commendable. The one doth rejoice the weary and tedious mind, many times involved with ordinary cares, the other prescribeth a direct path to tread the trace of this present life. Wherefore if in these news or novels hear presented, there do appear any thing worthy of regard, give thanks to the noble Gentleman to whom this book is dedicated, for whose sake only, that pain (if any seem to be) was wholly employed. Enjoy therefore with him this present book, & courteously with friendelie talk report the same, for if otherwise thou do abuse it, the blame shall light on thee, and not of me, which only of good will did mean it first. But yet if blaming tongues and unstaid heads, will needs be busy, they shall sustain the shame, for that they have not yet shown forth any blameless deed to like effect, as this is meant of me, which when they do, no blame but praise they can receive. For praise be they well worthy for to have, which in well doing do contend. No virtuous deed, or zealous work can want due praise of the honest, though faulting fools and youthly heads full oft do chant the faultless check, that Momus mouth did once find out in Venus' Slipper. And yet from faults I will not purge the same, but whatsoever they seem to be, they be in number ne yet in substance such, but that thy courteous dealing may soon amend them or forget them. Wherefore to give thee full advertisement of the whole collection of these novels, understand that uj of them have I selected out of Titus Livius, two out of Herodotus, certain out of Aelianus, Xenophon, Aulus Gellius, plutarch and other like approved authors, Other novels have I adjoined, chosen out of divers Italian and French writers. Wherein I confess myself not to be so well trained, peradventure as the fine heads of such travailers would desire. And yet I trust sufficiently to express the sense, of every of the same. Certayne have I culled out of the Decamerone of Giovan Boccaccio wherein be contained one hundred novels, amongs which there be some (in my judgement) that be worthy to be condemned to perpetual prison, but of them such have I redeemed to the liberty of our vulgar, as may be best liked, and better suffered. Although the uj part of the same hundredth may full well be permitted. And as I myself have already done many other of the same work, yet for this present I have thought good to publish only ten in number, the rest I have referred to them that be able with better style to express the author's eloquence, or until I adjoin to this another to me, if none other in the mean time do prevent me, which with all my heart I wish and desire: because the whole works of Boccaccio for his style, order of writing, gravity, and sententious discourse, is worthy of entire provulgation. Out of Bandello I have selected vij choosing rather to follow Launay and Belleforest the French Translators, than the barren soil of his own vain, who being a Lombard doth frankly confess himself to be no fine Florentine, or trim Thoscane, as eloquent and gentle Boccaccio was. divers other also be extracted out of other Italian and French authors. All which (I trust) be both profitable and pleasant, and will be liked of the indifferent Reader.  
Profitable they be in that they disclose what glory, honour, and preferment each man attaineth by good desert, what felicity by honest attempts, what good success, laudable enterprises do bring to the courageous, what happy joy and quiet state godly love doth affect the Imbracers of the same. Profitable I say in that they do reveal the miseries of rapes and fleshly actions, the overthrow of noble men and Princes by disordered government, the tragical ends of them that unhappily do attempt practices vicious and horrible. Wilt thou learn how to behave thyself with modesty after thou hast achieved any victorious conquest, and not to forget thy prosperous fortune in the glorious triumph of the same, by committing a fact unworthy of thy valiance: read the first Novel of the valiant Roman Horatius? Wilt thou understand what dishonour and infamy, desire of libidinous lust doth bring, read the rape of Lucrece? Wilt thou know what an unkind part it is unnaturally to abuse the state of thine own country, read Martius Coriolanus? Wilt thou learn what fruit is reaped of wicked lust, to despoil virgins and maids of their greatest virtue, see the history of Appius Claudius and sir Didaco the Spanish knight? Desirest thou to know, how closely thou oughtest to keep the secrets of honourable marriage, peruse the history of Candaules? Dost thou covet to be advertised what is true felicity, read of king Croesus and the wise man Solon? Hath the Lady, Gentlewoman, or other of the feminine kind desire to behold a mirror of Chastity: let them read over the novels of the Lady Panthea, of the Duchess of savoy of the Countess of Salesburie, of Amadour and Florinda? Is the noble man affected to understand what happy end, the virtue of Loyalty and fidelity doth conduce, the Earl of Angiers may be to him a right good example? Will Gentlemen learn how to prosecute virtue, and to profligat from their mind, disordinate Love, and affection; I refer them to the history of Tancredi, and to Galgano of Sienna? Is not the merchant contented with his goods already gotten, but will needs go seek some other trade. Let him note and consider the dangers wherein the adventurer Landalpho was? Is he disposed to send his factor beyond the seas, about his affairs, let him first bid him to peruse Andreuccio, and then command him to beware of Madam Floredelice. If the yeoman intendeth to be careful of his business, meaning to reap that he hath sown in due time let him take heed how he repose any trust in friends and kinsmen, lest in harvest he be deceived, which Aesopes' Lark doth prettily note. If the Artificer will not faithfully deal according to the trust reposed in him, I would not wish him to suffer that which Bindo did, but advisedly to read the history, and trustelie to accomplish that he taketh in hand. If scornful speech or flouting sport do flow in ripe wits and lavish tongues of womankind, let them beware they do not deal with learned sort, lest Master Alberto with Physic drougues or Philenio with Sophist art do stain their face, or otherwise offend them with the innocency of their great Grandmother Eve when she was summoned from Paradise joy. If the poor maiden of base birth be advanced (by fortune's grace) to high estate: let her fix in mind the Lady of Thurin. Finally, for all states and degrees, in these novels be set forth singular documents and examples, right commodious and profitable to them that will vouchsafe to read them.  
pleasant they be for that they recreate, and refresh wearied minds, defatigated either with painful travail, or with continual care, occasioning them to shun and avoid heaviness of mind, vain fantasies, and idle cogitations. Pleasant so well abroad as at home, to avoid the grief of Wintersnight and length of summers day, which the travailers on foot may use for a stay to ease their wearied body, and the journeors on horseback, for a chariot or easier mean of travail in stead of a merry companion to shorten the tedious toil of weary ways. Delectable they be (no doubt) for all sorts of men, for the sad, the angry, the choleric, the pleasant, the hole and sick, and for all other with whatsoever passion rising either by nature or use they be affected. The sad shall be discharged of heaviness, the angry and choleric purged, the pleasant maintained in mirth, the whole furnished with disport, and the sick appeased of grief. These novels then, being profitable and pleasant histories, apt and meet for all degrees: I trust the indifferent Reader, of what complexion, nature and disposition so ever he be, will accept them in good part, although perchance not so set forth or decked with fine and eloquent style, as this age more brave in tongue than manners doth require, and do pray thee to receive them into thy courteous hands, with no less good will, (though not with like regard) than Alphonsus king of Arragon did Quintus Curtius, out of whom be some of these selected. Who upon a time being sick at Capua, receiving at the hands of divers Physicians many medicines, in his greatest fit called for the history of Quintus Curtius, In whom having great delight for his eloquent description of the gests and facts of king Alexander, when he was restored to health, said. Farewell Avicen, Adieu Hipocrates and other Physicians, welcome Curtius the restitutor, and recovery of my health. Whereby he declared what pleasure he had in the exercise and reading of histories, not contemning for all that, the honourable science of Physic, which in extremities he wholesomely used. What commodity and pleasure histories do yield to the diligent searchers and travailers in the same, Tully in his fift book, De finibus bonorum et malorum ad Brutum doth declare, who affirmeth that he is not ignorant what pleasure and profit the reading of histories doth import. And after he hath described what difference of commodity, is between feigned fables, & lively discourses of true histories, concludeth reading of histories to be a certain provocation and allurement to move men to learn experience. If Tully then the prince of Orators, doth affirm profit and pleasure to be in perusing of histories, then fitly have I entitled this volume with the Palace of Pleasure. For like as the outward show of Prince's Palaces be pleasant at the view and sight of each man's eye, bet decked and garnished with sumptuous hangings and costly Arras of splendent show, wherein be wrought and be with gold & silk of sundry hews, the deeds of noble states: Even so in this our Palace here, there be at large recorded the Princely parts and glorious gests of renowned wights represented with more lively grace and gorgeous sight, than Tapestry or Arras work, for that the one with deadly shape doth show, the other with speaking voice declare what in their time they were. Upon whom do wait (as meet it is) inferior persons, each one vouchsafing to tell what he was; in the transitory trade of present life. Wherefore accept the same in grateful wise, and think upon the mind of him that did the same, which fraughted is with no less plenty of good will, than the coffers of king Croesus were, with store of worldly pelf. And so far well.   

Author's out of whom these novels be selected, or which be remembered in divers places of the same.  

Greek and Latin Authors.  
Titus Livius.  
Herodotus.  
Aetianus.  
Xenophon.  
Quintus Curtius.  
Aulus Gellius.  
S. Jerome.  
Cicero.  
Polidorus Virgilius.  
Aeneas Silvius.  
Paludanus.  
Apuleius.  
L Caecius Rhodoginus.   

Italian, French and English.  
Pietro Messia de Siviglia.  
Boccaccio.  
Bandello.  
sir Giovanni Fiorentino.  
Straeparole.  
The Queen of Navarre.  
A book in French entitled  
Comptes du monde.  
Francois Belleforest.  
Pierre Boaistuau surnome  
Launay.  
Froisarde.  
Fabian.    

¶ THE PALACE of Pleasure.  

The Romans and the Albans being at wars, for injuries mutually inferred, Metius Suffetius the Alban captain devised a way by a combat, to join both the cities in one. victory falling to the Romans, the Roman victor killeth his sister who notwithstanding, is condemned to die. Afterwards upon his father's suit he is delivered.  
¶ The first Novel.  
NVma Pompilius the second king of the Romans being dead, Tullus Hostilius succeeded, a lusty and courageous young gentleman: For as Numa was given to peace, so was he to wars and valiance. It chanced in his time that certain peasantes of the Roman dition, and the like of the Albans, was foraging and driving of booties the one from the other. At that time reigned in Alba one C. Cluilius. Ambassadors from both places were sent to redemaunde the things stolen. Tullus commanded his people that they should deliver none, till commandment were given in that behalf: for he knew right well that the Alban king would restore nothing, by which occasion be might upon just cause, proclaim wars. He received the Alban Ambassadors in very courteous manner, and they as courteously celebrated his honourable and sumptuous interteignement. Amity proceeded on both parts, till the Romans began to demand the first restitution: which the Albans denied, and summoned wars to be inferred upon them within thirty days after. Whereupon the Ambassadors craved licence of Tullus to speak, which being granted, they first purged themselves by ignorance, that they knew no harm or injury done to the Romans, adding further that if any thing were done that should not please Tullus, it was against their wills, hoping he would remember that they were but Ambassadors, subject to the commandment of their prince. Their coming was to demand a restitution, without which, they were straightly charged to proclaim defiance. Whereunto Tullus answered. Tell your master, that the king of the Romans doth call the gods to witness, whether of them first maketh the quarrel, to th'intent all men may expect the revenge of those wars. Which answer the Alban Ambassadors returned to their master. Great provision, for the wars was made on both parts, much like to a civil contention, almost between the father and the son. For the city of Lavinium was builded by the Troyans', and Alba by the Lavinians, of whose stock the Romans took their beginning. The Albans seeing that they were defied of the Romans, began first to enter in arms, and with a main power pierced the land of the Romans, and encamped within five miles of the city environing their camp with a trench, which afterwards was called Fossa Cluilia, by the mean of their captain, wherein Cluilius the king died. Then the Albans appointed one Metius Suffetius to be their Dictator. Tullus understanding the death of their prince with great expedition marched into the country about Alba, passing by the Albans camp in the night which by the watch and scouts was skried. Then he retired, to lodge as near the enemy as he could, sending an Ambassador before, to require Tullus that he would come to Parle before they fought, wherein he had a thing to say, no less profitable to the Romans, then to the Albans. Tullus not contempnyng that condition, agreed. Whereupon both did put themselves in readiness, and before they foigned, both the captains with certain of their chief officers, came forth to talk, where Metius said these words. The mutual injuries that hath been done, and the withholding and keeping of things carried away, contrary to the truce: and that our king Cluilius, is the author and beginner of these wars, I do hear and assuredly understand for a troth. And I do not doubt, Tullus, but thou also dost conceive the same, to be the only occasion of this hostility. notwithstanding, if I may speak rather the truth, then utter any glozing words by way of flattery, the ambitious desire of both the Emperes, doth most of all stimulate and provoke both the Cities, being of one affinity, and neighbours, to frequent this force of arms. But whether this my conjecture be right or wrong, they ought to consider, which first began the wars. The Albans have created me their captain, of this their enterprise. I come to give advertisement to thee, O Tullus, of this one thing. Which is, that the Tuscans being a great nation, and of power right famous, doth environ us both round about, and the nearer they be unto you, the more knowledge you have of them. They be mighty upon the land, and of great power upon the sea. Call to thy remembrance and consider, that when thou givest the sign and watch word of the battle, our two armies shall be but a ridiculous spectacle to them. So soon as they do perceive us two to be spent, and wearied with fighting, they will both assail the vanquished, and him also that doth overcome. Wherefore if the gods do favour either of us, let us not show ourselves to be weary of our liberty and franchise that is certain, and hazard the Dice to incur perpetual servitude and bondage. Therefore let us devise some otherwaie, whereby the one of us may govern the other, without effusion of blood of either parts.  
This condition nothing displeased Tullus, although in courage, and hope of victory, he was more fierce and bolder than the other. And being in consultation about that purpose, fortune ministered an apt occasion to them both: for in either camps there were three brethren, of age and valiance semblable. The brethren that were in the Roman camp were called Horatij, the other Curiatij. Whereupon a combat was thought meet between these six persons. After the Romans had used their solemn manners of consecrating the truces, and other rites concerning the same, either parts repaired to the combat. Both the armies stood in readiness before their camps, rather void of present peril then of care: for the state of either of their Empires, consisted in the valiautce and fortune of a few. Wherefore their minds were wonderfully bend and incensed upon that unpleasant sight. The sign of the combat was given. The three young men of either side do ioigne with furious and cruel onset, representing the courages of two battles of puissant armies. For the loss consisted in neither those three, but the public government or common thraldom of both the cities, and that was the future fortune, which they did try and prove. So soon as the clashing armure did sound at their first incountrie, and their glittering sword did shine, an incredible horror and fear pierced the beholders, and hope inclining to neither parts; their voice and minds were whist and silent. But after they were closed together, not only the moving of their bodies, and doubtful welding and handling of their weapons, but bloody wounds appeared, two of the Romans falling down stark dead one upon an other: but before, the three Albans were sore hurt. Whereat the Alban host shouted for joy. The Roman Legions were void of hope, amazed to see but one, remain against three: It chanced that he that lived which as he was but one alone, an unmeet match for the rest, even so he was fierce, and thought himself good enough for them all. Therefore to separate their fight, he fleeth back, meaning thereby to give every of them their welcome as they followed. When he was retired a good space from the place where they fought, looking back, he saw them follow a good distance one from an other, and one of them was hard by him, upon whom he let drive with great violence. And whiles the Alban host cried out upon the Curatij, to help their brother, Horatius had killed his enemy, and demanded for the second battle. Then the Romans encouraged their champion with acclamations and shouts, as fearful men be wont to do upon the sudden, and he speedeth himself to the sight. And before the other could overtake him, which was not far of, he had killed an other of the Curatij. Now they were equally matched one to one, but in hope and strength unlike. For the one was free of wound or hurt: cruel & fierce by reason of double victory, the other fainct for loss of blood, and weary of running: with panting breath, and discomfited with his brethren's slaughter, slain before him, is now objected to fight with his victorious enemy, which was no equal match. Horatius' rejoicing said, two of thy brethren I have dispatched: the third, the cause of this battle, I will take in hand: that the Romans may be lords of the Albans. Curiatius not able to sustain his blow, fill down, and lying upon his back, he thrust him into the throat with his sword, which done he despoiled him of his armure. Then the Romans in a great triumph and rejoice interteigned Horatius, and their joy was the greater, for that the fear of their overthrow was the nearer. This combat being ended, the Albans became subject to the Romans, and before Metius departed, he asked Tullus if he would command him any further service. Who willed him to keep the young soldiers still in interteignement, for that he would require their aid against the Verentes The Army dissolved, Horatius like a Conqueror marched home to Rome, the three spoils of his enemies being borne before him. The said Horatius had a sister, which was espoused to one of the Curatij that were slain, who meeting her brother in the triumph, at one of the gates called Capena, and knowing the Coat armure of her paramour, borne upon her brother's shoulders, which she wrought and made with her own hands: She tore and rent the hear of her head, and most piteously bewailed the death of her beloved. Her brother being in the pride of his victory taking the lamentation of his sister, in disdainful part, drew out his sword, and thrust her through, saying these opprobrious words. Avaunt with thy unreasonable love, get thee to thy spouse. Hast thou forgotten the death of thy two brethren that be slain, the prosperous success of thy victorious brother, & chiefly the happy deliverance of thy country? Let that Roman woman what soever she be, take like reward, that shall bewail the death of the enemy. Which horrible fact seemed most cruel to the fathers and people. For which offence he was brought before the king, whom he delivered to be judged according to the law. The law condemned him. Then he appealed to the people. In which appeal P. Horatius his father spoke these words. My daughter is slain, not without just desert, which if it were not so, I would have sued for condign punishment, to be executed upon my son, according to the natural piety of a father. Wherefore I beseech you do not suffer me, whom you have seen in time past, beautified with a noble race and progeny of children, now to be utterly destitute and void of all together. Then he embraced his son amongs them all, and showed the spoils of the Curatiens, saying. Can you abide to see this noble champion (O ye Romans) whom lately ye beheld to go in order of triumph in victorious manner, to lie now bound under the gibbet, expecting for torments of death? Which cruel and deformed sight, the Albans eyes can not well be able to behold, go to then thou hangman, and bind the hands of him, who hath achieved to the Roman people a glorious Empire: Go I say & cover the face of him that hath delivered this city out of thraldom and bondage. Hang him upon some unhappy tree, and scourge him in some place within the City, either amongs these our triumphs, where the spoils of our enemies do remain, or else without the walls, amongs the graves of the vanquished. Whether can ye davise to carry him, but that his honourable and worthy acts, shall revenge the villainy of his cruel death. The people hearing the lamentable talk of his father, and seeing in him an unmovable mind, able to sustain all adversity, acquitted him rather through the admiration of his virtue and valiance, then by justice and equity of his cause. Such was the straicte order of justice amongs the Romans, that although this young gentleman had vindicated his country from servitute and bondage (a noble memory of perfect manhood) yet by reason of the murdre committed upon his own sister, they were very straight and stack of granting him pardon: because they would not encourage the posterity to like inconvenience, nor provoke well doers in their glory, and triumph, to perpetrate things unlawful.   

Sextus Tarqvinius ravisheth Lucrece, who bewailing the loss of her chastity, killeth herself.  
¶ The second Novel.  
Great preparation was made by the Romans, against a people called Rutuli, who had a city named Ardea, excelling in wealth and richesse, which was the cause that the Roman king, being exhausted and quite void of money, by reason of his sumptuous buildings, made wars upon that country. In the time of the siege of that city the young Roman gentlemen banqueted one an other, amongs whom there was one called Collatinus Tarqvinius, the son of Egerius. And by chance they entered in communication of their wives, every one praising his several spouse. At length the talk began to grow hot, where upon Collatinus said, that words were vain. For within few hours it might be tried, how much his wife Lucretia did excel the rest, wherefore (q he) if there be any livelihood in you: Let us take our horse, to prove which of our wives doth furmount. Whereupon they road to Rome in post. At their coming they found the kings daughters, sporting themselves with sundry pastimes: From thence they went to the house of Collatinus, where they found Lucrece, not as the other before named, spending the time in idleness, but late in the night occupied and busy, amongs her maids in the mids of the house spinning of wool. The victory and praise whereof was given to Lucretia who when she saw her husband, gently and lovingly interteigned him, courteously bidding the Tarquinians welcome. immediately Sextus Tarqvinius the son of Tarqvinius Superbus, that time the Roman king was attached and incensed with a libidious desire, to construprate and deflower Lucrece. When the young gentlemen had bestowed that night pleasantly with their wives, they returned to the Campe. Not long after Sextus Tarqvinius with one man returned to Collatia unknown to Collatinus, and ignorant to Lucrece, and the rest of her household, for what purpose he came. Who being right heartily interteigued, after supper was conveyed to his chamber. Tarqvinius burning with the love of Lucrece, after he perceived the household to be at rest, and all things in quiet, he with his naked sword in his hand, goeth to Lucrece being a sleep, and keeping her down with his left hand, said. Hold thy peace Lucrece (q he) I am Sextus Tarqvinius, my sword is in my hand, if thou cry, I will kill thee. The gentlewoman being sore a frayed, newly awaked out of her sleep, and seeing imminent death, could not tell what to do. Then Tarqvinius confessed his love, and began to entreat her, and therewithal used sundry menacing words, by all means attempting to make her quiet: when he saw her obstinate, and that she would not yield to his request, notwithstanding his cruel threats, he added shameful and villainous words, saying. That he would kill her, and when she was slain, he would also kill his slave, and place him by her, that it might be reported she was slain, being taken in adultery. She vanquished with his terrible and infamous threat. His fleshly and licentious enterprise, overcame the purity of her chaste heart, which done he departed. Then Lucrece sent a post to Rome to her father, and an other to Ardea to her husband, requiring them that they would make speed to come unto her, with certain of their trusty friends, for that a cruel fact was chanced. Then Sp. Lucretius with P. Valerius the son of Volesius, & Collatinus with L. junius Brutus, made haste to Lucrece. Where they found her sitting, very pensive and sad, in her chamber. So soon as she saw them, she began piteously to weep. Then her husband asked her, whether all things were well, unto whom she said these words.  
No dear husband, for what can be well or safe unto a woman, when she hath lost her chastity. Alas Collatine, the steps of an other man, be now fixed in thy bed. But it is my body only that is violated, my mind God knoweth is gililes, whereof my death shallbe witness. But if you be men, give me your hands, and truth, that the adulterer may not escape unrevenged. It is Sextus Tarqvinius who being an enemy, in stead of a friend, the other night came unto me, armed with his sword in his hand, and by violence carried a way from me, and took to himself a pestiferous joy. Then every of them gave her their faith, and comforted the pensive and languishing lady, imputing the offence, to the author and doer of the same, affirming that her body was polluted, and not her mind, and where consent was not, there the crime was absent. Whereunto she added. I pray you consider with yourselves, what punishment is due for the malefactor. As for my part, though I clear myself of the offence, my body shall feel the punishment: for no unchaste or ill woman, shall hereafter take example of Lucrece. Then she drew out a knife, which she had hidden secretly, under her kirtle, and stabbed herself to the heart. Which done, she fell down grovelling upon her wound, and so died. Whereupon her father and husband made great lamentation, and as thes were bewailing the death of Lucrece, Brutus plucked the knife out of the wound, which gushed out with abundance of blood, and holding it up said. I swear by the chaste blood of this body here dead, and I take you the immortal gods to witness, that I will drive and extirpate out of this City, both L. Tarqvinius Superbus, and his wicked wife, with all the race of his children and progeny, so that none of them, ne yet any others shall reign any longer in Rome. Then he delivered the knife to Collatinus. Lucretius and Valerius merueiling at the strangeness of his words: And from whence he should conceive that determination. Thes all swore that oath. And followed Brutus as their captain, in his conceived purpose. The body of Lucrece was brought into the market place, where the people wondered at the vileness of that fact, every man complaining upon the mischief of that facinorous rape, committed by Tarqvinius. Whereupon Brutus persuaded the Romans, that they should cease from tears, and other childish lamentations, and take weapons in their hands, and show themselves like men. Then the lustiest and most desperate persons within the city, made theimselues press and ready, to attempt any enterprise. And after a guarrison was placed and bestowed at Collatia, diligent watch and ward was kept at the gates of the city, to the intent the king should have no advertisement of that slur. The rest of the soldiers followed Brutus to Rome. When he was come to Rome, the armed multitude did beat a marvelous fear throughout the whole city: but yet because they saw the chiefest personages go before, that thought, that the same enterprise was not taken in vain. Wherefore the people out of all places of the city, ran into the marketplace. Where Brutus complained of the abominable Rape of Lucrece, committed by Sextus Tarqvinius, whereunto he added the pride and insolent behaviour of the king, the misery and drudgery of the people, and how they, which in time paste were victors and Conquerors, were made of men of war, Artificers and Labourers. He remembered also the infamous murder of Servius Tullius their late kpng. These and such like he called to the people's remembrance, whereby they abrogated and deposed Tarqvinius, banishing him, his wife, and children. Then he levied an army of chosen and piked men, and marched to the camp at Ardea, committing the government of the city to Lucretius, who before was by the king appoineted Lieutenant. Tullia in the time of this hurly burly, fled from her house, all the people cursing and crying vengeance upon her. News brought into the Camp of these events, the king with great fear returned to Rome, to repress those tumults. And Brutus hearing of his approach, marched an other way, because he would not meet him. When Tarqvinius was come to Rome, the gates were shut against him, and he himself commanded to avoid into exile. The camp received Brutus with great joy and triumph, for that he had delivered the city of such a tyrant. Then Tarqvinius, with his children fled to Caere, a city of the etrurians. And as Sextus Tarqvinius was going, he was slain by those that premeditated revengement, of old murder and injuries by him done to their predecessors. This L. Tarqvinius Superbus reigned xxv years. The reign of the kings from the first foundation of the city continued. CC.xliiij years. After which government two Consuls were appointed, for the order and administration of the city. And for that year L. junius Brutus, and L. Tarqvinius Collatinus.   

The siege of Rome by Porsenna, and the valiant delivery thereof by Mutius Scaevola.  
¶ The three Novel.  
WHen P. Valerius and T. Lucretius, were created Consuls, Porsenna king of Hetruria, upon the instigation of the banished Tarquinians, came before the City with an huge army. Whose same did wonderfully appail the Senate: for the like occasion of terror, never before that time chanced to the Romans, who did not only fear their enemies, but also their own subjects, suspecting lest they should be forced to retain the kings again. All which afterwards was through the wisdom and discretion of the fathers, quietly mitigated and appeased, and the city reduced to such a unity and courage, as all sorts of people despised the name of king. When the enemies were approached, the rural people abandoning their colonies, fled for rescue into the city. The city was divided into garrisons: Some kept the walls, and some the way over Tybre, which was thought very safe and defensible. Although the wooden bridge made over that River, had almost been an open way for the enemy's entry, whereof Horatius Cocles, as fortune served that day, had the charge. Who so manfully behaved himself, that after he had broken up and burned the bridge, and done other notable exploits, he defended that passage with such valiance, that the defence thereof seemed miraculous, to the great astonishment of the enemies. In fine Porsenna seeing that he could little prevail in the afsault, returned to the Camp, determining nevertheless to continue his siege. At which time one Caius Mutius, a young gentleman of Rome, purposed to adventure some notable enterprise: saying to the Senators these words. I determine to pass the River, and enter if I can, into the camp of the enemies, not to fetch spoil, or to revenge mutual injuries, but to hazard a greater enterprise, if the Gods be assistant unto me. The Senate understanding the effect of his endeavour, allowed his devise. And then having a sword under his garment, went forth. When he was come into the throng, he conveyed himself as vere to the kings pavilion as he could. It chanced that he was paying wages to his soldiers, by whom his Secretary did sit in such apparel, almost as the king himself did wear. Mutius being a feared to demand, which of them was the king, lest he should betray himself, suddenly killed the Secretary in stead of the king, and as he was making way with his bloody sword to escape, he was apprehended, and brought before the king, and with marvelous stoutness and audacity, spoke these words. I am a citizen of Rome, and my name is Mutius, and being an enemy, I would feign have killed mine enemy. For which attempt I esteem no more to die, than I cared to commit the murder. It is naturally given to the Romans, both valiantly to do, and stootely to suffer. And not I alone have conspired thy death, but a great number of us, have promised the like, and hope to aspire to seblable praise and glory: wherefore if this beginning do please thee, make thyself ready every hour to expect like peril, and to fight for thyself. And make account, that every day even at the door of thy lodging, thy enemy armed doth await for thee: we alone young gentlemen of the City do stand at defiance, and pronounce upon thee this kind of battle. Fear no armies or other hostility. For with thee alone, and with every one of us, these wars shallbe tried. The king atoned with that hold and desperate enterprise, fill into a great rage and fury, commanding Mutius presently to be consumed with fire, unless he would out of hand tell him the order of the purposed and devised treason. Behold O king (q he) how little they care for their bodies, that do aspire and seek for fame and glory. And then he thrust his right hand into the fire, and roasted the same in the flame, like one that had been out of his wits. The king amazed with the strangeness of the fact, stepped down from his seat, and caused him to be taken from the fire, saying. Away friend (q the king) thou hast killed thyself, and adventured hostility upon thyself, rather than against me. Surely I would think myself happy, if like valiance were to be found in my country. Wherefore by law of Arms I set thee at liberty, untouched and without harm, whereunto Mutius for acquiling that desert, answered. For as much as thou hast thus honourably dealt with me, I will for recompense of this benefit, say thus much unto thee, which by threats thou shouldest never have gotten at my hands. Three hundred of us, that be young noble men of Rome, have conspired thy death, even by the like attempt. It was my loft to come first, the rest when fortune shall give opportunity of time, every one his turn will give the adventure. Whereupon he was dismissed, and afterwards was called Scaevola, for the loss of his right hand. Then peace was offered to the Romans, who upon conditions that the enemy's garrisons should be withdrawn from janiculum, and that the country won of the Veientines, should be restored again, gave hostages. amongs whom there was a gentlewoman called Cloelia. delivered into the hands of the etrurians, who deceiving her keepers, conveyed herself and the other pledges from their enemies, and swimming over the river of Tybre, arrived at Rome in safety, which being redemaunded by Porsenna, were sent back again. The king driven into a wonderful admiration for the desperate and manly enterprises, done by the Roman nation, returned the maiden home again to Rome. In whose honour the Romans erected an Image on horseback, placed at the upper end of the street called Sacra via. And so peace was concluded, between Porsenna and the Romans.   

Martius Coriolanus going about to repress the common people of Rome with dearth of Corn, was banished. For revengemeut whereof, he persuaded Accius Tullius King of the Volscians to make wars, upon the Romans, and he himself in their aid, came in his own person. The city brought to great misery, the father's devised means to deliver the same, and sent into the Volscian camp, the mother, the wife and children of Coriolanus. Upon whose complaints Coriolanus, withdrew the Volscians. And the City was reduced to qivetnesse.  
¶ The four Novel.  
IN the year that Titus Geganius & Publius Minutius were Consuls, when all things were quiet abrods, and dissension at home appeased, an other great mischief invaded the city. first a dearth of victuals, by reason the land was untilled, by the people's departure, than a famine, such as chanceth to the besieged: which had brought a great destruction of people, had not the Consuls forséen the same, by provision in foreign places. They sent purveyors into Scicilia: but the malice of the cities adjoining, stayed the provision that was made a far of. The Corn provided at Cumas was stayed for the goods of Tarqvinius by Aristodemus the tyrant, which was his heir. The next year following, a great mass of corn was transported out of Scicile, in the time of the Consuls. M. Minutius and A. Sempronius. Then the Senate consulted, upon the distribution of the same unto the people. divers thought that the time was then come, to bridle and oppress the people, whereby they might recover those privileges, that were extorted from the fathers. amongs which Martius Coriolanus a young gentleman was the chiefest, who being an enemy to the Tribune authority, said these words. If the people will have victuals and corn at that price, whereat it was assised and rated in time past, than it is meet and necessary, that they tender to the fathers, their ancient authority and privilege. For to what purpose be the plebeian Magistrates ordained? For what consideration shall I suffer myself, to be subjugated under the authority of Sicinius, as though I were conversant amongs thieves? Shall I abide these injuries any longer to continue, then is necessary? I that could not suffer Tarqvinius the king, shall I be patient with Sicinius? Let Sicinius depart if he will, let him draw the people after him: the way yet is open to the sacred hill, and to the other mountains. Let them rob us of our Corn, which they took away from our own land, as they did three years pass, let them enjoy the victuals, which in their fury they did gather. I dare be bold to say thus much, that being warned and tamed, by this present penury, they had rather plough and till the land, than they would suffer the same to be uncultured, by withdrawing themselves into Armure. It is not so easy to be spoken, as I thank it may with facility be brought to pass, that upon conditions the prices of victuals should be abated, the fathers might remove the authority of the Tribunes, and disannul all those laws, which against their wills, were ratified and confirmed. This sentence seemed cruel to the fathers, and almost had set the people together by the ears, who would have torn him in pieces, had not the Tribunes appointed a day for his appearance. Whereupon their fury for that time was appeased, Coriolanus seeing the people's rage to increase, and considering that they should be his judge, when the day of his appearance was come, he absented himself, and for lack thereof, was condemned. Then he fled to the Volscians, of whom he was gently interteigned: and lodged in the house of Accius Tullius, the chief of that city, and a deadly enemy to the Romans. Upon daily conference and consultation, had between them, they consulted by what sleight or policy, they might commence a quarrel against the Romans. And because they doubted, that the Volscians would not easily be persuaded thereunto, being so oft vanquished and ill entreated, they excogitated some other new occasion. In the mean time T. Latinius one of the plebeian sort, perceiving that the Romans went about to institute great pastimes, conceived a dream, wherein he saw jupiter to speak unto him, and said that he liked not the towardness of those games, and in case the same were not celebrated, with great royalty and magnificence, they would engender peril to the city, which dream he declared to the Consuls. Then the Senate gave order, that the same should be addressed with great pomp & triumph: whereunto through th'instigation of Accius, a great number of the Volscians resorted. But before the plates begun, Tullius according to the compact agreed upon, between him and Coriolanus, secretly repaired to the Consuls, and taking them a side, declared that he had to say unto them, a matter iouching the public wealth of their city, uttering these words. I am forced against my will to signify unto you a matter, concerning mine own subjects and country men. I come not to accuse them, for that they have already admitted any thing, but I come to give you a premonition, left they should perpetrate some occasion, contrary to the order of your city. The disposition of my country men, is more inconstant than I would wish: which we have felt, to our great loss and decay. The cause of our security at this present, is rather suffered by your patience, then by our desert. Here be at this instant, a great multitude of Volscians Here be games prepared, and the city thoroughly bend to behold the same. I do remember what was done upon like occasion in this city, by the Roman youth. I tremble to think, what may be rashly attempted, wherefore I thought good both for your own sakes; and for avoiding of displeasure, to foretell you of these things. And for mine own part, I purpose immediately to return home, because I will avoid the danger & peril, that may chance by my presence. When he had spoken those words, he departed. The Consuls immediately recompted the request of Accius to the Senate: who more esteeming the parsonage, from whence the same did proceed, than the matter that was spoken, determined to provide a remedy for the same, and immediately caused the Volscians to avoid the city, sending officers about, to command them to depart that night: upon which sudden commandment, at the first they began to marvel, what should be the cause. And afterwards they conceived a great grief and offence, for that unneighbourly enterteignement. And as they were passing out of the city in a long train, Tullius being upon the top of the hill called Ferrentine, to wait for the people, as they passed by, called unto him the chief and principal personages, to provoke them to take that advantage, and then assembled the multitude in the valley, hard by the high way, to whom he pronounced these words. Forgetting all injuries and displeasures past, done by the Roman people against the Volscians, how can you abide the contumelte committed this day, wherein to our great shame and ignomy, they begin to ostentate and show forth their plays. Do not you believe, that even to day, they triumph over you? Is not your departure (think ye) ridiculous, to all the Romans, to strangers, and other cities adjoining? be not your wives and children (trow ye) now passing homewards, laughed to scorn? What think you yourselves be, which were warned to depart, at the sound of the trumpet? What (suppose ye) will all they think, which do meet this multitude retiring homewards, to their great reproach & shame? Truly except there be some secret occasion, whereby we should be suspected to violate the plays, or commit some other crime, and so forced to relinquish the company and fellowship of the hovest, I know not what should be the cause of this repulse? Were we living, when we made such festination to depart? If it may be called a departure, and not a running away, and shameful retire. I perceive ye did not account, this to be a city of our enemies, where I think, if ye had tarried but one day longer, ye had all been slain. They have denounced wars upon you, which if you be men of courage, shall redound to the utter destruction of them, which first gave the defiance. The Vollcians perceiving themselves greatly derided, for considerations before remembered, determined by common accord, to infer wars upon the Romans, under the conduction of Accius Tullius, and Coriolanus. After they had recovered divers of the Roman Cities, they proceeded further, and in sundry places spoiled and destroyed the same, encamping theimselues five miles from Rome, besides the trenches called Fossas Cluilias. In the mean time contention rose, between the people and the fathers, howbeit the fears of foreign parts, linked their minds together, in the bands of concord. The Consuls and fathers reposed their whole confidence in battle, which the common peoplem nowise could abide. Wherefore they were constrained to assemble the Senate, wherein was determined, that Ambassadors should be sent to Coriolanus to demand peace: who returned them again with a froward answer: to this effect, that first they should restore to the Volscians their Country, which they had conquered, that done, he willed them to seek for peace. Yet they sent again Ambassadors, but in nowise they were suffered to come into their camp. Then the priests clad in their ornaments, and other divine furniture, were sent humbly to make petition for peace. And yet they could not persuade them. Then the Roman Dames repaired to Veturia the mother of Coriolanus, and to his wife Volumnia. But whether the same was done by common consent, or through the feminine kind, it is uncertain. It was appointed that Veturia, being an ancient gentlewoman, and mother of Coriolanus, and Volumnia his wife, with her two young children, should go into the Camp, to the intent they by their pitiful lamentation, might defend the city, which otherwise by force, was not able to be kept. At their arrival Venturia was known by one of her sons familiar friends, standyug between her daughter in law, and her two nevies, who carried word immediately to Coriolanus saying I am very much deceived, but that thy mother, thy wife and children be here in the Campe. Coriolanus hearing him say so, descended from his seat, like one not well in his wits, and went forth to embrace his mother. The old gentlewoman from supplications, fill into a great rage, speaking these words. Abide a while before I do receive thy embracementes, let me know whether I am comen to mine enemy, or to my son, or whether I am a prisoner in thy Camp, or thy mother. Alack how long have I prolonged these ancient years, and hoar hears most unhappy, that now first I do behold thee an exile, and then view thee mine enemy. Canst thou find in thy heart, to depopulate and destroy, this thy country, wherein thou waste begotten and brought up? Can not thy rage and fury be mitigated and appeased, when thou didst first put foot, into the limits of this thy country? Did not natural zeal pierce thy cruel heart, when thou didst first cast thine eyes upon this city? Is not the house of thy mother, and her domestical Gods, contained within the walls of youder city? Do not thy sorrowful mother, thy dear wife and children, inhabit within that compass? Wherefore (O I cursed creature) if I had never had child, Rome had not been now assailed. If I had never brought forth a son, I should have laid mine old bones, and ended my life in a free country. But I could never have sustained, or suffered more misery, then is now incident and fallen unto me, nor never more dishonour, then to behold thee in pitiful plight, a traitor to thine own country. And as I am the most wretched wight of all mothers, so I trust I shall not long continue in that state. If thou proceed in this thine enterprise, either sudden death, or perpetual bondage be thy reward. When his mother had ended these words, the whole train of gentlewomen, broke into pitiful tears: bitterly bewailing the state of their Country, which at length did mitigate the stomach of Coriolanus. And when he had embraced his wife and children, he dismissed them. Then he withdrew the Volscian camp from the city, and out of the Roman Province. Upon the displeasure of which fact, he died. It is said, that when he was an old man he used, many times to speak and utter this sentence. That very miserable it is, for an old man to live in banishment. The Romans disdained not to attribute to women, their due praise. For in memory of this delivery of their Country: They erected a Temple, Fortunae Muliebri, to women's fortune.   

Appius Claudius one of the Decemuiri of Rome, goeth about to ravish Virginia a young maiden, which endeavour of Appius, when her father Virginius understood, being then in the wars, he repaireth home to rescue his daughter. One that was betrothed unto her, doth claim her, whereupon rose great contention. In the end her own father, to save the shame of his stock, killed her with a Bochers' knife, and cometh into the Forum, & crieth vengeauce upon Appius. Then after much contention and rebellion, the Decemuiri were deposed.  
¶ The .v. Novel.  
SPurius Posthumius Albus, Aulus Manlius, and P. Sulpitius Camerinus, were sent Ambassadors to Athenes, and commanded to write out the noble laws of Solon, and to learn the Institutions, orders, and Laws of other Greek citées. Upon whose return, the Tribunes were very instant, that at length laws should be enacted and confirmed. And for that purpose, certain officers were appointed, called Decemuiri: with sovereign authority and power, to reduce the same into writing, which were thought meet and profitable for the common wealth. The principal and chief of which number, was Appius Claudius, who committed no less filthy fact, than was done by Tarqvinius, for the rape of Lucrece. The said Appius conceived a libidinous desire, to ravish a young virgin, the daughter of one Lucius Virginius, than a captain in the wars at Algidum, a man of honest and sober life, whose wife was also of right good behaviour, and their children accordingly brought up, and instructed. They had betrothed their daughter, to one L. Icilius of the order of the Tribunes, a man of great stoutness and tried valiance, in the cause of the people. This young maid being of excellent beauty, Appius at the first began to woe by gifts and fair promises: but when he saw that she was impregnable, he devised by wicked and cruel policy, to obtain her, committing the charge of that enterprise to one of his friends, called Marcus Claudius, who went about to prove and maintain, that the maid was his bondwoman, and in nowise would give liberty to her friends, to have time to answer the process made in that behalf, thinking by that means, in the absence of her father, he might at his pleasure enjoy her. As the virgin was going to school in the Forum, the said Claudius, the minister of mischief, laid hands upon her, claimed her to be his bondwoman, for that she was borne of a servile woman, and commanded her to follow him. The maid being afraid was amazed, and the Nurse that waited upon her, cried out. Whereupon the people ran out of their doors, to know the cause of that stir. Claudius' seeing the maid like to be rescued, by the multitude that was assembled, said, that there was no need of that hurly burly, for that he attempted nothing by force, but that he was able to prove by law. Whereupon he cited the maid to appear, her friends promised that she should according to the law, make her appearance, being come before the consistory, where Appius sat in judgement, Claudius began to tell a tale, and process of the cause, whereof Appius beyug the deviser, understood the effect. The effect of the tale was, that the maid was borne in his house, and was the daughter of his own bondwoman, who afterwards being stolen away, was carried to the house of Virginius, and supposed to be his child, which thing he said, he was well able to prove, and would refer the judgement of his cause to Virginius himself: unto whom the greater part of his injury did appertain. In the mean time, he said that it was meet, the maid should follow her master: whereunto the advocates of the maid replied, and said that Virginius was absent, about the affairs of the Common wealth, but if he were advertised of the matter, they knew well he would be at home, within two days after: wherefore they said, that it were against equitée and justice, that process and suit should be made, for claim of children, in the absence of the parents, requiring them to deserre the suit, till the return of the father. Appius not regarding the justice of the case, to the intent he might satisfy his own lust and pleasure, ordained in the mean time, that Claudius the assertor and plaintiff, should have the keeping and placing of the maid, till the father were returned. Against which wrong, many did grudge, although none durst withstand it. But as fortune chanced, immediately after that decree and order was so pronounced, Publius Numitorius, the maids uncle by her mother's side, and Icilius her beloved, were comen home: upon whose return, incontinently Icilius approached near to Appius, and being put back by the Sergeant he cried out a loud in these words. Thou oughtest to put me back from hence (O Appius) with a sword that thou mightest without let, enjoy the thing thou wouldst have kept close and secret. It is I that do purpose to marry this maid, who I doubt not, is right honest and chaste: and also a pudique and pure virgin. Wherefore call together thy Secgeantes, and cause the rods and ears, to be made priest and ready. For I assure thee, the spouse of Icilius shall not remain out of her father's house. No although thou hast taken away from the Roman people, their Tribunes aid and appeals, which be two strong forts and holds, of their common liberty. Is authority given thee, libidinously to abuse our wives and children? Excercise thy cruelty behind our backs, and upon our lives if thou list, so that thou do not contaminate, and defile the the virtue of chastity. Whereunto if thou infer any damage or injury, I will for mine own part, and for the love of my beloved, cry out for the aid of the Romans that he present, and Virginius shall do the like of the soldiers, in the quarrel of his own daughter. And all we together, will implore for the succour of the gods and men. And trust to it, that thou shalt not enjoy thy purpose, before some of us have lost our lives. Wherefore Appius I advise thee, take heed in time. For when Virginius doth come, he will seek remedy to defend his daughter, and will know in what condition and sort she is ordered, if she be referred to the servitude of this man. And for my part, my life shall sooner fail, in defending her liberty, than my faith to her betrothed. Appius perceiving the constancy of Icilius, and that the people was in a great mutiny, and stir, differred the cause of Virginia till the next day: whose friends hoped by that time, that her father would be at home: wherefore with all expedition, they addressed messengers unto him into the camp, for that the safeguard of his daughter, consisted in his presence. In the mean time, the Assertor required the maid, offering to put in sureties: the like offer made Icilius, of purpose to contrive and spend the time, till the arrival of Virginius. The multitude of their own accords, held up their hands, promising to become surety for Icilius, unto whom he gave thanks, weeping for joy, to see their kind behaviour, and said. I thank you most heartily my beloved friends to morrow I will use your friendly offer, but at this present I have sureties sufficient. Whereupon Virginia was bailed. Then Appius repaired home, and wrote to his friends in the camp, that in nowise they should give Virginius leave to come to Rome, which ungracious devise came to late, and took none effect. Whereupon Virginius returned home, and in poor and vile apparel, repaired into the Forum, after whom followed a great number of matrons and advocates. Then he began to require them all of succour and aid, alleging that he was a soldier, and one that adventured himself, for the safeguard and defence of them all: with such like persuasions to the multitude. Semblable words were uttered by Icilius. All which doings being viewed and marked by Appius, in a great fury ascended the consistory. Then M. Claudius the plaintiff began to renew his suit: and before the father could make answer to that plea, Appius gave sentence that the maid was bond, which sentence, seemed so cruel, that it appalled the whole multitude. And as Claudius was laying hands upon the virgin, Virginius stepped to Appius, and said. I have betrothed my daughter to Icilius, & not to thee Appius. My care in the bringing of her up, was to marry her, and not to suffer her to be violated and deflowered. Is it your manner, like savage and cruel beasts, indifferently thus to use your libidinous affections? I cannot tell, whether the multitude here present, will support this enormity, but I am sure the armed soldiers, and such as carry armure will not suffer it. Marcus Claudius being repulsed by the women, and advocates that were present, silence was proclaimed by the Trumpet. Then Appius began to declare how he understood, that all the night before, that certain companies were assembled within the City, to excite and move sedition. For which cause he came with armed men, not to hurt any man that was quiet, but according to the authority of his office, to bridle and repress those, that were troublers of the public state. Wherefore go Sergeant (q he) make room amongs the multitude, that the master may enjoy his servant. Which words he thundered out with great fury, and therewithal the multitude gave place, leaving the poor Puselle to be a pray to the enemy. Her father seeing that he was void of succour and help, to defend the innocency of his daughter, spoke to Appius in this sort. I first do beseech thee Appius, if I have used any unreasonable words against thee, to pardon me, and to impute the same to the father's grief and sorrow. Suffer me I pray thee, to examine the Nonrsse, in the presence of the wench, of the whole circumstance of this matter, to the intent that if I be but a supposed father, I may depart hence with quiet conscience satisfied and contented. Virginius having licence to talk to his daughter and Noursse, departed a side into a place called Cloacina, where the shops be, now called Tavern Novae, and plucking a sharp knife from a Bocher that stood by, he thrust the same to the heart of his daughter, saying. By this only means (daughter) I can make thee free: and looking again towards the judgement feat, he said. This blood Appius I consecrate and bestow upon thee. Which done, with his sword he made way, to pass through the throng, to convey himself out of the city. Then Icilius and Nnmitorius took up the dead body, and showed it to the people, who cried out upon the wickedness of Appius, bewailing the unhappy beauty of that fair maiden, and deplored the necessity of the father. The women exclaimed in lamentable wise, saying: Is this the condition and state of them, that bring forth children? Be these the rewards of chastity? With such like pitiful cries, as women are wont to make, upon such heavy and dolorous enentes. Virginius being arrived in the camp, which then was at the mount Vicelius, with a train of four hundred persons, that fled out of the city, showed to the soldiers the bloody knife, that killed his daughter, which sight astonished the whole Camp: in so much as every man demanded, what was the cause of that sudden chance. Virginius could not speak for tears, but at length he disclosed unto them, the effect of the whole matter, and holding up his hands towards the heavens, said. I beseech you (dear companions) do not impute the wickedness of Appius Claudius upon me, ne yet that I am a parricide and murderer of mine own children: the life of my dear daughter had been more acceptable to me, than mine own life, if so be she might have continued a free woman, and an honest virgin. But when I saw she was led to the rape like a bondwoman, I considered, that better it were her life to be lost, then suffered to live in shame: wherefore my natural pity was converted, to a kind of cruelty. And for mine own part, I do not pass to live long after her, if I thought I should not have your help and succour, to revenge her death. Consider that yourselves have daughters, sisters, and wives, think not therefore, that the fleshly desire of Appius is satisfied with the death of my daughter. And the longer that he doth continue in this security, the more vnbrid●led is his appetite. Let the calamity of an other be a sufficient document for you, to beware like injuries. My wife is dead, by natural fate and constellation, and because my daughter could continue no longer, in honest and chaste life, death is befallen unto her: which although it be miserable, yet the same is honourable. There is now no place in my house for Appius, to satisfy his filthy lust. And I will fail of my purpose, if I do not revenge the death of my daughter, with so good will upon his flesh, as I did discharge the dishonour and servitude of her, from his violente and crnell hands. This succlamation and pitiful complaint, so stirred the multitude, that they promised all to help and relieve his sorrow. Whereupon, the whole Camp were in a mutiny and marched in order of battle to the mount Aventine, where Virginius persuaded the soldiers, to choose ten principal captains, to be head and chief of that enterprise: which with honourable titles of the field, should be called Tribuni. And Virginius himself being elected the chief Tribune, said these words to the soldiers. I pray you reserve this estimation, which you conceive of me, until some better time and apt occasion, aswell for your commodity, as for myself. The death of my daughter, will suffer no honour to be pleasant or welcome to me, during my life. Moreover in this troubled state of the Common wealth, it is not meet for them to be your governors, that be subject and occurant to envy and reproach, if my service shall be profitable unto you, when you have thus created me a Tribune, it shall be no less commodious, if I do still remain a private man. When he had spoken those words, they chose ten Tribunes. And like as the Camp at the mount Aventine, was provoked and stirred to this sedition: even so by means of Icilius and Nomitorius before remembered, the army then being against the Sabines, began to revolt and made the like number of Tribunes, which in array of battle, marched through the city, at the gate Collina with banner displayed, to join with the camp upon the mount Aventine. And when both the camps were assembled, they those out two amongs the twenty Tribunes, to be their generals, called M. Opius, and Sextus Manilius. The Senate careful and pensive for these events eftsoons assembled, but no certain determination was agreed upon. At length they concluded, that Valerius and Horatius, should be sent to the mount Aventine to persuade the people, but they utterly refused the message, unless the Decemuiri were first deposed. The Decemuiri made answer, that they would not give over their authority, till such time as those Laws were ratified, which were treated upon, before they were elected to that office. Of all these contentions the people was advertised by M. Duillius their Tribune. And when both the armies were joined at the mount Aventine, aforesaid: All the multitude of the city, men women, and children, repaired thither, in sort, that Rome was like a forlorn and abandoned place. The father's seeing the city thus relinquished, Horatius and Valerius, with divers of the fathers, exclaimed in this wise. What do ye expect and look for, ye father's conscripte? Will ye suffer all things to run to extreme ruin and decay? Shall the Decemuiri still persist in their stubborn and froward determinations? What manner of government is this (O ye Decemuiri) that ye thus lay hold upon and enjoy? Will ye pronounce and make laws within your own houses, and the limits of the same? Is it not a shame to see in the Forum a greater number of your Catchpolles' and sergeants, then of other sober and wise Citizens? But what will ye do, if the enemy upon the sudden, doth approach the walls? What will ye do if the people understanding that we care not for their departure, do in arms assail us? Will ye finish your government, with the overthrow of the city? But either we must expel and abandon the people, or else we must admit the Tribunes. We shall sooner want our fathers and Senators, than they their plebeian officers. They bereaved and took away from us the Fathers, a new kind of authority, which was never seen before, who now feeling the sweetness thereof, will never give it over. For we can not so well temper our authority and government, as they be able to seek help and secure. The Decemuiri perceiving that they were hated, so well of the Senate, as of the people, submitted themselves. And thereupon Valerius and Horatius were sent to the camp, to revoke the people upon such conditions as they thought most meet. Then the Decemuiri were commanded, to take heed of the people's fury. So soon as the Ambassadors were come to the camp, they were received with great joy and gladness of the people, because they were the beginners of that stir, and supposed that they would make an end of the commotion, for which cause they rendered to them their humble thanks. Then Icilius was appointed to speak for the people, who required to have the authority of the Tribunes restored, and their appeal renewed, with restitution of those laws, which before the erection of the Decemuiri, were ratified and confirmed. They demanded also an impunite and free pardon, to those that first encouraged and incited the soldiers to that enterprise, and the restoring of their liberties. They required to have their enemies the Decemuiri, to be delivered into their hands. Whom they threatened to put to death by fire. Whereunto the Ambassadors answered in this wise. Your requests be so reasonable, that they ought willingly to be granted. All which ye desire to obtain, as a defence and comfort for your liberty, and not to persecute and infest others. Your fury and anger ought rather to be pardoned, then permitted or granted. Ye bear a face and seem to detest and hate severity, and ye your selves incur, and run headlong into all kind of cruelty: and before ye be made free yourselves, ye desire to be lords over your adversaries. Shall our city never be void of tortures and oppressions: sometime of the fathers towards the people, some time of the people towards the fathers? You had more need of a shield to defend you, then of a sword to fight. That man is of a base state and courage, we suppose, that liveth in a City, and beareth himself so upright, as neither he inferreth injury to others, ne yet suffereth wrong himself. If ye show yourselves so terrible, than it is to be supposed, that after ye have recovered your laws and magistrates, and be placed again in your former authority and pre-eminence: ye will also ordain and appoint Laws over us, that shall concern our lives and goods, and every other lightmatter. But for this present I would wish you, to be contented with your former freedom. After the Ambassadors had willed them, to consult upon some determinate answer, they returned to Rome, to make report to the Senate, of the people's requests. The Decemuiri perceiving, that contrary to their expectation, no likelihood was of any persecution, to be done upon them, condescended to those demands. Appius being a man of nature cruel and malicious, measuring the malice of others, by his own malign disposition: spoke these words. I am not ignorant what fortune is now imminente. For I do plainly see, that whiles weapons be delivered to our adversaries, the combat is deferred against us. With blood, envy must be rewarded. I will not any longer delay the time, but deprive myself of the Decemuirate. When the Senate was advertised by the Ambassadors, Valerius and Horatius, of the people's answer: they decreed that the Decemuiri should be deposed, and that Q. Furius the chief bishop, should create the plebeian Tribunes. Wherein also was enacted, that the departure of the people, and mutiny of the soldiers should be pardoned. When these laws were renewed, the Decemuiri went forth, and openly in the assembly deposed themselves, to the great joy and comfort of them all. All which being reported the people: both the soldiers, and the rest of the multitude, repaired before the Ambassadors, unto whom the Ambassadors spoke these words. We now beseech you all, to return into your country, to your domestical Gods, your wives, and children, which we trust shall be right good, happy, and profitable unto you, and to the common wealth. But your modest and sober behaviour, for that no man's ground is violated and destroyed, considering many things, could not suffice the hugeness of this multitude, that part of modesty, I say, carry with you into the City, to your immortal fame and glory. Get ye therefore to the mount Aventine, from whence ye departed, whereas in a place most happy, ye renewed the foundations of your ancient liberty, and there ye shall create your Tribunes. The chief bishop shall be present, to keep the Comirialles. Then the Roman people made Aulus Virginius, Lucius Icilius, and P. Numitorius the Tribunes who with their assistants, first advannced and confirmed the liberty of the people. afterward Virginius was appointed to be the accuser, and Appius chosen to be the defendant. At the day appointed, Appius resorted to the Forum, with a great company of young gentlemen, of the patriciall order, where Virginius began to renew the cruel and abominable fact, which Appius committed in the time of his authority, and said. Oration was first devised & found out, for ambiguous and doubtful causes: therefore I will neither consume time, in accusing him before you, from whose cruelty, ye have by force defended yourselves, nor yet I will suffer him to join to his former wickedness, any impudent answer for his defence. Wherefore Appius all those things, which he wickedly and cruelly one upon an other, thou haste done these two years paste, I do freely forgive thee. But if thou canst not purge thyself of this one thing, that against the order and form of Law (thou thyself being judge) wouldst not suffer the freeman, to enjoy the benefit of his freedom, during the process made of servitude, I will presently command thee to prison. Appius Claudius being now a prisoner, and perceiving, that the just complaints of Virginius, did vehementty incite the people to rage and fury, and that the petitions and prayers of his friends, in nowise could mollify their hearts, he began to conceive a desperation. And within a while after slew himself. Spurius Opius also an other of the Decemuiri, was immediately sent to prison, who before the day of his judgement died. The rest also of that order fled into exile. Whose goods were confiscate. Marcus Claudius also the Assertor was condemned, howbeit Virginius was contented he should be banished the city, and then he fled to Tybur. Thus upon the filthy affection of one nobleman, issued parricide, murder, rebellion, hatred, depriving of magistrates, and great mischiefs succeeding one in an others neck. Whereupon the noble and victorious city, was like to be a pray to foreign nations. A goodly document to men of like calling, to moderate themselves, and their magistery with good and honest life, thereby to give encouragement of virtue, to their vassals and inferiors: who for the most part do imitate and follow the lives, and conversation of their superiors.   

Canduales king of Lydia, showing the secrets of his wives beauty, to Gyges' one of his Guard: was by counsel of his wife, slain by the said Gyges, and deprived of his kingdom.  
¶ The uj Novel.  
OF all follies wherewith vain men be affected, the folly of immoderate love, is most to be detested. For that husband, which is beautified with a comely and honest wife, whose rare excellency doth surpass other, aswell in lineaments proportion, and feature of body, as with inward qualities of mind: if he can not retain in the secrecy and silence of his breast, that excelling gift and benefit, is worthy to be inaugured with a laurel crown of folly. Beauty each man knoweth, is one of nature's ornaments, by her wisdom ordained, not to enter in triumph, as victors use upon gain of victory, with bravery to ostentate their glory, by sound of Shawm & Drum, but thankfully for the same, to proclaim the due praise to the author of Nature. For there is nothing more frail and fading, then the luring looks of Dame beauties eyes, altogether like the flaring Marigold flower, which in the most fervent heat of the summers day, doth appear most glorious, and upon retire of the nights shadow, appeareth as though it had never been the same. And therefore he that conceiveth, rejoice in her uncertain state, is like to him that in his slombring dream, doth imagine he hath found a peerless jewel, of price inestimable, beset with the glistering Diamond: and perfectly awaked, knoweth he hath none such. If God hath endued a man with a wife that is beautiful and honest, he is furnished with double pleasure: such, as rather thanks to him, then vain ostentation is to be remembered. Otherwise, he doteth, either in jealousy or openeth proud vaunts thereof, to such as he thinketh, to be his most assured friends. What joy the sequel thereof doth bring, let the history ensuing report.  
Candaules king of Lydia, had a marvelous beautiful gentlewoman to his Queen and wife, whom he loved very dearly, and for that great love which he bore her, thought her the fairest creature of the world. Being in this loving concept, he extolled the praise of his wife, to one of his guard called Gyges, the son of Dascylus (whom he loved above all the rest of his household, and used his counsel, in all his weighty causes) with in a while after he said unto Gyges these words. It seemeth unto me Gyges, that thou dost not greatly believe the words, which I speak unto thee, of the beauty of my wife, but because eyes be better witnesses of things than ears, thou shalt see her naked. With these words Gyges being amazed cried out, saying. What words be these (sir king) me think you are not well advised, to require me to view and behold the lady my masters in that sort? For a woman seen naked, doth with her clothes, put of also her chastity. In old time honest things were devised for man's instruction, amongs which was used this one thing. That every man ought to behold, the things that were his own. But sir, I do believe assuredly, that she is the fairest woman in the world, wherefore desire me not to things that be unlawful. In this sort Gyges replied, and yet feared lest some danger might happen unto him. Whom Candaules encouraged, saying. Be of good there, and be not afraid, that either I or my wife, go about to deceive thee, or that thou shalt incur any danger. For I will take upon me so to use the matter, as she by no means shall know, that thou haste seen her. I will place thee behind the portal of our chamber. When I go to bed, my wife commonly doth follow. And she being in the Chamber, a chair is set ready, upon which she layeth her clothes, as she putteth them of. Which done she showeth herself a good time, naked. And when she riseth from her chair to go to bed, her back being toward thee, thou mayest easily convey thyself out again, but in anywise take heed, she do not see thee, as thou goest out. Whereunto I pray thee, to have a special regard. Gyges' seeing that by no means, he could avoid the vain request of the king, was ready at the time appointed. Candaules about the hour of bed time, went into the Chamber, and conveyed Gyges into the same, and after the King, the Queen followed, whom Gyges beheld at her going in, and at the putting of her clothes. When her back was towards him: (as he was going out) she perceived him. The Queen understanding by her husband, the circumstance of the fact, neither for shame did cry out, ne yet made countenance, as though she had seen Gyges: but in her mind purposed, to revenge her husbands folly. For amongs the Lydians (as for the most part, with all other nations) it is counted a great shame, to see a naked man. The gentlewoman counterfeited her grief, and kept silence. In the morning when she was ready, by such of her servants, whom she most trusted, she sent for Gyges, who thought that she had known nothing, of that which chanced. For many times before, he used to have access to the queen when he was called. Being come before her presence. She said unto him, Gyges I offer unto thee now two conditions, take whether thou wilt. For either thou must kill Candaules, and take me to thy wife, and the kingdom also, or else thou must die thyself, that thou mayest understand, how in all things not meet to be known, it is not necessary to obey Candaules. For either he must needs die, which gave thee that counsel, or thyself, which didst see me naked, and thereby committed a thing unlawful. Which words for a while, did wonderfully amaze Gyges, than he beseeched the Queen, that she would pardon him from that unlawful choice. When he saw that he could nor persuade her: he required her to show him by what means, he might attempt that enterprise. Marry (q she) even in that place, where thou sawest me naked, when he is a sleep, thou shalt commit that fact. After they had devised the treason, night approached. And Gyges with stout courage, bent himself thereunto. For he saw no remedy, but that he must kill, or else be killed. Wherefore with a Dagger, which the Queen delivered him, he killed Candaules, when he was a sleep. And so got from him both his wife and kingdom. A goodly example to declare, that the secrets of Marriage, ought not to be disclosed. But with reverence to be covered, lest God do plague such offences with death, or other shame, to manifest to the world, how dearly he esteemeth that honourable state.   

King Croesus of Lydia reasoneth with the wiseman Solon, of the happy life of man. Who little esteeming his good advisee Understood before his death. that no man (but by virtue) can in this life attain felicity.  
¶ The vij Novel.  
A Noble gentleman of Athenes called Solon, by thappointment of the Athenians, made laws for that city, and because none of the same laws should be abrogated, for the space of ten years, he bound the Citizens by oath. And that the same might the better be observed: he himself travailed into far countries, as into Egipte to visit king Hamasis, and so to Sardis to king Croesus, where he was liberally interteigned. This Croesus was king of Lydia, son of Haliattes, that brought to subjection great Countries in Asia and Graecia, and gathered together an innumerable mass of money, and richesses. Who three or four days after the arrival of Solon (which was led about by his servants, to view his notable wealth and substance) said unto Solon these words. My friend of Athens, because thy famous wisdom is well known to the world, and I have heard tell of the excellency thereof, and of the greatness of thy travel, where thou hast attaigned to the singular knowledge of Philosophy: I desire to learn of thee (now having seen my great treasures) who is the happiest man and most blessed, that thou knowest in the world. Thinking he would have judged him to be the same. But Solon made answer, that Tellus was the happiest. Who was an Athenien, and had virtuous and honest sons, and they likewise had honest children, all which were that time living. And when by the space of many years, he had led a virtuous and godly life, he died an honourable death in the wars, which the Athenians had with their neighbours, at the battle of Eleusina. Where he was endued with sumptuous funerals, to his great honour and praise. Then Croesus asked him, who was happy next Tellus: thinking he would have attributed to him, the second place. For so the (q he) that is Cleobis and Bito, which were Argives, and lived a contented life. And in all pastimes, to prove force and mastery, they bore away the prize and victory. And of them these things be remembered. When the feastful day of jupiter, was celebrated amongs the Argives. Tkeir mother should be carried to the Temple in a chariot, drawn with a yoke of Oxen, which were not come out of the country, at the appointed time. The young men seeing that the hour was come, entered into the yoke theimselues, and drew the chariot the space of xlv. stades to the Temple. After this act seen of all the people there, th'end of their life was such, as certainly God gave to understand by them, that better it is to die, then live. For the Argives that were assembled about Bito and Cleobis, with shouts and acclamations, praised the good wills of those children, and the women themselves, said that happy was the mother, which brought for the such lineage. Their mother then joyful for that fact, and of the reputation of of her sons, kneeled down before the Image of juno, humbly beseeching her to give to her sons, the thing that were best for a man to attain unto. Her prayer ended, she made her sacrifice, which done, the two young men presently died in the temple. In token of whose noble lives, the Argives erected ii images at Delphos. And to them Solon appointed the second place of blissfulness. Croesus' moved with these words, said unto Solon. Thou stranger of Athenes, is our felicity in such little reputation with thee, that thou dost prefer before us these private men: Solon answered. Sir, shall I assure you of humain things, knowing that God envieth the state of men, and troubleth them so often? In length of time many things be seen, which men would not see, and many things be suffered, that men would not suffer. Let us assign to man's life, the term of lxx years. In which years are the number of xxv M.cc. days, in which computation the leap month, which is February, is not comprehended But if you will that other years be longer, by reason of that month, to th'end the hours may be adjoined to them, that want then the leaps months, maketh the time to amount (above lxx years) to xxv months, and the days of those months amount to m.u. C. But admit that lxx years, with their leap months, be the total somme of man's life, then is producted the some of xxvi M.CC days. Truly one day is not like an other in effect. Even so Croesus I conclude, that man is full of misery. But although your grace, seeming both in wealth, & also in multitude of men, to be a rich & mighty king, yet I cannot answer fully your demand, before I see how well you do end your life. For the rich man is not happier, because he hath long life, except to his riches fortune grant that he lead a good & honest life. Many men be very rich, & yet for all that be not blessed & happy. And many that have but mean wealth, be fortunate. He that is rich & wealthy, and therewithal not happy, excelleth him that is fortunate & happy only in two things, but tother surmounteth the rich man in many things. The two things wherein the rich excelleth tother be these. th'one in satisfying his lust & affection, tother in power & ability, to sustain ill fortune and adversity. And as the mean man is inferior to the rich in those two points, which by fortune be denied him, yet he doth excel him, because he never hath experience of them, he liveth in good & prosperous health, he never feeleth adversity, he doth nothing that is wicked he is a father of good children, he is endued with formosttie & beauty who if beside all those things, he die welt. It is he whom you demand that worthily may be called blessed & happy. For before he die he can not be called blessed: But fortunate he may be termed. For to obtain all (whiles you be a living man) it is impossible. For as one country is not able to serve itself with all commodities, but having one, it lacketh an other: Yet the same country that hath most commodities is the best: And as a man's body having one prefection is not perfect, because in having one, he lacketh an other: Even so he that hath most virtue, & is endued with greatest number of the aforesaid commodities, & so quietly departeth his life, he in mine opinion is worthy to be entitled with the name of a king. A man must expect th'end of every thing whereunto it tendeth. For God plucketh up by the roots many men, to whom he hath given abundance of wealth & treasure. Croesus' misliking the words of Solon suffered him to departed (saying he was a fool, that measured present pleasures no better. After whose departure, the gods begun to bend their indignation & displeasure upon him, because he thought himself the happiest of all men. Long time after Croesus' receiving courage & comfort from Apollo at Delphos: Attempted wars against Cyrus' king of Persia. Who in those wars was overthrown, and taken prisoner, after he had reigned xiiij years, and was brought by the Persians to Cyrus. Then Cyrus caused a stack of wood to be piled up, and Croesus fettered with gives, was set upon the same. Who then remembering the saying of Solon, that no living man was blessed, or in all poincted happy, cried out in lamentable wise. O Solon, Solon, Solon, which Cyrus hearing, caused his interpreters, to demand of him, what the same Solon was. Croesus' with much difficulty told what he was, and declared all the talk, between him and Solon. Whereof when Cyrus heard the report, he acknowledged himself to be also a man, and sore repent, that he went about to burn him, which was equal unto him in honour and richesses, confessing nothing to be stable and certain in the life of man. Whereupon he commanded the fire to be taken away, which then began to flame And so with much a do, he was delivered. Then Cyrus asked him, who gave him counsel to invade his country, to make his friend his foe. Even myself (said Croesus) through unhappy fate, by the persuasion of the greekish GOD, which gave me counsel, to make wars upon thee. For there is no man so mad, that had rather desire war then peace. For in peace sons hurt their fathers, but in wars, father's hurt their children. But that these things be come to pass I may thank the Devils good grace. Afterwards Cyrus interteigned him very honourably, and used his counsel, which he found very wholesome & good.   

Of a father that made suit, to have his own son put to death.  
¶ The eight Novel.  
THere was a man borne in Mardus (which is a Country adjoining unto Persia) called Rhacon, that had seven children. The youngest of them (named Cartomes) afflicted diverse honest men, with great harms and mischiefs. For which cause, the father began to reform him with words, to prove if he would amend. But he little weighing the good discipline of his father: It chanced upon a time that the justices of the country, repaired to the Sessions in that Town, where the father of that child did dwell. Who taking his son, and binding his hands behind him, brought him before the judges. To whom he remembered by way of accusation, all the mischiefs, which his son from time to time had committed, and desired the judges, that he might be condemned to die. The judges amazed at that request, would not themselves give sentence against him, but brought both the father and the son, before Artaxerxes the king of Persia: In whose presence the father still persisted, in the accusation of his son. Why (q the king) canst thou find in thy heart, that thine own son should be put to death before thy face? Ye truly (q the father). For at home in my garden, when the young Lettuce begin to grow, I cut of the bitter and sour stalks from the same. For pity it were, the mother Lettuce should sustain any sorrow, for those bastard and degenerate shrubs. Which being taken away, the prospereth, and increaseth so great sweetness and bigness. Even so (O king) if he be hanged, that hurteth my whole family, and offendeth the honest conversation of his brethren, both myself shallbe increased, and the rest of my stock and ligneage shall in like sort prosper and continue. The King hearing those words, did greatly praise the wisdom of Rhacon, and chose him to be one of his judges, speaking these words before the multitude. He that dare thus severely & justly pronounce sentence upon his own child, doubtless he will show himself to be an incorrupt and sincere judge, upon the offences of other. Then the king delivered the young man, from that present fault, threatening him with most cruel death, if after that time, he were apprehended with like offence.   

Water offered of good will to Artaxerxes the king of Persia, and the liberal reward of the king, to the giver.  
¶ The ix Novel.  
THere was a certain Persian called Sinaetas, that far from his own house met king Artaxerxes, and had not wherewith to present him. (For it was an order amongs the Persians, instituted by Law, that every man which met with the king should give him a present.) Wherefore the poor man, because he would not neglect his duty, ran to a River called Cyrus, & taking up both his hands full of water, spoke to the king in this wise. I beseech God that your majesty, may evermore reign amongs. As occasion of the place, and mine ability at this instant serveth, I am come to honour your majesty, to the intent you may not pass without some present. For which cause I give unto you this water. But if your grace had once encamped yourself, I would go home to my house, for the best and dearest things I have to honour your majesty withal. And peradventure the same shall not be much inferior to the gifts, which other now do give you. Artaxerxes delighted with this chance, said unto him.  
Good follow I thank thee for this present, I assure thee, the same is so acceptable unto me, as the most precious gift of the world. First, because water is the best of all things, then because the River, out of the which thou didst take it, doth bear the name of Cyrus. Wherefore I command thee, to come before me, when I am at my Campe. When he had spoken those words, he required his eunuchs to take the present, and to put it into a Cup of gold. The king when he was lodged in his pavilion, sent to the man a Persian rob, a Cup of gold, and a thousand Darices' (which was a coin amongs the Persians, whereupon was the Image of Darius) willing the messenger to say unto him, these words.  
It hath pleased the king, that thou shouldest delight thyself, and make merry with this gold, because thou didst exhilarate his mind, in not suffering him to pass, without the honour of a present: but as necessity did serve thee, diddeste humbly salute him with water. His pleasure is also, that thou shalt drink of that water in this cup of gold, of which thou madest him partaker.  
Artaxerxes hereby expressed the true Image of a princely mind, that would not disdain cheerfully to behold the homely gift (in our estimation rude, and nothing worth) at the hands of his poor subject: and liberally to reward that ductifull zeal, with things of great price and valour. To the same Artaxerxes, riding in progress through Persia, was presented by one called Mises, a very great Pomegranate in a Siue. The king merueiling at the bigness thereof, demanded of him out of what garden, he had gathered the same. He answered out of his own. Whereat the king greatly rejoicing, recompensed him with princely rewards, saying. By the Son (for that was the common oath of the Persian kings) this man is able with such travel and diligence in my judgement, to make of a little city, one that shallbe large and great. Which words seem to declare, that all things by care, sufficient pain, and continual labour, may against nature, be made more excellent & better?   

The love of Chariton and Menalippes.  
¶ The ten Novel.  
I Will rehearse a fact of the tyrant Phalaris far discrepante from his condictons. For it favoureth of great kindness and humanity, and seemeth not to be done by him. Chariton was an Agrigentine borne, and a great lover of beauty, who with ardent affection loved one Menalippus, which was also borne in the City, of honest conditions and excellent beauty. This Tyrant Phalaris hindered Menalippus in a certain suit. For when he contended in judgement with one of Phalaris friends, the tyrant commanded him, to give over his suit: whereunto because he was not obedient, he threatened to put him to death, except he would yield. But Menalippus over came him in law, and the noble men, which were the friends of Phalaris, would give no sentence, & brought the same to a Nonesuite. Which the young man taking in ill part, said, he had received wrong, and confessed to his friend Chariton, the wrong he had sustained, requiring his aid to revenge the same upon the Tyrant. He made other young men privy to that conspiracy, such as he knew would be ready and apt for that enterprise. Chariton perceiving the rage and fury of his friend, knowing that no man would take his part, for fear of the tyrant, began to dissuade him, saying: that he himself went about the like attempt, a little before, to deliver his country into liberty, out of present servitude, but he was not able to sort the same to any purpose, without great danger. Wherefore he prayed him to commit the consideration thereof unto him, and to suffer him to espy a time apt and convenient. Menalippus was content. Then Chariton revolving with himself that devise, would not make his dear friend a partaker of that fact lest it should be perceived but he alone took upon him to do the deed, that only himself might sustain the smart. Wherefore taking a sword in his hand, as he was seeking the way to give the assault upon the tyrant, his enterprise was disclosed, and Chariton apprehended by the Guard, which for the tyrants defence, diligently attended about him. From thence he was sent to the jaole, and examined upon interrogatories to bewray the rest of the conspirators. For which he suffered the rack, and the violence of other torments. Afterwards Menalippus remembering the constancy of his friend, and the cruelty by him stoutly suffered, went to Phalaris, and confessed unto him that not only he was privy to that treason, but also was the author thereof. Phalaris demanding for what cause he did it, told him the consideration before rehearsed, which was the revoking of sentence, and other injuries done unto him. The Tyrant marveling at the constant friendship of these twain, acquitted them both. But upon condition, that both should depart out of the city and country of Scicilia. Nevertheless, he gave them leave to receive the fruits and commodities of their revenues. In record and remembrance of whose amity Apollo, sang these verses.  
The Raiser's up of heavenly love,  
amongs the humane kind:  
Were good Chariton and Menalippe,  
whose like unneths we find.  
This Phalaris was a most cruel Tyrant of the city of Agrigentine in Scicilia, who besides other instruments of new devised torments, had a bull made of brass, by the art and invention of one Perillus. Into which bull, all such as were condemned to death were put, and by reason of extreme heat of fire, made under the same, those that were executed, yelled forth terrible sounds and noises, like to the lowing of a bull. For which engine and devise, Perillus' thinking to obtain great reward, was for his labour, by commandment of the Tyrant, thrown into the bull, being the first that showed the proof of his devise. Within a while after, also Phalaris himself, for that his great cruelty, could be sustained no longer, was by a general assault, made upon him by the people, haled into the same Bull, and burned. And although this Tyrant far excelled in beastly cruelty, yet there appeared some spark of humanity in him, by his mercy extended upon Chariton and Menalippus, the two true lovers before remembered. the same Phalaris wrote many proper and short Epistles, full of virtuous instructions, and wholesome admonitions.   

King Cyrus persuaded by Araspas, to dispose himself to love a lady called Panthea, entereth into a pretty disputation and talk, of love and beauty. Afterwards Araspas himself falleth in love with the said Lady, but she endued with great chastity, avoideth his earnest love. And when her husband was slain in the service of Cyrus, she killed herself.  
¶ The xj Novel.  
BEfore the beginning of this historic, I have thought good by way of a poem, to introduce the words of an excellent writer called Lodovicus Caelius Rhodoginus. Saint Jerome (saith he) that most holy and eloquent father, affirmeth that virtues are not to be pondered by the sex or kind, by whom they be done, but by the mind. Wherewith if ever any woman was affected, truly it was the fair lady Panthea, wherein I would no man should blame me of ungodliness, or indiscretion, for that I do remember a woman, mentioned in profane authors, being not minded at this present, to make a view of Christ his secrets, which are his divine scriptures, wherein be contained, the ghostly lives of sacred dames, wherein also abundantly doth shine and glitter, the celestial mercy of our heavenly father. Let the reader remember, that we now be conversant in the ancient monuments, of other profane authors, and out of them do select the pleasantest flowers, to adorn this Palace, whereby we may be able to delight the wearied beholders of the same. This Panthea therefore as Xenephon writeth, and partly as S. Jerome reporteth, was the wife of Abradatas, a noble parsonage, and in warlike facts very skilful, dearly beloved of Cyrus' king of Persia, with whom this Lady Panthea was captive, at the overthrow of the Assyrians. Netherto the words of Calius. King Cyrus when his enemies were vanquished, hearing tell of this gentlewoman, called unto him one of his gentlemen, named Araspas, which was a Median borne, the very minion, play fellow, and companion of Cyrus, from his youth. To whom for the great love that he bore him, he gave the Median rob of from his own back at his departure from Astyages, into Persia. To this gentleman, king Cyrus committed the custody of the Lady, and of her tent. Abradatas her husband (when she was taken prisoner) was before sent in embassage to the king of Bactria, by the Assyrian king, to entreat of peace, because he was his familiar friend. When Araspas had received the keeping of the Lady. He asked Cyrus, whether he had seen her. No truly said Cyrus. Then have I, said (Araspas): and have chosen her specially for your own person. And when we came into her Pavilion, none of us could tell, which was she, for she set upon the ground, with all her women about her, and her apparel was like unto her maids. But we desirous to know, which was the masters, beheld them all, and by and by she seemed to excel them all, although she sat with her face covered, looking down upon the ground. And when we had her to rise up, all the rest rose up also. She did far surmount her maids, as well in making and lineaments of body, as in good behaviour and comeliness, although she was attired in simple apparel, the tears manifestly ran down her eyes, falling upon her garments, and distilling down to her feet. To whom he that was most ancient amongs us said. Be of good cheer Lady. We here that you have a very valiant man to your husband, notwithstanding we have chosen you for a gentleman, that is not inferior to him, either in beauty, force, wisdom, or valiance. But as we think, if there be any man in this world, worthy of admiration, it is Cyrus our Prince and lord, whose paragon we have chosen you to be. When the lady heard them say so she tore the attirement from her head and body, she cried out, and all her maids skriched with her. At what time the greatest part of her face appeared, and so did her neck and hands. And assure yourself (Cyrus) that to us, which viewed her well, it seemed impossible, that such a creature could be borne of mortal parents in Asia. Therefore sir, look upon her in any wise. To whom Cyrus said. The more praise ye give her, the less mind I have to see her, if she be such a one as you have said. And why so (quoth) Araspas. Because (said Cyrus) if I should go to see her hearing you make this report of her beauty (leisure not serving me thereunto) I am a frayed, lest she would soon allure me, to go many times to behold her. Whereby I might perchance, grow negligent in my matters of greatest importance. The young man smiling, said. Think you Cyrus that the beauty of a woman, can force a man unwilling, to attempt a thing that should not be for the best If nature have that force in her, she would compel all men a like. Do you not see, that fire burneth all men, after one sort, because it is his nature? Beautiful things be not had in equal estimation, some Bee of great price, some not so, some do regard this, some that. For love is a voluntary thing, and every man loveth what he list. The brother is not in love with the sister, but of an other she is loved. The father is not in love with the daughter, and yet she is loved of an other. For fear and law is sufficient to refrain love. But if there were a law made to command men, that they which did not eat, should not be hungry, and they that did not drink, should not be a thirst, and that no man should be cold in Winter, and hot in Summer, that law could not compel men to obey those things. For men by nature be subject unto them. But to love is a thing free and voluntary. Every man loveth those things, that be his own, as his apparel and other his necessaries. Whereunto Cyrus replied. If love be voluntary: how can it be that a man may abandon the same, when he list? But I have seen men weep for sorrow of love, I have known them that have been slaves to love, who before they have loved, have thought thraldom, the greatest evil: giving away many things, which had been better for them to have kept: and have prayed to God to be exonerated of love, above all other diseases, and yet could not be delivered, being bound with stronger imprisonment, then if they had been tied with chains, yielding themselves to their lovers, serving them with all obedience. And when they be hampered with such mischiefs, they seek not to avoid them. They do so in deed as you say (answered the young man,) And therefore such lovers be miserable, whereby they wish to die, still continuing in their woe and calamity. And where there be a thousand ways to be rid of life, yet they will not die. Some of them fall to stealing and robbing of other men. And when they have rob, you with the first thinking theft unnecessary, do condemn the thieves, whom you do not pardon, but punish. In like manner the beautiful, do not counsel men to love them, or covet that is not lawful. But miserable men, showing themselves inferior to all lusts and desires, do in the end accuse Love, to be the author of their misery. Good and honest men, although they desire gold, beautiful horses, and fair women, yet they can abstain from them all, as not subject to them, more than is meet. For I myself have beholden this woman, which seemeth to be a surpassing fair wight: and yet I am now with you, I ride, and do other things, according to my duty. Peradventure (said Cyrus) you went sooner away, then love could have time to fasten upon a man. For fire touching a man, doth not strait burn him: And wood is not by and by in flame, yet would I not willingly touch fire, nor behold beautiful persons. And I would give you counsel Araspas, to beware how you suffer your eyes to roll, and wander upon fair women. For the fire burneth them, that touch it: And beautiful folk, do kindle them that behold them a far of, in such wise that they burn for love. I warrant you Cyrus (said Araspas). For if I do continually look upon them, I will not so be drowned in love, that the same shall provoke me to do any thing that doth not become me. You say well said Cyrus. Therefore keep this woman as I bid you, and see well unto her. For peradventure she is taken in good tyme. And so they departed.  
The young gentleman marking the singular beauty of the Lady, and perceiving her great honesty, he having the custody of her, thought he would do her pleasure, and by gesture saw that she was not ingrate and unthankful, but very diligent on her part, to cause her servants, that all things at his coming should be ready: And if he were by chance sick, he lacked no keeping, upon which occasions, he fell in love with her. And no marvel. For she was (as before is said) a woman very fair and amiable. Afterwards king Cyrus desirous to send a spy into the country of Lydia, to learn what the Assyrians did: Araspas which had the keeping of the fair Lady, seemed most meet for that purpose. But Araspas chanced to fall in love with the Lady, in such wise as he was forced, to break his mind to her, that he must needs satisfy his pleasure. Which request, like a faithful and loving woman to her husband in his absence, she denied. Howbeit she would not accuse Araspas to Cyrus, being afraid to set variance between two friends. Araspas' thinking it a great shame and reproach unto him, not to obtain his desire: threatened the Lady, that if she would not yield to his request, he would have it perforce. Then the woman fearing violence, kept the thing no longer secret, but sent one of her eunuchs to Cyrus, commanding him to discover the whole matter. Which when he heard, he laughed a good pace at him, who said that he was superior to love, sending Artabasus with the Eunuch, to command him, not to force the woman: but if he could by fair means allure her, he would not be against it. When Artabasus came to Araspas: he rebuked him, both for his infidelity, in the thing committed unto his charge and also for his wickedness, injury, and incontinency. Wherewithal Araspas wept for sorrow, being oppressed with shame, and confounded with fear, for the displeasure of Cyrus. Which thing Cyrus understanding called him, and privily said thus unto him.  
I see Araspas that you be afraid of me, and much ashamed. But be content, for I know that the Gods have been vanquished with love, and do understand, what things the wiseste men have suffered for the same. And I have accused myself, because I could not contain, being in company with fair personages. And hereof I myself am the occasion. For I compelled you to that invincible matter. Araspas' making answer, said: You be in this thing, O Cyrus, even like unto yourself, as you be in all other. You be merciful, and full of clemency. But other men's report is, that, which maketh me most pensite. For so soon as the rumour of my calamity, is dispersed, mine enemies will rejoice, and my friends will counsel me to flee, lest your majesty do heinously take revenge for mine offence. Well Araspas, said Cyrus: By that opinion and brute, you shall do me great service, amongs my confederates. How can that be (said Araspas? How can I therein do you any service? If presently (q Cyrus) you do make as though you fled from me, and by going unto mine enemies, you may win of them great credit. verily (said Araspas) I suppose that I and my friends, might raise a rumour in deed, that I am fled from you for fear. So may you (said Cyrus) return unto us again, when you know our enemy's secrets. For I think they will make you privy to all their counsel and advises, because you shallbe incredite with them, nothing shallbe concealed from you, that we desire to know. I will even now departed (said Araspas) for it is very likely, that this my departure, may seem to be an argument of truth, because I fled for fear of punishment. Can you in that manner forsake fair Panthea (q Cyrus?) Truly (said he) it evidently now appeareth, that I am endued with two minds. And with the one I have played the Philosopher, with love that untrue Sophistre. For there is no one mind, which is good and bad, and at one time, loveth good and evil things, and can not at one instant, perpetrate and do one thing. Wherefore it is manifest, that there be two minds. When the good mind ruleth, it doth things that be honest, when the evil is superior, it worketh ill. And now the good mind, by making you his friend and confederate, doth puissauntlie govern. Well (said Cyrus) if you go, you must beware, that your credit may increase amongs them. Tell them hardly, the some of our endeavours, but in such wise, as our doings may be lets to their enterprises. And this shall let them much if you say that we determine to invade their country. For hearing this, they will not assemble their whole power, every man fearing his private part. And see that you tarry with them a good space. And look what parts, they mean nearest to approach, the same be most convenient for us to know. And bid them to be ready, when soever they think time. For when you shall be departed from them, and thought that you know their order, they must needs keep the same, and be a frayed to alter it, which if they do, they will confound themselves, through the sudden change.  
Thus Araspas departing, telling his most trusty servants, what he would have done in this matter, went his way. But Panthea hearing that Araspas was gone, sent to Cyrus, saying.  
Be not sorry Cyrus for the departure of Araspas, to your enemies. For if you will suffer me, to send for my husband, I do promise you, that he shallbe a far more assured friend, than Araspas was. And I know he will come with so great power (for your aid) as he is able to make. For the father of the Assyrian king, which now reigneth, was his friend. But this king upon a time, went about to make a divorcement, between my husband and me. Therefore, knowing that this king, doth disdain his good fortune, I am sure he would soon be persuaded, to serve so noble a Prince as you be. Cyrus' hearing her say so, commanded her to send to her husband, which she did. Abradatas knowing his wives tokens, and understanding the effect of her message, speedily came to Cyrus' with M M horsemen. They that were the Persian spies, sent to Cyrus, declaring what he was. Cyrus commanded that forthwith, he should be brought unto his wife. When the wife and husband saw each other, they embraced like two, that met after such troublesome adventure. Then Panthea declared the goodness, temperance, and clemency of Cyrus toward her. Abradatas hearing of her interteignement, said. What shall I do Panthea, to render thanks to Cyrus, for you and me? What other thing (said Panthea) but to endeavour yourself, to be such a trusty friend to him, as he hath been towards you. Then Abradatas went to Cyrus, and when he saw him, he took him by the right hand and said. For the pleasures that you have done me, O Cyrus, I have no more to say, but that I assure myself unto you, as your friend, your servant and confederate. And what soever I see you desire, I shall employ myself, to the uttermost of my power, to aid and help you in the same. To whom Cyrus said I accept you, and for this time dismiss you, to go and sup with your wife. Then you shall again be placed in my Lente, with your friends and mine. And when Abradatas saw the preparation of Cyrus, that he made against his enemies, he addressed to make provision for himself. His wife Panthea, had made of her treasure, a Curate and an helmet of gold, and likewise his vambraces, and had furnished the horses of the Chariot with brazen barbs. When Cyrus had made divers orations, for the incoraging of his army, and had taken order, how all things might prosperously succeed, dividing his Captains into several battles, appointing every of them their charge: Abradatas showed himself very brave, and martial in his Chariot. Who being about to put on a linen breast plate, according to his Country manner: his wife Panthea brought him an armure of gold, and a Purple gown down to his feet, after rob fashion, and a Crimson scarf. These things had she privily wrought for her husband, knowing the measure of his harness, which when her husband saw, he marveled, and said to Panthea. Wife, have you not defaced your jewels, to make me this armure? Truly (said Panthea) I have a more precious jewel than this. For if you seem to other, as you do to me, you are my dearest jewel. In saying thus, she armed him, and would that no man should have seen her: for the tears distilled down her cheeks. Abradatas being in the front of the army, armed after this manner, appeared a gallant and brave captain, whose nature and complexion, agreed to his comeliness. And taking the rains of the Chariot in his hands, he prepared himself to mount up.  
Then Panthea, all other being commanded to stand back, said. Truly Abradatas, if there be women, that esteem their husbands, more than their own lives, I think you know that I am one of them. Therefore what need I to express, every particular thing. My facts, as I think, do persuade you, more than words. And thus endeavouring myself towards you, our mutual love is such, that I had rather be buried quick with you, being a noble man, then to live in shame. I esteem you with the best, and myself not as the worst. Great thanks we own to Cyrus, for his Princely interteignement of me, being a captive, and chosen for himself, not like a prisoner with shame, but free, without spot or blemish to mine honour. And used me, as though I had been his brother's wife And after Araspas departed from him, which had the custody of me, I promised him, that if he would give me leave to send for you, that you should become more loyal, and assured to him, than ever Araspas was. Abradatas delighted with her chaste communication, & tenderly laying his hand upon her head: Looking up to heaven, made this prayer. O most mighty jupiter, grant that I may show myself an husband, meet for Panthea, and a friend worthy of Cyrus, who hath so courteously dealt with us. Thus speaking at the entry of the Chariot seat, he went up to the same, when he was set down, the governor of the Chariot made fast the seat. Panthea having now nothing to embrace, kissed the chariot seat. And he went forth. But Panthea followed him privily, till he turned and spied her, to whom he said. be of good comfort Panthea, A dieu and farewell. Then her eunuchs and women, conveyed her to her own Chariot, covering the same with curtains.  
Cyrus' after the battle and victory, had against Craelus: called divers of his men unto him, and demanded if they saw Abradatas. For I marvel (said he) he cometh not unto me now. For before the battle, many times he appeared in my presence. Whereunto one of his men answered. The cause is (sir) that he is not a live. For he was slain in the battle, as he invaded the Aagiptians. The rest of his company, except his own soldiers, fled from him, when they saw him incountre with the Egyptian battle. And when he was dead, his wife Panthea took him up, & laid him in her own waggon: conveying him to a certain place, by the River Pactolus. And (they say) that her eunuchs do dig a grave to bury him. His wife sitteth upon the ground, appareled with those furnitures that he did wear, leaning her head upon her knees. With which words, Cyrus was driven into great sorrow, striking himself upon the thigh, and by and by mounted upon his horse. And taking with him M. horsemen: he went to mourn for his friend Abradatas. More over he commanded Gadatas and Gobryas, to carry the fairest apparel they could get, to his good and honest friend that was dead, and to assemble his oxen and horse, and all his beasts and cattle wheresoever they were, that they might be sacrificed to Abradatas. But when he saw Panthea, sitting upon the ground, and the dead corpse lying by her, he wept for sorrow, and said. Alack good woman, thou trusty and faithful wife, dost thou thus departed and leave us alone? And with those words he took her by the rght hand, and therewithal was presented the dead hand of Abradatas, which the Egyptians in the battle had cut of: which when Cyrus saw, he then lamented, more than he did before. And Panthea cried out. Who comforted by Cyrus, kissed the dead hand, laying the same again in his place, so well as she could, and said.  
Thus it is chanced Cyrus: but why do you beheld the dead body? This I know (q she) he hath suffered for me, being none of the lest adventures, which he hath hazarded for my sake. And perchance Cyrus, he would have done no less for you. For I exhorted him (like a fool as I was) to attempt this enterprise, that he might have showed himself a friend, of worthy remembrance. But he obeyed that request, not only for my sake, but to pleasure you: He hath valiantly bestowed his life and is dead, and I unhappy caitiff that gave him first counsel, do sit hear alive. But Cyrus for a certain space holding his peace, powered forth abundance of tears, and then said. This gentleman (Lady Panthea) hath a commendable end, for he died in victory. But take these furnitures, and adorn him therewithal. For Gobryas and Gadatas were come with goodly and very excellent apparel. Then he said, be sure he shallbe honoured with greater things than these. A monument also, according to his worthiness, shallbe erected upon his grave. Sacrifice shallbe offered, meet for a man so valiant and puissant. Thou likewise shalt not be left comfortless. For in consideration of thy great chastity and virtue. I will honour thee, and appoint a garrison to convey thee into what place thou art disposed to go. To whom Panthea said. Be of good cheer Cyrus, I will not hide from you the place, wherein I am determined to bestow myself. Cyrus' hearing her say so, went away, pitying the woman, that was bereaved of such a husband, and lamenting the man, that had left such a wife behind him, and was like no more to see her again. But Panthea commanded her eunuchs to go out of the place, till she had satisfied herself with tears, and lamentations for her husband. For the prepared to kill herself, requiring her Nurse to tarry by her, commanding her, that when she was dead, she should shroud her and her husband, in one garment. The Nurse persuaded the Lady, with humble words and supplications, from her determination. But she could not prevail: and when she saw that her masters, took her words in ill part, she sat down and wept. But Panthea with a sword, which she had prepared a long time for that purpose, killed herself, and laying her head upon her husebandes' breast, she yielded from her chaste body, her innocent ghost. The Nurse seeing that, cried out, and covered them both, as she was commanded. Cyrus' understanding the woman's fact, was amazed, and speedily went to see, if she might be helped. The eunuchs (being three in number) seeing their masters dead, they likewise drew out their sword, & killed themselves in the place, where they were commanded to stand. For memory of which fact Cyrus created a noble monument, to the perpetual praise of chastity, & honest love. Which (as Xenophon reporteth) remained to his days, with their names engraven in Syrian letters.   

