The second Tome of the Palace of Pleasure, containing store of goodly Histories, Tragical matters, and other Moral argument, very requisite for delight and profit. Chosen and selected out of divers good and commendable Authors:  
By William Painter, Clerk of the Ordinance and Armoury. ANNO. 1567.  
Imprinted at London, in Pater Noster row, by Henry Bynneman, for Nicholas England.   

¶ To the right worshipful Sir George Howard Knight, Master of the queens majesties Armoury.  
Every Science having his peculiar commodity, and conducing to the travailer and diligent searcher, a due deserved benefit (besides the exercise and shunning the pestilent monster Idleness) discloseth the miraculous effect of the Divinity and the excellency of his Creature: Who breathing life into that senseless work, framed within the mould of human Conception, forceth in him by Nature and timely institution, such capacity of Science, as not only by that knowledge he glorifieth his Creator, but also besides himself, helpeth and doth good to other. For proof whereof, the Science of that surpassing and delightsome pasture of Theology, is profitable to teach, argue, reprove, and instruct, that by patience and consolation, we may conceive hope of Eternity. The knowledge of Philosophy cureth the mind, avoideth childish care, expelleth fear, and shunneth fond desires. O Philosophy, the guide of life (exclaimeth Tully) the inquisitor of Virtue, and expeller of vice. Rhetoric (affirmeth he) causeth us to learn that we know not, and that we know, to teach to other: By the same we exhort, with that we persuade, with that we comfort the afflicted, by it we encourage the astoned, and appease the outrageous. Music easeth the troubled mind, lenifieth sorrow, comforteth the heavy hearted, and erecteth a contemplation of heavenly things. Astronomy revealeth the nature of the Stars and Planets, presageth days and times for the help and maintenance of life. Poesy teacheth amendment of manners, directeth what things be meet for imitation, and with what detriment wantonness anoyeth the body of man. By means of it (Saint Augustine saith) he learned many good lessons to 〈◊〉 fire himself, and do good to other. To be short, every 〈◊〉 so necessary, as the same taken away, Reason is deprived, 〈◊〉 the Life of man, of due order and 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Think (saith a Greek Orator) the knowledge of many 〈◊〉 to be more precious and excellent, than a chest heaped up 〈◊〉 abundance of money: for the one quickly faileth, and the 〈◊〉 for ever lasteth. For, Scientia (affirmeth he) is the only 〈◊〉 mortal storehouse of all possessions: Amongs which troop 〈◊〉 Sciences the knowledge and 〈◊〉 of History deserveth 〈◊〉 place in the chiefest rank, and is for example of human 〈◊〉 fairs, a crystal light to show the paths of our 〈◊〉. The same displayeth the counsels, advises, policies, acts, 〈◊〉 and ends of Kings, Princes, and great men, with the order and description of time and place, And like a lively image representeth before our eyes the beginning, end and circumstance of each attempt. The same (like a Mistress of our life) by probable examples, stirreth up our sluggish minds, to aspire the eternal glory of praise and fame, and terrifieth the 〈◊〉 and adventurous, from enterprise of things unseemly. The same is a passing picture of Verity, and an absolute Pattern, framing the matter, greater nor less than it is. And because I am not ignorant what Encomia innumerable Authors in time paste, and writers of our time do attribute unto that Science, and with what titles the Prince of them all decketh the praise of Historical knowledge, I only refer the worthiness, to the practisers, and the singularity of Histories travel and delight, to each willing mind that employ their leisure and time therein. And I for my part 〈◊〉 confess (that by reading of Histories) I find the saying which Tully avoucheth of Publius Scipio to be true: That he was never less idle, than when he was idle, and never less alone than when he was alone: Meaning thereby, that when he was at best leisure, he was 〈◊〉 idle, nor when he was alone, unoccupied. For when Labour resteth himself in me, and Leisure refresheth other affairs, nothing delights more that vacant time, than reading of Histories in such vulgar speech, wherein my small knowledge taketh repast. And for that my private reading might not delight and pleasure me alone, to avoid the nature of that cankered churl and foe of human company, Timon of Athenes, that lived but for himself, I have (after my skill) culled some flowers and fruits from that pleasant store of those my readings to impart for universal gain and 〈◊〉, choosing rather hereby to follow the liberality of Cimon a Gentleman of that City, who knowing himself to be borne to profit other, and for the enriching of his country, not only achieved marueious matters for furtherance of Common wealth, but left his Gardens and Orchards open for all men to participate the fruits of his pleasure and travel. Whereby (so well as I can) I follow the tract and practice of other, by whose means, so manifold sciences in our known tongue, and translation of Histories be frequent and rife amongs us. All which be done for our commodity, pleasure, solace, preservation and comfort, and without the which we can not be long sustained in this miserable life, but shall become not much unlike the barbarous, 〈◊〉 discrepant from the savage sort. The investigatours and bringers to light whereof, direct their eyes and meaning to none other end, but for the benefit of us and our posterity, and that our faces be not tainted with the blushing colour, to see the passing diligence of other Countries, by curious imbelishing of their states, with the troublous travail of their brain, and laboursome course of pen, Who altogether employ those pains, that no Science lurk in corner, that no Knowledge be shut up in cloisters, that no History remain under the mask and unknown attire of other tongues. Amongs which crew (I say) I crave an inferior place, and have undertaken the unfolding of sundry Histories, from the coverture of foreign language, for none other purpose and intent but to universal benefit. part whereof, two years passed (almost) were made common in a former book, now succeedeth a second, furnished with like ornaments that the other was. The first (by duties challenge) was addressed to the right honourable the Earl of Warwick, for respect of his honour, and my calling. This the second, by like band, your worship may justly claim as a just tribute, now this month of Novembre, payable. Or if your Courtesy would not deal so roughly with your bounden creditor, yet for duty sake I must acquit and content that which hath so long been due. Thesame I offer now, not with such usury and gain as your benevolence and singular bounty, by long for bearing hath deserved, but with such affected will and desire of recompense, as any man alive can owe to so rare a friend. Your worship I have chosen for the first person of this book, and the protector of the same (the matter most specially therein comprised, treting of courtly fashions and manners, and of the customs of loves galantise, and the good or ill success thereof) because you be an ancient Courtier, and one of the eldest Train, and such as hath been employed by sundry our Princes, in their affairs of greatest weight and importance: and for that yourself in your lustiest time, (ever bred and brought up in Court) have not been unacquainted with those occurrents. If I should stand particularly to touch the original of your noble Ancestry, the succession of that renowned line, their fidelity for grave advise and counsel, your honourable education, the marriage of a mighty King with one of your sisters, the valiant exploits of your parents against the French and Scots, the worthy service of yourself in field, whereby you deservedly wan the order of knighthood, the trust which her Majesty reposeth in you, by disposing under your charge the Store of her Armure, and your worthy preferment to be Master of her Armoury general. If I should make recital of your careful industry and painful travel, sustained for answering her majesties expectation, your noble cherishing of the skilful in that Science, your good advancement of the best, to supply the vacant rooms, your refusal of the unworthy: and finally of your modest and courteous dealings in that office, I fear lack of ability (and not of matter) would want grace and order by further circumstance, to add sufficient praise: Yea although myself do say nothing (but reserve the same in silence to avoid suspect of adulation) the very Armure and their furnitures do speak, universal testimony doth wonder, and the Readiness of the same for time of service doth avouch. Which care of things continually resting in your breast, hath achieved such a timely diligence and success, as when her majesties adversary shall be ready to molest, she shall be priest (by God's assistance) to defend and march. But not to hold your worship long by length of preamble, or to discourse what I might further say, either in favour of this Book, or commendation of yourself, I mean (for this instant) to leave the one to general judgement, and the other to the particular sentence of each of your acquaintance. Humbly making this only suit, that my good will may supply the imperfection of mine ability.  
And so with my hearty prayer for your preservation, to him that is the Author of life and health. I take my leave.  
From my poor house besides the tour of London, the fourth of November 1567.  
Your most bounden William Painter.   

¶ A summary of the Novels ensuing.  
¶ The Hardiness and conquests of divers stout and adventurous Women called amazons, the beginning, continuance and end of their reign, and of the great journey of one of their Queens called Thalestris to visit Alexander the great, and the cause of her travail. Novel. j Fol. 1. ¶ The great piety and continency of Alexander the great, and his loving entertainment of Sisigambis, the Wife of the great Monarch Darius after he was vanquished. Novel. ij. Fol. 5. ¶ Thimoclia, a Gentlewoman of Thebes, understanding the covefous desire of a Thracian Knight, that had abused her and promised her marriage rather for her goods than Love, well acquitted herself from his falsehood. Novel. iij. Fol. 9 ¶ Ariobarzanes great Steward to Artaxerxes King of Persia, goeth about to exceed his sovereign Lord & master in Courtesy: wherein are contained many notable and pleasant chances, besides the great patience and loyalty naturally planted in the said Ariobarzanes. Novel. iiij. Fol. 11. ¶ Lucius one of the Guard to Aristotimus the Tyrant of the City of Elis, fell in love with a fair Maiden called Micca, the daughter of one Philodemus, and his cruelty done upon her. The stoutness also of a noble Matron named Megistona, in defence of her husband and the Common wealth from the tyranny of the said Aristotimus: and of other acts done by the subjects, upon that tyrant. Novel. v. Fol. 32. ¶ The marvelous courage & ambition of a gentlewoman called Tanaquil, that Queen & wife of Tarquinus Priscus the fift Roman King, with her persuasions and policy to her husband, for his advancement to the kingdom: her like encouragement of Servius Tullius: wherein also is described the ambition of one of the two daughters of Servius Tullius, the sixth Roman King, and her cruelty towards her own natural father: with other accidents chanced in the new erected Common wealth of Rome, specially of the last Roman King Tarquinus Superbus, who with murder attained the kingdom, with murder maintained it, and by the murder and insolent life of his son, was with all his progeny banished. Novel. vj. Fol. 40. ¶ The unhappy end and success of the love of King Massinissa, and of Queen Sophonis ba his Wife. Novel. seven. Fol. 49. ¶ The cruelty of a King of Macedon, who forced a Gentlewoman called Theoxena, to persuade her children to kill & poison themselves: after which fact, she and her husband Poris, ended their life by drowning. Novel. viii. Fol. 59 ¶ A strange & marvelous use, which in old time was observed in Hidrusa: where it was lawful (with the licence of a Magistrate ordained for that purpose) for every man and woman that list, to kill themselves. Novel. ix. Fol. 62. ¶ The dishonest love of Faustina the Empress, and with what remedy the same was removed and taken away. Novel. x. Fol. 65. ¶ Chera hid a treasure, Elisa going about to hang herself, and sying the halter about a 〈◊〉, found that treasure, and in place thereof left the halter. Philene, the daughter of Chera, going for that treasure, and busily searching for the same, sound the halter, where with all for despair shae would have hanged herself: but forbidden by Elisa, who by chance espied her, she was restored to part of her loss, leading afterwards a happy and prosperous life. Novel. xj. Fol. 67. ¶ Letters of the Philosopher Plutarch, to the noble and 〈◊〉 Emperor Trajan, and from the said Emperor so Plutarch, the like also from the said Emperor to the Senate of Rome. In all which be contained Godly rules for government of Princes, obedience of Subjects, and their duties to Common wealth. Novel. xii. Fol. 76. ¶ A notable history of three amorous Gentlewomen, called Lamia, Flora, & Lais: containing the suits of noble Princes, and other great personages made unto them, with their answers to divers demands: and the manner of their death and funerals. Novel. xiii. Fol. 123. ¶ The life and gests of the most famous Queen Zenobia, with the Letters of the Emperor Aurchanus, to the said Queen, and her stout answer thereunto. Novel. xiv. Fol. 89. ¶ Euphimia the King of Corinth's daughter, fell in love with Acharisto, the servant of her father, and besides others which required her to marriage, she 〈◊〉 Philon, the King of Pelponesus, that loved her very fervently. Acharisto conspiring against the King, was discovered, tormented, and put in prison, and by means of Euphimia delivered: The King promised his daughter and kingdom to him that presented the head of Acharisto. Euphimia so wrought, as he was presented to the King: The King gave him his daughter to Wife: and when he died, made him his heir: Acharisto began to hate his wife, and condemned her to death as an adulteress. Philon delivered her: and upon the suit of her Subjects, she is contented to marry him, and thereby he is made King of Corinth. Novel xv. Fol. 101. ¶ The marchioness of Monferrato, with a banquet of Hens, and certain pleasant words, repressed the fond love of Philip, the French King. Novel. xuj. Fol. 112. ¶ Mistress Dianora demanded of Master Ansaldo, a Garden so fair in Januarie, as in the month of May. Master Ansaldo (by means of an obligation which he made to a Necromancer) caused the same to be done: The husband agreed with the Gentlewoman that she should do the pleasure which master Ansaldo required: who hearing the liberality of the husband, acquitted her of her promise, & the Necromancer likewise discharged master Ansaldo. Novel. xvij. Fol. 114. ¶ Mithridanes, envious of the liberality of Nathan, and going about to kill him, spoke unto him unknown, and being informed by himself by what means he might do the same, he found him in a little wood accordingly as he had told him, who knowing him, was ashamed, and became his friend. Novel. xviij. Fol. 118. ¶ Master Gentil of Carisendi, being come from Modena, took a woman out of her grave, that was buried for dead, who after she was come again, brought forth a son, which Master Gentil rendered afterwards with the mother to master Nicholas Chasenemie her husband. Novel. nineteen. Fol. 123. ¶ Saladine, in the habit of a merchant, was honourably received into the house of Master Thorello, who went over the sea, in company of the Christians, and assigned a term to his wife, when she should marry again. He was taken, and carried to the soldan to be his falconer, who knowing him, and suffering himself to be known, did him great honour. Master Thorello fell sick, and by Magic art, was carried in a night to Pavia, where he found his wife about to marry again, who knowing him, returned home with him to his own house. Novel. xx. Fol. 128. ¶ A Gentleman of mean calling and reputation, both fall in love with Anne, the Queen of Hungary, whom 〈◊〉 very royally and liberally requited. Novel xxj. Fol. 140. ¶ The gentle and just act of Alexander de Medici's, the first Duke of Florence, upon a Gentleman, whom he favoured, who having ravished the daughter of a poor Miller, caused him to marry her, for the greater honour and celebration whereof, he appointed her a rich and honourable dowry. Novel. xxij. Fol. 155. ¶ The Infortunate marriage of a Gentleman, called Antony Bologna, with the Duchess of Malfi, and the pitiful death of them both. Novel. twenty-three. Fol. 169. ¶ The disordered life of the Countess of Celant, & how she (causing the Count of Massino to be murdered) was beheaded at Milan. Novel. xxiv. Fol. 195. ¶ The goodly history of the true and constant love between Rhomeo and julietta: the one of whom died of poison, and the other of sorrow and heaviness: wherein be comprised many adventures of love, and other devices touching the same. Novel. xxv. Fol. 218. ¶ Two Gentlemen of Venice, were honourably decetued of their wives, whose notable practices, and secret conference for achieving their desire, occasioned divers accidents, and engendered double benefit, wherein also is recited an eloquent oration made by one of them, pronounced before the Duke and state of that City: with other chances and acts concerning the same. Novel. xxuj. Fol. 247. ¶ The Lord of Virle, by the commandment of a fair young Widow called Zilia, and for her promise made, the better to attain her love, was contented to remain dumb the space of three years: and by what means he was revenged and obtained his suit. Novel. xxvij. Fol. 268. ¶ Two Barons of Hungary assuring themselves to obtain their suit made to a fair Lady of Boeme, received of her a strange and marvelous repulse, to their shame and infamy, cursing the time that ever they adventured an enterprise so foolish. Novel. xxviij. Fol. 292. ¶ Dom Diego, a Gentleman of Spain, fell in love with fair Gineura, and she with 〈◊〉 their love by means of one that envied Dom Diego his happy choice, was by the default of light credit on her part interrupted. He constant of mind, fell into despair, and abandoning all his friends and living, repaired to the Pyrene Mountains, where he led a savage life for certain Months, 〈◊〉 afterwards (known by one of his friends) was by marvelous circumstance reconciled to his froward mistress, and married. Novel. thirty. Fol. 309. ¶ A Gentleman of Sienna, called Anselmo Salimbene, courteously and gently delivereth his enemy from death. The condemned party seeing the kind part of Salimbene, rendereth into his hands his sister Angelica, with whom he was in love: which gratitude and Eurtesie Salimbene well marking, moved in conscience would not abuse her, but for recompense took her to wife. Novel. thirty. Fol. 350. ¶ A Widow called Mistress Helena, with whom a Scholar was in Love (she loving an other) made the same Scholar to stand a whole Winters night in the Snow to wait for her, who afterwards by a sleight and policy, made her in July, to stand upon a tour stark naked, amongs Flies, and gnats, and in the Sun. Novel. xxxj. Fol. 376. ¶ A Gentlewoman, and Widow, called Camiola, of her own mind ransomed Rolande, the Kings son of Sicilia, of purpose to have him to her husband, who when he was redeemed, unkindly denied her, against whom very eloquentely she inveighed, and although the law proved him to be her husband, yet for his unkindness, she utterly refused him. Novel. xxxij. Fol. 391. ¶ Great cruelties chanced to the lords of Nocera, for adultery by one of them committed with the Captain's wife of the Fort of that City, with an enterprise moved by the Captain to the Citizens of the same, for rebellion, and the good and and dutiful answer of them: with other pitiful events, rising of that notable and outrageous vice of whoredom. Novel. xxxiij. Fol. 297. ¶ The great Courtesy of the King of Morocco, a City in Barbary, toward a poor Fisherman, one of his subjects, that had lodged the King, being stolen from his company in hunting. Novel. xxxiiij. Fol. 410.   

¶ To the Reader.  
AS showed courtesy deserveth grateful acquittal, & friendly favour forceth mutual merit, So for gentle acceptation of my other book, I render to thy delight and profit a Second Tome. For which I crave but like report: albeit neither worthy of any: or other, than the rude 〈◊〉 gaineth by trial of his art. Who having committed to his skill and workmanship, some substance of gold or other precious matter, fashioneth the same with such 〈◊〉 shape and order, as (besides dispraise) it carrieth the unableness of the workman. Howsoever (then) the ableness or perfection hereof 〈◊〉 shall content or particularly displease: the Book craveth mild construction, for employed pains. And yet the same (liking or loathing the liquorous diet and curious expectation of some) shall bear regard with those, that more delight in wholesome viands (void of variety) than in the confused mixture of foreign drugs fetched far of. Who no doubt will supply with favourable brute, default of ableness, and riper skill in the mysteries of sorren speech. Which is the guerdon (besides public benefit) after which I gaze, and the best stipend that each well willing mind (as I suppose) aspireth for their travel. And briefly to touch what commodity thou shalt reap of these succeeding Histories, I dame it not unapt for thine instruction, to unfold what pith and substance, resteth under the context of their discourse.  
¶ In the Novel of the AMAZONS, is displayed a strange and miraculous port (to our present skill) of women's government, what states they subdued, what increase of kingdom, what combats and conflicts they durst attempt contrairie to the nature of that sex.  
¶ In ALEXANDRE the great, what ought to be the gratitude and courtesy in a 〈◊〉 Prince, toward his slave and captive, and to what perilous plunge he slippeth by exchange of vice for virtue.  
¶ In TIMOCLIA and THEOXENA the stoutness of two noble Dames to avoid the beastly lust and raging fury of Tyrants.  
¶ ARIOBARZANES telleth the duty of a Subject to his Prince: and how he ought not to contend with his sovereign in matters of courtesy, at length also the condition of Courting flatterers: and the poison of the Monster Envy.  
¶ ARISTOTIMUS disgarboileth the iutrails of Tyranny, describing the end whereunto Tyrants do attain, and how that vice plagueth their posterity.  
¶ The two Roman Queens do point (as it were) with their fingers, the natures of Ambition and Cruelty, and the greedy lust (hidden in that feeble sex) of sovereignty.  
¶ SOPHONISBA reporteth the force of beauty, and what poison distilleth from that liquorous sap to envenom the hearts of valiant 〈◊〉.  
¶ The Gentlewoman of HYDRUSA the sickleness of Fortune.  
¶ The Empress FAUSTINA and the Countess of Celant, what 〈◊〉 bloom of whorish life and what fruits thereof be culled.  
¶ The Letters of the Emperor Trajan, do paint a right shape of virtue, a good state of government, and the comely form of obedience.  
¶ Three Amorous Dames 〈◊〉 the sleights of love, the readiness of Nobles to be baited with that amorous hook, and what desire such infamous Strumpets have, to be honoured.  
¶ Queen ZENOBIA, what the noble Gentlewomen, (whom the fates ordaino to rule) ought to do, how far their magnanimity ought to stretch, and in what bounds to contain their sovereignty.  
¶ EUPHIMIA a King's daughter of Corinthe, and the unfortunate Duchess of Malfi, what match of marriage Ladies of renown, and Dames of Princcly houses ought to choose.  
¶ Mistress DIANORA, MITHRIDANES and NATHAN, KATHERINE of Bologna, and SALADINE, the mutual 〈◊〉 of noble and gentle personages, and for what respects.  
¶ Queen ANNE of Hungary, the good nature and liberality of a Queen: and with what industry Gentlewomen of privy chambered aught to prefer the suits of the valiant, and of such as have well served the Common wealth.  
¶ ALEXANDRE de Medici's, a Duke of Florence, the justice of a Prince and Governor to the wronged party, what 〈◊〉 ought to shine in Courtiers, and with what temperance their insolence is to be repressed.  
¶ JULIETTA and RHOMEO disclose the hearty affections of two incomparable lovers, what secret sleights of love, what danger either sort incur which marrow without the advise of Parents.  
¶ Two Gentlewomen of Venice the wisdom and policy of wives to 〈◊〉 and restrain the follies of Husbands, and the stoutness they ought to use in their defence.  
¶ The Lord of Virle and the widow ZILIA, give lessons to Lovers, to avoid the immoderate pangs of love, they prognosticate the indiscretion of promised penance, they warn to beware all unseemly hests, lest the penalties of covetise and 〈◊〉 glory be incurred.  
¶ The Lady of Boeme, schooleth two noble Barons, that with great boast assured themselves to impair her honour.  
¶ DOM DIEGO and GINEURA, record the cruelty of women, bend to hate, and the voluntary vow performed by a passionate knight, with the perfect friendship of a true 〈◊〉 in redress of a friends mishap.  
¶ SALIMBENE & ANGELICA the kindness of a gentleman in delivery of his enemy, and the constant mind of a chaste and virtuous maiden.  
¶ Mistress HELENA of Florence, discovereth what loathsome lusts do lurk under the bark of fading beauty, what stench of filthy affection fumeth from the smouldering gulf of dishonest Love, what pranks such Dames do play for deceit of other and shame of themselves.  
¶ CAMIOLA reproveth the mobility of youth, such chief as for noble anncestrie regarded riches more than virtue. She like a Mistress of constancy lessoneth her equals from wavering minds, and not to adventure upon unstedie contracts: with those that care not (under what pretence) they come by riches.  
¶ The Lords of Nocera foretell the hazards of whoredom, the rage of 〈◊〉, the difference of 〈◊〉 between Prince and subject, the fruits of a Rebel, the ends of Traiteric and Tyranny, and what monstrous success such vices do attain.  
¶ The King of Morocco describeth the good nature of the homely and loyal subject, the matuelous love of a true and simple Country man toward his liege & sovereign Lord, & the bounty of a curetous prince, upon those that under rude attire be 〈◊〉 with the flowers of virtue.  
To be short, the contents of these Novels from degree of highest Emperor, from the state of greatest Queen and Lady, to the homely 〈◊〉 peasant and rudest village girl, may conduce profit for instruction, & pleasure for delight. They offer rules for avoiding of vice and imitation of virtue, to all estates. This book is a very Court & Palace for all sorts to fix their eyes therein, to view the devoires of the Noblest, the virtues of the gentlest, and the duties of the meanest. It is a Stage and Theatre, for show of true Nobility, for proof of passing loyalty, and for trial of their contraries, Wherefore as in this I have continued what erst I partly promised in the first: So upon intelligence of the second sign of thy good will, a Third (by God's assistance) shall come forth.  
Farewell.   

¶ Authorities from whence these Novels be collected: and in the same avouched.  

Strabo.  
Pliny  
Quintus Curtius.  
plutarch  
Titus Livius.  
Dionysius Halcarnasoeus.  
Appianus Alexandrinus.  
ovid  
Horace  
Propertius.  
Cicero.  
Valerius Max.  
Tribelius Pollio.  
Xenephon.  
Homer  
Virgilius.  
Baptista Campofulgosus.  
Bandello.  
Bocaccio.  
Gyraldi Cynthio.  
Belleforrest.  
Boustuau.  
Pietro di Seviglia.  
Antonio di Guevarra    

THE SECOND TOME of the Palace of Pleasure.  

The Amazons.  
¶ The hardiness and conquests of divers stout and 〈◊〉 women, called amazons, the beginning and continuance of their reign, and of the great 〈◊〉 of one of their Queens called THALESTRIS to visit ALEXANDER the great: and the cause of her 〈◊〉.  
The first Novel.  
WHere the first book began with a Combat fought and tried between two mighty cities, for principality and government, the one hight Rome after called the head of the world (as some think by reason of a man's head found in the place where the capitol did stand) the other Alba. To which Combat 〈◊〉 gentlemen of either city were appointed, and the victory chanced to the Roman side: In this second part, in the forefront and first Novel of the same, is described the beginning, continuance and end of a Woman's Common wealth (an History 〈◊〉 and strange to the unlearned, ignorant of the 〈◊〉 fickle ruled stay) which contended with mighty Princes and puissant Potentates for defence of their kingdom, no less than the Carthaginians and Romans did for theirs. But as it is no wonder to the skilful that a whole Monarch and kingdom should be inticrly peopled with that Sex: so to the not well trained in Histories, this may seem miraculous. Wherefore not to stay thee from the discourse of those strange and Adventurous women, divers be of divers opinions for the Etymology of the word: where of amongs the Grecians 〈◊〉 diverse judgements. These Amazons were most excellent warriors, very valiant, and without man's advise did conquer mighty Countries, famous Cities, and notable Kingdoms, continuing of long time in one Signiory and government. These people occupied and enjoyed a great part of Asia. Some writers divide them into two Provinces, one in Scythia in the North part of Asia: other by the hill Imaus, which at this day is called the Tartarian Scythia, different from that which is in Europa: the other sort of the Amazons were in Libya a province of Africa. But because the common sort of Authors do understand the Amazons to be those of Asia, I mean to leave off the difference. The Scythians were a warlike people, and at the beginning of their kingdom had two kings, by whom they were governed. Notwithstanding the nature of dominion being of itself ambitious, cannot abide any companion or equal. Which caused these two Kings to beat variance, and afterwards the matter grew to civil wars, wherein the one being Victory, two of the principal & 〈◊〉 of the contrary faction, called Plinius and Scolopithos, were banished with a great number of their 〈◊〉, all which did withdraw themselves to the limits of Cappadocia in the lesser Asia, & in despite of the Country Peasants, dwelled alonges the river of Thermodon, which entereth into the sea Euxinum, otherwise called Pontus. And they being made Lords of the country, & of the places adjoining, reigned for certain years until the peasantes and their confederates made a conspiracy against them: and assembling by policy, overcame them and slew them all. The news of their death known to their wives dwelling in their country, caused them to conceive great heaviness and dolour extreme. And although they were women, yet did they put on manly courage, and determined to revenge the death of their husbands, by putting their hands to weapons wherewithal they did exercise themselves very oft. And that they might all be equal & their sorrow common, they murdered certain of their husbands which remained there after the other were banished. Afterward being all together, they made a great army, and forsook their dwelling places, refusing the marriage of many suitors. And arriving in the land of their enemies (that made small account thereof, although foretold of their approach) they suddenly came upon them unprovided, and put them all to the sword. This being done, the women took the governance of the Country, inhabiting at the beginning along the River of Thermodon, where their husbands were slain. And although many Authors do differ in the situation of the place where the Amazons did dwell, yet the truth is, that the beginning of their kingdom and of their habitation was upon that River. But of their manifold conquests, be engendered divers opinions declared by Strabo and others. They fortified themselves in those places and wan other countries adjoining, choosing among them two Queens, the one named Martesia, and and the other Lampedo. Those two lovingly divided the army and men of war in two parts, either of them defending (with great hardiness) the Lands which they had conquered: and to make themselves more dreadful (such was the credit and vanity of men that time) they feigned themselves to be that daughters of Mars. Afterward these miraculous women living after this manner in peace & justice, considered that by succession of time, for want of daughters that might succeed, wars, and time, would extinguish their race. For this cause they treated marriage with their neighbours named Gargarians (as Pliny sayeth) with condition, that upon certain times of the year, their husbands should assemble together in some appointed place, and use them for certain days until they were with child: which being done and known, they should return home again to their own houses. If they brought forth daughters, they nourished and trained them up in arms, and other manlike exercises, and to ride great horse. They taught them to run at base, & to follow the chase. If they were delivered of males, they sent them to their fathers. And if by chance they kept any back, they murdered them, or else broke their arms and legs in such wise as they had no power to bear weapons, and served for nothing else but to spin, twist, and to do other feminine labour. And for as much as these Amazons defended themselves so valiantly in the wars with Bow and Arrows, and perceived, that their breasts did very much impech the use of that weapon, and other exercises of arms, they seared up the right breasts of their young daughters, for which cause they were named amazons, which signifieth in the Greek tongue, without breasts, although that some other do give unto that name an other Etymology. Afterwards, increasing by course of time in numbered & force, they made great preparation of weapons and other 〈◊〉 for the wars, and leaving their country (which they thought was very small) in the keeping of some, whom they specially trusted, the rest marched abroad, conquering & subduing all those which they found rebellious. And having passed the river of Tanais, they entered Europa, where they vanquished many countries, directing their way towards Thracia, from whence they returned a while after, with great spoil and victory: and coming again into Asia, they brought many provinces under their subjection, proceeding even to Mare Caspium. They edified and peopled an infinite numbered of good cities, amongs which, according to the opinion of divers, was the famous City of Ephesus, the same being the chief of all their Empire, and the principal place that stood upon Thermodon. They defended themselves in wars with certain Targets, made in fashion of a half Moon, and entering into battle used a certain kind of flutes to give the people courage to fight, as the Lacedæmonians were wont to do. In this wise increased more & more the same of those women, and so continued until the time that Hercules, Theseus, and many other valiant men lived in Graecia. The said Hercules, king Euristeus of Athenes commanded, to proceed with great force of people against the Amazons, and that he should bring unto him the armours of the two Queens, which then were two sisters, that is to say Antiopa and Oritia. At this commandment Hercules encouraged with desire of honour and glory, accompanied with Theseus, & other his friends, sailed 〈◊〉 Pontus, and arrived in most convenient place upon the shore of Thermodon, where he landed in such secret manner & with such opportunity of time, as Oritia, one of the two Queens was gone out of the country with the greatest part of her women, to make war & conquer new Countries, in so much that he found Antiopa, which doubted nothing, ne yet knew of his coming. Upon which occasion, Hercules and his people surprising the Amazons unwares, and although they entered into field and did put themselves in defence with such diligence as the time served, yet they were overcome, and put to flight, and many of them slain, & the rest taken: amongst whom were the two sisters of the Queen, the one named Menalipe which was Hercules prisoner, and the other Hippolita, the prisoner of Theseus. Certain Historians do say, that they were vanquished in a pitched field, and appointed battle. And that afterwards the two 〈◊〉 sters were vanquished in singular Combat. The Queen Antiopa then seeing this overthrow, and the taking of her sisters, came to composition with Hercules, to whom 〈◊〉 gave her armure to carry to Euristeus. Upon charge that he should render unto her, her sister Menalipe. But Theseus for no offer that she could make, would deliver Hippolita, with whom he was so far in love, that he carried her home with him, and afterward took her to wife, of whom he had a son called Hippolytus. Hercules' satisfied of his purpose, returned very joyful of his victory. Oritia certified of these news, being then out of her 〈◊〉, conceived no less shame than sorrow, who fearing greater damage, returned speedily with her women, the greater part whereof being of her opinion, persuaded 〈◊〉 opa to be revenged upon the Greeks. For which purpose they made great preparation of war. And afterwards levying so great a numbered of that Amazons as they could, they sent to Sigillus king of Scythia for succour: who sent them his son Pisagoras, with a great numbered of horsemen, by whose help the Amazons passing into Europa, and country about Athenes, they greatly 〈◊〉 their 〈◊〉. But Pisagoras entered in quarrel against the Queen and her women, by means whereof, the Scythians could not fight, but withdrew themselves aside, whereby the Amazons (not able to support the force of the Greeks,) were overcome and vanquished, & the greatest part of them cut in pieces. Those which did escape, ran to the Scythians camp, of whom they were defended. Afterward being returned into their country, they lived in less force and surety than before. In process of time the Greeks passed into Asia, and made a famous conquest of the City of Troy, when Penthesilea was Queen of the Amazons, who remembering the injuries received by the Greeks, went with a great army to help the Troyans': Where that Queen did things worthy of remembrance, but the Trojans vanquished, in many skirmishes all the Amazons were almost slain. And Penthesilea amongs other, was killed by the hand of Achilles. Wherefore those that remained, returned into their country, with so little power (in respect of that they had before) as with great difficulty they sustained and defended their old possessions, and so continued till the time that Alexander the great went into Asia, to make war against the Hyrcanians. In 〈◊〉 time one of their queens named Thalestris, accompanied with a great numbered of the Amazons, went out of her country with great desire to see & know Alexander. And approaching the place where he was, she sent her Ambassador unto him to the end that she might obtain safeconduct to see him, making him to understand how much the 〈◊〉 of his parsonage had inflamed her heart to see him. Whereof Alexander being 〈◊〉, granted her his 〈◊〉. By means whereof, after she had chosen out some of her principal women, leaving the rest in a certain place in very good order, she went towards Alexander, of whom she was courteously entertained, & then with very good countenance, she offered unto him the effect of all her ability. Who prayed her to tell him, if he were able to do her pleasure, & promised that her request should be accomplished. She answered that her coming was not to demand either lands or dominions, (whereof she had sufficient) but rather to know and be acquainted with such a famous Prince as he was, of whom she had heard marvelous and strange report. But the chiefest cause of her coming was; to pray him of carnal copulation, that she might be conceived with child, and have an heir begotten of so excellent a prince, telling him that she was come of noble kind, and of high parentage, & that he ought not to disdain her use. Promising him that if it pleased the Gods, that she should have a daughter, she would nourish it herself, and make it her universal heir, and if it were a 〈◊〉, she would send it unto him. Alexander asked her if she would go with him to the wars, and if she would, he promised her his company. But she excusing herself, answered that she could not go with him without great shame and danger of loss of her kingdom. Wherefore she prayed him again to satisfy her request. Finally she kept company with Alexander by the space of. xiii. days in public and secret sort, which being expired, she took her leave, and returned home to her province. But as it is the property of time to consume all things: even so the kingdom & power of the Amazons grew to utter decay, no one such nation at this day to be found. For what monstrous Sex was this that durst not only by many army's encounter with puissant nations, but also by such single Combat, to fight with that terrible parsonage Hercules, whose unspeakable and incredible labours and victories, are by antiquity reported to be such, as none but he, duxst ever adventure the like. Whose nation was comparable to the Greeks, or the nian city? and yet these mankind women for revenge shrunk not to pierce their province. What like besieged town as that of Troy was? and yet Penthesilea one of their Nuéenes with her maynie, would go about to raise the Greeks, that so many years had lain before the same. What Queen (nay what Stalant) durst sue for company of meanest man? and yet one of these presumed to beg the match of the mightiest Monarch that ever ruled the world. The manners & qualities of which nation, because they were women of no common spirit and boldness, be thought good in the front of this second volume to be described: because of divers women's lives plentiful variety is offered in the sequel. And for that some mention hath been made of the great Alexander, and in what wise from virtue he fell to vice, the second Novel ensuing, shall give some further advertisement.   

Alexander the great.  
¶ The great pity and continency of ALEXANDER the great and his loving entertainment of SISIGAMBIS, the wife of the great Monarch. 〈◊〉, after he was vanquished.  
The second Novel.  
GReat monarchs and princes be the Gods and only rulers upon earth, and as they be placed by God's only providence and disposition, to conquer and rule the same, even so in victorious battles and honourable exploits, they ought to rule & order their conquests like Gods: that is to say, to use moderate behaviour to their captives and slaves, specially to the weaker sort & feminine kind, whom like tyrants and barbarous, they ought not to corrupt and abuse, but like Christians and virtuous victors, to cherish and preserve their honour. For what can be safe to a woman (said Lucrece, when she was 〈◊〉 by the Roman Tarquin) her chastity being defiled? Or what can be safe to a man, that giveth himself to incontinency? For when he hath despoiled the virgin, rob the wife, or abused the widow of their honour and good name, they protrude themselves into many miseries, they be impudent, unshamefast, adventurous and careless, how many mischiefs they do. And when a Prince or governor doth give himself to licentious life, what mischiefs, what rapes, what murders doth he commit? No friend, no 〈◊〉, no subject, no enemy doth he spare or defend. Contrariwise, the merciful and continent captain, by subduing his affections recovereth immortal fame, which this history of king Alexander full well declareth. And because before we spoke of that great conqueror in the Novel of the Amazons, and of the repair of Queen Thalestris for use of his body, at what time (as Curtius saith) he fell from virtue to vice: we purpose in this, to declare the great continency and mercy that he used to Sisigambis, the wife of the Persian Prince Darius, and briefly to touch the time of his abused life, which in this manner doth begin. Alexander the great having vanquished Darius and his infinite army, and retiring with his host from the pursuit and slaughter of the Persians, entered into their camp to recreate himself. And being with his familiars in the mids of his banquet, they suddenly heard a pitiful cry, with strange howling and crying out, which did very much astonne them. The wife and mother of Darius with the other noble women newly taken prisoners, were the occasion of that present noise, by lamenting of Darius, whom they believed to be slain, which opinion they conceived through one of the eunuchs, which standing before their tent door, saw a soldier bear a piece of Darius' Diadem. For which cause Alexander, pitying their misery, sent a noble man called Leonatus to signify unto them that they were deceived, for that Darius was living. Repairing towards the tent where the women were with certain armed men, he sent word before, that he was coming to them with message from the king. But when such as stood at the tent 〈◊〉 saw armed men, they thought they had been sent to murder the Ladies: for which cause they ran in to them, crying that their last hour was come, for the soldiers were at hand to kill them. When Leonatus was entered the pavilion, the Mother and wife of Darius fell down at his feet, entreating him that before they were slain, he would suffer them to bury Darius, according to the order and manner of his country, after the performance of which obsequies, they were content (they said) willingly to suffer death. Leonatus' assured them, that both Darius was alive, and that there was no harm towards them, but should remain in the same state they were in before. When Sisigambis heard those words, she suffered herself to be lifted up from the ground, and to receive some comfort. The next day, Alexander with great diligence buried the bodies of such of his own men as could be found, and willed the same to be done to the noble men of the Persians, giving licence to Darius' mother to bury so many as she list, after the custom of her country. She performed the same to a few that were next of her kin, according to the ability of their present fortune, for if she should have used the Persians pomp therein, the Macedonians might have envied it, which being victors, used no great curiosity in the matter. When the due was performed to the dead, Alexander signified to the women prisoners, that he himself would come to visit them, and causing such as came with him to tarry without, he only with Ephestion entered in amongs them. The same Ephestion of all men was best beloved of Alexander, brought up in his company from his youth, and most privy with him in all things. There was none that had such liberty to speak his mind plainly to the king as he had, which he used after such sort, that he seemed to do it by no authority, but by sufferance. And as he was of like years unto him, so in shape and parsonage he did somewhat excel him. Wherefore the women thinking Ephestion to be the king, did fall down and worship him (as their country manner was to do to kings) till such time as one of the eunuchs that was taken prisoner, showed which of them was Alexander. Then Sisigambis fell down at his feet, requiring pardon of her ignorance, for somuch as she did never see him before. The King took her up by the hand, and said: Mother you be not deceived: for this is Alexander also. Then he behaved himself after such a manner, that he erceded in continency and compassion, all the kings that had been before his time. He entertained the two Queens with those virgins that were of excellent beauty, so reverently, as if they had been his sisters. He not only abstained from all violation of Darius' wife, which in beauty excelled all the women of her time, but also took great care & diligence, that none other should procure her any dishonour. And to all the women, he commanded their ornaments and apparel to be restored: So that they wanted nothing of the magnificence of their former 〈◊〉, saving only the assured trust that creatures want in misery: which things considered by Sisigambis, she said unto the king: Sir, your goodness towards us, doth deserve, that we should make the same prayer for you, that whilom we did for Darius: and we perceive you worthy to pass so great a king as he was, in felicity and good fortune, that abound so in justice and clemency. It pleaseth you to term me by the name of Mother and Queen: but I confess myself to be your handmaid. For both I conceive the greatness of my state past, and feel that I can bear this present servitude. It lieth only in your hands how we shall be dealt withal, and whether you will make us notable to the world through your clemency or cruelty. The King comforted them all he might, and willing them to be of good cheer, took Darius' son in his arms. Thereat the child was nothing afraid, having never seen him before, but took & embraced him about the neck. He was so moved with the constancy of the child, as he beheld Ephestion, and said: Oh, I would that Darius had had some part of this child's gentleness. Which mercy, continency, humility and constancy of mind in Alexander, if he had still kept to his latter days, might have been accounted much more fortunate than he was, when having subdued all Asia from Hellespont to the Ocean sea, he did counterfeit the 〈◊〉 of Bacchus. Or if amongs the residue of his conquests, he would have travailed to overcome his pride and wrath, being vices invincible. Or in his drunkenness abstained from the slaughter of his Nobility, and not to have put to death those excellent men of war without judgement, which helped him to conquer so many Nations. But at this time the greatness of his Fortune had not yet altered his nature, although afterwards he could not bear his victories with that Virtue, wherewith he wan them. For when he gave himself to 〈◊〉 and banqueting, he used the company of harlots. amongs whom there was one Thais, who upon a day in her drunkenness, affirmed to Alexander, that he should wonderfully win the favour of the Greeks, if he commanded the Palace of Persepolis to be set on fire. The destruction whereof (she said) they greatly desired, for so much as the same was the chief seat of the kings of Persia, which in times past had destroyed so many great Cities. When the drunken harlot had given her 〈◊〉, there were other present, who being likewise drunken, confirmed her words. Alexander then that had in him more inclination of heat than of patience, said: Why do we not then revenge Greece, and set this City on fire? They were all chafed with drinking, and rose immediately upon those words to burn that City in their drunkenness, which the men of war had spared in their fury. The king himself first, and after his guests, his servants & his Concubines, set fire in the Palace, which being builded for the most part of cedar trees, 〈◊〉 suddenly in a flame. When the army that was encamped near unto the City, saw the fire, which they thought had been kindled by some casualty; they came running to quench the same again. But when they saw the king there present increasing the fire, they poured down the water which they brought, and helped likewise the matter forwards. Thus the palace that was the head of the whole Orient, from whence so many nations before had fetched their laws to live under, the seat of so many kings, the only terror sometime of Greece, the same that hath been the sender forth of. 9000. ships, and of the armies that overflowed all Europa, that made bridges over the Sea, and undermined mountains where the Sea hath now his course, was consumed and had his end, and never rose again in all the age that did ensue. For the kings of Macedon used other Cities which be now in the Persians hands. The destruction of this City was such, that the foundation thereof at this day could not be 〈◊〉, but that the river of Araxes doth show where it stood, which was distant from Persepolis. xx. furlongs, as the inhabitants rather do believe than know. The Macedonians were ashamed that so noble 〈◊〉 was destroyed by their king in his drunkenness: yet at length it was turned into an earnest matter, and were content to thinks it expedient that the City should have been destroyed after that manner. But it is certain, that when Alexander had taken his rest, and was become better advised, he repented him of his doing. And after he had kept company with Thalestris aforesaid, which was Queen of the Amazons, he turned his continency and moderation (being the most excellent virtues appearing in any kind of estate) into Pride and voluptuousness, not esteeming his country customs, nor the wholesome temperance that was in the usages and discipline of kings of Macedon. For he judged their civil usage and manner, to be over base for his greatness, but did counterfeit the height and 〈◊〉 of the kings of Persia, representing the greatness of the Gods. He was content to suffer men there to fall down flat upon the ground & worship him, & 〈◊〉 the victorers of so many nations, by little & little to servile offices, coveting to make them like unto his captives. He ware upon his head a Diadem of purple, interpaled with white, like as Darius was accustomed: & fashioned his apparel after the manner of the Persians, without 〈◊〉 of any evil token that is signified, for the 〈◊〉 to change his habit into the fashion of him whom he had vanquished. And although he vaunted, that he ware the spoils of his enemies, yet with those spoils he put upon him their evil manners, and the insolency of the mind, followed the pride of the apparel. Besides, 〈◊〉 sealed such letters as he sent into Europa, with his accustomed seal, but all the letters he sent abroad into Asia, were sealed with Darius' ring. So it appeared that one mind could not bear the greatness that appertained to two. He appareled also his friends, his captains, and his horsemen in 〈◊〉 apparel, whereat though they grudged in their minds, yet they durst not refuse it, for fear of his displeasure. His court was replenished with Concubines, for he still maintained three hundred and three score that belonged to Darius, and among them were flocks of eunuchs accustomed to perform the use of women. The old soldiers of Philip naturally abhorring such things, manifestly withstood to be infected with such voluptuousness and strange customs. Whereupon there rose a general talk and opinion throughout the Camp, that they had lost more by the victory, than they had won by the wars. For when they saw themselves overcome in such excess, and foreign customs so to prevaise, they judged it a simple guerdon of their long being abroad, to return home in prisoners manner. They began to be ashamed of their king, that was more like to such as were subdued, than to them that were victorious: and that of a King of Macedon, was become a Prince of Persia, and one of Darius' Courtiers. Thus this noble prince from continency and mercy fell into all kind of disorder, the original whereof, he took by delight in women, which being used in sort lawful, be great comforts and delights, otherwise, the very spring of all cruelty and mischief.   

Timoclia of Thebes.  
〈◊〉, a Gentlewoman of 〈◊〉, understanding the covetous desire of a Thracian knight, that had abused her, and promised her marriage, rather for her goods than love, well acquitted herself from his falsehood.  
The third Novel.  
QVintus Curtius, that notable historiographer remembering the stout fact of this Theban gentlewoman, amongs other the gests and facts of Alexander the great, I have deemed it not altogether unfit for this place, to reveal the fine and notable policy devised by her, to rid herself from a covetous 〈◊〉 of the Thracian kind, who for lucre rather than love, for gain than gratitude, promised golden hills to this distressed poor gentlewoman. But she in the end paying him his well deserved hire, was liked and praised of Alexander for her adventurous fact, being not one of the least virtues that shined in him, before he grew to excessive abuse. But because Plutarch in his treatise De claris mulieribus, more at large recounteth this history, I have thought good almost (verbatim) to follow him. Theagenes a gentleman of Thebes, 〈◊〉 himself with Epaminondas. and Pelopidas, and with other noble men, for preservation of their common wealth, in the battle sought at Cheronaea, for delivery of their 〈◊〉 of Greece? was slain in the chase of his enemies, as he pursued one of the chief of his adversaries, that same crying out unto him: Whether 〈◊〉 thou pursue us Theagenes? even to Macedonia answered he. This gentleman thus slain had a sister, whose virtue & nearness of kin by noble deeds, she well witnessed, although she was not well able to manifest her virtue, for the adversity of the time, but by patient sufferance of the common calamities. For after Alexander had won the city of Thebes, the soldiers greedy of spoil running up and down the city, every of them chancing upon such booty as fortune offered them, it chanced that a captain of the Thracian horsemen, (a barbarous and wicked wretch,) happened upon the house of Timoclia, who somewhat near the King both in name and kin, in manners and conditions was greatly different from him. He neither regarding the noble house, ne yet the chastity of her forepast life, upon a time after supper, glutted & swelled with abundance of wine, caused Timoclia forcibly to be haled to his drunken couch: and not contented with the forced wrong, as they were in talk together, diligently demanded of her, if she had in no place hidden any gold or silver, and partly by threats, and partly by promise to keep her as his wife, endeavoured to get that he desired. But she being of ready wit, taking that offered occasion of her adversary: I would to God (said she) that it had been my luck to have died before this night, rather than to live. For hitherto have I kept my 〈◊〉 pure and untouched from all despite and villainy, until unlucky fate forced me to yield to thy disordinate lust: but 〈◊〉 my 〈◊〉 is such, why should I conceal those things that be 〈◊〉 own, thou being mine only tutor, lord, and husband (as thou sayest) when the Gods shall please to bring the same to pass. For by thy will and pleasure must I unhappy Theban wench be ruled and governed. Each vanquished wight must subdue their will and mind to their lord & 〈◊〉: I being thy slave and prisoner, must needs by humble means, yield. up myself to the unsatiate hest of thy puissant heart. What shall let me to disclose the pray that thou desirest, that we both, if thy mind be such, may rather joy the same, than the soilie filth of stinking earth, should devour such spoil, which for fear and hope of future fortune, I buried in the bowels of the same. Then mark my words, and bear them well in mind, sith lot hath wrought me this mishap. I having plenty of coined silver, and of fined gold no little store besides such jewels as belong to the setting forth of the grace of woman's beauty, of valour and price 〈◊〉: when I saw this City brought to such distress as unpossible to be saved from taking, all the same I threw away, or more truly to say, I whelmed altogether in a dry ditch void of water, which my fact few or none did know. The pit is covered with a little cover above, and thickly round about beset with bushes and thorns. Those goods will make thee a wealthy parsonage, none in all the camp to be compared to thee, the riches and value whereof, will witness our former fortune, and the state of our gorgeous and stately house. All those do I bequeath to thee, as on whom I think them well bestowed. This greedy Lecher, laughing to himself for this sudden pray, and thinking that his Lady fast holden within his barbarous arms had told him truth, routed in his 〈◊〉 couch till the day had discovered that morning light, then gaping for his 〈◊〉 gain, he rose & prayed her to tell the place, that he might recover the same. She than brought him into her garden, the door whereof she commanded to be shut, that none might enter. He in his hose and doublet, went down to the bottom of the pit. When Timoclia perceived him down, she beckoned for certain of her maids, & she rolled down divers great stones with her own hands, which of purpose she had caused to be placed there, and commanded her maids to tumble down the like. By which means she killed that lecherous and covetous villain, that rather 〈◊〉 to satisfy his desire, than coveted to observe his promised faith. Which afterwards being known to the Macedonians, they haled his body out of the pit. For Alexander had made proclamation, that none should dare to kill any Theban, and therefore apprehending Timoclia, they brought her to that king, accusing her for doing of that murder: who by her countenance and stature of body, and by her behaviour and gravity of manners, beheld in her the very Image of gentle kind. And first of all, he asked her what she was. To whom boldly with constant cheer, she 〈◊〉 answered: Theagenes was my brother (said she) who being a valiant captain, & fight against you for the common safeguard of the Greeks, was 〈◊〉 at Chaeronea, that we might not 〈◊〉 and prove that miseries, wherewith we be now oppressed. But I rather than to suffer violence unworthy of our race & stock, am in your 〈◊〉 presence brought ready to refuse no death: For better it were for me to die, than feel such another night, except thou command the contrary. These words were uttered in such 〈◊〉 plight, as the standers by could not forbear to weep. But Alexander saying, that he not only pitied the woman endued with so noble wit, but much more wondered at her virtue and wisdom, commanded the princes of his army, to foresee no wrong or violence to be done to the Gentlewoman. He gave order also, that Timoclia & all her kin, should be guarded and defended from slaughter or other wrongs. What say ye (good Ladies) to the heart of this noble Gentlewoman, that durst be so bold to stone this 〈◊〉 wretch to death, & for wrong done to her body till that time untouched, to wrong the corpse of him that savoured of no gentle kind: who rather for earthly 〈◊〉, than for love of such a pleasant prisoner, exchanged love for gold? But note hereby what force the purity of mind unwilling of beastly 〈◊〉 doth carry in itself: A simple woman void of help, not backed with defence of husbands aid, doth bring a mighty captain, a strong and lofty lubber, to enter into a cave, and when she saw her best advantage, thacked him with stones, until he groaned forth his 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. Such is the might and prowess of chastity. No charge too burdenous or weighty for such a virtue, no enterprise too hard for a mind so pure and clean.   

Ariobarzanes.  
¶ ARIOBARZANES great steward to 〈◊〉 king of Persia, goth about to exceed his sovereign Lord and master in courtesy: wherein be contained many notable and pleasant chances, besides the great patience and loyaltic naturally planted in the said ARIOBARZANES.  
The fourth Novel.  
AQuestion is moved many times among learned men and Gentlemen addicted to the service of the Court, whether commendable deed or, courteous and gentle fact done by the gentleman or courtier towards his sovereign lord, aught to be called Liberality & Courtesy, or rather Band and Duty. Which question is not proponed without great reason. For so much as each man doth know, that a servant do what he can for his master, or let him employ the uttermost of his endeavour, all the labour and travail he bestoweth, all trouble and danger which he sustaineth, is too little, yea, and the same his very bounden duty. Have we not red of many, and known the like, that to gratify their prince and master, have into a thousand dangers and like numbered of deaths, adventured their own proper lives? Marcus Antonius that notable orator being accused of incest, and brought to the judgement seat, his accusers required that his servant should be called for, because he bore the candle before his master, when he went to do the deed, who seeing his masters life & death to depend upon his evidence, utterly denied the fact, and notwithstanding that he was whipped, racked, & suffered other cruel torments, would rather have lost his life than accuse & betray his master. I could allege and bring forth in place, the example of Mycithus, the servant of one Anaxilaus Messenius, the fidelity of the servants of Plotinus Plancus, the faithful maiden called Pythias, that waited upon Octavia the chaste Empress and wife of that Monster Nero, with divers other: but that I think they be to the learned well known, and of the simple the virtue of servants fidelity is greatly liked and commended. But if the faithful servant know that his deserts do gain the grace and favour of his master, 〈◊〉 travails, what pains ought he to suffer to maintain his reputation, and to increase the favour obtained? For as the common 〈◊〉 and wise saying reporteth, That the virtue is no less to conserve Friendship gotten, than the wisdom was great to get and win the same. Other there be, which do contrarily contend, and with very strong arguments do force to prove, that all which the servant doth beside his duty, and beyond the obligation, wherein he is bound to his master, is and ought to be termed Liberality, which is a matter to provoke his patron and master, to devise new benefits for his servant. And that at all times when a man doth his duty and service appointed by his master, executing the same with all diligence and industry requisite there unto, that then he 〈◊〉 to be rewarded. Which is not to be discommended. For no true and honest servant will refuse any travail for commodity of his master, 〈◊〉 yet discrete and wise master, will leave the same 〈◊〉, according to that portion of ability, wherewith he is possessed. But leaving questions and disputation aside, proceed we to that which this Novel purposeth. I say then, that there was in the kingdom of Persia, a king called Artaxerxes, a man of most noble mind, and of great prowess in arms. This was he which first being a private man of arms, not having as yet obtained any degree in the field, killed Artabanus the last king of the Arsacides whose soldier he was, & recovered the Persian kingdom, which was then in the Macedonians 〈◊〉 on (by the death of Darius, which was vanquished by Alexander the great) the space of. 538. years. This noble gentleman having delivered all Persia, & created King, kept a princely court, wherein were many magnificent facts and virtuous deeds exercised and done, and he himself most noble in all his affairs, besides the titles, which he worthily wan in many bloody battles, was esteemed throughout the east part of the world, to be the most liberal and magnanimous prince that in any age ever reigned. In feasts and banquets he was an other Lucullus, royally entertaining strangers that repaired to his court. This king had in his court, a Senescall or steward, named Ariobarzanes, whose office was, that when the king made any pompous or public feast, to mount upon a white Courser, with a Mace of gold in his hand, and to ride before the esquires & Sewers for the Kings own mouth, and those that bore the King's meat in vessel of gold, covered with fine naperie, wrought and purled with most beautiful workmanship of silk & gold. This office of Senescall was highly esteemed, and commonly wont to be given to one of the chiefest Barons of the Realm. Wherefore this Ariobarzanes, besides that he was of most noble Lineage and incomparable riches, was the most courteous and liberal knight that frequented the Court, whose immoderate expense was such, as leaving the mean, wherein all virtue consisteth, by reason of his outrage which many times he used, he fell into the vice of prodigality. Whereby he seemed not only in courteous deeds to compare with the King, but also contended to exceed and surpass him. One day the King for his disport and recreation called for the Chesseborde, requiring Ariobarzanes to keep him company. Which game in those days amongs the Persians was in great use and estimation, in such wise as a cunning gamester at that pastime was no less commended and honoured, than among us in these days an excellent Drator, or famous learned man. Yea and the very same game in common use in the Court, and noble men's houses of our tune, no doubt very commendable and meet to be practised by all states & degrees. The King and Ariobarzanes being set down at a table in the great hall of the Palace, one right against an other, accompanied with a great number of noble personages and Gentlemen looking upon them, and marking their play with great silence, they began to encounter one an other with the Chessemen. Ariobarzanes, whether it was that he played better than the king, or whether the king 〈◊〉 no heed to his game, or what soever the occasion was, he coursed the King to such a narrow strait, as he could not avoid, but within. two. or. iij. draughts he must be forced to receive the checkmate: which the King perceiving, and considering the danger of the mate, by and by there grew a greater colour in his face than was wont to be, & imagining how he might avoid the checkmate, besides his blushing he shaked his 〈◊〉 and fetched divers sighs, whereby the standers by that marked the game, perceived that he was driven to his shifts. The Senescall espying the King's demeanour, and seeing the honest shamefastness of the King, would not suffer him to receive such foil, but made a draft by moving his Knight back, to open a way for the King to pass, as not only he delivered him from the danger of the Mate; but also lost one of his Rocks for lack of taking heed: whereupon the game rested equal. The King (who knew the good nature & noble mind of his servant, by experience of the same in other causes) feigning that he had overseen the taking of his Rock, gave over the game, and rising up, said: No more Ariobarzanes, the game is yours, and I confess myself overcome. The King thought that Ariobarzanes did not the same so much for courtesy, as to bind his sovereign lord and king by benefit to recompense his subjects like behaviour, which he did not very well like, and therefore would play no more. Notwithstanding the King neither by sign or deed, ne yet in talk, showed any token of displeasure for that courtesy done. Nowbeit the King would that Ariobarzanes in semblable act, should abstain to show himself courteous or liberal, except it were to his inferiors and equals, because it is not connenient for a servant to contend with his master in those qualities.  
Not long after the King being at Persepolis (the principal city of Persia, ordained a not able day of hunting of divers beasts of that country breed: And when all things were in readiness, he with the most part of his Court repaired to the pastime. When they were come to the place, the King commanded a wood to be beset about with nets and toils, and appointed each man where he should stand in most convenient place, and he himself attended with the dogs and 〈◊〉, to cause the beasts to issue forth of their 〈◊〉 and holes. And behold, they roused a wild beast, which with great 〈◊〉 leapt over the nets, and ran away with much speed. The King seeing that strange beast, purposed to pursue him to death: And making a sign to certain of his noble men which he desired to keep him company, he gave the rain and spur to his horse, and followed the chase, Ariobarzanes was one of those noble men that pursued the game. It chanced that day that the King road upon a horse, that was the swiftest in his stable, which he esteemed better than a thousand other, as well for his velocity, as for his readiness in facts of arms. Thus following with bridle at will, the flying rather than running beast, they were divided far from their company, and by reason of the King's speediness, none was able to follow him but Ariobarzanes, and behind him one of his servants upon a good horse, which always he used in hunting inatters, which horse was counted the best in all the Court. And thus following the chase with galloping speed, Ariobarzanes at length espied that the horse of his sovereign lord had lost his shoes before, and that the stones had surbated his hoofs, whereupon the King was driven either to give over the chase, or else to mar his horse. But there was none of these two necessities but would have greatly displeased the King, that did not perceive his horse to be unshod. The Senescall did no sooner espy the same, but suddenly dismounted from his own, caused his man to deliver unto him a hammer and nails (which for such like chances, he always carried about him) and took of two shoes from the 〈◊〉 of his good horse, to set upon the Kings, not caring for his own, rather than the King should forego his pleasure. Wherefore hallowing the King which was earnestly bend upon the chase, told him of the danger wherein his horse was for lack of shoes. The King hearing that, lighted from his horse, & seeing two shoes in Ariobarzanes man's hand, thinking that Ariobarzanes had brought them with him, or that they were the shoes which fell from his own, tarried still until his horse was shod. But when he saw the notable horse of his Senescall unshod before, than he thought that to be the courtesy of Ariobarzanes, & so did let the matter pass, studying by like means to requite him with Courtesy, which forced himself to surmount in the same. And when his horse was shod, he gave the same to Ariobarzanes in reward. And so the king chose rather to lose his pleasure of hunting, than to suffer himself by his man to be excelled in Courtesy, well noting the stoutness of Ariobarzanes mind, which seemed to have a will to contend with his Prince in facts renowned and liberal. The Senescall thought it not convenient to refuse the gift of his liege Lord, but accepted the same with like good will as before he shod his horse, still expecting occasion how he might surpass his master in courteous, and so to bind him to requite the same. They had not tarried there long, but many of those which came after had overtaken them. And then the King got up upon a spare horse, and returned to the city with all his company.  
Within few days after, the King by proclamation summoned a solemn and pompous just and triumph at the tilt, to be done upon the kalends of May next ensuing. The reward appointed for the victor and best doer in the same, was a courageous and goodly Courser, with a bridle and bit of fine gold richly wrought, a saddle correspondent of passing great price, the furniture and trappers for the bridle and saddle of like cost and workmanship, the rains were two chains of gold very artificially made, the barb and coverture of the horse, of cloth of gold, upon gold, fringed round about with like gold, whereat depended certain bells of gold, over which horse was placed a fine sword, the hilts & chape whereof together with the scaverde were curiously beset with pearls and precious stones of inestimable value. On the other side was placed a very beautiful & strong. Mace, very cunningly wrought with damaskin. The horse was placed in form of triumph, and besides the same, all the armours and weapons meet for a combatant Knight, rich and fair without comparison: The Placart was marvelous and strong, the Lance was guilt and big, as none greater in all the troop of the challengers and defendants. And all those furnitures were appointed to be given to him that should do best that day. A great assembly of strangers repaired to that solemn feast, as well to do deeds of Arms, as to look upon that pompous triumph, Of the King's subjects there was neither Knight nor Baron, but in rich & sumptuous apparel appeared that day, amongs whom, of chiefest fame the king's eldest son was the first that gave his name, a Gentleman very valorous, and in 〈◊〉 of Arms of passing estimation, brought up from his very youth, and trained in the field & other warlike exercises. The Senescall also caused his name to be enrolled. The like did 〈◊〉 their knights, as well Persians as other strangers. For, that the Proclamation was general, with safeconduct for all foreigners, noble men or other that should make their repair. The King had elected three ancient Barons to be Judges and arbitrators of their deeds, such as in their time, for their own personages had been very valiant, and in many enterprises well exercised, men of great discretion and judgement. Their stage was placed in the mids of the Lists, to view and mark the counterbuffs and blows of the Combatants. We need not to remember, 〈◊〉 ought to forget the numbered of Ladies and Gentlewomen assembled out of all parts, to behold and view this triumph, and peradventure each knight that ran that day, was not without his amorous Lady to note and behold his Activity and Prowess, every of them wearing his Lady's sleeve, glove, or other token, according to the common Custom in such like cases. At the day and hour appointed, appeared all the Combatantes in great Triumph and pomp, with rich furnitures, as well upon themselves as upon their horse. The triumph begun, and many Lances broken in good order, on either sides, Judgement was given generally, that the Senescall Ariobarzanes had won the price, and next unto him, the king's son did pass them all, for that none of all the Combatants had broken past. v. staves, and the said young Gentleman had in the face of his adversary broken in pieces nine at the least. This Senescall brought forth eleven lances, which were courageously and honourably broken, and by breaking of the last staff which was the twelfth, he was judged most worthy of the price. The condition whereof was, that every Combatant should run twelve courses with twelve lances, and he which should first break the same, should without doubt or further controversy obtain the reward. What pleasure and delight the King did conceive to see his son behave himself so valiantly that day, I refer to the judgement of fathers, that have children endued with like activity. But yet it grieved him, that the Senescall had the greater advantage, and yet being a matter so well known and discerned by the Judges, like a wise man he dissembled his 〈◊〉. On the other side, the young Gentleman which did combat before his amorous lady, was very sorrowful for that that he was void of hope of the chiefest honour. So that between the father and the son, was one very thought and desire. But the virtue and valour of the Senescall did truncate & cut of all their grief. Now the time was come, that the Senescall should run with his last staff, and mounted upon the horse which the King gave him when he was on hunting. And knowing well that the King was very desirous that his son should excel all men, perceiving likewise the inflamed mind of the young Gentleman for the presence of his lady to aspire to honour, purposed to give over the honour archieved by himself, to leave it to the son and heir of his Lord and 〈◊〉. He knew full well that those his courtesies pleased not the King, nevertheless he was determined to persever in his opinion, not to bereave the King of his glory, but only to acquire fame and honour for himself. And yet he thought unkindness in the King, that he would not accept his gentle deeds in better part. But fully minded that the honour of the triumph should be attributed to the King's son, he wielded the staff within his rest, and when he was ready to encounter (because it was he that should come against him) he let fall his lance out of his hands, and said: Farewell this courtesy of mine, sith it is no better esteemed. The king's son gave a gentle counterbuff upon the Placard of the Senescall, & broke his staff in many pieces, which was the x. course. Many heard the words which the Senescal spoke when his staff fell out of his hands, and the standers by well perceived that he was not minded to give the last blow, because the king's son might have the honour of the triumph, which he desired so much. Then Ariobarzanes departed the lists. And the Prince without any great resistance won the price & victory. And so with sound of diverse instruments the price borne before him, he was throughout the city honorbaly conveyed, & among other, the Senescal. 〈◊〉 waited upon him with merry countenance, greatly praising & exalting that valiance of that young Prince. The King which was a very wise man, who many times had had experience of the Chivalry of his Senescall, at other Tourneys, jousts, Barriers, and Battles, and always finding him to be prudent, politic, & for his person very valiant, knew to well that the fall of his lance was not by chance but of purpose, continued his opinion of his Senescals liberality and courage. And to say the troth, such was his exceeding courtesy, as few may be found to imitate the same. We daily see that many be liberal of Fortune's goods, investing some with promotion, some with apparel, gold and silver, jewels, and other things of great value. We see also noble men, bountiful to their servants, not only of those movable things, but also of Castles, Lands, and Cities. What shall we speak of them, which will not stick to shed their own blood, and many times to spend their life to do their friends good? Of these and such like examples, all Records be full. But a man that contemneth same & glory, or is of his own bonor liberal, is never found. The victorious Captain after the bloody battle, giveth the spoil of his enemies to his soldiers, rewardeth them with prisoners, departeth unto them the whole pray, but the glory and honour of the battle he reserveth unto himself. And as divinely that father of Roman eloquence doth say, Those philosophers, which writ that glory ought to be despised by their written books, do seek after glory themselves. The King was displeased with these noble deeds and courtesy of his Senescall, because he thought it not meet or decent, that a subject and servant should compare with his lord and master: and therefore did not bear him that cheerful countenance which he was wont to do. And in the end, purposed to let him know, that he spent his brains in very great error, if he thought to force his master to be bound or beneficial unto him as hereafter you shall perceive.  
There was an ancient and approved custom in Persia, that the kings yearly did solemnize an anniversary of their Coronation, with great feast and triumph, upon which day all the Barons of the kingdom were bound to repair to the Court, where the King by the space of viii. days with sumptuous banquets and other sorts of feasts kept open house. Upon this anniversary day of Artaxerxes coronation, when all things were disposed in order, the King desirous to accomplish a certain conceived determination, commanded one of his faithful chamberlains speedily to seek out Ariobarzanes, which the said faithful chamberlain did, and telling him the king's message, said: My lord Ariobarzanes, the King hath willed me to say unto you, that his pleasure is, that you in your own person even forthwith shall carry your white steed and Courser, the mace of gold, and other 〈◊〉 due to the office of Senescall, unto Darius your mortal enemy, and in his majesties behalf to say unto him, that the king hath given him that office, and hath clearly dispossessed you thereof. Ariobarzanes hearing those heavy news, was like to die for sorrow; and the greater was his grief, because it was given to his greatest enemy. Notwithstanding, like a Gentleman of noble stomach, would not in open appearance signify the displeasure which he conceived within, but with merry cheer and loving countenance, said unto the chambrelaine: Do my right humble commendations unto the kings majesty, and say unto him, that like as he is the sovereign lord of all this land, and I his faithful subject, even so mine office, my life, lands and goods, be 〈◊〉 his disposition, and that willingly I will perform his 〈◊〉. When he had spoken those words, he rendered 〈◊〉 his office to Darius, who at dinner served in the same. And when the king was set, Ariobarzanes with comely countenance sat down amongs the rest of the Lords. Which sudden deposition and deprivation, did 〈◊〉 lously amaze the whole assembly, every man secretly speaking their mind either in praise or dispraise of that fact. The king all the dinner time, did mark & note the countenance of Ariobarzanes, which was pleasant and merry as it was wont to be, whereat the king did greatly marvel: And to attain to the end of his purpose, he began with sharp words in presence of the nobility to disclose his discontented mind, and the grudge which he bore to Ariobarzanes, On the other side, the king suborned divers persons diligently to espy what he said & did. Ariobarzanes hearing the kings sharp words of rebuke, and stimulated by the persuasion of divers flatterers, which were hired for that purpose, after he perceived that his declared patience prevailed nothing, that his modest talk & his long and faithful service, which he had done unto the king, his loss and hindrance sustained, the peril of his life, which so many times he had suffered, at length banquished with disdain, he broke the Bridle of Patience, and sorted out of the bounds of his wont nature, for that in place of honour, he received rebuke, & in stead of reward, was deprived of his office, begun in a rage to complain of that king, terming him to be an unkind prince, which amongs the Persians was esteemed a word of great offence to the majesty: wherefore feign he would have departed the court, and retired home to his country, which he could not do without special licence from the king, and yet to crave the same at his hands, his heart would not serve him. Althese murmurs and complaints which secretly he made, were told the king, & therefore the king commanded him one day, to be called before him, unto whom he said: Ariobarzanes your grudging complaints and envious quarrels, which you disparcle behind my back throughout my Court, and your continual rages outrageously pronounced, through the very windows of my Palace have 〈◊〉 mine ears, whereby I understand that thing which hardly I would have believed. But yet being a Prince as well inclined to favour and quiet hearing of all causes, as to credit of light reports, would feign know of you, the cause of your lamentation, and what hath moved you thereunto. For you be not ignorant, that to murmur at the Persian King, or to term him to be unkind, is no less offence than to blaspheme the Gods immortal, because by ancient Laws and Decrees they be honoured and worshipped as Gods. And among all the penalties contained in our laws, the vice of Ingratitude is most bitterly corrected. But leaving to speak of the threats and dangers of our laws, I pray you to tell me wherein I have offended you. For albeit that I am a king, yet reason persuadeth me, not to give offence to any man, which if I should do (and the Gods forbidden the same) I ought rather to be termed a tyrant than a King. Ariobarzanes hearing the King speak so reasonably, was abashed, but yet with stout countenance he feared not particularly to remember the words which he had spoken of the King, and the cause wherefore he spoke them. Well (said the King) I perceive that you blush not at the words, ne yet fear to rehearse the same unto my face, whereby I do perceive and note in you a certain kind of stoutness, which naturally 〈◊〉 from the greatness of your mind. But yet wisdom would that you should consider the reason and cause why I have deprived you from your office. Do you not know that it appertaineth unto me in all mine affairs and deeds to be liberal, courteous, magnificent, and bounteous? Be not those the virtues that make the fame of a Prince to 〈◊〉 amongs his subjects, as the Sun beams do upon the circuit of the world? Who ought to reward well doers, and recompense each wight which for any service and advantage have all the days of their life, or else in some particular service used their painful travail, or adventured the peril of their life, but I alone being your sovereign Lord and Prince? To the virtuous and obedient, to the Captain and Soldier, to the politic and wise, to the learned and grave: finally to each well 〈◊〉 wight, I know how to use the noble princely virtues of Courtesy and Liberality. They be the comely ensigns of a King. They be the only ornaments of a Prince. They be my particular virtues. And will you Ariobarzanes being a valiant soldier, a grave counsellor, and a politic parsonage, go about to dispossess me of that which is mine? Will you which are my servant and subject, of whom I make greatest account and have in dearest estimation, upon whom I did bestow the greatest dignity within the compass of my whole Monarchy, grate benefit at my hands, by abusing those virtues which I above other do principally regard? You do much abuse the credit which I repose in your great wisdom. For he in whom I thought to find most grave advise, and deemed to be a receptacle of all good counsel, doth seek to take upon him the parsonage of his Prince, and to usurp the kingly state which belongeth only unto him. Shall I be tied by your deserts, or bound by courteous deeds, or else be forced to render recompense? No no, so long as this imperial crown shall rest on royal head, no subject by any courteous deed of his, shall strain unwilling mind, which meant it not before. Tell me I beseech you what reward and gift, what honour and preferment have I ever bestowed upon you, sithence my first arrival to this victorious reign, that ever you by due desert did bind me thereunto? Which if you did, then liberal I can not be termed, but a slavish Prince bound to do the same, by subjects merit. High & mighty Kings do reward and advance their men, having respect that their gift or benefit shall exceed desert, otherwise that preferment can not be termed liberal. The great conqueror Alexander Magnus, wan a great and notable City for wealth and spoil. For the principality and government whereof divers of his noble men made suit, alleging their painful service and bloody wounds about the getting of the same: But what did that worthy King? was he moved with the bloodshed of his Captains? was he stirred with the valiance of his men of war? was he provoked with their earnest suits? No truly: But calling unto him a poor man, whom by chance he found there, to him he gave that rich and wealthy City, and the government thereof, that his magnificence and liberality to a person so poor and base, might receive greater fame & estimation: And to declare that the conferred benefit did not. proceed of 〈◊〉 or duty, but of mere liberality, very courtesy, true munificence, and noble disposition, derived from princely heart and kingly nature. Howbeit I speak not this that a faithful servant should be unrewarded (a thing very requisite) but to infer and prove, that reward should excel the merit and service of the receiver. Now than I say, that you going about by large desert and manifold courtesy to bind me to recompense the same, you seek next way to cut of the mean, whereby I should be liberal. Do you not see that through your unadvised 〈◊〉 I am prevented, and letted from mine 〈◊〉 liberality, wherewith daily I was wont to reward my kind, loving and loyal servants, to whom if they deserved one talon of gold, my manner was to give them two or three: If a thousand crowns by the year, to give them five? Do you not know that when they looked for least reward or preferment, the sooner did I honour and advance them? Take heed then from henceforth Ariobarzanes, that you live with such providence and circumspection, as you may be known to be a servant, and I reputed (as I am) for your sovereign Lord and master. All Princes in mine opinion require. 〈◊〉. things of their servants, that is to say, Fidelity & Love, which being had, they care for no more. Therefore he that list to contend with me in courtesy, shall find in the end that I make small account of 〈◊〉. And he that is my trusty and faithful servant, diligent to execute and do my commandments, faithful in my secret affairs, and dutiful in his vocation, shall truly wit and most certainly feel, that I am both courteous and liberal. Which thou thyself shall well perceive, and be forced to confess that I am the same man in deed, for courtesy and liberality, whom thou indevorest to surmount. Then the king held his peace and Ariobarzanes very reverently and stoutly made answer in this manner.  
Most Noble and victorious Prince: Well understanding the conceived grief of your invincible mind, pleaseth your sacred majesty to give me leave to answer for myself, not to aggravate or heap your wrath and displeasure (which the Gods forbidden) but to disclose my humble excuse before your majesty, that the same poized with that equal balance of your rightful mind, my former attempts may neither seem presumptuous, ne yet my well meaning mind well measured with justice, overbold or malapert. Most humbly then, prostrate upon my knees, I say that I never went about, or else did think in mind, to exceed or compare with your infinite and incomprehensible bounty, but endeavoured by all possible means, to let your grace perceive, and the whole world to know, that there is nothing in the world which I regard so much, or esteem so dear, as your good grace and favour. And mighty jova grant that I do never fall into so great error to presume for to contend with the greatness of your mind: which fond desire if my beastly mind should apprehend, I might be likened to the man that goeth about to bereave and take away the clearness of the Sun, or brightness of the splendent stars. But ever I did think it to be my bounden duty not only of those fortune's goods which by your princely means I do enjoy, to be a distributer and large giver, but also bound for the profit and advancement of your regal crown and dignity, and defence of your most noble person, of mine own life and blood to be both liberal and prodigal. And where your majesty thinketh that I have laboured to compare in courteous deed or other liberal behaviour, no deed that ever I did, or fact, was ever enterprised by me for other respect, but for to get & continue your more ample favour, and daily to increase your love: for that it is the servants part with all his force and might to aspire the grace and favour of his sovereign lord: Howbeit (most noble Prince) before this time I did never believe, nor heard your grace confess, that magnanimity, gentleness and courtesy, were virtues worthy of blame & correction, as your majesty hath very 〈◊〉 done me to understand by words severe & taunting checks, unworthy for practise of such rare and noble virtues. But how so ever it be, whether life or death shall depend upon this praiseworthy & honourable purpose, I mean hereafter to pelde my duty to my sovereign lord, & then it may please him to term my deeds courteous or liberal, or to think of my behaviour, what his own princely mind shall deem & judge. The King upon those words rose up & said: Ariobarzanes now it is no time to continue in further disputation of this argument, committing the determination and judgement hereof, to the grave deliberation of my Council, who at convenient leisure advisedly shall according to the Persian laws and customs conclude the same. And for this present time I say unto thee, that I I am disposed to account the accusation made against thee to be true, and confessed by thyself. In the means time thou shalt repair into thy country, and come no more to the Court, till I command thee. Ariobarzanes receiving this answer of his sovereign Lord, departed, and to his great contentation, went home into his country, merry for that he should be absent out of the daily sight of his enemies, yet not well pleased for that the King had remitted his cause to his Council. Nevertheless minded to abide and suffer all fortune, he gave himself to the pastime of hunting of Dear, running of the wild Boar, and flying of the Hawk. This noble Gentleman had. 〈◊〉. only daughters of his wife that was deceased, the most beautiful Gentlewomen of the country, the eldest of which two was peerless & without comparison, older than the other by one year. The beauty of those fair Ladies was bruited throughout the whole Region of Persia, to whom the greatest Lords and Barons of the country were great and importunate suitors. He was not in his country resiant the space of iiij. months, which for salubrity of air was most wholesome and pleasant, full of lordelike liberties and gentlemanlike pastimes, as well to be done by the hound as by the spaniel, but one of the King's Haraulds sent from the Court, appeared before him with message to this effect, saying: My lord Ariobarzanes, the King my sovereign Lord hath commanded you to send with me to the Court the fairest of your two daughters, for that the report of their famous beautic hath made him hardly to believe them to be such, as common brute would fain do him to understand. Ariobarzanes not well able to conceive the meaning of the king's commandment, revolved in his mind divers things touching that demand, and concluding upon one which fell to his remembrance, determined to send his younger daughter, which (as we have said before) was not in beauty comparable to her elder sister, whereupon he caused the maiden to be sent for, and said unto her these words: Daughter, the King my master and thy sovereign Lord, hath by his Messenger commanded me to send unto him the fairest of my daughters, but for a certain reasonable respect which at this time I purpose not to disclose, my mind is that thou shalt go, praying thee not to say but that thou thyself art of the twain the fairest, the concealing of which mine advise will breed unto thee (no doubt) thy great advancement, besides the profit and promotion that shall accrive by that thy silence: and the disclosing of the same may hap to engender to thy dear father his everlasting hindrance, and perchance the deprivation of his life; but 〈◊〉 so be the King do beget thee with child, in any wise keep close the same: And when thou 〈◊〉 thy 〈◊〉 begin to swell, that no longer it can be closely kept, then in convenient time, when thou seest the King most merrily disposed, thou shalt tell the King that thy sister is far more beautiful than thyself, and that thou art the younger sister. The wise maiden well understanding her father's mind, and conceiving the sum of his intent, promised to perform his charge, & so with the Herald and honourable train, he caused his daughter to be conveyed to the Court. An easy matter it was to deceive the King in the beauty of that maiden. For although the elder daughter was the fairest, yet this Gentlewoman seemed so peerless in the Court, that without comparison she appeared the most beautiful that was to be 〈◊〉 either in Court or country: the behaviour and semblance of which two daughters were so like, that hard it was to judge whether of them was the eldest. For their father had so kept them in, that seldom they were seen within his house, or at no time marked when they walked abroad. The wife of the King was dead the space of one year beforé, for which cause he determined to marry the daughter of Ariobarzanes, who although she was not of the royal blood, yet of birth she was right noble. When the King saw this Gentlewoman, he judged her to be the fairest that ever he saw or heard of by report, whom in the presence of his noble men he 〈◊〉 did marry, & seut unto her father to appoint the 〈◊〉 of his married daughter out of hand, and to return the same by that messenger. When Ariobarzanes herd tell of this unhoped marriage, right joyful for that 〈◊〉 cease, sent unto his daughter that dowry which he had promised to give to either of his daughters. Many of the Court did marvel, that the King being in aged years would marry so young a maiden, specially the daughter of his subject, whom he had vanished from the Court. Some praised the King's disposition for taking her whom he fancied: Each man speaking his 〈◊〉 mind, 〈◊〉 to the divers customs of men. Notwithstanding there were divers that moved the King to that marriage, thereby to force him to confess, that by taking of the goods of Ariobarzanes, he might be called Courtenus and Liberal. The marriage being solemnized in very 〈◊〉 and princely guise, Ariobarzanes sent to the King the like dowry which before he had sent him for marriage of his daughter, with message to this effect: That for so much as he had assigned to his daughters two certain dowries to marry them to their equal 〈◊〉, and seeing that he which was without exception, was the husband of the one, his duty was to bestow upon his grace, a more greater gift, than to any other which should have been his son in law. But the King would not receive the increase of his dowry, deeming himself well satisfied with the beauty and good conditions of his new spouse, whom he entertained & honoured as Queen. In the mean time she was great with child with a son (as afterwards in the birth it appeared) which so well as she could she kept close and secret, but afterwards perceiving her belly to ware big, the greatness whereof she was not able to hide, being upon a time with that King and in familiar disport, she like a wise and sober Lady, induced matter of divers argument, amongs which as occasion served, she disclosed to the King, that she was not the fairest of her father's daughters, but her elder sister more beautiful than she. The King hearing that, was greatly offended with Ariobarzanes, for that he had not accomplished his commandment: and albeit he loved well his wife, yet to attain the effect of his desire, he called his Herald unto him, whom he had first sent to make request for his wife, and with him returned again his new married spouse unto her father, commanding him to say these words: That for so much as he knew himself to be vanquished and overcome by the King's humanity, his grace did marvel, that in place of Courtesy, he would use such contumacy and disobedience, by sending unto him, not the fairest of his daughters which he required, but such as he himself liked to send. A matter no doubt worthy to be sharply punished and 〈◊〉. For which cause the King being not a little offended, 〈◊〉 home his daughter again, and willed him to send his eldest daughter, and that he had returned the dowry which he gave with his younger. Ariobarzanes received his daughter and the dowry with willing mind, & said these words to the Herald: Mine other daughter which the King my sovereign Lord requireth, is not able presently to go with thee, because in her bed she lieth sick, as thou mayst manifestly perceive if thou come into her chamber: but say unto the King, the upon my faith & allegiance so soon as she is recovered, I will send her to the court. The Herald seeing the maiden lie sick on her bed, weak and impotent, not able to travel, returned to the King, and told him of the sickness of the eldest daughter of Ariobarzanes, where withal being satisfied, he attended the success of his desired suit. The 〈◊〉 man no sooner being recovered, but the time of the others childbirth was come, which brought forth a goodly boy, both the mother safely brought to bed, and the child strong and lusty. Which greatly contented and pleased Ariobarzanes, and the greater grew his joy thereof, for that he saw the child to be like unto the King his father. And by that time the young Gentlewoman was risen from her childbed, the sister was perfectly whole, & had recovered her former hiewe & beauty, both which being richly appareled, Ariobarzanes with an honourable train, sent unto the King, instructing them first what they ought to say and do. When they 〈◊〉 arrived at the Court, one of the privy chamber 〈◊〉 the King that Ariobarzanes had not only sent one of his daughters, but both of them being so many as he had. The King hearing and seeing the liberality of Ariobarzanes, accepted the same in gracious part, and determined for that his 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 with 〈◊〉 princely liberality, as he should be forced to confess himself overcome. And before the messenger which had brought the young Gentlewoman did depart, he caused to be called before him his only son called Cyrus unto whom he said: Because Cyrus the time of thy years be such, as meet they be to match thee in marriage, for hope I have to see some progeny proceed of thee before I die, my mind is that thou shalt marry this goodly Gentlewoman here, the sister of my wife. To which his father's hest, the young Gentleman willingly 〈◊〉. Then the King took again his own, and ordained a royal feast, for the marriage of his son, which was celebrated and done with great triumph and solemnity, continuing the space of viii. days. Ariobarzanes hearing these good news, would not yet acknowledge himself to be overcome, and seeing that his purpose was now brought to an extremity, determined to send the little child, a little before begotten of his daughter, to the King, which so resembled the King's face and countenance as was possible. And therefore caused 〈◊〉 to be made of the fairest ivory that was to be 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 and garnished with pure gold, 〈◊〉 and set with most precious stokes and jeinels, wherein he caused the child to be placed, and covered with rich clothes of finest gold and silk, and together with the nourice, 〈◊〉 with a pompous 〈◊〉 of Gentlemen, he sent him to the King, the very 〈◊〉 that the solemn marriage should be celebrated. And the King being in his great 〈◊〉, which was hanged with marvelous rich and costly Arras, attended upon with a 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Barons and noble men, he that had the charge of the conduction of the child, upon his knees presented the same before him, lying in the cradle. The King and the noble men, marveling what that did mean expected what the messenger 〈◊〉 say, who holding the 〈◊〉 by one of the pomels, said these words: Most renowned and victorious Prince, in the behalf of Ariobarzanes my Lord and your subject, most humbly I present unto your 〈◊〉, with all submission and reverence, this gift. And my said Lord doth render infinite thanks unto your highness, for the great 〈◊〉 it hath pleased you to use, by 〈◊〉 to entertain him into your alliance. For which not to seem 〈◊〉, this present (and there withal he opened the cradle) by me he hath 〈◊〉 unto your majesty. When the cradle was discovered, there appeared a goodly young child, smiling and laughing upon his father, the joyfulest sight that ever his father saw, and so like unto him, as the half Moon is like the proportion of the rest. Then every of the standers by began to say his mind touching the resemblance of the child to his father, hardily protesting the same without doubt to be his own. The King could not be satisfied with the sight of his child, by reason of the great delight he had to look upon 〈◊〉, and of the general opinion which all men 〈◊〉 touching his likeness. The child again upon the common rejoice made upon him, but specially of his father, with pretty motions and sweet laughings, representing two smiling pits in his ruddy 〈◊〉, crowed many times upon his father, toying 〈◊〉 and down his tender hands. Afterwards the King beheld the workmanship of that sumptuous cradle, and demanded whereof the substance was. Unto whom the Messenger described the history and whole content of that incomparable jewel. Who 〈◊〉 that discourse, caused the Queen to be called forth, and by her was further certified of her father's Noble disposition, with exceeding contentation, and wonderful rejoice, he received the little child, and 〈◊〉 himself in manner vanquished. Not withstanding, seeming to be thus surmounted, he thought if he did not surpass this Courtesy, his Noble and Princely mind should be disgraced. Wherefore he determined to use a kind of Magnanimity, thereby either to overcome Ariobarzanes, or else having apparent occasion altogether to fall out and to conceive a mortal malice against him.  
The King had a daughter of the age of. xxi. years, a very fair and comely Lady (according as her royal education and princely bringing up required) whom as yet he had not matched in marriage, meaning to bestow her upon some King or great Monarch, with a dowry of ten hundred thousand Crowns, besides the princely and great costly apparel and jewels, which her own mother lying upon her death bed did bequeathe her.  
The King then purposing to excel Ariobarzanes, minded by coupling him with his daughter; to make him his son in law: Which to a Lady of royal Lineage, appeareth some debacing of her noble blood, to be matched with a man of inferior birth. The like to a man how honourable so ever he be can not chance, if he take a wife of degree never so base. For if he be borne of noble and gentle kind, he doth illustrate and advance the woman whom he taketh, all be it she were of the meanest tramp of the popular forto, and the children which be borne of them, by the father's means, shall be noble and of gentle kind. But a woman, although she be most Noble, if she be married to her inferior, and that her husband be not so noble, the children that shall be borne of them shall not receive the honour of the mother's stork, but the state of the father's lot, and so shall be unnoble. Such is the Reverence and Authority of the ●ere of ●a●, where upon doth rise comparison of the wise, which doth resemble the man unto the Sun, and the woman to the Moon. For we see that the Moon of herself doth not give light, ne yet can yield any brightness to the darkness of the night, if the did not partake some shining of the Sun, who with his lively flames at times and places, doth brighten the Stars, and maketh the Moon to shine. Even so the woman dependeth of the man, and of him doth take her nobility. The King therefore thought the match not meet for Ariobarzanes to marry his daughter, and 〈◊〉 red he should incur some blemish of his house. But for all respect and fear of shame, the emulation which he had to be victorious of his forced courtesy, did surpass. Wherefore he sent for Ariobarzanes to come unto the Court. And he upon that commandment came. And so soon as he was entered the Palace, he repaired to do his reverence unto the king, of whom he was welcomed with glad and joyful entertainment. And after they had a while debated of divers matters, the King said unto him: Ariobarzanes, for so much as thou art without a wife, we 〈◊〉 to bestow upon thee a Gentlewoman, which not only we well like and love, but also is such a one, as thou thyself shalt be well contented to take. Ariobarzanes answered, that he was at his commandment: And that such choice as pleased his Majesty, should very well content and satisfy him. Then the King caused his daughter, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 attired to come before him, and there openly in presence of the 〈◊〉 Court, commanded that Ariobarzanes should marry her. Which with seemly ceremonies being 〈◊〉, Ariobarzanes showed little joy of that parentage, and in appearance made as though he cared not for his wife. The nobles and Gentleman of the Court 〈◊〉 to see the strange 〈◊〉 of the 〈◊〉, considering the great 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 of their Prince towards his subject, by taking him for his father and son in law: and greatly murmured to see the obstinacy and rudeness of Ariobarzanes, towards the King and the fair new married spouse, much blaming and rebuking his unkind demeanour. Ariobarzanes that day fared as though he were beside himself, void of joy and mirth, where all the rest of the Court spent the time in sport and triumph, the Ladies and noble women together with the King and Queen themselves, dancing and 〈◊〉, until the time of night did force 〈◊〉 wight to retire to their chambers. Notwithstanding the King did mark the gesture and countenance of Ariobarzanes, and after the banquet, the King in solemn guise and great pomp caused his daughter to be accompanied with a great train to the lodging of Ariobarzanes, and to be carried with her her princely dowry, where Ariobarzanes very honourably received his wife, and at that instant, in the presence of all the noble men and Barons that waited upon the Bride, he doubled the dowry received, and the same with the ten hundred thousand crowns, given him by the King, he sent back again. This unmeasured Liberality seemed passing strange unto the King, and bred in him such disdain, as doubtful he was whether to yield, or to condemn him to perpetual banishment. The King thought that the greatness of Ariobarzanes mind was invincible; and was not able patiently to suffer, that a subject in matters of Courtesy and liberality, should compare with his King and master. Herewithal the King conceiving malice, could not tell what to say or do. An easy matter it was to perceive the rage and 〈◊〉 of the king, who was so sore displeased, as he bore good look and countenance to no man. And because in those days the Persian king's 〈◊〉 honoured and reverenced as Gods, there was a law that when the king was driven into a 〈◊〉 or had conceived a just displeasure, he should manifest unto his counsellors, the cause of his anger, who afterwards by mature diligence having examined the cause, 〈◊〉 finding that king to be 〈◊〉 displeased, should seek means of his appeasing. But if they found his anger & displeasure to be justly conceived, the cause of the same, according to the quality of the offence, little or great, they should punish, either by banishment or capital death. The sentence of whom should pass and be pronounced without appeal: Howbeit lawful it was for the king, the pronounced sentence, either in all, or in part, to diminish the pain, or clearly to assoil the party. Whereby it evidently appeared, that the Counsellors sentence once 〈◊〉 termined, was very justice, and the kings will if he pardoned, was mere grace and mercy. The King then was constrained by 〈◊〉 statutes of his kingdom to disclose 〈◊〉 to his Counsel the cause of his displeasure, which parti cularly he recited. The Counsellors when they heard the reasons of the king, sent for Ariobarzanes, of whom by due examination, they gathered, that in divorce causes he had provoked the king's offence. Afterwards the lords of the Counsel, upon the proposed question began to argue, by investigation & search whereof, in the end they judged Ariobarzanes worthy to lose his head. For that he would not only compare, but also go about to 〈◊〉 him in things 〈◊〉, and to she we himself discontented with the marriage of his daughter, & unthankful of the benefits so courteously bestowed upon him. A custom was observed among the Persians, that in every act or enterprise, wherein the servant endeavoured to surpass and vanquish his lord and master (albeit the attempt were commendable and praise worthy) for 〈◊〉 of want of duty, or contempt to the royal Majesty, he 〈◊〉 lose his best joint. And for better confirmation of their judgement, the Counsellors alleged a certain 〈◊〉 sentence, registered in their Chronicles, 〈◊〉 done by the Kings of Persia. The cause was this: One of the Kings of that Region disposed to disport with certain of his noble men abroad in the fields, went a Hanking, and with the 〈◊〉 to fly at divers gante. Within a while they sprang a Hearon, and the King commanded that one of the Falcons which was a notable swift and soaring Hawk, should be cast off to the Hearon: which done, the Hearon began to mount, and the Falcon speedily pursued, and as the Hawk after many bating and intercourses, was about to seize upon the Hearon, he espied an Egle. The stout Hawk seeing the Eagle, gave over the fearful Hearon, and with swift 〈◊〉 flew towards the Eagle, and fiercely attempted to 〈◊〉 upon her. But the Eagle very stoutly defended 〈◊〉 self, that the Hawk was forced to let go her hold. In the end 〈◊〉 good Hawk, with her sharp talands, again seized upon the eagles neck, & with her beak struck her stark dead, wherewithal she fell down amid the company that waited upon the King. All the Barons and Gentlemen, highly commended and praised the Hawk, affirming that a better was not in the world, attributing unto the same such praise, as they thought mete. The King for all the acclamations and shouts of the troop, spoke not a word, but stood musing with himself, and did neither praise nor blame that Hawk. It was very late in the evening, when the Falcon killed the Eagle, and therefore the King commanded each man to departed to the City. The next day the King caused a Goldsmith to make an exceeding fair crown of Gold, apt and meet for the 〈◊〉 head. Afterwards when he saw time convenient, he 〈◊〉 that in the market place of the City, a perch should be erected; and 〈◊〉 with tapestry, Arras, 〈◊〉 other costly furnitures, such as Prince's palaces are 〈◊〉 decked withal. Thither with sound of 〈◊〉 he caused the Falcon to be conveyed, where the King 〈◊〉 did one of his noble men to place the Crown upon his head, for prize of the excellent pray achieved upon the Egle. Then he caused the hangman or common executioner of the City, to take the Crown from the Falcon, and with the trenchant sword to cut of his head. Upon these contrary 〈◊〉 the beholders of this sight were amazed, and began diversly to talk thereof. The King which at a window stood to behold this fact, caused silence to be kept, and so loud opened his Princely voice, as he was well heard speaking these words:  
There ought (good people) none of you all to 〈◊〉 and grudge at the present fact executed upon the Falcon, because the same is done upon good reason and just cause as by process of my discourse you shall well perceive. I am persuaded that it is the office and duty of every magnanimous prince, to know the valour and difference between virtue and vice, that all virtuous acts & 〈◊〉 thy attempts may be honoured, and the contrary 〈◊〉 & punished, otherwise he is not worthy of the name of a King and Prince, but of a cruel and traitorous tyrant. For as the Prince beareth the title by principality and chief, so ought his life chief to excel other, whom he governeth and ruleth. The bare title and dignity is not sufficient, if his conditions and moderation be not to that supreme state 〈◊〉. Full well I knew and did consider to be in this dead Falcon, a certain generosity and stoutness of mind, joined with a certain fierce 〈◊〉 and nimbleness, for which I crowned and rewarded her with this golden garland, because of the stout slaughter which she made upon that mighty Egle, worthy for that 〈◊〉 and prowess to be honoured after that solemn guise. But when I considered how boldly and rashly she assailed and killed the Eagle, which is 〈◊〉 Queen and mistress, I thought it a part of justice, that for her bold and uncomely act, she should suffer the pain due to her 〈◊〉. For unlawful it is for the servant, and undutiful for the subject, to imbrue his hands in the blood of his sovereign Lord. The Falcon then having slain her Queen, and of all other birds the sovereign, who can with reason blame me for cutting of the Falcon's head? Doubtless none, that hath respect to the quiet state between the Prince and subject.  
This example the 〈◊〉 alleged against Ariobarzanes when they pronounced sentence, And applying the same to him, ordained that first Ariobarzanes, for his Magnanimity and liberal Courtesy should be crowned with a Laurel Garland for the generosity of his mind and exceeding courtesy, but for his great emulation, earnest endeavour, and continual 〈◊〉 to contend, with his prince, and in Liberality to show himself superior, 〈◊〉 the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 speech uttered against him, his head ought to be stricken of. Ariobarzanes being advertised of this severe 〈◊〉, he purposed to sustain the 〈◊〉 dart of Fortune, as he had endured other brunts of that envious inconstant Lady, and in such manner behaved and directed his 〈◊〉 and countenance, as no sign of choler or despair appeared in him, only pronouncing this sentence with joyful 〈◊〉 in the presence of many. Glad I am that at length there resteth in me so much to be liberal, as I employ my life and blood, to declare the same to my sovereign Lord, which right willingly I mean to do, that the world may know, that I had rather lose my life, than to saint and give over in mine 〈◊〉 liberality. Then calling a Notary unto him, he made his will (for so it was lawful by the Persian laws) and to his wife and daughters he increased the dowries, and to his kinsfolk and friends 〈◊〉 bequeathed divers rich & bountiful legacies. To the King he 〈◊〉 a great numbered of most precious Jewels. To Cyrus the King's son, and his by marriage (besides a great mass of money) he bequeathed all his armure and 〈◊〉, with all his instruments for the wars, and his whole stable of horse. Last of all he ordained, that if (perhaps) his wife should be found with child, and brought to bed of a Son, he should be his universal heir: But if a woman child, to have the like dowry that his other daughters had. The rest of his goods and cattle he gave indifferently to all. iii. equally to be divided. He provided also, that all his 〈◊〉 according to their degree, should be rewarded. The day before he should be put to death (according to the custom of Persia) his praises and valiant facts, as well by Epitaphs fixed upon 〈◊〉, as by 〈◊〉, were generally sounded 〈◊〉 the Realm, in such wise as each wight 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 him to be the most liberal and noble parsonage that was in all the Country, and in the borders 〈◊〉 upon the same. And if there had not been some envious persons near the King, which studied and practised his overthrow, all other would have deemed him unworthy of death. Such is the envy of the maliciously disposed, that rather than they would see their equals to be in 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 with the Prince than themselves, study and devise all policy, either by flattery or false 〈◊〉, to bring them in discredit, or to practise by false accusation, their utter subversion by death or vanishement. But whiles 〈◊〉 was disposing his things in order, his wife and daughters with his friends and 〈◊〉, were affected with great sorrow day and night, complaining for the heavy 〈◊〉 of that noble Gentleman. The eight day 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 (for the law allowed that space to the condemned, for disposition of their things) a scaffold was made by commandment of the King, in the mids of the Market place, all covered with black 〈◊〉, and an other right over against the same with purple and 〈◊〉, where the King (if he 〈◊〉) in the mids of the Judges should sit, and the indictment red, judgement (by the Kings own mouth declared) should be executed, or if it pleased him, discharge and assoil the condemned. And the King unwilling to be present, gave to one of the 〈◊〉 Judges, his full power and authority. But yet sorrowful that a Gentleman so noble and valiant, his father and 〈◊〉 in law, should finish his life with a death so horrible, would needs that morning be present himself at that execution, as well to see the continent and stout end of Ariobarzanes, as also to take order for his delivery. 〈◊〉 the time was come, Ariobarzanes by the 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉 was brought unto the Scaffold, and there appareled in rich 〈◊〉, the Laurel Crown was set upon his head, and so continuing for a certain space, the garment and Crown was taken off from his head, together with his other apparel. The Executioner 〈◊〉 for commandment to do his office, and lifting up his sword to do the fact, 〈◊〉 King desired to see the countenance of Ariobarzanes, who never changed colour for all that terror of death. The King seeing the great constancy and invincible mind of Ariobarzanes, spoke 〈◊〉 that all men might hear him, these words:  
Thou knowest Ariobarzanes, that it is not I, which have wrought thy condemnation, ne yet by 〈◊〉 desire have sought thy blood, to bring thee to this extremity, but it hath been thy ill disordered life, and the statutes of 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, which have found thee guilty, and thereupon sentence and death pronounced, and execution now ready to be done, and the minister ready to advance his arm, to play the last act of this tragedy: And yet for that our holy laws do give liberty that I may assoil and deliver whom I list, and them restore to their former state, if now thou wilt acknowledge thyself vanquished and over come, and accept thy life in grateful part, I will pardon thee, and restore thee to thine offices and promotions. Ariobarzanes hearing these words, kneeled down with his head declined, and expecting the blow of the sword, lifted by himself, and turning his face to the King, perceiving his malice not so sore bent against him as the envy and malice of his enemies desired, he determined to prove and use the pitiful liberality and favour of his sovereign Lord, that his foes by his death might not triumph, ne yet attain the thing, for which so long they aspired. Wherefore in reverent wise 〈◊〉 before his majesty, with a 〈◊〉 & perfect voice said these words: Most victorious & merciful sovereign Lord, in equal worship and honour to the immortal Gods, sith of thy abundant grace and mercy it hath pleased thee to grant me life, I do most humbly accept the same, which if I witted should be prolonged in thy disgrace and wrath, could not be pleasant unto me, and therefore do 〈◊〉 myself altogether 〈◊〉 & overcome. I most humbly then do give thee 〈◊〉 for preservation of the same, hoping hereafter to employ the uttermost of mine endeavour for the benefit and honour of thy Crown and dignity, as readily and without supplication made in my behalf, thou hast 〈◊〉 to restore the same. And sith thy 〈◊〉 hath revived me thine humble 〈◊〉, I 〈◊〉 thy majesty to give me leave to say my mind, trusting thereby to do thee to understand the effect and cause of that my former presumption. The King made signs that he should rise and boldly speak the sum of his desire. When he was upon his feet, silence was proclaimed: who then began to speak these words: Two things there be, (most sacred Prince) which doubtless do resemble the raging waves of surging seas, and the mutability of unstable winds, and yet great is the folly of an infinite numbered, which employ their whole care and diligence to seek the same. These two things whereof I speak, and be so dearly beloved of flattering courtiers, are the grace and favour of their sovereign Lord, and the luring love of Amorous dames: which two things do so often beguile the Courtly Gentleman, that in the end they engender nought else but repentance. And to begin with the love of Ladies, they, as by common experience is proved, most commonly do recline to their inferiors. It is daily seen by too much unhappy proof, that a young Gentleman by birth comely and noble, & otherwise rich, virtuous, and endued with many goodly gifts, shall choose and worship one for his sovereign Lady and mistress, and her shall serve and honour with the same faith and fidelity due to the immortal Gods, and shall not stick to employ for her love and service all the possible power and travel be is able to do, and yet she in despite of all his humble endeavour, shall love an other void of all virtue, making him possessor of that benefit, after which the other seeketh, and she not long constant in that mind, afterwadrs will attend unto the first suitor, but in such movable and 〈◊〉 sort, as the wandering stars (through their natural instability) be moved to and fro, and him in the end will suffer to fall headlong into the bottomless pit of despair: and he that asketh her the reason of this variety, she maketh none other answer but that her pleasure is such, and wilful will to dally with her suitors, that seldom times a true and perfect lover can fasten his foot on certain hold, but that his life is tossed up and down like the whirling blasts of the inconstant winds. In like manner in the Courts of Kings and Princes, he which is in favour with his sovereign Lord in all men's eyes, so great and near, as it seemeth the Prince is disposed to resolve upon nothing without his advise & counsel, when such favoured person shall employ his whole care and industry to maintain and increase the commenced grace of his sovereign Lord, behold, upon the sudden, his mind and vain is changed, and an other without desert, which never carked or laboured to win good will, is taken in place, cherished as though he had served him an hundred years before: and he that was the first minion of the Court in greatest grace and estimation, is in a moment despised, and out of all regard. An other, within few days after, shall be brought in place of the other twain, very diligent and careful to serve, trained up in Courtly exercise, whose mindful mind shall be so caring over his lords affairs, as upon the safeguard and preservation of his own proper life. But all his labour is employed in vain: and when the aged days of his expired life approach, for the least displeasure he shall be thrust out without reward for former travel, that right aptly the Common Proverb may be applied: The common Courtier's life is like a golden misery, and the faithful servant an Ass perpetual. I have seen myself the right well learned man to 〈◊〉 in Court for want of meat, and a blockish beast void of virtue for lust and not for merit, advanced and made a Gentleman. But this may chance because his lord is not disposed to learning and virtue, little esteeming those that be affected with good sciences for lack of careful training up in youthful days, or else for that their mind can not frame with the gentle spirits of them, the closerts of whose breasts be charged and fraught with infinite loads of learning, and have not been noscled in trade of Courts, ne yet can use due courtly speech, or with unblushing face can shuffle themselves in presence of their betters, or comen with Ladies of dame 〈◊〉 toys: or race of birth not mingled with the noble or gentle Sire. For these causes perhaps that virtuous wight can not attain the hap of Fortune's gifts. Which person though in Court he be not esteemed, in schoolhouse of good art yet deemed famous, and for his worthy skill right worthy to be preferred above the heavens. In semblable wise, how oftentimes and commonly is it seen that the man perchance which never thou sawest before, so soon as he is seen of thee, suddenly he is detested like a plague, & the more earnest he is to do thee service and pleasure, the greater is thy wrath bend towards him? Contrariwise, some other upon the first view shall so content and please thee, as if he require the bestowing of thy life, thou hast no power to deny him, thou art in love with him, and let him twhart thy mind and will never so much, thou carest not for it, all is well he doth. But that these varieties do proceed from some certain temprement of blood within the body conformed and moved by some inward celestial power, who doubteth? And surely the foundation of these Courtly mutations, is the pricking venomous 〈◊〉 of pestiferous Envy, which continually holdeth the favour of Princes in balance, and in a moment hoisteth up him which was below, and poizeth down again him that was exalted. So that no plague or poison is more pestiferous in Courts, than the hurtful disease of Envy. All other vices with little pain and less labour may easily be cured, and so pacified, as they shall not hurt thee: but rooted Envy by any means is discharged, with no policy is expelled, ne yet by any drug or medicine purged. verily without great danger, I know not which way the poinaunt bits of Envy can be avoided. The proud man in Court, the arrogant and ambitious, the lofty minded fool, more elevate and lusty than Pride itself, if reverence be done to him, if he be honoured, if place be given to him, if he be praised and glorified above the heavens, if thou humble thyself to him, by and by he will take thee to be his friend, and will deem thee to be a courteous and gentle companion. Let the lascivious and wanton person given to the pleasures and lust of women, fixing his mind on nothing else but upon fugitive pleasures, if his love be not impeached, ne yet his wanton toys reproved, if he be praised before his Lady, he will ever be thy friend. The covetous and gluttonous carl, if first thou make him quaff a money medicine, and afterwards bid him to thy 〈◊〉, the one and other disease is speedily cured. But for the envious person, what physic can be sought to purge his pestiferous humour? Which if thou go about to heal and cure, rather must thou remedy the same by wasting the life of him that is so possessed, than find causes of recovery. And who knoweth not (most 〈◊〉 Prince) that in your Court there be some attached with that poisoned plague, who seeing me your majesties humble vassal in greater favour with your grace, than they, my service more acceptable than theirs, my prowess and exercise in arms more worthy than theirs, my diligence more industrious than theirs: my advise and counsel more available than theirs, all mine other deeds and doings in better estimation than theirs: They I say, dallied in the lap of the cankered witch dame Envy, by what means are they to be recovered? by what means their infection purged? by what means their malice cured? If not to. see me deprived of your grace, expelled from your court, and cast headlong into the gulf of death extreme? If I should bribe them with great rewards, if I should honour them with humble reverence, if I should exalt them above the skies, if I should employ the uttermost of my power, to do them service, all is frustrate and cast away. They will not cease to bring me into 〈◊〉, they will not spare to reduce me to misery, they will not stick to imagine all devices for mine annoyance, when they see all other remedies impotent and unable. This is the poisoned plague which enuenometh all Prince's Courts. This is the mischief which destroyeth all Kingdoms. This is the monster that devoureth all virtuous enterprises, & offendeth each gentle spirit. This is the dim vail which so overshadoweth the clearness of the eyes, as the bright beams of verity can not be seen, and so obscureth the equity of justice, as right from falsehood can not be discerned. This is the manifest cause that breedeth a thousand errors in the works of men. And to draw near to the effect of this my tedious talk, briefly, there is no vice in the world, that more outrageously corrupteth Princes courts, that more unfriendly untwineth friendships band, that more unhappily subverteth noble houses, than the poison of Envy. For he that inclineth his ears to the envious person, he that attendeth to his malignant devices, unpossible it is for him to do any deed that is either good or virtuous. But to finish and end for avoiding of weariness, and not to stay your majesty from your weighty affairs, I say that the Envious man rejoiceth not so much in his own good turns, nor gladdeth him 〈◊〉 so greatly with his own commodities, as he doth insult, and laugh at the discommodity and hindrance of others, at whose profit and gain he sorroweth and lanienteth, and to put out both the eyes of his companion, the envious man careth not to pluck out one of his own. These words (most invincible Prince) I purposed to speak in the presence of your Majesty, before your guard & courtlyke train, and in the universal hearing of all the people, that each wight may understand, how I not of your majesties pretenced malice, or mine own committed fault, but through the venomous tongues of the ettuious, fell into the lapse of your displeasure. This most true oration of Ariobarzanes greatly pleased the noble Prince, and although he felt himself somewhat touched therewith, yet knowing it to be certain and true, and that in time to come the same might profit all sorts of people, he greatly praised him in the presence of all the assembly. Wherefore Ariobarzanes having recovered his life, and confessing himself to be vanquished & overcome by the King that knew the valour and fealty of that noble Gentleman, and loving him with hearty 〈◊〉, he caused him to come down from the mourning scaffold, and to ascend the place where he was himself, whom he embraced and kissed, in token that all displeasure was remitted. All his ancient offices were restored to him again, and for his further advancement, he gave him the city of Passagarda, where was the old monument of King Cyrus, and made him Lieutenant general of all his Realms and 〈◊〉, commanding every of his subjects to obey him as his own person. And so the Kingrested the honourable father in 〈◊〉 to Ariobarzanes, and his loving son by Marriage, craving still in all his enterprises, his grave advise and counsel. And there was never thing of any importance done, but his liking or disliking was first demanded. Ariobarzanes then returned into greater grace and favour of his sovereign lord than before, and for his singular virtue, having dispersed and broken the arms and malice of all his enemies, if before he were courteous and liberal, after these so stout adventures he became more than Princely in his deeds, and if sometimes he had done one courteous act, now he doubled the same. But such was his Magnanimity, so noble were his endeavours, tempered with such measure and equanimity, as the whole world clearly might discern, that not to contend with his sovereign Lord, but to honour him to express the Majesty of his Prince, he employed the goods and living which the King and Fortune had bountifully bestowed upon him: Who until his dying day famously maintained himself in the good grace and favour of his Prince, in such wise as the King more clearly than the shining sunbeams, knew Ariobarzanes to be framed of Nature for a crystalline mirror of courtesy and Liberality, and that more easy it was to bereave the fire of heat, and the Sun of light, than despoil Ariobarzanes of his glorious deeds. Wherefore he ceased not continually to honour, exalt, and enrich him, that he might use the greater liberality. And to say the truth, although these two virtues of 〈◊〉 and Liberality be commendable in all persons, without the which a man truly is not he whereof he beareth the name yet very sitting and meet it is for every rich and wealthy subject, to beware how he doth compare in those noble virtues with Princes and great men, which being right noble and peerless upon earth, can abide no comparisons, which according to the Proverb be odious and hateful.   

Aristotimus the Tyrant.  
¶ LUCIUS one of the Guard to ARISTOTIMUS the Tyrant of the City of 〈◊〉, fell in love with a fair maiden called MICCA, the daughter of one 〈◊〉, and his cruelty done upon her. The stoutness also of a noble Matron named MEGISTONA in defence of her husband and the common wealth from the tyranny of the said ARISTOTIMUS: and of other acts done by the subjects upon that Tyrant.  
The fifth Novel.  
YOu have heard, or as it were in a manner, you have beholden the right images & courteous conditions of two well conditioned persons mutually each towards other observed. In the one a Princely mind towards a noble Gentleman his subject: In the other a dutiefull obedience of a loving vassal to his sovereign Lord and Master. In both of them the true figure of Liberality in lively orient colours described. Now a contrary plot, ill grounded upon extreme tyranny, is offered to the view, done by one Aristotimus and his clawback's, against his humble subjects of the city of Elis, standing in Peloponessus, a country of Achaia (which at this day we call Morea.) This Aristotimus of nature was fierce and passing cruel, who by 〈◊〉 of king Antigonus was made Tyrant of that City. And like a Tyrant governed his Country by abuse of his authority with new wrongs and strange cruelties, vering and afflicting the poor Citizens and all his people. Which chanced not so much for that of himself he was cruel and tyrannous, as for that his counsellors and chief about him were barbarous and vicious men, to whom he committed the charge of his kingdom & the guard of his person. But amongs all his mischiefs wrongfully done by him, which were innumerable, one committed against Philodemus, (the same which afterwards was the cause, of the deprivation of his life and kingdom) is specially remembered. This Philodemus had a daughter called Micca that not only for her right chaste and honest qualities and conditions which 〈◊〉 flourished in her, but for her extreme & goodly beauty, was in that City of passing 〈◊〉 and admiration. With this fair maiden one of the Tyrants guard called Lucius fell in love, if it deserve to be called love, and not rather, as the end full well declared, a most filthy and heastlie lust. This Lucius was dearly beloved of Aristotimus, for the flendish resemblance and wicked 〈◊〉 of his vile & abominable conditions: and therefore feared and obeyed as the Tyrants own person. For which cause this Lucius sent one of the 〈◊〉 of the king's chamber, to 〈◊〉 Philodemus at an appointed hour all excuses set apart, to bring his daughter unto him. The parents of the maiden hearing this sudden and fearful message, constrained by Tyrant's force and fatal necessity, after many tears and 〈◊〉 sighs, began to persuade their daughter to be contented to go with him, declaring unto her the rigour of the magistrate that had sent for her, the 〈◊〉 that would be executed, & that there was no other remedy: but to obey. Alas, how sore against their wills, with what trembling gessure, with what 〈◊〉 the good parents of this 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 were affected, to consider the purpose of that dreadful message, all dear fathers, and natural mothers can tell. But this gentle maiden 〈◊〉, which was of nature stout, & 〈◊〉 lessoned with sundry right good and wholesome instructions from her infant's age, was determined rather to die than to suffer herself to be deflowered. This 〈◊〉 maiden fell down prostrate at her father's feet, and clasping him fast about the knees, lovingly did pray him, and pitifully besought him, not to suffer her to be haled to so 〈◊〉 and vile an office, but rather with the piercing blade of a two edged sword to kill her, that thereby she might be rid from the violation of those fleshly and 〈◊〉 varlets, saying, that if her virginity were taken from her, she should live in eternal reproach and shame. As the father and daughter were in these terms, Lucius for the long tarriance and 〈◊〉, drunk with the wine 〈◊〉 lechery, made impatient and furious, with 〈◊〉 speed posted to the house of Philodemus, and finding the maiden prostrate at her father's feet, weeping, her head in 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, with taunting voice and threatening words commanded presently without longer delay she should rise and go with him. She refusing his hasty request, and crying out for father's help, who (God wots) durst not resist, stood still and would not go Lucius seeing her 〈◊〉, full of fury and proud disdnine, began furiously to hale her by the garments, upon whose struggling he far her 〈◊〉 and furnitures off her head and shoulders, that her alabaster neck and bosom appeared naked, & without compassion tore and whipped her flesh on every side, as the blood ran down, beating that tender flesh of hers with manifold and grenous blows. O 〈◊〉 tyrant, more 〈◊〉 and savage than the desert beast or mountain 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉. Can cruelty be so deeply rooted in the heart of man which by nature is affected with reason's instinct, as with out pity to lay hands, and violontly to hurt the tender body of a 〈◊〉 Maiden? Can such inhumanity harbour in any that beareth about him the shape of man? But what did this martyred maiden for all this force? Did 〈◊〉 yield to violence, or render herself to the disposition of this merciless man? No surely. But with so great stoutness of mind, she suffered those impressed wounds, that no one word sounding of sorrow, or womanly shrieche was heard to 〈◊〉 from her delicate mouth. Howbeit the poor father and miserable mother at that rueful and lamentable sight, moved with inward 〈◊〉 and natural pity, cried out aloud. But when they saw that neither plaint nor fair speech could deliver their daughter out of the hands of that cruel monster, they began with open cries and horrible exclamation to implore help and secure at the hands of the immortal Gods, thinking that they were unworthily plagued and tormented. Then the proud and most barbarous wretch, moved and 〈◊〉 by cholers rage and fume of chase wine, suddenly catched the most constant virgin by the hair of the head, and in her father's lap did cut her white and tender throat. O 〈◊〉 fact right worthy of 〈◊〉 revenge. But what did this unfaithful and cruel Tyrant Aristotimus when by the blustering bruit of people's rage he heard of this vengeable murder, not only he showed himself contented with the fact, but had him in greater regard than before, and towards them which made complaint hereof, greater cruelty and mischief was done and executed. For in open street, like beasts in the shambles they were 〈◊〉 and hewed in pieces, which seemed to 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 at this 〈◊〉 and unlawful act: the rest were banished and expelled the City. Eight hundred of these exiled persons 〈◊〉 into Etolia. (a province adjoining to Epirus, which now is called Albania.) Those people so banished out of they: country, made instant suit to Aristotimus to suffer their wives & children to repair to them: but their suit was in vain, their petitions and supplications seemed to be made to the deaf, and dispersed into the winds. Notwithstanding, within few days after, he caused by sound of trumpet to be openly proclaimed, that it should be lawful for the wives & children of the banished to pass with their baggage and furniture to their husbands in Etolia. This Proclamation was exceeding joyful to all the women whose husbands were exiled, which at the least by common report were the numbered of. vj. hundreds. And for more credit of that Proclamation, the wicked tyrant did ordain, that all the company should departed upon a 〈◊〉 day. In the mean time, the joyful wives glad to visit their poor husbands, prepared horse and waggon, to carry their provisions. The appointed day of their departure out of the City being come, all of them assembled at a certain gate assigned for their repair, who that time together resorted with their little children in their hands, bearing upon their heads their garments and furnitures, some on horseback, and some bestowed in the wagons, according as each of their states required: when all things were in readiness to departed, and the gate of the City opened, they begun to issue forth. They were no 〈◊〉 gone out of the City walls, and had left behind them the soil of their nativity, but the Tyrant's guard and Sergeants broke upon them, and before they were approached, they 〈◊〉 out to stay and go no further upon pain of their lives. So the poor amazed women, contrary to the promise of the Tyrant, were 〈◊〉 to retire. Which sudden countremaund was sorrowful and woeful unto that 〈◊〉 flock. But there was no remedy, for proceed they could not. Then those Termagants and villains caught their horse by the bridles, and drove back again their wagons, pricking the poor oxen and beasts with their spears and javelyns, that horrible it is to report the tyranny used towards man and beast, in such wise as the poor miserable women (God wots) contrary to their desires, were forced in despite of their teeth to return. Some (alack) fell off their horse with their little babes in their laps, and were miserably trodden under horse feet, and overrun with the wheels of the wagons, their brains and guts gushing out through the weight and comberance of the carriage, and (which was most pitiful) one of them not able to help an other, and much less to rescue their young and tender sucking babes, the vile sergeants forcing each wight with their staves & weapons maugre their desirous minds to réentre the City. Many died by that constrained means out of hand, many were trodden under the horseféete, and many gasping between life and death: but the greatest part of the little infants were slain out of hand, and crushed in pieces: those which remained alive, were committed to prison, & the goods which they carried with them altogether seized upon by the Tyrant. This most wicked and cruel fact was most intolerable and grievous unto the Citizens of Elis, Whereupon the holy dames consecrated to the God Bacchus, adorned & garnished with their priestly garments, and bearing in their hands the sacred mysteries of their God, as Aristotimus was passing through the street guarded with his Soldiers and men of war, went in procession to find him out. The sergeants for the reverence of those religious women disclosed themselves, and gave them place to enter in before the Tyrant. He seeing those women appareled in that guise, and bearing in their hands the sacred Bachanal mysteries, stood still, and with silence heard what they could say. But when he knew the cause of their approach, & that they were come to make suit for the poor imprisoned women, suddenly possessed with a devilish rage, with horrible, bitterly reprehended his garrison for suffering of those women to come so near him. Then he commanded that they should be expelled from that place without respect, and condemned every of them (for their presuming to entreat for such caitiff prisoners) in. y. 〈◊〉 a piece. After these mischief's 〈◊〉 by the tyrant, Hellanicus one of the principal & best esteemed people of the City, although that he was decrepit, and for age very weak and feeble, cared not yet to adventure any attempt, what soever, so it might extend to the delivery of his country from the unspeakable tyranny of most cruel Aristotimus. To this grey haired person, because he was of aged years, void of children which were dead, this tyrant gave no great heed ne yet employed any care, thinking that he was not able to raise any mutiny or 〈◊〉 in the City. In the mean space, the Citizens, which as I have said before, were banished into Etolia, practised amongs themselves to prove their Fortune, and to seek all means for recovery of their country, and the death of Aristotimus.  
Wherefore having levied and assembled certain bands of Soldiers, they marched forth from their banished seat, and never rested till they had gotten a place hard adjoining to their City, where they might safely lodge, and with great 〈◊〉 and advantage besiege the same, and erpel the tyrant Aristotimus. As the banished were 〈◊〉 in that place, many citizens of Elis 〈◊〉 fled forth, and joined with them, by reason of which auriliaries and daily assemblies, they grew to the full numbered of an army. Aristotimus certified hereof by his espials was brought into a great chafe and fury, and even now began to presage his fall and ruin. But yet meaning to 〈◊〉 his best advantage, went unto the prison, where the 〈◊〉 of the banished were fast enclosed, and because he was of a troublesome and tyrannical nature, he concluded with himself rather to use & entreat those wives with him and threats, than with humanity and fair words. Being entered the prison, he sharply and with great fierceness commanded them to write unto their husbands that besieged him without, earnestly to persuade them to give over their attempted wars: otherwise (said he) if ye do not follow the effect of my commandment, in your own presence I will first cause cruelly to be slain all your little children, tearing them by piece meal in pieces, and afterwards I will cause you to be whipped and scoutged, and so to die a most cruel & shameful death. At which fierce and tyrannical news, there was no one woman amongs them that opened their mouths to answer him. The most wicked & vile tyrant seeing them to be in such silence, charged them upon their lives to answer what they were disposed to do. But although they 〈◊〉 not speak a word, yet with silence one beholding each other in that face, fared as though they cared not for his threats, more ready rather to die than to obey his commandment. Megistona then (which was the wife of Timolion, a matron as well for her husband's 〈◊〉 as her own virtue, in great regard and estimation, and the chief amongs all the women, who at his coming in would not rise, but kept her place, nor vouchsasing to do any reverence or honour unto him, and the like she bade the rest: In this wise sitting upon the ground with unlosed tongue and liberty of speech, stoutly she answered the tyrant's demand in this manner: If there were in thee Aristotimus, any manly prudence, wisdom, or good discretion, truly 〈◊〉 wouldest not command us poor imprisoned women to write unto our husbands, but rather suffer us to go unto them, and use more 〈◊〉 words and mild behaviour, than wherewith of late thou didst entertain us, by scoffing, mocking, & cruelly dealing with us, and our poor children: and if now thou being void of all hope, dcest seek to persuade by our means likewise to deceive our husbands that be come hither to put their lives in peril for our deliverance, I assure thee thou vainly 〈◊〉 thyself, for we henceforth do purpose never to be 〈◊〉 of thee: we require thee also to think and steadfastly believe, that our husband's heads be not so much bewitched with folly, as despising their wives and children, neglecting their duties towards them, will being in this forwardness, abandon their preservation and give over the liberty of their countrey. Think also that they little esteem or weigh that regard of us, & their children, in respect of the great contentation they shall attain by unyoking the liberty of their country from thy pride & intolerable bondage, & which is worst of all, from that tyranny which never people felt the like. For if thou were a King as thou 〈◊〉 a tyrant, if thou were a Gentleman borne of noble kind asthou art a slave, proceeding from the devil, thou 〈◊〉 never execute thy cursed cruelty against a feeble kind, such as women be, & werest thou alone joined in singular combat with my baliant & dear beloved husband, thou durst not hand to hand to show thy face: for commonly it is seen, that the Courtely 〈◊〉 backed on with such mates as he is himself, careth not what attempt he taketh in hand, and stareth with hair upright, looking as though he would kill the devil, but when he is priest to service of the seld, and in order to encounter with his Prince's foe, upon the small sway by shock or push that thaunceth in the fight, he is the first that taketh flight, & last that standeth to the face of his enemy. Such kind off man art thou, for so long as our husbands were far of, absent from their Country, not able to rid us from thy thrall, thou wroughtest thy malice then against their wives at home, doing the greatest cruelty towards them and their sucking babes, that ever devil could do upon the 〈◊〉 sort, and now thou seest them arrived here under our country walls, thou fliest, and seekest help at women's hands, whose power if it served them according to their wills, would make thee taste the fruit of thy committed smart. And as she would have proceeded further in her liberal talk, the Caitiff tyrant not able to abide any further speech, troubled beyond measure, presently commanded the little child of her to be brought before him, as though immediately he would have killed him, & as his servants sought him out, the mother espied him playing amongs other children, not knowing for his small stature and less years, where he was become, and calling him by his name said unto him: My boy come hither, that first of all thou mayst lose thy life, to feel the proof and have experience of the cruel tyranny wherein we be, for more grievous it is to me to see thee serve against the nobility of thy blood, than dismembered and torn in pieces before my face. As Megistona stoutly and unfearfully had spoken those words, the furious and angry tyrant drew forth his glistering blade out of his sheath, purposing to have slain the gentlewoman, had not one Cilon the familiar friend of Aristotimus stayed his hand, forbidding him to commit an act so cruel. This Cilon was a feigned and counterfeit friend of the Tyrant, very conversant with other his familiar friends, but hated him with deadly hatred, & was one of them that with Hellanicus had conspired against the tyrant. This Gentleman then seeing Aristotimus with so great fury to aware wood against Megistona, embraced him, and said, that it was not the part of a gentleman proceeding from a race right honoble, by any means to 〈◊〉 his hands in woman's blood, but rather the sign & token of a cowardly knight, wherefore he besought him to stay his hands. Aristotimus persuaded by Cilon, appeased his rage, and forsook the company of the women. Not long after, a great prodige and wonder appeared in this sort: before supper the tyrant and his wife withdrew themselves into their chamber, and being there, an Eagle was seen to soar over the tyrant's palace, and being aloft, by little and little to descend, and letting fall from her tallands a huge and great stone upon the top of that chamber, with clapping wings and flying noise soared up again, so far as she was clean out of sight from them that did behold her.  
With the rumour and shouts of those that saw this sight, Aristotimus was appalled, and understanding the circumstance of the chance, he sent for his divine to declare the signification of this Augury, which greatly troubled his mind. The Soothsayer bade him to be of good cheer, for that it did portend the great favour and love which jupiter bore unto him. But the prophet of the City whom the Citizens had well tried and proved to be faithful and trusty, manifested unto them the great danger that hung over the tyrant's head, such as the like never before. The confederates which had conspired with Hellanicus, made great speed to prosecute their enterprise, and the next night to kill the tyrant. The very same night Hellanicus dreamt that he saw his dead son to speak unto him these words: What mean you father this long time to sleep, I am one of your sons whom Aristotimus hath slain, know you not that the same day you attempt your enterprise, you shallbe captain & prince of your country? By this vision Hellanicus confirmed, he rose betimes in the morning, and exhorted the conspirators that day to execute the benefit of their Country. That time Aristotimus was certified how Craterus the tyrant of another City, with a great army, was coming to his aid against the banished people of Elis, and that he was arrived at Olympia a City between the Mount Ossa and the mountain Olympus. With which news Aristotimus being encouraged, thought already that he had put to flight and taken the banished persons, which made him to adventure himself abroad without guard or garrison, accompanied only with Cilon and one or two of his familiar friends, the very same time that the conspirators were assembled to do the fact. Hellanicus seeing the time so convenient to deliver his beloved Country by the death of the traitorous Tyrant, not attending any sign to be given to his companions (although the same was concluded upon) the lusty old man lifting up his hands and eyes unto the heavens, with clear and open voice cried out to his companions and said: Why stay ye, O my Citizens and loving country men in the face of your City to finish this good and commendable act? At which words, Cilon was the first which with his brandishing blade killed one of those that waited upon the Tyrant. Thrasibulus then and Lampidus assailed Aristotimus, upon whose sudden approach, he fled into the Temple of jupiter, where he was murdered with a thousand wounds upon his body, accordingly as he deserved. He being thus deservedly slain, his body was drawn up & down the streets, and proclamation of liberty sounded unto the people: Where unto each wight assembled, amongs whom the imprisoned women also broke forth, and rejoiced with their country deliverers of that egregious enterprise, by fires and banquets outwardly disclosing their exceeding great joy within, and in mid of their mirth the people in great throngs and companies ran to the Tyrant's palace, whose wife hearing the people's noise, and certified of her husband's death, enclosed herself in a chamber with her two daughters, and knowing how hateful she was unto the Citizens, with a 〈◊〉 cord upon a beam she hung herself. The chamber doors being broke open, the people viewed the horrible sight of the strangled lady, wherewithal not moved, they took the two trembling daughters of the tyrant, and carried them away, purposing to ravish & violate the same, first to satiate their lust with the spoil of their virginity, and afterwards to kill them (those Gentlewomen were very beautiful and marriageable) and as they were about to do that shameful deed, Magistona was told thereof, who accompanied with other Matrons, sharply rebuked their fury, saying, that uncomely it were for them which sought to establish a civil state, to do such a shameless act as tyrants rage would scarce permit. Upon that noble matron's authority and interception, they ceased from their filthy fact, and then the woman took the 〈◊〉 out of the people's hands, and brought them into the chamber where their strangled mother was. And understanding that it was decreed that none of the Tyrant's blood should rest on live, she turned her face to the two young Gentlewomen, and said: The chiefest pleasure which I can do to you, resteth in this choice, that it shall be lawful for either of you to choose what kind of death you list, by knife or halter, if you will to dispatch your lives from the heedless people's greater fury, upon whose two white and tender bodies if they do seize, the Gods do know and we do fear the cruelty and great abuse which they do mean to use, I think not for despite of you, but for the just revenge of your most cruel father's acts, for the tyrannous life of whom, the Gods do thunder down the bolts of their displeasure, afflicting his nearest blood and best beloved wife and children, with vengeance poured from heavens. Upon the sentence of this their fatal end, the elder maiden of the twain unlosed a girdle from her middle, and began to tie the same to hang herself, exhorting her younger sister to do the like: and in any wise to beware by sparing of her life, to incur the beastly rage of the monstrous people, which cared not to do each vile and filthy act, unworthy their estate. The younger sister at those words, laid hands upon the fastened cord, and besought her right earnestly first of all to suffer her to die. Whereunto the elder answered: So long as it was lawful for me to live, and whiles we led our princely time in our father's court, & both were free from enemies danger, all things between us two were common and indifferent: wherefore the God's forbidth at now the gates of death be opened for us to enter, when with the Ghosts of our dear parents our souls amids the infernal fields be predestined to range and wander) that I should make denial of thy request. Therefore go to good sister mine, and shrink not, when thou seest the ugly face of her, that must consume us all. But yet (dear sister) the deadly sight of thee before myself, will breed to me the woe and smart of double death. When she had so said, she yielded the collar to her sister, & counseled her to place the same so near the neck bone as she could, that the sooner the halter's force might stop her breath. When the unfearful younger sister was dead, the trembling hands of that dredlesse elder maid untied the girdle from her neck, covering in comely wise her senseless corpse. Then turning herself to Megistona, she humbly prayed her not to suffer their two bodies to be seen naked, but so soon as she could, to bury them both in one earthly grave, referring the fruits of their virginity to the mould whereof they came. When she had spoken those words, without any stay or fear at all, with the self same cord the strangled herself, and so finished her fatal days. The guiltless death of which two tender maids, there was none of the citizens of Elis (as I suppose) so stony hearted & void of Nature's force, ne yet so wroth against the tyrant father, but did lament, as well for the constant stoutness and manner of their death, as for their maydenlyke behaviour and right honest petitions made to that sober matron Megisthona, who afterwards caused the other dames, to bury those two bodies in one grave. O how happy & famous had these two sisters been, if they had not been the daughters of so wicked and cruel a father? But parent's offence on children's trespass, ought not to deface the virtuous deeds of their posterity.   

Two Roman Queens.  
¶ The marvelous courage and ambition of a Gentlewoman called TANAQVIL, the Queen & wife of TARQVINUSPRISCUS the fifth Roman King, with her persuasions and policy to her husband for his advancement to the kingdom: her like encouragement of SIRVIUSTULLIUS, wherein also is described the ambition of one of the. ij. daughters of SERVIUSTULLIUS the sixth Roman King, and her cruelty towards her own natural father: with other accidents chanced in the new erected common wealth of Rome, specially of the last Roman King TARQVINUS SUPERBUS, who with murder attained the kingdom, with murder maintained it, and by the murder and insolent life of his son, was with all his progeny banished.  
The sixth Novel.  
ANcus Marcius being that fourth King (after Romulus the first builder of that City) there came to dwell in Rome one Lucumo, a lusty gentleman, rich, and desirous of honour, who determined to continue his habitation there. Thesame Lucumo was the son of one Demaratus a Corinthian, who for sedition fled his own country, & dwelled in 〈◊〉 amongs the stock of the Tarquin's: and after he was married he begat two sons, one of them was this Lucumo, and the other was called Arnus. Lucumo was heir to his father, for that Arnus died before, leaving his wife great with child. The father not knowing that his daughter in law was with child, gave nothing in his will to his Nephew: for which cause the child was called Arnus Egerius. Lucumo being the sole heir of his father, married a noble woman named Tanaquil, and because the Tuscans could not abide to see a stranger grow to abundance of wealth and authority, she despised her own country rather than she would suffer her husband in any wise to be dishonoured. Wherefore she devised to forsake the Tarquinians, & to dwell at Rome, where she thought among that honourable sort and new rerected state, that her husband being stout and valiant, should attain some place of resiance. For she called to remembrance that Tatius the Sabine, Numa borne of the stock of Curetes and Ancus brought forth by a Sabine woman, all strangers, did reign and became noble and mighty. Thus ambition and desire of honour easily doth persuade any devise. Wherefore, carrying with them all their substance, they repaired to Rome. It chanced when they came to janiculum, as he and his wife were sitting in a Wagon, an Eagle hovering her wings over Lucumo, suddenly took away his cap, which done, she soared over the waggon with great force, than she returned again, as though she had been commanded by some celestial providence, & aptly placed his cap again upon his head, and then soared away up into the element. Tanaquil conceiving this act to be some Augury or Prophecy, being cunning in that knowledge (as commonly all the people of Hetruria be) embraced her husband and willed him to be of good cheer and to expect great honour. And as they were imagining and consulting upon these events, they entered the City, and when they had gotten a house for him and his family, he was called Tarquinins Priscus. His riches and great wealth made him a noble man amongs the Romans, and through his gentle entertainment and courteous behaviour, he wan the good wills of many, in so much as his fame and good report was bruited throughout the palace. At length he grew in acquaintance with the King himself, who seeing his liberal demeanour and dutiful service, esteemed him as one of his familiar and near srends, and both in his wars and also at home he imparted to him the secrets of his counsel, and having good experience of his wisdom, by his last will and testament appointed him to be tutor of his children. Ancus reigned. xxiiii. years, a man in peace and war, in policy and valiance with any of his predecessors comparable. His children were very young, and for that cause Tarqvinius was more instant to summon a parliament for creation of a king. When the day was come he sent the young children abroad a hunting, and then ambitiously presumed to demand the kingdom, being the first that ever attempted the like. For the better conciation and obtaining of the people's good will, he uttered this Oration: I do not presume to require a strange or new thing, that was never before put in practice, nor yet am the first, but the third stranger and foreign borne that affected and aspired to this government. For which consideration there is no cause why any man ought to muse or marvel more than behoveth. It is evidently known that Tatius, not only being a stranger, but also an enemy, was made King. Numa also was made King, being altogether a foreign & stranger borne, not through his own request, but rather voluntarily accited and called thereunto by the Romans: but for my part, after I was able to govern myself, I repaired to dwell at Rome with my wife, my children, and all my substance, where I have spent the chiefest portion of my life, specially after it was mature and able to execute civil magistery, which I chose rather to bestow at Rome than at home in mine own country. I have learned the Roman rites and laws, as well such as be meet to serve abroad in the wars, as also necessary to be practised at home, at the hands of mine old master Ancus Martius your late king, a master right worthy and famous in all points to be followed. I showed myself an humble and obedient subject to the King and in friendship and familiarity toward others, I contended with the King himself. When he had spoken those words, which in deed were very true, with the whole consent of the people, he was saluted King. And as all things succeeded his Noble request, even so after he was settled in his Kingdom, he gave himself to 〈◊〉 the common wealth. He chose an hundred grave persons, which he called the Fathers of the lesser countries. He warred first with the Latins, and 〈◊〉 the City of Appiolas, who bringing from thence a greater spoil and booty than was looked for (ordained richer and more gorgeous Plays than any of his predecessors. He builded certain Galleries and other places of assembly about the Forum, he walled the City round about with stone. And as he was doing these things, the Sabines intervented him upon the 〈◊〉, in so much as they were passed the Kyver of Anienes before the Roman host was in a readiness. Which was an occasion of great fear and stir at Rome. In the 〈◊〉 after the battles were joined between them both, a cruel and bloody slaughter was committed, the victory falling to neither part. Then the Romans sought means to renew their force, by adding to their army a further band of horsemen. Wherefore Tarqvinius sent to the Rammenses, Titienses, Luceres. To the bands that Romulus had conscribed, he added other new troops of horsemen, purposing that the same should continue in memory of him after his death. And because Romulus did the same without advise of the Soothsayers, one Accius Navius the notablest Prophecier in those days, withstood that constitution, 〈◊〉 that it was not lawful for him either to appoint a new order, or to alter the old, except the birds and auguries did assent thereunto. Wherewith the king was displeased, & deluding that science, said: Go to M. soothsayer, tell me now (quoth he) is it possible to bring that to pass which I have now conceived in my mind? Yea quod the Soothsayer if you tell me what it is. Then quoth Tarqvinius, I have devised that thou shalt pair thine own skin with a Razor. Therefore take this knife & do as thy birds do portend and signify. And as it was reported he pared his own skin in deed. In memory whereof an Image of Accius was erected, with his head 〈◊〉. After that time there was nothing attempted without those auguries. Notwithstanding, Tarqvinius proceeded in his constitution, and added to the Centurias an other number, for that. 1800. horsemen were contained in the three Centuriae. The later addition was called also by the same name, which afterward were doubled into vj. Centurias. When his numbered was thus increased, once again he joined battle with the Sabines, who by a notable policy recovered a great victory. And because the Sabines doubled a fresh onset without any order of battle or good advisement, they were overthrown, and then constrained to make petition for peace. The city of Collatia, and the Country confining upon the same, was taken from the Sabines. The Sabine wars being in this sortended, Tarqvinius in triumphant manner 〈◊〉 to Rome. At that time a prodige and miraculous 〈◊〉 chanced to be seen in the Palace. The head of a child whose name was Servius Tullius lying a sleep in the palace, was seen to burn. The king was brought to see that miracle. And as one of his servants was going to fetch water to quench the fire, he was stayed by the Queen, who commanded that the child should not once be touched until he awaked of himself. And so soon as he rose from sleep, the fire vanished. Then she took her husband aside, and said: do you see this child whom we have very basely and negligently brought up? I assure you sir (said she) he will be the only safeguard and defender of this our doubtful state, and will be the preserver of our household when it is afflicted. Wherefore let us make much of him, that is like to be the ornament and a worthy stay to all our family. After that they had accounted him amongs the number of their children, & traded him up in those Arts, which excite all good dispositions to aspire unto honour, the pleasure of the Gods appeared in short time: For the child grew to a royal behaviour, in so much, as among all the Roman youth, there was none more meet to marry the daughter of Tarqvinius. This Servius Tullius was the son of one Servius Tullius that was a Captain of a town called Corniculum, at the apprehension whereof, it chanced that the said Tullius the father was 〈◊〉, leaving his wife great with child: the mother being a captive and bond woman was delivered of her child at Rome, in the house of Priscus Tarqvinius. After Tarqvinius had reigned. xxxviij. years, the young man began to grow to great honour and estimation, aswell with the king himself, as also with the Fathers. Then the Romans conceived a hateful indignation against the king, for that he being put in trust to be the Tutor & governor of Ancus children, displaced them from their right inheritance, and specially for that he himself was a stranger, fearing also that the kingdom should not return again to the election of themselves, but degenerate and grow into servile bondage. They also called to remembrance, that the City continued one hundred years after the sublation of Romulus, an entire kingdom within one City, and that it was a shame for them to suffer a bondman, borne of servile kind, to possess the same, and would rebound to their perpetual ignominy, having the progeny of Ancus alive, to suffer the same to be open to strangers and bondmen. Wherefore they determined to defend the grief of that injury, and to be revenged rather upon Tarqvinius, than upon Servius. In fine, they committed the execution of that fact to two shepherds chosen out for that purpose. Who devised this policy. Before the entry into the Palace they fell together by the ears, upon which fray all the king's officers assembled and repaired thither to know the cause of their falling out, when they were parted, they appealed to the king, with such exclamation, as they were heard to the Palace. Being called before the king, both of them fell to brawling, and one of them strived of purpose to hinder the tale of the other. The king's sergeant rebuked them, commanding them to tell their tales in order. When they were a little quieted, one of them beginneth to discourse the tale. And as the king was attentive to hear the plaintiff, the other took up a hatchet & threw it at the king, and leaving the weapon sticking in the wound, they conveyed themselves out of the doors. Those that waited upon the King, made haste to relieve him, and the sergeants followed to apprehend the malefactors. With that a hurly burly rose amongs the people, every man marveling what the matter should be. Tanaquil commanded the palace gates to be shut, and seeketh remedy to cure her husband, as though some hope of life had been remaining. When hope failed of his recovery, she called Servius before her (which married her daughter) and showed unto him her dead husband, holding him fast by the right hand, she entreated him that he would not suffer the death of his father in law to be unrevenged, to the intent he might not be ridiculous to the traitors, saying to him further these words: If thou be a man of thy hands (O Servius) the kingdom is thine and not theirs, which thus cruelly by the hands of other have committed this abominable fact. Wherefore put forth thyself, and the Gods be thy guide: For they did portend this noble head to be the Governor of this city, at such time as they circumfused the same with a fire descending from above. Let that heavenly 〈◊〉 excite thy courage. Be thoroughly awaked. We being strangers sometime have reigned. Think and consider what thou art, & not from whence thou camest. If the strangeness of the case do affray thee, my counsel from time to time shall relieve thee. The cry and stir of the people being unmeasurable, that one could scarce hear an other, tanaquil opened the windows that had their prospect to the new way (for the King dwelled at the temple of jupiter Stator) and then spoke to them in this wise: Be of good cheer (good people) the King is but amazed with the suddenness of the stroke, the wound is not very deep, for even now he is come again to himself, and the wound being opened and dressed, there is good hope of life: I trust within these few days you shall see him. In the mean time, I pray you to 〈◊〉 your obedience to Servius Tullius, who is appointed to execute the laws, and to do all other affairs in the absence of my husband. servius occupying the state and Authority of the King, executed the laws in some cases, & in other some made the people believe that he would consult with the King himself. The death of the King was concealed and kept close a certain space, till such time as Servius had gathered his force about him. After the death of the King was disclosed, Servius being guarded with a strong Garrison, took upon him to be King, not by the consent of the people, but by the will of the Fathers. The children of Ancus understanding that the King was alive, and that Servius power and force was great, conveyed themselves in exile to Suessa Pometia. And lest the children of Tarqvinius should attempt like enterprise against him, as the children of Ancus did against Tarqvinius, he married. 〈◊〉. of his daughters to Lucius and Aruns, the children of Tarqvinius. But yet the devise of man could not break the necessity of fate and constellation, for the hatred conceived in desire of Ambitious government, made all things unstable and unfaithful amongs domestical friends. But yet to quiet and pacify the present time, war was renewed with the Veientes, and other Cities of Hetruria: wherein the fortune and valiance of Tullius excelled. For when he had given an overthrow to the enemy, lest the peoples and father's good will should be withdrawn, he returned to Rome: who then attempted and brought to pass a notable work in the common wealth. He instituted a certain yearly tax & revenue, to satisfy and discharge all charges sustained in the time of peace and war, with sundry other notable laws and devices for the defence of the public state. After that he had mustered the whole numbered of the Citizens in the field called Martius, the same amounted to lxxx. M. And as Fabius Pictor saith, there were so many that were able to bear armure. Then the hills of Quirinalis, Viminalis and Exquiliae, were added to the city. He compassed the town round about with a vamure, environing the same with a double trench. He divided the Romans into. v. bands called Classes, and into Centurias, which be bands of an hundred men. He also builded a Temple to Diana, with the help and assistance of the Latin people. Amongs the Sabines there chanced an Ox in the house of an husband man to be brought forth, of an huge bigness and marvelous shape (the horns whereof were placed at the porch of Diana's temple for a monument long time after.) The Soothsayers prophesied, that where the same Ox should be first sacrificed to Diana, there the chief Empire and principal government should remain: which prophecy came to the knowledge of the chief minister of Diana her Temple. One of that Sabins expecting for a day meet to be employed in that sacrifice, brought the said Ox to Rome to the Temple of Diana, placing the same before the Altar. The chief Minister calling to remembrance the oracle, and saw that the greatness of that sacrifice should be famous, spoke to the Sabine these words. What dost thou mean (thou impure Stranger) to prepare sacrifice to Diana, before thou be purified and cleansed in the lively River of Tiber? Here below in this valley the said river doth run. Go get thou hence and wash thee. The Sabine attached with a religious fear, goeth down to that River, and while he is washing of himself a Roman doth offer the Sacrifice, which was right acceptable both to the king and his country. The king although that of long time he had reigned, yet understood that the elder Tarqvinius which was married to one of his daughters, did brag and report 〈◊〉 that his father in law obtained the government and kingdom without the consent of the people: wherefore the king through his liberality by dividing the conquest achieved of the enemy amongs the common people, conciliated their 〈◊〉 and good wills. In so much as he affirmed that he would reign in despite of them all, and that there was no King at any time that reigned with a more general consent: All which did nothing diminish the hope and desire of Tarqvinius. He had a brother whose name was Aruns, being of a quiet & gentle disposition. Both they married two of the king's daughters, which were of manners and conditions very unlike. The younger daughter being the wife of Aruns, the sharper shrew, and fiercer of nature, seeing that her husband was nothing given or pliant to match with her ungracious device or ambitious stomach, attempted her brother, whose condition was correspondent to hers, and said unto him, that he was a man in deed, and one worthy to be accounted to be borne and proceed of the blood royal. Then she began to contemn her sister: for that she having such a man to her husband, would suffer him to neglect so meet and just occasion for recovery of the Kingdom. Their natures being of one disposition, as commonly one 〈◊〉 procureth an other, all things began to be 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 the attempt of that ungracious woman. To be short, they two devised means, that Aruns his brother, and the Elder Tullia her sister were 〈◊〉: which done, they two married together. The wicked woman ceased not daily to 〈◊〉 and provoke her husband from one 〈◊〉 to an other. And amongs all her wicked talk and cruel 〈◊〉, she used these words: If thou be that man unto whom I think I am married, than I will call 〈◊〉 both husband and King: But if thou be not he, than the alteration is changed to the worse, and cruelty is matched with cowardice. But why dost thou not put thyself in a readiness? Why thou 〈◊〉 not now from 〈◊〉, or from the 〈◊〉 Tarquin's, to achieve and conquer new kingdoms as thy father did. The 〈◊〉 Gods, and the Gods of thy country, the nobility of thy father, and thy royal blood, thy stately seat within thine own house, and thy name Tarqvinius, do create and make thee King. But if in all these occasions thou dost want stomach, why 〈◊〉 thou make the whole City conceive a false opinion of thee? Why dost thou not show thyself to be the son of a King? Avoid hence I say, and go to the Tarquinians, or to Corinth, retire again to thy first lineage: thou dost rather resemble thy brother's effeminate heart, than the valiant stomach of thy father. 〈◊〉 these words and such like, she pricked forward her husband, and she herself could in no 〈◊〉 be quiet. Then Tarqvinius went forth to the fathers of the lesser countries, and called to their remembrance the benefits unto them by his father extended, desiring the like to be showed and rendered unto him: he alured the younger sort of the City by gifts and other liberal rewards, promising them, if he attained to his purpose, more frankly to reconyence them. By this means the King became odious and 〈◊〉 to the people. Tarqvinius seeing his time, guarded with a band of armed men, entered the market place, wherewith the 〈◊〉 people were greatly abashed, than 〈◊〉 mounted into the palace, and placed himself in the royal seat of the same, causing the Fathers to be cited before him by the Herald, unto whom he repeated the pedigree of Servius, and his first entrance into the kingdom. As he was speaking these words, Servius in great haste repaired to the Palace, and finding Tarqvinius sitting in his place, said to him these words. Why? what is the matter Tarqvinius (quoth he?) how darest thou be so bold so long as I am living to call the Fathers, 〈◊〉 yet presume to sit in my seat? whereunto Tarqvinius 〈◊〉 lie replied, That he possessed but the room of his father, which was more meet for a Kings con and heir, heir, than for such a bondman as he was, and that he had long enough abused his Lords and masters: wherewithal a great hurly 〈◊〉 and tumult began to rise by the 〈◊〉 of both parts, so that 〈◊〉 was like to attain that garland, which best could dance for it. Tarqvinius forced to give the last adventure, being more lusty & stronger than the other, took Servius by the middle, and carrying him out of the Court, threw him down the stairs, which done, he caused the Senate to return into the Palace. Then the King with all his train of Officers, and other his servants 〈◊〉 away, and as they were 〈◊〉, he was slain by those that Tarqvinius sent after to pursue him, in the street called Cyprius. Tullia understanding that Seruins her father was slain, 〈◊〉 bashed not in her waggon to come into the market place before 〈◊〉 the assembly there, called her husband out of the Court, and boldly was the first that called him King. But being rebuked & commanded by him to avoid out of that great throng of people, she retired home again, & when she was passed that upper end of the said street called Cyprius, the wagoner driving toward the right hand to the hill called Exquiliae, he stayed the waggon, and showed his lady the body of her father, lying 〈◊〉 dead in the street. In memory of which shameful and unnatural fact, long time after there continued a 〈◊〉. For the same street was called Vicus Sceleratus. Some report that she caused the waggon to be driven over the dead corpse of her father, with the blood of whom & her husband, her waggon being contaminated, 〈◊〉 presented the same to her Gods. After which abominable beginnings, like end ensued. This Servius Tullius reigned 〈◊〉. 〈◊〉. Then 〈◊〉 began to reign, unto whom Superbus was added for his surname. This wicked some in law would not suffer the dead body of Servius to be buried. His conscience being pricked with the abominable gain of his kingdom, fearing also lest other might conceive like example, he guarded his person with a band of armed men, executing all things 〈◊〉 force and Tyranny, contrary to the advise and consents of the Senate and people. He caused the fautors & friends of Servius to he put to death, whereby the numbered of the Fathers was diminished, whose places he suffered none other to supply, of purpose to bring that honourable order to contempt. He governed the common wealth by his own domestical and private Counsel. War, peace, truce, society of the Cities adjoining, he used as he list, without any further assent. The Latins he specially regarded, to the intent that through foreign aid he might reign in more surety at home, with the chief of which country he joined affinity. One Octavius Manilius a Tusculan born, was the prince and chief ruler of that country, descending from the stuck of Ulysses, and the 〈◊〉 Circe's, if the 〈◊〉 be true, unto whom Tarqvinius gave his daughter in marriage: By reason whereof he conciliated great alliance and friends. Tarqvinius being of great authority amongs the Latins, appointed them upon a day to assemble at a wood called Ferentina, there to entreat of matters concerning both the states. To which place the Latins repaired upon the break of the day. But Tarqvinius came not thither till the Sun was set. During which time many things were in talk. There was one amongs them called Turnus Herdonius, which in Tarqvinius absence had inveighed 〈◊〉 against him, affirming that it was no marvel though he was called Suporbus by that 〈◊〉. For what prouder 〈◊〉 could be enforced to the Latins, 〈◊〉 to make them wait a whole day for his pleasure. divers princes and noble men (quoth he) that dwell a far of, be come according to the appointment, and he which first allotted the day, is not present. Hereby it most evidently appeareth in what sort he will use us if he might once attain the sovereignty. And who can doubt in so manifest appearance, but that he went not about to affect and aspire the dominion of the Latins? If the Romans have had just cause to believe him, and if their kingdom had been but gotten & not violently rapt and 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 parricide, than the Latins might also believe him, who being but a stranger to them, had no great cause to believe him. His own subjects do repent the time that ever he bore rule: For some be slain and heaped upon the dead bodies of other, some be banished, some have lost their goods: what other fruits than these may the Latin people expect and look for? Therefore if they would be ruled, he required every man to return home to his own house, and give no more attendance for the day of the Counsel, than be doth which first appointed the same. This and such like, this, seditious and desperate man declared: Whose talk Tarqvinius intervented, and upon his coming every man converted himself to salute him. Then 〈◊〉 began to excuse himself of his long 〈◊〉, for that he was appointed an arbitrator between the father and the son, for whose reconciliation he was forced to stay that long space, and to spend the time of that day. Wherefore he appointed the next day. The 〈◊〉 of which excuse Turnus could not keep secret, but said: that a matter between the father and the son might be ended in few words: for if the child would not be obedient to his father, some mischief must needs light upon him. Tarqvinius understanding these invections made against him by Turnus, immediately deviseth means to kill him, to the intent 〈◊〉 might inculcate like terror to the Latins, that he did to his own subjects. And because he was not 〈◊〉 to sort his purpose and effect, by secret malice, he attempted to accuse him of treason, and 〈◊〉 (by means of divers of the City of Aricia,) his 〈◊〉 man whom with gold he had corrupted to bring in a forged accusation, which was, that his master had prepared in one night a number of men with 〈◊〉 and weapon to destroy the Nobility of the Latins, of purpose to recover the principality of the same. This matter began to be suspicious, by reason of the Tumult made the day before against Tarqvinius, and therefore the people the sooner did credit the case. In 〈◊〉, Turnus was 〈◊〉, and therefore a new kind of death devised. Who being laid upon a Hurdle, his face upward, was thrown into the water of Ferrentina. This execution being done Tarqvinius revoked the Latins to Counsel, wherein he praised them for 〈◊〉 Justice extended upon Turnus, and then he spoke these words: I may by an old order and constitution justly say thus much unto you. The whole Nation of the Latins descending from the City of Alba are bound to observe that 〈◊〉, which the Albans with all their colonies annexing themselves to the Roman Empire in the time of Tullius Hostilius were firmly obliged to accomplish. The renovation whereof will now conduce more advantage and utility to them all, than ever it did before. For through this 〈◊〉 the Latins shall possede and participate 〈◊〉 of the prosperous success of the Roman people. Better it were in this sort to join themselves together, than to see Destruction of either Cities, Depopulations, and spoils of their Countries, which in the time of Ancus (my Father then reigning) ye suffered. The like also (if you do forsake this offer) ye may still expect and suffer. The Latins here unto were soon persuaded, a day was appointed when the 〈◊〉 sort of their Country should be ready armed at the wood called Ferrentina. Being joined in order of battle, they marched towards the Volsciens, and wan the City of 〈◊〉 Pometia, the spoil whereof Tarqvinius sold for. xl. Talents, employing the same upon the Temple of jupiter. After wards he assaulted the Gabinians, and when he saw he could not by force obtain the same, he 〈◊〉 a policy. Who seeming to bend himself wholly upon the building of the 〈◊〉. and to set aside the affairs of his wars, devised with his son Sextus, which was the youngest of the three, that he should run to the Gabinians, and complain of his father's intolerable cruelty, which accordingly he did.  
Who showing himself as a voluntary exile, said, that his father had converted his tyranny from other, and began to execute the same upon his own 〈◊〉: And that he was also weary of the presence of his own children, going about to remove his 〈◊〉 conversants out of his house, as he had done the like out of the Court, to the intent he would leave no offspring or heir behind him to possess his kingdom: adding further, that he was escaped even through the mid of his father's weapons and fury, thinking no place better for his safeguard and refuge, than to seek succour amongs his 〈◊〉. And because (quoth he) ye shall not be 〈◊〉, he is even now preparing of wars against you, and purposeth upon the sudden to set upon you. Now if there be no place of abode for me your humble suppliant 〈◊〉 you, I must needs wander through Italy, and first I will attempt the Volscians, afterwards the Aequians and Hernicians, till such time as I find some nation willing to defend the poor child from the cruel and wicked fury of the Father. And perchance (quoth he) ye shall win him that may be an Instrument and courage 〈◊〉 you all, to repress that proud king and cruel Nation.  
The Gabinians deliberating what was best to be done in this case, the young man 〈◊〉 as though he were offended, and would in all hast departed: and seek refuge of others, than they courteously entertained him. This young man being had in great estimation amongs them, through crafty and vain persuasions, making them believe that he would conduct their army even under the walls of Rome, with sundry other 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 to bring himself the more in credit. 〈◊〉 length he was chosen captain of their wars, and recovered sundry 〈◊〉 for the Gabinians. Whereby the foolish nation both of the lower and chiefest sort, believed that their captain was sent unto them by the providence of the Gods. He 〈◊〉 peril and pain in like sort as the common soldier did, liberally dividing his spoils and booties amongs them. He was so well beloved, that his father Tarqvinius at Rome was of no greater authority than he was among the Gabinians. When he thought that he had recovered force enough to answer his father's expectation, he sent a post to Rome, to know his father's pleasure, although the Gods had given him sufficient authority amongs the Gabinians. And because Tarqvinius was doubtful of the trust and fidelity of the Messenger, he would answer nothing by word of mouth, but carrying the Messenger into a garden, hard adjoining his house, with a wand which he carried in his hand, he cut of the heads of the highest Poppies that were in the garden: meaning thereby that he should dispatch the heads of the chiefest and principal in the City. Whereupon the messenger without answer by mouth returned. But by declaring those signs & circumstances which his father used, Sextus conceived his meaning. Then like a 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 son, following the steps of his father, he cut of the heads of the Gabinian nobility, whereupon some ran away, upon whose departure the goods as well of them as of other that were put to death were divided. The of the Gabinians being in this doubtful case, bold of all counsel and succour, at length was surrendered to the Romans. Then Tarqvinius concluded peace with the Aequians, and renewed a truce with the tuscans, and wholly bend himself to the affairs of the City.  
This Tarqvinius was the father of him, that ravished the noble Lady Lucretia: the lamentable history whereof, is recited in my former Tome, by the end of which stock, remembered in that history, and beginning of the same described in this. Novel, may be gathered, what fruits Ambition and loathsome lust bring forth. For Tarqvinius Priscus repairing out of Hetruria, to dwell at Rome, by the ambitious will of his wife aspired and achieved the Kingdom, which was by the sundry device of Tullia, the daughter of Servius Tullius maintained, and by the 〈◊〉 desire of Sextus Tarqvinius, the son of Superbus the. 〈◊〉. Roman King ended, and the whole race expelled & everlastingly vanished out of that City, So meet an example for those, that 〈◊〉 & long after the rights, titles, & Kingdoms of other, as may be read in any Author. For although the Spring appear very fresh and 〈◊〉, of some degenerate grifft planted upon some ancient stock, 〈◊〉 the fruit most commonly in taste eateth somewhat sour, and the rellishe in mouth not altogether so pleasant, as that which both in soil and stock, is duly planted.   