Abdolominus is from poor estate, advanced by Alexander the great, through his honest life, to be king of Sydone.  
¶ The twelve Novel.  
ALexander the mighty and noble Emperor, after he had subdued Darius the Persian king: at length came to Sydone, a famous city, by reason of the ancient fame of the first founders. The same city was under the government of Strato, and maintained by the puissance of Darius, who yielding more by force of the people, then by free will, was thought unworthy, to reign and rule there. Alexander at the request of his friend Ephestion, willed him to appoint one to be king, whom the Citizens should think most worthy of that state. After proffers of Ephestion, to divers of the young gentlemen of that city, and refusal made of their parts: they alleged that none ought to enjoy the dignity of their king, but such as were descended of the royal blood. Thinking none to be more meet for that state, than one Abdolominus, who being of the royal race, for poverty was enforced to inhabit a little cottage without the city. His good life was the cause of his poverty, as it is to many other: & labouring in his daily travel, understood not the brute of the war, that troubled all Asia. Ephestion and the young gentlemen repaired to his garden, with garments to garnish him like a king, and found him making clean his garden, whom they saluted, and said. You must exchange your homely clothes, with these rich robes, wherewith we here present you. Wash your body that now is foul and unclean, take upon yond the courage of a king: and in this state (whereof you be worthy) express the same sobriety and continency, you do presently use. And when you sit in your regal seat, using the authority of life & death of your subjects: Do in no wise forget the fortune, wherein you were before you were made king, ne yet for what purpose you did receive it. The matter seemed to Abdolominus like a dream: and demanded of them, if their wits were found, that did deride him in that sort. But when he saw them bind by oath, their doings to be of troth, he washed himself, and taking the garment, which was purple and gold, went with them into the palace. The fame was diversly bruited of this fact. Some favoured the cause, and some did frown against it. But such as were rich, did reprove his poverty and base estate, to those that were near about Alexander, which made the king to send for him. And when he had long be holden his manner and order, said. Your parsonage doth not degenerate, from the fame of your progenitors. But I would feign know, how patient you were, in the time of your poverty. I would to God (q Abdolominus) I could bear my prosperity in like case now I am king. These hands did get that I desired. And having nothing, I lacked nothing. Which words made Alexander, conceive a good opinion of him. To whom he restored the riches of the king before, and divers other things, taken away by the Persians.   

The oration of the Scythian Ambassadors to Alexander the great, reproving his ambition, and desire of Empire.  
¶ The xiij Novel.  
TVllie in the first book of his Offices saith, that very miserable, is ambition and desire of honour: and that most men, which be given to cupidite of government, honour and glory be forgetful of justice. The truth of which grave words, uttered by a Prince of eloquence, the rude and barbarous Ambassadors of Scythia, in plain and homely talk, boldly did pronounce to king Alexander (surnamed Magnus) when he was about to invade their country. For when he had within three days finished twelve thousand boats, to transport his army over the famous river of Tanais (which divideth Asia from Europa) against the poor Scythians, twenty Ambassadors of the Scythians came to Alexander's camp, to speak with him, to prove if they could by words, withdraw his intended purpose: Before whom when they were placed, the eldest of them spoke these words. If the gods had given thee a body, according to the immoderate desire of thy mind, the whole world could not be able to hold thee. With one of thy hands, thou wouldst touch the orient, and with thy other hand the Occident. And when thou hast gotten that: thou wilt desire to know, where the brightness of the Divine Majesty is placed. Thus thou covetest after the thing, thou art not able to receive. Out of Europa thou marchest into Asia, and out of Asia thou passest into Europa. Afterwards, if thou dost vanquish all mankind: thou must make war with woods and snows, with rivers and wild beasts. What? Dost thou not know, that great trees grow long, and yet be rooted out of the ground in a moment: He is a fool that looketh after the fruit; and doth not measure the height of the Tree, whereon it groweth. Take heed lest while thou dost contend to climb to the top, thou fallest down with the bows, which thou dost embrace. The Lion also sometime is made the feed of the smallest birds. And rust consumeth Iron. There is nothing so firm, that is not in peril of the weak. What have we to do with thee? We never touched thy land. What thou art, and from whence then comest, is it not lawful for us to to be ignorant, that live in the waste woods? We can not be subject to any man, and we desire not to rule. We have certain gifts peculiar unto us, because thou shalt not be ignorant, of the state of our nation. The yoke of Trens, the Plough, the Dart, and the bowl: Those things we use, both with our friends, and against our enemies. Unto our friends we give the fruits, gotten with the labour of our oxen. And with them in our Bowl, we sacrifice wine to the Gods. Our enemies we strike with the Dart a far of, and with the spear near at hand. After that sort in time past, we overcame the king of Scythia, and afterwards the king of Media and Persia, and the way was open unto us into Egypt. But thou which dost boast, that thou art come to persecute thieves, art the common thief of all nations, whereunto thou makest thy repair. The Country of Lydia thou hast taken. Thou hast enjoyed Syria. Thou dost possess Persia, and the Bactrianes be under thy power. Thou doest go into India. And now thou extendest thy unstable and greedy hands upon our cattle. What need hast thou of those riches, which do make thee so hungry? Thou art the first of all men, which with satiety hast gotten famine, that the more thou haste, the more gredelie thou covetest after things thou hast not. Dost thou not remember, how long thou hast slicked about Bactria? And whiles thou goest about to bring them in subjection, the Sogdians begin to revolt. Thus war doth grow unto thee of thy victory. For be thou never so great, and puissant over other, yet there be none that can induce to be governed by strangers. Pass now Tanais, thou shalt perceive what breadth it beareth, and yet thou shalt never overtake the Scythians, whose poverty is swifter, than thy army, which carrieth the spoil of so many nations. For when thou shalt think us to be far of, thou shalt see us within thy camp, with like swiftness we follow, and flee away, I hear that our deserts & void places, be mocked by the Greek proverbs, we covet rather those deserts and places unhabited, than cities and plentiful soils. Therefore hold fast thy fortune, for she is tickle and can not be holden against her will. Follow thou the counsel that is good, specially whiles the time doth serve. Bridle thy felicity, and thou shalt rule it the better. Our country men say, that Fortune is without feet, and that she hath only hands and wings, but when she stretcheth forth her hand, she will not suffer her wings to be touched. Finally, if thou be a God thou oughtest to give benefits to mortal men, and not to take away the commodities they have already: but if thou be a man: consider that thou art alway the same that thou art. It is foolish part to remember those things, and to forget thyself. Those people that feel not thy wars, thou mayest use as thy friends. For friendship is most firm and stable amongs equal, and those seem to be equal, that have not used force & violence amongs themselves. Beware thou take them not for thy friends, whom thou dost subdue, and bring in obedience. There is no friendship between the master and the servant, and in peace the law of arms is observed. Believe not that the Scythians do bind friendship with any oath. For they make their oath, by observation of faith. The manner of the Greeks, is to justify their facts, by invocation of their Gods to witness. But we know, that Religion consisteth in faith herself. They which do not reverence to men, do beguile the Gods. Thou haste no need of him to be thy friend, of whose friendship thou standest in doubt. Thou haste us as keepers of Asia and Europa. For we should touch the Country of Bactria, were it not for Tanais, which divideth us. And beyond Tanais all is ours so far as Thracia, and the fame is that Thracia bordreth upon Macedonia: we being neighbours, to both thy dominions, chose now whether then wilt have us, friended or foes. These were the words of the Scythians. Howbeit these homely and plain advertisements, could not divert king Alexander from his intended enterprise, and according to his desired success, he overcame them.   

The words of Metellus of marriage, and wiving with the praise and dispraise of the same.  
¶ The xiiij Novel.  
IN the presence of many learned men of Rome, Metellus surnamed Numidicus, for his victories and triumph over jugurtha King of Numidia, a Country in Africa: In the time of his office of Censor, made an Oration before the Roman people, of marriage of wines, upon occasion that he himself, by divers of his friends, was persuaded to that state. Against which he used many vehement invectives and terms, which Aulus Gellius omitteth, for that he was loath to offend (when report thereof should be bruited) the nice cares, and loving minds of the matrons, and dames of that City. Knowing well that both they, and their successors: would not forget, reprochefullie to combat, with his spirit and shadow, when they were not able (being prevented by earthly vermin) by any means to impeach his corpse, in tomb fast closed and buried. But when I do remember, how the same was said, and also noised amongs a band of Heathen souls, whose minds for want of godly skill, could not digest such heinous blasts, as sounded in a time profane, wherein no sacred voice of christian lore, was breathed unto redeemed flock: I call to mind that now I may, in time of grace, right frankly write, without offence to humble state of matron kind, in these our days, inspired with spirit of humble heart, whose ears no taunting talk can grieve. Wherefore with blushless face, and unstaid pen, I mean the words, of that well learned wight, in open audience to pronounce, and by this book, to such elected sort for to declare. But let for to offend, as one well bet in marriage school, I must, a paena & culpa, forgiveness crave: lest some shrewd Heathen dame (for other doubt I not) do from her grave Alarm cry out. And then to fight with buried ghosts: my manhood will not serve, but by and by with posting legs, and flying fast for to retire. But doubts here be brought forth, where doubting cause is none. Gellius therefore in person of the unmarried knight, in words right few, this sentence of the married state, doth utter and proclaim.  
O ye Romans, if we could be without wives, than all we should want that grief. But because nature hath so provided, that neither with them we can live and pass our time conveniently, nor yet by any means be without them satisfied, we ought rather to make preparation, for perpetual health, then for short pleasure. With which words, divers of the Romans were displeased, and found fault with Metellus who (for that he went about, to exhort the people to marriage) ought not by any means, to confess any griefs and incommodities, to be in the same. But in these words he seemed rather, to dissuade and terrify, then to persuade and encourage. But contrarily he ought, rather to have affirmed no sorrows and perpierities, to be in wedlock, and if perchance any chanced to be, they were but light, and easy to be borne and suffered, which for greater commodities and pleasures, might full well be forgotten, and those that were, happened not through Nature's vice, but by the default and ill behaviour of some married folk. Howbeit, Titus Castritius supposed that Metellus, spoke well & worthily.  
For (said he) a Censor ought to speak like a Censor, a Rhetorician like one that professed Rhetoric: It is given to Rhetoricians, to use false sentences, bold, subtle and capacious: if so be, they be likely, and may by any action, move the hearts of men. Moreover he said, that it was a shame for a Rhetorician, in an evil matter, to leave out any thing untouched. But truly Metellus (quoth he) is a holy man endued with gravity and fidelity, and that it was not decent for so honourable a parsonage, as he was, to speak any thing to the Roman people, but that he thought to be true, and likely to seem true to all men: specially sith he entreated of such a matter, as by daily knowledge, common experience, and frequented use of life, might well be comprehended and known. Therefore in giving to understand, a grief notorious to all men, he hath deserved by that oration, a fame of a diligent and faith full man, because (to be short) he easily and readily persuaded, that a city can not prosper & continue, without the use of Matrimony, which of all things is most assured & true. This Titus Castritius was a teacher of Rhetoric in Rome, and in the same City for declamation and teaching, was in greatest reputation. A man of right great gravity and authority: and of the Emperor Adrian, for his virtue and learning well esteemed.   

Of Lais and Demosthenes.  
¶ The xu Novel.  
Photion a peripatetique Philosopher, in a book which he made, entitled Cornucopia, writeth this history of Demosthenes and Lais the harlot of Corinth, saying: That Lais by reason of her excellent beauty, and pleasant favour demanded for the use of her body, a great sum of money. Unto whom was resort, of all the rich men of Graecia: but she would not admite them to that fact, except they would first, give unto her, her demand. The quantity of which some was exceeding great, whereof rose the Proverb Non cuivis homini contingit, adire Corinthum.  
Not every man can well attain  
To go to Corinthe town.  
He that travailed to Corinthe to Lais, not able to give and bestow, that some upon her, went in vain. To this woman, that noble Philosopher Demosthenes secretly repaired, praying her to give him leave. But she demanding of him, ten thousand denarios (amounting very near to three hundred pound of our money) astonished at the wantonness of the woman, and discouraged with the greatness of the some, returned back again, saying. I come not to buy repentance to dear.   

C. Fabritius and Aemilius Consuls of Rome, being promised that king Pyrrhus for a some of money should be slain (which was a notable enemy to the Roman state) advertised Pyrrhus thereof by letters, and of other notable things, done by the the same Fabritius.  
¶ The xuj Novel.  
WHen Pyrrhus King of Epirus, inferred wars upon the Romans, and was come into Italy: & there had prosperously fought, and achieved the victory of two or three battles, whereby the Romans were brought to great distress, and most part of Italy had revolted: one Timochares Ambraciensis, a friend of King Pyrrhus, secretly repaired to C. Fabritius then Consat, and told him, if he would give him a reward, he would poison the King, which he said, he might easily bring to pass because his sons, at table waited upon King Pyrrhus' cup. Hereof Fabritius wrote to the Senate, requiring their advise. The Senate depeached Ambassadors to the King commanding them to say nothing of Timochares, but to give the king warning, circumspectly to look well about him, to prevent such treason, as by those that were nearest him might be attempted. Thus much is written in the history of Valerius Antiates. But Quadrigarius in the third book, writeth that it was one Nicias, and not Timochates, that went to Fabritius, and that those Ambassadors, were not sent by the Senate, but by the Consuls, and that the king rendered praise and thanks to the Romans, restoring to them, all the prisoners, which he had taken. The Consuls that time, were C. Fabritius and Aemilius. The tenor of which letters then sent to king Pyrrhus, the said Cl. Quadrigarius affirmeth to be this. The Roman Consuls send salutations to king Pyrrhus. We for thine injuries, displeasures and wrongs justly offended, for the valiant stomachs remaining in us, do study and endeavour like enemies, to continue wars upon thee. But it seemeth good unto us, for the love we bear to our faith, and for common example, to wish thee well to do, whom by arms we be not able to vanquish. There came unto us one Nicias, thy familiar friend, to demand reward of us, if secretly he did kill thee: which we utterly denied, and required him for that fact, to look for no reward at our hands. Whereupon we thought good, to give thee advertisement hereof, lest if any such thing did chance, the Cities should not think, that we were privy to the fact. For we delight not, to fight with gifts, rewards, and treason. Thou in the mean time, except thou take heed, art like to die. Farewell. This was the ancient order amongs the Romans, that never were pleased, by the cowardly overthrow of other, to win fame and glory. And because I red an other excellent history of the same Fabritius, I have thought good, to add the same to this Novel. When peace was concluded, between the Romans and the Samnites: the Ambassadors of the Samnites, repaired upon a time to this Fabritius, who after they had remembered unto him, divers & sundry things, frendie done in their behalf, they offered unto him for reward, a great sum of money, entreating him to receive the same. Which the Samnites did (as the report was) because they saw, that he wanted many things, for the furniture of his house, and maintenance of the same, which thought, not to be sufficiently decent for his estate and calling. Which Fabricius perceiving with his bare hands, he touched his ears and eyes, and then stroked his face downward, his noase, his mouth and throat, and the rest of his body, to the bottom of his bailie, answering the Ambassadors in this wise.  
That whiles he was able to rule and govern all those members, which he touched, he was sure to lack nothing. Wherefore (quoth he) these members, which be profitable and necessary for my use, will not suffer me to receive this money, whereof they know I have no need. Hereby reprehending the foolish endeavour of these Samnites, in offering to him a bribe, which he was never accustomed to take for any cause, what soever he accomplished. Still showing himself a man sincere and incorrupt   

A school master, traitorously rendering the noble men's sons of Faleria, to the hands of Camillus was well acquitted and rewarded, for his pains and labour.  
¶ The xvij Novel.  
Wars were addressed by the Romans, against the Falisques (a people of Italy, the ruins of the chief city whereof, do yet appear six miles from Viterba) and an army conscribed and sent thither, under the conduct of Furius Camillus. The Falisques upon the approach of the Romans, were constrained to retire within their city, thinking the same to be their most assured refuge. And they to continue their siege, encamped a mile from the same, and determined throughlie to besiege the same, which in deed had like to have been of very long continuance, except fortune had given to the Roman captain, for his tried and well approved valiance, victory in time which chanced after this manner. It was a custom amongs the Falisques (observed also in these our days) to have their children instructed by one school master, and him also to use for their guide, and companion in all games and pastimes. amongs them there was a School master, which taught noble men's sons. Who in the time of peace, teaching those children, and using for their exercise, to lead them abroad in the fields, kept still that order, for all the wars before the gates, sometime with short walks, sometime with longer for their disports. And continuing variety of talk with those children, longer than he was wont to do: at length he brought them to the Roman camp, even to the Lent of Camillus, hoping thereby (by like) to have been well welcomed, and liberally rewarded, saying to Camillus, as detestable words as the fact was traitorous and wicked, which was in effect. That he was come with that present unto him, to yield those children into his hands, whose parents were the principal of that city: And thereby knew for certainty, that the city would surrender. Camillus seeing this fact, and hearing those words, said unto him. Thou art not come (villain) to a people and captain, with this thy traitorous offer, semblable to thyself. We have no alliance with the Falisques, confirmed by compact, or humane promise, but amity whereunto, nature doth bind us, is and shallbe for evermore between us. War so well as peace, hath his law and right. Which we have learned to observe with no less justice, than constancy. We make no wars against children, whom we spare, whomsoever we invade or take any cities: But against armed men we fight, yea, and against such, as without offence, or provocation of our parts, assailed the Romans camp at the siege of the Veiens. Thou hast vanquished them so much as lieth in thee, with a new kind of victory achieved by treason. But I will subdue them by policy of the Romans, by virtue, endeavour, and arms even as I did the Veiens. When he had spoken those words: He caused this traitorous school master, to be striped stark naked, and binding his hands behind him, delivered him to the children, to carry back again, with rods in their hands, to whip him home to the city. When he was in this order returned, the people of the city flocked together, to see this sight. Then the magistrates assembled in counsel, upon this strange occasion, and where before they were incensed, with marvelous wrath and fury, rather desirous of utter overthrow, than peace: Now their minds were quite altered, and peace universally demanded. The fidelity of the Romans, and justice of Camillus, both in Forum and Court was celebrated, and by general assent, Ambassadors were sent into the camp to Camillus, and from thence by Camillus' sufferance, to the Senate at Rome, of purpose to yield themselves to their government, who being brought before the Senate, spoke these words.  
We (fathers conscript) vanquished by you & your captain, where at neither God nor man ought to be offended, have yielded ourselves to you, thinking that we shall live more happy, and better contented under your government, then by our own jaws and liberties, a thing that maketh the victor more glorious, and praise worthy, than any other. By the success of these wars, two wholesome examples, be manifested to mankind. Ye do prefer faith in wars, before certain victory, and wre induced by that faith, have of our own accord, presented victory unto you. We be at your commandment: send thither commissioners, to receive our weapons, our pledges, and our city, which standeth with the gates wide open. We hope well, that neither, ye shall have occasion to be miscontented with our fidelity, nor we offended with your government and Empire. For which fact, great thanks were attributed to Camillus, both by the Falisques and Romans.  
Here appeared the face and true Image, of that great virtue justice, wherewith this noble man was truly affected. His noble nature was not able to abide, any traitorous fact, done by unnatural citizens, toward their own country. No ungratitude of his own country men, could withdraw his nature, from the zeal and love he bore to his country. His condemnation by unkind Apuleius Saturninus the Tribune, for which he fled to Ardea, could not let or impeach his magnanimity, from giving the Galls an overthrow when they had sacked Rome, and sharply besieged the capitol: who in his absence (created Dictator) by gathering together such Romans as were fled, unwares set upon the covetous Galls, as they were in controversy, for payment of a golden somme of money, and thereby restored his country to liberty. Wherefore, worthily might he be entitled, with the honourable name of a second Romulus. For as Romulus was the first builder, and peopler of that city, so was Camillus, the vindicator and deliverer of the same.   

The History of Papyrius Praetextatus.  
THe same history is written by Cato, in an oration which he made to his soldiers against Galba, containing in effects as followeth. The Senators of Rome used before this time, to enter into the Senate house with their sons, Praetextatis, that is, with long robes guarded about the skirts with purple silk. When the Senate debated of grave and weighty matters, they ever differred the same, till the next day, forbidding that those causes, should not be published, before they were thoroughly decreed. The mother of the young gentleman Papyrius, which had been with his father in the Senate house, asked of him, what the fathers had done in the Senate house that day. Papyrius answered, that in any wise he ought not, to utter the secrets of the same. The mother more desirous to know, than she was before, went about by fair means, foul words, and correction, to understand the secrets of the Senate, and the cause why the same were kept so silent. Wherefore she more earnestly endeavoured, to learn the same of her son. The young man by compulsion of his mother, took occasion to invent a pleasant and merry lie, in this wise. Mother (quoth he), the Senate doth deliberate and consult, whether it be more commodious, and profitable for the common wealth, that one man should have 'twas wives: or whether one wife, should have two husbands. When the old Lady heard this she was abashed, and in fearful wise, goeth to the other Ladies and matrons of Rome, telling them, where about their husbands did consult. The next day the women flocked together, in great trains and in lamentable wise, repaired to the Senate, beseeching them that one woman, might rather be married to two husbands, than two wives to one man. The Senators entering into the Court, marveled what toys were in the women's heads, to make that demand. The young gentleman Papyrius stepped forth, declaring how importunate his mother was, to know whereupon they consulted the day before, and therefore he devised that feigned tale, which he had imagined, to pacify her desire. The Senators hearing and perceiving, his good and honest disposition, greatly commended and extolled, his fidelity & wit. Howbeit, they made a law, that from that time forth, none of their sons, should come into the house with their father, but only Papyrius. Who afterwards received the surname of Praetextatus, to honour and beautify his name, and notable wisdom, in keeping secrets, and holding his peace, in the time of that youthly age.   

How plutarch did beat his man, and of pretty talk touching signs of anger.  
¶ The xix Novel.  
AVlus Gellius demanding of the philosopher Taurus, whether a wiseman could be angry: Taurus after he had disputed much of that affection, turned to Gellius and said This is mine opinion of the angry man. But what the philosopher plutarch judgeth thereof, I think it not much out of the way, if I tell thee his mind. plutarch had a bondman, which was an unthrifty and wicked varlet, but given to learning, and to disputation of Philosophy, whom upon a time he did beat, making him to put of his coat, and to be whipped, for what offence I know not. He began to beat him. The fellow cried out, that he had deserved no cause, why he ought to be so beaten. At length in continuance of his beating, he gave over his crying and complaints, and began to utter earnest and serious words, saying. It was not plutarch the Philosopher, that did beat him, he said it was a shame for plutarch to be angry, and how he had heard him, many times dispute of that vice of anger, and that he had written a goodly book thereof, with many such words. Why (q plutarch) with gentle and quiet debating of the matter. Thou lubbor, do I seine to be angry with thee? Dost thou either by any countenance, by my talk, by my colour, or words, perceive that I am angry? Neither mine eyes be fierce, nor my mouth troubled I cry not out a loud, I chaufe not in rage or fume, I speak no unseemly words, whereof I take repentance, I tremble not. At which be signs and tokens of anger. Which pretty notes of that unseemly passion, aught to minister to all men, occasion to avoid that vice.   

A pretty tale of Aesop, of the Lark.  
¶ The twenty Novel.  
AEsope of Phrygia is not unworthily deemed a wise man. forsomuch as he admonisheth & persuadeth, those things that be profitable: not severely or imperiously as Philosophers do, but devising pretty and pleasant fables, he endueth the minds of men with wholesome and provident instruction. As by this fable of the birds nest, he prettily and aptly doth premonishe, that the hope & confidence of things, which man goeth about to bring to pass, aught to be fixed and trusted, to none other but to himself. A little bird (saith he) called the Lark, buildeth her nest in the Wheat field, and her birds begin to fledge and feather, when the Wheat waxeth ripe. By chance the same Lark did make her nest in a piece of Wheat that was soonest ready to be reaped. So that when the Wheat was yellow, her little ones were not fledged. Therefore flying abroad to seek meat, for her birds, she warned them, that if there fortuned any news to be done or spoken, in her absence they should give diligent heed thereunto, and to tell her when she returned. Within a while after the Owner of the corn called the young man, his son, unto him (saying) dost thou see this Wheat now ripe, and ready to to be cut lacking nothing, but help to reap the same? Get thee therefore to morrow in the morning (so soon as the day doth break) unto my friends and neighbours, and pray them to come and help me in with this Corne. And so departed. When the dame was returned, the young Larks in trembling and fearful wise, peeping and chirping about their mother, prayed her to make haste to seek some other place. For the owner of the Wheat had sent for his friends, to be there the next day by times, to reap the same. Their dame bad them to be of good cheer: for if the owner (quoth she) do refer it to his friends: I am sure the Wheat shall not be cut down to morrow. Therefore we shall not need to fear. The next day the dame flew abroad again for food, and the owner waited at the hour appointed for his friends. The Son was up, whose beams shone hot, and nothing was done, his friends came not. Then he said again to his son me think son (quoth he) our neighbonrs be slepers and tarry long. Go, call I pray thee, our kinsfolk and cousins, that they may help us to morrow betimes, which saying the young Larks once again a frayed told their dame when she returned. The dame still persuaded them to be of good cheer, and not to fear. For kinsfolk in these days, be so slack to do good deeds (quoth she) and to help their own stock & kindred, that they be loath to take pains, specially at so short and sudden warning: Nevertheless fair birds (quoth she) hearken what shallbe said again, and tell me. The next morning the old Lark went for the again, for food and forage, and the kinsfolk and Cousins came not, according to the owner's request. At length the owner said to his son. A dieu my friends and kinsmen. To morrow in the morening, bring hither two Sickles, the one for me, and the other for thyself. And we with our own hands, will cut down this Wheat. The mother Lark, hearing her young ones tell this tale at her return: Ye Marie my babes (quoth she) now it is time to be gone. For the thing whereof the owner hath spoken so long, shall now be done in deed, sith he purposeth to do the same himself, and trusteth to none other. Whereupon the Lark took up her young ones, & went to inhabit in some other place And the corn accordingly, was cut down by the owner. This fable Aesop reporteth, premonishing men to beware of light hope, and vain trust, to be reposed in friends and kinsfolk. And the same Q. Ennius in his satires, very elegantly in trim verses hath set out, whereof the two last, worthy to be had in heart and memory, I have thought good to remember.  
Always fixed fast in breast,  
in prompt and ready wise:  
This Proverb old and true,  
a sentence of the wise.  
The thing do not expect.  
by friends for to achieve:  
Which thou thyself canst do,  
thyself for to relieve.   

A merry jest, uttered by Hannibal, to king Antiochus.  
¶ The xxj Novel.  
Antiochus' making great preparation & furniture, to infer war upon the Romans, decked his army with Silver and Golden ansignes and pendents, wherein he had plenty of wagons, chariots, and Elephants with towers, his band of horsemen glittered gloriously, with Golden bridles, trappers, barbs, and such like. The king beholding, in glorious and rejoicing wise, his gay and beautiful army: looked towards Hannibal, and said.  
How sayest thou Hannibal. Thinkest thou that these things be not enough and sufficient, to match with the Romans? Hannibal mocking and deluding, the cowardness and weakness of his soldiers, clad in those precious and costly furnitures, said. All these things be enough, and enough again for the Romans, although they were the most covetous men of the world. The king understood Hannibal, that he had meant of the number of his soldiers, and of their bravery. But he meant of the pray and spoite, which the Romans should win and get.   

The merneilous knowledge of a Lion, being acquainted with a man, called Androdus.  
¶ The xxij Novel.  
THere chanced to be certain plays and games at Rome, where were many monstrous and cruel beasts. But amongs all those beasts, the hugeness and cruel aspects of the Lions, were had in greatest wonder, specially of one. Which Lion was of an huge and great bigness, having a terrible voice, his claws stretched for thee, his bristelles and hear upright, beholding with his fierce and deadly eyes, all the multitude standing by. There was brought in, to fight with the Lion, amongs all the rest, one Androdus a Dacian borne, the bondman of a great parsonage, of the Consular order whom the Lion beholding a far of, suddenly stood still. And afterwards by little and little, in gentle sort he came unto the man, as though he had known him: Wagging his tail like a Spaniel, fawning upon his master: and licked the hands and legs of the poor fellow, which for fear was almost dead. This Androdus perceiving the flatteries of this fierce beast, recovered comfort, and earnestly viewed and marked the Lion. Then they began to enter into mutual acquaintance, one rejoicing at an others meeting. Upon which strange event, the people raised great shouts and acclamations: whereupon Androdus was called before the Emperor, and demanded the cause, why that most cruel beast did in that sort, fawn and favour him above all other.  
Androdus told a marvelous and strange history of the cause thereof, saying. If it please your Majesty, when my Lord and Master, did by the office of Proconsul govern Africa, I through his causeless stripes, and daily whippynges, was forced to run away. And when I had gotten pardon of the lieutenant of that country, to remain there, I withdrew myself in to the deserts and void places. And lacking meat to ease the pain of hunger, I determined by some means, to seek mine own death. It chanced about the mid of the day, when the Son was fervent and hot, I entered into a Cave, which was far from habitation, very wide and large. Whereunto within a while after this Lion resorted, having one of his feet bloody, & hurt. For pain whereof, he uttered much moan and sorrow, bewailing the grief, and anguish of the sore. When I saw the Lion, my heart began to quake for fear, but being come in, as it were into his own habitation (for so it should appear) perceiving me to go about to hide myself a far of, he like a mild and gentle beast came unto me, holding up his foot, reaching the same to me, as though he desired help, and relief at my hands. Where withal I plucked out of his foot a stub, which stuck between the paws thereof, and taking a little salve, which I had in my bosom, I thrust it into the bottom of the wound, and diligently without any further fear, I dried the wound, and wiped away the blood thereof. Wherewith the Lion being eased, resting his foot in my hands, he lay down to refresh himself. From that day during the space of three years, the Lion and I continued together, and lived with like fare. The latest and best morsels of those beasts, which he prayed, he did ever bring me into the cave which meat because I had no fire, I roasted in the heat of the Son, and did eat the same with good stomach. But when I began to wax weary of that kind of meat, upon a time the Lion being abroad, I forsook the cave, and traveling almost the space of three days, I was espied and taken of the souldious, and brought home to my master out of Africa to Rome: who immediately condemned me to be devoured of beasts. And now I perceive that this Lion sithence I left his company is taken, and doth acquit that good turn and cure, which I showed him them. The people hearing the discourse of this strange fact, made suit that the fellow might be pardoned, and set at liberty: and the Lion by general voice was given unto him, for reward. Afterwards Androdus carried the Lion, abroad the City in a little cord, and had much money given unto him, & the Lion was decked and beautified with flowers. And every man that met them, did use to say. This is the Lion the friend of this man, and this is the man, the Physician of the Lion.   

A pretty disputation of the Philosopher Phanorines, to persuade a woman, not to put forth her child to Nurse, but to nourish it herself with her own Milk.  
¶ The xxiij Novel.  
IT was told to the Philosopher Phavorinus, that the wife of one of his Sectators and scholars, was brought a bed of a son: Let us go (quod Phavorinus) to visit the childwife, and to gratulate the father, for the joy of his son. When they were entered the house, after he had saluted the goodman, according to the custom, he asked the wife how she did, and prayed the Gods to send her good footing, and then inquired of her travel, and painful pangs, when he understood that her travel was great, and her body weak with watching, howbeit somewhat comforted with sleep, which she had taken, he determined to enter into further talk. I doubt not gossip (q he) but that you purpose to nourish your son yourself. The mother of the woman hearing him say so, began to pray pardon, and said, that her daughter might not both sustain pain in the birth, and also trouble to nourish it herself. I pray thee mother, said Phavorinus, to suffer thy daughter to be the hole & entire mother of her own son. What kind of half and unperperfect mothers be they, which so soon as they be delivered, do against nature by and by, thrust the child a way from them? Can they nourish with their own blood, the thing which they see not, and will they not vouchsaufe, to bestow their Milk upon that, which is now a living creature, crying out before their faces for the mother's help and duty? O thou unkind woman, doest thou think that Nature hath given thee two breasts, for nothing else but to beautify and adorn thy body, and not to give suck to thy children? In like sort many prodigious and monstrous women, have dried up and extinguished, that most sacred fountain of the body, the educator of mankind, not without peril of their persons, as though the same were a disgracing of their beauty and comeliness. The like also some do attempt, by devices and subtle secrecies to extrude their conceptions, that the swelling of their body, might not irrugate and wrinkle their faces, and that their painful labours and great burdens, do not make them look old in their youthly days. And like as it is generally to be abborred, that man in his first beginnings, (when he is fashioned, and inspired with life, and in the hands of the cunning and wise woman deign Nature) should be killed and slain: even so with not much less detestation it is to be had & counted, when he is perfect and borne, and the child of thine own blood, to be deprived from his due sustenance. But it is no matter (will some say) with whose Milk he be nursed, so he receive Milk and live. The like may be said to that man, which is so dull, in perceiving the providence of Nature, that what matter had it been in whose body, and with whose blood, he himself had been form and brought into light. Hath not she which now respireth, and with beauty waxeth white and sake, the same blood now in her breasts, which was before remaining in her womb: Is not the wisdom of Nature manifest in this thing, that after the cunning workman the blood, hath framed in the inward parts, every body of man, strait way when the time of birth approacheth, the same blood infudeth himself into the upper parts, and is ready to nourish the rudiments of life and light, offering acquaintance & familiar sustenance to the new borne? Wherefore in vain is not that report and belief, that like as the force and Nature of the generation seed, is able to shape the similitudes of the mind & body, even so the qualities and properties of the Milk, do avail to like effect. Which thing is not only marked in men, but also in brute beasts. For if Kids be sockled up with Ewes Milk, and Lambs with Goats, the wool of th'one will grow more rough and hard, and the hear of the other more tender and soft. In trees also and fruits, there is for the most part, a greater force and power, in the nature of the soil, and Water where thes grow, either for the pruning and planting then there is, if strange imps and seed be grifted and sown there. And many times you see, that a fruitful tree, carried and set in an other place, decaseth, through the nature of the ground more barren. What reason is this then, to corrupt the noble Nature of this born child, whose body and mind, is well begun with natural beginnings, and to infect the same with the degenerate food of strange Milk. Specially if she to whom you shalt put forth this child to give suck, be either a bond and serulte woman, and (as commonly it chanceth) of a foreign and barbarous nation, be she wicked, ill favoured, whorish, or drunken. For divers times without difference, children be put forth to such Nurses', whose honestitie and conditions, in the time of the putting for thee, be utterly unknown. Shall we suffer therefore, this our infant to be corrupted, with pestiferous Milk? Shall we abide a new nature and spirit, to be renewed in his mind and body, derived from that which is most vile and wicked? Much like to the same, which many times we see and wonder, how divers children borne of chaste and honest women, have bodies and qualities, far discrepant from their honest parents. Wherefore very trimly and cunnynglie Maro following Homeres verses doth safe: speaking of the cruel nature of Achilles.  
Sir Peleus that gentle knight,  
was not thy father sure,  
Nor yet thy dame fair Thetis was,  
whose grace the Gods did lure.  
The raging Sea, and stony rocks,  
did bring thee forth to light:  
Thy nature is so bloody bent:  
so fierce in cruel fight.  
He did not herein reprehend the birth of Achilles, but the nature of the cruel & savage beast, that brought him up: for he added this of his own.  And the Hircan Tigers did give him suck. 
And truly the condition of the Noursse, and nature of the Milk, disposeth almost the greater part of the child's condition, which (notwithstanding the father's seed, and creation of the body and mind, within the mother's womb) doth now in the begiuning of his nurture, configurate and frame a new disposition in him. Moreover who can say the contrary, but that such women as put their children from them, delivering them to be nursed of other, do cut of, nay, rather do wipe a way and extinguish, that band and increase of mind and affection, that doth consociate and join in nature, the parents toward their children. For when the child is put forth to an other place, and removed from the mother's sight, the vigour and tenderness of her affection, is by little ant little forgotten, and out of memory, & the dearest care of her tender babe, groweth to utter silence. The sending away of the child to an other Nourice, is not much inferior to the forgetfulness that chanceth, when death doth take it away. Again, the affection, the love, and familiarity of the child, is prone to her that giveth it suck. And so as it is enidently seen in them that be put forth, the child taketh no knowledge, or desire of the own mother, that brought it forth. Therefore, when the elements and beginnings of natural pletie and love, be once abandoned and defaced, how soever such children, in that sort brought up, shall seem to love the parents, yet for the most part, it is no pure and natural affection, but rather a supposed and Civil love. Thus this noble Philosopher, giveth counsel to every good mother, not to be ashamed or grieved, to bring up her child with her own Milk, after her greatest pain past, whom before with her own blood, she disdained not to feed in her body.   

Of Sertorius a noble Roman captain.  
¶ The xxiiij Novel.  
LIke as in a good captain, chosen out by any Prince & Monarch, to serve in his wars and exploits, manhood and valiance is to be desired and wished: even so in the same a politic mind, to forecast & prevent, aswell the saustie and good government of his own charge, as the anoiawce of the enemy is to be desired. Cicero in his oration Prolege Manilia, affirmeth four things, meet to be in a General or Lieutenant. That is to say. Scientia rei militaris, virtus, authoritas, foelicitas, Knowledge of warfare, Manhood, Authority, and good Fortune. Kuowledge and experience, in choice of his soldiers, in training the ignorant, in lodging the camp, in politic order how to dispose the scouts and watch, in making the approach, and defence of the army lodged, with other necessary orders incident to the same. In manhood, boldly to adventure, warily to retire, patiently to suffer misfortune, hardly to lie, sparely to sare, stoutly to abide storms and cold weather. In authority, wisely to govern, gently to speak, justly to threaten, deservedly to punish, mercifully to forgive, liberally to divide, and lovingly to be obeyed. And in felicity and good success: To honour God: To be faithful to the Prince, to prevent the enemy, not to triumph before the victory. To be constant in froward fortune, and courageous in extremity. All which and many other, are very meet and requisite in him, that shallbe put in trust, by his sovereign Lord or Lady, to adventure the painful charge of a Deputy, General, Lieutenant, or captain. Whereof, or in the chiefest of the same this noble gentleman Sertorius a captain of the Roman City, in time of Marius and Sylla: when the city of Rome were at civil descension, had great skill and knowledge. For besides his experience in the wars (as plutarch sateth in his life) he was very abstinent from pleasures, and continente in other disorders, arare thing in men of his calling. But because I purpose not to stay, in the full discourse of his virtues, and qualities, I mean but to touch in this Novel, so much as Aulus Gellius (in whom I am now conversant) doth of him make remembrance. Referring the studious reader, desirous to know the state of his life & doings to the plentiful recorders of such memorable and worthy personages: plutarch de vitis illustrium, and Appianus de civili Romanorum bello. Which being Greek authors, be very eloquently translated into the Latin, the one by Gulielmus Xilander. 1561. and tother by Sigismundus Gelenius 1554. This Sertorius was of a pregnaunte wit, and therewithal a noble captain, very skilful in the use and government of an army. In distress and hard adventures, he practised for policy, to make lies to his soldiers, to prove if they could prevail. He used counterfaicte letters, to imagine dreams, and to confer false religions, to try if those things could serve his turn, in comforting and encouraging his soldiers. amongs all the facts of Sertorius, this in suing was very notable and famous. A white Stag of exceeding beauty, and lively swiftness, was given unto him by a Lusitanian: He persuaded every man, that the same was delivered unto him by the Gods, and how the Goddess Diana had inspired that beast, to admonish and teach, what was meet and profitable. And when he went about, to cause his soldiers, to adventure any hard and difficile exploit: he affirmed, that the Stag, had given him warning thereof, which they universally believed, and willingly obeyed, as though the same, had been sent down from the gods in deed. The same Stag upon a time, when news came, that thene mie had made incursion, into his camp, amazed with the haste and turmoil, ran away and hid himself in a marsh hard adjoining. Afterwards being sought for, he was supposed to be dead. Within few days after, tidings was brought to Sertorius that the Stag was found. The messenger was commanded by him to hold his peace, and threatened to be punished, if he did disclose it. The next day, the same messenger was appointed suddenly, to bring the Stag into the place, where he and his friends did consult together. When they were assembled he told them how the day after that he had lost his Stag, he dreamt, that he was come again, and according to his custom, told him what was needful to be doen. Then Sertorius making a sign, to have the order fulfiilled, which he had given the day before, by & by the stag broke into the Chamber. Wherewithal a great shout was made, and an admiration raised of that chance. Which credulity of the barbarous cositries served Sertorius turn, in his weighty affairs. A worthy matter also, is to be remembered of him, that no soldier that ever served him, of those uncivil countries (that took his part) did vever revolt or forsake him, although those kind of people be most inconstant.   

Of the books of Sibylla.  
¶ The xxv Novel.  
IN ancient Chronicles, these things appear in memory, touching the books of Sibylla. A strange and unknown old woman, repaired to the Roman king Tarqvinius Superbus, bearing in her arms nine books, which she said were divine Oracles, and offered them to be sold. Tarqvinius demanded the price. The woman asked a wonderful some. The king making semblance, as though the old woman toted, began to laugh. Then she got fire in a chasing dish, and burned three books of the nine. She asked the king again, if he would have the six for that price, whereat the king laughed in more ample sort, saying: that the old woman no doubt did date in deed. By and by the burned other three, humbly demasiding the king the like question, if he would buy the rest for that price. Whereupon the king more earnestly gave heed to her request, thinking the constant demands of the woman not to be in vain, brought the three books that remained for no less price, than was required for the whole. Therewithal the woman departed from Tarqvinius, and was never seen after. These books were kept in the capitoled at Rome, whereunto the Romans resorted, when they purposed to ask counsel of the Gods. A good example for wisemen to beware, how they despise or neglect ancient books and monnmentes. Many the like in this realm have been defaced, found in Religious houses, which no doubt would have conduced great utility and profit both to the common wealth and country, if they had been reserved and kept, which books by the ignorant have been torn and raised, to the great grief of those that be learned, and of them that aspire to learning and virtue.   

I difference and contronersie betwenes Master & a scholar so subtle, that the judges could not give sentence.  
¶ The xxuj Novel.  
divers things be written, which although they seem of little importance yet they be witty and comfortable to recreate honest minds, and deserve to be had in remembrance amongs which Aulus Gellius (who reporteth ten of the former Histories, selected out of his book De noctibus atticis) remembreth this pretty controversy. In Athenes there was a young man, called Euathlus, who being desirous to be an Orator, and a pleading advocate, to the intent he might postulate, according to the accustomed manner of Athenes in those dates: accorded upon a price, with a renewned Orator named Protagoras, that he should instruct him that art, for a price agreed upon between them, upon condition that the Scholar should pay, the one half of the money before hand unto his Master, and the rest at such time, as he should prove to be an Advocate, so well instructed, that at the first matter, which he did plead, he should obtain sentence on his side, and gain for his labour and industry. But if sentence were pronounced against him, he should not be bound to pay the same. Upon this conclusion, the Master taught him with great diligence, the uttermost of his knowledge in that art. The Scholar again learned and retained his teaching, with great promptitude and readiness of wit. When Protagoras had taught him, the uttermost of his knowledge: The scholar Euathlus, to defraud him of the rest of his money, determined never to be Advocate, whose craft Protagoras perceiving, cited him by write, to appear before the judge, to answer the rest of the bargain. When they were both come in the judges presence, Protagoras spoke to his scholar in this wise. Euathlus, the bargain between us, thou canst not choose but confess and acknowledge, which in effect is this. It was agreed, that I should teach thee, the art of pleading, and in the first matter which thou didst pronounce, and sentence given on thy part, thou shouldest pay me the other half of the money (for the first moiety I received before hand) and now to avoid the satisfaction thereof (although thou knowest, that I have full well deserved it) thou to defraud me of my duty, refusest to be an advocate. But I will tell thee, this thy determination is but vain & frustrate: for I have entangled thee in such nets, that thou canst not escape: but by one mean or other, thou shalt be forced to pay me. For if the judge do condemn thee, than maugre thy head thou shalt be constrained: and if contrary wise, sentence be given on thy side, thou shalt be likewise bound to pay me, by thy very covenant, sitheus thou art bound thereunto, when thou pleadest first, and sentence given in thy behalf. Do now than what thou list, for in fine thou shalt be forced to pay me, in despite of thy teeth. All the assistants held with Protagoras, affirming his suit to be very reasonable. notwithstanding Euathlus with a bold spirit, answered for himself in this manner. Sir Protagoras it seemeth unto you, that I am convicted, but stay a while, and give me leave to speak: and then you shall perceive in what whise, I will confound your argument. Here you have brought your action against me, whereof I trust upon my reasonable answer, before the judges, to be discharged. For if by this your pleading, by circumstances & art of an Orator, which you have used in all your discourse: the matter shall fall so out, as sentence be given on your side, than the bargain made between us, is void and of none effect, because I losing the profit of my first pleading, wherein by our agreement, sentence should be given on my behalf, the same bargain is not accomplished. For you should be paid the moiety of the money behind, with that commoditia, which I did gain by my first pleading: For which cause, there is no reason, but I must be discharged of your demand. After this debating of the matter, the judges wated the arguments of both parts, which seemed so doubtful unto them, that knowing not how to give sentence, they suspended the process.  
The same Aulus Gellius, reciteth an other like question, which he referreth to Pliny, as the first author thereof. There was a law (saith he) in a certain city, that what soever he were, that committed any valiant fact of arms, the thing that he demanded, what soevert were, should be granted unto him It chanced that a certain person did this worthy act, and required that a man's wife (whom he dearly loved) should be given unto him: which wife by force & virtue of the law, was accordingly delivered. But afterwards the man, from whom his wife was taken, did the like fact, and demanding his wife to be redelivered unto him again, said unto him that had her, if thou wilt observe the law, thou must of force deliver unto me, my wife, but if thou do not like the law, thou oughtest yet to tender her unto me, as mine own. The other answered him in like sort. If thou observe the law, this woman is mine, for I have first won her, by the law: but if thou do not approve the law, thou hast no right to demand her, she now being mine.   

¶ Seleveus king of Asia, gave his wife to his own son in marriage, being his mother in law: who so fervently did love her, that he was like to die. Which by a discrete and wise mention, was discovered to Seleucus by a Physician.  
¶ The xxvij Novel.  
ALthough the wise Philosopher plutarch, elegantly and brieslie describeth this history, in the life of Demetrius: yet because Bandello aptly & more at large doth discourse the same, I thought good to apply my yenne to his style. Who saith that Seleucus king of babylon, a man very victorious in battle, was amongs the successors of Alexander the great, the most happy and fortunate: He had a son called by his father's name Antiochus. After the decease of his wife, his son increased, and gave great hope of valiance in future time, to become a valiant gentleman, worthy of such a father. And being arrived to xxiiij years of age: It chanced that his father fill in love with a very fair young gentlewoman, descended a great parentage (called Stratonica) whom he took to wife, and made her Queen, and by her had one son. Antiochus seeing his mother in law, to be (besides her great beauty) a courteous and gentle Lady, begun to be very amorous of her, whose heart was so set on fire (without apparent show) that incredible it is to express the love that he bore her. And yet he thought that love to be unnatural, because she was his father's wife, and therefore durfte not discover it to any man. And the more secret he kept it, the more the heat began to boil and consume him. But because he saw that love had fixed so deep footing, that he was not well able to retire, he determined after long sorrow and great turmoil, to seek some quiet haven, to rest his weather beaten bark, that had been tossed with the waves of pensive and sorrowful cogitations. His father had many Kingdoms & provinces innumerable under his Empire. At whose hands Antiochus craved licence, to visit some of them, for his disport and recreation, of purpose to prove, if he could avoid that unseasonable love, wherewith his heart was surprised. But he was no sooner out of his father's house, but his heart was vexed with greater torments than before, being deprived from the sight of fair Stratonica, whose presence did better content him, than all the pleasures, and sports of the world. Nevertheless, desirous to vanquish his indurate affections, he continued abroad for a certain time, during which space, unable to quench the fire, he led a more desolate and troublesome life, than he did before. In the end victorious love, took him prisoner, and carried him home again to his father's house. Who seeing the great love that his father bare to his wife, and the joyful time that he spent with fair Stratonica, transported into many careful pangs, many times he complained to himself in this wise. Am I Antiochus the son of Seleucus? Am I he that my father loveth so well, honoureth so much, and esteemeth better than all his realms and dominions? Alas. If I be Antiochus in deed, the son of so loving a father, where is the dutiful love, and bounden reverence, that I ought to bear unto him? Is this the duty of a son towards his father? Ah wretch and caitiff that I am. Whether hath gross affection, vain hope, and blind love carried me? Can love be so blind? Shall I be so void of sense, that I know not my mother in law, from an other woman, who loveth me no less, & entertaigneth me so well, as if she were mine own mother, that laboured with painful pangs, to bring me into light? Which being true, as it is most true, why then do I love her, nay rather more than love her? Why do I seek after her? What mean I to hope for her? Why do I precepitate myself so fondly, into the snares of blind & deceitful love and into the trap of deceitful hope? Can I not perceive that these desires, these unstaid appetites, & unbridled affections, do proceed from that which is dishonest? I see well enough that the way I take, leadeth me into great inconvenience. And what reproach should I sustain, if this unreasonable love, were made common to the world? Ought not I rather to suffer infamous death, then to see my father deprived of such a wife, whom he so dearly loveth? I will give over this unseemly love, and reverting my mind to some other wight, I will accomplish the duty of a good and loving son toward his father. Reasoning thus with himself, he determined wholly to give over his enterprise. And he had no sooner purposed so to do, but suddenly the beauty of the Lady appeared, as it were in a vision, before the face of his mind, and felt the flames to grow so hot, that he upon his knees, craved a thousand pardons of the loving God, for the abandoning of his gentle enterprise. And therewithal contrary imaginations began to rise, which so contended with mutual resistance, that they forced him thus to say. Shall not I love this Lady, because she is my father's wife? Shall not I prosecute my suit, for all that she is my mother in law? Ah coward, fainthearted, and worthy to be crowned a prince of folly, if therefore I should give over my former mind. Love prescribeth no such law to her suitors, as policy doth to man. Love commandeth the brother to love the sister, love maketh the daughter so love the father, the brother his brother's wife, and many times the mother her son in law: which being lawful to other, is it not lawful to me? If my father being and old man, whose nature waxeth cold, hath not forgotten the laws of love, in loving her whom I love: Shall I being a young man, subject to love, and inflamed with his passions, be blamed for loving her? And as I were not blame warthie, if I loved one that were not my father's wife, so must I accuse Fortune, for that she gave her not to wife to an other man, rather than to my father, because I love her, & would have loved her, whose wife so ever she had been. Whose beauty (to say the troth is such) whose grace and comeliness, so excellent, that she is worthy to be received, honoured, and worshipped of all the world, I think it then convenient for me, to pursue my determination, and to serve her above all other. Thus this miserable lover, traversing in several minds, and deluding his own fancy, changed his mind a thousand times in an hour. In th'end after infinite disputations to himself, he gave place to reason, considering the great disconnenience, that would ensue his disordinate love. And yet not able to give it over: And determining rather to die, then to yield to such wicked love, or to discover the same to any man. By little and little he consumed, as fleeting Snow against the warm Son: wherewith he came to such feeble state, that he could neither sleep nor eat, and was compelled to keep his bed, in such wise, that with superfluous pain, he was brought to marvelous debility. Which his father perceiving, that loved him very tenderite, conceived great grief and sorrow. And sent for Erasistratus (which was a very excellent Physician, and of great estimation) whom very instantly he prayed, diligently to look unto his son, and to provide for him such remedy, as was convenient for the greatness of his disease. Erasistratus viewing and beholding, all the parts of the young gentlemannes' body, and perceiving no sign of sickness, either in his urine, or other accident, whereby he could judge his body to be diseased: after many discourses, gave judgement, that the same infirmity proceeded from some passion of the mind, which shortly would cost him his life. Whereof he advertised Seleucus. Who loving his son, after a fatherly manner, and specially, because he was endued with virtue and good conditions, was afflicted with unspeakable grief. The young gentleman, was a marvelous trumne youngman, so actife and valiant, as any that lived in his time, and therewithal very beautiful and comely. Which made him to be beloved of all men. His father was continually in his chamber, and the queen herself, oftentimes visited him, & with her own hands, served him with meats and drinks, which because I am no Phisteion, I know not whether the fame did the young man any pleasure, or whether it did him hurt or good. But I suppose, that her sight was joyful unto him, as of her, in whom he had placed all his comfort, all his hope, quietness, & delight. But beholding before his eyes so many times, the beauty of her, whom so greatly he desired to enjoy, hearing her speak, that was the occasion of his death, and receiving service of meats, and drinks at her hands, whom he loved better, than the balls of his eyes: unto whom he durst not make any request or prayer, whether his grief surmounted all other, and therefore continually pined and consumed, I think if of reason to be believed. And who doubteth, but that he feeling himself, to be touched with those her delicate hands, and seeing her to sit by him, and so many times for his sake, to fetch so many sighs, and with such sweet words to bid him, bet of good there, and that if he wanted any thing to tell her, and prayed him with pleasant words, to call for that he lacked, and that for his sake she would gladly accomplish his desire, who doubteth I say, but he was marvelously tormented, with a thousand cogitations, now conceiving hope, and by and by despair, and still concluding with himself, rather to die, then to manifest his love? And if it be a grief to all young men (be they never of so mean, and base condition) in their youthlie time, to lose their life, what shall we think of Antiochus, that being a youngman of fresh and flourishing age, the son of a rich and mighty king, that looked if he might escape after the death of his father to be heir of all did willingly crave death, of that small disease. I am assured that his sorrow was infinite. Antiochus then beaten, with pity, with love, with hope, with desire, with fatherly reverence, and with a thousand other things (like a ship tossed in the deep seas) by little and little, begun to grow extremely sick. Erasistratus that saw his body hole and sound, but his mind grievously weakened, and the same vanquished with sundry passions. After he had with himself considered, this strange case, he for conclusion found out, that the young man was sick through love, & for none other cause. Moreover he thought that many times, wise and grave men through, Ire, hatred, disdain, malinconie, and other affections, could easily feign and dissemble their passions, but love if it be kept secret, doth by the close keeping thereof greater hurt, then if it be made manifest. And albeit that of Antiochus, he could not learn the cause of his love yet after that imagination was entered into his head: he purposed to find it out, by continual abode with him, and by great diligence, to observe and mark all his actions: and above all to take heed to the mutation of his pulses, and whereupon, their beating did alter. This deliberation purposed, he sat down by the bed side, and took Antiochus by the arm, and held him fast, where the pulses ordinarily do beat. It chanced at that instant, that the queen Stratonica entered into the chamber, whom, so soon as the young man saw, coming toward him, suddenly the poulce which were weak & feeble, began to revive, through mutation of the blood. Erasistratus feeling the renforcing of the poulce, and to prove how long it would continue, moved not at the coming of the Queen but still held his fingers, upon the beating of the poulces. So long as the Queen contiuned in the chamber, the beating was quick and lively, but when she departed, it ceased, & the wont weakness of the poulces, returned. Not long after, the queen came again into the chamber, who was no sooner espied by Antiochus, but that his poulces, received vigour, and begun to leap and so still continued. When she departed. the force and vigour of the poulce departed also. The noble Physician seeing this mutation, and that still it chanced upon the presence of the Queen: he thought that he had found out, the occasion of Antiochus sickness. But he determined better to mark the same, the next day, to be more assured. The morrow after Erasistratus, sat down again by the young gentleman, and took him again by the arm, but his poulce made no motion at all. The king came to see his son, and yet for all that his pulses were still. And behold the Queen, came no sooner in, but suddenly they revived, and yielded such lively moving, as if you would have said: yonder is she that setteth my heart on fire. Behold where she is, that is my life & death. Then Erasistratus, was well assured and certain, that Antiochus was fervently inflamed with his mother in law: but that shame constrained him to conceal, the hot firebrands that tormented him: and to keep them close and secret. Certified of this opinion, before he would open the matter, he considered what way were best, to give knowledge thereof to king Seleucus. And when he had well debated of this matter, he devised this way. He knew that Seleucus loved his wife beyond measure, and also that Antiochus was so dear unto him, as his own life. Whereupon he thus said unto the king. Noble Seleucus, thy son is affected with a grievous malady, and that (which is worse) I dame his sickness to be incurable. At which words the sorrowful father, began to utter pitiful lamentation, and bitterly to complain of Fortune. To whom the Physician said. If it please yond (my lord) to understand the occasion of his disease. This it is. The malady that affecteth, and languisheth your son, is Love: and the love of such a woman, which except he enjoy, there is no remedy, but death. Alas (quoth the King, weeping with bitter tears) and what woman is she, but that I may procure her for him, which am king of all Asia, and may with entreaty, money, gifts, or other policy whatsoever, make her obedient, and willing to my sons' request. Tell me only the name of the woman, that I may provide for my sons' health, yea though it cost me all my goods and realm to, if other wise she can not be gotten. For if he die, what shall I do with my kingdom? Whereunto Erasistratus answered. If it like your grace, your son is in love with my wife, but because that love, seemeth unto him disconuenient, he dareth not to manifest the same for shame, but rather wisheth to die, then to open his mind. Howbeit, I by certain evident signs, do wei perceive it. When Seleucus heard these words, he said. O Erasistratus, thou being so worthy a man, to whom few in goodness and humility, be comparable, so dear and well-beloved of me, and beareth the bruit, to be the very haven, and harborough of wisdom, wilt thou not save my son, which is a young man, now upon the flower of his youth, and most worthy of life: for whom the Empire of all Asia, is worthily reserved? O Erasistratus, the son of thy friend Seleucus, is thy king, who through love and silence, is at the poineted death, thou seest that for modesty, and honesty sake, at this his last and doubtful passage, he had rather choose to die, then by speaking to offend thee, and wilt thou not help him? This his silence, this discretion, that his reverence, which he showeth aught to move thee to compassion. Think my well-beloved Erasistratus that if he love ardently, that he was forced to love. For undoubtedly, if he could not love, he would do the best he could, not to love, yea, and all his endeavour to resist it. But who is able to prescribe laws to Love? Love I know, not only forceth men, but also commandeth the immortal Gods, and when they be not able to resist him, what can man's policy prevail? Wherefore, who knoweth not what pity mine own dear Antiochus doth deserve? Who being constrained, can none otherwise do. But to be silent in love, is a most evident sign, of a noble and rare virtue. Dispose thy mind therefore, to help my son. For I assure thee that if thou do not love the life of Antiochus, Seleucus life must needs be hated of thee. He can not be hurt, but I likewise must be hurted.  
The wise Physician seeing that his advise, came to pass as he thought before, and that Seleucus was so instant upon him, for the health of his son, the better to prove his mind, and his intention, spoke unto him in this wise. It is a common saying, my most dread sovereign Lord, that a man when he is hole, can give to him that is sick and weak, very good counsel. You persuade me to give my well-beloved wife, to another man, and to forego her, whom I most fervently do love, and in lacking her, my life also must fail. If you do take from me my wife, you take with her my life. Doubtful it is my lord, if Antiochus pour son were in love with the Queen Stratonica, your grace's wife, whether you would be so liberal unto him of her, as you would that I should be of mine. I would it were the pleasure of the Gods (suddenly answered Seleucus) that he were in love with my best beloved Stratonica, I swear unto thee, by the reverence that I have always borne, to the honourable memory, of my father Antiochus, and my grandfather Seleucus: and I swear by all the sacred Gods, that freely and forthwith, I would render my wife into his hands (although she be the dearest beloved unto me) in such wise, as all the world should know, what the duty of a good and loving father, aught to be to such a son, as my entirely beloved Antiochus: who (if I be not deceived) is most worthy of all help and secure. Alas this his great virtue, in concealing that notable passion, as an earnest affection of love, is it not worthy to be consecrated, to eternal memory? Is he not worthy of all help and comfort? Doth he not deserve to be pitied, and lamented of all the whole world? Truly he is worse than a cruel enemy, nay he is rather, more fierce and unnatural, than a savage beast, that at such moderate behaviour, as my son useth, will not take compassion. Many other words he spoke, manifestly declaring, that he for the health of his son, would not only stick, to bestow his wife, but also willingly his life, for his preservation. Wherefore the Physician thought it not good, any longer to keep secret the thing: but took the king a side and said unto him in this wise. The health of your son (my dear Lord and sovereign) is not in my hands, but the same resteth in you, and in your wife Stratonica, whom (as I, by certain signs do manifestly know) he ardently doth love. Your grace now doth know, from hencefor the what to do, if his life be dear unto you. And telling the king, the manner of such love, he joyfully took his leave. The king now doubted but of one thing, which was, how to persuade his son, to take Stratonica to wife, and how to exhort his wife, to take his son to husband. But it chanced for diverse causes, that easily enough he persuaded them both. And perchance, Stratonica made a good exchange, by taking a young man, to forsake him that was old. After Seleucus had made the accord between his wife and his son, he caused all his army to assemble, which was very great. To whom he saed in this manner. My dear and loving souldious, which sith the death of Alexander the great, have (with me) achieved a thousand glorious enterprises: I think it meet and convenient, that ye be partakers of that, which I purpose to bring to pass. Ye do know that under mine Empire, I have lxxij kingdoms, & that I being an old man, am not able to attend so great a charge: wherefore (loving companions) I purpose to deliver and rid you from grief of idleness, and myself from trouble and toil, reserving to me only so much as lieth between the Sea, and the river Euphrates. All the rest of my dominions, I give to my son Antiochus, upon whom in marriage, I have bestowed my wife Stratonica, which thing ought to content you, because my will and pleasure is such. And when he had told them, the love & sickness of his son, and the discrete devise of the gentle Physician, in the presence of a his army, the marriage was celebrated, between Stratonica & Antiochus: Afterwards he crowned them both King and Queen of Asia, and with royal pomp and triumph, the desired marriage was consummate. The army hearing, and seeing these things, very highly commended, the piety of the father towards his son. Antiochus then continued with his well-beloved wife in joy and quietness, living together in great felicity. This was not he, that for matters of Egypt, did make wars with the Romans: But he that only inferred wars upon the Galatians, which out of Europa passed into Asia, but of which country he chased them, and overcame them. Of this Antiochus came Seleucus, which was father of Antiochus, surnamed the great, that attempted very notable wars against the Romans, and not his great grandfather, that married his mother in law. Finally this Seleucus (of whom I recount this history) by giving his wife to his son, did accomplish a miraculous act, and worthy (in deed) of sempiternal remembrance, and greatly to be commended therefore, who although he had achieved infinite victories over his enemies: Yet there was none of them all so great, as the victory of himself, and his passions. For certainly Seleucus did vanquish his own appetites, depriving himself of his wife, whom he loved and esteemed, above all things in the world.   

Of the strange & beastly nature of Timon of Athenes enemy to mankind, with his death, burial, and epitaph.  
¶ The xxviij Novel.  
ALL the beasts of the world, do apply themselves to other beasts of their kind Timon of Athenes only excepted, of whose strange nature, plutarch is astonished, in the life of Marcus Antonius, Plato and Aristophanes, do report his marvelous nature, because he was a man but by shape only, in qualities, he was the Capital enemy of mankind, which he confessed frankly, utterly to abhor and hate. He dwelt alone, in a little cabane in the fields, not far from Athenes: separated from all neighbours and company, he never went to the city, or to any other habitable place, except he were constrained. He could not abide any man's company and conversation: he was never seen to go, to any man's house, ne yet would suffer them to come to him. At the same time there was in Athenes, an other of like quality, called Apemantus, of the very same nature, different from the natural kind of man, and lodged likewise in the midst of the fields. On a day they two being alone together at dinner. Apemantus said unto him: O Timon, what a pleasant feast is this, and what a merry company are we, being no more but thou and I. Nay (quod Timon) it would be a merry banquet in deed, if there were none hers but myself. Wherein he showed, how like a beast (in deed) he was. For he could not abide any other man, being not able to suffer the company of him, which was of like nature. And if by chance he happened to go to Athenes, it was only to speak to Alcibiades, who then was an excellent captain there, whereat many did marvel: And therefore Apemantus demanded of him, why he spoke to no man, but to Alcibiades. I speak to him some times, said Timon, because I know that by his occasion, the athenians shall receive great hurt and trouble. Which words many times, he told to Alcibiades himself. He had a garden, adjoining to his house in the fields, wherein was a Fig tree, whereupon many desperate men ordinarily, did hang themselves: In place whereof, he purposed to set up a house, and therefore was forced to cut it down, for which cause he went to Athenes, and in the Market place, he called the people about him, saying: that he had news to tell them. When the people understood, that he was about to make a discourse unto them, which was wont to speak to no man, they marveled, and the citizens on every part of the city, ran to hear him: to whom he said, that he purposed to cut down his Fig tree, to build a house upon the place where it stood. Wherefore (quoth he) if there be any man amongs you all in this company, that is disposed to hang himself, let him come betimes, before it be cut down. Having thus bestowed his charity amongs the people, he returned to his lodging, where he lived a certain time after, without alteration of nature. And because that nature chasiged not in his life time, he would not suffer that death should alter, or vary the same. For like as he lived a beastly and chorlishe life, even so he required to have his funeral, done after that manner. By his last will he ordained himself to be interred upon the sea shore, that the waves and surges might beat, and vex his dead carcase. Yea, and that if it were possible, his desire was to be buried in the depth of the Sea: causing an epitaph to be made, wherein was described the qualities of his brutish life. plutarch also reporteth an other to be made by Calimachus: much like to that, which Timon made himself, whose own soundeth to this effect in English verse.  
My wretched caitiff days,  
expired now and past:  
My carrion corpse intered here,  
A plurality of husbands  
is fast in ground:  
In waltering waves, of swelling  
Seas by surges cast,  
My name if thou desire,  
The Gods thee, do confound.   

The marriage of a man and woman, he being the husband of twenty wives: and she the wife of xxii. husbands.  
¶ The xxix Novel.  
MEn commonly do reprove the honour of widows, because they being twice or thrice wedded, do marry again. And albeit by outward appearance, they which so blame them, seem to have reason, yet no man ought to judge the secrecy of the heart. Marriage is holy, and aught to be permitted, and therefore by any means, not to be reproved: Although it can not be denied, but that the chaste life is most perfect, notwithstanding, that perfection, in nothing doth diminish the other. The widow marrying again, doth not offend God by marriage, & to the world she committeth the least fault. And because many old and ancient widows in these days, may not after three or four marriages, be dismayed & terrified from that state: I will recite an history, avouched by S. Jerome, in an Epistle Ad Gerontiam viduam de monogamia, whom for his holiness and virtue, we ought to believe. It is also prettily set forth, by Pietro Messia de Seviglia, an excellent author, a gentleman of Spain, in the xxxiiii Chapter of the first part of his work, called La Selua di vary Lezzioni. Saint Jerome saith, that in the time of Pope Damasus, he saw and knew in Rome, one woman lawfully married to xxij men, and was the widow of xxii husbands. There was also a man, which had had twenty wives, and was then the widower of the twenty Both which being free, and of equal state and condition, they made suit one to other: and that either of them might prove, which should be the victor, in burying each other, they married together, which marriage was in great admiration amongs the Romans. Who mused, which of them should die first, promising that at the funeral, they would beautify the corpse, both with their presence, & also with tokens of victory. It chanced (sore against her will I dare say) that the woman died first. At the celebration of whose burial: all the Roman husbands laid their heads together, how they might exornate and garnish the same. They concluded, to go before the corpse, with Laurel garlands upon their beads, singing verses of praise, for the obtaining of such a victorious conquest. Now where the women went, I can not tell. For I find written, that populus totius urbis praecedebat feretrum, where populus, as I take it, signifieth the whole rout of men and women. And yet I think, women's hearts would tell scorn to go before. Therefore I think they came behind like mourners, bearing branches without leaves, their beads in their hands, praying for all christian souls. But giving women leave, to mourn for such an overthrow, I would wish all my friends that be widows (if in her conscience, she can find in her heart) to follow the noble Roman matron and widow called Annia, who (when her friends and familiars, exhorted her to marry again, because she was young and beautiful) answered that she would not. For, quoth she, if it be my fortune to have a good man, as I had before, I shall still be afraid, lest death should take him away. But if it be my chance to match with an ill man, how can I be able quietly to bear that, having had so good a husband before. Declaring thereby, that being once well matched, great heed ought to be taken, how to choose the next, lest in making a hasty choice, leisure for repentance do follow.   

How Melchisedeche a jew by telling a pretty tale of three rings, saved his life.  
¶ The xxx Novel.  
SAladine whose valiance was so great, that not only the same of a base man, made him soldan of Babilone, but also thereby he wan diverse victories over the Saracene rings and Christianes', having through his manifold wars and magnificent triumphs, expended all his treasure, and by reason of one accident, which he had to do: lacking a great some of money, he knew not where to have the same so ready, as he had occasion to employ it. Who called to remembrance a rich jew, called Melchisedech, that lent out money for interest in Alexandria and thought he had to serve his turn when he would, but he was so covetous, that with his good will, he would not do it, and to force him he was very loath. Howbeit compelled by necessity, he cast his wills about him, to find a means, how the jew might serve his turn, and found out a sleight and way by a colourable force. And causing him to be called before him, interteigning him familiarly, he made him to sit down by him, and said to him these words. Sir, I do learn by report of divers men, that you are very wise and well learned, in things touchyug God. For which cause I would gladly know of you which of the three laws, you judge to be most true. The jewish law, the Saracene law, or the Christian law? The jew which in deed was very wise, perceived well that Saladine went about to entrap him in words, to raise some quarrel against him, thought that it was not good for him, to praise one of those laws more than an other, that Saladine might take no advantage of him. Wherefore, to make a wise and discrete answer, that he might not be taken, he sharpened his wits, and suddenly there came into his remembrance this answer. My lord, the question which you have proponed unto me is excellent, and to declare unto you that which I know, I must tell you a tale, which if it shall please you to hear, is this. I do remember (if I be not deceived) that many times I have heard tell, how upon a time, there was a noble man, which was very rich, and had amongs his other treasure, a very beautiful ring, of great price and estimation: which for the valour and beauty, he was very desirous perpetually, to leave unto his successors: who willed and ordained that the same son, which should have that ring, by the gift of his father, after his decease, should be taken and reputed for his heir, and should be honoured, and magnified of the rest, as the chiefest. He to whom the same ring was left, observed semblable order in his posterity, and did the like, that his predecessor had done before him. In short time this ring succeeded from hand to hand, to many successors. And last of all, it came to the hands of one that had three goodly sons, virtuous and very obedient to their father. Who for that cause loved them all indifferently and in equal manner, which knowing the order for the disposition of that Ring, curious to be best esteemed and beloved, every of them, prayed their Father so well as they could (which then was aged) that when he died he would give him the Ring. The good man which loved one no better than another, knew not which of them to choose, to whom be might dispose it, and thought best, to promiss the same to every of them, to satisfy all three. And secretly he procured an excellent Goldesmith to make two other, which were so like unto the first, that the owner himself uneaths knew one from the other. And when he was upon his death bed he secretly gave to every of his sons a Ring. Who after the death of their father desirous to enter the Inheritance and honour, one going about to displace another, every of them to declare what title he had to enjoy the same, brought forth his Ring. And the Rings were found so like, that the true ring could not be known. Therefore the process for the title remained in doubt and yet continueth till this day. And so I say unto you my Lord of the three laws given by God the father to those three people whereof you have made the question, every of those nations thinketh to enjoy the inheritance of God, and to observe the true law and his commandments, but which of them hath the law, that remaineth in doubt like the question of the Rings. Saladine perceiving that Melchisedech knew right well how to avoid the snare, which he had laid before his feet: Determined therefore to open and disclose unto him his necessity, to prove if he would do him that pleasure: And so he did telling him his intent & meaning, if he had not made him that wise answer. The jew liberally lente him the some of money that he demanded: Which Saladine holy repaid unto him again, besides other very great rewards that he gave him, using him still for his friend, and afterwards maintained him next his person, in great and honourable state.   

One celled Gugllelmo Borsiere with certain words well placed taunted the covetous life of Ermino Crimaldi.  
¶ The xxxj Novel.  
Long sithence there was a gentle man at Genova called M. Ermino Grimaldi, who as all men judged, was the richest of possessions, and ready money, and therein far excelled all other citizens which then were known in all Italy. And as he did surpass all other Italians in substances & wealth, even so in avarice and wretchedness he surmounted beyond measure the most covetous and miserable of the world. For he kept his purse so close that he did not only neglect to do good to other, but also to himself, by sparing in many things necessary for his own person: he endured much hardness in meat and drink because he would spend nothing contrary to the comen custom of the Genevois. Who be wont very nobly and honorablely to maintain themselves in apparel and far. For which cause his surname Grimaldi deservedly was given unto him, and was called of every man nothing else but M. Ermino the covetous. It chanced in those days that as he by spending nothing multiplied his goods. There arrived at Genova an honest gentleman and well spoken, a Courtier of good interteigment, named Guglielmo Borsiere (nothing like the Courtiers in these days that to there great shame, for there corrupt and rude manners would be called and reputed gentlemen, which in deed may be counted asses, brought up and nuzzled rather in the filthy conditions of the vilest men, then in courts). In those days Courtiers occupied themselves, in treating of peace and ending of quarrels that bred strife and dissension amongs gentlemen or in making of Marriages, amities, and attonementes, and with merry words and pleasant, did recreate troubled minds, & exhilarated with pastimes other Courtiers, with sharp reprehensions like father's rebuking the lives of the wicked, and that for little gain or reward. Where the Courtiers of our age do employ there time, in ill reports one of another and do disseminate debate and strife, uttering a thousand unhappy and vile words, yea and that (which is worst of all) in common audience. There manner is to reprove and check one another of there injuries, shames and mischiefs, true and untrue, and with false and deceivable flatteries and inventions to commit against Gentlemen villainous and ungracious facts. He is also the properest man and best beloved of some great men of ill conditions and of them best rewarded that can use the vilest and most abominable talk, or can do semblable deeds: which is a great shame and selaundre to the world in these days, proof whereof is evident enough for that the virtues past, have forsaken the present sort which live in the ordure and filth of all vices: But to proceed in that which I have begun (although upon lust occasion I have a little more digressed than I thought) I say that the foresaid Guglielmo Borsiere was honoured & visited of the gentlemen of Genova, who making his abode for a certain time in the City and hearing tell of the misery and covetousness of M. Ermino had great desire to see him. M. Ermino hearing tell that this Guglielmo Borsiere was an excellent man & having in him (although a covetous man) some spark of gentility, he received him with friendly words and good countenance, entering into communication with him of divers and sundry matters, and in talking brought him with certain other Citizens to one of his houses which was very fair and new, where (after he had showed him his house) he said unto him. Oh M. Guglielmo you that have seen and heard many things can you show unto me any new devise never seen before, that I may cause the same to be painted in my hall: To whom M. Guglielmo (hearing his fond talk) answered. Sir I can show you nothing but that which hath been known before except Nesinges or such like. But if it please you sir I will gladly teach you one, which I think you never saw. M. Ermino glad to here of that, said. I pray you sir tell me what it is, (not thinking he would have made that answer). To whom master Guglielmo readily said. cause the figure of Liberality to be painted. At which answer master Ermino was so suddenly ashamed that he was forced to change his mind in a manner clean contrary to his accustomed use, and said. Master Guglielmo I will cause the same to be painted in such wise, as neither you nor any man else shall have occasion justly to object the same against me. And from that time forth (such was the force of that taunt) he was the most liberal and bountiful Gentleman that dwelled in Genova, and one that honoured strangers and Citizens more than ever any did in his time.   

Master Alberto of Bologna by pleasant answer made a Gentlewoman to blush, which had thought to have put him out of countenance, in telling him that he was in love with her.  
¶ The xxxij Novel.  
NOt many years passed their was at Bologna a notable Physician, renowned through out the whole world, called Master Alberto, who being old, almost. lx. years of age, had such an excellent wit, that although natural heat was expired in his body, yet he disdained not to conceive some amorous flames of love. seeing at a banquet a very fair gentlewoman a widow called (as some say) Madonna Margherita de Ghisiheri, she pleased his fancy so well, that he fixed her so fast in the siege of his remembrance, as if he had been a young man of ripe and youthly years. In such wise as that night, he could take no rest, if the day before, he had not seen the fair and beautiful face of this fair gentlewoman. For which cause sometimes a foot, and sometimes on horseback, as he thought best, he continually used to pass before her lodging, which was the cause that she and diverse other gentlewomen did mark thoccasion of his oft passing to and fro that way. And many times they lested and dallied amongst themselves to see a man of such years and experience to be in love, thinking that the displeasant passion of love, could fallen no hold but in the fond minds of young people and no where else. Wherefore Master Alberto daily passing to and fro by the house of that gentlewoman, it chanced upon holy day, that she sitting with other dames before her door, and seeing Master Alberto a far of coming towards them, they all determined curteousely to receive him, and reverently to salute him, and afterwards merely to talk and sport of his love, which accordingly they did. The gentlewomen rising up they brought him into a Court, of air fresh and pleasant, where they caused to be brought forth excellent wines and comfits, and in the end with many cheerful nd pleasant words they asked him how it was possible, he could be in love with that fair gentlewoman specially sithence many fair and trim youngmen did love her. Master Alberto perceiving himself touched and gesled at, very honestly answered with smiling countenance. Masters No wise man what so ever he be aught to marvel why I am in love, chiefly with you, because your beauty & worthiness doth well deserve the same. And although that naturally the forces which be incident to exercises of Love, do find in old men, good will therefore is not in them deprived, nor the judgement in knowledge, in that which ought to be beloved. But because they have more knowledge then young men, therefore by nature they better know the quality of love. The hope that moveth me an old man to love you, that is so well beloved of young men, is this: I have many times been conversant in places where I have seen gentlewomen for there collation and pleasure after dinner, oftentimes to eat lupines and lekes and albeit that in the leek, there is nothing good, yet the head thereof is less hurtful, and most pleasant to the mouth, whereof generally (through a foolish lust) ye hold the head in your hand and chaw the leaves, which not only be cuel and nought, but also be of an ill favoured smell and favour. And what do I know (mistress) if in the choice of your friends ye do the like? Which if ye do, no doubt it is I, whom you have chosen, and have forsaken all other. This gentlewoman sometime ashamed and blushing with the rest, said Master Alberto, you have full well and curteousely paid us home, and answered our presumptuous objection Notwithstanding I do esteem and accept your amity & love as I ought to regard the love of a wise and honest parsonage. And so (mine honesty and honour saved) all that I have to do you pleasure assuredly is at your commandment. Therewith all Master Alberto rose up, thanckinge the gentlewoman, and with much sport and pleasant talk taking his leave of the company departed. In this manner the gentlewoman giving over her scoffs and taunts, whereby she thought to put Master Alberto out of concept, was overcome herself. Where of I (in the name of Panfilo Filostrato and Dioneo,) by way of entreaty do beseech ye Ladies, Pampinea, Fiammerta, Philomena, and other gentlewomen, to beware how ye do contrive your holly day talk, by waste of words issuing forth your delicate mouths, in carping gaudinge and jesting at young gentlemen, and specially old men, and Master Alberto of Bologna, that for love like the green stalks or grey he dres of lekes, do desire to saver your mouths and by honest recreation and pleasure to gratify your comely personages, lest before the banquet be done and all the confites spent, ye depart with blushing cheeks with overmuch weight of Goldsmiths' works hanging down your heads not shaminge to look your mother in the face from whence you came. I mean the earth: Where dame nature hath form you by comely grace, and good behaviour to be hold each man and to utter pleasant talk intermixed with honesty and vextue.   

Rinaldo of Esti being rob, arrived at Castle Goglielmo and was succoured of a widow: and restored to his losses, returning safe and sound home to his own house.  
¶ The xxxiij Novel.  
IN the time of Azzo Marquis of Ferrara their was a Merchant named Rinaldo of Esti come to Bologna to do certain affairs. Which when he had dispatched, in returning homewards, it chanced as he departed out of Ferrara, and riding towards Verona, he met certain men on horseback, which seemed to be merchants, but in very deed were arrant thieves, and men of ill life and condition: with whom he kept company, and with out suspicion what they were, road together familiarly talking. These good fellows seeing this merchant and thinking that he had money about him, determined to rob him, when they saw their advantage, and to the intent he should suspect nothing, they road like grave men of honest conversation, debating with him of honest things, and faithful, showing themselves so well as they could, to be lowly and gentle. Upon which occasion, he thought himself most happy to have met with such a company, because he & his servant road together alone. And as they were in debating of divers matters (as chanceth in communication) they fill in talk of prayers, that men do make unto God. And one of the thieves (for they were three in number) said unto Rinaldo. And you gentleman, what prayer be you accustomed to make, when you ride by the way? To whom Rinaldo answered. To tell you the truth, I am a man very plain, and rude in those matters, and I have a few prayers at my finger's ends: such as mine ancestors used before me. And I let go currant. two. s. for. xxiiii. d. But nevertheless, I have always used, when I ride by the way, to say in the morning, at my going forth of my lodging, a Pater noster and an ave Maria, for the soul of the father and mother of saint julian: and afer that, I pray to God and saint julian, to send me good lodging the night following. And full oft in my time I have found, in traveling of Countries many great dangers, all which having escaped, it hath been my fortune always (when night approached) to chance upon good and honest lodging: which maketh me stead fastly believe that saint julian (unto whose honour I say the same) hath obtained this benefit of God for me, & I thought that day wherein I neglected to say in the morning that prayer, I could neither sauflie travel, ne yet at night obtain good harborough. He that demanded the question, asked him. And hast thou said them this morning? Yea verily answered Rinaldo. Then he which already knew, how the matter would go, said to himself, thou shalt have enough to do anon, for if thou have not said them this morning, it may so hap that thou shalt lodge full ill this night. And afterwards he said, I have likewise travailed in my days a great way: And yet I never said those prayers, but I have heard many men greatly praise them. And yet I could never perceive, but that I have been well lodged. And peradventure this night you shall prove, which of us two shall have best lodging, you which have said them, or I which have not said them. It is most true that I have accustomed, in steed of that prayer, to say the verse Dirupisti, or the Anthem Intemerata, or the Deprofundis, which are (as my grand mother did teach and instruct me) of very great force and virtue. And speaking thus of divers things, always riding, expecting the place and time, to put their wicked intent in effect: It chanced that approaching near to Castelll Guglielmo, when they had passed over a river, these three thieves, late in the evening in a dark place, did set upon him and rob him, dismounting him from his horse, and left him there in his shirt. And as they were going away, they said unto him: Go and seek if thy saint julian, will help thee to good lodging this night, for our saint, will help us to good. And passing through the River, they went their way. The servant of Rinaldo, perceiving the thieves set upon his Master (like a coward) helped him nothing at all, but turning his bridle, never left galloping, until he came to castle Guglielmo: where because it was night, he lodged himself in an Inn, without any further care for his master. Rinaldo being still there in his shirt, barefooted and bare legged, in the great Frost and snow, not knowing what to do, and seeing night already approach, quaking, and his teeth clacketing in his head, began to look about him, if he could see any place there, for him to resort for succour, that he might not die for cold: but (seeing none at all, because a little before, the wars had with fire consumed all things) being sore afflicted for cold, he began to run towards Castle Guglielmo, not knowing for all that, that his servant was fled thither: thinking that if he might come in, God would send him some succour, but dark night overtook him a good way of, before he could come to the Castle, almost by the space of a mile, by which means he arrived there very late, the gates being shut up, and the bridges drawn, that he could not go in. By reason whereof, he was very sorrowful and discomforted, lamentably, casting his eyes about, to espy if it were possible, that at the lest he might shroud himself free from the Snow: and by chance he saw a house, upon the walls of the Castle, under which he determined to rest himself, till it was day, and repairing thither, he fofide under the house a door (which was locked) under which door, he gathered a little straw, that he found there about, and sat down very heavy & pensive: making his complaint many times unto saint julian, saying: that the faith which he reposed in him, had now deceived him. But saint julian taking pity upon him, vithout any further delay, prepared him a good lodging. There dwelled in that Castle a woman, which was a widow, so fair a person as might be seen, whom the Marquis Azzo loved as his life, & kept her there for his own pleasure. And the same woman dwelled in that house, under the porch whereof, Rinaldo was gone to rest himself. And the day before, by chance the Marquis came thither, to disport himself with her that night, & in her house had secretly caused a bathe to be made, and commanded a great supper to be prepared: And all things being ready, and the goodwife expecting nothing else, but the commylig of the Marquis. It chanced that one of his men called at the gates of the Castle, who brought such news to the Marquis, that suddenly he must ride away. Wherefore he sent word to the widow, that she should not attend his coming: who not a little displeased with those news, not knowing what to do, determined to enter into the bath, which was prepared for the Marquis, and when she had supped, to go to bed. This bathe was hard by the door, where poor Rinaldo was approached. The widow being in the bathe, bearing the plaints and trembling voice, made by Rinaldo, thought it had been the noise of a Stork. Wherefore she called her maid, and said unto her. Go up, and look over the walls, and see who is at the door, and know what he would have. The maid, according to her masters commandment, the night being somewhat clear, saw Rinaldo sitting in his shirt bore legged, shaking for cold, as is before said: whereupon she asked him, what he was. And Rinaldo, with his teeth shivering in his head, could scarce well speak, or utter a word, and so briefly as he could, he told her what he was, how and for what purpose he was come thither. Afterwards he piteously began to pray her (if she could) not to suffer him that night, to starve there for cold. The maid pitying his estate, returned to her masters, and told her what she saw: who like wise having compassion upon him, remembering that she had the key of the door (which sometimes served the turn, when the Marquis was disposed secretly to come in) she said to her maid: go open the door softly. For we have prepared a supper, and here is no man to eat it. And also here is lodging sufficient to harbour him. The maid greatly praising her masters for her courtesy, went forth and opened the door. And when he was let in, they perceived him, to be almost frozen for cold, saying unto him: dispatch good fellow, go into the bath, being yet hot. Which thing he right willingly did, not, looking that he should be hidden again, and being recomforted, with the warmeth thereof, he felt himself revived, from death to life. The good wife caused certain apparel, of her late dead husband, to be searched out for him, and when he had put them on, they were so meet, as though they had been made of purpose, and waiting what it should please the good wife to command him, he began humbly to thank God, and saint julian, that he was delivered from that evil night, contrary to his expectation, and was brought to so good a lodging. After this the fair widow, a little reposing herself, caused a great fire to be made, in one of her great chambers, into the which she came, and demanded her maid, what manner of man he was. Whereto the maid answered, saying: Mistress, now he is in good apparel, he is a very handsome man, and seemeth to be of good reputation and honesty. Go thy ways (quoth her masters) and call him in hither. Bid him come to the fire, and tell him that he shall sup with me, for perchance he hath eat no meat to night. Rinaldo came into the chamber, and seeing the widow, made to her great reverence: thanking her for her kindness showed unto him. When the widow had seen him, and heard him speak, perceiving him to be such a one, as her maid reported: received him in courteous wise, causing him familiarly to sit down before the fire. And demanded what mishap, brought him to that place. To whom Rinaldo rehearsed the whole discourse. For she had heard, at the coming of Rinaldo his servant to the Castle, a report of his robbery, which made her to believe him the better: She told him also, that his man was come to the town, and how he might easily find him the next morning. But after meat was served to the table, Rinaldo and she washed together, and then sat down to supper. He was a goodly parsonage, fair and pleasant to behold, young and of good behaviour, upon whom the woman many times did cast her eyes, and liked him well. To be short, this lecherous lady, burning inwardly with amorous desire, abused herself with him, in steed of the Marquis. But when the morning began to show forth her light, the widow to the intent, no suspicion might be had, gave him certain base and course apparel, and filled his purse with money, praying him to keep it secret, and first told him, which way he should go to seek his man, letting him out at the door, whereat he came in. Who seeming as though he had travailed, a great way that morning: When the gates were opened, went into the castle, and found his servant. Wherefore putting upon him, such apparel as was in his male, and being about to get up, upon his man's horse, it came to pass, like as it had been a divine miracle, that the three thieves, which had rob him the night before, were taken for doing of an other robbery, which they had committed a little while after, and were brought to the Castle, and upon their confession, his horse, apparel, and money were restored to him again, losing nothing but a pair of garters. Wherefore Rinaldo thanking God and S. julian. mounted upon his horse and returned hole and safe, to his own house. And the next day, the three thieves were conveyed forth, to bless the world with their heels.   