Sophonisba.  
¶ The unhappy end and success of the love of king 〈◊〉, and of Queen SOPHONISBA his wife.  
The seventh Novel.  
IF men would have a fore consideration of their own things & doings, before they do attempt that same, or else premeditate and study the scope and success thereof, I do verily believe that a 〈◊〉 would 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 themselves 〈◊〉 into so many gulfs of miseries & 〈◊〉 as they do, specially noble men & Princes, who oftentimes do excel in temerity & rashness, by letting the rains of their own lusts, to far to 〈◊〉 at large, wherein they do plunge and 〈◊〉 themselves to their great prejudice & dishonour, as teacheth this goodly History ensuing, which affirmeth that there was a prince 〈◊〉 Massinissa, the son of Gala king of Massezali, 〈◊〉 people of Numidia, and 〈◊〉 with the Carthaginians in Spain against the Romans, having first 〈◊〉 honourably against king Syphax in Numidia, it chanced that Gala his father died, upon whose death his kingdom was invaded and occupied by other, wherefore sustaining 〈◊〉 the surges of adversity, and diversly combating with his enemies, sometimes getting part of his kingdom, and sometimes 〈◊〉, and many times molesting both Syphax & the Carthaginians, was in divers conflicts like to be taken or slain. With these his 〈◊〉, impatient of no pain and trouble, he became very famous and renowned, that amongs the people of Africa he acquired the name and title of a valiant and puissant soldier, and of a politic and provident Captain. Afterwards he was generally well beloved of the Soldiers, because not like the king's son or a prince, but as a private soldier and companion, his conversation and usual trade of life was amongs them, calling every man by his proper name, 〈◊〉 and esteeming them according to their desert, observing nevertheless a certain comeliness of a Superior. This Massinissa by means of one Syllanus being in Spain, privily entered acquaintance & 〈◊〉 with that Scipio which afterwards was surnamed Affricanus, and who in those days with the authority of Proconsul in that province, victoriously subdued the Carthaginians. The same Massinissa entered league with the Romans, and inviolably so long as he lived observed 〈◊〉 with the Roman people, and left the same to his children and posterity as an inheritance. When the Romans began wars in Africa, speedily with that power he was able to make, he repaired to his old friend Scipio. within a while after Syphax being overthrown in battle & taken, Massinissa & Laelius was sent to take the chief 〈◊〉 of that kingdom, which sometimes were king Syphax own, called Cirta. In that City remained Sophonisba that wife of Syphax & daughter to Hasdrubal of Giscon, who had alienated her husband from the Romans, with whom he was in league, and by her persuasions he went to aid and defend the Carthaginians. Sophonisba perceiving that the enemies wire entered the City of Cirta: and that Massinissa was going towards the Palace, 〈◊〉 ned to meet him, to prove his gentleness and courtesy, whereupon in the mids of the soldiers throng, which were already entered the Palace, she stoutly thrust, & boldly looked round about, to prove if she could espy by some signs and tokens the parsonage of Massinissa. She amongs that press perceived one, whose apparel and armure and the reverence done unto him, seemed unto her that without doubt the same was the king. And therefore incontinently 〈◊〉 dawn before him, and piteously began to speak in this manner: For so much (O puissant Prince) as felicity and good fortune, but specially the favour of the Gods immortal have permitted, that thou shouldest recover thine ancient kingdom descended unto thee by right and lawful inheritance, and therewithal hast taken and vanquished thine enemy, and now hast me at thy will 〈◊〉 pleasure to save or spill, I poor wretched miserable woman brought into bondage from Quéenelike state, whilom leading a delicate life in Princely court, accompanied with a royal train of beautiful dames, and now at shy merciful disposition, do humbly appeal to thy mercy & goodness, whose Princely majesty & comfortable aspect, cheereth up my woeful heart to look for grace, and therefore 〈◊〉 bold thus to presume with most humble voice to implore and cry out, beseeching thee to reach me hither thy victorious hands to kiss and salute. This Lady was a passing fair gentlewoman, of flourishing age and comely behaviour, none 〈◊〉 unto her within the whole region of Africa. And so much the more as her pleasant grace by amiable gesture of complaint did increase, so much the heart of Massinissa was delighted, who being lusty and 〈◊〉 youthly age (according to the nature of the Numides,) was easily entrapped and tangled in the nets of love. Whose glutting eyes were never full, nor fiery heart was 〈◊〉 in beholding and wondering at her most excellent beauty: not foreseeing therefore, or taking heed of the dangerous effect of beauty's snares, his heart was so fiercely kindled, with 〈◊〉 swinging flames of love, that causing her to rise, he exhorted her to prosecute her supplication, who then began to proceed as followeth: If it may be lawful for me thy prisoner and bondwoman (O my soneraigne Lord) to make request and petition, I most humbly do beseech thee, by thy royal majesty, wherein no long time passed we were magnificently placed in so Kinglike guise as thou art now, and by that Numidicall name, common unto thee and my husband Syphax, and by the saving Gods and patrons of this City, who with better fortune and more joyful success do receive thee into the same, than expelled Syphax out from thence: it may please thy sacred state, to have pity on me. I require no hard and difficult thing at thy hands, use thine imperial government over me, such as law of arms and reason of war require. Cause me if thou wilt, to pine in cruel prison, or do me to such death, with torments, as thou list to use. The sharp fierce and cruel death that any wight can 〈◊〉, or Perillus' Bull shall not be dreadful unto me, but more dear and acceptable than 〈◊〉 life in pleasures led. For no death shallbe refused of me, rather than to be rendered into the proud hands of the most cruel Romans. Rather had I 〈◊〉 the trust of a native Numide, borne with me in Afric soil, than the faith of strangers kind. I know full well that thou dost know what courtesy a Carthaginian & daughter of Hasdrubal, shall surely look for at that Romans hands: whose mind is fearful of nothing more than of their pride & glory intolerable. If thou (my Lord) hadst sisters of 〈◊〉 own, or daughters of thy royal blood brought forth, think that they may chance (if fortune frown) to slide into the pit of adverse luck, so well as I am now. Of that form Fortune's wheel is made, which we 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 see to be 〈◊〉, turning and divers, that now peace, and now war it promiseth, now good, now evil it threateneth, now mirth, now sorrow it 〈◊〉, now advancing 〈◊〉, now tumbling down the clymbers up. Let Syphax be a clear & lively example to thee, which could never find any 〈◊〉 stay under the moons globe. He was the mightiest and the richest 〈◊〉 that reigned in Africa, and now is the most miserable & unlucky wight that liveth 〈◊〉 land. The Gods grant that I be no prophet or 〈◊〉 of future evil, whose omnipotency I devoutly beseech to suffer thee and thy posterity in Numide, and most happily to reign. Uonchsafe then to 〈◊〉 me from the Romans thraldom, which if thou be not able safely to bring to pass; death unto me shall be most heartily welcome. In speaking those words, she took the King's right hand, and many times sweetly kissed the same. And then her tears turned into pleasant cheer, in such wise as not only the mind of the armed and 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Prince was moved to mercy, but 〈◊〉 wrapped in the amorous nets of the Lady, whereby the victor was subdued by the vanquished, and the Lord surprised of his captive, unto whom with trembling voice thus he answered: Make an end O Sophonisba, of thy large complaint, abandon thy conceived fear, for I will not only rid thee from the Romanès hands, but also take thee to my 〈◊〉 wife (if thou therewith shalt be content) whereby thou shalt not lead a prisoners life, but pass thy youthful days and 〈◊〉 age (if Gods do grant thee life so long) as Queen unto a King, & wife unto a Roman friend. When he had said so with weeping tears, he kissed and embraced her. She by the 〈◊〉, signs, gests, and interrupted 〈◊〉, comprehending that the mind of the Numide King was kindled with fervent love: the more to inflame the same, she behaved herself in such pitiful plight, as the beastly hearts of the Hircane Tigers would have been made gentle, and despoiled of all fierceness. For again she fell down at his feet, and kissed the armed sabbatons upon that same, bedewing them with her warm tears. And after many sobs and infinite sighs, comforted by him, she said: O the glory and honour of all the Kings that ever were, be, or shall be hereafter. O the safest aid of Carthage mine unhappy country without desert, and now the present and most terrible astonishment: If my hard fortune and great distress after so great ruin might have been relieved, what greater favore, what thing in all my life, could chance more and fortunate unto me, than to be called wife of thee? O I blessed above all other women to have a man so noble and famous to husband. O mine adventurous and most happy ruin. O my most fortunate misery, that such a glorious and incomparable marriage was prepared for me. But because the Gods be contrary unto me; and the due end of my life approacheth, ●easse from henceforth (my dear sovereign Lord) to kindle again in me, my hope half dead, or rather consumed and spent, because I see myself wrapped in a state, that in vain against the pleasures of the Gods, I go about to molest thee. A great gift (and to say the truth) a right great good turn, I make account to have received of thee, if mine own death I should procure, that dying by thy means or with thy hands, which were more acceptable, I should escape the fear of the Romans thrall all and subjection, and this soul delivered of the same, should straight way pass into the Elysian fields. The final scope of this my humble plaint, is to rydone from the hands hands the Romans, whose thraldom to suffer I had rather die. The other benefit which thou dost frankly offer to me poor wretch, I dare not desire, much less require the same, because the present state of my mishap dareth not presume so high. But this thy pity and compassion joined with loving regard and mind toward me, mighty jova with all the other God's reward and bless thy gotten kingdom with long reign, enlarging the same with more ample bounds, to thine eternal renoum and praise. And I do not only render humble thanks for this thy kind and loving entertainment, but also yield myself thine own, so long as life governeth this caitiff corpse of mine. These words were pronounced with such effect, as Massinissa was not able for pity to hold his tears, which watered so his comely form, as the dew thereof soaked into his tender heart, and not able a long time to speak, at last thus he said: give over (O my Queen) these cares and thoughts, dry up thy cries 〈◊〉 plaints, make an end of all these dolorous suits, and rejoice, that froward Fortune hath changed her mind: the Gods no doubt with better success, will perform the rest of thy living days. Thou shalt henceforth remain 〈◊〉. Queen & wife, for pledge whereof the sacred Godheads. I call to witness. But if perchance (which the thundering mighty God above forbid) that I shall be forced to render thee the Romans prisoner, be well assured, that on live they shall not possess thee. For credit and accomplishment of this promiss, and in sign of his assured faith, he reached his right hand to Sophonisba, and led her into the inner lodging of the kings Palace, where afterward Massinissa with himself considering how he might perform his promised faith, vexed and troubled with a thousand cogitations, seeing in a manner his manifest overthrow and ruin at hand, provoked with mad and temerarious love, the very same day in open presence he took her to wife, solemnizing that marriage, which afterwards 〈◊〉 unto him great veration & trouble, meaning by the same to have discharged Sophonisba from the Romans rule & order. But when Laelius was come and heard tell thereof, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 and chased, & with 〈◊〉 words commanded Massinissa to send his new married wife (as the booty and pray of the Romans) together with Syphax, to their Captain Scipio. Notwithstanding vanquished with the supplications and tears of Massinissa, referring the matter wholly to the judgement of Scipio, he dispatched Syphax with the other prisoners and booty, to the Roman camp, and he himself remained with Massinissa for the recovery of other places of the Kingdom, minding not to return before the whole province were brought under the Roman subjection. In that mean time Laelius gave 〈◊〉 unto Scipio, of the success of Massinissa his marriage. Who knowing the same to be so hastily celebrated, was marvelously offended & troubled in mind, much marvelling, that Massinissa would make such post hast before the coming of Laelius, Yea & upon the very first day of his entry into Cirta, that he would 〈◊〉 that unadvised wedding: & the greater was Scipio his displeasure towards Massinissa, for 〈◊〉 the love which he had conceived of that woman, was unseemly and dishonest, wondering not a little that he could not find out some Lady within the region of Spain, of 〈◊〉 beauty and 〈◊〉, to please and content his honest and commendable intent: wherefore he judged Massinissa his 〈◊〉 to be done out of time, to the prejudice and great decay of his honour & estimation. 〈◊〉 like a wise and Prudent parsonage he dissembled his conceived grief, expecting occasion for remedy of the same. Now the time was come that Laelius and Massnissa were 〈◊〉 for to the camp. But to declare the tears & lamentable talk, the great 〈◊〉 and sighs, uttered between this new married couple, time would want, and 〈◊〉nesse would ensue to the reader of the same. He had scarce lain with his beloved two or three nights, but that Laelius (to their great grief and sorrow) claimed her to be his prisoner. Wherefore very sorrowful and pensive he departed, and returned to the Campe. Scipio in honourable wise received him, and openly before his Captains and men of war, gave thanks to Laelius & him, for their prowess and notable exploits. Afterwards sending for him into his Tent, he said unto him: I do suppose (my dear friend Massinissa) that the virtue and benevolence, you saw in me did first of all provoke you, to transfrete the straits, to visit me in Spain, wherein the goodwill of my valiant friend Syllanus did not a little anaile, to solicit and procure amity between us both, which afterwards induced your constant mind, to retire into 〈◊〉, & to commit both yourself and all your goods into my hands and keeping. But I well pondering the quality of that virtue which moved you thereunto, you being of 〈◊〉, and I of Europa, you a Numidian borne, and I a Latin and Roman, of divers customs & language different, thought that the temperance and abstinence from venerial pleasures which you have seen to be in me, and experience thereof well tried and proved, (for the which I render unto the immortal Gods most humble thanks) would or ought to have moved you to follow mine example, being these virtues which above all other I do most esteem and cherish, which virtues should have alured you (being a man of great prowess and discretion) to have imitated and followed the same. For he that well marketh the rare gifts and excellent benefits wherewith dame nature hath 〈◊〉 you, would think that there should be no lack of diligence and travel to subdue and overcome the carnal appetites of temporal beauty: which had it 〈◊〉 applied to the rare gifts of nature planted in you, had made you a parsonage to the posterity very famous and renowned. Consider well my present time of youth, full of courage & youthly lust, which contrary to that natural race I stay and prohibit. No delicate beauty, no voluptuous delectation, no seminine flattery, can entice the same to the perils and dangers whereunto that héedelesse age is most prone and subject, by which prohibition of amorous passions, temperately reigned and governed the tamer and subduer of those passions, closing his breast from lascivious imaginations, and stopping his ears from the sirens & Mermaids, of that sex and kind, getteth greater glory and fame, than that which we have gotten by our victory had against Syphax. Hannibal the greatest enemy that ever we Romans felt, the stoutest gentleman & captain without peer, through the delights and embracements of women effeminated, is no more that manlike and notable Emperor which he was wont to be. The great exploits & enterprises which valiantly you have done in Numidia, when I was far from you, your care, readiness, 〈◊〉, your strength and valour, your expedition and bold attepts, with all the rest of your noble virtues worthy of immortal praise, I might & could particularly recite, but to commend and extol them, my heart and mind shall never be satisfied, by renovation whereof I should rather give occasion of blushing, than myself could be contented to let them sleep in silence. Syphax as you know is taken prisoner by the valiance of our men of war, by reason whereof, himself, his wife, his kingdom, his camp, lands, cities, and inhabitants, and briefly all that which was king Syphax, is the pray and spoil to the Roman people, and the king and his wife, albeit she was no Citizen of Carthage, and her father, although no captain of our enemies, yet we must send them to Rome, there to leave them at the pleasure and disposition of the Roman 〈◊〉 nate and people. Do you not know that Sophonisba with her toys & flatteries did alienat and withdraw king Syphax from our amity and friendship, and made him to enter force of arms against us? Be you ignorant that she, full of rancour and malice against the Roman people, endeavoured to set all 〈◊〉 against us, & now by her fair enticements hath gained and won you, not I say our 〈◊〉, but an enemy so far as she can, with her cruel enchantments? What damage and hurt have lighted upon divers monarchs and Princes through sugared lips and venomous words, I will not spend time to recite. With what provocations and conjured charms she hath already bewitched your good nature, I will not now imagine, but refer the same to the deep consideration of your wisdom. Wherefore Massinissa, as you have been a Conqueror over great nations and provinces, be now a conqueror over your own mind and appetites, the victory whereof deserveth greater praise than the conquest of the whole world. Take heed I say, that you blot not your good qualities and conditions, with the spots of dishonour and pusillanimity. 〈◊〉 not that fame which hitherto is 〈◊〉 above the Region of the glittering stars. Let not this vice of Feminine flattery spoil the deserts of Noble chivalry, & utterly deface those 〈◊〉 with greater ignominy than the cause of that offence is worthy of dispraise.  
Massinissa hearing these eager & sharp rebukes, not only blushed for shame, but bitterly werping, said that his poor prisoner and wife was at the commandment of Scipio. Noiwithstanding, so instantly as tears would suffer him to speak, he besought him, that if it were possible, he would give him leave to observe his faith foolishly assured, because he had made an oath to Sophonisba that with life she should not be delivered to the hands of the Romans. And after other talk between them, Massinissa departed to his pavilion, where alone with manifold sighs, with most bitter tears and plaints, uttered with such houling and outcries, as they were heard by those which stood about the same, he rested all the day bewailing his present state: the most part of the night also he spent with like heaviness, and debating in his mind upon divers thoughts and devices, more confused and amazed than before, he could by no means take any rest: sometimes he thought to flee and pass the straits commonly called the pillars of Hercules, from thence to sail to the Fortunate Islands with his wife: then again he thought with her to escape to Carthage, & in aid of that City to serve against the Romans, sometimes he purposed by sword, poison, halter, or some such means to end his life and finish his dolorous days: many times he was at point by prepared knife & sword to pierce his heart, & yet stayed the same, not for fear of death, but for preservation of his fame & honour. Thus this wretched & miserable 〈◊〉 burned & consumed with love, tossing and tumbling himself upon his bed, not able to find comfort to ease his pain, thus began to say: O Sophonisba, my dear beloved wife, O the life and comfort of my life, O the dainty repast of my joy and quiet, more amiable than the balls of mine unhappy eyes, what shall become of us? Alas, & out alas I cry, that I shall see no more that incomparable beauty of thine, that thy surpassing comely face, those golden locks, those glistering eyes which a thousand times have darkened and obscured the rays & beams of the Sun itself: Alas I say, that I can no longer be suffered to hear the pleasant harmony of thy voice, whose sweetness is able to force jupiter himself to mitigate his rage, when with lightning thunderbolts and 〈◊〉 claps in his greatest fury he 〈◊〉 to plague 〈◊〉 earth. Ah that it is not lawful any more for me to throw these unhappy arms about thy sweet neck, whose 〈◊〉 of face intermingled with seemly rudds, 〈◊〉 the morning roses, which by the sweet nightly dews do sprout and bud. The Gods grant that I do not long remain on live without thy sweet haunt and company, which can no longer draw forth this breathing ghost of mine, than can a body live without like breath in it. Grant (O mighty jupiter) that one grave may close us twain to live among the ghosts and shadows that be already past this world for like right loving fits, 〈◊〉 intent of life be meant to me without thy fellowship & delectable presence. And who (O good God) shall be more blissful amongs the Elysian fields, wandering amids the spirits and ghosts of departed souls, than I, if there we two may jest and stalk among the shadowed friths and forests huge, beset with Myrtle trees, odoriferous and sweet? that there we may at large recount and sing the sweet & sour pangs of those our passed loves without any stay or let at all: that there I say we may remember things already done, rejoicing for delights and sighing for the pains. There shall no hard hearted Scipio be found, there shall no marble minded captain rest, which have not had regard of loves toys, ne yet have pitied my bitter pains, by having no experiece what is the force of love. He then with over cruel words shall not go about to persuade me to forsake thee, or to deliver thee into the Romans hands, to incur miserable and 〈◊〉 cruel bondage: he shall there never check me for the servant love I bear thee: we shall there abide without suspicion of him or any other: they can not separate us, they be not able to divide our sweetest company. I would the Gods above had granted me the benefit, that he had never arrived into Africa, but had still remained in Sicilia, in Italy or Spain. But what stand I upon these terms, O I fool and beast? what means my drowsy head to dream such fancies? if he had not passed over into Africa, & made war against king Syphax, how should I have ever seen my fair Sophonisba, whose beauty far surmounteth each other wight, whose comeliness is without peer, whose grace inspeakable, whose manners rare and incomparable, and whose other qualities generally disparkled throughout dame Nature's mould by speech of man can not be described? If Scipio had not transfraited the seas to arrive in Afrique soil, how should I, (O only hope and last refuge of my desires) have known thee, neither should I have been thy fear, ne yet my wife thou shouldest have been, but great had been thy gain and loss not much, never shouldest thou have felt the present painful state, wherein thou art thy life (whereof most worthy no doubt thou art) should not have lain in balance poise, or rested in doubtful plight, which now in choice of enemies thrall thou mayst prolong, or else in Romans hands a pray or spoil by captive state. But I beseech the Gods to prevent the choice to be a Roman prisoner. And who can think that Scipio ever meant to grant me the life of one, & goeth about to spoil me of the same? Did not he give me the pardon of one, when he sent me to besiege the City of Cirta, where I found fair Sophonisba which is my life? A strange kind of pardon, by giving me a pardon to dispossess me of that same. Who ever hard tell of such a pardon? So much as if he said to me, thus: Massinissa,) go take the pain to cause that City yield, or ransack the same by force, & I will pardon thee thy life, & not with that only benefit, but with Croesus' goods will enrich thee, & make she owner of the happy soil of Arrabia, & when I have so done & razed the walls by mine endeavour, wherein mine only life and joy did rest, at my return for guerdon of my noble fact, in steed of life he choppeth of my head, and for fair promise of golden mounts, he strips me naked, and makes me a Roman slave. According to which case and state he deals with me. For what avails my life, if in grief and sorrows 〈◊〉 I drown the pleasures of the same? Doth not he bereave my life and breeds my death by dividing me from my fair Sophonisba? Ah Caitiff wretch what luck have I, that neither storm nor whirl wind could send him home to Italian shore, or set him packing to Sicily land? What meant cruel Scipio, when so soon as Syphax was taken, he did not straight way dispatch him to Rome, to present the glorious sight of the Numidian king to that Roman people? If Scipio had not been here, thou Sophonisba frankly hadst been mine: for at Laelius hands I could have found some grace. But surely if Scipio did once see Sophonisba, & reclined his eyes to view her peerless beauty, I doubt not but he would be moved to have compassion upon her and me, and would have judged her worthy not only to be Queen of Numidia but of all the province beside. But what? do I make this good account? The common proverb saith, that he which counteth without his host, must reckon twice: and so perhaps may be my lot. For what know I if Scipio did well view her, whether he himself would be enamoured of her or not, & so utterly deprive me of that jewel? He is a man no doubt as others be, and it is impossible me think, but that the hardness of his heart must bow to the view of such a noble beauty. But (beast as I am) what mean these words? What follies do I vaunt by singing to the deaf, and teaching of the blind? O wretch, wretch, nay more than miserable wretch. Mark the words of Scipio, he demandeth Sophonisba, as a thing belonging unto him, for which cause he sayeth that she is the pray & part of the Roman spoil. But what shall I 〈◊〉? shall I give her unto him? He 〈◊〉 have her, he 〈◊〉 me, he exhorteth me, he prays me, but I know full well 〈◊〉 those entreaties tend, & under the grass what linking Serpent lieth. Shall I then put into his hands mine own 〈◊〉. But before I so 〈◊〉, the 〈◊〉 God above, with his flashing fires & 〈◊〉 brands shall thunder me down into the depth of Hell. The gaping ground receive my corpse, before I yield to that request, the trampling steeds of savage kind do tear my membres in thousand gobbets, the desert beasts consume my flesh, the 〈◊〉 gripes and 〈◊〉 kites, pick out my tongue and eyes, before I glut his 〈◊〉 mind with that demand to break the 〈◊〉 which by holy oath I have promised to perform. Oh 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, but what shall I do then? It behoveth to obey, & in despite of my teeth to do that which the Roman Emperor commandeth. Alas, by thinking upon that strait and needful lot, I die a thousand deaths: wherefore of evils to 〈◊〉 the least of twain, and to preserve my plighted faith, O sweet Sophonisba, thou must die, and by means of thy beloved fear, shalt void the yoke of Romans thrall: for so it pleaseth unmindful jova to appoint. The wretched heavens by cruel fate have thrown their lot, that I of mine own mischief shall be the minister. And so (O life most dear) I shall perform the 〈◊〉 to keep the faith which last of all before thy face I did confirm. By this speech and manner of talk, the good Prince bewailed his case, excogitating by what means he might do to death the thing which above all the world he loved best. At length it came unto his mind to send her a draft of poisoned drink, which devise he had no sooner invented, but he was drive into a new kind of fury, and kindled with disdain, his 〈◊〉 were on fire with extreme madness, & as though 〈◊〉 had been before him, he 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉 in Bedlemwise, sometimes 〈◊〉 taunts he checked her to her 〈◊〉, sometimes lamented her unfortunate state; sometimes with paws displayed, he seemed to ramp into her 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 then again into amorous toys his passions drove him 〈◊〉, When I do think what kind of man Massinissa was, who in deed was a 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉 noble king, 〈◊〉 who with such Prndence governed his new 〈◊〉 recovered kingdoms, & so constantly persevered 〈◊〉 of the Roman people, I pray to God to 〈◊〉 my friends & myself also, not to enter into so 〈◊〉 and lovesonie Labyrinth, wherein this noble Prince was tangled, and with more 〈◊〉 to govern our beloved things.  
But returning again to this afflicted gentleman Massinissa. He sent unto his beloved wife and Queen a pot of 〈◊〉 to rid her of her life: but yet staying his messenger, he cried out these words: God forbidden that I should commit this infamous murder upon her whome I most dearly love, I would: rather 〈◊〉 her into the extreme parts of the unknown and sandy coast of Lybia, where the Cauntrie is full of venomous beasts & crawling poisoned serpents, in which place we shallbe safe and sure from the danger of cruel & inexorable Scipio, by which means he shall never see the rare & divine beauty, which the Serpents once beholding, will mitigate & assuage their bitter poison; & for whose sake they will not annoy ne yet hurt me her loving husband & companion. Wherefore let us make haste to flee thither, to 〈◊〉 the bondage and death prepared for us. And if so be we be not able to carry with us gold and silver, yet shall we not want there some relief to maintain our lines? for better it is to feed on bread and water, then to live in perpetual thraldom, And living with thee (sweet wife) what 〈◊〉 & beg gery am not I able to sustain? The 〈◊〉 of exile and 〈◊〉, I have already suffered. For being driven out of iny kingdom many times, I have repaired to obscure dens and caves, where I have hidden myself, and lined in the wilderness among the Sanage beasts. But what mean I thus to say of myself, whom no misadventure can affray or mislike? but thou dear wife which hast been trained up and nourished amongs the delicacies & banquets of the Court, 〈◊〉 with trains of many fair & noble ladies, living like a Queen in all kind of pleasures & delights: what shall I do with thee? I know thy heart will not suffer thee to follow me, and yet if the same would serve thee, from whence shall I procure present shipping? Upon the sea the Roman fleet bears the swinge, upon that land Scipio with his army occupieth every coast, & is general lord of the field. What then shall I most miserable and infortunate caitiff do? For whilst I am thus making my bitter complaints, the night is passed away, day light approacheth, and the bright shining morning beginneth to clear the earth. And behold, yonder cometh the generals messenger for Sophonisba, whom I must either deliver into his hands, or else commit her to present slaughter, being assured that she had rather make choice to die, than fall into the laps of the cruel Romans.  
Whereupon he determined to send her the poison, and for very sorrow fell down upon the ground like a man half dead. Afterwards being come again to himself, he cursed the earth, the air, the sire, heaven, hell, and all the Gods of the same, and exclaiming in lamentable wise he called unto him one of his most faithful servants, who according to the custom of those days, always kept poison in store, and said unto him: Receine this cup of gold, and deliver the same with the poison therein, to the Queen Sophonisba now abiding within the City of Cirta, and tell her that I with greatest good will would fain have kept the marriage knot, and the first faith which I plighted unto her, but the lord of the field, in whose power I am, hath utterly forbidden the same. I have assayed all possible means to preserve her my wife and Queen at liberty, but he which commandeth me, hath pronounced such hard & cruel sentence, as I am forced to offend myself, and to be the minister of mine own mischief. This poison I send her with so doleful message, as my poor heart God knoweth) doth only 〈◊〉 the smart being the most sorrowful present that ever was offered to any fair Lady. This is the way alone to save her from the Romans hands. Pray her to consider the worthiness of her father, the dignity of her country, & the royal majesty of the. 〈◊〉. Kings her husbands, and to do as her mind and will shall fancy best. Get thee hence with all possible speed, and lose no time in doing this thy message. For thou shalt carry the bane and present death of the fairest Lady that ever Nature framed within her fairest mould. The servant with this commandment 〈◊〉 part, and Massinissa like a child beaten with the rod, wept and cried behind. The messenger being come to the Queen, and giving her the cup with the poison, declared his cruel embassage. The Queen took the poisoned cup, and said unto the messenger: Give the king thy master right humble thanks in my behalf, and say unto him, that I receive and drink this poison with a will so good, as if he had commanded me to enter in triumph with Laurel garland over mine enemies. For a better gift a husband can not give to wife, than accomplishment of assured faith, the funerals whereof shall be done with present obsequy. And saying nothing else unto the Messenger, she took the cup, and mingling well together the poison within, she unfearfully 〈◊〉 it up. And 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 had drunk the same, she delivered the messenger his cup again, and laid herself upon her bed, commanding her Gentlewomen in comely wise to cover her with clothes, and without lamentation or sign of Feminine mind, she stoutly weighted for approaching death. The Gentlewomen which waited upon her, bewaited the rueful state of their 〈◊〉 esse, whose plaints and schriches were heard throughout the palace, whereof the brute and rumour was great. But the good Queen vanquished with the strong force of the poison, remained not long before she died. The Messenger returned these heavy news unto Massinissa, who sorrowfully complained the loss of his beloved wife, in such wise, as many times he was like to kill himself, that his soul might have accompanied the ghost of her, which was beloved of him above all the dearest things of the world. The valiant and wise captain Scipio understanding hereof, to the intent Massinissa should not commit any cruelty against himself, or perpetrate other uncomely deed, called him before him, and comforted him with the sweetest words he could devise, and friendly reproved him for the little faith and trust that he had in him. The next day in the 〈◊〉 of all the arinie he highly commended him, and rewarded him with the Kingdom of Numidia; giving him many rich jewels and treasures, and brought him in great estimation amongs that Romans, which the Senate and people of Rome; very well approned and confirmed with most ample privileges, attributing unto him the title of King of Numidia, and friend of the Romans. Such was the end of the unhappy love of king 〈◊〉, and the fair and unlucky Queen Sophonisba.   

Poris and Theoxena  
¶ The cruelty of a King of 〈◊〉, who forced a Gentlewoman called THEOXENA, to persuade her children to kill and poison themselves: after which fact, she and her husband PORIS, ended their life by drowning.  
The. viii. Novel.  
BUt sith we have begun to treat of the stoutness of certain noble Queens, I will not let also to recite the History of a like unfearful dame of Thessalian land, called Theoxena; of right noble race, the daughter of Herodicus prince of that country in the time that Philip the son of Demetrius was king of Macedon, told also by Titus Livius, as two of the former be. This lady Theoxena, first was a notable example of 〈◊〉 & virtue, & afterwards of rigorous cruelty. For the said King Philip, having through his wickedness first murdered Herodicus, and by succession of time cruelly done to death also, the husbands of Theoxena and of Archo her natural sister, unto either of them being widows remaining a son: afterwards Archo being married again to one of the principal of their country named Poris, of him she had many children. But when she was dead, that said lady Theoxena her sister, who was of heart more constant and stout than the other, still refused the second marriage, although sued unto by many great lords and princes, at length pitying her nephews state, for scare they should fall into the hands of some cruel stepdame, or that their father would not bring them up with such diligence, as till that time they were, was contented to be espoused again to Poris, (no law that time known to defend the same) to the intent she might train up her sister's children as her own. That done she began (as if they were her own) to entreat and use them lovingly, with great care and 〈◊〉: whereby it 〈◊〉 appeared, that she was not 〈◊〉 again to Poris for her own commodity and pleasure, but 〈◊〉 for the wealth and government of those her sister's children. Afterwards Philip king of Macedon, an unquiet Prince, determining to make new wars upon the Romans (than throughout the world famous and 〈◊〉 for their 〈◊〉 fortune) 〈◊〉 not only the chief and noble men, but almost all the ancient inhabi 〈◊〉 of the Cities along the sea coast of Thessalia, and their whole and entire families into Peonia afterwards called Emathia, a country far distant from the sea: giving their voided cities for the Thracians to inhabit, as most proper and faithful for the Romans wars, which he intended to make: and hearing also the 〈◊〉 & maledictions pronounced against him by the banished people, and universally by all other, thought he was in no good surety, if he caused not likewise all the sons of them, whom a little before he had 〈◊〉, to be put to death. Wherefore he commanded them to be taken and holden under good guard inprison, not to do them all to be 〈◊〉 at once, but at times now one and then an other, as 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. Theoxena understanding the 〈◊〉 of this wicked and cruel King, and well remembering the death of her husband, and of him that was husband to her sister, knew well that her son and nephew 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 be demanded, and greatly 〈◊〉 the King's wrath, and the rigour of his Guard, if once they fell into their hands, to defend them from shame and cruelty, suddenly applied her mind unto a strange device. For she durst to say unto her husband their father's face, that sooner 〈◊〉 would kill them with her own hands, if otherwise she could not warrant 〈◊〉, than suffer them to be at the will and power of King Philip. By reason whereof Poris abhorring 〈◊〉 erecrable cruelty, to comfort his wife and to save his children, promised her secretly to transport them from thence, and carried them himself to certain of his faithful friends at Athenes, which done without long delay, he made as though he would go from Thessalonica to Aenias, to be at the 〈◊〉 of certain sacrifices, which yearly at an appointed time was done with great ceremonies to the honour of Aenêas the 〈◊〉 of that city, where spending the time amongs other in solemn banquets, the. iij. watch of the night when every man was a sleep, as though he would have returned home to his country with his wife & children, privily he embarketh himself and them, in a ship hired of purpose to pass into Euboea, and not to 〈◊〉 to Thessalonica. But his intent was clean altered & changed: for his ship was no sooner under sail, but at that instant a contrary wind and tempest rose, that brought him back again, in despite of their labour, and all the endeavour they were able to do. And when day light appeared, the kings garrison descried that ship, and manned out a boat, to bring in the same, which secretly they thought was about to escape away, giving them strait charge, that by no means they should return without her. When the 〈◊〉 drew near the ship, Poris bend himself to encourage the mariners to hoist by sail again, and to make way with their oars into the sea, if it were possible, to avoid the imminent and present danger, to save the life of himself, his wife & children: then he erected his hands up unto the heavens to implore the help and succour of the Gods, which the stout Gentlewoman Theoxena perceiving, and manifestly seeing the danger wherein they were, calling to her mind her former determinate vengeance which she meant to do, and beholding 〈◊〉 in his prayers, she prosecuted her intent, preparing a poisoned drink in a cup, and made ready naked sword: All which bringing forth before the children's face, she spoke these words: Death alone must be the revenge of your siely lives, whereunto there be two ways, poison or the sword. Every of you choose which ye list to have: or of whether of them your heart shall make the frankest choice. The King's cruelty and pride you must avoid. Wherefore dear children be of good 〈◊〉, raise up your noble courage: ye the elder aged boys, show now yourselves like men, and take the sword into your hands to pierce your tender hearts: but if the bloody smart of that most dreadful death, shall fear and fright your green and unripe age, then take the venomed cup, and gulp by sundry draughts, this poisoned drink. Be frank and lusty in this your destenied death, sith the violence of Fortune by sea, doth let the lengthening of your life. I crave this request of choice, and let not the same rebound with fearful refuse of this my craved hest. Your mother afterwards shall pass that strait, whereof she prayeth her babes to be the posts: ye the vaunt couriers, and she, with your loving 〈◊〉, shall end and finish Philip's rage bend against us. When she had spoken these words, and 〈◊〉 the enemies at hand, this courageous dame, the 〈◊〉 of the death, egged & provoked these young 〈◊〉 children (not yet well resolved what to do) with her encharmed words in such wise, as in the end, some drank the poison, and other struck themselves into the body, and by her commandment were thrown over board, not altogether dead, and so she set them at liberty by death, whom tenderly she had brought up. Then she embracing her husband the companion of her death, both did voluntarily throw themselves also into the sea: And when the King's espials were come aboard the ship, they found the same abandoned of their pray. The cruelty of which fact, did so move the common people to detectation and 〈◊〉 of the king, as a general curse was pronounced against him & his children, which heard of the Gods above was afterwards terribly revenged upon his stock & 〈◊〉. This was the end of good Poris and his stout wise Theoxena, who rather than she would fall into the lapse of the King's fury, as her father Herodicus, and her other husband did, chose violently to die with her own hands, and to cause her husband's children and her own, to bereave themselves of life, which although against the loving order of natural course, and therefore that kind of violence to be abhorred, as horrible in itself, yet a declaration of a stout mind, if otherwise she had been able to revenge the same. And what coward heart is that, that dare not upon such extremity, when it seeth the merciless enemy at hand, with shining blade ready bend, to strike the blow, that without remedy must rid the same of breath, specially when it seeth the trembling babe, naturally begotten by his own kind and nature, before the face imploring fathers rescue, what 〈◊〉 heart dare not to offer himself, by singular fight (though one to twenty) either by desperate hardiness to avoid the same, or other annoyance, adventure what he can? which in Christians is admitted as a comely fight, rather than with that pagan dame to do the death itself.  
But now return we to describe a fact that passeth all other forced deeds. For Theoxena was compelled in a manner thus to do of mere constraint to eschew the greater torments of a tyrant's rage, and thought it better by chosen death to change her life, than by violent hands of bloody butchers to be haled to the slaughter. But this Hidrusian dame was weary of her life, not for that she feared loss of life, but desperate to think of Fortune's 〈◊〉 stay: which 〈◊〉 Fortune's darlings would regard in time, they would foresee their slippery hold.   

A Gentlewoman of Hidrusa  
¶ A Strange and marvelous use, which in old time was observed in HIDRUSA, where it was lawful, with the licence of a Magistrate ordained for that purpose, for 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 and woman that list, to kill themselves.  
The ninth Novel.  
BAndello amongs the company of his 〈◊〉, telleth this History: and in his own person speaketh these words. If I should begin to tell those things which I saw in the time that I sailed alongs the levamt seas, very tedious it would be for you to hear, and I in reporting could not tell which way to end, because I saw and heard things right worthy to be remembered. Notwithstanding, for satisfaction of divers that be my friends, I will not stick to rehearse some of them. But first of all one strange custom, which in the Romans time was used in one of the Islands of the sea Aegeum, called Hidrusa, in these days by the travailers called Cea or Zea, and is one of the Islands named Cyclades, whilom full of populous and goodly Cities, as the rumes thereof at this day do declare. There was in old time in that Island a very strange law and ordinance, which many hundred years was very well and perfectly kept and observed. The Law was, that every person inhabitant within the said 〈◊〉, of what sex and condition so ever, being through age, infirmity, or other accidents, weary of their life, might choose that kind of death which liked them best: howbeit it was provided that the party, before the doing of the same, should manifest the cause that moved him thereunto, before the Magistrate elected by the people for that special purpose, which they ordained because they saw that divers persons had voluntarily killed themselves, upon trifling occasions and matters of little importance: according to which law very many men and women, hardily with so merry cheer went to their death, as if they had gone to some banquet or marriage. It chanced that Pompeius Magnus that dreadful Roman, vetwene whom and julius Caesar were fought the greatest battles for superiority that ever were. Pompeius (I say) sailing by the sea Aegeum, arrived at Hidrusa, and there going a land understood of the inhabitants the manner of that law and how the same day a woman of great worship had obtained licence of the Magistrate to poison herself. Pompeius' hearing tell hereof, was driven into great admiration, and thought it very strange, that a woman which all the days of her life had lived in great honour and estimation, should upon light cause or occasion poison herself, sith it was naturally given to each breathing wight, to prolong their living days with the longest thread that Atropos could draw out of dame Nature's web. Where upon he commanded the said matron to be brought before him, whose death for her virtue was generally lamented by the whole country. When the Gentlewoman was before him, and had understanding that she was fully resolved and determined to die, he began by great 〈◊〉 to exhort her, that she should not wilfully 〈◊〉 herself away, upon consideration that she was of lusty years, rich and 〈◊〉 of the whole country: & how great pity it were but she should renew her mind and give herself still to live and remain, till natural course did end and finish her life: howbeit his 〈◊〉 and earnest persuasion could not divert her from her intended purpose. But Pompeius' 〈◊〉 to have her die, ceased not still to 〈◊〉 his former talk with new reasons and stronger arguments. All which she patiently heard with fired 〈◊〉, till at length with clear voice and 〈◊〉 cheer 〈◊〉 answered him in this manner.  
You be greatly deceived (my lord Pompeius) if you do believe that I without very great providence and 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 go about to end my days: for I do know and am 〈◊〉 persuaded, that each creature naturally craveth the prolongation and lengthening of life, & so much abhorreth to die, as the desirous to 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 the poison which I have prepared for consummation of my life. Where upon I have divers times thought, considered and discoursed with myself, and amongs many considerations 〈◊〉 debated in my mind, there came into the same the 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉 change of Fortune, whose whir 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, never 〈◊〉, ne yet remaineth 〈◊〉, It 〈◊〉 daily seen how she doth exalt and advance some man from the lowest and bottomless pit, even to the 〈◊〉 of the high Heavens, endowing him with so much substance as he can desire. An other that was most happy, honoured in this world like a God, unto whom no goods and welfare were wanting, who might well have been called in his life, a three times happy and blessed wight, suddenly from his honour and 〈◊〉 deprived and made a very poor man and beggar. Some man also, that is both rich and lusty, accompanied with a fair wife and goodly children, living in great mirth and joylity, this wicked Lady Fortune, the devourer of all our contentations, depriveth from the inestimable treasure of health, causeth the fair wife to love an other better than her husband, and with 〈◊〉 venomous tooth, biteth the children, that in short space miserable death catcheth them all within his dreadful clutches, whereby he is defrauded of those children, whom after his death he purposed to leave 〈◊〉 his heirs.  
But what mean I to consume time and words in declaration of fortunes unsteady stay, which is more clear than the beams of the Sun, of whom daily a thousand thousand examples be manifest. All histories be full of them. The mighty country of Graecia doth render ample witness wherein so many excellent men were bred and brought up. Who desirous with their finger to touch the highest heaven, were in a moment thrown down: And so many famous Cities, which governed numbers of people, now at this present day we see to be thrall and obedient to thy City of Rome. Of these hurtful and perilous mutations (O noble Pompcius) thy Roman City may be a 〈◊〉 clear glass and Spectacle, and a multitude of thy noble Citizens in time paste and present, may give plentiful witness.  
But to come to the cause of this my death, I say, that finding myself to have lived these many years (by what chance I can not tell) in very great prosperity, in all which time I never did suffer any one myssehappe, but still from good to better, have passed my time until this day: Now fearing the frowning of Lady Fortune's face, and that she will repent her long continued favour, I fear, I say, least the same Fortune should change her style, and begin in the midst of my pleasant life to sprinkle her poisoned bitterness, and make me the 〈◊〉 and Quiver of her sharp and noisome arrows. Wherefore I am now determined by good advise, to rid myself from the captivity of her force, from all her misfortunes, and from the noisome and grievous infirmities, which miserably be incident to us mortal Creatures: And believe me (Pompcius) that many in their aged days have left their life with little honour, who had they been gone in their youth had died famous for ever.  
Wherefore (my Lord Pompeius) that I may not be tedious unto thee, or hinder thine affairs by long discourse, I beseech thee to give me leave to follow my deliberate disposition, that frankly and freely I may be 〈◊〉 of all danger: for the longer the life doth grow, to the greater discommodities it is subject.  
When she had so said, to the great admiration and compassion of all those which were present, with trembling hands and fearful cheer, she quaffed a great cup of poisoned drink, the which she brought with her for that purpose, and within a while after died.  
This was the strange use and order observed in 〈◊〉. Which good counsel of that dame had the noble and valiant captain followed, no doubt he would have been contented to have been brought to order: And then he had not lost that bloody battle achieved against him by julius Cesar at Pharsalia, in Egypt: Then he had not sustained so many overthrows as he did: then had he not been forsaken of his trendes, and in the end endured a death so miserable. And for somuch as for the most part 〈◊〉 thereto we have entreated of many tragical and bloody rhaunces, respiring now from those, let us a little touch some medicinable remedies for love, some lessons for government and obedience, some treaties of amorous dames, and haughty 〈◊〉 of Princes, Queens and other persons, to variate the changeable diet, wherewith divers be affected, relishing their stomachs with some more pleasant digestions than they have tasted.   

Faustina the Empress.  
¶ The dishonest Love of 〈◊〉 AUSTINA the Empress, and with what remedy the same love was removed and taken away.  
The tenth Novel.  
TRue and most holy is the sentence, that the lady, gentlewoman, or other wight of Female kind, of what degree or condition soever she be, be she saire, fowl, or ill-favoured, can not be endued with a more precious Pearl or Jewel, than is the 〈◊〉 & pure virtue of honesty: which is of such valour, that it alone without other virtue, is able to render her that 〈◊〉 in her attire, most famous and excellent. Be she more beautiful than Helena, be she mightier than the Amazon, better learned than Sappho, richer than Flora, more loving than Queen Dido, or more noble than the best Empress and Queen of the world, or be she full of any other virtue, if the want the name of chaste, she is not worthy so much as to bear the title of honour, nor to be entertained in honest company. Ye shall peruse hereafter an history of a Countess of Celant, that was a passing fair dame, singularly adorned with Nature's gifts. She was fair, pleasant, 〈◊〉, comely, and 〈◊〉 not altogether barren of good erudition and learning: she could play upon the instruments, 〈◊〉, dance, make and compose witty and amorous Sonnets, and the more her company was frequented, the more amiable and gracious the same was 〈◊〉, But because she was 〈◊〉 fast and less 〈◊〉, she was of no regard and estimation. Such as be dishonest, do not only hurt themselves, but give cause to the 〈◊〉 people to mutter and grudge at their parent's education, at their husbands government and institution of their children, causing them most commonly to lead a 〈◊〉 and heavy life. Think you that Augustus Caefar (albeit he was a victorious Emperor, and led a triumphant reign) lived a contented life when he saw the two juliae, one of them his daughter, the other his Niece, to use themselves like common 〈◊〉 constrained through their shameful 〈◊〉, to pin and close up himself, and to shun the conversation of men, and once in mind to cut his daughter's veins to let cut her lusty blood? Was not he wonted the tears trickling down his Princely face to say, that better it was never to have children & to be dead without them, than to have a fruitful wife & children so disordered? He 〈◊〉 his daughter to be a carrion lump of flesh, full of 〈◊〉 & filthiness. But if I list to speak of woms of this age, from noble to unnoble, from an Emperor's daughter to a plough man's modder, whose lives do frame after julia 〈◊〉 lore, my pen to the stumps would wear, and my hand be wearied with writing. And so likewise it would of numbers now no doubt, that follow the trace of Lucrece 〈◊〉, that 〈◊〉 and chastened contrive the day and nights in pure and godly exercise. But of the naughty sort to speak, (leaving to void offence, such as do flourish in our time) I will not conceal the Empress Messalina, that was wife to the Emperor Claudius, not only unworthy of empress degree, but of the title of woman: who being abused by many, at length arrived to such abominable lust, that not contented with daily adulterous life, would resort to the common stews, where the ruffians and public harlots haunted, for little hire, and there for vilest price with each slave would humble herself: and at night not satisfied, but wearied, would return home to her Palace, not ashamed to disclose herself to any that list to look upon her: And for victory of that beastly game, contended with her like. But not to say so much of her as I find in 〈◊〉 his natural history, in Suetonius, and Cornelius Tacitus, I leave her to herself, because I have made promise to remember the dishonest love for example sake, which I read of Faustina, whose beauty of all Writers is 〈◊〉 to be most excellent, if excellency of good life had thereunto been coupled. She was the daughter and wife of two holy and virtuous Emperors, the one called Antonius Pius, the other Marcus Antonius, This M. Antonius in all virtuous works was perfect and godly, and singularly loved his wife 〈◊〉, and although she was 〈◊〉 to the world, and a 〈◊〉 to the people, yet cared not for the same, such was the passing love he bore unto her. Leave we to speak of her beastly behaviour with the noble sort, without regard unto her most noble husband, and come we to treat of a certain savage kind of lust she had 〈◊〉 one of the Gladratores, which were a certain sort of Gamesters in Rome, which we term to be masters of Defense. She was so far in 〈◊〉 with this Gladiator, that she could not eat, drink, or sleep, ne take any kind of rest. And albeit Faustina was thus unshamefast she thought that the 〈◊〉 disordinate love deserved 〈◊〉, and engendered shame unto the noble house, whereof she came, that she 〈◊〉 the daughter and wife of two famous Emperors, would subdue her state to a man so base: and many times would go to Caieta, a City and haven of Campania, to join herself with the Galie slaves there. Her husband which loved her dearly, comforting his wife so well as he could, caused the best Physicians he could find, to repair unto her for recovery of her health. But all the devised Physic of the world was not able to cure her, she was so lovesick. In the end knowing by long experience the favour and love her husband bare unto her, and knowing that nothing could withdraw his continued mind, she told him, that all the torment and pain 〈◊〉 sustained, was for the love of a Gladiator, towards whom her love was so miserable, that except she had his company, death was she next 〈◊〉 for her disease. The good husband which beyond measure loved his wife, comforted her with so loving words as he could devise, and bade her to be of good cheer, promising he would provide remedy. Afterwards consulting with a wise man, a Chaldee born, opened unto him the effect of his wives disease, & how she was lovesick with such a person one of 〈◊〉 Gamesters of the City, promising great rewards if he could by his secrets, search out redress to save her life. The Chaldee could tell him none other remedy, but that he must cause the Gladiator to be slain, and with the blood of him to anoint the body of the Empress, not beknowing unto her what it was; which done, that he must go to naked bed to her, and do the act of matrimony. Some Historiographers do write, that the Chaldee gave him counsel, that Faustina should drink the blood of the Gladiator, but the most part, that her body was bathed in the same. But how so ever it was, it would have cooled the hottest 〈◊〉 stomach in the world, to be anointed with like 〈◊〉. To conclude the Gladiator was 〈◊〉 and the medicine made and applied to the patient, and the Emperor lay with the Empress, and begat her with child. And immediately she forgot the Gladiator, and never after that tune remembered him. If this medicine 〈◊〉 applied to our carnal loving dames (which God defend) they would not only follow Faustine in forgetfulness, but also would mislike such Physic: and not greatly regard the counsel of such 〈◊〉. By means of this medicine and copulation was the emperor Commodus borne, who rather resembled the Gladiator than his father: In whose breast rested a storehouse of mischief and 〈◊〉, as Herodian and other writers plentifully do write.   

Two Maidens of Carthage.  
¶ CHERA hide a treasure ELISA going about to hang herself, and tying the halter about a beam, found that treasure, and in place thereof left the halter. PHILENE the daughter of CHERA going for that treasure, and busily searching for the same, found the halter, wherewithal for despair she would have hanged herself, but forbidden by ELISA, who by 〈◊〉 espied her, she was restored to part of her loss, leading afterwards a happy and prosperous life.  
The. xj. Novel.  
FOrtune the lady Regent & governess of man's life, so altereth and changeth the state thereof as many times we see the noble born from that great mighty port, wherein they be debased so far, as either infamously their life is spent in the hungry lap of dame penury, or else contrived in the ugly loathsome house of Wantonness, the stepdame of all honesty and virtue. Sometimes we make the unnoble lad that was nooseled in the homely country 〈◊〉, or rude civil shop, attain to that which the only honourable and gentle do aspire: and he again that is ambitious in climbing up the turning wheel, thrown down beneath the brink of 〈◊〉 luck, whelmed in the ditch & pit of black despair. We note also sometimes that the careless wight of Fortune's gifts, hath (unlooked for) his mouth and throat crammed full of promotion and worlds delights. Such is the manner of her fickle stay. When of this History ensuing, giveth some intelligence, by remembering the destinied lucks of. thou poor sorry girls that were left destitute of desired things, both like to fall into despair, and yet both holyen with that they most desired: which in this sort beginneth. In the time that Scipio Affricanus had besleged the City of Carthage, Chera that was a widow (dwelling there) seeing the danger at hand wherein the City stood, and doubting the loss and overthrow of the same, and that the honour of the dames and womankind, could uneths be safe and harmless, determined not to abide the uttermost: and having a good quantity of gold and precious stones, she bestowed the same in a casket, and hide it upon one of the beams of her house, purposing when the stir and danger was past, to return to her house again for those her hidden things. Which done in the habit of a poor woman with her only daughter in her hand that was about. b. or. bf. years of age, she went out of Caithage, and passed over the seas into Scicilia, where falling sick, after she had been there three or four years, at length died. But before she departed, she called her daughter before her, than about. x. years of age, and told her the place where she had 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 casket. And by reason of the 〈◊〉 gotten by Scipio, the city was marvelously changed, and amongs other things, the house of Chera was given to a Roman 〈◊〉 that was so enriched with nobility of mind, as he was poor of Fortune's goods. Which Chera understanding, was sorrowful, and doubted of her things secretly bestowed upon the beam. Whereupon she said unto her daughter, that for so much as their house was in the posfession of an other, she ought to be wise and circumspect in the recovery of her hidden goods: and that her death was the more sorrowful unto her, because she must leave her (so young a maiden) unprovided of friends for her good government. But yet she encouraged her and said: that sith necessity approached, she must in childish age, put on a grave and ancient mind, and beware how she bewrayed that casket to any person, for that of purpose she reserved the knowledge thereof, to herself, that it might serve for her preferment, and procure her a husband worthy of herself. And the maiden demanding the value of the same, she told her that it was worth. CC. 〈◊〉, and gave her in writing the particulars enclosed within the Caskette, and said, that the like bill she should find within the same, written with her own hand. And so the good woman within a while after died, leaving behind her the young maiden her Daughter, that marvelously lantented the death of her mother, accordingly as Nature taught her, and each other reasonable wight deprived from their dearest friends. The maiden for her years was very wise, and would disclose to none what her mother had said, keeping the writing very carefully and 〈◊〉. Not long after Philene (which was the maiden's name) fell in love with a Gentleman of Scicilia of great reputation and authority, who all be it he saw her to be very fair and comely, yet cared not for her love in respect of marriage, for that he knew her to be poor, and without dowry meet for a Gentleman, jesting and mocking to see her fire her mind on him, for desire to have him to her husband, that was a parsonage so noble and rich: which refusal pierced the heart of that tender maiden, because she saw herself forsaken for nothing else, but for want of goods: which made her to think and consider, how she might recover the riches that her mother had laid up in Carthage. It chanced as she was in this thought, that the daughter of him to whom the house of Chera was given, called Elisa, was likewise enamoured of a noble young gentleman in Carthage, who because Elisa was the daughter of a soldier, and not very rich, in like manner laughed & jested at her love, no less than the other did at Philene. Notwithstanding Elisa attempted all means possible to induce the young man to love her, but her practice and attempts tended to none effect. And last of all, desirous to have a resolute answer, and thereby understood, that he would rather die than take her to wife, she fell into despair, and cursed fortune, and her fate, that she was not borne rich enough to match with her chosen Gentleman, and that she being poor, must fall in love with such a parsonage: whereupon she miserably formented herself, still bewailing her unhappy luck, that she could not win him to be her husband, for which only intent and purpose she loved him. And this amorous passion incredibly growing in her, the roots whereof be planted in the restless humour of melancholy, and wanting all hope and comfort to stay that rank and rammishe weed, it so increased in her, as she frantic in raging love, gave herself over to the spoil of hirself: And to rid her from that grief, she determined to kill herself, imagining which way she might do the same. At length she was resolueb, with her father's sword to pierce her body: But her heart not serving her thereunto, devised by the halter to end her life, saying thus to herself: that at lest wise my death shall do me good, because that cruel man shall know that for his sake I have done this fact, and shall perform my funerals with some tears or sighs: And if his heart be not of iron or steel, he can not chose but sorrow and lament, that one which loved him better than her own life, hath made such wretched end only for his cruelty. Elisa concluding upon this intent, prepared a halter: And being alone in her house, in the chamber where the Casket lay upon the beam, placed a stool under the same, and began to tie the halter about the beam: 〈◊〉 doing whereof, she espied the casket, and reached the same unto her, who feeling it to be heavy and weighty, immediately did open it, and found the bill within, which Chera had written with her own hand, agreeable to that which, she had delivered to her daughter, wherein were particularly remembered the Jewels and other riches enclosed within the casket. And disclosing the bags wherein the gold and Jewels were bound up, and seeing the great value of the same, wondered thereat, and joyful for that fortune, hide the rope which she had prepared for her death, in the place where she found the casket, and with great gladness and mirth went unto her father, and showed him what she had found, whereat the father rejoiced no less, than his daughter Elisa did, because he saw himself thereby to be discharged of his former poor life, and like to prove a man of inestimable wealth and substance: and saw like wise that the poor wench his daughter, by the addition of those riches, was like to attain the party whom she loved. When he had taken forth those bags and well 〈◊〉 the value, to the intent no man might suspect the sudden mutation of his state, took his daughter with him, and went to Rome, where after he had remained certain months, he returned to Carthage, and began very gallantly to apparel himself, and to keep a bountiful and liberal house. His table and port was very delicate and sumptuous, and his stable stored with many fair horse, in all points showing himself very noble and rich: By which sudden change and mutation of state, the whole City beléened, that he had brought those riches from Rome. And because it is the common opinion of the vulgar people, that where there is no riches, there is no nobility, and that they alone make the noble and Gentleman (a foolish opinion in deed, proceeding from heads that be rash and light) the people seeing such a port and charge kept by the Soldier, conceived and thought that he was of some noble house. And throughout the whole City great and solemn honour was done unto him: whereupon the young Gentleman, with whom Elisa was in love, began to be ashamed of himself, that he had disdained such a maiden. And then the young maiden seeing her father's house to be in such reputation, made suit to her father, that he would procure the Gentleman to be her husband. But her father willed her in any wise to 〈◊〉 secret her desire, and not to seem herself to be in love, and wisely told her, that more meet it was, that she should be solicited by him, than she to make suit or request for marriage: alleging that the less desirous the Gentleman had been of her, the more dear and better beloved she was to him. And many times when his daughter was demanded to wife, he made answer that Matrimony was a state of no little importance as enduring the whole course of life, and 〈◊〉 ought well to be considered and weighed, before any 〈◊〉 were made. But for all these demands and answers, and all these stops and stays, the maiden was endowed with 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, and in the end her lover and she were married, with so great pleasure and satisfaction of them both, as they 〈◊〉 themselves happy. In the mean time while these things were done at Carthage, Philene in Scicilia took thought how she might recover her goods given to her by her mother, desirous by their means also to sort her earnest and ardcnt love to happy success: And debating with herself (as we have said before) how she might obtain them, because the house was in possession of an other, thought it to be against reason and order, that although she had lost her house, yet that her goods ought to be 〈◊〉 unto her, which were her only maintenance and reputation, and the fittest instruments that should conduct her love to happy end. And hearing tell that the father of Elisa; the possessor of her mother's house lived at Carthage with great royalty and 〈◊〉, thought that if by some sleight & policy she found not means to enter the house without suspicion, her attempt would be in vain: determined therefore to go to Carthage, and to seek service in that house, counterfeiting the kind and habit of a Page. For she considered, that if she went thither in order and apparel of a maiden she should incur the peril of her virginity, and fall into the lapse of divers other dangers: purposed then to go thither in manner of a page and lackey. And when she had in that sort furnished herself, she passed the seas, and arrived at Carthage. And seeking service about the city, at length chanced to be retained in a house that was next neighbour to the Soldier, and because this wench was gentle and of good disposition, was well beloved of her master, who being the friend of Elisa, her father, many times sent unto him divers presents and gifts by Philene, whereupon she began to be acquainted & familiar with the servants of the house, and by her oft repair thither, viewed & marked every corner, and upon a time entered the chamber, wherein her mother Chera told her, that she had bestowed her goods, and looking upon the beams espied by certain signs and tokens, one of them to be the same where the casket lay. And therewithal well satisfied and contented, verily believed that the casket still remained there, and without further business for that time, expected some other season for recovery of the same. In the end, the good behaviour and diligence of Philene, was so liked of Elisa, as her father and she made suit to her master to give her leave to screw them: who because they were his friends, preferred Philene unto them, and became the page of that house. And one day secretly repairing into the chamber, where she thought the treasure lay, mounted upon a stool, and sought the beam for the casket: where she found no casket, but in place 〈◊〉 that lay, the halter, wherewithal Elisa would have strangled herself: And searching all the parts of the chamber and the beams, and finding nothing else but the halter, she was surprised with such incredible sorrow, as she 〈◊〉 like a stock, without spirit, voice or life. After Wards, being come again to hir selves, she began pitifully to lament and complain in this manner: Ah wretched Philene, under what unlucky sign and planet was thou begotten and borne? with what offence were the heavens wrath, when they forced thee to pierce thy mother's womb? Could I poor creature when I was framed within the mould of nature, and fed of my mother's substance within her womb, and afterwards in due time brought forth to light, commit such crime, as to provoke the celestial inpressions to conspire against my Nativity, to bring mine increased age into such wretched state and plight, wherein it is now wrapped and entangled? No no, my fault was nothing, it was parents offence, if any were at all: For many times we see the innocent babe, afflicted and cruciated for the father's guilt. The Gods do punish the posterity, for some sacrilege or notorious crime committed by progenitors. Their manner is not to suffer heinous faults unrevenged. Their justice can not abide such mischief uncorrected for example sake. So fareth it by me. First my father died, afterwards my mother a widow was driven to abandon native soil, and seek relief in foreign land: And leaving that wherewith we were possessed in 〈◊〉 keeping, were forced a simple life to lead among strangers. And my mother, yielding forth her ghost, made me believe that she had hidden great treasures here: And I 〈◊〉 wench thinking to obtain the prey, have wandered in counter 〈◊〉 kind, and fetched many a bitter sigh, until I came into this place: And the thing I hoped for, which might have been the means and end of all my care, is turned to nothing: A casket transformed into a halter, gold and jewels into a piece of rope? Is this the marriage 〈◊〉 thou art like to have to match with him whom thou so dearly 〈◊〉 Is this the knot that shall conjoin you both in yoke of man and wife? Ah wretch and miserable caitiff, the goods thy mother laid up for thee, for maintenance of thy rest, and 〈◊〉 of thine honour, and for the reputation of thy noble house where of thou camest, is nows berieved from thee. They that kéeye this noble house, and bear their lofty port amid the best, have despoiled thee poor wench of that after which thou didst vainly travail. But what remedy now? Sith thy wicked lot doth thus fall out, 〈◊〉 thy cruel fate is loath thou shouldest attain the thing on which thy mind is bend, and sith thy painful life can take no end, make speed to rid thyself from misery by 〈◊〉 means which he hath prepared for thee that hath found thy goods: who seeing his good adventure to be thy bane, his happy prey to be thy spoil, hath left in am of 〈◊〉 sure, a halter, that therewith thou 〈◊〉 dispatch thyself from all thy griefs, and in their unhappy company to cease thy life, that the loathsome lengthening of the same might not increase thy further plaints, sorrows, 〈◊〉 and affliction. And in the place where infortunate 〈◊〉 took her beginning, there the miserable wretch 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 that, which without her desired gain no longer can be maintained. Peradventure it may come to pass as when thy soul is loosed from this mortal charge, it shall stalk by him, by whom it liveth, and by him also whom she thought to joy in greatest contentation, that ever mortal woman did. And thus plaining and sighing her ill fortune, when she had ended those words, she tied the 〈◊〉 ter about the beam, where sometimes her treasure lay, which being done she put the same about her neck, saying: O crooked Lady Fortune that hast thus 〈◊〉 dealt with thine humble client: Ah despair, thou 〈◊〉 wretch and companion of those that be 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, that is unwilling to leave my haunt until thou play the hangman. Ah devil incarnate that goest about to hale & pluck the innocent into thy hellish 〈◊〉. Out upon thee thou deformed hellish dog, that waitest at the 〈◊〉 gate to let them in, which feign would pass an other port. And as she was grinding forth these spiteful words, ready to remove the 〈◊〉 to fetch 〈◊〉 swing, the Gods which would not give consent, that the innocent wench should enter that vile and 〈◊〉 death, moved the 〈◊〉 of Elisa; to pass by the place where she was in working on herself that desperate end: who hearing those 〈◊〉 plaints uttered after such terrible manner, opened the chamber door, and saw that miserable sight: and ignorant of the occasion, moved with pity, ran and 〈◊〉 her from the fact, saying thus unto her: Ah Philou (which was the name that she had given to herself) what folly hath bewitched thy mind? what frenzy hath incharmed thy brain? what hard adventure hath moved thee in this miserable wise, to end thy life? Ah (said Philene) suffer me Elisa, to finish my tormented life, give me liberty to unburden myself from the band of cares that do assail me on every side: Let these hellhoundes that stand here round about me, have their pray for which they gape. Thou moved by compassion, art come hither to stay me from the halter: but in doing so, thou dost me greater wrong, than doth despair, which eggeth me thereunto. Suffer I say, that mine afflictions may take some end, sith cruel fortune willeth it to be so, or rather unhappy fate: For sour death is sweeter in my conceit, than bitter life contrived in sharper sauce thau gall or wormwood. Elisa hearing her speak these words, said: For so much as thy mishap is such, as only death is the nearest remedy to deprive thy pain, what wicked chance hath induced thee, in this house to finish those thy miseries? What hath provoked thee to give such augury to this our most happy and joyful family? Forced is the party (said Philene) so to do, when destiny hath so appointed. What destiny is that demanded Elisa? Tell me I beseech thee, perchance thou mayst prevent the same by other remedy than that whereabout thou goest. No (answered Philene) that is impossible, but to satisfy thy request which so instantly thou cravest of me, I will tell thee the sum of all my misery. In saying so, the tears gushed forth her eyes, & her voice broke out into complaints, & thus began to say: Ah Elisa, why should I seek to prolong my wretched life in this vale of wretchedness, wherein I have been so miserably afflicted? my mother pitying mine estate and seeing me void of friends, & a fatherless child, upon her death bed, disclosed unto me a treasure which she had hidden upon this 〈◊〉, whereunto this halter (the best 〈◊〉 of my misery) 〈◊〉 tied, and I making 〈◊〉 for the same, in place of that treasure found this halter, ordained 〈◊〉 I suppose (by what misfortune I know not) for my death: and where I thought among 〈◊〉 happy to be the most happy, I see myself amongs all 〈◊〉 women to be the most unfortunate; 〈◊〉 hearing her say so, greatly 〈◊〉 & said: Why then I 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 a woman and not a 〈◊〉. 〈◊〉 truly answered the 〈◊〉 maiden: A singular example of extreme misery to all sorts of women. And why so? demanded Elisa. Because (answered 〈◊〉) that the pestilent planet under which I was 〈◊〉, will have it to be 〈◊〉: and then she told her all that which had 〈◊〉 from the time of her mother's departure out of Carthage, and how she went into Scicilia and recounted 〈◊〉 her the love that she bore to a Scicilia Gentleman, and how that he 〈◊〉 her for her poverty, refused to be her husband: whereupon to achieve her desire, as loath to forego him, was come in manner 〈◊〉 page to 〈◊〉, to recover the 〈◊〉 which her mother had hidden there, to 〈◊〉 she might obtain (if not by other means) with some rich dowry, the young Gentleman to husband whom she so dearly loved. And then reenforcing her complaint, she said, that 〈◊〉 Fortune had 〈◊〉 her of that which might have accomplished her desire, resting no cause why she should any longer live, the halter was prepared for her to end her days, and to rid her life from troubles. And therefore she prayed her to be contented, that she might make that end which her misadventure and wicked fortune had predestinate. I doubt not but there be many, which understading that the treasure did belong to Philene, if they had 〈◊〉 the like as Elisa did, would not only not have forbidden her the death, but also by speedy méanes have 〈◊〉 the same, for so much as by that occasion the hidden treasure should have been out of strife and contention: so great is the force of Covetousness in the mind of man. But good Elisa knew full well the mutability of Fortune in humane things, for so much as she by seeking death, had found the thing which not only delivered her from the same, but made her the best contented woman of the world. And Philene seeking her contentation, in place thereof, and by like occasion, found the thing that would have been the instrument of her death. And moved with very great compassion of the maiden, desired to have better advertisement how that treasure could belong to her. Then Philene showing forth her mother's writing, which particularly remembered the parcels within the casket: and Elisa seeing the same to be agreeable to the hand wherewith the other was written, that was found in the casket, was assured that all the gold and jewels which she had found, did belong unto 〈◊〉, and said unto herself: The Gods defend that I should prepare the halter for the death of this innocent wench, whose substance hath yielded unto me so great contentation. And comforting the maiden, in the end she said: Be contented Philene, and give over this thy desperate determination, for both thy life shall be prolonged, and thy discontented mind appeased, hoping thou shalt receive the comfort thou desirest. And with those words she loosed the halter from her neck, and taking her by the hand, brought her to the place where her father and husband were, and did them to understand the force & terms whereunto the fire of love and desperation had brought that amorous maiden, telling them that all the treasure and jewels which she had found (where she left the halter, and wherewith Philene was minded to hang herself) did by good right and reason belong to her: then she did let them see the counterpane of that bill which was in the 〈◊〉, in all points agreeable thereunto, declaring moreover, that very meet and reasonable it were, like 〈◊〉 should be used unto her, as by whom they had received so great honour & contentation. Her husband which was a Carthaginian borne, very churlish and covetous, albeit by conferring the writings together, he knew the matter to be true and that Philene ought to be the possessor thereof, yet by no means would agree unto his wine's request, but fell into a rage, calling her fool and 〈◊〉, and saying that he had rather that she 〈◊〉 been a thousand times hanged, than he would give her one penny: and although she had saved her life, yet she ought to be banished the City, forsomuch as the same and all the 〈◊〉 thereof was brought into the Romans hands, and amongs the same her mother's house, and all her goods in possession of the victors, and every part thereof at their disposition & pleasure. And moreover, for so much as her mother and she had departed Carthage, and would not abide the hazard and extremity of their country as other Citizens did, and having concealed and hidden those Riches which ought to have been brought forth for the common defence of their country, and gone out of the city as though she had been a poor simple woman, poorly therefore she ought to live in Scicilia, whither she was fled. Wherefore he was of opinion, that she in this manner being departed when the city had greatest need of her help, was disfranchised of all the rights and customs of the country, and that like as a stranger can recover nothing in that city, except he have the privilege and freedom of the same, even so Philene (for the considerations before said) ought to be counted for a stranger, & not to participate any thing within the city, accordingly as the laws forbidden. When he had so said he was like by force to 〈◊〉 the sorrowful maiden out of the house. These words greatly grieved Philene, who doubted lest his father in law would have joined 〈◊〉 him, and agree unto his alleged reasons, which seemed to be of great importance and effect: and therefore thought newly to return to the halter for 〈◊〉 of 〈◊〉 griefs: but it otherwise chanced, for the father of Elisa, which was a Roman borne, and affected with a Roman mind, and therefore of a gentle and well disposed nature, knew full well, that although the house was given unto him by the consent of Scipio, and other the captains, yet he knew that their pleasure was not to 〈◊〉 on him the treasure hidden in the same, and therefore aught to be restored to the true owner, or else 〈◊〉 and properly due to the Roman 〈◊〉, or common treasure house of the same. And albeit that it was true that her mother went out of Carthage, in the time of the siege, and therefore had forfeited the same, yet he determined to show some 〈◊〉 unto the young maiden, and to be thankful to fortune, for the benefit which by her means he had received, thinking that she would be displeased with him, if he with ungrateful mind or dishonourable intent should receive her gifts. For in those days the Romans highly reverenced lady Fortune, and in her honour had directed Temples, and dedicated Altars, and in prosperous time and happy adventures, they 〈◊〉 vows, and did sacrifices unto her, thinking although supersticously) that like as from God there proceeded none evil, even so from him all goodness was derived that all felicity and other good haps, which chanced upon the Roman common wealth, proceeded from Fortune, as the fountain and most principal occasion, and that they which would not confess her force, and be thankful unto her godhead, incurred in the end her displeasure and dangers very great and heinous. This Roman then having this opinion, being (as I said before) of a gentle 〈◊〉 would at one instant both render thanks to Fortune, and use courtesy unto that maiden, by 〈◊〉 ches and goods from low degree he was advanced to honourable state. Wherefore turning his face unto her, with loving countenance he spoke these words: Kite gentle damosel, albeit by the reasons alleged by my son in law, none of the treasure hidden by thy mother, and found by my daughter in this house, of right 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 to thee, yet I will that thou shalt understand my courtesy, and that thou see how the Romans do more esteem the nobility of their mind, than all the riches of the world. Therefore that thou mayst enjoy thy love, I refer unto thee and to thy disposition all the goods and jewels that were in the Caskette, and contained in thy writing. Behold therefore (causing the Casket to 〈◊〉 brought unto him) all the jewels and other parcels that were in the same when they were found, take so much thereof as thou wilt, and if so be thou desire the whole, willingly I render the same unto thee, 〈◊〉 by means of those riches, and the industry of my traffic, I have gained so much, as having given a convenient dowry unto my daughter, I can honourably line without it. Philene seeing the 〈◊〉 of this valiant Gentleman, 〈◊〉 him infinite thanks, and then said unto him: Sir, I for my part dare ask nothing, well knowing that if you give me nothing, there is no cause why I should complain of you, but of my hard and wicked fortune, which hath offered and given that to you, which ought to have been mine. Wherefore, sith your courtesy is such, as you refer the whole to me, I purpose to take nothing, but will that the whole shallbe in your disposition: and give me what you list, & that so given of your liberality, I shall more thankfully receive, than if debt or duty did constrain it: And if it shall please you to give me nothing, my heart shall be 〈◊〉 well appeased, for that your courteous, as rather would I choose to live in the poor estate wherein I am, than be rich with your displeasure. Howbeit, the Roman entreated Philene to take thereof what she thought good: And Philene craved no more than it pleased 〈◊〉 to give. Cyther of them standing upon these terms, Elisa broke the strife, who knowing the force of love, and the griefs incident to his clients, of her own harms, moved to have compassion upon the afflicted, turned towards her father, and 〈◊〉 unto him: Right loving father, the contention between Philene and you, is risen of a matter which came by me. The treasure for which you strive, and commit to the will of Philene, was found by me, whereof if it please you both, I will take such order, as both you shall be satisfied. I am contented said her father: and I likewise answered Philene. Then said Elisa: You father hitherto have had but one daughter, which am I, unto whom like a child and loving daughter I have been obedient, and shallbe all the days of my life: And I again have received from you such fatherly education, as your ability and state required. This treasure I sound, and gave to you for case and comfort of us both. To me it yielded the only delectation of my heart in choice of husband, to you honour and 〈◊〉 within this city. Wherefore, sith the principal came from me, and the right resteth in this careful maiden, my desire is this, that where before you had but one daughter, you will adopte this maiden for an other, and think that you have twain, and that you will entreat Philene in like sort as if she were my 〈◊〉: And where this inheritance and renenue wherewith now you be possessed, and this casket also ought to be only mine aster your decease, for that you have no sons, nor other issue, my desire is that you give unto her the half, and that you accept her for your daughter, as I do mean to take her for my sister: and accordingly to use her during 〈◊〉. With these words Elisa embraced Philene, and lovingly did kiss her, saying unto her: For my sister I entertain thee Philene, and then she took her by the hand, and 〈◊〉 her unto her father with these words: Behold father; your new daughter, whom I beseech you so hearty to love, as you do Elisa your natural child. The father praised the courtesy of Elisa, and received Philene for his daughter: And was contented with the arbitrement of his daughter. But Elisa perceiving her husband to be somewhat offended therewith, specially for that the same should be 〈◊〉 into two parts, which was like to have been his wholly before, persuaded him by gentle means to be content with that agreement: and although at the first he could not well brook the liberality of his wife, yet at length viewing the good behaviour and gentle disposition of Philene, and the contented mind of his father in law, together with the noble nature of his wife, and her wise advertisement of Fortune's fickle assurance, yielded, and acknowledged Philene for his 〈◊〉. And so Philene put in possession of the half of those goods, whereof she was altogether out of hope, was well satisfied, and had the Roman for her 〈◊〉, Elisa for her sister, and her husband for her kinsman. That 〈◊〉 Roman was so careful over Philene, as if she had been his own daughter, and so endeavoured, as he brought to pass that she obtained her beloved Sicilian to husband: who also 〈◊〉 for him to Carthage, where he continued with his wife in the Romans house, and loved them both so dearly as though he had been father to the one, and father in law to the other.  
In this manner these two poor wenches attained their two husbands, for having of whom, their only care was for Riches, and for lack thereof were driven to despair. And in the end both (though 〈◊〉, and the one more fortunate than the other) recovered riches, and with the same their husbands, to their hearts singular joy and contentation. Which luck I 〈◊〉 to all other poor Girls (but not hanging ripe, or loving in despair) that bend their minds on Marriage, and seek to people by that estate, their country common wealth.  
But leaving for a time these Tragical Novels and heavy chances, we purpose to remember some moral matters right worthy of remembrance, Letters they be from a godly pagan clerk, the famous philosopher Plutarch, Schoolmaster to an Emperor of no less virtue, than his masters school and mind was 〈◊〉 with divine precepts. Wherefore proceed (good reader) to continue thy pains upon the reading of these, so well as thou hast 〈◊〉 to employ thy time before. They shall no less delight thee, if virtue brook thee, they shall no less content thee, if duty please thee, than any delight some thing, whereupon (at any time) thou hast employed thy vacant time.   