Three young men having fondly consumed all that they had, became very poor, whose nephew (as he returned out of England into Italy, by the way) fill into acquaintance with an abbot whom (upon further familiarity) he knew to be the king of England's daughter, which took him to her husband. Afterwards she restored, his uncles to all their losses, and sent them home in good state and reputation.  
¶ The xxxiiij Novel.  
THere was sometime in the city of Florence a knight, called sir Tebaldo, who as some say, was of the house of Lamberti: and as other affirm, of Agolanti. But leaving the variance, of whether house he was, true it is, that he was in that time, a notable, rich and wealthy knight, and had three sons. The first called Lamberto, the second Tebaldo, and the third Agolante, all fair and goodly children: and the eldest of them was, not xviij years of age. When the said sir Tebaldo died, to them (as his lawful heirs) he left all his lands and goods. Who seeing themselves, to be very rich, in ready money and possessions, continued their life without gonernement, at their own pleasures, and without bridle or stay, they began to consume their goods. They kept a great and frank house, and many Horses of great value, with Dogs and Hawks, of sundry kinds, and continually kept open house, giving liberal gifts, and observing diverse gests at Tilt and Torney, doing that thing, that not only did appertain, and belong to gentlemen, but also that, which was incident to the trade & course of youth. They continued not long in this order, but their substance left them by their father, was very much consumed. And their revenues (not able to maintain their expenses) began to decrease, whereupon they were feign, to mortgage and sell their inheritance in such wise, as in the end they grew to extreme poverty. And then penury did open their eyes in like sort, as before richesse had closed them up. For which cause Lamberto upon a day, did call his other two brethren unto him, and told them of what honour their father was, to what value his richesses did amount, and now to what poverty they were come, through their disordinate expenses, giving them counsel (so well as he could) that before misery did grow any further upon them, by selling that which was left, they should go their way. Which they did. And without leave taken of any man, or other solemnity, they departed from Florence, and tarried in no place, before they were arrived in England. Where taking a little house, in the city of London, they lived with little expenses, and began to lend out their money to usury, & Fortune was so favourable unto them, by that trade, that in few years, they had gained a very notable some of money, which made them one after an other, to retire again to Florence with their substance, where they redeemed a great part of their inheritance, and bought other land, and so gave themselves to marriage: continuing nevertheless in England, their money at interest. They sent thither to be their factor, a young man their nephew, called Alexandro. And they three dwelling still at Florence, began again to forget to what misery their inordinate expenses, had brought them before. And albeit they were charged with household, yet they spent out of order, and without respect. And were of great credit with every Merchant: whose expenses, the money that Alexandro, many times did send home, did help to support for certain years, which was lente out to diverse gentlemen, and Barons of the country, upon their Castles, Manors, and other revenues, whereof was received an incredible profit. In the mean time, the three brethren spent so largely, that they borrowed money of other, fixing all their hope from England. It chanced contrary to the opinion of all men, that wars happened between the king of England, and one of his sons, which bred much division in that Country, some holding of one part, and some of an other. By means whereof, all the manors and mortgaged lands, were taken away from Alexandro, having nothing whereupon any profit did rise. But daily trusting, that peace should be concluded, between the father and the son. And that all things should be surrendered, aswell the principal as the interest: he determined not to depart the country. The three brethren which were at Florrence, not limiting any order, to their disordinate expenses, grew daily worse and worse. But in process of time, when all hope was passed of their recovery, they lost not only their credit: but the creditors desirous to be paid, were feign to send them to prison. And because their inheritance was not sufficient, to pay the whole debt, they remained in prison for the rest: And their wives and children were dispersed, some into the country, and some hither and thither, out of order, not knowing how to do, but to abide a poor & miserable life for ever. Alexandro which of long time, tarried for a peace in England: and seeing that it would not come to pass: & considering with himself (that over and beside his vain abode, for recovery of his debts) that he was in danger of his life, he purposed to return into Italy. And as he travailed by the way alone, and departed from Bruges, by fortune he perceived an Abbot, clothed in white, in like manner about to take his journey, accompanied with many Monks, and a great train: having much carriage, and divers baggages before. After whom road two old knights, the kinsmen of the king, with whom Alexandro entered acquaintance, by reason of former knowledge, and was received into their company. Alexandro then riding with them friendly, demanded what Monks they were that road before, with so great a train, and whether they went. To whom one of the knights answered: that he which road before, was a young gentle man their kinsman, which was newly chosen Abbot, of one of the best abbeys in England. And because he was very young, and not lawful by the decrees, for such a dignity, they went with him to Rome, to obtain of the holy father, a dispensation for his age: and for a confirmation of that dignity. But they willed him to disclose the same to no man. And so this new Abbot, riding sometimes before, and sometimes after, as we see ordinarily that lords do, when they travel in the country: It chanced that the Abbot, perceiving Alexandro riding besides him, which was a fair young man, honest, courteous, and familiar, who at the first meeting, did so marvelously delight him, as any thing that ever he saw in his life, and calling him unto him, he began familierlie to talk, and asked what he was, from whence he came, and whether he went. To whom Alexandro declared liberally all his state, and satisfied his demand, offering unto him (although his power was little) all the service he was able to do. The Abbote hearing his courteous offer and comely talk, placed in good order, considering more particular, the state of his affairs, and weighing with himself, that albeit his train was small, yet nevertheless he seemed to be a gentleman, and then pitying his mishaps, he recomforted him familierlie, and said unto him, that he ought daily to live in good hope. For if he were an honest man, God would advance him again, not only to that place, from whence Fortune had thrown him down, but also to greater estimation, praying him that sithence he was going into Thuscane whether he likewise went, that it would please him to remain in his company. Alexandro thanked him humbly of his comfort, and said unto him that he was ready to employ himself, where it should please him to command. The Abbot thus riding (into whose mind new thoughts entered, upon the sight of Alexandro) It chanced after many days journeys, they arrived at a village, that was but meanly furnished with lodging. The Abbot desirous to lodge there: Alexandro entreated him to light at the Inn of an host which was familiarly known unto him, and caused a chamber to be made ready for himself, in the worst place of the house. And the Marshal of the abbots lodgings, being already come to the Town (which was a man very skilful in those affairs) he lodged all the train in that village, one here, an other there, so well as he could. And by that time the Abbot had supped, night was far spent, and every man repaired to his bed. Alexandro demanded the host, where he should lie? To whom the host made answer. Of a truth Master Alexandro I know not: for you see that all my house is so full, that I and my household, be feign to lie upon the benches: howbeit I have certain garrettes, hard adjoining to my lord abbots chamber, where I may place you very well, and I will cause my folks to bear thither a pallet, and there if you please, you may lodge this night. To whom Alexandro said. How shall I go through the abbots chamber, where for the straight room in the same not one of his Monks is able to lie. But if I had known it before, the curtains had been drawn: I would have caused his Monks to have lain in the garrette, and I myself would have lodged where they do. Whereunto the host said, it is done now, but (me think) you may if you list lie there so well, as in any place of the house. The Abbot being a sleep, and the curtains drawn before him, I will softly and without noise convey a pallett thithere. Alexandro perceiving that the same might be done, without any annoyance to the Abbot, agreed, and conveyed himself so secretly as he could, through the chamber. The Abbot which was not a sleep (but gave himself to think and imagine upon his new desires) heard the words that were spoken, between the host and Alexandro, and likewise understanding, where Alexandro lay, was very well content in himself, and began to say. The Lord hath sent me a time favourable, to satisfy my desires: which if I do not now receive, peradventure the like will never be offered again. Wherefore persuading with himself, to take that present occasion, and supposing likewise, that every man was a sleep, he called Alexandro so softly as he could, and willed him to come and lie beside him: who after many excuses, when his clothes were of, came unto him. The Abbot laying his arm over him, began to attempt such amorous toys, as be accustomed between two lovers: whereof Alexandro marveled much, and doubted that the abbot being surprised with dishonest love, had called him to his bed of purpose, to prove him. Which doubt the Abbot (either by presumption, or some other act done by Alexandro) understanding: in continently began to smile, and to put of his shirt which he ware, and took Alexandro's hand, and laid it over his stomach, saying unto him. Alexandro, cast out of thy mind thy unhonest thought, and feel here the thing, which I have secret. Alexandro laying his hand over the abbots stomach, perceived that he had two breasts, round and hard, the skin whereof was very fine and nesh, whereby he perceived, that he was a woman, whom incontinently he embraced, and without looking for any other invitation, he would have kissed her that she said unto him Before thou approach any nearer, mark what I shall say unto thee. I am a woman, and not a man, as thou mayest perceive, but being departed a maid from my house, I am going to the Pope, to pray him to place me in marriage. But when I first viewed thee, the other day, whether it was through thy good fortune, or my mishap, love attached me in such wise, as never woman loved man, as I do thee. And therefore I do purpose, to take thee for my husband, before all others. But if thou wilt not take me to wife, get thee hence, and return to thine own bed. Alexandro although he knew her not, yet having regard unto the company, and train that followed her, judged her to be some noble and rich Lady. On the other part, he saw that she was a parsonage, right beautiful and fair, therefore without any further consideration, he answered. That for so much as her pleasure was such he was very well contented. She then sitting up in her bed, having a little table (wherein the picture of Christ was painted) endowed him with a ring, doing the order of espousalles, and afterwards embracing one an other, to their great contentation and pleasure, they joyfully continued together that night. And after they had devised, and concluded thorder and means, to accomplish their affairs, from that time forth: Alexandro so soon as it was day rose, and went out of the chamber, that way he came in, without knowledge to any man, where he lay that night. Then right joyful and glad, he proceeded in his journey, with the abbot and his company, and within few days, arrived at Rome. And when they had remained there a certain time: The Abbot taking with him, but the two knights, and Alexandro, went to the Pope: where doing to him their due reverence, the Abbot began to speak in this wise. Holy father (as your holiness doth better know then any other) every man that purposeth to live an honest life, aught to avoid (so much as lieth in him) all occasions that may draw him to the contrary. Which to th'intent I that am desirous, to lead an honest life, may fully perform: am secretly fled, and arrived here, in the habit, wherein you see, with a good portion of the king of England's treasure, who is my father: that your holiness, may bestow me in Marriage, for so much as my father, would give me to wife (which am a young gentlewoman as you see) to the Scottish king, a very rich and wealthy Prince. And his old age was not so much, the occasion of my departure, as the fear which I conceived (through the frailty of my youth, to be married unto him) to commit a thing, that should be contrary to the law of God, and the honour of the blood royal of my father. And in coming hitherwardes, being in this deep deliberation with myself, almighty God, who only knoweth assuredly, what is needful and necessary for us all, did place before mine eyes (through his gracious mercy, as I trust) him that he thinketh meet to be my husband, which is this young gentleman (poineting to Alexandro) whom you see standing besides me. The honesty & worthiness of whom, is well able to match with any great lady, how honourable so ever she be although peradventure, the nobility of his blood is not so excellent as that, which proceedeth from the royal and princely stock. Him then have I chosen to be my husband, him I will have and none other, whatsoever my father shall faith, or any other to the contrary. Wherefore the principal occasion, that moved me to come hither, is now dispatched. But I will accomplish and perform the rest of my voyage, aswell to visit the holy and reverent places [whereof this city is full) and your holiness: as also, that the contract of marriage (hitherto only made in the presence of God, between Alexandro and me) shallbe consummate openly, in the presence of you, and consequently in the sight of all men Wherefore I humbly beseech your fatherhood, to be agreeable unto that, which it hath pleased God and me to bring to pass, and that you would give us your benediction, to the intent we may live together, in the honour of God, to the perfection and end of our life. Alexandro greatly marveled, when he understood, that his wife was the daughter of the King of England, and was rapt with an unspeakable joy. But much more marveled the two knights, which were so troubled and appalled, that if they had been in any place else, saving in the presence of the Pope, they would have killed Alexandro, and peradventure the Lady herself. Of the other part, the Pope was very much astoned, both at the habit and apparel of the Lady, and also of her choice. But knowing that the same could not be undone, he was content to satisfy her request. And first of all, he comforted the two knights, whom he knew to be moved at the matter, and reduced them in amity, with the Lady and Alexandro: then he gave order, what was best to be doen. And when the Marriage day, by him appointed was come, he caused the Lady to issue forth, clothed in royal vestures, before all the Cardinals, and many other great personages, that were repaired to the great feast, of purpose by him prepared. Which lady appeared, to be so fair and comely, that not without desert, she was praised and commended of all the assembly. In like manner Alexandro gorgeously appareled, both in outward appearance and conditions, was not like one that had lente money to Usury, but of a more princely grace, and was greatly honoured of those two knights, where the Pope solempnelie celebrated [again) the espousalles. And after that rich & royal marriage was ended, he gave them leave to depart. It seemed good to Alexandro, and like wise to the Lady, to go from Rome to Florence, in which city; the brute of that accident, was all ready noised, where being received of the citizens, with great honour, the Lady delivered the three brethren out of prison, and having first paid every man their debt, they with their wives, were repossessed in their former inheritance. Then Alexandro and his wife, with the good will, and joyful gratulations of all men, departed from Florence, and taking with them Agolante, one of their uncles, arrived at Paris, where they were honourably interteigned of the French king. From thence the two knights went into England, and so persuaded the king, that they recovered his good will towards his daughter: and sending for his son in law, he received them both, with great joy and triumph. And within a while after, he invested his said soon, with the order of knighthood, and made him Earl of Cornovale, whose wisdom proved so great, that he pacified the father, and the son whereof ensued, surpassing profit and commodity for the whole realm, whereby he gained and got the love, and good well of all the people. And Agolante his uncle, fully recovered all debts, due unto him in England. And the Earl when he had made his uncle knight, suffered him to return in rich estate to Florence. The Earl afterwards lived with his wife, in great prosperity, and (as some do affirm) both by his own policy and valiance, and with the aid of his father in Law, he recovered and overcame the realm of scotland, and was there crowned king.   

Landolpho Ruffolo being impoverished, became a pirate, and taken by the Genevois, was in danger of drowning, who saving himself upon a title coaferfull of rich jewels, was received at Corfu, and being cherished by a woman, returned home very rich.  
¶ The xxxv Novel.  
IT is supposed, that the sea coast of Reggium (in Calabria) is the most delectable part in all Italy, wherein (hard by Salerno) there is a country by the sea side, which thinhabitants do term, the coast of Malsy, so full of little Cities, gardens, fountains, rich men, and merchants as any other people and country. Among which said cities, there was one called Ravello, where in time paste (although in these days, there be very rich men) there dwelled a notable man of substance, called Landolpho Ruffolo: who being not contented with his richesses, but desirous to multiply them double, was in hazard to lose himself, and all that he had. This man (as all other merchants be accustomed) after he had considered with himself, what to do, bought a very great ship, and fraughted the same with sundry kinds of merchandise, of his own adventure, and made a voyage to the Isle of Cypri, where he found (besides the commodities, which he brought) many other Ships arrived there, laden with such like wares: by which occasion it happened, that he was forced, not only to fell the same good cheap. but also was constrained (if he would dispatch his goods) to give them almost for nought, whereby he thought that he was utterly undone. And being greatly troubled for that less, not knowing what to do, and seeing how in so little time, of a rich man, he was come to beggars state, he thought either to die, or else by piracy to recover his losses, to the intent he might not return, to the place poor, from whence he was departed rich. And having found a copesman, for his great bark: with the money thereof, and with other, which he received for his merchandise, he bought a small pinnace, meet for the use of a pirate, which he armed and furnished with all things, necessary for that purpose. And determined to make himself rich, with the goods of other men, and chiefly he meant, to set upon the Turks: whereunto Fortune was more favourable, then to his former trade. And by chance, by the space of one year, he rob and took, so many Foists and galleys of the Turks, that he had recovered not only that, which he lost by merchandise, but also more than twice so much as whereunto those losses did amount. Wherefore, well punished with the first sorrow of his losses, knowing his gains to multiply, that he needed not to return the second time, he thought with himself, that the same which he had gotten, was sufficient: and therefore determined presently, to return to his own house with his gotten goods. And fearing the hindrance which he sustained in traffic of Merchandise, he purposed to employ his money, no longer that ways: but in that bark, wherewith he had gained the same, with his oars he took his course homeward. And being upon the main Sea, in the night the wind rose at the Southeast, which was not only contrary to his course but also caused such a tempest, that his small bark was not able to endure the seas. Whereupon he took harborough in a Creke of the Sea, which compassed a little Island, there expecting for better wind. Into which creak within a while after, with much a do, for avoiding of that tempest, arrived two great Argoseis of Genoa, that were come from Constantinople. The Mariners of which ships: when they saw the little bark, & had shut up the way, that the same could not go out: understanding of whence he was, & knowing by report, that he was very rich, determined (being ikenne naturally given to spoil, and love of money) to take her. And setting a shore part of their meune well armed, and furnished with crossbows, they conveyed themselves, to keep and defend, that none within the Pinnace (except he would be shot through) was able to escape. Then retiring into their skiftes, with help of the Tide, they approached Landolpho his bark, which without any great difficulty, in a small space, they took with all the company, not losing so much as one man. And carrying Landolpho aboard one of their cocks, and all within board his little Pinnace, they sunk the same, and all the Mariners, & kept Landolpho, suffering him not to have about him, any kind of armure, not so much as an haberion. The next day the wind changed, and the ships hoisted up sails toward Levant, and all that day prosperously sailed on their voyage. But upon the closing of the night, a storm rose again, and separated the two ships, one from an other. And by force of the wind, it chanced, that the Ship wherein poor Landolpho was, struck with great violence upon a sand, in the Island of Cephalonia. And as one would throw a glass against a wall, even so the ship opened, and fill in pieces: whereby the sorrowful Mariners, that stood above (the seas being covered with goods, coaffers, and planks of the ship, that swam above water, which chanceth many times, in such like accidents; the night being dark, & the billows going high and ●●●●●●ble) such as were able to swim, began to take hold of those things, which Fortune gave unto them. amongs whom wretched Landolpho, seeing death before his face (which he so greatly desired, and so many times craved, the day before, rather than to return home in that poor estate) was afraid, and taught hold of a board amongs the rest, trusting it might chance, that God would pardon him of drowning, and send him some refuge for his escape. And as he was horseback, and fleeting upon a plank, so well as he could [driven here and there with the sea and wind] he held fast the fame, till it was day light: which when he perceived, he looked about him, and saw nothing but the clouds, the Seas and a coaffer, swimming above water, which was driven so near him, that it made him many times to fear, that it would be his overthrow. And the nearer it came, the more he laboured to put it back [so well as he could] with his hand, although his force and power was gone. But how so ever it chanced, a gale of wind blewe out of the skies, and struck the coaffer against the board, whereupon Landolpho was, who by that means driven back, was forced to give over the plank and with a billow, was beaten under the water, and afterwards remounting a loft again, he swam more through fear, than force. And seeing the board carried a far of from him, fearing lest he should not be able to fasten the same again, he drew toward the coffer, which was near enough unto him. And laying his breast upon the cover thereof, he made it go [so right as he could] with his arms. And in this manner driven by the sea, now here, now there, without eating [as having not wherewithal] and drinking more than he would, he continued all that day, and night following not knowing where he was, for he saw nothing but sea. The next morning, either by the will of God, or through the winds force, Landolpho [which was then transformed into a Sponge] holding fast with both his hands, the brim of the coffer [like as we see them that fear to be drowned, do take hold of the next thing that cometh to hand] arrived at the shore of the Isle of Corfu, where, by fortune a poor woman, was scouring her vessel with Sande and salt water, who seeing him draw near, and perceiving in him no form or fashion of a man, was afraid, and crying out, ran back. He not able to speak, and see but very little, could say nothing. but as the Sea drove him near the shore, the woman descried the likeness of a coffer, and beholding the same more advisedly, saw at length his arms upon the same, and therewithal his face, merueiling with herself who it should be: wherefore moved with compassion, she went into the sea a little way, which then was calm, and catching him by the hear, The pluck him and the coffer to land. And with much a do unfolded his arms, that were about the coffer, causing her maid that was with her to carry the coffer upon her bed. And she bore him to land (like a little child) which dooen, she put him into a hot house, and with warm water, by frotting and rubbing him, his natural heat, and other his senses lost, began to come again, into their former course. And when he saw time, she took him out, cherishing and comforting him, with wines and broths, and so well as she could, made him at length to recover his force in such wise, that he knew where he was. Then the woman delivered him his coffer, which she had saved, and had him to seek his adventure. And thus this good wife dealt with Landolpho. Who little esteemed the coffer, but yet he considered, that it could not be of so small valour, but that it was able to bear his charges, for certain days. But feeling it light, he was clear void of hope, to have any succour and relief thereof. Nevertheless (when the good wife was out of the doors) he broke open the same, to see what was within, where he found many precious jewels, some bound together, and some lose, wherein he had pretty skill. And knowing them to be of great value (giving thanks to God, which had not yet forsaken him) was wholly recomforted. Howbeit, for so much as in a little space, he had been twice cruelly distressed, and tormented by Fortune, fearing the third time, he thought that it was needful for him, to take heed, how to dispose his things in safety, till he came home to his own house. Wherefore, having bestowed those precious jewels, in certain rags and clouts, so well as he could: he said to the goodwife, that he had no need of the coffer, but if she would give him a bag, he would bestow the same upon her. Which the good wife willingly did. And Landolpho giving her so great thanks as he could, for the kindness, which he had found at her hands: took his leave, and embarking himself, he passed to Branditio, and from thence from place to place, till he came to Tranj, where finding divers of the City wherein he dwelt, that were Drapers, he was appareled of them (in a manner of God's sake) to whom he told the discourse of all his fortune, except the coffer, who lent him a horse, and sent divers in his company, to bring him home to Ravello. And when he was in sauftie arrived, he thanked God, that had brought him thither, where he searched his bougette, with more leisure than he did at the first, and found that he had many stones of so great valour, that selling them at price reasonable, for less than they were worth, his substance did amount, to so much more than it was, when he departed from his house. And when he had found the means to dispatch, and sell his jewels, he sent to Corfu a good piece of money, to the woman that took him out of the sea, to recompense the kindness, that he had found at her hands: and the like to them of Tranj, that had given him apparel, the rest he took to himself, and would be no more a merchant, but lived at home in honest estate, to the end of his life.   

Andreuccio of Perugia, being come to Naples to buy horse, was in one night surprised, with three merueious accidents. All which having escaped, with with one Ruby he returned home to his house.  
¶ The xxxvi Novel.  
THere was at Perugia ae young man, called Andreuccio di Pietro, a Horssecorser, who understanding of a horse fair at Naples, did put five hundred Crowns in his purse, and never traveling before from his own house, went thither with certain other merchants: arriving at Naples, upon a sunday at night. The next morning, according to the instructions given him by his hosse, he went to the fair, where he viewed and saw many horse, whereof divers did very well like him, and demanded their prizes: but with none he could agree of price. And to show himself a right well able man, to pay for that he bought, many times (like a dolle and fool, as he was) he drew out his purse stuffed with crowns, in the presence of them that passed to and fro. It chanced that a young woman of Scicilia [which was very fair, but at every man's commandment, and that for little hire) passed by as he was showing his purse, not marked or perceived by Andreuccio, who suddenly said to herself. What is she in all this town, that should be like unto me, if all those crowns were mine? And so passed forth. There was with this young peat, an old woman, a Sicilian also: who so soon as she espied Andreuccio, forsook her companion, and ran affectuouslie to embrace him Which the young woman perceiving [not speaking a word] she gave good heed to that they said: Andreuccio turning himself to the old woman, immediately knew her, and rejoiced much, that he had so happily met her: whom after great gratulations, and many welcomes, she promised to visit at his lodging, which done, she departed from Andreuccio, and he returned to buy his horse, howbeit that morning, he bought none at all. The young dame, which had first seen this purse, and marked the acquaintance between the old woman and him, to assay by what means, she might get that money, or at least, some part thereof, subtellie asked the old woman, what man that was, of whence, what he did there, and how he knew her. To whom the old woman particularly recoumpted her whole acquaintance, how she dwelled of long time in Scicilia with his father, and afterwards at Perugia. And likewise she told her, when he returned, and for what cause he was come to Naples. This jolly wench, wholly informed of Andreuccio his parents, and of their names, made a plat and foundation, by subtle and crafty means, how to obtain her purpose. And when she was come home to her house, she sent the old woman about business for that day, because she might not return to Andreuccio. She had dwelling with her a pretty girl, well nuzzled and brought up, in doing of arrantes, whom about evening, she sent to the lodging of Andreuccio to make inquiry for him: where by fortune she chanced to find him standing alone, at his boasts door, whom the girl did ask, if he knew not an honest man of Perugia, called Andreuccio di Pietro, that hosted there? Yes my girl (quoth he) I am the same man. Then she took him a side, and said unto him. Sir, there is a gentle woman of this Town, that would gladly speak with you, if it were your pleasure. Which when Andreuccio heard, by and by he called to mind, and seemed to himself, that he was a goodly yange man of person, and that without doubt, the same woman was in love with him, because in all Naples, he thought there was none so proper a stripling as himself. Whom incontinently he answered, that he would wait upon her, demanding when he should come, and to what place. To whom she made answer Even when it pleaseth your sir. For my mistress attendeth at home for you. Andreuccio upon that, without any word spoken to his host, whether he was gone: said to the wench. Go thou before, and I will follow. And the girl did conduct him, to her masters house, which dwelled in a street called Malpertugio, a name showing the honesty of the street, where she dwelt. But he knowing and suspecting nothing, thought the place to be right honest, that he went unto, and the wife likewise honest and good, and boldly entered the house, the wench going before. And mounting by the stairs: This young gristle, called her mistress, saying unto her, that master Andreuccio was come. Who ready at the upper step, seemed as though she attended for him. This Lady was fine, and had a good face, well appareled, and trimmed after the best manner. Who seeing master Andreuccio at hand, descended two steps of the stairs, with her arms open to embrace him, folding the same about his neck, and paused a certain space, without speaking and word, as though great love, and earnest affection, enforced her so to do. Then weeping, she kissed his face, and with a voice half uttered, between howling and speaking, she said unto him. O Andreuccio mine own dear heart, most heartily well come. Andreuccio merueiling at those tender words, all amazed, answered. Gentlewoman, and you also well found out. Afterwards she took him by the hand and conveyed him up into a parlour, and from thence (without further talk) into a chamber, which was all perfumed with Roses, with flowers of Oranges, and other sweet smells: where he saw a bed well furnished, & divers sorts of apparel, placed upon presses (according to the manner of that country) and many other fair and rich ornaments. By reason whereof Andreuccio, which was but a freshewater Soldier, thought, that she had been a great Lady. And they two sitting together upon a chest, at her beds feet: She began thus to say unto him. Andreuccio, I am assured you do greatly wonder, at these fair words, this courteous interteignement, and at the tears, which I let fall. And no marvel, although you do not know me, and peradventure never heard tell of me before. But I will declare unto you, a thing more strasige and marvelous, then that is. And to tell you plain, I am your own sister, and I say unto you, that sith it hath pleased my Lord God, to show me so much grace and favour, that I do now see, one of my brethren before I die (although I desire to see them all) I care not when he do call me, from this wretched woride: I am so in spirit comforted and relieved. And where it may chance, that you never understood so much before this time, I will tell you the whole discourse. So it is, that Pietro my father & yours, dwelt of long time [whereof it is possible, that you have heard report] at Palermo, where through the goodness, and friendly behaviour of him, there be yet some remaining that did bear him singular good will and friendship. But amongs other, which loved him moffe my mother (which was a gentlewoman, and then a widow) without doubt did love him best. In such wise, that she forgetting the love of her father, and of her brethren, and the love of her own honour and reputation, they dealt so together, that they begat me, and am here as you see. Afterwards, when your father and mine, had occasion to depart from Palermo, he returned to Perugia, leaving my mother behind, and me his young daughter, never after that (so far as I know) caring either for my mother or me: whereof if he were not my father, I would blame him very much, considering his ingratitude towards my mother Albeit he ought to use towards me, so much affection & fatherly love, as to his own daughter, being come of no kitchen maid, ne yet of any basewoman: For my mother otherwise not knowing what he was, did commit into his hands (moved of mere love) both herself, and all that she had. But what? Things ill done, and so long time paste, are more easy to be reprehended, then amended. Thus the matter went, he left me a little infant at Palermo, where, when I was grown to years, my mother which was rich, gave me to wife, to one of the house of Gergenti, a gentleman of great honesty and reputation, who for the love of my mother and me, returned to dwell at Palermo, where greatly savouring the faction of the Guelphi, he began to practise a certain enterprise, with our king Charles, which being known to King Federic, before the same enterprise could take effect, we were forced to fly out of Scicilia. At what time I had thought, to have been the chiefest Lady, that ever was in that Island: wherefore taking with us such few things, as we were able to carry (few I may well call them, in respect of them we possessed) and leaving our houses and palaces, we came unto this city. Where we found king Charles, so benign towards us, that he hath recompensed part of our losses, which we sustained in his service. For he hath given us possessions and houses, with good provision of household to my husband, and your brother in law, as you now see and perceive. And in his manner I do remain here, where (sweet brother) I thank God (and not you) that at this present I see you: and therewithal she took him about the neck, weeping tenderly, and then kissed his face again. Andreuccio hearing this tale spoken in order, and digested from point to point with good utterance, whereof no word stuck between her teeth, or was impeached by default of tongue: And remembering how it was true, that his father dwelt at Palermo, knowing also by himself, the manner of young men, which in their youth, be prompt and willing to love: and seeing her tender tears, her imbracynges and honest kisses, thought all that she had spoken, to be most certain and true. And after she had do on her tale, he answered in this wise. Madame, you may not think unkindness, if I do marvel at this, for that in very deed, I have no acquaintance of you, no more than if you had never been borne. But whether my father hath spoken of you, or of your mother at any time, truly I do not now remember, but so much the more I do rejoice, that I have found a sister here [as I trust] because I am here alone. And certainly I know none so honourable, but you may seem agreeable unto him, so well as to me, which am but a poor merchant: howbeit, I do beseech you to tell me, how you did know, that I was in the city. To whom she answered. This morning a poor woman, which oftentimes repaireth to my house, gave me knowledge thereof, because of long time [as she told me) she did dwell with your father, at Palermo, and at Perugia. And because I thought it more convenient and meet, to bid you home, to mine own house, then to seek you in an other man's, I thought good to send for you. After these words, she began in order, to inquire of the state of his parents, calling them by their proper names: whereunto Andreuccio made answer, that now he perceived, he had better cause to give credit unto her words, than before. Their discourse and talk of things being long, and the weather hot, she called for Greek wine and Comfittes, and made Andreuccio to drink. Who after the banquet, desirous to depart to his lodging (for it was about supper time) she by no means would suffer him, but making as though she were angry, said unto him. Oh God, I see now most evidently, that you do make little account of me, being your own sister, whom you never saw before, and in her house: where unto you ought to resort, when so ever you come to town. And will you now forsake the same, to sup in an Inn? But of troth you shall not choose, but take part of my supper. And although my husband be not at home, (whereof I am right sorry) yet you shall know, that his wife is able, to make you some good there. To whom Andreuccio, not knowing well what to say else, made this answer. I do love you, as I ought to love a sister. But if I go not to mine june, I know they will tarry for me all this night, before they go to supper, to my great reproach and shame. Praised be God (quoth she then) I have servants to advertise your host, that you be here with me, to the intent he shall not tarry for you. But pleaseth you sir, to do me this great courtesy, that I may send for your companions hither, to bear you company, that afterwards, if you will needs departed, ye may go all together. Andreuccio answered, that he would send for none of his company that night: but for so much as she was so importunate, he himself was right well content, to satisfy her request. Then she made, as though she had sent to his Inn to give word, that they should not tarry for him. And after much communication, supper was placed upon the table, served in with many devices, and sundry delicates abundantly, and she with like sleights continued the supper, till it was dark night. And when they rose from the table, Andreuccio made haste to depart, but she would not suffer him, telling him that Naples was a Town so strait of orders, that none might walk abroad in the night, and specially strangers. And that like as she had sent word, how they should not tarry for him at supper, even so she had done for his bed. All which Andreuccio believing, and taking pleasure, that he was with his sister (deceived though he were of his false belief) was well contented to tarry. Their talk and communication after supper was of purpose dilated and protracted, and one part of the night being spent, she left Andreuccio in his chamber going to bed, and a little boy to wait upon him to see that he lacked nothing, and she with her women went into an other chamber. The time of the year was very hot, wherefore Andreuccio being alone, striped himself, and laid his hose and dublette, under his beds head, and desirous to go to the privy, he asked the boy where it was, who pointing to the door, in a corner of the chamber, said unto him. Go in there.,, Andreuccio saufly went in, and chanced by Fortune to set his foot upon a board, which at both ends was lose from the joiste, whereupon it lay, by reason whereof the board & he tumbled down into the jakes: & God so loved him, that in the fall he received no hurt, although it were of a good height, saving he was unbroined and arrayed, with the dung of the place, whereof the jakes was full. Which place (to the intent you may the better understand, what is said, and what shall follow) even as it was I will describe unto you. There was in a little straight entry (as many times we see between two houses) certain boards laid upon two joistes, between the one house and the other. Upon which, was placed the seat of the privy, one of which boards was the same, that fill down with Andreuccio, who now being in the bottom of the jakes, sorrowful for that sudden chance, cried out to the boy for help. But the boy so soon as he heard, that he was fallen, went in to tell his masters, who by and by ran into his chamber, to seek for his clothes: and when she had found them, and in the same his money, which Andreuccio like a fool, without mistrust, still carried about him: she now possessed to thing, for which she had before laid the snare, in feigning herself to be of Palermo, and the daughter of one of Perugia. And caring no longer for him, she strait way shut fast the privy door, whereat he went forth when he fell. Andreuccio seeing that the boy would not answer, began to cry out a loud, but all was in vain: wherefore suspecting the cause, and beginning somewhat to late, to understand the deceit, he leapt over a little wall, which closed that place from the sight of the street. And when he was in the open street, he went to the door of the house, which he knew well enough, making a noise, rapping hard and long at the door, but it was in vain. For which cause, he began to complain and lament, like unto one, that manisfestly saw his misfortune, saying. Alas, in how little time have I lost five hundred crowns, and a sister. And after many other words, he began again to bounce at the door, and to cry out. He rapped so long, and cried so loud, that he waked many of the neighbours there abouts, whom not able to suffer that noise, rose out of their beds, and amongs others, one of the maids of the house (feigning herself to be sleepy) looked out at the window and said in great rage. What noise is beneath? Oh said Andreuccio, do ye not know me? I am Andreuccio, the brother of madame Floredelice. Thou haste drunk to much me thinketh (q she maid) go sleep, & come again to morrow. I know none called Andreuccio, nor yet do understand what thou meanest by those foolish words, get thee hence good man, and let us sleep I pray thee. Why quoth Andreuccio, doest thou not hear me, what I say? Thou knowest me well enough, if thou wilt, but if the Sicilian kindred, be so soon forgotten: Give me my clothes, which I have left behind me, & I will go hence with all my heart. Whereat the maid laughed, and said. I think the man is in a dream, and with that she turned herself and shut fast the window. Andreuccio now sure and certain of his losses, attached with incredible sorrow, converted his anger into rage, thought to recover by anoiaunce, that which he could not get with fair words. Wherefore taking up a big stone, he began again with greater blows, to beat at the door, Which when many of the neighbours (that before were waked out of their sleep and risen) did hear, thinking that it was some troublesome man, that feigned those words, to annoy the good wife of the house, and all they likewise troubled with the noise: looking out of their windows, began to rate him with one voice (like a sort of Curs of one street, which do bawl and bark at a strange Dog that passeth by) saying. This is to much shame and villainy, to come to the houses of honest women, at this time of the night, and to speak such fond words. Wherefore (good man) get thee hence for God's sake, and let us sleep. If thou have any thing to do with the good wife, come again to morrow, and disquiet us no more to night. With which words, as poor Andreuccio was somewhat appeased, one that was within the house, a Russian (that kept the good wife) whom Andreuccio never saw, nor heard before: looked out of the window, and with a big and horrible voice, demanded, who was beneath? Whereat Andreuccio lifting up his head, saw one, that so far as he could perceive, seemed to be a large rubber, with a black beard, and a stern visage, looking as though he were newly risen from bed, full of sleep, gaping & rubbing his eyes. Whom Andreuccio answered in scarfull wise, saying. I am the good wife's brother of the house. But the Russian interrupting his answer, speaking more fiercely then at the first, said. I know not who thou art, but if I come down, I will so codgell and bombast thee, that thou shalt not be able, to stir thyself, like an ass and drunken beast as thou art, which all this night, wilt not suffer us to sleep. And with these words, turning himself about, he shut the window. divers of the neighbours which knew better, the conditions of that terrible Russian) speaking fair to Andreuccio, said unto him. For God's sake good man, depart hence in time, and suffer not thyself to be slain: get thee hence (quoth an other) and say not but thou hadst warning. Where Andreuccio appalled, with the Russians words and sight, moved likewise by the counsel of the neighbours, that spoke to him as he thought, in charitable wise, took his way to return to his Inn, the sorowfullest man that ever lived, and in greatest despair, for loss of his money. Turning that way, wherein he was guided by a little girl, the day before, and annoyed with the stench, that he felt about him: desirous to go to the sea side to wash him, he declined so much of the left hand, taking the way up to the street called La Ruga Catellana, and as he was marching up the highest part of the City, by chance he saw two men before him, with a lantern light, in one of their hands, coming towards him, for avoiding of whom (because he feared that it was the watch, or some other ill disposed persons) he hid himself in an old house hard by. But they (as of purpose) went to the very same place. Where one of them discharging himself, of certain instruments of iron, which he bore upon his back, both of them did view, and survey those irons, debating of divers things touching the same, and as they were talking togethers, one of them said: what meaneth this? I smell the foulest stench, that ever I felt in all my life. And when he had said so, he lifted up the Lantern, and espied miserable Andreuccio, couching behind the wall, & being afraid, asked who it was, Andreuccio held his peace. But they approaching near him with their light, demanded what he made there, so filthily arrayed. To whom Andreuccio rehearsed, the whole adventure as it chanced. Who considering the cause of that misfortune, said one to an other: this no doubt was done, in the house of Scarabone Butta Fuoco: and turning towards Androuccio, one of them said unto him. Good man, although thou hast lost thy money, yet thou hast great cause to praise God: that it was thy chance to fall, and not to entre again into the house. For if thou hadst not fallen, assure thyself, that when thou hadst been a sleep, thy throat had been cut, and so with thy money, shouldest have lost thy life. But what availeth it now, to weep and lament. For thou shaite so soon, pluck the stars out of the element, as ever recover one penny of thy loss. And without doubt he will kill thee, if he understand, that thou make any words thereof. When they had said so, and had given him that admonition, they comforted him in this wise. Good fellow, we do lament thy state. And therefore, if thou wilt join thyself with us, about an enterprise, which we have in hand: we warrant thee, thou shalt get a great deal more, than thou hast lost. Andreuccio like one in extreme despair, was content. The date before was buried, one Messer Philippo Minutulo, an archbishop of Naples, in rich pontificals and ornaments, with a Ruby upon his finger, that was worth five hundredth Ducats of gold, whom they purposed to rob and despoil, telling Andreuccio the whole order of their intent: who more covetous, then well advised, went with them. And going towards the great church: Andreuccio his presume, began so sent very strong, whereupon one of them said. Is it not possible to devise away, that this shitten beast, may wash himself in some place, that he stink no more thus filthily? Yes, quoth the other. There is a pit here hard by, over which there hangeth a pulley, and a great bucket, where we may presently wash him. When they were come to the pit, they found the rope, hanging still upon the pulley, but the bucket was taken away: wherefore they thought best, to tie him to the rope, and to let him down the pit, to wash himself. And that when he was washed, he should wag the rope, and they would hoiste him up again. Which they did. But it chanced, that whiles he was thus cleansing himself in the pit: The watch of the city (because they sweat, and the night was very hot) being dry & thirsty, came to the pit to drink. The other two, perceiving the watch at hand, left Andreuccio in the pit, and ran away. The watch, which was come thither to drink, perceived not, those two that were fled. And Andreuccio being still in the bottom, when he had cleansed himself, began to wag the rope. The watch sitting down by the pits side, cast of their cloaks, and laid down their halberds, and other weapons, and began to draw up the rope, thinking that the bucket full of water, was tiede to the same. When Andreuccio was haled up, to the brink of the pit, he forsook the rope, and cast himself with one his hands, upon the side of the same. When the watch saw that, they for fear ran away, so fast as they could, without speaking any word. Whereof Andreuccio did marvel very much. And if he had not taken good hold, he had fallen again down to the bottom, to his great hurt, and peradventure, not without peril of his life. notwithstanding, being out of the pit, and finding halberdes, and other weapons there, which he knew well, his fellows brought not with them: he than began much more to wonder. But between fear, and ignorance of that which happened, complaining himself of his hard Fortune, without touching of any thing, he determined to go from thence, and went he could not tell whether. But as he was departing from that place, he met his fellows, retiring back to draw him up. And when they perceived him, already haled out of the pit, they were wonderfully abashed, and asked who drew him out. Andreuccio made answer, that he could not tell, rehearsing to them in order, what had chanced, and of the things he found without. They understanding the matter, laughed, and told him again the cause, wherefore they ran away, and what they were that drew him up. And without further talk (being then about midnight) they repaired to the great church. Into the which they easily entered. And went to the Tomb, which was of Marble, very huge and weighty: The cover whereof being very great, with their crows of iron, and other tools, they lifted it up so far, that one man was able to enter, which done, one asked an other, who should go in? Not I quod one, and not I (quoth the other) No, nor I quoth Andreuccio. Tother two hearing Andreuccio say so, stepped unto him. saying. Wilt thou not go in? By the faith we own to God: if thou go not in, we will so beat thee, with one of these iron bars, that thou shalt never stir again, out of this place. Andreuccio being made their common riding fool: greatly fearing, when he heard them say so, went in. And when he was in the grave, he said unto himself. These good fellows do make me go in, because they would deceive me. For when I have given them all, that is here, and I ready to come out, they mean to run away, to save themselves, and to leave me behind, without any part thereof. Wherefore he purposed first, to take his own portion to himself. And remembering the Ring of great valour, whereof they told him so soon as he was in the grave, he pulled it of from the Archbishop's finger, and put it upon his own. And afterwards taking the Cross, the Mitre, and the Gloves, dispoiling him even to his shirt, he gave them all, saying. That there was nothing else. But they pressing upon him, that there was a Ring behind, willed him thoroughly to make search for it: howbeit he still answered that he could not fiude it. And because he would make them tarry a little longer, he feigned as though he had made a further search. The other so subtle and malicious as he, bad him to seek still and when they saw time, they took away the props, that stayed up the Tomb, and ran away, leaving poor Andreuccio fast shut in the Grave. Which when Andreuccio perceived, what chanced to him then, each man may consider. Then he assayed sometimes with his shoulders, sometime with his head, to remove the cover, but all was in vain. Wherefore even for very sorrow, he fill in a sound, upon the dead body of the Bishop. And if a man had seen them both at that instant, it could not well have been discerned, whether was the dead corpse, the archbishop dead, or poor Andreuccio dying. But after he was come to hymsef, he began piteously to complain, seeing he was arrived, to one of these two ends, either in the Tomb to die for hunger, and with the stench of the dead body, putrefying with worms, if no man came to open it: or else to be hanged as a Thief, if he were found within. And as he was in these considerations, tormented with sorrow: he heard a noise in the church of diverse men, who as he thought, came to do the like fact, that he and his fellows had done before, wherewith his fear began much more to augment. But after they had opened the grave, and stayed it up, it came in question amongs them, who should go in. And when they had contended a good space about the same. A Priest that was in the company said. Why are ye afraid? Do ye think, that he will eat you? The dead never eat men: I will go in myself. And when he had said so, he laid him down upon his breast, at the drink of the grave, and thrusting his feet in before, he went down. Andreuccio seeing that, erected himself upright and caught the Priest by one of the legs, making as though he would have drawn him in: which when the Priest perceived, he cried out a loud, speeding himself out, so fast as he could. Wherewithal the rest dismayed, almost out of their wits, leaving the grave open, took their legs and ran, as though a hundred thousand devils, had been at their tails: which seeing Andreuccio (more joyful than he looked for) leapt out of the grave, and ran as fast as he could out of the Church, at the place where he came in. At what time day light began to appear, and he with the ring on his finger wandered he witted not whether, till he came to the sea side, and at length recovered his Inn, where he found his company and his host all that night, taking great care for him. To whom recompting that which chanced, his host gave him advise incontinently, to get him out of Naples, which presently he did: and returned to Perugia, having bestowed, his. v. C. crowns upon a Ring, which he thought to have employed upon horses: For which cause he made that journey.   

The Earl of Angiers being falsely accused, was banished out of France, and left his two sons in sundry places in England, and returning (unknown) by scotland, found them in great authority, afterwards he repaired in the habit of a servant, to the French kings army. And being known to be innocent, was again advanced to his first estate.  
¶ The xxxvii Novel.  
THe Roman Empire being transferred from the French men, unto the almains: there rose a great dissension between both the nations, and in the end a cruel and continual war. For which cause, as well for the defence of his kingdom, as to offede his enemies, the French king, and one of his sons with all the power of their own realm, and of their friends and allies, assembled a great host of men, to encounter with their enemies: and before they proceeded, because they would not leave their realm, with out a governor, knowing Gualtieri, earl of Angiers to be a gentle and sage knight, and their most trusty friend, and that he was a man most expert in the art of warfare, seeming unto them (notwithstanding) more apt to pleasure, than pain, left him Lieutenant general in their place, for the government of the whole kingdom of France: and proceeded in their enterprise. The Earl then began with great knowledge, and by good order, to execute his office committed unto him, doing nothing without the consent of the Queen, and her fair daughter in law, although they were left to be under his custody and government, yet nevertheless, he honoured them as his maistresses and superiors. This Earl Gualtieri was a beautiful parsonage, about the age of forty years, so familiar and well conditioned, as any gentleman could be and beside that, he was the most excellent and trimmest knight, that was known in those days, and one most comely in his apparel. It chanced that the king and his soon, being at the wars aforesaid, the wife of the Earl died in the mean while, leaving him only two little young children, a son and a daughter, which he had by her. He then frequenting the court, of the aforesaid Ladies, talking many times with them, about the affairs of the realm: the wife of the kings son, fixed her eyes upon him, and with great affection (for his person and virtues) fervently embraced him with secret love. And knowing herself to be young and fresh, and him to be without a wife, thought (suddenly) to bring to pass, that which she desired, and thinking that nothing could let the same, but only shame to discover it, she purposed utterly to abandon the same. And upon a day being alone, she sent one to seek the Earl, as though she would have communicated with him of other matters. The Earl whose mind was far different, from the Ladies, incontinently came unto her: who being set down together upon a bed (which she desired) alone in a chamber, he asked her twice, upon what occasion she sent for him: and she having nothing to sat unto him, pressed in the end, and rapt with love, waxed very shamefast and almost weeping, & quaking for fear, with faint words, began to say as followeth. My dearly beloved and loving friend, and Lord, you may easily know (being a wise man as you be) the frailty of men and women: and by divers considerations, the weakness to be more in the one, then in the other. Wherefore (before a just judge) one fault of diverse qualities, ought not of reason to receive one like punishment. Moreover, who is he that will say, that a poor man or woman, which getteth their living, with the labour of their body, ought not more to be reprehended, if they become amorous, and subject to their lusts, than the rich Lady, which taketh no care for her living, or wanteth any thing that she desireth. Truly I believe there is none such, that will say so: for which reason I suppose, that the things before said, aught to serve the greatest part of the excuse, to the advantage of her that doth possess them: If it hap that she give herself fully, to the conductions of love: and the superplusage of her said excuse, aught to consist, in that she hath chosen her a sage and virtuous friend, if she that loveth, hath done so in deed. Which two things, as they should be (I suppose) are in me, and many other also: which ought to induce me to love, accordynglie as my youth requireth, and the great space, that is between my husband and me. It behoveth now then, that they should advance themselves in your presence, for the defence of my burning love: and if the same do reign in you, which have power in the wise, than I beseech you to give me counsel and aid, in the thing which I shall demand. True it is, that for the long absence of my husband (not able to resist the pricks of the flesh, and the force of love) which be of such great effect, that they have many times past, and yet daily do vanquish and overcome, not only feeble and weak women, but also the strongest men. I living in ease and idleness, as you see, and forced to follow the pleasures of love, and to become amorous: & as I do know well, that such things (if they were known) should not be reputes honest. Nevertheless, the same being kept secret, I think shall not be much dishonest. Notwithstanding dame Love is so favourable unto me, that not only she hath given me true judgement, in choice of a friend but hath revealed unto me, that it is you, which is worthy to be beloved, of such a lady as I am. For if I be not greatly deceived, I do make account, that you be the fairest parsonage, the semeliest, the most courteous, and wisest gentleman, in all the Realm of France. And as I may say, by reason of his absence, that I am without a husband, so may you affirm, that you be without a wife: wherefore I beseech you, for the love that I bear unto you, that you will not deny me your love and friendship, & that you will have pity upon my young years, which doubtless do consume for you, as Ice against the fiery flames. At which word the tears ran down in such abundance, that where she thought to make further supplication and prayers, she had no more power to speak. But holding down her head, like one that was overcome, she threw herself down into the Earls lap, who like a faithful knight, began to blame (with sharp rebukes) her fond and foolish love: pushing her from him, as she was about to clepe him about the neck, and swore great oaths, that rather he would be drawn in four pieces, than consent to such a thing, to be done by him, or any other, against the honour of his lord & master. Which words the Lady hearing, suddenly forgot her love, and in great rage, said unto him. Shall I then be frustrate, thou arrant villain, in this wise of my desired joy? But sithence thou goest about, to seek my destruction: I will cause thee to be put to death, or else to be banished the world. When she had said so, by and by she caught herself, by the hear of the head, and almost tore it of clean, and then laid hands upon her garments, renting the same in pieces, and afterwards cried out aloud. Help, help: The Earl of Angiers will ravish me by force. The Earl seeing that (and far more doubting of the envy, and malice of the Court, than his own conscience, for any committed fact, fearing also, that more credit would be given, to the wickedness of the Lady, then to his innocency) conveyed himself from that place, and so soon as he could, he went out of the palace, and fled home to his own house, where without any further advise, he placed his children on horseback, and so well as he could carried them to Calais. At the brute and noise of the Lady, many people assembled. Who seeing and hearing, thoccasion of her cry, not only believed her words, but also affirmed, that the pompous state of the Earl, was used by him to bring to pass, the effect of his desire. Then they ran to the houses of the Earl, in great fury, to arrest his person: but not finding him there, they first sacked his houses, and afterwards overthrew them to the ground. The news hereof [so wicked as might be devised] arrived at the King and Dolphin's Camp, whereat they were so troubled and offended, that they condemned the Earl, and all his progeny, to perpetual exile: promising great gifts and rewards, to them that would present them quick or dead. The Earl being offended in his conscience, for that he was fled, innocent of the fact, made himself culpable thereof, and arrived at Calais with his children, dissembling what he was, and suddenly passed over into England, and in poor apparel, travailed up to London. And before he entered the city, he gave his children divers admonitions, but specially of two things. First, that they should bear patiently the poverty, whereunto Fortune [without their offence] had brought them. Afterwards, that wisely they should take heed, at no time to manifest, & declare to any man, from whence they came, and whose children they were, as they loved the price of their own lives. The son was named jews, almost of the age of ix. years, and the daughter called Violenta, was about the age of vij both which children, as their age could suffer them, did well observe their father's lesson, as afterwards it did right well appear. And because that this might the better be brought to pass, it seemed good unto him, to alter their names, naming the son Perotto, and the daughter Gianetta. And when they were arrived at London, in manner of beggars: they craved their almose, and being by Fortune for that purpose, one morning at a church door, it came to pass that a great lady, which was one of the marshals of England's wives, in going out of the Church, saw the Earl and his two little children, begging their almose, of whom she demanded, what country man he was, and whether those children were his own, or not. To whom the Earl answered, that he was a Picarde, and by reason of a wicked fact, done by his eldest son (that was an unhappy boy) he was forced to depart his country, with those his two children. The Lady which was pitiful, fixed her eyes upon the girl, who pleased her very much, because she was beautiful, gentle, and pleasant, saying. Good man, if thou be content to leave unto me, this thy little daughter, which hath a good face, I will willingly take her, and if she become a dutiful maiden, when she is marriageable, I will marry her in honest wise. This demand greatly pleased the Earl, who readily answered, that he was contented, and with tears trickeling down his eyes he delivered, and commended his pretty daughter unto her. And when he had thus well bestowed her he determined to tarry no longer there, but in begging his almose, travailed through the country, with his son Perotto, & went into Wales, not without great labour and pain, as one never accustomed to travail on foot. Where dwelt one other of the king of England's marshals, that was of great authority, and kept a noble house: To whose court the Earl and his son, oftentimes repaired, to practise & beg their living: where one of the marshals sons, and other gentlemennes' children, doing certain childish sports and pastimes, as to run and leap, Perotto began to intermeddle himself amongs them [who in those games did so excellently well, as none was his better] which thing divers times the Marshal perceiving, and well pleased with the order of the child, asked of whence he was. It was told him, that he was a poor man's son, which many times came thither, to beg his almose. The Marshal desiring the child, the Earl, which prayed unto God for nothing else, liberally gave him unto him, although it grieved him, to depart from him. The Earl then having bestowed his son and his daughter, determined no longer to tarry in England, but so well as he could, he passed over into Ireland, and when he was arrived at Stanford, he placed himself, in the service of a man of arms, belonging to an Earl of that country, doing all things that did belong unto a serving man, or page: & not known to any man, he continued there a long time, with great pain and toil. Violenta named Gianetta, that dwelt with the Lady at London, grew so in years, in beauty, in parsonage, and in such grace and favour of her lord and Lady, and of all the rest of the house, and so well beloved of all them that knew her, that it was marvelous to see All men that saw her manners and countenance, judged her to be worthy of great honour and possessions, by reason whereof, the Lady that received her of her father, not knowing what she was, but by his report, purposed to marry her honourably, according to her worthiness. But God the rewarder of all men's deserts, knowing her to be a noble woman, and to bear (without cause) the penance of an other man's offence, disposed her otherwise, and to the intent, that this noble gentlewoman, might not come into the hands, of a man of ill condition, it must be supposed, that that which came to pass, was by Gods own will and pleasure, suffered to be done. The gentlewoman, with whom Gianetta dwelled, had but one only son by her husband, which both she and the father, loved very dearly: as well because he was a son, as also that in virtue and good merits, he greatly excelled. For he surpassed all other in good conditions, valiance, goodness, and beauty of parsonage, being about six years elder than Gianetta: who seeing the maiden, to be both fair and comely, became so far in love with her, that he esteemed her above all things of the world. And because he thought her to be of base parentage, he durst not demand her, of his father and mother to wife. But fearing that he should lose their favour: he kept his love secret, whereby he was worse tormented, then if it had been openly known. And thereby it chanced, through loves malice, he fill sore sick: For whose preservation, were many Phisians sent for, and they marking in him, all signs and tokens of sickness, and not knowing the disease: were altogether doubtful of his health: whereof the father and mother took so great sorrow and grief, as was possible, and many times with pitiful prayers, they damaunded of him, the occasion of his disease. To whom he gave for answer, nothing else but heavy sighs, and that he was like to consume, & die for weakness. It chanced upon a day, there was brought unto him a Physician, that was very young, but in his science profoundly learned, and as he was holding him by the poulces, Gianetta (who for his mother's sake, attended him very carefully) entered upon occasion into the chamber, where he lay sick, and so soon as the young gentleman perceived her, and that she spoke never a word, or made any sign, or demonstration towards him, he felt in his heart, to arise his most amorous desire, wherefore his poulces began to beat, above their common custom, which thing the Physician immediately perceived and merualled, standing still to see how long that fit would continue. Gianetta was no sooner gone out of the chamber, but the beating of the poulces ceased: wherefore the Physician thought, that he had found out some part of the gentlemannes' disease, and a little while after, seeming to take occasion to speak to Gianetta, holding him still by the arms, he caused her to be called in, and she incontinently came: but she was no sooner come, but the poulces began to beat again: and when she departed, the beating ceased. Whereupon the Physician was thoroughly persuaded, that he understood the effect of his sickness, and therewithal rose up, and taking the father and mother aside, said unto them. The health of your son, doth not consist in the help of Physicians, but remaineth in the hands of Gianetta your maid, as I have perceived by most manifest signs, whom the young man fervently doth love. And yet (so far as I perceive) the maiden doth not know it: you therefore understand now what to do, if you love his life. The gentleman and his wife hearing this, was somewhat satisfied: for so much as remedy might be found, to save his life, athough it grieved them greatly, if the thing whereof they doubted, should come to pass, which was the marriage between Gianetta, and their son. The Physician departed, & they repaired to their sick son: the mother saying unto him in this wise. My son, I would never have thought, that thou wouldst have kept secret from me, any part of thy desire: specially, seeing that without the same, thou doest remain in danger of death. For thou art, or aught to be assured, that there is nothing that may be gotten, for thy contentation, what so ever it had been, but it should have been provided for thee, in as ample manner as for myself. But sith thou haste thus done, it chanceth that our Lord God, hath showed more mercy upon thee, than thou hazel done upon thyself. And to th'end thou shalt not die of this disease, he hath declared unto me, the cause of the same: which is none other, but the great love, that thou bearest to a young maid, wherso ever she be. And in deed thou oughtest not to be ashamed, to manifest thy love, because it is meet and requisite for thine age. For if I witted thou couldst not love, I would the less esteem thee. Now then, my good son, be not afraid, frankly to discover all thine affection. drive away the fury and thought, which thou hast taken, whereof this sickness cometh: And comfort thyself. Being assured, that thou shalt desire nothing at my hands, that may be done for thy contentation, but it shall be accomplished of me, that loveth thee better, than mine own life: and therefore expel from thee this shame and fear. And spare not to tell me, if I be able to do any thing, in that which thou lovest. And if thou perceive, that I be not careful to bring it to pass, repute me for the cruelest mother, that ever bare child. The young gentleman hearing these words of his mother, was first ashamed, but after thinking with himself, that none was so well able to pleasure him as she (driving away all shame) said to her in this wise. Madame, there is none other thing that hath made me, to keep my love secret, but that, which I see in many people, who after they be grown to years of discretion, do never remember that they have been young. But for so much, as herein I do see your Ladyship discrete and wise, I will not only affirm that to be true, which you have perceived in me, but also I will confess what it is, upon such condition, that the effect thereof shall follow your promise, so far as lieth in you, whereby you shallbe able to recover my life. Whereunto the mother trusting to much in that, which she ought not to have accomplished, for certain considerations, which afterwards came into her mind: Answered him liberally, that he might boldly discover all his desire, and that forthwith she would bring the same to pass. Madam (said the young man then) the great beauty, and commendable qualities of your maiden Gianetta, whom as yet, not only I have no power to entreat, to take pity upon me, but also I have made no wight in the world, privy of this my love. The not disclosing and secrecy whereof, hath brought me in case as you see: And if so be the thing, which you have promised, do not by one mean or other come to pass, assure yourself, that my life is but short. The lady knowing, that it was more time to comfort, then to reprehend, said unto him smiling. Alas my son, were you sick for this? be of good cheer, and when you are whole, let me alone. The young gentleman being put in good hope, showed in little time tokens and signs, of great amendment. Whereof the mother was marvelous glad, disposing herself to prove, how she might observe that, which she had promised. And one day, calling Gianetta unto her, demanded in gentle wise, by way of merry talk, if she had not gotten her a lover. Gianetta with face all blushing, answered. Madame, I have no need thereof, and much more unseemly, for so poor a damosel as I am, to meditate or think upon lovers, which am banished, from my friends and kinsfolk: remaining in service as I do. To whom the Lady said. If you have none, we will bestow one upon you, which shall content your mind, and make your life more delectable and pleasant. For it is nul meet, that so fair a maid as you be, should continue without a a lover. Whereunto Gianetta answered. Madame, weighing with myself, that you have taken me from my poor father, and brought me up as your daughter: It becometh me to do that, which pleaseth you. notwithstanding, I intend never to make any complaint to you, for lack of such a one (both for virtue and honesty sake) but if it please you, to give me a husband, I purpose to love him, and none other. For my progenitors have left me none other inheritance, but honesty, which I mean to keep, so long as my life endureth. These words to the Lady, seemed contrary to that, which she desired to know, to achieve her promise made to her son, although (like a wise Lady) to herself, she greatly praised the damoset, and said unto her. But Gianetta, what if my Lord the King, (which is a young Prince, and you a fair maiden) would take pleasure in your love, would you refuse him? Whereunto the maid suddenly answered. The King may well force me, but by consent, he shall never obtain any thing, except it be honest. The Lady conceiving the courage, and stoutness of the maiden in good part, said no more unto her: but thinking to put the matter in proof, she told her son, that when he was whole, she would put them both in a chamber that he might have his pleasure upon her. For she thought it dishonest, to entreat her maid for her son because it was the office of a Roffiana. The young man was nothing contented therewith, whereby he suddenly waxed worse and worse: which the Lady perceiving, opened her whole intent to Gianetta: but finding her more constant, the ever she was before; she told her husband, all that she had done, who agreed (although against their wills) to give her to be his wife, thinking it better (their son living) to have a wife unagreeable to his estate, then to suffer him to die for her sake. Which after great consultation, they concluded, where of Gianetta was marvelously well pleased, and with devout heart gave thanks to God, for that he had not forgotten her. And yet for all that, she would never name herself otherwise, than the daughter of a Picarde. The young son waxed whole incontinently, & was married, the best contented man a live, and began to dispose himself, lovingly to lead his life with her. Perotto, which did remain in Wales with the other Marshal of the king of England, semblably increased, and was well-beloved of his master, and was a very comely and valiant parsonage, that the like of him, was not to be found in all the Island, in such wise that at Torneis, jousts, and other facts of arms, there was none in all the Country, comparable unto him: wherefore by the name Perotto the Picarde, he was known and renowned. And like as God had not forgotten his sister, even so he showed his merciful remembrance of him. For a certain plague and mortality, happened in that Country, which consumed the one half of the people there: besides that the most part of them that lived, were fled for fear into their countries, whereby the whole province, seemed to be abandoned and desolate. Of which plague, the Marshal his master, his wife, and his son, and many other brothers, nephews, and kinsfolk died, of whom remained no more, but his only daughter, which was marriageable, and some of his servants, together with Perotto, whom (after the plague was somewhat ceased) the young gentlewoman took for her husband, through the counsel and consent, of certain of the country people that were alive, because he was a valiant and honest parsonage, and of all that inheritance, which her father left, she made him Lord. A litle while after, the king of England understood, that the Marshal was dead, and knowing the valour and stoutness of Perotto the Picarde, he made him Marshal, in steed of him that was dead. In this sort in short time, it chanced to the two innocent children of the Earl of Angiers, which were left by him as lost and quite forlorn. It was then the xviij year, sithence the Earl fled from Paris, having in miserable sort suffered many adventures. Who seeing himself to begin to ware old, was desirous (being yet in Ireland) to know (if he could) what was become of his children. Wherefore, perceiving that he was wholly altered from his wanted form, and feeling himself more lusty (through the long excercise and labour, which he had sustained in service) than he was in the idle time of his youth, he departed from his master (very poor and in ill apparel) with whom he had continued in service a long time, and came into England to that place, where he had left Perotto, and found him to be Marshal of the country, and saw that he was in health, lusty, and a comely parsonage, which rejoiced him marvelously, but he would not make himself be known to him, till he had seen, what was become of his daughter Gianetta: wherefore taking his journey, he rested in no place, till he came to London. And there secretly enquiring of the lady, with whom he had left his daughter, & of her state, he learned, that his daughter was her sons' wife, whereof he took exceeding great pleasure. And from that time forth, he counted his adversities past, as nothing, sith he had found his children living, and in such great honour. And desirous to see her (began like a poor man) to harbour himself, hard by her house, whereupon a certain day, being seen of Giachetto Lamyens, for that was the name of the husband of Gianetta: having pity upon him because he saw him poor and old, commanded one of his servants, to have him into the house: and to give him meat for God's sake, which the servant willingly did accomplish. Gianetta had many children by Giachetto, of which the eldest was but eight years old: and they were the fairest, and best favoured children in the world who when they saw the Earl eat meat, they all came about him, and began to make much of him, as though by nature's instruction, they had known him to be their Grandfather. And he knowing his nephews, began to show them tokens of love and kindness. By reason whereof, the children would not go from him, although their governor did call them away. Wherefore the mother knowing the same, came out of a chamber unto the place, where the Earl was, & threatened to bear them, if they would not do as their master had them. The children began to cry, and said, that they would tarry by that good man: that loved them better, than their master did, whereat the Lady and the Earl began to laugh. The Earl not as a father, but like a poor man rose up to do honour to his daughter, because she was a noble woman. Conceiving marvelous joy in his mind to see her: but she knew him not at all, neither at that instant, nor after, because he was so wonderfully transformed: and changed from that form, he was wont to be of: Like one that was old, and grey headed, having a beard, lean and weather beaten, resembling rather a common person, than an Earl. And the Lady seeing that, the children would not depart from him, but still cried when they were fetched away, willed the master, to let them alone. The children remaining in this sort, with the honest poor man, the father of Giacchetto, came in the mean time, and understood this of their master. Wherefore, he that cared not for Gianetta, said. Let them alone with a mischief, to keep company with beggars, of whom they came. For of the mother's side, they be but verlettes children, and therefore it is no marvel, though they love their company. The Earl hearing those words, was very sorrowful, notwithstanding (holding down his head) he suffered that injury, as well as he had done many other. Giacchetto which knew the mirth and joy, that the children made to the poor man (although he was offended with those words) nevertheless, made as much of the poor Earl, as he did before. And when he saw him to weep, he commanded that if he honest poor man, would dwell there to do some service, he should be retained. Who answered, that he would carry there with a good will, but he said that he could do nothing else, but keep horse, whereunto he was accustomed, all the days of his life. To whom a horse was appointed to keep, and daily when he had dressed his horse, he gave himself to play with the children. Whiles that Fortune thus dealt (according to the manner above said) with the Earl of Angiers and his children, it chanced that the French king (after many truces made with the Almains) died: and in his place was crowned his son: whose wife she was, that caused the Earl to be banished. When the last truce with the Almains was expired the wars began to grow more sharp, for whose aid the king of England sent unto him (as to his new kinsman) a great number of people, under the government of Perotto his Marshal, and of Giacchetto Lamyens, son of his other Marshal, with whom the poor Earl went: and not known of any man, remained a great while in the Camp, as a servant, where notwithstanding, like a valiant man, with his advise and deeds, he accomplished notable things (more than he was required). It chanced that in the time of the wars, the French Queen was very sore sick, and perceiving herself at the point of death, repented her of all her sins, and was confessed devoutly, to the archbishop of Roan, who of all men, was reputed an holy, and virtuous man: and amongs all her other sins, she told him of the great wrong, done by her to the earl of Angiers: and was not only contented, to reveal the same to him alone, but also rehearsed the whole matter, before many other personages of great honour: desiring them that they would work so with the king, that if the Earl were yet living, or any of his children: they might be restored, to their state again. Not long after the Queen departed: and was honourably buried. Which confession reported to the King (after certain sorrowful sighs, for the injuries done to the valiant man) he made Proclamation, throughout all the Camp, and in many other places, that who so ever could bring forth the Earl of Angiers, or any of his children, should for every of them, receive a great reward, because he was innocent of that matter, for which he was exiled, by the only confession of the Queen: and that he intended, to exalt him to his former estate, and more higher than ever he was. Which thing the earl hearing (being in the habit of a servant) knowing it to be true, by and by he went to Giacchetto, and prayed him to repair to Perotto, that they might come together, because he would manifest unto them, the thing which the king sent to seek for. And when they were all three assembled together in a chamber: the Earl said to Perotto, that now he thought to let him understand, what he was, saying these words. Perotto, Giacchetto whom thou seest here, hath espoused thy sister, and never had yet any Dowry. And because she may not be destitute of her Dowry, I purpose that he, and none other, shall have the reward, which the king hath promised to be so great. Thou shalt manifest thyself Perotto, to be the son of the Earl of Angiers, and Violenta the wife of Giacchetto, to be thy sister, and me to be the Earl of Angiers thy father. Perotto hearing this, and steadfastly beholding him, began to know him: and weeping, threw himself down at his feet: and afterwards embracing him, said. My dear father, you are right heartily welcome. Giacchetto hearing first what the Earl had said, and after seeing what Perotto did, he was incontinently surprised, with so great marvel, and joy, that he knew not what to do: notwithstanding, giving credit to his words, as being ashamed of the opprobrious talk, which he had used towards the Earl, as to a servant, weeping, fell down at his feet: and humbly asked pardon, for all his rash behaviours towards him: which was courteously granted unto him by the Earl, who took him up. And after every of them, had a while debated of their Fortune, and had well bewailed the same, and rejoiced one with an other: Perotto and Giacchetto would have newly appareled the Earl, but he in any wise would not suffer them. And being desirous the Giacchetto, might have assurance of the reward promised, he would that he should, first present him to the king, after that sort, in the habit of a servant as he was, that he might make him the more ashamed. Then Giacchetto with the Earl (and Perotto after) came before the king: and offered to present the Earl and his children, if it should please him to reward him, according to the Proclamation. The king incontinently caused to be brought forth a reward, of marvelous value, as Giacchetto thought, and commanded him forth with, to present the Earl and his children, according to his promiss. Giacchetto then turned about: and placed before him, the Earl his servant, and Perotto, saying. Sir, behold the father and the son, the daughter which is my wife, is not here. But by Gods help you shall see her shortly. The king hearing this, beheld the Earl: and albeit he was so greatly changed, from his former favour, after he had well viewed him a while, he knew him, and with tears standing in his eyes, he caused the Earl to rise up, that kneeled before him, kissing and embracing him, and very graciously received Perotto: and commanded forthwith, that the Earl should be restored to apparel, servants, horses, and furniture, according to his state and degée: which incontinently was done: and moreover the king greatly honoured Giacchetto, and forthwith desired to know, all their Fortunes passed. And when Giacchetto had taken the great reward, for bringing forth the Earl and his children, the Earl said unto him. Take these royal rewards of the King, my sovereign Lord: and remember to tell thy father, that thy children, his nephews and mine, be no beggars borne, of their mother's side. Giacchetto took the reward, and caused his wife and his mother in Law, to come to Paris, likewise thither came the wife of Perotto, where, with great joy and triumph, they tarried a certain space with the Earl, to whom the king had rendered all his goods: and had placed him in greater authority, than ever he was before. Then every of them took their leave, and returned home to their own houses: and from that time forth the said Earl, to th'end of his life, lived in Paris, in greater honour and authority, than ever he did before.   

Giletta a Physicians daughter of Narbon●●, healed the French King of a Fistula, for reward whereof she demanded Beltramo Count of Rossiglione to husband. The Count being married against his will, for despite fled to Florence and loved an other. Giletta his wife, by policy found means to lie with her husband, in place of his lover, and was begotten with child of two sons: which known to her husband, he received her again, and afterwards she lived in great honour and felicity.  
¶ The xxxviij Novel.  
IN France there was a gentleman called Isnardo, the Count of Rossiglione, who because he was sickly and diseased, kept always in his house a Physician, named master Gerardo of Narbona. This Count had one only son called Beltramo, a very young child, pleasant and fair. With whom there was nourished and brought up, many other children of his age, amongs whom one of the daughters of the said Physician, named Giletta, who fervently fill in love with Beltramo, more than was meet for a maiden of her age. This Beltramo when his father was dead, and left under the royal custody of the king, was sent to Paris, for whose departure, the maiden was very pensive. A litle while after, her father being likewise dead, she was desirous to go to Paris, only to see the young Count, if for that purpose she could get any good occasion. But being diligently looked unto by her kinsfolk (because she was rich and fatherless) she could see no convenient way, for her intended journey: and being now marriageable, the love she bore to the Count, was never out of her remembrance, and refused many husbands, with whom her kinsfolk would have placed her, without making them privy, to the occasion of her refusal. Now it chanced that she burned more in love with Beltramo, than ever she did before, because she heard tell, that he was grown to the state of a goodly young gentleman. She heard by report, that the French King, had a swelling upon his breast, which by reason of ill cure, was grown to a Fistula, and did put him to marvelous pain and grief, and that there was no Physician to be found (although many were proved) that could heal it, but rather did impair the grief, & made it worse & worse. Wherefore the king, like one that was in despair, would take no more counsel or help. Whereof the young maiden was wonderful glad, & thought to have by this means, not only a lawful occasion to go to Paris: but if the disease were such (as she supposed) easily to bring to pass, that she might have the Count Beltramo to her husband. Whereupon with such knowledge, as she had learned at her father's hands before time, she made a powder of certain herbs, which she thought meet for that disease, and road to Paris. And the first thing she went about, when she came thither, was to see the Count Beltramo. And then she repaired to the king, praying his grace, to vouchsaufe to show her his disease. The king perceiving her, to be a fair young maiden and a comely, would not hide it, but opened the same unto her. So soon as she saw it, she put him in comfort, that she was able to heal him, saying. Sire, if it shall please your grace, I trust in God, without any pain or grief unto your highness, within eight days I will make you whole, of this disease. The king hearing her say so, began to mock her, saying. How is it possible for thee, being a young woman to do that, which the best renowned Physicians in the world can not? He thanked her, for her good will, and made her a direct answer, that he was determined no more, to follow the counsel of any Physician. Whereunto the maiden answered: Sire, you despise my knowledge, because I am young, and a woman, but I assure you, that I do not minister Physic by profession, but by the aid and help of God: and with the cunning of master Gerardo of Narbona, who was my father, and a Physician of great fame, so long as he lived. The king hearing those words, said to himself. This woman peradventure, is sent unto me of God, and therefore, why should I disdain to prove her cunning? Sithence she promiseth to heal me within a little space, without any offence or grief unto me. And being determined to prove her, he said. damosel, if thou dost not heal me, but make me to break my determination, what wilt thou shall follow thereof? Sire said the maiden: Let me be kept in what guard and keeping you list: and if I do not heal you within these eight days, let me be burnt: but if I do heal your grace, what recompense shall I have then? To whom the king answered. Because thou art a maiden, and unmarried, if thou heal me, according to thy promise, I will bestow thee upon some gentleman, that shall be of right good worship and estimation. To whom she answered: Sire I am very well content, that you bestow me in marriage: But I will have such a husband, as I myself shall demand: without presumption to any of your children, or other of your blood. Which request, the king incontinently granted. The young maiden began to minister her Physic, and in short space, before her appointed time, she had thoroughly cured the king. And when the king perceived himself whole, said unto her. Thou hast well deserved a husband (Giletta) even such a one as thyself shalt choose. I have then my Lord (quoth she) deserved the County Beltramo of Rossiglione, whom I have loved from my youth. The king was very loath to grant him unto her: But because he had made a promise, which he was loath to break, he caused him to be called forth, and said unto him: Sir Count, because you are a gentleman of great honour, our pleasure is, that you return home to your own house, to order your estate, according to your degree: and that you take with you a damosel, which I have appointed to be your wife. To whom the Count gave his humble thanks, and demanded what she was? It is she q the king) that with her medicines, hath healed me. The Count knew her well, and had already seen her, although she was fair, yet knowing her not to be of a stock, convenable to his nobility, disdainfully said unto the king, Will you then (sir) give me, a Physician to wife? It is not the pleasure of God, that ever I should in that wise bestow myself. To whom the king said: Wilt thou then, that we should break our faith, which we to recover health, have given to the damosel, who for a reward thereof, asked thee to husband? Sire (quod Beltramo) you may take from me all that I have, and give my person to whom you please, because I am your subject: but I assure you, I shall never be contented with that marriage. Well, you shall have her (said the King) for the maiden is fair and wise, and loveth you most entirely: thinking verily you shall lead a more joyful life with her, then with a lady of a greater house. The count therewithal held his peace: and the king made great preparation for the marriage. And when the appointed day was come, the Count in the presence of the king (although it were against his will) married the maiden, who loved him better than her own self. Which done the Count determining before, what he would do, prayed licence to return to his country, to consummate the marriage. And when he was on horseback, he went not thither, but took his journey into Thuscane, where understanding that the Florentines, and Senois were at wars, be determined to take the Florentines part, and was willingly received, and honourable interteigned and made captain of a certain number of men, continuing in their service a long tyme. This new married gentlewoman, scarce contented with that, and hoping by her well doing, to cause him to return into his country, went to Rossiglione, where she was received of all his subjects, for their Lady. And perceiving that through the Countess' absence, all things were spoiled and out of order: she like a sage lady, with great diligence and care, disposed all things in order again, whereof the subjects rejoiced very much, bearing to her their hearty love and affection, greatly blaming the Count, because he could not content himself with her. This notable gentlewoman, having restored all the country again, sent word thereof to the Count her husband, by two Knights of the country, which she sent to signify unto him, that if it were for her sake, that he had abandoned his country, he should send her word thereof, and she to do him pleasure would departed from thence. To whom he chorlishlie said. Let her do what she list. For I do purpose to dwell with her, when she shall have this ring (meaning a ring which he wore) upon her finger, and a son in her arms, be gotten by me. He greatly loved that ring, and kept it very carefully, and never took it of from his finger, for a certain virtue that he knew it had. The knights hearing the hard condition, of two things impossible: and seeing that by them he could not be removed from his determination, they returned again to the lady, telling her his answer: who very sorrowful, after she had a good while bethought herself, purposed to find means, to attain to those two things, to the intent, that thereby she might recover her husband. And having advised with herself what to do, she assembled the noblest and chiefest of her country, declaring unto them in lamentable wise, what she had already done, to win the love of the Count, she wyngthem also what followed thereof. And in the end said unto them, that she was loath the Count for her sake, should dwell in perpetual exile: therefore she determined, to spend the rest of her time in pilgrimages and devotion, for preservation of her soul, praying them to take the charge, and government of the country, and that they would let the Count understand, that she had forsaken his house. And was removed far from thence: with purpose never to return to Rossiglione again. Many tears were shed by the people, as she was speaking these words and divers supplications were made unto him to alter his opinion, but all in vain. Wherefore commending them all unto God, she took her way, with her maid, and one of her kinsmen, in the habit of a pilgrim, well furnished with silver, and precious jewels: telling no man whither she went, and never rested, till she came to Florence: where arriving by Fortune, at a poor widows house, she contented her self, with the state of a poor pilgrim, desirous to here news of her lord, whom by fortune she saw the next day, passing by the house (where she lay) on horseback with his company. And although she knew him well enough, yet she demanded of the good wife of the house what he was: who answered that he was a strange gentleman, called the Count Beltramo of Rossiglione, a courteous knight, and well-beloved in the City, and that he was marvelously in love with a neighbour of hers, that was a gentlewoman, very poor and of small substance, nevertheless of right honest life and report, & by reason of her poverty, was yet unmarried, and dwelt with her mother, that was a wise and honest Lady. The Countess well noting these words, and by little and little, debating every particular point thereof, comprehending the effect of those news, concluded what to do, and when she had well understanded, which was the house, and the name of the Lady, and of her daughter, that was beloved of the Count: upon a day repaired to the house secretly, in the habit of a pilgrim, where finding the mother and daughter, in poor estate amongs their family, after she had saluted them, told the mother, that she had to say unto her. The gentlewoman rising up, courteously interteigned her, and being entered alone into a chamber, they sat down, and the Countess began to say unto her in this wise. Madame, me think that ye be one, upon whom Fortune doth frown, so well as upon me: but if you please, you may both comfort me, and yourself. The lady answered, that there was nothing in the world, whereof she was more desirous, then of honest comfort. The Countess proceeding in her talk, said unto her. I have need now of your fidelity and trust, whereupon if I do stay, and you deceive me, you shall both undo me, and yourself. Tell me then what it is hardly (said the gentlewoman) if it be your pleasure: for you shall never be deceived of me. Then the Countess began to recite, her whole estate of Love: telling her what she was, and what had chanced ●● that present day, in such perfit order that the gentlewoman believing her words, because she had partly heard report thereof before, began to have compassion upon her, and after that the Countess had rehearsed, all the whole circumstance, she continued her purpose, saying. Now you have heard amongs other my troubles, what two things they be, which behoveth me to have, if I do recover my husband, which I know none can help me to obtain, but only you: If it be true that I hear, which is, that the Count my husband, is far in love with your daughter. To whom the gentlewoman said. Madame, if the Count love my daughter, I know not, albeit the likelihood is great: but what am I able to do, in that which you desire. Madame, answered the Countess, I will tell you: but first I will declare what I mean to do for you, if my determination be brought to effect, I see your fair daughter of good age, ready to marry, but as I understand the cause, why she is unmarried, is the lack of substance to bestow upon her. Wherefore I purpose, for recompense of the pleasure, which you shall do for me, to give so much ready money to marry her honourably, as you shall think sufficient. The Countess offer was very well liked of the lady, because she was but poor: yet having a noble heart, she said unto her Madam, tell me wherein I may do you service: and if it be a thing honest, I will gladly perform it, & the same being brought to pass, do as it shall please you. Then said the countess, I think it requisite, that by some one whom you trust, that you give knowledge to the Count my husband, that your daughter is, and shallbe at his commandment. And to the intent she may be well assured, that he loveth her in deed above any other, that she prayeth him to send her a ring that he weareth upon his finger, which ring she heard tell, he loved very dearly. And when he sendeth the ring, you shall give it unto me, and afterwards send him word, that your daughter is ready, to accomplish his pleasure, and then you shall cause him secretly to come hither, and place me by him (in steed of your daughter) peradventure God will give me the grace, that I may be with child, and so having this ring on my finger, and the child in mine arms, begotten by him I shall recover him, and by your means continued with him, as a wife ought to do with her husband. This thing seemed difficult unto the Gentlewoman: fearing that there would follow, reproach unto her daughter. notwithstanding, considering what an honest part it were, to be a mean, that the good Lady should recover her husband, and that she should do it for a good purpose, having affiance in her honest affection, not only promised the Countess, to bring this to pass: but in few days with great subtlety, following the order wherein she was instructed, she had gotten the ring, although it was with the Countess' ill will, and took order that the Countess, in stead of her daughter did lie with him. And at the first meeting, so affectuously desired by the Count: God so disposed the matter that the Countess was begotten with child, of two goodly sons, & her delivery chanced at the due time. Whereupon the gentlewoman, not only contented the Countess at that time, with the company of her husband, but at many other times so secretly, that it was never known: the Count not thinking that he had lain with his wife, but with her whom he loved. To whom at his uprising in the morning, he used many courteous and amiable words, and gave divers fair and precious jewels, which the Countess kept most carefully: and when she perceived herself with child, she determined no more to trouble the gentlewoman, but said unto her. Madame, thanks be to God and you, I have the thing that I desire, and even so it is time, to recompense your desert, that afterwards I may depart. The gentlewoman said unto her, that if she had done any pleasure agreeable to her mind she was right glad thereof, which she did, not for hope of reward: but because it appertained to her by well doing, so to do. Whereunto the Countess said, your saying pleaseth me well, and likewise for my part, I do not purpose to give unto you, the thing you shall demand of me in reward, but for consideration of your well doing, which ductie forceth me so to do. The gentlewoman then constrained with necessity, demanded of her with great bashfulness, and hundred pounds, to marry her daughter. The Countess perceiving the shamefastness of the gentlewoman, and hearing her courteous demand, gave her .v. C. pounds, and so many fair and costly jewels, which almost amounted to like valer. For which the gentlewoman more than contented, gave most hearty thanks to the Countess, who departed from the gentlewoman, and returned to her lodging. The gentlewoman to take occasion from the Count, of any farther repair, or sending to her house, took her daughter with her, and went into the country to her friends. The Count Beltramo, within few days after, being revoked home to his own house by his subjects, (hearing that the Countess was departed from thence) returned. The Countess knowing, that her husband was gone from Florence, and returned into his country, was very glad, and contented, and she continued in Florence, till the time of her child bed was come, and was brought a bed of two 'zounds, which were very like unto their father, and caused them carefully to be nursed, and brought up, and when she saw time, she took her journey (unknown to any man) and arrived at Monpellier, and resting herself there for certain days, hearing news of the Count, and where he was, and that upon the day of all Saints, he purposed to make a great feast, and assembly of ladies and knights, in her pilgrims weed she went thither. And knowing that they were all assembled, at the palace of the Count, ready to sit down at the table, she passed through the people, without change of apparel, with her two sons in her arms. And when she was come up into the hall, even to the place where the Count was, falling down prostrate at his feet, weeping said unto him: My Lord, I am thy poor infortunate wife, who, to th'intent thou mightest return and dwell in thine own house, have been a great while begging about the world. Therefore I now beseech thee, for the honour of God, that thou wilt observe the conditions, which the two knights (that I sent unto thee) did command me to do: for behold, here in mine arms, not only one son begotten by thee, but twain, and likewise thy King. It is now time then (if thou keep promise) that I should be received as thy wife. The Count hearing this, was greatly astoned, and knew the King, and the children also, they were so like him. But tell me (q he) how is this come to pass? The Countess to the great admiration of the Count, and of all those that were in presence, rehearsed unto them in order all that, which had been done, and the whole discourse thereof. For which cause the Count knowing the things she had spoken, to be true (and perceiving her constant mind, and good wit, and the two fair young boys: to keep his promiss made, and to please his subjects, and the Ladies that made suit unto him, to accept her, from that time forth, as his lawful wife, and to honour her) abjected his obstinate rigour: causing her to rise up, and embraced and kissed her, acknowledging her again for his lawful wife. And after he had appareled her, according to her estate, to the great pleasure and contentation, of those that were there, and of all his other friends, not only that day, but many others, he kept great cheer, and from that time forth, he loved and honoured her, as his dear spouse and wife.   

Tancredi Prince of Salerne, caused his daughters lover to be slain, and sent his heart unto her, in a cup of gold: which afterwards, she put into poisoned water, and drinking thereof, died.  
¶ The xxxix Novel.  
TAncredi Prince of Salerne, was a courteous Lord, and of a gentle nature: had he not in his age, imbrued his hands, with his own proper blood. It chanced that this prince in all his life time, had but one only daughter: but he had been more happy, if she had never been borne. That daughter he loved so well, as a father could love his child: and for the tender love he bore her, he was not able to suffer her, to be out of his sight. And could not find in his heart to marry her, although she had many years passed the time, that she was marriage able: notwithstanding, in the end he gave her to wife, to one of the sons of the Duke of Capua, with whom she continued no long time, but was a widow, and then returned unto her father's house again. This Lady was very fair and comely of body and face, as any creature could be, young, lusty, and more wise, peradventure, than a woman ought to be. And thus dwelling with her loving father, she lived like a noble Lady, in great pleasure. And seeing that her father, for the love he bore unto her had no mind or care, to marry her again, and also she thinking it scarce honest to require him thereunto, devised with herself secretly (if it were possible) to retain some valiant man to be her lover. And seeing many gentlemen and others, frequenting her father's court (as we commonly see, in the Courts of Princes) and marking the behaviour and order of many (amongs all) there was a young man, one of her father's servants, that liked her well, whose name was Guiscardo, of very base birth (but in virtue and honest conditions, more noble than the rest) and many times when she saw him, she wonderfully delighted in him, always praising his doings above all others. The young man, not having good consideration of himself, perceiving her fervent affection: so fixed his mind that he disposed the same upon nothing else, but to love her. One loving an other secretly in this sort, and the lady very studious to find occasion, that she might talk with him, unwilling to commit the secrecy of hre love, to any man: she imagined with herself a new devise, to give him knowledge thereof. And wrote a letter, signifying unto him, what he should do the next day, and how he might use himself, to come to talk with her, & then putting the letter into the Cane of a read, she gave it unto Guiscardo, in sporting wise and said. Thou shalt this night, make a pair of bellows for thy servant, wherewith she may kindle the fire. Guiscardo took it, & thought that she did not give it unto him, without some special purpose, whereupon he went to his chamber, and looking upon the Cane, perceived it to be hollow, and opening it, found the letter within, which she had written. And when he had well perused it, understanding the tenor and effect thereof, he thought himself the happiest man in the world, and began to put himself in readiness, to meet with his Lady, by such ways and means, as she had to him appointed. There was in a corner of the prince's palace a Cave, long time before made, under the side of a hill, which Cave received light by a certain vent, made by force within the said mountain, and because the same was not frequented and used, it was over grown with bushes and thorns. Into which Cave was a discente, by a secret pair of stairs, that was in one of the lowest chambers of the palace, wherein the lady lay, which was out of all men's mind, because it was not occupied, many a day before and shut up, with a very strong door. But Love (in the eyes whereof, nothing is so secret, but it will come to knowledge) had brought the same again, into the remembrance of the amorous Lady. The opening of which door (that no man might know it) many days did trouble her wits: afterward when she had found the way, she went down alone into the Cave, and viewing the vent, whereunto she had given order for Guiscardo to come, she told him of what height it was from the ground. For the execution whereof, Guiscardo prepared a rope with knots and degrees, to go up and down, and putting upon him a leather coat, to keep him from the thorns and bushes, went douns the next night at the said vent, unknown of any man: and fastening one of the ends of the rope, to the stock of a tree, that grew at the mouth of the vent he slipped down into the Cave, and tarried there for the Lady, who next day feigning herself to sleep after dinner, sent her maids out of her chamber, and locked herself within alone: and then opened the door, and went down into the Cave, where finding Guiscardo they marvelously rejoiced one with an other. And from thence went up together into her chamber: where they remained togethers, the most part of that day, to their great contentation. And having given good order, for the affairs of their Love, and the secret use thereof, Guiscardo returned into the Cave, and the lady locked the door, and came out amongs her maids. The next night after, Guiscardo issued out of the vent upon the rope, wherewith he descended, and conveyed himself into his chamber. And having learned the way, he resorted thither many times after. But Fortune envious of that pleasure, so long and great, with dolorous success, turned the joy of those two lovers, into heavy and sorrowful end. The Prince accustomed sometimes, to resort alone into his daughters chamber, and there for a while to tarry and talk with her, & so to departed. Who upon a day after dinner, when the Lady (whose name was Gismonda) was in the garden withal her maidens, repaired unknown or seen of any man into her chamber. But being loath to trouble his daughter of her pleasure, and finding the windows of her chamber shut, and the curtains of the bed drawn, he sat down upon a stool at the beds feet, and leaning his head to the bed, the Curtain drawn over him (as he had been hidden of purpose) he fell a sleep. And the King being thus a sleep, Gismonda that (in evil time) the same day had appointed Guiscardo to come, left her maidens in the Garden, and entered very softly into her chamber, locking fast the door after her. And not knowing any man to be there, she opened the door of the Cave to Guiscardo, who was ready to wait for her coming. Then they cast themselves upon the bed, as they were wont to do, and thus solacing themselves, and passing the time together, it chanced that the Prince awaked who heard and saw, what Guiscardo and his daughter did. Whereof being very sorrowful, he would upon the first sight have cried out: but that he thought it better, for that time to hold his peace, and still to keep himself secret, to the intent that he might more privily, and with less shame, accomplish that, which he purposed to do. The two lovers continued togethers a great time, as they were wont to do, without any knowledge of the Prince his being there, & when they saw time, they went down from the bed: and Guiscardo returning to the Cave, she went forth of her chamber, fro whence Tancredi (as old as he was) conveyed himself into the Garden, out at a window of the same, unséen, and not perceived of any man. Who like a pensive man, and careful even unto death, repaired to his own chamber, and the next night, about one of the clock, he caused Guiscardo to be apprehended, by an order that he had prescribed, at his coming forth of the Cave, even clothed as he was, with his leather coat: and by two men was secretly conveyed to the Prince. Who so soon as he saw him, said unto him with tears, standing in his eyes. Guiscardo, my benevolence and goodness towards thee, have not merited this outrage and shame, that thou haste committed this day, in mine own house, which I saw with mine own eyes. To whom Guiscardo gave no other answer, but that Love was of greater force, then either the Prince, or himself. Then the Prince commanded him to be kept, in a chamber adjoining. The next day the King (Gismonda being ignorant hereof) revolved in his mind, divers and sundry matters, and after dinner as he was accustomed, he went into his daughters chamber, and caused her to be called unto him, and shutting the Chamber door, in lamentable wise, said unto her.  
Gismonda, I had so much affiance and trust, in thy virtue and honesty, that it could never have entered into my mind (although it had been told me) if I had not seen it with mine own proper eyes, but that thou hadst not only in deed, but also in thought, abandoned the company of all men, except it had been thy husband: whereof I shallbe right pensive and sorrowful so long as this little remnant of life (that mine old age doth preserve) endureth in me. And sith thou couldst not contain thyself, from such dishonest love, I would it had pleased God, that thou hadst taken a man, equal to thine estate. But amongs so many that do frequent my court, thou hast chosen this young man Guiscardo, whose birth is very vile and base, and brought up (as it were for God's sake) from a child, to this present day, in our court. For which consideration, I am very sore disquieted, not knowing how to take this at thy hands. For with him (whom I have caused to be taken this night, in going out of the cave, and now kept as prisoner) I have already concluded, what to do. But with thee what I shall do, God knoweth. Of the one side, the love that I still bear thee, more than any father ever bare to his daughter, doth draw me, on the other side, a just displeasure and indignation, taken for thy great folly, doth move me. The one motion would that I should pardon thee, the other forceth me against my nature, to be cruel unto thee. notwithstanding, before I do make any certain resolution, I desire to hear, what thou canst say for thyself. When he had spoken those words, he kissed her face, weeping very bitterly like a child, that had been beaten. Gismonda hearing her father, and knowing that not only her secret love was discovered, but also her lover Guiscardo to be in prison, conceived an inestimable sorrow, uttering the same many times, without cries and schreches, according to the manner of women, howbeit, her great courage surpassed her weakness, and did set a bold face on the matter, with marvelous sloutnesse determining, before she made any suit for herself, no longer to live, seeing that her friend Guiscardo was already dead. Wherefore, not like a sorrowful woman, or one taken in any fault, but as a desperate person, with a dry and stout countenance, not troubled or vexed, she said thus to her father. I do not purpose dear father, to stand in denial, nor yet by humble suit to make request. For the one will nothing avail me, & the other is to none effect. Moreover I do not intend by any means, to beseech your clemency and love towards me, to be benevolent and bountiful, but confessing the truth, I will first with true reasons and arguments, defend mine honour, and afterwards prosecute in virtuous wise, by effects, the stoutness of my courage. True it is, that I have loved, and do love Guiscardo, and will love him so long as I live, which shallbe but a little tyme. And if so be that a woman may love a man, after death, I will not cease to love him. But womanly frailty and weakness, hath not so much induced me hereunto, as the little care you have had, to bestow me in marriage, and the great virtues, that daily I have seen in Guiscardo. You ought dear father to know, that yourself is of flesh, and of flesh you have engendered me your daughter, and not of Stone or Iron. In likewise you ought, and must remember (although now you be arrived to old years) what young folks be, and of what great power, the law of youth is. And although you were (during the force of your youthlie days) trained and exercised in facts of arms, yet now you ought to know, what great puissance resteth in the idle and delicate life, aswell in the aged, as amongs young people. I am then as you be, begotten of flesh, and my years so few, that I am yet but young, and thereby full of lust and delight. Whereunto the knowledge, which I have had already in marriage, forceth me to accomplish that desire: & to the same be added marvelous forces, against which it is impossible for me to resist, but rather to follow that, whereunto they draw me. I am become amorous, like a young woman and like a woman as I am, and certainly I would have employed my whole force that way, so far as I could not to commit any shame to you, or to myself in that, whereunto my natural offence hath forced me. To which thing, pitiful Love, and gentle Fortune have found out, and showed a way secret enough, whereby without knowledge of any man, I am come to the effect of my desires; which thing I will no deny (who so ever told you of it, or by what means so ever you are come to the knowledge thereof) & I have not taken Guiscardo, to be my lover by chance, as many women have done, but I have chosen him by long advise and deliberation, above all others, & have brought him into me in this wise, enjoying with our wise continuance of long time, the accomplishment of my desire, whereof me think (although I have not offended but by Love) that you do purpose to prosecute rather the vulgar opinion, than the truth, purposing in this wise most bitterly to control me, saying, that you had not had such an occasion of anger, if I had chosen one that had been a gentleman. Wherein you do not consider, that the fault is not mine, but rather to be ascribed to Fortune who ought to be blamed, because many times she exalteth the unworthy, and treadeth under foot, those that be most worthy: but now let us leave of further talk of this matter, and consider the beginning hereof. first of all you see, that of one mass of flesh, we have all received flesh, and that one Creator, hath created every living creature, with force and puissance equally, and with equal virtue: which virtue was the first occasion that made the difference, and distinction of us all, that were borne, and be borne equal, and they that obtained the greatest part of virtue, and did the works of her, were called noble, the rest continuing unnoble. And albeit contrary use, afterwards obscured this Law: yet therefore, she is not removed ne abandoned from Nature, or good manners. In like wise, he that by virtue performeth all his doings, doth manifestly show himself to be noble. And he that doth otherwise term him, doth commit the fault, and not he that is so called. Behold all your gentlemen, and examine well their virtue, their conditions, and manner of doings. On the other part, behold the qualities and conditions of Guiscardo, then if you please to give judgement without affection, you shall say that he is right noble: and that all your gentlemen be villains, in respect of him. The virtues and excellency of whom, I believe can not be placed in any other wight, as in him, aswell by your own report as by the choice of mine own eyes. Who ever praised man in such wise, and with such ample commendations praise worthy, wherein an honest man ought to be praised, as you have done him? And truly not without cause. For if mine eyes be not deceived, you never gave him any praise, but that I have known more in him, than your words were able to express. notwithstanding, if I have been deceived herein, it was you, by whom I have been deceived: will you then say that I couple myself, with a man of base condition? Truly you can not well say so. But if you will say, perchance with a poor man, I confess it. And verily it is to your shame, that you have not vouchesaufed to place in high estate, a man so honest, being your own servant. Nevertheless, poverty doth not deprive any part of nobility, but riches hath. Many kings and great Princes, have been poor in old time, and many plough men and shepherds in times passed, have been advanced to rich estate. And the last doubt which troubleth you, is, that you be doubtful, what to do with me: cast boldly out of your mind that doubt, and if you do intend in th'extremity of your age, to use that, which in your youth you never did, I purpose to become cruel also. Use your cruelty against me, for the advoiding whereof, I have not determined to make any supplication to you, as guilty of this fault if faults may be rehearsed. Assuring you, that if you do not unto me, that which you have done, or will do to Guiscardo, mine own hands shall do it. Wherefore go to, and let fall your tears with women, and if you purpose to be cruel, kill him and let me also drink of the same Cup, if you think we have deserved it. The king hearing the stout words of his daughter: thought not that she would have done in deed, as her words pretended, and as she said she would do. Wherefore departing from her, and not willing to use any manner of cruelty towards her, he thought by the destruction and slaughter of Guiscardo, to cool her burning love. And therefore commanded two of his servants (that had Guiscardo in keeping) without any noise, to strangle him the next night, and afterwards plucking his heart out of his body, to bring it unto him: who did as they were commanded. And the next day, the king caused a fair Cup of gold, to be brought unto him, wherein he laid the heart of Guiscardo, which he sent (by one of his familer servants) unto his daughter: and commanded him, when he presented the same unto her to say these words. Thy father hath sent thee this present, to comfort thyself with the thing, which thou dost chiefly love, as thou hast comforted him of that, which he loved most. Gismonda not amoved from her cruel determination, caused to be brought unto her (after her father was gone) venomous herbs and roots, which she distilled together, and made water thereof, to drink suddenly, if that came to pass, which she doubted. And when the kings servant, was come unto her, and had delivered his present, he said as he was commanded Gismonda took the cup with a stout countenance, & covering it, so soon as she saw the heart, and understood the words, she thought verily, that it was the heart of Guiscardo, wherefore beholding the servant, she said unto him: Truly it behoveth that such a heart as this is, should be entombed in no worse grave, then in gold, which my father hath most wisely doen. Afterwards lifting the cup to her mouth, she kissed it saying, I have in all things, even unto this time, being the last end of my life, always found the tender love of my father towards me; but now I know it to be greater, than ever I did before. And therefore in my behalf, you shall render unto him, the last thanks that ever I shall give him, for so great a present. After those words, turning herself towards the cup, which she held fast, beholding the heart, she said thus. Oh sweet harborough of my pleasures, cursed be the cruelty of him, that hath caused me at this time to look upon thee, with the eyes of my face: it was pleasure enough, to see thee every hour, amongs people of knowledge and understanding. Thou hast finished thy course, and by that end, which Fortune vouchsaufed to give thee thou art dispatched, and arrived to the end, whereunto all men have recourse: thou hast forsaked the miseries, and travels of this world, and hast had by the enemy himself, such a sepulture as thy worthiness deserveth. There needeth nothing else to accomplish thy funeralle, but only the tears of her, whom thou didst heartily love, all the days of thy life. For having whereof, our Lord did put into the head, of my unmerciful father, to send thee unto me, and truly I will bestow some tears upon thee: although I was determined to die, without shedding any tears at all, stoutly, not fearful of any thing. And when I have powered them out for thee, I will cause my soul, which thou hast heretofore so carefully kept, to be joined with thine. For, in what company can I travel, more contented, or in better safeguard in places unknown, then with thy soul? Truly I am well assured, that it is yet here within: that hath respect to the place, aswell of his own pleasures, as of mine, being assured (as she who is certain, that yet he loveth me) that he attenddeth for my soul: of whom she is so greatly beloved. When she had thus said, she began to let fall (as though there had been a fountain in her head) so many tears, that it was a miracle to behold her, oftentimes kissing the dead heart. Her maidens that stood about her, understood not what heart that was, nor whereunto these words did tend: but being moved with compassion, they all wept: pitifully demanding (although in vain) the occasion of her sorrowful plaints: and comforted her so well as they could. Who after she had powered for the sufficient tears, lifted up her head: and when she had wiped hereyes, she said. Oh loving heart, all my duty is fulfilled towards thee, having now nothing to do, but only to yield forth my ghost, to accompany thine. And this said, she caused the glass of water, which she had made the day before, to be brought unto her: and poured it out into the cup where the heart lay, all bained with a multitude of tears: which she putting to her mouth, without fear, drunk up all. And that done, went into her bed, with the Cup in her hand, tossing her body, as decently as she could upon the same, holding the heart of her dead friend, so near as she could, unto her own heart. Her maidens seeing this (although they knew not what water it was, that she drank) sent word to the king, who fearing that which happened, incontinently went down into his daughters chamber: where he arrived even at that instant, that she had cast herself upon the bed, and being come to late to secure her, with sweet words be began (seeing her in those pangs, to weep bitterly. To whom his dougther said: Father, keep in those undesired tears, and bestow them not upon me, for I desire them not; who ever saw man besides you, to bewail the wilfulness of his own fact. Howbeit, if there do yet rest in you, any spark of that love, which you have always borne towards me: grant me this last request, that although you were not contented, that I should live secretly and covertly with Guiscardo, yet at lest, cause our bodies to be openly buried togethers, where it pleaseth you to bestow them. The anguish and sorrow, would not suffer the prince to answer one word for weeping. And then the Lady perceiving her end approach, cleped and strained the dead heart, hard to her stomach, saying. Farewell sweet heart in God for I am going to him. And there withal she closed her eyes, and lost her senses, departing out of this dolorous life. In this manner sorrowfully ended the love of Gismonda and Guiscardo, as you have heard, whom the Prince after he had wept his fill, and taken to late repentance for his cruelty: caused honourably to be buried, and entombed both in one grave, not without great sorrow of all the people of Salerne.   

Mahomet one of the Turkish Emperors, executeth cursed cruelty upon a Greek maiden, whom he took prisoner, at the winning of Constantinople.  
¶ The xl Novel.  
IF you do ever make any proof or trial, to know of what tramp the arrows of Love be, and what fruit they bring to them, that do use and practise the same: I am assured you shallbe touched with some pity, when ye understand the beastly cruelty of an Infidel lover, towards his Lady. He of whom I will declare the history, is Mahomet, not the false Prophet, but the great grandfather of Soliman Ottoman Emperor of the Turks, which reigned at that time. He it is, that to the shame and eternal infamy, of all Christian Princes of his time, did win Constantinople, and took away the east Empire form Constantine, a Christian Emperor, the year of our Lord. 1453. Mahomet then having obtained so great victory at Constantinople: amongs the spoil of that rich city, there was found a Greek maiden, of such rare and excellent beauty, that she alured the eyes of every wight, to wonder and behold the same, as a thing miraculous, whose name was Hirenee, of the age of sixteen or seventeen years. Whom a captain to gratify his Lord, did present: a jewel (as he thought) most acceptable to him, above all things of the world. The Emperor Mahomet, young and wanton beyond measure, after he had cast his eye upon the maiden, and had graven her beauty in his heart, gave a strait charge, that she should be kept for him, hoping after the tumult of the war was ended, to bestow convenient time upon her. The retract sounded, and the affairs of the Empire, reduced to sure estate, remembering himself of the beauty of Hyrenee, which had made a breach & entry into his heart, commanded that she should be brought forth unto him, and having viewed her at his pleasure, he felt himself so surprised with that new flame, that he conceived none other delight, but to play and dally with her, in such sort, that his spirits being in loves full possession, Love dealt with him so cruelly, that he could take no rest day nor night. Who yielded himself such a pray, to his darling Hyrenee, that he felt none other contentation in his mind, but that which he received of her. And this amorous passion endured, the space of three continual years, taking such vigour and increase by little and little, that he began to forget that, which appertained to the ornament and honour of his Empire, leaving the whole administration of public causes to his Baschats, he himself being so negligent, that he reposed in them, all matters concerning the state of the Empire. During this disorder, the vulgar people began secretly to grudge, aswell for the confusion and disorder of the Empire, as for the ill government of the same (and specially, because the Baschats corrupted with avarice, employed themselves to their particular profit, and to enrich themselves, with the spoil of the people.) The janissaries on the other side, a warlike people, and brought up in continual exercise of arms, began with open voice to detract and slander their Lord, commonly complaining, how he consumed his life, like an effeminate person, without inferring or doing any profit to the Empire. To be short, the matter came to such desolation, that it might rather have been called a sedition, than a murmur: and yet there was none so hardy, as durst attempt, to declare the same to the Emperor, knowing him to be of nature so terrible, cruel, and rigorous, that with a word, he would put him to death, that went about to withdraw him from his desire. Therewithal he was so drunk with the beauty of the Greek, that the lest matter, wherewith they might give occasion, to withdraw him from his negligent life, was enough to drive him into a rage and fury. This poor Emperor was so bewitched, that not only he consumed, days and nights with her, but he burned with continual jealousy, whose beauty was so lively painted, in the inward parts of his heart and mind, that he remained thus overwhelmed in beastly pleasure, every man in particular, and all in general, conspired against him, with one determinate mind, to yield no more obedience unto him in time to come, and purposed to choose some Emperor, that were more martial and warlike, through whose succour and counsel, they might not only conserve the things gotten, but also amplify the bounds, and limits of their Empire. Mustapha which was brought up with the Emperor, a gentle parsonage, frank of talk, and so near to his majesty, that he might go into his chamber, although the Greek was present: when he perceived convenient time, such as he desired to have, repaired to the Emperor upon a day, who liking well his devices, walked with him alone in his Garden, to whom after he had made great reverence, according to their custom, he said unto him.  
My sovereign lord and master, if I might speak freely, without servile fear, which stayeth me, or if the terror of your displeasure might not abash me, I would willingly declare unto your majesty, that which concerneth not only your security and safeguard, but (which is more) the safety of your whole Empire. Whom Mahomet answered with merry countenance, saying. Cast a way such cold fear as stayeth thee, and speak hardly thy mind. Show me what it is that toucheth me. I doubt, and it shall please your majesty, lest I shall seem over presumptuous, and rash unto you, if I do discover the secrets of my heart, but our ancient education, the duty of my conscience, with the experience, that you have always had of my fidelity, have so much forced me, that being no longer able to rule myself (I am constrained, by what virtuous provocation, I know not) to manifest things unto you, that both time and necessity, will make you to think them good and necessary: Although (it may so be) that now your eyes be so bound up, in the vail of your disordinate affection, that you can not digest, or take the same in good part. The life (my lord) which you have led, sithence the taking of Constantinople, and the excessive pleasures, wherein you have plundged yourself these three years, is an occasion, that not only your soldiers, and the rest of your popular people, but the most faithful lords of your Empire, do murmur, conspire, and conjure against you. And pardon me (my Lord) if I speak so unreverently, in things touching your preservation. For there is no man, but doth very much marvel, of this great and new alteration that appeareth in you, which doth so abase you, and maketh you to degenerate, from your ancient generosity and valiance. Your own self hath given over yourself, to be a spoil and pray to a simple woman: that you wholly depend upon her flattries and allurements: reason or counsel can take no place in your passionate and afflicted heart. But I humbly beseech your Majesty, to entre a little into yourself, and make a survey of your life, that you have said these three years past. The glory of your ancestors and predecessors, acquired and won by shedding of so much blood, kept by so great prudence, conserved by so happy counsel, have they no representation, or show before your face? The remembrance of their memorable victories, doth it not touch the depth of your conscience? The magnanimity and valiance, whereby they be immortalised, and their fame registered through the whole world, is it extinguished in you? Their Trophies and monuments graven, and advanced in all the corners of the earth, be they thrown down and defaced, from the siege of your remembrance? But where is now, the ardent desire, which boiled in you from your infancy, to make Italy tributary unto you, and to cause yourself to be crowned at Rome, Emperor aswell of th'orient, as of the Occident? This is not the way to amplify, and enlarge your Empire, but rather to restrain and diminish the same. This is not the mean to preserve it, but to dispose it & make it less. If Ottoman the first trunk or stock, of your gentle family and kindred, had thus given himself to be corrupted in idleness, you had not now inherited, the noble kingdom of Grece, nor governed the countries of Galatia and Bithynia, and many other provinces, which enuironne the great sea. semblably his son Orcan (a lively Image of his father and a follower of his valiant facts) had not triumphed over Licaonia, Phrigia, Caria, nor dilated the bounds of his Empire, to Hellesponte. What shall I speak of Amurates, the successor of Orcan, who was the first that invaded Europa, conquered Thracia, Syria, Rasia, and Bulgaria? And Bajazet likewise, did not he cut of the head of the great Tamburlaine, which called himself the scourge of GOD, and brought into the field four hundred thousand Scythians a-horseback, and six hundred thousand footmen? Shall I shall pass over with silence, the virtuous exploits of your grandfather Mahomet, who conquered Macedonia, & made the Countries, to feel the edge of his sword, even to the sea jonicum, letting pass many wonderful expeditions and journeys, by him made against the Lydians and Cliecians? But now I can not revive the memory of your father Amurate, but to my great sorrow and grief, who by the space of xl years, made the Sea and earth to tremble & quake, and with the fury of his strong hand, used such cruel revengement over the Greeks, that the memory of the wounds do remain at this present, even to the Mountains of Thomao and Pindus, he subjugated the Phocians: made tributary Athenes, Beotia, Aetolia, Caramania, and all the barbarous nations, from Morea, to the straictes of Corinthe. What need I here to bring in the cruel battle that he had against the Emperor Sigismonde, and Philippe Duke of Burgundy, wherein he overthrew the whole force of the Christians, took the Emperor prisoner, & the Duke of Burgundy also, whom he sent to Adrianopolis? Or to remember other fierce armies which he sent into Hungary, whereof your majesty is a faithful witness, yourself being still there in your own person. judge then my Lord what diligence, and intolerable travel, he used in his manifold glorious enterprises, and famous victories. Do you think, that if he had been idle in his palace, amongs the ladies, you had inherited your Empire, or had now been lord of so many excellent Provinces: which he is not sufficient to rule, that can not provide to confirm, and establish the same. There be many of your subjects and vassals at this day, which do obey and honour your Majesty (more for fear, then good love they bear you) that would rebel against you, if Fortune would turn her back. The Christians of long time (as you know) have sworn your ruin and destruction. Moreover they say that their high bishop, the Pope of Rome, hath convocated all his prelate's to unite, and reconcile the Princes and monarchs of Christendom together, to over run you, and to take the sceptre out of your hands, & to despoil you of your Empire. But what know we, whither they will join their force, with the power of the Persian Sophi, your capital enemy, or with the soldan of Egypt, your ancient adversary: which if they come to pass (as God forbid) your Empire will be consumed. Gather your wits then together, from hence forth my lord and call again Reason, which so many years, you have banished from you. Awake out of the deep sleep, which hath sieled up your eyes. Imitate and follow the trade of your ancestors, which ever loved better one day of honour, than an hundred living years, of shame and reproach. Attend to the government of your Empire. Leave of this effeminate life, Receive again the smell of your generosity and virtue. And if you can not at one time, cut of & remove, all that amorous heat, which undermineth so your heart, moderate the same by little and little, and give some hope to your people, which think you to be utterly lost, and desperate of recovery. Or if so be the Greek do delight you so much, who shall let you to carry her with you in all your journeys and expeditions? Why, can not you together, both enjoy her beauty, and use the practice of arms? Me think that your pleasure shallbe greater, after you have won some victory, and subdued some country, to enjoy her in your arms, then to remain in a house, with eternal infamy, and continual grudging of your subjects. But prove I pray you, to separate yourself certain days from her, and you shall certainly judge, how far greater the pleasures be so differred, than those, that be daily used. Yet one thing more, and it please your majesty, there resteth to be declared, which is, that all the victories of your progenitors, or the conquests, which yourself hath made be to small purpose, if you do not keep them and increase them, the keeping of a thing gotten, being of no less glory and praise, than the conquest. Be now then a conqueror of yourself, humbly beseeching your Majesty, that if I have spoken any thing, disagreeable to your mind, according to your wont clemency, to pardon the same, and to impute the fault to my bounden duty, and the care that I have of your honour and safety. Mahomet after he had heard the long discourse of his Slave, stood as still as a block, and fixing his eyes upon the ground, with sudden change of colour, declared by outward signs, the agitations and unquietness of his mind in such wise, that the poor slave Mustapha, seeing in him those alterations, was in doubt of his life: whose words so pricked the emperors heart, that he knew not what to do, or whereupon to be resolved, and seeiing his conscience troubled, with a furieus' battle: knowing evidently that Mustapha had spoken the truth, and that he uttered the same, like a trusty servant to his master. But on the other side, the beauty of the Greek, was still before his eyes, and the mind he had to abandon her, gave him such alarm, that he seemed at that instant, as though his heart had been torn out of his belly. And thus moved with divers tempests, without other thought, having his eyes inflamed, with great rage and fury, he said unto him. Although thou hast spoken unreverently enough, yet our education together and the fidelity that I have proved in thee, in time past shallbe thy pardon for this time. To the purpose. Before the Son doth compass the Zodiacque, I will let it be known to thee and to other, what puissance and power, I have over myself, or whether I am able to bridle mine affection or not. Take order in the mean time that all my noble men, the Baschats, and the principal of my men of war, be assembled together to morrow, in the mids of the great hall of my palace. This determination finished, the Emperor went into the Greek, and rejoicing himself, all that day and might with her: he made more of her then ever he did before. And the more to flatter her, he dined with her, and commanded that after dinner, she should adorn herself, with the most precious jewels, and deck her with more sumptuous apparel, then ever she did wear before. Whereunto the poor wench obeyed, not knowing that it was her Funeral apparel. On the other side, Mustapha uncertain of the Emperor's mind, at the hour appointed, caused all the nobility to be assembled in the hall, every of them merueiling, what moved the Emperor so to do, sithence he had so long time shut up himself, without showing his person abroad. Being thus assembled, and every man talking diversly of this matter, according as their affection served: behold, the Emperor entered into the palace, leading the Greek by the hand, who being adorned, otherwise than she was wont to be, was accompanied and garnished with beauty, so rare and excellent, that she resembled rather an heavenly Goddess, than a humane creature. The Turk came into the hall, after that the lords had made their reverence, according to their wont manner, holding still the fair Greek by the left hand, he stood still in the midst of the holle: then looking furiously round about him, he said unto them So far as I understand, all ye do mutiny and grudge, because I (being vanquished with Love) can not separate, and withdraw myself day nor night, from the presence of this Greek. But I do know none of you all so continente, and chaste in Love, that if he had in his possession, a thing so rare and precious, so amiable, and beauty so excellent, but before he could forget her, and give her over, he would three times be well advised. What say ye to the matter? Every of you shall have free liberty, secretly to tell me your mind. But they rapt with an incredible admiration, to see so fair a thing, said that he had with great reason, passed his time with her. Whereunto the barbarous cruel Prince answered. Well, now than I will make you to understand, that there is no earthly thing that can bind up, or captivate my senses so much, but that from hence forth I will follow mine anncestours, having the glory and valiance of the Ottomans, so fixed in my breast, that nothing else but death, is able to blot it out of my remembrance. Those words finished, incontinently with one of his hands, he catched the Greek by the hear of the head, and with his other hand, he drew out his falchion from his side, and folding his hands about the golden locks of her hear, at one blow he struck of her bed, to the great terror of them all. When he had so done, he said unto them: Now ye know, whether your Emperor is able to repress, and bridle his affections, or not. Within a while after, meaning to discharge the rest of his choler, he addressed a Camp of four score, or an hundred thousand men: with whom piercing Boussine, he besieged Belgrade, where Fortune was so contrary unto him, that he was put to flight, and lost there a notable battle against the Christians, under the conduct of John Huniades, surnamed le Blanc, who was father of the worthy and glorious king Mathie Coruin.   

A Lady falsely accused of adultery, was condemyned to be devoured of Lions: the manner of her delivery, and how (her innocency being known) her accuser felt the pains for her prepared.  
¶ The xlj Novel.  
IN the country of Aquitane, there was sometime a lord, whose lands and lorshippes lay between Limosine and Poictou, and for the antiquity of his house was renowned, both for blood and wealth, amongs the chief of all the Country. Being allied in kindred with the best, and had full access and favour, aswell in the houses of the ancient Dukes of Guienne, and Countess of Poictou, as in the royal Courts of the French Kings. This Lord (whom Bindello the author of this history, affirmeth to be Signior de la Rocca Soarda, but the translator and augmentator of the same in French, called Francois de bell Forest, leaveth out his name, for good respect as he allegeth) kept a great Court and liberal household, and singularly delighted (after the manner of the French nobility) in hunting, specially in hawking. His house also was had in greater admiration (the rudeness and ignorance of that time was such) because he had gotten beasts of strange Countries, chiefly Lions, wherein he had great pleasure, aswell for the rareness of that beast in France, as for a certain generosity, that he knew to be in the same, which resembled the magnanimity and courage of noble men, whose minds and spirits, do not esteem things that be vain, and cannot be affrayed in doing of things, whereunto honour is offered for reward. This Lord married a Lady, the daughter of one his neighbours, a woman worthy for such a husband: whose beauty was such, as there was none comparable unto her: which the more increased, for that she was endued with perfit virtue, and furnished with so good behaviour, that right good minds and wits should be occupied, nay, rather put to their shifts to decide, whether gift were greatest, either the exquisite workmanship of her excelling beauty, or whether Nature had employed all her cunning, to frame a body to appear before men miraculous, or else her honest port, her good grace, courtesy, and grave mildness, accompanied with virtue, not vulgar or common to many men, which made his lady to shine, like the glistering Planet of Mars, amongs other the wandering stars. In such wise as the very savage and brute, were form with splendent fame, to praise her to be such a woman, whose equal they never knew, to be in all their Country, who made the house of her husband glorious, and him a contented man, to behold such a Star to lie by his side, which sufficed to illustrate, and beautify a whole country, by her only presence, and to nobilitate a race, although the blood of ancestors did fail, for the accomplisment of their perfection. Such is the great force of Virtue, which not only did advance her, above them that do her embrace, but rather did constrain the envious, to have her in admiration. But these admiratours, and praisers of Virtue, do not use such endeavour for the merits, which they attribute to the thing, rather they employ their only industry, to gather some profit of her, and then (following the nature of the dog) do return to their vomit, and bestow their venom, hidden in their Serpent's breast. As it came to pass, and was evident in a certain man, that was Steward of this noble man's house (truly a very happy house, aswell for the honest love, between the Lord and the Lady, as for the virtue and clemency, wherewith both the one and the other, were accompanied) who in the beginning, as honesty & duty did require, was a lover of good manners, and commendable demeanour of his Lady and mistress, afterwards (forgetting the fidelity, which he did owe unto his Lord, the nobility of his predecessors, and the peril of his own life) began to love her, and serve her in heart, and to wish for the fairest thing, which outwardly did appear to be in her, where he ought not so much, as with the look of his eye, to give any atteinte of likelihood, for the reverence of him, which was the right honour, and just possessor of the same. This master fool then, not measuring his forces, and less following the instinct of Reason, became so amorous of his Madam, that continually he imagined by what means, he might give her to understand the pains and languores, wherein he lived for the love of her. But (alas) these devices vanished, like a little dispersed cloud, at the rising of the Son. For thinking upon the virtue of his mistress, his desires were sooner removed from his heart, than he was able to impress them in the seat of his judgement, thereby to take any certain assurance. notwithstanding, his head ceased not to build Castles in the air, and made a promiss to himself to enjoy her, whom he worshipped in his heart. For he took such pains, by his humble service, that in the end he acquired, some part of his Ladies good grace, and favour. And for that he durst not be so bold, to manifest unto her, the vehemency of his grief, he was contented a long time, to show a counterfeit joy, which raised unto him a lively spring of sorrows and displeasures, that did ordinarily fret & boil his mind so much: that the force of his weeping for vain hope, was able to suffocate the remnant of life, that rested in his tormented heart, which caused certain, little brooks of tears to stream done, assailing the myndeof this foolish Lover. This fair and chaste Lady was so resolved, in the love of her husband, that she took no regard to the countenances, and foolish fashions of this master Lover. Who seeing his mishap to grow worse and worse, and from thence forth no remedy, that whether by rejoice, well hoping of better luck, or for sudden and miserable death, he determined to prove Fortune: and to see if the water of his hope, could find any passage, steadfastly determining, that if he were thrown down headlong into the bottom, of Refusal, & contemned for his service, not to retire again, but rather further to plondge, for the accelerating of the ruin of himself, and his desires. For he thought it impossible, that his heart could endure more intolerable heat, of that invisible fire, than it had felt already, if he found no means for the smoke, to have some vent and issue. For which consideration, clean besides himself, bewitched with foolish Love, like a beast thoroughly transformed into a thing, that had no sense of a reasonable man (such as they be accustomably, that be enrolled in the muster books of Venus' son) was purposed to open to the Lady (when occasion served) both the evil, and also the grief that he sustained, in bearing toward her, so great and extreme affection. Behold here, one of the effects of human folly: this was the first act of the Tragedy, wherein Love maketh this brainless man to play, the first and principal part upon the Stage. This poor gentleman (otherwise a good servant, and careful for the profit and honour of his master) is now so void of himself, and blind in understanding, that he maketh no conscience to assail her (to defraud her of her greatest virtue) the simple name of whom, aught to have made him tremble for fear, and to blush for shame, rather than for her beauty sake, and natural courtesy, to despoil her of her honesty, and to attempt a thing uncertain to win, & also more dangerous to practise. Now, whiles he lived, in the attempt of his hoped occasion, it chanced that the Lady (thinking no malice at all) began to behold the Steward, with a better eye and look more familiar, than any of the gentlemen, and domestical servants of the house, aswell for the painted honesty of this Gallant, as to see him so prompt and ready to obey her. And therefore upon a day, as she walked in the Gallery, she called him unto her and very familiarly communicated unto him, certain affairs, touching the profit of the house. He that marched not, but upon one foot, and burned with Love, and whose heart leapt for joy, and danced for gladness, thought that he had now obtained, the top of his felicity, & the whole effect of his desire: suddenly he cast away, the despair of his former conceits, objecting himself to the danger, wherein he was like to be overwhelmed, if the Lady accepted not his request, with good digestion. In the end, recovering force, he discoursed in his mind this wicked opinion, wherewith foolish and wilful fleshly lovers, do blazon and display, the honour and chastity of Ladies, when they make their vaunt, that there is no woman, be she never so chaste, continente, or honest, but in the end yieldeth, if she be thoroughly pursued. O, the woerdes and opinion of a beast, rather than of a man knowing virtue. Is the number of chaste women so diminished, that their renown at this day, is like a Boat in the mids of some tempestuous sea, whereunto, the mariners do repair to save themselves? It is the only virtue of Lays, which doth constrain them, to vomit forth their poison, when they see themselves deceived, of their fond and uncomely demands. A man shall never hear those words proceed, but from the mouths of the most lascivious, which delight in nothing else, but to corrupt the good names of Ladies, afterward to make them their laughing stocks. Return we then to our purpose, this valiant soldier of Love, willing to give the first onset, upon his sweet enemy, began to wax pale, and to tremble, like the Reed, blown with the wind, and knoweth not in what part, or by what means, to bestow the first strokes of his assault. At length with faltering tongue, and trembling voice, he speaketh to his Lady, in this wise. Alas madame, how happy were the course of our transitory life, if the common passions, received no increase of their trouble, by new and divers accidents, which seem to take root in us, for the very great diminution of that liberty, that every man doth study so much to conserve. But truly that study is vain, and the pain thereof unprofitably bestowed. For such a man enforceth himself, to live free from passion, which in the mids of his enforcement, feeleth himself to be violently constarined, and seeth the taking away of his liberty, to be a certain impeachement, which thereunto he would give. Alack, I have proved that mischief, and am yet in the greatest excess, and pangs of my disease. I feel (alas) a diversity of anguishes, & a Sea of troubles, which torment my mind & yet, I dare not discover the occasion, seeing that the thing, which is the cause of my grief, to be of such desert, that my service past, & all that is to come, is not able to give the proof, if one special grace and favour, do not enlarge, the little power that is in me, to countervail the greatness, and perfection of that cause, which thus doth variat and alter, both my thoughts and passions. Pardon me (madame) if I do speak obscurely, for the confusion of my mind, maketh my words correspondent, to the quality of the same. notwithstanding, I will not keep silent from you, that which I do suffer, and much less dissemble, what passion I endure, being assured, aswell for your virtue & gentleness, that you (moved with compassion) will secure me, so much as shall lie in you, for preservation of the life of him, that is the best and most obedient servant amongs them all, that do you humble service. The Lady which never thought of the wickedness, which this insensate man began to imagine: answered him very courteously. I am sorry truly for your mishap, and do marvel, what should be the effect of that passion, which as you say, you feel with such dimunition of that, which is perfect, and accomplished in you. For I do see no cause that ought to move you to so strange infirmity, whereof you told me, wherewith I had already found fault, although you had said nothing. I would to GOD I knew, which way to help you, aswell my lord my husbands sake, who I am sure doth bear you good will, as for the honesty, which hitherto I have known to be in you, which as I think all men resembling you, for virtue and good conditions, do deserve that account and consideration. He that thought her already to be taken in his nets, seeing so fair a way open and clear, to disclose that, which he had kept covert so long time, in the depth of his heart, answered. Ah madame, are ye ignorant of the forces of Love, & how much his assaults, can debilitate the livelihood of the bodies and spirits of men? Know ye not that he is blind and naked, not caring whether he goeth, manifesting himself there, where occasion is offered? Alas madame, if you have not pity upon me, and do not regard that, which I do suffer for the love of you, I know not how I am able to avoid Death, which will approach so soon to cut of, and abridge my years, as I shall understand a refusal of that, which the extreme Love, that I bear you, madame, forcethe me to require: which is to receive a new service, of your ancient and faithful serviture: who inflamed by the bright beams of your divine face, knoweth not now, how to change the affection, & much less to receive help, but of that place, where he received the prick. Excuse (madame I beseech you) my rashness, and pardon my folly, accusing rather, either your celestial beauty, or else that tyrant Love, who hath wounded me so luckily, that I esteem mine evil, fortunate, and my wound happy: sith by his mean, my thoughts and cogitations, do only tend to do you service, and to love you in mine heart, which is the Phoenix of the faireste and most courteous ladies, within all our Province. Alas, that excellency, which thus maketh me your seruasit shall one day be my ruin, if by your good grace (speaking it with weeping tears) you do not favour him, which liveth not, but to obey you, and which losing your good grace, will attempt to deprive himself of life, which being deprived through your cruelty, will go to complain himself of his bold attempt, and also of your rigour amongs the ghosts, and shadows of them that be already dead, for like occasions. The chaste Lady was so rapt of wits, for the strangeness of the case, and for the grief which she conceived, to see the unshamefast hardiness of the varlette, that she could not tell how to make him answer: But in the end breaking silence, and fetching a great sigh, from the bottom of hec heart, her face slained with a fresh Uermilion rudde, which beautified her colour, by reason of disdain, conceived against this impudent Orator, she answered him very severely. O God, who would have thought, that from a heart nobly brought up, and derived from an honourable race, a villainy so great, could have taken root, and spring up with such detestable fruit? What master Steward? Have ye forgotten the duty of a servant, toward his lord and master? Have ye forgotten I say, the duty of a virtuous gentleman, well nourished and trained up, toward such and so great a Lady as I am: Ah These and Traitor that thou art. Is this the venom, which thou keepest so covert and secret, under the sweetness of thy counterfeit virtue? A vaunt varlette, a vaunt: Go utter thy stuff, to them that be like thy self, whose honour and honeslie is so far spent, as thy loyalty is light and vain. For if I hear thee speak any more of these follies, be assured that I will mortify that raging flame, which burneth thy light believing heart, and will make thee feel by effect, what manner of death that is, wherein thou reposeste the rest of thy travel. As this deceived Orator, was framing his excuse, and about to moderate, the just wrath of his Lady, displeased upon good occasion, she not able to abide any more talk, said further.  
And what signs of dishonesty, hast thou seen in me, that move thee, to persuade a thing so wicked, and uncomely for mine estate, yea and so prejudicial, to me, to my friends, & the house of thy master, my lord and spouse? I can not tell what it is that letteth me, from causing thee to be cast for the among the Lions (cruel and capital enemies of adultery, amongs themselves) sith thy pretence is, by violating my chastity, to dishonour the house, whereunto thou owest no less, than all the advancement thou haste: from the taste whereof, thou haste abandoned Virtue, the best thing wherewith thou were affected. Avoid now therefore, let me hear no more of this, upon pain of thy life, otherwise thou shalt feel the reward of thy teinerite, and understand the bitterness of the little pleasure, which I have conceived of thy follies. So the good lady held her peace, reserving in her heart, that which should be her help in time and place: howbeit she said nothing hereof unto her husband, aswell for raising offence or slander, as for provoking her husband against him, which sustained the punishment himself, sith that this refuse, did more strangely pinch him, more near at the heart, than ever the Eagle of Caucasus whereof the poets have talked so much) did tire the maw of the subtle these Prometheus. And yet the unhappy steward not contentented, with the mischief committed against the honour of his master, seeing that it was but lost time, to continued his pursuit, and that his gain would be no less than death, if she according to her promised threats, did thereof advertise her husband, being a choleric man, and light of belief, and because the said Steward, for such an enterprise had received a simple recompense, although correspondent to his desert, premeditated worse mischiefs, more noisome than the first. He was in doubt, whether it were better for him, to tarry or to departed, sith two things in a manner, were intolerable for him to suffer. For he could not forsake the house, where from his cradle, he had been finely brought up, the Lord whereof made much of him, as of his own person. On the other side, he knew that so long as the Lady was alive, he could have no manner of joy or contentation. For that cause, converting extreme love (which once he bare to the Lady) into cruel hatred, unsemelie for a brutal beast, and into an insatiable desire of revenge: he determined to address so strong an ambush, trained with such subtlety, that she was not able to escape, without danger of her life and honour, whereof she declared herself to be so careful. Alas, what blindness is that, which captivateth the wits and spirit of him, that feedeth himself of nothing else, but upon the rage of fantastical despite, and upon the fury of despair. Do we not see, that after Reason giveth place to desired revenge of wrong thought to be received, man despoileth himself of that, which appertaineth to the kind of man, to put on the fierce nature, of the most brute and cruel beasts, to run headlong without reason, toward the place where the disordinate appetite of affections, doth conduct him? Whereof I will not avouch any other example, but of this Traitor, who passionated not with Love, but rather with rage and fury, ceaseth not to espy all the actions, and behaviour of his Lady, to the intent he might bring to end, his devised treason against her, that thought (perchance) no more of his follies, but honestly to pass the time, with her dear and well beloved husband. Truly, if this Lady had been of the disposition of some women, (that care not to molest their husbands, for the first Fly that buzzeth before their eyes, conceiving a frivolous and sudden opinion of their chastity, not so much asiailed, or to sharply defended, chanting glorious Hympnes, and high praises of their victory) certainly she had not tumbled herself into the danger, whereunto afterwards she fill. Not for that I will blame them, that do reveal to their husbands the assaults, which they receive of importunate suitors, that do assay to deflower their chastity. Yet I will say that Mosdestie in the same (as in every other humane action) is greatly to be required, sith that such a one, by thinking to extol her honour and honesty, and to make proof of her chastity, rendereth the same suspicious, and giveth occasion of talk to the people, that is more apt and ready to slander and infamy, then by good report to praise them, which by virtue do deserve commendation, bringing the life and fame of her husband, to such extremity, that it had been better virtuously to have resisted, the force of Love, and the flattering suit of such Lovers, then to manifest that which might have been kept secret, without prejudice of either parts. And truly that woman deserveth greater glory, which of herself defendeth her honesty, and quencheth the flames lively kindled in the hearts of other, with the coldness of continency, by that means vanquishing two, than she doth, which manifesting the vice of an other, discloseth as it were, a certain appearance of her frailty, and the little reason wherewith she is endued, to vanquish him, that confesseth to be her servant, and whose will dependeth at her commandment. And when the whole matter shallbe rightly judged, she that revealeth the imperfection of a Suitor, showeth her opinion and mind, to be more pliant to yield to his request, then endued with reason to abandon pleasure, and to reject the insolency of the same, sith that Reason's force, doth easily vanquish the light affections of the sensual party, which once engraven in their fantasy, do make the senses of those women, so inconstant, as they persuade themselves to be puissant and mighty, that all things be, and rest at their will and pleasure.  
Returning now then to our former discourse, the Steward so laboured with might and main, till he had found means to be revenged, of the received refusal, with such subtlety and devilish invention, as was possible for man to devise, which was this. Among the servants of this great lord, there was one no less young of wit and understanding, then of age. And albeit that he was fair and comely, yet so simple and foolish, as he had much a do, to tell the number of six. This fool by reason of his folly, and simplicity was the only sport and pastime, of the Lord and Lady. The Lady many times took pleasure, to talk with this master fool, to bring him into a choler and chaufe, thereby to provoke laughter. And therefore all the household, used to call him in mockery, My Lady's darling. In whom the Lord took singular pleasure and delight, esteeming him so well, as any of the other servants. The malicious Steward, seeing the familiarity of the Lady with the fool (like one that had already catched his pray, within his snares) began also to make much of that young Coxcomb, in such wise as he had brought him, into such fools paradise, that he might make him do and say, what he list. Who seeing him so diligent to his desire, one day took him a side, and after he had whittled him well, he said unto him. Dick, I can tell thee a knack, that thou shalt make my Lady laugh well, but thou must say nothing, till she do perceive it. The poor Idiot glad to please his masters, was desirous to know what it was, & promised to do what so ever he would bid him. Thou most (said the Steward) in the evening before she go into her chamber, hide thyself under her bed, and tarry there till it be an hour or two before day, and then I will tell thee what thou must do. This plat devised, the fool the same evening, executed the devise of his devilish counsellor, who seeing his desire to take effect, went to an old gentleman, that was of great honesty and virtue, for which he was of all men so well known, that they esteemed his word, so true as the Gospel. To that gentleman this crafty villain, full of poison and malice, wholly bent to mischief, told and reported the fact, not as it was in deed, but to the great prejudice, & dishonour of the Lady, giving him to understand, how much she had forgotten herself, that without the fear of God, reverence of her husband, and respect of her own honesty, she had filthily given herself over to him, which was called her Darling. The good gentleman hearing this strange case, was astoned like one that had been strooken, with a flash of lightening, then drawing near to the Accuser, he answered. It is, possible that such wickedness, can lie hidden in the breast of our madame? I swear unto thee by God, that if any other had told it me besides you, I would not have believed it, and truly yet I am in doubt thereof. No, no, said this wicked blasphemer, I will make you see that, which you can not believe: And having lessoned his fool, in his wont folly, the next day, he took the gentleman thither, who seeing, the Lady's minion, going out of her chamber (which many times lay severally from her husband) could not refrain weeping, lamenting the ill fortune of his Lord, who thinking that he had had an honest wife, was abused with an impudent and unshamefast whore. Then he began to frame a long Oration, against the incontinency of women, moved rather through the good will, he bore to his master, then to the truth of the matter, which undiscreetly he spoke, against the order of women kind. So ignorant was he of the treason, and endeavour of the Steward, who demanded of him, what was to be done in that matter. What said the old gentleman? Such wickedness ought not to be unpunished. My Lord must be advertised hereof, that the house may be purged of such a plague and infection, that he may evidently understand the hypocrisy of her, that so long time hath kept close her incontinency, under the vail of feigned chastity. But the righteous God, made openly to appear before men's eyes, the secret sins of the wicked, to th'intent greater slanders should not increase. The Steward very joyful, that he had gotten so honest a man, to be a witness of his accusation, approved his advice, for that it agreed well with his intent. So they would together went to the Lord, with countenance sad and heavy, correspondente to their mind, and specially the Traitor, whose sense was so confounded with gladness, that thinking to begin his tale, his words so stuck in his mouth, as he was not able to utter a word. Whereat the Lord was wonderfully abashed merueiling what that tinudice did mean, till he had heard the unfaithful Steward, tell his tale, who said to him in this manner. My Lord, I am sorry, that it is my lot, to declare unto you a matter hitherto unknown and not marked or taken heed of by any man, which will so much offend you, as any pleasure that ever till this day, did please and content you. And God knoweth what grief it is to me (in your presence) to be an accuser of a person in the world, which I have esteemed next unto you, above any other creature that liveth. But being in the place I am, I might (by good desert) be accused of treason and felony, if concealing such a detestable crime, I should leave the same of fidelity to an other, less desirous to do you service than I am. Who believeth there is no second person, that desireth better to acquit the goodness and preferment, which I have received of your Lordship, than I do. This it is my Lord. My Lady, misprising her duty to your lordship, and the honour of the house whereof she came, hath not disdained to receive into her chamber at inconvenient time, the fool that is called her Darling, and in the place, into which none but your honour, aught to have peaceable entry: whereof this gentleman present (whom you know to be without comparison) shallbe witness. Touching myself, the faith and trust, which always I have used in all your affairs, and the little affection, which I have to things contrary to virtue, shall give true testimony, of that which I have said. The lord bearing these pitiful news, which pierced his heart more deep, than any two edged sword, at the first was so astoned, that he could not tell what to say or do, saving the ardent fury of Cholere, made him distill a certain Melancholic humour into his eyes, which received the superfluous vapours of his brain. At length breaking that sorthe, which troubled him within, and grinding his teeth for fury, with stuttering and uncertain voice, fetching sighs between, said. O GOD what news be these that I hear? Is it possible, that the fairest and chastest Lady that liveth, hath in this wise defaced her honour: and so wickedly blemished my reputation? Alas if it so be, that she hath in this wise disparaged herself, no trust is to be reposed in any other, what soever she be. Ah God under what Planet was I borne, that after so long pleasure received with my beloved fere, and companion, I should by her sele a displeasure, an hundred times worse than death? Is there no remedy but that my house must receive, and see an enterprise to villainous, by her only mean, which ought rather to have been the ornament and beauty of the same? Then he chaused up and down the chamber, without speaking any more words, with his eyes rolling in his head, making strange countenances, which did well express the grief, that vexed and tormented his mind. In the end half pacified, he turned his face toward the Accuser, saying. My friend if this be true, which thou hast told me, I swear by GOD, that I will make her feel the smart, of such grievous punishment, as shallbe spoken of for ever. But if my wife be slandered, and accused wrongfully, assure thyself that I will be revenged upon thee. I know the virtue of this gentleman very well (having had good proof thereof) & of thy fidelity I am nothing at all in doubt. But alas, the love that I bear unto my wife, and her former virtue, which maketh me to love and esteem her so much, doth thoroughly pierce my heart, and much ado I have to live, hearing this report: which doth deface and blot, all the honesty and virtue, that ever remained in me. And that was it my Lord (answered the Traitor) which did deceive you. For the show of that painted virtue, did so delude you, that you be almost bewitched from understanding the wrong, so manifestly perpetrated against you, and all your house. Now to th'end, that you think not the accusation to be false, I trust (if it please you to assist me) to let you see the thing, whereof we have given you intelligence. I will do (said the Lord) what you will have me, although it be to my great grief and sorrow. To morrow morning then (answered the Traitor) one hour before day, I will let you see, the varlet going out of her chamber with so great joy, as I do conceive heaviness and grief, for the simple remembrance of so great wickedness. When they were agreed hereupon, this knave most detestable, weaving the toil, wherein he himself was caught, went to suborn the parsonage of his fool, whole made and instructed in his trumpery: leaving the poor lord with a hamer working in his head, that he was like to run out of his wits. So great is the furious force of the poison of jalosie, which once having dispersed the venom over the heart and entrails of men, the wiseste sort have lost the due discretion of their wits. In the morning about the hour, that the amorous fool (ignorant wherefore he went in) should issue out of his mistress chamber, the Steward ravished with inexplicable joy and gladness, like to the pleasure of him, that had attained the some of his desires, called his Lord, to see that heavy and dolorous sight. The good gentleman, perceiving the report to be true, and thinking that she had used the fool to be her bedfellow, was like to have died for sorrow, or else to have torn in pieces that unhappy sot, innocent of the evil suspected by the Lord, who durst not so much as think to do such a wicked fact. In the end giving place to reason, he caused the poor fool to be apprehended, and put in the bottom of a dungeon, and beyond measure was offended with his wife, for that he thought the simplicity of the imprisoned wretch, had not the face to demand the question, and therefore did verily believe that it was she, that had induced him to do the deed, to satisfy her unbridled and filthy lust, and therefore caused her to be shut up, within a dark and stinking prison, not meaning to see her, or to hear her speak for her justification, ne yet would suffer that any man, should take upon him to stand in her defence, to bring witness of her innocency. For said he (replete with wrath and anger) I do better believe that, which I have seen, and known by mine own presence, than your words, vain reasons, and complaints of no good ground and effect as founden upon her, that hath to much forgotten herself and her duty towards me. Moreover vanquished with the Cholere (not without cause truly) of a husband that thought himself by her only means deceived and betrayed, sent word to the poor captive, that she should then provide for her soul's health, sith he was determined the very same day to make her play a Tragedy, more cruel than that was pleasant, which she had already done with her beloved, in extruding her to be devoured of his Lions, which were the ministers for the execution of the justice ordained against her, as though she had been the most lascivious, and detestable woman, that ever the earth brought forth. The faser and innocent Lady, knowing the humour and choler of her husband, and likewise seeing (contrary to right order of all judgement) that she could not be heard or suffered to make answer, passed through the rigorous law of him, that thought her to be an Adulteress. And could not tell what to do but to lament her ill fortune, gushing forth tears in such abundance, that the most part of her attire, were wet and bedewed with the same, then fortesting herself in the hope of the merciful hand of almighty God the father of all consolation, who never forgetteth them, which with entire faith do call upon him, and appeal to the succour of the holy and precious name of his son jesus Christ our saviour, she with compunction of heart, and sincere devotion, sueth joined hands and knees upon the grand, addressing her eyes to the heavens, prayed in this wise.  
Alas my God, I do know and confess, that the multitude of my sinews, do surpass the sea sands, & am not ignorant, that this unhappy time is chanced unto me, for the punishment of my forepast offences. notwithstanding (Lord) according to thy great goodness, have no respect unto my demerits and wickedness (whereof my life is full) but rather extend thy favour and mercy, upon thy poor creature, whose innocency thou (which art the searcher of men's hearts) dost well understand and know, I do not desire prolongation of my miserable life, only may it please thee (O God) for thy goodness and justice sake, to save mine honour, and to grant, that my husband may see with what integrity, I have always honoured the holy band of Marriage, by thee ordained, to th'intent he may live from henceforth quiet of this inspition conceived of me, and that my parents may not sustain the blot of ignominy, which will make them blush, when they shall bear report of my life past. She being in these contemplations and holy prayers, preparing herself to receive death, her husband caused her to be conveyed into the Park of Lions, which being strange and terrible at the first sight, did marvelously affraie her, but remembering how innocent she was, putting her hope in God, she went thither with such constancy and courage, as if she had been led to some joyous banquet, and the people which never heard tell before, of such a kind of death was assembled in great multitude, tarrying to see the end of that execution, and talking diversly of that sudden judgement, prayed all with one voice, for the preservation of their lady, of whose chastity they were already right well assured. Now as they attended for the time of execution, the Lady was placed in the mid of the Park, not without tears and sighs of the assistants, who murmured at the remembrance of the horror, of a sight so furious. The innocent Lady kneeled down upon her knees, and both by gesture and merry countenance, showed how joyfully she went to suffer that, which she had never deserved: Then recommending her soul to God, for whose salvation she steadfastly hoped, she pronounced this prayer, a loud. O my Lord God, which didst ones deliver Daniel, from a danger like to this, whereunto the false accusation of the wicked, have wrongfully cast me headlong: And didst discharge Susanna, from the slander of the perverse and adulterous judges, pleaseth thee pitifully to behold, thy poor creature. Pardon O Lord, forgive I humbly beseech thee, the simplicity of my dear husband, who dealeth thus with me, rather through the circumuention of deceitful cavilling slanderers, then by his own malice and cruelty. Receive O my GOD and merciful father, Receive my soul between thy Bess hands, which thou hast redeemed by the blood shedding of thy son jesus, upon the Tree of the Crosse. As she had ended these words, she saw the Lions come for the ramping, and bristleing up their hear, stretching forth their paws with roaring voice, cruelly looking round about them: Of whom the Lady thought to be the present pray. But the goodness of God, who is a just judge, and suffereth his own elect to be proved to the extremity, of purpose to make their glory the greater, and the ruin of the wicked more apparent, manifested there an evident miracle. For the Lions (being cruel of nature, and that time hungry and greedy of pray) in am of tearing the Lady in pieces, to gorge their ravening paunch, they fill to licking and fawning upon her, making so much of her, as if they had familiarly been nourished with her own breasts. A thing no less pleasant to the Lady then marvelous to all the people standing round about who seeing a chance so miraculous cried out, incontinently for the delivery of the Lady, & for vengeance to be taken of him, which so wickedly had protruded her into that danger: which for her virtue, aught to be extolled and praised of the whole world. When the noble man was certified of this strange adventure, he caused his Steward to be apprehended and imprisoned, whose conscience forced such remorse, yet not knowing the end of the tragedy, condemned himself by his countenance. During his imprisonment the deposition of the beloved fool was taken, who said, that by the suggestion of the malicious Steward, many times (ignorant to the Lady) he conveyed himself into her chamber, not knowing whereunto, the intent of him that caused him so to do did extend. The other gentleman made excuse (although he was blame worthy) that he was deceived by the same false practice, that the Lord himself was. The Steward openly confessed the treason, which he had devised against the Lady, and the whole occasion thereof, and thinking to be revenged of the refusal of love, by her denied, he framed this slander, to make her lose her life. Which the Lord hearing could not abide, that his death should any longer be respected, but without other form of Law, he was thrust out to the Lions, and was out of hand seized upon, and torn in pieces by those beasts, which by God's just judgement, did abstain from the good Lady, for the punishment of the detestable sin of this varlette. In the mean time the chaste and innocent Lady, being brought before her husband, after he had kissed and embraced her, with humble reverence she said unto him. My Lord, I render my humble thanks to God, for that through his holy grace, & inscrutable justice, he hath let you to understand, two divers affections, in two several persons of this world, which you love so well. In one, the treason so pernicious, which provoked you, to soil and imbrue your hands (not without cause till this day proved contrary) in the blood of your faithful and dear beloved wise. In tother, a will and mind so good to obey you, and to persist in continuation of that effect, which maketh her generally to be praised, & worthy of your earnest love, for so much as she is your very affectionate spouse. Notwithstanding, justly may I make my complaint of you, for that withon excuse for my discharge, or hearing any thing that might serve for my purgation, you condemned her, for whose honour and defence you ought, to have employed both goods and life. But God shall be judge between your little discretion, and my righteousness, between mine obedience, and your cruelty, wherewith you have abused the nobility, of the race whereof I came. The husband hearing this wise and just complaint, on the one side transported with joy, leapt and rejoiced, to see his dear companion in liberty, and declared to be innocent, on the other part he blushed for shame, that he had so lightly, and without better proof and trial condemned her, whom God by his grace, had preserved from the Lion's throats, and durst not lift up his head, by reason his heart fretted, at the remembrance of his light credit and fury imoderate. Finally embracing his wife, and kissing her lovingly said unto her. Madame, and dear beloved wife, I can not deny, but foolishly I have attempted, to blemish the honour of her, that whilom made me to shine and glister, amongst the best and chief of all this country, but he that doth well mark and behold, the gall and disdain of a husband loving his wife, and then understanding her little care and great forgetfulness which she hath, both of his honour, and glory of his comfort, will easily excuse and pardon my fault, which I will not by any means colour and cloak, but rather crave pardon at your hands, assuring you, that I will amend and requite the same, so well & in such wise as you and yours, shall have no cause but to be content and satisfied. It sufficeth me sir (quoth she) that my guiltless offence is known unto you, and that I have recovered place in your favourable acceptation: For I do account mine adversity well employed, sith thereby you and your friends may glory, of the severe justice ministered against malefacters, and I rejoice in resistance of the assaults of love, and of death to guard and keep my chastity pure and inviolable. And may serve for example to every honourable Lady, being assailed with such strong and mighty adversaries, to keep themselves honest. For the crown is not due but to her, that shall lawfully combat to the end. After this the Lord by persuasion of his wife, commanded that the fool should be avoided the house that his presence might neither grieve or torment her ne yet might remove the memory of a thing, that never was thought or done. And not without cause: for the Lord, which reclinde his ear, to every trifling report, and credited the words of every whistling pikethanke, had much a do to escape from doing things, unworthy his estate and calling. Of so great force, truly is the venom of such Serpents, that seizing itself by little and little, upon the heart of him disposed to receive it, in fury maketh it to be in effect, like the nature of poison and drogues corrupt: whereof men ought to be no less, but rather more diligent and careful then of meats, amongs persons whom they suspect and fear, sithence that malidies and infections of mind, be far more dangerous, then outward passions, which torment the body. Whereunto if the said noble man was not heedful, he felt the damage for penance of his inconsideration. Howbeit as joinge, both good and ill amongs men, be not still durable and perpetual: Certain days after, he began to solace himself with his wife, and road an hunting abroad, visited his neighbours, and at home made great feasts and banquets, whereunto his kindred and friends were invited, to congratulate this new alliance, endeavouring thereby to satisfy the fault committed, and the better to gratify and pleasure his wife, to make her know how much he esteemed and regarded her then before: he caused the success of this present history, to be engraven with great industry, and marvelous cunning in Marble, which he placed over the gate of the first entry into his Castle, aswell to immortalizate the great chastity of his fair and virtuous wife, as to set forth a Mirror and example to every household servant, and to all other what soever they be, to beware how they attempt any thing against the honour of Ladies. For many times it chanceth, that he which diggeth a ditch, and setteth up a Gallows, is the first that doth fall, or is stretched thereupon. As you may see by this present discourse, which setteth before your eyes, what end the fond love of them ordinarily have, which without reason, not measuring their own ability, do suffer themselves to be guided and led into their sensual lusts and appetites: For ill success faileth not in a beginning, the ground whereof abhorring reason, is planted and laid upon the sandy foundation of pleasure, which is shaken and overthrown, by the least wind and tempest, that Fortune can bluster against such building.   

Didaco and Violenta Didaco a spaniard, is in love with a poor maiden of Valencia, and secretly marrieth her, afterwards loathing his first marriage, because she was of base parentage he marrieth an other of noble birth. His first wife, by secret messenger prayeth his company, whose request he accomplisheth. Being a bed, she and her maid killeth him. She throweth him into the street: she in desperate wise confesseth the fact before the Magistrates, and is put to death.  
¶ The xlii Novel.  
THere is no man but doth know, that Valencia is at this day, the chief and only Rampar of Spain, the true seat of Faith, justice, and Humanity. And amongs all the rare and excellent-ornamentes, that city is well furnished with so trim Ladies, and courteous gentlewomen, as they know how to bait and feed young men, with foolish dalliance, and idle pastime. So that if there be any beetle head or gross person, the better to allure and provoke him to those follies, they tell him by a common Proverb, that he must go to Valencia. In this city there was in old time, as it is at this day a very ancient stock and family, called Ventimiglia, out of which be descended a great number of rich and honourable knights. amongs whom, not long time pass there was one, named Didaco, very famous and renowned, to be the most liberal and familer gentleman of the city, who (for want of better business) walked up and down the city, and so consumed his youth, in triumphs masks, and other expenses, common and apt for such pilgrims, addressing his love indifferently to all women, without greater affection to one, then to an other and continued that order, till upon an holy day, he espied a young maid of small years, but of very exquisite beauty: which maiden suddenly casting her eye upon him, so pierced the knight Didaco with her look, that from that time forth, she entered more near his heart, than any other. And after he had well marked her dwelling place, he many times passed and repassed before the door, to espy if he might, get some look or other favour of her, that began already to govern the bridle of his thoughts, and if it chanced that the gentleman beheld her, she showed herself courteous and amiable, endued with grace so good, that he never departed ill contented out of that street. The gentleman continuing certain time in those vanities, was desirous to know a far of what she was, of what lineage and of what vocation. And after he had curiously searched out all her original, he understood by divers report, that she was a goldsmiths daughter, whose father was dead certain years before, having no more but her another alive, and two brethren, both of their father's occupation. notwithstanding, of life she was chaste & honest, defamed with none, although she was pursued of many. Her outward beauty did not so much set her forth, as her grace and order of talk, who although brought up in a citizen's house, yet no lady or gentlewoman in the City, was comparable to her in virtue and behaviour. For from her tender years, she was not only given to her needle, a meet exercise for maids of her degree, but also was trained up to write and read, wherein she took so great pleasure, that ordinarily she carried a book in her hand, which she never gave over, till she had gathered some fruit thereof. This knight having received that first impression, of the valour and virtue of Violenta (for that was her name) was further in love then before, and that which added more oil to the match, was the continual looks, wherewith she knew how to delight him: and with them she was so liberal, that so oft as he passed through the street, she shot them forth so cruelly, that his poor heart (feeling itself so tormented) could not endure that new onset. By reason whereof, thinking to quench the fire, that by little and little consumed him, he would attempt her chastity, with gifts, letters, and messengers, which he continued the space of half a year or more. Whereunto Violenta, giving no place, in the end he was constrained to assail her with his own presence: and one day findying her alone at the door, after he had made a very humble reverence unto her, he said. Mistress Violenta, considering your order and the cold regard, that you have to my letters and messages, I do remember the subtlety, that is attributed to the Serpent, who with his tail stoppeth his ears, because he will not hear the words, which hath power to constrain him, to do against his will, which hath made me to leave to write unto you, & to desire specially to speak unto you, that mine affectuous accents, my sorrowful words, and fervent sighs might certify you better than Paper: the rest of my passion, believing verily, that if the heavy sound of my grievous complaints, may come to your ears, they will make you to understand, a part of that good and evil, which I feel continually in my heart, although the love which I bear you, be such, that I can not give such lively experience outwardly, being but little in comparison of them, which may be seen within. And pronouncing those words, there followed so many tears, sobs, and sighs, that they gave sufficient testimony, that his tongue was the true and faithful messenger of his heart. Whereof Violenta somewhat ashamed, with a constant grace said unto him, Senior Didaco: if you do yet remember your life past, and mine honesty (which peradventure you have thought either rude or cruel) I doubt not, that you have any cause to marvel of my presumption, and to attribute that to vice, which is familiar with virtue. For although that you have solicited me to love you, by an infinite number of letters and messages, yet it is so, that following the nature of maids of my degree. I have neither allowed them, nor yet condemned them, as where unto accordingly, I have made none answer: not for despite or contempt, but to let you know more certainly, that by favouring your enterprises, I should increase your grief, which can receive none end by the way you pretend. For although that I have made the first proof upon myself, and therefore of reason I ought to lament them, which be in semblable pain, yet I will not let slip the bridle in such wise to my passion, that mine honesty shall remain in an other man's power, and (so it may be) at the mercy and courtesy of them, who not knowing how dear it is to me, shall think they have made a pretty conquest. And that I may have no cause to repent to late, I have stopped mine ears for fear, that I be not a rested and stayed, with the violence of your charms, a thing as you say, proper to Serpents. But I have fortified my heart, & armed myself in such wise within, that if God continue that grace in me, which hitherto he hath done, I hope not to be surprised. Although that I must needs confess (to my shame) that I have received marvelous assaults of love, not only for the common renown of your virtues, and through the courtesy and gentleness daily imparted to me by your letters, but specially by your presence, which hath yielded unto me experience and assurance of that, which all the letters of the world could not do, nor all other messages were not able to conceive. And to the end that I may not be utterly ingrate, and that you do not depart from me, altogether miscontent, I do promis you now that from henceforth, you shall enjoy the first place of my heart, whereunto an other shall never entre: if so be you can be content with honest amity, wherein you shall find me in time to come so liberal, in all that, which honesty shall permit, that I am content to forego the name of a presumptuous or cruel damosel, for your sake. But if you mean to abuse me, or hope for any thing of me, contrary to mine honour, you be marvelously deceived. Wherefore if you think your worthiness to great, ta carry away a recompense so small, you shall do very well both for me and yourself, in forgetting that is past, to cut of all hope in time to come. And she thinking to prolong a further discourse, the mother of Violenta (which still stood at the window, all the time that Senior Didaco, was with her daughter, came down to the door) interrupting their talk, said to Didaco. Sir, I suppose you take great pleasure, in the folly of my daughter, because you carry and abide here, rather to contrive your time, then for any other contentation you can receive. For she is so evil taught, and of such rude behaviour, that her demeanour will rather trouble you, then give you cause of delight. Mistress said Didaco, although in the beginning, I purposed not to tarry so long, yet when I entered in more familiar acquaintance, and had well experienced her good graces, I confess that I have stayed here, longer than I thought. And were he never so great a lord, that liveth at this day, I dare avouch that he might think his time well bestowed, in hearing such sober and honest talk, wherewith I think myself so well satisfied and instructed, that all the days of my life I will witness, that virtue, courtesy, and sober behaviour is to be found, aswell in mean degrees and houses, and in them that be right noble, amongs which mean families, although she be one (it may so be) that one more illustre and noble, cannot be more excellent, and accomplished with better manners, than she: which is now well manifested to me, in this little discourse. And after certain other common talk, Didaco took his leave, and went home to his house, where he lived fourteen or fifteen months without any rest, assaying by all means to mortify his desires, but it availeth not: For although he was rich, a trim courtier, and an eloquent gentleman, and had opportunity to speak unto her many times, and she gentle enough to hear him, and to understand his errantes, and was assured by friends, that she for her part was also in love, yet he was not able by human art and policy, to convert her to his mind. Wherewithal he was long time molested, and at length pressed with grief and anoiaunce, he was advised to send six hundred Ducats to the mother, for a Relief to the marriage of her daughter, promising beside, that he would assign her an honest dowry, when she found a man, worthy to be her husband: upon condition that she would yield to him some comfort, to ease his affection. But she which could not be won with love, was not able to be recovered with money: and was offender that Senior Didaco had forgotten himself so much, as to think to gain that for money, which with so great pain, tears and sighs, had been denied him. And to make him understand, that she was offended, she sent word by him, that brought her the money, that he should go, and prove hereafter to deceive them, that measured their honour with the price of profit, and not to set traps to deceive other, that would buy nothing contrary to virtue. And after Didaco was advertised of her mind, and perceived that he lost time in all his enterprises, and was able no longer to sustain his extreme pain and sorrow, which daily augmented, and when he had debated in his mind all the success of his love, he resolved in the end upon that, which he thought most profitable for the quiet of his mind, which was to marry her. And although she was of no such house, and yet less endowed with substance, as he deserved. Yet her beauty and virtue, and other gifts of grace, wherewith she was enriched, made her worthy of a great Lord. And resolved upon this, he repaired to Violenta, to whom he said. Mistress Violenta, if the true Touchestone, to know them that be perfect lovers (amongs other) is marriage, certainly you have gotten a husband of me, if it please you to accept me for such a one, whom in time you shall make to understand, the difference between goods and virtue, and between honesty and richesse. Violenta then ravished with joy, and incredible contentation, somewhat abashed, said unto him. Senior Didaco. I know not whether you pretend by words, to prove my constancy, or else to bring me into fools paradise: but of one thing I can assure you, that although I acknowledge myself inferior to you in merits, goods and virtue, yet if that come to pass which you promise. I will not give place to you in love, trusting if God send us life together, you shall well understand one day, that you would not exchange my persons for a great Lady, what so ever she be. For confirmation whereof, Didaco plucked from his finger an emerald of great value, which (when he had kissed her) he gave unto her in the way of marriage, praying her that she would not disclose it for a certain time, until he himself, had made all his friends privy unto it. notwithstanding, he willed her to impart the same to her two brethren, and to her mother, and he would get some priest of the Country, to solemnize the Marriage within their house: which was done in a chamber, about four of the clock in morning, being only present the mother, the brethren, the priest, and a sernuaunt of the house, brought up there from her youth, and his own man, without making any other preparation or cost, requisite for such a matter. In this sort they spent the day in great joy and mirth (which they can conceive, that be of base birth, and exalted to some high degree of honour) till night was come, and then every man withdrew themselves, leaving the bride and her husband to the mercy of Love, and order of the night. Who being alone received equal joy, and like contentation, which they feel that being pressed with ardent and grievous thirst, do in th'end afterwards with lively joy, and all kind of liberty, quench that cruel discommodite and continued in those pleasures till morning, that day began to appear, to whom Violenta said. My honourable Lord and dear husband, sith that you be now in possession of that, which you have so greatly desired, I humbly beseech you, to consider for the time to come, how and what wise, your pleasure is that I shall use myself. For if God grant me the grace, to be so discrete in pleasing you, as I shallbe ready and desirous to obey you, in all that you shall command me, there was never gentle man's servant, that did more willingly please his master, than I hope to do you. Whereunto Didaco answered. My sweet and well-beloved wife. Let us leave this humbleness and service for this time, to them which delight in those things. For I promis you of my faith, that I have you in no less reverence & estimation, then if you had come of the greatest house in Cathalongne: as I will make you understand some other time, at more leisure. But till I have given order, to certain of mine affairs, I pray you to keep our Marriage secret, and be not offended, if many times I do resort home to mine own house, although there shall no day pass (by my will) but at night I will keep you company. In the mean time, to buy you necessaries, I will send you a thousand, or twelve hundred Ducats, to employ not upon apparel, or other things requisite to your degree (for I will provide the same myself at an other time) but upon small trifles, such as be apt and convenient for household. And so departed Senior Didaco from his wives house: who did so lovingly interteigne him, that by the space of a year, there was no day, wherein he was content, without the view and sight of his wife. And upon his oft resort to their house the neighbours began to suspect, that he kept the maiden, and rebuked her mother and brethren, but specially Violenta, for suffering Didaco to use their house in such secret wise. And above all, they lamented the ill hap of Violenta, who being so well brought up, till she was twenty years of age, and a maiden of such beauty, that there was none in all the city of Valencia, but greatly did esteem her, to be of singular honesty and reputation. notwithstanding, degenerating from her accustomed virtue, they judged her to be light of behaviour, given to lascivious love. And albeit that very many times, such checks and taunts were objected, and that she understood that murmur and talk, yet she made small account of them, knowing that her conscience by any means, was not charged with such reproach: hoping therewithal that one day, she would make them to give over that false opinion, when her Marriage should be published and known. But certain times feeling herself touched, and her honesty appaired, could not contain, but when she saw time with her husband, she prayed him very earnestly, to have her home to his own house, to avoid slander, and defamation of neighbours. But sir Didaco knew so well how to use his wife by delays and promises, that she agreed unto him in all things, & had rather displease the whole world together, then offend him alone. Being now, so attached with the love of the knight, that she cared for nothing else, but to please and content him in all things, whereunto she saw him disposed, and like as in the beginning she was hard, and very slack in love, now she became so servant & earnest, in her affections that she received no pleasure, but in the sight of Didaco, or in that which might content and please him best. Which the knight did easily perceive and seeing himself in full possession of her heart, began by little and little to wax cold, and to be grieved at that which before he counted dear and precious, persuading himself, that he should do wrong to his reputation, if that Marriage unworthy of his estate, were discovered and known in the city: And to provide for the same, he more seldom times repaired, to visit his wife Violenta: yea and when so ever he resorted to her, it was more to satisfy his carnal pleasure, then for any love he bore her. And thus forgetting both God, and his own conscience, he frequented other companies in diverse places, to win the good will of some other gentlewoman. In the end by sundry suits, dissimulations, and hypocrisies, he so behaved himself, that he recovered the good will of the daughter of Senior Ramyrio Vigliaracuta, one of the chiefest knights, and of most ancient house of Valencia. And (as we have declared before) because he was rich and wealthy, and issued of a noble race, her parents did easily agree to the Marriage. And the father having assigned an honourable dowry to his daughter. The Nuptials were celebrated publicly, with great pomp and solemnity, to the great contentation of all men. The Marriage done and ended, sir Didaco and his new wife, continued at the house of his father in law, where he lived a certain time, in such pleasure and delectation as they do, that be newly married. Whereof the mother and brethren of Violenta being advertised, conceived like sorrow, as accustomably they do, that see the honour of them that be issued of their own blood unjustly and without cause to be despoiled. And these poor miserable creatures, not knowing to whom to make their complaint, lived in strange perplexity, because they knew not the Priest, which did solempnise their Marriage. On the other side, they had no sufficient proof of the same. And albeit they were able to verify in some points, the first Marriage of Didaco; yet they burst not prosecute the law, against two of the greatest Lords of their City. And knowing the stout harry of Violenta, they thought to conceal the same from her for a time, but it was in vain. For not long after she was certified thereof, not only by the next neighbours, but by the common brute of the city, which reported that in ten years space, there was not seen in Valencia, a Marriage more honourable or royal, nor better frequented with a noble company of gentlemen and Ladies: then the same was of the young knight Didaco, with the daughter of Senior Ramyrio. Wherewithal Violenta vexed beyond measure pressed with ire and surie, withdrew herself into her chamber alone, and there began to scratch and tear her face and hear, like one that was mad, and out of her wits, saying. Alas, alas, what pain and trouble, what unmeasurable torments suffereth now my poor afflicted mind, without comfort or consolation of any creature living? What dure and cruel penance do I sustain, for none offence at all? Ah fortune, fortune the enemy of my felicity and bliss, thou haste so deprived me of all remedy, that I dare not so much, as to make any man know or understand my mishap that the same might be revenged, which being done would render such contentation to my mind, that I should depart out of this world the best contented and satisfied maiden that ever died. Alas, that the gods did not grant me the benefit, that I might have come of noble kind, to th'intent I might have caused that traitorous ruffien, to feel the grievous pain and bitter torments, which my poor heart sustaineth. Ah wretched caitiff that I am, abandoned and forlorn of all good fortune: now I do see that with the eyes of my mind, which with those of my body dazzled and deceived, I could not see or perceive. Ah cruel enemy of all pity, dost thou not know, & feel in thy mind, the heavy and sorrowful sound of my bitter plaints? Understandest not thou my voice, that crieth vengeance upon thee for thy misdeed? Can not thy cruelty in nothing be diminished, seeing me dismembered with the terror of a thousand furious martyrdoms. Ah ingrate wretch is this now the reward of my love, of my faithful service, and mine obedience? And as she thus bitterly tormented herself, her mother and brethren, and her maid, which was brought up with her from her tender years, went up to the chamber to Violenta, where they found her then so deformed with rage and fury, that almost she was out of their knowledge. And when they went about to reduce her, by all means possible, from those furious pangs: and saw that it nothing availed, they left her in the keeping of the old maiden, whom she loved above any other. And after the maiden had uttered unto her particularly many reasons, for the appeasing of her grief, she told her that if she would be quiet a little while, she would go and speak to the knight Didaco, and make him to understand his fault. And would with discreet order so deal with him, that he should come home to her house, & therefore she prayed her to arm herself against this wickedness, & to dissemble the matter for a time, that hereafter she might use upon him just revenge. No, no janique, answered Violenta, the offence is very small and light, where counsel is received: and albeit that I cannot choose, but confess thy counsel to be very meet, yet there wanteth in me, a mind to follow it: that if I did feel any part in me, disposed to obey the same. I would even before thy face, separate that mind from my wretched body: For I am so resolved in the malice and hatred of Didaco, that he can not satisfy me without life alone. And I believe the Gods did cause me to be borne, with mine own hands, to execute vengeance of their wrath, and the loss of mine honour. Wherefore janique if from my youth thou didst ever love me, show now the same to me by effect, in a matter whereunto thy help is most necessary: for I am so outraged in my mischief, that I do envy the miserablest creatures of the world, remaining no more in me to continue my life in wailing, and continual sighs, but the title of a vile and abominable whore. Thou art a stranger, and livest here a beastly life, joined with continual labour. I have twelve hundred crowns, with certain jewels, which that false traitor gave me, which be predestinated by the heavens, for none other purpose, but to pay them their hire, which shall do the vengeance upon his disloyal person. I do put the same money now into thy hands, if thou wilt help me to make sacrifice, with the body of poor Didaco: But if thou doest deny me thy help, I will execute the same alone, and in case he do not die, as I do intend he shall be murdered as I may. For the first time that I shall see him with mine eyes, come of it what will, his life shall be dispatched with these two trembling hands, which thou seest. janique seeing her mistress in these terms, and knowing her stout nature, endued with a manly and invincible stomach, after she had debated many things in her mind, she determined wholly to impose herself for her masters in that she was able to do. Moved partly with pity to see her mistress, dishonoured with a defamed marriage, and partly provoked with covetousness, to gain so great a some of money, which her mistress did offer, if she would condescend to her enterprise (thinking after the fact committed, to flee into some other country). And when she was thoroughly resolved upon the same, she embraced Violenta, and said unto her Mistress, if you will be ruled by me, and give over the vehemence of your wrath and displeasure, I have found a way for you, to be revenged upon Didaco, who hath so wickedly deceived you. And albeit the same can not be done secretly, but in the end it must be known: yet I doubt not, but the cause declared before the judges, and they understanding the wrong he hath done you, they will have compassion upon your misery: who know right well that always you have been known an esteemed, for a very honest and virtuous maiden. And to the end that you be informed how this matter may be brought to pass, first you must learn to dissemble your grief openly, and to feign yourself in any wise, not to be offended with the new Marriage of the knight. Then you shall write unto him a letter, with your own hand, lesting him thereby to understand the pain that you suffer, for the great love you bear him, and then ye shall humbly beseech him, sometimes to come and visit you. And sith that froward fortune, will not sufixe you to be his wife, yet that it would please him, to use you as his lover, that you may possess the second place of his love, sith by reason of his new wife, you can not enjoy the first. Thus that deceiver shallbe beguiled, by thinking to have you at his commandment, as he was wont to do. And being come hither, to lie with you, we will handle him in such wise as I have invented, that in one night he shall lose his life, his wife, and her whom he thinketh to have for his lover. For when he is a bed with you, and fallen into his first sleep, we will send him into an other place, where in a more sounder sleep, he shall everlastynglie continue. Violenta all this time, which fed her bloody and cruel heart with none other repasie, but with rage and disdain. began to be appeased, and found the counsel of janique so good that she wholly purposed to follow the same. And to begin her enterprise, she prayed janique for a time to withdraw herself, until she had written her letter, by the tenor whereof she should understand with what audacity she would prosecute the rest. And being alone in her chamber, taking peune and paper she wrote to Didaco, with feigned heart, as followeth.  
Senior Didaco I am persuaded, that if you will vouchsafe to read, and peruse the contents of these my sorrowful letters, you shallbe moved with some compassion and pity, by beholding the true Image of my miserable life, portrayed and painted in the same, which through your disloyalty and breach of promise, is consumed and spent with so many tears, sighs, torments, and griefs, that diverse times I marvel how Nature can so long support, and defend the violente assaults of so cruel a martyrdom, and that she hath not many times torn my feeble spirit, out of this cruel and mortal prison: which maketh me to think and believe, by continuing life, that death himself hath conspired my misery, and is the companion of my affliction: considering that by no torment, she is able to make division, between my soul and body. Alas how many ten hundred thousand times in a day, have I called for Death, and yet I can not make her, to recline her ears unto my cries. Alas how many times am I vanquished, with the sharp torments of sorrow, ready to take my leave, and last farewell of you, being arrived to the extreme pangs of death. Behold Didaco mine ordinary delices, behold my pleasures, behold all my pastime. But yet, this is but little in respect of that, which chanceth in the night. For if it hap that my poor eyes do fall a sleep, weary with incessaunte drawing forth of welsprynges of tears, slombring dreams cease not then, to vere and afflict my mind, with the cruelest torments that are possible to be devised, representing unto me by their ugly and horrible visions, the joy and contentation of her, which enjoyeth my place: whereby the greatest joy, which I conceive, is not inferior to cruel death. Thus my life maintained with continuation of sorrows and griefs, is persecuted in most miserable wise. Now (as you know) I daily pass my sorrow, under painful silence, thinking that your old promises, confirmed with so many oaths, and the assured proof, which you still have had of my faith and constancy, would have brought you to some order, but now seeing with mine eyes, the hard metal of your heart, and the cruelty of my fate, which wholly hath subdued me to your obedience, for respect of mine honour: I am forced to complain of him that beateth me, and thereby dispoileth me, both of mine honour and life, not vouchsaufing only so much as ones to come unto me. And uncertain to whom I may make recourse, or where in fined redress, I appeal unto you, to th'end that seeing in what lean and ugly state I am, your cruelty may altogether be satisfied, which beholding a sight so pitiful, wherein the figure of my torment is lively expressed, it may be moved to some compassion. Come hither then thou cruel man, come hither I say, to visit her, whom with some sign of humanity, thou mayest stay, or at least wise, mollify and appease the vengeance, which she prepareth for thee. And if ever sparks of pity did warm thy frozen heart. Arm thyself with a greater cruelty, than ever thou was wont to do, and come hither to make her sob her last and extreme sighs, whom thou hast wretchedly deceived. For in doing otherwise, thou mayest peradventure to late, bewail my death, and thy beastly cruelty. And thinking to make a conclusion of her letter, the tears made her words to die in her mouth, and would not suffer her to write any more: wherefore she closed and sealed the same, and then calling janique unto her, she said.  
Hold gentle janique, carry these letters unto him, and if thou canst so well play thy part, as I have done mine, I hope we shall have shortly at our commandment, him that is the occasion of this my painful life, more grievous unto me then thousand deaths together. janique having the letter, departed with diligence, and went to the house of the father in law of Didaco, where quietly she waited, till she might speak with some of the house, which was within a while after: For one of the servants of Didaco, whom she knew right well, went about certain his masters business, & meeting janique, was abashed. Of whom she demanded, if the Lord Didaco were within, and said that she would feign speak with him: but if it were possible, she would talk with him secretly. Whereof Didaco advertised, came forth to her into the street, to whom smilyngly (having made to him a feigned reverence) she said. Senior Didaco, I can neither write nor read, but I dare lay my life, there is suit made unto you by these letters, which Madam Violenta hath sent unto you. And in deed to sale the truth, there is great injury done unto her of your part, not in respect of your new Marriage. (For I never thought that Violenta was a wife meet for you, considering the difference of your estates) but because you will not vouchsauf to come unto her, seeming that you make no more account of her, and specially for that you provide no marriage for her in some other place. And assure your self she is so far in love with you, that she is ready to die, as she goeth, in such wise that making her complaint unto me this day, weeping, she saith unto me. Well, for so much then as I can not have him to be my husband, I would to God he would maintain me for his friend, and certain times in the week, to come to see me, specially in the night, lest he should be espied of the neighbours. And certainly if you would follow her mind herein, you shall do very well. For the case standeth thus, you may make your a vaunt, that you be provided of so saire a wife, and with so beautiful a friend, as any gentleman in Valentia. And then janique delivered him the letter, which he received and red, and having well considered the tenor of the same, he was incontinently surprised with a sudden passion. For hatred and pity, love and disdain (as with in a Cloud be contained hot and cold, with many contrary winds) began to combat together, and to vex his heart with contrary minds, then, pausing upon answer, he said unto her. janique my dear friend, racommende me to the good grace and favour of thy mistress, and say unto her, that for this time I will make her no answer, but to morrow at four of the clock in the morning, I will be at her house, and keep her company all the day and night, and then I will tell her all that I have done, sithence I departed last from her, trusting she shall have no cause to be offended with me. And then janique taking her leave, returned toward Violenta, telling her what she had doen. To whom Violenta answered. janique, is thou hast made a good beginning to our enterprise, I likewise for my part, have not slepts. For I have devised, that we must provide for a strong rope, which we will fasten to the heads head, and when he shallbe a sleep, I will cast the other end of the rope to thee, over thwart the bed, that thou majesty pluck the same with all thy might, and before thou beginnest to pull, I will with a knife cut his throat, wherefore thou must provide two great knives, whatsoever they cost, but I pray thee let me alone with doing of the fact, that I may dispatch him of his life, which alone did make the first assault, to the breach of mine honour. janique knew so well how to provide for all that was requisite, for the execution of their enterprise, as there rested nothing but opportunity, to sort their cruel purpose to effect. The knight six Didaco, at the hour appointed, told his new wife, that he must go into the country, to take order for the state of his land: and that he could not return, till the next day in the morning. Which she by and by believed. And the better to cover his fact, he caused two horse to dye made ready, and road for the when the clock struck. iiij. And when he had ridden through a certain street, he said to his man (which was went to serve his turn in love matters) carry my horse to such a man out in the Country, and tarry there all this day, and to morrow Morning, come seek me in such a place, when I am gone from the house of Violenta. In the mean time set my horse in some Inn. For in any wise I will have no man know, that I do lie there, which done the master and the servant, went two several ways. The knight being come to the house of Violenta, he found janique tarrying for him, with good devotion, to use him according to his desert, and conveyed him to the chamber of Violenta, and then she returned about her business. The knight kissed Violenta and bad her good morrow, asking her how she did. Whom Violenta answered. Sir Didaco you bid me good morrow in words, but in deed you go to prepare for me, a heavy and sorrowful life. I believe that your mind beareth witness, of the state of my welfare. For you have brought me to such extremity, that you see right well, how nothing else but my voice, declareth me too be a woman, and therewithal so feeble a creature, as I still crave and call for death, or for pity, although both of th'one and of the other, I am not heard at all. And yet think not Didaco, that I am so far out of my wits to believe, that the cause of my writing the letter was for hope, that (you remembering my bitter pains, & your own heinous crime) I could ever move you to pity. For I am persuaded, that you will never cease to exhauste and suck the blood, honour, and life of them that credit your trumperies, and deceipts, as now by experience, I know by myself, with such deadly sorrow, that I still attend and look for the sorrowful end of my life. Didaco seeing he thus afflicted, fearing that her choler would further inflame, began to cull her, and to take her now into his arms, telling her, that is Marriage with the daughter of Vigliaracuta, was concluded more by force, than his own will and mind, because they pretended to have a gift, of all the land and goods he had in succession, after his father was dead, which if they did obtain by law, he should be a beggar, all the days of his life, and that the same was done, to provide for the quiet state of them both, and notwithstanding he had married an other wife, yet he purposeth to love none but her, and meant in time to poison his wife, and to spend the rest of his life with her. And thus sewing to remedy his former fault, by surmised reports, chanting upon the cords of his pleasant tongue, he thought with Courtlike allurements, to appease her, which had her wits to well sharpened, to be twice taken in one trap, howbeit for fear of driving him away, and to lose the mean to accomplish that, which she intended, she said unto him, with forced smiling.  
Sir Didaco, although you have so ill used me in time paste, that I have no great cause to believe your present words, yet the love that I bear you, is so rooted in my heart, that the fault must be very great, which should remous the same: in consideration whereof, I will constrain myself to believe, that your words be true, upon condition that you will swear, and promise to lie with me here, once or twice in a week. For me think that if I might at times enjoy your presence, I did remain in some part of your grace and favour, and should live the best contented woman a live. Whereunto he willingly agreed, with a great number of other like protestacious, prompt and ready in them, which mean deceit. But if the poor miserable woman, had pierced the same in the depth of her heart, and had credited all that he spoke, no doubt, he would have changed his mind. Thus either parts spent the day, in cold and dissembled flatteries, till dark night, with his accustomed silence, did deliver them the mean, to exercise their cruel enterprise. So soon as supper was done, Didaco and Violenta walked up and down together, talking of certain common matters, till the knight (pressed with sleep) commanded his bed to be made ready. It needed not thento inquire with what diligence Violenta and janique, obeyed that request: in whom only as they thought, consisted the hap, or mishap of their enterprise. To whom because Violenta might show herself more affectionate, went first to bed, and so soon as they were laid, janique brew the curtains, and took awais. Didaco his sword, and making as though she had a thing to do under the bed, she fastened the rope, and taked up the fire, which was in the chimney, carrying a stool to the beds side, and layeth upon thes ame two great kechin knives, which done she put out the candle, and feigning to go out of the chamber, she shut the door, and went in again. And then the poor infortunate knight, thinking that he was alone in the chamber with Violenta, began to clepe and kiss her, where unto she made no refusal, but desirous to renew his old private tolls, she peased him, of all love that he bore unto her, to keep troce for two or three hours, for that the night was long enough, to satisfy his desires, affirming that it was impossible for her to wake because five or six days before, by reason of her griefs, she had not slept at all, notwithstanding she said, that after her sixty sleep, she would willingly obey him. Whereunto the gentleman was easily persuaded aswell because he had elsewhere sufficiently staunched his thirst, as also for that he was loath to displease her. And feigning herself to sleep, she turned her face, to the other side, and in that wise continued, till the poor gentleman was fallen into his sound sleep. Then janique softly conveyed the rope over his body, and gave it to Violenta, and after she had placed it, according to her mind, and as they together had devised before, she delivered th'end to janique, who being at the beds side sat down upon the ground, and seiding the rope about her arms, hoisted her two feet against the bed, to pull with greater force, when need required. Not long after, Violenta took up one of the great knives, and lifting herself up softly, the proved with her hand, to seek a place most meet for her, to stab a hole into her enemy's flesh. And enchanted with wrath, rage, and fury, like an other Meden, thrust the point of the knife with such force into his throat that she pierced it through, and the poor unhappy man thinking to resist the same, and to give some repulse, against that adverse and heavy fortune, was appalled, who feeling a new charge given upon him again, specially being intricated with a rope, was not able to stir hand nor foot, and through the excessive violence of the pain, his speech and power to cry, was taken away: In such sort that after he had received ten or twelve mortal wounds, one after an other, his poor martyred soul departed, from his sorrowful body. Violenta having ended her determined enterprise, commanded janique to light the candle, and approaching near the knights face, she saw by and by that he was without life. Than not able to satisfy, her bloody heart, ne yet to quench her furious rage, which boiled in her stomach, she with the point of the knife tore out the eyes from his head, crying out upon them with hideous voice, as if they had been alive. Ah traitorous eyes, the messengers of a mind most villainous, that ever seiorned within the body of man: come out of your shameless siege for ever. For the spring of your feigned tears, is now exhausted & dried up. Then she played the Bocher, upon those insensible members, continuing still her rage, and cruelly seized upon the tongue, which with her bloody hands, she haled out of his mouth, and beholding the same with a murderous eye, as she was cutting it of, said. Oh abominable and perjured tongue, how many lies, didst thou frame in the same, before thou couldst with the canon shot of this poisoned member, make breach into my virginity. Whereof now being deprived by thy means: I frankly accelerate myself to death, whereunto thou presently haste opened the way. And when she had separated this little member from the rest of the body (insactable of cruelty) with the knife ripped a violente hole into his stomach, and launching her cruel hands upon his heart, she tore it from the place, and gashing the same with many blows, she said. Ah vile heart, harder than the Diamond whose Andevile forged the infortunate traps of my cruel destinies: Oh that I could have discovered, thy cogitations in time past, as I do now thy material substance, that I might have preserved me, from thine abominable treason, and detestable infidelity. Then fleashing herself upon the dead body, as a hungry Lion upon his pray, she left no part of him unwounded. And when she had mangled his body all over, with an infinite number of gashes, she cried out. O infected Carrion, whilom an organ and instrument, of the most unfaithful and traitorous mind, that ever was under the cope of heaven. Now thou art paid with desert, worthy of thy merits. Then she said to janique (which with great terror, had all this while viewed all her doings) janique, I feel myself now so eased of my pain, that come death when he will, he shall find me strong and lusty, to endure his furious assault, which of long time I have proved, besides assured hope to bring this enterprise to pass. Help me then to train this corpse, out of my father's house, wherein I was first deflowered, than I will tell thee what thou shalt do. For like as mine honesty is stained, and published abroad, even so will I the revenge to be manifest, and that his body shallbe exponed, to the view of all men. Whose request janique obeyed, she and Violenta took the body, and threw it out at one of the chamber windows, down upon the pavement of the street, with all the parts which she had cut of. That done she said to janique. Take this casket with all the money within the same, and ship thyself at the next Port thou shalt come to, and get thee over into Africa, to save thy life so speedily as thou canst, and never come into these parts again, nor to any other where thou art known. Which janique purposed to do, although Violenta had not counseled her thereunto. And ready to depart, she gave a sorrowful farewell to her masters, and betook herself to her good fortune: and from that time forth, no man could tell whether she went, for all the pursuit made after her. So soon as day appeared, the first that passed by the street espied the dead body, which by reason of the noise and brute made throughout the town, provoked many people to come and see it. But no man knew what he was, being disfigured, aswell by reason of the eyes torn out of his head, as for other parts mutilated and deformed. And about eight of the clock in the morning, there was such a multitude of people assembled, that it was in manner impossible, to come near it. The most part thought, that some thieves in the night, had committed that murder. Which opinion seemed to be true, because he was in his shirt. Other some were of contrary opinion. And Violenta which was at the window, hearing their sundry opinions, came down, and with a bold courage and voice, that every man might hear, said. Sirs, you do contend upon a thing whereof (if I were demanded the question, of the magistrates of this city) I am able to render assured testimony. And without great difficulty this murder can not be discovered, by any other but by me. Which words the people did soon believe, thinking that divers gentlemen jealous of Violenta, had made a fray. For she had now lost her ancient rerutation, by means of Didaco: who (as the fame and common report was bruited) did keep her. When she had spoken those words, the judges were incontinently advertised aswell of the number, as of that which Violenta had said, and went thither with certain sergeants & Officers, where they found Violenta, more stonte, than any of the standers by: and inquired of her immediately, how that murder came to pass, but she without fear or appallement, made this answer. Ye that you see here dead, is the lord Didaco. And because it appertaineth to many, to understand the troth of his death (as his father in Law, his wife, and other kinsmen) I would in their presence, if it please you to cause them to be called hither, declare that I know. The magistrates amazed to see, so great a lord to cruelly slain, committed her to ward till after dinner, and commanded that all the before named should be summoned to appear. Who assembled in the palace, with such a number of people as the judges could scant have place, Violenta in the presence of them all, with out any rage or passion, first of all recompsed unto them the chaste love between Didaco and her, which he continued the space of fowertene or fifteen months, without receiving any fruit or commodity thereof. Within a while after (he being vanguished with leave) married her secretly at her house, and solemnized the neptialles by a Priest unknown: declaring moreover, how they had lived a year together in household, without any occasion of offence, on her part given unto him. Then she rehearsed before them, his second marriage, with the daughter of such a man, being there present, addying for conclusion, that sith he had made her to lose her honesty, she had sought means to make him to lose his life. Which she executed, with the help of janique her maid: who by her advise being loath to live any longer, had drowned herself. And after she had declared the true state of the matter, passed between them, she said for conclusion, that all that she had rehearsed, was not to incite or move them to pity or compassion, thereby to prolong her life, whereof she judged herself unworthy, for if you (qoud she) do suffer me to escape your hands, thinking to save my body, you shallbe the cause and whole ruin of my soul, for with these mine own hands, which you see before you, I will desperately cut of the thread of my life. And with those words she held her peace: whereat the people amazed, and moved with pity, let fall the lukewarm tears, from their dolorous eyes and lamented the misfortune of that poor creature: imputing the fault upon the dead knight, which under colour of marriage had deceived her. The magistrates determining further, to deliberate upon the whole matter, caused the dead body to be buried, and committed Violenta again to Ward, taking away from her, knives and other weapons, wherewith they thought she might hurt herself. And used such diligent search and inquiry, that the Priest which married them, was found out, and the servant of Didaco, that was present at the marriage of Violenta, being examined, deposed how by his masters commandment, he carried his horse into the country, and how he commanded him, to come to him again the next morning, to the house of Violenta. And all things were so well through to light, as nothing wanted for further investigation of the truth, but only the confession of him that was dead. And Violenta by the common opinion of the judges, was condepned to be beheaded: not only for that she had presumed, to punish the knights trumpery and offence, but for her excessive cruelty done upon the dead body. Thus infortunate Violenta ended her life, her mother and brethren being acquitted. And was executed in the presence of the Duke of Calabria, the soon of king Federic of Arragon: which was that time the Viceroy there, and afterwards died at Torry in France: who incontinently after caused this history to be registered. with other things worthy of remembrance, chanced in his time at Valencia. Bandell doth write, that the maid janique was put to death with her masters but Paludanus a Spaniard, a live at that time, writeth an excellent history in Latin, wherein he certainly declareth, that she was never apprehended, which opinion (as most probable) I have followed.   