Letters of the Emperor Trajan.  
¶ Letters of the Philosopher Plutarch to the noble and virtuous Emperor Trajan, and from the said Emperor to Plutarch: the like also from the said Emperor to the Senate of Rome. In all which be contained godly rules for government of Princes, obedience of Subjects, and their duties to Common wealth.  
The. xiii. Novel.  
Because these Letters ensuing (proceeding from that infallible school of wisdom, and practised by an apt Scholar of the same, by a noble Emperor that was well trained up by a famous Philosopher) in mine opinion deserve a place of Record among our English 〈◊〉, and for the wholesome erudition, aught to 〈◊〉 in English shape to be described, I have thought good in this place to introduce the same. And although to some it shall not per 〈◊〉 seem fit and convenient to mingle holy with profane (according to the proverb) to intermeddle amongs pleasant histories, earnest epistles, amid amorous Novels, learned Letters: yet not to care for report or thought of such findefaults, I judge them not 〈◊〉, the course of those histories. For amid the divine works of Philosophers and Orators, amongs the pleasant pains of ancient Poets, and the Novel writers of our time, merry verses so well as moral matters 〈◊〉 mingled, 〈◊〉 banquets so well as wise disputations celebrated, taunting & 〈◊〉 orations so well as 〈◊〉 declamations & persuasions pronounced. These Letters contain many grave & wholesome documents, sundry virtuous and chosen Institutions for Princes & noble men yea and for such as bear office & preferment in common 〈◊〉, from highest title to 〈◊〉 degree. These letters do vouch the rejoice of a schoolmaster, for bringing up a scholar of capacity and aptness, to embrace & fire in 〈◊〉 such lessons as he taught him. These letters do gratulate and remember the joy of the disciple for having such a master. These Letters do 〈◊〉 the mind of a 〈◊〉 Prince towards his subjects for choice of him to the Empire, & for that they had respect rather to the virtue and condition, than to the nobility or other extreme accident. To be short, these letters speak and pronounce the very humbleness & 〈◊〉 that ought to rest in subjects hearts: with a thousand other excellent sentences of duties. So that if the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 had been 〈◊〉 again to peruse these letters and 〈◊〉 of congratulation between the schoolmaster and scholar, he would no less have rejoiced in Plutarch, than King Philip of Macedon did of Aristotle, 〈◊〉 he affirmed himself to be happy, not so much for having such a son as Alexander was, as for that he was 〈◊〉 in such a time, as 〈◊〉 brought 〈◊〉 to be his 〈◊〉. That good emperor 〈◊〉, she wed a pattern to his 〈◊〉 by his good virtuous life & godly government, which made a successor & a people of no less consequence than they were trained, accordingly as Herodian 〈◊〉, That for the most part the people be wont to imitate the life of their Prince & sovereign Lord. If Philip 〈◊〉 himself 〈◊〉 & blessed for having such a son and 〈◊〉, then might Nerua term himself 〈◊〉 times more happy for such a nephew & such a notable 〈◊〉 master as Plutarch was, who not only by doctrine, but by practice proved a passing good scholar. Alexander was a good scholar, & for the time well practised his masters lessons, but afterwards as glory & good hap accompanied his noble disposition, so did he degenerate from former life, and had quite forgotten what he had learned, as the second Novel of this book more at large declareth. But trajan of a toward scholar, proved such an Emperor and victor over himself, as schooling and ruling were in him mixaculous, a surmounting Paragon of piety and virtue: wherefore not to stay thee, from the perusing of those Letters, the right image of himself: thus beginneth Plutarch to write unto his famous scholar Trajan.  
A Letter of the philosopher Plutarch to the Emperor Trajan, Wherein is touched how governors of Common wealths ought to be prodigal in deeds & spare in words.  
MY most dread and sovereign Lord, albeit of long time I have known the modesty of your mind, yet neither I nor other 〈◊〉 man did ever know that you aspired to that, which many men desire, which is to be Emperor of Rome: That man should withdraw himself from honour, it were clean without the bounds of wisdom: but not to licence the heart to desire the same, that truly is a work divine, and not proceeding of humane nature. For he doth indifferently well, that represseth the works which his hands be able to do, without staying upon his own desires, and for good consideration we may term thine Empire to be very happy, sith thou hast so nobly demeaned thyself to deserve the same without search and seeing industrious policy to attain thereunto. I have known within the city of Rome many great personages, which were not so much honoured for the offices which they had as they were for the means & devices which they sought and endeavoured to be advanced to the same. May it please you to understand (most excellent Prince) that the honour of a virtuous man doth not consist in the office, which he presently hath, but rather in the merits which he had before: In such wise, as it is the office that honoureth the party, & to the officer there resteth but a painful charge. By means whereof, when I remember that I was your governor from your youth, and instructed your virtuous mind in letters, I can not choose but very much rejoice, so well for your sovereign virtue, as for your majesties good fortune, deeming it to be a great happiness unto me, that in my time Rome had him to be their sovereign lord, whom I had in times past to be my scholar. The principalities of Kingdoms some win by force, and maintain them by arms, which you ought not to do, nor yet conceive such opinion of yourself, but rather to think that the Empire which you govern by universal consent, ye ought to entertain and rule with general justice. And therefore if you love and reverence the Gods, if you be patient in travels, ware in dangers, courteous to your people, gentle to strangers, and not 〈◊〉 of treasure, nor lover of your own desires: you shall make your fame immortal, and govern the common wealth in sovereign peace. That you be not a lover of your own desires, I speak it not without cause. For there is no worse government than that which is ruled by selfewill and private opinion. For as he that governeth a comen wealth ought to live in fear of all men, even so much more in fear of himself: in so much as he may commit greater error, by doing that which his own lust commaunbeth, than if he were ruled by the counsel of other. Assure you sir, that you can not hurt yourself, and much less prejudice us your subjects, if you do correct yourself before you chastise others, esteeming that to be a right good government, to be prodigal in works, and spare of speech. Assay then to be such a one now, that you do command, as you were when you were commanded. For otherwise it would little avail to do things for deserving of the empire, if afterwards your deeds be contrary to your deserts. To come to honour it is a human work, but to concern honour it is a thing 〈◊〉. Take heed then, (most excellent Trajan) that you do remember and still revolve in mind, that as you be a Prince supreme, so to apply yourself to be a passing ruler. For there is no authority amongs men so high; but that the Gods above be judges of their thoughts, and men beneath beholders of their deeds. 〈◊〉 presently you are a mighty Prince, your duty is the greater to be good, and 〈◊〉 less to be wicked, than when you were a private man. For having gotten authority 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 your liberty is the less to be idle: so that if you be not 〈◊〉 a one as the common people have 〈◊〉, & such again as your master Plutarch desireth, you shall put yourself in great danger, and mine enemies will seek means to be revenged on me, knowing well that for the scholars fault, the master 〈◊〉 suffereth wrong, by 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 imputed unto him (although wrongful) for the 〈◊〉. And for so much as I have been thy master, and thou my scholar, thou must 〈◊〉 by well doing, to render me some honour. And likewise if thou do evil, great infamy shall light on me, 〈◊〉 as it did to Seneca for Nero his cause, whose cruelties done in Rome were 〈◊〉 to his master Seneca Thelike wrong was done to the Philosopher Chilo, by being burdened with the negligent nurture of his Scholar Leander: They truly were famous personages and great learned men, in whom the government of mighty Princes was reposed. notwithstanding, for not correcting them in their youth, nor teaching them with careful diligence, they blotted for evermore their renovine, as the cause of the destruction of divers common wealths. And forsomuch as my pen spared none in times pass, be well assured Trajan, that the same will pardon neither thee nor me, in time to come. For as we be confederate in the fault, even so we shall be heirs of the pain. Thou knowest well what lessons I have taught thee in thy youth, what counsel I have 〈◊〉 thee, being come to the state of man, and what I have written to thee, 〈◊〉 thou hast been Prince, and thou thyself art record of the words said unto thee in secret. In all which I never persuaded thing but tended to the service of the Gods, profit of the common wealth, and increase of thy renown. Wherefore, I am right sure, that for any thing which I have written, said, or persuaded, I fear not the punishment of the Gods, and much less the reproachful shame of men, verily believing that all that which I could say in secret, might without reproach be openly published in Rome. Now before I took my pen in hand to write this Letter, I examined ned my life, to know, if (during the time that I had charge of thee) I did or said in thy presence any thing that might provoke thee to evil example. And truly (〈◊〉 for me to say it) upon that search of my forepast life, I never found myself guilty of fact unmeet a Roman Citizen, nor ever spoke 〈◊〉 unseemly for a Philosopher. By means whereof I do right hearty wish, thou 〈◊〉 remember the good education and instruction which thou didst learn of me. I speak not this, that thou shouldest gratific me again with any benefit, but to the end that thou mightest serve thyself, esteeming that no greater pleasure can redound to me, than to hear a good report of thee. Be then well assured, that if an Empire be bestowed upon thee, it was not for that thou were a Citizen of Rome, or a courageous person descended of noble house, rich and mighty, but only because virtues did plentifully abound in thee. I dedicated unto thee certain books of old and ancient common wealth, which if it please thee to use, and as at other times I have said unto thee, thou shalt find me to be a proclaimer of thy famous works, & a thronicler of all thy noble faicts of arms: but if perchance thou follow thine own advise, and change thyself to be other than hitherto thou hast been, presently I invocate and cry out upon the immortal Gods, and this Letter shall be witness, that if any hurt do chance to thee, or to thine Empire, it is not through the counsel or means of thy master Plutarch. And so farewell most noble Prince.  
The answer of the Emperor Trajan to his master Plutarch.  
COcceius Trajan Emperor of Rome, to thee the Philosopher Plutarch sometimes my master, salutation and consolation in the Gods of comfort. In Agrippina was delivered unto me a letter from thee, which so soon as I opened, knew to be written with thine own hand, and indited with thy wisdom. So flowing was the same with góodly words, and accompanied with grave sentences, an occasion that made me read the same twice or thrice, thinking that I saw thee write, and beard thee speak, & so welcome was the same to me, that at that very instant, I caused it to be red at my table, yea and made the same to be fixed at my bed's head, that thy well meaning unto me might be generally known, how much I am bound unto thee. I esteemed for a good presage the congratulation that the Consul Rutulus did unto me from thee, touching my coming to the Empire. I hope through thy merits, that I shall be a good Emperor. Thou sayest in thy letter, that thou canst by no means believe, that I have given bribes, and used other endeavours to redeem mine Empire, as other have done. For answer thereunto I say, that as a man I have dcsired it, but never by solicitation or other means attempted it. For I never saw within the City of Rome, any man to bribe for honour, but for the same, some notable infamy chanced unto him, as for example we may learn of the good old man Menander my friend & thy neighbour, who to be Consul, procured the same by unlawful. means, and therefore in the end was banished and died desperately, The great Caius Caesar, and Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius, 〈◊〉, Galba, Otho, Vitellius, and Domitian, some for getting the Empire, some for tyranny, some for getting the same by bribes, and some by other means procuring the same, lost (by the sufferance of the righteous Gods (not only their honour and goods, but also died miserably. When thou 〈◊〉 read in thy school, and I that time an hearer of thy doctrine, many times heard thee say, that we ought to travel to deserve honour, rather than procure the same, esteeming it unlawful to get honour by means unlawful. He that is without credit, aught to assay to procute credit. He that is without honour, aught to seek honour. But the virtuous man hath no need of nobleness, ne he himself, ne yet any other person can bereave him of due honour. Thou knowest well Plutarch, that the year past, the office of Consul was given to Torquatus, and the 〈◊〉 to Fabritius, who were so virtuous and so little ambitious, as not desirous to receive such charges, absented themselves, although that in Rome, they might have been in great estimation, by reason of those offices, and yet nevertheless without them they be presently esteemed, 〈◊〉, and honoured. And therefore I conceive greater delight in Quintius Lincinatus, in Scipio Affricanus, & good Marcus Portius, for contemning of their offices, than for the victories which they achieved. For victories many times consist in Fortune, and the not caring for honourable charge in only wisdom. Semblably, thou thyself art witness, that when mine uncle Cocceius Nerua was exiled to Capua, he was more 〈◊〉, and better served, than when he was at Rome. Whereby may be inferred, that a virtuous man may be exiled or banished, but honour he shall never want. The Emperor Domitian (if you do remember) at the departure of Nerua, made me many offers, and thee many fair promises, to entertain thee in his house, & to send me into Almaigne, which thou couldst not abide, and much less consent, deeming it to be greater honour with Nerua to be exiled, than of Domitian to be favoured. I swear by the God's immortal, that when the good old man Nerua sent me the ensign of the Empire, I was 〈◊〉 ignorant thereof, and void of hope to attain the same: For I was advertised from the Senate, that Fuluius sued for it, and that Pamphilius went about to buy it. I knew also, that the Consul Dolabella, attempted to enjoy the same. Then sith the gods did permit, that I should be Emperor, and should govern the Empire, and that mine uncle Nerua did command the same, the Senate approved it, and the Common wealth would have it to be so. And sith it was the general consent of all men, and specially your advise, I have great hope that the Gods will be 〈◊〉 unto me, and Fortune no enunie at all, assuring you, that like joy which you do say you have by teaching me, and seeing me to be Emperor, the like I have to think that I was your Scholar. And sith that you will not call me from henceforth any other but Sovereign Lord, I will term you by none other name, than Loving father. And albeit that I have been visited and counseled by many men, since my coming to the Empire, and by thee above the rest, whom above all other I will believe, considering that the intent of those which counsel me, is to draw my mind to theirs, where your letters purport nothing else but mine advantage. I do remember amongs other words, which once you spoke to Maxentius the Secretary of Domitian, thus saying: that they which do presume to give counsel unto Princes, aught to be free from all passions and affections: for in counsel, where the will is more inclined, the mind 〈◊〉 prompt and ready. That a Prince in all things do his will, I praise not. That he take advise and conusell of every man, I less allow. That which ho ought to doc (as me think) is to do by counsel, 〈◊〉 for all that to what counsel he applieth his mind. For counsel ought not to be taken of him whom I do well love, but of him of whom I am beloved. All this I have written (my Master Plutarch) to advertise you, that from henceforth I desire nothing else at your hands, but to be helped with your advise in mine affairs, and to tell me of my committed faults. For if Rome do think me to be a defender of their common wealth, I make account of you to be an overseer of my life. And because that I seem to you sometimes not to béevery thankful, through the default of that whereof you have said your mind, I pray you master not to be displeased therewith. For in such case no grief can rise in me, for telling me my fault, but rather for shame that I have committed the same. The bringing of me up in the house the hearing of thy loctures, the following of thy 〈◊〉, and living under thy discipline, have been truly the principal causes that I am comen to this Empire. This I say (Master) thinking that it were an unnatural part, not to assist me to bear that thing, which thou hast helped me to gain and 〈◊〉. And although that Vespasian was by nature good, yet great profit 〈◊〉 to him by entertaining of the Philosopher Appolonius. For truly it is to be counted a greater felicity, when a Prince hath chanced upon a good and faithful man, to be near about him, than if he had atchicued a great 〈◊〉 and Kingdom. Thou sayest (Plutarch) that thou shalt receive great contentation, from 〈◊〉, if I be such a one as I was before, upon condition that I beware 〈◊〉 worse. I believe that which thou dost say, because the Emperor Nero, was the first five years of his Empire good, and the other nine years exceeding evil, in such wise as he grew to be greater in wickedness, than in dignity. Notwithstanding, if 〈◊〉 shinke that as it chanced unto 〈◊〉, so may happen unto Trajan, I beseech the 〈◊〉 Gods rather to deprive me of life, than to suffer me to reign in Rome. For tyrants be they, which procure dignities and promotions, to use them for delight and filthy 〈◊〉: and good Rulers be they which seek them 〈◊〉 of common wealth. And therefore to them (which before they came to those 〈◊〉) were good, and afterwards warred wicked, greater pity than envy ought to be attributed, considering specially, that Fortune doth not 〈◊〉 them to honour, but to shame and villainy. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 then (good master) that sith hitherto I have 〈◊〉 reputed 〈◊〉, I will 〈◊〉 by God's assistance to aspire the better, rather than to the worse. And so the Gods preserve thee.  
The Letter of the Emperor Trajan to the Senate of Rome, wherein is contained, that Honour ought rather to be deserved than procured.  
COcceius Trajan Emperor of the Romans, ever Augustus, to our sacred Senate health and consolation in the Gods of comfort.  
We being advertised here at Agrippina, of the death of the Emperor Nerua, your 〈◊〉 Lord and my predeccssour, and knowing it to be true, that you have wept and bewailed the loss of a Prince so noble & righteous, as we likewise have felt like sorrow, for the death of so notable a father. When children lose a good father, & subjects a good prince, either they must die with them, or else by tears they think to raise them up again, for so much as good princes be in a common wealth so rare, as the Phoenix in Arabia, My lord Nerua brought me out of Spain to Rome, nourished me up in youth, caused me to be trained in letters & adopted me for his 〈◊〉 in mine old age. Which graces and benefits truly I can not forget, knowing that the ingrate man provoketh the Gods to anger, and men to hatred. The death of a virtuous man ought to be lamented of all men, but the death of a good Prince ought to be extremely mourned. For if a common person die, there is but one dead, but if a good Prince die, together with him dieth a whole realm. I speak this (O ye Fathers) for the rare virtues abounding in mine uncle Nerua: For if the Gods were disposed to sell us the lives of good Princes already departed, it were but a small ransom to redeem them with tears. For what gold or 〈◊〉 may be sufficient to buy the life of a virtuous man? Truly there would be a great mass of money given by the Assyrians to redeem the life of Belus, by the Persians' for Artaxerxes, by the Troyans' for Hector, by the Greeks for Alexander, by the Lacedæmonians for Lycurgus, by the Romans for Augustus, and by the Carthaginians for Annibal. But as you know the Gods have made all things mortal, having reserved only themselves to be immortal. How eminent and passing the virtue of the good is, and what priu ledge the godly have, it may easily be known: for so much, as honour is carried even to the very graves os the dead, but so it is not to the great Palaces of the wicked. The good and virtuous man, without sight or knowledge we love, serve, and answer for him: where the wicked we can not believe that which he sayeth, and less accept in good part the thing which he doth for us. Touching the election of the Empire, it was done by Nerua, it was demanded by the people, approved by you, and accepted by me. Wherefore I pray the immoral Gods that it may be liked of their godheades. For to small purpose availeth the election of Princes, if the Gods do not confirm it: and therefore a man may know him which is chosen by the Gods, or elected by men, for the one shall decline and fall, the other upholden and preserned. The choice of man suddenly exalted doth decline and fall, but that which is planted by the Gods, although it be tossed to and fro with several winds, & receiveth great adversity, and boweth a little, yet he shall be never seen to fall. Ye know right well (most honourable Fathers) that I never demanded the Empire of Nerua my Sovereign Lord, although he brought me up and was his nephew, having heard and well remembering of my Master Plutarch, that honour ought rather to be deserved than procured. Notwithstanding I will not deny that joyful I was when my lord Nerua sent me the ensign of that great and high dignity: but I will also confess that having begun to taste the travails and cares which that Imperial state bringeth, I did repent more than a thousand times for taking upon me the same. For Empire and government is of such quality, that although the honour be great, yet the governor sustaineth very great pain and miserable travail. O how greatly doth he bind himself, which by government bindeth other? for if it be just, they call it cruel, if it be pitiefull, it is contemned, if liberal, it is esteemed prodigal, if he keep or gather together, he is counted covetous, if he be peaccable and quiet, they dame him for a coward, if he be courageous, he is reputed a quarreler, if grave, they will say he is proud, if he be easy to be spoken to, he is thought to be light or simple, if solitary, they will esteem him to be an hypocrite, and if he be joyful, they will term him dissolute: In such wise as they will be contented, and use more better terms to all others what soever, than towards him, which governeth a common wealth. For to such a one they reckon the morsels which he eateth, they measure his paces, they note his words, they take heed to his companies, and judge of his works (many times wrongfully,) they examine and murmur of his pastimes, and attempt to conjecture of his thoughts. Consider then the travails which be in Government, and the Envy which many times they bear unto him that ruleth. We may say, that there is no state more sure than to be in that which is furthest off from Envy. And if a man can not but with great pain govern the wife which he hath chosen, the 〈◊〉 which he hath begotten, nor the servant which he hath brought up, having them altogether in one house: how is it possible that he can still conserve in peace a whole common wealth? I pray you tell me, in whom shall a poor Prince repose his trust? sith that many times he is most slandered by them whom he favoureth best? Princes and great lords can not eat without a guard, can not sleep without a watch, can not speak without espial, nor walk without some safety, in such wise as they being lords of all, they be as it were, prisoners of their own people. And if we will behold somewhat nearly, and consider the servitude of Princes, and the liberty of subjects, we shall find that he which hath most to do in the realm, or beareth greatest swinge, is most subject to thraldom: In somuch as if Princes have authority to give liberty, they have no means to be free themselves. The Gods have created us so free, and every man desireth to have his liberty so much at will, that a man be he never so familiar a friend, or so near of kin, we had rather have him to be our subject, than our lord and master. One man alone commandeth all, and yet it seemeth to him but little. Ought we then to marvel, if many be weary to obey one? We love and esteem ourselves so much, as I never saw any which of his own good will would be subject, ne yet against his will was made a lord, which we see to be very true. For the quarrels and wars that be amongs men, are not so much for obedience sake, as to rule and command. I say moreover, that in drinking, eating, clothing, speaking, and loving, all men be of divers qualities: but to procure liberty, they be all conformable. I have spoken all this (O Fathers conscript) upon occasion of mine own Empire, which I have taken with good will, albeit afterwards I was sorry for that great charge. For the weltering seas and troublesome government be two things agreeable to behold, and dangerous to prove. Notwithstanding 〈◊〉 it hath pleased the Gods that I should be your lord, and you my subjects, I beseech you hearty to use your obedience, as to your sovereign lord, in that which shall be right and meet, and to advertise me like a father, in things that shall seem unreasonable. The Consul Rutulus hath told me much in your behalf, and hath saluted me for the people, he himself shall bring answer and salute you all in my name. The Allobrogians and the inhabitants about the river of Rhine, be at controversy for the limits of their country, and have prayed me to be their arbitrator, which will stay me a little there. I require that this Letter may be red within the Senate house, and manifested to the whole people. The Gods preserve you.  
another Letter of the Emperor trajan to the Roman Senate, containing how governors of common wealths ought to be friends rather to those which use trasicke, than to them that gather and heap together.  
COcceius Trajan Emperor of the Romans to our holy Senate health and consolation in the Gods of comfort.  
The affairs be so manifold, and business so grave and weighty, which we have to do with divers countries, that scarce we have time to eat, and space to take any rest, the Roman Princes having still by ancient custom both lack of time, and commonly want of money. And because that they which have charge of common wealths, to the uttermost of their power ought to be friends to traffic of merchandise, and enemies of heaping treasure togethers, Princes have so many people to please, and so great numbered of cravers, that if they keep any thing for them, the same shall rather 〈◊〉 a spice of theft than of providence. To take away an other man's goods, truly is a wicked part: but if it be permitted to accumulate treasure and money together, better it were to take it out of the Temples, than to defraud the people. For the one is consecrated to the immortal Gods, and the other to the poor Commons. I speak this (right honourable Fathers) to put you in remembrance, and also to advise you, that you take good heed to the goods of the Common wealth, how they be dispended, how gathered together, how they be kept and how they be employed. For ye ought to understand, that the goods of the Common wealth be committed to you in trust, not to the end ye should enjoy them, but rather by good government to use them. We do hear that the walls be ready to shall, the towers in decay, and the temples be come to great ruin: whereof we be not a little offended, and you ought also to be ashamed, for so much as the damages and detrimentes of the Common wealth, we ought either to remedy, or else to lament. Ye have written unto me to know my pleasure, whether the Censors, Praetors, & Aediles, should be 〈◊〉 chosen, and not perpetual, as hitherto they have been: and specially you say, that the state of the Dictator (which is the greatest and highest dignity in Rome) is only 〈◊〉 six months. To that I answer, that we are well contented with that advise: For not without cause and just reason our predecessors did 〈◊〉 the first Kings of Rome, and ordained, that the Consuls should yearly be chosen in the common wealth. Which was done, in consideration that he which had perpetual government, many times became insolent and proud. And 〈◊〉 that the charges and offices of the Senate, should be yearly, to avoid danger, which if they should be perpetual there might ensue great hurt and damage to the Common wealth. For if the Officers being yearly chosen, be good, they may be continued. And if they be evil, they may be changed. And truly the officer, which knoweth that upon the end of every year he must be changed, and examined of his charge, he will take good heed to that which he speaketh, and first of all will well consider what he taketh in hand. The good Marcus Portius was the first that caused the Officers of the Roman Common wealth to thee thus visited and corrected. And because that these Almaigne wars d'ye still increase, by reason that the King Deceball will not as yet be brought to obedience of the Romans, but rather goth about to occupy and win the Kingdoms of Dacia and Polonia, I shall be forced through the business of the wars, so long continuing) to devise and consult here upon the affairs concerning the government of the common wealth of Rome. For a less evil it is for a Prince to be negligent in matters of war, than in the government of the common wealth. A prince also aught to think, that he is chosen, not to make wars, but to govern, not to kill the enemies, but to root out vices, not that he go in person to invade or defend his foes, but that he reside and be in the common wealth, & not to take away other men's goods, but to do justice to every man, for somuch as the prince in that wars can fight but for one, and in the public wealth he committeth faults against a numbered. Truly it liketh me well, that from the degree of Captains men be advanced to be Emperors, but I think it not good, that Emperors do descend to be Captains, considering that the realm shall never be in quiet, when the Prince is to great a warrior. This have I spoken (Fathers conscript) to the intent ye may believe, that I for my part, if these wars of Almaigne were to begin, I being at Rome, it were impossible that I should be brought unto the same, for that my principal intent, is to be esteemed rather a good governor of a common wealth, than a forward Captain in the field. Now then principally I commend unto you the veneration of the Temples, and honour of the Gods, because Kings never live in surety, if the Gods be not honoured, and the Temples served. The last words which my good Lord Nerua wrote unto me were these: Honour the Temples, fear the Gods, maintain justice in thy Common wealth, and defend the poor, in so doing thou shalt not be for, gotten of thy friend, nor vanquished by thy enemies. I do greatly recommend unto you the virtues of 〈◊〉 and Fraternity, for that you know that in great common wealths, greater hurt and damage do civil and neighbourly wars bring unto the same, than those attempted by the enemies. If parents against parents, and neighbours against neighbours had not begun their mutual hatred & contention, never had Demetrius overthrown the Rhodes, never had Alexander conquered Thyr, Marcellus Syracuse, Scipio Nuimantia. I recommend unto you also the poor people, love the Orphans and fatherless children, support and help the widows, beware of quarrels and debates amongs you, and the causes of the helpless fee that ye maintain and defend: because the gods did never wreak more 〈◊〉 vengeance upon any, than upon those which did ill entreat and use the poor and needy. And many times I have heard my lord Nerua say: that the Gods never showed themselves so rigorous, as against a merciless and unpitiful people. Semblably, we pray you to be modest of words, patient to suffer, & ware in your form of life. For a great fault it is, and no less shame to a governor, that he praise the people of his common wealth, and give them occasion to speak evil of him. And therefore they which have charge of the common wealth, ought rather to repose trust in their works, than in their words, for so much as the citizens or common people, do rather fire their judgement upon that which they see, than on that which they hear. I would wish that (touching the affairs appertinent to the Senate) they might not know in you any spark of ambition, malice, deceit, or envy: to the intent that the just men might not so much complain of the commanding of the common wealth, as upon the entertainment and profit of the same. The Empire of the Greeks, and that of the Romans, were ever contrary, as well in arms and laws, as in opinions: The Greeks putting their felicity in eloquence, and we in well doing. I speak this (right honourable Fathers) to counsel and exhorteye, that when ye be assembled in Senate, ye do not consume time in disputing & holding opinions for the verification of any thing. For if you will judge without partiality and affection, without great disputation; ye may come to reason. I do remember that being at a lesson of Appolonius Thyaneus, I heard him say that it was not so expédient that Senators and Emperors should be skilful & wise, as if they suffered themselves to be governed by those that were of great skill and knowledge: and verily he 〈◊〉 truth. For by that means he prohibited & forbade them, not to arrest and stand upon their own opinion, whereof they ought to be many times suspicious: Likewise 〈◊〉 recommend unto you the Censores, who have charge of judgement, and the Tribunes, whose office is to attend the affairs of Common wealth, that they be wise and learned in the laws, expert in the Customs, provident in judgements, and ware in their trade of life. For I say unto you, that a wise man is more available in government of a common wealth, than a man of overmuch skill and experience. The form then which ye shall observe in matters of judgement, shall be thus: That in civil process you keep the law, and in criminal causes to moderate the same, because heinous, cruel, and rigorous laws be rather made to amaze and fear, than to be observed and kept. When you give any sentence, ye ought to consider the age of the offendant, when, how, wherefore, with whom, in whose presence, in what time, and how long ago, for somuch as every of these things may either excuse or condemn: which you ought to 〈◊〉 and use towards them in like sort as the Gods towards us, who give us better help and succour, and correct us less than we deserve. That consideration the judges ought to have, because the offenders do rather trespass the Gods than men. If then they be forgiven of the Gods for offences which they commit, reason it is that we pardon those faults done unto others, & not unto ourselves. In like manner we command you, that if your enemies do you any anoiance or injury, not 〈◊〉 to take revenge, but rather to dissemble that same, because many wrongs be done in the world, which were better to be 〈◊〉 than 〈◊〉. Wherein ye shall have like regard, touching that 〈◊〉 the Senate and Common wealth, that they be not 〈◊〉 to ambitious or covetous 〈◊〉. For there is no beast in the world so pestiferous and benemotis, as that 〈◊〉 of man is to the Common wealth, the ambitious I say in commanding, and the covetous in gathering together. Other things we let pass for this time, until we have intelligence, how these our commandments be 〈◊〉. This Letter shall be red in the chiefess place within the Senate, and afterwards pronounced to the people, that they may both know what 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, and see also what ye do. The Gods keep you, whom we pray to preserve our mother the City of Rome, and to send us good 〈◊〉 in these our wars.  
A notable Letter sent from the Roman Senate to the Emperor Trajan, wherein is declared how sometimes the region of Spain did furnish Rome with gold from their mines, and now do adorn and garnish the same with Emperors to govern their Common wealth.  
THe sacred Roman Senate, to thee the great Cocceius Trajan new Emperor Augustus, health in thy Gods and ours, graces everlasting we render to the immortal Gods, for that thou art in health, which we desire and pray may be perpetual. We signified unto thy majesty the death of Nerua Cocceius, our sovereign Lord, and thy predecessor, a man of sincere life, a friend of his common wealth, and a zealous lover of Justice, wherein also we advertised, that like as Rome did weep for the cruel life of Domitian, so much the more bitterly doth she bewail the death of thine uncle Nerua, whose council (although he was very old and diseased) which he gave us lying on his bed, we loved better, and embraced with greater comfort, than all the enterprises and deeds done by his predecessors, when they were in health and lusty. And besides the ordinary mourning used to be done in Rome for princes, we have caused all recreation and passetime to cease, so well in the common wealth, as with every of us particularly. We have shut up the Temples and made the Senate to 〈◊〉 to do the Gods to understand, how displeasantly we accept the death of good men. The good old gentleman Nerua died in his house, and was buried in the field of Mars; he died in debt, & we have paid his debts. He died calling upon the Gods, & we have canonised him amongs their numbered, and that which is most to be noted, he died commending unto us the Common wealth, and the Common wealth recommending itself unto him. And a little before his latter gasp, the principal of the holy Senate, and many other of the people, standing about his bedside, he said: O ye Fathers, I commit unto you the common wealth and myself also unto the Gods: unto whom I render infinite thanks, because they have taken from me my children, to be mine heirs, and have left me trajan to succeed. You do remember (most dread sovereign Lord) that the good Emperor Nerua had other successors than your majesty, of nearer alliance, of greater friendship, more bound by service, and of greater proof in warfare: notwithstanding amongs other noble personages, upon you alone he cast his eyes, reposing in you such opinion and confidence, as to revive the prows and valiant faicts of the good Emperor Augustus, by suppressing in oblivion the insolent faicts of Domitian. When Nerua came unto the Crown, he found the treasure 〈◊〉, the Senate in dissension, the people in commotion, justice not observed, and the Common wealth overthrown: which you likewise presently shall find, although otherwise quiet and wholly reform. Wherefore we shall be right glad, that you conserve the common wealth in the state wherein your uncle Nerua left it, considering specially that new Princes under colour to introduce new customs, do overthrow their common wealths. fourteen Princes your predecessors in the empire were naturally borne in Rome, and you are the first stranger Prince. Wherefore we pray the immortal Gods, (sith that the stock of our ancient Caesars is dead) to send 〈◊〉 good Fortune. Out of the country of Spain was wont to 〈◊〉 to this our Roman City great abundance of gold silver, steel, lead, tin, from their 〈◊〉: but now in place thereof, she giveth us Emperors to govern our common wealths. Sith then that thou comest of so good a country as Spain is, from so good a Province as is Vandolosia, and from so excellent a city as Cales is, of so noble and fortunate a lineage as is Cocceius, and 〈◊〉 to so noble an Empire, It is to be supposed that thou wilt prove good, and not evil. For the Gods immortal many times do take away their graces from ungrateful men. Moreover (most excellent Prince) sith you wrote unto us the manner and order what we ought to do: reason it is that we writ to you again what you ought to foresee. And sith you have told us, and taught us to obey you, meet it is that we may know what your pleasure is to command. For that (it may come to pass) that as you have been brought up in spain, and of long time been absent from Rome, through following the wars, that not knowing the laws whereunto we are sworn, and the customs which we have in Rome, Ye command some thing that may redound to our damage and to your dishonour. And therefore we account it reason that your Majesty be advertised hereof, and the same prevented, for so much as Princes oftentimes be negligent of many things, not for that they will not foresee the same, but rather for want of one that dare tell them what they ought to do. And therefore we humbly beseech your most excellent majesty, to extend and show forth your wisdom and prudence, for that the Romans hearts been drawn and made pliant rather by favourable diligence, than by provoked force. Touching the virtue, justice, may it please you, to remember the same. For your old uncle Nerua was wont to say, that a prince for all his magnanimity, valiance, and felicity, if he do not use and maintain justice, ought not for any other merit to be 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉. Semblably we make our humble petition, that those commandments which you shall send and require to be put in execution, be thoroughly established and observed. For the goodness of the law doth not consist in the ordinance, but in the fulfilling and accomplisment of the same. We will not also omit to say unto you (most famous Prince) that you must have patience to suffer the importunate, & to dissemble with the offenders. For that it is the deed of a Prince to chastise and punish the wrongs of the common wealth, and 〈◊〉 pardon the disobedience done unto him. You send us word by your letters that you will not come to Rome, until you have finished the German wars. Which seemeth unto us to be the determination of a 〈◊〉 and right noble emperor, for so much as good Princes such as you be, ought not to desire & choose places of delight & recreation, but rather aspire to seek & win renome & fame. You command us also to have regard to the veveration of the Temples, and to the service of the Gods. Which request is just, but very just it were and meet that yourself should do the same. For our service would little prevail, if you should displease them. You will us also one to love an other, which is the counsel of a holy and peaceable prince? but know ye, that we shall not be able to do the same, if you will not love and entreat us all in equal and indifferent sort. For princes cherishing and loving some above the rest, do raise slanders and grudges amongs the people. You likewise recommend unto us, the poor and the widows: wherein we think that you ought to command the Collectors of your tributes, that they do not grieve the same, when they gather your rights & 〈◊〉. For greater sin it is to spoil & pill the needy sort, than 〈◊〉 to succour and relieve them. Likewise you do persuade us to be quiet & 〈◊〉 in our affairs, which is a persuasion 〈◊〉 of a prince, not only that is just, but also of a pitiful father. In 〈◊〉 manner you require us not to be opinionative & wilful in the 〈◊〉, ne affectionate to selfwil, which shall be done accordingly as you command, & accept it as you say. But their 〈◊〉 you ought to think that in grave & 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, the more deeply things 〈◊〉 debated, that better they shall be provided & decreed. You bid us also to 〈◊〉 that the Censores be honest of life and rightful in doing justice. To that we answer that in the same we will have good respect, but it is expedient that you take heed to them whom you shall name and appoint to those affairs. For if you do choose them such as they ought to be, no cause shall rise to reprehend them. Item where you say that we ought to take heed, that our children commit no offences to the people, wherein the advise of the Senate is, that you do draw them away from us, and call them to the Almaigne wars, for as you do know (right sovereign prince) that when the public wealth is exempt, and void of enemies, than the same will begin to be replenished with youthful vices. Notwithstanding when the wars be far off from Rome, than the same to them is profitable, because there is nothing which better 〈◊〉 common wealths from wicked people, than wars in country strange. Concerning other things which you writ unto us, needful it is not now to recite them, but only to see them kept. For truly they seem rather to be the laws of God Apollo himself, than Counsels of a mortal man. The Gods preserve your Majesty, and grant you good success in those your wars.  
These Letters and Epistles, although besides the scope and Nature of a Novel, yet so worthy to be read and practised, as no History or other Moral precept more: expressing the great care of a master towards his scholar, that he should prove no worse being an Emperor, than he showed himself 〈◊〉 when he was a Scholar: fearing that if he should govern contrary to his expectation, or degenerate from the good institution, which in his young years he embraced, that the blame and slander should rest in 〈◊〉, that was his tutor and bringer up. O careful Plutarch, O most happy master, as well for thine own industry, as for the good success of such a scholar. And O most fortunate and virtuous Emperor, that could so welbrooke and digest the blessed persuasions of such a master, and whose mind with the blast of promotion was not so swollen & puffed, but that it 〈◊〉 to call him Father and Master, 〈◊〉 craving for an instigation of reproof, when he 〈◊〉 or slipped from the path of reason and duty. And O happy Counsel & Senate, that could so well like and practise the documents of such an Emperor.   

Of three Amorous Dames.  
¶ A notable History of three Amorous Gentlewomen, called LAMIA, FLORA, and LAIS: containing the suits of noble Princes and other great personages made unto them, with their answers to divers demands: and the manner of their death and funerals.  
The. xiv. Novel.  
Leaving now our moral discourse of a careful Master, a provident Scholar, of a virtuous Emperor, of a sacred Senate, and uniform magistery, return we to the setting forth and description of. iij. arrant honest women, which for lewdness were famous, and for wicked lice worthy to be noted with a black coal, or rather their memory raked up in the dust and cindres of the corpses unpure. But as all histories be full of lessons of virtue and vice, as books sacred & profane describe the lives of good and bad for example sake 〈◊〉 yield means to the posterity, to ensue the one & 〈◊〉 the other, so have I thought to intermingle amongst these Novels the several sorts of either, that each sex and kind may pike out like the be of each flower, honey, to store & furnish with delights their well disposed mind. I purpose then to unlace the dissolute lives of three amorous dames, that with their grace's 〈◊〉 the greatest princes that ever were: enticed the noble men, and sometimes procured the wisest and best learned to crave their acquaintance, as by the sequel hereof shall well appear. These three famous women, (as writers do witness) were furnished with many goodly graces and gifts of nature, that is to say, great beauty offace, goodly proportion of body, large and high foreheads, their breasts placed in comely order, small wasted, fair hands, of passing cunning to play upon Instruments, a heavenly voice to feign and sing: 〈◊〉, their qualities and beauty were more famous, than ever any the were borne within the countries of Asia and Europa. They were never beloved of Prince which did forsake them, nor yet they made request of any thing which was denied them. They never mocked or flouted man (a thing rare in women of their condition) ne yet were mocked of any: But their special properties were to allure men to love them: Lamia with her pleasant look and eye, Flora with her eloquent tongue, and Lais with the grace & sweetness of her singing voice, A strange thing that he which once was 〈◊〉 with the love of any of those three, either too late or never was delivered of the same. They were the richest Courtesans that ever lived in the world, so long as their life did last, & after their decease, great monuments were erected for their remembrance, in place where they died. The most ancient of these three amorous dames was Lamia, who was in the time of king Antigonus, that warfared in the service of Alexander the great, a valiant gentleman, although not favoured by Fortune. This king Antigonus left behind him a son and heir called Deinetrius, who was less valiant, but more fortunate than his father, and had been a 〈◊〉 of great estimation, if in his youth 〈◊〉 had acquired friends, and kept the same, and in his age had not been given to so many vices. This king Demetrius was in love with Lamia, and presented her with rich gifts and rewards, and loved her to affectionately, and in such sort, as in the love of his Lamia, he seemed rather a 〈◊〉 than a true lover: for forgetting the gravity and authority of his person, he did not only give her all such things as she demanded, but besides that he used no more the company of his wife Euxonia. On a time king Demetrius ask Lamia, what was the thing wherewith a woman was soonest won. There is nothing (answered she,) which sooner over cometh a woman, than when she seeth a man to love her with all his heart, & to sustain for her sake great pains and passions with long continuance and entire affection: for to love men by collusion, causeth afterwards that they be mocked again. Demetrius asked her further, tell me Lamia, why do diverse women rather hate than love men? whereunto she answered: The greatest cause why a woman doth hate a man, is, when the man doth vaunt & boast himself of that which he doth not, and performeth not the thing which he promiseth. Demetrius demanded of her. Tell me Lamia what is the thing wherewith men do content you best: when we see him (said she) to be discrete in words, & secret in his deeds. Demetrius asked her further. Tell me Lamia how chanceth it the men be ill matched: because answered Lamia, It is impossible that they be well married, when the wife is in need, & the husband undiscrete. Demetrius asked her what was the cause, that amity between two lovers, was 〈◊〉? There is nothing answered she, that sooner maketh cold the love between two lovers, than when one of them doth stray in love, and the woman lover to importunate to crave. He demanded further. Tell me Lamia, what is the thing that most 〈◊〉 the loving man? Not to attain the thing which he desireth answered she, and thinketh to lose the thing which he hopeth to enjoy. Demetrius yet once again asked her this question. What is that Lamia which most troubleth a woman's heart? There is nothing (answered Lamia) wherewith a woman is more grieved, and maketh her more sad, than to be called ill favoured, or that she hath no good grace, or to understand that she is dissolute of life. This lady Lamia, was of judgement delicate and subtle, although ill ymployed in her: & thereby made all the world in love with her: and drew all men to her through her fair speech. Now before she lost the heart of king Demetrius, she haunted of long time the Universities of Athenes, where she gained great store of money, and brought to destruction many young men. Plutarch in the life of Demetrius saith, that the Athenians having presented unto him. 〈◊〉. C. talents of money for a subsidy to pay his men of war, he gave all that 〈◊〉 to his woman Lamia. By means whereof, the Athenians grudged, & were offended with the king, not for the loss of their gift, but for that it was so evil employed. When the king Demetrius would assure any thing by oath, he swore not by his Gods, ne yet by his predecessors, but in this sort: As I may be still in the grace of my lady Lamia, and as her life & mine may end together, so true is this which I say & do, in this & this sort. One year & two months before the death of king Demetrius, his friend Lamia died, who sorrowed so much her death, as for the absence & death of her, he caused the Philosophers of Athenes to entre disputation: Whether the tears and sorrow, which he shed and and took, were more to be esteemed, than the riches which he spent in her obsequies & funeral pomps. This amorous gentlewoman Lamia was borne in Argos, a city of Peloponnesus, by 〈◊〉nes, of base parentage, who in her first years haunted the country of Asia mayor, of very wild & dissolute life, & in the end came into Phoenicia. And when that king Demetrius, had caused her to be buried before a window joining to his house, his chiefest friends asked him, wherefore he had entombed her in that place. His answer was this: I loved her so well, & she likewise me so heartily, as I know not which way to satisfy that love which she bore me, & the duty I have to love her again, if not to put her in such place, as mine eyes may weep every day, & mine heart still lament. Truly this love was strange, which so mighty a Monarch as Demetrius was, did bear unto such a notable Courtesan, a woman utterly void of grace, barren of good works, & without any zeal or spark of virtue as it should appear. But sith we read & know that none are more given or bend to unreasonable love, than mighty princes, what should it be deemed strange and marvelous, if Demetrius amongs the 〈◊〉 do come in place for the love of that most famous woman, if fame may stretch to either sorts both good and evil? But let us come to that second sort, of this infamous gentle woman called Lais. She was of the Isle of Bithritoes, which is in the confines of Graecia, & was the 〈◊〉 of the great Sacrificer of Apollo his temple at Delphos, a man greatly experienced in the magic art, whereby he prophesied the perdition of his daughter. Now this 〈◊〉 Lais was in triumph in the time of the renowned king Pyrrhus, a prince very ambitious to acquire honour, but not very happy to keep the same, who being young of sixteen or 〈◊〉 years, came into Italy to make wars against the Romans. He was the first (as some say) that aranged a camp in order, and made the Phalanx, the main square and battle. For before his time, when they came to entre battle, they assailed confusedly, and out of array gave the onset. This amorous Lais, continued long time in the camp of King Pyrrhus, and went with him into Italy, and with him returned from war again. notwithstanding her nature was such, as she would never be maintained with one man alone. The same Lais was so amorous in her conversation, so excellent fair, and of so comely grace, that if she would have kept herself to one, and been 〈◊〉 to one lord or gentleman, 〈◊〉 was no prince in the world but would have yielded himself and all that he had at her commandment. Lais from her return out of Italia into Grece, repaired to the city of Corinth to make her abode there, where she was pursued by many kings, lords, and princes. Aulus Gellius saith (which I have recited in my former part of the Palace of pleasure the fifteenth Novel) that the good Philosopher Demosthenes, went from Athenes to Corinth, in disguised apparel, to see Lais, and to have her company. But before the door was opened, she sent one to demand. 〈◊〉. C. Sestercos of silver: 〈◊〉 Demosthenes answered: I buy not repentance so dear. And I believe that Demosthenes spoke those words by following the sentence of Diogenes, who saith, that every beast after such act is heavy and sad. Some writers affirm of this amorous Lais, that thing which I never read or heard of woman: which is, that she never showed sign or token of love to that man which was desirous to do her service: nor was never hated of man that knew her. Whereby we may comprehend the hap and fortune of that amorous woman. She never showed semblance of great love to any person, and yet she was beloved of all. If the amorous Lamia had a good spirit and mind, Lais truly had no less. For in the art of love, she exceeded all other women of her 〈◊〉 art and science, as well in knowledge of love, as to profit in the same. Upon a day a young man of Corinth demanding of her, what he should say to a woman whom he long time had loved, and made so great suit, that thereby he was like to fall into despair. Thou shalt say (said Lais) unto her, that sith she will not grant thy request, yet at least wise it might please her to suffer thee to be her servant, and that she would take in good part the service that thou shalt do unto her. Which request if she do grant, then hope to attain the end of thy attempt, because that we women be of such nature, as opening the mouth to give some mild and pleasant answer to the amorous person, it is to be thought that we have given our heart unto the first suitor. another day in the presence of Lais, one praised the Philosophers of Athenes, saying that they were very honest personages, and of great skill and knowledge. Whereunto Lais answered: I cannot tell what great knowledge they have, nor what science they study, ne yet what books your Philosophers do read, because that I being a woman and never was at Athenes, I see them repair hither, and of Philosophers become amorous persons. A Theban knight demanded of Lais, what he might do to enjoy a lady with whose love he should be surprised: She answered thus. A man that is desirous of a woman, must follow his suit, serve her and suffer her, and sometimes to seem as though he had forgotten her. For after that a woman's heart is moved to love, she regardeth more the forgetfulness and negligence used towards her, than she doth the service before time 〈◊〉 unto her. another Gentleman of Achaia asked her what he should do to a woman, whom he suspected that she had 〈◊〉 her faith. Lais answered, make her believe that thou thinkest she is very faithful, and take from her the occasions whereby she hath good cause to do the same: For if she do perceive that thou knowest it, and dissemblest the matter, she will sooner die than amend. A gentleman of Palestine at another time inquired of her what he should do to a woman which he served, and did not esteem the service done unto her, ne yet gave him thanks for the love which he bore her. Lais said unto him: If thou be disposed to serve her no longer, let her not perceive that thou hast given her over: For naturally we women be tender to love, and hard to hate. Being demanded by one of her neighbours what she should do to make her daughter very wise. She (said Lais) that will have her daughter to be good and honest, she must from her youth learn her to fear, and in going abroad to haunt little company, and that she be shamefast and moderate in her talk. An other of her neighbours enquiring of her what she might do to her daughter which began to have delight to rome in the field & wander abroad. The remedy (said Lais) that I find for your daughter disposed to that condition, is, not to suffer her to be idle, ne yet to be brave and sumptnous in apparel. This amorous gentlewoman Lais died in the city of Corinth, of the age of. lxxij. years, whose death was of many Matrons desired, and of a great numbered of amorous persons lamented.  
The third amorous gentlewoman was 〈◊〉 Flora, which was not so aucient, ne yet of so great renown as Lamia & Lais were, whose country also was not so famous, For she was of Italy, and the other two of Grecia, and although that Lamia & Lais exceeded Flora in antiquity, 〈◊〉 Flora surmounted them in lineage & generosity. For Flora was of noble house, although in life less than chaste. She was of the country of Nola in Campania, issued of certain Romans, knights very famous in facts of arms and of great industry and government in the common wealth. When the father and mother of this Flora deceased, she was of the age of. xb. years, endued with great riches and singular beauty, and the very orphan of all her kin, For she had neither brother left with whom she might sojourn, ne yet uncle to give her good council. In such wise that like as this young mistress Flora had youth, riches, liberty and beauty, even so there wanted neither bawds nor Pandores to 〈◊〉 her to fall, and allure her to folly. Flora seeing herself beset in this wise, she determined to go into the Africa wars, where she hazarded both her person and her honour. This dame flourished and triumphed in the time of the first Punic wars, when the Consul Mamillus was sent to Carthage, who dispended more money upon the love of Flora, than he did upon the chase and pursuit of his 〈◊〉. This amorous lady Flora had a writing and title fixed upon her gate, the effect where of was this: King, Prince, Dictator, Consul, Censor, high Bishop, and Questor may knock and come in. In that writing Flora named neither Emperor nor Caesar, because those two most noble names were long time after created by the Romans. This amorous Flora would never abandon her person, but with gentlemen of great house, or of great dignity and riches. For she was wont to say, that a woman of passing beauty should be so much esteemed as she doth esteem and set by herself. Lais and Flora were of contrary manners & conditions. For Lais would first be paid, before she yielded the use of her body: but Flora without any semblance of desire either of gold or silver was contented to be ruled by those with whom she committed the fact. Whereof upon a day being demanded the question, she answered: I give my body to Princes and noble Barons, that they may deal with me like gentlemen. For I swear unto you by the Goddess Venus, that never man gave me so little, but that I had more than I looked for, and the double of that which I could demand. This amorous lady Flora was wont many times to say, that a wise woman (or more aptly to term her a subtle wench) ought not to demand reward of her lover for the acceptable pleasure which she doth him, but rather for the love which she beareth him, because that all things in the world have a certain price, except love, which cannot be paid or recompensed but with love. All the Ambassadors of the world, which had access into Italy, made so great report of the beauty and generosity of Flora, as they did of the Roman common wealth, because it seemed to be a monstrous thing to see the riches of her house, her trayve, her beauty, the princes & great lords by whom she was required, and the presents and gifts that were given unto her. This amorous Flora had a continual regard to the noble house whereof she came, touching the magnificence and state of her service. For albeit that she was but a common woman, yet she was served & honoured like a great lady. That day wherein she road about the city of Rome, she gave occasion to be spoken of a whole month after, one enquiring of an other what great Roman lords they were that kept her company: Whose men they were that weighted upon her: And whose livery they ware? What ladies they were that road in her train: the bravery of her apparel: her great beauty & port, and the words spoken by the amorous gentlemen in that troop were not unremembered. When this mistress Flora warred old, a young and beautiful gentleman of Corinth, demanded her to 〈◊〉, to whom she answered: I know well that thou wilt not marry, the three score years which Flora hath, but rather thou 〈◊〉 to have the twelve hundred thousand Sestercias' which she hath in her house. Content thyself therefore my friend, and get thee home again to Corinth from whence thou 〈◊〉. For to such as be of mine age, great honour is borne, & reverence done for the riches and wealth they have, rather than for marriage. There was never in the Roman Empire; the like amorous woman that Flora was, endued with so many graces and quéenelike qualities, for she was of noble house, of singular beauty, of comely parsonage, discrete in her affairs, and besides all other comely qualities, very liberal. This mistress Flora spent the most part of her youth in Africa, Almain and Gallia 〈◊〉. And albeit that she would not suffer any other but great lords to have possession of her body, yet she applied herself to the spoil of those that were in place, and to the pray of those that came from the wars. This amorous Flora died when she was of the age of 〈◊〉. years. She left for the principal heir of all her goods and 〈◊〉, the 〈◊〉 people, which was esteemed sufficient & able to make new the walls of Rome, and to 〈◊〉 and redeem the common wealth of the same. And because that she was a Roman, & had made the state thereof her heir, the Romans builded in her honour a sumptuous Temple, which in memory of Flora, was called 〈◊〉 and every year in the memory of her, they celebrated her feast upon the day of her death: Suctonuis Tranquillus saith, that the first feast which the Emperor Galba the second celebrated within Rome, was the feast of the amorous Flora, upon which day it was lawful for men & women, to do what kind of dishonesty they could devise. And she was esteemed to be the greater saint which that day showed herself most dissolute and wanton. And because that the temple Florianum, was dedicated to amorous Flora, the Romans had an opinion, that all women which upon the same day repaired to the Temple in whorish apparel, should have the graces and gifts that Flora had. These were the fond opinions and manners of the ancient, which after their own making & devices framed Gods and Goddesses, and because the proved unshamefast and rich, a Temple must be erected, and Sacrifices ordained for her whorish triumphs. But that noble men and Kings have been rapt and transported with the lurements of such notorious strumpets, is and hath been common in all ages. And commonly such infamous women be endued with greatest gifts and graces, the rather to noosell & dandle their favourers in the laps of their fading pleasures. But every of them a most special grace, above the rest. As of a king not long ago we read that kept three, one the holiest, another the crastiest, & the third the 〈◊〉. Two of which properties meet for honest women: although the third so incident to that kind, as heat to a living body. Cease we then of this kind, and let us step forth to be acquainted with a lady & a Queen the Godliest & stoutest, that is remembered in any ancient monument or history.   

Zenobia Queen of Palmyres.  
¶ The life and gests of the most famous Queen Zenobia, with the letters of the Emperor 〈◊〉 to the said Queen, and her stout answer thereunto.  
The. xv. Novel.  
ZENOBIA Queen of Palmyres, was a right famous gentlewoman, as diverse historiographers largely do report & write. Who although she was a gentle queen, yet a christian princess so worthy of imitation, as she was for her virtues & 〈◊〉 facts of 〈◊〉 praise. She by her wisdom & stoutness, subdued all the empire of the Orient, & resisted the invincible 〈◊〉. And for that it is meet and requisite to allege and avouch reasons by weight, & words by measure, I will orderly begin to recite the history of that most famous Queen. Wherefore I say, that about the. 284. olympiad, no long time after the death of the unhappy Emperor Decius, Valerian was chosen Emperor by the Senate, and (as Trebellius Pollio his historian doth describe) he was a well learned prince, endued with manifold virtues, that for his special praise, these words be recorded. If all the world had been assembled to choose a good Prince, they would not have chosen any other but good Valerian. It is also written of him that in liberality he was noble, in words true, in talk wary, in promise constant, to his friends familiar, and to his enemies severe, and which is more to be esteemed, he could not forget service, nor yet revenge wrong. It came to pass that in the. 〈◊〉. year of his reign, there rose such cruel wars in Asia, that forced he was to go thither in his 〈◊〉 person, to resist Sapor king of the Persians, a very valiant man of war and fortunate in his enterprises, which happiness of his not long time after the arrival of Valerian into Asia, he manifested and showed. For being between them such hot & cruel wars, in a skirmish, through the great fault of the General, (which had the conduct of the army) the Emperor Valerian was taken, and brought into the puissance of King Sapor his enemy, which cursed tyrant so wiekedly used that victory, as he would by no means put the Emperor to ransom, towards whom he used such cruelty, that so oft and so many 〈◊〉, as he was disposed to get up on horseback, he used the body of old Valerian to serve him for advantage, setting his feet upon the throat of that aged gentleman. In that miserable office and unhappy captivity served and died the good Emperor Valerian, not without the great 〈◊〉 of 〈◊〉 that knew him, and the rueful compassion of those that fawe him: which the Romans considering, and that neither by offer of gold, silver or other means, they were able to redeem Valerian, they determined to choose for Emperor his 〈◊〉 son called Galienus: which they did more for respect of the father; than for any mind or courage they knew 〈◊〉 be in the son. Who afterwards showed himself to be 〈◊〉 different from the conditions of his father Valerian, being in his enterprises a coward, in his promises a liar, in correction cruel, towards them that served him unthankful, (and which is worse,) he gave himself to his desires, and yielded place to sensuality. By means whereof, in his time the Roman Empire, more than in any other reign, lost most provinces and 〈◊〉 greatest shame. In facts of war he was a coward, and in government of common wealth, a very weak and séeble man. Galienus not caring for the state of the Empire, became so miserable, as the Governors of the same gave over their obedience, and in the time of his reign, there rose up thirty tyrants, which usurped the same. Whose names do follow, Cyriades, Posthumus that younger, Lollius, Victorinus, Marius, Ingenuus, Regillianus, Aureolus, Macrianus, Machianus the younger, Quietus, Odenatus, Herodes, Moenius, Ballista, Valens, Piso, Emilianus, Staturninus, Tetricus, 〈◊〉 the younger, Trebelianus, 〈◊〉, Timolaus, Celsus, Titus, 〈◊〉, Claudius, Aurelius, and Quintillus, of whom eighteen, were captains and servitors under the good Emperor Valerian. Such delight had the Romans, in that ancient world, to have good captains, as were able to be preferred to be 〈◊〉. Now in that time the Romans had for their Captein general, a knight called Odenatus, the prince of Palmerines, a man truly of great virtue, and of passing industry & hardiness in facts of war. This Captain Odenatus married a woman that descended of the ancient lineage of the Ptolomes', sometimes kings of 〈◊〉, named Zenobia, which (if the historians do not deceive us) was one of the most famous Women of the world. She had the heart of Alexander the great, she possessed the riches of Croesus, the diligence of Pyrrhus, the travel of Hannibal, the wary foresight of Marcellus, & the justice of Trajan, When Zenobia was married to Odenatus, she had by her other husband, a son called Herodes, & by Odenatus she had two other, whereof the one was called 〈◊〉, and the other Ptolomeus And when the Emperor Valerian was vanquished and taken, Odenatus was not then in the Campe. For as all men thought, if he had been there, they had not received so great an overthrow. So soon as good Odenatus was advertised of that defaict of Valerian, in great haste he marched to that Roman Camp, that then was in great disorder. Which with great diligence he reassembled, and reduced the same to order, and (helped by good Fortune,) 〈◊〉. days after he recovered all that which Valerian had lost, making the Persian king to 〈◊〉, by means whereof; and for that Odenatus had taken charge of the army, he wan amongs the Romans great reputation, & truly not without cause: For if in that good time he had not received the 〈◊〉, the name and glory of the Romans had taken end in Asia. During all this time Galienus lived in his delights at Milan, without care or thought of the common wealth, consuming in his wilful vices, the money that was 〈◊〉 for the men of war. Which was the cause that the governors of the provinces, and Captains general, seeing him to be so vicious and negligent, 〈◊〉 the 〈◊〉 and armies which they had in charge. Galienus void of all obedience saving of the Italians & Lombard's, the first that rose up against him were Posthumus in France, Lollianus in Spain, Victorinus in Africa, Marius in 〈◊〉, Ingenuus in Germany, Regillianus in Denmark, Aureolus in Hungary, Macrianus in Mesopotamia & Odenatus in Syria. Before Odenatus rose against Valerian, Macrianus enjoyed Mesopotamia, & the greatest part of Syria, whereof Odenatus having intelligence, he marched with his power against him and killed him, and discomfited all his army. The death of the Tyrant Macrian being known, and that Galienus was so vicious, the armies in Asia assembled and chose Odenatus Emperor: which election although the Sonate publicly durst not agree upon, yet secretly they allowed it, because they received daily news, of the great exploits and deeds of arms done by 〈◊〉, and saw on the other side the great continued follies of Galienus. Almost three years and a half was Odenatus Emperor and lords of all the Orient, during which time he recovered all the lands and provinces lost by Galienus, and paid, the Roman army all the arrearages of their wages due, unto them. But Fortune full of inconstancy, suffered not this good Prince very long to reign. For having in his house a kinsman of his, named Meonius, to whom he bore great good will, for that he saw him to be a valiant man of war, although ignorant of his envy and covetousness: it chanced upon a day as they two road on hunting, & galloping after the pursuit of a wild Boar, with the very same bore spear which Meonius carried to strike the beast, he killed by treason his good cousin Odenatus. But that murdre was not long time 〈◊〉. For the boarspear wherewith he had so cruelly killed the Emperor his cousin, was incontinently known by the hunters which followed Odenatus: whereupon that day the head of Meonius was stricken off. And Galienus understanding the death of Odenatus, gave great rewards & presents to them that brought him the news, being so joyful as the Romans were angry to understand those pitiful tidings, because through the good 〈◊〉 which Odenatus used in Asia, they had great tranquillitle & peace throughout Europa. Now after the death of this good Emperor Odenatus, the Armies chose one of his two sons to be Emperor of the Orient: But for that he was young, they chose Zenobia to be Protector of her son, and governor over the said Orient Empire. Who seeing that upon the decease of Odenatus certain of the East countries begins to revolt, she determined to open her Treasure, reassemble her men of war, and in her own person to march into the field: where she did such notable enterprises, as she appalled her enemies, and made the whole world to wonder. About the age of. xxxv. years Zenobia was widow, being the Tutrix of her children, Regent of an Empire, and Captain general of the army. In which weighty charge she used herself so wisely and well, as she acquired no less noble name in Asia, than Queen Semiramis did in India. Zenobia was constant in that which she took in hand, true in words, liberal, myide, & severe where she ought to be, discrete, grave, and secret in her enterprises, albeit she was ambitious. For, not content with her title of Governess or Regent, she wrote and caused herself to be called Empress, she loved not to ride upon a Mule, or in a litter, but greatly esteemed to have great horse in her stable, and to learn to handle and ride them. When Zenobia went forth of her Tent to see the order and government of her Camp, she continually did put on her Armure, and was well guarded with a band of men, so that of a woman, she cared but only for the name, and in the facts of Arms she craved the title of valiant. The Captains of her Army, never gave battle, or made assault, they never skirmished or did other enterprise of war, but she was present in her own person, and attempted to show herself more hardy than any of all the troop, a thing almost incredible in that weak and feeble kind. The said noble Queen was of stature, big and well proportioned, her eyes black and quick, her forehedde large, her stomach and breasts fair & upright, her face white and ruddy, a little mouth, her teeth so white, as they seemed like a rank of white pearls, but above all things she was of such excellent spirit and courage, as she was feared for her stoutness, & beloved for her beauty. And although Zenobia was endued with so great beauty, liberality, riches, & puissance, yet she was never stained with the blemish of unchaste life, or with other banitie: and as her husband Odenatus was wont to say, that after she felt herself with child, she never suffered him to come near her, (such was her great chastity) saying that women ought to marry rather for children than for pleasure. She was also excellently well learned in the Greek and Latin tongue. She did never eat but one meal a day. Her talk was very little and rare. The meat which she used for her repast, was either that haunch of a wild Boar, or else the side of a dear. She could drink no wine, nor abide the scent thereof. But she was so curious in good and perfect waters, as she would give so great a price for that, as is ordinarily given for wine: be it never so excellent. So soon as the Kings of Egipte of Persia, and the Greeks, were advertised of the death of Odenatus, they sent their Ambassadors to Zenobia, as well to visit and comfort her, as to be her confederates and friends. So much was she feared and 〈◊〉 for rare virtues sake. The affairs of Zenobia being in such estate in Asia, the Emperor Galienus died in Lombardie, and the Romans chose Aurelianus to be Emperor, who although he was of base & obscure lineage, yet he was of great valiance in facts of arms. When Aurelianus was chosen 〈◊〉, he made great preparation into Asia, to 〈◊〉 wars upon Queen Zenobia, and in all his time he never attempted greater enterprise for the Romans. When he was arrived in Asia, the Emperor proceeded against the Queen, and she as valiantly defended herself, continually being between them great alarms and skirmishes. But as Zenobia and her people were of less travel and of better skill in knowledge of the Country, so they did greater harm & more anoiance unto their enemy, and thereof received lesser damage. The Emperor seeing that he should have much ado to vanquish Zenobia by arms, determined to overcome her by gentle words and fair promises: for which cause he wrote unto her a letter, the tenor whereof ensueth.  
Aurelianus Emperor of Rome & lord of all Asia, to thee the right honourable Zenobia sendeth greeting. Although to such rebellious women as thou art, it should seem uncomely and not decent to make request, yet if thou wilt seek aid of my mercy, and render thyself under mine obedience, be assured that I will do thee honour, & give pardon to thy people. The gold, silver, and all other riches, within thy Palace I am content thou shalt enjoy, together with the kingdom of Palmyres, which thou mayest keep during thy life, & leave after thy death to whom thou shalt think good, upon condition notwithstanding, that thou abandon all thine other Realms and countries which thou haste in Asia, and acknowledge Rome to be thy superior. Of thy vassals and subjects of Palmyres, we demand none other obedience, but to be confederates and friends, so that thou break up thy Camp, wherewith thou makest war in Asia, & disobeyest the city of Rome, we will suffer thee to have a certain number of men of war, so well for the tuition of thy person, as for the defence of thy kingdom. And thy two children which thou hadst by thy husband Odenatus: He whom thou lovest best shall remain with thee in Asia, and the other I will carry with me to Rome, not as prisoner, but as hostage & pledge from thee. The prisoners which thou haste of ours, shall be rendered in exchange for those which we have of thine, without ransom of either parts. And by thief means thou shalt remain honoured in Asia, and I contented, will return to Rome. The Gods be thy defence, & preserve our mother the city of Rome from all unhappy fortune.  
The Queen Zenobia having read the letter of the Emperor Aurelianus, without fear of the contents, incontinently made such answer as followeth.  
Zenobia Queen of Palmyres, and Lady of all Asia, and the kingdoms thereof, to thee Aurelianus the Emperor, health and consolation etc. That thou do entitle thyself with the Emperor of the Romans I do agree, but to presume to name thyself lord of the East kingdoms, I say therein thou dost offend. For thou knowest well, that I alone am Lady Regent of all the Orient, & the only dame & masters of the same. The one part whereof descended unto me by lawful inheritance from my predecessors, and the other part I have won by my prowess and deeds of arms. Thou sayest that if I render obedience unto thee, thou wilt do me great honour: To that I answer, that it were a dishonest part of me, and a deed most unjust, that the Gods having created Zenobia to command all Asia, she should now begin to be slave & thrall unto the city of Rome. semblably, thou sayest that thou wilt give and leave me all the gold, silver, and other riches which I have: Whereunto I answer, that it is a wicked and fond request, to dispose the goods of another as they were thine own. But thine eyes shall never see it, ne yet thy hands shall touch it, but rather I hope in the Gods above to bestow and cry a largesse of that which thou haste at Rome, before thou finger that which I have & possess in Asia. Truly Aurelianus, the wars which thou makest against me, and thy quarrel, be most unjust before the supernal Gods, and very unreasonable before men, and I for my part if I have entered or do take arms, it is but to defend myself and mine. Thy coming then into Asia is for none other purpose, but to spoil & make havoc of that which an other hath. And think not that I am greatly afraid of that name of Roman Prince, nor yet of the power of thine huge army. For if it be in thy hands to give battle, it belongeth only to the gods to give either to thee or me the victory. That I remain in field it is to me great fame, but thou to fight with a widow, oughtest truly to be ashamed.  
There be come unto mine aid and Camp the Persians, the Medes, the Agamennonians, the Irenees, & the Syrians, and with them all the Gods immortal, who be wont to chastise such proud princes as thou art, and to help poor widows as I am. And if it so come to pass, that the Gods do permit & suffer my luck to be such, as thou do bereave me of life and despoil me of goods, yet it willbe bruited at Rome, and published in Asia, that the woeful wight Zenobia, was overthrown and slain, in defence of her patrimony, and for the conservation of her husbands honour. Labour no more than Aurelianus, to flatter and pray me, nor yet to threaten me: require me no more to yield and become thy prisoner, nor yet to surrender that which I have: for by doing that I can, I accomplish that I ought. For it will be said and noised through the world, (may it so come to pass as Fortune do not favour me) that if the Empress Zenobia be captive, she was not yet vanquished. The son which thou 〈◊〉 to carry with thee to Rome, truly that request I cannot abide, and much less do mean to 〈◊〉 the same, knowing full well that thy house is stored full of manifold vices, where mine is garnished with many notable Philosophers: Whereby if I leave unto my children no great heaps of goods, yet they shallbe well taught and instructed: For the one half of the day they spend in Learning, and the other half in exercise of Arms.  
For conclusion of thy demand, and final answer thereunto, I pray thee travel no more by letters to write unto me, ne yet by embassage to spend any 〈◊〉 talk, but attend until our controversy be decided rather by force of arms than by uttered words. The Gods preserve thee.  
It is said that Aurelianus, receiving that answer, did rejoice, but when he had red it, he was greatly offended, which incontinently he made to be known, by gathering together his Camp, and besieging the City wherein Zenobia was. And Aurelianus, wroth and outraged with that answer, although his army was weary and half in despair (by reason of the long wars,) yet he used such diligence and expedition in the siege of that place, as the 〈◊〉 was taken and the city razed: which done, the Emperor Aurelianus returned to Rome, carrying with him Zenobia, not to do her to death, but to triumph over her. At what time to see that noble Lady go on foot, and march before the triumphing Chariot bare 〈◊〉, charged with that burden of heavy chance, and her two children by her side: truly it made the Roman Matrons to conceive great pity, being well known to all the Romans, that neither in valo, rous deeds, nor yet in virtue or chastity, any man or woman of her time did 〈◊〉 her. The days of the triumph being done, all the noble Ladies of Rome assembled and repaired to Zenobia, and used unto her great and honourable entertainment, giving her many goodly presents and rewards. And Zenobia lived in the company of those noble matrons the space of. x. years before she died, in estimation like a Lucretia, and in honour like a Cornelia. And if Fortune had accompanied her parsonage, so well as virtue and magnanimity, Rome had felt the eagerness of her displeasure, and the whole world tasted the sweetness of her regiment.   

Euphimia of Corinth.  
¶ EUPHIMIA the King of 〈◊〉 daughter fell in love with ACHARISTO, the servant of her father, and besides others which required her to marriage, she disdained PHILON the king of PELOPONESUS, that loved her 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, ACHARISTO conspiring against the king, was discovered, tormented, and put in prison, & by means of 〈◊〉 delivered. The king promised his daughter and kingdom, to him that presented the head of ACHARISTO. EUPHIMIA so wrought, as he was presented to the King. The King gave him his daughter to wife, and when he died made him his heir. ACHARISTO began to hate his wife, and condemned her to death as an adulteress. PHILON delivered her: & upon the suit of her subjects, she is contented to marry him, & thereby he is made king of Corinth.  
The. xv. Novel.  
Constancy in Honest love, (being a perfect virtue, and a precious ornament to the beloved, indewing 〈◊〉, besides joy and contentation, with immortal same fame & glory,) hath in itself these only marks and properties to be known by, Chastity & toleration of adversity: For as the mind is constant in love, not variable, or given to change, so is the body continent, comely, honest and 〈◊〉 of Fortune's plagues. A true constant mind is moved with no sugared persuasions of friends, is diverted with no eloquence, terrified with no threats, is quiet in all motions. The blustering blasts of parents' wrath, can not remove the constant maid from that which she hath peculiarly chosen to herself. The rigorous rage of friends, doth not dismay the loving man from the embracement of her, whom he hath amongs the rest selected for his unchanged fear. A goodly example of constant & noble love this history ensuing describeth, although not like in both, yet in both a semblable constancy. For Euphimia a King's daughter, abandoneth the great love borne unto her by Philon, a young Prince, to love a servant of her fathers, with whom she persevered in great constancy, for all his 〈◊〉 and ingrateful dealings towards her. Philon seeing his love despised, never married until he married her, whom afterwards he delivered from the false surmised treason of her cankered and malicious husband, Euphimia fond married against her father's will, and therefore deservedly after wards bare the penance of her fault: And albeit she declared herself to be constant, yet duty to loving father ought to have withdrawn her rash and heady love. What dangers do ensue such like cases, examples be 〈◊〉, and experience teacheth. A great dishonour it is for the 〈◊〉 and Gentlewoman to disparaged her no 〈◊〉 house with marriage of her inferior. Yea and great grief to the parents to see their children obstinate & wilful in careless love. And albeit the 〈◊〉 Propertius describeth the vehement love of those that be noble, and have wherewith in love to be 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, in these verses:  

Great is the 〈◊〉 of Love; the constant mind doth 〈◊〉 〈◊〉:  
And he that is well fraught with wealth, in Love doth much prevail.   
Yet the tender damosel or loving child, be they never so noble or rich, aught to attend the father's time and choice, and naturally incline to their 〈◊〉 & liking, otherwise great harm and detriment ensue: For when the parents see that disobedience or rather rebellious mind of their child, their conceived sorrow for the same, so gnaweth the rooted plant of natural love, as either it hasteneth their untimely death, or else engendereth a heap of melancholy humours: which force them to proclaim 〈◊〉 and bitter curse against their 〈◊〉 fruit, upon whom (if by due regard they had 〈◊〉 ruled) they would have pronounced the sweet blessing that Isaac gave to jacob, the mother's best beloved boy: yea and that displeasure may chance to dispossess them of that, which should have been the only comfort and stay of the future age. So that negligence of parent's 〈◊〉, and careless heed of youthful head, breedeth double woe, but specially in the not advised child: who tumbleth himself first into the breach of divine laws, to the curses of the same, to parent's wrath, to orphans state, to beggars life, and into a sea of manifold miseries. In whom had obedience ruled, and reason taken place, the heart might have been 〈◊〉, the parent well pleased; the life joyfully spent, and the posterity successively taste the fruits that elders have prepared. What care and sorrow, 〈◊〉 what extremitis the foresaid noble Gentlewoman 〈◊〉, for not yielding to her father's mind, the sequel shall at large declare.  
There was sometimes in Corinth, a City of 〈◊〉, a King, which had a daughter called Euphimia, very tenderly beloved of her father, and being arrived to the age of marriage, many noble men of Grecia made suit to have her to wife. But amongs all, Philon the young king of Peloponessus, so fiercely fell in love with her, as he thought he could no longer live, if he were married to any other. For which cause her father knowing him to be a King, and of singular beauty, and that he was far in love with his daughter, would gladly have chosen him to be his son in law, persuading her that she should live with him a life so happy as was possible for any noble lady matched with Gentleman, were he never so honourable. But the daughter by no means would consent unto her father's will, alleging unto him divers & sundry considerations, whereby her nature by no means would agree, nor heart consent to join with Philon. The king above all worldly things loved his fair daughter: and albeit he would feign have brought to pass, that she should have taken him to husband, yet he would not use the father's authority, but desired that Love rather than force, should match his daughter, and therefore for that time was contented to agree unto her will. There was in the Court a young man, borne of her father's bondman, which hight Acharisto, and was manumised by the King, who made him one of the esquires for his body, and used his service in sundry enterprises of the wars, and because he was in those affairs very skilful, of bold parsonage, in conflicts and 〈◊〉 very hardy, the King did very much favour him, aswell for that he had defended him from manifold dangers, as also because he had delivered him from the 〈◊〉 pretended against him by the king of the Lacedæmonians. Whose help and valiance, the king used for the murder and destruction of the said Lacedaemonian King. For which valiant enterprise, he bountifully recompensed him with honourable preferments and stately revenues. Upon this young man, Euphimia fired her amorous eyes, and fell so far in love, as upon him alone she bent her thoughts, and all her loving cogitations: Whereof Acharisto being certified, and well espying and marking her amorous looks, nourished with like flames the fire, wherewith she burned. notwithstanding his love was not so 〈◊〉 bend upon her parsonage, as his desire was ambitious for that she should be her father's only heir, and therefore thought that he should be a most happy man, above all other of mortal kind, if he might possess that inheritance. The king perceiving that love, told his daughter, that she had placed her mind in place so strange, as he had thought her wisdom would have more warily forséen, and better weighed her estate & birth, as come of a princely race, and would have deemed such love, far unworthy her degree: requiring her with fatherly words, to withdraw her settled mind & to join with him in choice of husband, for that he had none other worldly heir but her, and told her how he meant highly to bestow her upon such a parsonage, as a most happy life she should lead, so long as the destinies were disposed to weave the web of her predestined life: And therefore was resolved to espouse her unto that noble Gentleman Philon. Euphimia hearkened to this unliked tale, & with unliked words refused her father's hest, protesting unto him such reasons to like effect as she did before, thereby to draw him from his conceived purpose. whereunto the wise King having made reply, continuing his intended mind, at length in raging words and stormed mind, he said unto Euphimia: How much the sweeter is the wine, the sharper is the egred saw thereof. I speak this Parable, for that thou not knowing or greatly regarding the gentle disposition of thy father's nature, in the end mayst so abuse the same, as where hitherto he hath been courteous and benign, he may become through thy disordered deeds, right sour and sharp: and without utterance of further talk, departed. Who resting evil content with that fond fixed love, thought that the next way to remedy the same, was to tell Acharisto, how 〈◊〉 he took his presumed fault, and in what heinous part he conceived his ingratitude, and how for the benefits which liberally he had bestowed upon him, he had brought and enticed his daughter to love him, that was far unagreeable her estate. And therefore he called him before him, and with reasons first declared the duty of a faithful servant to his sovereign Lord, and afterwards he said: That if the received benefits were not able to let him know what were convenient and seemly for his degree, but would persevere in that which he had begun, he would make him feel the just displeasure of a displeased Prince: whereby he should repent the time that ever he was borne of woman's womb. These words of the King seemed grievous to Acharisto, & not to move him to further anger he seemed as though that (being fearful of the kings displeasure) he did not love his daughter at all, but said unto him, that he deserved not to be so rebuked, for that it lay not in his power to withstand her love, the same proceeding of her own good will and liberty. And that he for his part never required love: if she did bend her mind to love him, 〈◊〉 could not remedy that affection, for that the free-will of such unbridled appetite rested not in him to reform. Notwithstanding, because he understood his unwilling mind, 〈◊〉 from that time forth would so endeavour himself, as he should well 〈◊〉 that the unstaid mind of the young gentlewoman Euphimia, was not incensed by him, but voluntarily conceived of herself. You shall do well (said the King) if the effect proceed according to the promise. And the more acceptable shall the same be unto me, for that I desire it should so come to pass. The king liked well these words, although that Acharisto had conceived within 〈◊〉 plat of his intended mind, some other treason. For albeit that he affirmed before the kings own face, that he would not love his daughter, yet knowing the assured will of the loving gentlewoman, he practised the marriage, and like an unkind & wretched man, devised convenient time to kill him. And fully bend to execute that cruel enterprise, he attempted to corrupt the chiefest men about him, promising promotions unto some, to some he assured restitution of revenue, which by father's fault they had lost before, and to other golden hills, so that he might attain by slaughter of the King, to 〈◊〉 a kingly state and kingdom. Which the sooner he persuaded himself to acquire, if in secret silence, they could put up that which by general voice they had agreed. And although they thought themselves in good assurance, that their enterprise could take no ill success, by reason of their sound and good discourse debated amongs themselves for the accomplisment thereof, yet it fortuned that one of the conspiracy (as commonly in such like traitorous attempts it chanceth) being with his beloved lady, and she making moan that little commodity succeeded of her love for her advancement, broke out into these words: Hold thy peace (said he:) for the time will not be long, before thou shalt be one of the chiefest Ladies of this land. How can that be (said his woman?) No more ado (quoth the Gentleman:) Cease from further questions, and be merry: for we shall enjoy together, a very honourable and a quiet life. When her Lover was departed, the gentlewoman went to an other of her gossips very jocund, and told her what her lover had said: and she than not able to keep counsel, went and told an other: In such wise as in the end it came to the cares of the King's stewards wife, and she imparted the same unto her husband, who marking those words, like a man of great wisdom & experience, did verily believe that the same touched the danger of the King's person: And as a faithful servant to his lord and master, diligently hearkened to the muttering talk murmured in the court, by him which had told the same to his beloved lady: & knowing that it proceeded from Acharisto, which was an 〈◊〉 and seditious varlet, and that he with three or four other his familiars, kept secret company in corners, judged that which he first conjectured, to be most certain and true. Wherefore determined to move the King thereof, and upon a day finding him alone, he said unto him, that the fidelittie and good will wherewith he served him, and the desire which he had to see him live in long and prosperous estate, made him to attend to the safeguard of his person, & to hearken unto such as should attempt to danger the same. For which cause, marking and espying the doings of certain of his chamber (whose common assemblies and privy whisperings misliking) he feared lest they conspiring with Acharisto; should work treason, for berieving of his life: and to the intent their endeavours might be prevented, and his safety foreseen, he thought good to reveal the same to his majesty. Then he told the King the words that were spoken by the first Gentlewoman, to one or two of her companions, and disclosed the presumptions which he 〈◊〉 seen and perceived touching the same. Amongs the ill conditions of men, there is nothing more common than poison, conspiracies, and treason of Princes and great lords: and therefore every little suspicion presuming such 〈◊〉, is a great demonstration of like mischief. Which made the King to give credit to the words of his Steward, having for his long experience known him to be faithful and trusty. And suddenly he thought that Acharisto attempted the same, that after his death, by marriage of Euphimia, he might be the inheritor of his kingdom. The belief whereof, and the singular credit which he reposed in his Steward besides other things, caused him to command the captain of his Guard to apprehend those. iiii. of whom his Steward told him, and Acharisto, committing them to several prisons. Then be sent his officers to examine them, and found upon their confessions, the accusation of his Steward to be true. But Acharisto, although the whole 〈◊〉 of the treason was confessed by those four conspirators that were apprehended, and advouched to his face, and for all the torments wherewith he was racked and cruciated, yet still denied, that either he was author of the enterprise, or partaker of a treason so wicked. Then the king incontinently caused the four Gentlemen of his chamber 〈◊〉 be rewarded, according to the worthiness of their offence and were put to death, and Acharisto to be reprieved in sharp and cruel prison, until with torments he should be forced to confess that which he knew to be most certain and true, by the evidence of those that were done to death. Euphimia for the imprisonment of Acharisto, conceived incredible sorrow, and uneths could be persuaded, that he would imagine, much less conspire that 〈◊〉 fact, as well for the love which Acharisto seemed to bear unto her, as for the great good will wherewith he was assured that she bore unto him, and therefore the death of the 〈◊〉 to be no less grief unto him, than the same would be to 〈◊〉 self, the king being her natural and loving father. Acharisto thought on the other side, that if he might speak with Euphimia, a way would be found either for his escape, or else for his delivery. Whereupon Acharisto being in this deliberation, found means to talk with the jailors' wife, & entreated her to show him so much favour, as to procure Euphimia to come unto him. She accordingly brought to pass, that the young gentlewoman in secret wise came to speak with this traitorous varlet, who so soon as he saw her, shedding from his eyes store of tears, pitifully complaining, said unto her: I know Euphimia, that the King your father doth not enclose me in this cruel prison, ne yet afflicteth me with these miserable torments, for any suspicion he conceiveth of me for any intended fact, but only for the love which I bear you, and for the like, (for which I render humble thanks) that you do bear to me: & because that I am weary of this wretched state, & know that nothing else can 〈◊〉 me from this painful life, but only death, I am determined with mine own proper hands to cut the thread of life wherewith the destinies hitherto have prolonged the same, that this my breathing ghost, which breatheth forth 〈◊〉 doleful plaints, may flee into the Skies, to rest itself amongs the restful spirits above, or wandre into 〈◊〉 pleasant hellish fields, amongs the shadows of Creusa, Aeneas wife, or else with the ghost of complaining Dido. But ere I did the same, I made mine humble prayer to the majesty divine, that he would vouchsafe to show me somuch grace, as before I die, I might fulfil my 〈◊〉 eyes with sight of you, whose image still appeareth before those greedy Gates, and 〈◊〉 representeth unto my mindful heart. Which great desired thing, sith God above hath granted, I yield him infinite 〈◊〉, and sith my destiny is such, that such must be the end of love, I do rejoice that I must die for your sake, which only is the cause that the King your father so laboureth for my death. I need not to molest you with the false evidence given against me, up those malicious villains, that be already dead: which only hath thus incensed the kings wrath and heavy rage against me: whereof I am so free, as worthily they be executed for the same. For if it were so, then true it is, (and as lightly you might believe) the I never knew the love you bear me, and you likewise did never know, what love I bore to you: and therefore you may think that so impossible is the one, as I did ever mean, think, or imagine any harm or peril to your father's person. To be short, I humbly do beseech you to believe, that so faithfully as man is able to love a woman, so have I loved you: & that it may please you to be so mindful of me in this fading life, as I shall be of you in that life to come. And in saying so, with face all bathed in tears, he clyped her about the middle, and fast embracing her said: Thus taking my last farewell of you (mine only life and joy) I commend you to the government of the supernal God, & myself to death, to be disposed as pleaseth him. Euphimia, which before was not persuaded the Acharisto was guilty of that devised treason, now gave full belief and credit to his words, and weeping with him for company, comforted him so well as she could, and bidding him to be of good cheer, she said, that she would seek such means, as for her sake and love he should not die. And that before long time did pass, she would help him out of prison, Acharisto although he uttered by rueful voice that 〈◊〉 talk, for remedy to rid himself from prison, yet he did but 〈◊〉 all that he spoke, adding further: Alas Euphimia, do not incur your father's wrath to please my mind, suffer me quietly to take that death, which sinister Fortune and cruel fate hath provided to abridge my days. Euphimia vanquished with unspeakable grief and burning passion of love, said: Ah Acharisto, the only joy and comfort of my life, do not pierce my heart with such displeasant words. For what should I do in this wretched world, if you for my sake should suffer death? wherefore put away the cruel thought, and be content to save your life, that hereafter in joy & mirth you may spend that same. Trusting that if means may be found for your dispatch from hence, we shall live the rest of our prolonged life together, in sweet and happy days. For my father is not made of stone of flint, nor yet was nursed of Hircan Tiger, he is not so malicious but that in time to come, he may 〈◊〉 made to know the true discourse of thine innocent life, and hope thou shalt attain his favour more than ever thou 〈◊〉 before, the care whereof only leave to me, and take no thought thyself, for I make promise upon mine assured faith to bring the same to pass: Wherefore give over thy conceived grief, and bend thyself to live so merry a life, as ever gentleman did, trained up in court as thou hast been. I am content said Acharisto thus to do, the Gods forbidden that I should decline my heart and mind from thy behest, who of thy wont grace dost seek continuance of my life, but rather sweet Euphimia, than thou shouldest suffer any danger to perform thy promise, I make request (for the common love between us both) to leave me in this present dangerous state. Rather would I lose my life than 〈◊〉 shouldest hazard the least hear of thy head for my relief. We shall be both safe enough (answered Euphimia) for my devise proceeding from a woman's head, hath already drawn the plot of thy deliverance, and with those words they both did end their talk, whose trickling tears did rather finish the same, than willing minds: and either of them giving a kiss unto the Tower wall, wherein Acharisto was fast shut, Euphimia departed, turmoiled with a thousand amorous pricks, and ceased not but first of all to corrupt and win the jailers wife, whose husband was sent forth on business of the kings. The conclusion of which practice was, that when she carried meat to Acharisto, according to the order appointed, she should feign herself to be violently despoiled of the prison-key by Acharisto, who taking the same from her, should shut her in the prison and escape, and when her husband did return, she should make compl 〈…〉 of the violence done unto her: according to which devise, the practice was accomplished. And when her husband returned home, hearing his wife cry out within the Tower, was marvelously amazed, and understanding that Acharisto was dead, (ignorant of the policy between his wife and Euphimia,) he fell into great rage, & speedily repaired to the king, and told him what had chanced. The King thinking that the breach of prison was rather through the woman's simplicity than purposed malice, did mitigate his displeasure, 〈◊〉 forthwith he sent out Scouts to spy and watch in to what place Acharisto was gone, whose secret flight, made all their travel to be in vain. Then the King when he saw that he could not be found, made proclamation throughout his realm, that who so would bring unto him the head of Acharisto, should have to wife his only daughter, and after his decease should possess his Kingdom for dowry of that marriage. Many knights did put themselves in readiness to themselves that enterprise, & above all, Philon was the chief, not for greediness of the kingdom, but for love which he bore unto the Gentlewoman. Whereof Acharisto having intelligence, and perceiving that in no place of Europa he could be safe and sure from danger, for the multitude of them which pursued him unto death, caused Euphimia to understand the miserable estate wherein he was, Euphimia which bent her mind, & employed her study for his safeguard, imparted her love which she bore to Acharisto, to an aged Gentlewoman, which was her nurse & governess, & besought her that she would entreat her son called Sinapus, (one very well beloved of the King) so reach his help unto her desire, that Acharisto might return to the court again. The Nurse like a wise woman left no persuasion unspoken, nor counsel unremembered, which she thought was able to dissuade the young gentlewoman from her conceived love: but the wound was so deeply made, and her heart so grievously wounded with the three forked arrows of the little blind archer Cupid, that despising all the reasons of her beloved nurse, she said, how she was firmly bent either to run from her father, and to seek out Acharisto, to sustain with him one equal fortune, or else with her own hands to procure death, if some remedy were not found to recover the Kings good grace for the return of Acharisto. The Nurse vanquished with pity of the young maiden, fearing both the one and the sort danger that might ensue, sent for Sinapus, and upon their talk together, Euphimia and he concluded, that Acharisto should be brought again unto the Court, and that she herself should present him to the King: wherein should want no kind of diligence until the King did entertain him again for his faithful servant, as he was wont to do. Upon which resolution, Acharisto was sent for, and being come Sinapus and Euphimia together with the Nurse told him in what 〈◊〉 they three had concluded touching his health and safeguard. Which of him being well liked, did give 〈◊〉 humble thanks: And then Sinapus went unto the King, and told him, that there was one newly arrived at Corinth, to make a present unto his grace of the head of Acharisto. At which news the King showed himself so joyful, as if he had gotten an other Kingdom: and being placed under his cloth of state, with his Counsel and Princely train about him, telling them the 〈◊〉 of that assembly, commanded him that brought those news, to bring the party forth newly come unto the City to present the head of Acharisto. Then Sinapus brought Acharisto before the presence of the King, who no sooner looked upon him, but fell into such a rage, as the fire seemed to flame out of his angry eyes, and commanded him presently to be taken and put to death. But Acharisto falling 〈◊〉 upon his knees, humbly besought his Majesty to give him leave 〈◊〉 speak: But the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 suffering him to utter one word, 〈◊〉 him away. Then the counsellors and other Lords of the Court, entreated his grace to hear him: At whose requests and supplications he 〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉 content. Then Acharisto began to say: Most sacred Prince, and redoubted Sovereign Lord, the cause of this my presumptuous repair before your Majesty, is not to show myself guilty of the late bevised conspiracy, ne yet to crave pardon for the same, but to satisfy your Majesty with that contented desire, which by proclamation ye have prondunced through your highness 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉: which is, to offer this head for revenge of the fault unjustly laid unto my charge by those four, which worthily have tasted the deserved pame of their 〈◊〉. Whersore I am come hither of mine own accord, to show the love and great desire, which ever I had to serve and please your Majesty: And for that I would not consume my life in your displeasure, I make offer of the same to your merciful will and disposition, choosing rather to die, and leave your majesty satisfied & contented, than to live in happy state, your princely mind displeased. But desirous that hour majesty should know mine innocency, I humbly: beseech your grace to hear what I can say, that my fidelity may be thoroughly understanded, & the wickedness of the 〈◊〉 mine accusers well weighed and considered. Then he began to rehearse all the things done by him for the service of his crown and majesty, and finally into what danger he did put himself, when he killed the Lacedaemonian king, that went about by treason to murder him: which enterprise might appear unto him to be 〈◊〉 sure and evident testimony, that he meant nothing hurtful or preindicial to his highness. And that he cstemed not his life, when he adventured for his service & safeguard to employ the same, & after these alleged causes, he added briefly, that the love which his majesty knew to be between him & Euphimia his daughter, aught to 〈◊〉 persuaded him, that 〈◊〉 had rather have suffered death himself, than commit a thing displeasant to Euphimia. And knowing that a more 〈◊〉 thing could not chance to her, than the 〈◊〉 death of her father, he might well think that he would have devised the death of a thousand other, rather than that horrible & 〈◊〉 deed, such as his greatest enemy would never have done, much less 〈◊〉 which was bound unto him by so many received benefits, for whose service & preservation he had dedicated & vowed his life and soul. But if so be his majesties rancour and displeasure could not be mitigated but by doing him to death, he desired that none of his alleged reasons should be accepted, and therefore was there ready to sacrifice his life at his majesties disposition and pleasure. Acharisto by nature, could tell his tale exceedingly well, and the more his tongue stood him in service, the greater appeared his eloquence: Which so pierced the mind of the King, and persuaded the Counsellors, and other of the Court, as he was deemed guiltless of the treason: and the matter was so debated, and the King entreated to grant him pardon, as he was accounted most worthy of his favour. Then the King, by the advise of his Counsel, was persuaded, that by force of his proclamation, his daughter should be given to Acharisto in marriage, and his Kingdom for a dowry, because he had offered his own head, according to the effect of the same. So the King repenting himself that he had offended Acharisto, in the end agreed to the advise of his counsel, and gave him his daughter to wife. Whereof Euphimia was so joyful, as they be that attain the sum of their hearts desire. The father lived one whole year after this marriage, and Euphimia so pleasant a life for a certain time, as was possible for any Gentlewoman. Her father was no sooner dead, but the unkind man, nay rather brute beast, had forgotten all the benefits received of his kind and loving wise: and having by her only means gotten a Kingdom, began to hate her so strangely, as he could not abide her sight, (Such is the property of cankered oblivion, which after it creepeth into ambitious heads, never hath mind of passed amity, ne regardeth former benefit, but like a monster and deadly enemy to human nature, overwhelmeth in his bottomless gulf all piety and kindness) and determined in the end for recompense of such great good turns, to despoil her of her life. How think you fair Ladies, was not this a fair reward for the love, the travails and sorrows sustained for this ingrate and villainous man, by that royal lady, to save his life, and to take him to husband? Here is manifest (probatum) that in a vile and servile mind, no virtue, no duty, no received benefits can be harboured. Here is a lesson for young Gentlewomen to beware how they contemn and despise the grave advise of their ancient fathers. Here they may see the damage and hurt that unadvised youth incurreth, when neglecting their parents holeseme admonitions, they give themselves to the love of such as be 〈◊〉 their estate and calling. For what should ail the gentle pucell borne of gentle blood, but to match herself in like affinity, & not to care for currish kind, or race of 〈◊〉. be there no Gentlemen to be found of parsonage and beauty worthy to join in love with them? be they so precious in nature, or tender in education as their like can not be vouchsafed to couple in marriage yoke? Compare the glistering gold to drossy dirt, and such is the difference between gentle and ungentle. But perhaps bringing up may alter nature, and custom transform defect of birth: As Lycurgus the lawmaker did try between the Currish whelp and the Spaniel kind, both by training up running to their contraries, the Spaniel not used to hunt eager upon the pottage dish, the other nuzzled in that pastime pursuing his game. But that Metamorphosis is seldom seen amongs human sort, and therefore I advise the gentle kind, to match them selves in equal lot, and not to trust sir Customs courtesy in choice of fear. Return we then to unkind Acharisto, who now in full possession of his desired praio, reverting to his puddle of carlish will and cankered nature, after many thousand wrongs done to this most noble and gentle Queen, accused her to be an adulteress, and as one in deed, (although most innocent) she was condemned to the merciless fire. Philon, King of Peloponessus which (as we have said before) loved Euphimia as did the balls of his own eyes, understanding the cruelty that this wicked man used towards her, to whom both his life & kingdom did belong, moved with nobility of mind, determined to declare to Euphimia the inward fervent love which 〈◊〉 bore her, and to chastise Acharisto for his ingratitude with due correction. Wherefore deeply debating with himself of this adventure, thus he said: Now is the time Euphimia, that Philon show what faithful love he hath ever born unto thee, and that he deliver thee both from the present danger wherein thou art, and from the hands of that unkind wretch, that is far unworthy of such a wife. For if thou hadst agreed to thy father's will, and yielded to the pursuit of him that loved thee best, thou hadst no need of rescue now, ne yet been in peril of the wasteful flames of fire, which be ready to consume thy nesh and tender corpse, full tenderly sometimes beloved of thy dear father, and of thy loving friend Philon. When he had spoken those words, he earnestly disposed himself upon that enterprise. There was in those days a custom in Corinth, that they which were condemned to death, were carried. three miles forth of the City, and there the sentence pronounced against them, were put to execution. Philon having intelligence hereof, did put in readiness a good troop of horsemen, and being secretly embarked, arrived at Corinth, and closely the night before Euphimia should be brought to the fire, hard by the place where the miserable Lady should be burnt, into a wood he conveyed his people: and so soon as the Sergeants and officers were approached near the place with the lady, he issued forth, and did set upon the throng, not suffering one of them to remain alive, to carry news. When he had delivered Euphimia from that prcsent danger of her life, & the company dispercled, he said to the Queen: Now thou mayst see (fair Queen,) the diversity, between the disloyalty and unkindness of Acharisto, and the faith and love of Philon. But for that I mean not to leave his ingratitude unrevenged, thou shalt stays here, until thou hear news of the due 〈◊〉 which I shall give him. Those dire and cruel words foretold of her husbands death, moved her honest and Princely heart, which by no means could be altered from the gentle nature, which it had first tasted and received: And although she had suffered mortal & solemn injury of her unkind husband for manifold benefits, yet (she good Gentlewoman) would permit no duty of a trusty and faithful wife unperformed. Wherefore she besought Philon upon her knees, not to proceed to further revenge of Acharisto, telling him, that enough it was for her to have escaped that present peril, from which he like a Princely Gentleman had delivered her, and therefore during her life was most bound unto him. Philon greatly wondered at the goodness of this Lady, howbeit the ingratitude of that 〈◊〉 by no means he would suffer to be unpunished. And being advertised that Acharisto remained in his Palace without any suspicion of this adventure, banded neither with Guard or other assurance, committed Euphimia to safe custody, and suddenly assailed the Palace of Acharisto: And finding the Gates open, he entered the city, crying out upon the wickedness and treason of Acharisto. At which words the whole City began to rise, to help Philon in his enterprise. For there was no state or degree, but abhorred the unkind order of that variet, towards the noble woman their Queen. Philon aided with the people, assaulted the Palace, and in short space invaded the same: and the varlet being apprehended, was put to death. The Corinthians seeing the noble mind of Philon, and the love which he bore to Euphimia, and knowing that their late King was disposed to have matched her with Philon, were very willing to have him to be their king, and that Euphimia should be his wife, supposing that under the government of a Prince so gentle and valiant, they might live very happily and joyfully. Execution done upon that most 〈◊〉 varlet, Philon caused the Lady to be conveyed home into her royal Palace. And the people with humble submission, began to persuade her to marry with that young Prince Philon. But she which had lodged her thoughts and fixed her mind upon that caitiff, who unnaturally had abused her, would by no means consent to take a new husband, saying, that the second marriage was not to be allowed in any woman. And albeit that she knew how greatly she was bound to Philon, as during life not able to recompense his loving kindness and baliant exploit performed for her safeguard, yet for all her unhappy fortune, she was minded still to remain a widow, and well contented that Philon should possess her whole dominion and kingdom, and she pleased to live his subject: Which state she said, did like her best. Philon, that not for desire of the Kingdom, but for love of the lady had attempted that worthy and honourable enterprise, said unto her: Euphimia, it was only for your sake that I adventured this dangerous endeavour, to rid you from the slander that might have ensued your innocent death, and out of the cruel hands of him, whom unworthily you did so dearly love. No desire of kingdom or worldly glory induced me hereunto: No care that I had to enlarge the bounds of my country soil pricked the courage of my mind (that is altogether empty of ambition) but the passion of careless love, which this long time I have borne you in your happy father's days, to whom I made incessant suit: and to yourself I was so long a suitor, until I received extreme repulse. For which I vowed a perpetual single life, until this occasion was offered: the brute whereof when I heard first, so stirred the mind of your most loving knight, that drowsy sleep or greedy hunger, could not force this restless body to tarry at home, until I revenged myself upon that villain borne, which went about with roasting flames to consume the innocent flesh of her whom I loved best. And therefore mustered together my men of arms, and in secret sort embarked ourselves and arrived here. Where we have accomplished the thing we came for, and have settled you in quiet reign, free from peril of traitorous minds, craving for this my fact nought else of you but willing mind to be my wife: which 〈◊〉 you do refuse, I pass not for rule of your kingdom, ne yet for abode in Corinth, but mean to leave you to your choice. For satisfied am I, that I have manifested to the world the greatness of my love, which was so ample as ever King could bear to virtuous Queen. And so far well. At which words he made a sign to his people, that they should ship themselves for return to Poloponessus. But the Senators and all the people of Corinth seeing the courtesy of Philon, & how greatly their Queen was bound unto him, fell down upon their knees, and with joined hands befought her to take him to husband never ceasing from tears and supplication, until she had consented to their request. Then the marriage was solemnized with great joy and triumph, and the whole City after that time, lived in great felicity & quiet, so long as nature lengthened the days of those two noble Princes.   

The Marchionisse of Monferrato.  
¶ The Marchionisse of MONFERRATO, with a banquet of hens, and certain pleasant words, repressed the fond love of PHILIP the French King.  
The. xuj. Novel.  
GOod Euphimia (as you have heard) did fond apply her love upon a servile man, who though bred up in Court, where trayving and use doth commonly alter the rude conditions of such as be entertained there, yet void of all gentleness, and frustrate of nature's sweetness in that courteous kind, as not exchanging native 〈◊〉 for noble advancement, returned to his hoggish soil, and wallowed in the dirty filth of Inhumanity, whose nature might well with fork or Staff be expelled, but home again it would have come, as Horace pleadeth in his Epistles. O noble Gentlewoman, that mildly suffered the displeasure of the good King her father, who would feign have dissuaded her from that unseemly match, to join with a young Prince, a King, a Gentleman of great perfection: And O pestilent Carl, being beloved of so honourable a pucell, that for treason discharged thy head from the block, & of a dunghill slave preferred thee to be a King, wouldst for those deserts in the end frame 〈◊〉 matter to consume her. With just hatred than did the noble Emperor Claudius Caesar prosecute those of bond & servile kind that were matched with the free and noble. Right well knew he that some taste of eagerness would rest in such savage fruit, & therefore made a law, that the issue of them should not have like liberty and pre-eminence, as other had, which agreeably did couple. What harm such marriage hath inferred to divers states and persons (to avoid other examples) the former Novel teacheth. Wherefore to end the same, with bewailing of Euphimia for her unlucky lot, begin we now to glad ourselves with the wise and stout answer of a chaste marquess, a Gentlewoman of singular beauty and discretion, made to the fond demand of a mighty Monarch, that fond fell in love with her, and made a reckoning of that, which was doubtful to recover. This King by loving her whom he never saw, fared like the man that in his sleep dreamt that he had in hold, the thing furthest from him. For the King never saw her, before he heard her praised, and when he heard her praised, for purpose to win her, he travailed out of his way, so sure to enjoy her, as if he had never seen her. This history, although brief, yet showeth light to noble dames that be pursued by Princes, & teacheth them with what regard they ought to entertain such suitors.  
The marquess then of Monferrato, a city in Italy, being a Gentleman of great prowess and valiance, was appointed to transfrete the Seas in a general passage made by the christians, with an huge Army and great furniture. And as it chanced, upon a day great talk was had in the court of King Philip surnamed Luscus, (because he was purblind) who likewise was making preparation to departed out of France in the said journey. Report was made by a Knight which knew the said Marquize, that in all the world there was not the like married couple, as the Marquize and his wife were, as well because the Marquize had the fame to be an excellent Gentleman, as also for that his wife amongs all the troop of Ladies, that lived in the world that time, was the fairest and most virtuous: which words so entered the French Kings head, as suddenly (never seeing her in all his life) he began to love her. And for that purpose determined to embark himself at Genova, that by travailing that way by land, he might have good occasion to see the Marchionisse, thinking that her husband being absent, he might easily obtain that he desired. And as he had devised, he began his enterprise: who sending all his power before, took his journey with a mean train of Gentlemen: and being within a days journey of the Lady's house, he sent her word that the next day he would visit her at dinner. The sage and discrete Lady joyfully answered the Messenger, that she would account his coming for a great and singular pleasure, & said that his grace should be most hearty welcome. Afterwards she marveled why such a King as he was, would in her husband's absence, come to her house. And in that marvel & consideration she was no whit deceived, conjecturing that, the fame of her beauty was the cause of his coming. Nevertheless, like a wise Lady and honest Gentlewoman, she determined to do him honour, & caused the worshipful of her country such as remained behind, to be assembled, for advise in all things that were necessary for his entertainment: but the feast & variety of meats that should be served, she alone took upon her to dispose and order. Wherefore speedily sending about, and making provision for all the hens that might be gotten throughout the country, commanded her cooks, of those hens without other thing what so ever, to prepare divers services. The King failed not the next day to come accordingly as he had sent word, and was with great honour received of the lady: and in beholding her, she seemed unto him (besides his imagination comprehended by the former words of the Knight) to be far more fair, honest and virtuous, than he thought, attributing unto her, singular praise and commendation. And so much the more his desire was kindled, as she passed the estimation bruited of her. And after that the King had withdrawn himself into the chamber ordained and made ready for him, as appertained to a Prince so great, & that dinner time was come, the King & Madam the Marchionisse sat together at one board, and other according to their degrees were placed at several tables. The King served with many dishes and excellent wines, beholding some times the lady Marchionisse, conceived great delight and pleasure. But viewing the service and meats (although dressed in divers sorts) to be but hens, he began to wonder, specially knowing the soil wherein they were to be so rich & plentiful, as by little travail, great abundance of foul & venison might have been provided, and thought that she had indifferent leisure to chase and hunt, after that he had sent her word of his coming. Notwithstanding he would not take occasion to enter into talk of those wants of better cheer (her hens only excepted) who looking upon her, with merry countenance he said unto her: Madam were all these hens bred in this country without a cock? The Marchionisse which full well understood the cause of his demand, thinking that God had sent her an apt time for answer as she desired, boldly answered the King: No and it please your grace, but of women, albeit in honour and apparel there is some difference, yet they be all made in this 〈◊〉 as they be else where. The King hearing her 〈◊〉, right well did know the occasion of the banquet of Hens, and whereunto her words did tend: and considered that to bestow any further talk to so wise a lady, it were in vain, and that force there could take no place. Like as unadvisedly he fell in love, so it behoved him of necessity wisely to 〈◊〉 the fire for his honour sake, & without any more taunting words, fearing her revenge, he dined without hope to get other thing of her. And when 〈◊〉 had done, to the intent by his sudden departure, he might cover his dishonest coming, thanking her for the honour which he had received, and she recommending him to God, he departed to Genova.  
Here may be proved the great difference between wisdom and 〈◊〉, between virtue and vice. The King more by lust, than other desire, by circumstances endeavoured to sound the depth of the lady's mind. She by comely answer paid him home for his folly. A lively representation of a noble creature, so well bedecked with virtue as with beauty.   

Mistress Dianora.  
¶ Mistress DIANORA demanded of 〈◊〉 ANSALDO a Garden so fair in januarie, as in the month of May. Master ANSALDO (by means of an obligation which he made to a Necromancer) caused the same to be done. The husband agreed with the Gentlewoman that she should do the pleasure which master ANSALDO required, who hearing the liberality of the husband, acquitted her of her promise, and the Necromancer likewise discharged master ANSALDO.  
The. xvij. Novel.  
OF all things commonly accompanying the manner and trade of man's life, nothing is more circumspectly to be attended & provided for, than regard & 〈◊〉 of honesty: which attire, as it is most excellent and comely, so above all other vain toys of outward apparel to be preferred. And as honesty hath all other good conditions included in itself, as the same by any means can not stray out of that tract, trodden before by the steps of that most excellent virtue: Even so, impossible it is for the party adorned with the same, to wander one 〈◊〉 from that 〈◊〉 path. Wherefore let each wight that traceth this worldly life, foresee the due observation of all things incident to that which is honest. Nothing in this life (saith Tully in his oration, for the Poet Archias) is so much to be desired as Honesty, for the getting whereof all torments of body, all perils and dangers 〈◊〉 death be not to be regarded. Honesty then being a treasure so precious, what care not only for the achieving, but for the conservation ought to be employed? In the practice whereof, one special thing ought to be attended, which is, how a vow or promise aught to be made, or how the estimation of honesty ought to be hazarded for any thing seem it never so impossible. For what is it that love and money hath not brought to pass? What hard adventures by jason, what sleight by Alexander the son of King Priamus, what monsters slain and labours sustained by Hercules, what dangers and exploits some have incurred & other attempted by divers? To be short, Nihil est quod non effreno captus amore, ausit.  
As ovid the Poet saith:  
Nothing there is, but that the loving man doth dare, Surprised with frantic fit, each deed he doth not spare. Wherefore let every wight beware how they gauge their honesty for any enterprise (seem it never so impossible.) Mistress Dianora dearly beloved of a gentleman, and earnestly assailed, in the end yielded upon a condition: which if it could be brought to pass (which she thought impossible) was content to surrender to his love. Who consulting with a Magician, performed her request: then what followed, and what counsel her husband gave her, after she had broken the effect of her promise to him, and what Courtesy was used on all sides, the sequel hereof discloseth.  
The country of Frioli although it be cold, yet is it pleasant by reason of many fair mountains, rivers, and clear springs that are in the same: where there is a City called Vdina, & in the same sometime dwelling a fair gentlewoman called Mistress Dianora, the wife of Gilberto, a notable rich 〈◊〉, a very courteous parsonage, and of good behaviour. This Lady, for her graces and virtues, was entirely 〈◊〉 of a Gentleman and great lord, called master Anfaldo Grandese, who for his liberality and valiance in arms, was famous and well known. And albeit that he loved her 〈◊〉, seeking all means possible to be beloved of her, soliciting her many times by Ambassadors, yet his labour was in vain. And the Lady being offended for his daily suit, and travail, he for all her refusal and disagreement to his desire, would not abstain from loving her, but still maintain his importunate suit. She devising with herself how to rid him away, made a request unto him, so strange and impossible, (in her judgement) as he was not able to bring the same to pass. And upon a day she said unto an old woman, (the which came often times to sue unto her in his 〈◊〉) these words: Good wife, thou hast many times assured me, that Master Ansaldo doth love me above all other, and thou haste offered unto me marvelous gifts and presents in his name: All which I have refused, upon consideration, that I mind not to favour or love him for his goods: but if thou canst 〈◊〉 by warrantise, or other probable argument, that he loveth me so much as thou sayest, I will condescend without fail to love him again, and to do the thing that it shall please him to command me. Therefore if he will assure me to do that thing which I shall require him to do, tell him that I am at his commandment. What is that madame (said the old woman) that you desire? The thing which I demand (answered the Gentlewoman) is, that he should cause to be made here without the City, during the month of 〈◊〉 next coming, a Garden full of green herbs, flowers, and 〈◊〉, bespread with leaves, even as it were in the month of May: And if so be that he do it not, then let him never send thee or any other unto me again: for if afterwards he be importunate upon me, like as I have hitherto kept it close from my husband and parents, 〈◊〉 so complaining unto them, I will assay to be dispatched from his long and tedious suit. When the Knight understood that request, and the offer that his Mistress made him (although it seemed a thing very difficult and almost impossible to be done) knowing very well that she did the same for none other purpose, but only to put him out of hope that ever he should enjoy her, he determined notwithstanding, to prove what he was able to do. And for that purpose sent to seek in many places of the world, if there were any man that could assist him and give him counsel therein. In the end there was one found that offered to do it (if he were well waged thereunto) by the art of Necromancy, with whom master Ansaldo bargained for a great sum of money. Then he expected the month of 〈◊〉 with great devotion, which being come, even when the coldest wether was, and that all places were full of snow & ice, this Necromancer used his art in such sort, as in the night after the holy days of Christmas, in a fair meadow adjoining to that city, there appeared in the morning (as they can testify that saw the same) one of the fairest gardens that ever any man saw, full of herbs, trees, and fruits of all sorts: which when 〈◊〉 Ansaldo had seen, God knoweth if he were glad or not: & incontinently caused to be gathered the fairest fruits & flowers that were there, & secretly sent the same to his friend, inviting her to come and see the Garden which she had procured him to make, to the intent thereby she might know the love that he bore her, & to remember the promise which she had made him, and confirmed by oath, that he might from that time forth, esteem her a woman so good as her promise. When the Gentlewoman saw the flowers and fruits and hearing tell by report of the strange things that were in that Garden, began to repent herself of the promise which she had made: but for all her repentance, she like one desirous to see strange things, went with many other women to see the same: and having praised it, not without great admiration, she returned home, the angriest woman that ever was, when she had considered in what sort she had abused herself by means of that Garden. And her rage was so great, that she could by no means keep the same so secret or close, but that her husband must perceive the same, who would needs know of her all the whole matter. The Gentlewoman a long time kept it secret: in the end she was constrained to declare unto him the whole matter in order. Her husband hearing the same was suddenly very angry: afterwards considering the pure intent of his wife, he wisely appeased her, and said: Dianora, it is not the act of a wise and honest wife to incline her ear to such messages as those be, and less honest to make any mart or bargain of her honesty with any person, under what condition soever it be. Words which the heart receiveth by the ears, have greater 〈◊〉 than many do esteem, and there is nothing so difficult, but by the amorous is brought to pass. First therefore thou hast done evil to give ear unto such embassage, and afterwards for agreement to the bargain. For the weight of chastity is so ponderous, as by no means it ought to be laid in balance, either by impossibilities to boast and brag thereof, or else by assurance of their conceived thought to bring it into question, least in all places the same may be disputed upon, and blemish with the note of lightness, the person till that time unspotted: but because I know the purity of thy heart, I will agree unto thee for discharge of thy promise, which peradventure some other would not do, moved thereunto for the fear I have of the Necromancer, who if he see Master Ansaldo to be offended because thou haste deluded him, may do us some displeasure: wherefore I will that thou go to master Ansaldo: and if thou canst by any means so use thyself (as thine honour saved) thou mayst discharge thy promise, I shall commend thy wit: but if there be no remedy otherwise, for that only time then lend forth thy body and not thy wil The Gentlewoman hearing her husband so wisely speak, could do nought else but weep, and said, that she would not agree to his request. Notwithstanding, it pleased the husband (for all the denial which his wife did make) that it should be so: by means whereof, the next morning upon the point of day the Gentlewoman in the homeliest attire she had, with two of her servants before, and her maid behind, went to the lodging of master Ansaldo, who when he heard tell that his lover was come to see him, marveled much, and rising up, called the Necromancer, and said unto him: My will is, that thou see how much thine art hath prevailed, and going unto her, without any disordinate lust, he saluted her with reverence, and honestly received her. Then they entered into a fair chamber, and sitting down before a great fire, he said unto her these words: Madam, I humbly beseech you, if the love which I have borne you of longtime, and yet do bear, deserve some recompense, that it please you to tell me unfeignedly the cause which hath made you to come hither thus early, and with such a company. The shamefast Gentle woman, her eyes full of tears made answer: Sir, the love which I bear you, nor any promised faith have brought me hither, but rather the only commandment of my husband, who hath greater respect to the pain and travail of your disordinate love, than to his own honour or my reputation, who hath caused me to come hither, and by his commandment am ready for this once to satisfy your pleasure. If Master Ansaldo were abashed at the beginning, he much more did marvel when he heard the Gentlewoman thus to speak, and moved with the liberality of her husband, he began to change his heat into compassion, and said: Mistress God defend if it be true that you do say, that I should soil the honour of him, which hath pity upon my love: and therefore you may tarry here so long as it shall please you, with such assurance of your honesty, as if you were my natural sister, and frankly may departed when you be disposed, upon such condition, that you render in my behalf those thanks unto your husband which you shall think convenient, for the great liberality which he hath employed upon me, deeming myself henceforth somuch bound unto him, as if I were his brother or servant. The Gentlewoman hearing those words, the best contented that ever was, said unto him: All the world could never make me believe (your great honesty considered) that other thing could happen unto me by my coming hither, than that which presently I see: For which I reckon myself perpetually bound unto you. And taking her leave, honourably returned in the aforesaid company home to her husband, and told him what had chanced, which engendered perfect love and amity between him and master Ansaldo. The Necromancer to whom master Ansaldo determined to give the price, 〈◊〉 between them, seeing the liberality which the husband had used towards master Ansaldo, and the like of master Ansaldo towards the Gentlewoman s aid: God defend, that sith I have seen the husband liberal of his honour, and you bountiful of your love and courtesy, but that I be likewise frank in my reward. For knowing that it is well employed of you, I purpose that you shall keep it still. The Knight was ashamed, and would have forced him to take the whole, or part: but in offering the same, he lost his labour. And the Necromancer the third day after, having undone his Garden, and desirous to depart, took his leave.  
Thus Ansaldo extinguishing the dishonest love kindled in his heart, for enjoying of his lady, upon consideration of honest charity, and regard of Courtesy, repressed his wanton mind, and abstained from that, which God grant that others by like example may refrain.   

Mithridanes and Nathan  
¶ MITHRIDANES envious of the liberality of NATHAN, and going about to kill him, spoke unto him unknown, and being informed by himself by what means he might do the same, he found him in a little wood accordingly as he had told him, who knowing him, was ashamed, and became his friend.  
The. xviij. Novel.  
STrange may seem this following History, and rare amongs those, in whom the virtue of liberality ever flourished. Many we read of, that have kept Noble and bountiful houses, entertaining guests, both foreign and free borne, plentifully feasting them with variety of cheer, but to entertain a guest that aspireth the death of his host, and to cherish him after he knew of it, or liberally to offer his life, seldom or never we read, or by experience know. But what moved the 〈◊〉 to frown at the state and life of Nathan? Even that 〈◊〉 pestilent passion Envy, the consumer and deadly monster of all humanity: who 〈◊〉 the like 〈◊〉 and port of his devout host Nathan, and seeking after equal glory and same, was through envies force for not attaining to the like, driven to imagine how to kill a good & innocent man. For envy commonly waiteth upon the virtuous, even as the shadow doth the body. And as the Cantharides (which similitude plutarch useth) delight in ripe and prosperous wheat, & crawl in spreading roses, so envy chief them which in virtue & richesse do abound. For had not Nathan been famous for his goodness, & glorious for liberality, Mithridanes would never have prosecuted him by envy, nor gone about to bereave his life. He that envieth the virtuous and industrious person, may be compared to Dedalus, whom the Poets feign to murder Telon his apprentice for devising of the Potter's wheel. And Mithridanes disdainful of nathan's hospitality, would have slain him. But how liberal the good old man was of his life, and how ashamed Mithridanes was of his practice, this example at large discourseth.  
Very true it is (at lest wise it credit may be given to the words of certain Genova merchants, and of others which have travailed that country) that in Cataia, there was sometimes a rich Gentleman without comparison, named Nathan, who having a place or palace joining upon the high way, by which the travailers to and from the West and East, were constrained to pass, and having a noble and liberal heart, desirous by experience to have the same to be known, and with what nature and quality, it was affected, be assembled divers master Masons & Carpenters, and in a short time erected there one of the stateliest palaces for greatness and riches that ever was seen in that country, which afterwards he caused to be furnished with all things necessary, honourably to entertain each Gentleman that passed that way and with a great train of servants he welcomed and accepted such as journeyed too and fro. And in this commendable custom he persevered so long, as both in the East and West parts, report was bruited of his renown and fame: and being come to ancient years, not for all that weary of his liberality, it chanced that his fame flew to the ears of a young Gentleman called Mithridanes, who in a Country not far of from his, had his abode and resiance. Mithridanes knowing himself to be so rich as Nathan, envious of his virtue and liberality, purposed by some means or other to defame and obscure the same. And having builded a Palace like to that which Nathan did possess, began to use courtesies to those which passed too and fro, in outrageous and disordered sort: in such wise as in little time be purchased great fame. Now it chanced upon a day, as Mithridanes was alone in the court of his Palace, a poor woman entering in at one of the gates of the same, craved alms, and had it, and so successively even to the twelfth and thirteenth time also she returned again, which Mithridanes perceiving, said unto her: Good wife you come hither very often. And yet he denied not her alms. The old woman hearing those words, said: O how marvelous is the liberality of Nathan, whose Palace hath. 〈◊〉. entries by several gates, so great as this, and daily begging alms there, never made 〈◊〉 as though he knew me, and yet the same was never denied me: and being come hither but 〈◊〉. times, I have been perceived and reproved: and saying so, she went her way, and never after came thither again. Mithridanes hearing these words to proceed from the old woman, fell into a great rage, deeming the fame reported of Nathan to be a duninution of his own, & said: Ah wretch, when shall I be able to attain the liberality of nathan's greatest things? And why then go I about to excel him, when in little matters I am not able to come near him? verily I labour all in vain, if I myself do not rid him out of this world, sith crooked age is not disposed to dispatch him, I must therefore do the same with mine own hands. And in that fury making no man privy to his intent, he road forth with a small train, and in three days arrived where Nathan dwelled, and then commanded his men in any wise not to be known that they came with him, and likewise that they knew him not, but to provide lodging for themselves, until such time as they had further news from him. Mithridanes then being arrived about evening, all alone, found Nathan walking up and down before his fair Palace, without other company than himself, who in simple attire and garment went forth to meet him. Of whom Mithridanes, because he knew not Nathan, demanded 〈◊〉 he could tell him where Nathan dwelled. Nathan pleasantly made him answer: My son, there is no man in these quarters that can better tell thee than I, and therefore if thou please, I will bring thee thither. Mithridanes said, that he should do him a very great pleasure: but he would not if it were possible be seen or known of Nathan. And that can I very well do said Nathan, now that I know your mind. Being then lighted of from his horse, he went with Nathan, who by and by entertained him with diversity of talk, to his fair Palace. And Nathan incontinently caused one of his servants to take Mithridanes horse, and said unto him in his ear, that he should with all speed give order to his household, that none should tell the young man that he was Nathan, which accordingly was done. But after they were in the Palace, Nathan brought Mithridanes into a very fair chamber, that none might see him, except such as he had appointed to serve him: and causing great honour to be done unto him, he himself kept him company. As they two were together, Mithridanes asked him (to whom he used convenable reverence as to his father) what he was? whom 〈◊〉 answered: I am one of nathan's poor servants, that 〈◊〉 the time of my youth have been brought up with him, and never advanced me to any thing but to that which you see. Wherefore, although every man greatly praiseth him, yet have I no cause to commend him. These words gave some hope to Mithridanes, by better advise and surety to execute his wicked intent. And Nathan asked him very 〈◊〉 what he was, and for what business he was come thither, offering him help and counsel in that he was able to do. Mithridanes then paused a while before he would make him answer: and in the end purposing to put his trust in him, required with great circumstance of words his faith, and after that his counsel and aid. Then he wholly discovered what he was, wherefore he was come, and the cause that moved him. Nathan hearing those words, and the mischievous determination of Mithridanes, was changed and troubled in mind, notwithstanding without making any countenance of displeasure, answered him with bold countenance: Mithridanes, thy father was a Gentleman, and of stout stomach, from whom so far as I see, thou wilt not degenerate, by attempting so great an enterprise as thou hast done. I intend to be liberal to each man, and praise greatly the envy which thou 〈◊〉 to the virtue of Nathan, because if there were many such, the world which is now miserable, would shortly become prosperous and happy: and do make thee promise, that the intent thou goest about, shall be kept secret, whereunto I can sooner give counsel, than any great help, and mine advise is this: 〈◊〉 may see from the place where 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 be a little 〈◊〉, about a 〈◊〉 of a mile hence, whereunto Nathan in a manner walketh every morning, and tarrieth there a long time: there you may 〈◊〉 find him, and do your pleasure. And if you kill him, you may go, (to the intent without danger you may return home to your own house) not that way you came, but by that you see on the left hand lead out of the wood, which although it be not so common as the other, yet is the nearest way home, and safest for you to pass.  
When Mithridanes was thus informed, and that Nathan departed from him, he caused word secretly to be sent to his men, which likewise lodged there, in what place they should weight for him the next day. And when the day was come, Nathan not altering from the counsel be gave to Mithridanes, ne changing any part of the same, went all alone into a little wood, to receive his death. When Mithridanes was up, and taken his bow and sword, (for he had none other weapons) he mounted upon his horse, and road to the little wood, where a far of 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Nathan, coming thitherward all alone, and determining before he would set upon him to see him and hear him speak, made toward him, and catching him by that band upon his 〈◊〉, said unto him: Did 〈◊〉, thou art dead. Whereunto Nathan made none other annswere, but: I have then deserved it. When Mithridanes heard his voice, and looked him in the face, he knew by & by that it was he, which had courteously received him, familiarly kept him company, and faithfully had given him counsel. Whereupon, his fury assuaged, and his anger converted to shame: By means whereof, throwing down his sword which he had drawn to strike him, he lighted of from his horse, and did prostrate himself at Nathan his father's 〈◊〉, & said unto him weeping: Imanifestly perceive right loving father your great liberalltie, and by what policy, you be come hither to render to me your life. Whereunto I having no right, declared myself desirous to have the same. But our Lord God, more careful of my deudir than myself, hath even at the very point, when it was most needful, opened the eyes of mine understanding, which cursed spite and cankered envy had closed up: and therefore, the more you were ready to gratify my desire, the greater punishment I knowledge myself to deserve for my fault. Take then of me if it please you, such vengeance as you think meet for mine offence.  
Nathan caused Mithridanes to rise up, kissing and embracing him tenderly, than he said unto him: 〈◊〉 son, thou needest not to demand pardon, for the enterprise done, good or evil as thou list to name it. For thou didst not go about to rid me of my life for any hatred thou didst bear me, but only to be accounted the better. Be assured then of me, and verily believe, that there is no living man, that I love better than thyself, considering the greatness of thine heart not inclined to hoard or gather together the drossy muck of Silver, as the miserable do, but to spend that which is gathered. Be not ashamed for having a will to kill me, thereby to get renown: For Emperors and greatest kings, never stretched forth their power, and racked their Kealmes, and consequently aspired fame, for other purpose but to kill, not by murdering one man as thou 〈◊〉 mean, but of an infinite number, besides the burning of Countries, and rasing of Cities. Wherefore, if to make thyself more famous, thou wouldst have killed me alone, thine enterprise was not new to be wondered at, but a thing in daily practice. Mithridanes no more excusing his wicked intent, but praising the honest excuse, which Nathan had devised, drew near unto him to enter into further talk with him, which was, how he greatly marveled, that he durst approach the place, with so little rescue, where his death was sworn, and what he meant himself to tell the way and means: wherein he required him to say his mind, for disclosing of the cause.  
Whereunto Nathan replied: marvel not Mithridanes, of mine intent and purpose, for 〈◊〉 I was at age disposed to mine own free will, and determined to do that which thou hast gone about to do, never any came to me, but I have contented them (so far as I was able) of that they did demand. Thou art come hither with desire to have my life, wherefore seeing that thou didst crave it, I forthwith did mean to give it, that thou alone mightest not be the man that should depart from hence without achieving thy request: and to bring to pass that thou mightest have the same, I gave thee the best Counsel I could, aswell for bereaving of my life, as for enjoying of thine own. And therefore I say to thee again, and pray thee for to take it, thereby to content thyself, if thou have any pleasure therein. I do not know which way better to employ it. I have all ready kept it four score years, and have consumed the same in pleasures and delights, and do know by course of nature in other men, and generally in all things, that long it can not rest in breathing days. Wherefore I think good, that better it is to give, as I have daily done, and depart with my Treasures, than keep it till nature carry it away in despite of my teeth, and maugre that I have. It is a little gift to give one hundred years, how much less is it then to give 〈◊〉 or eight of those I have to live?  
Take it then if it please thee, I thee beseech. For never yet found I man that did desire the same, ne yet do know when I shall find such one, if that thyself which 〈◊〉 desire it, do not take it. And if it chance that I do find some one, I know full well that so much the longer as I shall 〈◊〉 the 〈◊〉, the less esteemed it shall be, and therefore before the same be vile and of little price, take it I beseech thee. Mithridanes sore ashamed, said: God 〈◊〉, that by separating so dear a thing as is thy life, that I should take it, or only to desire the same, as I did erst, from which I would not diminish years, but willingly would of mine own add thereto if I could. Whereunto Nathan by and by replied. And if thou couldst, wouldst thou give them? And wouldest thou cause me do to 〈◊〉 that which I never did to any man, that is to say, to take of thy things which never I did of any living person? Yea verily answered Mithridanes. Then said Nathan: Thou shouldest do then that which I will tell thee. Thou shouldest remain here in my house so young as thou art, and shouldest have the name of Nathan, and I would go to thine, and still be called Mithridanes. Then Mithridanes answered: If I had also so great experience as thou hast, I would not refuse that which thou dost offer: but because I am assured, that my deeds would diminish the renown of Nathan, I will not mar that in another, which I can not redress in myself: and therefore I 〈◊〉 not take it. After this talk & a great deal more between them, they repaired to the Palace, upon the request of Nathan, where many days he did great honour to Mithridanes, encouraging & counseling him, so well as he could: daily to persevere in his high & great endeavour. And Mithridanes desirous to return home with his company, Nathan (after that he had let him well to know, that he was not able to surpass him in liberality) gave him leave.   

Mistress Katherine of Bologna  
¶ Master GENTIL of CARISENDI being come from MODENA took a woman out of her grave that was 〈◊〉 for dead, who after she was come again, brought forth a son, which Master GENTIL rendered 〈◊〉 with the mother to master NICHOLAS 〈◊〉 her husband.  
The. nineteen. Novel.  
REading this History, I consider two strange & rare chances: the one a liberal and courteous act of an 〈◊〉 lover towards, his beloved & her husband, in leaving her untouched, and not dishonoured, although in full puissance to do his pleasure: to her husband or presenting him with 〈◊〉 whom he 〈◊〉 loved, and a new borne child: both supposed to be dead by her friends, and therefore entombed in grave. The other chance a singular desire of a gentlewoman, by humble suit for conservation of her honour, although long time pursued by a gentleman that revived her almost from 〈◊〉, and thought utterly to 〈◊〉 void of life. To praise the one, and to leave the other not magnified, it were a part of discourtesy: but to extol both with shouts and acclamations of infinite praise, no doubt but very commendable. If comparisons may be made with Princes of elder years, and not to note those of later, truly Master Gentil by that his fact, 〈◊〉 not much inferior to Scipio Affricanus for sparing the wife of Indibilis, ne yet to king Cyrus for Panthea the 〈◊〉 of Abradatas: although both of them not in equal state of love, (as wholly 〈◊〉 from that passion) like to master Gentil, who in deed for subduing that grief and motion, deserveth greater praise. For sooner is that torment avoided at the first assault and pinch, than when it is suffered long to flame & reign in that yielding portion of man, the heart, which once fed with the 〈◊〉 of love, is seldom or never loosed. To do at large to understand the proof of those most 〈◊〉 persons, thus beginneth the history.  
At Bologna a very notable City of Lombardie, there was a Knight of very great respect for his virtue, named master Gentil Carissendi, who in his youth fell in love with a gentlewoman called mistress Katherine, the wife of one master Nicholas Chasennemie. And because during that love, he received a very ill counterchange for his affection that he bore unto that gentlewoman, he went away (like one desperate) to be the judge & potestate of Modena, whereunto he was called. About that time the husband being out of Bologna, and the gentlewoman at 〈◊〉 Manor in the country, about a mile & a half from the City (whither she went to remain, because she was with child) it chanced 〈◊〉 she was 〈◊〉 surprised with a sickness, which was such and of so great force, as there was no token of life in her, but rather judged by all Physicians to be a dead woman. And because that her 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, said that they heard her say, that she could not be so long time with child, 〈◊〉 that the infant must be perfect and ready to be 〈◊〉, and therefore 〈◊〉 with some other disease and 〈◊〉 that would bring her to her end; as a 〈◊〉 or other swelling, rising of gross humours, they thought her a dead woman, and past recovery: wherefore upon a time she falling into a 〈◊〉, was verily supposed and left for dead. Who after they had mourned her death, & bewailed the 〈◊〉 expiration of 〈◊〉 soul, caused her to be buried without 〈◊〉 of recovery (even as she was in that ecstasy) in a grave of a church adjoining hard by the house where she dwelled. Which thing 〈◊〉 was advertised master Gentil by one of his friends, who although he was not likely, as he thought, to attain her favour, & in utter despair thereof, yet it grieved him very much that no better heed was taken unto her, thinking by diligence and time she would have come to herself again, saying thus in the end unto himself: How now 〈◊〉 Katherine, that death hath wrought, his will with you, and I could never obtain during your life one simple look from those your glistering eyes, which lately I beheld to my great overthrow and decay: wherefore now when you cannot defend yourself, I may be bold (you being dead) to steal from you some desired kiss. When he had said so, being already night, and having taken order that none should know of his departure, he 〈◊〉 upon his horse, accompanied with one only servant, & without tarrying any where, arrived at the place where his Lady was buried, and opening the grave, forthwith he entered in, and laying himself down besides her, he approached 〈◊〉 her face, and many times kissed her, pouring forth great abundance of tears. But as we see the appetite of man not to be content except it proceed further (specially of such as be in love) being determined to tarry no longer there, and to depart, he said: Ah God why should I go no further, why should I not touch her, why should I not prove whither she be alive or dead? 〈◊〉 then with that motion, he felt her 〈◊〉, and holding his hand there for a certain time, perceived her heart as it were to pant, & thereby some life remaining in her. Wherefore so softly as he could, with the help of his man, he raised her out of the grave: and setting her upon his horse before him, secretly carried her home to his house at Bologna. The mother of master Gentil dwelled there, which was a grave and virtuous gentlewoman, who understanding by her son the whole effect of that chance, moved with compassion, unknown to any man, placing her before a great fire, and comforting her with bathe prepared for the purpose, she recovered life in the gentlewoman that was supposed to be dead, who so soon as she was come to herself, threw forth a great sigh, and said: Alas, where am I now? To whom the good old woman 〈◊〉 Be of good cheer sweet heart, ye be in a good place. The gentlewoman having wholly recovered her senses, and looking round about her, not yet well knowing where she was, and seeing 〈◊〉 Gentil before her, prayed his mother to tell her how she came 〈◊〉. To whom master Gentil declared in order, what he had done for her, and what means he used to bring her thither. Whereof making her complaint, and lamenting the little regard and negligence of her friends, she rendered unto him innumerable thanks. Then she prayed him for the love which at other times he bore her, and for his 〈◊〉, that she might not receive in his house any thing that should be dishonourable to her person, ne yet to her husband, but so soon as it was day 〈◊〉 suffer her to go home to her own house: whereunto 〈◊〉 Gentil answered: Madam, what so ever I have desired in time 〈◊〉, now I purpose never to demand of you any thing, or to do here in this place or in any other 〈◊〉, but that I would to mine 〈◊〉 sister, sith it hath pleased God to do me such pleasure, 〈◊〉 from death to life to render you to me, in consideration 〈◊〉 the love that I have borne you heretofore.) But this good work, which this night I have done for you, well deferueth some recompense. Wherefore my desire is, that you deny me not the pleasure which I shall demand: whom the gentlewoman courteously answered, that she was very ready, so the same were honest & in by'r power to do. Then said master Gentil: Mistress, all 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 and all they of Bologna, do believe for a truth that you be dead, wherefore there is none that looketh for you at home: and the pleasure then which I demand, is, that you will 〈◊〉 secretly to tarry here with my mother, until I return from Modena, which shall be with so great expedition as I can: and the cause why I desire the same, is, for that I intent to make a fair and acceptable present of you unto your husband in the presence of that principal of this City. The gentlewoman knowing hirself to be greatly bound to the Knight, and that his request was honest; disposed herself to do what he demanded. Albeit she desired earnestly to rejoice her friends 〈◊〉 her recovered life, and so promised upon her faith. And unneaths had she ended her talk, but she felt the pain of childbirth: wherefore with the aid of the mother of master Gentil, she tarried not long before she was delivered of a fair son, which greatly augmented the 〈◊〉 of master Gentil and her. Master Gentil commanded that she should have all things that were necessary ministered unto her, and that she should be used as though she were his own wife. Then he 〈◊〉 returned to Modena, where when he had a while supplied his office, he returned to Bologna, and prepared a great feast at his house, the same morning that he arrived, for divers gentlemen of the city, amongs 〈◊〉 Nicholas Chasennemie was one. When the company of the 〈◊〉 guests 〈◊〉, (the gentlewoman in so good health & liking as 〈◊〉 she was, and her child well and lusty, he sat down amongs them, doing unto them incomparable mirth and pastime, and served them bountifully with diverse forts of meats. When dinner was almost done, having before told the Gentlewoman what be meant to do, and in what manner she should behave herself, he began thus to say. My masters, I do remember that whilom I have heard tell that in the Country of Persia, there was a goodly custom (as me seemeth) that when some one was disposed to do great honour unto his friend, he bade him home to his house, and there showed him the thing which he loved best, were it wife, woman, daughter, or what so ever it were: affirming that like as he disdained not to show the same, which outwardly he loved best, even so he would if it were possible, willingly discover his own heart: which custom I purpose to observe in this city. Ye of your 〈◊〉 have 〈◊〉 to do me so great honour, as to repair unto this my simple 〈◊〉, which 〈◊〉 I will recompense after the Persian manner, by showing unto you the thing which I love most dearly above any in this world, or hereafter shall be able to love so long as my life endureth: but before I do the same, I pray you to tell me your opinion in a doubt which I shall propose. There was a certain person which in his house had a good & faithful servant, who became extremely sick, that person without attending the end of his diseased servant, caused him to be carried into the midst of the 〈◊〉 without any further care for him: In the mean time there 〈◊〉 a stranger by, who moved by compassion of the sick servant, bore him home to his own house, where with great care and diligence, sparing no cost or charge, made him 〈◊〉 recover his former health. I would now fain know of you, whither for 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉 the service of that servant, his first master by good 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 complain upon the second, 〈◊〉 he should demannd him again, or by demanding of him again, the second not disposed to restore him, might 〈◊〉 any damage. The gentlemen after many opinions and arguments debated too & 〈◊〉 amongs them, and at length all concluding in one mind, gave charge 〈◊〉 Nicholas Chasennemie (because he was an eloquent talker) to make the answer: who first 〈◊〉 the 〈◊〉 custom, said that he was, (with the rest) of this opinion, that the first master had no further title in his servant, having in such necessity not only forsaken him, but thrown him into the 〈◊〉, and that for the good turns which the second master had done him, he ought by good right to be his: wherefore by keeping him, he did no wrong, 〈◊〉, or 〈◊〉 to the first. All the rest at the Table (which were right honest persons) said all together that they were of his opinion. The Knight content with that answer, and specially because Nicholas Chasonnemie had pronounted it, affirmed that he was likewise of that mind, and afterwards he said: Time it is then that I render unto you the honour which you have done me, in manner accordingly as I have promised. Then he called unto him two of his servants, and sent them to the Gentlewoman, whom he had caused to be appareled and 〈◊〉 very gorgeously, praying her by her presence to content and satisfy all the company. And she taking in her arms, her little fair son, came into the hall, accompanied with the two servants, and was placed (as it pleased the Knight) besides a very honest Gentleman, and then he said: 〈◊〉, behold the thing with I love best, and purpose to love about all worldly things, whither I have occasion so to do, your eyes may be judges.  
The 〈◊〉 doing 〈◊〉 reverence unto her, greatly praised her, & said to the Knight that there was good reason why she ought to be beloved, Upon which commendations they began more attentively to behold her, and many of them would have said and sworn that it had been she in deed if it had not been thought that she had been dead. But Nicholas beheld her more than the rest, who very desirous to know what she was, could not forbear (when he saw that the Knight was a little departed from the place) to ask her whither she was of Bologna, or a stranger. When the gentlewoman saw her husband to ask her that question, she could scarce forbear from making answer, notwithstanding to achieve that which was purposed, she held her peace. Another asked her if that little Boy was hers: and another if she were the wife of master Gentil, or any kin unto him: unto whom she gave no answer at all. But when master Gentil came in, one of the strangers said unto him. Sir this gentle woman is a very goodly creature, but she seemeth to be 〈◊〉. Is it true or not? Sirs said master Gentil, that is but a little argument of her virtue, for this time to hold her peace. Tell us then (said he) what is she? That will I do very gladly said the Knight, under condition that none of you shall remove out of his place for any thing I speak, until I have ended my tale: which request being granted, and the table taken up, master Gentil which was set down by the gentlewoman, said: My masters, this gentlewoman is the loyal and faithful servant, of whom 〈◊〉. I propounded the question, whom I have relieved from amids the street, whither her kin, little caring for her, threw her as a vile and unprofitable thing: & have by my great care brought to pass, that I have discharged her from death, upon an affection which God knoweth to be so pure and perfect, as of a lump of dead loathsome flesh he hath revived so fair and fresh as you see: but to the intent you may more plainly understand how it is come to pass, I will open the same in few words. And beginning at the day when he fell in love with her, he particularly told them, what had 〈◊〉 till that time, to the great marvel and admiration of them that heard him, and then he added these words: By means whereof, if your mind be not changed within this little time, & specially master Nicholas, of good right she is my wife, and none by just title can claim her. Whereunto none at all made answer, looking that he should have proceeded further. In the mean while Nicholas and the rest that were there, fell into earnest weeping. But master Gentil rising from the board, and taking in his arms the little child, and the gentlewoman by the hand, went towards Nicholas, and said unto him: Rise up sir gossip, I do not restore unto thee thy wife, whom thy friends and household did cast into the strécte, but I will give thee this gentlewoman my gossip, with the little child, that is, as I am assured begotten of thee, for whom at the christening I made answer and promise, and called him Gentil, and do pray thee that she be no less esteemed of thee (for being in my house almost three months) than she was before. For I swear by the almighty God, who made me in love with her, (peradventure that my love might be the cause of her preservation) that she never lived more honestly with her father, mother, or with thee, than she hath done in company of my mother. When he had said so, he returned towards the gentlewoman, and said unto her: Mistress, from this time forth, I discharge you of the promise which you have made me, and leave you to your husband frank and free. And when he had bestowed the gentlewoman, and the child in the father's arms, he returned to his place again. Nicholas joyfully received his wife & child, for the which so much the more he rejoiced, as he was furthest of from hope of her recovery, rendering innumerable thanks to the Knight and the rest, who moved with compassion wept for company, greatly praising master Gentil for that act, who was commended of each man that heard the report thereof. The Gentlewoman was received into her house with marvelous joy. And long time after she was gazed upon by the Citizens of Bologna, as a thing to their great wonder revived again.  
Afterwards master Gentil continued still a friend unto Nicholas, and unto his wife and children.   

Of M. Thorello and Saladine  
¶ SALADINI in the habit of a Merchant, was honourably received into the house of master THORELLO, who went over the sea, in company of the Christians, and assigned a term to his wife when she should marry again. He was taken, and carried to the SOULDAN to be his Falconer, who knowing him, and suffering himself to be known, did him great honour. Master THORELLO fell sick, and by Magic Art, was carried in a night to PAVII, where he found his wife about to marry again, who knowing him, returned home with him to his own house.  
The. xx. Novel.  
VEry comely it is (sayeth Cicero in the second book of his Offices,) that Noble men's houses should 〈◊〉 be open to Noble guests and strangers. A saying by the honourable and other estates to be fixed in sure remembrance, and accordingly practised. For hospitality & household entertainment, heapeth up double gain & commodity. The guest it linketh and knitteth in fast band of perfect friendship, common familiarity, disport of mind & pleasant recreation, the poor & needy it feedeth, it cherisheth, it provoketh in them devout prayers, godly blessings, & service in time of need. Hospitality is a thing so divine, as in the law of Nature and Christ, it was well and brotherly observed. Loath disdained not to receive the Angels, which were strangers unto him, and by reason of his common use thereof, and their friendly entertainment, he and his household was delivered from the danger of the City, escaped temporal fire, and obtained heavenly reward. Abraham was a friendly host to strangers, and therefore in his old days, and in the barren age of his wife Sara, he begat Isaac. jetro albeit he was an Ethnic and unbelieving man, yet liberally entertained Moses, & married him to Sephora, one of his daughters. The poor widow of Sarepta entertained Helias, and Simon the Currior disdained not Peter, nor Lydia the purple silk woman Paul and his fellows. Forget not Hospitality (saith the said Apostle Paul,) for with the same divers have pleased Angels by receiving them into their houses. If Paul the true preacher of eternal health, hath so commended keeping of good houses, which by the former term we call hospitality, than it is a thing to be used amongs those that be able to maintain the same: who ought with liberal hand frankly to reach bread and victuals to their acquaintance, but specially to strangers: which wandering in foreign places, be use● unable to help themselves, and peradventure in such need, as without such courtesy, do perish. For the further amplification of which virtue, what shall I need to remember strange and profane Histories? as of Cimon of Athens, who was so famous in the same, as the tyrant Crytias, when he wished for the riches of the Scopades, the victories of Agesilaus, forgot not also to crave the liberality of Cimon. Pacwius also, the Prince of Campania, so friendly entertained Annibal, as when his son to do the Romans a good turn, would have killed him as he sat at supper, was stayed by his father's request (whom he made privy of his intent before they sat down.) Pacwius had he not more regarded the office of hospitality, than the safety of his country, might full well by that murder, have defended the same from the destruction, whereunto afterwards it fell. Homer reporteth, that Menelaus fight a combat with Paris of Troy made invocation and prayer unto the Gods, that he might be revenged upon him for the rape of his wife Helena, to th'intent the posterity hearing of his punishment, might fear to pollute friendly household entertainment. Wherefore, sith hospitality hath been thus put in use in elder time, practised in all ages, and the poluters of the same detested and accursed, and hath notorious commodities incident unto it, I deem it so worthy to be frequented in noble men and all degrees, as their palaces and great houses should swarm with guests, and their gates clustering with whole multitudes of the poor to be satisfied with relief. Such hath been the sacred use and reverent care of ancient time. Such hath been the zealous love of those, whose fields and barns, closerts, and chests have been stored and stuffed with worldly wealth, that comparing that golden age, glistering with piety and virtue, to these our worse than copper days, cankered with all corruption, we shall find the match so like, as dark and light, dirt and Angel gold. Ceasing then of further discourse hereof, this history following shall elucidate and display the mutual benevolence of two noble personages, the one a mighty soldan, an enemy of God, but yet a friend to those that favoured good entertainment and housekeping, the other a gentleman of Pavia, a rich and liberal merchant, & a friendly welcomer of strangers. The soldan demanding the way to Pavia, somewhat digressing from the same, is not only honourably conveyed to Pavia, and feasted there, but also 〈◊〉 cherished, banqueted, and rewarded by the said Merchant before his coming thither. The merchant man desirous to be one of the holy voyage, intended by christian Princes, passed over the seas, who put to his shifts there through the adverse luck, received by the Christians, became the soldan's falconer, and afterwards known unto him by certain marks and signs, is with greater honour entertained of the soldan, and more richly guerdoned, sent home again by Magic Art to anticipate the marriage of his wife, unto whom he had prefixed a certain date and term to marry again, if before that time, he did not return. All which Noble entertainment, and the circumstances thereof, in this manner do begin.  
In the time of the Emperor Frederick the first, the Christians to recover the Holy land, made a general voyage and passage over the Sea. Saladine a most virtuous Prince, than soldan of Babylon, having intelligence thereof, a certain time before, determined in his own person to see and espy the preparation which the Christian Princes made for that passage, the better to provide for his own, and having put order for his affairs in Egypt, making as though he would go on Pilgrimage, took his journey in the habit of a Merchant, accompanied only with two of his chiefest and 〈◊〉 counsellors, and three servants. And when he had searched and traveled many christian provinces, and riding through Lombardie to pass over the Mountains, it chanced that between Milan and Pavia, somewhat late he met with a Gentleman named master Thorello 〈◊〉 Istria of Pavia, who with his household, his dogs and hawks, for his pleasure went to sojourn in one of his manors, that was delectably placed upon the river of Tesino. And when master Thorello saw them come, thinking that they were certain gentlemen strangers, he desired to do them honour. Wherefore Saladine demanunding of one of master Thorello his men, how far it was from thence to Pavia, and whether they might come thither time enough to go in, master Thorello would not suffer his man to speak, but he himself made answer, saying: Sirs, ye cannot get in to Pavia in time, for that the gates will be shut before your coming. Than said Saladine: tell us than we pray you, because we be strangers, where we may lodge this night. Master Thorello said, that will I willingly do, I was about even presently to send one of my men that be here, so far as Pavia, about certain business, him will I appoint to be your guide to a place where you shall have very good lodging. And calling one of his wisest men unto him, he gave him charge of that he had to do, and sent him with them, after whom he followed: where incontinently in so good order as he could, caused to be made ready a sumptuous supper, and the tables to be covered in a pleasant garden. Afterwards he went himself to entertain them. The servant talking with the Gentlemen of many things, conducted them at leisure somewhat out of the way to protract the time, to his master's house: and so soon as master Thorello espied them, he went to bid them welcome, saying to them with smiling countenance: Masters ye be hearty welcome.  
Saladine which was a very wise man, well perceived that the Gentleman doubted they would not have come unto him if he had invited them at their first meeting, and for that cause, to the intent they should not refuse 〈◊〉 lodge at his house, he had politicly caused them to be conducted thither, and answering to his greeting, said: Sir, if a man may quarrel with them that be courteous, we may complain of you, who leaving apart our way which you have caused somewhat to be lengthened, without deserving your good will, otherwise than by one only salutation, you have constrained us to take and receive this your so great courtesy. The wise and well spoken Knight, said: Sir, this courtesy which you receive of me, in respect of that which belongeth unto you, as by your countenance I may well 〈◊〉, is very small, but truly out of Pavia ye could have got no lodging that had been good: and therefore be not displeased I pray you to be carried out of the way, to have a little better entertainment: and saying so, his men came forth to receive those strangers, and when they were lighted, their horses were taken and conveyed into the stables, and master Thorello carried the three Gentlemen to their chambres, which he had prepared for them, where their boots were pulled of, and excellent wine brought forth, somewhat to refresh them before supper: then he held them with pleasant talk until the hour of supper was come. Saladine and they which were with him, could all speak Latin, and therefore well understanded, & they likewise understood ache man, by means whereof every of them thought that the Gentleman was the most courteous and best conditioned parsonage, endued with the most eloquent talk that ever they saw. On the other side it seemed to master Thorello, that they were the noblest and Princelike personages, and far more worthy of estimation than he thought before. Wherefore, he was very angry with himself, that he had no greater company and better entertainment for them that night, which he purposed to recompense the next day at dinner. Wherefore he sent one of his men to Pavia, which was not far of from thence, to his wife, which was a very wise and noble gentlewoman, and afterwards he brought them into the garden, where he courteously demanded what they were. To whom Saladine answered: we be merchants of Cypress, travailing to Paris 〈◊〉 our business. Then said master Thorello: I would to God that this country brought forth such gentlemen as the land of Cypress maketh merchants: and so from one talk to another, until supper time came. Wherefore he to honour them the better, caused them to sit down at the Table, every of them according to his degree and place. And there they were exceadingly well entreated and served in good order, their supper being far more bountiful than they 〈◊〉 for. And they sat not long after that the table was taken away, but master Thorello supposing them to be weary, caused them to be lodged in gorgeous & costly beds: and he likewise within a while after went to bed. The servant sent to Pavia, did the message to his mistress, who not like a woman, with a womanish heart, but like one of Princely mind, incontinently caused many of her husbands friends and servants to be sent for. Afterwards she made ready a great feast, and invited the noblest & chiefest Citizens of the City, appareling her house with cloth of gold and silk, tapistry & other furnitures, putting in order all that which her husband had commanded. The next day in the morning the Gentlemen rose, with whom master Thorello mounted on horseback, and carrying with him his Hawks, he brought them to the river, and showed them divers flight's. But Saladine demanding where the best lodging was in Pavia, master Thorello said: I will show you myself, for that I have occasion to go thither. They believing him, were contented, and road on their way, and being about nine of the clock, arrived at the City, thinking they should have been brought to the best Inn of the town: but master Thorello conveyed them to his own house, where fifty of the chiefest Citizens, ready to receive them, suddenly appeared before them. Which Saladine, & they that were with him perceiving, conjectured by and by what that did mean, and said: Master Thorello, this is not the request which we demanded, your entertainment yesternight was to sumptuous and more than we desired, wherefore give us leave we pray you to depart. Whom master Thorello answered: My masters, for that which ye received yesternight I will give thanks to Fortune, and not to you: for I overtaking you by the way, forced you in a manner, to make your repair unto my homely house: but for this morning voyage, I have myself prepared, and likewise the Gentlemen about you, with whom to refuse to dine, if you think it courtesy, do as ye please. 〈◊〉 and his companions vanquished with such persuasion, lighted, and being received by the gentlemen in loving and courteous order, were conveyed to their chambers, which were richly furnished for them, and having put of their riding apparel, and somewhat refreshed themselves, they came into the hall, where all things were in readiness in triumphant sort. Then water was brought them to wash, and they placed at the Table, were served with many delicate meats in magnificent and royal order, in such wise, as if the Emperor himself had been there, he could not have been better entertained. And albeit that Saladine and his companions were great Lords, & accustomed to see marvelous things, yet they wondered very much at this, considering the degree of the Knight, whom they knew to be but a Citizen and no Prince or great Lord. When dinner was done, and that they had talked a little together, the weather waring very hot, the gentlemen of Pavia, (as it pleased master Thorello) went to take their rest, & he remained with his three guests: with whom he went into a chamber, where to the intent the nothing which he had & loved might be unseen, caused his honest wife to be called forth: who being very beautiful & well favoured, clothed in rich & costly array, accompanied with her two young sons, which were like to Angels, came before them, and graciously saluted them. When they saw her, they rose up, & reverently received her, than they caused her to sit down in the mids of them, sporting & dallying with her two fair sons. But after she had pleasantly entered in talk, she asked them of whence they were, and whither they were going? To whom the Gentlemen made the same answer that they had done before to master Thorello. Then the gentlewoman said unto them with smiling cheer: I perceive then, that mine advise being a woman, is come well to pass. And therefore I pray you, that of your special grace you will do me this pleasure, as not to refuse or disdain the little present that I shall bring before you, but that you take it, in consideration that women according to their little ability, give little things, and that ye regard more the good affection of the person which offereth the gift, than the balue of the given thing. And causing to be brought before every of them two fair robes, the one lined with silk, & the other with Menevair, not in fashion of a citizin, or of a merchant, but Noblemanlike, & 〈◊〉. Turkey gowns with sleeves of taffeta, lined with linen cloth, she said unto them: Take I pray you these robes, with the like whereof this day I appareled my husband, and the other things may also serve your turns, although they be little worth, considering the ye be far from your 〈◊〉, & the greatness of your journey, which you have taken, & have yet to make, and also for that merchant men love to be neat and 〈◊〉 in things appertinent to their bodies. The Gentlemen much marveled, and plainly knew that master Thorello was disposed not to sorget any one part of courtesy towards them, and doubted (by reason of the beauty and richesse of the robes not marchantlike,) that they should not be known of master Thorello, notwithstanding one of them answered the Gentlewoman: These be (Gentlewoman) very great gifts, and ought not lightly to be accepted, if your entreaty did not constrain us, against which no denial ought to be made. That done, when master Thorello returned into the chamber, the Gentlewoman 〈◊〉 them a Dieu, and went her way: and then she furnished the servants with divers other things necessary for them, and master Thorello obtained by earnest request, that they should 〈◊〉 all that day. Wherefore after they had reasted themselves a while, they did put on their robes, and walked forth on horseback into the City: and when supper time was come, they were bountifully feasted in honourable company: and when bed time approached, went to rest. And so soon as it was day, they rose, & found in stead of their weary hackneys, three fat and fair 〈◊〉, and also the like number of fresh and mighty horses for their servants: Which Saladine seeing, turned towards his companions, and said unto them: I swear by God that there was never a more liberal Gentleman, more courteous or better conditioned than this is. And if Christian kings for their part be such, I mean endued with such kingly qualities as this gentleman is, the soldan of Babylon shall have enough to do to deal with one, and not to attend for all those which we see to be in preparation for invasion of his Country. But seeing that to refuse them or render them again, served to no purpose, they thanked him very humbly, and got upon their horse, Master Thorello with many of his friends, accompanied them out of the City a great piece of the way: And albeit that it much grieved Saladine to departed from master Thorello (so far he was already in love with him,) yet being constrained to forego his company, he prayed him to return, who although very loath to departed, said unto them: Sirs, I will be gone, sith it is your pleasure I shall so do, and yet I say unto you, that I know not what you be, ne yet demand to know, but so far as pleaseth you. But what soever ye be, you shall not make me believe at this time, that ye be merchants, and so I bid you farewell. Saladine having taken his leave of all them that were in company with master Thorello, answered him: Sir, it may come to pass, that we may let you see our merchandise, the better to confirm your belief: And far you also hearty well. Saladine then and his companions being departed, assuredly determined if he lived, and that the wars he looked for did not let him, to do no less honour to master Thorello, than he had done to him, & fell into great talk with his companions of him, of his wife & of his things, acts and deeds, greatly praising all his entertainment. But after he had searched by great travail all the West parts, embarking himself and his company, he returned to Alexandria, and thoroughly informed of his enemies endeavours, prepared for his defence. Master Thorello returned to Pavia, and mused a long time what these three were, but he never drew near, ne yet arrived to 〈◊〉 truth. When the time of the appointed passage made by the Christians was come, and that great preparation generally was made, master Thorello notwithstanding the 〈◊〉 and prayers of his wife, was fully bend to go thither, and having set all things in order for that voyage, and ready to get on horseback, he said unto her whom he perfectly loved. Sweet wife, I am going as thou seest, this journey, aswell for mine honour sake, as for health of my soul. I recommend unto you our goods and honour. And because I am not so certain of return, for a thousand accidents that may chance, as I am sure to go, I pray thee to do me this pleasure, that what so ever chanceth of me, if thou have no certain news of my life, that yet thou tarry one year, one month, and one day before thou marry again, the same term to begin at the day of my departure. The Gentlewoman which bitterly wept, answered: I know not dear husband how I shall be able to bear the sorrow wherein you leave me, if you go away. But if my life be more strong and sharp, than sorrow itself: and whether you live or die, or what so ever come of you, I will live and die the wife of master Thorello, and the only spouse of his remembrance. Whereunto master Thorello said: Sweet wife, I am more than assured that touching yourself, it will prove as you do promise. But you be a young woman, fair, and well allied, and your virtue is great and well known throughout the Country: by reason whereof I doubt not, but that many great personages & Gentlemen (if any suspicion be conceived of my death) will make requests to your brethren and kindred, from whose pursuit (although you be not disposed,) you can not defend yourself, and it behoveth that of force, you please their will, which is the only reason that moveth me to demand that term, and no longer time. The Gentlewoman said: I will do what I can for fulfilling of my promise. And albeit in end that I shall be constrained to do otherwise, be assured that I will obey you in the charge which now you have given me: I humbly thank almighty God, for that he never brought us into these terms before this tyme. Their talk ended, the Gentlewoman weeping, embraced master Thorello, and drawing a ring from her finger, she gave it him, saying: If it chance that I die before I see you, remember me when you shall behold the same.  
He receiving the ring, got up upon his horse, and taking his leave, went on his voyage, and arrived at Gevoua, he shipped himself in a Galley, and took his way, whereunto wind and weather so favoured, as within few days he landed at Acres, and joined with the army of the Christians: wherein began a great mortality and Plague, during which infection (what so ever was the cause) either by the industry or fortune of Saladine, the rest of the Christians that escaped were almost taken and surprised by him, without any fight or blow stricken. All which were imprisoned in many Cities, and divided into divers places, amongs which prisoners master Thorello was one, who was carried prisoner to Alexandria where being not known, and fearing to be known, forced of necessity, gave himself to the keeping of Hawks, a quality wherein he had very good skill, whereby in the end he grew to the acquaintance of the soldan, who for that occasion (not knowing him that time) took him out of prison, and retained him for his falconer. Master Thorello which was called of the soldan by none other name than Christian, whom he neither knew, ne yet the soldan him, had none other thing in his mind and remembrance but Pavia, and many times assayed to escape and run away. But he never came to the point. Wherefore divers Ambassadors from Genova being come to Saladine, to ransom certain of their prisoners, and being ready to return, he thought to write unto his wife, to let her know that he was alive, and that he would come home so soon as he could, praying her to tarry his return. Which was the effect of his letter: very earnestly desiring one of the ambassadors of his acquaintance to do so much for him as safely to deliver those letters to that hands of the Abbot of S. Pietro in ciel Doro, which was his uncle. And master Thorello standing upon these terms, it chanced upon a day as Saladine was talking with him of his Hawks, master Thorello began to smile and to make a 〈◊〉 with his mouth, which Saladine being at his house at Pavia did very well note, by which act Saladine began to remember master Thorello, and earnestly to view him, and thought that it was he in deed. Wherefore leaving his former talk, he said: Tell me Christian, of what country art thou in the West parts? Spy said master Thorello, I am a Lombarde, of a City called Pavia, a poor man and of mean estate. So soon as Saladine heard that, as assured whereof he doubted, said to himself: God hath given me a time to let this man know how thankfully I accepted his courtesy that he used towards me, and without any more words, having caused all his apparel in a chamber to be set in order, he brought him into the same & said: behold Christian, if amongs all these robes, there be any one which thou hast seen before. Master Thorello began to look upon them, and saw those which his wife had given to Saladine: but he could not believe that it was possible that they should be the same, notwithstanding he answered: Sir I know them not, albeit my mind giveth me that these twain do resemble the robes which sometimes I ware, & caused them to be given to three merchant men that were lodged at my house. Then Saladine not able to forbear any longer, tenderly embraced him, saying: you be master Thorello de Istria, and I am one of the three merchants to whom your wife gave those robes: and now the time is come to make you certainly believe what my merchandise is, as I told you when I departed 〈◊〉 you that it might come to pass. Master Thorello hearing those words, began to be both joyful and ashamed, joyful for that he had entertained such a guest, & ashamed that his fare and lodging was so simple. To whom Saladine said: master Thorello, 〈◊〉 it hath pleased God to send you hither, think from henceforth that you be Lord of this place and not I, and making great cheer, and rejoicing one with an other, he caused him to be clothed in royal vestures, and brought him into the presence of all the Noble men of his country: and after he had rehearsed many things of his valour and commendation, commanded him to be honoured as his own person, of all those which desired to have his favour. Which thing every man did from that time forth: but above the rest, the two Lords that were in company with Saladine at his house. The greatness of the sudden glory wherein master Thorello saw himself, did remove out of his mind his affairs of Lombardie, and specially, because he hoped that his letters should trustily be delivered to the hands of his uncle. Now there was in the camp of the Christians the day wherein they were taken by Saladine, a Gentleman of Province, which died and was buried, called master Thorello de Dignes, a man of great estimation: whereby (master Thorello of Istria, known throughout the whole army for his nobility and prowess) every man that heard tell that master Thorello was dead, believed that it was master Thorello de Istria, and not he de Dignes, & by reason of his taking, the truth whether of them was dead, was unknown. Wherefore many Italians returned with those news, amongs whom some were so presumptuous, as they took upon them to say and affirm that they saw him dead, and were at his burial. Which known to his wife & his friends, was an occasion of very great and inestimable sorrow, not only to them: but to all other that knew him.  
Very long it were to tell in what sort, and how great sorrow, heaviness, and lament his wife did utter, who certain months after she had continually so tormented herself, (and when her grief began to decrease, being demanded of many great personages of Lombardie,) was counseled by her brothers, and other of her kin, to marry again. Which thing after she had many times refused, in very great anguish and dolour, finally being constrained thereunto, she must needs follow the minds of her parents. But yet upon condition, that the nuptials should not be celebrated until such time as she had performed her promise made to master Thorello. Whilst the affairs of this Gentlewoman were in those terms at Pavia and the time of her appointment within eight days approached, it chanced that master Thorello upon a day espied a man in Alexandria, (which he had seen before, in the company of the Ambassadors of Genova,) going into the galley that was bound with them to Genova: wherefore causing him to be called, he demanded what voyage they had made, and asked him when they arrived at Genova? To whom he said: Sir the Galley made a: very ill voyage as I heard say in Creta, where I remained behind them, for being near the coast of Dicilia, there arose a marvelous tempest, which drove the galley upon the shore of Barbary, and not one of them within board escaped, amongs whom two of my brethren were likewise drowned. Master Thorello giving credit to the words of this fellow, which were very true, and remembering himself that the term which he had covenanted with his wife was almost expired, and thinking that they could hardly come by the knowledge of any news of him or of his state, believed verily that his wife was married again, for sorrow whereof he fell into such melancholy, as he had no lust to eat or drink, and laying him down upon his bed, determined to die: which so soon as Saladine, (who greatly loved him) did understand, he came to visit him, and after that he had (through instant request) known the occasion of his heaviness and disease, he blamed him very much for that he did no sooner disclose unto him his conceit. And afterwards prayed him to be of good cheer, assuring him if he would, so to provide, as he should be at Pavia, just at the term which he had assigned to his wife: and declared unto him the order how. Master Thorello giving credit to the words of Saladine, and having many times heard say, that it was possible, and that the like had been many times done, began to comfort himself, and to use the company of Saladine, who determined fully upon his voyage and return to Pavia. Then Saladine commanded one of his Necromancers, (whose science already he had well experienced) that he should devise the means how master Thorello might be borne to Pavia in one night, upon a bed. Whereunto the Necromancer answered, that it should be done, but that it behoved for the better doing thereof, that he should be cast into a sleep. And when Saladine had given order thereunto, he returned to master Thorello, and finding him fully purposed to be at Pavia if it were possible at the term which he had assigned; or if not, to die: said thus unto him.  
Master Thorello, if you do hearty love your wife, and doubt lest she be married to an other, God forbid that I should stay you by any manner of means, because of all the women that ever I saw, she is for manners, comely behaviour; and decent order of apparel, (not remembering her beauty, which is but a fading flower) me think most worthy to be praised and loved. A gladsome thing it would have been to me (sith fortune sent you hither) that the time which you and I have to live in this world, we might have spent together, and lived Lords of the kingdom which I possess, & if God be minded not to do me that grace, at least 〈◊〉 sith you be determined either to die or to return to Pavia, at the term which you have appointed, my great desire is, that I might have known the same in time, to the intent you might have been conducted thither with such honour and train as your virtues do deserve. Which sith God will not that it be brought to pass, and that you will needs be there presently, I will send you as I can in manner before expressed. Whereunto master Thorello said: Sir, the effect (besides your words) hath done me sufficient knowledge of your good will, which I never deserved, & that which you told me, I can not believe, so long as life is in me, and therefore am most certain to die. But sith I am so determined, I beseech you to do that which you have promised out of hand: because to morrow is the last day of the appointment assigned to my wife. Saladine said, that for a truth the same should be done: And the next day the soldan purposing to send him the night following, he caused to be made ready in a great hall a very fair and rich bed, all quilted according to their manner (with velvet and cloth of gold, and caused to be laid over the same, a Coverlet wrought over with borders of very great pearls, & rich precious stones: which ever afterwards was deemed to be an infinite treasure, and two pillows sutelike unto that bed: that done, he commanded that they should invest master Thorello, (who now was 〈◊〉) with a Sarazineroabe, the richest and fairest thing that ever any man saw, & upon his head one of his longest bands, wreathen according to their manner, & being already late in the Evening, he and divers of his Barons went into the chamber where master Thorello was, and being set down besides him, in weeping wise he began to say: Master Thorello, the time of our separation doth now approach, and because that I am not able to accompany you, ne cause you to be waited upon, for the quality of the way which you have to pass, I must take my leave here in this chamber, for which purpose I am come hither. Wherefore before I bid you farewell, I pray you for the love and friendship that is between us, that you do remember me if it be possible before our days do end, after you have given order to your affairs in Lombardie, to come again to see me before I die, to the end that I being rejoiced with your second visitation, may be satisfied of the pleasure which I lose this day for your untimely haste: & trusting that it shall come to pass, I pray you let it not be tedious unto you to visit me with your letters, and to require me in things wherein it may like you to command, which assuredly I shall accomplish more frankly for you, than for any other living man.  
Master Thorello was not able to retain his tears: wherefore to stay the same, he answered him in few words, that it was impossible that ever he should forget his benefits, and his worthy friendship extended upon him, and that without default he would accomplish what he had commanded, if God did lend him life and leisure Then Saladine lovingly embracing & kissing him, pouring forth many tears, bade him farewell, and so went out of the chamber. And all the other Noble men afterwards took their leave likewise of him, & departed with Saladine into the hall where he had prepared the bed, but being already late, and the Necromancer attending, and hasting his dispatch, a Physician brought him a drink, & made him believe that it would fortify & strengthen him in his journey, causing him to drink the same: which being done, within a while after he fell a sleep, and so sleeping was borne by the commandment of Saladine, and laid upon the fair bed, whereupon he placed a rich and goodly crown of passing price and valour, upon the which he had engraven so plain an inscription, as afterwards it was known that the same was sent by Saladine to the wife of master Thorello.  
After that he put a King upon his finger, which was beset with a Diamond, so shining, as it seemed like a flaming torch, the value whereof was hard to be esteemed. Then he caused to be girt about him, a sword, the furniture and garnishing whereof, could not easily he valued: and besides all this, he hung upon his 〈◊〉 a Tablet or Brooche beset with stones and Pearls, that the like was never seen. And afterwards he placed on either of his sides, two exceeding great Golden basins, full of double Ducats, and many cords of Pearls and rings, girdles, and other things to tedious to rehearse, wherewith he bedecked the place about him. Which done, 〈◊〉 kissed him again, and willed the Necromancer to make haste. Wherefore incontinently master Thorello, and the bed in the presence of Saladine was carried out of sight, and Saladine tarried still, devising and talking of him amongs his Barons. Master Thorello being now laid in S. Peter's Church at Pavia, according to his request, with all his Jewels and habiliments aforesaid about him, & yet fast a sleep, the Sexton to ring to Matins, entered the Church with light in his hand: and chancing suddenly to espy the rich bed, did not only marvel thereat, but also ran away in great fear. And when the Abbot and the Monks saw that he made such haste away, they were abashed, and asked the cause why he ran so fast? The Sexton told them the matter. Why how now said the Abbot? Thou art not such a Babe, ne yet so newly come unto the Church, as thou oughtest so lightly to be afraid. But let us go and see what bug hath so terribly frayed thee. And then they lighted many Torches. And when the Abbot and his Monks were entered the Church, they saw that wonderful rich bed, and the Gentleman sleeping upon the same. And as they were in this doubt and fear, beholding the goodly Jewels, and durst not go near the bed, it chanced that master Thorello awaked, 〈◊〉 a great sigh. The Monks so soon as they saw that, and the Abbot with them, ran all away crying out, God help us, our Lord have mercy upon us.  
Master Thorello opened his eyes, and plainly knew by looking round about him, that he was in the place where he demanded to be of Saladine whereof he was very glad, and rising up, and viewing particularly, what he had about him, albeit he knew before the magnificence of Saladine, now he thought it greater and better understood the same, than before. But seeing the Monks run away, and knowing the cause wherefore, he begun to call the Abbot by his name, and entreat him not to be afraid. For he was master Thorello his nephew. The Abbot hearing that, was driven into a greater fear, because he was accounted to be dead diverse months before: but afterwards by diverse arguments, assured that he was master Thorello, and so often called by his name (making a sign of the Cross) he went unto him. To whom master Thorello said: Whereof be you afraid good father? I am alive I thank God, and from beyond the Sea returned hither. The Abbot (although he had a great beard, and appareled after the guise of Arabia) crossed himself again, and was well assured that it was he. Then he took him by the hand, and said unto him as followeth.  
My son thou art welcome home, and marvel not, that we were afraid: for there is none in all this City, but doth certainly believe that thou art dead. In so much as madame Adalietta thy wife, vanquished with the prayers and threats of her friends and kin, against her will is betrothed again, and this day the espousals shall be done. For the marriage, and all the preparation necessary for the feast, is ready. Master Thorello rising out of the rich bed, and rejoicing with the Abbot & all his Monks, prayed every of them not to speak one word of his coming home, until he had done what he was disposed.  
Afterwards placing all his rich jewels in surety and safeguard, he discoursed unto his uncle what had chanced unto him, till that time. The Abbot joyful for his fortune, gave thanks to God. Then master Thorello demanded of his uncle, what he was that was betrothed to his wife. The Abbot told him. To whom master Thorello said: Before my return be known, I am desirous to see what countenance my wife will make at the marriage. And therefore, albeit that the religious do not use to repair to such feasses, yet I pray you for my sake take pain to go thither. The Abbot answered that he would willingly do so. And so soon as it was day, he sent word to the bridegroom, that he, and a friend of his, would be at the marriage: whereunto the gentleman answered that he was very glad thereof. When dinner time was come, master Thorello in the habit and apparel wherein he was, went with the Lord Abbot to the wedding dinner, where every of them that saw him, did marvelously behold him, but no man knew him, because the Abbot answered them that inquired, that he was a Sarazene, sent Ambassador from the soldan to the French king. Master Thorello was then placed at a table which was right over against his wife, whom he beheld with great pleasure and delight, and perceived very well by her face that she was not well content with that marriage. She likewise beheld him sometimes, not for any knowledge she had of him, for his great beard and strange attire: the firm credit and general opinion also that he was dead, chief hindered that. But when master Thorello thought time to prove whether she had any remembrance of him, be secretly conveyed into his hand, the ring which she gave him at his departure, and called a little boy that waited upon her, and said unto him: Go tell the bride in my behalf, that the custom of my country is, that when any Stranger (as I am here) is hidden by any new married woman (as she is now,) for a token of his welcome, she sendeth unto him the cup wherein she drinketh full of wine, whereof after the stranger hath drunk what pleaseth him, he covereth the cup again, and sendeth the same to the bride, who drinketh the rest that remaineth. The page did his message unto the bride, who like a wise Gentlewoman well brought up, thinking he had been some great parsonage, to declare that he was welcome, commanded a standing cup all gilt, standing before her, to be washed clean, & to be filled full of wine, & carried to the Gentleman, which accordingly was done. Master Thorello having put into his mouth the aforesaid ring, secretly let fall the same into the cup as he was drinking, not perceived of any man, to the intent that she drinking the latter draft, might espy the ring. When he had drunk, he returned the cup unto the bride, who thankfully received the same. And for that the manner of his country might be accomplished, when the cup was delivered unto her, she uncovered the same, & pledging the rest of the wine, beheld the ring, & without speaking any word, well viewed the same, and knowing that it was the very ring which she had given to master Thorello, when he departed, took it out. And 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 mark and look upon him, whom she supposed to be a stranger, & already knowing him, tried out as though she had been 'straught of her wits, throwing down the Table before her: this is my Lord and husband, this is of troth Master Thorello: and running to the Table where he sat, without respect to his apparel of cloth of gold, or to any thing that was upon the table, pressing so near him as she could, embraced him very hard, not able to remove her hands from about his neck for any thing-that could be said or done by the company that was there, until Master Thorello required her to forbear for that present, for so much as she should have leysur enough to use her further embracements. Then she left him, and contented herself for the time: but the 〈◊〉 and marriage was wholly troubled and appalled for that sudden chance, & the most part of the guests exceedingly rejoiced for the return of that Noble knight. Then the company being entreated to sit still, and not to remove, Master Thorello rehearsed in open audience what had chanced unto him from the day of his departure until that time, concluding with a petition to the Bridegroom, that had newly espoused his wife, that he would not be displeased if he took her again. The new married Gentleman, albeit it grieved him very sore, and thought himself to be mocked, answered liberally and like a friend, that it was in his power to do with his own what he thought best. The Gentlewoman drawing of the rings and garland which she had received of her new husband, did put upon her finger the ring which she found within the cup, and likewise the Crown that was sent unto her by Saladine. And the whole troop and assembly leaving the house where they were, went home with master Thorello and his wife, and there the kin and friends, and all the Citizens which haunted the same, and regarded it for a miracle, were with long feasting and great cheer in great joy and triumph.  
Master Thorello departing some of his precious jewels to him that had been at the cost of the marriage, likewise to the Lord Abbot and diverse others, and having done Saladine to understand his happy repair home to his 〈◊〉, recommending himself for ever to his commandment, lived with his wife afterwards many prosperous years, using the virtue of courtesy more than ever he did before.  
Such was the end of the troubles of master Thorello, and his well-beloved wife, and the recompense of their frank and honest courtesies.   