wantonness and pleasant life being guides of insolency, doth bring a miserable end to a fair Lady of Thurin, whom a noble man advannced to high estate: as appeareth by this history, wherein he executeth great cruelty upon his said Lady, taken in adultery.  
¶ The xliij Novel.  
THE ancient and general custom of the gentlemen, and gentlewomen of Piedmonte, was daily to abandon famous cities and murmurs of common wealths for to withdraw themselves to their Castles in the country, and other places of pleasure, of purpose to beguile the troublesome turmoils of life, with greatest rest and contentation, which troubles and griefs, they do feel, that intermeddle with business of common wealth, which was with great care observed, before the wars had preposterated the order of ancient government, that much a do you should have had, to find a gentleman idle in a city. Who rather did resort to their country houses with their families, which were so well governed and furnished, that you should have departed so well satisfied and instructed, from a simple gentle man's house as you should have done from a great City, were it never so well ruled, by some wife and prudent Senator. But sithence the world began to wax old, it is come again to very infancy, in such sort that greatest number of Cities, are not peopled in these days, but with a many of idle gentlemen, that make their resiance and abode there, not to profit, but to continue their delicate life, and they do corrupt not only themselves, but (which is worst) they infect them that keep them company, which I will discourse somewhat more at large, for so much as the gentlewoman, of whom I will describe the history, was brought up all the time of her youth, in one of the finest and most delicate Cities of Piedmonte, And feeling as yet some spark of her former bringing up, she could not be reform (being in the country with her husband) but that in the end she fill into great reproach and shame, as you shall understand by the content of this history.  
In the time that Madam Margaret of ostrich, daughter of Maximilian the Emperor, went in progress into savoy, towards her husband: there was a great Lord, a valiant and courteous gentleman, in a certain Country of Piedmonte, whose name I will not disclose, aswell for the reverence of hisneresse kin, which do yet live, as for the immoderatee rule punishment, that he devised towards his wife, when he took her in the fault. This great Lord, although he had goodly revenues, and Castles in Piedmonte, yet for the most part of his time, he followed the Court, by commandment of the Duke, that entertained him next his own person, using commonly his advise in all his greatest affairs. This lord at that time, married a maiden in Thurin of mean beauty, for his pleasure, not esteeming the place from whence she came. And because he was well near fifty years of age when he married her, she attired herself with such modesty, that she was more like a widow then a married woman: and knew so well how to use her husband, the space of a year or two, that he thought himself the happiest man a live, that he had found so loving a wife. This woman being served, and reverenced with great honour, waxed weary of to much rest and quiet, and begun to be enamoured of a gentleman her neighbour, whom in a little time she knew so well to use by looks, and other wanton toys, that he did easily perceive it, notwithstanding for the honour of her husband, he would not some to know it, but a far of. Now this warm love by little and little, afterwards began to grow hot, for the young woman weary of such long delay, not able to content herself with looks, upon a day finding this young gentleman in convenient place, as he was walking hard by her house, began to reason with him of terms and matters of love, telling him that he lived to solitary, in respect of his young years, and how she had always been brought up in Towns, and places of great company, and resort, in such wise that now being in the Country, she could not easily digest the incommodity of being alone, specially for the continual absence of her husband, who scarce three months in a year, remained at home in his own house. And so falling from one matter to an other, love pricked them so sore, that in fine they opened a way to that that troubled them so much, & specially the woman: who forgetting her honour, which ordinarily doth accompany great Ladies, privily she told him the love, that she had borne him of long time, which notwithstanding she had dissembled, waiting when he should have given the first onset, for that gentlemen ought rather to demand, then to be required of Ladies. This gentleman understanding (by half a word) her disease, told her that although his love was extreme, nevertheless, deeming himself unworthy of so high degree, he still concealed his grief, which because he thought it could not come to pass, fear forced him to keep it secret. But sith it pleased her so much to abasse herself, and was disposed to do him so much honour, to accept him for her servant, he would employ his endeavour, to recompense that with humility and humble service, which Fortune had denied him in other things. And having framed this foundation to their love, for this time they used no other contentation one of an other, but only devise. But they so provided for their affairs to come, that they needed not to use longer oration. For being neighbours, and the husband many times absent, the high way was open, to bring their enterprises to desired effect. Which they full well acquieted, and yet unable wisely to master and govern their passions, or to moderate themselves by good discretion, the servants of the house (by reason of the frequented communication of the gentleman, with the gentlewoman) began to suspect them, and to conceive simster opinion of their mistress, although none of them durst speak of it, or make other semblance of knowledge. Love holding in full possession, the hearts of these two lovers, blinded them so much, that leaving the bridle, to large for their honour: they used themselves privily and apertly, at all times one with an other, without any respect. And when upon a time, the Lord returned home to his own house (from a certain voyage, wherein he had been in the Duke's service) he found his wife to be more fine and gorgeous, than she was wont to be, which in the beginning did wonderfully astonne him. And perceiving her sometimes, to utter wanton words, and to apply her mind upon other things, when he spoke unto her, he began diligently to observe her countenance and order, and being a man brought up in courtly trade, and of good experience, he easily was persuaded, that there was some eel under the stone, and to come to the truth of the matter, he made a better countenance, than he was wont to do, which she knew full well how to requite and recompense. And living in this simulation, either of them attempted to beguile the other, that the simplest and lest crafty of them both, could not be discovered. The young gentleman, neighbour of the Lord, grieved beyond measure, for that he was come home, passed and repassed many times, before his Castle gate, thinking to get some look of his Lady's eye: but by any means she could not for fear of her husband, who was not so foolish, that after he saw him go before his gate so many times, without some occasion, but that he easily judged, there was a secret amity between them. Certain days after, the gentleman of insinuate himself into the lords favour, and to have access to his house sent him a very excellent Tercelet of a Falcon, and at other times, he presented him with Ueneson, and umbles of Dear, which he had killed in hunting. But the Lord (which well knew that flattery many times, served the torn of diverse men, to beguile foolish husbands of their fair wives) that he might not seem ungrateful, sent him also certain strange things. And these courtesies continued so long, that the lord, desirous to lay abaite, sent to pray him to come to dinner: to which request the other accorded liberally, for the devotion he had to the saint of the Castle. And when the Table was taken up, they went together to walk abroad in the fields. And the more friendly to welcome him, he prayed his wife, to go with them, whereunto she made no great denial. And when they had debated of many things, the Lord said unto him. Neighbour and friend, I am an old man and Melancholy, as you know, wherefore I had need from henceforth to rejoice myself. I pray you heartily therefore, to come hither many times, to take part of our dinner, and such fare as God doth send. And use the things of my house, as they were your own. Which the other gratefully accepted, humbly praying that his Lordship would command him and that he had, when it were his pleasure, & to use him as his very humble and obedient servant. This Pantere laid, the young gentleman ordinarily came once a day, to visit the Lord and his wife. So long this order continued, that the Lord (upon a day, feigning himself to be sick) commanded that no man should come into his chamber, because all the night before he was ill at ease, & could take no rest. Whereof the gentleman was incontinently advertised, by an old woman, hired of purpose for a common messenger, of whom a none we purpose to make mention. Being come to the Castle, he demanded how the Lord did, and whether be might go see him, to whom answer was made, that he could not, for that he was fallen into a slumber. Madam now was in the garden alone, coming up and down for her pleasure, & was advertised that the gentleman was come. Who being brought into the garden, and certified of the lords indisposition, began to renew his old dalliance with the Lady, and to kiss her many times, eftsoons putting his hand into her bosom, and using other pretty preparatifes of love, which ought not to be permitted, but only to the husband. In the mean time, while they two had been there a good space, the husband slept not, but was departed out of his chamber, the space of two hours and more, and was gone up to the highest place of all his Castle, where at a very little window, he might diserie all that was done, within the compass of his house. And there seeing all their courteous offers and proffers, he waited but when the gentleman, should have endeavoured himself to proceed further, that he might have discharged his mortal malice upon them both. But they fearing that their long abode in the garden, might engender some displeasure, returned into the Castle, with purpose in time to content their desires, so soon as opportunity served. The Lord noting all the demeanour between them, returned to his chamber, and went again to his bed, feigning to be sick, as he did all the day before. Supper time come, the Lady went to know his pleasure, whether he would sup in his chamber, or in the hall, he answered (with a disguised cheerful face) that he began to feel himself well, and that he had slept quietly, sithence Dinner, and was determined to sup beneath, sending that night for the genmanne, to bear him company at supper: and could so well dissemble his just anger, that neither his wife, nor the gentleman perceived it by any means. And so the Lord with his Lady still continued, the space of fifteen days, or three weeks, making so much of her, (as though it had been the first month that he married her) in such fort, that when the poor miserable woman, thought to have gotten victory over her husband and friend, it was the hour that Fortune did weave the toil and net to entrap her. The Lord which no longer could abide this mischief, driven into an extreme cholers, seeing he that he could find no means to take them (himself being at home) deliberated either soon to die, or to provide for the matter: and the better to execute his determination, he counterfeited a letter from the Duke of savoy, and bore it secretly to the Post himself alone, and commanded him next day to bring it to his Castle, whereby he feigned that the Duke had sent the same unto him. Which matter the Post did handle so well, that he brought the letter when he was at supper, with Botes on his legs all dirty and rayed, as though he were newly lighted from his horse. And the better to maintain his wife in her error, after he had read the letter, he gave it to her to read: which contained no other thing, but that the Duke commanded him, presently with all diligence, himself and his train to come unto him, to be dispatched upon. embassage into France. That done he said unto her. Wife, you see how I am constrained to departed with speed (to my great grief) Bid my men therefore to be ready in the morning, that they may, go before, & wait for me at Thurin, where my Lord the Duke is at this present. I myself will depart from hence to morrow at night after supper, and will ride in Post in the fresh of the night. And the better to deceive this poor unhappy woman, he went into his Closette, and took his caskette, wherein was the most part of his treasure, and delivering the same unto her, said, that fearing left he should tarry long in France, he would leave the same with her to help her in necessity. And after all his train was gone, he caused one of the yeomen of his chamber, to tarry behind, whose fidelity he had at other times proved. And all that day he ceased not to cherish, & make much of his wife. But the poor soul did not foresee, that they were the flatteries of the Crocodile, which rejoiceth when he seeth one deceived. When he had supped, he made a particular remembrance to his wife how the affairs of his house should be disposed in his absence. And then took his leave, giving her a judas kiss. The Lord uneaths had ridden two or three miles, but that his wife had sent the old woman, to carry word to her lover, of the departure of her husband, and that he might saufly come and lie with her in the Castle, for that all the servants were ridden forth with their master, saving one yeoman and her two maids, which do never use to lie in her chamber. Upon this glad news, the gentleman thought no scorn to appear upon that warning, and the old woman knew the way so well, as she brought him straight into the Lady's chamber, whom Love inveigled in such wise, as they lay together in the bed, where the Lord was wont to lie. And the old woman lay in an other bed in that chamber, and shut the dose within. But while these two poor passionate lovers, thought they had attained the top of all felicity, and had enjoyed with full sail, the favours of the little God Cupid, Fortune desirous to depart them, for the last mess of the feast, prepared so bitter Comfettes, that it cost them both their lives, with such a cruel death, that if they which make profession of semblable things, do take example thereat, wives will get them better names, and husbands shallbe less deceived. The Lord that night, made no longer tract of time, but lighted from his horse, at the keeper of one of his Castles houses, whom he knew to be faithful. To whom in the presence of the yeoman of his chamber, he discoursed the love between the gentleman and his wife, and commanded him with all speed to arm him, and with a case of Pistolettes to follow him, whom he obeyed. And being come to the Castle gate, he said to the keeper of his Castle. Knock at the gate and feign thyself to be alone, and say that I passing by thy house, did leave a remembrance with thee, to carry to my Lady. And because it is a matter of importance, & requireth haste, thou were compelled to bring in this night. Knocking at the gate somewhat softly (for fear left they which were in the chambers should hear) a yeoman rose which lay in the Court, knowing the voice of the keeper (because he was one, whom his Lord and master did greatly favour) opened the gate, and the first thing they did; they lighted a Torch and went up all three to the lords chamber, not suffering any man to carry news to the Lady, of their approach. Being come to the chamber door, the keeper knocked, which immediately the old woman heard, and without opening the door, asked who was there. It is (quoth the keeper) that have brought a letter to my Lady, from my Lord my master, who riding this night in Post to Thurin, passed by my house, and very earnestly charged me, by no means to fail but to fail but to deliver it this night. The Lady advertised hereof (that would never have thought that her own man, whom she took to be simple, and void of guile, would have framed a plat for such treason, said to the old woman. Receive the letter at the door, but in any wise let him not come in, and I will accomplish the contents. The old woman, which thought only but to receive the letter between the door, was atoned when the keeper, who (giving her a blow with his foot upon the stomach) threw her backward, where she lay more than a quarter of an hour, without speaking or moving. And then they three entering the chamber in great rage, with their Pistolettes in their hands, found the two miserable lovers stark naked, who seeing themselves surprised in that state, were so sore a shamed as Eve and Adam were, when their sin was manifested before God. And not knowing what to do, reposed their refuge in waimenting and tears, but at the very same instant, they bound the arms and legs together, of the poor gentleman with the chollers of there horfse, which they brought with them of purpose. And then the Lord commanded that the two maids, which were in the Castle, and the rest of the servants, should be called to assist them, to take example of that fair fight. And all the mean people being gathered in this sort together, the Lord turning himself unto his wife, said unto her. Come hither thou unshamefast, vile, and detestable whore, like as thou hast had a heart so traitorous and unfaithful, to bring this infamous Ruffian, in the night into my Castle, not only to rob and despoil me of mine honour, which I prefer and esteem more than life: but also (which is more to be abhorred) to infringe and break for ever, the holy and precious band of Marriage, wherewithal we be united and knit together. Even so I will even forthwith, that with these thine own hands, with which thou gavest me the first testimomonie of thy faith, that he presently shallbe hanged and strangled in the presence of all men, not knowing how to devise, any other greater punishment, to satisfy thine offence, then to force thee to murder him, whom thou hast preferred before thy reputation, above mine honour, and esteemed more than thine own life. And having pronounced this fatal judgement, he sent one to seek for a great nail of a Carts, which he caused to be fastened to the beam of the chamber, and a ladder to be fetched, and then made her to tie a collar of the order belonging to thieves and malefactors, about the necks of her sorrowful lover. And because she alone was not able to do that grievous and weighty charge, he ordained that like as the old woman, had been a faithful minister of his wives love, so she should put her hand in performing, the uttermost of that work. And so these two wretched women, were by that means forced to such extremity, that with their own hands, they strangled the infortunate Gentleman: with whose death the Lord not yet satisfied, caused the bed, the clothes, and other furnitures (whereupon they had taken their pleasures passed) to be burned. He commanded the other utensiles of the chamber to be taken away, not suffering so much straw, as would serve to couch of two Dogs, to be left unconsumed. Then he said to his wife. Thou wicked woman, amongs all other most wicked. For so much as thou hast had no respect, to that honourable state, where unto Fortune hath advanced thee, being made by my means, of a simple damosel, a great Lady, and because thou haste preferred, the lascivious acquaintance of one of my subjects, above the chaste love, that thou oughtest to have borne to me: my determination is, that from henceforth thou shall keep continual company with him, to the uttermost day of thy life: because his putrefied carcase hath given occasion, to ends thy wretched body. And then he caused all the windows and doors to be mured, and closed up in such wise, that it was impossible for her to go out, leaving only a little hole open, to give her bread and water: appointing his Steward to the charge thereof. And so this poor miserable woman, remained in the mercy of that obscure and dark prison, without any other company, than the dead body of her lover. And when she had continued a certain time in that stinking Dungeon, without air or comfort, overcome with sorrow and extreme pain, she yielded her soul to God.   

The love of Alerane of Saxone, and of Adelasia the Daugther of the Emperor Otho the third of that name. Their flight and departure into Italy, and how they were known again, and what noble houses of Italy descended of their race.  
¶ The xliiij Novel.  
THe ancient Histories of Princes (aswell under the name of King, as of the title of Duke, which in time past did govern the Country of Saxone) do report that Otho the second of that name, which was the first Emperor that lawfully reigned (after the Empire ceased in the stock of Charles the great) had of his wife Matilde daughter of the King of Saxone, one son, which succeeded him in that Imperial crown, called Otho the third, who for his virtuous education and gentle disposition, acquired of all men the surname of The love of the World. The same Emperor was courteous and merciful, and never (to any man's knowledge) gave occasion of grief to any person, he did good to every man, and hurt no man: likewise he thought, that that kingdom was well gotten, and gotten was better kept, if the King, Prince or Ruler thereof did study and seek means to be beloved, rather than feared, sith love engendereth in itself a desire of obedience in the people. And contrariwise, that Prince which by tyranny maketh himself to be feared, liveth not one hour at rest, having his conscience tormented indifferently, both with suspicion & fear, thinking still that a thousand swords be hanging over his head, to kill and destroy him. Otho then under his name of Emperor, covered his clemency with a certain sweet gravity and Princely behaviour. Who notwithstanding declared an outward show of his courtesy, to make sweet the eagerness of displeasure, which they feel and taste that be subject to the obeisance of some new Monarchy. Man being of his own nature so loving of himself, that an immoderate liberty seemeth unto him sweeter, more just and indurable, than authorities rightly ordained, the establishment whereof, seemeth to represent the only government of that first King, which from his high throne, giveth being and moving to all things. That good Emperor then knowing very well the malice of men, who although he was a good man of war, hardy of his hands, and desirous of glory, yet moderated so well the happy success of his enterprises, that his grace and gentleness principally appeared, when he had the upperhand, for that he cherished and well used those whom he had subdued under his obedience, his force and felicity was declared when he corrected and chastised rebels, and obstinate persons, which wilfully would prove the great force of a Prince's arm justly displeased, and to others what favour a King could use towards them, whom he knew to be loyal and faithful: giving cause of repentance, to them which at other times had done him displeasure. And to say the truth, he might be placed in the rank, of the most happy Princes that ever were, if the private affairs of his own house had so happily succeeded, as the renown which he wan in the science of warfare, and in the administration of the common wealth. But nothing being stable in the life of man: This Emperor had in him, that thing, that diminished the glory of his wisdom, and (resembling an Octavius Augustus) the unhappy success of his own house, did somewhat obscure the fame of his noble facts, and those insolent doings served unto him as a counterpoise to prosperous Fortune, which may be easily perceived, by the progress and continuation of this History. This good Prince had one daughter, in whom Nature had distributed her gifts, in such wise, that she alone might have vaunted herself to attain the perfection of all them, which ever had any thing, worthy of admiration, were it in the singularity of beauty, favour, and courtesy, or in her disposition and good bringing up. The name of this fair Princess was Adelafia. And when this Lady was very young, one of the children of the Duke of Saxone, came to the emperors service, whose kinsman he was. This young Prince, besides that he was one of the fairest and comeliest gentlemen of Allemaigne, had therewithal, together with knowledge of arms, a passing skill in good scieures, which mitigated in him the ferocity bath of his warlike knowledge, and of the nature of his Country. His name was Alerane, who seeing himself the youngest of his house, and his inheritance very small, endeavoured to conciliate every man's favour and good will, to remove his own fortune, and to bring himself, in estimation with the Emperor, where in all things he employed so well his endeavour, that through his worthiness he wan commendation and report, to be the most valiant and stoutest gentleman, in all the emperors court, which praise did greatly commend the tenderness of his young years, and was therewithal so sober, and of so gentle spirit, that although he excelled his companions in all things, yet he avoided cause of offence (showing himself familiar amongs all the Courtiers.) Every man (which is a great matter) rather praised him and loved him, and he thought himself most happy, that by any means could fashion himself to imitate the virtue, the made Aleranes name so renowned. And that which made him fuller of admiration, and brought him in favour with his Lord and Master was, that upon a day the Emperor being in an assemble in the mids of a land, and in a desert place, it chanced that a Bear, issuing out of her cave, was assailed of hunters: the fierce beast, avoiding the toils and flying the pursuit of the dogs, came with great vehemency & speed, from a mountain, and was upon the Emperor ●or he was ware, separated from his company and without his sword. But Alerane by good fortune was at hand, who more careful for the safety of his Prince, than for his own life, encountered with the Bear, and killed him, in the presence of the Emperor, and many other. All which beholding (to their great astonishment) the dexterity and hardiness of Alerane at those small years: (for then he was not above the age of xvij) the Emperor embracing him, did highly comende him, telling them that were by, that his life was saved chief by God's assistance, and next by the prowess of Alerane. The news hereof was so bruited abroad, that there was no talk but of the valiance and stoutness of this young man of war, which caused fair Adelasia, (moved by natural instigation, and with the opinion and report of the virtue toward in that young Prince) to feel a certain thing (I can not tell what) in her mind, which inflamed her senses & heart. And she had no sooner cast her eyes upon Alerane, but Love, which had prepared the ambush, so pierced her delicate breast, that he took full possession of her: in such wise that the Princess was so strangely in love with the young Prince, that she never found pleasure and contentation, but in that, which was done or said by her lover, whom she accounted the chief of all the men of his time. In this burning heat, she felt the passions of love so vehement, and his pricks so sharp, that she could not evaporate, the clouds which darkened her spirits and continually tormented her mind. And albeit that the little occasion, which she saw, for their coming together in time to come, did dissuade her, from pursuing the thing which she most desired: yet the tyrant Love showed himself very extreme in that diversity of thoughts, and variety of troubles which vexed the spirit of the Princess: For she could not so well dissemble, that which honour & age commanded her to keep secret, but that Alerane which was (as we have already said) well expert and subtle, perceived the inward disease of Adelasia. Moreover there was between them a natural conformity and likelihood of conditions, which made them to agree in equal desires, to feed of like meats, their passionate minds were martyred with equal sorrow and pain, departed aswell in the one, as in the other. For Alerane by taking careful heed to the looks which the Princess continually did stealingly cast upon him, saw the often and sudden changes of colour, wherein sometimes appeared joy, which by and by did end, with infinite number of sighs, and with a countenance agreeable to that, which the heart kept secret and covert, whereby he assured himself unfeignedly to be beloved, which caused him to do no less, (for satisfaction of such like merit and desert, done by Adelasia) but to bear unto her like affection, forcing her by all diligence and service, to continue still that good will toward him, yielding himself as a pray, to the self same love. Who ruling thaffections of the Princess, (as brave and pleasant as she was) made her sorrowful and pensive, and altered her in such wise, that she thought the company wherein she was, did impeach her joy, which she judged to conceive like pleasure that she did, when at liberty and alone, she revolved her troubles, and fansted her contentation in her mind. Alerane on the other side slept not, but as though he had received the first wound by the hands of the blind little archer Cupid, ceased not to think of her, whose Image ordinarily appeared before his eyes, as engraven more lively in his mind than any form may be ensculpted upon metal or marble. And yet neither the one nor the other, durst discover the least passion of a great number, which oppressed their besieged hearts, and which suffered not to live in any rest this fair couple of loyal lovers, that durst not manifest their love. The eyes alone did th'office of the hands and tongue, as trusty secretaries, and faithful messengers of the effects of the mind. That which kindled she fire most, was their frequent talk together, which was but of common matters, without utterance of that which the heart knew well enough, and whereof the eyes gave true testimony. A passion truly almost intolerable for a young Princess, aswell because she never had experience of like sorrow, as for her tender age: and yet more for a natural abashment and shame, which with the veil of honour doth serve, or aught to serve, for a bridle, to every Lady covetous of fame, or like to be the ornament or beauty of her race. Adelasia then floating in the tempestuous seas of her appetites, guided by a master, which delighteth in the shipwreck of them he carrieth, vanquished with an immoderate rage of love, tormented with grief unspeakable, offended with her own desires, being alone in her chamber, began to complain her sorrows, and said: Ah, what passion is this that is unknown unto me, that engendereth an oblivion of that which was wont to delight and content me? From whence cometh this new alteration, and desire unaccustomed, that solitary being alone, is the rest & argument of my troubles? What diversities and alterations be these that in this sort do poised & weigh my thought? Ah Adelasia, what happy misery dost thou find in this free prison, where pleasure hath no place, till the Enemies have disquieted the life, with a Million of painful and dangerous travails? What is this to say, but that against the nature of maidens of my years, I will not, or can not be quiet day nor night, but to take my repast and feeding upon cares and thoughts? Alack, I thought then to finish my sorrows & griefs, when (being alone) I began to frame the plot of my torments and pains, with so many forms & devices in my fancy, as I do make wishes and requests upon the thing I love and esteem above all, upon which all mine affections do depend and take their beginning. What is this to say, but that my maids do offend me, when with discrete words they go about to divert me from my follies and pleasant noisome thoughts? Wherefore should not I take in good part, that care which they have of my health, and the pain which they take to remember me of my torment? Alas, they know not wherein consisteth the force of mine evil, and much less is it in their power to remedy the same. Even so I would have none other plaster, but him that hath given me the wound, nor none other meat, but the hunger that drieth me up, I crave none other comfort but the fire which burneth me continually, the force whereof pierceth the suck and marry within my bones. Ah: Alerane, Alerane, the flower and mirror of all prowess and beauty. It is thou alone the livest in me, of whom my mind conceiveth his hope, and the heart his nourishment. Alas: that thy worthiness should be the overthrow of mine honour, and thy perfection the imperfection of my life. Ah Love, Love, how diversly thou dealest with me. For seeing mine Alerane, I am attached with heat in the mids of ice that is full cold. In thinking of him I do both rest and travail continually. Now I flee from him, and suddenly again, I desire him. In hearing him speak, the sugar and honey, that distilleth from his mouth, is the contentment of my mind, till such time as his words appear to be different from my desire. For then ah Lord: my rest is converted into extreme travail, the honey into gall, and wormwood more bitter, than bitterness itself, the hope of my mind is become despair so horrible, that the same only will breed unto me, (if God have not pity upon me) short occasion of my death. After these words, she rested a long time without speaking a word, with her arms a cross and her eyes elevate on high, which ran down like a river of tears, and seemed to be so ravished, that a man would have judged her rather a thing without life, than a creature sensible, and labouring for life, till, recovering her spirits again, as coming from an Ecstasy and sound, she began her plaints again in this sort. What? must such a Princess as I am, abase myself to love her own subject, yea and her kinsman, and specially not knowing yet how his mind is disposed? Shall I be so unshamefast, and void of reason, to surrendre myself to any other but to him, whom God and my fortune hath promised to be my espouse? Rather death shall cut of the thread of my years, than I will contaminate my chastity, or that any other enjoy the flower of my virginity, than he to whom I shall be tied in marriage. Ah: I say and promise much, but there is a tormenter in my mind which dealeth so rigorously with my reason, that I cannot tell where upon well to determine. I dare not think (which also I ought not to do) that Alerane is so foolish to despise the love of one, that is the chiefest of the daughters of the greatest monarchs of the world, and much less, that he should forget himself, in such wise, to forsake me, having once enjoyed the best & dearest thing that is in me, & whereof I mean to make him, the only and peaceable possessor. Truly the virtue, gentleness, and good nuriture of Alerane, do not promise such treason in him, and that great beauty of his, cannot tell how to hide such rigour that he will refuse one, that is one of the most deformed and ill favoured creatures, and which loveth him with such sincerity, that where she shall lose the means to enjoy him, there shall feel, even forthwith, the miserable end of her sorrowful days. And then again she held her peace, tossed and turmoiled with divers thoughts fleeting between hope and fear, by and by, she purposed to deface from her heart, the memory of Love, which already had taken to fast footing, and would not be separated from the thing, which heaven himself seemed to have prepared, for the perfection and glory of his triumph. Love then constrained her, to resolve upon her last determination. Then continuing her talk, sighing without ceasing, she said. Chance what may to the uttermost, I can but wander like a Vagabond and figitive with mine own Alerane (if he will show me so much pleasure to accept me for his own) For sure I am, the Emperor will never abide the marriage, which I have promised: and sooner will I die, than another shall possess that, which Alerane alone deserveth: having a long time vowed and dedicated the same unto him. And afterwards let them report what they lift of the bold and foolish enterprises of Adelasia, when my heart is contented and desire satisfied, & Alerane enjoyeth her, that loveth him, more than herself. Love verily is not liable to the fancy of the parents, nor yet to the will, even of them that subjugate themselves to his laws. And besides that I shall not be alone amongst princesses, that have forsaken parents and countries, to follow their love into strange Regions. Fair Helena the Greek, did not she abandon Menelaus her husband and the rich city of Sparta, to follow the fair Trojan Alexander sailing to Troy? Phedria and Ariadne, despised the delicates of Creta, left their Father a very old man, to go with the Cecropian Theseus None forced Medea the wise furious Lady (but Love) to departed the Isle of Colchos, her own native country, with the Argonaute jason. O good God, who can resist the force of Love, to whom so many kings, so many monarchs, so many wise men of all ages, have done their homage? Surely the same is the only cause that compelleth me (in making myself bold) to forget my duty towards my parents, and specially mine honour, which I shall leave, to be reasoned upon, by the ignorant people, that considereth nothing, but that which is exteriorly offered to the view of the sight. Ah: how much I deceive myself, & make a reckoning of much without mine host. And what know I if Alerane (although he do love me) will lose the good grace of the Emperor, and forsake his goods, and (so it may be) to hazard his life, to take so poor and miserable a woman as I am? Notwithstanding I will prove fortune, death is the worst that can chance, which I accelerate, rather than my desire shall lose his effect. Thus the fair and wise Princess concluded her unhappy state. And all this time, her best friend Alerane, remained in great affliction, beyond measure, and felt such a fear as cannot be expressed with words, only true lovers know the force, altogether like to that whereof the young Prince had experience, and durst not discover his evil to her, that was able to give him her allegiance, much less to disclose it to any dear friend of his, into whose secrecy he was wont to commit the most part of his cares, which was the cause that made him feel his heart to burn, like a little fire in the mids of a clear river, and saw himself self overwhelmed within the waters, hotter than those that be intermixed with sulphur, & do evaporat and send forth ardent smokes in an AEthna hill or Veswe mountain. The Princess impatient to endure so long, could no longer keep secret the flames hidden within her, without telling and uttering them to some, whom her mind liked best, and there to render them where she thought they took their essense and being, casting away all shame and fear, which accustomably doth associate Ladies of her estate and age. One day she took secretly aside, one that was her Governess, named Radegonde, a Gentlewoman, so virtuous, wise and sober, as any other that was in the Emperors court, who for her approved manners, and chaste life, had the charge, of the bringing up and nourishing of Adelasia, from her Infancy. To this Gentlewoman than the amorous Princess deliberated to communicate her secrets, and to let her understand her passion, that she might find some remedy. And for that purpose they two retired alone within a closet, the poor lover trembling like a leaf (at the blast of the weasterne wind, when the sun began to spread his beams) sighing so strangely, as if her body and soul would have departed, said thus. The trust which daily I have had in that natural goodness, which appeareth in you, my mother and well-beloved Lady, joined with discretion and fidelity, wherewith all your acts and affairs be recommended, do presently assure me, and make me bold, in this my trouble, to participate unto you my secrets, which be of greater importance without comparison, than any that ever I told you, persuading myself that the thing which I shall tell you, whatsoever it be (be it good or ill) you will accept it in such wise, as your wisdom requireth, and to keep it so close, as the secret of such a Lady as I am, doth deserve. And that I may not hold you long in doubt what it is, know ye, that of late the valour, prowess, beauty, and courtesy of signior Alerane of Saxon, hath found such place in my heart, that (in despite of myself,) I am so in love with him, that my life is not dear unto me but for his sake, my heart taketh no pleasure, but in his glory and virtue, having chosen him so virtuous a Prince, for my friend, and one day (by God's sufferance) for my lawful spouse and husband. I have assayed a thousand means, & so many ways, to cast him of, & to blot him out of my mind: But alas unhappy caitiff, Fortune is so froward, and so unmerciful to my endeavour, that the more I labour and go about to extinguish in me, the memory of his name and commendable virtues, so much the more I do enlarge and augnient them, the flames of which love do take such increase, that I do little or nothing esteem my life, without the enjoying the effect of my desire, and the taste of such liquor, which nourishing my hope in pleasure, may quench the fire that doth consume me. Otherwise I see no means possible, but that I am constrained, either to lose my good wits (whereof already I felt some alienation) or to end my days with extreme anguish, and insupportable heart's sorrow. Alas, I know well that I shall lose my time, if I attempt to pray the Emperor my father, to give me Alerane to my husband, sith he doth already practise a marriage between the King of Hungary and me. And also that Alerane (although he be a Prince of so noble blood, and so honourable house, as the Saxon is yet is to base to be son in law to an Emperor. In these my distresses, it is of you alone, of whom I look for aid I counsel, being certain of your prudence and good judgement: and therefore I pray you to have pity upon me & have remorse upon this immoderate passion, that doth torment me beyond measure. Radegonde, hearing Adelasia disclose this talk, whereof she would never have thought, was so confounded and atoned, that of long time she could not speak a word, holding her head down, revolving thousand divers matters in her mind, knew not well what to answer the Princess. Finally gathering her spirits unto her, she answered her with tears, in her eyes saying. Alas, Madam what is that you say: Is it possible that the wisest, virtuous, and most courtcots Princess of Europa, could suffer herself in this sort (through her only advise) to be transported to her own affections and sensual appetites? Is it well done that you seeing in me, a discretion and modesty, do not imitate the purity thereof? be these the godly admonitions which heretofore I have given you, that you will so lightly defile your father's house with the blot of infamy, and yourself with eternal reproach? Would you Madam, that upon th'end of my years I should begin to betray my Lord the Emperor, who hath committed to my hands the most precious jewel of his house? Shall I be so unconstant in mine old days to become an unshamefast minister of your fond and foolish Love? a thing which I never did in the ardent time of my youth. Alas, Madam, forget I beseech you, this foolish order, cast under your feet this determination wickedly begun, such, as to the blemishing of the honourable brightness of your fame, may cause the ruin of us al. Fellow the counsel of your dear nourice Radegond, who loveth you better than her own soul. Quench these noisome & parching flames which have kindled, & thrown forth their sparks into your chaste & tender heart. Take heed I beseech you, that a vain hope do not deceive you, & a foolish desire abuse you. Alas: think that it is the part of a sage and prudent mind, to refrain the first motions of every passion, & to resist the rage that riseth in our wills, & the same very oft by succession of time, bringeth to itself to late & noisome repentance. This your thought proceedeth not of Love: for he that thinketh to sustain himself with venom sugared with that drogue, in the end he seeth himself so desperately empoisoned, that only death is the remedy for such disease. A Lover truly may be called the slave, of a tyrant most violent, cruel, & bloody, that may be found, whose yoke once put on, can not be put of, but with painful sorrow and unspeakable displeasure. Do you not know Madam, that Love and folly be two passions so like one another, that they engendre like effects in the minds of those that do possess them: in such wise as the affection of the patient can not be concealed? Alas, what shall become of you and him that you love so well, if the Emperor do know and perecyve your light and foolish determinations. Show Madam for God's sake, what you be. Let the ripe fruits of your prudence, so long time tilled, appear abroad to the world. Expel from you this unruled love, which if you suffer frankly to enter into your heart, assure yourself he will take such holdfast of the place, that when you think to extrude the enemy out, it is he that will drive away that small portion of force and reason that resteth in you. And then all the comfort of your miseries, will be the lamentation of your losses, and repentance for that, which cannot be, by any means recovered. Adelasia burning in Love and fretting with anger, not able to abide contrary reply to her mind, began to look furiously upon the Lady, that gave her such wholesome admonition, to whom she said with more than womanly stoutness, these words. And what are you good gentlewoman, that dare so hardly prescribe laws to Love that is not subject or tied unto the fantasy of men? Who hath given you commission to take the matter so hot, against that I have determined to do, say you what you can? No, no, I love Alerane, and will love him, whatsoever come of it. And sith I can have none other help at your hands, or meet counsel for mine ease & comfort: Assure yourself, that I will do mine endeavour to find it in myself. And likewise to provide so well as I can for mine affairs, that eschewing the alliance which the Emperor prepareth, I will live at hearts ease with him, whom (in vain) you go about to put out of my remembrance. And if so be I chance to sail of my purpose, I have a medicine for my calamities, which is death, the last refuge of all my miseries. Which will be right pleasant unto me, ending my life, in the contemplation and memory of the sincere and perfect Love, that I bear to mine Alerane. Radegonde no less abashed, than surprised with fear, hearing the resolution of the princess, could not at the first make any answer, but to make her recourse to tears, the most familiar weapons that women have. Then seeing by the countenances of Adelasia, that the passion had set in foot to deep, for any body to attempt to pluck out the roots, from that time forth, she wiped her eyes, nor without evident demonstration (for all that) of her great grief conceived, with infinite sighs, turning her face to the Lady, she said to her with pleasant countenance than before. Madame, sith your mishap is such, that without Alerane, you cannot be quiet or pacified in mind, appease your plaints, wipe away your tears, show your countenance joyful, and setting aside all care, put on good courage, and repose in me all your anguish and trouble. For I do promise you, and swear by the faith that I do owe you, Madam, come whatsoever thing shall unto me, I will devise in practising your rest to begin mine own sorrow. And then you shall see how much I am your friend, & that the words which I have spoken do not proceed else where, but from the desire that I have to do you service, seeking all ways possible your advancement. Adelasia at these last words felt such a motion in her mind, that much a do she had for the exceeding great joy and pleasure she conceived, to stay her soul from leaping forth of that corporal prison (like the spirit of that Roman Lady which once left the body, to descend into the Elisien fields, to use the perfection of her joy with the blessed souls there, when she saw her son return safe and sound from the battle of Thrasimene besides the lake of Peruse, where the Consul Flaminius was overcome by Hannibal) but in the end, the hope to have that which Radegonde had promised, made her to receive heart again, and to clepe her counselor, saying. God forbidden dear mother, that the thing you do for me, should rebound to your mishap, or discontentation, sith the affection which you have, consisteth in the only pity and conservation of a poor afflicted maiden. And your desire tendeth to the deliverance of the most passionate Princess, that ever was borne of mother. And believe that Fortune will be so favourable, that what mischief so ever should chance, you remaining without pain, I shall be she that alone shall bear the penance. Wherefore once again I beseech you, (said she embracing Radegonde) to bring that to pass, whereof you give such an assured hope. Care not you Madam said Radegonde, I trust within a while to make you prove the effect of my promise. And will cause you to speak unto him whom you desire so much. Only be merry, and forget these strange fashions, in tormenting yourself so much before your maids, to the intent that, which hitherto hath been kept secret, may not be revealed to your great shame and hindrance, and to the utter ruin & overthrow of me. During all this time Alerane lived in despair, & hardy cowardness, for although he saw the amorous gests of Adelasia, yet he durst fire no certain judgement of his own satisfaction, although his heart told him, that he was her only favoured friend, and promised him that, which almost he feared to think, which was to have her one day for friend, if the name of spouse were refused. Thus tormented with joy and displeasure, wandering between doubt, and assurance of that he hoped. The self same day that Adelasia practised with Radegonde for the obtaining of her joy, and secret ministery of her Love, he entered alone into a garden, into which the Princess chamber had prospecte, and after he had walked there a good space in an Alley, viewing diligently the order of the fruitful trees of so divers sorts, as there be variety of colours, with in a fair mead, during the vedure of the spring time, and of so good and savorous taste as the heart of man could wish: He repaired under a Laurel tree, so well spread and adorned with leaves, about which tree you might have seen an infinite number of Myrtle trees, of smell odoriferous and sweet, of Orange trees laden with unripe fruit, of pliable Mastickes and tender Tameriskes. And there he fetched his walks along the thick & green herbs, beholding the variety of flowers, which decked & beautified the place, with their lively and natural colours. He then ravished in this contemplation, remembering her which was the pleasure and torment of his mind, in sighing wise began to say. O that the heavens be not propitious and favourable to my endeavours. Sith that in the mids of my iolities, I feel a new pleasant displeasure, which doth annihilate all other solace, but that which I receive through the Image painted in my heart, of that divine beauty, which is more variated in perfection of pleasures, than this paradise and delicious place, in variety of enamel and painting, although that nature and art of man, have workmanly travailed, to declare and set forth their knowledge and diligence. Ah: Adelasia the fairest Lady of all fair, and most excellent Princess of the earth: Is it not possible for me to feed myself so well of the view and contemplation of thy heavenly and Angelical face, as I do of the sight of these fair and sundry coloured flowers? May it not be brought to pass, that I may smell, that sweet breath which respireth through thy delicate mouth, being none other thing, than Balm, Musk, and Aumbre, yea and that which is more precious, which for the rarity and valour hath no name even as I do smell the Roses. Pinks and Violets hanging over my head, frankly offering themselves into my hands? Ah: infortunate Alerane, there is no flower that ought to be so handled, nor savour, the sweetness whereof ought not to be scented without desert, merited before. Ah: Love, Love that thou hast fixed my mind upon so high things. Alas I fear an offence so dangerous, which in the end will breed my death. And yet I can not withdraw my heart, from that smoke of Love, although I would force myself to expel it from me. Alas I have read of him so many times and have heard talk of his force, that I am afraid to board him, and yet fear, I shall not escape his gulf. Alas I know well it is he, of whom is engendered a little mirth and laughing, after which doth follow, a thousand tears, and weaping, which for a pleasure that passeth away so soon as a whirl wind, doth give us over to great repentance, the sorrow whereof endureth a long time, and sometimes, his bitterness accompanieth us even to the grave. The patients that be tainted with that amorous fever, although continually they die, yet they can not wholly see and perceive for all that, the default and lack of their life, albeit they do wish and desire it still. But alas what mishap is this that I do see the poison, that causeth my mischief, and do know the way to remedy the same, and yet nevertheless I can not, or will not recover the help. Did ever man hear a thing so strange, that a sick man seeking help, and finding recovery, should yet reject it? Saying so, he wept and sighed so piteously, as a little child threated by his mother the nourice. Then roaming up and down upon the grass, he seemed rather to be a man 'straught and bound with chains, than like one that had his wits and understanding. Afterwards being come again to himself, he returned to his first talk, saying: But what? am I more wise, more constant and perfect, than so many Emperors, Kings, Princes, and great Lords, who notwithstanding their force, wisdom, or richesses, have been tributary to love? The tamer and subduer of monsters and Tyrants, Hercules, (vanquished by the snares of love) did not he handle the distaff in stead of his mighty mace? The strong and invincible Achilles, was not he sacrificed to the shadow of Hector, under the colour of love, to celebrate holy marriage with Polixena, daughter to King Priamus? The great Dictator julius Caesar, the conqueror of so many people, Armies, Captains and Kings, was overcome with the beauty and good grace of Cleopatra Queen of Egypt. Augustus' his successor attired like a woman, by a yeoman of his chamber, did he not take away Livia from him that had first married her? And that common enemy of man, and of all courtesy, Claudius Nero, appeased yet some of his fury, for the love of his Lady? What strange things did the learned wise and virtuous Monarch Marcus Aurelius endure of his well-beloved Faustine? And that great captain Marcus Antonius the very terror of the Roman people, and the fear of strange and barbarous nations, did homage to the child Cupid for the beauty of Queen Cleopatra, which afterwards was the cause of his whole overthrow. But what mean I to allege & remember the number of lovers, being so infinite as they be? Wherefore have the Poets in time past feigned in their learned and divine books the loves, of jupiter, Apollo, & Mars, but that every man may know, the force of Love to be so puissant that the Gods themselves have felt his force to be invincible & inevitable? Ah: if sometimes a gentleman be excused for abassing himself to Love a woman of base birth and blood, why should I be accused or reprehended for loning the daughter of the chiefest Prince of Europe? Is it for the greatness of her house and antiquity of her race? Why, that is all one between us two, & took his original of the place, whereof at this day, my Father is the chief and principal. And admit that Adelasia be the daughter of an Emperor: Ah, Love hath no regard to persons, houses, or riches, rather is he of greater commendation, whose enterprises are most famous, and haute gests extend their flight far of. Now resteth then to devise means how to make her understand my pain. For I am assured that she loveth me, saving that her honour and young years do let her, to make it appear more manifest. But it is my proper duty to make request for the same, considering her merits, and my small deserts in respect of her perfections. Ah: Alerane, thou must unlose that tongue which so long time, hath been tied up, through to much foolish and fearful shame. Set aside the fear of peril, whatsoever it be, for thou canst not employ thyself more gloriously than upon the pursuit of such a treasure, that seemeth to be reserved for the fame of thy mind so highly placed, which can not attain greater perfections, except the heavens do frame in their impressions a second Adelasia (of whom I think dame nature herself hath broken the mould) who can not shake of Alerane from the chiefest place, in whom he hath laid the foundation of his joy that he hopeth to find in love. During these complaints, Radegonde, that saw him ravished in that ecstasy, conjecturing the occasion of his being alone, caused him to be called by a Page: who hearing that, was surprised with a new fear intermixed with a secret pleasure, knowing very well, that she being the governess of his Lady, understood the greatest privities of her heart, hoping also that she brought him gladsome news, and setting a good cheer upon his face all mated and confused for troubles past, he repaired to the Lady the messenger, who was no less ashamed, for the tale that she must tell, than he was afeard and dumb, by sight of her, whom he thought to bring, the arrest and determination, either of joy or displeasure. After courtesy and welcomes made between them, the Lady preambled a certain short discourse touching the matter, to do the Saxon prince to understand, the good will & hearty love of Adelasia toward him, praying him that the same might not be discovered, sith the honour of his Lady did consist in the secrecy thereof, assuring him, that he was so in favour with the Princess, as any true and faithful lover could desire to be for his contentation. I leave to your consideration, in what sudden joy Alerane was, hearing such gladsome news which he looked not for, & thought he was notable to render sufficient thanks to the messenger, and much less to extol the beauty and courtesy of his Lady, who without any of his merits done before, (as he thought) had him in so good remembrance. Beseeching moreover Redegonde, that she would in his name do humble commendations to his Lady, and therewith to confirm her in the assurance of his perfect good will, and immutable desire, everlastingly at her commandment, only praying her, that he might say unto Adelasia, three words in secret, that she might perceive his heart, and see the affection, wherewith he desired to obey her all the days of his life. The messenger assured him of all that he required, and instructed him what he had to do, for the accomplishment of that he looked for, which was, that the next day at night, she would cause him to come into her wardrobe, which was adjoining to the Chamber of his Lady, to the end that when her maids were abroad, he might repair to the place where he might easily visit his mistress, and say unto her what he thought good. The compact thus made, the Lady returned to the Princess, that waited with good devotion for the news of her beloved. And hearing the report of Radegonde, she was not contented that she should make repetition of the same, twice or thrice, but a million of times and even till night, that she slept upon that thought, with the greatest rest, that she had received in a long time before. The morrow at the hour that Alerane should come, Adelasia feigning herself to be ill at ease, caused her maids to go to bed, making her alone to tarry with her: that was the messenger of her love, who a little while after, went to seek Alerane, which was a building of Castles in the air, fantasying a thousand devices in his mind: what might befall of that enterprise he went about: notwithstanding he was so blinded in folly, that without measuring the fault which he committed, he thought upon nothing but upon the present pleasure, which seemed to him so great that the chamber wherein he was, was not sufficient to comprehend the glory of his good hour. But the Princess on the other part, felt a marvelous trouble in her mind, and almost repent, that she had so hardly made Alerane to come into a place undecent for her honour, and at a time so inconvenient. Howbeit seeing that the stone was thrown, she purposed not to pretermit the occasion, which being bald can not easily be gotten again, if she be once let slip. And whiles she travailed in these meditations and discoursed upon that she had to do, Radegonde came in leading Alerane by the hand, whom she presented to the Princess, saying to her with a very good grace. Madame, I deliver you this prisoner, whom even now I found here, between your chamber and that wherein your maids do lie: now consider what you have to do. Alerane in the mean time, was fallen down upon his knees before his saint, wholly bent to contemplate, her excellent beauty and good grace, which made him as dumb as an Image. She likewise beholding him that made her thus to err in her honesty, forced through shame and love, could not for bear to behold him (the power of her mind wholly transferred into her eyes, that then yielded contentation of her heart which she so long time desired. In the end Alerane taking the hands of Adelasia, many times did kiss them, then receiving courage, he broke of that long silence and began to say thus. I never thought (Madam) that the sight of a thing so long desired, had been of such effect, that it would have ranished both the mind and body, of their proper duties and natural actions, if now I had not proved it, in beholding, the divinity of your beauty most excellent. And truly Madam Radegonde did rightly term this place here, my prison, considering that of long time I have partly lost this my liberty, of the which I feel now an entire alienation. Of one thing sure I am, that being your prisoner, as I am in deed, I may make my vaunt and boast, that I am lodged in the fairest and pleasantest prison, that a man can wish and desire. For which cause Madam, be well advised, how you do use and entreat your captive and slave, that humbly maketh petition unto you, to have pity upon his weakness, which he will accept a grace unspeakable, if of your accustomed goodness, it may please you to receive him for yours, for that from henceforth, he voweth and consecrateth his life, goods, and honour, to your commandment and service. And saying so, his stomach panted with continual sighs, and from his eyes distilled a river of tears, the better to express and declare the secret force, that made him to utter these words. Which was the cause that Adelasia embracing him very lovingly, said unto him. I know not (Lord Alerane) what prison that is, where the prisoner is in better case, than the prison of whom he termeth himself to be the slave, considering that I feel in me such a loss of myself, that I can not tell whether to go and withdraw me, but even to him that craveth the same freedom, whereof I myself do make request. Alas my right well-beloved Alerane, into what extremity am I brought, the very great love that I bear you, forceth me to forget my duty, and the lihneage whereof I come, yea and mine honour, which is more to be esteemed than all the rest. But I repose in you such affiance, that you will not deceive, so simple a Lady as I am, utterly void of guile & deceit. Who, if you be tormented, liveth not without grief and sorrow, altogether like unto yours. If you do sigh, I am wholly spent and consumed in tears. Do you desire reffe? Alas: I wish and crave the same unto us both, that be now sundered and divided, which can not be acquired, except they be united that were before wholly separated. Radegonde interrupting their talk, smylingly said. And how can this separation be united, where the parties themselves do live in that disjunction? You say true Madam, said Alerane, for, the perfection of unity, consisteth in the conjoining of that which is separated. Wherefore (Madam said he to Adelasia) I humbly beseech you, aswell for your comfort as my rest, not to suffer this division to be so long, sith the outward bond shall combine the same so inwardly, that very death shall not be able hereafter to deface or diminish the same. If I may assure myself said she of your fidelity, it so may come to pass, that I would give you a very great liberty, but hearing tell so many times of the inconstancy and fickle trust of men, I will be contented with my first fault, without adding any further aggravation, to fasten and bind that, which specially I esteem in myself. Alas Madam said Alerane, do you think, that the prouf of my fidelity may receive greater perfection, by enjoying the pleasures of that I hope for, than it doth already? No no Madam, therefore assure yourself of my heart and steadfastness. For sooner shall my body fail, than default in me to serve and honour you, if not according to the worthiness of your estate, yet by all means, so far as my power shall extend. And can you find in your heart to conceive, that your Alerane would play the traitor with her, for whose service he feareth not to adventure a thousand lives if god had given him so many? Adelasia besprent all with tears, was in an ecstasy or trance. Which Alerane perceiving and saw that Radegonde was gone into the wardrobe, to suffer them to talk their fill: he began to take possession of her mouth, redoubling kiss upon kiss, sometimes washed with tears, sometime dried up, with frequent use thereof, leaving neither eye nor cheek unkissed: and seeing the patience of his Lady, he seized upon her white, hard, and round breasts, whose paps with sighs moved and removed, yielding a certain desire for Alerane to pass further. Which Adelasia perceiving, dissembling a sweet anger and such a chafe as did rather accende the flames of the amorous Prince, than with moist liquor extinguish the same, and making him to give over his enterprise she fiercely said unto him. How now (Sir Alerane) how dare you thus malapertly abuse this my secret friendship, in suffering you to come so frankly into my chamber. Think not that although I have used you this familiarly, that I can be able to suffer you, to attempt any further. For (if God be favourable to conserve me in my right wits) never man shall have that advantage, to gather the flower of my virginity, but he with whom I shall be joined in marriage. Otherwise I shall be unworthy, both of my honourable state, and also of that man whatsoever he be, worthy of estimation and preferment. So I think to Madam, answered Alerane. For if it would please you to do me that honour, to receive me for your faithful and loyal espouse, I swear unto you by him that seeth and heareth all things, that never any other shall be mistress of Aleranes heart, but the fair princess Adelasia. She that asked no better thing, after much talk between them, in the end condescended, that Alerane should give his faith to marry her, and to convey her out of the court, till the Emperor were appeased for their fault committed. Thus had the Saxon Prince, the full possession of his desires, and carried away the pray so long time sought for. Radegonde was she, that received the oaths of their espousalles, and capitulated the articles of their secret marriage. And after the determination made of their flying away, and a day thereunto appointed, the two Lovers entered the camp, to make proof by combat of their hardiness, and assay of their travail in time to come, wherein they thought for ever to persevere & continue. Being a bed then together, they did consummate, the band that straightly doth bind the hearts of lovers together, intiring the union divided, which before they thought imperfect and could not be accomplished but by inward affections of the mind. And God knoweth how this new married couple used their mutual contentation: But sure it is, that they continued together until the morning had uncovered from the night her darkness, even to the point of day, that Alerane was summoned by Radegonde to departed, who to conclude his former joy, very lovingly kissed his new wife and said unto her. Madame, the felicity that I feel now, by enjoying that which uniteth me so nearly unto you, which is indissoluble and never hereafter to be broken, seemeth so great that no peril whatsoever doth happen, can make me forget the least part of my joy. So it is that seeing the state of our present affairs, and fearing the danger that may chance, I will for this time take my leave of you, and go about to put the same in order, that no negligence may flacke your joy and desired pleasure. Ah: sir (said she) that my heart forethinketh both the best and worst of our intended enterprise. But to the intent we may prove our fortune, by whose conduction we must pass, I do submit myself, to the wisdom of your mind, and to the good success that hitherto hath accompanied all your endeavours. And then they kissed and embraced again, drinking up one another's tears, which distilled from them in such abundance. Thus Alerane departed from his Lady's chamber, & went home to his own house, where he sold all his goods at small price, making men to understand, that he would employ the money otherwise, in things whereof he hoped to recover greater gain. With that money he bought precious stones, and pretty jewels, that he might not be burdened with carriage of to much gold, or other money, and then he put his males and bougets in readiness to go with his wife in the habit and apparel of pilgrims, fair and softly a foot, that they might not be discovered. Which was done in the night. The Princess feigning herself to be sick, made her maids to withdraw themselves into their chamber, and then she went in to the garden where Alerane first made his plaints, as you have heard before: in which place her husband tarried for her. God knoweth whether they renewed their pastime begun the day of their marriage, but fearing to be taken, they began to play the comedy, the acts whereof were very long and the scroll of their miseries to prolix to carry, before they came to the Catastrope and end of their Comical action. For leaving their sumptuous and rich apparel, they clothed themselves with Pilgrims attire, taking the Scallop shell and staff, like to them that make their Pilgrimage to S. james in Gallisia. The Princess took the parsonage of a young Wench, ruffing her hear which she had in time pass so carefully kempt, curled, and trimmed with gold and jewels of inestimable value, wherein consisteth the chiefest grace touching the beauty & ornament of the woman. Who is able to deny, but that this natural humour and passion, borne so soon as we, which they call Love, is not a certain essence and being, the force & vigour whereof, is not able to abide comparison. Is it no small matter, that by the only instinction of loves force, the daughter of so great a Prince, as the Emperor of the Romans was, should wander like a vagabond in dissembled apparel, and poorly clothed, to experiment and prove the long travail of journeys, the intemperature of the air, the hazard to meet with so many thieves and murderers, which lay in wait in all places for poor passengers, and moreover, to feel the bitterness of travail, never tasted before, the rage of hunger, the intolerable alteration of thirst, the heat of hot summer, the coldness of winters ye, subject to rains, & stormy blasts: doth it not plainly demonstrate that Love hath either a greater perfection, than other passions, or else that they which feel that alteration, be out of the number of reasonable men, endued with the brightness of that noble quality? This fair Lady recovering the fields with her husband, with determination to take their flight into Italy, was more joyful, fresh, and lusty, than when she lived at ease amongs the delicates and pleasures, that she tasted in her father's court. See how fortune and love were contented to be blind, closing up the eyes of them, that follow their trace, & subdue themselves to their edicts, and unstable disposition. And truly this rage of Love was the only mean to dulcorate and make sweet the bitter gall of grief which those two lovers felt, defatigated almost with tedious travail judging their weariness a pastime and pleasure, being guided by that unconstant captain, which maketh dolts and fools wise men, emboldeneth the weak hearted and cowards, fortifieth the séeble, and to be short, untieth the purses and bags of covetous Carls, and miserable Misers. Now whiles our fair pilgrims, without any vowed devotion, were abroad at their pleasures (being weary with the way, they had travailed all night) the morrow after their departure, all the Emperors house was in a great hurly burly and stir, for the absence of Adelasia. The waiting maids cried out, and raged without measure, with such shrichinges, that the Emperor moved with pity, although his grief and anger was great, yet he caused every place there abouts to be searched, and sought, but all that labour was in vain. In the end, perceiving the absence of Alerane, suspected that it was be, which had stolen away his fair Daughter, and brought him into such a passion and frenzy, that he was like to run out of his wits and transgress the bounds of Reason. Ah traitor said the good Prince. Is this the guerdon of good turns, bestowed upon thee, and of the honour thou hast received in my company? Do not think to escape scot free thus without the rigorous justice of a father, deserved by disobedience, and of a Prince, against whom his subject hath committed villainy. Ye God give me life, I will take such order, that the posterity shall take example by that just vengeance which I hope to take of thee (arrant thief, & despoyler of my honour and consolation.) And thou unkind daughter shalt smartely feel the wrong done to thy kind, and well-beloved father, who thinketh to provide for thee, more honourably than thy disloyalty and incontinency, so far as I see, do merit and deserve, sith that without my leave, and thy vocation, thou hast gotten thee a husband worthy of thy folly, with whom I hope to make thee understand thy fault, & my displeasure which I receive through thy shameful act, so reproachful, specially in her, which is the daughter of such a father as I am, and descendeth of the most royal race in all Europe. Many other things the Emperor said, in great rage and fury. And in the end commanded, that one should go into Saxon, to know if Alerane had conveyed his stolen daughter thither: but he could bring no news at all from thence. He assayed then if he could learn any tidings of them by other means, causing by sound of Trumpet to be cried in all the Towns confining that if any person could bring him word, or do him to understand certain and sure news of those two fugitives, he would give them that, wherewith they should be contented all the days of their life. But he wan so much by this third search, as he did by the first two. Which thing the Majesty of God, seemed to permit and suffer aswell for the happy success that chanced afterwards, as for the punishing of the rash enterprise of two Lovers, which lived not very long in prosperity and joy, but that they felt the hand of God, who sometime suffereth the faithful to fall, to make him acknowledge his imbecility, to the end he may confess, that all health, sustenance, rest, and comfort, is to be attended and looked for at the hands of God. When Alerane and his Lady were gone out of a city within the emperors land called Hispourg, being come into certain wild and desert places, they fell into the lapse of certain thieves which stripped Alerane into his shirt, and had done as much to the poor Princess, if certain Merchants, had not come between, which caused the thieves to return. Alerane was succoured with some clothes to cover his body, and relieved with a little sum of money, which being spent, those two Kings children were constrained to beg, and ask for god's sake relief to sustain their infortunate life. Which distress was so difficult for Alerane to digest, that he was like (standing upon his feet) to die for sorrow and want, not so much for the adversity whereunto he was brought through his own fault, as for the pity that he had upon his dear beloved Lady, whom he saw in so lamentable state, and knew that she might attain to her ancient dignity and honour again, if she listed to prefer reward or prize before his life, for which she spared not the very last drop of her blood. She knowing the dolour and anguish that her husband endured, comforted him very wisely with joyful countenance, saying. How now dear husband, think you that fortune is or aught to be still favourable to Princes and great Lords? Do you not know that great hulks and ships do sooner perish and drown in main seas and rivers amids the raging waves and surges, than in narrow floods and brooks, where the water is still and calm? Do you not see great trees, whose tops do rise aloft, above the high hills and steep mountains, sooner shaken and tossed with blustering windy blasts, than those that be planted, in fertile dales and low valleys? Have you forgotten so many histories, by you perused and read with so great delight, when you were in the emperors court? Do not they describe the change of monarchs, the ruin of houses, the destruction of one Realm acquitted, by the establishing and reign of another? What Prince, Monarch, or Captain was ever so happy, that hath not felt some grief and misfortune? Alas sweet heart, think that God doth chastise us with his rods of tribulation, to make us to know him: but in the mean time, he keepeth for us a better fortune that we look not for. Moreover he never forsaketh them which with a good heart, do go unto him, having their affiance in his great goodness and infinite mercy. Alerane hearing the wise talk of his wife, could not forbear weeping, and sighing answered her in this manner. Ah Lady, in beauty and wisdom incomparable, it is not my fortune that causeth my mind to wander and stray from the siege of constancy, knowing well the qualities and number of Fortune's snares, and how jealous she is of humane joy and felicity. I am not ignorant that she layeth her ambushes, and doth beset the endeavours, sooner of personages that be noble and of high parentage, than of those whose hearts be base and unable, and their victories not able to attain to any jot of honour and fame. But (good God) said he (embracing his dear beloved spouse) it is for you Maame, that I endure torment, having made you to abandon the pomp of your estate, and bereaved from you a King to be your husband, causing you thus to feel an horrible and new kind of punishment, hunger & famine (I mean) in the mids of these deserts and wild places, and therewithal have joined you in company with an infortunate companion, who for comfort and solace, ministereth tears and sighs. O God most high and puissant, how profound and dark are thy judgements, and how righteous is thy justice. I acknowledge mine offence to be the cause of thine anger, and original of our trespass, and that this pain chanceth to us for our sins, which have so wickedly betrayed, the best Prince of the world, and forsaken the company of him, at whose bountiful hands, I have received, better entertainment and greater honour, than I deserved. Ah Emperor Otho, that thou art so well revenged now, with cowardly fraud and deceit committed, against thee by Alerane of Saxone, taking away her from thee, which was the staff & future stay of thy reverend age. And as he was persevering in this talk, Adelasia (seeing him in that contemplation) plucked him by the arm saying. Sir it is time to consider our own affairs, we have travailed I cannot tell how far without rest, me think (our fortune being no better) that we ought to remain in some place attending for the grace and mercy of God, who (I hope) will not fosake us. They were then in Liguria in the deserts, between Ast and Savonne, a country in the time well peopled, & furnished with huge and dark forests, garnished with many trees, great & high. By the advise then of Adelasia, the Saxon Prince forced by necessity (the mistress of all arts) retiered into those forests where he practised the occupation of a Collier, and some said, that nature taught him, the order how to cut his wood, to make ready his pits, and to know the season and time when his coals were burned enough. Great pains he sustained about his business, and went himself to sell his coals, which he bore upon his shoulders, to the next market towns, till he had gained so much as bought him an ass, where with he daily travailed to utter his coals, and other devices which need had forced him to learn. In this time Adelasia was delivered of a goodly child, whom they named William. And afterwards, by succession of time, she bore vj. sons more. For they dwelled almost xviij or twenty years in that poor and miserable life, and had dressed up a little lodging within a cave, that was fair and broad, wherein very trimly and well they had bestowed themselves. When the eldest of their sons was grown to the stature of a pretty stripling, the father sent him sometime to Savonne, and sometime to Ast, to sell their little merchandise, for relief of their household. But the boy, whose blood could not conceal and hide the nobility of his birth, having one day sold certain burdens & loads of wood and coal: bought with that money a fair young hawk, which he carried unto his father. The good man gently rebuked his son, and said, that such game belonged not to men of their degree, and that they had much a do to live, without employing their money upon such trifles, Long time after, William being arrived to the age of xvi. years, went to Savonne, to sell certain ware by his father's commandment, and with the money he bought a very fair sword, which when his father fawe with tears in his eyes, he went aside and said to himself. Ah unfortunate lad, that thy hard luck, should do thee this great wrong: truly neither the poverty of thy parents, nor the place of thy bringing up, can deface in thee, the secret shining brightness, of thine Ancestors virtue, nor the prediction of thy courage and manhood in tune to come, if God give thee grace to advance thee, to the service of some noble prince. Notwithstanding for that time he ceased not sharply to rebuke and threaten his son, in such wise that the young man having a heart greater than his force, determined secretly to departed from his parents. Now fortune chanced so well and apt for his purpose, that then & at the very same time, the Hongarians were entered Italy to spoil and rob the country, against whom the Emperor marched with great expedition, with an huge and goodly army, of purpose to force them to leave his land in peace. William having knowledge hereof, proceeded toward the emperors camp, where he showed in deed great hope (being of so small years) of his future valiance, and prowess, by the deeds of arms that he did, during that war. Which ended and the enemy put to flight, the Emperor went into Provence, to put in order his affairs in his realm of Arles, which then was subject to the Empire. Afterwards he retired into Italy with deliberation to seiorne at Savonne, for a certain time, which disposed William nothing at all, because he should remain hard by his Parents, who were very careful for his well doing, utterly ignorant where he was become. And notwithstanding, a hope (what I know not) made them expect of their son, some good fortune in time to come, who was now grown great and of goodly perfection, one of the most valiant soldiers, that were in the wages and service of his Majesty. Which very bravely he declared in a combat, that he fought man to man with an Almain soldier that was hardy, big made, & feared of all men, whom nevertheless he overcame in the presence of the Emperor his grandfather. Who, I know not by what natural inclamation, daily fixed his eye upon that young Champion, & began to bear him more good will than any other in his court, which was an occasion, that an ancient Gentleman, serving in the Prince's court, ftedfastly beholding the face, behaviour & countenance of William, seemed to see a picture of the Emperor when he was of his age, which was more exactly viewed by divers other, that were brought up in their youth with Otho. Whereof being advertised, he caused the young man to be called forth, of whom he demanded the names of his Parents, and the place where he was borne. William that was no less courteous, humble and well mannered, than wise, valiant and hardy, kneeled before the Emperor with a stout countenance, resembling the nobility of his Ancestors: answered. Most sacred and renowned Emperor, I have nothing whereof to render thanks to fortune, but for the honour, that your majesty hath done unto me, to receive me into your noble service. For the fortune and condition of my parents, be so base, that I blush for shame to declare them unto you. Howbeit being your humble servant, and having received favour of your Majesty, not commonly employed, your commandment to tell you what I am, I will accomplish aswell for my bounden duty, wherewith I am tied to your majesty, as to sastisfie that which it pleaseth you to command me. Be it known therefore unto your Majesty, that I am the son of two poor Almains, who flying their own country, withdrew themselves into the deserts of Savonne, where (to beguile their hard fortune) they make coals, & sell them, to sustain and relieve their miserable life: In which exercise I spent all my childhood, although it were to my great sorrow. For my heart thought (Sir) that a state so vile, was unworthy of my courageous mind, which daily aspired to greater things, and leaving my father and mother, I am come to your service, to learn chivalry and use of arms, and (mine obedience saved to your majesty) to find a way to illustrate the base and obscure education, wherein my parents have brought me up. The Emperor seeing the courteous behaviour of the young man, by this wise answer, remembering the similitude of his face, which almost resembled them both, suspected that he was the son of Alerane and of his daughter Adelasia, who for fear to be known, made themselves Citizens of those deserts, albeit that William had told him other names, and not the proper appellations of his father and mother. For which cause his heart began to trobbe, and felt a desire to see his daughter, and to cherish her with like affection, as though he had never conceived offence and displeasure. He caused then to be called unto him a gentleman, the near kinsman of Alerane, to whom he said with merry countenance and joyful there. You do know as I think, the wrong and displeasure that your cousin Alerane hath done me, by the rape and robbery, committed upon the person of my daughter: you are not ignorant also of the reproach wherewith he hath defiled all your house, committed a felony so abominable in my court, and against mine own person, which am his sovereign Lord. Notwithstanding sith it is the force of Love, that made me forget him till this time, rather than desire of displeasure, I am very desirous to see him, and to accept him for my son in law, and good kinsman, very willing to advance him to that estate in my house, which his degree and blood do deserve. I tell you not this without special purpose. For this young soldier, which this day so valiantly and with such dexterity vanquished his adversary, by the consent of all men, which have known me from my youth, doth represent so well my figure and lineaments of face, which I had when I was of his age, that I am persuaded, and do steadfastly believe, that he is my nephew, the son of your cousin Alerane and my daughter Adelasia. And therefore I will have you to go with this young man, into the place where he shall bring you, and to see them that be his parents, because I purpose to do them good, if they be other, than those whom I take them. But if they be those two that I so greatly desire to see, do me so much pleasure as I may satisfy my heart with that contentation, swearing unto you by the crown of my Empire, that I will do no worse to them, nor otherwise use them, than mine own proper person. The gentleman hearing the loving and gentle terms of the Emperor, said unto him. Ah Sir I render humble thanks unto your Majesty, for the pity that you have, upon our dishonoured race and ligneage of Saxone, dedecorated and blemished through Aleranes trespass against you. I pray to God to recompense it (we being unable) and to give you the joy that you desire, and to me the grace that I may do some agreeable service both in this and in all other things. I am ready (Sir) not only to go seek my cousin, (if it be he that you think it is) to carry unto him those beneficial news which your Majesty hath promised by word, but rather to render him into your hands, that you may take revengement upon him for the injury that he hath done to the whole Empire. No no said the Emperor, the desired time of revengement is past, and my malice against Alerane hath vomited his gall. If in time passed I have thrifted to pursue the ruin and overthrow of those two offenders, now I go about to foresee and seek their advancement and quiet, considering the long penance they have taken for their fault, and the fruit that I see before mine eyes, which is such that it may by the smell and fragrant odour thereof, support the weakness and debility of my old years, and constraineth me (by the virtue thereof) to have pity upon his parents, which (through their own overthrow) have almost utterly consumed me. Those words ended the good Prince gave evident testimony of desire to see his only daughter, by the lively colour that rose in his face, and by certain tears running down along his herd, that began to ware grey. Then he caused William to come before him, and commanded him to condude the gentleman, to that part of the forest, where his father dwelled. Whereunto the young man readily and with all his heart obeyed. Thus the Lord Gunfort (for so was Aleranes cousin called) accompanied with his little cousin, and many other gentlemen, went toward the place, where the Collier Princes remained. And when they were near the craggy cave, the lodging of Alerane: the whole company lighted of their horse, and espied him busy about the lading of his coals to send to Ast. For the arrival of the Emperor to Savonne, stayed Alerane from going thither himself, by reason his conscience still grudged, for his fault committed against him. Alerane seeing this goodly company, was abashed, as though horns had suddenly grown out of his head, and yet the sight of his son richly furnished, and in the company of Gunfort his cousin, did more astonne him. For he suspected incontinently that he was discovered, and that the Emperor had sent for him, to be revenged of the fault so long time committed. And as he had imagined divers things upon his hard fortune, within his fancy: His son came to embrace him upon his knees, & to kiss his hands, with an honest and humble reverence, saying to Gunfort. Sir, this is he of whom I told the Emperor, & of him I took my being: This is my father. All this while the good father embraced his son very hard, and weeping for extreme joy, said unto him. Alas my son, if thy coming be so happy unto me as it is joyful, if thy news be good & prosperous, which thou bringest: thou dost revive thy father half dead, and from lamentable despair, thou dost replenish and fill him with such hope, that one day shall be the stay of his age, and the recovery of his greatest losses. The son not able to abide the discourse of his parents affairs, could not comprehend any thing at the pitiful meeting: but stood still so astoned, as though he had been fallen from the clouds. Now during this time, that the father and the son thus welcomed one another: Gunfort took heed to all the countenance and gestures of Alerane. There was no part of the Collier's body that he forgot to view: and yet remembering the voice of his cousin, and seeing a wound that he had in his face, was sure that it was he. And then with his arms stretched forth he came to clepe. Alerane about the neck, whom he made to look red with his warm tears, saying. Ah: Alerane, the present torment now, but in time past, the pleasant rest, of our race. What Eclipse hath so long obseured the shining sun of thy valiant prowess? Why hast thou concealed so long time, thy place of retire from him, which desired so much thine advancement? Hast thou the heart to see the tears of thy cousin Gunfort running down from his eyes upon thy neck, & his arms embracing thee with such love and amity, that he cannot receive the like, except he be something moved by thee, in seeing thy loving entertainment? Wilt thou deny that, which I know, by a certain instinct and natural agreement, which is, that thou art Alerane the son of the duke of Saxone, and so renowned through out all Germany? Dost thou pretend (through thine own misfortune so rooted in thy heart by living in these wilderness) to deprive thy son of the honour, which the heavens and his good fortune have prepared for him? Ah cruel and pitiless father, to suffer thy progeny to be buried in the tomb of oblivion, with eternal reproach. O unkind kinsman toward thy kindred, of whom thou makest so small account, that wilt not vouchsafe to speak to thy cousin Gunfort, that is come hither for thy comfort, and the advancement of thy family. Alerane sore ashamed, aswell for the remembrance of his ancient fault, as to see himself in so poor estate before the emperors gallants, answered Gunfort, saying. My Lord and cousin, I beseech you to believe, that want of desire to make my complaint unto you, and lack of courtesy to entertain you, have not made me to forget my duty towards you, being aswell my near kinsman, as such a one to whom I have done wrong and very great injury, by offending the Emperor. But you do know of what puissance the pricks of conscience be, and with what worm she gnaweth the heart of them, which feel themselves culpable of crime. I am (as you said) the present mishap of our house, for the opinion that the Emperor hath conceived of my folly, and shall be the rest (if you will do me so much pleasure to rid me of this miserable life) both of you and of the mind of a father justly displeased against his daughter, and the quiet of a Prince offended with his subject. For I swear unto you by my faith, that I never so much desired life, as I now do covet death, for that I am assured, that I being dead, my poor companion and well-beloved wife, shall live at her ease, enjoying the presence and good grace of her father. What mean you so to say, answered Gunfort. The Emperor is so well pleased & appeased, that he hath sworn unto me to receive you as his son in law, and my Lady your wife as his dear beloved daughter, whom I pray you to cause to come before us, or to signify unto us where she is, that I may do reverence unto her as to my Princess & sovereign Lady. William was all amazed, and almost besides himself, hearing this discourse, and thought he was either in a dream or else enchanted, till that Alerane called his wife by her proper name, who was so appalled to hear the word of Adelasia, that her heart was suddenly attached with terror and fear, when she saw so great a company about her husband. And then her son came to do his duty, not as to his mother only, but as to the daughter of an Emperor, & the wife of a Prince of Saxone. She again embraced and kissed him, although she was surprised with fear & shame, and so moved with that sudden sight, that she had much a do to keep herself from fainting and falling down between the arms of her son, and thought that she had passed the place where Gunfort was, who going toward her, after his reverence and duty done, made her understand the charge he had, & the good will of the Emperor, which determined to receive her again with so good order and entertainment as might be devised. Which earnest words made them to resolve upon the prouse of fortune, and to credit the promises that Gunfort made them in the emperors behalf. Thus they forsook the cave, their coats and furnaces, to re-enter their former delights and pleasures. That night they lodged at a village not far from the forest; where they carried certain days, to make apparel for these strange Princes, and so well as they could to adorn and furnish Adelasia, (who being of the age almost of xxxiiij or xxxv years, yet manifested some part of the perfection of that divine beauty, and modest gravity, which once made her marvelous and singular above all them that lived in her days.) In the time that this jolly company had furnished and prepared themselves in readiness, Gunfort sent a gentleman of that troop, toward the Emperor, to advertise him of the success of his journey. Whereof he was exceeding joyful, and attended for the coming of his children, with purpose to entertain them in loving & honourable wise. When all things were in readiness and the train of Adelasia in good order, according to the worthyvesse of the house whereof the came, they road toward Savonne, which journey seemed to them but a sport, for the pleasure mixed with compassion that each man conceived, in the discourse the Alerane made upon his misfortunes & chances, aswell in his journeys, as of his abode and continuance in the deserts. Which William calling to remembrance, praised God, & yielded him thanks, for that it had pleased him to inspire into his mind, the forsaking of his parents, considering that the same only fault, was the cause of their restitution, and of his advancement and glory, being the son of such a father, and the nephew of so great a Monarch. The fame of whose name made all men quake and tremble, and who then had commanded all the troop of the gentlemen of his court, to go and seek the forlorn lovers, so long time lost and unknown. To be short, their entry into Savonne, was so royal and triumphant, as if the Emperor himself would have received the honour of such estate, & pomp. Which he commanded, to be done aswell for the joy that he had recovered the thing, which he accounted lost, as to declare and acknowledge to every wight, that virtue can not make herself better known: than at that time, when the actions and deeds of great personages be semblable in rarity & excellence, to their nobility. For a Prince is of greater dignity and admiration, than he commonly showeth himself, which can never enter into the head of the popular sort, that deemeth the affections of other, according to their own rude and beastly fancies. As the Greek Poet Euripides in his tragedy of Medea, doth say.  
Ill luck and chance thou must of force endure,  
Fortune's fickle stay needs thou must sustain  
To grudge thereat it booteth not at all.  
Before it come the witty wise be sure:  
By wisdoms lore, and counsel not in vain:  
To shun and eke avoid. The whirling ball,  
Of fortune's threats, the sage may well rebound  
By good foresight, before it light on ground.  
The Emperor then having forgotten, or wisely dissembling that which he could not amend, met his daughter and son in law, at the Palace gate, with so pleasant cheer and joyful countenance, as the like long time before he did not use. Where Alerane and Adelasia being light of from their horse, came to kiss his hands (and both upon their knees) began to frame an oration, for excuse of their fault, and to pray pardon of his Majesty. The good Prince ravished with joy, & satisfied with repentance, stopped their mouths with sweet kisses and hard embracings. O happy ill time (said he) and sorrowful joy, which now bringeth to me a pleasure more great, than ever was my heavy displeasure. From whence cometh this my pleasant joy? O well devised flight, by the which I gain that (by preserving my loss once made and committed) which I never had: if I may so say, considering the ornament of my house, and quietness of my life. And saying so, he kissed & embraced his little. nephews, and was loath that Adelasia should make rehearsal of other talk but of mirth and pleasure. For (said he) it sufficeth me that I have overpassed and spent the greatest part of my life in heaviness, utterly unwilling now to renew old sores and wounds. Thus the marriage begun unknown & against the emperors will, was consummate & celebrated with great pomp and magniffcence, by his own commandment, in the City of Savonne, where he made Sir William Knight, with his own hand. Many goodly facts at the Tourney and Tilt were done and achieved, whereat William almost every day bore away the prize & victory, to the great pleasure of his father & contentation of his grandfather, who then made him Marquis of Monferrat. To the second son of Alerane he gave the Marquisat of Savonne, with all the appurtenances and jurisdictions adjoining, of whom be descended the marquesses of Caretto. The third he made Marquis of Saluce, the race of whom is to this day of good fame and nobility. Of the fourth son sprang out the original of the house of Cera. The fift was Marquis of Incise, whose name and progeny liveth to this day. The sixth son did govern Pouzon. The seventh was established Senior of Bosco, under the name and title of Marquis. And Alerane was made and constituted, overseer of the goods and dominions of his children, and the emperors Lieutenant of his possessions which he had in Liguria. Thus the Emperor by moderating his passion, vanquished himself, and gave example to the posterity, to pursue the offence before it do take root: but when the thing can not be corrected, to use modesty and mercy which maketh kings to live in peace, and their Empire in assurance. Having taken order with all his affairs in Italy, he took leave of his daughter and children, and retired into Almaigne. And Alerane lived honourable amongs his people, was beloved of his father in law, and in good reputation and fame, arrived to old years, still remembering that adversity ought not to bring us to despair, nor prosperity, to insolency or ill behaviour, and contempt of things that seem small and base, sith there is nothing under the heavens that is stable and sure. For he that of late was great and made all men to stoop before him, is become altogether such a one as though he had never been, and the poor humble man advanced to that estate, from whence the first did fall and was deposed, making laws sometimes for him, under whom he lived a subject. And behold of what force, the providence of God is, and what poised his balance doth contain, and how blame worthy they be that refer the effects of that divine counsel to the inconstant and mutable revolution of fortune, that is blind and uncertain.   