Anne the Queen of Hungary  
¶ A Gentleman of mean calling and reputation, doth fall in love with Anns', the Queen of HUNGARIS, whom she 〈◊〉 royally and liberally requited.  
The. xxj. Novel.  
Following the preceding arguments treated in certain of that former Novels: I will now discourse the princely kindness & courtesy done to a poor Gentleman, by a Lady of later days, Anne the Queen of Hungary, which Gentleman, though beyond his reach to catch what he aspired, fell in love with that bountiful and virtuous Gentlewoman, thinking (belike) that she in end would have abased her Majesty, to recline to his vain and doting travail. But she like a Queen, not despising the poor man's love, vouchsafed by familiar speech to pour some drops of comfort into his loving mind, and once to prove, on whom he fixed his fancy, reached him a nosegay, and prayed him to bestow it upon whom he liked best. All which familiar dealings she used, to keep the poor patient from despair, that so highly had placed himself. But in end perceiving his continuance, would not reject and give him over, or with scorns and flouts contemn the amorous gentleman: and that long love might gain some deserved guerdon, she never left him until she had preferred him to a Noble office in Spain. The noble disposition of this chaste and gentle Queen, I thought good to adjoin next to that of master Thorello and Saladine: who for courtesy and passing mutual kindness, are worthy of remembrance. And for you noble Dames for a Crystal to sharpen your sights, and view the recompense of love, done by a Queen of passing beauty, and yet most chaste & virtuous, that it might somewhat touch your squeamish stomachs and haughty hearts, & lenify that corrosive humour, which with frowning face, forceth you to overperke your humble suppliants. A helping preservative I hope this History shall be to embolden you to yield your noble endeavours to Gentlemen, that love you, in suits and petitions to their prince and sovereign. An encouragement (I hope) to be mediators for such, as by service and warfare have confirmed their faithful devoirs for defence of their Country. Remember the care the Roman matrons had for those that deserved well of their Common wealth: as how they mourned for Lucius Brutus one whole years space, for his good revenge over the ravishers of Lucrece: & for Martius Coriolanus, for his piety and mother's sake, discharging his Country from the enemies siege. Let mistress Paolina of the privy chamber to this Queen Anne, render example for preferment of such as be worthy to be cherished and esteemed. O how Liberality be seemeth a Queen, no less (as one maketh comparison) than the bright beams the Sun, or the twinkling stars in the firmament. Oh how diligence in Gentlewomen, advanced to Princes chambres, no less than the green leaves to branched trees, or divers coloured flowers in Nosegays. So flourishing be the fruits that bud from liberality, and fresh the benefits that 〈◊〉 of the painful travails sustained in the suits of serviceable Gentlemen. This Philippo whom the Queen preferred, and liberally rewarded, was a mean Gentleman, but yet learned & well furnished with commendable qualities. His deserved advancement may stir up each Gentle heart, to merit and serve in Common wealth. His learning & other virtues may awake the sluggish courtier, from loitering on Carpets, and doing things unseemly: His diligence also revive the blockish spirits of some that rout their time in sluggish sleep, or wash the day in hariotrie and other 〈◊〉 exercise. Whose exam ple if they practise, or imitate such commentable life as becometh their estates, than glory will follow their deeds, as the shadow doth the body. Then welfare and livelihood abundantly shall be ministered to supply want of patrimony or defect of parent's portion. And thus the History doth begin.  
Not long sithence Queen Anne, the sister of Lews, that was king of Hungary, & wife to Ferdinando Archeduke of ostrich, (which at this day is parcel of the kingdom of Hungary and Boeme,) together with the Lady Mary daughter of Philip king of Spain, and wife of the said Lews, went to keep her abode, and so orne in Hispurge, a Country among the dutch very famous, where many times the Court of the Hungarian Princes long space remained. These two Noble Queens remained within the Palace of king Maximilian, Emperor at that time elected, which Palace is so near adjoining to the Cathedral Church, as without sight of the people at their pleasure they might by a secret Gallery pass to the Church to hear divine service accustomably celebrated there. Which use they daily observed with their Ladies and Gentlewomen, and other Lords and Gentlemen of the Court. In which Church was made and erected a high place in manner of a Closet gorgeously wrought, and in royal manner appareled of such amplitude as it was able to receive the whole train and company attendant upon the Persons of the two Queens. Now it came to pass that a Gentleman of Cromona in Italy called Philippo di Nicuoli, which in those days by reason of the recovery of the Duchy of Milane, by the French, departed Lombardie, and went to Hispurge, and was Secretary to Signior Andrea Borgo, because he was well learned, and could write very fair, and therewithal a proper and very handsome man. This young Gentleman very much frequenting the Church, and seeing the beauty of Queen Anne to excel all the rest of the Ladies, adorned and garnished with Princely behaviour and Queen like qualities, not foreseeing (when he beheld her) the nature of love which once being possessed, never leaveth the patient till it hath infebled his state, like the quality of poison, distilling through the veins, even to the heart. Which loving venom this Gentleman did drink with the looks of his eyes, to satisfy and content his desired mind by viewing and intentife considering her wonderful beauty, that rapt beyond measure, he was miserably entangled with the snares of blind and deceitful love, wherewith he was so cruelly inflamed, that he was like to sort out of the bounds of reason and wit. And the more he did behold the highness of her Majesty, and the excellency of so great a Lady, and there withal did weigh and consider his base degree and lineage, and the poor state whereunto srowarde 〈◊〉 that time had brought him, that more he thought himself 〈◊〉 and void of hope, and the more the perilous flames of love did assail & fire his amorous heart, kindling his inward parts with love so deeply engraffed, as it was impossible to be rooted out. Master Philippo then in this manner (as you have heard) knotted and entrapped within the fillets and laces of love, supposing all labour which he should employ to be lost & consumed, thoroughly bend himself, with all care and diligence to achieve this high & honourable enterprise, what so ever should come of it: which effectually he pursued. For always when that 〈◊〉 were at church to hear divine service, he failed not to be there. And having done his 〈◊〉 reverence, which very comely he could do, he 〈◊〉 to bestow himself 〈◊〉 over against her: where delighting in the beauty of the Queen, which daily more & more inflamed his heart, 〈◊〉 not departed from thence, till the Queens were disposed to go. And if perchance for some occasion, the Queens went not to Church, master Philippo for all that (were his business never so great and needful) would vouchsafe at least wise to visit the place, where he was wont to see his Lady. Such is the ordinary force of love, that although liberty of sight and talk be deprived from the patient, yet it doth him good, to tread in the steps of that ground where his mistress doth usually haunt, or to see the place upon which she eased her tender corpse, or leaned her delicate elbows. This young man baited and fed in amorous toys & devices, now armed with hope, and by and by disarmed by despair, revoluèd in his mind a thousand thoughts and cogitations. And although he knew that his ladder had not steps 〈◊〉 to climb so high, yèt from his determined purpose he was not able to remove: but rather the more difficult and dangerous his enterprise seemed to be, the more grew desire to prosecute and object himself to all dangers. If peradventure the Queens for their disport and pastime were disposed to walk into the fields or gardens of the City of Hispurge, he failed not in company of other Courtiers to make one of the troop, being no hour at rest and 〈◊〉 if he were not in the sight of Queen Anne, or near that place where she was. At that time there were many Gentlemen departed from Lombardie to Hispurge, which for the most part followed the Lord Francisco Sforza the second, by whom they hoped, when the Duchy of Milane was recovered, to be restored to their Country. There was also Chamberlain to the said Lord Francisco, one master Girolamo Borgo of Verona, between whom and master Philippo, was very near friendship & familiarity. And because it chauncethvery seldom, that servant love, can be kept so secret and covert, but in some part it will discover itself, master Borgo easily did perceive the passion wherewith master Philippo was inflamed. And one master Philippo Baldo many times being in the company of master Borgo and Philippo, did mark and perceive his love, & yet was ignorant of the truth, or void of conjecture with what Gentlewoman he was enamoured. But seeing him contrary to wont custom altered, & from usual mirth transported, fetching many sighs & strainings from his stomach, and marking how many times he would steal from the company he was in, & withdraw himself alone, to muse upon his thoughts, brought thereby into a melancholy and mean estate, having lost his sleep, and 〈◊〉 of eating meat: judged that the amorous worms of 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 bitterly gnaw and tear his heart with the nebs of their forked heads. They three then being upon a time together, debating of divers things amongs themselves, chanced to fall in argument of love, and 〈◊〉 Baldo & Borgo, the other gentlemen, said to master Philippo, how they were well assured that he was strangely attached with that passion, by marking and considering the new life, which lately he led contrary to former use, entreating him very earnestly, that he would manifest his love to them, that were his dear and faithful friends, telling him that as in weighty matters otherwise he was already sure what they were, even so in this he might hardily repose his hope and confidence, promising him all their help and favour, if therein their endeavour and travail might minister aid and comfort. He then like one raised from a trance, or lately revived from an 〈◊〉, after he had composed his countenance and gesture, with tears and multitude of sobs, began to say these words: My well-beloved friends and trusty companiens, being right well assured that ye (whose fidelity I have already proved, & whose secret mouths be recómmended amongs the wise and virtuous, (will keep close and covert the thing which you shall hear me utter, as of such importance, that if the young 〈◊〉 Gentleman Papyrius had been here, for all his silence of grave matters required by his mother, I would unneaths have disclosed the same unto him. In deed I cannot deny, but must needs confess that I am in love, and that very ardently, which I cannot in such wise conceal, but that the blind must needs clearly and evidently perceive. And although my mouth would 〈◊〉 keep close, in what plight my passions do constrain my inward affections, yet my face and strange manner of life, which for a certain time and space I have led, do witness, that I am not the man I was 〈◊〉 to be. So that if shortly I do not amend, I trust to arrive to that end whereunto every Creature is borne, and that my bitter and painful life shall take end, if I may call it a life, and not rather a living death. I was resolved and thoroughly determined, never to discover to any man the cause of my cruel torment, being not able to manifest the same to her, whom I do only love, thinking better by concealing it through love, to make humble suit to Lady Atropos, that she would cut of the thread of my dolorous life. Nevertheless to you, from whom I ought to keep nothing secret, I will disgarboile and 〈◊〉 the very secrets of my mind, not for that I hope to find comfort and relief, or that my passions by declaration of them, will lessen and diminish, but that ye, knowing the occasion of my death, may make report thereof to her, that is the only mistress of my life, that she understanding the extreme pangs of the truest lover that ever lived, may mourn and wail his loss: which thing if my seely ghost may know, no doubt where so ever it do wander, shall receive great joy and comfort. Be it known unto you therefore, the first day that mine eyes beheld the divine beauty and incomparable saver of that superexcellent Lady Queen Anne of Hungary, & that I (more than wisdom required) did meditate and consider the singular behaviour and notable 〈◊〉 and other innumerable gifts wherewith she is endued, the same beyònde measure did so inflame my heart, that impossible it was for me to quench the fervent love, or extinguish the least part of my conceived torment. I have done what I can to macerate and mortify my unbridled desire, but all in vain. My force and puissance is to weak to match with so mighty an 〈◊〉. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, I know what ye will object against me, ye will say that mine ignobility, my birth and stock be no meet matches for such a parsonage, and that my love is to highly placed, to suck relief: And the same I do 〈◊〉 so well as you. I do acknowledge my condition & state too base, I confess that my love (nay rather I may term it folly) doth presume beyond the bounds of order. For the first time that I felt myself wrapped in those snares, I knew her to bear the port amongs the chiefest Queens, & to be the 〈◊〉 princess of Christendom Again, I knew myself the poorest Gentleman of the world and the most miserable exile. I thought moreover it to be very unseemly for me to direct my mind upon a wight so honourable, and of so great estate. But who can rain the bridle, or prescribe laws to love? What is he that in love hath free will and choice? Truly I believe no man, because love the more it doth seem to accord in pleasure and delight, the further from the mark he shooteth his bolt, having no respect to degree or state. Have not many excellent and worthy personages, yea Dukes, Emperors and Kings, been inflamed with the love of Ladies, and women of base and vile degree? Have not most honourable dames, and women of greatest renown despised the honour of their states, abandoned the company of their husbands, and neglected the love of their children, for the ardent love that they have borne to men of inferior sort? All Histories be full of examples of that purpose. The memories of our ancestors be yet in fresh remembrance, whereof if they were ignorant unto you that be of great experience, I could adnouche assured testimony. Yet thus much I say unto you, that it seem no new thing for a man to be overcome by his own affection: It is not the Nobility of her state, or for that she is a Queen, it is not the consideration of one part or other, that moved me first hereunto. But love it is, that is of greater force than we ourselves be of, which many times maketh that to seem lawful, which altogether is times, and by subduing reason maketh the great potentate and lord tributary to his will & pleasure, whose force is far greater than the laws of Nature. And albeit that I never hope to attain to prosperous end of this 〈◊〉 and stately love, which more & more doth seem infortunate, yet I can not for my life else where apply that same, or alter it to other place. And consuming still through faithful & fervent love borne to the Queen, I have forced & constrained myself by all possible means to give over that fond & foolish enterprise, and to place my mind else where: but mine endeavour and all my labour and resistance is employed in vain. Yea and if it were not for fear of eternal damnation, and the loss of my poor afflicted soul (which God forbidden) mine own hands before this time had ended my desires. I am therefore determined (sith that I can attain to no success of love, and that god doth suffer me to be inspired with that most honourable and courteous Lady, beyond all order and estimation) to content myself with the sight of those her fair & glistering eyes, far excelling that sparcling glimpse of the Diamond or sapphire, and to serve love and honour her, so long as life doth last within this feeble corpse. Upon whose radiant and excelling beauty, my hope shall continually feed: and yet I am not so far void of understanding, but that I do most evidently know none other to be the guide of this unmeasurable love, but folly most extreme. Upon the end of those words he let fall many tears, and stayed with sobs and sighs was able to speak no more. And in very deed he that had seen him, would have thought that his heart had been tormented with most bitter and painful passions. Now they being very attentive to his pitiful oration, were attached with incredible sorrow, thinking they had been in a 〈◊〉 by hearing of this discourse, & stood still a while one looking upon an other, without speaking word. Afterwards coming to themselves, distraught almost, for the greatadmiration and wonder to hear him speak those words, master Girolamo and Baldo, with suasible arguments went about to persuade him to withdraw his 〈◊〉 and foolish mind, praying him to place the same elsewhere, showing him the impossibility of his enterprise, & the great peril that might succeed thereof. But they spoke to a man that seemed to be deaf, who replied, that he neither could or would give over his love, that had already made too deep impression, what so ever came of it. notwithstanding, they ceased not still with sharp 〈◊〉 to beat into his head, the fond beginning of his foolish love: & not only at that time, but continually when they were together, they did their best by oft repetition of his vain conceit, to let him understand his manifest error: but their labour and friendly lessons were to no purpose. Wherefore master Borgo & master Baldo, determined to give him over, and to attend what would succeed thereof. Master Philippo continuing his pursuit, never failing to be at church, when he knew the Queens to be there, at length it chanced that they begun to espy his love, for that both of them did mark his order, gesture and demeanour, and did note his oft frequentation of the places where they continually haunted, and his manner in placing himself at the church directly over against them, and his common use in beholding and looking upon their faces, judging thereby that without doubt he was in love with one of them, or at least with some Gentlewoman in their company, whereof the two Queens began to use some talk, although not certain upon whom his love was 〈◊〉. nevertheless they were desirous to know the truth, & expected 〈◊〉 sometime to dissolve that doubt. In the mean while master Philippo thought by gazing on their beauty, to remove the fire that miserably did consume the suck & marrow of his bones, seeking comfort and relief for his afflicted heart, the more I say he sought for ease, the greater he felt his pain. And truly all they that fervently do love, aspire to that, which otherwise they would eschew, by sight of them whom they do love, not remembering that the more they do contemplate the beloved beauty, the more increaseth desire, and with desire 〈◊〉 and bitter smart. Master Philippo then lost no occasion or time still to behold Madame the Queen, were it in the church or court, or were she disposed for disport & recreation to walk abroad. It chanced now while things were at this point, the ladies very desirous to know upon whom master Philippo did expend his love, the fortune opened unto them a mean to understand the same. It was then about that time of the year, wherein all flowers & roses were by Titan's force constrained to 〈◊〉 & deck each gardens & place of pleasure, & with their fragrant smells & odours, to scent the same. In the month of May it was when the Twins were disposed to shroud themselves amongs the hawthorn boughs & honysuckles that yield to every wight greatest store of delights, at what time roses & other flowers at their first budding be very rare and scant, saving in King's Courts and princes palaces, where such rarieties by art and industry be most abundant, and all men have delight to present such novelties to the best and principal ladies. Upon a day Queen Anne had in her hands certain flowers in due order couched in a Nosegay, and for her disport walked up & down a very fair & gorgeous garden, in the company of queen Mary, & other Ladies & gentlewomen, about that time of the day that the Sun weary of travail, went to hide himself in the back side of the western mountains: where amongs other of the Court was master Philippo. Queen Anne when she had espied him, determined to make proof, with what lady amongs them all, master Philippo was in love, and sporting herself with soft walks up and down the garden, pleasantly jesting with diverse there attendant, (as the manner is of like ladies) with trim and pleasant talk, at length happened upon master Philippo, who although he was in communication with certain Italian Gentlemen, nevertheless his mind and eyes were fired upon the Queen, that when 〈◊〉 she appeared before him, his eyes and face were so firmly bend upon her, as the beholder might easily perceive, that the visage of the Queen was the undoubted harborough of his thought. Philippo, seeing the Queen come toward him, did honour her with gentle and dutiful reverence, in such humble wise, as he seemed at her hands pitifully to crave mercy. And truly who soever doth love with secret and perfect heart, seemeth to utter more words to his Lady with his eyes, than he is able to speak with tongue. The Queen being come unto him with a grace right grave and demure, said unto him: You Gentleman of Lombardie, if these flowers which we have in our hands were given unto you, liberally to use at your pleasure, and required to make some courteous present of the same to one of us the ladies here that liked you best, tell me I pray you, to whether of us would ye give the same, or what would you do or say? Speak frankly we beseech you, & tell your mind without respect: for thereby you shall do to us very great pleasure, and we shall know to whether of us you bear your chiefest love. For it is not to be supposed, that you being a young man, can spend your time without love, being a natural quality in every creature. When master Philippo felt the sweet voice of the Queen pleasantly to pierce his ears, and heard that he was commanded for the love of her that he loved, not only to tell whom he loved best and most entirely, but also her whom he worshipped and served in heart, was almost besides himself, such was the joylity and pleasure that he felt in his heart, whose face was tainted with a thousand colours and what for superfluous love & joy, whereof the like he never tasted before, fell into an ecstasy, not able to render answer. But when he had recovered stomach, so well as he could with soft and trembling voice, he answered the Queen in this wise: Sith your majesty (to whom I I yield mine humble thanks for that courtesy) hath vouchsafed to command me (besides the infinite pleasure and honour, for which eternally I shall stand bound to your highness) I am ready sincerely and truly to disclose my mind, being promised by your majesty in opening of the same, to deserve great thanks. Wherefore your pleasure being such, I do say then, with all due reverence, that not only here at this time, but at all times and places where it shall please God to appoint me, being not able to bestow them in other sort than they be, but were they more precious and fair, the more joyful I should be of them. These flowers I say shall of me right humbly be presented to your majesty, not bicanse you be a Queen and of a royal race (which notwithstanding is a great virtue) but because you be a Phoenix, a rare Lady, and of all the troop the fairest, garnished with infinite gifts, and passing virtues, for your merits worthy to be honoured with far more excellent gifts, than these simple flowers be, as she that (above all other ladies that live at this day) is the honour and only glory of all womanhood of our age, as she that is the Paragon peerless of the universal world: when he had said those words, he held his peace. The Queen with great delight hearing the ready answer of the young Gentleman, said unto him: And we do give you thanks for the great honour and commendation done unto us. When she had said so, without further talk, she went forth, using pleasant talk and sport with diverse that waited upon her. Queen Anne now understood, and so likewise did Queen 〈◊〉, which of them the young Lombard 〈◊〉 did accept for his sovereign Lady, whose love she disdained not, but in 〈◊〉 mind rather commended, esteeming him better than ever she did before: and like a discrete and wise Lady gave him infinite praise. She did not now as other women wont to do, who when they see themselves of birth more noble, or of degree more ample than their lovers be (which gift they receive through the favour of the heavens) do not only despise them, but mock them, & their faithful service, & many times with feigned countenance & dissembled words do extol them & set them up aloft, & by and by almost with one breath, exchanging their feigned praise into rebuke, they thrust them down headlong from the type of hope & comfort, to the bottomless pit of despair: and the fuller she is of flouts, the finer girl esteemed. But far better is she to be regarded, that not finding in her heart to love her suitor, will frankly tell him at the first, that she can not like him, & fashion her mind to love him, requiring him not to feed his mind with vain hope, or 〈◊〉 the time with words and looks, and pray him to seek some other that can better fancy his person than she. And although perchance a man do very fervently love a woman, and that it were great sorrow and grief unto him to be cast of, and receive such refusal, yet in mine opinion it were less grief openly to receive that repulse, than to be 〈◊〉 upon, and flattered with feigned talk, and for the time choked with the bait of vain hope, & afterwards become ridiculous, and gired by the scornful. I am assured, that the woman which giveth her servant such repulse, shall be counted much more cruel, than Mistress Helena was to the scholar of Paris, after he was returned from the university, to Florence, written by Boccaccio in his Decamerone, and hereafter in place described. But let us return to master Philippo, who although he could not imagine ne conceive the intent, wherefore Queen Anne made that demand, yet the same was very dear and acceptable unto him, upon which he never thought, but felt great contentation in his mind, and was more jocund and pleasant than he was wont to be. On the other side, the Queen, which was very discrete and wise, when she saw Master Philippo, at the Church or other place, to make obeisance unto her, very courteously requited the same, bowing her head to him again, (which she never used but to Barons and Knights of great reputation) declaring thereby how well in worth she regarded his reverence made unto her. Whereat he received marvelous pleasure and delight, 〈◊〉 for none other recompense at her hands, than continuance of such courtesies and honourable 〈◊〉. Amongs certain Italians that were upon a day assembled in the presence chamber of Queen Anne, waiting there upon Madonna Barbara, the wise of master Pietro Martyr Stampa, who with her two daughters were gone to salute the two Queens that were that time together. There was also master Philippo, with whom Borgo and Baldo, reasoned of diverse matters: And as they were in talk, both the Queens came forth, which was the occasion, that all the Lords and Gentlemen, attended, upon whose approach, each man rose up, & 〈◊〉 expected whither the Queens would go. Queen. Anne 〈◊〉 a 〈◊〉 of Italians together, 〈◊〉 Queen 〈◊〉, and went straight to them, and very gently 〈◊〉 of diverse of the Gentlemen, their names, and of what parts of Italy they were, than she came to the place where they. iii. were standing together, & courteously asked first master Girolamo, what his name was, of what country, & whether he were a Gentleman? To whom reucrentely he said, that his name was Girolamo Borgo, a Gentleman of Verona. Master Baldo likewise being demanded the same, answered so well as he could, that he was a Gentleman borne, of an ancient house in Milane, and that his name was Philippo Baldo. When she had received their answer, with cheerful and smiling countenance she turned to Master Philippo, enquiring of him also his name and country, and whether he were a Gentleman or not? Whom master Philippo after his duty done reverently answered: Madam, my sovereign Lady and only mistress, I am a Gentleman, and am called by the name of Philippo de i Nicuoli, of Cremona. The Queen making no further demands of any of the other Gentlemen, said to Master Philippo: You say true sir, I dare warrant that you be a Gentleman in deed, and he that said 〈◊〉 contrary, should declare himself to be void of judgement, what a Gentleman is. She said no more, but from thence with Queen Mary and the whole train she went to Church. All they that heard the Queen speak those words, did wonder, and could not 〈◊〉 what she meant by them, notwithstanding 〈◊〉 man thought that the Queen bore to master Philippo singular good will and 〈◊〉. He (as it was his custom) full of diverse cogitations, whose 〈◊〉 was building of great cities, went to Church, 〈◊〉 himself in his 〈◊〉 place, tossing in his mind the queens words spoken unto him. And although he 〈◊〉 not perceive to what end that honourable 〈◊〉 had spoken them: yet he thought that her majesty had done him great honour. And verily the humanity and courteous of a Lady so excellent and 〈◊〉 is 〈◊〉 to be 〈◊〉 with infinite praise and commendation, who being of high 〈◊〉 and ligneage, and the wife of so great a Prince that proceeded of the 〈◊〉 imperial, not only did not 〈◊〉 to be beloved of a man of so base degree, and banished from his own house, but also with great care and diligence did devise, and in effect declare that she was the same whom the Italian young Gentleman did love, as partly it was evidently to be perceived, not for other purpose doubtless, but to do some noble deed covenable for the greatness of her estate, & incident to the servant love of the amorous young Gentleman, which afterwards in very deed she accomplished. But how many be there in these days, I do not speak of Queens and Princesses, but of 〈◊〉 and private Gentlewomen, that being of mean worship, endued with some show of beauty, be without good conditions & virtue, who seeing themselves beloved of some Gentlemen, not enriched with the goods of Fortune as they be, do scorn and mock them, thinking themselves to good to be looked upon, or 〈◊〉 moved of virtuous love, scornfully casting their face at one side, as though the suitors were unworthy their company: Now many likewise be possessed and overwhelmed with pride by reason nature more propicious unto them than other, be descended of some great parentage, that will account a great injury done unto them, if any other gentlemen beside those that be rich, do 〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉 them? Again a great numbered of 〈◊〉 (I speak of them whose minds do not aspire to same or honour, so that their delights and bravery be maintained) be of this tramp, that they 〈◊〉 not whether their lovers be 〈◊〉, well conditioned, 〈◊〉 and gentle, but only do regard whether their purses be full of money, or their shapes somewhat shoutefaire, not weighing the 〈◊〉 and good conditions of the mind, with a thousand other qualities that 〈◊〉 to garnish a Gentleman, whereby all Gentlemen 〈◊〉 do grow beautiful, and be enriched with greater perfections. Some other there be that fire their minds upon young men, that be of goodly persovage, although 〈◊〉 of virtue or 〈◊〉 behaviour, loving rather a piece of flesh with two eyes in his head, than an honest man well furnished with virtue. Think not yet for all this, that herein men ordinarily be wiser than women, although they ought to be endued with greater 〈◊〉 than the womankind: but to say the truth, they be all spotted with one kind of pitch, that warfare here in the large camp of this present world: whereof it cometh to pass, that we see little love to continue long, because as the beginning wanted love, even so is the end altogether 〈◊〉, the knowledge whereof consumeth like the beauty of the 〈◊〉. And thereupon many times it chanceth, that when love is not grounded but upon transitory beauty, which doth dissolve like a windy cloud, the little heat 〈◊〉 doth not war more 〈◊〉, but rather congoale to frost, and many times 〈◊〉 into hatred and 〈◊〉. A worse thing yet than this is in 〈◊〉 practice. There be many that will needs be 〈◊〉 and called Gentlemen, because they come of Ancient and Noble race, but growing up to 〈◊〉 state, they appear in shapes of men, but altogether without vertuo or approved manners, utterly ignorant what the nature of Gentle is, and do account themselves 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 fellows, when in company of other as big beasts as themselves, they contrive the day in 〈◊〉 and brags, and 〈◊〉 say: 〈◊〉 a woman is at my comniaundement, and such a man's wise I do keep, such a one is my companions friend, whereby they bring many women, yea and of the most honest sort, into slander and 〈◊〉. diverse 〈◊〉 also be suchè fools, and of so simple discretion, that although they know & clearly perceive this to be true, yat alured with the persenages and beauty of such 〈◊〉, pass not to give the rain to these unbridled 〈◊〉, and do not foresee (lyhe 〈◊〉 Woodcocks) that in sew days through their own 〈◊〉, they 〈◊〉 common shame of the vulgar people, being pointed at in the streets as they 〈◊〉: where one that is wise and discrete, daily doth fear the least suspicion that utay be conceived. There is no woman that is wise; 〈◊〉 so 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 she can, will shun and avoid all occasion whereby 〈◊〉 may arise, and will choose 〈◊〉 her amongs a number, such one as 〈◊〉 best please her fancy, and such 〈◊〉 as for his virtue and honesty she purposeth to match 〈◊〉 self with in marriage, which is the end of all honest love. Now be it Nature hath not framed every creature of one metal, ne yet Minerva, 〈◊〉 like brain: into every head. And truly this our age doth breed many 〈◊〉 and worthy women, whose conditions be good & 〈◊〉, adorned with 〈◊〉 qualities, the generosity, 〈◊〉 & valour of whose minds 〈◊〉 deferue singular praise and estimation. And what is he, chancing upon a courteous and virtuous woman, that will not give over the love of all other, to honour and love 〈◊〉 for ever? But we have digressed too long from our History, and therefore, returning to the same again, I say, that 〈◊〉 the guide of master Philippo, was fully determined to bestow her favour upon him. For besides that the Queen 〈◊〉 esteemed his love, it seemed that all things were united and agreed to sort his enterprise to happy success. The Queen 〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉 Governess 〈◊〉 Paola 〈◊〉 Cavalli, a 〈◊〉 of Verona, very 〈◊〉 & grave (advanced to that calling, by Madonna Bianca Maria Sforza, the wife of the Emperor Maximilian) whom 〈◊〉 Anne required 〈◊〉 to procure for her, such 〈◊〉 in the Thoscane language, and other Italian works, as were to be found, because her disposition was to be 〈◊〉 and familiar in that tongue, and employed great diligence to learn and exercise the same, wherein she attained such 〈◊〉, as all Italians could very well understand her. Now (as the good luck of master Philippo would have it) he that day went to the Court alone, continually 〈◊〉 if it were possible, at all times to be in presence of the 〈◊〉: Whom so soon as Madonna Paola espied, because she familiarly knew him, she went unto him, and said: My well-beloved friend master Philippo, because the 〈◊〉 hath great delight to learn our tongue, and therein already hath 〈◊〉 good towardness, as by her common speaking of the same you may perceive, this morning at 〈◊〉 uprising she gave men a great charge to procure for her, certain Italian Rhythms, who besides those books in that tongue already printed, gladly desireth to see some trim devices of diverse learned 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 that make in our time: specially 〈◊〉 mind is earnestly disposed upon rhythms cunningly 〈◊〉, whereof I think you have some store, by reason of your delight in that exercise. Wherefore I thought to repair unto you, and do hearty pray you, to make 〈◊〉 Majesty partaker ofsuch as you have, wherein you shall do her great and grateful service, and I shall remain 〈◊〉 bound unto you, besides that I do purpose when I present them unto her, to make her privy that I received them at your hands; which because of the love she 〈◊〉 to our nation, she will favourably accept, and the same no doubt when opportunity serveth, liberally reward. Master Philippo in 〈◊〉 wise thanked the gentlewoman, and said, that he was sorry he was not able better to satisfy her request, because in that 〈◊〉 he had small store of such desired things, nevertheless he would make diligent search, to get so many as were possible to be found, either amongs the Gentlemen that followed the Court, or else where they were to be gotten. In the mean time he said that he would deliver those few he had, and would bring them unto her that night. And praying her to commend him to the good grace and favour of her majesty, he took his leave, and went strait to his lodging, where diligently he began to search among his writings (the gladdest man in the world for that occasion offered) and found amongs the same divers rhythms which he thought unworthy to pass into the hands of so great a Lady, saving the third Rhythm or Chapter, as we commonly call it, made by a notable Doctor of the laws, and excellent Poet called M. Niccolo Amanio, of Crema, who no doubt for making of vulgar rhythms, thereby expressing the amorous affections of Lovers, was in our time without comparison. And because the same was so apt for that purpose of master Philippo his love, as could be desired: he wrote the same fair (being in deed a very fair writer) in a sheet of paper, which soundeth to this 〈◊〉.  

Quanto piu cresce (Amor) l'aspro tormento. etc.  
The more (O Love) thy bitter pangs augment,  
Melting by times my sad accensed spirit,  
The more to burn, I feel myself content:  
And though each day a thousand times I fleet  
Twixt hope and dread, all dolour yet and smart,  
My glorious proof of enterprise makes sweet.  
The fire so high, which kindled hath mine heart,  
As by loves flames, none ever had (I know)  
So lofty source of heat in any part,  
Sweet then my torments are, sweet is my woe,  
Sweet eke of love the light, sweet the conceit  
From so high beams, fallen in my breast, grow.   

Such power of port, such majesty most great  
I tremble to behold, and do confess  
My lot to base, so worthy a bliss to get.  
But Will herein, my Reason doth suppress,  
And those fair eyes, where love himself nigh lies  
Armed with looks of joy and gentleness,  
Looks that uplifts my soul above the Skies,  
And in each coast all clouds expelling clean,  
Do teach ten thousand paths to Paradise.  
My Goddess brave, Angclicall Siren  
Fairness itself, Dame Beauties sacred heir,  
What mounts of joy may match my happy pain?   

Whose scaling hope, how so ensue despair  
Leves vaunt of thoughts, which once so highly flew,  
As honour all that earth beside doth bear,  
Compared to this, but baggage were to view.   
When Master Philippo had written out these verses, immediately he returned to the court, and caused Madonna Paola, to be called unto him by one of the Grooms of the Chamber, to whom he said: Mistress Paola, I have brought you a ditty, that is very trim & pretty, which I pray you deliver to the 〈◊〉, and I will do what I can to get other. Mistress Paola took them, and went into the chamber, and finding the 〈◊〉 alone, said unto her: Madam, this morning ye commanded me to get you some Italian Rhythms, and upon inquiry I have received these 〈◊〉 verses of master Philippo, secretary to the Lord Andrea Borgo, who hath promised to bring me other. The 〈◊〉 hearing her speak those words, smiling received the paper, and read the same: the sense whereof she liked very well, thinking that master Philippo had been the compositor of the same, and that of purpose he had made them for her, whereby she was out of doubt that it was she that master Philippo so fervently loved; and the better her opinion was confirmed, because some of the words tended to the state of her parsonage. And considering the valour of his mind, she blamed Nature, for that in a man so basely borne she had sown seed that brought forth such a Gentlemanlike and noble heart, greatly to herself praising the young man. Then she conferred the whole matter with her cousin 〈◊〉 Marie, which was a wise and comely Lady, and upon that love they used many discourses, more and more esteeming the young gentleman. 〈◊〉 Anne determined, when conveniently she might, to render to master Philippo for his great love condign reward: and studying still how to requite his courtesy, ever when she saw master Philippo, she used him with her wont cheer & grateful salutation, (which thing only every honest gentleman ought to 〈◊〉 that is endued with reason, at that hands of a princess so noble & worthy, as a reward sufficient, that inequality of the parties considered) Whereof master Philippo was the best contented man of the world, and durst not hope for greater recompense, continuing his wonted life, feeding himself still with that beloved sight: in such wise as many gentlemen envied the favour borne unto him by the 〈◊〉, who for none other cause did use that courtesy, but for that she saw him to be a virtuous young man, and well learned: continually esteeming those, that either with learning or other gifts of the mind were endued: and when occasion chanced, she vouchsafed to bestow upon them courteous entertainment and liberal rewards. It fortuned about that time that the Emperor Maximilian died, Charles his nephew (which was the Emperor Charles, the fifth) then being in Spain: by reason of whose death the Lord Andrea Borgo, purposed to 〈◊〉 one of his Gentlemen to king Charles, for the confirmation of that living he enjoyed, given unto him for his long and faithful service by the said Maximilian. Amongs all he chose this master Philippo, for his wisdom and experience in such affairs. Which done, he went to the 〈◊〉, and gave them to understand that shortly he would send his Secretary iuto Spain, and told them the cause, humbly praying them both, that they would write their favourable letters in his behalf. The 〈◊〉 knowing what pain and travel he had sustained in the service of Maximilian, and what dangers he had passed, were very willing thereunto. Now 〈◊〉 Anne 〈◊〉 that she had convenient time to recompense master Philippo for his long love born unto her. And because she was the most courteous Lady of the world, and there withal most bountiful and liberal, and not only with comely talk and other gesture: but also in effect willing 〈◊〉 do them good, whom she honoured in mind, concluded what to do, requiring the Lord Andrea to send his Secretary unto her, when he was ready to departed, for that besides Letters, she would by mouth commit certain business for her to do in the Court of Spain. When the Lord Andrea was gone, 〈◊〉 Anne began to devise with the other 〈◊〉 what she might do for master Philippo, who prayed 〈◊〉 Anne, after she had commended him in letters, to suffer her to make the end and conclusion of the same. Where upon both the Queens wrote many letters into Spain to king Charles, and to the Lord Chancellor and other noble men, whom they thought to be apt and meet ministers to bring the effect of their letters to pass. When the Lord Andrea had put all things in order for that dispatch, he said to master Philippo (which was now furnished with all things necessary and appertinent for that long voyage) Philippo remember this day that you go to 〈◊〉 Anne, and tell her, that I willed you to come unto her, to know if she would command you any service to the Catholic King, where you shall humbly offer yourself, in what it pleaseth her to command: you shall also tell her, what things I have given unto you in charge by special commission. Never could more pleasant talk sound into the ears of Master Philippo, than this, who for that he should both see and speak unto his Lady before his departure, and for that she would 〈◊〉 unto him the doing of her affairs in Spain, was the gladdest and best contented man of the world. The hour come when he thought good to repair to the 〈◊〉, he went unto her, & gave her to understand by one of the privy Chamber, that he was attendant there to know her pleasure. The 〈◊〉 certified of his readiness to departed, by and by took order that he should come into her chamber, who entering the same, with trembling heart, after he had done his humble reverence, with great fear and bashfulness, said: Pleaseth your Majesty, that my lord Borgo, being about to address me his Secretary into Spain, to the Catholic King there, hath commanded me to wait upon your highness, to know your pleasure for certain affairs to be done for your majesty. Wherefore may it please the same to employ me, your humble servant, I shall think myself the happiest man of the world: A thing so blessed and joyful unto me, as no benefit or commodity can render unto me, greater felicity. Then he disclosed unto her the rest of his message, which was committed unto him by his lord and master. The 〈◊〉 beholding him with merry countenance gently said unto him: And we for the trust we have in you to do our message & other affairs in Spain, have required you to come hither. And because we know you to be a Gentleman, and assured that you will gladly do your endeavour in any thing that may do us pleasure, have chosen you above any other. Our will and commandment is, that first you deliver these letters, containing matters of great importance to the hands of the 〈◊〉 King, and that you do our humble commendations to his majesty. Then all the rest accordingly as they be directed, which principally above other things we pray you to dispatch upon your arrival. And if we be able to do you any pleasure, either for your 〈◊〉, or for other commodity, spare not to write unto us pour mind and (we do assure you) the same shallbe effectually accomplished, to the 〈◊〉 of our endeavour, which we do of our own motion frankly offer unto you, in consideration of the 〈◊〉, worthiness, and 〈◊〉 behaviour always known to be in you. Master Philippo hearing these words, was replenished with such joy, as he thought himself rapt into the heavens, and his heart felt such pleasure, as it seemed to fleet in some deep sea of delights: and after the best manner he could, thanked her for her courtesy: and albeit (be said) that he knew himself unworthy of that favour, yet he dedicated the same to her commandment, surrendering himself as a slave and faithful servant to her majesty. Then upon his knees, to his great contentation he kissed her hands, which of herself she offered unto him, & then reverently he took his leave. When he was gone out of the chamber, he met with the 〈◊〉 coserer, that 〈◊〉 for him, who taking him aside, did put into his hand a purse with. 500 crowns, & the master of the horse presented unto him a very goodly and beautiful horse, wherewith master Philippo, was so well pleased, as he was like to 〈◊〉 out of his skin for joy. Then he took his journey & arrived at the Court in Spain, where at 〈◊〉, he delivered his Letters to King Charles, and accomplished other business and message prescribed unto him by 〈◊〉 Anne: And when he had dispatched the 〈◊〉 other letters, he attended the business of his Lord Andrea Borgo. The King perused the contents of the letters sent unto him by his sister and kinswoman, so did the Lord chancellor, (which at that time was the lord Mercurino Gattinara) and other: to whom the 〈◊〉 had written: whereby the King was solicited to stand good Lord, to the Lord Andrea Borgo, 〈◊〉 likewise exhorted to be beneficial to master Philippo, whom for his good conditions & experience they had sent unto him in that embassage. Upon a day the king moved by the lord chancellor, caused master Philippo to come before him, to whom 〈◊〉 before his majesty, the king said these words: The testimony & report so honourably made of you by the two 〈◊〉, from whom you brought us letters, & the hope which we have to find you a faithful & profitable servant, and to be correspondent in effect to the tenor of those letters, moveth us to accept you into the numbered of one of our Secretaries, wherein before our presence you shall swear unto us to be faithful and true. Master Philippo that expected for no such dignity, marveled at the King's words, and there by oath ministered unto him by the lord chancellor was received into his service, & exercised that office, in singular favour of the King, to the great satisfaction of all men. And after 〈◊〉 King Charles was elected Emperor, knowing the experience that master Philippo had in the affairs of Italy, and specially in Lombardie, he committed unto him all matters touching the state of that region, which so happily came to pass to master Philippo, as besides the ornaments of virtue & wisdom, he acquired great riches, and yet he continually served and worshipped the Queen as his noble patroness and worthy mistress. Tell me now ye fair Ladies and gentlewomen: What shall we 〈◊〉 of the princely behaviour and noble disposition of this Queen? Truly in my judgement, she deserveth that praise and commendation that may be attributed to the most excellent Lady of the world, who never gave over her faithful servant till she had bountifully with her own hands and commendation, rendered unto him a most Princely reward. And as the sun in beauty and brightness doth surmount the other furniture of the 〈◊〉, even so magnificence and liberality in each Lady doth excel all other virtues, specially in those personages, that keep the state of Princes. But to conclude, meet and requisite it is, that ye beautify this most courteous and liberal Queen with due praises. For surely in my judgement, if all women would confer their heads and wits together, and devise Hymns and Sonnets of Liberality, they can never sufficiently be able to celebrate the praise and glory of this Queen.   

Alexander de Medici's Duke of Florence.  
¶ The gentle and just act of ALEXANDER de MEDICI'S the first Duke of FLORENCE, upon a Gentleman whom he favoured, who having ravished the daughter of a poor miller, caused him to marry her, for the greater honour and celebration whereof, he appointed her a rich and honourable dowry.  
The. xxij. Novel.  
IF the force of Virtue were not apparent at the sight of eye, it would be deemed to be of less value than the greatness thereof deserveth (for sundry causes rising in the minds of men) and that by performing the little which rested for that entier perfection of her whole united glory. Now because that her effects be diverse, and that diversly they be used, the examples also of such diversity, do variate and make diverse that affections of men: some to follow that quality & other that part, proceeding from the whole and perfect body of virtue, which hath caused some to win the price of modesty and temperance in their deeds, other full of magnanimity (not familiar to many) have resisted the assaults of Fortune. Many other have embraced that only honour which is the 〈◊〉 of each good act, whereby they have well ruled the state of free cities, or guided the armies of mighty Monarches. And such whilom the cities of Rome Athenes, Sparta, and the ancient monarches of the Medes, the Persians, and Assyrians did see. I will omit a good company of those sage and wise men, which have 〈◊〉 the troubles of Cities, the inquietations of Palaces, the cries of judgement seats, the dissimulation and deceitful flatteries of Courts, the careful courts which the householder by government of his house and family doth sustain and feel, of purpose more frankly to retire to the study of sapience, which alone is able to make a man happy, & worthy to be partaker of the divinity. But above all, I will praise him which not subject to the law, liveth nevertheless like him that is most thrall thereunto, or without respect of blood or friendship shall exercise justice upon his dearest and best beloved: as in old time Manlius and Torquatus at Rome, the people of Athenes towards one Tinnagoras, who beyond the duty of an Ambassador of a frank city, fell down on his knees and worshipped the Persian King. And in our time the Marquize of Ferrara, by doing to death his own son for adultery committed with his mother in law. And yet justice may redound and savour of some cruelty, which rather turneth to shame than praise: as john Maria Visconte Duke of Milan, when he caused a covetous priest to be buried quick, with the corpse of him whom he had refused to put into the ground without money, the history whereof is hereafter remembered. So as mediocrity of punishment ought to be yoked with the rigour of the law, for that mitigation of the same. And behold, wherefore the great Dictator julius Caesar loved better to gain the heart of his enemies with mercy, than vanquish & bring them to obedience, with massy manacles & gives of iron. Moreover in our age Alphonsus of Arragon (the true sampler of a just & righteous prince) did not he esteem (when he straightly besieged Gaiette) the victory to be more glorious & better gotten, which is done by composition and gentleness, than the bloody conquest, coloured with the tears and blood of a poor simple people? And truly princes & great lords, specially they which newly (without succession received from their ancestors) arrive to the government of some common wealth, ought continually to have before their eyes, an honest severity for the holiness of the law, & a grave mildness, to moderate the rigour of their foremen duty. For by that means right is maintained, the heart of man is won, so well as by violence: & the state of government taketh so good footing, as the wind of no sedition afterwards can remove the same, being founded upon a sure stone, & framed upon a rock durable for a long time. Whereof we have an example of fresh memory of a kind act, full both of wisdom & gentle soveritie, in a prince of our time, who without effusion of blood punished with rigour enough, a trespass committed, and sweetly remitted the pain upon him, which merited grievous, nay mortal punishment, as at large youshall see by the discourse that followeth. Alexander de Medici's, favoured by the Church of Rome, and armed with the Papal standard) was he that first with great activity and wisdom inveighed the signory of Florence, immediately usurping the name, title, and prerogatives of Duke. The same albeit upon the prime face, he was 〈◊〉 to the people of Florence, wroth for losing of their ancient liberty, and displeasant to the Senators and 〈◊〉, to see themselves deprived of the sovereignty of justice, and of the authority they had to 〈◊〉 all the Citizens, yet for all that was he endued with; so good qualities, and governed so well his principality, as that which at the beginning was termed Tyranny, was received as just domination, and that which was supposed to be abused by force, seemed to be done as it were by lawful succession. And they counted themselves happy (when they saw their luck to be such as their common wealth must needs obey the advise and pleasure of one Prince alone) to have a sovereign lord, so wise so virtuous and so full of courtesy: Who albeit, in other things he showed himself praise worthy, noble, and of gentle kind, yet vanquished he himself in himself, and in the rest of his perfection, by that indifferent justice, which made him wonderful, by reason he denied the same to none, and in no one jot showed himself partial to any, which thought by him to be supported in their follies. And that which was more to be wondered in him, & augmented the praise of his integrity in judgement, was, that he punished in an other the thing, which by reason he ought to have pardoned and remitted, he being attainted & well beaten with that disease. But the good Lord applied to reason, to time, & to the gravity of the fact and quality of the offended persons. For where the greatness of the deed surpasseth all occasion of pardon and mercy, the Prince, judge, or Magistrate ought to despoil and put of his sweetest affections, to apparel himself with rigour, which reacheth the knife into the hand of him that ruleth, of purpose that so private familiarity, do not in the end raise in the subjects heart a contempt of their superiors, and an 〈◊〉 licence, lawless to live at their pleasure. Now the thing which I mean to tell, consisteth in the proof of a rare and exquisite prudence, which seldom or never, harboureth in young age, the heats whereof, can not but with great difficulty, feel the coldness and correction of reason: And likewise the causes from whence wisdoms force proceedeth, do rest in long experience of things, whereby men wax old in ripeness of wit and their deeds become worthy of praise. Then Duke Alexander ordered so well his estates, and kept such a goodly and plentiful Court, as the same gave place to no Prince of Italic, how great or rich so ever it was, and that he did aswell for his own guard & honour as to show the natural stoutness of his courage, not using for all that any insolency or unseemly dealing against the heinous and ancient enemies of his house. Amongs this goodly troop of courtiers, which ordinarily followed the Duke, there was a Florentine gentleman, very near the Duke, and the best beloved of them all. This young Gentleman had a Manor hard by Florence, where he was very well & stately lodged, which caused him many times to forsake the City, with two of his companions, to recreate himself in that pleasant place. It chanced upon a day, he being in his fieldish house, besides the which there was a Mill, the master whereof had a passing fair daughter, whom the said Gentleman did well mark and behold, and with her became strangely in love, in whom also appeared some Noble port, that exceeded the blood and race whereof she came. But what? The heavens be not so spare distributers of their gifts, but sometimes divide them with the least measure, and at other times in equal weight or greatest heap, to them that be of basest sort and popular degree, so well, as to the greatest men and of most noble race. Rome sometimes hath seen a bondman and slave, sometimes a runagates son, for his wit and courage to bear the sceptre in his hand, and to decide the causes of a lofty people, who already by reason of his sleights and practices, began to aspire the Empire of the whole world. And he that within our Father's remembrance desireth to know what that great Tambarlane of Tartary was, the astonishment and ruin of all the 〈◊〉 parts, shall well perceive that his original sorted from the vulgar sort, & from the basest place that was amongs all estates: whereby must be confessed, that the goodness of nature is such and so great, that she will help her nourice children (whatsoever they be,) the best she can. Not that I mean to infer hereby, but that the blood of predecessors, with the institution of their posterity, much augmenteth the force of the spirit, and accomplisheth that more sincerely whereunto nature hath given a beginning. Now to come to our purpose, this young Courtier, taken and chained in the bands of love, 〈◊〉 & clogged with the beauty and good grace of that Country wench, 〈◊〉 the means how he might enjoy the thing after which he hoped. To love her, he deemed it unworthy of his degree. And yet he knew her to be such (by report of many) as had a very good wit, tongue at will, and which is more esteemed, a Paragon and mirror of chaste life & modesty. Which tormented this amorous monsieur beyond measure, and yet changed not his affection, assuring himself, that at length he should attain the end of his desires, and glut his unsatiable hunger, which pressed him from day to day to gather that soot and savorous fruit which lovers so eagerly sue for at maidens hands of semblable age to this, who then was between. xbj. and. xutj. years. This lover did to understand to his companions his grief and 〈◊〉, who sorry for the same, assayed by all means, to make him forget it, telling him that it was unseemly for a Gentleman of his account, to make himself a 〈◊〉 to that people, which would come to pass if they knew how undiscreetly he had placed his love: & that there were a number of fair & honest gentlewomen to whom convenably & with great contentation he might address the same. But he which much less saw, than blind love himself that was his 〈◊〉, & he that was more 〈◊〉 of reason & advise than the Poets feign Cupid to be naked of apparel, would not hear the good counsel, which his companions gave him, but rather said that it was lost time for them to use such words, for he had rather die, and to endure all the mocks & scoffs of the world, than lose the most delicate pray (in his mind,) that could chance into the hands of man, adding moreover, that the homeliness & rudeness of the Country, had not so much annoyed his new beloved, but she deserved for her beauty to be compared with the greatest Minion and finest attired gentlewoman of the City. For this maiden had but the ornament and mynionnesse which nature had enlarged, where other artificially force and by trumperies, usurp that which the heavens deny them. Touching her virtue let that pass in silence, sithence that she (quoth he sighing) is too chaste & virtuous for one whom I would choose to daily with all. My desire is not to make her a Lucrece, or some of those ancient Matrons, which in elder years builded the temple of woman's Fortune at Rome. The companions of this lover seeing how he was bend, promised him what they were able to do, for accomplishment of his will, for the which he thanked them very hearty, offering himself to like duty, where fortune should prepare the proof of their affection & need of his 〈◊〉 service. In the mean time, conceiving in his mind some new devise, which so soon as he desired was not able to be brought to pass, & knowing that the duke seldom would have him out of his sight, begun to muse upon lies, doing him to understand that he had necessary occasion, for a certain time to remain & be at his country house. The duke which loved him, & who thought that either he had some secret sickness, or else some wench which he was loath to discover before his companions, gave him leave for a month, which so pleased the amorous Gentleman, as he 〈◊〉 for joy, & was not able to rest one hour before he had 〈◊〉 out his friends and companions, to mount on horseback to visit her, that had under her power and obeisance the best portion of him, which was his heart and his most secret thought. When he was come to his Country house, he began to stalk abroad, and dance a round about the Mill, where his beloved did dwell, who was not so foolish, but by and by suspected whereunto those doings and comings of the Pilgrim tended, and for what pray he led his Dogs in lease, and caused so many nets & cords to be displayed by hunters of all ages and each sex, who to discover the Country, assayed to beat the bushes, to take the beast at form. For which cause she also for 〈◊〉 part, began to fly the snares of such Birders, and ranging of the Dogs that vented after her, & strayed not 〈◊〉 the house of the good man her father: whereof 〈◊〉 poor lover conceived great despair, not knowing by what means he might rouse the pray after which he hunted, ne find the means to do her to understand his plaints & unmeasured grief of heart, the firm love and sincere mind wherewith he was so earnestly bend, both to 〈◊〉 and love her above all other. And that which most of all increased his pain, was, that of so great a troop of messages which he had sent, with gifts and promises the better to achieve his purpose, no one was able to take placeor force (never so little) the chastity of that sober & modest maid. It chanced one day as the Gentleman walking along a wood side newly felled, hard adjoining to his house, by which there was a clear and goodly fountain shadowed between two thick & lofty Maple trees, the Miller's daughter went thither for water, and as she had set down her pails upon the fountains 〈◊〉, her lover came unto her, little thinking of such a joyful meeting, which he well declared by these words: Praised be God, that when I hoped least of this good hap, he hath sent me hither, to see the only substance of my joy. Then turning his face towards the maiden, said unto her. Is it true that thou art here (or do I dream) and so near to him that most desireth to gratify thee in any thing wherein it may please thee to command him? Wilt thou not have pity upon the pains and griéfs which continually I endure for the extreme love I bear thee? And saying so, he would have embraced her. But the maid which cared no more for his flatteries, than before she did for his presents and messages, seeing the same to tend to nothing else but to her ruin and great dishonour, with stout countenance, and by her lively colour declaring the chaste and virtuous motion of her blood, said to this valiant Gentleman: How now 〈◊〉, do you think that the vileness of mine apparel, holdeth hidden less virtue, than the rich and sumptuous ornaments of the greatest Ladies? Do you suppose that my bringing up hath bred in me such gross blood, as for your only pleasure, I should corrupt the perfection of my mind, & blot the honour which hither to so carefully I have kept and religiously preserved? Be sure that sooner death shall separate the soul from my body, than willingly I would suffer the overthrow & violation of my virginity. It is not the part of a Gentleman as you be, thus to espy and subtly pursue us poor country maids to charm us with your sleights and 〈◊〉 talk. It is not the duty of a Gentleman to 〈◊〉 such vaunt currors to discover and put in peril, the honour of maidens and honest wives, as heretofore you have done to me. It ought to suffice that you received shame by repulse of your messengers, and not to come yourself to be partakers of their shame and confusion. And that is it that ought to 〈◊〉 you sweet heart (answered he) to take pity upon my grief, so plainly seeing that unfeignedly I do love you, and the my love is so well planted, as rather had I suffer death, than occasion the 〈◊〉 offence that may displease you. Only I beseech you, not to 〈◊〉 yourself so cruel unto him, who 〈◊〉 all other, hath made you so frank an offer both of himself & of all that he hath to command. The maid not greatly trusting his words, feared that he prolonged the time to make 〈◊〉 stay till his servants came to steal her away. And therefore without further answer, she taking up her pails, & half running till she came near the Mil, escaped his 〈◊〉, telling her father no part of that talk between them: who began already to doubt the treason, devised by the gentle man, against the pudicitie of his daughter, unto whom he never disclosed his suspicion, were it that he knew her to be virtuous enough, and constant to resist the luring assaults of love, or considered the imbecility of our flesh, & the malice of the same, which daily aspireth to things thereunto defended, & by laws limited and prescribed, which laws it ought not to exceed, and yet thereof wisheth the abolishment. And the goodman also did fear that she did not care for the words, that he had said unto her, as already resolved in opinion, that she wished & desired the love and acquaintance of him whom she hated to death, and that vanquished by despite (for the little regard had of her chastity) she would not give over her lover, which neyed after none other provender. Who seeing that the maiden 〈◊〉 forsaken him, and little esteemed his amorous onset, outraged for love, and 〈◊〉 with choler bothtogether, 〈◊〉 with himself, said. Ah foolish & dastard lover, what 〈◊〉 thou mean when thou hadst her so near thee, in a place so commodious, and was not able, ne durst gainsay thee? And what knowest thou if she came to ease thy pain and finish thy troublesome travels? Surely I suppose she did so, but that shame & duty forced her to use such words, to make me think, that lightly she would not be overcome by my persuasions. And put the case that it were not so, who could have let me to take by force that, whereunto willingly she would not accord. But what is she, to be revenged of such an injury? She is for conclusion the daughter of a Miller, and may make her vaunt, that she hath mocked a Gentleman, who being alone with her, and burning with love, durst not staunch his thirst (although full dry) so near the fountain. And by God (said he, rising from a green bank near the fountains side) if I die therefore, I will have it either by love or force. In this wicked and tyrannical mind, he returned to his place, where his companions seeing him so out of quiet, said unto him: Is this the guise of gentle mind, to abase itself to the pursuit of so simple a wench? Do not you know the malice of that sex, and the guiles wherewith those Serpent's poison men? Care you so little for a woman as she doth for you, and then will she embrace you & make much of you, her only study is (which I believe) to frame herself against all that, for which humble suit is made. But admit, that a woman hath some quality to draw men to love her, honour and serve her, truly that office and dutiful devoir ought to be employed in service of them, that be honourable, in spirit and judgement of gentle kind, which no doubt will 〈◊〉 the merit of the suitor. And certes I am of opinion that a man may vainly consume a year or two in pursuit and service of this mealy Country wench, so well as address his love in the obedience of some fair and honest Gentlewoman: which courteously and with some favour will recompense, the travails of her servant, where that rude and sottish girl, by pride will vaunt and look a loft, at the honour done unto her, despise them whose worthiness she knoweth not, and whom neither she nor the best of her lead, be worthy to serve in any respect: will you know then what I think best for you to do? Mine advise is then, that one of thief evenings, she be trussed up in a male and brought hither, or else in place where you think good, that you may enjoy at pleasure the beauty of her whom you do praise and wonder at so much. And afterwards let her dissemble if she lust, and make a Jewel of her chastity and modesty when she hath not to triumph over you, by bearing away the victory of your pursuits. Ah my good friend, answered the desperate lover, how rightly you touch the most dangerous place of all my wound, and how sovereign a salve and plaster you apply thereunto. I had thought truly to entreat you of that, whereof even now you have made the overture, but fearing to offend you, or too much usurp upon your friendship, rather had I suffer a death continual, than raise one point of offence, or discontentation in them, which so frankly have offered to do me pleasure, whereof (by God's assistance) I hope to be acquieted with all duty and office of friendship. Now 〈◊〉 it, to put in proof, the effect of your devise, and that so shortly as I can. In like manner you see that the term of my here abode, will shortly be expired, and if we be once at the Court, impossible it is for me to recover so good occasion, and peradventure she will be married, or some other shall carry away the pray, after I have beaten the bush. The plot then of this maiden's rape, was resolved upon, and the first espied occasion taken. But the lover which feared least this heat of his companions would cool, solicited them so much, as the execution was ordained the following night: which they did, not so much for the pleasure of their friend, to whom in such adventures they ought to deny all help, (sith friendship ought not to pass, Sed 〈◊〉 ad are as, as Pericles the Athenian said, so far as was sufferable by the laws of God) as for that they were of nature of the self same tramp, which their passionate companion was, and would have made no conscience to enterprise the same for themselves, although the other had not told them his affections. These also be the fruits of unruled youth, wherein only the verdure and greenness of the age beareth greatest sway, the will whereof reason can not restrain, which easily waltreth and tosseth sooner to the carnal part, than to that which tendeth to the pasture and contentation of the mind. The next night after, they. 〈◊〉. came accompanied with. v. or. vj. servants (so honest as their masters) in armure & weapons well appointed to defend & hurt, that if any resistance were made, they might be able to repel their adversaries. Thus about two of the clock in the night repaired they to the Mill, the heavens having thrown their mantel over the vaporous earth, & 〈◊〉 her face with their vail obscure & dark, and yet not such, but that the air was cloudy clear, & when no man doubted of so great offence, & of such unhappy rape, they broke into the poor miller's house, between whose arms they took away his daughter dear, & almost dead for fear, piteously begun to cry for help, defending herself so well as she could from these thieves and Murderers. The desolate father, raging with no less fury than the Hyrcanian Tiger, when her Faucons be killed or taken away, ran first to one, and then to another, to let them from carrying of her away, for whom they came. In the end the amorous ravisher of his daughter said unto him: Father, Father, I advise thee to get thee hence if thou love thy life, for thy force is too weak to resist so many, the least of whom is able to cool this thy foolish heat and choler, for the which I would be sorry, for the great love I bear unto thy daughter, who (I hope) before she depart my company, shall have wherewith to be contented, and thou cause to pacify this immoderate rage which in vain thou yalpest forth against this troop. Ah false knave and thief, (said the honest poor man) is it thou then, which by thine infamous filthiness & insatiable knavery, dost dishonour the commendable fame of my daughter, and by like means 〈◊〉 the hoped years of me her poor unhappy father, losing through thy wickedness, the staff and stay of mine old aged life? Thinkest thou Traitor that living till this day (for all my poverty) in reputation of an honest man in mine old days, will become an unshamefast and vile minister and Chapman of my daughter's maidenhoode and virginity? No knave, think not that I forget the wrong received of thee, for which by some means or other, I will purchase just revenge either upon thee or thine. The Gentleman caring little or nothing for the old man's words, having in hand his desired spoil, commanded his men to march before with the maiden, leaving behind the poor old man which thundered against them a thousand 〈◊〉 and curses, threatening and reviling them, by all the terms he could devise, desirous (as I think) to have them turn back to kill him. But thereunto they gave so little heed, as when he demanded to leave his daughter behind them: to whom the amorous courtier addressing himself, began to make much of her and kiss her, & assayed by all means with pleasant words and many sweet promises to comfort her: but that poor wench knowing full well, that they went about to play the butchers with her chastity and shamefastness, and to commit murder with the flower of her virginity, 〈◊〉 to cry so piteously with dolorous voice, as she would have moved to compassion the hardest hearts that ever were, except the same which craved nothing more than the spoil of that his sweetest enemy, who herself detected & blasphemed her unhappy fate and constellation. When she saw her virtue ready to be spoiled by one, who (not in marriage joined) went about to violate and possess the same, & knew that afterwards he would vaunt himself for the victory of such a precious price, Alas (said she) is it possible that the sovereign justice of God can abide a mischief so great and cursed, and that the voice of a poor wretched 〈◊〉 maid cannot be heard in the presence of the mighty Lord above? Why may not I now rather suffer death than the infamy which I see to wander before mine eyes? O that good old man my dear and loving father, how far better had it been for thee to have slain me with thy dagger, between the hands of these most wicked thieves, than to let me go to be the enemies pray of my virtue & thy reputation. O happy a hundred hundred times be ye, which have already passed the inevitable tract of death when ye were in cradle, and I poor unhappy wench no less blessed had I been if partaker of your joy, where now I rest alive to feel the smart and anguish of that death more eager to support, than that which divideth the body & soul. The Gentleman offended with those complaints, began to threaten that he would make her forget that her disordered behaviour, saying that she must change an other tune, and that her plaints were to no purpose amongs them which cared not, or yet were bend to stay upon those her womanish tears, lamentations and cries. The poor Maiden hearing that, and seeing that she dysparckled her voice into the air in vain, began to hold her peace, which caused the Lover to speak unto her these words: And what my wench? do you think it now so 〈◊〉 or strange, if the heat of love that I bear to you, forceth me to use such violence? Alas it is not malice or evil will that causeth me to do the same, it is love which can not be enclosed, but must needs manifest his force. Ah that you had felt, what I do suffer and endure for love of you, I believe than you would not be so hard hearted, but have pity upon the grief whereof you should have proved the vehemency. Whereunto the maid answered nothing but tears and sighs, wring her arms and hands, & sometimes making warreupon her fair hair. But all these feminine fashions nothing moved this gallant, and less removed his former desire to have her, which he achieved in despite of her teeth, so soon as he arrived at his own house. The rennant of the night they lay together, where he used her with all such kind of flattering and loving speech, as a lover of long time a suitor could devise to do to her, whom at length he did possess. Now, all these flattering follies tended only to make her his own, to keep her in his Country house for his pleasure. She that for her age (as before is said) was of condition sage, and of gentle mind, began subtly to dissemble and feign to take pleasure in that which was to her more bitter than any Aloes or wood of Myrrah and more against her heart than remembrance of death, which still she wished for remedy of her grief, and voluntarily would have killed herself like a Lucrece, if the fear of God and dreadful loss of body & soul had not turned her mind, and also hoped in God that the ravisher should repair the fault which he had committed, and bear the penance for his temerity, whereof she was no whit deceived, as well ye shall perceive, by that which immediately doth follow.  
Now whilst the ravisher 〈◊〉 his pleasure with his rape, the miserable father made the air to sound with his complaints, accusing fortune for letting the whorish varlet so to pass, without doing him to feel the lustiness of his age, and the force that yet reasted in his furrowed face, and corpse withered with length of years. In the end knowing that his plaints, curses, and desire, were thrown forth in vain, perceiving also his force unequal to deal with such an enemy, and to get again by violence his stolen daughter, or to recover her by that means whereby she was taken away, he determined the next day to go and complain to the Duke: and upon that determination he laid him down to sleep under the trees, which joined to the fountain, where sometimes the Courtier had talked with his daughter. And seeing that the element began to show some brightness interpaled with colours of White, Yellow and Red, signs preceding the rising of fresh Aurora, started from his sleep, & took his way to Florence whither he came, upon the opening of the City gates. Then going to the Palace of the Duke, he tarried until he saw the Prince go forth to service. The good man seeing him of whom he attended to receive succour, favour and justice, began to fret and rage's for remembrance of his received wrong, and was ashamed to see himself in place not accustomed: & albeit it grieved his heart with hardy speech to presume in presence of so many, yet the just anger & desire of vengeance emboldened him so much, as kneeling upon his knees before the Majesty of the Duke, aloud he spoke these words: Alas (my sovereign Lord) if ever your grace had pity upon a desolate man, and full of despair, I humbly beseech the same that now you do regard the misory which on every side assaileth me. Have pity upon the poverty of that unfortunate old man against whom one hath done such wrong, as I hope by force of your virtue and accustomed justice, you will not leave a sin so detestable without deserved punishment, for respect of mischiefs that may ensue where such wickedness shallbe dissembled and suffered without due correction: Saying so, the great tears ran down his grisly beard, and by reason of his interrupted sighs and continual sobs, the panting of his stomach might easily have been perceived all riveled for age, and Sunneburned with heat and continual Country travail: and that which moved most the standers by, was the rueful look of the good old man, who casting his looks here & there, beheld each one with his hollow & dolorous eyes, in such wise as if he had not spoken any word, his countenance would have moved the Lords to have compassion upon his misery, & his tears were of such force, as the Duke which was a wise man, and who measured things by reasons guide, provided with wisdom, and foreseeing not without timely judgement, would know the cause which made that man so to make his plaint, and notwithstanding assailed (with what suspicion I know not) would not have him openly to tell his tale, but leading the old man aside, he said unto him: My friend, 〈◊〉 that grievous faults and of great importance, ought grievously and openly to be punished, yet it chanceth oftentimes, that he which in a heat and choler doth execution for the guilt, (although that justly after he hath digested his rage, at leisure he repenteth his rigour and over sudden severity, (offence being natural in man) may sometime (where slander is not evident) by mild and merciful means forget the same without infringing or violating the holy and civil constitutions of Lawmakers. I speak thus much because my heart doth throb that some of my house have done some filthy fault against thee or some of thine. Now I would not that they openly should be slandered, and yet less pretend I to leave their faults unpunished, specially such as by offensive crime the common peace is molested, wherein my desire is, that my people do live. For which purpose God hath constituted Princes & Potestates as shepherds and guides of his 〈◊〉, to the end that the 〈◊〉 fury of the vicious, might, not destroy, devour, and scatter the impotent 〈◊〉 of no valour if it be forsaken and left forlorn by the mighty arms of Principalities and Monarchies. A singular modesty doubtless, and an incredible example of clemency in him, whom his Citizens thought to be a Tyrant and unjust usurper of a free Signiory, who so privily, and with such familiarity, as the friend could wish of his companion, harkened to the cause of a poor Country man, and moreover his modesty so great, as he would it not to be known what fault it was, or else that the offenders should publicly be accused, offering for all that to be the revenger of the wrong done unto the poor, and the punisher of the injury exercised against the desolate; a work certainly worthy of a true christian Prince, & which establisheth kingdoms decayed, conserveth those that be, rendering the Prince to be beloved of God, and feared of his Subjects. The poor old man seeing the Duke in so good mind, and that accordingly he demanded to know the wrong done unto him, the name of the factor, and that also he had promised him his help & rightful correction due unto the deserved fault, the good old man I say conceiving courage, recited from point to point the whole discourse of the rape, and the violence done upon his poor virtuous daughter, 〈◊〉 claring besides the name and surname of those which accompanied the Gentleman, the author of that conspiracy, who (as we have already said) was one that was in greatest favour with the Duke: who not withstanding the love that he bore to the accused, hearing the unworthiness of a deed so execrable, said: As God liveth this is a detestable fact, and well deserveth a sharp and cruel punishment. Not withstanding 〈◊〉 take good heed that you do not mistake the same, by accusing one for an other, for the Gentleman whom thou haste named to be the ravisher of thy daughter, is of all men deemed to be very honest, and do well assure thee that if I find thee a liar, thy head shall answer for example to each false accuser and slanderer in time to come. But if the matter be so true as thou hast said, I promise thee by the faith I bear to God, so well to redress thy wrong, as thou shalt have cause to be thoroughly satisfied with my justice. To whom the good old man thus answered. My Lord the matter is so true, as at this day he keepeth my daughter (like a common strumpet) in his house. And if it please your highness to send thither, you shall know that I do use no false accusation or lying words before you, my Lord and Prince, in presence of whom as before the minister and lieutenant of God, man ought not to speak but truly and religiously. Sith it is so, said the Duke get thee home to thy house where God willing I will be this day at dinner, but take heed upon thy life, thou say nothing to any man what so ever it be: for the rest let me alone, I will provide according to reason. The good man almost so glad for his good exploit, as the day before he was sorrowful for his loss, joyfully went home to his homely house & Country cabave, which he 〈◊〉 to be made ready so well as he could, attending the coming of his deliverer, succour, support, and judge, who when he had heard service, commanded his horse to be saddled: for (said he) I hear say there is a wild Boar haunting hereby, so well lodged as is possible to see, we will go thither to wake him from his sleep & ease, and use that pass time till dinner be ready. So departing from Florence, he road strait unto that Mil where his dinner was made ready by his servants. There he dined very soberly, and using few words unto his company, sat still all pensive, musing upon that he had to do. For on the one side the gravity of that 〈◊〉 moved him rigorously to chastise him which had committed the sante with all cruelty and insolency. On the other side the love which he bore him (mollifying his heart) made him change his mind, and to moderate his sentence. The Prince's mind thus wandering between love and rigour, one brought him word that the Dogs had roused the great est Hart that ever he saw: which news pleased him very much, for by that means he sent away the multitude of his Gentlemen to follow that chase, retaining with him his most familiar friends, and those that were of his privy and secret council, whom he would to be witnesses of that which he intended to do, and causing his host to come before him, he said: My friend, thou must bring us to the place whereof this morning thou toldest me, that I may discharge my promise. The Courtiers wondered at those words, ignorant whereunto that same were spoken: but the good man whose heart leapt for joy, as already feeling some great benefit at hand, and honour prepared for the beautifying of his house, seeing the Duke on horse back, ran besides him in stead of his Lackey, with whom the Prince held much pleasant talk all along the way as they went together, 〈◊〉 they had not gone far, but the Gentleman the 〈◊〉, with his Companions, understanding that the Duke hunted there abouts, came to do him 〈◊〉: and his Fortune was such, as he nor any of his friends perceived the old man: by means whereof the Duke pursued the pray whereof they nothing doubted. For that cause the said 〈◊〉 said to his Prince: My Lord, if fortune had so much favoured me, as I might have known of your coming into these quarters, I would have done my duty to entertain you, not as appertaineth to the greatness of your excelléncie, but according to the ability of the least, and yet the most obedient of your 〈◊〉. To whom the Duke dissembling his anger said: Sir, I dined here hard by within my tents, not knowing that your house was so near us, but sith that I have met you upon your 〈◊〉 Marches and 〈◊〉, I will not go hence before I see your lodging: for so far as I can judge by the outward part of this goodly building, me thinks the workman hath not forgotten any thing that should serve for the setting forth and ornament of this part of the house, which for the quantity is one of the fairest plots that I have seen.  
So approaching the castle, that Duke lighted, to view the commodities of the place, and specially the image, for which alone he was departed from his City, whereof the Master of the house (drunk with the sudden pleasure to see the Duke there) thought nothing. So descending into the 〈◊〉 Court, they saw a Marble fountain that discharged the water in four great gutters, received by four naked Nymphs, and by them poured forth into 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 wrought with 〈◊〉, where was an armed Knight, lying under an high and broad tree, which overshadowed the Fountain. And hard by, they espied a little door which showed the way into 〈◊〉 singular and well planted a Garden, as ever the delicious and pleasant Gardens were of Alcinoe. For in the same (besides the Artificial 〈◊〉, and ordinary travel of the gardener) nature produced four Fountains in the four corners, making the place and plain of the Garden equally parted in foursquare form. Now these fountains watered all the fair knots of the same, without any pain to the gardener, except to open certain little 〈◊〉, whereby the water sprang and ran, where he thought it needful. I will here leave to speak of the Trees & fruits divided in slew form order, the Laberynthes subtly & finely made: the sweet Herbers yielding such contentation to the eye, as if the Duke had had no greater respect to the wrong done to the Miller's daughter, than incited with the gentleness of the master of the house, and the singularity of the place, perchance he might have forgotten himself within that little earthly Paradise. And to perform the excellency of the place, the working hand and industry of man, helped by the benefit of Nature, had wrought a 〈◊〉 or 〈◊〉 very deep, wherein were bestowed a good numbered of 〈◊〉, and wherein the immortal voice of an Echo answered their talk with a triple voice in that profound and earthly place: which moved the Duke to call the Gentleman unto him, unto whom he said: If it be so, that the rest of the house do mat 〈◊〉 with that which I have already seen, I am out of doubt it is one of the 〈◊〉 and most delectable 〈◊〉 at 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 the whole compass of Italy. Wherefore my friend, I pray thee that we may see the hole, 〈◊〉 for the contentation of our minds, and also that I may make some vaunt that I have seen the rarest and best furnished little house that is within all the jurisdiction of Florence. The Gentleman bathed in ease and full of pleasure, seeing that the Duke liked so well his house, brought him from chamber to chamber, which was enriched either with stately tapissarie of Turkey making, or with rich Tables divinely wrought, with utensils so neat and fit, as the Duke could cast his 〈◊〉 upon none of them, but he was driven into an admiration & wonder. And the further he went, the greater he saw the increase, & almost a regeneration, or as I may say, a new birth of rare things, which made that littleness of the place more stately and wonderful: wherefore he greatly esteemed him in his mind which had devised the magnificence of such a furniture. After than that he had visited the Portals, Galleries, Parlours, Chambers, Garrets, Wardrobes, Closets, and chiefest places of that house, they came into a gallery, which had a direct prospect upon the Garden, at the end whereof there was a chamber shut, over which there was such Antic and Embossed work, as it was marvel to behold, and upon the garden side in like workmanship, ye might have viewed a troop of Nymphs flying (a 〈◊〉 the side of a wood adjoining upon a great river) an hierde of Satyrs, making as though they would have overrun them: a pleasure it was to see their 〈◊〉 mouths, their eyes fixed upon the place where 〈◊〉 clovenfooted pursuters were, and the countenance of them which so well expressed their fear, as there 〈◊〉 nothing but speech. Moreover a better sight it was to behold the Satire Bucks, with displayed throfe, and their fingers pointing at the baste of those fearful 〈◊〉, as though they mocked their 〈◊〉 flight. Within a while after ye might have seen Hercules lying a bed with his wife, towards whom a Eaunus came thinking to enjoy the beauty and embracements of the sleeping dame. But fairer it was to see how that strong 〈◊〉 gave him the mock, and strained him so hard, as he thought his belly would burst. The Duke beholding as he thought, the fairest place of the house so shut, by and by suspected the truth of the cause. For the Gentleman knowing the coming of the Duke, had withdrawn his woman into the same, for that it was the most secret chamber of his house, and the furthest from all ordinary service. And therefore said the Duke: wherefore is not this chamber opened unto us so well as the rest? I suppose the same to be your treasure house, and the storehouse of your most delicate things: but you may be assured that we be not come hither to trouble you, but only (as we think) to do you pleasure. My Lord (said the Gentleman) the place is to far out of order, at this time to show your grace. Moreover I know not where the keys be, for this morning the keeper of my house is gone unto the city, & I can not tell to whom he hath delivered the same. The Duke which heard the end of his excuse, not accepting the same for the price which the courtier would & thought to have sold it, was sure then of that which before he did suspect. Wherefore with furious countenance he said unto him: Go too, go too, either with the key, or 〈◊〉 it, let this door be opened, that I may see all thy secrets within. The ravisher seeing that Duke to be earnest, could not tell at the first face, of what wood to make his arrows, and stood 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, and surprised with a new fear. In the end notwithstanding, playing the good fellow, he went unto 〈◊〉 Duke, in whose 〈◊〉 smiling he whispered (because he knew right well that the Duke was an indifferent good companion, and loved so well his neighbours wife as his own.) And said: My Lord there is a pretty which within, whom I do keep, and would not show her to any living man but to you. That is the cause I ask, (said the Duke) let us see her that I may give judgement of her beauty, & tell you whither she be worthy of keeping or not. The master of that house opened the chamber door, thinking to have gained much, and supposed to insummate himself the better into the favour of the Duke, but immediately he saw himself far deceived of his account. For the ravished and shamefast maiden coming for the of the Chamber with her hair about her eyes, and her garments berent and torn, her stomach and breast all naked and discovered, her face and eyes all blubbered with tears, like a desperate woman threw herself at the Prince's feet, saying: Ah (my Lord) behold here, and have pity upon the most unfortunate wench of all most wretched caitiff women, who shamefully and 〈◊〉 hath been abused and deflowered by him, which impudently dareth to bring you into the place the witness of his abominable and wicked life. The Duke seeing this sight, and having compassion upon the maiden, turned his face towards the Gentleman and his Companions (which by chance were come thither, as the Duke was entered into the Gallery) not with mild and pleasant countenance as he showed from the beginning, but with a look so grave and severe, as the hardest of the company could not tell what to do, or what answer to make him. Upon them then began the righteous Prince to vomit his displeasure, saying: 〈◊〉 this the 〈◊〉 of the blood whereof thou art descended, to ravish thy neighbours daughters under mine obeisance and protection? Dost thou thus abuse the familiarity which hitherto I have showed unto thee? Thinkest thou that the laws be perverted by seeing some change in the common wealth of Florence? No I assure thee, for so long as the soul shall reside within my body, I will be he that shall pursue the wicked with all extremity, and shall not endure the oppression of the poor, enough afflicted with their own proper misery. O God could I have thought that a Gentleman of my house, would have been so prodigal of his honour, as to soil his hands so 〈◊〉 by ravishing of them which ought to be required, and to dishonour them in place where their virtue ought to serve for a general example? I cannot tell what stayeth me from cutting of those cursed heads of yours from your shoulders like arrant traitors and thieves as you be. Get ye hence ye infamous villains and beastly Ruffians, the troublers of your neighbour's rest, and the spoilers of the same of her, that is more worth than all ye together. Then speaking to the Maid he said: Rise up my wench, and on me repose thy comfort, for I promise thee by the Faith of a Gentleman, that I will do thee such reason, and use thee so uprightly, as both my Consciente shall be quieted, thou contented, and thine honour restored for the wrong and injury which it hath received of these Gallants. And by and by he commanded the Miller to come before him, and all those whom he had brought with him to assist his doings, before whom he caused to be brought both the ravished maiden, and the condemned of the rape: unto whom he said: This is the pray my friends that I determined to take, which I have done without toils, nets, or chanting of the Dogs. Behold, I pray you the honour which my household servants do unto my house, as to overrun the simple Country people, and ravish their daughters between the arms of their proper parents, as to break, beat down, and overthrow the doors of their houses, who living under the laws of our city, aught to enjoy like privilege of liberty & franchize. If one respect (which I will not disclose) did not impeach & stay me, I would do such cruel justice upon the offenders, as the posterity should make report thereof. Notwithstanding it shall suffice that they receive this shame before you all, by 〈◊〉 themselves banquished of a crime, which for expiation and revenge, deserveth most shameful death and to receive of me for proof of my mercy, an undeserved pardon of their fault, with condition nevertheless that thou (speaking to the Gentleman ravisher) shalt take this maiden to wife, (for otherwise thou art not able to repair the honour thou hast taken from her) and shalt love her so dearly, as fond 〈◊〉 she was beloved of thee. I give her unto thee to esteem and love her so much, as if she were the very sister of me the Duke of Florence, who commandeth thee for the ransom & redemption of thy head, presently to marry her. I will moreover, and ordain by reason of her father's poverty, that for the wrong which he hath received of you three, his daughter shall be endowed with two thousand Crowns by him that marrieth her, and with a thousand of either of the two other, to the intent that if her husband die (without heir,) she have wherewith honestly to maintain her degree, and the honest port of her house. And hereof I will that without delay a contract be made, and a public instrument of good record enrolled, swearing once again before thee, that if I understand that thou use her otherwise, than a wife ought to be by her husband, I will deal such punishment and correction over thee, as all men in time to come shall take example. The Gentleman which expected no better meed than death, joyful of that sentence, fell down prostrate before the Duke in sign of consent, and the like did his Companions. But the joy of the Miller and his daughter can not be expressed, who extolled the virtue & justice of their Prince up into the heavens: to whom with such humility they rendered their humble thanks, as he would do that saw himself in so great calamity, and brought to such dishonour as erst they were seen to be, by means of him that acknowledged one of them for his son, & the other for her lawful spouse. Thus was the marriage made in presence of the Duke, with so great joy and contentation of all parts, as there was rage and trouble for that rape of the Bride. The Duke being returned to Florence, the brute of this act incontinently was 〈◊〉 almost throughout the Region of Italy, & this judgement no less praised, than the sentence which king Solomon gave upon that controversy of the two harlots for the living child, which either of them claimed for her own. And for this cause was he commended above any other Prince or Lord which in times passed did command or rule the Common wealth in all the Country of Tuscan. In this wise that modesty made him worthy of the Principality, which almost against all right he had usurped, and of a praise which shall no less continue, than the memory of man is able to extend the same from one generation to an other, and which Covetous of the praise of a Prince so virtuous, just and modest, shall not cease to illustrate and gloriously advance him in open evidence, to the end that his like exercise the same in like things, or of greater consequence, for not suffering venomous and unprofitable herbs to grow in their Common wealth. Within the Garden whereof, a little nuldew or untimely rain, is able to mar and corrupt all the good seeds & plants sown and grifted before. Considering that wicked weeds and dangerous imps take deeper root than those that bear a good and savorous fruit, for the conservation whereof, the diligent husbandman employeth almost all the seasons of the year.   

The Duchess of Malfi.  
¶ The Infortunate marriage of a Gentleman, called ANTONIO BOLOGNA, with the Duchess of MALFI, and the pitiful death of them both.  
The. twenty-three. Novel.  
THe greater Honour and authority men have in this world. & the greater their estimation is, the more sensible & notorious are the faults by them committed, & the greater is their 〈◊〉. In like manner more difficult it is for that man to tolerate and sustain Fortune, which all the days of his life hath lived at his 〈◊〉, if 〈◊〉 chance he fall into any great necessity, than for him which ncuer felt but woe, mishap, and adversity. Dyonisius the Tyrant of Sicilia, felt greater pain when he was expelled his kingdom, than Milo did, being vanished from Rome. For so much as the one was a Sovereign Lord, the son of a King, a justiciary on earth, and the other but a simple Citizen of a City, wherein the people had Laws, and the laws of Magistrates had in reverence. So likewise the fall of a high and lofty Tree, maketh a greater noise, than that which is low and little. High Towers and stately Palaces of Princes be seen further off, than the poor Cabans and hontely shepherds Shéepecotes. The Walls of lofty Cities salute the viewers of the same farther of, than the simple caves, which the poor do dig below the Mountain rocks. Wherefore it behoveth the Noble, and such as have charge of Common wealth, to live an honest life, and bear their port upright, that none have cause to take ill example upon discourse of their deeds and naughty life. And above all, that modesty ought to be kept by women, whom as their race, Noble birth, authority and name, maketh them more famous, even so their virtue, honesty, chastity, and continency more praise worthy. And behoveful it is, that like as they wish to be honoured above all other, so their life do make them worthy of that honour, without disgracing their name by deed or word, or blemishing that brightness which may commend the same. I greatly fear that all the Princely facts, the exploits and conquests done by the Babylonian Queen Semiramis, never was recommended with such praise, as her vice had shame, in records by those which left remembrance of ancient acts. Thus I say, because a woman being as it were the Image of sweetness, courtesy & shame fastness, so soon as she steppeth out of the right trade, and leaveth the smell of her duty and modesty, besides the denigration of her honour, thrusteth herself into infinite troubles and causeth the ruin of such which should be honoured and praised, if women's allurement solicited them not to folly. I will not here endeavour myself to seek for examples of Samson, Solomon or other, which suffered themselves fond to be abused by women: and who by mean of them be tumbled into great faults, and have incurred greater perils. Contenting myself to recite a right pitiful History done almost in our time, when the French under the leading of that notable 〈◊〉 Gaston de Foix, vanquished the force of Spain and Naples at the journey of Ravenna in the time of the French king called Lews the twelfth, who married the Lady Marie, daughter to king Henry the seventh, and sister to the victorious Prince of worthy memory king Henry the eight, wife (after the death of the said Lews) to the puissant Gentleman Charles, late Duke of Suffolk.  
In that very time than lived a Gentleman of Naples, called Antonio Bologna, who having been Master of household to, Federicke of Arragon, sometime King of Naples, after the French had expelled those of Arragon out of that City, the said Bologna retired into France, & thereby recovered the goods, which he possessed in his country. The Gentleman besides that he was valiant of his person, a good man of war, & well esteemed amongs the best, had a passing numbered of good graces, which made him to be beloved & cherished of every wight: & for riding & managing of great horse, he had not his fellow in Italy: he could also play exceeding well and trim upon the Lute, whose feigning voice so well agreed thereunto, that the most melancholic persons would forget their heaviness, upon hearing of his heavenly noise: and besides these qualities, he was of parsonage comely, and of good proportion. To be short, Nature having travailed and despoiled her Treasure house for enriching of him, he had by Art gotten that, which made him most happy & worthy of praise, which was, the knowledge of good letters, wherein he was so well trained, as by talk and dispute thereof, he made those to blush that were of that state and profession. Antonio Bologna having left Federicke of Arragon in France, who expulsed out of Naples was retired to king Lews, went home to his house to live at rest and to avoid trouble, forgetting the delicates of Courts and houses of great men, to be the only husband of his own revenue. But what: It is impossible to eschew that which the heavens have determined upon us: and less the unhap, which seemeth to follow us, as it were naturally proceeding from our mother's womb: In such wise as many times, he which seemeth the wisest man, guided by misfortune, hasteth himself with stooping head to fall headlong into his death & ruin. Even so it chanced to this Neapolitan Gentleman: for in the very same place where he attained his advancement, he received also his diminution and decay, and by that house which preferred him to what he had, he was deprived, both of his estate and life: the discourse whereof you shall understand. I have told you already, that this Gentleman was Master of the King of Naples household, & being a gentle person, a good Courtier, well trained up, and wise for government of himself in the Court and in the service of Princes, the Duchess of Malfi thought to entreat him that he would serve her, in that office which he served the king. This Duchess was of the house of Arragon, & sister to that Cardinal of Arragon, which them was a rich & puissant parsonage. Being thus resolved, was well assured that she was not deceived: for so much as she was persuaded, that Bologna was devoutly affected to the house of Arragon, as one brought up there from a child. Wherefore sending for him home to his house, she used unto him these, or like words: Master Bologna, sith your ill fortune, nay rather the unhap of our whole house is such, as your good Lord & master hath foregone his state & dignity, and that you therewithal have lost a good Master, without other recompense but the praise which every man giveth you for your good service, I have thought good to entreat you to do me that honour, as to take charge of the government of my house, & to use the same, as you did that of the king your master. I know well that the office is to unworthy for your calling: notwithstanding you be not ignorant what I am, and how near to him in blood, to whom you be so faithful and loving a servant: & albeit the that I am no Queen, endued with great revenue, yet with that little I have, I bear a Princely heart: & such as you by experience do know what I have done, and daily do to those which depart my service, recompensing them according to their pain & travail: magnificence is observed as well in the Courts of poor Princes, as in the stately Palaces of great Kings and monarchs. I do remember that I have red of a certain noble gentleman, a Persian borne, called Ariobarzanes, who used great examples of courtesy & stoutness towards king Artaxerxes; wherewith the king wondered at his magnificence, & confessed himself to be vanquished: you shall take advise of this request, & I in the mean time do think you will not refuse the same, as well for that my demand is just, as also being assured, the our house & race is so well imprinted in your heart, as it is impossible that the memory thereof can be defaced. The gentleman hearing that courteous demand of the Duchess, knowing himself how deeply bound he was to that name of Arragon, & led by sour unknown provocation to his great ill luck, answered her in this wise: I would to god madame, that with so good reason & equity I were able to make denial of your 〈◊〉, as justly you require the same: wherefore for that bounden duty which I own to that name & memory of the house of Arragon, I make promise that I shall not only sustain the travail, but also the danger of my life, daily ready to be offered for your service: but I feel in mind I know not what, which 〈◊〉 me to 〈◊〉 myself to live alone at home at my house, & to be content with the little I have, foregoing the sumptuous charge of Prince's houses, which life would be well liked of myself, were it not for the fear that you madame should be discontented with my refusal, & that you should conceive, that I disdained your offered charge, or contemn your Court for respect of the great Office I bore in the Court of the King; my Lord & Master. For I cannot receive more honour; than to serve her, which is of that stock & royal race. Therefore at all adventures I am resolved to obey your will, & humbly to satisfy that duty of that charge wherein it pleaseth you to employ me, more to pleasure you for avoiding of displeasure: them for desire I have to live an honourable life in that greatest princes house of that world, sith I am discharged from him in whose name resteth my 〈◊〉 & only stay, thinking to have lived a solitary life, & to pass my 〈◊〉 in rest, except it were in the poor ability of my service to that house, whereunto I am bound continually to be a faithful servant. Thus Madam, you see me to be the readiest man of the world, to fulfil the request, and accomplish such other service wherein it shall please you to employ me. The Duchess thanked him very hearty, and gave him charge of all her household train, commanding 〈◊〉 person to do him such reverence as to herself, and to obey him as the chief of all her family. This Lady was a widow, but a passing fair Gentlewoman, fine and very young, having a young son under her guard & keeping, left by the deceased Duke her husband, together with the Duchy, the inheritance of her child. Now consider her parsonage being such, her easy life and delicate bringing up, and daily seeing the youthely trade and manner of Courtier's life, whether she felt her 〈◊〉 pricked with any desire, which burned her heart that more incessantly, as the flames were hidden & covert: from the outward show whereof she stayd herself so well as she could. But she following best advise, rather esteemed the proof of marriage, than to burn with so little fire, or to incur the exchange of lovers, as many unshame fast strumpets do, which be rather given over, than satisfied with pleasure of love. And to say the truth, they be not guided by wisdoms lore, which suffer a maiden ripe for marriage to be long unwedded, or young wife long to live in widows state, what assurance so ever they make of their chaste and stayed life. For books be so full of such enterprises, and houses stored with examples of such stolen and secret practices, as there need no further proof for assurance of our cause, the same of itself being so plain and manifest. And a great folly it is to build the fantasies of chastity, amid the follies of worldly pleasures. I will not go about to make those matters impossible, ne yet will judge at large, but that there be some maidens & wives, which wisely can contain themselves amongs the troop of amorous suitors. But what? the experience is very hard, and the proof no less dangerous, & perchance in a moment the mind of some perverted, which all their living days have closed their ears from the words of those that have made offer of loving service, we need not run to foreign Histories, ne yet to seek records that be ancient, sith we may see the daily effects of the like, 〈◊〉 in Noble houses, and Courts of Kings and Princes. That this is true, example of this fair Duchess, who was moved with that desire which pricketh others that be of Flesh and bone. This Lady waxed very weary of lying alone, & grieved her heart to be without a match, 〈◊〉 in the night, when the secret silence and darkness of the same presented before the eyes of her mind, the Image of the pleasure which she felt in the life time of her deceased Lord and husband, whereof now feeling herself despoiled, she felt a continual combat, and durst not attempt that which she desired most, but eschewed the thing whereof her mind liked best. Alas (said she) is it possible after the 〈◊〉 of the value of honest obedience which the wife oweth unto her husband, that I should desire to suffer the heat which burneth & altereth the martyred minds of those that subdue themselves 〈◊〉 love? Can such attempt pierce the heart of me to become amorous by forgetting & straying from the limits of honest life? But what desire is this? I have a certain unacquainted lust, & yet very well know not what it is that moveth me, and to whom I shall vow the spoil thereof. I am truly more fond and foolish than ever. Narcislus was, for there is neither shadow nor 〈◊〉, upon which I can well stay my sight, nor yet simple Imagination of any worldly man, whereupon I can arrest the conceit of my unstaid heart, and the desires which provoke my mind. Pygmalion loved once a Marble pillar, and I have but one desire, the colour whereof is more pale than death. There is nothing which can give the same so much as one spot of vermilion rud. If I do discover these appetites to any wight, perhaps they will mock me for my labour, and for all the beauty & Noble birth that is in me, they will make no conscience to deem me for their jesting stock, & to solace themselves with rehearsal of my fond conceits. But sith there is no enemy in the field, & that but simple suspicion doth assail us, we must break of the same, and deface the entire remembrance of the lightness of my brain. It appertaineth unto me to show myself, as issued forth of the Noble house of Arragon. To me it doth belong to take heed how I err or degenerate from the royal blood whereof I came. In this sort that fair widow and young Princess fantasied in the night upon the discourse of her appetites. But when the day was come, seeing the great multitude of the Neapolitan Lords & gentlemen which marched up & down the City, eyeing and beholding their best beloved, or using talk of mirth with them whose servants they were, all that which she thought upon in the night, vanished so soon as that flame of burned straw, or the powder of the Canon shot, & purposed for any respect to live no longer in that sort, but promised the conquest of some friend that was lusty and discreet. But the difficulty rested in that she knew not, upon whom to fix her love, fearing to be slandered, and also that the light disposition and manner of most part of youth were to be suspected, in such wise as giving over all them which vaunted upon their Gennets, Turkey Palfreys, & other Coursers along the City of Naples, she purposed to take repast of other Uenison, than of that fond & wanton troop. So her mishap began already to spin the thread which choked the air and breath of her 〈◊〉 life. Ye have heard before that M. Bologna was one of the wisest & most perfect gentlemen that the land of Naples that time brought forth, & for his beauty, proportion, galantness, valiance, & good grace without comparison. His favour was so sweet and pleasant, as they which kept him company, had somewhat to do to abstain their affection. Who then could blame this fair Princess, if (pressed with desire of match, to 〈◊〉 the ticklish instigations of her wanton flesh, and having in her presence a man so wise) she did set her mind on him, or fantasy to marry him? would not that party for calming of his thirst & hunger, being set at the table before sundry sorts of delicate viands, ease his hunger? Me think the person doth greatly forget himself, which having handfast upon occasion, suffereth the same to vanish & fly away, sith it is well known the she being bald behind, hath no place to seize upon, when desire moveth us to lay hold upon her. Which was the cause that the Duchess became extremely in love with the master of her house. In such wise as before all men, she spared not to praise the great perfections wherewith he was enriched, whom she desired to be altogether hers. And so she was 〈◊〉, that it was as possible to see that night to be void of darkness, as that Duchess without the presence of her Bologna, or else by talk of words to set forth his praise, the continual remembrance of whom (for that she loved him as herself) was her only minds repast. The gentleman that was full wise, & had at other times felt the great force of the passion which proceedeth from extreme love, immediately did mark that countenance of the Duchess, & perceived the same so near, as unfeignedly he knew that very ardently that Lady was in love with him: & albeit he saw the inequality & difference between them both, she being sorted out of the royal blood, yet knowing love to have no 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 state or dignity determined to follow his fortune & 〈◊〉 serve 〈◊〉, which so lovingly showed herself to him. Then suddenly reproving his fond conceit, he said unto himself: What folly is that I enterprise, to that great prejudice and peril of mine honour and life? Dught the wisdom of a Gentleman to stray and wander through the assaults of an appetite rising of sensuality, and that reason give place to that which doth participate with brute beasts deprived of all reason by subduing the mind to the affections of the body? No no, a virtuous man ought to let shine in himself the force of the generosity of his mind. This is not to live according to the spirit, when pleasure shall make us forget our duty and safeguard of our Conscience. The reputation of a wise Gentleman resteth not only to be valiant, and skilful in feats of arms, or in service of the Noble: But needful it is for him by discretion to make himself praise worthy, and by vanquishing of himself to open the gate to fame, whereby he may everlastingly make himself glorious to all posterity. Love pricketh and provoketh the spirit to do well, I do confess, but that affection ought to be addressed to some virtuous end, tending to marriage, for otherwise that virtuous image shall be soiled with the villainy of beastly pleasure. Alas said he, how easy it is to dispute, when the thing is absent, which can both force and violently assail the bulwarks of most constant hearts. I full well do see the troth, and do feel the thing that is good, and know what behoveth me to follow: but when I view that divine beauty of my Lady, her graces, wisdom, behaviour and courtesy, when I see her to cast so loving an eye upon me, that she useth so great familiarity, that she forgetteth the greatness of her house to abase herself for my respect: how is it possible that I should be so foolish to despise a duty so rare and precious and to set light by that which the Noblest would pursue with all reverence and endeavour? Shall I be so much voide of wisdom to suffer the young Princess, to see herself contemned of me, to convert her love to tears, by setting her mind upon an other, to seek mine overthrow? Who knoweth not that fury of a woman? specially of the Noble dame, by seeing herself despised? No, no, she loveth me, and I will be her servant, and use the fortune proffered. Shall I be the first simple Gentleman that hath married or loved a Princess? Is it not more honourable for me to settle my mind upon a place so high, than upon some simple wench by whom I shall neither attain profit, or advancement? Baldovine of Flaunders, did not he a Noble enterprise when he carried away judith the daughter of the French King, as she was passing upon that seas into England, to be married to the king of that Country? I am neither Pirate nor adventurer, for that the Lady loveth me. What wrong do I then to any person by yielding love again? Is not she at liberty? To whom ought she to make account of her deeds & doings, but to God alone and to her own conscience? I will love her, and carry like affection for the love which I know & see that she beareth unto me, being assured that the same is directed to good end, and that a woman so wise as she is, will not commit a fault so filthy, as to blemish and spot her honour. Thus Bologna framed the plot to entertain the Duchess (albeit her love already was fully bend upon him) and fortified himself against all mishap and perilous chance that might 〈◊〉, as ordinarily you see that lovers conceive all things for their advantage, & fantasy dreams agreeable to that which they most desire, resembling the mad and 〈◊〉 persons, which have before their eyes, the figured fancies which cause the conceit of their fury, and stay themselves upon the vision of that, which most troubleth their offended brain. On the other side, the Duchess was in no less care of her lover, the will of whom was hid & secret, which more did vex & torment her, than that fire of love that burned her so fervently. She could not tell what way to hold, to do him understand her heart & affection. She feared to discover the same unto him, doubting either of some fond & rigorous answer, or of reveling of her mind to him, whose presence pleased her more than all that men of the world. Alas said she, am I happened into so strange misery, that with mine own mouth I must make request to him, which with all humility ought to offer me his service? Shall a Lady of such blood as I am, be constrained to sue, where all other be required by importunate instance of their suitors? Ah love, love, what so ever he was that clothed thee with such puissance, I dare say he was the cruel enemy of man's freedom. It is impossible that thou hadst thy being in heaven, sith that clemency & courteous influence of the same, 〈◊〉 man with better benefits, than to suffer her nurse children to be entreated with such rigour. He lieth which saith that Venus is thy mother, for the sweetness & good grace that resteth in that pitiful Goddess, who taketh no pleasure to see lovers pierced with so eager travails as that which afflicteth my heart. It was some fierce cogitation of Saturn, that brought thee forth, & sent thee into the world to break the 〈◊〉 of them which live at rest without any passion or grief. Pardon me Love, if I blaspheme thy majesty, for the stress and endless grief wherein I am plunged, maketh me thus to rove at large, & the doubts which I conceive, do take away the health and soundness of my mind, the 〈◊〉 experience in thy school causeth this amaze in me, to be solicited with desire that countersayeth the duty, honour, and reputation of my state: the party whom I love, is a Gentleman, virtuous, valiant, sage, & of good grace. In this there is no cause to blame Love of blindness, for all that inequality of our houses, apparent upon the first sight and show of the same. But from whence issue the monarchs, Princes & greater Lords, but from the natural and common moss of earth, whereof other men do come? what maketh these differences between those that love each other, if not the sottish opinion which we conceive of greatness, and pre-eminence: as though natural affections be like to that ordained by the fantasy of men in their laws extreme. And what greater right have 〈◊〉 to join with a simple gentlewoman, than the Princess to marry a Gentleman, and such as Anthonio Bologna is, in whom heaven & nature have forgotten nothing to make him equal with them which march amongs the greatest. I think we be the daily slaves of the fond and cruel fantasy of those Tyrants, which say they have puissance over us: and that straining our will to their tyranny, we be still bound to the chain like the galley slave. No no, Bologna shall be my husband, for of a friend I purpose to make him my loyal and lawful husband, meaning thereby not to offend God & men together, & pretend to live without offence of conscience, whereby my soul shall not be hindered for any thing I do, by marrying him whom I so strangely love. I am sure not to be deceived in love. He loveth me so much or more as I do him, but he dareth not disclose the same, fearing to be refused & cast off with shame. Thus two united wills, & two hearts tied togethers with equal knot cannot choose but bring forth fruits worthy of such society. Let men say what they list, I will do none otherwise than my head and mind have already 〈◊〉. Semblably I need not make account to any 〈◊〉 for my fact, my body, and reputation being in full liberty and freedom. The bond of marriage made, shall cover the fault which men would deem, & leaving mine estate, I shall do no wrong but to the greatness of my house, which maketh me amongs men right honourable. But these honours be nothing worth, where the mind is void of contentation, and where the heart pricked forward by desire leaveth the body and mind restless without quiet. Thus the Duchess founded her enterprise, determining to marry her household Master, seeking for occasion and time, meet for disclosing of the same, & albeit that a certain natural shame 〈◊〉, which of 〈◊〉 accompanieth Ladies, did close her mouth, and made her to defer for a certain time the effect of her resolved mind. Yet in the end vanquished with love and impatience, she was forced to break of silence, and to assure herself in him, 〈◊〉 fear conceived of shame, to make her way to pleasure, which she lusted more than marriage, the same serving her, but for a Mask and coverture to hide her follies & shameless lusts, for which she did the penance that her folly deserved. For no colourable deed or deceitful trumpery can serve the excuse of any notable wickedness. She then thoroughly persuaded in her intent, dreaming and thinking of nought else, but upon the unbracement of her Bologna, ended and determined her conceits & pretended follies: and upon a time sent for him up into her chamber, as commonly she did for the affairs and matters of her house, and taking him a side unto a 〈◊〉, having prospect into a garden, she knew not how to begin her talk: (for the heart being seized, the mind troubled, and the wits out of course, the tongue failed to do his office,) in such wise, as of long time she was unable to 〈◊〉 one only word. He surprised with like affection, was more astoned by seeing the alteration of his Lady. So the two Lovers stood still like Images beholding one another, without any moving at all, until the Lady the hardiest of them both, as feeling the most vehement and greatest grief, took Bologna by the hand, and dissembling what she thought, used this or such like language: If any other besides yourself (Gentleman) should understand the secrets which now I purpose to disclose, I doubt what speech were necessary to colour my words: But being assured of your discretion and wisdom, and with what perfection nature hath endued you, and Art, having accomplished that in you, which nature did begin to work, as one bred and brought up in the royal Court of the second Alphonse, of Ferdinando and Federick of Arragon my cousins, I will make no doubt at all to manifest to you the hidden secrets of my heart, being well persuaded that, when you shall both hear and 〈◊〉 my reasons, and taste that light which I bring for the for me, easily you may 〈◊〉 that mine 〈◊〉 cannot be other, than just and reasonable. But if your conceits shall stray from that which I shall speak, & deem not good of that which I determine, I shall be forced to think & say that they which esteem you wise & sage, and to be a man of good and ready 〈◊〉, be marvelously deceived. Notwithstanding my heart foretelleth that it is impossible for master Bologna, to wander so far from equity, but that by and by he will enter the lists, & discern the white from black, and the wrong from that which is just and right. For so much as hitherto I never saw thing done by you, which preposterated or perverted the good judgement that all the world esteemeth to shine in you, the same well manifested & declared by your tongue, the right judge of the mind: you know and see how I am a widow through the death of that noble Gentleman of good remembrance, the Duke my Lord & husband: you be not ignorant also, that I have lived and governed myself in such wise in my widow state, as there is no man so hard and severe of judgement, that can blazon reproach of me in that which appertaineth to the honesty & reputation of such a Lady as I am, bearing my port so right, as my conscience yieldeth no remorse, supposing that no man hath where with to bite & accuse me. Louching the order of the goods of the Duke my son, I have used them with such diligence and discretion, as besides the debts which I have discharged sithence the death of my Lord, I have purchased a goodly Manor in Calabria, and have annexed the same to the Dukedom of his heir: and at this day do not owe one penny to any creditor that lent money to the Duke, which he took up to furnish the charges in the wars, which he sustained in the service of the Kings our sovereign Lords in the late wars for the kingdom of Naples. I have as I suppose by this means stopped the slanderous mouth, and given cause unto my son, during his life to account himself bound unto his mother. Now having till this time lived for other, and made myself subject more than Nature could bear, I am intended to change both my life and condition. I have till this time run, travailed, & removed to the Castles & Lordships of the Dukedom, to Naples and other places, being in mind to tarry as I am a widow. But what? new affairs and new council hath possessed my mind. I have travailed and pained myself enough, I have too long abidden a widows life, I am determined therefore to provide a husband, who by loving me, shall honour & cherish me, according to the love which I shall bear to him, & my desert. For to love a man without marriage, God defend my heart should ever think, & shall rather die a hundred thousand deaths, than a desire so wicked shald soil my conscience, knowing well that a woman which setteth her honour to sale, is less than nothing, & deserveth not that the common air should breath upon her, for all the reverence that men do bear or make them. I accuse no person, albeit that many noble women have their forheds marked, with the blame of dishonest life, & being honoured of some, be nevertheless the common fable of the people. To the intent then that such mishap hap not to me, & perceiving myself unable still thus to live, being young as I am, & (God be thanked) neither deformed nor yet painted, I had rather be the loving wife of a simple fear, than that Concubine of a king or great Prince. And what? is the mighty Monarch able to wash away the fault of his wife which hath abandoned him contrary to that duty & honest which the undefiled bed requireth? no les than Princesses that whilom trespassed with those which were of base stuff than themselves. Messalina with her imperial rob could not so well cover her faults, but that the Historians do defame her with that name & title of a common woman. Faustina the wife of that sage Monarch Marcus Aurelius, gained like report by rendering herself to others pleasure, besides her lawful spouse. To marry myself to one that is mine equal, it is impossible, for so much as there is no Lord in all this Country meet for my degree, but is to old of age, that rest being dead in these later wars. To marry a husband that yet is but a child, is folly extreme, for the inconveniences which daily chance thereby, & the evil entreaty that Ladies do receive when they come to age, & their nature wax cold, by reason whereof, embracements be not so favourable, & their husbands glutted with ordinary meat use to run in exchange. Wherefore I am resolved without respite or delay, to choose some well qualitied and renowned Gentleman, that hath more virtue than richesse, of good Fame and brute, to the intent I may make him my Lord, espouse, and husband. For I cannot employ my love upon treasure, which may be taken away, where richesses of the mind do fail, and shall be better content to see an honest Gentleman with little revenue to be praised and commended of every man for his good deeds, than a rich carl cursed and detested of all the world. Thus much I say, and it is the sum of all my secrets, wherein I pray your Council and advise. I know that some will be offended with my choice, & the Lords my brothers, specially the Cardinal will think it strange, and receive the same with ill digesture, that much a do shall I have to be agreed with them and to remove the grief which they shall conceive against me for this mine enterprise: wherefore I would the same should secretly be kept, until without peril and danger either of myself or of him, whom I pretend to marry, I may publish and manifest, not my love but the marriage which I hope in God shall soon be consummate and accomplished with one, whom I do love better than myself, and who as I full well do know, doth love me better than his own proper life. Master Bologna, which till then hearkened to the Dration of the Duchess without moving, feeling himself touched so near, and hearing that his Lady had made her approach for marriage, stood still astoned, his tongue not able to frame one word, only fantasied a thousand 〈◊〉 in the air, and form like numbered of imaginations in his mind, not able to conjecture what he was, to whom the Duchess had vowed her love, & the possession of her beauty. He could not think that this joy was prepared for himself for that his Lady spoke no word of him, and he less durst open his mouth, and yet was well assured that she loved him beyond measure. Not withstanding knowing the fickleness and unstable heart of women, he said unto himself that she would change her mind, for seeing him to be so great a Coward, as not to offer his service to a Lady by whom he saw himself so many times both want only looked upon, & entertained with some secrecy more than familiar. The Duchess which was a fine and subtle dame, seeing her friend rapt with the passion, and standing still unmovable through fear, pale & amazed, as if he had been accused and condemned to die, knew by that countenance & astonishment of Bologna, that she was perfectly beloved of him: and so meaning not to suffer him any longer to continue in that amaze, ne yet to further fear him, with her dissembled and feigned marriage of any other but with him, she took him by the hand, and beholding him with a wanton and luring eye, (in such sort as the curious Philosophers themselves would awake, if such a Lamp and torch did shine within their studies,) she said thus unto him: Seignor Anthonio, I pray you be of good cheer, & torment not yourself for any thing that I have said: I know well, and of long time have perceived what good and faithful love you bear me, & with what affection you have served me, sithence first you used my company. Think me not to be so ignorant, but that I know full well by outward signs, what secrets be hid in the inner heart: and that conjectures many times do give me true and certain knowledge of concealed things. And am not so foolish to think you to be so undiscrete, but that you have marked my countenance & manner, and thereby have known that I have been more affectioned to you, than to any other. For that cause (said she, straining him by the hand very lovingly, & with cheerful colour in her face) I swear unto you, & do promise that if you so think meet, it shall be none other but yourself whom I will have, & desire to take to husband and lawful spouse, assuring myself so much of you, as the love which so long time hath been hidden & covered in our hearts, shall appear by so evident proof, as only death shall end & undo the same. The gentleman hearing such sudden talk, & the assurance of that which he most wished for, albeit he saw that danger extreme whereunto he launched himself by espousing this great Lady, & the enemies he should get by entering such alliance: notwithstanding building upon vain hope, and thinking at length that the choler of the Arragon brother would pass away if they understood that marriage, determined to pursue that purpose, & not to refuse that great preferment, being so prodigally offered, for which cause he answered his Lady in this manner. If it were in my power madame, to bring to pass that, which I desire for your service by acknowledging of the benefits & favours which you depart unto me, as my mind presenteth thanks for the same, I would think myself the happiest Gentleman that liveth, & you the best served Princess of the world. For one better beloved (I dare presume to say, and so long as I live will affirm) is not to be found. If till this time I delayed to open that which now I discover unto you, I beseech you Madam to impute it to the greatness of your estate, and to the duty of my calling & office in your house, being not seemly for a servant to talk of such secrets with his Lady and mistress. And truly that pain which I have endured to hold my peace, and to hide my grief, hath been more noisome to me than one hundred thousand like sorrows together, although it had been lawful to have revealed them to some trusty friend: I do not deny madame, but of long time you did perceive my folly and presumption, by addressing my mind so high, as to the Arragon blood, and to such a Princess as you be. And who can beguile the eye of a Lover, specially of her, whose Paragon for good mind, wisdom & gentleness is not? And I confess to you besides, that I have most evidently perceived how certain love hath lodged in your gracious heart, wherewith you bore me greater affection, than you did to any other within the compass of your family. But what? Great Ladies hearts be fraught with secrets & conceits of other effects, than the minds of simple women, which caused me to hope for none other guerdon of my loyal & faithful affection, than death, & the same very short, Sith that little hope accompanied with great, nay rather extreme passion, is not able to give sufficient force, both to suffer & to establish my heart with constancy. Now for so much as of your motion, grace, courtesy & liberality the same is offered, & that it pleaseth you to accept me for yours, I humbly beseech you to dispose of me not as husband, but of one which is, & shallbe your servant for ever, & such as is more ready to obey, than you to command. It resteth now Madam, to consider how, & in what wise our affairs are to be directed, that things being in assurance, you may so live without peril and brute of slanderous tongues, as your good fame & honest port may continue without spot or blemish.  
Behold the first Act of the Tragedy, and the provision of the fare which afterwards sent them both to their grave, who immediately gave their mutual faith: and the hour was assigned the next day, that the fair Princess should be in her chamber alone, attended upon with one only Gentlewoman which had been brought up with the Duchess from her cradle, & was made privy to the heavy marriage of those two lovers which was consummate in her presence. And for the present time they passed that same in words, for ratification whereof they went to bed together. But that pain in the end was greater than the pleasure, and had been better for them both, yea and also for the third, that they had showed themselves so wise in the deed, as discrete in keeping silence of that which was done. For albeit their marriage was secret, and thereby politicly governed themselves in their stelthes and robberies of love, and that Bologna more oft held the state of the steward of the house by day, than of Lord of the same, and by night supplied that place, yet in the end, the thing was perceived which they desired to be closely kept. And as it is impossible to till and culture a fertile ground, but that the same must yield some fruit, even so the Duchess after many pleasures (being ripe and plentiful) became with child, which at the first astonned the married couple: nevertheless the same so well was provided for, as the first childbedde was kept secret, and 〈◊〉 did know thereof. The child was nursed in the town, and the father desired to have him named Federick, for remembrance of the parents of his wife. Now fortune which lieth in daily wait and ambushment, & liketh not that men should long loiter in pleasure and pastime, being envious of such prosperity, cramped so the legs of our two lovers, as they must needs change their game, and learn some other practice: for so much as the Duchess being great with child again, and delivered of a girl, the business of the same was not so secretly done, but that it was discovered. And it sufficed not that the brute was noised through Naples, but that the sound flew further off. As each man doth know that rumour hath many mouths, who with the multitude of his tongues and Trumpets, proclaimeth in divers and sundry places, the things which chance in all the regions of the earth. Even so that babbling fool, carried the news of that second childbed to the ears of the Cardinal of Arragon the Duchess brother, being then at Rome. Think what joy and pleasure the Arragon brothers had, by hearing the report of their sister's fact. I dare presume to say, that albeit they were extremely wroth with this happened 〈◊〉, & with that dishonest fame which that Duchess had gotten throughout Italy, yet far greater was their sorrow & grief, for that they did not know what he was, that so courteously was allied to their house, and in their love had increased their ligneage. And therefore swelling with despite, & rapt with fury to see themselves so defamed by one of their blood, they purposed by all means whatsoever it cost them, to know the lucky lover that had so well tilled the Duchess their sister's field. Thus desirous to remove that shame from before their eyes, and to be revenged of a wrong so notable, they sent espial round about, and scouts to Naples, to view and spy the behaviour & talk of the Duchess, to settle some certain judgement of him, which stealingly was become their brother in law. The Duchess Court being in this trouble, she did continually perceive in her house, her brother's men to mark her countenance, and to note those that came thither to visit her, & to whom she used greatest familiarity, because it is impossible but that the fire, although it be raked under the ashes, must give some heat. And albeit the two lovers used each others company, without showing any sign of their affection, yet they purposed to change their estate for a time, by yielding truce to their pleasures. Yea, & although Bologna was a wise and provident parsonage, fearing to be surprised upon the fact, or that the Gentlewoman of the Chamber corrupted with Money, or forced by fear, should pronounce any matter to his hindrance or disadvantage, determined to absent himself from Naples, yet not so suddenly but that he made the Duchess his faithful Lady & companion privy of his intent. And as they were secretly in their chamber together, he used these or such like words: Madam, albeit the right good intent and unstained conscience, is free from fault, yet the judgement of men hath further relation to that exterior appearance, than to virtues force and innocency itself, as ignorant of the secrets of the thought: and so in things that be well done, we must of necessity fall into the sentence of those, whom beastly affection ravisheth more, than ruled reason. You see the solemn watch and guard which the servants of the Lords your brothers do within your house, & the suspicion which they have conceived by reason of your second childbed, & by what means they labour truly to know how your affairs proceed, and things do pass. I fear not death where your service may be advanced, but if herein the maiden of your chamber be not secret, if she be corrupted, and if she keep not close that which she ought to do, it is not ignorant to you that it is the loss of my life, and shall die suspected to be a whoremonger & varlet, even I, (I say) shall incur that peril, which am your true and lawful husband. This separation chanceth not by justice or desert, sith the cause is too righteous for us: but rather your brethren will procure my death, when I shall think the same in greatest assurance. If I had to do but with one or two, I would not change the place, ne march one step from Naples, but be assured, that a great band, and the same well armed will set upon me. I pray you madame suffer me to retire for a time, for I am assured that when I am absent, they will never soil their hands, or imbrue their, swords in your blood. If I doubted any thing at all of, peril touching your own person, I had rather a hundred hundred times die in your company, than live to see you no more. But out of doubt I am, that if the things were discovered, & they knew you to be begotten with child by me, you should be safe, where I should sustain the penance of that fact, committed without fault or sin. And therefore I am determined to go from Naples, to order mine affairs, and to cause my Revenue to be brought to the place of mine abode, and from thence to Ancona, until it pleaseth God to mitigate the rage of your brethren, and recover their good wills to consent to our marriage. But I mean not to do or conclude any thing without your advise. And if this intent do not like you, give me council Madam, what I were best to do, that both in life and death you may know your faithful servant and loving husband is ready to obey and please you.  
This good Lady hearing her husband's discourse, uncertain what to do, wept bitterly, as well for grief to lose his presence, as for that she felt herself with child the third time. The sighs and tears, the sobs and heavy looks, which she threw forth upon her sorrowful husband, gave sufficient witness of her pain and grief. And if none had heard her, I think her plaints would have well expressed her inward smart of mind. But like a wise Lady, seeing the alleged reasons of her husband, licenced him, although against her mind, not without utterance of these few words, before he went out of her Chamber: Dear husband, if I were so well assured of the affection of my brethren, as I am of my maids fidelity, I would entreat you not to leave me alone: specially in the case I am, being with child. But knowing that to be just & true which you have said, I am content to force my will for a certain time, that hereafter we may live at rest together, joining ourselves in the company of our children and family, void of those troubles, which great Courts ordinarily bear within the compass of their Palaces. Of one thing I must entreat you, that so often as you can by trusty messenger, you send me word & intelligence of your health and state, because the same shall bring unto me greater pleasure & contentation, than the welfare of mine own: and because also, upon such occurrentes as shall chance, I may provide for mine own affairs, the surety of myself, and of our children. In saying so, she embraced him very amorously, and he kissed her with so great sorrow and grief of heart, as the soul thought in that ecstasy out of his body to take her flight, sorrowful beyond measure so to leave her whom he loved, for the great courtesies and honour which he had received at her hands. In the end, fearing that the Arragon espials would come and perceive them in those privities, Bologna took his leave, and bad his Lady and spouse Farewell.  
And thus was the second Act of this Tragical History, to see a fugitife husband secretly to marry, especially her, upon whom he ought not so much as to look but with fear and reverence. Behold here (O ye foolish lovers) a Glass of your lightness, and ye women, the course of your fond behaviour. It behoveth not the wise suddenly to execute their first motions and desires of their heart, for so much as they may be assured that pleasure is pursued so near with a repentance so sharp to be suffered, and hard to be digested, as their voluptuausnesse shall utterly discontent them. True it is, that marriages be done in Heaven, and performed in earth, but that saying may not be applied to fools, which govern themselves by carnal desires, whose scope is but pleasure, & the reward many times equal to their folly. Shall I be of opinion that a household servant ought to solicit, nay rather suborn the daughter of his Lord without punishment, or that a vile and abject person dare to mount upon a Prince's bed? No no, policy requireth order in all, and each wight ought to be matched according to their quality, without making a pastime of it to cover our follies, & know not of what force love and destiny be, except the same be resisted. A goodly thing it is to love, but where reason loseth his place, love is without his effect, and the sequel rage & madness. Leave we that discourse of those which believe that they be constrained to follow the force of their mind, and may easily subdue themselves to the laws of virtue and honesty, like one that thrusteth his head into a sack, and thinks he can not get out, such people do please themselves in their loss, and think all well that is noisome to their health, daily following their contrary. Come we again then to sir Bologna, who after he had left his wife in her Castle, went to Naples, and having sessed a rent upon his lands, and levied a good sum of money, he repaired to Ancona, a City of the patrimony of the Roman Church, whither he carried his two children, which he had of the Duchess, causing the same to be brought up with such diligence and care, as is to be thought a father well affectioned to his wife would do, and who delighted to see a branch of the tree, that to him was the best beloved fruit of the world. There he hired a house for his train, and for those that waited upon his wife, who in the mean time was in great care, & could not tell of what wood to make her arrows, perceiving that her belly began to 〈◊〉 and grow to the time of her delivery, seeing that from day to day, her brother's servants were at her back, 〈◊〉 of council and advise, if one evening she had not spoken to the Gentlewoman of her chamber, touching the doubts and peril wherein she was, not knowing how she might be delivered from the same. That maiden was gentle & of a good mind and stomach, and loved her mistress very dearly, & seeing her so amazed and tormenting herself to death, minding to fray her no further, ne to reprove her of her fault, which could not be amended, but rather to provide for the danger whereunto she had headlong cast herself, gave her this advise: How now Madam (said she,) is that wisdom which from your childhood hath been so familiar in you, dislodged from your breast in time, when it ought chief to rest for encountering of those mishaps that are coming upon us? Think you to avoid the dangers, by thus tormenting yourself, except you set your hands to the work, thereby to give the repulse to adverse fortune? I have heard you many times speak of the constancy & force of mind, which ought to shine in the deeds of Princesses, more clearly than amongs those dames of base house, & which ought to make them appear like the sun amid that little stars. And yet I see you now astoned, as though you had never foreseen, that adversity chanceth so well to catch the great within his clutches, as that base & simple sort. Is it but now, that you have called to remembrance, that which might ensue your marriage with sir Bologna? Did his only presence assure you against the waits of fortune, & was it the thought of pains, fears & frights, which now turmoileth your dolorous mind? Ought you thus to vex yourself, when need it is to think how to save both your honour, and the fruit within your 〈◊〉? If your sorrow be so great over sir Bologna, and if you fear your childbed will be descried, why seek you not means to attempt some voyage, for covering of the sad, to 〈◊〉 the eyes of them which so diligently do watch you? Doth your heart fail you in that matter? Whereof do you dream? Why sweat and fret you before you make me answer? Ah sweet heart (answered the Duchess,) if thou feltest the pain which I do suffer, thy tongue would not be so much at will, as thou showest it now to be for reproof of my small constancy, I do sorrow specially for that causes which thou allegest, and above all, for that I know well, that if my brethren had never so little intelligence of my being with child, I were undone & my life at an end, and peradventure poor wench, thou shouldest bear the penance for my sin. But what way can I take, that still these candles may not give light, and I may be voided of the train which ought to wait upon my brethren? I think if I should descend into Hell, they would know, whither any shadow there were in love with me. Now guess if I should travail the Realm, or retire to any other place, whither they would leave me at peace? Nothing less, sith they would suddenly suspect, that the cause of my departure proceeded of desire to live at liberty, to dally with him, whom they suspect to be other than my lawful husband. And it may be as they be wicked and suspicious, and will doubt of my greatness, so shall I be far more infortunate by traveling, than here in misery amid mine anguish: and you the rest that be keepers of my Council, shall fall into greater danger, upon whom no doubt they will be revenged, and flesh themselves for your unhappy waiting and attendance upon us. Madam said the bold maiden, be not afraid, and follow mine advise, For I hope that it shall be the means both to see your spouse, & to rid those troublesome varlets out of your house, & in like manner safely to deliver you into good assurance. Say your mind said the Lady, for it may be, that I will govern myself according to the same. Mine advise is then, said that Gentlewoman, to let your household understand, that you have made a vow to visit the holy Temple of our Lady of Loretto, (a famous place of Pilgrimage in Italy) and that you command your train to make themselves ready to wait upon you for accomplishment of your devotion, & from thence you shall take your journey to sojourn at Ancona, whither before you depart, you shall send your movables and plate, with such money as you shall think necessary. And afterwards God will perform the rest, and through his holy mercy will guide & direct all your affairs. The Duchess hearing the maiden speak those words, and amazed of her sudden invention, could not forbear to embrace and kiss her, blessing the hour wherein she was borne, and that ever she chanced into her company, to whom afterwards she said. My wench, I had well determined to give over mine estate and noble port, joyfully to live like a simple Gentlewoman with my dear and well-beloved husband, but I could not devise how I should conveniently depart this Country without suspicion of some folly: and sith that thou hast so well instructed me for bringing that same to pass, I promise thee that so diligently thy council shall be performed, as I see the same to be right good and necessary. For rather had I see my husband, being alone without title of Duchess or great Lady, than to live without him beautified with the graces and foolish names of honour and pre-eminence. This devised 〈◊〉 was no sooner grounded, but she gave such order for execution of the same, & brought it to pass with such 〈◊〉, as that Lady in less than. viii. days had conveyed and sent the most part of her movables, and specially the chiefest and best to Ancona, taking in that mean time her way towards Loretto after she had bruited her solemn vow made for that Pilgrimage. It was not sufficient for this foolish woman to take a husband, more to glut her libidinous appetite, than for other occasion, except she added to her sin, an other execrable impiety, making holy places and duties of devotion, to be as it were the ministers of her folly. But let us consider the force of lovers rage, which so soon as it hath seized upon the minds of men, we see how maruelious be the effects thereof, and with what straint and puissance that madness subdueth the wise and strongest worldlings. Who would think that a great Lady would have abandoned her estate, her goods and child, would have misprised her honour and reputation, to follow like a vagabond, a poor and simple Gentleman, and him besides that was the household servant of her Court? And yet you see this great and mighty Duchess troth & run after the male, like a female Wolf or Lioness (when they go to salt,) and forget the Noble blood of Arragon whereof she was descended, to couple herself almost with the simplest person of all the trimmest Gentlemen of Naples. But turn we not the example of follies, to be a matter of consequence: for if one or two become bankrupt of their honour, it followeth not good Ladies, that their fact should serve for a match to your deserts, & much less a patron for you to follow. These Histories be not written to train and trap you, to pursue the thousand thousand slippery sleights of loves gallantise, but rather carefully to warn you to behold the semblable faults, and to serve for a drug to discharge the poison which gnaweth and fretteth the integrity and soundness of the soul. The wise & skilful Apothecary or compositor of drugs, dresseth vipers flesh to purge the patiented from hot corrupted blood, which conceiveth and engendereth Leprosy within his body. In like manner, the fond love, & wicked ribaldry of Semiramis, Pasiphae, 〈◊〉, Faustina, and Romida is showed in wryt, that every of you should fear to be numbered and recorded amongs such common and dishonourable women. You Princes and great Lords read the follies of Paris, the adulteries of Hercules, the dainty and effeminate life of Sardanapalus, the tyranny of Phalaris Busiris, or Dionysius of Scicile, and see the History of Tiberius, Nero Caligula, Domitian and Heliogabalus, & spare not to numbered them amongs our 〈◊〉 youths which soil themselves with such villainies more filthily than the swine do in the dirt. All this intendeth it an instruction for your youth to follow the infection and whoredom of those 〈◊〉 Better it were all those books were drenched in bottomless depth of seas, than christian life by their means should be corrupted: but the example of that wicked is induced for to eschew & avoid them as that life of the good & honest is remembered to frame & address our behaviour in this world to be praise worthy & commended. Otherwise the holiness of sacred 〈◊〉 should 〈◊〉 for an argument to the unthrifty & luxurious to confirm & approve their heastly & licentious wickedness. Come we again them to our purpose: the good Pilgrim of Loretto went forth her voyage to achieve her devotions, & to visit the Saint for whose Relics she was departed that Country of that Duke her son. When she had done her suffrages at 〈◊〉, her people thought that the voyage was at an end, & that she would have returned again into her Country. But she said unto them: that sith she was so near 〈◊〉, being but. xv. miles off, she would not return before she had seen that ancient & goodly city, which divers Histories do greatly recommend, as well for the antiquity, as for the pleasant 〈◊〉 thereof. All were of her advise, & went to see that antiquities of Ancona, & she to renew the pleasures which she had before begun with her Bologna, who was advertised of all her determination, resting now like a God, possessed with the jewels & richesses of the Duchess, & had taken a fair palace in the great street of the City, by that gate whereof the train of his Lady must pass. The Harbinger of the Duchess posted before to take up lodging for the train: but Bologna offered unto him his Palace for the Lady. So Bologna which was already well-beloved in Ancona, and entered new amity and great acquaintance with the Gentlemen of the City, with a goodly troop of them, went forth to 〈◊〉 his wife, to whom he 〈◊〉 his house, and besought her that she and her train would vouchsafe to lodge with him. She received the same very thankfully, and withdrew herself unto his house, who conducted 〈◊〉 thither, not as a Husband, but like him that was her humble and affectionate servant. But what needeth much discourse of words? The Duchess knowing that it was impossible but each man must be 〈◊〉 to her fact, and know what secrets hath passed between her and her Husband, to the end that no other opinion of her Childbed should be conceived, but that which was good and honest, and done since the accomplishment of the marriage, the morrow after her arrival to Ancona, assembled all her train in the Hall, of purpose no longer to keep secret that sir Bologna was her Husband, and that already she had had two Children by him, and again was great with child. And when they were come together after dinner, in that presence of her husband, she spoke unto them these 〈◊〉: Gentlemen, and all ye my trusty and loving servants, high time it is to manifest to every of you, the thing which hath been done before the face, and in the presence of him who knoweth the most obscure & hidden secrets of our thoughts. And needful it is not to keep silent that which is neither evil done ne hurtful to aný person. If things could be kept secret and still remain unknown, except they were declared by the doers of them, yet would not I commit the wrong in concealing that, which to discover unto you doth greatly delight me, and delivereth my mind 〈◊〉 exceeding grief, in such wise as if that flames of my desire could break out with such violence, as the fire hath taken heat within my mind, ye should see the smoke mount up with greater smoulder than that which the mount Gibel doth vomit forth at certain seasons of the year. And to the intent I may not keep you long in this suspect, this secret fire within my heart, and that which I will cause to flame in open air, is a certain opinion which I conceive for a marriage by me made certain years past, at what time I chose and wedded a husband to my fantasy and liking, desirous no longer to live in widow state, and unwilling to do the thing that should 〈◊〉 & hurt my conscience. The same is done, and yet in one thing I have offended, which is by long keeping secret the performed marriage: for the wicked brute dispersed through the realm by reason of my childbed, one year past, hath displeased some, howbeit my conscience 〈◊〉 comfort, for that the same is free from fault or blot. Now know ye therefore what he is, whom I acknowledge for my Lord and spouse, and who it is that lawfully hath me espoused in the presence of this Gentle woman whom you see, which is the witness of our Nuptials & accord of marriage. This gentleman here present Antonio Bologna, is he to whom I have sworn and given my faith, and he again to me hath engaged his own. He it is whom I account for my spouse and husband, (& with whom henceforth) I mean to rest and continue. In consideration whereof, if there be any here amongs you all, that shall mislike of my choice, & is willing to wait upon my son the Duke, I mean not to let them of their intent, praying them faithfully to serve him and to be careful of his person, and to be unto him so honest and loyal, as they have been to me so long as I was their mistress. But if any of you desire still to make your abode with me, and to be partakers of my wealth and woe, I will so entertain him, as he shall have good cause to be contented, if not, depart ye hence to Malfi, and the steward shall provide for either of you according to your degree: for touching myself I do mind no more to be termed an infamous Duchess: rather had I be honoured with the title of a simple Gentle woman, or with that estate which she can have that hath an honest husband, and with whom she holdeth faithful and loyal company, than reverenced with the glory of a Princess, subject to the despite of slanderous tongues. Ye know (said she to Bologna) what hath passed between us, and God is the witness of the integrity of my Conscience, wherefore I pray you bring forth our children, that each man may behold the fruits raised of our alliance. Having spoken those words, and the children brought forth into the hall, all the company stood still so astoned with that new success and tale, as though horns suddenly had started forth their heads, and rested unmovable and amazed, like the great marble pillar of Rome called Pasquile, for so much as they never thought, ne conjectured that Bologna was the successor of the Duke of Malfi in his marriage bed.  
This was the preparative of the Catastrophe & bloody end of this Tragedy. For of all the Duchess servants, there was not one that was willing to continue with their ancient mistress, who with the faithful maiden of her chamber remained at Ancona, enjoying the joyful embracements of her husband, in all such pleasure & delights as they do, which having lived in fear, be set at liberty, & out of all suspicion, plunged in a sea of joy, & fleeting in the quiet calm of all passetime, where Bologna had none other care, but how to please his best beloved, & she studied nothing else but how to love and obey him, as the wife ought to do her husband. But this fair weather lasted not long, for although that joys of men do not long endure, and waste in little time, yet delights of lovers be less firm & steadfast, & pass away almost in one moment of an hour. Now the servants of the Duchess which were retired, and durst tarry no longer with her, fearing the fury of the Cardinal of Arragon brother to the Lady, the very day they departed from Ancona, devised amongs themselves that one of them should ride in post to Rome, to advertise the Cardinal of the Lady's marriage, to the intent that the Arragon brethren should conceive no cause to accuse them of felony & treason. That determination speedily was accomplished, one posting towards Rome, and the rest galloping to the Country and Castles of the Duke. These news reported to the Cardinal & his brother, it may be considered how grievously they took that same, & for that they were not able to digest them with 〈◊〉, the youngest of the brethren, yelled forth a thousand curses & despites, against the simple sere of womankind. Ha said that Prince (transported with choler, & driven in to deadly fury,) what law is able to punish or restrain the foolish indiscretion of a woman, that yieldeth herself to her own desires? What shame is able to bridle & withdraw her from her mind & madness? Or with what sear is it possible to snaffle them from execution of their 〈◊〉? There is no beast be he never so wild, but man sometime may tame, and bring to his lure and order. The force and diligence of man is able to make mild the strong and proud, and to overtake the swiftest beast and foul, or otherwise to attain the highest and deepest thing of the world: but this incarnate devilish beast the woman, no force can surmount her, no swiftness can approach her mobility, no good mind can prevent her sleights and deceits, they seem to be procreated and borne against all order of nature, and to live without law, which governeth all other things endued with some reason and understanding. But what a great abomination is this, that a Gentlewoman of such a house as ours is, hath forgotten her estate, and the greatness of her alliance, besides the nobility of her deceased husband, with the hope of the toward youth of the Duke her son and our Nephew. Ah false and vile bitch, I swear by the almighty God and by his blessed wounds, that if I can catch thee, and that wicked knave thy chosen mate, I will pipe ye both such a galiarde, as ye never felt the like joy and mirth. I will make ye dance such a bloody bargenet, as your whorish heat for ever shall be cooled. What abuse have they committed under title of marriage, which was so secretly done, as their Children do witness their filthy: embracements, but their promise of faith was made in open air, and serveth for a cloak and visard for their most filthy whoredoine. And what if marriage was concluded, be we of so little respect, as the carrion beast would not vouchsafe to 〈◊〉 us of her intent? Or is Bologna a man worthy to be allied or mingled with the royal blood of Arragon and Castille? No no, be he never so good a Gentleman, his race agreeth not with kingly state. But I make to God a view, that never will I take one sound and restful sleep, until I have dispatched that infamous fact from our blood, and that the caitiff whoremonger be used according to his desert. The Cardinal also was on't of quiet, grinding his teeth together, chattering forth Jack an Apes Pater noster, promising no better usage to their Bologna than his younger brother did. And the better to entrap them both (without further stir for that time) they sent to that Lord Gismondo Gonsago the Cardinal of Mantua then Legate for Pope julius the second at Ancona, at whose hands they enjoyed such friendship, as Bologna and all his family were commanded speedily to avoid the City. But for all the the Legate was able to do, of long time he could not prevail. Bologna had so great intelligence within Ancona. Nevertheless whiles he differed his departure, 〈◊〉 caused the most part of his train, his children & goods to be conveyed to Sienna, an ancient City of Thoscane, which for the state and liberties, had long time been at wars with the Florentines, in such wise as the very same day that news came to Bologna that he should depart the City within. xv. days, he was ready, and mounted on horseback to take his flight to Sienna, which broke for sorrow the hearts of the Arragon brethren, seeing that they were deceived and frustrate of their intent, because they purposed by the way to apprehend Bologna, and to cut him in pieces. But what? the time of his hard luck was not yet expired, and so the march from Ancona, served not for the Theatre of those two infortunate lovers overthrow, who certain months lived in peace in Thoscane. The Cardinal night nor day did sleep, and his brother still did wait to perform his oath of revenge. And seeing their enemy out of fear, they dispatched a post to Alfonso Castruccio, the Cardinal of Sienna, that he might entreat the Lord Borgliese, chief of the signory there, that their sister and Bologna should be banished the Country and limits of that City, which with small suit was brought to pass. These two infortunate, husband and wife, were chased from all places, and so unlucky as whilom Acasta was, or Oedipus, after his father's death and incestuous marriage with his mother, uncertain to what Saint to vow themselves, and to what place to take their flight. In the end they determined to go to Venice, and to take their flight to Ramagua, there to embark themselves for to retire to the safeguard of the City, environed with the sea Adriaticum, the richest in Europa. But the poor souls made their reckoning there without their host, failing half the price of their banquet. For being upon the territory of Forly, one of the train a far off, did see a troop of horsenien galloping towards their company, which by their countenance showed no sign of peace or amity at all, which made them consider that it was some ambush of their enemies. The 〈◊〉 Gentleman seeing the onset bending upon them, begun to fear death, not for that he cared at all for his mishap and ruin, but his heart began to cleave for heaviness to see his wife and little children ready to be murdered, and serve for the passetime of the Arragon brethren's eyes, for whose sakes he knew himself already predestinate to die, and that for despite of him, and to accelerate his death by the overthrow of his, he was assured that they would kill his children before his face & 〈◊〉. But what is there to be done, where counsel & means to escape do fail? Full of tears therefore, astonishment & fear, he expected death so cruel as man could devise, & was already determined to suffer the same 〈◊〉 good courage, for any thing that the Duchess could say 〈◊〉 him. He might well have saved himself & his eldest son by flight, being both well mounted upon two good Turkey horses, which ran so fast, as that quarrel discharged forth of a croshow. But he loved too much his wife & children, and would keep them company both in life and death. In the end the good Lady said unto him: or for all the joys & pleasures which you can do me, for God's sake save yourself & the little infant next you, who can well endure the galloping of the horse. For sure I am, that you being out of our company, we shall not need to fear any hurt. But if you do tarry, you will be the cause of the ruin and overthrow of us all, & receive thereby no profit or advantage: take this purse therefore, & save yourself, attending better Fortune in time to come. The poor gentleman Bologna knowing that his wife had pronounced reason, & perceiving that it was impossible from that time forth that she or her train could escape their hands, taking leave of her, & kissing his children not forgetting the money which she offered unto him, willed his servants to save themselves by such means as they thought best. So giving spurs unto his horse, he began to flee amain, and his eldest son seeing his father gone, began to follow in like sort. And so for that time they two were saved by breaking of the intended ill luck like to light upon them. And in a place to rescue himself at Venice, he turned another way, & in great journeys arrived at Milan. In the mean time the horsemen were approached 〈◊〉 the Duchess, who seeing that Bologna had saved himself, very courteously began to speak unto the Lady, were it that the Aragou brethren had given them that charge, or feared that the Lady would trouble them with her importunate cries & lamentations. One therefore amongs them said unto her: Madam, we be commanded by the Lords your brethren, to conduct you home unto your house, that you may receive again the 〈◊〉 of the Duchy, and the order of the Duke your son, & do marvel very much at your folly, for giving yourself thus to wander the Country after a man of so small reputation as Bologna is, who when he hath glutted his lusting lecherous mind with the comeliness of your Noble parsonage, will despoil you of your goods & honour, and then take his legs into some strange country. The simple Lady, albeit grievous it was unto her to hear such speech of her husband, yet held her peace and dissembled what she thought, glad and well contented with the courtesy done unto her, fearing before that they came to kill. her, and thought herself already discharged, hoping upon their courteous dealings, that she and her Children from that time forth should live in good assurance. But she was greatly deceived, and knew within short space after, the good will her brethren bare unto her. For so soon as these gallants had conducted her into the kingdom of Naples, to one of the Castles of her son, she was committed to prison with her children, and she also that was the secretary of her infortunate marriage. Till this time Fortune was contented to proceed with indifferent quiet 〈◊〉 those Lovers, but benceforth ye shall hear the issue of their little prosperous love, and how pleasure having blinded them, never forsook them until it 〈◊〉 given them the 〈◊〉. It booteth not here to recite fables or histories, contiting myself that ladies do read without too many weeping tears, the pitiful end of that miserable princess, who seeing herself a prisoner in the company of her little children and well-beloved Maiden, patiently lived in hope to see her brethren appeased, comforting herself for the escape of her husband out of that hands of his mortal foes. But her assurance was changed into an horrible fear, & her hope to no expectation of surety, when certain days after her 〈◊〉, her Gaoler came in, and said unto her: Madam I do advise you henceforth to consider upon your conscience, for so much as I suppose that even this very day your life shall be taken from you. I leave for you to think what horror and trance assailed the feeble heart of this poor Lady, and with what ears she received those cruel news, but her cries and moans together with her sighs and lamentations, declared with what cheer she received that advertisement. Alas (said she) is it possible that my brethren should so far forget themselves, as for a fact nothing prejudicial unto them, cruelly to put to death their innocent sister, and to imbrue the memory of their fact, in the blood of one which never did offend them? Must I against all right and equity be put to death before the Judge or Magistrate have made trial of my life, & known the unright eousnesse of my cause? Ah God most righteous, and bountiful father, behold the malice of my brethren, and the tyrannous cruelty of those which wrongfully do seek my blood. Is it a sin to marry? Is it a fault to fly and avoid the sin of whoredom? What laws be these, where marriage bed and joined matrimony is pursued with like severity, as murder, theft and adultery? And what Christianity in a Cardinal, to shed that blood which he ought to 〈◊〉? What profession is this, to assail the innocent by the high way side, in place to punish thieves and murderers? O Lord God thou art just, & dost all things right cously, I see well that I have trespassed against thy Majesty in some other notorious crime than by marriage: I most humbly therefore beseech thee to have compassion upon me, and to pardon mine 〈◊〉, accepting the confession and repentance of me thine 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 for satisfaction of my sins, which it pleased thee to wash away in the precious blood of thy son our Saviour, that being so purified, I might appear at the holy banquet in thy glorious kingdom. When she had thus 〈◊〉 her prayer, two or three of the ministers which had taken her 〈◊〉 Forly, came in, and said unto her: Now Madam make ready yourself to go to God, for behold your hour is come. Praised be that God (said she) for the wealth and woe which it pleaseth him to send us. But I beseech you my friends to have pity upon these little children and innocent creatures. Let them not feel the smart which I am assured my brethren bear against their poor unhappy father. Well well Madam said they, we will convey them to such a place, as they shall not want. I also recommend unto you (quoth she) this poor maiden, and entreat her well, in consideration of her good service done to the infortunate Duchess of 〈◊〉. As she had ended those words, that two Ruffians did 〈◊〉 a cord about her neck, and strangled her. The maiden 〈◊〉 the piteous tragedy commenced upon her 〈◊〉, cried out a main, and cursed the cruel malice of those torments, and besought God to be witness of that 〈◊〉, and crying 〈◊〉 upon his divine Majesty, she besought him to 〈◊〉 his judgement against them which causeless (being no 〈◊〉,) had killed such innocent. creatures. Reason it is (said one of the tyrants) that thou be partaker of the joy of thy mistress innocency, sith 〈◊〉 hast been so faithful a minister, and messenger of her follies. And suddenly caught her by the hair of the head, & in stead of a carcanet placed a rope about her neck. How now (quoth she,) is this the promised faith which you made unto my Lady? But those words flew into the air with her soul, in company of the miserable Duchess.  
But hearken now the most sorrowful scene of all that tragedy. The little children which had seen all the furious game done upon their mother and her maid, as nature provoked them, or as some presage of their mishap led them thereunto, kneeled upon their knees before those tyrants, and embracing their legs, wailed in such wise, as I think that any other, except a pitiless heart spoiled of all humanity, would have had compassion. And impossible it was for them, to unfold the embracements of those innocent creatures, which seemed to forethink their death by the wild looks and countenance of those roisters. Whereby I think that needs it must be confessed, that nature hath in herself, and upon us imprinted some sign of divination, and specially at the hour and time of death, in such wise as that very beasts feel some conceits, although they see neither sword nor staff, and endeavour to avoid the cruel passage of a thing so fearful, as the separation of two things so nearly united, even the body and soul, which for the motion that chanceth at the very instant, showeth how nature is constrained in that monstrous separation, & more than horrible overthrow. But who can appease a heart determined to do evil, & hath sworn the death of another forced the runto by some special commandment? The Arragon brethren meant hereby nothing else, but to root out that whole name & race of Bologna. And therefore the two ministers of iniquity did like murder & slaughter upon those two tender babes, as they committed upon their mother, not without some motion of horror, for doing of an act so detestable. Behold here how far the cruelty of man extendeth, when it coveteth nothing else but vengeance, and mark what excessive choler the mind of them produceth, which suffer themselves to be forced & overwhelmed with fury. Leave we apart the cruelty of Euchrates, the son of the king of Bactria, & of Phraates the son of the Persian Prince, of Timon of Athens, & of an infinite numbered of those which were rulers and governors of the Empire of Rome: and let us match with these Arragon brethren, one Vitoldus Duke of Litudnia, the cruelty of whom, constrained his own subjects to hang themselves, for fear lest they should fall into his furious & bloody hands. We may confess also these brutal brethren to be more butcherly than ever Otho earl of Monferrato, & prince of Urbin. was, who caused a yeoman of his chamber to be wrapped in a sheet powdered with sulphur & brimston, & afterwards kindled with a candle, was scalded & consumed to death, because only he waked not at an hour by him appointed. Let us not excuse them also from some affinity with Maufredus the son of Henry that second Emperor, who smoldered his own father, being an old man, between y. coverleds. These former furies might have some excuse to cover their cruelty, but these had no other cause but a certain beastly madness which moved them to kill those little children their nevews, who by no means could prejudice or annoy the duke of Malfi or his title, in the succession of his Duchy, the mother having withdrawn her goods, & was assigned her dowry: but a wicked heart must needs bring forth semblable works according to his malice. In the time of these murders, the infortunate 〈◊〉 kept himself at Milan with his son Federick, and vowed himself to that Lord Silvio Savello, who that time belieged the Castle of Milan, in the behalf of Maximilian Sforcia, which in the end he conquered and recovered by composition with the French within. But that charge being archieved, the general Savello marched from thence to Cremona with his camp, whither Bologna durst not follow, but repaired to the Marquize of Bitonte, in which time that Arragon brethren so wrought, as his goods were confiscate at Naples, and he driven to his shifts to use the golden Ducats which the Duchess gave him to relieve himself at Milan, whose Death although it was advertised by many, yet he could not be persuaded to believe the same, for that divers which went about to betray him, and feared he should fly from Milan, kept his beak in the water, (as the Proverb is,) and assured him both of the life & welfare of his spouse, and that shortly his brethren in law would be reconciled, because that many Noble men favoured him well, and desired his return home to his Country. Fed and filled with that vain hope, he remained more than a year at Milan, frequenting the company, and well entertained of the richest Merchants and Gentlemen of the City: and above all other, he had familiar access to the house of the Lady Hippolita Bentivoglia, where upon a day after dinner, taking his Lute in hand, whereon he could exceedingly well play, he began to sing a certain Sonnet, which he had composed upon the discourse of his misfortune, the tenor whereof is this.  

The song of Antonio Bologna, the husband of the Duchess of Malfi.  