The Duchess of Savoie  
The Duchess of savoy, being the King of England's sister, was in the Duke her husbands absence, unjustly accused of adultery: by a noble man, his Lieutenant. And should have been put to death, if by the prowess and valiant to combat of Don john di Mendozza, (a Gentleman of Spain) she had not been delivered. With a discourse of marvelous accidents, touching the same, to the singular praise and commendation, of chaste and honest Ladies.  
¶ The xlv Novel.  
Love commonly is counted the greatest passion, amongs all the most grievous, that ordinarily, do assault the spirits of men, which after it hath once taken hold of any gentle subject, followeth the nature of the corrupt humour, of those that have a fever, which taking his beginning at the heart, disperseth itself incureably, through all the other sensible parts of the body: whereof this present history giveth us amply to understand, being no less marvelous, than true. Those that have read the ancient histories and Chronicles of Spain, have seen in divers places the occasion of the cruel ennimitie, which reigned by the space of xl years, between the houses of Mendozza and Toledo, families not only right noble and ancient, but also most abundant in riches, subjects and signiories of all the whole realm. It happened one day that their armies being ready to join in battle, the Lord john of Mendozza chief of his army, a man much commended by all histories, had a widow to his sister, a very devout Lady, who after she understood the heavy news of that battle, falling down upon he knees, prayed God incessantly, that it would please him to reconcile the two families together, and to make an end of so many mischiefs. And as she understood that they were in the chiefest of the conflict, and that there's were a great number slain on both parts, she made a vow to God, that if her brother returned victorious from the enterprise, she would make a voyage to Rome on foot. The overthrow fell after much bloodshed, upon them of Toledo. Mendozza brought away the victory, with the less loss of his people. Whereof Isabella advertised, declared unto her brother, the vow that she had made. Which seemed very strange unto him, specially how she durst enterprise so long a voyage on foot, and thought to turn her purpose, howbeit, she was so importunate upon him, that in the end he gave her leave, with charge that she should go well accompanied, and by small journeys, for respect of her health. The Lady Isabella being departed from Spain, having traversed the mountains Pirtenees, passed by France, went over the Alps, and came to Thurin, where the Duke of Savoy had then for wife, a sister of the King of England, who was bruited to be the fairest creature of the west parts of the world. For this cause, the Lady Isabella desired greatly, in passing by, to see her, to know whether truth did answer the great renown of her beauty. Wherein she had Fortune so favourable, that entering into Thurin, she found the Duchess upon her Coach, going abroad to take the air of the fields. Which the Lady Isabella understanding, stayed to behold her, being by fortune at that present at the door of her Coach. And then with great admiration, considering the wonderful beauty of that princess, judging her the chiefest of beauty of all those that she had ever seen, she spoke somewhat loud in the Spanish tongue, to those of her company, in this manner. If God would have permitted, that my brother and this Princess might have married together, every man might well have said, that there had been met the most excellent couple, for perpection of beauty, that were to be found in all Europa. And her words in deed were true. For the Lord Mendozza was even one of the fairest Knights, that in his time was to be found in all Spain. The Duchess who understood the Spanish tongue very well, passing forth, beheld all that company. And feigning not to understand those words, thought that she surely was some great Lady. Wherefore when she was a little past her, she said to one of her Pages. Mark whether that Lady and her company go to their lodging, and say unto her, that I desire her, (at my return) to come and see me at my castle, which the Page did. So the Duchess walking a long the river of Poo, mused upon the words spoken by the Spanish Lady, which made her not long to tarry there, but took the way back again to her Castle, where being arrived, she found the Lady Isabella, who at the Duchess request, attended her with her company. And after dutiful reverence, the Duchess with like gratulation, received her very courteously, taking her a part, and demanding her, of what province of Spain she was, of what house, and what Fortune had brought her into that place. And then the Lady Isabella made her to understand, from the beginning, the occasion of her long voyage, & of what house she was. The Duchess understanding her nobility, excused herself, for that she had not done her that honour which she deserved, imputing the fault upon the ignorance that she had of her estate. And after divers other courteous communication, the Duchess would needs know whereunto the words tended that she had spoken of her, and of the beauty of her brother. The Spanish Lady somewhat abashed, said unto her. Madame, if I had known so much of your skill in our tongue, as now I do, I would have been well advised, before I had so exalted the beauty of my brother, whose praise had been more commendable in the mouth of some other. Yet thus much I dare affirm, (without affection be it spoken,) as they that know him can report, that he is one of the comeliest gentlemen that Spain hath bred these twenty years. But of that which I have spoken touching your beauty, if I have offended, much a do shall I have to get the same pardoned, because I cannot repent me, nor say otherwise, except I should speak contrary to truth. And that durst I enterprise to be verified by yourself, if it were possible that Nature for one quarter of one hour only, had transported into some other, that which with right great wonder she showeth now in you. Whereunto the Duchess to th'end she would seem to excuse her praise, answered with a little shame fastness, which beautified much her lively colour, saying: Madam if you continue in these terms, you will constrain me to think, that by changing of place, you have also changed your judgement. For I am one of the least to be commended for beauty of all this land, or else, I will believe, that you, have the beauty and valour of my Lord your brother so printed in your mind, that all that, which presenseth itself unto you, having any appearance of beauty, you measure by the perfection of his. And at that instant the Lady Isabella, who thought that the Duchess had taken in evil part, the comparison that she had made of her and her brother, somewhat in choler and heat therewythal, said unto her. Madame, you shall pardon me if I have so much forgotten myself, to presume to compare your beauty to his. Whereof if he be to be commended, yet I may well be blamed, being his sister, to publish the same in an unknown place. But yet I am well assured, that when you shall speak, even with his enemies, that yet besides his beauty, they will well assure him to be one of the gentlest and best conditioned gentlemen that liveth. The Duchess seeing her in these alterations, and so affected to the praise of her brother, took great pleasure therein, and willingly would have desired that she should have passed further, were it not for fear to offend her, & to put her in a choler. And to th'intent to turn her from that matter, she commanded the table to be covered for supper, where she caused her to be served honourably, of all the most delicate & exquisite meats that were possible to be gotten. Supper done, & the tables uncovered, after they had a little talked together, and that it was time to withdraw themselves, the Duchess more to honour her, would that she should lodge in her own chamber with her, where the Pilgrim (wearied with the way) took very good rest. But the Duchess pricked with the strange talk of the Lady Isabella, having a hammer working in her head, could not sleep. And had so well the beauty of the unknown Knight graved in the bottom of her heart, that thinking to close her eyes, she thought that he flew continually before her like a certain fancy or shadow. In sort, that to know further what he was, she would gladly have made greater inquiry. Then suddenly after a little shame and fear intremingled with a certain womanhood long observed by her, & therewithal the fidelity which she bore to the Duke her husband, presenting itself before her, she buried altogether her first counsel which died & took end, even so sove almost as it was borne. And so tossed with an infinite number of divers thoughts, passed the night, until the day beginning to lighten the world with his burning lamp, constrained her to rise. And then the Lady Isabella, ready to departed, went to take leave of the Duchess, who willingly would have wished that she had never seen her, for the new flame that she felt at her heart. Nevertheless, dissembling her evil, not able to hold her any longer, made her to promise by oath, that at her return form her voyage, she would repass by Thurin, and after she had made her a very liberal offer of her goods, taking her leave, she left her to the tuition of God. Certain days after the departing of the spanish Lady, the Duchess thinking to quench this new fire, the same began further to flame, and the more that hope failed her, the more did desire increase in her. And after an infinite number of sundry cogitations, Love got the victory. And she resolved with herself in the end, whatsoever might come thereof, to communicate her cause to one of her beloved damsels called Emilia, and to have her advise, in whom she wonted to repose her trust in all her secret affairs, and causing her to be called for secretly, she said unto her. Emilia, I believe that if thou hast taken any good heed to mine ancient manner of behaviour, ever since my departure from England, thou hast known me to be the very rampart and refuge of all afflicted persons. But now my destinies be turned contrary. I have now more need of counsel than any other living creature. And having no person about me worthy to understand my misfortune, my first and last refuge is to thee alone. Of whom I hope to receive consolation in a matter which toucheth me no less than my life and honour. And then the Duchess declared unto her privily, that since the departing of the Lady Isabella she had had no rest in her mind, and how she was enamoured of a Knight whom she never saw, whose beauty and good grace had touched her so near, that being altogether unable any longer to resist her misfortune, she knew not to whom to have recourse, but to the fidelity of her counsel. Adding thereunto for conclusion, that she loved him not dishonestly, or for hope she had to satisfy any lascivious appetite, but only to have a sight of him. Which (as she thought) should bring unto her such contentation, as thereby her grief should take end. Emilia who ever loved her mistress as she did her own heart, had great compassion upon her, when she understood the light foundation of her strange love. Nevertheless desiring to please her even to the last point of her life, said unto her. Madam if it will please you to recreate yourself from these your sorrows, and to respite me only two days, I hope to provide by some good means that you shall shortly see him, who undeservedly doth work you all this evil. The Duchess nourished with this hope, desired her effectually to think upon it: Promising unto her, that if her words came to good effect she would make her such recompense as she herself should confess she had not done pleasure to an ingrate or unthankful woman. Emilia which had the brute to be one of the most subtle and sharp witted dames of all Thurin, slept not during the time of her prescription. But after she had searched an infinite number of means to come to that which she desired, there was one that seemed most expedient for that purpose and of least peril above other. And her tune of delay expired, she went to Madam the Duchess, and said. Madame, God knoweth how many troubles my mind hath sustained, and how much I have strived with mine own conscience to satisfy your commandment, nevertheless, after I had debated things so substantially as was possible, I could devise nothing more worthy your contentation, than that which I will now declare unto you, if it will please you to hear me. Which to be short is, that for the execution of this our enterprise, it behoveth you to feign yourself to be sick, and to suffer yourself to be trained into such maladies, as there shall rather appear in you, token of death, than hope of life. And being brought into such extremity, you shall make a vow (your health recovered) to go within a certain time to Saint james on pilgrimage, which you may easily obtain of the Duke your husband. And then may you make your voyage liberally with the Lady Isabella, who will pass this way upon her return, without discovering your affection unto her, and will not fail by reknowledging of the courtesy that you have used towards her in these parts, to conduct you by her brother's house, where you may see him at your ease, that maketh you to suffer great torment. And I will advertise you furthermore of one thing, which ever till this time I have kept close. But for that we two togethers cannot without great difficulty accomplish our business, it hath seemed good unto me to know of you, if you would that a third person shall be called thereunto, who is so much at my commandment as I dare trust him like myself. It is Master Frances Appian the Milliner, your Physician, who (to say the very truth unto you) hath been so affectioned to me, this year or two, that he hath not ceased by all means possible, to win me (but to honest love) for he pretendeth to marry me. And because that hitherto I have made small account of him, and have not used any favour towards him, nor good entertainment otherwise: I assure myself seeing the great amity that he beareth me, that if I did but favourably behold him five or six times with pleasant looks, adding thereunto a few kisses, he would hazard a thousand lives for my sake if he had them, to content me. And forasmuch as I know him to be a diligent man, learned, and of great reputation, and one that may stand us to great stead in this business: I thought good not to conceal or keep from your knowledge my advise herein. The Duchess understanding all this pretty discourse, so apt for her affections (ravished with great joy) embraced hard Emilia, and said unto her. Emilia my dear friend, if thou didst know in what wise I do esteem thee, and what I mean in time to come, to bestow upon thee, I am well assured, albeit thou hast hitherto sufficiently showed thy good will, yet thou wilt hereafter do me great pleasure promising thee, by the faith of a Princess, that if our enterprise do well succeed, I will not use thee as a servant, but as my kinswoman and the best beloved friend I have. For I hold myself so satisfied with that thou hast said unto me, that if Fortune be on our side, I see no manner of impediment that may let our enterprise. Go thy way & entertain thy Physician, as thou thinkest best, for it is very expedient that he be a party, and for the rest, let me alone. For never was there any Lazar that better could dissemble his impotency, than I know how to counterfeit to be sick. The Duchess being departed from Emilia, began to plain herself bitterly, feigning sometime to feel a certain pain in her stomach, sometime to have a disease in her head, in such sort, that after divers womanly plaints (proper to those that feel themselves sick) she was in the end constrained to lay herself down, and knew so well how to dissemble her sickness, that (after she had certain days kept her bed) there was much doubt of her health. And during this time Emilia had laid so many amorous baits to feed her Physician, that he which knew very well the most happy remedies for the body, could not now find any to heal the malady of his own mind. Emilia having nuzzled Master Appian with amorous toys, began to make him understand the original of the Duchess sickness, the effects of her passion, the order that she had used during the furious course of the same. Adding thereunto for conclusion, that if he would keep the matter secret, and aid them with his counsel, she would by and by promise him marriage by words, for the present time, and that from thence forth she would never deny him any favour or privity. That only reserved which no man can honestly demand, till the marriage be solemnized in the face of the Church. In witness whereof she kissed him with great affection. The Physician more eased there withal, than if he had seen his Hypocrates or Galen, raised again fro death, promised rather to lose his life, than she should want his help. And for the better beginning of this enterprise, they went presently to visit the Duchess. In whom they found her pulse so to beat, the tongue so charged, the stomach so weakened by a continual suffocation of the matrice, that the patient was in very great peril of death. Whereunto every man did easily give credit for the reputation and great experience of the Physician. And master Appian having commanded all the chamber to be voided, made the Duchess to understand in few words, how it behoved her to govern herself. And the better to cloak her cause, he brought her at that instant a little perfume, by receiving the savour whereof, she should often times fall into certain little Soundings, and by often using the perfume, it would eat away her colour for a time, that it should seem, as though she had not gone out of her bed in half a year. Nevertheless it should do her no other displeasure, & that in three or four days, with certain other drugs, he would restore her colour as lively as it was before. Which the duchess liked best of any thing in the world. And they three together played their parts so well the the common brute throughout at the city was, that the Duchess would die. The Duke being advertised of these things, caused all the Physicians of Thurin to assemble, to provide for the health of the Duchess: Who being come together with the Duke into her bedchamber, a little after she had received Master Appians perfumes: and seeing her to sown divers times before them, were in great despair of her health. And after they had somewhat debated the matter with Master Appian, not knowing whereupon to resolve, they said unto the Duke, that it behoved him to provide for her soul, for that they saw in her the ordinary tokens and messengers of death. The poor Duke being sorrowful beyond measure, for that he loved the Duchess entierlie, sent for the Suffragan of the Bishop of Thurin, a man of very holy life, to th'intent he might give her good council. To whom she confessed herself with a voice so feeble, that it seemed to be more than half dead. Her talk was not long, but yet she made him believe that nature failed her, and that by little and little she drew towards her end: Desiring him to have her in remembrance, and her poor soul in his orisons and prayers. The Suffragan being gone, the Duke and others, with a great number of Gentlemen and Ladies, went into the chamber. But she began then to enter into so great raving, that every body was afeard of her. And after that she had tossed herself in her bed, like a senseless creature, her speech failed her. Whereat those present, stricken with no small wonder, thinking the soul would straight ways have departed the body, some of them cried upon her. Madame remember jesus, some other saint Barbara. But wily Emilia more privy of her counsel than the rest, taking her tenderly by the arm, cried upon her with a loud voice. Madame call upon saint james, who hath so often succoured you in your adversities. And with that the Duchess awaked as it were out of a heavy sleep, and rolling her eyes to and fro, with a strange trembling of all her members, began to pronounce with an interrupted voice. O glorious Apostle, in whom from my tender youth, I have ever had my steadfast trust and hope, be now mine intercessor in this cruel assault of death, to jesus Christ. And I make a vow now to thee, that if I may recover my health, I will myself in person, go honour thy sacred body, in the proper place where it reposeth. And having ended her feigned Prayer, she counterfeited a sleep, and so continued the space of two or iii hours, which caused all the company to withdraw themselves, except the poor Duke, who would not departed from her, until she waked, and in the mean time ceased not to pray to God for the health of his loyal spouse. After she had so well played this pageant by the space of an hour or two, feigning then to awake, she began to stretch forth her arms and legs with such force, that whosoever had heard the noise, would easily have judged that she was delivered from some great torment. And beholding the Duke her husband, with a pitiful eye (who had leaned his head near unto hers in the bed) she cast her stretched arms negligently upon his neck, & kissing him said. Now may I safely kiss you my Lord that within these three hours was in such pitiful plight, as I thought myself for ever deprived of that benefit. Thanks be given to god & that good saint, to whom I made my vow. I am presently so well eased, that if I feel myself no worse, I will yet detain you (husband) a while from marriage. But the poor Duke altogether ravished with joy, having his white beard all tempered with tears, knew not what answer to make, but beheld her with such admiration, that he seemed to be besides himself. And in the mean time certain which were at the door, hearing them speak, entered the chamber, who finding the Duchess somewhat better than she was, published the same incontinently thorough all the city, whereof the Citizens being advertised (because they loved her dearly) made processions & other thanks givings to God, as in cases like hath been accustomed. With in a while after, the Duchess began by little and little to taste her meats, & to use such diet that she had recovered her former health. Except the new plague, which she felt at her heart for the Lord Mendozza, which she could not cure but by the presence of him that bore the ointment box for that sore. And so long she continued in these amorous thoughts, till the Lady Isabella returned from her pilgrimage, who came to the castle according to her promise. And after friendly greetings one of another, the Duchess made her to understand, how since her departure she had never almost comen out of her bed, for that she had been afflicted with a most grievous sickness. Nevertheless by the help of God, and the intercession of good S. james (to whom she had vowed herself) she had recovered health. And if she could obtain leave of the Duke her husband, she would think herself happy to make a voyage thither in her company. Which the Spanish Lady persuaded by all means possible, showing unto her many commodities, which she should find in Spain, and the honourable company of gentlemen & Ladies, who at her arrival there (if it would please her to do them so much honour as to visit them in passing by) would leave nothing undone for the best manner of entertainment that possible might be devised. And by this mean the Lady Isabella thought to prick her forward, who was in deed but to quick of the spur already, & thinking every hour vij determined one morning to move the Duke her husband thereunto. To whom she said. My Lord I believe that you do sufficiently well remember my trouble past, and the extreme martyrdom that I suffered in my late sickness, and namely of the vow which I made for recovery of my health. Now finding myself whole and strong, my desire is that with your licence I might accomplish my voyage, specially with so good opportunity. For the noble woman of Spain of whom I have heretofore told you, is returned, and it should be a great ease to us both to go in company together. And for so much as it is a matter of necessity, and that early or late I must adventure to pay my vowed debt, it is best both for my commodity and also for mine honour, to go in her company. Whereunto the good Duke did willingly accord. Who never had any manner of suspicion that such a treason was lodged in the heart of so great a Princess. And having given order for all things requisite for her departing, she took a certain number of gentlemen and damsels, amongst which, Master Appian and Emilia were not forgotten, and being all appareled in Pilgrims weeds, by long travail and weary journeys, after they had passed the cold Alps, they came into the county of Rossilion, & entered into Spain. And then the Duchess feeling herself to approach the place where her heart of long time had taken hold, desired the Lady Isabella and her company earnestly, not to make it known to any person what she was. And so travailing by small journeys and devising of divers matters, they arrived within two little days journeys of the place where the Lord of Mendozza kept his ordinary household. For which cause the Spanish Lady entreated the Duchess not to be offended, if she sent some one of her men before to give advertisement of their coming, which the Duchess granted. And the messenger finding the the Lord of Mendozza ready to receive them, and having done him to understand of the coming of the Duchess, of the first talk between her and his sister, of the great entertainment that she had given them, Of the singular beauty with the which she was adorned: He was not so gross but that he knew by & by, that the Duchess at those years, had not been so liberal of her labour, to make such a voyage on soot, without some other respect. And dissembling what he thought, caused thirty or forty of his gentlemen incontinently to make them ready. To whom making as though he would go hunt the Hare, he went to meet the Duchess: and having discovered them a far of in a field, the Lady Isabella did forth with know them. Who advertised the Duchess that he which rid upon the white jennet of Spain, was the Lord of Mendozza her brother, and the other, certain of his servants. The Prince then after he had made his horse to vault three or four times aloft in the air, with an excellent grace & marvelous dexterity lighted from his horse, and kissing her hand, said unto her. Madame, I believe that if the wandering knights of old time, who have eternised there memory, by an infinite number of renowned victories, had had so much good luck, as many times in there adventures to meet with such pilgrims, as you be, that they would willingly have abandoned the Lance and the Murrain, to take the Staff & the Scrip. The Duchess then being comparable with any Lady of her time, for her education and comely talk, assailed with joy, fear, & shame, that no lack of duty might be found in her, said unto him. And in deed my Lord like as if the knights of whom you speak, had tasted of some good hap, (as you term it) by meeting with such Pilgrims: So also we hope that the Saint to whom we be vowed, in the honour of whom we have enterprised this perilous voyage, will receive us in good part. Otherwise our pain were altogether lost, & our journey evil employed. And after they had given this first amorous attaint, the Lord of Mendozza taking her by the arm, conducted her unto his castle, devising of pleasant matters. And he was greatly astoned, to see so rare a beauty, as appeared in the Princess: Which neither the weariness of the way, nor the parching beams of the Sun, could in any wise so appair, but that there rested enough, to draw unto her the very hearts of the most cold, and frozen men of the world. And albeit the Lord of Mendozza, took great pleasure and admiration in beholding her, yet was it nothing in respect of the Duchess: who after she had advised and well marked the beauty, excellency, and other gifts of grace, in the Lord of Mendozza, she confessed that all that which she had heard of his sister, was but a dream in comparison of the proof, which discovered itself upon the first view: Seeming unto her by good judgement, that all the beauties of the world were but paintings, in respect of the perfection of that which she saw with her eyes. Wherein she was not deceived, albeit that her fervent love might have bewitched her senses. For all the Histories in Latin, Spanish, & Italien, the which make mention of Mendozza, give unto him the first place in beauty of all the Princes and Lords that were in his time. The poor Duchess, after she had manifested by outward gestures, and countenances, to the Lord of Mendozza, that which was in the inward part of her heart, without receiving the full satisfaction of his sight, which she desired, determined (having sojourned three days in his Castle) to departed the next morning, (unwares to the Knight,) to perform her voyage. And so soon as the light of the day began to appear, she went to the chamber of the Lady Isabella, whom she thanked affectuously, aswell for her good company, as for the great courtesy, and humanity, that she had received in her house. And having taken leave of her, departed with her train. The Knight Mendozza, about an hour or two after her departure, advertised thereof, was greatly troubled, what the matter might be that she was gone without taking leave of him. And after that he had a little thought thereupon, he easily perceived, that all the fault thereof was in himself. And that this great Princess had abandoned her country, of purpose by all judgement to visit him, and that he had showed himself very slack for her satisfaction, in that he had not offered her his service. Whereat being justly grieved, she did not vouchsafe to give him a farewell. And so accusing himself, he determined to follow after her, accompanied only with two Pages. And for that he was on horseback, it was not long before he espied her in the high way to S. james, where lighting from his horse, he walked two miles with her, seasoning the matter without intermission: desiring her amongs other things, to let him understand what displeasure she had conceived in his house, that caused so speedy and secret a departure: adding thereunto, that if her pleasure were, he would accompany her to the place whither she was vowed: and would also reconduct her in his own person to Thurin, in so honourable sort, that she should have cause to be contented. Then passing further, with sighs said unto her. Madame, Fortune had done me a great benefit, if when my sister made her vow to go to Rome, I had lost the battle against mine enemies, and that her vow had been without effect. For it might have been that I should have remained quiet by the loss of some of my people. But alas I feel now, since your coming into this country, a battle so cruel, and assault so furious in my heart, as not being able any longer to resist it, I find myself vanquished, and caught captive, in such sort, that I know not to whom to complain, but to you, which is the motion of all my disquietness. And yet, which grieveth me most, you dissemble as though you did not understand it. And to bring me to my last end, you are departed this day out of my house, not deigning to see me, or to appease me with one farewell, which hath so further inflamed my passion, that I die a thousand times in a day. Beseeching you for the time to come, to entreat me more favourably, or you shall see me, in that state, wherein you would be loath to see your enemy: Which is, most cruel death. And in deed, he showed sufficiently, how great the grief was that priest him, & how well the passion that he felt, was agreeable to the words which he spoke. For in pronouncing his words he sighed so in his tale, and changed his colour so often, and had his face so besprent with tears, that it seemed his soul attached with superfluous sorrow, would at that very instant have abandoned his body. Which the Princess perceiving, touching at the quick the very spring of all his evil, said unto him. Signior Mendozza, I know not what you would that I should do more for you, nor for what occasion you do pretend, that I should be the cause of your death. For if the occasion thereof should happen through my default, my life by strength or ability could not endure one hour after, for the sorrow I should conceive thereof. Think me to be yours, and be not offended, I beseech you, if openly I do no longer talk with you. For I would not to win all the goods in the world, that any of this train which doth accompany me, should perceive any one spark of the great kindled fire, wherein my heart burneth day and night for your sake, being assured that if you had felt one hour of my pain, in place to accuse me of cruelty, yourself complaining, would pity the grief which I have sustained for your long absence. For without the continual presence of your person, representing itself in the eyes of mine understanding, with a firm hope once to have seen you: it had been impossible for me, to resist the long and hard assault, where with love hath every hour assailed me. But one thing I must needs confess unto you, that by reason of the cold welcome which you made me in the beginning, I thought it proceeded of some evil opinion conceived of me, or peradventure, that you had thought me over liberal of mine honour, to have left the country where I command, to render myself subject to your good grace, which caused me without leave to departed your house. But now that I do know by your countenance and tears, the contrary: I acknowledge my fault, and desire you to forget it. With full promise, that at my return from my voyage of S. james I will make you amends, in the very same place, where I committed the fault. And remaining your prisoner for a certain time, I will not departed from you, until I have satisfied, by sufficient penance the greatness of my trespass. In the mean time you shall content yourself with my good will: and without passing any further return again home to your Castle, for fear lest some suspicious person in my company should conceive that in me, which all the days of my life I never gave occasion, so much as once to think. To whom the Lord of Mendozza obeyed, more to content her, than otherwise, for he had the beauties and good behaviours of the Princess, so imprinted in the most pleasant place of his heart, that he would have desired never to have departed her company. But like as they determined iocundly, to employ and satisfy their desires, at her return from her voyage: even so Fortune in the mean while did beset the same, and so fully broke the thread of their enterprises, that the issue had not so good success, as was their prefixed hope. Now leave we the Duchess, to perform her voyage, and the Lord of Mendozza to entertain his amorous passions, and let us digress to the Duke, who about ten or xii days after the Duchess his wife was departed, began to feel her absence, which not being able to sustain for the great love that he bore unto her, and specially knowing the great fault that he had committed (being the sister of a King and wife of such a Prince) so to let her go, like an unfeathered shaft, in so long a voyage: determined with himself (for fear lest if any misfortune should happen unto her, the same should touch his honour) to call together his counsel, and to provide some remedy. The counsel assembled, and the cause proponed, every of them told the Duke that he had over lightly consented to the will of the Duchess, and that if she should happen to fall into any inconvenience, all men would impute it to his reproach, whereof they would have advertised him, at the beginning, saving for fear they had to displease him: Adding for conclusion, that it was most expedient the Duke should put himself on the sea to go and seek her in Galicia. Which he did, and embarked himself with a great company of gentlemen, to whom the wind was so favourable, that he arrived at S. james before her. And having made inquiry for her, understood she was not come. Nevertheless he was advertised by certain pilgrims, that it could not be long before she would be there, for that they had left her not past three or four days journey from thence: travailing with her train, by small journeys, whereof the Duke was exceeding glad, and sent certain of his gentlemen to meet her upon the way, as she came, who travailed not far before they met the Duchess with her company, and did her to understand of the Duke's arrival and of the cause of his coming from Thurin. Which tidings was not very joyful to her, and by her will would have wished that he had not taken so much pains. Nevertheless, preferring honour before affection, she made the more haste to see him, and at her arrival, seemed to be glad of his coming, and to lament the pain that he had taken, by committing himself in so many dangers for her sake. Afterwards they entered into the church with great devotion, where when the Duchess had made certain particular prayers, she began to perceive that God had withstanded her lascivious will, and pitying the good Duke her husband, whould not permit him to be deceived in such disloyal sort, repentantly bewailing her forepast fault. And seling herself pressed even at the very soul with a certain remorse of conscience, she was so victorious over her affections, that she determined wholly to forget Mendozza and his beauty. Praising God nevertheless that it had pleased him to grant her the grace so well to dispose her matters, that her affections had not exceeded the bonds of honour: Determining from thenceforth, not only to put Mendozza in utter oblivion, but also for ever clearly to cut of his amorous practice: and therefore would not so much as did him once farewell, nor yet to let him in any wise understand those news. And so settled in this deliberation, solicited her husband very instantly to departed, which he did, and all things prepared to the sea, they took again their course to Thurin, and had the wind so prosperous, that from thence in few days they arrived at Marseilles. And weary of the seas, he caused horses to be prepared to ride from thence to Thurin by land, where he and his wife lived together in right great joy and amity. The Lord of Mendozza greatly pained with the long absence of the Duchess, sent a gentleman of purpose to Galicia, to know the occasion of her long tarrying. Who brought certain news that the Duke was comen in person, to fetch his wise, and that he had carried her away with him by sea. Where withal he was marvelously out of patience, determining nevertheless one day when his affairs were in good order, to go visit her at Thurin. During the time that these things remained in this estate, aswell of the one side, as of the other: the Almains prepared a great army, and entered into France where they wasted & burned all the country as they passed. The King being advertised hereof, sent for the Duke of savoy to go meet them with the men of arms of France. But before his departure from Thurin, he left for his Lieutenant general, the Earl of Pancalier, by the advise and counsel of whom he intended that all the affairs of the Duchy should be ruled and governed in his absence, and that he should in so ample wise be honoured and obeyed, as his own proper person. This Earl of Pancalier being a noble man, very prudent in his doings, and knew right well how to govern the common wealth, seeing the he had the whole country at his commandment, and himself many times in presence of the Duchess, and viewing her so fair and comely, could not so well rule his affections, but that by little and little he fell in love with the Duchess, in such wise as that he forgot himself, making no conscience to offer his service unto her. But the Princess who was resolved to live a good woman, abhorred all his lascivious orations, requiring him to be better advised another time, before he presumed to utter such talk, except to such as were his equals. Telling him that a man ought not to be so unshamefast to offer his service to any great Lady, or to make other suit unto her, before he had first known by her gesture or words, some likelihood of love: which he could not deem in her, forsomuch as she neither to him or to any other had ever (till the day in all her life) showed such favour, as other suspicion could be conceived, than that which was convenable and meet for her honour. Which when the County of Pancalier underslode, he took his leave of her, ashamed of that he had done. But he following the custom of lovers, not thinking himself cast of for the first refuse, eftsoons renewed his requests. And framing a loving style, besought her to have pity upon him, and to respect the greatness of his passion: and that he could not long prolong his life without the favour of her good grace, who only was the very remedy of his evil. The Duchess pestered with such like talk, said unto him. Sir County, me think you aught to have satisfied yourself with my first refusal, without further continuance in the pursuing of your rash enterprise. Have you forgotten the place that you keep, and the honour whereunto my Lord the Duke my husband hath exalted you? Is this now the loyal reward that you render unto him for creating you his Lieutenant over all his lands and signiories, to demand the pre-eminence of his bed? Assure yourself for final warning, that if ever hereafter you shall again fall into like error, I swear unto you by the faith of a Princess, that I will make you to be chastised in such sort, as all semblable Traitors and disloyal servants shall take example. The Earl seeing himself refused, and thus rebuked, and in doubt that the Princess would make her husband to understand his enterprise upon his return, changing this great love into an hate more than mortal, determined whatsoever should come thereof, to invent all means possible, utterly to destroy the Duchess. And after that he had fancied divers things in his mind, he devised by the instinct of the devil) to cause one of his Nephews, being of the age only of xviij. or twenty years, which was his heir apparent, for that he had no children, one of the fairest and best conditioned Gentlemen of all Thurin, to sort that devilish attempt to purpose. m And finding opportunity, one day he said to the young man (that depended wholly upon him) these words. Nephew, thou knowest that all the hope thou hast in this world lieth in me alone, making account of thee as of my child. And for that it pleased God to give me no children, I have constituted and ordained thee my sole and only heir with full hope that from henceforth thou wilt account thyself most bound unto me, and therefore obedient in all things which I shall command thee, specially in that which may be most for thine advancement. The Duke as thou knowest, is absent, old, and crooked and at all hours in the mercy of death through dangers of the wars. Now if he should chance to die, my desire is to marry thee with some great Lady: Yea and if it were possible with the Duchess, herself, which God knoweth what profit it would bring both to thee and thine, & in my judgement an easy matter to compass, if thou wilt despose thyself after my counsel, or at least wise, if thou canst not come to the title of husband, thou mayst not fail to be received as her friend. Thou art a comely Gentleman, & in good favour with the Duchess, as I have oftentimes perceived by her communication, albeit that holding fast the bridle of her honour she hath been afraid hitherto to open herself unto thee. Spare not my goods, make thyself brave from henceforth whatsoever it cost, and be diligent to please her in all that thou mayst, and time shall make thee know that which thy tender years hath hitherto hidden from thee. The poor young man, giving saith to the unfaithful inventions of his uncle (whom he counted as his Father) began oft to frequent the presence of the Duchess, and shamefastlye to solicit her by looks and other offices of humanity, as nature had taught him, continuing that order by the space of a month. Which perceived by the Duchess, she was diligent for her part to accept the honest & affectionate service that the young man daily did unto her, and showed unto him likewise a certain courteous favour always, more than to the rest of the Pages, aswell for the birth and beauty where withal nature had enriched him, as for that she fawe him inclined to do her service more than the rest, not thinking of any dishonest appetite in the young man, nor of the malice of his uncle, who having none other felicity in the world, but in revenge of the Duchess his enemy, not able to bear the cruel vengeance rooted in his heart, determined to play double or quit. And calling his Nephew before him he said unto him. My child, I do perceive and see that thou art one of the most happiest gentlemen of all Europe, if thou knewest how to follow thine own good luck. For the Duchess not only is amorous of thee, but also consumeth for earnest love which she beareth to thee. But as thou knowest women be shamefast and would be sued unto in secret, and do delight to be deceived of men, to th'end it might seem how with deceit or force they were constrained to grant that unto them, which of their own minds they would willingly offer, were it not for a little shame fastness that withdraweth them. And thereof assure thyself, for I have oftentimes experimented the same, to my great contentation. Wherefore credit my Council, and follow mine advise. And thou thyself shalt confess unto me, before to morrow at this time, that thou art the happiest man of the world. I will, then that this night when thou seest convenient time, thou shalt convey thyself secretly into the chamber of the Duchess, and to hide thyself a good way under the bed, for fear of being perceived by any creature: where thou shalt remain until an hour after midnight, when all men be in the depth of their sleep. And when thou perceivest every man at rest, thou shalt closely rise, and approaching the Duchess bed, thou shalt tell what thou art, and I am sure for the earnest love which she beareth thee, and for the long absence of her husband, she will courteously receive thee between her arms, & feast thee with such delicate pleasures, as amorous folk do their lovers. The simple young man giving faith to the words of his uncle that was honoured as a King (thinking perhaps that it proceeded by the persuasion of the Duchess) followed his commandment, and obeyed wholly his traitorous and abominable request. And opportunity found, accomplished from point to point, that which his cruel uncle had commanded, who a little before midnight, fearing lest his treason should be discovered, took with him three Counsellors, and certain other of the Guard of the Castle. Whereunto as Lieutenant to the Duke, he might both enter & issue forth at all times when he lift, and without declaring his enterprise, went strait to the portal of the Duchess chamber, & knocking at the door, said that the Duke was come. Which being opened, he entered in with a number of lights, accompanied with the Guard, having a rapier ready drawn in his hand, like a furious man besides himself, began to look round about, and under the bed of the Duchess, from whence he caused his own proper Nephew to be drawn. To whom without giving him leisure to speak one word for fear lest his mischief should be discovered, he said. O detestable villain, thou shalt die, and there withal" he thrust the rapier into him, up to the hard hilts, and doubling the blow to make him fail of his speech, he gave him another overthwart the throat, so fiercely that the poor innocent after he had a little réeled to and fro, fell down stark dead to the ground. When he had put up his rapier, he turned towards the Counsellors, and said unto them. My friends, this is not the first time that I have espied the lascivious and dishonest love between this my locherous Nephew and the Duchess, whom I have caused to die, to honourably in respect of his desert. For by the very rigour of the law, he deserved to have been burnt quick, or else to be torn in pieces with four horses. But my Lady the Duchess I mean not to punish, or to provide chastisement for her: For you be not ignorant, that the ancient custom of Lombardie and Savoie requireth, that every woman taken in adultery shall be burned alive, if with in a year & a day she find not a Champion to fight the combase for her innocency. But for the bounden duery that I dear to my Lord the Duke, and for respect of the estate which he hath committed to my charge, I will to morrow dispatch a Post, to make him understand the whole accident as it is come to pass. And the Duchess shall remain in this Chambre, with certain of her maids, under sure keeping and safeguard. All this time the Duchess who had both judgement and spirit so good as any Princess that reigned in her time, suspected straightways the treason of the Earl. And with a pitiful eye beholding the dead body of her Page, fetching a deep sigh, cried out. Oh innocent soul which sometime gavest life to this body that now is but earth, thou art now in place where thou seest clearly the iniquity of the murderer, that lately did put thee to death. And having made an end of this exlamation with her arms a cross, she remained as in a sown without moving either hand or foot. And after she had continued a while in that estate, she desired the Counsellors to cause the body to be buried, and to restore it to the earth whereof it had the first creation. For (quoth she) it hath not deserved to be tied to the gibbet, and to be food for birds of the air. Which they granted not without a certain grievous suspicion between her and the Page. For so much as she excused not herself, but the innocency of him, without speaking any word of her own particular justification. This pitiefull adventure was out of hand published through all the city, with so great sorrow and murmur of the people, that it seemed as though the enemies had sacked the town. For there was not one, from the very lest to the greatest of all, but did both love and reverence the Duchess, in such sort that it seemed unto them, that this misfortune was fallen upon every one of their children. The Earl of Pancalier did nothing all that day, but dispatch the Posts. And having caused all the whole matter to be registered as it was seen to be done: he commanded, the Counsellors, and them of the Guard, to subscribe his letters. And all the matter being put in order he sent away two Currors with diligence, the one into England to advertise the King her brother, and the other to the Duke. Who being, arrived, each man in his place, presented their charges. Whereunto both the brother and the husband gave full credit without any manner of difficulty: persuaded principally thereunto by the death of the Nephew. Who (as it was very likely) had not been put to death by his own uncle, and of whom he was also the very heir, without his most grievous fault, praising greatly the fidelity of the Earl, that had not pardoned his own proper blood, to conserve his duty and honour so his sovereign Lord. And it was concluded between them, by deliberate advise & counsel, aswell of those of the King of England, as by a great number of learned men of France, whom the french king made to assemble for that respect in favour of the Duke that the custom should be inviolably kept, as if it were for the most simple damsel of all the country: to the end that in time to come, great Lords and Ladies which be as it were lamps to give light to others, might take example. And that from thenceforth they should not suffer their virtues to be obscured by the clouds of such execrable vices. The King of England to gratify the Earl of Pancalier: who (in his judgement) had showed himself right noble in this act, sent him an excellent harness, with a sword of the self same tramp by the courier, with letters of answer written with his own hand, how he understood the manner of his proceedings. And the messenger used such diligence, that within few days he arrived at Thurin. Shortly after that the King of England had sent back the courier, the Duke of Savoie returned his, whom he stayed so much the longer, because the matter touched him more near. And he would that it should be debated by most grave and deliberate counsel. And when he had resolved, he wrote to the counsellors and other Magistrates of Thurin, above all things to have respect that the custom should be inviolably kept, and that they should not in any case favour the adultery of his wife, upon pain of death. Then in particular, he wrote his letters to the Earl, whereby he did greatly allow his fidelity, for the which he hoped to make him such recompense, as both he and his, should taste thereof during their lives. The courier of the Duke arrived, and the matter proponed in counsel, it was judged, that (following the ancient custom) a pillar of Marble should be placed in the fields near Thurin: which is between the bridge of the river Poo and the city, whereupon should be written the accusation of the Earl of Pancalier against the Duchess. Which the Duchess understanding (having none other company but Emilia, and a young damsel) despoiled herself of her silken garments, and did put on mourning weed, martyred with an infinite numbered of sundry torments, seeing herself abandoned of all worldly succour, made her complaints to God: beseeching him with tears to be protector of her innocency. Emilia who understood by her, that she was unjustly accused, and seeing the imminent peril that was prepared for her, determined by her accustomed prudence to provide therefore. And after she had a little comforted her, she said unto her. Madame, the case so requireth now, that you should not consume time, in tears and other womanish plaints, which can nothing diminish your evil. It seems most expedient unto me, that you fortify yourself against your enemy, and to find some meáne to send Master Appian in post to the Duke of Mendozza, one of the best renowned in prowess of all the Knights in Spain, who being advertised of your misfortune, will provide so well for your affairs, (that your honour being recovered) your life shall remain assured. Wherefore if you will follow mine advise, you shall write him an earnest letter (as you know right well how to indite) which Appian shall present on your behalf. For if you follow not this counsel, I know none other as the world goeth now, that will hazard his life under the condition of so strange a lot as yours is, specially having respect to the renown and magnanimity of the Earl, who as you know, is in reputation to be one of the most valiant men and most happy in arms that is in all savoy or Lombardie. My dear friend (quoth the Duchess) do what thou wilt. For I am so resolved and confirmed in my sorrow, that I have no care either of death or life, no more than if I had never been borne. For neither in the one, nor in the other, can I foresee any remedy for mine honour already lost. Madam (quod Emilia) let us for this time leave the care of honour in the hands of God, who knoweth both how to keep it, and restore it, as shall seem good unto him. And let us give order for our part, that there be no want of diligence, for fear of being overtaken. And having made an end of her tale, she gave her ink and paper, saying unto her. Now Madam I shall see at this pinch, if your heart will serve you at a need or no. The Duchess withdrew herself a part and after she had long discoursed in her mind of that which was passed between the knight and her, she wrote unto him as followeth.  
My Lord Mendozza, I do not write these letters unto you, upon any hope to be delivered by your mean from the poinaunt prick of fierce death which doth besiege me, knowing death always to be the true port & sure refuge of all afflicted persons in my case. For since that God willeth it, nature permitteth it, and my heavy Fortune consenteth to it, I will receive it with a right good will, knowing that the Grave is none other but a strong rampire and impregnable castle, wherein we close ourselves against the assaults of life, and the furious storms of fortune. It is far better (as appeareth manifestly by me) with eyes shut, to wait in the Grave, than longer to experiment life (the eyes being open) living with so many troubles upon earth. But gladly would I bring to remembrance, and set before your eyes how sometime I abandoned the place, which was no less dear unto me than mine own country where I was borne, and delicately nourished in honour and delights, to extend myself into an infinite number of perils, contrary to the duty of those that be of mine estate, losing the name of a princess to take the title of a caytise pilgrim, for the only fervent and unmeasured love which I bore you, before I did ever see you, or by any means bound thereunto by any your proceeding benefits. The remembrance whereof (as I think) ought now to deliver such an hard enterprise, to the port of your conscience, that breaking the vail of your tender heart, you should therefore take pity and compassion of my strange and cruel Fortune. Which is not only reduced to the mercy of a most dolorous prison, and resteth in the power of a bloody and merciless Tyrant: But (which is worse) in the continual hazard of a shameful death. Which I do not much lament having long desired to accelerate the same with mine own hands, to find rest in an other world: were it not that by death I should leave an eternal blot to my good name, and a perpetual heritage of infamy to my house and kindred. Wherefore if it so be, that friendship looketh for no reward, and that she cannot be paid, but by the tribute of another friendship, make me now to taste the ancient fruit of my friendship. And if pity be the sole and only key of Paradise, display it now on the behalf of her, who (forsaken of all humane succour) attendeth but the fatal hour to he thrown into the fire as a poor innocent lamb in sacrifice. And for that the bearer shall make you understand the rest by mouth (whom it may please you to credit as mine own self) I will make an end of my heavy letter. Beseeching God to give a good life unto you and to me an honourable death.  
The letter closed and seated up with the seal of the Duchess, she commanded Emilia to deliver it to Appian, and to require him to use diligence, not ceasing to ride day and night until he come to the place where they left the knight Mendozza, giving charge to make him understand (at length) her innocency and false accusation. Appian being dispatched, was so affected to please his mistress, and so desirous to see her delivered of her imprisonment, that he ceased not to travail day and night, till he came within the Frontiers of Spain. And after that he had ridden yet two or three days journey: approaching near the place where he thought to find the Knight Mendozza, he began to inquire of the host of the Inn where he lay that night, aswell of his good health, as of his other affairs, who made him answer, that it went even so evil with him at that present, as with the most poorest gentleman of all Spain. Although that he were in deed a very great Lord. For (qudo he) with in these few months past, his enemies of Toledo, whom he hath divers times vanquished, have so well allied themselves together out of all parts of Spain, that they have brought a great army to the field. And Fortune of the war hath been so favourable unto them, that they discomfited Mendozza and all his army. Who hath retired himself, with those few of his people that he could save alive, into a little town of his, where yet to this present he is besieged. And so it is, (as every man saith,) that he doth his endeavour marvelously well, in such sort that his enemies can not enter the town. Master Appian then demanded of him, if the town besieged, were far of. And he answered, that it was about vij or eight posts. Then without making any longer inquiry, he took a guide that accompanied him even almost to the camp. And when he saw the town a far of, he sent the guide back again, and went the same day, to offer his service to a certain Captain of light horsemen, who received him into wages, and then he bought armour to serve the purpose. And Master Appian besides his learning was a wise & politic man, and determined so soon as any skirmish did begin, to be foremost, and in deed he used the matter so well, that he suffered himself to be taken prisoner and to be carried into the town. And being within, he desired those that had taken him, to conduct him to the Lord of Mendozza their Chieftain. Who knew him by and by, for that in the voyage which the Duchess made into Spain, he saw him ever more near her, than any other of her gentlemen. And after that the Lord of Mendozza had demanded of him by what means he entered the town. Upon his answer, he perceived that he was a man of good experience, and well affected to the service of his Mistress, that durst hazard his life in such wise, to obey her desire. Incontinently Master Appian delivered unto him the Duchess letter. Which when he had read, he retired into his chamber with Master Appian, having his face all bedewed with tears. And because that the letter did import credit, he prayed Master Appian to declare his charge. Who said unto him. My Lady the Duchess which is at this day the most afflicted Princess under the cope of Heaven, commendeth herself unto your honour, and doth humbly beseech you, not to be offended for that at her last being in Galicia, she departed without accomplishing her promise made unto you. Praying you to impute the fault upon the importunity of the Duke her husband. Whom being constrained to obey, she could not satisfy the good will that she bore unto you. Then he began to declare in order how the Earl of Pancalier was enamoured of her, and not being able to obtain his desire, caused his Nephew to hide him under her bed: and how he had slain him with his own hands. Finally, the imprisonment of the Duchess, and the judgement given against her. Whereof the Lord of Mendozza was greatly astoned. And when he had heard the whole discourse, he began to conceive some evil opinion of the Duchess. Thinking it to be incredible, that the Earl of Pancalier would so forget himself, as to murder his own proper Nephew and adopted son, to be revenged of a silly woman. Nevertheless, he dissembled that which he thought, in the presence of Master Appian, and said unto him. Appian my friend, if mine adverse Fortune did not speak sufficiently for me, I could tell thee here a long tale of my miseries. But the seest into what extremity I am presently reduced, in sort that I am utterly unable to succour thy mistress, I myself still attending the hour of death. And all that which presently I am able to do for thee, is to set thee at liberty, from the peril prepared for us. And without longer talk, he caused a hot skirmish to be given to his enemies, to set Appian at large: who being issued forth, made certain of his men to conduct him to place of surety. Appian seeing no way for Mendozza to abandon his city for peril of death prepared for him and his, thought his excuse reasonable. And to attempt some other Fortune, he used such diligence, that he in short time was returned to Thurin, where having communicated the whole matter to Emilia, she went straight to the Duchess, to whom she said. Madame God give you the grace to be so constant in your adversities, as you have occasion to be miscontented with the heavy news that Appian hath brought you. And then she began to recount unto her the misfortune of Mendozza, the thraldom whereunto his enemies had brought him, and for conclusion, that there was no hope of help to be expected at his hands. Which when the Duchess understood she cried out. Oh poor unhappy woman amongst all the most desolate and sorrowful: Thou mayst well now say that the light of thy life from henceforth beginneth to extinguish and grow to an end: seeing, the succour of him, upon whom depended thine assurance, is denied thee. Ah ingrate Knight. Now know I right well (but it is to late) that of the extreme love that I have borne thee, sprung the first root of all mine evil, which came not by any accident of Fortune, but from celestial dispensation and divine providence of my God. Who now doth permit that mine Hypocrisy and counterfeit devotion shall receive condign chastisement for my sin. And then Emilia, seeing her so confounded in tears, said unto her. Madame it doth evil become a great and wise Princess, (as you hitherto have ever been reputed) for to torment herself: sith that you know how all the afflictions which we receive from heaven, be but proves of our fidelity, or as yourself confesseth by your complaints, to be just punishment for our sins. Now then be it the one or the other, you ought to fortify yourself against the hard assault of your sorrow. And to remit the whole to the mercy of God, who of his abundant grace, will deliver you of your trouble, as he hath done many others, who when they thought themselves forsaken of all help, and caused certain drops of his pity, to rain down upon them. Alas dear heart (quoth the Duchess,) how easy a matter it is for one that is hole, to comfort her that is sick. But if thou feltest my grief, thou wouldst help me to complain. So grievous a matter it is unto me, with life to lose mine honour. And I must confess unto thee, that I sustain a very cruel assault, both against death and life, and I cannot either with the one or with the other, have peace or truce in myself. Ne yet do know how to dissemble my sorrow, but that in the end the same will be discovered by the fumes of mine ardent sighs, which thinking to constrain or retain, I do nothing else but bury myself within mine own body: Assuring thee, that greater is one drop of blood that swelleth the heart within, than all the tears that may be wept in the whole life without. Wherefore I pray thee leave me a little to complain my dolour, before I go to the place from whence I shall never return. Emilia that willingly would have sacrificed herself to redeem the Princess from peril, not being able any longer to endure the hard attempt where with pity constrained her heart, was forced to go forth and to withdraw herself, into another chamber, where she began to lament after so strange manner, that it seemed it had been she, that was destened to death. Whiles that these Ladies continued thus in their sorrows, the Knight Mendozza take no rest by day or night, ne ceased continually to think upon the misfortune of the Duchess. And after that he had well considered the same, he accused himself for failing her at that her great need, saying. Now do I well know that I am for ever hereafter utterly unworthy to bear arms, or to have the honourable title of a Knight, sith the same order was given unto me, with charge to secure afflicted persons, specially Ladies, whose force only consisteth in tears. And yet nevertheless, I (like a caitise) have so shamefully neglected my duty towards the chief person of the world, to whom I am greatly bounden, that I die a thousand times, that day wherein I think upon the same. It behoveth me then from henceforth to establish new laws to my deliberation, and that I break the gate of mine ancient rigour: loving much better to die in honour, poor, & disinherited, than to live, puissant, unhappy, & a coward. Wherefore let fortune work her will. Sithence the Duchess did forsake her country, to come to see me in her prosperity, I may no less do now, but visit her in her adversity. Pressed and solicited inwardly with this new desire determined with himself, hap what hap might, to go to her rescue. And having given order to all that was necessary for the defence of the City, putting his confidence in the fidelity of those that were within: caused all his Captains to be called before him: Whom he did to understand, how he was determined to go seek succour, to levy the siege of his enemies. During which time he constituted his near kinsman, his lieutenant general, and the next morning before the day appeared he gave a great all arm to his enemies, wherein he escaped unknown. Being mounted upon a jennet of Spain and perceiving himself out of all peril, he took post horse, and made such expedition that he arrived at Lions, where he provided himself of the best armour that he could get for money, and of two excellent good horses, whereof one was a courser of Naples. And having gotten a certain unknown Page, took his way to Thurin, where being arrived, he lodged himself in the suburbs, demanding of his host if their dwelled any Spaniards in the town, who made him answer, that he knew none but one, which was a good old religious father, that for the space of twenty years was never out of Thurin, a man of virtuous life, and well-beloved of all the Citizens, and had the charge of a certain convent. Nevertheless his lodging was apart from his brethren, to solace himself, and to avoid the incommodity of his age. The Knight having learned of his host the place were this good father dwelled, went with diligence, betimes in the morning, to see him, and said unto him in the Spanish tongue. Father God save you. I am a Spaniard comen hither into this country for certain mine affairs, towards whom you might do a charitable deed, if it would please you to suffer me to remain with you for four or five days only, craving nothing else but lodging: For my servant shall provide for other necessaries, which the good father willingly granted, much marveling at his goodly parsonage. And whiles the Servant was gone to the town to buy victuals, the good father demawded of him, of what country in Spain he was, which the knight frankly confessed. And the fatherly man then having his face all be sprent with tears said. Praised be the name of God, that he hath given me the grace before I die, to see so great a Lord in my poor house, of whom I am both the subject and neighbour. And then he began to tell him how for devotion he had forsaken his native country and had bestowed himself there, the better to withdraw him from worldly vanity. Nevertheless he said, that he knew his father, his mother, & his grandfather. Desiring him to use his house at commandment, where he should be obeyed as if he were in his own. And then the Lord of Mendozza said unto him, that he was departed from Spain, of purpose to see France, and there to make his abode for a time. And the passing by Lions, one advertised him of the infortunate chance of the Duchess, whom if he thought to be innocent of the crime whereof she was accused, he would defend her to the shedding of the last drop of his blood. Nevertheless he would not hazard his life or soul, to defend her, if he knew she were culpable. Which words the good man greatly allowed, saying unto him. My Lord, touching her innocency, I believe there is at this day no man living, but herself and the Earl, her accuser, that can judge. But of one thing I can well assure you, that we here, do deem her to be one of the best Princesses, that ever reigned in this country, specially for that about a year past, she went on foot to S. james, with such denotion and humility, that there was no man but pitied to see her so mortified for her soul health. And to combat with the Earl of Pancalier, you seem unto me very young. For besides the continual exercise that he hath always had in arms, he is withal esteemed, to be one of the strongest, readiest and most redoubted knights of all Lombardie. The victory notwithstanding is in the hand of God, and he can give it, to whom he pleaseth: Which he made manifest in the young infant David, against the monstrous Giant Golias. To whom the knight answered. Father I have devised a way how to provide against the scruple of my conscience, touching the doubt conceived by me, whether the combat that I shall take in hand against the Earl of Pancalier, be just or not, which is, that I under the colour of confession, might understand of the Duchess, the truth of the matter. And so likewise if you think good, I may cause my head and beard to be shaven, & appareling myself in such habit as you do wear, we may easily (as I think) with the leave of her keepers, go into the Duchess chamber, to exhort her to patience: for about this time of the year the day is expired. Whereunto the good Father without any great difficulty, consented, aswell for respect of his good zeal, as for his reverent duty to the nobility of the stock whereof she came. And so all things provided, they went together, towards the Castle of the Duchess. And he that then had seen the Knight Mendozza in his friars apparel, would uneaths have discerned him, to be so great a Lord as he was. For besides the dissembled gestures, and countenances, wherewith he knew right well how to behave himself, he was so lean and poor, aswell for the care of the battle he lost, and overthrow of his people, as for the myssehay of the Duchess and the peril of his life at hand, by reason of the combat between the Earl and him, that he resembled rather a holy Saint Jerome, mortified in some desert, than a Lord, so noble and valiant as he was. Arrived at the Castle, the old father addressed himself to the Guard and said. Master's because the time for the death of the miserable Duchess doth approach, we be come hither to give her such spiritual comfort, where with God hath inspired us, hoping that he will this day give us the grace to induce her to die patiently, to the intent that by loss of the body, her soul may be saved. Whereunto they accorded willingly, and caused the chamber to be opened unto them. Those which were which her in the chamber went forth incontinently, thinking that the governor had caused those good fathers to come to hear the last confession of the poor Duchess, who was so sorrowful and pensive that she was forced to keep her bed: which came very well to pass. For the knight Mendozza being near to her bed, with his face towards her, so counterfeited himself in the day, that he could not in any manner of wise be known. And good old father Friar tarried in a corner of the chamber a far of, that he might hear none of their talk. And as the Lord of Mendozza leaned him upon her bedside, he said unto her in the Italian tongue, which was so familiar to him, as the Spanish. Madame the peace of our Lord be with you. Whereunto the Lady answered. Father why speak you of peace, sith I am in continual war, deprived of all contentation, and do but attend the last end of all my calamity, which is a most cruel and shameful death, without desert. And then the Lord of Mendozza, who had consumed the most part of his youth in good letters, said unto her. I believe Madam you be not ignorant that miseries and tribulations which come upon people, fall not by accident or fortune, but by the providence or dispensation of God, before whom one little sparrow only is not forgotten, as the prophet Amos doth manifest unto us, when he saith: There is none evil in the City that I have not sent thither. Which is also apparent in job, whom the devil could not afflict, before he had first obtained licence of God. And it is necessary for you to know, that tribulation and affliction be tokens of the forechosen and elected people of God, and the true marks of our salvation. So that if you consider the order of all the Scriptures, since the beginning of the world until our time, you shall find that those whom God hath always best loved and cherished, he hath commanded to drink of the cup of his passion, and to be more afflicted than others: examples whereof be common in the Scriptures. As when Abel was afflicted by Cain his brother, Isaak by his brother Ishmael, joseph by his brethren, Davide by Absalon his son, the children of Israel (the elect people of God) by Pharaoh. Which things being profoundly considered by S. Paul, he said. If we had not another hope in jesus Christ, than in the life present, we might well say that we were the most miserable of all others. And yet moreover saith he, it is little or nothing that we endure, in respect of that which jesus Christ hath suffered. Who (although he he framed the whole work of the world) was called the Carpenter's son for preaching, he was slandered, he was carried up to a mountain to be thrown down, he was called glutton, drunkard, lover of Publicans and sinners, Samaritane, Seducer, Devil: saying, that in the name of Belzebub he did cast out Devils. But let us consider Madam, a little further, what things were done unto him, he was naked to cloth us, prisoner and bound to unbind us from the chain of the Devil, made a sacrifice to cleanse us of all our inward filth, we do see that he suffered his side to be opened, to close up Hell from us, we see his hands which in so comely order made both Heaven and Earth for the love of us, pierced with pricking nails, his head crowned with three sharped thorns to crown us with heavenvly glory. Let us weigh that by his dolour came our joy, our health grew of his infirmity, of his death was derived our life: and should we be ashamed to have our head touched with a few thorns of trouble? Strengthen yourself then (Madam) in the name of God, and make you ready to receive death in the name of him that was not ashamed to endure it for you. Is his strong hand any thing weakened? Is it not in him to overthrow the fury of your enemy, and so to humble your adversary that he shall never be able to be relieved? How many poor afflicted persons have there been seen to be abandoned of all succour, whom he hath beheld with his pitiful eye, and restored to greater ease and contentation, than ever they were in before? Learn then from henceforth, to comfort yourself in God, and say as the great Doctor holy Ignatius said in his Epistle to the Romans. I desire that the fire, the gallows, the beasts, and all the torments of the Devil might exercise, their cruelty upon me, so as I may have fruition of my Lord God. And after that the Knight had made an end of his consolation, the Duchess was so rapt in contentation, that it seemed her soul had already tasted of the celestial delights, and would fly even up into heaven. And then feeling herself lightened like one that had escaped some furious tempest of the seas, she began to confess herself unto him from point to point, without omitting any thing of that which she thought might grieve her conscience. And when she came to the accusation of the Earl, she prayed God not to pardon her sins, if she had committed in deed or thought, any thing contrary to the duty of marriage, except it were one dishonest affection that she had borne to a knight of Spain, whom under pretence of a feigned devotion, she had visited in Spain, not committing any thing saving good will which she bore unto him. Which maketh me think (quoth she) that God being moved against mine hypocrisy, hath permitted this false accusation to be raised against me by the Earl of Pancalier, which I will patiently suffer, sith his will is so. Her confession finished, she plucked of a rich Diamond which she had upon her finger saying. Good father, albeith I have heretofore been a rich Princess as you know, yet they have now taken away all my goods from me (this Diamond except) which my brother the King of England gave me, when I was married to the Duke of Savoie. And because I cannot otherwise do you good, I give it unto you, praying you to remember me in your prayers, & to keep it. For it is of a greater price than you think, and may serve one day to supply the necessity of your convent. The confession ended and the Diamond received, the two Friars returned home to their convent. And so soon as they were arrived there, the Lord of Mendozza said unto him. Father, now do I know certainly, that this poor woman is innocent, wherefore I am resolved to defend her so long as life doth last. And I feel myself so touched and pressed in mind, that I think it long till I be at the combat. Wherefore I pray you if it chance that fortune be contrary unto me, after my death, make it to be openly known what I am, and chief that the Duchess may understand it, for special purpose. And if it chance that I escape with life, (which can not be but by the death of the Earl) be secret unto me in these things which I have declared under the veil of confession. The good father promised so to do. And having passed all that day and night in prayers and supplications, he armed himself, and made ready his courser. And when the dawning of the day began to appear, he went in his armour to the gates of the city, and calling one of the Guard, said unto him. Good fellow I pray thee go bid the Count of Pancalier to prepare himself, to maintain the false accusation, which he hath made against the Duchess of Savoie. And further tell him, that there is a knight here, that will make him to deny that accusation before he part the field, and will in the presence of all the people cut out that perjured tongue, which durst commit such treason against an innocent Princess. This matter was in a moment published throughout all the city, in such sort, that you might have seen the Churches full of men and women, who prayed to God for the redemption of their mistress. During the time that the Guard had done his embassage, the Lord of Mendozza went towards the pillar where the accusation was written, attending when the accuser should come forth. The Earl of Pancalier advertised hereof, began incontinently to feel a certain remorse of conscience, which inwardly gripped him so near, that he endured a torment like to very death. And being unable to discharge himself thereof, would willingly have wished that he had never committed the same. Nevertheless to the intent he might not seem slack, he sent word to the knight, that he should write his name upon the pillar, to whom Mendozza made answer, that he might not know his name, but the combat he would make him feel before the day went down. The Earl of Pancalier made difficulty at the combat, if first and foremost he knew not the name of him with whom he should have to do. The matter well advised, it was clearly resolved by the judges, that the statutes made no mention of the name, and therefore he was not bound thereunto, but that the statute did expressly favour the defendant, giving unto him the election of the armour, and semblably it was requisite that the person accused, should be brought forth in the presence of the two Champions. Which things understanded by the Earl, albeit that he trusted not his quarrel, yet making a virtue of necessity, and not unlearned in the order of such conflicts, forthwith armed himself, and came into the place ordained for the camp, where he found his enemy armed, in a black armour, in token of mourning. Immediately after, they sent for the Duchess, who ignorant of the matter, wondered much, when she understood there was a knight in the field armed all in black, seeming to be a noble man, that promised some great matter by his dexterity and bold countenance, and would also maintain against the Earl of Pancalier, his accusation to be false. The poor Duchess than not being able to imagine what he should be, greatly troubled in her mind, and coming forth of the Castle, was conducted in a litter covered with black cloth, accompanied with more than two hundred Ladies and damsels, in semblable attire, unto the place, where the judges, the people, and the two Knights were, who did but attend her coming. And after they had wayghted her going up to a little stage ordained for that purpose, the Deputies, for the assurance of the camp, demanded of her these words, saying. Madame For that you be accused of adultery by the Earl of Pancalier here present, and the custom requireth that you present a Knight with in the year and day, by force of arms to try your right: are you determined to accept him that is here present, and to repose yourself upon him, both for your fault and innocency? The Duchess answered, that she committed all her right into the mercy of God, who knew the inward thoughts of her heart, and to the manhood of the Knight, albeit she thought that she had never seen him. And when she had ended those words, she fell down upon her knees, then lifting up her eyes all blubbered with tears towards heaven, she said. O Lord God which art the very verity itself, and knowest the bitterness that I feel in my heart, to see myself falsely accused, show forth now the treasure of thy grace upon me wretched Princess. And as thou didst deliver Susanna from her trouble, and judith from Holosernes, deliver me from the hand of a Tyrant. Who like a Lion hungry for my blood, devoureth both mine honour and life. And having made an end of her prayer, she remained unmovable as if she had been in a trance. And now the Knight Mendozza, offended to see the Earl to prance his horse up and down the camp, making him to vault and leap, with a countenance very furious said unto him. Traitoure Count, because I am certain that the accusation which thou hast forged against this Princess, is invented by the greatest villainy of the world, I do maintain here before all these people, that thou hast falsely accused her, & that thou liest in thy Throat, in all that thou hast contrived against her, and that the hast deserved to be put into a sack, to be cast into the river for that murder that thou hast committed upon thy Nephew, the innocent blood of whom, doth now cry for vengeance to be taken for thy sin before god. And scarce had he made an end of his words, but the Earl answered him with a marvelous audacity. Infamous villain, which hidest thy name for fear lest thy vices should be known, thou art now foully deceived by thinking to warrant her, who hath offended against the Duke her husband, by her whoredom & adultery. And for that thou hast parled so proudly, and wilt not be known, I can not otherwise think but that thou art some one of her ruffians. And therefore I do maintain, that thou thyself dost lie, & that thou deservest to be burnt in the same fire with her, or else to be drawn with four horses by the cross paths of this town, to serve for an example in the worlds to come, not only for all lascivious Ladies & Dansels, but also for such mischievous whoremongers, as be like to thyself. Incontinently after, the Herald of arms began to make the accustomed cry, and the Knights to put their Lances in their rests, they let run their Horses with such violence, that joining themselves, their shields, their bodies and heads together, they broke their staves, even to their hard Gauntlets, so roughly, that they fell both down to the ground without losing, nevertheless the reins of the bridles. But the heat of the heart, and desire to vanguish, made them readily to get up again, & having cast away the troncheons of the staves, laid hands on their sword, and there began so strange and cruel a stir between them, that they which were the beholders were affighted to see them able to endure so much. For they were so fleshed one upon another, and did so thick bestow their strokes without breathing, that the lookers on confessed never to have seen any combat in Piemonte between two single people, so furious, nor better followed than that of the Earl and of the Knight Mendozza. But the Spanish Knight encouraged with the justice of his quarrel, and the reward of his fight, seemed to redouble his force. For even then when every man thought that power must needs fail him, it was the hour wherein he did best behave himself. In such sort, that his enemy, not being able any longer to endure his puissant strokes, being wounded in divers parts of his body, did now no more but defend himself, and bear of the blows which were bestowed without intermission upon all the parts of his body. Which the Spanish knight perceiving, desirous to make an end of the combat, made so full a blow with all his force upon the top of his helmet, that he wounded his head very sore. Wherewithal the heart of the Earl began very much to faint, and staggering here & there like a drunken man or troubled in his senses, was constrained to fall down from his horse. And then the Lord of Mendozza dismounting himself, and taking hold upon the corpse of his shield, plucked it so rudely to him that he overturned him on his other side. Then with the pommel of his sword he did so sweetly bombast him, that he made his helmet to fly of his head. And serting his foot upon his throat, made as though with the point of his sword he would have killed him, saying. Count, the hour is now come that thou must go make an account with God of thine untruth and treason which thou hast committed against the Duchess. Ah sir knight (quoth the Earl) have pity upon me, and kill me not I beseech thee before I have a little bethought me of my conscience. Uillayne (quoth the spaniard) if I had any hope of thine amendment, I would willingly give thee delay of life. But being a traitor as thou art, thou wilt never cease to afflict innocents. Nevertheless if thou wilt acknowledge thy fault publicly, and require pardon of the Duchess, I will willingly leave thee to the mercy of the Duke, although that if I did observe the rigour of the law, I should cause thee presently to receive the pain prepared for the Duchess. To whom he obeyed for safeguard of his life, and kneeling on his knees before the Duchess in the presence of all the people made a long discourse of his love towards her, of the repulse that she gave him, and that for revenge, he aided himself with his Nephew, thinking to overthrow her chastity. Finally, how he had slain his Nephew, to induce the Duke to judge her to be culpable of the adulterry. And then turning his face towards the Duchess, said unto her. Madame it behoveth me to confess that the loss of this one life is to little to pay the tribute of the cureless fault that I have committed against you. Yet sith it is so, I beseech you by preferring pity and mercy before the rigour of your justice, you will permit that I may live yet certain days to make a view of my life paste, and to provide for the scruple of my conscience. Then new joy approached to garnish the spirit of the Duchess, and both the soul and the heart began to show themselves joyful, in such wise, that she was a long time without power to speak, & did nothing else but join her hands & lift up her eyes to Heaven, saying. O Lord God, praised be thy holy name, for that thou hast caused the bright beams of thy divinity, to shine upon the darkness, of my sorrowful life, enforcing so well the mind of this traitor the murderer of mine honour by the pricks of thy rigorous justice, openly to acknowledge before all men, the injury that he hath done me. And without speaking any more words, she turned her face for fear lest she should make him any other answer. Then all the people began to laud and magnify God, and to sing Psalms for joy of the deliverance of their Duchess, who was brought back and reconducted into the city, with so great triumph, as if she had made a second entry. Whilst these things were a doing, the deputies for the surety of the camp caused the wounded Earl to be borne to prison. The knight Mendozza stale secretly away, and after that he had in the next village dressed certain small wounds that he had received in the combat, he took his way to Spain. In the mean time, the Duchess caused him to be sought for in every place, but it was not possible to know any more news of him, than if he had been never seen. Whereat being grieved beyond measure, she made her moan to Emilia, to know wherefore he should so absent himself from her. Madam (quod Emilia) he is sure some French knight or else it may be some kinsman of your own, who is come out of England into these parts for certain other affairs. And fearing lest he should be stayed here, will not be known, reserving the manifestation of himself till another time more apt for his purpose. Let him be what he may be (said the Duchess) for so long as my soul shall remain within my body, I will do him homage during my life. For the which I am so duly bound debtor unto him, as never subject was to his sovereign Lord. In this time, whilst these matters went thus at Thurin, the Duke of savoy, who was Lieutenant general for the King against the Almains, encountering with his enemies in a skirmish, by fortune was slain. Whereof the King of England being advertised, and specially of the delivery of his sister, desirous to have her about him, sent for her to marry her again, and to leave unto her the entire government of his household. And to grateste her at her first arrival, he gave the rule of his daughter unto her, which was of the age of xvi or xvij years, with whom by certain means there was a marriage practised for the Prince of Spain.  
Let us now leave the Duchess to live in honour with her brother, and return we to the Lord of Mendozza, who being arrived near unto his city, understood incontinently that they which had besieged it had levied their camp. For that they of the town had so well done their endeavour, that not only their enemies were not able to enter: But also they had in a certain skirmish taken the Lord Ladulphe their Chieftain prisoner, who was yet to that present detained: because means were made for peace to be concluded on all sides. Nevertheless they durst do nothing without him. Whereat the Lord of Mendozza, being replenished with great joy to see his affairs prosper so well in all parts entered the city. And the articles of the peace communicated unto him, he found them very profitable for him. And being concluded & approved by him, he began to solace himself in his own house, without taking care for any thing save only from thenceforth to think by what mean he might go to see the Duchess, and recount unto her the issue of his affairs. But fortune prepared him a more ready occasion than he thought of. For the King of Spain being advertised of certain talks that had been bruited of the marriage of his son with the daughter of the King of England, determined with speed; to send a great company of noble men thither, to demand his daughter in marriage. Of the which the Lord of Mendozza, as well for his nobility, as for the knowledge which he had in languages, and other good disciplines, was elected chief, with special commission to accord the marriage in case it should so please the King. The Ambassadors used such expedition, that they arrived at London where the King for the present made his abode. Who advertised of their coming, gave commandment to the Princess his daughter, & to the Duchess his sister, to prepare themselves to receive a great company of Lords of Spain, which that day would come to his court to treat of the aforesaid marriage. And God knoweth if the Ladies spared ought of that which they thought might augment their beauty. The King also for his part, to do them more honour, went to meet them in person, and at their arrival, gave them a most friendly welcome. But suddenly as they presented themselves to do their reverence to the Ladies: the Duchess who incontinently knew the Lord of Mendozza, began so to detest him, that she was not able to rule herself, but (with a sudden mutation of colour) she must needs abandon the company. The Lord of Mendozza, knowing the original of her grief, left not his duty undone towards the Princess, and other Ladies, which accompanied her, dissembling to have taken no regard to th'absence of the Duchess. And Emilia, who had followed her mistress into the chamber, fearing least there were some sudden mischance happened, demanded of her, wherefore she was retired from a company so honourable: and said that she did great wrong to her own estimation. To whom the Duchess (with extreme choler) made answer. Why Emilia, thinkest thou that I have the heart to suffer my hand to be kissed, by that most traitorous and cowardly Knight of the world, who made no conscience to abandon me in the most greatest necessity of my life? whereas I contrary to the duty of all the laws of honour, and contrary to my sex, did so much abase myself, as to visit him in Spain. Nay, rather my days shall cease their course, than mine affection shall ever revive in him: He shall never receive any other favour of me, but as of his most cruel and mortal enemy. And then Emilia smiling, said unto her. In good earnest Madam, I thought that the sharpness of your imprisonment, with the other torments paste, which you have endured, might have put all these matters quite in oblinion, and would so have mortified you, that you had wholly lost all desire of revenge. But so far as I can perceive, I am deceived of mine account, seeing that suddenly, so soon as you beheld the knight Mendozza, you began to fly, as if your ghostly enemy had come before you, in his most hideous and horrible form. Yet could not Emilia persuade her, to show herself abroad before dinner, till the King sent for her, with word that if she came not, he would himself fetch her. And then a little shamefast colour, began to renew her Alabaster cheeks, which rendered her so ruddy and fair, that the Spaniards confessed, never to have seen in any part of the world, where they had been; one so fair and beautiful a widow. The tables covered for dinner, the king took his place, and for their more honourable entertainment, caused them to be set at his own table: and made the Lord of Mendozza, to be placed face to face with the Duchess his sister: Who was so inflamed and moved with choler, that she durst not lift up her eyes for fear least upon the sudden she should be perceived: Which eyes sparkling sometimes with great ire, resembled properly two stars of the night, that shoot forth their brightness upon the earth, when all things be in silence. And all this time the Lord of Mendozza, conceived such pleasure at these pretty toys, that he would not have changed his joy for the best city in all England. And as the Duchess in this order did firmly fix her eyes, she saw by fortune a rich Diamond that Mendozza ware upon his finger: Whereupon having oftentimes cast her eyes, she suddenly knew that it was the very same that she had given to the good father that confessed her at Thurin, the day before she was lead to the pillar: and began then to imagine with herself, how it might be that he could come by the same. And not knowing what to say immediately after she had dined, and the tables taken up, she caused Master Appian her Physician to be called unto her: whom she desired to know of the Lord of Mendozza, by what means he came by the Diamond that he ware upon his finger. Which Appian did. And after he had talked with the knight of certain common matters, he said unto him. My Lord, you have a very fair Diamond thee, which as I think, I have seen before this time, wherefore Sir I pray you tell me where you had it. To whom the Lord of Mendozza answered in laughing wise. Master Appian, where I had the ring, is to secret for you to know, but tell my Lady the Duchess, that the knowledge thereof only appertaineth unto her. Which answer Appian declared to the Duchess. And albeit that she took no great pleasure in the answer: Yet nevertheless very desirous to understand the truth, she repaired to the knight which the same time walked alone in a Gallery, who after he had kissed her hands, began to discourse of his fortunes past, declaring unto her, that he repented, of the refusal that he made to Master Appian for her succour, and how within a while after he road to Thurin: adding the devise whereby he had heard her confession: and how the Diamond came into his hands, putting her in remembrance from word to word, of all his talk with her, during the time that he was in friars weed, then finally his victory against the Earl, his secret flight, and all the whole as before hath been declared. Whereat the Duchess no less abashed than rapt with joy and admiration, fell down in a swoon between his arms, holding her mouth so fast closed against his, that it seemed she would draw the soul out of his body, to join and unite with hers. And after she had remained a while in this trance, she cried out. O poor heart so long time plagued. Which hast for the space of a year now passed, bene-tossed with so many tempests and divers assaults of Fortune. receive at this present the medicine apt for thy health, sithence thou enjoyest him between thine arms, that by the price of his blood, valiant force, and extreme travails, hath raised thee from death to life. Let fortune from henceforth do her will in that she is able to devise against me. And yet will I for this only benefit, confess myself this day to be eternally bound unto her. Madam (quoth the Knight) I pray you let us not renew the memory of our former griefs: wherein if by any mean, I have done you good, I was but the organ or instrument thereof. For God, who is the righter of all wrong, did never suffer justice without his due vengeance, how long so ever he tarried. So (you not being in any wise culpable) if I had never enterprised the combat whereunto I was bound: Our lord God would have raised some other to achieve the same. Well then my Lord (q the Duchess) sithence it pleaseth you not, that I renew my dolours passed, which have taken end by your mean: I shall humbly beseech you to excuse me, if this day I have not given you that honour and good entertainment which you deserved: Assuring you that before you shall depart this country, I will make you amends according unto your own discretion. Madam (quoth the Knight) for all the wrongs that ever you did unto me, (if they may be called wrongs) the courtesy, favour and gentleness which already I have received, doth at one instant acquit and recompense. neverless if it may please you to receive me for your second husband, sith it hath pleased God to call your first out of this life into another: that is and shall be the fullness of all the felicity that I look for in this world. My Lord Mendozza (said the Duchess) the recompense which you demand of me, is very little in respect of the amends and satisfaction which I ought to make you. But of one thing I can well assure you, that if I had the whole world at my commandment, and that I were the best Princess of the earth, in all kind of beauties and gifts of grace, I would willingly submit myself unto you, in consideration of your worthiness, & benefits bestowed upon me with so willing a mind, as presently I do yield unto your request. And I must needs confess, that I am now greatly bound to Fortune, that hath delivered me into your hands, from whom I hope never to be severed, so long as my soul shall rest within my body: being predestinated as I believe, to no other end, but to serve and obey you. And as they thought to make a longer discourse of their talk, Emilia told them, that the King was in counsel, and that the other Lords of Spain attended his coming. Who with his company, being come before the king, & having done their reverence unto him, he began to declare his charge, and how they were of purpose sent to his majesty, in the behalf of the King of Spain, to demawd the Lady his daughter in marriage, for his son the prince of Spain: Which he had chosen aswell to have his alliance, (a matter by him only desired) as for the beauty & good grace, for the which she was specially recommended. And if so be, he had willed to have chosen his match elsewhere, that there was not at that day, any Prince in all Europa, that would not willingly have accorded unto him. To whom the king answered, My friends, I feel myself so much honoured, for that it hath pleased the King to send unto me, as if he had not prevented me, I had thought to have sent unto him for the same purpose. And albeit that, herein he hath vanquished me in civility and courtesy: yet I will not fail if I can to surmount him in amity. For he hath bound me during life, in such wise, that he and my Lord his son, may boldly vaunt themselves, to have a King of England and a realm, from henceforth at their commandment. The marriage concluded, the Duchess diligently made suit to talk with the king alone, to communicate unto him, the agreement between the Lord of Mendozza and her. And perceiving that the king was gone into his chamber, she went unto him, and being alone with him, having her face all bedewed with tears, kneeling, she said unto him. My Lord, when I consider my miseries past, and the cruel assaults that I have received of Fortune, being not only committed to the mercy of a most cruel prison: but (which is more) at the very last point of a shameful death: I am so afflicted, that the only remembrance of those miseries terrifieth me, and causeth a certain extreme bitterness to rise in my heart. And when on the other side, I think of the great goodness that almighty God hath showed unto me, by stretching forth his mighty hand to deliver me out of that peril: chief to make me triumph, over the death of mine enemy. I feel such comfort of mind, that all the delights of the world, be but griefs, in respect of the joy, pleasure and contentation, that I receive. Wherein nothing offendeth me so much as hitherto that I have not acknowledged the benefit received of him, who was elected of God to be my deliverer: nevertheless sir, by your only word, you may both satisfy him, and content me, yea and (as it were) prolong the days of my life. The King, who loved his sister no less than his daughter, seeing her pitiful complaint and tears, and to speak with such affection, took her up, and holding her by the arm, said unto her. Dear sister and friend, if I have not to this present, satisfied him that was the cause of your deliverance, I can not be accused of ingratitude, for that hitherto I have not known him, ne yet yourself doth know what he is, (as you have oftentimes told me:) But of one thing you may be assured: and I swear unto you at this present, by my Sceptre, that, so soon as I shall understand what he is, I will use him in such wise, as he shall think himself satisfied and contented, though it did cost me the one half of my kingdom. For the pleasure which he hath done unto you, bindeth not you alone, but me also, to be partaker of that band, both our honours being jointly bound thereunto. Alas my Lord (said the Duchess) it is the knight Mendozza, chief of this Ambassade, to whom, if it please you to give your consent that we two might marry, all ancient bands and debts shall remain extinct, and so, by a small reward, you shall restore life to two persons, almost dead, for the excessive love which one beareth to the other. And therewithal she began to declare to the King, th'original and process of the whole discourse. First the voyage of the sister of Mendozza into Piedmont, her own peregrination to S. james, the honest amity between her & Mendozza the message of master Appian to Mendozza, his refusal of that request, his return after to Thurin, her confession, the Diamond known again, finally, how all the whole had passed between them, the counterfeit devotion to Saint james, only reserved) which for her honour's sake she would not tell him. The king understanding this strange discourse, was so rapt with joy, and appalled with gladness, that he could not for a long time, make any answer. When his passion was moderated, he said to his sister. But be you well assured, that he will receive you for his wife? Yea my Lord (quoth she) I ought well to be assured of it, since he himself hath made the request. And truly (qoud the king,) God forbid that I should be the cause, to break so holy an accord. For if the Lord of Mendozza were inferior in quality, nobility, and goods, than he is: yet hath he so much done, both for you & me, as we may not honestly refuse him. How much more than be we bound, to him: being a great Lord as he is, issued of noble and famous families of Spain, rich in goods, and having hazarded his life for the conservation of your honour: and there withal seeketh mine alliance. Go your ways, (dear sister and friend) go your ways, make much of him, and entreat him, as you think best. And when I have walked two or three tornes here, I will come unto him, to communicate more amply of these matters. Scarce had the Duchess leisure to advertise the Lord of Mendozza of that which was concluded between the king and her, but he came down into the Hall, where the most part of the Spanish Gentlemen walked, and with a very joyful countenance went to the knight. To whom he said. My Lord Mendozza, I pray you to embrace me. For, so far as I see, I have a better interest in you than I thought. And the Lord of Mendozza, thinking to embrace him, his knee upon the ground, was immediately desired to stand up. Whom the king cleping about the neck, said unto him, so loud that every man might hear. Sir knight, by the God of heaven, since that I might command in the realm of England, I have not entertained gentleman, nor Prince, to whom I have been more indebted than to you: nor never was there any dearer unto me, than you, for the great gratitude and kindness, wherewith you have bound me, whereby I shall not from henceforth be satisfied, until I have in some thing acknowledged the bond wherein I am bound unto you. When he had spoken those words, he began to declare from point to point, in the presence of all the assembly, the contents of the whole before declared history. Whereat, there was none in all the company, but that was greatly astoned at the prudence of Mendozza, by so well dissembling, and accomplishing so great enterprises, without making them manifest. And the King of England, commanded that the marriage of him and his sister should be published through out his realm, that all his nobility might be assembled. And for his greater honour, the King did from thenceforth constitute him his high Constable of England, and reposed himself in him, as upon a firm pillar, for the administration of the wayghtiest affairs of his realm. And the marriage solemnized & consummate with the Duchess, he returned into Spain, to accompany the Prince into England, whose marriage was celebrated at London, in the King of England's daughter, with such pomp, and solemnity, as semblable Princes be commonly accustomed to do in like cases.   

The Countess of Salesburie  
A King of England, loved the daughter of one of his noble men, which was Countess of Salesburie, who after great suit to achieve that he could not win, for the entire love he bore unto her, and her great constancy, made her his Queen and wife.  
¶ The xluj Novel.  
This History ensuing, describing the perfect figure of womanhode, the natural quality of Love incensing the hearts indifferently of all Nature's children, the lively image of a good conditioned Prince, the zealous love of parents, and the glorious reward that chastity conduceth to her imbracers, I deem worthy to be annexed to the former Novel, wherein as you have heard, be contained the strange adventures of a fair & innocent Duchess. Whose life tried like gold in the furnace, glittereth at this day, like a bright starry planet, shining in the firmament with most splendent brightness above all the rest, to the eternal praise of feminine kind. And as a noble Duke of savoy, by heat of loves rage, pursued the loving trace of a King of England's sister married into Spain, even so a renowned and most victorious Prince (as the Author of them both affirmeth thorough the fury of that passion, which (as Apuleus saith) in the first heat is but small, but abounding by increase, doth set all men on fire) maketh earnest suit by discourse of words, to a Lady herself, a Countess, and Earls daughter, a beautiful and fair wight, a creature incomparable, the wife of a noble man his own subject: who seeing her constant fort to be impregnable, after pleasant suit and mild request, attempteth by undermining to invade, and when with siege prolix, he perceiveth no ingenious devise can achieve that long and painful work, he threateth might and main, dire and cruel assaults, to win and get the same, and last of all surrendered into his hands, and the prisoner crying for mercy, he mercifully is contented to mitigate his conceived rigour, and pitifully to release the Lady, whom for her womanly stoutness and courageous constancy, he embraceth and entertaigneth for his own. This great and worthy king, by the first view of a delicate Lady, thorough the sap of Love soaked into his noble heart, was transported into many passions, and rapt into infinite pangs, which afterwards, bred him great disquietness. This worthy Prince (I say) who before that time like an Alexandre, was able to conquer and gain whole kingdoms, & made all France to quake for fear, at whose approach the gates of every City did fly open, and fame of him provoked each Frenchman's knee to bow, whose helmet was made of manhodes tramp, and mace well stéeled with stout attempts, was by the weakest stay of dame Nature's frame, a woman: (shaped with no visage stern or ugly look) affrighted and appalled, whose heart was armed with no lethal sword or deadly lance, but with a Curate of honour & weapon of womanhood, and for all his glorious conquests, she durst by singular combat to give refusal to his face. Which singular perseveration in defence of her chastity inexpugnable, esclarisheth to the whole flock of womankind, the bright beams of wisdom, virtue, and honesty. No prayers, entreaty, supplication, tears, sobs, sighs, or other like humane actions, poured forth of a Princess heart, could withdraw her from the bounds of honesty. No promise, present, practice, devise, suit, friend, parent, letter, or counsellor, could make her to stray out of the limits of virtue. No threat, menace, rigour, fear, punishment, exile, terror, or other cruelty, could divert her from the siege of constancy. In her youthly time, till her marriage day, she delighted in virginity, From her marriage day during her widow state, she rejoiced in chastity. The one she conserved like a hardy Cloelia, the other she kept like a constant Panthea. This notable history therefore I have purposed to make common, aswell for encouragement of Ladies to embrace Constancy, as to embolden them in the refusal of dishonest suits, for which if they do not acquire semblable honour, as this Lady did, yet they shall not be frustrate of the due reward incident to honour, which is, fame, & immortal praise. Gentlemen may learn by the success of this discourse, what torments be in Love, what travails in pursuit, what passions like ague fits, what disconueniences, what lost labour, what plaints, what griefs, what unnatural attempts be forced. Many other notorious examples be contained in the same, to the great comfort and pleasure, as I trust, of the well advised reader. And although the author of the same, perchance hath not rightly touched the proper names of the Authors of this tragedy, by perfect appellations: as Edward the third for his eldest son Edward the Prince of Wales (who as I read in Fabian) married the Countess of Salesburie, which before was Countess of Kent, & wife unto sir Thomas Holland: & whose name, (as Polidore saith) was jane, daughter to Edmund Earl of Kent, of whom the same Prince Edward, begat Edward that died in his childish years, & Richard that afterwards was King of England the second of that name, & for that she was kin to him, was divorced, whose said father married Philip, daughter to the Earl of Henault, & had by her vij sons: And AElips for the name of the said Countess, being none such amongs our vulgar terms, but Frosard remembreth her name to be Alice, which in deed is common amongs us: and the Castle of Salesberic where there is none by that name, upon the Frontiers of Scotland albeit the same Frosard doth make mention of a castle of the Earl of Salesburies', given unto him by Edward the third when he was Sir William Montague, and married the said Lady Alice, for his service and prowess against the Scots: and Rosamburghe for Roxboroughe: and that the said Edward when he saw that he could not by love and other persuasions attain the Countess, but by force, married the same Countess, which is altogether untrue, for that Polydore and other authors, do remember but one wife that he had, which was the said virtuous Queen Philip, with other like defaults: yet the grace of the History for all those errors is not diminished. Whereof I thought good to give this advertisement. And weighing with myself that by the publishing hereof, no dishonour can redound to the illustre race of our noble Kings and Princes, ne yet to the blemishing of the fame of that noble king, eternised for his victories and virtues in the ancient annals, Chronicles and monuments, foreign and domestical, (because all nature's children be thrall and subject to the infirmities of their first parents,) I do with submission humbly refer the same, to the judgement and correction of them, to whom it shall appertain. Which being considered, the Novel doth begin in this form and order.  
THere was a King of England named Edward, which had to his first wife, the daughter of the Count of Henault, of whom he had children, the eldest whereof was called also Edward, the renowned Prince of Wales, who besides Poitiers subdued the french men, took john the French King prisoner, and sent him into England. This Edward father of the Prince of Wales, was not only a capital enemy of the French men, but also had continual wars with the Scots his neighbours, and seeing himself so disquieted on every side, ordained for his Lieutenant upon the frontiers of Scotland, one of his captains, named William Lord Montague. To whom because he had fortified Roxboroughe, and addressed many enterprises against the enemies, he gave the Earldom of Salesburie, and married him honourably with one of the fairest Ladies of England. Certain days after, King Edward sent him into Flaundres, in the company of the Earl of Suffolk, where Fortune was so contrary, that they were both taken prisoners, by the French men, and sent to the Louvre at Paris. The Scots hearing tell of their discomfiture, and how the marches were destitute of a governor, they speedily sent thither an army, with intent to take the Countess prisoner, to raise her Castle & to make booty of the riches that was there. But the Earl of Salesburie before his departure, had given so good order, that their success was not such as they hoped. For they were so lively repelled by them that were within, that not able to endure their fury, in stead of making their approaches, they were constrained to go further of. And having intelligence by certain spies, that the King of England was departed from London, with a great army, to come to secure the Countess, perceiving that a far of, they were able to do little good, they were fame shortly to retire home again to their shame. King Edward departed from London, travailing by great journeys with his army towards Salesberic, was advertised, that the Scots were discamped, and fled again into Scotland. Albeit they had so spoiled the Castle in many places, that the marks there, gave sufficient witness, what their intent and meaning was. And although the King had thought to return back again upon their retire, yet being advertised of the great battery, and of the hot assault that they had given to the Castle, he went forth to visit the place. The Countess whose name was AElips, understanding of the kings coming, causing all things to be in so good readiness, as the shortness of the time could serve, furnished herself so well as she could with a certain numbered of Gentlewomen and soldiers that remained, to issue forth to meet the King, who besides her natural beauty, for the which she was recommended above all the Ladies of her province, was enriched with the furniture of virtue and courtesy. Which made her so incomparable, that at one instant, she ravished the hearts of all the Princes & Lords that did beheld her, in such wise, that there was no talk in all the army, but of her graces and virtue, and specially of her excellent and surpassing beauty. The king having made reverence unto her, after he had well viewed all her gestures and countenances, thought that he had never seen a more goodlier creature. Then rapt with an incredible admiration he said unto her. Madame Countess, I do believe, that if in this attire and furniture wherein you now be, accompanied with so rare and excellent beauty, ye had been placed upon one of the rampires of your Castle, you had made more breaches with the looks & beams of your sparkling eyes, in the hearts of your enemies, than they had been able to have done in your Castle, with their thundering Ordinance. The Countess somewhat shamefast and abashed, to hear herself so greatly praised of a Prince so great, began to blush and taint with roseal colour, the whiteness of her alabaster face. Then lifting up her bashful eyes, somewhat towards the king, she said unto him. My sovereign Lord, your grace may speak your pleasure. But I am well assured, that if you had seen the numbered of shot, which by the space of twelve hours were bestowed so thick as hail, upon every part of the Fort, you might have judged what good will the Scots did bear unto me and my people. And for myself I am assured, that if I had made proof of that which you say, and submitted myself to their mercy, my body now had been dissolved into dust. The king astoned with so sage & wise an answer, changing his mind, went toward the Castle: where after interteignement and accustomed welcome, he began by little and little, to feel himself attached with a new fire. Which the more he laboured to resist, the more it inflamed. And feeling this new mutation in himself, there came into his mind, an infinite numbered of matters, balancing between hope and fear, sometimes determining to yield unto his passions, & sometimes thinking clearly to cut them of, for fear least by committing himself to his affections, the urgent affairs of the wars, wherewith he was involved, should have ill success. But in the end vanquished with Love, he purposed to prove the heart of the Countess, and the better to attain the same, he took her by the hand, and prayed her to show him the commodities of the fortress. Which she did so well, and with so good grace, interteigning him all that while with infinite talk of divers matters, that the little griftes of Love which were scarcely planted, began to grow so far, as the roots remained engraven in the depth of his heart. And the King not able any longer to endure such a charge in his mind, pressed with grief, devised by what means he might enjoy her, which was the cause of his disquiet. But the Countess seeing him so pensive, without any apparent occasion, said unto him. Sir I do not a little marvel, to see you reduced into these alterations. For (me think) your grace is marvelously changed with in these two or three hours, that your highness vouchsafed to enter into this Castle for my succour and relief in so good time, that all the days of my life, both I and mine be greatly bound unto you, as to him which is not only content eliberallie to have bestowed upon us, the goods which we possess, but also by his generosity, doth conserve and defend us from the incursions of the enemy. Wherein your grace doth deserve double praise, for a deed so charitable. But I cannot tell nor yet devise, what should be the occasion that your highness is so pensive and sorrowful, sith without great loss on your part, your enemies understanding of your stout approach, be retired, which ought, as I suppose, to drive away the melancholy from your stomach, and to revoke your former joy, for so much as victory acquired without effusion of blood, is always most noble and acceptable before God. The King hearing this angels voice, so amiably pronouncing these words, thinking that of her own accord she came to make him merry, determined to let her understand his grief, upon so convenient occasion offered. Then with a trembling voice he said unto her. Ah Madam, how far be my thoughts far different from those which you do think me to have, I feel my heart so oppressed with care, that it is impossible to tell you what it is, howheit the same hath not been of long continuance, being attached there withal, since my coming hither, which troubleth me so sore, that I cannot tell whereupon well to determine. The Countess seeing the King thus moved, not knowing the cause why, was uncertain what answer to make. Which the king perceiving, said unto her, fetching a deep sigh from the bottom of his stomach. And what say you Madam thereunto, can you give me no remedy? The Countess, which never thought that any such dishonesty could take place in the kings heart, taking things in good part, said unto him. Sir, I know not what remedy to give you, if first you do not discover unto me the grief. But if it trouble you, that the Scottish king hath spoiled your country, the loss is not so great, as wherewith, a prince so mighty as you be, need to be offended: sithence by the grace of God, the vengeance lieth in your hand, and you may in time chasten him, as at other times you have done. Whereunto, the king seeing her simplicity, answered. Madame the beginning of my grief riseth not of that, but my wound resteth in the inward part of my heart, which pricketh me so sore, that if I desire from henceforth to prolong my life, I must open the same unto you, reserving the cause thereof, so secret that none but you and I must be partakers. I must now then confess unto you, that in coming to your Castle, and casting down my head to behold your celestial face, and the rest of the graces, wherewith the Heavens have prodigally endued you, I have felt (unhappy man as I am) such a sudden alteration, in all the most sensible parts of my body, that knowing my forces diminished, I can not tell to whom to make my complaint of my liberty lost (which of long time I have so happily preserved) but only to you, that like a faithful keeper and only Treasurer of my heart, you may by some shining beam of pity, bring again to his former mirth and joy, that which you desire in me: and by the contrary, you may procure to me a life more painful and grievous, than a thousand deaths together. When he had ended these words, he held his peace, to let her to speak, attending none other thing by her answer, but the last decree either of death or life. But the Countess with a gravity, conformable to her honesty & honour, without other moving, said unto him. If any other besides your grace, had been so forgetful of himself to enter in these terms, or to use such talk unto me, I know what should be mine answer, and so it might be, that he should have occasion not to be well contented, but knowing this your attempt to proceed rather from the pleasantness of your heart, than for other affection, I will believe from henceforth, and persuade myself, that a Prince so renowned and gentle as you be, doth not think, and much less mean, to attempt any thing against mine honour, which is a thousand times dearer unto me than life. And I am persuaded, that you do not so little esteem my father, and my husband, who is for your service prisoner in the hands of the French men, our mortal enemies, as in their absence to procure unto them such defamation and slander. And by making this request, your grace doth serve from the bounds of Honesty very far, and you do great injury to your fame, if men should know what terms you do use towards me. In like manner, I purpose not to violate the faith, which I have given to my husband, rather I intend to keep the same unspotted, so long as my soul shall be carried in the Chariot of this mortal body. And if I should so far forget myself, as willingly to commit a thing so dishonest, your grace ought for the loyal service of my father and husband toward you, sharply to rebuke me, and to punish me according to my desert. For this cause (most dread sovereign Lord) you which are accustomed to vanquish and subdue other, be now a conqueror over yourself, and thoroughly bridle that concupiscence (if there be any) under the rains of Reason, that being quenched and overcome, they may no more revive in you, and having lively resisted the first assaults, the victory is but easy, which shall be a thousand times more glorious and gainful for you, than if you had conquered a kingdom. The Countess had scarce made an end of her tale, but one came to tell them that the Tables were covered for dinner, the King well fed with Love, dined for that time very soberly, and not able to eat but upon amorous dishes, did cast his looks inconstantly here and there, and still his eyes threw the last look upon that part of the table, where the Countess sat, meaning thereby to extinguish the boiling flames, which incessantly did burn him, howbeit by thinking to cool them, he further plondged himself therein. And wandering thus in divers cogitations, the wise answer that the Countess made, like a vaunt curreur, was continually in his remembrance, and was well assured of her invincible chastity. By reason whereof, seeing that so hard and enterprise, required a longer abode, and that a heart so chaste, could not so quickly be removed from purpose, careful on the other side, to give order to the weighty affairs of his realm, disquieted also on every side, through the turmoil of wars, determined to departed the next day in the morning, reserving till another time more convenient, the pursuit of his love. Having taken order for his departure, in the morning he went to seek the Countess, and taking his leave of her, he prayed her, to think better of the talk made unto her the day before, but above all, he besought her to have pity upon him. Whereunto the Countess answered, that not only she prayed God incessantly to give him victory over his outward enemies, but also grace, to tame that carnal passion, which did so torment him. Certain days after that King Edward was arrived at London, which was the place of his ordinary abode, the Countess of Salesburie was advertised, that the Earl her husband, being out of prison, consumed with grief & sickness, died by the way homewards. And because they had no children, the Earldom returned to the King, which first gave the same unto him. And after she had lamented the death of her husband the space of many days, she returned to her father's house, which was Earl of Warwick. And for so much as he was one of the kings privy Counsel, and the most part of the affairs of the realm passed by his advise and counsel, he continued at London, that he might be more near unto the kings person. The King advertised of the coming of the Countess, thought that fortune had opened a way to bring his enterprise to desired effect, specially for that the death of her husband, and the witness of his earnest good will, would make her more tractable. The king seeing all thing (as he thought) to succeed after his desire, began to renew his first affections, seeking by all means to practise the good will of the Countess, who then was of the age of xxvi years. Afterwards he ordained many triumphs at the Tilt and Torney, Masks, Momeries', feasts, banquets, and other like pastimes, whereat Ladies accustomably do assemble, who made much of them all, and secretly talked with them. Notwithstanding he could not so well disguise and counterfeit his passions, but that he still showed himself to bear best good will to the Countess. Thus the king could not use such discretion in love, but that from his secret fire, some evident flames did issue out: But the Countess which was a wise and courteous Lady, did easily perceive, how the king by changing the place, had not altered his affection, and that he still prosecuted his talk begun at Salesberic. She despising all his amorous countenances, continued her firm and chaste mind. And if it chanced that sometimes the king, made more of her, than discretion required, suddenly might have been descried a certain paleness in her face, which declared the little pleasure that she took in his toys, with a certain rigour appearing, that yielded to the king, an assured testimony that he laboured in vain. Nevertheless she, to cut of all means of the King's pursuit, kept still her father's house, showing herself, in no place where the king might see her. The king offended, seeing himself deprived and banished her presence, whom he esteemed as the comfort of his life, made his secretary privy to the whole matter, whose fidelity he had well proved in matters dangerous, with mind to pursue her by other way, if it chanced that she persisted in her wont rigour and refusal. Howbeit before he proceeded any further, sith he could not secretly talk with her, he purposed to send her a letter, the Tenor whereof ensueth.  
Madam,  
if you please by good advise to consider the beginning of my Love, the continuance of the same, & then the last issue whereunto it is brought, I am assured that laying your hand upon your heart, you will accuse yourself, not only of your cursed and froward stomach hitherto appearing, but also of that new ingratitude, which you show unto me at this hour, not contented to be bathed & plondged by you in the mishap of my pain paste, but yet by a new onset, you abandon your self from my presence, as from the sight of your mortal enemy: wherein I find that heaven and all his influences, do cry out for mine overthrow, whereunto I do agree, since my life taking no vigour and increase, being only sustained by the favour of your divine graces, can not be maintained one only minute of a day, without the liberal help of your sweetness and virtue: beseeching you, that if the hearty prayers of any mortal tormented man, may ever have force and power to move you to pity, it may please you miraculously to deliver from henceforth, this my poor miserable afflicted mind, either from death or martyrdom.  
He that is more yours than his own, Edward the desolate King of England.  
The letter written with his own hand, and sealed with his seal, he commanded the Secretary to go to the Countess, at her father's house, and secretly to deliver the same, which he did. And the Countess having read and perused it, said to the Secretary. My friend, you shall tell the king, that I do beseech him most humbly, to send me no more letters or messages touching the matters, whereof he hath written. For I am in such wise resolved in the answer, which I made him in my Castle, that I will persist immutable, to the end of my life. The Secretary returning, and having recited the answer of the Countess, the King rapt with an impatient and extreme choler, would again attempt an other new way: and consuming by little & little in this amorous fire, began to sort out of the limits of Reason. And almost out of his wits, demanded of his Secretary. Do you think it expedient, that I make request to her father, because I want counsel in other things? To whom the Secretary boldly said, that he thought it unreasonable to seek aid at a father's hands to corrupt his daughter: faithfully telling to the King, the reproach and infamy that would follow thereof, aswell for the old service, that her father had done to his ancestors, as for his great prowess in arms, for which he was so greatly commended. But Love, the mortal enemy of all good council, so blinded the eyes of the king, that without any further deliberation, he commanded the Secretary to go seek the father, to demand help of him for matters of importance: which the Earl understanding, obeyed incontinently, where the King alone in a chamber, lying upon a bed, after he had commanded him to shut the door and to sit down by him, said these words. My Lord, I have caused you to come hither for a certain occasion, which toucheth me so nigh, as the loss or preservation of my life. For never through any assault of Fortune (the sharpness whereof I have often felt) have I been vanquished with so great envy and malice, as now. For I am so vexed with my passions, that being overcome by them, I have none other refuge, but a most unhappy death that ever man can suffer, if presently I be not helped. Know ye therefore, that I deem him only to be happy, that by Reason can rule his wits, not suffering himself to be carried into vain desires: In which point we do differ from beasts, who being lead only by natural order, do indiffenretly run head long, whether their appetite doth guide them: But we with the measure of Reason, aught to moderate our doings with such providence, as with out straying we may choose the right way of equity and justice. And if at any time, the weak flesh doth faint and give over, we have none to blame but ourselves. Who deceived by the fading shadow and false appearance of things, fall into the ditch by ourselves prepared. And that which I do allege, is proved, not without manifest reason, whereof I now do feel experience, having let slip the rains of the bridle to far over my disordinate affections, being drawn from the right hand, & traitorously deceived. And nevertheless I cannot tell how to retire to take the right way, or how to turn my back from that which doth me hurt. Wherefore now (unfortunate & miserable that I am) I acknowledge myself to be like unto him, that followeth his game in the thicket of a wood, rushing through thick and thin at all adventures, not knowing how to find the way he entered in, but rather the more he desireth to follow the trace, the more in the end he is wrapped in the bushes. So it is my Lord, that I cannot and may not for all my foresaid allegations, so colour my fault, or purge mine error, but that I must confess and acknowledge it to be in me. But I speak to this end, that seeking a far of the original of my grief, you would help me to complain, and to take pity upon me. For to tell you the truth, I am so intricated in the Labarinthe of my unbridled will, that the more I do aspire to the better (alas) the worse I am. Have not I good cause to complain my Lord, that after so many famous victories achieved by sea and land, wherewith I have renowned the memory of my name in all places, am now bound and vanquished with an appetite so outrageous, that I can not help myself, whereby mine own life or rather death, is consumed in such anguish and mortal pain, that I am become the very mansion of all mischiefs, and only receptacle of all miseries? What sufficient excuse for my fault may I henceforth allege, that in the end will not display it to be both unprofitable and void of Reason? But what shall be the buckler of my shame, if not my youthly age, which pricketh me forward to leave like a sharp needle? the force whereof I have so oft repelled, that now being vanquished, I have no place for rest, but in thy mercy, who in my father's days, didst liberally spend thy blood, in many notable enterprises in his service, which afterwards thou hast so well continued, that in many dangerous affairs, I have divers times proved the fidelity of thy Counsel, whereby I have brought to pass things of great importance, and therein hitherto never found thee slack and unfaithful. Which when I remember, do provoke me to be bold to declare unto you mine intent, which by your only word you may procure, the fruit whereof being gotten, you shall win the heart of a King, whom you may use as you list all the days of your life. And the more the thing shall seem hard, difficult or painful, the greater your merit shall be, and the more firmly shall he be bound, which doth receive it. Consider then my Lord, how profitable it is, to have a king at your commandment. You have also four sons, whom you cannot honourably advance without my favour: swearing unto you by my regal Sceptre, that if you comfort me in my troubles, I will endue the three youngest, with so large possessions, that they shall have no cause to be offended with their eldest brother. Remember likewise, what rewards I have bestowed upon them that serve me. And if you have known how liberal I have been towards other, think then I pray you, how bountifully you bind me towards you, upon whom my life and death dependeth. The king ending his sorrowful complaint, stopped by sobs and sighs, held his peace. And the Earl who tenderly loved his prince, hearing this pitiful discourse, (the faithful witness of his inward passion) and not able to conjecture the occasion, was marvelously troubled in himself, and without longer advise, overcome with pity, he made a liberal and very sudden offer to the king of his life, his children, and of all that he was able to do. Command, my sovereign Lord (quoth he with weeping tears) what it shall please you to have me to do, if it be, even to bestow mine own life for your sake. For by the faith and foaltie that I do owe to God and to your grace, I swear, that many days and years paste I have bound myself inviolably, and all mine ability without exception, so long as my tongue is able to stir, and my breath shall remain within this body, faithfully and truly to serve your Majesty, not only for that my duty bindeth me, but if it were for your sake, to transgress and exceed the bounds of mine honour. But the good old Earl, which never thought that a request so unjust and dishonest, would have proceeded out of the mouth of a King, with frank and open heart, offered that liberal grant. The king then thinking that he had sounded the depth of the Earl's affection, changing colour, his eyes fixed on the ground, said unto him. Your daughter the Countess of Salesburie, (my Lord) is the only medicine of my travails, whom I do love better than my own life, and do feel myself to inflamed with her Heavenly beauty, that without her grace and favour, I am not able hereafter to live, for this consideration, sith you desire to do me service, and to preserve my life, I pray you to deal so with her, that she with compassion may look upon me. Craving this request at your hands, not without extreme shame, considering aswell your honourable state, as your ancient merits employed upon me and my progenitors. But according to your modesty and accustomed goodness, impute the fault upon amorous love, which in such wise hath alienated my liberty, and confounded my heart, that now ranging out of the bounds of honour & reason, I feel myself tormented & vexed in mind. Whereby I am provoked to make this request, and not able to expel the mortal poison out of my heart, which hath diminished my force, intoxticated my sense, and hath deprived my mind from all good counsel, that I can not tell what to do but to seek to you for help, having no kind of rest, but when I see her, when I speak of her, or think upon her. And I am at this present reduced into so pitiful state, that being not able to win her by entreaties, offers, presents, suits, ambassages and letters, my only and last refuge and assured port of all my miseries, resteth in you, either by death to end my life, or by force to obtain my desire. The Earl hearing the uneivile and beastly demand of his sovereign Lord, blushing for shame, and throughlie astoned, filled also with a certain honest and virtuous disdain, was not able to dissolve his tongue to render a worthy answer to the afflicted Prince. Finally like one awaked from his dead sleep, he said unto him. Sir, my wits fail, my virtue revolteth, my tongue is mute, at those words that proceed from your mouth, whereby I feel myself brought into two so strange and perilous points, that passing either by one or other, I must needs fall into very great danger. But to resolve myself upon that which is most expedient, having given unto you my faith in pledge, to secure and help you even to the abandoning of honour and life, I will not be contrary to my words. And touching my daughter, for whom you have made request, I will reveal unto her the effect of your demand: yet of one thing I must tell you sir, power I have to entreat her, but none at all to force her. Enough it is that she understand of me, what heart and affection you bear unto her. But I do marvel, yea and complain of you, pardon me (most dread sovereign) and suffer me without offence to discharge my grief before your presence, rather than to your shame and mine eternal infamy, it should be manifested and published abroad by other. I say that I marvel sir, what occasion moved you to commit such reproach in my stock & blood, and by an act so shameful and lascivious, to dishonour the same: Which never disdained to serve both you and yours, to the uttermost of their powers. Alas unhappy father that I am, is this the guerdon and recompense that I and my children shall expect for our trusty and faithful services? Oh sir for God's sake, if you list not to be liberal of your own, seek not to dishonour us, and to inflict upon our race, such notable infamy. But who can look for worse at the hands of his mortal and cruel enemy? It is you, even you it is, (most noble Prince) that doth ravish my daughter of her honour, despoil me of my contentation, ye take from my children hardiness to show their faces, & from all our whole house, the ancient fame and glory. It is you that hath obscured the clearness of my blood, with an attempt so dishonest and detestable: that the memory thereof shall never be forgotten. It is you that doth constrain me to be the infamous minister of the total destruction of my progeny, and to be a shameless Pandarus of my daughter's honour. Think you sir, that you mean to help and succour me, when others shall attempt to object before my face this slander and reproach? but if yourself do hurt me, where shall I hereafter seek relief and succour. If the hand which ought to help me, be the very same that doth give me the wound, where shall the hope be of my recovery? For this cause, may it please your Majesty, whether justly I do make my complaint, and whether you give me occasion to advance my cries to the heavens, yourself shall be the judge. For if like a judge in deed you do give over your disordinate affection: I then appeal to the judgement of your invincible mind, accomplished with all courtesy and gentleness. On the other side, I do lament your Fortune, when I think upon the reasons which you have alleged, and the greater cause I have to complain, because I have known you from your youth, and have always deemed you at liberty and free from such passions, not thrall or subject to the flames of Love, but rather given to the exercise of arms. And now seeing you to become a prisoner of an affection unworthy your estate: I can not tell what to think: the novelty of this sudden chance seemeth to be so strange. Remember sir that for a little suspicion of adultery, you caused Roger Mortimer to be put to death. And (being scarce able to tell it without tears) you caused your own mother miserably to die in prison. And God knoweth how small your accusations were and upon how light ground your suspicion was conceived. Do not you know how wonderfully you be molested with wars, and that your enemies travel day and night to cirumvent you, both by sea & land? Is it now time then to give yourself to delights, & to captivate your mind in the pleasures of Ladies? Where is the ancient generosity & nobility of your blood? Where is the magnanimity & valour, wherewith you have astoned your enemies, showed yourself amiable to your friends, and wonderful to your subjects? Touching the last point, whereby you threaten, that if my daughter do not agree to your desire, you will forcibly enjoy her, I will never confess, that to be the fact of a valiant and true king, but of a vile, cowardly, cruel and libidinous tyrant. I trust it be not the pleasure of God, that now at the age you be of, you will begin to force Gentlewomen that be your humble subjects, which if you do, this Island shall lose the name of a Realm, and hereafter shall be deemed none other, but the receptacle of thieves and murderers. If then, (to conclude this my sorrowful and heavy complaint) you may, or can by your flatteries, promises and presents, persuade my daughter to obey your unbridled appetites, I shall have occasion to bewail her dishonesty, and to deem her, as an incontinent daughter, degenerated from the virtues of her progenitors. But touching your own person, I have nothing to say, but that herein you do follow the common sort of men, that be suitors to Ladies, willing to please their fancies. There resteth only now for me to answer the favour, which in time to come you promiss to me and my children. I covet not after any thing reproachful to me or my children, or to any of our posterity, that may make us ashamed, knowing in what contempt and reputation they be, which being borne of base parentage, be arrived to goods and honour, by gratifying and obeying Princes and Kings in their dishonest lusts and appetites. Remember sir, that within these few days, being in camp against the Scots, you upbraided a certain man (which shall be nameless) for being a minister of your father's Love, who was from the state of a Barber, advanced to the degree of an Earl, and how you said, that if in time to come he amended not his manners, you would send him to the shop again. And for my part, I am of opinion, that honest poverty hath ever been the ancient and greatest inheritance amongs the noble Romans, which if it be condemned by the ignorant multitude, and if we therefore do give place to the same, making greater account and estimation, of richesses and treasures, than of virtue: I will say for mine own part, by the grace of God, that I am so abundantly provided, for the maintenance of me and mine, not like an ambitions man or covetous, but as one satisfied with the good will of Fortune, I do most humbly then beseech you (sir) for conclusion, to take in good part, that which my duty and honour do constrain me to speak. And so by your grace's leave, I will depart toward my daughter, to let her understand from point to point your majesties pleasure. And without tarrying for other reply of the King, he went his way discoursing divers things in his mind, upon that which had passed between the King and him. The reasons which the Earl had made, so pierced the affections of the passionate king, that uncertain what to say, he condemned himself, knowing very well, that the Earl not only upon right and just cause, had pronounced those words: but also that he had done the office of a faithful servant and trusty counsellor, in such sort, that feeling his conscience touched at the quick, he could not excuse himself, from committing a dishonest charge to a father so commendable & virtuous in the behalf of his daughter. Thus he determined to change his opinion. Afterwards when he had thrown forth many sighs, he spoke these words to himself. O miserable man, cut of this amorous practice, how art thou defrauded of thy right sense to cast thy mind upon her, whom thou oughtest to use with such reverence, as thou wouldst do thine own proper sister, for the service, which thou and thy progenitors, have received of the good Earl her father? Open the eyes of thine understanding, and know thyself, give place to Reason, and reform thy unshameful and disordinate appetites. Resist withal thy power, this wanton will, which doth environ thee. Suffer not this tyrant Love to bewitch or deceive thee. Suddenly after he had spoken those words, the beauty of the Countess representing itself before his eyes, made him to alter his mind again to the contrary, and to reject that which he before allowed: saying thus. I feel in my mind the cause of mine offence, and thereby do acknowledge the wrong, but what shall I do? sith I am not able any longer to withstand Beauty that cruel murderer, which doth force and master me so much, let Fortune then and Love do what they list, the fair Countess shall be mine, chance what chance may. Is it a notable vice in a King to love his subjects daughter? Am I the first upon whom such inconvenience hath come? This talk ended, he deluded himself, & thinking upon the contrary, he accused himself again, and then from this he altered again to the other. And being in this perplexity, he passed day and night, with such anguish and dolour, as every man doubted his health. And floating thus between hope and despair, he resolved in the end to attend the father's answer. The Earl then being gone out of the King's chamber, aggravated with sorrowful thoughts, full of rage and discontentation, thought good to delate the matter to the next day, before he spoke to his daughter: and then calling her unto him, and causing her to sit against him, he reasoned the matter in this wise. I am assured dear daughter, that yond will no less marvel than be astoned, to hear that which I shall say unto you, and so much the more, when you do perceive, how far my tale shall exceed the order of Reason. But for so much as of two evils the least is to be chosen, I doubt not, but like a sage and wise woman, which I have always known you to be, you will stay upon that which I have determined. Touching myself, sith it hath pleased God to give me knowledge of good and ill, hitherto I have still preferred honour before life because (after mine opinion) it is a less matter to die innocently, than to live in the dishonour and shame of the whole world. But you know what liberty he hath, which is under the power of another, being sometimes constrained to make fair weather, of things not only clean contrary to his mind, but also (which is worse) against his own conscience, being oftentimes forced according to the quality of the time, and pleasure of the state, to change his manners, and to put on new affections. Whereof I have thought good to put you in remembrance, because it toucheth the matter, which I purpose to tell you. Thus it is (dear daughter) that yesterday after dinner, the King sent for me, and being come before him, with a very instant and pitiful prayer, he required me (his eyes full of tears) to do a thing for him, that touched his life. I which (besides that I am his subject and servant) have always borne a particular affection to his father and him, without deliberation what the matter should be, betroched to him my faith to obey his request, if it cost me the price of mine honour and life. He seeing himself assured of my liberal promiss, after many words joined with an infinite number of sighs, discovering unto me the secret of his heart, he told me, that the torment which he endured, proceeded no where else but of the fervent Love that he bore unto you. But O immortal God, what man of any discretion, would have thought that a King could be so impudent and unshamefast, as to commit to a father a charge so dishonest, toward his own daughter? The Earl having recited in order the history passed between him and the King, said thus unto her. Consider you sweet daughter, mine unadvised and simple promiss, and the unbridled mind of an amorous king, to whom I made answer, that entreat you thereunto I was able, but force you I could not. For this cause (dear daughter,) I do pray you at this instant for all, that you will obey the king's pleasure, and thereby to make a present to your father of your honest chastity, so dearly esteemed and regarded by you, specially, that the thing may so secretly be done, that the fault be not bruited in the ears of other. Nevertheless, the choice resteth in you, and the key of your honour is in your own hands, and that which I have said unto you; is but to keep promiss with the King. The Countess all the while that her father thus talked, changed her colour with a comely shamefastness, inflamed with a virtuous disdain, that he which had behold her then, would have thought her rather some celestial goddess, than a humane creature. And after long silence, with an humble gravity, she began thus to make her answer.  
Your words have so confounded me, and brought me into such admiration (my Lord and right honourable father) that if all the parts of my body were converted into tongues, they could not be sufficient worthily to express the least part of my sorrow, and unquietness. And truly very justly may I complain of you, for the little estimation you have of me, which am your own flesh, blood and bone. And for the ransom of the frail and transitory life, which you have given me upon earth, you will for recompense now defraud me of mine honour. Whereby I do perceive that not only all nature's laws, be canceled and mortified in you, but which is worse, you do exceed therein the cruelties of beasts, who for all their brutishness, be not so unnatural to do wrong to their own young ones, or to offer their fruit to the mercy of another, as you have done yours, to the pleasure of a King. For notwithstanding the straight charge and authority, which you have over me, to command me being your right humble & very obedient daughter, yet you ought to think and remember, that you have never seen in me, any act, motion, sign, or word, to incite you to move such dishonest talk. And although the king many times, with infinite number of prayers, presents, messages and other such allurements of persuasion, hath displayed and uttered all the art of his mind, to seduce and corrupt me, yet he was never able to receive other answer of me, but that honour was a thousand times dearer unto me than life, which still I meant to keep secret from your knowledge, even as I have done from other of mine alliance, for fear lest you should be induced, to commit some trespass, or conspire any thing against our king, foreseeing the strange accidents, which have chanced for like matters, to the ruin of many cities and provinces. But good God, my doubt is nothing to purpose, sith that yourself, is the shameless Post of an act to dishonest. And to conclude in few words, although that daily I have good hope, that the king seeing me at a point, still to conserve my chastity inviolable, he will give over to pursue me any longer, & will suffer me hereafter, to live in quiet, with mine equals, but if so be he so do continue obstinate in his old folly, I am determined rather to die, than to do the thing that shall hurt me and pleasure him. And for fear that he take from me by force, that which of mine own accord I will not grant, following your counsel, of two evils, I will choose the least, thinking it more honourable to destroy and kill myself with mine own hands, than to suffer such blot or shame to obscure the glory of my name, being desirous to commit nothing in secret, that sometime hereafter being published, may make me ashamed and change colour. And where you say that you have sworn and gauged your faith to the king, for the assurance of your promise, it as very ill done, before you did consider, what power fathers have over their children, which is so well defined by the law of God, that they be not bound to their parents, in that which is against his divine commandments. Much less may they bind us to things incestuous and dishonest, which specially and straightly be enjoined us not to perform, if we thereunto be required. And it had been far more decent, and excusable before God, if when you made that foolish promise to the king, you had promised him, rather to strangle me with your own hands, than to consent to let me fall into a fault so abominable. And to th'end I may tell you the last determination, & conclusion of that which I am determined to do by good advise and immutable counsel: thus it is. You shall tell the king, that I had rather lose my life, after that most cruel and shameful manner that may be devised, than to consent to a thing so dishonest, having of long time fixed this saying in my mind, That honest death, doth honour and beautify the forepasled life. The Father hearing the wise answer of the daughter, gave her his blessing, in his heart praising her Codlee mind, beseeching God to help her, and to keep her under his protection, and to confirm her in that holy and virtuous determination. Then feeling him greatly comforted, he repaired to the King, to whom he said. Pleaseth your grace to th'intent I might observe my promise, I swear by the faith the I do owe to God and you, that I have done what I can with my daughter, disclosing unto her your whole mind and pleasure, and exhorting her to satisfy your request, but for a resolute answer she saith, that rather she is contented to suffer most cruel death, than to commit a thing so contrary to her honour. You know (sir) what I said unto you still, that I might entreat her, but force her I could not. Having then obeyed your commandment, and accomplished my promise, it may please you to give me leave to go home to one of my Castles, from henceforth to incline myself to quietness, & to ease my decrepit and feeble age. Which the king willingly granted. The same day, he departed from the Court with his sons, and went home to his Country, leaving at London his wife & daughter, and the rest of his household, thinking thereby to discharge himself of things without the king's displeasure. The king on the other side was no sooner advertised of the Earl's departure, and that he had left his daughter behind him at London, but he knew the father's mind and purpose, and fell in such despair of his love, that he was like to have run out of his wits for sorrow. The nights and days were all one to him, for he could take no rest, giving over use of arms, administration of justice, hunting and hawking, wherein before that time, he had great delight. And all his study was, many times to pass and repass before the gate of the Countess, to prove if he might attain to have some sight of her. And things were brought to so pitiful state, that within few days, the Citizens and other gentlemen, began to perceive the raging love of their Prince, every of them with common voice blaming the cruelty of the Countess, that was unmarried, who the more she proved the king inflamed with her love, the more squeymishe she was of her beauty. The Peres and noble men, seeing their king reduced to such extremity, moved with pity and compassion began secretly to practise for him, some with threatenings, some with flatteries & persuasions, some went to the mother, declaring unto her, the eternal rest and quiet prepared for her & all her friends, if she would persuade her daughter to incline to the king's mind, and contrariwise the danger imminent over her head. But all these devices were in vain, for the Countess moved no more, than a hard rock beaten with divers tempests. Notwithstanding at length, seeing that every man spoke diversly, as their affections did lead them, she was so troubled and penfife in heart, that fearing to be taken, and that the king vanquished with his strong passion, by succession of time would use his force, and violently oppress her, found means to get a great sharp knife, which she carried about her secretly under her gowns, of purpose, that if she saw herself in peril to be deflowered, she might kill herself. The Courtiers offended with the martyrdom of their Master, and desirous to gratify him, and to seek means to do him pleasure, conspired all in general against the Earl's family, letting the king to understand, that it were most expedient, sith that things were out of hope, to cause AElips to be brought to his Palace, to use her by force. Whereunto the king (being drunk in his own passion) did willingly agree. Notwithstanding, before he passed any further for that he faithfully loved the Countess, he determined to advertise the mother of the Countess, of that which he intended to do, and commanded his Secretary to go seek her with diligence, and without concealing any thing from her knowledge, to instruct her of the whole. The Secretary finding the mother of the Countess, said unto her. Madame the King hath willed me to say unto you that he hath done what he can, and more than his estate requireth, to win the grace and Love of your daughter, but seeing that she hath despised his prayers, disdained his presence, and abhorred his griefs and complaints, knowing not what to do any more, his last refuge is in force, letting you to understand hereof, to the intent that you & she may consider what is to be done in this behalf. For he hath determined whether you will or no, to fetch her out openly by force, to the great dishonour, slander and infamy of all your kin. And where in time past, he hath loved & favoured the Earl your husband, he trusteth shortly to make him understand what is the effect of the just Indignation of such a Prince as he is. The good Lady hearing this sudden and cruel message, was astoned in such wise, that she thought how she saw her daughter already trained by the hears of the head, her garments haled and torn in pieces, with a rueful and lamentable voice crying out to him for mercy. For this cause, with blubbering tears, trembling for fear she fell down at the Secretary's feet, & straightly embracing his knees, said unto him. Master Secretary, my dear and loving friend: Beseech the King in my name, to remember the pain and service done unto him by mine Ancestors. Entreat him not to dishonour my house in the absence of the Earl my husband. And if you be not able by your persuasion to mollify his hard heart, desire him for a while to take patience, until I have advertised my daughter of his will and pleasure, whom I hope so to persuade, that she shall satisfy the king's request. When she had made this answer, the Secretary declared the same to the King, who mad with anger & Love, was content, and nevertheless, commanded his gentlemen to be in a readiness to seek the Countess. In the mean time the mother of fair AElips went to her daughter's chamber, and after she had commanded all her maids, which accompanied her, to withdraw themselves out of the chamber, she began in few words to recite unto her the message done unto her by the Secretary. Finally with sobbing sighs she said unto her. The days have been (dear daughter) that I have seen thee to keep thy state amongs the chiefest of all the Ladies of the Realm. And I have counted myself happy that ever I did bear thee in my womb, and thought by means of thy beauty & virtue, one day to see thee to become the joy and comfort of all thy friends. But now my cogitations be turned clean contrary, thorough thine unlucky fate: Now I think thee to be borne not only for the universal ruin of all our family, but also (which grieveth me most) to be an occasion and instrument of my death, and the desolation of all thy friends. But if thou wilt somewhat moderate thy rigour, all this heaviness shortly shall be turned into joy. I or our King and sovereign Lord is not only in Love with thee, but for the ardent affection and amity that he beareth unto thee, is out of his wits, and now doth conspire against us, as though we were Traitors and murderers of our Prince. In whose hands (as thou knowest) doth rest, the life, honour and goods both of thyself and us all. And what glory and triumph shall be reported of thee to our posterity, when they shall know that by thy obstinate cruelty, thou hast procured the death of thine old father, the death of thy door headed mother, and the destruction of thy valiant and courageous brethren, and despoiled the rest of thy blood, of their possessions and ability? But what sorrow and grief will it be, to see them wander in the world like vagabonds, banished from their livings, and remain in continual poverty, without place and refuge in their misery? who in stead of blessing or praising the hour of thy birth, will curse thee in their mind a thousand times, as the cause of all their overthrow and ill fortune. Think, and consider upon the same (dear daughter) for in thee alone consisteth the coseruation of our lives, and hope of all our friends. This lamentable discourse ended, the afflicted Countess, not able any longer to resist that pang, but that her heart began to wax so faint that with her arms a cross she fell down half dead upon her daughter: who seeing her without moving and without any appearance of life, and all the parts of her body to ware cold, she quickly laid her down, and then with help and other things apt for sownings, she made her come to herself again, and thinking wholly to recover her, she earnestly promised her to do what she would have her, and then said unto her. Do away your tears (Madam) moderate yourself a little from your torments, revoke your former joy, and be of good cheer, for I am disposed to obey you God defend that I should be the cause of the pain which I see you to suffer. Now I am ready to go with you to the King, where it shall please you, we two without other company will do our own errand and attempt the beginning of our enterprise. The mother full of joy, lifting up her hands to the heavens, tenderly embraced her daughter, and many times did kiss her, and after she had commanded her Coach to be made ready, she went forth with her daughter, accompanied only with two Gentlewomen, her Damoselles, to the King's Palace. When they were come thither, they sent word to the secretary, that brought her the message, who conducted them to the kings chamber, and presenting them before the King said. Sir, behold the company which you have so long time desired? They be come to do your grace humble reverence. The King greatly astonied, came to meet them, and with joyful countenance said. Welcome Lady Countess, and your long desired company. But what good fortune conducted you hither now. The Countess having made her obeisance, yet alfryghted with fear, answered him. Behold here my Lord your fair AElips so long time wished for, who taking repentance for her former cruelty and rigour, is come to render herself at your commandment. Then the King beholding the young Countess trembling for fear, like a leaf shaken with the wind (with her eyes fixed on the ground) approaching near her, took her by the hand, and kissing her, said. Welcome, my life and soul. But she no" more moved than a fierce Lion environed with cruel beasts, stood still and held her peace, her heart so constrained for sorrow and despite, that she was not able to answer a word. The King, who thought that such passion proceeded of shame, commanded that the gentlewomen, that were come in her company, shaulde depart the chamber, saving the mother, which brought her to the entry of the king's chamber. Then wythdrawing herself back, she left her to the mercy of love and the King. So soon as the King was entered the chamber, he shut the door after him. Which AEllps perceiving, began to feel a furious combat between her honour and life, fearing to be deflowered, and seeing her abandoned of all human succour, falling down prostrate at his feet, she said unto him. Gracious and redoubted Prince, sith that my heavy fortune hath brought me hither, like an innocent lamb to the sacrifice, and that my parents amazed through your fury, as ravishers of me against my will, and contrary to the duty of their honour, have delivered me into your hands, I humbly beseech your majesty, if there remain in your noble parsonage any spark of virtue and Princely affection, before you pass any further to satisfy your desire, to let me prove and understand by effect, if your Love be such, as oftentimes by letters and mouth you have declared unto me. The request which I will make unto you, shall be but easy, and yet shall satisfy me more than all the contentation of the world. Otherwise (sir) do not think that so long as my life doth continue, I am able to do any thing, that can content your desire. And if my suit shall seem reasonable, and grounded upon equity, before I do open and declare the same more at large, assure the performance thereof unto me by oath. The King hearing her prayer to be so reasonable, whereunto rather than to refuse it, he swore by his Sceptre, taking God to witness and all the heavenly powers, for confirmation of that which he pretended to promise: then he said unto her. Madame the only mistress & keeper of my loving heart, sith that of your grace and courtesy, you have vouchsafed to come to my Palace, to make request of my only favour and good will, which now I irrevocably do consent, and grant, swearing unto you by that honourable sacrament of Baptism, whereby I was incorporated to the Church of God, and for the Love that I bear you (for greater assurance I can not give) I will not refuse any thing, that is in my power and ability, to the intent you may not be in doubt whether I do love you, & intent hereafter to employ myself to serve and pleasure you: for otherwise I should falsify my faith, and more fervently I cannot bind myself if I should swear by all the oaths of the world. The fair Countess sitting still upon her knees, although the King many times prayed her to rise up, reverently took the King by the hand, saying. And I do kiss this royal hand, for loyal testimony of the favour which your grace doth show unto me. Then plucking out a sharp knife, which she had under her kirtle, all bathed and washed in tears, reclining her pitiefull eyes towards the King, that was astoned and appalled with that sight, she said unto him. Sir, the gift that I require, and wherefore your faith is bound, is this. I most humbly desire you, that rather than to despoil me of mine honour, with the sword girded by your side, you will vouchsafe to end my life, or to suffer me presently, with this sharp pointed knife in my hand, to thrust myself to the heart, that mine innocent blood, doing my funeral honour, may bear witness before God of my undefiled chastity, being so resolved honourably to die, and that before I do lose mine honour, I may murder myself before you, with this blade & knife in my hand. The king that burned with amorous heat, beholding this pitiful spectacle, and considering the invincible constancy & chastity of the Countess, vanquished with remorse of conscience, joined with like pity, taking her by the hand, said. Rise up Lady & live from henceforth assured: for I will not ne yet pretend all the days of my life, to commit any thing in you against your will. And plucking the knife out of her hand, exclaimed. This knife hereafter, shall be the Pursuivant before God & men of this thine expugnable chastity, the force whereof wanton Love was not able to endure, rather yielding place to Virtue, which being alienated from me, hath made me at one instant victorious over myself, which by and by I will make you to understand, to your great contentation and greater marvel. For assurance whereof, I desire none other thing of you, but a chaste kiss. Which received, he opened the door and caused the Countess to come in with the Secretary and the gentlewomen, and the same time he caused the Courtiers and Peers of the Realm, which were then in the base Court of the Palace, among whom was the archbishop of York, a man of great reputation & singular learning, to whom with the knife in his hand, he recited particularly the discourse of his love. And after he took the Countess by the hand, and said unto her. Madame the hour is come that for recompense of your honest chastity and virtue, I will and consent to take you to Wife, if you can find in your heart. The Countess hearing those words, began to recolour her bleak and pale face, with a vermelion teint and Roseal rudde, and accomplished with incredible joy and contentation, falling down at his feet said unto him. My Lord, forasmuch as I never looked to be advanced to so honourable state as Fortune now doth offer, for merit of a benefit so high and great, which you present unto me, vouchsaving so much to abase yourself to the espousal of so poor a Lady, your majesties pleasure being such, behold me ready at your commandment. The King taking her up from the ground, commanded the Bishop to pronounce with a high voice the usual words of Matrimony. Then drawing a rich Diamond from his finger, he gave it to the Countess, and kissing her, said. Madame you be Queen of England, and presently I do give you thirty thousand Angels by the year for your revenue. And the Duchy of Lancastre being by confiscation fallen into my hands, I give also unto you, to bestow upon yourself and your friends. All which enrolled according to the manner, the King accomplishing the marriage, rewarded the Countess for the rigorous interests his so long Love, with such hap and contentation, as they may judge which have made assay of like pleasure, and recovered the fruit of so long pursuit. And the more magnificently to solemnize the marriage, the King assembled all the Nobility of England, and summoned them to be at London the first day of july, to beautify and assist the Nupcialles and coronation of the Queen. Then he sent for the Father and brethren of the Queen, whom he embraced one after an other, honouring the Earl as his father, and his Sons as his brethren, whereof the Earl wonderfully rejoiced, seeing the conceived hope of his Daughters honour sorted to so happy effect, as well to the perpetual fame of him and his, as to the everlaseing advancement of his house. At the appointed day the Queen was brought from her father's house, appareled with Royal vestures, even to the Palace, and conducted with an infinite number of Lords and Ladies, to the Church, where when service was done the King was married (again) openly, and the same celebrated, she was conveyed up into a public place, and proclaimed Queen of England, to the exceeding gratulation and joy incredible of all the Subjects.   

¶ An Advertisement to the Reader.  
AFter these tragical novels and dolorous Histories of Bandello, I have thought good for recreation of the readers, to refresh their minds with some pleasant devices and disports. Lest their spirits and senses should be appalled and astoned with the sundry kinds of cruelties remembered in the vij of the former novels. Which be so strange and terrible as they be able to affright the stoutest. And yet considering that they be very good lessons for avoiding of like inconveniences and apt examples, for continuation of good, and honest life, they be the better to be borne with, and may with less astonnishment be read and marked. They that follow be mitigated and swetened with pleasure, not altogether so sour as the former be. Praying thee most heartily, patiently to bear with all thing that shall occur, either in these that follow, or in the other that be passed before.   

Galgano.  
A Gentleman called Galgano, long time made suit to Madonna Minoccia, her husband Sir Stricca (not knowing the same) divers times praised and commended Galgano, by reason whereof, in the absence of her husband, she sent for him, and yielded herself unto him, telling him what words her husband had spoken of him, for recompense whereof he refused to dishonest her.  
¶ The xlvij Novel.  
IN the city of Sienna in Italy there was a rich young Gentleman called Galgano, borne of noble birth, active, and well trained up in all kind of exercise, valiant, brave, stout, and courteous, in the manners and orders of all countries very skilful. This Galgano loved a Gentlewoman of Sienna named Madonna Minoccia, the wife of sir Stricca a comely knight, and wore in his apparel the colour and devices of his Lady, bearing the same upon his helmet and armour, in all jousts, Tourneys and triumphs, observing noble feasts and banquets for her sake. But for all those costly sumptuous and noble practices, this Lady Minoccia in no wise would give ear unto his suits. Wherefore Galgano at his wits end, was void of advise what to do or say, seeing the great cruelty and rigour reigning in her breast, unto whom he daily prayed for better success and fortune, than to himself. There was no feast, banquet, triumph, or marriage, but Galgano was there, to do her humble service, and that day his mind was not pleased and contented, wherein he had not seen her that had his loving heart in full possession very many times (like a Prince that coveted peace) he sent ambassadors unto her, with presents and messages, but she (a proud and scornful Princess) dayned neither to hear them or receive them. And in this state, stood this passionate Lover a long time, tormented with the exceeding hot Love & fealty that he bore her. And many times making his reverent complaints to Love, did say. Ah Love, my dear and sovereign Lord, how cruel and hard hearted art thou, how vumercifully dealest thou with me, rather how deaf be thine ears, that canst not recline, the same to my nightly complaints, and daily afflictions? How chanceth it that I do in this manner consume my joyful days with pining plaints? Why dost thou suffer me to Love, and not to be beloved? And thus oftentimes remembering the cruelty of Love, & his Lady's tyranny, he began in manner like a wight replete with despair. But in fine, he determined patiently to abide the good time and pleasure of Love, still hoping to find mercy. And daily gave himself to practise and frequent those things, that might be acceptable and pleasant to his Lady. But she still persisted inexorable. It chanced that sir Stricca and his fair wife, for their solace and recreation, repaired to one of their houses hard by Sienna. And upon a time, Galgano passed by the same with a Sparhauke on his fist, making as though he went a Hawking, but of purpose only to see his Lady. And as he was going by the house, sir Stricca espied him, and went forth to meet him, and familiarly taking him by the hand, prayed him to take part of his supper with his wife and him. For which courtesy Galgano gave him thanks and said. Sir I do thank you for your courteous request, but for this time I pray you to hold me excused, because I am going about certain affairs very requisite and necessary to be done. Then said sir Stricca. At least wise drink with me before you depart: but giving him thanks he bade him far well. Master Stricca seeing that he could not cause him to tarry, took his leave, and returned into his house. Galgano gone from Master Stricca, said to himself. Ah beast that I am, why did not I accept his offer? Why should shamefastness, let me from the sight of her, whom I love better than all the world beside. And as he was thus pensive in complaints, his spaniels sprung a Partridge, whereat he let go his Hawk, and the Partridge flying into sir Stricca his garden, his Hawk pursued and seized upon the same. Master Stricca and his Lady hearing that pastime, ran to the garden window, to see the kill of the Partridge. And beholding the valiant skirmish between the foul and the Hawk, the Lady asked whose Hawk it was. Her husband made answer that he knew well enough the owner, by the goodness and hardiness of the same. For the owner of this hawk (quoth he) is the trimmest and most valiant gentleman in all Sienna, and one endued with best qualities. The Lady demanded what he was. Master Galgano (said her husband) who even now passed by the gate, and I prayed him very earnestly to supper, but he would not be entreated. And truly wise, he is the comeliest gentleman, and most virtuous parsonage, that ever I knew in my life. With those words they went from the window to supper. And Galgano, when he had lured his Hawk departed away. The Lady marked those words & fixed them in mind. It fortuned within a while after, that sir Stricca was by the state of Sienna, sent in embassage to Perugia, by reason whereof, his Lady at home alone, so soon as her husband had taken his journey, sent her most secret and trusty maid, to entreat Master Galgano, to come and speak with her. When the message was done to Galgano, (if his heart were on a merry pin, or whether his spirits dulled with continual sorrow were again revived, they know, that most have felt the painful pangs of Love, and they also whose flesh have been pierced with the amorous arrows of the little boy Cupid. He made answer that he would willingly come, rendering thanks both to the mistress and maid, the one for her pain, & the other for her good remembrance. Galgano understanding that sir Stricca was gone to Perugia, in the evening at convenient time, repaired to the house of her whose sight he loved better, than his own eyes. And being come before his Lady, with great submission & reverence he saluted her (like those whose hearts do throb, as foretelling the possession of good turns and benefits, (after which with long suit and travail they have aspired) wherewith the Lady delighted, very pleasantly, took him by the hand, and embracing him, said. Welcome mine own sweet Galgano, a hundred times I say welcome. And for the time with kisses, making truce with their affections, the Lady called for confictes and wine. And when they had drunk and refreshed themselves, the Lady took him by the hand and said. My sweet Galgano night beginneth to pass away, and the time of sleep is come, therefore let us yield ourselves to the service and commandment of our very good Lady Madam Cytherea, for whose sake I entreated you to come hither. Galgano answered, that he was very well contented when it were her pleasure. Being within the chamber, after much pleasant talk & loving discourse between them, the Lady did put of her clothes, and went to bed. Galgano being somewhat bashful, was perceived of the Lady, unto whom she said. Me think Galgano that you be fearful and shamefast. What do you lack? Do I not please you? Doth not my parsonage content you? Have you not the thing which you desire? Yes Madam said Galgano. God himself could not do me a greater pleasure, than to suffer me to be cleped within your arms. And reasoning in this sort, he put of his clothes also, & laid himself by her, whom he had coveted and desired of long tyme. Being in the bed, he said. Madame, I beseech you grant me one request. What is that Galgano (quoth she.) It is this Madam, said Galgano. I do much marvel, why this night above all other, you have sent for me: considering how long I have loved you, and although I have prosecuted my suit by great expense & travail, yet you would never yield before this time. What hath moved you now thus to do? The Lady answered. I will tell you sir. True it is, that not many days a go, passing by this house, with your Hawk on your fist, my husband told me that so soon as he saw you, he went out to meet you, of purpose to entreat you to supper, but you would not tarry: Then your Hawk pursued a Partridge, even into my garden, and I seeing the Hawk so eagerly seassing upon the same, demanded of my husband whose Hawk it was. He told me that the Hawk did belong to the most excellent young man of all Sienna: and that he never in all his life knew a gentleman better accomplished with all virtues and good qualities, and there withal gave unto you singular praise and commendation. Whereupon hearing him in such wise to praise you, and knowing right well your affectionate mind and disposition towards me, my heart attached with love, forced me to send for you that I might hereafter avoid disdain and other scornful demeanour, to impeach or hindre your love. And this briefly is the cause. Is this true said Galgano? Most certain and true, answered the Lady. Was there no other occasion? No verily said the Lady. God defend (quod Galgano) that I should recompense the courtesy and good will of so noble a gentleman (as your husband is) with reproach & villainy. Is it meet that good turns should be requited with unkindness? If ever man had cause to defend the honour of his unknown friend, cause have I right good and apt. For now, knowing such a friend, that would by virtuous reports have advanced me to higher matters, than whereof I am in possession, should I reward with pollution of his stock and wife? No, no, Lady: My raging suit by Love, is by virtue quenched. Virtue only hath staunched the flames of vile affections. Seek another friend, to giut thy lecherous mind. Find out some other companion, to cool thy disordinate love. Shall I be disloyal to him, that hath been faithful unto me? Shall I be Traitor to him, that friendly hath commended me? What can be more required of human hearts, or more desired of manlike mind, but will full bent, and fixed to do him good, that never erst by just desert, deserved the same. With which words suddenly he leapt out of the bed, And when he had furnished himself again with his apparel, he also put upon him virtuous friendship, and took his leave of the Lady, & never after that time he gave himself to those affairs. And Master Stricca he contineallie observed both with singular love and dutiful friendship. Whereby it is uncertain whether was most singular in him, his continency at the very instant by refraining that vehement heat of love, which so long time with great travail & cost he had pursued, or his regard of friendship to Sir Stricca upon words of commendation spoken behind his back. Both no doubt be singular virtues meet of all men to be observed: but the subduing of his affections surmounted and passed.   

Of a Duke of Venice  
Bindo a notable architect, & his son Ricciardo, with all his family, from Florence, went to dwell at Venice, where being made citizens for divers monuments by them done there, through inordinate expenses were forced to rob the Treasure house. Bindo being slain by a policy devised by the Duke and the State. Ricciardo by fine subtleties delivereth himself from four dangers. Afterwards the Duke (by his own confession) understanding the sleights, giveth him his pardon, and his daughter in marriage.  
¶ The xlviij Novel.  
IN the noble City of Venice, there was once a Duke, that was very stout, and rich, and therewithal of great experience & wisdom, called Valeriano di messer Vannozzo Accettani. In the chiefest Church of which City called San Marco, there was a steeple, which was very fair, sumptuous, and of greatest fame of any thing at that time that was in Venice, which steeple was like to fall down by reason of certain faults and decays in the foundation. Wherefore the Duke caused to be searched thorough out all Italy, some cunning workman that would take in hand the reparation & amendment of the same. With promise of so much money as he would demand, for doing thereof. Whereupon an excellent Architect of Florence, named Bindo, hearing tell of this offer, determined to go to Venice, for the accomplishment of that work, and for that purpose with his only son and wife, he departed Florence. And when he had seen and surveyed the steeple, he went strait to the Duke, and told him that he was come thither to offer his service for repairing of the same; whom the Duke courteously interteygned, and prayed him, that he would so soon as he could, begin the work. Whereunto Bindo accorded, and with such diligence, and small time, he finished the same, in better form and surety than it was at the first. Which greatly pleased the Duke, and gave Bindo so much money as he demanded, making him beside, a citizen of Venice, for the maintenance of whole state, he allotted him a sufficient stripende: Afterwards the Duke called him unto him, and declared that he would have a Treasure house made, wherein should be disposed and laid up, all the Treasure, and common ornaments for the furniture of the whole City, which Bindo by and by took upon him to do, and made it of such singular beauty, as it excelled all the monuments of the city, wherein all the said treasure was bestowed. In which work he had framed a stone by cunning, that might be removed in and out at pleasure, and no man perceive it: Meaning thereby to go into the chamber when he list: Whereunto none in all the world was privy but himself. When this Palace and Treasure house was done, he caused all the furnitures of silks, hangings wrought with gold, canapées, clothes of state, rich chairs, plate, and other ornaments of gold and silver to be carried thither, which he called La Turpea del doge, & was kept under five keys, whereof four were delivered to four of the chief citizens, deputed to that office, and were called Chamberlains of the Treasure house, and the fift key the Duke himself did keep, so that the chamber could not be opened except they were all five present. Now Bindo and his family dwelling at Venice, and he being a Citizen of the same, began to spend liberally, and to live a rich and wealthy life, and his son Ricciardo consumed disordinately, whereby in space of time, they wanted apparel to furnish their bodies, which they were not able to maintain for their inordinate expenses. Wherefore the father upon a night called his son unto him, and got a ladder, and a certain iron instrument made for the purpose, taking also with him a little lime, and went to the hole, which Bindo artificially had made in that chamber, & taking out the stone, went in, and took out a fair cup of Gold, which was in a closet, and afterward he went out, and placed the stone again in his due place. And when they were come home, they broke the cup in pieces, & caused it to be sold by piece meal, in certain cities of Lombardie. And in this sort, they maintained their disordinate life begun. It chanced not long after, that a Cardinal arrived at Venice, about affairs with the Duke, and the State, who the more honourably to receive him, opened the Treasure house to take out certain furnitures within, as plate, clothes of state, & other things. When the door was opened, & had taken out the said necessaries, they found a cup less than aught to be wherewith the chamberlains contended among themselves, and went to the Duke, telling him that there wanted a cup. Whereat the Duke marveled, and said that amongs them it must needs be gone. And after many denials, and much talk, he willed them to say nothing, till the Cardinal was departed. The Cardinal came, and was received with honourable interteignement, and when he was departed, the Duke sent for the four Chamberlains, being desirous to know how the cup was gone: And commanded them not to depart the Palace, before the same was found, saying that amongs them it must needs be stolen. These four persons being together, and debating amongs themselves, how and by what means the cup should be taken away, were at their wits end. At length one of them said. Let us consider whether there be any coming into the chamber in any place else, besides the door, and viewing the same they could not perceive any entry at all. And to prove the same more effectually, they strawed the chamber about with fine chaff, and did set fire on the same, which done, they shut fast the windows and doors, that the smoke and smoulder might not go out. The force of which smoke was such as it issued through the hole that Bindo made, whereby they perceived the way how the robbery was committed, and went to the Duke to tell him what they had done. The Duke understanding the fact, willed them to say nothing, for that he would devise a way to take the thief, who caused to be brought into the chamber a cauldron of pitch, and placed it directly under the hole, and commanded that a fire should be kept day and night, under the cauldron, that the same might continually boil. It came to pass that when the money was spent, which the father and the son had received for the cup, one night they went again to the hole, and removing the stone, the Father went in as he did before, and fell into the cauldron of pitch (which continually was boiling there) up to the waste, and not able to live any longer, he called his son unto him, and said. Ricciardo mine own sweet son, death hath taken me prisoner, for half my body is dead, and my breath also is ready to departed. Take my head with thee, and bury it in some place that it be not known, which done, commend me to thy mother, whom I pray thee to cherish & comfort, and in any wise take heed that warely and circumspectly thou do departed hence. And if any man do ask for me, say that I am gone to Florence about certain business. The son lamentably began to lament his father's fortune, saying. Oh dear father what wicked fury, hath thus cruelly devised sudden death. Content thyself (my son) said the Father, and be quiet, better it is that one should die, than two, and therefore do what I have told thee, and farewell. The son took up his father's head, and went his way, and the rest of his body remained in the cauldron, like a block without form. When Ricciardo was come home, he buried his father's head so well as he could, and afterwards told his mother what was become of his father, who understanding the manner of his death, began piteously to cry out, to whom her son holding up his hands, said. Good mother hold your peace, and give over your weeping: for our life is in great peril and danger, if your out cry be heard, and therefore quiet yourself, for better it were for us to live in poor estate, than to die with infamy, to the utter reproach and shame of all our family. With which words, he appeased her. In the morning the body was found and carried to the Duke, who marveled at it, & could not devise what he should be, but said. Surely there be two that committed this robbery, one of them we have, let us imagine how we may take the other. Then one of the four Chamberlains said. I have found out a trap to catch the other, if it will please you to hear mine advise, which is this. It can not be chosen, but this thief that is dead, hath either wife, children, or some kinsman in the Town, and therefore let us cause the body, to be drawn through out the city, and give diligent heed whether any person do complain or lament his death. And if any such be found, let him be taken and examined: and this is the next way as I suppose, to find out his companion. Which being concluded, they departed. The body was drawn through out the city with a guard of men attending upon the same. As the execucioners passed by the house of Bindo, whose carcase lay upon the hardle, his wife stood at the window, and seeing the body of her husband so used, made a great outcry. At which noise the son spoke to his mother and said. Alas mother what do you. And beholding" his father's corpse upon the hardle, he took a knife and made a great gash into his hand, that the blood abundantly issued out. The guard hearing the noise that the woman made, ran into the house, and asked the woman, what she lacked. The son answered. I was carving a piece of stone with this knife, and by chance I hurt my hand, which my mother seeing cried out, thinking that I had hurt myself more than I have. The guard seeing his hand all bloody and cut, did believe it to be true, and went round about the liberties of the city, and found none that seemed to lament or bewail that chance. And returning to the Duke, they told him how all that labour was employed in vain, whereupon he appointed them to hang up the dead body in the market place, with secret watch in like manner, to espy if any person by day or night, would come to complain or be sorrowful for him. Which body was by the feet hanged up there, and a continual watch appointed to keep the same. The rumour hereof was bruited through out the city, and every man resorted thither to see it. The woman hearing tell that her husband's carcase should be hanged up in the market place, said diverse times to her son, that it was a very great shame for him to suffer his father's body in that shameful sort to be used. To whom her son made answer, saying. Good mother, for god's sake be contented for that which they do, is for none other purpose, but to prove me: wherefore suffer a while, till this chance be past. The mother not able to abide it any longer, broke out many times into these words. If I were a man, as I am a woman, it should not be undone now: and if thou wilt not adventure thyself, I will one night give an attempt. The young man seeing the froward nature of his mother, determined to take away the body, by this policy. He borrowed twelve friars frocks or cowls, and in the evening went down to the haven, and hired twelve Mariners, and placed them in a back house, giving them so much meat and drink as they would eat. And when they had well whittled & tippled themselves, he put upon them those friars cowls, with visards upon their faces, & gave every of them in their hands a burning torch, seeming as though they had been devils of hell. And he himself, road upon a horse all covered with black, beset round about with monstrous and ugly faces, every of them having a burning candle in his mouth, and riding before with a marvelous hideouse visard upon his head, said unto them: do as I do: And then marched forward to the market place. When they came thither they ran up & down making a great roaring, being then past midnight and very dark. When the watch saw that strange sight, they were afraid, thinking that they had been Devils of hell, and that he on horseback in that form, had been the great devil Lucifer himself. And seeing him run towards the gibbet, the watch took their legs & ran away. The young man in the shape of the great Devil, took down the body, and laid it before him on horseback, who calling his company away, road before in post. When they were come home, he gave them their money, and uncasing them of their cowls, sent them away, and aferwards buried the body so secretly as he could. In the morning, news came to the Duke that the body was taken away, who sent for the Guard to know what was become thereof. To whom they said these words. Pleaseth your grace, about midnight last passed, there came into the market place a company of Devils, among whom we saw the great Devil Lucifer himself, who as we suppose, did eat up the body, which sight and terrible vision, made us to take our legs. The Duke by those words perceived evidently, that the same was but a practise, to deceive them of their purpose, not withstanding, he determined to devise some means in th'end to know the truth, and decreed a constitution, that for the space of twenty days, no fresh meat should be sold in Venice. At which decree all the City marveled. Afterwards he caused a very fair fat Calf to be sold, seassing the price of every pound at a Fiornio, which amounteth to a French Crown or there abouts, and willed him that sold it, to mark them that bought it. Thinking with himself, that he which is a Thief is liquorous of mouth, and will not stick to give a good price although it cost him a French crown for every pound. Making proclamation, that he which would buy any flesh meat, should resort to the market place where was to be sold. All the Merchants and Gentlemen, repaired to buy some of the Veal, and understanding that every pound would not be sold under a French Crown, they bought none at all. This Calf and the price was bruited in all places, and came to the knowledge of the mother of this young man, who said unto her son. I have a mind to eat some of the Veal, now sold in the market. Ricciardo answered. Mother make no haste to buy it, but first let it be cheapened by other, & at length I will devise a mean that you shall have it. For it is not wisdom for us to be the first that shall buy the same. The mother like an ignorant & unskilful woman, was importunate to have it. The son fearing that his mother would send for some of the Veal, by other, caused a Pie to be made, & prepared a flagon full of wine, both which were intermixed with things to cause sleep, & taking bread, the said pie, and the flagon of wine, when it was night, putting on a counterfeit beard, and cloak, went to the stall where the Veal was to be sold, which as yet was whole & unbought. And when he had knocked at the shop door, one of the Guard asked who was there. To whom Ricciardo said. Can you tell me where one Ventura doth keep his shop? of whom one of them demanded what Ventura? I know not his surname said Ricciardo, that I would he had been hanged, when I came first to dwell with him: why, who sent thee said one of the guard? his wife (quod Ricciardo) and had me carry him this meat and wine for his supper. But I pray you said Ricciardo, let me leave the same with you, till I go home to know better, where he keepeth his stall. And marvel not I pray you, why I know not where his shop is, for it is not long sithence I came to dwell in this city. And so leaving behind him the pie, and the bread with the flagon of wine, he made haste to departed, and told them that he would come again by & by. When he was gone, one of them took the flagon, and drank, and afterwards gave it to his companion, and said. Drink, for thou never didst taste of better wine in all thy life. His companion drank, and merrily communing of this matter, they fell a sleep. Ricciardo looking in at a hole of the door, seeing them a sleep, went in, and took the calf and carried it home whole as it was, & said to his mother. Hold mother, there is your lust, cut it out. And by and by she cut out a great piece. The Duke so soon as he heard that the calf was stolen, & the manner how, did wonder very much, and determined yet to know what he was. And caused a hundred poor people to come before him, and taking their names, he said unto them. Get ye to all the houses in Venice, under colour to beg alms. And mark if you see in any house, flesh dressed, or any piece at the fire, which if you do, ye must be importunate in begging, till they give you either flesh or broth. And he among you all that shall bring me the first news, I will give him twenty Crowns. These beggars dispersed themselves into every corner of the city, demanding their alms, amongs whom one of them asked his alms at the house of Ricciardo, and approaching near, espied openly flesh at the spit, and asked a morsel thereof for god's sake: to whom the undescrete woman, seeing that she had plenty, gave a little piece. The poor man thanked the good wife, and prayed God to save her life. And as he was going down the steps of the door, Ricciardo met him with the flesh in his hand. Wherewithal astoned, he willed him to return in again, and said he would give him more. The beggar glad of that, went in again, whom Ricciardo carried into his chamber, and when he was within, he struck such a full blow upon his head, with an axe, that he killed him, and threw him into a jakes, shutting the door after him. In the evening, these poor men returned to the Duke, according to their promise, and said how they could find nothing. The Duke called them by their names, and counting them, found one less than the number, whereat he marveled. And after he had well advised with himself, what should become of him that" lacked, he said. Certainly the poor man is slain. Then causing the Council to be assembled, he declared what he had done: and yet said that it were meet the party were known. Whereunto one of the Senators said. Your grace hath duly made search by the belly and mouth, to find out this varlet: I think it now necessary that trial be made, by Lechery, which commonly accompaneth liquorous mouths. Then it was concluded that the most riotous and lecherous young men, such as the Duke had in greatest suspicion to the number of xxv should be warned to appear before him, which accordingly was done, amongs whom was this Ricciardo. These young Roisters assembled in the Palace, every of them marveled wherefore the Duke had caused them to come thither. afterward the Duke commanded xxv beds to be made in one of his great chambers, to lodge every of the said xxv persons by himself, and in the mids of the chamber he commanded a rich bed of estate to be set up and furnished, where was appointed to lie his own daughter, which was an exceeding fair creature. And in the night when these young men were laid in their beds, many gentlewomen, attendant upon the Lady, came in to bring her to her lodging. And her Father delivered to her a sawser full of black die, or staining, and said unto her. If any of these young men, that do lie here by thee, do offer to come to thy bed, look that thou mark him in the face with this staining colour, that he may be known. At which words all the young men marveled, and therefore durst not attempt to go unto her, but said one to another. surely this commandment of the Duke hath some secret mystery in it. Notwithstanding, Ricciardo determined about midnight to go to her bed. And when the candle was out, being awake of purpose, he rose up and went to the gentlewoman's bed, and began to embrace & kiss her. The maiden when she felt him, sodaynelie dipped her finger in the colour, & stained his face, not perceived of him, when he had accomplished the thing he came for, he returned to his bed. And then began to imagine upon the Duke's words, and for what policy he spoke them. And lying a little while still, musing upon the same, he went again to the gentlewoman's bed, having disposed himself in the pleasures of this paradise lamb. He perceived her when she dipped her finger in the saucer, & rubbed his face. Ricciardo marking the fame, took away the saucer from the beds head, and round about, bestowed the colour upon the faces of every of his fellows, who were to fast a sleep that they did not feel him. Some he marked with two spots, some with six and some with ten himself he painted but with four besides those wherewith already he was bewrayed by the Gentlewoman. Which done, he set the saucer again upon the bed's head, & when he had bidden her farewell, fair & softly he returned again to his bed. In the morning betimes, the Damosels of the chamber came in to help the Lady to make her ready, which done, they waited upon her to the Duke, who asked her how the matter stood. She answered well, for she had done his commandment. And told him how one came unto her three times, & every time she gave him a taint in his face. The Duke by and by sent for them that were of his counsel. To whom he said. Sirs I have found out this good fellow, and therefore I have sent for you, that we all together may go to see him. They went all into the chamber, and viewing them round about, they perceived all their faces coloured, whereat they fell into a great laughter. Then one of them said to another. Suerlie this fellow hath the subtlest head that ever was known: and concluded the one of the company had set the colour in their faces. The young men beholding one another, painted in that sort, broke into a great sport and pastime. Afterwards the Duke examined every of them, & seeing that he was not able by any means to understand by whom it was done, he determined to know the man before he departed, and promised to him that should confess the truth, to give his daughter to him in marriage, and with her, a very great dowry, and a general pardon. Wherefore Ricciardo understanding the Duke's mind, took him aside, and told him the whole matter particularly from the beginning to the end. The Duke embraced him, and gave him his pardon, and with great joy and triumph he solemnized the marriage between him & his daughter. Wherewithal Ricciardo encouraged, proved a very stout and valiant man, in such wise almost, as the affairs of the whole state passed through his hands. And lived a long time after, with the love & good will of the whole commonalty of Venice.   

Philenio Sisterno.  
Philenio Sisterno, a Scholar of Bologna, being mocked of three fair Gentlewomen, at a banquet made of set purpose, he was revenged upon them all.  
¶ The xlix Novel.  
AT Bologna, which is the noblest city of Lombardie, the mother of studies, and accomplished with all things requisite for such a flourishing city, there was a young scholar, a gentleman of the country of Crete, named Philenio Sisterno, of very good grace and behaviour. It chanced that in his time, there was a great feast made in the city, whereunto were bidden the fairest dames, and best of reputation there. There was likewise, many gentlemen and scholars of Bologna, amongs whom was this Philenio: Who following the manner of young men, dallying sometime with one, sometime with another: and perceiving them for his purpose, determined to dance with one of them. And coming to one which was called Emerentiana, the wife of sir Lamberto Bentivoglia, he prayed her to dance. Who being very gentle, and of no less audacity than beautiful, refused not. Then Philenio leading forth the dance very softly, sometimes wring her by the hand, spoke somewhat secretly unto her, these words. Madam your beauty is so great, that without doubt it surmounteth all that ever I saw, and there is no woman in the world, to whom I bear so great affection, as to your person, which if it were correspondent to me in love, I would think myself the best contented man in the world, otherwise I shall in short time be deprived of life, and then you shall be the cause of my death. And loving you (Madam) as I do, and as my duty requireth, you ought to take me for your servant, using me and those little goods which I have, as your own. And I do assure you, that it is impossible for me to receive greater favour from heaven, than to see myself subject to such a gentlewoman as you be, which hath taken me in a net like a bird. Now Emerentiana which earnestly had marked the sweet and pleasant words, like a wise gentlewoman, seemed to give no ear thereunto, and made him no answer at all. The dance ended, and Emerentiana being set down in her place, this young scholar went to take another Gentlewoman by the hand, and began to dance with her: which was not so soon begun, but thus he said unto her. It needeth not Madam, that by words I do express the fervent love which I bear you, and will so do, so long as my poor spirit shall govern and rule my members: and if I could obtain you for my mistress and singular Lady, I would think myself the happiest man on live. Then loving you as I do, and being wholly yours, as you may easily understand, refuse me not I beseech you for your humble servant, sith that my life and all that I have dependeth upon you alone. The young gentlewoman, whose name was Panthemia, perceiving his meaning, did not answer him any thing at that time: but honestly proceeded in her dance: and the dance ended, smile a little, she sat down with the other dames. This done, amorous Philenio rested not until he had taken the third by the hand (who was the gentlest, fairest, and trimmest dame in all Bologna) and began to dance with her roaming abroad, to show his cunning before them that came to behold him. And before the dance was finished, he said thus unto her. Madame it may so be, as I shall seem unto you very malapert to manifest the secret love that I have and do bear you at this instant, for which you ought not to blame me but your beauty, which rendereth you excellent above all the rest, and maketh me your slave & prisoner. I speak not of your commendable behaviour, of your excellent & marvelous virtues, which be such & of so great effect, that it would make the Gods descend down to contemplate the same. If then your excellent beauty and shape, so well favoured by nature, and not by art, may seem to content the immortal Gods, you ought not to be offended, if the same do constrain me to love you, and to enclose you in the privy cabane of my heart. I beseech you then gentle Madam (the only comfort of my life) to have pity upon him that dieth a thousand times a day, for you. In so doing, my life shallbe prolonged by you, commending me humbly unto your good grace. This fair gentlewoman called Simphorosia, understanding the sweet and pleasant words uttered from the very heart of Philenio, could not dissemble her sighs: but weighing her honour, because she was married, gave him no answer at al. And the dance ended, she returned to her place. Now it chanced, as these three Ladies, did sit together in compass, socundly disposed to debate of sundry merry talk, behold, Emerentiana, the wife of Signior Lamberto, not for any evil, but in sporting wise, said unto her companions. Gentlewomen, I have to tell you a pleasant matter which happened to me this day. What is that said the companions? I have gotten this night, said she) in dancing, a courteous Lover, a very fair Gentleman, and of so good behaviour as any in the world: who said that he was so inflamed with my beauty that he took no rest day nor night: & from point to point, rehearsed unto them, all that he had said. Which Panthemia, and Simphorosia understanding, answered that the like had chanced unto them, and they departed not from the feast, before each of them knew him that was their Lover. Whereby they perceived that his words proceeded not of faithful love, but rather of folly and dissimulation, in such wise that they gave so light credit thereunto, as of custom men use to do to the words of them that be sick. And they departed not from thence, until all three with one accord, had conspired every one for her part, to give him a mock Philenio continuing thus in love, sometime with one, sometime with another, & perceiving that every of them seemed to love him, he determined with himself, if it were possible to gather of them the last fruit of his love. But he was greatly deceived in his desire, for that all his enterprise was broken. And that done, Emerentiana which could not any longer dissemble the love of the foolish scholar, called one of her maids, which was a fair and jolly wench, charging her that she should devise means to speak with Philenio, and to give him to understand the love which her mistress bare unto him, and when it were his pleasure, she willingly would one night have him at home at her house. Which news when Philenio heard, he greatly rejoiced, and said to the maid. Return to your mistress fair maid, and commend me unto her, telling her in my behalf, that I do pray her to look for me this evening, if her husband be not at home. During which time, Emerentiana caused a certain number of fagote of sharp thorns to be made, and laid under the bed, where she lay, still waiting for her minion. When night was come, Philenio took his sword, and went to the house of his enemy, & calling at the door with the watchword, the same incontinently was opened. And after that they had talked a little while together, and banqueted after the best manner, they withdrew themselves into the chamber to take their rest. Philenio had no sooner put of his clothes to go to bed, but Signior Lamberto her husband came home. Which the mistress of the house perceiving, made as though she had been at her wit's end, and could not tell whether to convey her minion, but prayed him to hide himself under the bed. Philenio seeing the danger, wherein both he and the wife were, not taking with him any other garments, but only his shirt, except under the bed, where he was so cruelly pricked and scratched with the thorns that there was no part of his body (from the top of the head to the sole of the fore) free from blood, and the more he sought to defend himself in that dark place, the more sharply & piteously he was tormented, and durst not cry, for fear least signior Lamberto would kill him. I will leave to your consideration in what plight this poor wretch was in, who by reason of his miserable being, as he was brechlesse in that terrible purgatory, even so was he speechless and durst not speak for his life. In the morning when signor Lamberto was gone forth, the poor scholar put on his clothes so well as he could, and all bloody as he was, returning to his lodging, was like to die. But being diligently cured by physicians, in short time he recovered his former health. Shortly after, Philenio began to pursue again his love towards the other two, that is to say, Panthemia & Simphorosia, & found convenient time one evening to speak to Panthemia, to whom he rehearsed his griefs and continual torments, praying her to have pity upon him. The subtle and wise wench Panthemia, feigning to have compassion upon him, excused herself by lack of means to content his desire, but in the end vanquished with fair supplications and marvelous sighs, she made him to come home to her house, & being unready, despoiled of his apparel to go to bed with his Lady, she required him to go with her into a little closet, where all her sweet smells and perfumes were, to the intent he might well perfume him before he went to bed. The young dolt not doubting the subtlety of this wicked woman, entered the closet, and setting his foot upon a board unnayled from the ioyst, fell so deep into a store house where merchants use to lay there cotton and will, that he thought he had broken his neck, and his legs, notwithstanding, as fortune would, he had no hurt. This poor scholar being in that dark place, began to seek for some door or ladder to go out, and finding nothing for his purpose, he cursed the hour & time that ever he knew Panthemia. When the dawning of the day began to appear, the simple Sot perceived in one place of the storehouse certain vents in the wall, which gave some light, because they were old and covered over with moss, in such wise, that he began with marvelous force, to pluck out the stones in the most decayed place of the wall, and made so great a hole, that he went out. And being in a lane hard by the great street, barefoot & barelegged, and in his shirt, he went home to his lodging, unknown of any man. A little while after Simphorosia understanding of the deceits that the other two had done to Philenio, attempted to give him the third, which was not inferior to the other twain. And for that purpose, she began a far of to cast her amorous looks upon him, letting him to know that she was in great distress for his love. This poor soul having already forgotten his fortune past, began to walk up and down before her house, like a man altogether tormented any pained with love. Then Simphorosia, seeing him to be far in love with her, sent him a letter by an old woman, whereby she advertised him, that his beauty and good behaviour, so puissantlie did govern her affections that she could take no rest by night nor day, for the earnest love that she bore him. Wherefore she prayed him if it were his pleasure, to come and speak with her. Philenio receiving that letter, and perusing the contents thereof, not considering the deceit prepared for him, ne yet any longer remembering the injuries past, was more joyful and glad than ever he was before. Who taking pen and paper, answered her again, that he for his part suffered no less torments for her sake, yea and in respect of Love, that he loved her far better than she did him, and at all times when she pleased, he would be at her commandment to do her service. The answer read, and opportunity found, Simphorosia caused him to come home to her house, and after many false sighs, she said unto him. My dear friend Philenio, I know none other in all the world, that hath brought me into this state and plight wherein presently I am, but you, because your beauty, good grace, and pleasant talk, have so set my heart on fire, that I feel it to kindle and burn like dry wood. Which talk master Scholar hearing, thought assuredly that she consumed for love of him. This poor Nodgecock, contriving the time with sweet and pleasant words, with his darling Simphorosia, the time approached that he should go to bed with his fair Lady, who said unto him. My sweet friend Philenio abide a while, and let us make some banquet and collation, and taking him by the hand, she carried him into her closet adjoining, where was a table ready furnished with exquisite conficts and wines of the best. This Gentlewoman had made a composition in the wine, to cause this young Gallant to sleep for a certain time. Phileneo thinking no hurt, took the cup and filled it with the wine, and drank it up at one draft. His spirits revived with this refreshing, after he had been very well perfumed and washed in sweet waters, he went to bed, and within a while after this drink began to work, and the minion slept so soundly, that Canon shot, or the greatest gonnes of the world were not able to wake him. Then Simphorosia perceiving the drink begin to work, called one of her sturdy maids that well understood the game of this pageant. Both which carrying this poor sleepy Scholar by the feet and arms, and opening the door very softly, they fair & well bestowed him in the midst of the street, a good stones cast of from the house, where he lay all night. But when the dawning of the day did appear, or an hour before, the drink lost his virtue, and the poor Sot began to wake, & thinking that he had been a bed with the Gentlewoman he perceived himself brechlesse and in his shirt, more dead than alive, through the cold that he had endured, by lying stark naked upon the earth. The poor wretch was not able to help himself, so much as with his arms & legs, and could not stand upon his feet without great pain: notwithstanding, through creeping and sprawling, he got home to his house, unseen of any man, and provided so well as he could for recovery of his health. And had it not been for his youth, which did help him at that instant, his sinews had been benumbed for ever. In the end, having attained his former health, and the state wherein he was before, he still remembered the injuries past, and without showing any sign of anger or ill will, made as though he loved them all three better than ever he did before, and sometime seemed to be in love with the one, and sometime with the other. They again for their part, nothing mistrusting the malice of Philenio, set a good face on the matter, using amorous cheer and countenance towards him, but when his back was turned, with mocks and flouts they took their pleasure. He bearing in his breast secret despite, was still desirous with his hand to mark them in the face, but he like a wise man, weighed the natures of women, and thought it would redound to great shame and reproach, if he did them any hurt. And therefore restraining the heat of his choler, did let them alone. And yet by devising and practising, how he might be even with them and revenged, he was in great perplexity. Very shortly after, it chanced that the scholar had devised a mean, easily to satisfy his desire, & so soon as he had determined upon the same, Fortune also thereunto was favourable. Who hired in the city of Bologna a very fair house, which had a large hall, and commodious chambers: and purposed to make a great and sumptuous feast, and to invite many Ladies and gentlewomen to the same. Amongs whom these three were the first that should be bidden: which accordingly was done. And when the feast day was come, the three Gentlewomen that were not very wise at that instant, repaired thither suspecting nothing. In the end, a little to recreate the gentlewomen, and to get them a stomach, attending for supper time, the scholar took these his three lovers by the hand, and led them friendelie into a chamber, somewhat to refresh them. When these three innocent women were come into the scholars chamber, he shut fast the door, and going towards them, he said. Behold the time is come for me to be revenged upon you wicked and cursed creatures, and to make you suffer the penance of the torment wherewith ye punished me for my great love. The gentlewomen hearing those cruel words, rather dead than alive, began to repent that ever they had offended him, and besides that, they cursed themselves, for giving credit unto him whom they ought to have abhorred. The scholar with a fierce and angry countenance, commanded them upon pain of their lives to strip themselves naked. Which sentence when these three Goddesses heard, they began to look one upon another, weeping and praying him, although he would not do it for their sakes, yet in respect of his own courtesy and natural humanity, that he would save their honour above all things. This Gallant rejoicing at their humble & pitiful requests was thus courteous unto them, that he would not suffer them to stand with their garments on, in his presence. The women casting themselves down at the scholars feet, wept bitterly, beseeching him that he would have pity upon them, and not to be the occasion of a slander so great and infamous. But he whose heart was hardened as the Diamond, said unto them, that this fact was not worthy of blame, but rather of revengement. The women despoiled of their apparel (and standing before him, so free from covering as ever was Eve before Adam) appeared as beautiful in this their innocent state of nakedness, as they did in their bravery: in somuch that the young Scholar viewing from top to toe, those fair and tender creatures, whose whiteness surpassed the Snow, began to have pity upon them: but calling to his remembrance the injuries past, & the danger of death wherein he was, he rejected all pity, and continued in his hard and obstinate determination. Then he took all their apparel, and other furnitures that they did wear, and bestowed it in a little chamber, and with threatening words commanded all three to lie in one bed. The women altogether astoned, began to say to themselves. Alas what fools be we? What will our husbands and our friends say, when they shall understand that we be found naked and miserably slain in this bed? It had been better for us to have died in our cradles, than apprehended and found dead in this state and plight. The Scholar seeing them bestowed one by another in the bed, like husband and wife, covered them with a very white and large sheet, that no part of their bodies might be seen and known, and shutting the chamber door after him, Philenio went to seek their husbands, which were dancing in the Hall. And the dance ended, he brought them into the Chamber where the three Muses lay in their bed, saying unto them. Sirs I have brought you into this place to show you some pastime and to let you see the fairest things that ever you saw in your lives. Then approaching near the bed, and holding a torch in his hand, he began fair and softly to life up the sheet at the beds feet, discovering these fair Ladies even to the knees. Ye should have seen then, how the husbands did behold their white legs, and their well proportioned feet, which done, he disclosed them even to the stomach, and showed their legs and thighs far whiter than alabaster, which seemed like two pillars of fine marble, with a round body so well form as nothing could be better. Consequently he turned up the sheet a little further, and their stomachs, appeared somewhat round and plum, having two round breasts, so firm & feat, that they would have constrained the great God jupiter, to embrace and kiss them. Whereat the husbands took so great pleasure and contentation, as could be devised. I omit for you to think in what plight, these poor naked women were, hearing their husbands to make them. All this while, they lay very quiet, and durst not so much as to hem or cough, for fear to be known The husbands were earnest with the Scholar to discover their faces, but he wiser in other men's hurts, than in his own, would by no means consent unto it. Not contented with this, the young Scholar showed their apparel to their husbands, who seeing the same, were, astoned, and in viewing it with great admiration, they said to themselves. Is not this the gown that I once made for my wife? Is not this the Coif that I bought her? Is not this the Pendant that she useth about her neck? Be not these the rings that she weareth upon her fingers? Being gone out of the chamber, for fear to trouble the feast, he would not suffer them to departed, but caused them to tarry supper. The Scholar understanding that supper was ready. And that the Master of the house, had disposed all things in order, he caused the geastes to sit down. And whiles they were removing & placing the stools & chairs, he returned into the chamber, where the three Deigns lay, and uncovering them, he said unto them. Bonidur, fair Ladies, did you hear your husbands? They whereby, and do earnestly tarry for you at supper. What do ye mean to do? Up and rise ye Dormice, rub your eyes, and gape no more, dispatch and make you ready, it is time for you now to repair into the Hall, where the other Gentlewomen do tarry for you. Behold now how this Scholar was revenged by interteigning them after this manner. Then the poor desolate women, fearing lest their case would sort to some pitiful success, despairing of their health, and thus troubled and discomforted, rose up looking rather for death than for any other thing. And turning them toward the Scholar, they said unto him. Master Philenio, you have sufficient revenge upon us: the best for you to do now, is to take your sword, and to bereave us of our life, which is more loathsome unto us than pleasant. And if you will not do us that good turn, suffer us to go home to our houses unknown, that our honours may be saved. Then Philenio thinking that he had at pleasure used their persons, delivered them their apparel, and so soon as they were ready, he let them out at a little door, very secretly, unknown of any man, and so they went home to their houses. So soon as they had put of their fair furnitures, they folded them up, and laid them in their chests. Which done, they went about their household business, till their husbands came home, when their husbands returned, they found their wives sowing by the fire side in their chambers. And because of their apparel, their rings, and jewels. which they had seen in the scholars chamber, it made them to suspect their wives, every of them demanding his several wife, where she had been that night, and where their apparel was. They well assured of themselves, answered boldly, that they were not out of their house all the evening, and taking the keys of their coffers, showed them their apparel, their rings, & other things, which their husbands had made them. Which when their husbands saw, they could not tell what to say, and forthwith rejected all the suspicion, which they had conceived against them: telling them from point to point, what they had seen that night. The women understanding those words, made as though they knew nothing, and after a little sport and laughter between them: they went to bed. Many times Philenio met his Gentlewomen in the streets and said unto them. Which of you was most afraid or worst entreated? But they holding down their heads, passed forth not speaking a word. In this manner the Scholar was required so well as he could, of the deceits done against him, without any blow given.   

A chaste Death.  
The piteous and chaste death of one of the Mulcters wives of the Queen of Navarre.  
¶ The. L. Novel.  
IN the City of Amboise, there was a Muleteer that served the Queen of Navarre, sister to King Frances the first of that name, which was brought a bed of a son at Blois: To which Town the said Muleteer was gone to be paid his quarters wages. Whose wife dwelled at Amboise beyond the bridges. It chanced that of long time one of her husbands servants did so disordinatelye love her, that upon a certain day he could not forbear but he must needs utter the effect of his Love borne unto her. But she bring a right honest woman, took her man's suit in very ill part, threatening to make her husband to beat him, and to put him away, and used him in such wise, that after that time he durst not speak thereof no more, no yet to make any sign or semblance. And kept that fire covered within his breast, until his Master was ridden out of the town, and that his mistress was at evensong at Saint Florentines, a church of the castle, far from her house. Who now being alone in the house, began to imagine how he might attempt that thing by force, which before by no supplication or service he was able to attain. For which purpose, he broke up a board between his mistress chamber and his. But because the curteyns of his master and mistress bed, and of the servants of the other side, covered and hid the walls between, it could not be perceived, nor yet his malice descried, until such time as his mistress was gone to bed, with a little wench of twelve years of age. And so soon as the poor woman was fallen into her first sleep, this varlet entered in at a hole which he had broken, and so conveyed himself into her bed in his shirt, with a naked sword in his hand. But so soon as she felt him laid down by her, she leapt out of the bed, going about to persuade him by such possible means as was meet for an honest woman to do. And he endued with beastly Love, rather acquainted with the language of his Mulets, than with her honest reasons, showed himself more beastly than the beasts, with whom he had of long time been comiersant. For, seeing her so oft to run about the table that he could not catch her, and also that she was so strong, that twice she overcame him, in despair that he should never enjoy her a live, he gave her a great blow with his sword over she reins of the back, thinking that if fear and force could not make her to yield herself, yet pain and smart should cause her. Howbeit, it chanced clean contrary. For like as a good man of arms when he seeth his own blood, is more chafed to revenge himself upon his enemies to acquire honour: even so the chaste heart of this woman, did reinforce and fortify her courage in double wise, to avoid and escape the hands of this wicked varlet, devising by all means possible by fair words to make the varlet to acknowledge his fault. But he was so inflamed with fury, that there was no place in him to receive good council. And eftsoons with his sword, gashed her tender body with divers and sundry strokes, for the avoiding whereof, so fast as her legs could bear her, she ran up and down the chamber. And when through want of blood she perceived death approach, lifting up her eyes unto heaven, and joining her hands together, gave thanks unto God, whom she termed to be her force, her virtue her patience and chastity, humbly beseeching him to take in good part the blood which by his commandment was shed in honour of that precious blood, which from his own son did issue upon the Cross, whereby she did believe firmly & steadfastly, that all her sins were wiped away defaced from the memory of his wrath and anger, and in saying, Lord receive my soul which was dearly bought and redeemed with thy bounty and goodness, she fell down to the ground upon her face where the wicked villain inflicted her body with manifold blows. And after she had lost her speech and the force of her body: this most wicked and abominable varlet, took her by force, which had no more strength and power to defend herself. And when he had satisfied his cursed desire, he fled away in such haste, as afterwards for all the pursuit made after him, he could not be found. The young wench which lay with her, for fear hid herself under the bed. But when she perceived the villain departed, she came unto her mistress, and finding her speechless and without moving, she cried out of the window unto the next neighbours to come to secure her. And they which loved her, and esteemed her so well as any woman in the Town, came presently unto her, and brought divers Surgeons with them, who finding upon her body xxv mortal wounds, they did so much as in them lay to help her. But it was impossible Howbeit she lay one hour without speech, making signs with her eyes and hands, declaring that she had not lost her understanding being demanded by the priest, of the faith wherein she died, and of her salvation, she answered by such evident signs, that her speech and communication could not declare it better, how that her trust and confidence was in the death of jesus Christ, whom she hoped to see in the celestial city, and so with a joyful countenance, her eyes erected up to the heavens, she rendered her chaste body to the earth, and her soul to her creator. And when she was shrouded ready to the burial, as her neighbours were attending to follow her to the church, her poor husband came home, and the first sight he saw, was the body of his dead wife before his door, whereof before that instant he had no news. And when he understood the order of her death, he then doubled his sorrow, in such wise that he was also like to die. In this sort was this martyr of Chastity buried in the Church of S. Florentine, where all the honest dames and wives of the city endeavoured themselves to accompany her, & to honour her with such reverence as they were able to do: accounting themselves most happy to dwell in that Town, where a woman of such virtuous behaviour did dwell. The foolish and wanton persons seeing the honour done to the dead body, determined from that time forth, to renew their former life and to change the same into a better.   

A King of Naples.  
A King of Naples, abusing a Gentleman's wife, in the end did were the horns himself.  
¶ The. Lj. Novel.  
IN the city of Naples, in the time of King Alphonsus, in whose reign wantonness bore chiefest sway, there was a gentleman so honest, beautiful and comely, as for his good conditions, an old Gentleman gave to him his daughter in marriage, which in beauty and good grace was comparable to her husband. The love was great between them, till it chanced upon a shoruetide, that the King went a masking into the city, where every man endeavoured himself to interteigne him the best he could. And when he came to this gentleman's house, he was best received of any place in all the town, aswell for banqueting, as for musical songs, and the gentlewoman, the fairest that the King saw in all the city to his contentation. And upon the end of the banquet, she sang a song with her husband, with a grace so good that it greatly augmented her beauty. The King seeing so many perfections in one body, conceived not so great pleasure in the sweet accords of her husband and her, as he did how to devise, to interrupt & break them. And the difficulty for bringing that to pass, was the great amity that he saw between them. Wherefore he bore in his heart that passion so covert, as he possibly could. But partly for his own solace and comfort, he feasted all the Lords and Ladies of Naples, where the gentleman and his wife was not forgotten. And because man willingly believeth, that he doth see, he thought that the looks of that gentlewoman promised unto him some grace in time to come, if the presence of her husband were not let thereunto. And to prove whether his conjecture were true, he sent her husband in commission to Rome, for xv days or three weeks. And so soon as he was gone, his wife which hitherto had not felt any long absence from her husband, made great sorrow for the same, whereof she was recomforted by the King, many times by sweet persuasions, by presents and gifts, in such sort, that she was not only comforted, but contented with her husbands absence. And before the three weeks were expired of his return, she was so amorous of the King, that she was no less sorrowful of his coming home, than she was for his departure. And to the intent the King's presence might not be lost, they agreed together, that when her husband was gone to his possessions in the country, she should send word to the King, that he might have safe repair unto her, and so secretly, that his honour, (which he feared more than he did the fact) might not be impaired. Upon this hope, this Lady's heart was set on a merry pin. And when her husband was come home, she welcomed him so well, that albeit he knew how the King made much of her in his absence, yet he would not believe it. But by continuance of time, this fire that could not be covered, by little and little began to kindle, in such wise, that the husband doubted much of the truth, and watched the matter so near, that he was almost out of doubt. But for fear, least he which did the wrong, should do him greater hurts, if he seemed to know it, he determined to dissemble the matter. For he thought it better to live with some grief, than to hazard his life for a woman which loved him not. Not withstanding, for this displeasure, he thought to be even with the king if it were possible. And knowing that many times, despite maketh a woman to do that which Love can not do, specially those women that have honourable hearts and stout stomachs, was so bold without blushing, upon a day in speaking to the Queen, to say unto her, that he had pity upon her, for that she was no better beloved of the king her husband. The Queen which heard tell of the love between the king and his wife. I can not (quoth she) both enjoy honour and pleasure together, I know well that honour I have, whereof one receiveth the pleasure, and as she hath the pleasure, so hath not she the honour that I have. He which knew well by whom those words were spoken, said unto her. Madame, honour waited upon you even at your birth, For you be of so good a house, that to be a Queen or Empress, you can not augment your nobility, but your beauty, grace, & honesty, hath deserved so much pleasure, as she that depriveth you of that which is incident to your degree, doth more wrong to herself, than to your person. For she for a glory that hath turned her to shame, hath there withal lost so much pleasure, as your grace or any Lady in the realm may have. And I may say unto you (Madam) that if the king were no king as he is, I think that he could not excel me in pleasing of a woman. Being sure, that to satisfy such a virtuous parsonage as you be, he might exchange his complexion with mine. The Queen smiling, answered him. Although the king be of more delicate and weaker complexion than you be, yet the love that he beareth me, doth so much content me, that I esteem the same above all things in the world. The gentleman said unto her. Madame, if it were so, I would take no pitle upon you, for I know well that the honest love of your heart, would yield unto you great contentation, if the like were to be found in the king. But God hath foreseen and prevented the same, least enjoying your own desire, you would make him your God upon earth. I confess unto you (said the Queen) that the love I bear him, is so great, that the like place he could not find in no woman's heart, as he doth in muse. Pardon me Madam (said the Gentleman unto her if I speak more frankly, your grace hath not sounded the depth of each man's heart. For I dare be bold to say unto you, that I know one that doth love you in such wise, whose love is so great, that you love in respect of his, is nothing. And for so much as he seeth the King's love to fail in you, his doth grow and increase, in such sort, that if your love were agreeable unto his, you should be recompensed of all your losses. The Queen aswell by his words as by his countenance, began to perceive, that the talk proceeded from the bottom of his heart, and called to her remembrance that long time he had endeavoured himself to do her service, with such affection, as for love he was grown to be melancholic, which she thought before, to come through his wives occasion, but now she assuredly believed that it was for her sake. And thus the force of Love, which is well perceived when it is not feigned, made her sure of that, which was unknown to all the world. And beholding the gentleman which was more amiable than her husband, and seeing that he was forsaken of his wife, as she of the king, pressed with despite and controversy of her husband, and provoked with love of the gentleman, began to say with finger in eye, and sighing sobs. O my god, must vengeance get that at my hand, which Love can not do? The gentleman well understanding her meaning, answered. Madame vengeance is sweet unto him, which in place of killing his enemy, giveth life to a perfect friend. I think that it is time that troth should remove from you the foolish love, that you bear unto him which loveth you not. And that just and reasonable love, should expel from you the fear, which never can remain in a noble & virtuous heart. But now Madam, omitting to speak of the greatness of your estate, let us consider that we be both man & woman, the most deceived of the world, and betrayed of them which we have most dearly loved. Let us now revenge ourselves (Madam) not only to render unto them, as they have deserved, but to satisfy the love which for my part I can no longer beat, except I should die. And I think, that if your heart be not harder than Flint, or Diamond, it is impossible but you must perceive some spark of fire, which increaseth more than I am able to dissemble. And if pity of me which dieth for your love, doth not move you to love me, at least wise let love of yourself constrain you, which being so perfect a creature as you be, doth deserve to enjoy the hearts of all the honest men of the world. And let I say, the contempt & forsaking of him move you, for whom you have disdained all other persons. The Queen hearing those words, was so ravished, that for fear to declare by her countenance the trouble of her spirit, leaning upon the Gentleman's arm, went into a garden hard by her chamber, where she walked a long time not able to speak a word. But the Gentleman seeing her half won, when he was at the end of the Alley, where none could see them, he certified her by effect, the love which so long time he kept secret from her. And both with one consent rejoiced in revenge, whereof the passion was importable. And there determined, that so oft as he went into the country, and the King from his Castle to the City, he should return to the Castle to see the Queen. Thus deceiving the deceivers, all four were partakers of the pleasure, which two alone thought to enjoy. The accord made, they departed, the Lady to her chamber, and the Gentleman to his house, with such contentation, as they had quite forgotten all their troubles past. And the fears that either of them had of the assembly of the King and of the Gentlewoman, was turned to desire, which made the Gentleman to go more oft than he was wont to do into the Country, being not past half a mile of. And so soon as the king knew thereof, he failed not to visit his Lady, and the Gentleman the night following went to the Castle to salute the Queen, to do the office of the King's Lieutenant, so secretly as never any man did perceive it. This voyage endured of long time, but the King because he was a public person, could not so well dissemble his love, but all the world did perceive it, and all men pitied the gentleman's state. For divers light persons behind his back would make horns unto him, in sign of mockery, which he right well perceived. But this mockery pleased him so well, that he esteemed his horns better than the Kings Crown, who and the Gentleman's wife one day, could not refrain (beholding a stags head set up in the Gentleman's house) from breaking into a laughter before his face, saying, how that head became the house very well. The Gentleman that had so good a heart as he, wrote over that head these words.  
These horns I wear and bear for every man to view:  
But I wear and bear them not in token they be true.  
The King returning again to this Gentleman's house, finding this superscription newly written, demanded of the Gentleman the signification of them. Who said unto him.  
If Princes secret things, be from the horned heart concealed:  
Why should like things, of horned beasts, to Princes be revealed?  
But content yourself. All they that wear horns, be pardoned to wear their caps upon their heads. For they be so sweet and pleasant, that they uncappe no man, and they wear them so light, that they think they have none at all. The king perceived well by his words, that he knew something of his doings, but he never suspected the Love between the Queen and him. For the Queen was better contented with her husbands life, and with greater ease dissembled her grief. Wherefore either parts lived long time in this love, till age had taken order for dissolueion thereof. Behold Ladies (q Saffredante) this History, which for example I have willingly recited unto you, that when your husbands do make you horns as big as a Goat beareth, you may render unto him the monstrous head of a Stag, peace (q Emarsnite smile) no more words.   

A Princess of Flaundres.  
The rash enterprise of a Gentleman against a Princess of Flaundres, and of the damage and shame which he received thereof.  
¶ The. Lij. Novel.  
THere was in Flaundres a Lady of an honourable house, which had two husbands, by whom she had no children that were living. During the time of her widowhood, she dwelled within one of her brothers, that loved her very well, which was a noble man, and had married a King's daughter. This young Prince was much given to pleasure, loving hunting, pastime, and the company of fair Ladies, according as youth doth require. He had a wife that was cursed and troublesome, whom the delectations of her husband in no wise did content and please. Wherefore this noble man caused his sister daily to keep company with his wife. This Gentlewoman his sister, was of pleasant conversation, and therewithal very honest and wise. There was in the house of this noble man, a Gentleman whose worship, beauty and grace, did surpass all the rest of his companions. This Gentleman perceiving the sister of his Lord and Master to be pleasant & of joyful countenance, thought to prove if the attempt of an honest friend would be vouchsafed at her hands, but he found her answer to be contrary to her countenance. And albe if that her answer was such as was meet for a Princess and right honest Gentlewoman, yet because she perceived him to be a goodly parsonage, and courteous, she easily pardoned his bold attempt, and seemed that she took it not in ill part when he spoke unto her. Nevertheless she warned him, after that time, to move no such matter, which he promised, because he would not lose his pleasure and honour that he conceived to entertain her. Notwithstanding, by process of time his affection increased so much, that he forgot the promise which he had made unto her, not hazarding his enterprise by words: for he had to long against his will experimented her wise & discrete answers. But he thought if he could find her in some convenient place (because she was a widow, young, of lusty years & good complexion) it were possible she would take pity upon him, & of herself. And that he might bring his purpose to effect, he said to his Master, that he had beside his own house very goodly game, & that if it pleased him to kill three or four Stags in the month of may, he could never see better pastime. The Lord aswell for the love he bore to the Gentleman, as for the pleasure he had in hunting, granted his request. And went to his house which was so fair and well furnished, as the best Gentleman in all the Country had not a better, and did lodge his Lord and Lady in one side of the house, and in the other directly against it, her whom he loved better than himself. The Chamber was so well hanged with tapistry, and furnished, and so trimly matted, as it was impossible to perceive a falling door, which was by the beds side, descending to the chamber where his Mother lay, which was an old Lady, that was troubled with the Catarrh or Rheum. And because she had a Cough, fearing to disease the Princess which lay above her, she changed chambres with her son. And every night the old Gentlewoman brought conflicts to the Lady for her recreation, upon whom the Gentleman waited, who (for that he was well beloved & very familiar with her brother) was not refused to be by her at her rising and going to bed. Whereby he daily took occasion to increase his love and affection. In such sort that one night, after he had caused the Lady to sit up late, (she being surprised with sleep) he was forced to departed the chamber, and to repair to his own. Where when he had put on the most bravest perfumed shirt that he had, & his cap for the night so trimly dressed, that there wanted nothing, he thought in beholding himself, that there was no Lady in the world that could refuse his beauty and comeliness. Wherefore promising himself a happy success in his enterprise, he went to his bed where he purposed not long to abide, for the desire that he had to enter into an other, which should be more honourable & pleasant unto him. And after he had sent his men away, he rose to shut the door after them, & hearkened a good while, whether he could hear any noise in the ladies chamber above. And when he was sure that every man was at rest, he began to take his pleasant journey, and by little & little opened the falling door, which was so well trimmed with cloth, that it made no noise at all, and went up to the Ladies bedside, which then was in her first sleep, and without respect of the bond and promise that he made unto her, or the honourable house whereof she came, without leave or reverence, he laid himself down besides her, who felt him between her arms before she perceived his coming. But she which was somewhat strong, unfolded herself out of his hands, and in ask him what he was, began to strike, to bite and scratch. In such wise, as he was constrained (for fear lest she should cry out) to stop her mouth with the coverlet, which was impossible for him to do. For when she saw him to press withal his force to despoil her of her honour, she spared no part of her might to defend and keep herself, & called (so loud as she could) her woman of honour, that lay in her chamber, which was a Gentlewoman right ancient and sober, who even in her smock, ran strait to her mistress. And when the gentleman perceived that he was discovered, was so fearful to be known of the Lady, that so soon as he could he shifted himself down by his trap-door. And when before he had desire, hope & assurance to be welcome, now he was brought in despair for returning in so unhappy state. When he was in his chamber, he found his glass and candle upon the table, and beholding his face all bloody with scratchings and bite, which she had bestowed upon him, the blood whereof ran down his fair shirt which was more bloudled than guilded, he began to moon himself in this wise. O beauty, thou art now paid thy desert, for upon thy vain promise have I adventured a thing impossible. And that which might have been the augmenting of my contentation, is now the redoubling of my sorrow. Being assured that if she knew how contrary to my promise I have enterprised this foolish fact, I should utterly forego the honest and common conversation which I have with her above all other. That which my estimation, beauty and good behaviour do deserve, I ought not to hide in darkness. To gain her love I ought not to assay her chaste body by force, but rather by my service and humble patience, to wait and attend till love did vanguish. For without love all the virtue and puissance of man is of no power and force. Even thus he passed the night in such tears, griefs and plaints, as a man can not well report and utter. In the morning, when he beheld his bloody face all mangled and torn, he feigned himself to be very sick, and that he could abide no light, till the company were gone from his house. The Lady which thus remained victorious, knowing that there was no man in all her brother's court, that durst attempt a deed so wicked, but only he, which was so bold to declare his love unto her, knew well that it was her host, And when she and her woman of honour had searched all the corners of the chamber to know what he was, and saw that she would not find him, she said unto her woman in a great rage. Assure yourself, it can be none other, but the Gentleman of the house, whose villainous order I will declare to my brother in the morning, in such sort, that his head shall be a witness and testimony of my chastity. Her woman seeing her in that fury, said unto her. Madam I am right glad to see the love & affection which you have to your honour, for the increase whereof, you will not spare the life of one, which hath adventured himself so much forced with the love that he beareth unto you. But many times such one thinketh by those means to increase his love, which altogether he doth diminish. Wherefore (Madam) I humbly beseech you to tell me the truth of this fact. And when the Lady had recompted the same at length, the woman of honour said unto her. Your grace doth say that he got no other thing of you, but scratches and blows with your fists. Do I assure you (quoth the Lady) and I am certain if he get him not a good surgeon, the marks will be seen to morrow. Well Madam (quoth the Gentlewoman) sithence it is so, me thinketh you have greater occasion to praise God, than to muse upon revengement: For you may believe, that sithence he had the courage to enterprise such a thing, & that despite hath made him to fail of his purpose, you can devise no greater death for him to suffer, than the same. If you desire to be revenged, let Love & shaine alone to bring that to pass, who know better which way to torment him than yourself: & with greater honour to your person. Take heed Madam from falling into such inconvenience as he is in. For in place of great pleasure which he thought to have gained, he hath received the most extreme annoyance, that any Gentleman can suffer. And you Madam by thinking to augment your honour, you may decrease and diminish the same. And by making that complaint, you shall cause that to be known, which no man knoweth. For of his part (you may be assured) there shall never be any thing revealed. And when my Lord your brother at your request, shall execute that justice which you desire, and that the poor gentlemau shall be ready to die, yet the brute will run that he hath had his pleasure upon you. And the greatest part will say, that it is a difficult matter for a gentleman to do such an enterprise, except the Lady minister some great occasion. Your grace is fair and young, frequenting your life in pleasant company, there is none in all the Court, but seeth and marketh the good countenance you bear to that gentleman, whereof yourself hath some suspicion. Which will make every man suppose that if he have done this enterprise, it was not done with out some consent on your part. And your honour which hitherto hath borne your port a fit, shall be disputed upon in all places where this history shall be remembered. The Princess understanding, and weighing the good reasons of her Gentlewoman, knew that she spoke the truth: and that by most just cause she should be blamed: considering the familiarity and good countenance which daily she bore unto the Gentleman. Wherefore she inquired of her woman of honour, what was best to be done. Who answered her thus. Madam sith it pleaseth you to receive mine advise, by weighing the affection whereof it proceedeth, me think you aught in your heart to rejoice, that the goodliest, and most courteous Gentleman that liveth, could neither by love, nor force, despoil you of your great virtue and chastity. For which (Madam) you are bound, to humble yourself before God, acknowledging that it is not done by your virtue, because many women walking in a more painful and more unpleasant trade than you do, have been humiliated and brought low by men far more unworthy of love, than he which loveth you. And ye ought now to fear more than ever you did, to use any semblance and talk of amity, because there have been many that have fallen the second time into dangers and perils, which they have annoyed at the first. Remember (Madam) that love is blind, who darkeneth men's eyes in such sort, that where a man thinketh the way most sure, there he is most ready to fall. And I suppose Madam, that you ought not to be known of this chance, neither to him, no yet to any man else, and when he remembreth any thing unto you, to make as though you did not understand his meaning, to avoid two dangers. The one of vain glory for the victory which you have had, the other to take pleasure in remembering things, that be so pleasant to the flesh, which the most chaste have had much a do to defend themselves from feeling of some sparks, although they do seek means to shun & avoid them withal their possible power. Moreover Madam, to th'end that he think not by such hazard and enterprise to have done a thing agreeable to your mind, mine adusse is, that by little and little, you do make yourself strange, and use no more your wont grace unto him, that he may know how much you despise his folly, and consider how great your goodness is, by contenting yourself with the victory which God hath given you, without seeking any further v●tion or revengement. And God grant you grace (Madam) to continue that honesty which he hath planted in your heart, and by acknowledging that all goodness proceedeth from him, you may love him and serve him better than ever ye did. The Princess determined to credit the counsel of her gentlewoman, slept with so great joy as the poor gentleman waked with sorrow. On the morrow the noble man ready to departed, asked for his host, unto whom answer was made, that he was so sick, that he could not abide the light, nor endure to hear one speak. Whereof the Prince was sore abashed, and would have visited him, but that it was told him that he was a sleep, and was very loath to wake him. Wherefore without bidding him farewell, he departed, taking with him his wife and sister, who hearing the excuse of the Gentleman, that would not see the Prince, nor yet his company, at their departure, was persuaded that it was he, that had done her all that torment, and durst not show the marks which she had signed in his face. And although his Master did send oftentimes for him, yet came he not to the Court, until he was healed of all his wounds, except that which Love and despite had made in his heart. When he came to the Court and appeared before his victorious enemy, he blushed for shame of his overthrow. And he which was the stoutest of all the company, was so astoned, that many times being before her, he could not tell which way to look or turn his face. Wherefore she was assured that her suspicion was certain and true, by little and little estranging herself from him, but it was not done so slightly or politicly, but that he perceived it well enough, and yet he durst make no semblance thereof, for fear of worse adventure. Notwithstanding he conserved both his love in his heart, & also patience of mind, for the loss of his Lady's favour, which he had right well deserved.   

Amadour and Florinda  
The love of Amadour and Florinda. Wherein be contained many sleights and dissimuletions together, with the renowned chastity of the said Florinda.  
¶ The. Liij. Novel.  
IN the County of Arande, in Arragon, there was a Lady, which in the best time of her youth, continued the widow of the Earl of Arande, with one son and one daughter, called Florinda. The said Lady brought up her children in all virtue and honesty, meet and convenable for all Lords and Gentlemen, in such fort, that her house was renowned to be one of the most honourable houses in all the Region of Spain. Many times she repaired to Toledo, where the King of Spain held his Court, and when she came to Sarragosa, which was hard adjoining to the Court, she continued long with the Queen, and in the Court, where she was had in so good estimation as any Lady might be. Upon a time going towards the King, according to her custom, which was at Sarragosa, in his Castle of jasserie, this Lady passed by a village that belonged to the Uiceroy of Cathalongne, who still continued upon the frontiers of Parpignon, by reason of the great wars that were between the French King and him. Howbeit, at that time peace being concluded, the Uiceroy withal his captains were come to do reverence to the King. The Uiceroy knowing that the Countess of Arande did pass through his country, went to meet her, aswell for ancient amity, as also for the honour he bore unto her being allied to the King. Now this Uiceroy had in his company divers honest Gentlemen, which through the frequentation and continuance of the long wars had gotten such honour and fame, that every man that might see them & behold them, did account themselves happy. But amongs all the other, there was one called Amadour, who although he was but xviij or xix years of age, yet he had such an assured grace, and a wit so excellent, that he was deemed amongs a thousand persons worthy to have the government of a common wealth, which good wit was coupled with a marvelous natural beauty, that there was no eye, but did content itself eftsoons to behold him. And this beauty so exquisite, was associated with wonderful eloquence, that doubtful it was to say, whether of them merited greatest honour, either his grace, his beauty or his excellent tongue, but that which brought him into best reputation, was his great hardiness, whereof the common report and brute, was nothing impeached or stayed for all his youth. For in so many places he showed his marvelous chivalcie, that not only Spain, but France and Italy, did singularly commend and set forth his virtue: because in all the wars wherein he was present, he never spared himself for any danger. And when his country was in peace and quiet, he sought to serve in strange places, being loved and esteemed both of his friends and enemies. This Gentleman for the love of his Captain was come into that country, where was arrived the Countess of Arande, and in beholding the beauty and good grace of her daughter, which was not then past twelve years of age, he thought that she was the fairest & most virtuous parsonage that ever be saw: and that if he could obtain her good will, he should be so well satisfied as if he had gained all the goods and pleasures of the world. And after he had a good while viewed her, for all the impossibility that reason could devise to the contrary, he determined to love her, although some occasion of that impossibility, might rise through the greatness of the house whereof she came, & for want of age which was not able as yet to understand the passions of love. But against the fear thereof he armed himself with good hope, persuading with himself, that time and patience would bring happy end to his travail. And from that time gentle Love which without any other occasion than by his own force was entered the heart of Amadour, promised him favour & help by all means possible to attain the same. And to provide for the greatest difficulty, which was the far distance of the Country where he dwelled, and the small occasion that he had thereby any more to see Florinda, he thought to marry against his determination made with the Ladies of Barlelone and Parpignon, amongs whom he was so conversant by reason of the wars, that he seemed rather to be a Cathelan, than a Castillan, although he were borne by Toledo, of a rich and honourable house, but because he was a younger brother, he enjoyed no great patrimony or revenue. Not withstanding, Love and Fortune seeing him forsaken of his parents determined to accomplish some notable exploit in him, & gave him (by means of his virtue) that which the laws of his country refused to give. He had good experience in facts of war, and was so well beloved of all Princes and Rulers, that he refused many times their goods, as a man that weighed not the same. The Countess of whom I spoke, arrived thus at Sarragossa, was very well interteigned of the king, and of his whole Court. The Governor of Cathalogne many times came thither to visit her, whom Amadour never failed to accompany, for the only pleasure he had to talk with Florinda. And to make himself to be known in that company, he went to Aventurade, which was the daughter of an old Knight that dwelled hard by the house, which from her youth was brought up with Florinda, in such familiar sort, that she knew all the secrets of her heart. Amadour aswell for the honesty that he found in her, as for the living of three thousand Ducats by the year which she should have to her marriage, determined to give her such interteignement, as one that was disposed to marry her. Whereunto the Gentlewoman did willingly recline her ear. And because that he was poor, and the father of the damosel rich, she thought that her father would never accord to the marriage, except it were by means of the Countess of Arande. Whereupon she went to Madam Florinda, and said unto her. Madame, you see this Castillan Gentleman, which so oftentimes talketh with me, I do believe that his pretence is to marry me. You do know what a father I have, who will never give his consent, if he be not persuaded thereunto by my Lady your mother & you. Florinda which loved the damosel as herself, assured her that she would take upon her to bring that matter to pass, with so earnest travail as if the case were her own. Then Auenturade brought Amadour before Florinda, who after he had saluted her, was like to fall in a sown for joy, and although he were counted the most eloquent person of Spain, yet was he now become mute and dumb before Florinda, whereat she marveled much. For albeit she was but. xv. years of age, yet she understood that there was no man in Spain that had a better tongue or a more convenable grace than he. And seeing that he said nothing unto her, she spoke unto him in this wise. The same which is bruited of you (sir Amadour) through out the whole country of Spain, is such that it maketh you known and esteemed in this company, and giveth desire and occasion to those that know you, to employ themselves to do you pleasure. Wherefore if there be any thing wherein I may gratify you, use me I beseech you. Amadour that gazed upon the beauty of that Lady, was rapt and surprised, not well able to render thanks unto her. And although Florinda marveled to see him without answer, yet she imputed the same rather to bashfulness than to any force of love, and departed without any further talk. Amadour knowing the virtue which in so tender years began to appear in Florinda, said unto her whom he purposed to marry. Do not marvel, though my talk do fail before Madam Florinda, for the virtues and wise words, hidden in that young parsonage, did so amaze me, that I witted not what to say. But I pray you Aventurade (quoth he) which knoweth all her secrets, to tell me, if it be otherwise possible, but that she hath the heart of all the Lords and Gentlemen of the Court: for they which know her and do not love her, be stones, or beasts. Aventurade which then loved Amadour more than all the men in the world, and would conceal nothing from him, said unto him, that Madam Florinda was beloved of the whole world: but for the custom of the country, few men did speak unto her. And (quoth she) as yet I see none that make any semblance unto her, but two young Princes of Spain, which desired to marry her, whereof the one is the son of the Infant Fortune, and the other of the Duke of Cadouce. I pray you then (quoth Amadour) to tell me which of them as you think, doth love her best. She is so wise said Aventurade, that she will confess or grant her love to none, but to such as her mother pleaseth. But so far as we can judge, she favoureth much better the son of the Infant Fortune, than the Duke of Cadouce. And for that I take you to be a man of good judgement, this day you shall have occasion to judge the truth. For the son of the Infant Fortune is brought up in the court, who is one of the goodliest and most perfect young gentlemen in all christendom. And if the marriage do proceed, according to our opinion which be her maids, he shall be assured to have Madam Florinda. And then shall be joined together the goodliest couple in the world. And you must understand, that although they be both very young, she of twelve years of age, and he of xu yet it is three years passed since their love first began. And if you be disposed above other to obtain her favour, mine advise is, that ye become friend and servant unto him. Amadour was very joyful to hear tell that his Lady loved some man, trusting that in time he should win the place, not of husband, but of servant. For he feared nothing of all her virtue, but a lack of disposition to love. And after this communication, Amadour bend himself to haunt the society of the son of the Infant Fortune, whose favour he soon obtained. For all the pastimes which the young Prince loved, Amadour could do right well. And above all other, he was very cunning in riding of horses, and in handling all kinds of arms and weapons, and in all other pastimes and games meet for a young Gentleman. Wars began in Languedoc, and Amadour must needs retire with the Governor, to his great sorrow and grief. For he had there no mean to return to the place where he might see Florinda. For which cause he spoke to his own brother which was steward of the King of Spain's household, and declared unto him what courtesy he had found in the house of the Countess of Arande, and of the damosel Auenturade, praying him that in his absence he would do his endeavour, that the marriage might proceed, and that he would obtain for him the credit and good opinion of the King and Queen, and of all his friends. The Gentleman which loved his brother, aswell for Nature's sake, as for his great virtues, promised him his travail and industry to the uttermost. Which he did in such wise that the old man her father, now forgetting other natural respect, began to mark and behold the virtues of Amadour, which the Countess of Arande, and specially fair Florinda, painted and set forth unto him, and likewise the young Earl of Arande, which began to grow to years, and therewithal to love those that were virtuous, & given to honest exercise. And when the marriage was agreed between the parents, the said steward sent for his brother whilst the truce endured between the two Kings. About this time, the King of Spain retired to Madric, to avoid the evil air that was in many places, where by the advise of divers of his Counsel, and and at the request of the Countess of Arande, he made a marriage between the young Duchess the heir of Medina Celi, and the young Earl of Arande, as well for the union of their house, as also for the love he bore to the said Countess. And this marriage was celebrated in the castle of Madric, whereunto repaired Amadour, who so well obtained his suit, that he married her, of whom he was much better beloved, than his small love toward her did deserve, saving that it was a coverture and means for him to frequent the place where his mind and delight incessantly remained. After he was married, he became so well acquainted and familiar in the house of the Countess, that he was so conversant amongs the Ladies, as if he had been a woman. And although he was then but xxij years of age, he was so wise and grave, that the Countess imparted unto him all her affairs, commanding her son and daughter to entertain him, and to credit all things wherein he gave counsel. Having won this great estimation, he behaved himself so wise and politic, that even she whom he loved knew no part of his affection. But by reason of the love that Florinda bore to the wife of Amadour, whom she loved more than any other, she was so familiar with him, that she dissembled no part of her thought, declaring unto him all the love that she bore towards the son of the Infant Fortune. And he that desired nothing more than thoroughly to win her, ceased not from continuance of talk, not weighing whereof he spoke, so that he might hold her with long discourse. Amadour had not after his marriage continued a month in that company, but was constrained to retire to the wars, where he remained more than two years, without return to see his wife, who still abode in the place where she was brought up. During this time, Amadour wrote many letters unto his wife, but the chiefest effect of the same, were commendations to Florinda, who for her part failed not to render like unto him, many times writing some prove poesy with her own hand, in the letter of Aventurade. Which made her husband diligent many times to write again unto her, but in all this doing, Florinda knew nothing, but that she loved him as if he had been her brother. Many times Amadour went and came, but in the space of five years, he never saw Florinda two months together in the whole time. Not withstanding, Love in despite of their distance and long absence, ceased not to increase. And it chanced that he made a voyage home to see his wife, and found the Countess far from the Court, because the king of Spain was gone to Vandelousie, and had taken with him the young Earl of Arande, which then began to bear arms. The Countess was retired to a house of pleasure, which she had upon the frontiers of Arragon and Navarre, and was right joyful when she saw Amadour, who almost three years had been absent. He was very well received of every man, and the Countess commanded that he should be used and entreated as her own son. During the time that he sojourned with her, she communicated unto him all the affairs of her house, and committed the most part thereof to his discretion, who wan such credit in the house, that in all places where he list, the doors were opened unto him. Whose wisdom and good behaviour made him to be esteemed, as though he had been a Saint or Angel. Florinda, for the love and good will which she bore unto his wife and him, made much of him in all places where she saw him, knowing nothing of his intent. Wherefore she did not refrain herself or take heed of any countenance, for that her heart as yet felt no passion, but that she felt a great contentation in herself, when she was in the presence of Amadour, of any other thing she thought not. Amadour to avoid the judgement of them that have proved the difference of lovers countenances, was very aware and circumspect. For when Florinda came to speak unto him secretly (like one that thought no hurt) the fire hidden in his breast, burned so sore, that he could not stay the blushing colour of his face, nor the sparks which flew out of his eyes. And to the intent, that through long frequentation, none might espy the same, he interteigned a very fair Lady called Paulina, a woman in his time accounted so fair, that few men which beheld her, could escape her bonds. This Lady Paulina understanding how Amadour used his love at Barselone & Parpignon, & how he was beloved of the fairest & honest Ladies of the country, & above all of the Countess of Pallamons', which in beauty was prized to be the fairest in all Spain, & of many other, said unto him. That she had great pity of him, for that after so many good fortunes, he had married a wife so foul and deformed. Amadour understanding well by those words, that she had desire to remedy her own necessity, used the best manner that he could devise, thinking that in making her believe a lie, he should hide from her the truth. But the subtle and well experimented in love, contented not herself with talk, but perceiving right well that his heart was not satisfied with her love, doubted that he could not serve his Lady in secret wise, & therefore marked him so near, that daily she had a respect and watch unto his eyes, which he could so well dissemble, that she was able to judge nothing, but by dark suspicion, not without great pain and difficulty to the gentleman, to whom Florinda (ignorant of all their malice) did resort many times in presence of Paulina, whose demeanour then was so familiar, that he with marvelous pain refrained his looks, against his heart and desire. And to avoid that no inconvenience should ensue, one day speaking to Florinda, as they were both leaning at a window, said these words. Madame, I beseech you to tell me whether is it better to speak or to die. Whereunto Florinda answered readily, saying. I will still council my friends to speak and not to die. For there be few words spoken but that they may be amended, but the life lost cannot be recovered. Promise me then said Amadour, that not only ye will accept those words which I will say, but also not to be astoned or abashed, till ye hear the end of my tale. To whom she answered. Say what it please you, for if you do affray me, none other shall assure me. Then he began to say unto her. Madame, I have not yet been desirous to disclose unto you the great affection which I bear you, for two causes. The one, because I attend by my long service, to show you the experience thereof. The other, for that I doubted you would think a great presumption in me (which am but a poor gentleman) to insinuate myself in place whereof I am not worthy. And although I were a prince as you be, the loyalty yet of your heart, will not permit any other, but him which hath already taken possession (the son I mean of the Infant Fortune) to use any talk of love with you. But Madam, like as necessity in time of great war constraineth men to make havoc of their own goods, and to consume the green corn, that the enemy take no profit and relief thereof, even so do I hazard to advance the fruit, which in time I hope to gather, that your enemies & mine may enjoy thereof none advantage. Know ye Madam, that from the time of your tender years, I have in such wise dedicated myself to your service that I cease not still to aspire the means to achieve your grace and favour. And for that occasion, I did marry her whom I thought you did love best. And knowing the love you bear to the son of the Infant Fortune, I have endeavoured myself to serve him as you have seen. And all wherein I thought you did delight, I have accomplished to the uttermost of my power. You do see that I have gotten the good will of the Countess your mother, of the Earl you brother, and of all those that do bear you good will. In such sort as in this house I am esteemed, not like a servant, but as a son. And all the labour which I have sustained these five years past, was for none other cause, but to live all the days of my life with you. And understand you well, that I am none of those which by these means do pretend to receive of you any profit or pleasure, other than that which is good and virtuous. I do know that I can never marry you, and if I could I would not, to withstand the love that you bear unto him, whom I desire to be your husband, likewise to love you in vicious sort, like them that hope to recompense their service, with the dishonour of their Ladies, I am so far of from that affection, that I had rather be dead than to see you by desert worthy of less love, and that your virtue should by any means be diminished for any pleasure that might happen unto me. I do pretend and crave for the end and recompense of my service, but one thing. Which is, that you would continue my loyal and faithful mistress, that you will never withdraw from me your good grace and favour, and that you will maintain me in that estate and degree wherein I am. Reposing your trust and fidelity in me more than in any other, making yourself so assured of me, that if for your honour or any cause touching your person, you stand in need of the life of a Gentleman, the same shall right willingly be employed in your service. In like manner all things virtuous and honest which ever I shall attempt, I beseech you to think the same to be done only for the love of you. And if I have done for Ladies of less reputation than you be, any thing worthy of estimation, be you assured that for such a mistress as you are, my enterprises shall increase in such sort, that the things which I found difficult and impossible, shall be easily for me to accomplish. But if you do not accept me to be wholly yours, I determine to give over arms, and to renounce valiance, because it hath not succoured me in necessity. Wherefore Madam, I humbly beseech you that my just request may not be refused, sith with your honour and conscience you cannot well deny the same. The young Lady hearing this unaccustomed suit, began to change her colour, and to cast down her eyes like an amazed woman, not withstanding, as she that was wise and discrete, said unto him. If (Amadour) your request unto me be none other than it is: wherefore have you discoursed unto me this long oration? I am afraid that under this honest pretence there lurketh some hidden malice to deceive the ignorance of my youth, in such wise, that I am in great perplexity how to make you answer, for to refuse the honest amity which you have offered, I shall do contrary to that I have done hitherto, which have reposed in you more trust than in all the men of the world. My conscience or mine honour can not gainsay your demand, nor the love that I bear to the son of the Infant Fortune, which is grounded upon marriage. Where you pretend nothing, I can not tell what thing should let me to make you answer according to your request, but a fear that I have in my heart, founded upon the small occasion that you have to use that talk, for if you have that already which you demand, what doth constrain you to speak so affectuously? Amadour that was not with out an answer, said unto her. Madame, you speak very wisely, and you do to me so much honour, for the confidence and trust which according to your saying you do repose in me, that if I do not content myself with such a benefit, I were the unworthiest creature living. But understand Madam, that he which goeth about to build a perpetual mansion, aught to have regard to a sure and firm foundation. Wherefore I which desire perpetually to remain in your service, do seek not only the means to keep myself near about you, but also to foresee that none do understand the great affection which I do bear you. For although my mind be so virtuous & honest, that the same may disclose itself before the whole world, yet there be some so ignorant and unskilful of lovers hearts, that many times will judge contrary to the truth, whereof proceedeth so ill brute and report, as if the effects were wicked. The cause which hath made me so bold to say and declare unto you thus much, is the suspicion that Paulina hath conceived in her mind, for that I can not love her. Who doth nothing else but mark and espy my countenance in every place, and when you use your familiar talk with me before her, I am so afraid to show any sign whereby she may ground or verify her judgement, that I fall into that inconvenience, which I would willingly avoid. Wherefore I have thought good to beseech you (before her and those which you do know to be so malicious) to abstain from talking with me so suddenly, for I had rather die, than any living creature should have knowledge thereof. And had it not been for the love which I bear unto your honour, I had not yet declared the same unto you, for I do hold myself sufficient happy and content of the love and affiance that you do bear me, craving nothing else but the continuance of the same. Florinda so well satisfied with this answer, began to feel in her heart a further thing to grow than ever she did before. And hearing the honest reasons alleged by him, said, that her honesty and virtue should make answer for her, and there withal assented to his demand. Whereof whether Amadour were joyful, Lovers need not doubt. But Florinda credited more his counsel, than he would have had her. For she being fearful and timorous, not only before Paulina, but in all other places, used far other countenance than she was wont to do. And in this altenation of her former familiarity, she misliked the conversation that Amadour had with Paulina, whose beauty was such, that she could not otherwise believe, but that he loved her. And Florinda to pass over he heaviness, daily used the company of Aventurade, that began marvelously to be jealous between her husband and Paulina, whereof she made complaint many times to Florinda, who comforted her so well as she could, like one attached with the same disease. Amadour conjecturing by the countenance of Florinda, that not only she was estranged from him through his former advertisement, but also that there was some other displeasure conceived, coming upon a time from evensong out of the Monastery, he said unto her. Madame, what countenance do you make me? Such as I think doth please you best, answered Florinda. Then Amadour suspecting a matter, to know whether it were true, began to say. Madame, I have so used the matter, that Paulina beginneth to give over her opinion of you. She answered him. Ye can not do a better thing either for yourself or for me. For in doing yourself a pleasure, you do honour unto me. Amadour judged by these words, that she thought he took pleasure to talk of Paulina, wherewith he became so desperate, that he could not forbear to say unto her in anger. Madame, you begin very soon to torment your servant. There was never pain more grievous unto me, than to be forced to speak to her whom I love not. And sithence all that which I do for your service, is taken in ill part, I will never speak again unto her, whatsoever happen. And to dissemble mine anger and contentation, I will address myself to some place hereby, till your fancy be past. But I hope I shall receive news from my Captain, to return to the wars, where I will so long continue, that you shall know and understand, that none other thing but you alone doth force me to carry here. And in saying so, without attending for her answer, he incontinently departed, and she remained so sad and pensive as any woman could be. And Love began to show his great force in such wise, as she knowing her wrong incessantly, wrote to Amadour, praying him to return home, which he did within few days after that his choler was passed. And to tell you what business there was, to interrupt and break the controversy conceived, it were superfluous. But in the end, he wan the field, so that she promised him, not only to believe that he loved not Paulina, but also held herself assured that it should be to him a martyrdom intolerable, to speak unto her, or any other, except it were to do her service. After that Love had vanquished this present suspicion, and that the two Lovers began to take more pleasure in their mutual talk than ever they did before, news came that the King of Spain was about to address his Army to Saulse, wherefore he that was wont to be there with the first, was not like now to fail to augment his honour. But true it is, that his grief was now more great, than at other times before, aswell for losing the pleasure which he enjoyed, as for fear to find some mutation and change at his return, because he saw Florinda pursued by great Princes & Lords, and already come to the age of xu years, thinking that if she were married in his absence, he should never have occasion to see her again, except the Countess of Arande would appoint his wife to wait upon her. For accomplishment whereof he made such friends, that the Countess and Florinda, promised him, that into what so ever place she were married, his wife Aventurade should attend upon her. And although it was in question that Florinda should be married into Portugal, yet it was determined that his wife should never forsake her. And upon the assurance, not without unspeakable sorrow, Amadour departed & left his wife with the Countess. When Florinda was alone, after the departure of her servant, she gave herself to all things good and virtuous, hoping thereby to attain the fame of a most perfect Lady, & to be counted worthy the interteignement of such a servant. Amadour being arrived at Barsalone, was banqueted of the Ladies, after the old manner, but they finding him so altered and changed, thought that Marriage could never have had such power upon man, as it had over him. For he seemed then to disdain those things which sometime he greatly desired, and specially the Countess of Palamons', whom he dearly loved, could devise no means to make him go alone home to his lodging. Amadour tarried at Barsalone so little while as he could, because he might not come late to the place where he should win and achieve honour. And being arrived at Saulse, great & cruel wars was comenced between the two kings, which I purpose not to recite, ne yet the noble enterprises done by Amadour, whose fame was bruited above the rest of his companions. The Duke of Nagyeres, arriving at Parpignon, had charge of two thousand men, and prayed Amadour to be his Lieutenant, who with that band served so well, that no cry was heard in all the skirmishes, other than Nagyeres. It chanced that the king of Thunis, which of long time had war with the Spaniards, understanding how the kings of Spain and France were together by the ears at Parpignon and Narbone, thought that in better time he could not annoy the king of Spain. Wherefore he sent a great number of Foists and other vessels, to rob and destroy those frontiers which were ill guarded & kept. They of Barsalone seeing a number of Ships pass before the Town, advertised the king that was at Saulse, who immediately sent the Duke of Nagyeres to Palamons'. And when the Ships perceived that the place was well guarded, they made as though they would pass further. But about midnight they returned, and landed so many men, that the Duke of Nagyeres was taken prisoner. Amadour which was very vigilant, hearing all arm, presently assembled so many men as he could, and defended himself so well, that the force of his enemies a long time could not hurt him. But in th'end knowing that the Duke of Nagyeres was taken prisoner, and that the Turks were determined to burn the City of Palamons', and then to fire the house which he strongly had forced against them, he thought it better to render himself, than to be cause of the loss of so many good soldiers as were in his band, and also by putting himself to ransom, he hoped in time to come to see Florinda. Then he submitted himself to a Turk called Derlyn, the governor of the king of Thunis, who conveyed him home to his master, where he was well enterteigned, and better kept. For they thought that having him in their hands, they had gotten the only Achilles of Spain. In this sort Amadour continued almost the space of two years, in the service of the king of Thunis. News came into Spain of this overthrow, whereof the friends of the Duke of Nagyeres, were very sorrowful. But they that loved the honour of their country, thought Amadour to be the greatest loss. The brute whereof was noised in the house of the Countess of Arande, where at that time the poor Gentlewoman Aventurade lay very sore sick. The Countess suspecting very much the affection that Amadour bore unto her daughter, which he suffered and dissembled for his virtues sake, called her daughter aside, and told her the piteous news. Florinda which could well dissemble, said unto her, that it was a great loss for all their house, but specially she pitied the state of his poor wife, because at that time she was so sore sick. But seeing her mother weep so bitterly, she let fall some tears to keep her company, lest through to much dissimulation, her love might be discovered. After that time, the Countess spoke to her many times, but she could never perceive by her countenance, any cause of certain suspicion. I will leave to speak of the voyages, the prayers, the supplications and fastings, which Florinda did ordinarily make for the safeguard and prosperity of Amadour, who incontinently so soon as he was arrived at Thunis, sent news to his friends, and by a sure messenger advertised Madam Florinda, that he was in good health and hope to return. Which news was to the poor Lady, the only means to relieve and ease her sorrow. And doubt ye not, but the means of writing, was utterly debarred from Amadour, whereof Florinda acquitted herself so diligently, that by her letters and epistles, he received great consolation & comfort. The Countess of Arande received commandment from the King, to repair to Sarragosa, where he that time was arrived. And there she found the young Duke of Cardonne, making suit to the King and Queen, for marriage of her daughter. The Countess unwilling to disobey the king, agreed, thinking that her daughter being very young, had none other affection, but that she had. When the accord was concluded, she said unto her daughter, that she had chosen her that match which she thought best worthy to join with her person. Her daughter seeing that in a thing already done it was to late to take counsel," said unto her, that God was to be praised in all things. And seeing her mother so far alienated from her intent, she thought it better to show herself obedient, than to take pity upon herself. And to comfort her in that sorrow, she understood that the Infant Fortune was at the point of death. But before her mother or any other person, she showed not so much as one sign or token thereof, straining herself so much, that the tears by force retiring to her heart, did cause the blood to issue forth at her nose, in such abundance, that her life was in present danger. And to recover her of that disease, she was married unto him, for whose sake she had rather have changed her life for present death. After the marriage, Florinda, went with her husband into the Duchy of Cardonne, and with her Aventurade, to whom she secretly made her complaint, aswell of her mother's rigour, as also of the sorrow she conceived for the loss of the son of the Infant Fortune. But of her grief for Amadour, she spoke never a word, but by way of comforting her. This young Lady then determined to have God and respect of honour before her eyes, and so well to dissemble her griefs, that none should at any time perceive that she misliked her husband. In this sort Florinda passed a long time, living a life no less pleasant than death. The report whereof she sent to her good servant Amadour, who understanding her great love, and well disposed heart, and the love she bore to the Infant Fortune, thought that it was impossible she could live long, & lamented her state more than his own. This grief augmented his pain of imprisonment, wishing to have remained a slave all the days of his life, so that Florinda had had a husband according to her desire, forgetting his own grief by feeling that his friend did suffer. And because he understood by a friend which he had gotten in the court of the King of Thunis, that the King was minded to offer him the gibbet, or else to make him renounce his faith, for the desire he had to retain him still, and to make him a good Turk, howbeit he behaved himself so well, with him that took him prisoner, that he gave him leave to departed upon his faith, taxing him at so great ransom, that he thought a man of so small substance was never able to pay. And so without speaking to the king his Master, he let him go upon his faith. After he had showed himself at the court of the King of Spain, he departed incontinently to his friends to get his ransom, and went strait to Barsalone, whether the young Duke of Cardonne, his mother, & Florinda, was gone about certain affairs. Aventurade, so soon as she heard tell that her husband was come, declared the same to Florinda, who seemed for her sake greatly to rejoice thereat. But fearing that the desire she had to see him would make her change countenance, and that they which knew not the cause thereof, would conceive some ill opinion, she stood still at a window to see him come a far of. And so soon as she espied him, she went down a pair of stairs, which were so dark that none could perceive if she changed colour. When she had embraced Amadour, she led him into her chamber, and from thence to her mother in law, which had never seen him before. He had not continued there two days, but he was so well beloved, as he was before in the house of the Countess of Arande. I will omit the words and talk between Florinda and Amadour, and the complaints which he made unto her of his ill adventure, that he had sustained in his absence. And after many tears uttered by her, for the heaviness she had taken, aswell for the marriage against her will, as for the loss of him that she loved so dearly, whom she thought never so see again, she determined to take her consolation in the love and fidelity that she bore to Amadour, which not withstanding she durst not open and declare. But he that much doubted thereof, lost no occasion and time to let her know and understand the great love he bore her. And even upon the point, that she was ready to receive him, not as a servant, but for her assured and perfect friend, there chanced a marvelous fortune. For the king for certain matters of importance, incontinently sent forth Amadour, whereof his wife conceived such sorrow, that hearing those news, she sounded & fell from the stairs where she stood, where with she hurt herself so sore, that never after she revived. Florinda (that by the death of her had lost all comfort) made such sorrow, as one that was destitute of good friends & kinssolke, but Amadour took the same in worst part. For he had not only lost one of the most honest women that ever was, but also the means that he should never after that time have occasion to visit Florinda. For which cause he fell into such a sickness, that he was like to have died suddenly. The old Duchess of Cardonne, incessantly did visit him, and alleged many philosophical reasons to make him patiently to receive death, but it availed nothing. For if Death of th'one side did torment him, Love of the other side did augment his martyrdom. Amadour seeing that his wife was buried, & that the king had sent for him, (having no occasion of longer abode there) he entered into such despair, that he seemed to be out of his wits. Florinda which in comforting him was almost desolate, remained by him one whole afternone, using the most honest and discrete talk that was possible, thinking thereby to diminish the greatness of his sorrow, assuring him that she would devise ways that he might visit her more oft than he did think for. And because he must departed the next morning, and was so feeble and weak that he could not rise from his bed, he entreated her to come & see him at night after every man was gone. Which she promised to do, not knowing that loves extremity was void of reason. And he that saw no hope ever after that time to see her again whom so long time he had served: and of whom he had never received other interteignement than that you have heard, was so beaten and overcome with Love long dissembled, and of the despair he conceived, that (all means to use her company taken away) he purposed to play double or quit, either to lose her or to win her favour, and to pay himself at one instant, the thing which he thought he had right well deserved. Wherefore he caused the Curtains of his bed to be drawn, that they which came into the chamber might not see him, complaining of sickness more than he was wont to do, whereby they of the house thought he would not have lived xxiiij hours. After every one of the house had visited him at night, Florinda (at the special request of her husband) came to see him, thinking for his comfort, to utter unto him her affection, and how above all other she would love him, so far as her honour did permit. And sitting down in a chair at the beds head, she began to comfort him, and therewithal poured out many tears. Amadour seeing her sorrowful & pensive, thought that in her great torment he might easily attain the effect of his intent: And lifted himself up in his bed, which Florinda perceiving, she would have stayed him, thinking that through weakness he was not able to move. And kneeling upon his knees, he said unto her. Must I for evermore forego your sight mine own dear Lady? And in saying so he fell down between her arms like one that fainted for lack of strength. Then poor Florinda embraced him, and of long time held him up, doing all that was possible for his comfort. But the medicine she gave him to case his sorrow, did rather increase the same more strong. For in feigning himself half dead, without speaking any word, he attempted the which that honour of womanhood doth defend. When Florinda perceived his ill intent, she could scarce believe the same, considering his honest requests made before time, and therefore asked him what it was that he desired. But Amadour fearing to hear her answer which he knew well could be none other but chaste and virtuous, without further talk, pursued his purpose so earnestly as he could, wherewith Florinda being astoned did suspect he had been out of his wits rather than believe that he went about her dishonour. Wherefore with loud voice she called a Gentleman which she knew well to be in the chamber. Which Amadour hearing, utterly in despair, threw himself so suddenly into his bed, that the Gentleman thought he had been dead. Florinda rising out of the chair, said unto him. Go quickly and fetch me some good vinegar. Which the gentleman did. Then Florinda began to say unto him. Amadour what folly hath enchanted your wisdom? And what is that which you would have done unto me? Amadour that through the force of love had lost all reason, said unto her. Doth my long service merit a recompense of such cruelty? And where is the honesty than said Florinda, which so many times you have preached unto me? Ah Madam said Amadour. I believe it is impossible yourself more faithfully to love your own honour than I do. For when you were unmarried, I could so well subdue my heart and affection, that you did never understand my will and desire. And now that you be married, to the intent your honour may be in covert, what wrong do I to ask that which is mine own? For by force of love I have won you. He that first enjoyed your heart, hath so ill followed the victory of your body, that he hath deserved to lose altogether. He that possesseth your body, is not worthy to have your heart, wherefore your body is none of his, ne yet he hath no title in the same, But I Madam, these five or six years have sustained such pains and travel for your sake, that you are not ignorant but to me appertaineth both your body and heart, for whose sake I have utterly forgotten mine own. And if you can find in your heart to defend me from my right, doubt ye not but they which have proved the forces of Love, will lay the blame upon you, which hath in this sort rob me from my liberty, and with your heavenly graces hath obscured my senses, that not knowing hereafter what to do, I am constrained to go without hope for ever to see you again. Notwithstanding warrant yourself, that in what place so ever I am, you shall still possess my heart, which shall continue yours for ever, be I upon the land or water, or between the hands of my most cruel enemies. But if I had before my departure, the surety of you which the greatness of my love deserveth, I shall be strong enough patiently to bear the griefs of long absence. And if it please you not to grant me my request, you shall shortly hear tell that your rigour hath rendered unto me a most unhappy and cruel death. Florinda no less astoned than sorry, to hear such words proceed from him, of whom she never had any such suspicion weeping said unto him. Alas Amadour, is this the meaning of those virtuous words which sithence the beginning of my youth ye have uttered unto me? Is this the honour of the conscience which you have many times persuaded me rather to die than to lose the same? Have you forgotten the good examples recited unto me of virtuous dames that have resisted foolish Love? And is this the contempt which ye daily made of Ladies that were foolish & vain? I can not believe Amadour, that you are so mad, that God, your own conscience, and mine honour, should be altogether out of your mind and memory. But if it so be as you say, I do praise the goodness of God, which hath prevented the mishap that now I am fallen into, in showing me by your words, the heart which I did not know. For having lost the son of the Infant Fortune, who not only is married into another place, but also loved another, and I now married to him, which I cannot love, I thought and determined wholly, with all mine heart and affection to love you, founding the same upon that virtue which I knew to be in you, which love by your means only I have conceived, and therefore did more esteem my honour and conscience, than mine own life. Upon assurance of this stone of honesty I am come hither thinking to build a most sure foundation. But (Amadour) in one moment thou hast declared, that in place of a pure foundation, thy building is reared upon a light sand, and unconstant ground, or else upon a filthy and foul quamire. And where I began to erect a good part of the lodgings of this building, hoping to dwell there for ever, suddenly thou hast overthrown the whole. Wherefore, you must immediately break in sunder the hope and credit that evermore you have found in me, and determine that in what place soever I be, not to seek after me, either by words, or countenance. And do not think, that I can or will at any time hereafter change mine opinion, which words I speak with great sorrow and grief. But if I had made an oath of this perfect amity and love, I know mine heart would have died upon this breach, although the astonishment in that I am deceived, is so great that I am well assured it will make my life either short or sorrowful. And therefore I bid you farewell and that for ever. I purpose not to tell you of the sorrow which Amadour felt by hearing these words. Because it is impossible not only to write them, but also to think them, except it be of such as have had experience of the like. And seeing that upon this cruel conclusion she would have gone away, he caught her by the arm, knowing well that if he did not remove that ill opinion, which by his own occasion she had conceived, he should lose her for ever. Wherefore he said unto her with a very faint there. Madame, all the days of my life I have desired to love a woman endued with honesty and virtue. And because I have found so few, I would fain have tried whether your person had been worthy of estimation and love, whereof now I am well assured, and humbly do praise God therefore, because mine heart is addressed to such perfection, beseeching you to pardon this fond and bold enterprise, sith you do see that the end doth redound to your own honour and contentation. Florinda which began to know the malice of men by him, like as she was hard to believe the evil where it was, even so she was more difficile to credit the good where it was not, and said unto him. I pray to God your words be true. Yet I am not so ignorant but that the state of marriage wherein I am, hath made me evidently to perceive that the strong passion of blind love hath forced you to this attempt. For if God had loosed my hand, I am well assured you would not have plucked back the bridle. They that attempt to seek after virtue, will not take the way that you do. But this is sufficient if I have lightly believed any honesty in you, it is time for me now to know the truth, that I may rid myself from you. And in saying so, Florinda went out of the chamber, and all the night long, she never left weeping, who felt such great grief in the alteration, that her heart had much to do, to sustain the assaults of sorrow the love had made. For although reason thought never to love him again, yet the heart which is not subject unto us, would not accord to that cruelty. For which consideration, she loved him no less than she was wont to do, and knowing that love was the cause of that fault, she purposed for satisfaction of Love, to love him with all her heart, and yet through obedience and fealty due to her honour, she thought never to make other semblance. In the morning, Amadour departed in this sort, troubled as you have heard, nevertheless his courageous heart, entered not in despair, but renewed a fresh hope once again to see Florinda, and to win her favour. Then he took his journey towards the court of Spain (which was at Toledo) taking his way by the Countess of Arande, where late in an evening he arrived, and found the Countess very sick for the absence of her daughter Florinda. When she saw Amadour, she kissed and embraced him, as if he had been her own child, aswell for the love she bore unto him, as for the like which she doubted that he bore to Florinda, of whom very earnestly she inquired for news, who told her the best that he could devise, but not the whole truth, and confessed unto her the love between Florinda and him (which Florinda had still concealed & kept secret) praying her aid to bring him again into her favour: and the next morning he departed. And after he had done his business with the Queen, he repaired to the wars, so sad and changed in all his conditions, that the Ladies, Captains, and all they that were wont to keep him company, did not know him. His apparel was all black, mourning for the death of his wife, whereby he covered the sorrow which was hid in his heart. In this wise Amadour passed three or four years before he returned to the Court. And the Countess of Arande which heard tell that Florinda was so sore changed, that it would have moved any man's heart to behold her, sent for her, hoping that she would have come, but her expectation was frustrate, for when Florinda understood that Amadour had told her mother the good will between them, and that her mother being so wise & virtuous giving credit to Amadour, did believe his words, she was in marvelous perplexity, because of the one side she saw that her mother did esteem him so well, that if she declared unto her the truth, Amadour might conceive some displeasure. Which thing she had rather die than to do: wherefore she thought herself strong enough to chastise him of his folly, without help of her friends. On the other side she perceived that by dissembling the evil which she knew by him, she should be constrained by her mother and her friends, to speak unto him and to bear him good countenance: whereby she feared his evil opinion would be the more encouraged. But seeing that he was far of, she passed the less of the matter. And when the Countess her mother did command her, she wrote letters unto him, but they were such as he might well gather that they were written rather upon obedience, than of good will, the reading whereof bred sorrow unto him in place of that joy he was wont to conceive in her former letters. Within the term of two or three years, after he had done so many noble enterprises that all the paper of Spain could not contain them, he devised a new invention, not to win and recover the heart of Florinda (for he deemed the same quite lost) but to have the victory over his enemy, sithence she had used him in that sort, and rejecting all reason and specially fear of death, into the hazard whereof he hasted himself, he concluded and determined his enterprise in such sort, that by reason of his behaviour towards the Governor, he was deputed & sent by him to treat with the king of certain exploits to be done at Locates, sparing not to impart his message to the Countess of Arande, before he told the same to the king, to use her good advise therein. And so came in post straight into the County of Arande, where he had intelligence in what place Florinda remained, and secretly sent to the Countess one of his friends to tell her of his coming, & to pray her to keep it close, and that he might speak with her that night in such secret wise as no man might have knowledge thereof. The Countess very joyful of his coming, told it to Florinda, & sent her into her husbands chamber to put of her clothes, that she might be ready when she should send for her after every man was gone to bed. Florinda which was not yet well boldened by reason of her former fear, making a good face of the matter to her mother, withdrew herself into an orato rieor chapel, to recommend herself to God, praying him to defend her heart from all wicked affection, & considered how often Amadour had praised her beauty, which was not impaired or diminished, although she had been sick of long time. Wherefore thinking it better to do injury to her beauty by defacing it, than to suffer the heart of so honest a parsonage by means thereof wickedly to be inflamed, she took up a stone which was within the Chapel, and gave herself such a great blow on the face, that her mouth, eyes and nose were altogether deformed. And to the intent no man might suspect what she had done, when the Countess sent for her, in going out of the Chapel, she fell down upon her face upon a great stone, and there withal cried out so loud, that the Countess came in and found her in that piteous state, who incontinently dressing her face, and binding it up with clothes, conveyed her into her chamber, and prayed her to go into her closet to entertain Amadour, till she were weary of his company. Which she did, thinking that there had been some body with him. But finding him alone, and the door shut upon her: Amadour was not so well pleased as she was discontented. Who now thought either with love or force to get that, which he had so long time desired. And after he had spoken a few words unto her, and found her in that mind he left her, and that to die for it she would not change her opinion, desperately he said unto her. By God Madam, the fruit of my labour, shall not be thus taken from me, for scruples and doubts. And sith that Love, patience and humble desires can not prevail, I will not spare by force to get that, which except I have it will be the cause of my destruction. When Florinda saw his face and eyes so altered, that the fairest dye and colour of the world was become so red as fire, and his most pleasant and amiable look transformed horrible and furious, that very hot burning fire seemed to sparkle within his heart and face: and in that fury with one of his strong fifth he gripped her delicate and tender hands. On the other side she seeing all her defences to fail her, and that her feet and hands were caught in such captivity that she could neither run away nor yet defend herself: knew none other remedy, but to prove if he had yet remaining in him any griftes of the former love, that for the honour thereof he might forget his cruelty. Wherefore she said unto him Amadour if now you do account me for an enemy, I beseech you for the honesty of the love which at other times I have found planted in your heart, to give me leave to speak before you do torment me. And when she saw him reclining his ear, she pursued her talk in this wise. Alas Amadour, what cause have you to seek after the the thing whereof you shall receive no contentation, inflicting upon me such displeasure as there can be no greater? You have many times proved my will and affection in the time of my youthful days, and of my beauty far more excellent than it is now, at what time your passion might better be borne with and excused, than now. In such wise that I am amazed to see that you have the heart to torment me at that age and great debility wherewith I am now endued. I am assured that you doubt not but that my will & mind is such as it was wont to be. Wherefore you cannot obtain your demand but by force. And if you saw how my face is arrayed, you would forget the pleasure which once you received in me, and by no means would forcibly approach near unto me. And if there be left in you yet any remnants of love, it is impossible but that pity may vanguishe your fury. And that to pity and honesty whereof once I had experience in you, I do make my plaint, and of the same I do demand grace and pardon, to th'intent that according to your persuasion and good advise, you may suffer me to live in peace & honesty, which I have determined during my life. And if the love which you have borne me be converted into hatred, & that more for revengement than affection, you do purpose to make me the most unhappy wight of the world, I assure you, you shall not be able to bring your intent to pass, besides that, you shall constrain me against my determination, to utter and reveal your villainy & disordinate appetite towards her, which did repose in you an incredible affiance: by discovering whereof, think verily, that your life cannot continue without peril. Amadour breaking her talk said unto her. If I die for it, I will presently be acquieted of my torment. But the deformity of your face (which I think was done by you of set purpose) shall not let me to accomplish my will. For since I can get nothing of you but the bones & carcase, I will hold them so fast as I can. And when Florinda saw that prayers, reason, nor tears could not avail, but that with cruelty he would needs follow his villainous desire, which she had still avoided by force of resistance, she did help herself so long, till she feared the loss of her breath, and with a heavy and piteous voice she called her mother so loud as she could cry, who hearing her daughter calling with such rueful voice, began greatly to fear the thing that was true. Wherefore she ran so fast as she could into the warderobe● Amadour not being so near death as he said he was, left of his hold in such good time, as the Lady opening her closet, found him at the door, and Florinda far enough from him. The Countess demanded of him saying, Amadour what is the matter? Tell me the truth. Who like one that was never unprovided of excuse, with his face pale and wan, and his breath almost spent, said unto her. Alas Madam, in what plight is my Lady Florinda? I was never in all my life in that amaze wherein I am now. For as I said unto you, I had thought that I had enjoyed part of her good will, but now I know right well that I have nothing at all. I think Madam, that sith the time she was brought up with you she was never less wise and virtuous than she is, but she is very dangerous and squeimish in speaking and talking, and even now I would have looked upon her, but she would not let me. And when I saw that countenance, thinking that it had been some dream or vision, I desired to kiss her hand, according to the fashion of the country, which she utterly refused. True it is Madam, I have offended her, whereof I crave pardon of you, but it chanced only for that I took her by the hand, which I did in a manner by force, & kissed the same demanding of her no other contentation. But she like one (as I suppose) that hath sworn my death, made an outery for you, as you have heard, for what cause I know not, except that she were afraid that I would have forced some other thing. Notwithstanding Madam, what so ever the matter be, I protest unto you the wrong is mine, and albeit that she ought to love all your honest servants, yet fortune so willeth, that I alone, the most affectioned of them all, is clearly exempt out of her favour. And yet I purpose still to continue towards you & her the same man I came hither, beseeching your good grace and favour, sithence that without my desert I have lost hers. The Countess which partly believed, and partly mistrusted his talk went unto her daughter, and demanded of her wherefore she cried out so loud. Florinda answered that she was afraid. And albeit the Countess subtly asked her of many things, yet Florinda would never make other answer, for that having escaped the hands of her enemy, she thought it punishment enough for him to lose his labour. After that the Countess had of long time communed with Amadour, she left him yet once again to enter in talk with Florinda before her, to see what countenance she would make him. To whom he spoke few words except they were thanks for that she had not confessed the truth to her mother, praying her at least wife that seeing he was dispossessed out of her heart, she would suffer none other to receive his place. But she answering his former talk, said. If I had had any other means wherewith to defend myself from you than by crying out, she should never have heard me, and of me you shall never hear worse, except you do constrain me as you have done, and for loving any other man, you shall not need to fear. For sith I have not found in your heart (which I esteemed the most virtuous in all the world) the good success that I desired, I will never believe hereafter that virtue is planted in any man. And this outrage shall make me free from all passions that Love can force, and in saying so she took her leave. The mother which beheld her countenance, could suspect nothing, and after that time, she knew well that her daughter bore no more affection to Amadour, and thought assuredly that she was void of reason, because she hated all those things which she loved. And from that time forth there was such war between the mother and the daughter, that the mother for the space of vij years would not speak unto her, except it were in anger. Which she did at the request of Amadour. During which time, Florinda converted the fear that she had to remain with her husband, into mere love, to annoyed the rigour and checks of her mother. Howbeit, seeing that nothing could prevail she purposed to beguile Amadour, & leaving for a day or two her ser strange countenance, she counseled Amadour to love a woman, which as she said, did commonly talk of their love. This Lady dwelled with the Queen of Spain, & was called Lorette, who was very joyful and glad to get such a servant. And Florinda found means to cause a brute of this new love to be spread in every place, and specially the Countess of Arande (being at the Court) perceived the same, who afterwards was not so displeased with Florinda, as she was wont to be. Florinda upon a time heard tell that the Captain the husband of Loret began to be jealous over his wife and determined by some means or other he cared not how, to kill Amadour, Florinda notwithstanding her dissembling countenance, could not suffer any hurt to be done to Amadour, and therefore incontinently gave him advertisement thereof. But he returning again to his former sollyes, answered, that if it would please her to interteigne him every day three hours, he would never speak again to Loret, whereunto by no means she would consent. Then Amadour said unto her, if you will not have me to live, wherefore go ye about to defend me from death? except ye purpose to torment me alive in such wise that a thousand deaths can not do? But for so much as death doth fly from me, I will never leave to seek death, till I have found him out, at whose approach only I shall have rest. Whilst they were in these terms, news came that the King of Granado was about to enter into great wars against the King of Spain: in such wise that the King sent against him the Prince his son, and with him the Constable of Castille, and the Duke of Albe, two ancient and sage Lords. The Duke of Cardonne and the Count of Arande not willing to tarry behind, besought the King to give either of them a charge. Which he did according to the dignity of their houses, appointing Amadour to be their guide. Who during that war, did such valiant facts that they seemed rather to be desperately than hardyly enterprised. And to come to the effect of this discourse, his great valiance was tried even to the death. For the moors making a brag as though they would give battle, when they saw the army of the christians, counterfeited a retire, whom the Spaniards pursued, but the old Constable and the Duke of Albe doubting their policy, stood still, against the will of the Prince of Spain, not suffering him to pass over the river, but the Count of Arande and the Duke of Cardonne (although they were countremanded) did follow the chase, and when the moors saw that they were pursued with so small a number, they returned, and at one recountrie killed the Duke of Cardonne, and the Count of Arande was so sore hurt that he was left for dead in the place. Amadour arriving upon this overthrow, invaded the battle of the moors, with such rage and fury, that he rescued the two bodies of the Duke and County, and caused them to be conveyed to the Prince's camp, who so lamented their chance, as if they had been his own brethren. But in searching their wounds, the County of Arande was found to be alive, and was sent home to his own house in a horslitter, where of long time he was sick, and likewise was conveyed to Cardonne the dead body of the young Duke. Amadour in rescuing those two bodies, took so little heed to himself, that he was enclosed with a great number of the moors, & because he would be no more taken, aswell to verify his faith towards God, as also his vow made to his Lady, and also considering that if he were prisoner to the King of Granado, either he should cruelly be put to death, or else forced to renounce his faith, he determined not to make his death or taking, glorious to his enemies. Wherefore kissing the cross of his sword, and rendering his body and soul to the hands of almighty God, he stabbed himself into the body with such a blow, that there needed no second wound to rid him of his life. In this sort died poor Amadour, so much lamented as his virtues did deserve. The news hereof was bruited throughout Spain, and Florinda which then was at Barsalone, where her husband in his life time ordained the place of his burial, after that she had done his honourable obsequies, without making her own mother, or mother in law privy thereunto, surrendered herself into the Monastery of jesus, there to live a religious life, receiving him for her husband and friend, which had delivered her from the vehement love of Amadour, & from a displeasant life so great and unquiet as was the company of her husband. In this wise she converted all her affections, to love God so perfectly, that after she had long time lived a religious life, she yielded up her soul in such joy as the Bridegroom doth when he goeth to visit his spouse   

A Duke of Florence  
The incontinency of a Duke and of his impudency to attain his purpose, with the just punishment which he received for the same.  
¶ The. Liiij. Novel.  
IN the City of Florence, there was a Duke that married the Lady Margaret the bastard daughter of the Emperor Charles the fift. And because she was very young, it was not lawful for him to lie with her, but tarrying till she was of better years, he used her very gently. Who to spare his wife, was amorous of certain other Gentlewomen of the city: Amongs whom he was in love, with a very fair, wise and honest Gentlewoman, that was sister to a Gentleman, whom the Duke loved so well as himself, to whom he gave so much authority in his house, that his word was so well obeyed and feared as the Dukes himself, and there was no secret thing in the Duke's mind, but he declared the same unto him, that he might full well have been called a second himself. The Duke seeing his sister to be a woman of so great honesty, had no ways or means to utter unto her the love that he bore her (after he had invented all occasions possible) at length he came to this Gentleman which he loved so well, and said unto him. My friend if there were any thing in all the world, wherein I were able to 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 you, and would not do it at your request, I should be afraid to declare unto you my fantasy, and much ashamed to crave your help and assistance. But the love is such that I bear you, that if I had a wife, mother, or daughter, which were able to save your life, I would rather employ them, than to suffer you to die in torment. And if you do bear unto me the affection which am your Master, think verily that I do bear unto you the like. Wherefore I will disclose unto you such a secret and privy matter, that the silence thereof hath brought me into that plight which you see, whereof I do look for none amendment but by death or by the service which you may do me, in a certain matter which I purpose to tell you. The Gentleman hearing the reasons of his master and seeing his face not feigned, but all be sprent with tears, took great compassion upon him and said. My Lord I am your humble servant. All the goods and worship that I have doth come from you. You may say unto me as to your friend. Assure yourself, that all which resteth in my power and ability, is already at your commandment. Then the Duke began to tell him of the love that he bore unto his sister, which was of such force, that if by his means he did not enjoy her, his life could not long continue. For he said, that he knew right well that entreaty and presents were with her of no reputation. Wherefore he prayed him, that if he loved his life, so well as he did his, to find means for him to receive that benefit, which without him he was in despair never to recover. The brother which loved his sister and honour of his kindred, more than the Duke's pleasure, made a certain reverence unto him, humbly beseeching him to use his travail and pain in all other causes saving in that, because it would be a suit so slanderous and infamous, as it would purchase dishonour to his whole family, adding further, that neither his heart and honour would not serve him, to consent to do that service. The Duke inflamed with an unspeakable fury, put his finger between his teeth, and biting of the nail, said unto him in a great rage. Well then sith I find in the no friendship I know what I have to do. The Gentleman knowing the cruelty of his Master, being sore afraid, said unto him. My Lord, for so much as your desire and pleasure is vehement and earnest, I will speak unto her and bring you answer thereof. And as he was departing the Duke said unto him. See that thou tender my life as thou wilt that I shall love thine. The Gentleman understanding well what that word did mean, absented himself a day or twain to advise with himself what were best to be done. And amongs divers his cogitations, there came to his remembrance the bounden duty which he did owe to his master, and the goods and honours which he had received at his hands, on the other side he considered the honour of his house, the good life and chastity of his sister, who (he knew well) would never consent to that wickedness, if by subtlety she were not surprised, or otherwise forced, & that it were a thing very strange and rare, that he should go about to defame himself and the whole stock of his progeny. Wherefore he concluded, the better it were for him to die, than to commit such a mischief unto his sister which was one of the honestest women in all Italy. But rather he considered how he might deliver his country from such a Tyrant, which by force would blemish and spot the whole race of his house. For he knew right well that except the Duke were taken away, the life of him and his affinity could not be in security and safeguard. Wherefore without motion made to his sister of that matter, he devised a way to save his life and the reproach that should follow thereof. At the two days end, he came unto the Duke, and told him in what sort he had practised with his sister, and although the same in the beginning was hard & difficult, yet in the end he made her to consent, upon condition that he would keep the same so secret as none but himself & he might know it. The Duke desirous & glad of those news, did soon believe him, & embracing the messenger, promised to give him whatsoever he would demand, praying him with all speed that he might enjoy his desired purpose. Whereupon they appointed a time. And to demand whether the Duke were glad and joyful of the same, it were superfluous. And when that desired night did approach, wherein he hoped to have the victory of her whom he thought invincible, he and the Gentleman alone withdrew themselves together, not forgetting his perfumed coif and sweet shirt wrought and trimmed after the best manner. And when every man was gone, both they repaired to the appointed lodging of his Lady, where being arrived they found a chamber in decent and comely order. The Gentleman taking of the Duke's night gown, placed him in the bed, saying unto him. My Lord, I will now go seek her which can not enter into this chamber without blushing, howbeit I trust before to morrow morning she will be very glad of you. Which done, he left the Duke, and went into his own chamber, where he found one of his servants alone, to whom he said. Hast thou the heart to follow me into a place where I shall be revenged upon the greatest enemy that I have in the world? Yea sir answered his man. Whereupon the gentleman took him with him, so suddenly that he had no leisure to arm himself with other weapon but with his only dagger. And when the Duke heard him come again, thinking he had brought her with him that he loved so greatly, he drew the curtain, and opened his eyes to behold & receive that joy which he had so long looked for, but in place of seeing her which he hoped should be the conservation of his life, he saw the acceleration of his death, which was a naked sword that the Gentleman had drawn, and there withal did strike the Duke, which was in his shirt void of weapon, although well armed with courage, and setting up in his bed, grasped the Gentleman about the body, and said. Is this thy promise which thou hast kept? and seeing that he had no other weapon but his teeth and his nails, he bit the Gentleman in the arm, and by force of his own strength he so defended himself, that they both fell down into the flower. The Gentleman fearing the match, called for his man. Who finding the Duke and his Master fast together, that he wist not whether to take, he drew them both by the feet into the midst of the place, and with his dagger assayed to cut the Duke's throat. Who defended himself, till such time as the loss of his blood made him so weak and feeble that he was not able to contend any longer. Then the Gentleman and his man laid him again into his bed, where they accomplished the effect of that murder. Afterwards drawing the curtain, they departed and locked the dead body in the chamber. And when he saw that he had gotten the victory of his enemy, by whose death he thought to set at liberty the common wealth, he supposed his fact to be unperfect if he did not the like to five or six of them which were nearest to the Duke, and best beloved of him. And to attain the perfection of that enterprise, he bade his man to do the like unto them one after another, that he had done to the Duke. But the servant being nothing heard or courageous, said unto his master. Me think sir that for this time ye have done enough, and that it were better for you now to devise how to save your own life, than to seek means to murder any more. For if we do abide so long time to kill every of them as we have done in murdering of the Duke, the day light will discover our enterprise before we have done, although we find them naked and without defence. The Gentleman whose evil conscience made him fearful, did believe his servant, and taking him alone with him, went to a bishop that had in charge the gates of the city, and the use of the Posts, to whom he said. This evening (my Lord) news came unto me that mine own brother lieth at the point of death and craving licence of the Duke to go see him he hath given me leave. Wherefore I beseech you command the posts to deliver me two good horse, and send word to the porter that the gates may be opened. The bishop which esteemed no less his request than the commandment of the Duke his master, incontinently gave him a billet, by virtue whereof both the gates were opened and the horse were made ready according to his demand. And under colour and pretence of visiting his brother, he road to Venice, where after he had cured himself of the Duke's bitings fastened in his flesh, he travailed into Turkey. In the morning the Duke's servants seeing the time so late before their master returned, suspected that he was gone forth in visitation of some Lady, but when they saw he tarried so long, they begun to seek for him in every place. The poor Duchess into whose heart the love of her husband strongly did invade understanding that he could not be found, was very pensive & sorrowful. But when the Gentleman which he so dearly loved was not likewise seen abroad, search was made in his chamber, where finding blood at the chamber door, they entered in, but no man was there to tell them any news, and following the tract of the blood, the poor servants of the Duke went to the chamber door, where he was, which door they found fast locked, and incontinently broke open the same. Who seeing the place all bloody, drew the curtain, & found the wretched carcase of the Duke lying in the bed, sleeping his endless sleep. The sorrow and lamentation made by the Duke's servants, carrying the dead body into his palace, is easy to be conjectured. Whereof when the Bishop was advertised, he repaired thither, and told how the Gentleman was gone away in the night in great haste, under pretence to go to see his brother. Whereupon it was evidently known that it was he that had committed the murder. And it was proved that his poor sister was never privy to the fact, who although she was astoned with the sudden chance of that adventure, yet her love towards her brother was far more increased, because he had delivered her from a Prince so cruel, the enemy of her honesty. For doing whereof he did not stick to hazard his own life. Whereupon she persevered more and more in virtue, and although she was poor by reason her house was confiscate yet both her sister and she matched with so honest and rich husbands as were to be found in all Italy: and afterwards lived in good and great reputation.   

Of Francis the French King.  
One of the french Kings called Francis the first of that name, declared his gentle nature to Count Guilaume, that would have killed him.  
The. Lv. Novel.  
IN Digeon a Town of Burgundy there came to the service of King Francis, (which was father to Henry the second of that name, that was killed by Mounsier Mongomebrie, in a triumph at the Tilt, and Grandfather to Charles the ix. that now reigneth in France) an Earl of Allemaigne called Guillaume, of the house of Saxon, whereunto the house of savoy is so greatly allied, as in old time, they were but one. The Count forsomuch as he was esteemed to be so comely and hardy a Gentleman, as any was in Allemaigne, was in such good favour with the King, that he took him not only into service, but used him so near his person, as he made him of his privy chamber. Upon a day the Governor of Burgundy, the Lord Trimoville (an ancient knight and loyal servant of the King) like one suspicious and fearful of evil & hurt of his Master, had daily espies about his enemy, to know what he did, and used the matter so wisely, that very few things were concealed from him. Among other advertisements, one of his friends wrote unto him that the Count Guillaume had received certain sums of money, with promise of more, if by any means he could devise which way to kill the King. The Lord of Trimoville hearing of this, failed not to come to the King to give him knowledge thereof, and disclosed it likewise to Madam Loyse of Savoie his mother, who forgetting her amity & alliance with the Almaigne Earl, besought the king forthwith to put him away. The king prayed his mother to speak no more thereof, and said, that it was impossible that so honest a gentleman would attempt to do a deed so wicked. Within a while after, there came other news of that matter, confirming the first. Whereof the Governor for the entire love he bore to his Master craved licence either to expel him the country, or to put him in ward. But the king gave special commandment that he should not make any semblance of displeasure, for that he purposed by some other means to know the truth. Upon a time when he went a hunting, he girded about him the best sword that he could find, to serve for all arms and assays, & took with him the Count Guillaume, whom he commanded to wait upon him, the first and chiefest next his own person. But after he had followed the heart a certain time, the King seeing that his train was far from him, & no man near him saving the Count, he turned himself round about. And when he saw that he was alone, in the mid of the Forest, drawing out his sword, he said to the Count. How say you (Sir Count) is not this a fair and good sword. The Connte feeling it at the point, & well viewing the same, said, that he never saw a better in his life. You have reason said the king. And I believe that if a gentleman were determined to kill me, and did know the force of mine arms, and the goodness of my heart accompanied with this sword, he would be twice well advised before he attempted the enterprise. Not withstanding I would account him but a coward, we being alone without witnesses, if he did not attempt that, which he were disposed to do. The Count Guillaume with bashful and astonned countenance, answered. Sir, the wickedness of the enterprise were very great, but the folly in the execution, were no less. The King with those words fell in a laughter, and put the sword into the skaberd again. And hearing that the chase drew near him, he made to the same so fast as he could, when he was come thither, he said nothing of that which had passed between him and the Count, & verily thought that Count Guillaume although that he was so strong and stout a gentleman as was in that time, yet he was no man to do so great an enterprise. But the Count Guillaume, fearing to be bewrayed or suspected of the fact, next day morning repaired to Robertet, the Secretary of the King's revenues, and said that he had well weighed the gifts and annuities which the king would give him to tarry, but he perceived that they were not sufficient to interteigne him for half a year, & that if it pleased not the king to double the same, he should be forced to departed, praying the said Robertet to know his grace's pleasure so soon as he could, who said unto him, that he himself could without further commission could disbirsse no more unto him but gladly without further delay he would presently repair to the king, which he did more willingly, because he had seen the advertisements of the Governor aforesaid. And so soon as the king was awake, he declared the matter unto him in the presence of Monsier Trimoville and monsieur Boviuet Lord Admiral, who were utterly ignorant of that which the king had done. To whom the king said. Lo, ye have been miscontented for that I would not put away the Count Guillaume, but now ye see he putteth away himself. Wherefore Robertet tell him, that if he be not content with the state which he received at his first entry into my service, whereof many Gentlemen of good houses would think themselves happy, it is meet that he seek his better fortune, and tell him that I would be loath to hinder him, but willbe very well contented, that he seek where he may live better, accordingly as he deserveth. Robertet was so diligent to bear this answer to the Count, as he was to present his suit to the king. The Count said that with his licence he would gladly go forthwith. And like one that fear forced to depart, was not able to bear his abode xxiiij hours. And as the King was sitting down to dinner, feigning to be sorry for his departure, but that necessity compelled him to lose his presence, he took his leave. He went likewise to take leave of the king's mother, which she gave him, with so great joy, as she did receive him, being her near kinsman & friend. Then he went into his Country. And the king seeing his mother and servants atoned at that his sudden departure, declared unto them the All Arm, which he had given him, saying that although he was innocent of the matter suspected, so was his fear great enough, to departed from a master with whose conditions hitherto he was not acquainted.   

A strange punishment.  
A punishment more rigorous than death, of a husband toward his wife that had committed adultery.  
The. Luj. Novel.  
KIng Charles, of France the eight of that name, sent into Germany a Gentleman called Bernage, Lord of Cyure besides Amboise. Who to make speed, spared neither day nor night for execution of his Prince's commandment. In such wise that very late in an evening he arrived at the castle of a Gentleman, to demand lodging, which very hardly he obtained. Howbeit, when the gentleman understood that he was the servant of such a king, he prayed him not to take in ill part the rudeness of his servants, because upon occasion of certain his wives friends that loved him not, he was forced to keep his house so strait. At what time Bernage told him the cause of his journey, wherein the Gentleman offered to do to the King his Master all service possible. Leading him into his house where he was feasted & lodged very honourably. When supper was ready, the Gentleman conveyed him into a parlour well hanged with fair tapistry. And when the meat was set upon the table, he perceived a woman coming forth behind the hanging, which was so beautiful as might be seen, saving that her head was all shaven, and appareled in Almain black. After both the Gentlemen had washed, water was brought to the gentlewoman, who when she had washed she sat down at the table, without speaking to any man or any word spoken unto her. The Lord Bernage beholding her well, thought her to be one of the fairest Ladies that ever he saw, if her face had not been so pale, & her countenance so sad. After she had eaten a little, she called for drink, which one of the servants brought unto her in a strange cup. For it was the head of a dead man trimmed with silver. Whereof she drank twice or thrice. When she had supped and washed her hands, making a reverence to the Lord of the house, she returned behind the hangings without speaking any word. Bernage was so much amazed at that strange sight, that he waxed very heavy and sad. The gentleman that marked him, said unto him. I see well that you be astoned at that you saw at the table. But seeing your hnoest demeanour, I will not keep the thing secret from you, because you shall not note that cruelty to be done without great occasion. This gentlewoman which you see, is my wife, whom I loved better than any gentleman could love his wife. In such sort that to marry her I forgot all fear, and brought her hither in despite of her parents. She likewise showed unto me such signs of love, that I attempted a thousand ways to place her here for her joy and mine, where we lived a long time in such rest and contentation, that I thought myself the happiest Gentleman in Christendom. But in a journey which, I made, which to attempt mine honour forced me, she forgot both herself, her conscience, and the love which she bore towards me, and fell in love with a Gentleman, that I brought up in this house, which upon my return I perceived to be true. Notwithstanding the love that I bore her, was so great, that I had no mistrust in her, till such time as experience did open mine eyes, and saw the thing that I feared more than death. For which cause love was turned into fury and despair, in such wise that I watched her so near, that upon a day feigning myself to go abroad, I hid myself in the chamber where now she remaineth. Into the which soon after my departure she repaired, and caused the gentleman to come thither, Whom I did behold to do that thing, which was altogether unmeet for any man to do to her, but myself. But when I saw him get up, upon the bed after her, I stepped forth and took him between her arms, and with my dagger immediately did kill him. And because the offence of my wife seemed to be so great, that like death was not sufficient to punish her. I devised a torment which in mine opinion is worse unto her than death. I do lock her up in the chamber wherein she accustomed to use her delights, and in the company of him that she loved far better than me. In which chamber I have placed the anatomy of her friend, reserving the same in a little closet as a precious jewel. And to the end she may not forget him at meals, at the table before my face, she useth the head of that varlet, in stead of a cup to drink, to the intent she may behold him alive, in the presence of him whom through her own fault she hath made her mortal enemy, & him dead & slain for her sake, whose love she preferred before mine. And so beholdeth those two things at dinner & supper which ought to displease her most, her enemy living, and her friend dead, & all through her own wickedness howbeit I do use her no worse than myself, although she goeth thus shaven: for the ornament of the hear doth not appertain to an adulteress, nor the vail or other furniture of the head to an unchaste woman. Wherefore she goeth so shaven, in token she hath lost her hovestie. If it please you sir to take the pain to see her, I will bring you to her. Whereunto Bernage willingly assented. And descending into her chamber which was very richly furnished, they found her sitting alone before the fire. And the Gentleman drawing a curtain, which was before the Closet, he saw the anatomy of the dead man hanging. Bernage had a great desire to speak unto the Lady, but for fear of her husband he durst not. The Gentleman perceiving the same said unto him. If it please you to say any thing unto her, you shall understand her order of talk. Therewithal Bernage said unto her. Madam if your patience be correspondent to this torment, I dame you to be he happiest woman of the world. The Lady with tears trickling down her eyes, with a grace so good and humble as was possible, spoke thus unto him. Sir I do confess my fault to be so great, that all the affliction and torment that the Lord of this place (for I am not worthy to call him husband) can do unto me, be nothing comparable to the sorrow I have conceived of mine offence. And in saying so she began pitifully to weep. Therewithal the Gentleman took Bernage by the hand, and led him forth. The next day morning he departed about the business which the king had sent him. Notwithstanding, in bidding the gentleman farewell, he said unto him. Sir the love which I bear unto you, & the honour and secrets wherewith you have made me privy, doth force me to say unto you how I do think good (seeing the great repentance of the poor Gentlewoman your wife) that you do show her mercy. And because you be young and have no children, it were a very great loss and detriment to lose such a house and ligneage as yours is. And it may so come to pass, that your enemies thereby in time to come may be your heirs, and enjoy the goods and patrimony which you do leave behind you. The Gentleman which never thought to speak unto his wife, with those words paused a great while, and in th'end confessed his words to be true, promising him that if she would continue in that humility, he would in time show pity upon her, with which promise Bernage departed. And when he was returned towards the king his master, he recompted unto him the success of his journeys. And amongs other things he told him of the beauty of this Lady, who sent his Painter called john of Paris, to bring him her counterfeit: which with the consent of her husband, he did. Who after that long penance, for a desire he had to have children, & for the pity he bore to his wife which with great humbleness received that affliction, took her unto him again and afterwards begat of her many children.   

A Precedent of Grenoble  
A Precedent of Grenoble advertised of the ill overnement of his wife, took such order, that his honesty was not diminished, and yet revenged the fact.  
¶ The. Lvij Novel.  
IN Grenoble (the chief city of a Country in France called Dauphin which city otherwise is named Gratianopolis) there was a Precedent that had a very fair wife, with whom quietly and very lovingly he led his life. She perceiving her husband to begin to wax old, began to love a young man that was his Clerk, a very fair and comely parsonage. Upon a time when her husband in a morning was gone to the palace, the Clerk entered his chamber and took his masters place, which thing one of the Precedents servants, that faithfully had served him the space of xxx years, like a trusty servant perceiving, could not keep it secret, but told his Master. The Precedent which was a wise man, would not believe it upon light report, but said that he did it of purpose to set discord between him and his wife, not withstanding if the thing were true as he said, he might let him see the thing itself, which if he did not, he had good cause to think that he had devised a lie to break and dissolve the love between him and his wife. The servant did assure him that he would cause him to see the thing whereof he had told him. And one morning so soon as the the Precedent was gone to the Court, and the Clerk entered into his chamber, the servant sent one of his companions to tell his Master that he might come in good time, to see the thing that he declared unto him, he himself standing still at the door to watch that the Clerk might not go out. The Precedent so soon as he saw the sign that one of his made unto him, feigning that he was not well at ease, left the audience, and speedily went home to his house where he found his old servant watching at the chamber door, assuring him for truth that the Clerk was within, and that he should make no more a do but presently to go in. The Precedent said to his servant. Do not tarry at the door, for the knowest there is no other going out or coming in but this except, it be a little closet whereof I alone bear the key. The Precedent entered the chamber, and found his wife & the Clerk a bed together, who in his shirt fell down at the Precedents feet, craving pardon, & his wife on the other side began to weep. To whom the President said. For so much as the thing which thou hast done is such, as thou mayst well consider, that I cannot abide my house (for thee) in this sort to be dishonoured & the daughters which I have had by thee to be disaduaunced and abased. Therefore said he, leave of thy weeping, and mark what I shall do. And thou Nicolas (for that was his Clarks name) hide thyself here in my closet, and in any wise make no noise: when he had so done, he opened the door, and called in his old servant, and said unto him. Didst not thou warrant and assure me that thou wouldst let me see my Clerk and wife in bed together? And upon thy words I am come hither, thinking to have killed my wife, and have found nothing to be true of that which thou didst tell me. For I have searched the chamber in every place ● I will show thee. And with that he caused his servant to look under the beds, and in every corner. And when the servant found him not, thoroughly astoned, he said to his master. Sir I saw him go into the chamber, and out he is not gone at the door: And so far as I can see he is not here. Therefore I think the Devil must needs carry him away. Then his master said unto him. Thou art a very villain, to set such division between my wife and me, wherefore I do discharge thee from my service, & for that which thou hast done me, I will pay thee thy duty, with the advantage. Therefore get thee hence and take heed that thou dost not tarry in this town past xxiiij hours. The Precedent for that he knew him to be an honest and faithful servant, gave him five or six years wages, and purposed otherwise to prefer him. When the servant (with ill will and weeping tears) was departed, the Precedent caused his Clerk to come out of his Closet. And after he had declared to his wife and him, what he thought of their ill behaviour, he forbade them to show no likelihood of any such matter, and commanded his wife to attire and dress herself in more gorgeous apparel, than she was wont to wear, and to haunt and resort to company and feasts, willing the Clerk to make a better countenance of the matter than he did before, but whensoever he rounded him in the ear & bade him to depart, he charged him after the commandment not to tarry four hours in the town. And when he had thus done, he returned to the palace, as though there had no such thing chanced. And the space of xu days (contrary to his custom) he feasted his friends and neighbours, and after the banquet, he caused the ministrels to play, to make the Gentlewomen dance. One day, seeing that his wife did not dance, he commanded his Clerk to take her by the hand, and to lead her forth to dance, who thinking the Precedent had forgotten the trespass paste, very joyfully danced with her. But when the dance was ended, the Precedent feigning as though he would have commanded him to do some thing in his house bad him in his ear to get him away and never to return. Now was the Clerk very sorrowful to leave his Lady, but yet no less joyful he was that his life was saved. Afterwards when the Precedent had made all his friends and kinsfolks, and all the country, believe what great love he bore to his wife: Upon a fair day in the month of May, he went to gather a salad in his garden, of such herbs, that so soon as she had eaten of them, she lived not passed xxiiij hours after, whereof he counterfeited such sorrow, as no man could suspect the occasion of her death. And by that means he was revenged of his enemy, and saved the honour of his house  
I will not by this Novel (said Emarsuitte) praise the conscience of the Precedent, but herein I have declared the light behaviour of a woman, and the great patience & prudence of a man. Praying you good Ladies all, not to be offended at the truth. If all women (quod parliament) that love their Clerks or servants, were forced to eat such salads, I believe they would not love their gardens so well as they do, but would tear and pluck up all the herbs both root and rind to avoid those things that by death might advance the honour of their stock and ligneage. If salads be so costly (q Hircan) and so dangerous in May, I will provoke appetite with other sauces, or else hunger shall be my chiefest.   

Of a jealous Gentleman.  
A Gentleman of perch, suspecting injury done unto him by his friend, provaked him to execute and put in proof the cause of his suspicion.  
¶ The. Lviij. Novel.  
BEsides the country of Perch, there where two Gentlemen, which from the time of their youth lived in such great and perfect amity, that there was between them but one heart, one bed, one house, one table, and on purse. Long time continued this perfect friendship: between whom there was but one will and one word, no difference in either of them. In so much as they not only seemed to be two brethren, but also they appeared in all semblances to be but one man. One of them chanced to marry. Notwithstanding they gave not over their friendship, but persevered in their usual amity as they were wont to do. And when they happened to be strained to strait lodging, the married gentleman would not stick to suffer his friend to lie with him and his wife. But yet you ought for friendship sake to consider that the married man lay in the mids. Their goods were common between them, that for all the marriage no cause did hinder their assured amity. But in process of time, the felicity of this world (which carrieth with it a certain mutability) could no continue in the house, which was before right pleasant and happy. For the married man forgetting of the faithful fidelity of his friend, without any occasion conceived a great suspicion between him and his wife, from whom he could not dissemble the case, but sharply told her his mind. She therewithal was wonderfully amazed. Howbeit he commanded her to do all things (one thing excepted) and to make so much of his companion as of himself. Nevertheless he for bad her to speak unto him except it were in the presence of many. All which she gave her husbands companion to understand, who would not believe her, knowing that he had neither by thought or deed done any thing whereof his companion had cause to be offended. And likewise because he used to keep nothing secret from him, he told him what he had said, praying him to tell him the truth of the matter, because he purposed neither in that, ne yet in any other thing, to give occasion of breach of the amity which of long time they had embraced. The married Gentleman assured him that he never thought it, and how they which had sown that rumour, had wickedly belied him. Whereunto his companion answered. I know well enough that jalosie is a passion so intolerable as love itself. And when you shall conceive that opinion of jealousy, yea & it were of myself, I should do you no wrong, for you your self should not be able to keep it. But of one thing which is in your power I have occasion to complain, and that is because you would conceal from me, your malady, sith there was no passion or opinion which you conceived, that before this time you kept secret from me. Likewise for my own part if I were amorous of your wife, you ought not to impute it as a fault unto me, because it is a fire which I bear not in my hands, to use at my pleasure. But if I keep it to myself from you, & endeavour to make your wife know it by demonstration of my love, I might then be accounted the wicked friend that ever lived. And for me I assure most you that she is an honest & a good woman, and one that my fancy doth lest favour (although she were not your wife) of all them that ever I saw. But now sithence there is no occasion, I do require you that if you perceive any suspicion, be it never so little, to tell me of it, because I would so use myself, as our friendship which hath endured so long, might not be broken for a woman. And if I did love her above any thing in the world, yet surely I would never speak word unto her, because I do esteem our friendship above any other thing. His companion swore unto him very great oaths, that he never thought it, praying him to use his house as he had done before. Whereunto he answered. Sith you will have me so to do, I am content. But I pray you if hereafter you do conceive any simstre opinion of me, not to dissemble the same, which if you do I will never continue longer in your company. In process of time, living together according to their custom, the married gentleman entered again into more suspicion than ever he did, commanding his wife to bear no more that countenance towards him that she was wont to do. Which commandment she told to her husband's companion, praying him after that time to forbear to speak unto her, for that she was commanded to do the like unto him. The Gentleman understanding by words and by certain counternaunces, that his companion had not kept promise, he said unto him in a great choler. To be jealous (my companion) is a thing natural. But because thou didst swear unto me by oaths not to dissemble with me, I can by no means forbear any longer. For I did ever think that between thy heart & mine there could be no let & interruption: but to my great grief and without any fault on my part, I do see the contrary. For as much as thou art not only very jealous between thy wife and me, but also thou wouldst dissimulate and cover the same, so that in the end thy malady and diease hath continued so long, that it is altered into a mere malice: and like as our love hath been the greatest that hath been seen in our time, even so our displeasure & hatred is now most mortal. I have done so much as lieth in me to avoid this inconvenience, but sith thou hast inspected me to be an ill man, and I have still showed myself to be the contrary, I do swear, and therewithal assure thee by my faith, that I am the same thou thinkest me to be, and therefore from hence forth take heed of me. For since suspicion hath separated thee from my love and amity, despite shall divide me from thine. And albeit that his companion would have made him believe the contrary, and that he mistrusted him nothing at all, yet he withdrew his part of his movables and goods that before were common between them, so that now both their hearts and goods were so far separated, as before they were united and joined together. In such wise as the unmarried Gentleman never ceased till he had made his companion Cuckold, according to his promise.   

A Miracle at Lions.  
The simplicity of an old woman, that offered a burning candle to Saint john of Lions.  
The. Lix. Novel.  
IN the Church of saint john at Lions, there was a very dark chapel, and within the same a Tomb made of stone, erected for great personages, with pictures lively wrought, and about the same tomb there do lie many worthy gknihts of great valiance. Upon a hot esommers' day, a soldier walking up and down the Church, had great delight to sleep, and beholding that dark chapel which was cold and fresh of air, thought to go sleep upon the Tomb as other did, besides whom he laid him down to sleep. It chanced that a good old woman very devout, came thither when the soldier was in the depth of his sleep. And after she had said her devotions, with a wax candle in her hand, she would have sticked the same upon the Tomb, and repairing near the place where the soldier lay, desirous to sick it upon his forehead, thinking it had been of stone, the wax would not cleave. The old woman, which thought the cause that her candle would not stick was the coldness of the Image, went about to warm the forehead with the flame of the candle, to make it cleave. But the Image which was not insensible, began to cry out, whereat the poor woman was so afraid, that like one 'straught of her wits, she broke into exclamation crying. A miracle, A miracle. They within the Church hearing an outcry of a miracle," ran in heaps as though they had been mad, some to ring the bells, and some to see the miracle. And the good wife brought them to see the Image, which was removed. Whereat many began to laugh. But divers priests could not so content themselves, but determined greatly to esteem that Tomb, thereof to get money.   

Of a Doctor of the Laws.  
A Doctor of the laws bought a cup, who by the subtlety of two false varlets, lost both his money and the cup.  
¶ The. Lx. Novel.  
TO conclude our number of Novels, I have thought good (gentle reader) to bring in place a Doctor and his wife, to give thee a merry farewell: because thou hast hitherto so friendly and patiently suffered thyself to be stayed in reading of the rest: Wherefore with a pleasant (valet et Plaudite) in a short & merry tale, which discloseth the subtlety of two false knaves to beguile a poor Doctor and his wife, I mean to end. And therefore do say, that in the city of Bologna in Italy, there was a worshipful Doctor of the Law, called Master Florien, which in other things saving his profession, was but filthy, beastly, and of so ill behaviour as none of his faculty the like. Who by saving of many crusts, had laid up so good store of Crowns, that he caused to be made a very great and costly Cup of silver, for payment of which Cup he went to the goldsmiths house, and after he had paid for the silver, the guilt, and for the fashion, having not his Clerk with him to carry it home, he prayed the Goldsmith to lend him his man. By chance there were newly come to the city, two young men that were Romans, which ranged up and down the streets with their ears upright, viewing & marking every thing done in the same, bearing about them counterfaicts jewels and lingots guilt of Saint Martin's touch, to deceive him that would play the fool to buy them. One of them was called Liello, & the other Dietiquo. These two merchants being at good leisure to go up and down the streets, beholding the passangers to and fro, by fortune espied the goldsmiths man, who (to set forth the workmanship and making of the cup) carried the same open. These Gallants bearing a spite to the cup, more for the silver than for other malice, purposed to invent some sleight to get the same, and a far of with sly pace, followed the goldsmiths man, of whom they craftily inquired of the owner of the cup, and where he had left master Florien, when they had concluded upon their enterprise. Liello (the finest boy of them both) went straight way to buy a Lamprey of great price, and hiding the same under his cloak, repaired strait to master Doctor's house. Where finding his wife of semblable wit and behaviour that her husband was, with unshamefast face and like grace, said unto her. Mistress, Master Florien your husband hath sent you a fish, and prayeth you to dress it, and to make dinner ready, because he bringeth a company of other Doctors with him. In the mean time he requireth you, to send him the cup again, which he sent you this morning, by the goldsmiths man, because he had forgotten to mark his arms upon it. The woman receiving the fish, frankly delivered him the cup, and went about to prepare dinner. Liello (which hunted after game but better caught his prey) hied him a pace, and conveyed himself with speed, to the house of one of his Countrymen, and there rejoiced with his companions, attending for the coming of the Roister Dietiquo, who tarried in the Town, waiting and viewing what pursuit was made after his fellow. Sun after Master Florien returned to his house, and finding his dinner more delicate than it was wont to be, was astoned, and asked his wife who was at all that cost. His wife very scornfully answered: Why you have forgotten, that you sent me word this morning, that you would bring home with you divers gentlemen to dinner? What (quoth the Doctor I think you be a fool. I am not (said she) and for more witness you sent me this fish, that I would you had been better advised before you had bestowed such cost. I assure thee (quoth he) I sent the no fish, but belike it was some foolish knave that had forgotten his arrant & mistaken the house. But how soever it was wife, we at this time will be content to far well at other men's charge. Why sir (said his wife) call yourself to better remembrance. For he that brought the Lamprey, came to me for your cup by this token, that you would have your arms engraven upon the same. At those words the poor Doctor, after he had discharged three or four canons laden with haileshot of scolding words, went out into the street, running hither and thither, demanding of all them he met, if they saw none carry a Lamprey home to his house. And you would have said if you had seen him with his hood hanging at one side, that the goodman had been out of his wits. Dietiquo stood still in a corner, and beheld the Doctor's frantic order, and albeit that he was sure that the stealing of the cup by Liello his companion was impossible to be known, yet being sorry that the Lamprey cost so much, determined also to play his part, and seeing the Doctor stayed from making further complaints, he went home to the Doctor's house, where smiling with a good grace and bold countenance, said to the Doctor's wife. Mistress Doctor, good news, the cup is found. One whom you know, caused the same to be done in sport, to bring your husband Master Florien in a choler, who now is amongs divers of his friends, jesting at the pleasant deceit, and hath sent me to fetch their dinner, wherein they pray you to remember the Lamprey, and to come yourself to take part of the same, because they purpose to be merry. The woman joyful of those news, began somewhat to complain of the grief which she had taken for loss of the cup, & delivered to Dietiquo the roasted Lamprey with the sauce between two platters, who innontinentlie hid the same under his cloak, & with so much speed as he could, went to seek out his companion Liello, & their countrymen, which all that while had tarried for him. And God knoweth whether those good fellows did laugh & mock the poor Doctor and his wife or not. And when she had made herself gay and trim to go eat part of the Lamprey, as she was going out she met Master Florien looking lowringlie upon the matter, to whom she said (smiling like a frumenty pot) how now sir, come they hither to dinner? I have sent you the lamprey ready dressed. Then Master Doctor after fair talk, began to discharge his double Canons, calling his wife, Bitch, Beast and stinking Goat, and understanding that he was twice beguiled and could not tell by whom, for spite and despair he tore of his beard & the hear of his head. Which bruited & known in the City, the jesters & pleasant fellows bend themselves, to find occasion, to laugh & devise pastime at the poor beguiled Doctor and his wife.   
FINISH.   

Faults escaped in the printing.  
Leaf. side. line. Faults. Correction. 11. 1 17. ignomy ignominy 11. 2 14. Cluilas Cluilias 19 2 12. Canduales Candaules 22. 2 31. to his with his 33. 1 2. best lest 36. 2 6. descried desired 40. 1 1. the same the City. 61. 2 1. & so he did which he did 61. 2 9 celled called 63. 2 23. find fail 64. 1 8. sometime somewhat 64. 2 23. Pompinea Pampinea 88 2 33. Phisians' Physicians 107. 2 22. spois spoil 110. 1 12. Cliectans Cilicians 112. 2 24. and had he had 113. 1 30. form forced 119. 1 1. the other his other 123. 1 3. Bess blessed 131. 1 34. out one 135. 2 31. sewing seeming 206. 1 1. their father her father 206. 2 23. began beginneth 220. 1 1. vedure verdure 212. 2 10. abroad a bed 229. 1 24. should would 241. 1 10. so his to his 258. 2 4. in the with the 272. 2 26. I have I had 272. 2 28. he will would 272. 2 29. will suffer would have suffered 276. 2 9 Aelips' Aelips 286. 1 30. Fiornio Fiorino. 286. 2 4. flesh meat fresh meat 323. 1 16. that to pity to that pity 327. 1 24. know knew  

Words superfluous in the print.  Leaf. side. line. Superfluous 41. 2 31. she 42. 1 5. into 76. 2 3. with 108. 2 32. unto him 110. 1 6. shall 132. 2 18. then 245. 1 18. and 262. 1 7. an 272. 2 16. although that 272. 2 30. so 286. 1 32. it  

Words lacking in the print.  Leaf. side. line. Lacking. 12. 1 5. that 25. 1 1. us 56. 1 10. is 63. 1 3. a 91. 2 1. of 98. 1 20. she 212. 1 14. of 117. 2 15. so 124. 2 34. more 129. 1 15. the 135. 2 1. about 140. 1 14 the 207. 2 10. a 273. 2 21. those 278. 1 22. of  
Other faults by small advise and less pain may by weighing the discourse be easily amended or lightly passed over.   

Imprinted at London, by Henry Denham, for Richard tottel and William jones.  
Anno Domini. 1566. january. 26.  
These Books are to be sold at the long shop at the West end of Paul's.