If love, the death, or tract of time, have measured my distress,  
Or if my beating sorrows may my languor well express:  
Then love come soon to visit me, which most my heart desires,  
And so my dolour finds some ease, through flames of fancies fires.  
The time runs out his rolling course, for to prolong mine ease,  
To th'end I shall enjoy my love, and heart himself appease.  
A cruel Dart brings happy death, my soul then rest shall find:  
And sleeping body under tomb, shall dream time out of mind.  
And yet the Love, the time, nor Death, looks not how I decrease:  
Nor giveth ear to any thing of this my woeful peace.  
Full far I am from my good hap, or half the joy I crave,  
whereby I 〈◊〉 my state with tears, & draw full near my grave.  
The courteous Gods that gives me life, now moves the Planets all:  
For to arrest my groaning ghost, and hence my spirit to call.  
Yet from them still I am separd, by things unequal here,  
Not meant the Gods may be unjust, that bredes my changing cheer.  
For they provide by their foresight, that none shall do me harm:  
But she whose blazing beauty bright, hath brought me in a charm.  
My mistress hath the power alone, to rid me from this woe:  
whose thrall I am, for whom I die, to whom my spirit shall go.  
Away my soul, go from the griefs, that thee oppresseth still,  
And let thy dolour witness bear, how much I want my will.  
For since that love and death himself, delights in guiltless blood,  
Let time transport my troubled spirit, where destiny seemeth good.    
His song ended, the poor Gentleman could not forbear from pouring forth his lukewarm tears, which abundantly ran down his heavy face, and his panting sighs truly discovered that alteration of his mind, which moved each wight of that assembly to pity his mournful state: and one specially of small acquaintance, and yet knew the devices which the Arragon brethren had trained and conspired against him: that unacquainted Gentleman his name was Delio, one very well learned and of 〈◊〉 invention, and very excellently hath indited in the Iralion vulgar tongue. Who knowing the Gentleman to be husband to the deceased Duchess of 〈◊〉 came unto him, & taking him aside, said: Sir, albeit I have no great acquaintance with you, this being the first time that ever I saw you, to my remembrance, so it is, that virtue hath such force, and maketh gentle minds so amorous of their like, as when they do behold 〈◊〉 other, they feel themselves coupled as it were in a band of minds, that impossible it is to divide the same. Now knowing what you be, and the good and commendable qualities in you, I count it my duty to reveal that which may chance to breed you damage. Know you then, that I of late was in company with a Noble man of Naples, which is in this City, banded with a certain company of horsemen, who told me that he had a special charge to kill you, and therefore prayed me (as he seemed) to require you not to come in his sight, to the intent he might not be constrained to do that, which should offend his Conscience, and grieve the same all the days of his life. Moreover I have worse tidings to tell you, which are, that the Duchess your wife is dead by violent hand in prison, and the most part of them that were in her company. Besides this assure yourself, that if you do not take heed to that which this Neapolitan captain hath differred, other will do and execute the same. This much I have thought good to tell you, because it would very much grieve me, that a Gentleman so excellent as you be, should be murdered in that miserable wife, and would deem myself unworthy of life, if knowing these practices I should dissemble the same. Whereunto Bologna answered: Sir Delio I am greatly bound unto you, and give you hearty thanks for the good will you bear me. But of the conspiracy of the brethren of Arragon, and the death of my Lady, you be deceived, and some have given you wrong intelligence. For within these two days I received letters from Naples, wherein I am advertised, that the right honourable and 〈◊〉 Cardinal and his brother be almost appeased, and that my goods shall be rendered again; and my dear wife restored. Ah sir said Delio, how you be beguiled and fed with follies, and nourished with sleights of Court. Assure yourself that they which write these tristes, make such shameful sale of you, as the Butcher doth of his flesh in the shambles, and so wickedly betray you, as impossible it is to invent a Treason more detestable: but be think you well thereof. When he had said so, he took his leave, and joined himself in company of five and pregnant wits, there assembled together. In the mean time, the cruel sprite of the Arragon brethren were not yet appeased with the former murders, but needs must finish the last act of Bologna his Tragedy by loss of his life, to keep his wife and Children company, so well in an other world, as he was united with them in Love in this frail and transitory passage. The Neapolitan gentleman before spoken of by Delio, which had taken an enterprise to satisfy the barbarous Cardinal, to bericue his Countryman of life, having changes his mind, and differing from day to day to sort the same to effect, which he had taken in hand, it chanced that a Lombarde of larger conscience than the other, inveigled with Covetousness, and hired for ready money, practised the death of the Duchess poor husband. This bloody beast was called Daniel de Bozola that had charge of a certain band of footmen in Milan. This new judas and assured manqueller, within certain days after, knowing that Bologna oftentimes repaired to hear service at the Church and covent of S. Frances, secretly conveyed himself in ambush, hard besides the church of S. james whether he came, (being accompanied with a certain troop of soldiers) to assail the infortunate Bologna, who was sooner slain than he was able to think upon defence, & whose mishap was such, that he which killed him had good leisure to save himself by reason of the little pursuit made after him. Behold here the Noble fact of a Cardinal, and what saver it hath of Christian purity, to commit a slaughter for a fact done many years passed upon a poor Gentleman which never thought him hurt. Is this the sweet observation of the Apostles, of whom they vaunt themselves to be the successors and followers? And yet we cannot find nor read, that the Apostles, or those that slept in their trace, hired Kuffians and Murderers to cut the throats of them which did them hurt. But what? It was in the time of julius the second, who was more marshal than christian, and loved better to shed blood than give blessing to the people. Such end had the infortunate marriage of him, which ought to have contented himself with that degree and honour that he had acquired by his deeds and glory of his virtues, so much by each wight recommended. We ought never to climb higher than our force permitteth, ne yet surmount the bounds of duty, and less suffer ourselves to be haled 〈◊〉 forth with desire of brutal sensuality. The sin being of such nature, that he never giveth over that party whom he mastereth, until he hath brought him to the 〈◊〉 of some Notable folly. You see the miserable discourse of a Princess love, that was not very wise, and of a gentleman that had forgotten his estate, which ought to serve for a looking glass to them which be over hardy in making of enterprises, and do not measure their ability with the greatness of their attempts: where they ought to maintain themselves in reputation, and bear the title of well advised: foreseeing their ruin to be example to all posterity, as may be seen by the death of Bologna, and of all them which sprang of him, and of his infortunate spouse his Lady and mistress.  
But we have discoursed enough hereof, sith diversity of other Histories do call us to bring the same in place, which were not much more happy than those, whose History ye have already tasted.   

The Countess of Celant.  
¶ The disordered life of the Countess of CELANT, and how she (causing the County of MASINO to be murdered,) was beheaded at MILAN.  
The. xxiv. Novel.  
NOt without cause of long time have wise & discrete men prudently governed, and given great heed over their Daughters, and those whom they have chosen to be their wives, not in using them like bondwemen and slaves, bereaving them of all liberty, but rather to avoid the murmur and secret slanderous speech of the common people, and occasions offered for infection and marring of youth, specially circumspect of the assaults bend against maidens, being yet in the first flames of fire, kindled by nature in the hearts, 〈◊〉 of those that be the wisest. Some persons 〈◊〉 it to be very strange, that such 〈◊〉 guard should be observed of those which ought to live at liberty, and do not consider how liberty and licentious bridle let slip unto youth, breed unto the same most strong and tedious bondage, that better it had been the same to have been chained and closed in some obscure prison, than marked with those blots of infamy, which willingly such licence and liberty do conduce. If England do not by experience see maidens of Noble houses infamed through too much unbridled and frank manner of life, and their parents desolate for such villainy, and the name of their houses fabulous and ridiculous to the people, yet that manner of espial and watch over children, may be noted in nations not very far confining from us, where men be jealous of the very fantasy of them, whom they think to be of good grace, and who dare with one very look give attaint unto their Daughters. But where examples be evident, where folly is more than manifest, where all the world is assured of that which they see by daily experience, and that the fruits of the disordered, break out into light, it behoveth no more to attend the dangerous customs of a Country, and to condescend to the sottish opinion of them, which say that youth too narrowly looked unto, is trained up in such grossness and blockishness of mind, as impossible it is afterwards the same should do any thing praise worthy. The Roman maiden's 〈◊〉 were cloistered within their father's Palaces, still at their mother's elbows, & notwithstanding were so well brought up, that those of best civility & finest trained up in our age, shall not be the second to one of the least perfect in that City. But who can learn civility & virtue in these our days? our daughters nuzzled in companies, whose mouths run over with whorish & filthy talk, with 〈◊〉 full of ribaldry, & many time's 〈◊〉 with facts less honest than word is able to express. I do not pretend hereby to deprive that sex of honest and seemly talk and company, and less of exercise amongs the Noble Gentlemen of our English soil, ne yet of the liberty received from our ancestors, only (me think) that requisite it were to contemplate the manners and inclination of wills, and refrain those that be prone to wantonness, & by like means to rejoice the minds of them that be bend to heaviness, divided from courtesy and civility, by attending of which choice and considering of that difference, impossible it is but virtue must shine more bright in Noble houses than homeliness in cabanes of peasants and country carls: who oftentimes better observe the Discipline of our predecessors in education of their children, than they which presume to praise themselves for good skill in use and government of that age, more troublesome & painful to rule, than any other time of man's life.  
Therefore the good and wise Emperor Marcus Aurelius would not have his daughters to be brought up in Courts. For (quoth he) what profit shall the nurse receive by learning her maiden honesty and virtue, when our works entice them to dalliance, and to learn the folly of those that be amorous? I make this discourse, not that I am so 〈◊〉 a judge for our maidens of England, that I wish them so reform, as to see and be seen should be forbidden, being assured that virtue in what place so ever she be, cannot but open things that shall savour of the taste thereof. But to talk of an Italian dame, who so long as her first husband (knowing her inclination) kept her subject, she lived in reputation of a modest and sober wife. Nothing is seen in her that can defame her 〈◊〉. And so soon as the shadow of that free captivity was passed by the death of her husband, God knoweth what pageant she played, and how she soiled both her own renown, and the honour of her second husband, as ye shall understand if with patience ye vouchsafe to read the discourse of this present History.  
Cafall, (as it is not unknown) is a City of Piedmont, and subject to the Marquize of Montferrato, where dwelled one that was very rich, although of base birth, named Giachomo Scappardone, who being grown to be rich, more by wicked Art and usury, to much manifest, than by other his own diligence, took to wife a young Greek maiden, which the marchioness of Montferrato mother of Marquize Guglielmo, had brought home with her from that voyage that she made into Grecia with her husband, when the Turks overran that country of Macedonia, and seized upon the City of Modena which is in Morea. Of that maiden Scappardone had a daughter indifferent fair, but in behaviour lively and pleasant, who by name was called Bianca Maria. The father died within a while after her birth, as one that was of good years, and had been greatly turmoiled in getting of riches, whose value amounted above one hundred thousand Crowns. Bianca Maria arrived to the age of. xuj. or. 〈◊〉. years, was required of many, aswell for her beauty, gentleness & good grace, as for her great riches. In the end she was married to the vicecount Hermes, the son of one of the chiefest houses in Milan, who incontinently after the marriage, conveyed her home to his house, leaving his 〈◊〉 mother to govern the usuries 〈◊〉 by her dead husband. The Gentleman which amongs two green, knew one that was ripe, having for a certain time well used and learned the manners of his wife, saw that it behoved him rather to deal with the bit and bridle than the spur, seeing her to be wanton, full of desire, and coveted nothing so much as fond and disordered liberty, & therefore without cruel dealing, disquiet, or trouble, he used by little and little to keep her in, and cherished her more than his nature willingly would suffer, of purpose to hold her within the bounds of duty. And although the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 have almost like liberties that ours have, yet the Lord Hermes kept her within doors, and suffered her to frequent none other house and company, but the Lady Hippolita Sforcia, who upon a day demanded of him wherefore he kept in his wife so short, & persuaded him to give her somewhat more the bridle because divers already murmured of this order, as too strait & froward, esteeming hint either to be too much fond over her, or else to jealous. Madam said the Milanese, they which at pleasure so speak of me, know not yet the nature of my wife, who I had rather should be somewhat restrained, than run at rovers to her dishonour and my shame. I remember well madame the proper saying of Paulus Emilius that Notable Roman, Who being demanded wherefore he refused his wife being a Gentlewoman so fair & beautiful. O (quoth he & lifted up his leg whereupon was a new pair of buskins) ye see this fair buskin meet and seemly for this leg to outward appearance not grievous or noisome, but in what place it hurteth me, or where it wringeth ye do neither see nor yet consider. So I Madam, do feel in what place my hose doth hurt and wring my leg. I know Madam what it is to grant to so wanton a Dame as my wife is, her will, and how far I ought to let go the bridle: Jealous I am not upon the faith that I bear unto God, but I know that which I would not, if it be possible that it chance unto me. And by my troth Madam, I give her licence to repair to pou both day and night, and at whatsoever hour, being assured of the 〈◊〉 company which haunt your house: otherwise my palace shall suffice her pleasure for the common joy of us both, and therefore would wish no more talk to be hereof, lest too importunate suits do offend my nature, and make me think that to be true which of good will I am loath to suspect, contenting myself with her chastity, for fear lest too much liberty do corrupt her. These words were not spoken without cause, and the wise husband saw well that such beasts, albeit rudely they ought not to be used, yet to be halden short, and not suffered too much to wander at will. And verily his Prophecy was too true for respect of that which followed. For they had not been married full. vj. years, but the good 〈◊〉 Hermes, departed this world, whereof she was very sorry, because she loved him dearly, having as yet not tasted the liquorous baits of such liberty, as afterwards she drank in Gluttonous draughts, when after her husband's obsequies, 〈◊〉 retired to Montferrato, and then to Cafal to her Father's house, her mother being also dead, and she alone woman to joy at pleasure the fruit of her desires, she bent her only study to gay and 〈◊〉 apparel, and employed the mornings with the Uermilion rudde to colour her cheeks by greater curiosity than the most shameless Courtesan of Rome, firing her eyes upon every man, gyring and laughing with open mouth, and pleasantly disposed to talk and reason with 〈◊〉 Gentleman that passed through the street. This was the way to attain the glorious feast of her triumphant filthiness, who wan the price above the most famous women which in her time made profession of those arms, wherewith Venus once despoiled Mars, & took from him the strongest and best 〈◊〉 armour of all his furniture. Think not fair maids, that talk and clattering with youth is of small regard. For a City is half 〈◊〉 when they within demand for Parle, loath than they be to endure the Canon shot. So when the ear of a 〈◊〉 wife or maid is pliant to lascivious talk, 〈◊〉 in wanton words, albeit her chastity receive no damage, yet occasion of speech is ministered to the people, and perchance in such disadvantage, as never after her good name is recovered. Wherefore needful it is, not only to avoid the effect of evil, but also that least suspicion: For good fame is so requisite for women as honest life. The great captain julius Caesar, (which first of all reduced the common wealth of Rome in form of Monarchy) being once demanded wherefore he had refused his wife, before it was proved that she had offended with Clodius, the night of the sacrifices done to the Goddess Bona, answered so wisely as truly, that the house of Caesar ought not only to be void of whoredom, but of suspicion thereof. Behold wherefore I have said, and yet do say, that ye ought to take great 〈◊〉 to yourselves, and to laugh in time, not bending your ears to uncomely talk, but rather to follow the nature of the Serpent, that stoppeth his ear with his tail, to avoid the Charms and Sorceries of the Enchanter. So long then as Bianca Maria was sued unto, and pursued of many at Cafull that desired her to wife, two amongs the rest did proffer themselves, which were the Lord Gismondo Gonzaga, the near kinsman of the Duke of Mantua, and the County of Celant, a great Baron of Savoy, whose lands lie in the vale of Agosta. A great pastime it was to this fine Gentlewoman to feed herself with the Drations of those two Lords, and a joy it was to her, to use her own discourse & answers thereunto, expressing with right good grace sundry amorous countenances, intermingling therewithal sighs, sobs, alteration of cheer, that full well it might have been said, of love tricks that she was the only dame and mistress. The marchioness of Montferrato desirous to gratify the Lord of Mantua his son in Law, endeavoured to induce this wanton Lady to take for spouse Gismondo Gonzaga, and the sut e so well proceeded, as almost the marriage had been concluded if that Savoy Earl had not come betwixt, and showed forth his Nobleness of mind, when he understood how things did pass, and that an other was ready to bear away the price, and recover his mistress. For that cause he came to visit the Lady, who entertained him well, as of custom she did all other. He that would not employ his time in vain, having found her alone and at convenient leisure, began to preach unto her in this wise with such countenance, as she perceived that County to be far in love with her.  

The Oration of the Count of Celant to his Lady.  
I Am in doubt Madam, of whom chief I ought to make complaint, whether of you, or of myself, or rather of fortune which guideth & bringeth us together. I see well that you receive some wrong, and that my cause is not very just, you taking no regard unto my passion which is outrageous, and less hearkening unto that which many times I have given you to understand of the honest love I bear you. But I am besides this, more to be accused for suffering an other to march so far over my game and soil, as I have almost lost the tract of the pray which I most desire, and specially do condemn my Fortune, for that I am in danger to lose the thing which I deserve, & you in peril to pass into that place where your captivity shallbe worse 〈◊〉 the slaves by the Portugals condemned to the mines of India. doth it not suffice you that the Lord Hermes closed you up the space of. v. or. vi. years in his chamber, but will you needs attempt the rest of your youthly days amid the Mantuanes, whose suspicious heads are full of hammers working in the same? Better it were madame, that we being nearer the gallant guise of France, should live after the liberty of that Country, rather than be captive to an Italian house, which will restrain you with like bondage, as at other times you have felt the experience. Moreover ye see what opinion is like to be conceived of you, 〈◊〉 it shallbe bruited the for the Marquize fear, you have married the Mantuan Lord. And I know well the you like not to be esteemed as a pupil, your nature cannot abide compulsion, you be free from her authority, it were no reason you should be constrained. And not to stay in framing of orations, or stand upon discourse of words, I 〈◊〉 beseech you to behold the csntant love I bear you, & being a gentleman so wealthy as I am, none other cause induceth me to make this suit, but your good grace and bringing up, which force me to love you above any other Gentlewoman that liveth. And although I might allege other reasons to prove my saying, yet refer I myself to the experience & bounty of your mind, & to the equitic of your judgement. If my passion were not vehement, & my torment without comparison, I would wish my feigned griefs to be laughed to scorn, & my vissibled pain rewarded 〈◊〉 flouts. But my love being sincere & pure, my travail contuivall, & my griefs endless, for pity sake I beseech you madame to consider my faithful deserts with your dutiful courtesy, & then shall you see how much I ought to be preferred before them, which under the shadow of an other man's puissance, do seek to purchase power to command you: where I do faithfully bind & tie my word & deed continually to love & serve you, with promise all the days of my life to accomplish your commandment. Behold if it please you what I am, & with what affection I make mine humble plaint, regard the messenger, love it is himself the holdeth me within your snares, & maketh me captive to your beauty & divine graces, which have no pier. But if you refuse my suit, & cause me breathe my words into the air, you shallbe accused of cruelty, ye shall see the entier defaict of a gentleman which loveth you better than love himself is able to yield flame and fire to force any wight to love mortal creature. But I think the heavens have departed in me such abundance, to the 〈◊〉 in loving you with 〈◊〉 so great, you might also think the it is I which ought to be the friend & spouse of that gentle & courteous Lady Bianca Maria, which alone may call herself the mistress of my heart.   
The Lady which before was mocked & 〈◊〉 with the Count his demands, hearing that last discourse, & remembering her first marriage, & the natural jealousy of 〈◊〉, half won without making other countenance, answered the Count in this manner:  Sir Count, albeit that I am obedient to the will and commandment of Madam the marchioness, & am loath to displease her, yet I will not so far gauge my liberty, but still do reserve one point to say what resteth in my thought. And what should let me to choose such one, to whom I shallbe both his life & death? And of whom being once possessed, it is impossible to be rid & acquitted? I assure you, if I feared not the speech & suspicion of malicious minds, and the venom of slanderous tongues, never husband should bring me more to bondage. And if I thought that he whom I pretend to choose, would be so cruel to me, as others whom I know, I would presently refuse marriage for ever. I thank you nevertheless, both of your advertisements given me, & of the honour you do me, you desiring to accomplish that honour by marriage to be celebrated between us. For the 〈◊〉 of which your talk, & the little dissimulation I see to be in you, I promise you that there is no Gentleman in this country to whom I give more puissance over me, than to you, if I chance to marry, and thereof make you so good assurance, as if it were already done. The Count seeing so good an entry would not suffer the time so to 〈◊〉, but beating the bushes until the pray was ready to spring, said unto her. And sith you know what thing is profitable, and what is hurtful, and that the benefit of liberty is so much recommended, why do you not perform that which may redound to your honour? Assure me of your word, and promise me the Faith & loyalty of marriage, then let me alone to deal with the rest, for I hope to attain the effect without offence and displeasure of any. And seeing her to remain in a muse without speaking word, he took her by the hand, & kissing the same a million of times, added these words: How now Madam, be you appalled for so pleasant an assault, wherein your adversary confesseth himself to be vanquished? Courage madame, I say courage, & behold him here which humbly prayeth you to receive him for your lawful husband, and who sweareth unto you all such amity and reverence that husband oweth to his loyal spouse. Ah sir Count said she, and what will the Marquize say, unto whom I have wholly referred myself for marriage? Shall not she have just occasion to frown upon me, and frowardly to use me for the little respect I bear unto her? God be my witness, if I would not that Gonzaga had never come into this country: for although I loved him not, yet I have almost made him a promise, which I can not keep. And sith there is nothing done (said the Savoy Lord) what need you to torment yourself? Will the marquess wreak her tyranny over the will of her subjects, and force ladies of her land to marry against their lust? I think that so wise a princess, so well nurtured, will not so far forget herself, as to strain that which God hath left at liberty to every wight. Promise me only marriage, and leave me to dcale with the rest, other things shall be well provided for. 
Bianca Maria vanquished with that importunity, and fearing again to fall into servitude, hoping that the Count would maintain such liberty as he had 〈◊〉, agreed unto him. and plighted unto him her faith, and for the time used mutual promises by words respectively one to another. And the better to confirm the fact, and to let the knot from breaking, they bedded themselves togethers. The Count very joyful for that encounter, yielded such good beginning by his countenance, and by familiar and continual haunt with Bianca. Maria, as shortly after the matter was known; and came to the marquess cares, that the daughter of Scappardone had married the Count of Celant. The good lady albeit that she was wroth beyond measure, and willingly would have been revenged upon the bride, yet having respect to the Count, which was a noble man of great authority, swallowed down that pill without chewing, and prayed the Lord Gonzaga not to be offended, who 〈◊〉 the light behaviour of the Lady, laughed at the matter, and praised God for that the thing was so well broken off: for he did for see almost already what 〈◊〉 that Comedy would have, being very familiar for certain days in the house of Bianca Maria. This marriage than was published, & the solemnity of the nuptials done very princely, according to the nobility of him which had married her: but the augury & presage was heavy, & the melancholic face of the season (which was 〈◊〉 darkened about the time they should go to church) declared that the mirth and joy should not long continue in the house of the County, according to the common saying: He that looketh not before he leapeth, may chance to siumble before he sleepeth. For the Lord of 〈◊〉 being retired home into his daleys of the Savoy mountains, began to look about his business, and perceived that his wife surpassed all others in light behaviour and unbridled desires, whereupon he resolved to take order and stop her passage before she had won the field, and that frankly she should go seek her ventures where she list, 〈◊〉 she would not be ruled by his advise. The foolish 〈◊〉 seeing that her husband well espied her fond and foolish behaviour, and that wisely he went about to remedy the same, was no whit astonied, or regarded his advise, but rather by forging complaints did cast him in the teeth sometimes 〈◊〉 her riches that she brought him, sometime she thwited him with those whom she had refused for his sake, & with whom far of the liurd like a savage beast amid that mountain deserts & barren dales of Savoy, & told him that by no means she minded to be closed and shut up like a tamelesse beast. The Count which was wise, & would not break the Eel upon his knee, providently admonished her in what wise a Lady ought to esteem her honour, & how the lightest faults of noble sorts appeared mortal sins before the people. That it was not sufficient for a Gitlewoman to have her body chaste, if her speech were not according, & the mind 〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉 outward semblance, & the conversation not agreeable to the secret conceits of mind: & I shall be full sorry sweet wife (said the Count) to give you any cause of discontentation: for where you shallbe vexed and molested, I shall receive no joy or pleasure, you being such one as aught to be the second myself, determining by gods grace to keep my promise, & use you like a wife, if so be you do regard me as you ought to do your husband. For reason will not that the head obey 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 & endeavour their relief & succour, if they show not themselves to be such as depend upon the health & life of it. The husband being the wives chief, aught to be obeyed in 〈◊〉 which reason requireth: and she referring herself to the pleasure of her head, 〈◊〉 him to whom she is adjoined, to do and assay all travail and pain for her sake. Of one thing I must needs accuse you, which is, that for a trifle you frame complaint, and the mind occupied in folly, lusteth for nothing more than vain things, & those that be of little profit, specially where the pleasure of the body is only considered: but 〈◊〉 mind which followeth reason, dissembleth his griefs, with words full of wisdom, & in knowing much, 〈◊〉 not withstanding a subtle and honest ignorance: but I may be much deceived herein, by thinking the a woman fraught with 〈◊〉 opinions may recline her ears to what so ever thing, except to the which delighteth her mind & plea seth 〈◊〉 desires framed in her foolish fantasy. Let not this speech be strange unto you, for your words uttered without discretion, make me use this language. More over you shall do me pleasure & a great good turn to yourself, if you take heed to my request, and thereby follow mine advise. The Coutesse which was so fine & malicious as the 〈◊〉 was good & wise, dissembling her grief, and covering the venom hidden in her mind, began so well to play the hypocrite before her husband, and to counterfaict the simple dame, as albeit he was right politic, yet he was within her snare entrapped, and flattered him with so fair words, as she won him to go to Casal, to visit the lands of her inheritance. We see whereunto the intent of this false woman tended and what checkmate she meant to give both to her husband, and her honour: whereby we know, that when a woman is disposed to give herself to wickedness, her mind is void of no malice or invention to bring to end any danger or peril offered unto her. The facts of one Medea (if credit may be given to Poets) and of Phaedra, the woman of Theseus, well declare with what beastly zeal they began and ended their attempts. The eagle's flight is not so high, as the foolish desires and conceits of a woman which trusteth in her own opinion, and treadeth out of the tract of duty and way of wisdom. Pardon me good Ladies, if I speak so largely, and think not that I mean to display any other but such as forget the degree wherein their ancestors have placed them, and digress from the true path of those which have immortalised the memory of themselves, and of their husbands, and the houses also whereof they came. I am very loath to take upon me the office of a slanderer, and no less do mean to flatter those, whom I see to their great shame, offend openly in the sight of the world. But why should I dissemble that which I know yourselves would not conceyle, if in conscience ye were required thereunto? It were extreme folly and 〈◊〉 to deck and cloth vice with the holy garment of virtue, and to call that Courtesy and Civility, which is manifest whooredom: Let us term each thing by his due name, let us not blot and deface that which of itself is fair and pure, let us not also stain the renown of those, whom their own virtue do recommend, This gentle Countess being at Casal, making much of her husband, and kissing him with the kiss of treason, and of him being unfeignedly beloved and cherished, not able to forget his sermons, and much less her own filthy life, seeing that with her Count it was impossible for her to live and glut her lecherous lust, who in deed was the true possessor of the same, determined to run away and seek her adventure: for the bringing to pass whereof, she had already taken order for money, the interest growing to her daily profit at Milan. And having levied a good sum of Ducats in hand, until her other rents were ready, she fled away in the night in company of certain of her men which were privy to her doings. Her retire was to Pavia, a City subject to the state & Duchy of Milan, where she hired a great and princely palace and appareled the same according to her estate and train of her husband and as her own revenue was able to bear. I leave for you to think what buzzings entered into the Countess' head, by the sudden flight of his wife, who would have sent and gone himself after to seek her out, and bring her home again, had he not well considered and weighed his own profit and advantage, and knowing that her absence would rid out of his head a farthel of suspicions which he before conceived, was in the end resolved to let her alone, and suffer her remain in what place soever she was retired, from whence he never minded to call her home again. I were a very fool (said he) to keep in my house so pernicious and fearful an enemy, as that arrant whore is, who one day before I be ware, will cause some of her russians to cut my throat, besides the violation of her holy marriage bed: God defend that such a strumpet by her presence should any longer profane the house of the lord of Celant, who is well rewarded and punished for the excessive love which he bore her. Let her go whether she list, and live a god's name at her ease, I do content myself in knowing what women be able to do, without further attempt of fortune & other proof of her wicked life. He added further, that the honour of so noble a parsonage as he was, depended not upon a woman's mischief: and assure yourself the whole race of womankind was not spared by the Count, against whom he then inveighed more through rage 〈◊〉 any reason that time in him, he considered not the good and honest sort of women, which deface the villainy of those that give themselves over to their own lusts, without regard of modesty and shame, which ought to be familiar, as it were by a certain natural inclination in all women and maidens. But come we again to Bianca Maria, holding her Court and open house at 〈◊〉, where she got so holy a 〈◊〉, as mistress Lais of Corinth sometimes was never more common in Asia than this fair dame, almost in every corner of In 〈◊〉, whose conversation was such, as her frank liberty & familiar demeanour to each wight, well witnessed 〈◊〉 abominable life. True it was, that her reputation there was very small, and the hired not herself, ne yet took 〈◊〉 by setting her body to sale, but for some reasonable gain & earnest pain. Howbeit she (of whom sometimes the famous Greek orator would not buy repentance for so 〈◊〉 a price) was more excessive in sale of her merchandise, but not more wanton. For 〈◊〉 no sooner espied a beautiful gentleman that was youthly, & well made, but would presently show him so good countenance, as he had been a very fool, which knew not after what provender this Colt did neigh: whose shameless gesture Messalina the Roman princess did never surmount, except it were in that she visited & haunted common houses: & this dame used her disports within her own house: the other also received 〈◊〉 Carters, Galley slaves, & porters: and this half Greek did her pastime with 〈◊〉 men that were brave and lusty. But in one thing she well resembled her, which was, that 〈◊〉 was sooner weary with travail, than she satisfied with pleasure. & the 〈◊〉 use of her body, like unto a sink that receiveth all 〈◊〉, without disgorging any, thrown into the same. This was the chaste life which that good lady led, after she had taken flight from her husband. Mark whether the Milanois that was her first husband were a gross headed person or a fool, & whether he were not learned & skilful in the science of 〈◊〉, & time for him to make ready the rods to make her know her duty, therewith to correct her wanton youth, & to cut of the lusty twigs & proud sciences that soaked that moisture & heart of that stock & branches. It chanced whiles she lived at Pavia, in this good & honourable port, the Count of 〈◊〉 called Ardizzino Valperga came to the emperor's service, & thereby made his abode at Pavia with one of his brothers: the Count being a goodly gentleman, young & trim in apparel, given to many good qualities, had but one only fault, which was that he was lame in one of his legs, by reason of a certain adventure & blow received in the wars, although that same took away no part of his beauty & fine behaviour. The Count I say remaining certain days at Pavia, beheld that beauty, grace & comeliness of the Countess of 〈◊〉, & stayed with such devotion to view & gaze upon her, as many 〈◊〉 he roamed up & down the street wherein she dwelled to find means to speak unto her. His first talk was but a Boniour, and simple salutation, such as Gentlemen commonnly use in company of Ladies, and at that first brunt Valperga could settle none other judgement upon that Goddess, but that she was a wise and honest dame, and such a one not with standing as there needed not the Emperor's camp to force the place which as he thought was not so well flanked & rampired but that a good man of arms might easily win, and the breach so lively and sautable, as any soldier might pass the same. He became so familiar with the Lady, and talked with her so secretly, as upon a day being with her alone, he used this kind of speech: Were not I of all men most blame worthy, and of greatest folly to be reproved, so long time to be acquainted with a Lady so fair and courteous as you be, and not to offer my service, life and goods to be disposed as shall like you best? I speak not this Madam, for any evil and sinister judgement that I 〈◊〉 of you, for that I praise and esteem you above any Gentlewoman that ever I knew till this day, but rather for that I am so wonderfully attached with your love, as wrong I should do unto your honesty and my loyal service towards you, if I continued 〈◊〉, and did conceyle that which incessantly would consume my heart with infinite numbered of ardent desires, and waste mine entrails for the extreme 〈◊〉 burning love I bear you. I do require you to put no credit in me, if I do not all that which it shall please you to command me. Wherefore Madam, I humbly beseech you to accept me for your own, and to favour me as such one, which with all fidelity hopeth to pass his time in your company. The Countess although she knew well enough that the fire was not so lively kindled in the stomach of the Count as he went about to make her believe, and that his words were too eloquent, and countenance, too joyful for so earnest a lover as he seemed to be: yet for that he was a valiant Gentleman, young, lusty, and strongly made, minded to retain him, and for a time to stay her stomach by appeasing her gluttonous appetite in matters of love, with a morsel so dainty, as was this minion and lusty young Lord: and when the courage of him began to cool, another should enter the lists. And therefore she said unto him: Although I (knowing the use and manners of men, and with what baits they hook for Ladies, if they take not heed, having proved their malice and little love,) determined never to love other than mine affection, ne yet to favour man, except it be by showing some familiar manner to hear their talk, and for pastime to hearken the brave requests of those which say they burn for love, in the mids of some brook of delights. And albeit I think you no better than other be, ne more faithful, more affectionate, or otherwise moved than the rest, yet I am content for respect of your honour, somewhat to believe you, and to accept you for mine own, sith your discretion is such (I trust) as so Noble a Gentleman as you be, will himself declare in those affairs, and when I see the effect of my hope, I can not be so unkind, but with all honesty shall assay to satisfy that your love. The Count seeing her alone, and receiving the Lady's language for his advantage, and that her countenance by alteration of her mind did add a certain beauty to her face, and perceiving a desire in her that he should not use delay, or be too squeimish, she demanding nought else but execution, took the present offered time, forgetting all ceremonies and reverence, he embraced her and kissed her a hundred thousand times. And albeit she made a certain simple and provoking resistance, yet the lover seeing them to be but preparatives for the sport of love, he strayed from the bounds of honesty, and threw her upon a field bed within the Chambre, where he solaced himself with his long desired suit. And finding her worthy to be beloved, and she him a courteous gentleman, consulted together for continuance of their amity, in such wise as the Lord Ardizzino spoke no more but by the mouth of Bianca Maria, and did nothing but what she commanded, being so bewrapped with the heavy mantel of beastly Love, as he still above night and day in the house of his beloved: whereby the brute was noised throughout the City, and the songs of their Love more common in each Citizen's mouth, than the Stanza or Sonnets of Petrarch, played and sained upon the Gittorne, Lute or Harp of these of Noble house, more fine & witty than those unsavoury 〈◊〉 that be tuned and chanted in the mouths of the foolish common sort. Behold an Earl well served and dressed by enjoying so false a woman, which had already falsified the faith betrothed to her husband, who was more honest, mild and virtuous, than she deserved. Behold ye Noble Gentlemen, the simplicity of this good Earl, how it was deceived by a false and filthy strumpet, whose stinking life and common use of body would have withdrawn each simple creature from mixture of their own with such a Carrion. A lesson to learn all youth to refrain the whorish looks and light conditioned Dames, a number (the more to be pitied) showing forth themselves to the portsale of every cheapener, that list demand the price, the grossness whereof before considered, were worthy to be defied and loathed. This Lady seeing her Lover noussed in her lust, dandled him with a thousand trumperies, and made him hold the Mule, while other enjoyed the secret sport which erst he used himself. This acquaintance was so dangerous to the Count, as she herself was shameless to the Count of Celant. For the one bare the arms of Cornwall, and became a second Actaeon, and the other wickedly led his life, & lost the chiefest of that he looked for in the service of great princes, by the treason of an arrant common 〈◊〉.  
Whiles this Love continued in all pleasure and like contentation of either parts: Fortune that was ready to mount the stage, and show in sight that her mobility was no more stable than a woman's will: (For under such habit and sear Painters and Poets describe her) made Ardizzino suspect what desire she had of change: and within a while after, saw himself so far misliked of his Lady, as though he had never been acquainted. The cause of that recoil was, for that the Countess was not contented with one kind of fare, and whose eyes were more greedy than her stomach able to digest, and above all desired change, not seeking means to find him that was worthy to be beloved and entertained of so great a Lady, as she esteemed herself to be, and as such women of their own opinion think themselves, who counterfeit more gravity and reputation than they do, whom nature and virtue for their majesty and holiness of life make Noble and praise worthy. That desire deceived her nothing at all: for a certain time after that Ardizzino possessed the fort of this fair Countess, there came to Pavia, one Roberto Sanseverino Earl of Gaiazzo, a young fair and valiant Gentleman, whose Country lieth on this side the Mountains, and very familiar with the Earl of Massino.  
This unfaithful Alcina and cruel Medea had no sonnet cast her eye upon Signior di Gaiazzo, but was pierced with his love in such wise, as if forthwith she had not attained her desires, she would have run mad, because that Gentleman bore a certain stately representation in his face, & promised such dexterity in his deeds, as suddenly she thought him to be that man that was able to staunch her filthy thirst. And therefore so gently as she could, gave over her Ardizzino, with whom she utterly refused to speak, and shunned his company when she saw him, and by shutting the gates against him, the Noble man was not able to forbear from throwing forth some words of choler, whereby she took occasion both to expel him, and also to bear him such displeasure, as than she conspired his death, as afterwards you shall perceive. This great hatred was the cause that she being fallen in Love as you have heard with the Count of Gaiazzo, showed unto him all sign of amity: and seeing that he made no great suit unto her, she wrote unto him in this manner.  
The Letter of Bianca Maria to the Count of Gaiazzo.  
SIr  
I doubt not by knowing the state of my degree, but that ye be abashed to see the violence of my mind, when passing the limits of modesty, which ought to guard such a Lady as I am, I am forced (uncertain of the cause) to do you understand the grief that doth torment me, which is of such constraint, as if of courtesy ye do not vouchsafe to visit me, you shall commit two faults, the one leaving the thing worthy for you to love and regard, and which deserveth not to be cast off, the other in causing the death of her, that for Love of you, is bereft of rest. And so love hath very little in me to seize upon either of heart or liberty, but that ease of grief proceedeth from your only grace, which is able to vanquish her, whose victorious hap hath conquered all other, and who attending your resolute answer, shall rest under the merciful refuge of hope, which deceiving her, shall see by that very means the wretched end of her that is all your own.  
Bianca Maria Countess of Celant.  
The young Lord much marveled at this message, were it for that already he was in love with her, and that for love of his friend Ardizzino, would not be known thereof, or for that he feared she would be 'straught of wits, if she were despised, he determined to go unto her, yet stayed & thought it not to be the part of a faithful companion to deceive his friend. But in end pleasure surmounting reason, and the beauty joined with the good grace of the Lady having blinded him, and bewitched his wits so well as Ardizzino, he took his way towards her house who waited for him with good devotion, whither being arrived, he failed not to use like speech that Valperga did, either of them (after certain reverences and other few words) minding and desiring one kind of entertainment. This practise dured certain months, and the Countess was so far rapt with her new lover, as she only employed herself to please him, and he showed himself so affected as she thought to bridle him in all things: whereof she was afterwards deceived, as you shall understand the manner. Ardizzino seeing himself wholly abandoned the presence and love of his Lady, knowing the she railed upon him in all places where she came, departed Pavia half out out of his wits for anger, and so strayed from 〈◊〉 order by reason of his rage, as he displayed the Countess three times more lively in her colours, than she could be painted, and reproved her with that terms of the vilest and most 〈◊〉 strumpet that 〈◊〉 ran at rovers, or shot at random. Bianca Maria understood hereof, and was advertised of the good report that Ardizzino spread of her throughout 〈◊〉, which chafed her in such wise as she fared like the Bedlam fury, ceasing night nor day to plain the unkindness and folly of her reietted Lover: Sometimes saying, that she had just cause so to do, then flattering herself, alleged, that men were made of purpose to suffer such follies as were wrought by her, and that where they termed themselves to be women's servants, they ought at their mistress hands to endure what pleased them. In the end, not able any longer to restrain her choler, ne vanquish the appetite of revenge, purposed at all adventure to provide for the death of her ancient enemy, and that by means of him whom she had now tangled in her nets. See the unshamefastness of this mastiff bitch, and the rage of that female Tiger, how she goeth about to arm one friend against an other, and was not content only to abuse the Count Gaiazzo, but devised to make him that manqueller. And as one night they were in the midst of their embracements, she began pitifully to weep and sigh, in such wise as a man would have thought (by the vexation of her heart) that the soul and body would have parted. The young Lord lovingly inquired the cause of her heaviness: and said unto her, that if any had done unto her displeasure, he would revenge her cause to her contentation. She hearing him say so, (then in study upon the device of her enemies death,) spoke to the Count in this manner: You know sir, that the thing which most 〈◊〉 the Gentle heart and mind that can abide no wrong, is defamation of honour and infamous report. Thus much I say, by reason the Lord of Massino, (who to say the troth, hath been favoured of me in like sort as you be now) hath not vene ashamed to publish open 〈◊〉 against me, as though I were the arrantest whore that ever had given herself over to the Galley slaves alongs the shore of Sicily. If he had vaunted the favour which I have done him but to certain of his friends, I had incurred no whit of slander, much less any little suspicion, but hearing the common reports, the wrongful words and wicked brute that he hath raised on me: I beseech you sir, to do me reason that he may feel his offence, and the smart for his committed fault against her that is all yours. The Lord Sanseverino hearing this discourse, promised her to do his best, and to teach Valperga to talk more soberly of her, whom he was not worthy for to 〈◊〉, but in thought. Notwithstanding he said more, than he meant to do, for he knew Ardizzino to be so honest, sage, and courteous a parsonage, as he would neither do nor say any thing without good cause, and that Ardizzino had 〈◊〉 quarrel against him, by taking that from him which he loved (although it was 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 discontinuance from that place, and upon the only request of her.) Thus he concluded in mind still to remain the friend of Ardizzino, and yet to spend 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 with the Countess, which he did, and used certain months without quarreling with Valperga, that 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉, with whom he 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, & lived 〈◊〉, & 〈◊〉 commonly used one table & bed together. Bianca Maria seeing that the Lord of Gaiazzo cared not much for her, but only for his pleasure, determined to use like practice against him, as she did to her former lover, and to banish him from her house. So that when he came to see her, either she was sick, or her affairs were such, as she could not keep him company: or else her gate was shut upon him. In the end (playing double or quit) she prayed the said Lord to show her such pleasure and friendship, as to come no more unto her, because she was in terms to go home to her husband the Count of Celant, who had sent for her, and feared lest his servants should find her house full of suitors, alleging that she had lived long enough in that most sinful life, the lightest faults whereof were to 〈◊〉 for dames of her port & calling, concluding that so long as she lived, she would bear him good affection for the honest company and conversation had between them, and for his courtesy used towards her. The young Earl, were it that he gave credit unto her tale or not, made as though he did believe the same, and without longer discourse, forbore approach unto her house, and drove out of his head all the amorous affection which he carried to that Piedmont Circe's. And to that end he might have no cause to think upon her, or that his presence 〈◊〉 make him slave again to her that first pursued him, he 〈◊〉 in good time to Milan: by which retire he avoided that mishap, wherewith at length this 〈◊〉 woman would have cut him over the shins, even 〈◊〉 his mind was least thereon. Such was the malice and mischief of 〈◊〉 heart, who ceasing to play the whort, applied her whole 〈◊〉 to murder. Gaiazzo being departed from Pavia, this Venus once again assayed the 〈◊〉 of her Ardizzino, and knew not well how to recover him again, because she feared that the other had discovered that enterprise of his murder. But what dare not she attempt, whose mind is slave to sin? The first assays be hard, & the 〈◊〉 in doubt, and conscience gnawing upon the repentance worm, but the same once nuzzled in vice, & rooted in the heart, is more pleasant and gladsome for the wicked to 〈◊〉, than virtue familiar to those that follow her: So that shame separate from before the eyes of youth, riper age nursed in 〈◊〉, their sight is so dazzled, as they can see nothing that either shame or fear can make them blush, which was the cause that this Lady continuing still in her mischief, so much pradised the friends of him, whom she desired to kill, and made such fit excuse by her ambassades, as he was content to speak to her, and to hear her justifications, which were easy enough to do, the judge being not very faulty. She promised and swore that if the fault were proved not to be in him, never man should see Bianca Maria, (so long as she lived) to be other than a friend and slave to the Lord Ardizzino, wholly submitting herself unto his will and pleasure. See how peace was capitulated between the two reconciled lovers, and what were the articles of the same, the Lord of 〈◊〉 entering possession again of the Fort that was revolted, and was long time in the power of another. But when he was seized again, the Lady saw full well, that her recovered friend was not so hard to please, as the other was, and that with him she lived at greater liberty. Continuing then their amorous dance, and Ardizzino having no more care but to rejoice himself nor his Lady, but to cherish and make much of her friend, behold eftsoons the desire of blood and will of murder, newly revived in that new Megaera who incited (I know not with what rage,) 〈◊〉 to have him flain, which refused to kill him, whom at this present, she loved as herself. And he that had inquired the cause thereof, I think none other reason could be rendered, but that a brainless head and reasonless mind, thought most notable murders & mischief were easy to be brought to pass, and so strangely to proceed in disordered lusts, which in fine caused miserable shame & ruin, with the death of herself & him, whom she had stirred to that fact, boldening him by persuasion, to make him believe vice to be virtue, & gloriously commended him in his follies, which you shall hear by reading at length that discourse of this history.  
Bianca Maria seeing herself in full possession of her Ardizzino, purposed to make him the chief executioner of the murder by her intended, upon Gaiazzo, for that doing whereof one night holding him between her arms, after she had long time dallied with him, like a cunning mistress of her Art, in the end weaving & training her treason at large, she said thus unto him: Sir of long time I have been desirous to require a good turn at your hands, but fearing to trouble you, & thereupon to be denied, I thought not to be importunate: & albeit that matter toucheth you, yet did I rather hold my peace than to here refusal of a thing, which yourself ought to proffer, the same concerning you. Madam said her lover, you know that matter need to be heinous & of great importance, that I should deny you, specially if it concern the blemish of your honour. But you say the same doth touch me somewhat nearly, & therefore if ability be in me, spare not to utter it, & I will assay your satisfaction to the uttermost of my power. Sir said she, is the Count of Gaiazzo one of your very friends? I think (answered Valperga) that he is one of that surest friends I have, and in respect of whose friendship, I will hazard myself for him no less than for my brother, being certain that if I have need of him, he will not fail to do that like for me. But wherefore do you ask me that question? I will tell you said that traitress (kissing him so sweetly as ever he felt that like of any woman,) for somuch as you be so deceived of your opinion, and frustrate of your thought, as he is wicked in dissembling that, which maliciously lieth hidden in his heart. And briefly to say that effect. Assure yourself he is the greatest & most mortal enemy that you have in that world. And that you do not think this to be some forged tale, or light invention, or that I hard the report thereof of some not worthy of credit, I will say nothing else but that which himself did tell me, when in your absence he used my company. He swore unto me without declaration of that cause, that he could never be merry or his mind in rest, before he saw you cut in pieces, & shortly would give you such assault, as all that days of your life, you should never have lust or mind on lady's love. And albeit them, I was in choler against you, and that you had ministered some cause & reason of hatred, yet our first love had taken such force in my heart, as I besought him not to do that enterprise, so long as I was in place, where you did remain, because I cannot abide (without death) to see your finger ache, much less your life bereaved from you. 〈◊〉 which tale his ear was deaf, swearing still & protesting that either he would be slain himself, or else dispatch that Count Ardizzino. I 〈◊〉 not (quoth she) ne well could as then advertise you thereof, for the small access that my scruamts had unto your lodging, but now I pray you to take good heed to yourself, & to prevent his devilish purpose: for better it were for you to take his life, than he to kill and murder you, or otherwise work you mischief, & you shall be esteemed the wiser man, & he pronounced a traitor to seek that death of him, that bore him such good will. Do then according to mine abvise, & before he begin, do you kill him, whereby you shall save yourself, and do the part of a valiant Knight besides that satisfying of the mind of her that above all pleasures of the world doth chief desire the same. Experience now will let me prove whether you love me or not, and what you will do for her that loveth you so dearly, who openeth this 〈◊〉 murder, aswell for your safety, as for lengthening of the life of her, which without yours cannot endure. 〈◊〉 this my suit (O friend most dear) and suffer me not in sorrowful plight to be despoiled of thy presence. And wilt thou suffer that I should die, and that yonder 〈◊〉 traitorous and unfaithful varlet should live to laugh me to 〈◊〉? If the Lady had not added those last words to her foolish sermon, perchance she might have provoked Ardizzino to follow her Counsel: but 〈◊〉 her so obstinately bend in her request, and to prosecute the same with such violence, concluding upon her own quarrel, his conscience throbbed, and his mind measured the malice of that woman, with the honesty of him, against whom that tale was told, who knew his friend to be so sound and trusty, as willingly he would not do the thing that should offend him, & therefore would give no credit to false report without good & apparent proof. For which cause he was persuaded that it was a malicious tale made to please his Lady, & devised by some that went about to sow debate between those two friendly Earls. Notwithstanding upon further pause, & not to make her chafe, or force her into rage, he promised the execution of her cursed will, thanking her for her advertisement, and that he would provide for his defence & surety. And to the intent that she might think he went about to perform his promise, he took his leave of her to go to Milan, which he did, not to follow the abominable will of that ravenous mastiff, but to 〈◊〉 the matter to his companion, and direct the same as it deserved. Being arrived at Milan, the 〈◊〉 City of Lombardie, he imparted to Gaiazzo from point to point the discourse of the Countess, and the 〈◊〉 she made unto him, when she had done her tale. O God (said the Lord Sanseverino,) who can beware the traps of such whores, if by thy grace our hands be not forbidden, and our hearts and thoughts guided by thy goodness? Is it possible that the earth can breed a monster more pernicious than this most Pestilent beast? This is truly the grift of her father's usury, and the stench of all her predecessors villainies. It is impossible of a By't to make a good Sparhauk, or Tercel gentle. This 〈◊〉 no doubt is the daughter of a villain, sprung of the basest race amongs the common people, whose mother was more fine than chaste, more subtle than sober. This minion hath forsaken her husband, to erect bloody scaffolds of murder amid the Nobles of Italy. And were it not for the dishonour which I should get to soil my 〈◊〉 in the blood of a beast so corrupt, I would fear her with my teeth in a hundredth thousand pieces. How many times hath she entreated me before: in how many sundry sorts with joined hands hath she besought me to kill the Lord Ardizzino? Ah my companion and right well beloved friend, should you think me to be so traitorous and coward a knave, as that I dare not tell to them to whom I bear displeasure, what lieth in my heart? By the faith of a Gentleman (said Ardizzino,) I would be sorry my mind should 〈◊〉 on such a folly, but I am come to you, that the song might sound no more within mine ears. It behoveth us then, sith God hath kept us hitherto, to avoid the air of that infection, that our brains be not putrefied, and from henceforth to fly those bloodsuckers, the scholars of Venus, for the goodness, profit and honour that youth 〈◊〉 of them. And truly great honour would 〈◊〉 to us to kill one an other for the only pastime and sottish fancy of that minion. I have repent me an hundred times when she first moved me of the devise to kill you, that I did not give her a hundred Poignaladoes with my dagger, to stop the way by that example for all other to attempt such but cherries. For I am well assured that the malice which she beareth you, proceedeth but of the delay you made for satisfaction of her murderous desire, whereof I thank you, and yield myself in all causes to employ my life, and that I have, to do you pleasure. Leave we of that talk (said Gaiazzo) for I have done but my duty, and that which each Noble heart ought to every wight doing wrong to none, but prove to help and do good to all. Which is the true mark and badge of Nobility. Touching that malignant strumpet, her own life shall revenge the wrongs which she hath gone about to 〈◊〉 on us. In mean while let us rejoice, and think the goods and richesses she hath gotten of us, will not cause her bags much to strut and swell. To be short, she hath nothing whereby she may greatly laugh us to scorn, except our good entertainment of her both night and day 〈◊〉 peovoke her. Let other coin the pens henceforth to fill the coffers, for of us so far as I see she is deceived. Thus the two Lords passed for the their time, and in all companies where they came, the greatest part of their talk and communication was of the disordered life of the Countess of Celant: the whole 〈◊〉 rang of the sleights and means she used to trap the Noble men, and of her policies to be rid of them when her thirst was staunched, or diet grew loathsome for want of change. And that which grieved her most, an Italian 〈◊〉 blazed forth her prowess to her great dishonour whereof, the copy I cannot get, and some say that Ardizzino was the author. For it was composed, when he was dispossessed of patience. And if she could have wreaked her will on the Knights, I believe in her rage she would have made an 〈◊〉 of their bones. Of which her two enemies Ardizzino was the worsie, against whom her displeasure was the greater, for that he was the first with whom she entered skirmish. Nothing was more frequent in Pavia, than villainous 〈◊〉 and plays upon the filthy behaviour of the Countess, which made her ashamed to 〈◊〉 out of her gates. In the end she purposed to change the air and place, hoping by that alteration to stay the infamous brute & slander. So she came to Milan, where first she was 〈◊〉 with state of honour, in honest fame of chaste life so long as 〈◊〉 Hermes lived, and then was not pursued to staunch the thirst of those that did ordinarily draw at her fountain.  
About the time that she departed from Pavia, Dom Pietro de Cardone a Sicilian the bastard brother of that Count of Colisano, whose lieutenant he was, & their father slain at that battle of Bicocca with a band of 〈◊〉 arrived at Milan. This Sicilian was about the age of one or two & twenty years, somewhat black of face, but well made and stern of countenance. Whiles the Countess sojourned at Milan, this gentleman fell in love with her, and searched all means he could to make her his friend, & to enjoy her. Who perceiving him to be young, & a novice in skirmishes of love, like a Pigeon of the first coat, determined to lure him, and to serve her turn in that which she purposed to do on those against whom she was outrageously 〈◊〉. Now that better to entice this young Lord unto her fantasy, and to catch him with her bait, if he passed through the street, and saluted her & sighed after the manner of the 〈◊〉 roaming before his Lady, she she wed him an indifferent merry countenance, and suddenly restrained that cheer, to make him 〈◊〉 the pleasure mingled 〈◊〉 the sour of one desire, which he could not tell how to accomplish. And the more faint was his hardiness, for that he was never practised in daltance and service of Lady of so great house or calling, who thinking that Gentlewoman to be one of the principal of Milan, was strangely vere & tormented for her love, in such wise as in that night he could not rest for fantasing and thinking upon her, and in that day pased up & down before the door of her lodging. One evening for his disport he went forth to walk in 〈◊〉 of another gentleman, which well could play upon the Lute, & desired him to give awake unto his Lady, that then for jealousy was hearkening at her window, both the sound of the instrument, and the words of her amorous Knight, where the gentleman song this song:  

THe death with trenchant dart, doth breed in breast such ill,  
As I cannot forget the smart, that thereby riseth stil.  
Yet ne erthelesse I am the ill itself in deed,  
That death with daily dolours deep, within my breast doth breed.   

I am my mistress thrall, and yet I do not know,  
If she bear me good will at all, or if she love or no.  
My wound is made so large, with bitter woe in breast,  
That still my heart prepares a place to lodge a careful guest.   

O Dame that bathe my life and death at thy desire.  
Come 〈◊〉 my mind, where fancies flames doth burn like Ethna fire,  
For wanting thee my life is death and 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,  
And finding favour in thy sight, my days are happy here.   
Then he began to sigh so terribly, as if already she had given sentence and definitive Judgement of his farewell, & disputed with his fellow in such sort, & with opinion so assured of his contempt, as if he had been in love with some one of the infants of Sparke 〈◊〉. 〈◊〉 which cause he begun again very pitifully to sing these verses  

THat God that made my soul, & knows what I have felt,  
Who causeth sighs and sorrows oft, the silly soul to swelled.  
Doth see my torments now, and what I suffer still,  
And understands I taste more griefs, than I can show by skill.   

He doth consent I wots, to my ill hap and woe.  
And hath accorded with the dame that is my pleasant foe,  
To make my boiling breast abound in bitter bliss,  
And so bereave me of my rest, when heart his hope shall miss.   

O what are not the songs, and sighs that lovers have.  
When night and day with sweet desires, they draw unto their grave,  
〈◊〉 grief by friendship grows, where ruth nor 〈◊〉 rains,  
And so like snow against the sun, they melt away with pains.   

My days must finish so, my destiny hath it set,  
And as the candle out I go, before her grace I get.  
Before my suit be heard, my service thoroughly known,  
I shallbe laid in tomb full low, so cold as Marble stone.   

To thee fair Dame I cry, that makes my senses are,  
And plantest peace 〈◊〉, my breast & then makes sudden war.  
Yet at thy pleasure still, thou must my sour make sweet,  
In granting me the favour due, for faithful lovers meet.   

Which favour give me now, and to thy Noble mind,  
I do 〈◊〉 Galley slave, as thou by proof shall find.  
And so thou shalt release my heart from cruel bands,  
And have his freedom at thy will that yields into thy hands.   

So rendering all to thee, the Gods may join us both  
Within one law and league of love, through force of constant troth.  
Then shalt thou mistress be, of life, of limb and all,  
My goods, my gold and honour lo, shall so be at thy call.   
This gentle order of love greatly pleased the Lady, and therefore opened her gate to let in the 〈◊〉 Lord, who seeing himself favoured (beyond all hope) of his Lady, and cheerfully entertained and welcomed with great courtesy, stood so still astonied, as if he had been fallen from the clouds. But she which could teach him good manner, to make him the minister of her mischief, taking him by the hand, made him sit down upon a green bed besides her, and seeing that he was not yet emboldened, for all he was a soldier, she she wed herself more hardy than he, and first assailed him with talk, saying: Sir, I pray you think it not strange, if at this hour of the night, I am bold to cause you enter my house, being of no great acquaintance with you, but by hearing your courteous salutations: And we of this country be somewhat more at liberty than they in those parts from whence you come. Besides it liketh me well (as I am able) to honour strange gentlemen, and to retain them with right good willing heart, sith it pleaseth them to honour me with repair unto my house: so shall you be welcome still when you please to knock at my gate, which at all times I will to be opened for you, with no less good will than if ye were my natural brother, the same with all the things therein it may please you to dispose as if they were your own. Dom Pictro of Cardonne well satisfied and contented with this unlooked for kindness, thanked her very courteously, humbly praying her beside to deign it in good part, if he were so bold to make request of love, and that it was the only thing, which he above all other, desired most, so that if she would receive him for her friend and servant, she should understand him to be a Gentleman, which lightly would promise nothing, except the accomplishment did follow: she that saw a greater onset than she looked for answered him smiling with a very good grace: Sir I have known very many that have vouched slippery promises, and proffered lordly services unto Ladies, the effect whereof if I might once see, I would not think that they could vanish so soon, and consume like smoke. Madam (said the Sicilian) if I fail in any thing whichs you command me, I pray to God never to receive any favour or grace of those Courtesies which I crave. If then (quoth she) you will promise to employ yourself about a business that I have to do when I make request, I will also to accept you for a friend, and grant such secrecy as a faithful lover can desire of his Lady. Dom Pietro which would have offered himself in Sacrifice for her, not knowing her demand, took an oath, and promised her so lightly as madly afterwards he did put the same in proof. Behold the preparatives of the obsequies of their first love, & the guages of a bloody bed: the one was prodigal of her honour, the other the tormenter of his reputation, and neglected the duty and honour of his state, which the 〈◊〉 whereof he came, commanded him to keep.  
Thus all the night he remained with Bianca Maria, who made him so well to like 〈◊〉 good entertainment and imbracementes, as he never was out of her company. And the wary Circe's feigned herself so far in love with him, and used so many toys & gametricks of her filthy science, as he not only esteemed himself the happiest Gentleman of Scicilia, but the most fortunate wight of all the world, and by biubing of her wine was so strangely charmed with the pleasures of his fair mistress, as for her sake he would have taken upon him the whole overthrow of Milan, so well as 〈◊〉 of Cumes to set the City of Rome on fire, if Tiberius Gracchus the seditious, would have given her leave. Such is the manner of wild and foolish youth, as which suffereth itself to be carried beyond the bounds of reason. The same in time past did overthrow many realms, and caused the change of divers Monarchies. And truly unseemly it is for a man to be subdued to the will of a common strumpet. And as it is uncomely to submit himself to such one, so not requisite to an honest & virtuous dame, his married wife. Which unmanly deeds, be 〈◊〉 that divers foolish women commit such filthy facts, with their inspeakable trumperies begiling the simple man, and perchance through to much losing the bridle rains to the lawful wife, the poor man is strangely deceived by some adulterous varlet, which at the wives commandment, when she seeth opportunity, will not shrink to hazard the honour of them both, in such wise as they serve for an example upon a common 〈◊〉 to a whole generation & 〈◊〉. I will not seek far of for examples, being satisfied with the folly of the Bastard of Cardonne, to please the cruelty and malice of that infernal fury the Countess, who having lulled, flattered and be witched with her lovetricks (and peradventure with some charmed drink) her new pigeon, seeing it time to solicit his promise, to be 〈◊〉 of those, which thought no more of her conspiracies and traitorous devices, and, also when that time was come for punishing of her whoredom, and chastising of the breach of faith made to her husband, and of her intended murders, and some of them put in execution, she I say, desirous to see the end of that, which in thought she had devised, upon a day took Dom Pietro aside, and secretly began this oration: I take God to witness (sir) that the request which I pretend presently to make, proceedeth of desire rather that the world should know how justly I seek means to maintain mine bonour, than for desire of revenge, knowing very well, that there is nothing so precious and dear unto a woman, as the preservation of that inestimable jewel, specially in a Lady of that honourable degree which I maintain among the best. And to the intent I seem not tedious with prolixity of words, or use other than direct circumstances before him that hath offered just revenge for the wrongs I have received: Know you sir, that for a certain time I continued at Pavia, keeping a house and train so honest, as the best lords were contented with mine ordinary: It chanced that two honest gentlemen of noble house haunted my palace in like sort, and with the same entertainment, which as you see, I do receive each Gentleman, who being well entreated and honoured of me, in the end forgot themselves so far, as without respect of my state and calling, without regard of the race and family whereof they come, have attempted the slander of my good name, and utter subversion of my renown: and sufficient it was not for them thus to deal with me poor Gentlewoman, without desert (except it were for admitting them to have access unto my house) but also to continue their blasphemies, to mine extreme reproach 〈◊〉 shame: and how true the same is, they that know me can well declare, by reason whereof, the vulgar people 〈◊〉 and ready to wicked reports, have 〈◊〉 such opinion of me, as for that they see me brave and fine in apparel, and specially through the slanderous speech of those gallants, do déene and repute me for a common whore, whereof I crave none other witness than yourself and my conscience. And I swear unto you, that sith I came to Milan, it is you alone that hath vanquished, and made the triumph of my chastity. And if you were absent from this City, I assure you on my faith that I would not tarry here. 〈◊〉 hours. These infamous ruffians I say, these persecutors and termagants of my good name, have chased me out of all good Cities, and made me to be abhorred of all honest company, that weary I am of my life, and loath to live any longer, except speedy redress be 〈◊〉 for revengement of this wrong. Wherefore except I find some noble Champion and valiant 〈◊〉 to requite these villains for their spiteful speech blazed on me in every corner of town and country, and to pay them their reward and hire that I may live at liberty and quiet, sorrow will either consume me or mine own hands shall hasten speedy death. And in 〈◊〉 those words, she began to weep with such abundance of tears streaming down her cheeks and neck of Alabaster hew, as the Sicilian which almost had none other God but the Countess, said unto her: And what is he, that dare molest and slander her that hath in her puissance so many Soldiers and men of war. I make a vow to God, that if I know the names of those two arrant villains, the which have so defamed my Mistress name, the whole 〈◊〉 shall not save their lives, whose carrion bodies I will hew into so many gobbets, as they have membres upon the same. Wherefore Madam (said he, embracing her) I pray you to grieve yourself no more, commit your wrongs to me, only tell me the names of those galants, and afterwards you shall understand what difference I make of word and deed, and if I do not trim and dress them so finely, as hereafter they shall have no need of Barber, never trust me any more. She, as revived from death to life, kissed and embraced him a thousand times, thanking him for his good will, and offering him all that she had. In the end she told him that her enemies were the Counties of Massino and 〈◊〉, which but by their deaths alone were not able to amend and repair her honour. Care not you (said he) for before that the Sun shall spread his Beams twice. xxiiii. hours upon the earth, you shall hear news, and know what I am able to do for the chastisement of those devils. As he promised, he failed not to do: For within a while after, as Ardizzino was going to supper into the City, he was espied by him, that had in company attendant upon him five and twenty men of Arms, which waited for Ardizzino, in a lane on the left hand of the street called Meravegli, leading towards the church of Saint james, through which the Count must needs pass. Who as he was going very pleasantly disposed with his brother and v: or. vi. of his men, was unmediatly assailed on every side, and not knowing what it meant, would have fled, but the ways and passages were stopped round about: to defend himself it availed not, having but their single swords, and amid the troop of such a band that were thoroughly armed, which in a moment had murdered and cut in pieces all that company. And although it was late, yet the Count Ardizzino many times named Dom Pietro, which caused him to be taken, and imprisoned by the Duke of Bourbon, that was fled out of France, and then was lieutenant for the Emperor Charles the fifth in Milan. Whosoever was astoned and amazed with that imprisonment, it is to be thought that the 〈◊〉 was not greatly at his ease and quiet, who needed no torments to force him confess, the fact, for of his own accord 〈◊〉 he disclosed the same but he said he was provoked thereunto by the persuasion of Bianca Maria, telling the whole discourse as you have heard before. She had already intelligence of this chance, & might 〈◊〉 fled and saved herself before the fact (by the confession of Dom Pietro) had been discovered, and attended in some secret place till that stromie time had been calmed & appeased. But God which is a rightful judge would not suffer her wickedness extend any further, sith she having found out such a nimble & wilful executioner the Count of 〈◊〉 could not long have 〈◊〉 alive, who then in good time and happy hour was absent out of the City. So soon as Dom 〈◊〉 had accused the Countess the Lord of 〈◊〉 sent her to prison, and being examined, confessed the whole matter, trusting that her infinite numbered of crowns would have corrupted the Duke, or those that represented his person. But her crowns and her life passed all one way. For the day after her imprisonment she was condemned to lose her head: And in the mean time Dom Pictro was saved, by the diligence and suit of the captains, & was employed in other wars, to whom the Duke gave him, for that he was 〈◊〉 to lose so notable a soldier, and the aid of his brother the Count of Colisano. The Countess having sentence pronounced upon her, but trusting for pardon, she would not prepare herself to die, ne yet by any means crave forgiveness of her faults at the hands of God, until she was conveyed out of the Castle, and led to the common place of execution, where a scaffold was prepared for her to play the last act of her tragedy. Then the miserable Lady began to know herself, and to confess her faults before the people, devoutly praying God, not to have regard to her demerits, ne yet to determine his wrath against her, or enter with her in judgement, for so much as if the same were decreed according to her iniquity, no salvation was to be looked for. She besought the people to pray for her, and the Count of Gaiazzo that was absent, to pardon her malice and treason which she had devised against him.  
Thus miserably and repentantly died the Countess, which in her life refused not to embrace and follow any wickedness, no mischief she accounted evil done, so the same were employed for her pleasure and pastime. A goodly example truly for the youth of our present time, sith the most part indifferently do launch into the gulf of disordered life, suffering themselves to be plunged in the puddles of their own vain conceits, without consideration of the mischiefs that may ensue. If the Lord of Cardonne had not been beloved of his general, into what calamity had he fallen for yielding himself a pray to that bloody woman who had more regard to the light and wilful fancy of her, whom he served like a slave, than to his duty and estimation? And truly those be void of their right wittess, which think themselves beloved of a whore. For their amity endureth no longer, than they suck from their purses and bodies any profit or pleasure. And because almost every day semblable examples be seen, I will leave of this discourse, to take me to a matter, not far more pleasant than this, although founded upon better ground, and established upon love, the first onset of lawful marriage, the success whereof, chanced to murderous end, and yet the same intended by neither of the beloved: As you shall be judge by the continuance of reading of the history ensuing. Bear with me good Ladies (for of you alone I crave this pardon) for introducing the whorish life of this Countess, and her bloody enterprise: because I know right well, that recital of murders and bloody facts wearieth the minds of those that love to live at rest, and wish for fair weather after the troublesome storms of raging seas, no less than the pilot and wise Mariner, having long time endured and cut the perilous straicts of the Ocean sea. And albeit the corruption of our nature be so great, as follies delight us more than earnest matters full of reason and wisdom, yet I think not that our minds be so perverted and divided from frouthe, but sometimes we care and seek to speak more gravely than the country Hind, or more soberly than they, whose lives do bear the mark of infamy, and be to every wight notorious for the only name of their vocation. Sufficeth us that an history, be it never so full of sport and pleasure, do bring with it instruction of our life, and amendment of our manners. And we ought not to be so curious or scrupulous, to reject merry and pleasant devices that be void of harmful talk, or without such glee as may hinder the education of youth proclive and ready to choose that is nought and corrupt. The very books of holy Scriptures do describe unto us persons that be vicious & so detestable as nothing more, whose facts unto the simple may seem unseemly, upon the least recital of the same. And shall we therefore reject the reading, and eschew those holy books? God forbidden, but with diligence to beware, that we do not resemble those that be remembered there for example, for somuch as speedily after sin, ensueth grievous and as sudden punishment. For which cause I have selected these histories, of purpose to advertise youth, how those that follow the way of damnable iniquity, fail not shortly after their great offences, and execution of their outrageous vices, to feel the just and mighty hand of God, who guerdoneth the good for their good works and deeds, and rewardeth the evil for their wickedness and mischese. Now turn we then to the History of two the rarest lovers that ever were, the performance and 〈◊〉 whereof, had it been so prosperous as the beginning, had joyed 〈◊〉 the fruits of their intent, and two noble houses of one City reconciled to perpetual friendship.   

Rhomeo and Julietta  
¶ The goodly History of the true and constant Love between RHOMEO and JULIETTA, the one of whom died of poison, and the other of sorrow and 〈◊〉: wherein be comprised many adventures of love, and other devices touching the same.  
The. xxv. Novel.  
I Am sure, that they which measure the greatness of God's works, according to the capacity of their rude & simple understanding, will not lightly adhibite credit unto this history, so well for the va rietie of strange accidents which be therein described, as for that novelty & strangeness of so rare and perfect amity. But they that have red Pliny, Valerius Maximus, plutarch, and divers other writers, do find, that in old time a great numbered of men and women have died, some of excessive joy, some of overmuch sorrow, and some of other passions: and amongs the same, Love is not the least, which when it seizeth upon any kind & gentle subject, & findeth no resistance to serve for a rampart to 〈◊〉 the 〈◊〉 of his course, by little & little undermineth melteth & 〈◊〉 that virtues of natural powers in such wise as the spirit yielding to the burden, abandoneth that place of life: which is verified by the pitiful and infortunate death of two lovers that surrendered their last breath in one 〈◊〉 at 〈◊〉 a City of Italy, wherein repose yet to this day (with great marvel) the bones and remnants of their late loving bodies: An history no less 〈◊〉 than true. If then particular affection which of good right every man ought to bear to the place where he was borne, do not deceive those that travail, I think they will confess with me, that few Cities in Italy, can surpass the said City of Verona, aswell for the Navigable river called 〈◊〉, which passeth almost through the midst of the same, and thereby a great traffic into Almain, as also for the prospect towards the fertile Mountains and pleasant valeis which do environ that same, with a great numbered of very clear and lively fountains that serve for the ease and commodity of the place. Omitting (besides many other singularities) four bridges, and an infinite numbered of other honourable antiquities, daily apparent unto those, that be to curious to view & look upon them. Which places I have somewhat touched, because this most true History which I purpose hereafter to recite, dependeth thereupon, the memory whereof to this day is so well known at Verona, as unneths their blubbered eyes, be yet dry that saw and beheld that lamentable sight.  
When the Senior Escala was Lord of Verona; there were two families in the City, of far greater fame than the rest, aswell for riches as 〈◊〉: the one called the Montesches, and the other the capelets: but like as most commonly there is discord amongs them which be of semblable degree in honour, even so 〈◊〉 happened a certain 〈◊〉 between them: and for so much as the beginning thereof was unlawful, and of 〈◊〉 foundation, so likewise in process of time it kindled to such flame, as by divers and sundry devices practised on both sides, many lost their lives. The Lord Bartholomeu of Escala, (of whom we have already spoken) being Lord of Verona, and seeing such disorder in his common weal, assayed divers and sundry ways to reconcile those two houses, but all in vain: for their hatred, had taken such root, as that same could not be 〈◊〉 by any wise council or good advise: between whom no other thing could be accorded, but giving over 〈◊〉 and weapon for the time, attending some other season more convenient, and with better leisure to appease the rest. In the time that these things were adoing, one of the family of Montesches called Rhommeo, of the age of. xx. or. xxi. years, the fairest and best conditioned Gentleman that was amongs the Veronian youth, 〈◊〉 in love with a young Gentlewoman of Verona, & in few days was so attached with her comely & good behaviour, as he abandoned all other affairs and business 〈◊〉 serve & honour her. And after many letters, 〈◊〉 and presents, he determined in the end to speak unto her, & to disclose his passions, which he did without any other practice. But she which was virtuously brought up, knew how to make him so good answer to cut of his 〈◊〉 affections: as he had no lust after that time to return any more, and showed herself so austere 〈◊〉 sharp of speech, as she vouchsafed not with one look to behold him. But the more that young Gentleman 〈◊〉 her whist and silent, the more he was inflamed: and 〈◊〉 he had 〈◊〉 certain months in that service without remedy of his grief, he determined in the end to departed Verona, for proof if by change of that place he might alter his affection, and said to himself. What do I mean to love one that is so unkind, and thus doth disdain me, I am all her own, and yet she flieth from me. I can no longer live, except her presence I do enjoy. And she hath no contented mind, but when she is furthest from me. I will then from henceforth 〈◊〉 myself from her, for it may so come to pass by not beholding her, that this fire in me which taketh increase and nourishment by her fair eyes, by little and little may die and quench. But minding to put in proof what he thought, at one instant he was reduced to the contrary, who not knowing whereupon to resolve, passed days and nights in marvelous plaints and Lamentations. For Love 〈◊〉 him so near, and had so well fixed the Gentlewoman's beauty within the Bowels of his heart and mind, as not able to resist, he fainted with 〈◊〉 charge, and consumed by little and little as the Snow against the Sun. Whereof his parents and kindred did marvel greatly, bewailing his misfortune, but above all other one of his companions of riper age and counsel than he, began sharply to rebuke him. For the love that he bore him was so great as he felt his martyrdom, and was partaker of his passion which caused him by oft viewing his friend's disquietness in amorous pangs, to say thus unto him: Rhomeo, I marvel much that thou spendest the best time of thine age, in 〈◊〉 of a thing, from which thou 〈◊〉 thyself despised and 〈◊〉, without respect either to thy prodigal dispense, to thine honour, to thy tears, or to thy miserable life, which be able to move the most constant to pity. Wherefore I pray thee for the Love of our ancient amity, and for thine health sake, that thou wilt learn to be thine own 〈◊〉, and not to 〈◊〉 thy liberty to any so ingrate as she is: for so far as I can conjecture by things that are passed between you, either she is in love with some other, or else determined never to love any. Thou art young, rich in goods and fortune, and more excellent in beauty than any Gentleman in this City: thou art well learned, and the only son of the house 〈◊〉 thou comest. What grief would it 〈◊〉 to thy poor old father & other thy parents, to see thee so drowned in this dungeon of vice, specially at that age wherein thou oughtest rather to put them in some hope of thy virtue? Begin then from henceforth to acknowledge thine error, wherein thou hast hitherto lived, do away that amorous vail or coverture which blindeth thine eyes and letteth thee to follow the right path, wherein thine ancestors have walked: or else if thou do 〈◊〉 thy 〈◊〉 so subject to thine own will, yield thy heart to 〈◊〉 other place, and choose 〈◊〉 Mistress according to thy worthiness, and henceforth do not sow thy pains in a soil so 〈◊〉 whereof thou receivest no fruit: the time approacheth when all the dames of the City shall assemble, where thou mayst behold such one as shall make thee 〈◊〉 thy former griefs. This young Gentleman attentively hearing all the persuading 〈◊〉 of his friend, began somewhat to moderate that heat, & 〈◊〉 acknowledge all the exhortations which he had made to be 〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉 purpose. And then determined to put them in proof, and to be present 〈◊〉 at all the feasts and assemblies of the city, without bearing affection more to one woman than to another. And continued in this manner of life. 〈◊〉. or. 〈◊〉. months, 〈◊〉 by that means to quench the sparks of ancient 〈◊〉. It chanced then within 〈◊〉 days after, about the feast of Christmas, when feasts & banquets most commonly be used, and masks according to the custom frequented: And because that Anthome Capellet was the chief of that family, and one of the most principal Lords of the City, he made a banquet, and for the better solempnization of the same, invited all the noble men and dames, at what time there was the most partof that youth of Verona. The family of the capelets (as we have declared in that beginning of this History) was at variance with the 〈◊〉, which was the cause that none of that family repaired to that banquet, but only the young Gentleman Rhomeo, who came in a 〈◊〉 after supper with certain other young Gentlemen. And after they had remained a certain space with their vizards on, at length they did put of the same, and Rhomeo very shamefast, withdrew himself into a corner of the Hall: but by reason of the light of the torches which burned very bright, he was by & by known and looked upon of the whole company, but specially of the Ladies: for besides his native beauty wherewith nature had adorned him, they marveled at his audacity how he durst presume to enter so secretly into that house of those which had little cause to do him any good. Notwithstanding, the capelets 〈◊〉 their malice, either for the honour of the company, or else for respect of his age, did not misuse him either in word or deed. By means whereof with free liberty he beheld and viewed the ladies at his pleasure, which he did so well, and with grace so good, as there was 〈◊〉 but did very well like the presence of his person. And after he had particularly given judgement upon the excellency of each one, according to his affection, he saw one gentlewoman amongs the rest of surpassing beauty, who (although he had never seen her tofore) pleased him above the rest, & attributed unto her in heart the 〈◊〉 place for all perfection in beauty. And feasting her incessantly with piteous looks, the love which he bore to his first Gentlewoman, was overcomen with this new fire, which took such nourishment and vigour in his heart, as he was able never to quench the same but by death only: as you may understand by one of the strangest discourses, that ever any mortal man devised. The young Rhomeo then feeling himself thus tossed with this new tempest, could not tell what countenance to use, but was so surprised and changed with these last flames, as he had almost forgotten himself, in such wise as he had not audacity to inquire what she was, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 bend himself to feed his eyes with her 〈◊〉, wherewith he moistened the sweet amorous venom, which did so empoison him, as he ended his days: with a kind of most cruel death. The Gentlewoman that did put Rhomeo 〈◊〉 such pain, was called julietta, and was the daughter of Capellet, the master of the house where that assembly was, who as her eyes did roll and wander too and fro, by chance espied Rhomeo, which unto her seemed to be the goodliest Gentleman that ever she saw. And Love which lay in wait never until that time, assailing the tender heart of that young Gentlewoman, touched her so at the quick, as for any resistance she could make, was not able to defend his forces. and then began to set at nought the royalties of the feast, and felt no pleasure in her heart, but when she had a glimpse by throwing or receiving some sight or look of Rhomeo. And after they had contented each others troubled heart with millions of amorous looks which oftentimes interchangeably encountered and met together, the burning beams gave sufficient testimony of loves privy onsettes. Love having made the hearts breach of those two lovers, as they two sought means to speak together, Fortune offered them a very 〈◊〉 and apt occasion. A certain lord of that troop and company took julietta by the hand to dance, wherein she behaved herself so well, and with so excellent grace, as she wan that day the price of honour from all the maidens of Verona. Rhomeo, having foreseen the place whereunto she minded to retire, approached the same, and so discreetly used the matter, as he found the means at her return to sit beside her. julietta when the dance was finished, returned to the very place where she was set before, and was placed between Rhomeo & 〈◊〉 other Gentleman called Mercutio, which was a 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 gentleman, very well beloved of all men, and by 〈◊〉 of his pleasant & courteous behaviour was in all 〈◊〉 well entertained. Mercutio that was of audacity among maidens, as a lion is among lambs, seized inçontinently upon the hand of julietta, whose hands wontedly were so cold both in winter & summer as the mountain ye, although the fires heat did warm the same. Rhomeo which sat upon the left side of julietta, seeing that Mercutio held her by the right hand, took her by the other, that he might not be deceived of his purpose, & straining the same a little, he felt himself so priest with that new favour, as he remained mute, not able to answer: But she perceiving by his change of colour, that the fault proceeded of very vehement love, desiring to speak unto him, turned herself towards him, & with 〈◊〉 voice joined with virginal shamefastness, intermeddled with a certain bashfulness, said to him: blessed 〈◊〉 the hour of your near approach: but minding to proceed in further talk, love had so closed up her mouth, as she was not able to end her tale. Whereunto the young gentleman all ravished with joy and contentation, sighing, asked her what was the cause of that right fortunate blessing. julietta somewhat more emboldened with pitiful look and smiling countenance said unto him: Sir, do not marvel if I do bless your coming hither, because sir Mercutio a good time with frosty hand hath wholly frozen mine, and you of your courtesy have warmed the same again. Whereunto immediately Rhomeo replied: Madam if the heavens have been so favourable to employ 〈◊〉 to do you some agreeable service being repaired 〈◊〉 by chance amongs other Gentlemen, I esteem the same well bestowed, craving no greater benefit for satisfaction of all my contentations received in this world, than to serve, obey and honour you so long as my life doth last, as experience shall yield more ample proof when it shall please you to give further assay. Moreover, if you have received any heat by touch of my hand, you may be well assured that those flames be dead in respect of the lively sparks and violent fire which sorteth from your fair eyes, which fire hath so fiercely inflamed all the most sensible parts of my body, as if I be not succoured by the favour of your divine graces, I do attend the time to be consumed to dust. Scarce had he made an end of those last words, but the dance of the Torch was at an end. Whereby julietta which wholly burnt with love, straightly clasping her hand with his, had no leisure to make other answer, but softly thus to say: My dear friend, I know not what other assured witness you desire of Love, but that I let you understand that you be no more your own, than I am yours, being ready and disposed to obey you so far as honour shall permit, beseeching you for the present time to content yourself with this answer, until some other season meeter to Communicate more secretly of our affairs. Rhomeo seeing himself pressed to part with the company, and for that he knew not by what means he might see her again that was his life and death, demanded of one of his friends what she was, who made answer that she was the daughter of Capellet, the Lord of the house, and master of that days feast (who wroth beyond measure that fortune had sent him to so dangerous a place, thought it impossible to bring to end his enterprise begun.) julietta covetous on the other 〈◊〉, to know what young Gentleman he was which had so courteously intertaigned her that night, and of whom she felt the new wound in her heart, called an old Gentlewoman of honour which had nurssed her and brought her up, unto whom she said, leaning upon her shoulder: Mother, what two young Gentlemen be they which first go forth with the two torches before them. Unto whom the old Gentlewoman told the name of the houses whereof they came. Then she asked her again, what young Gentleman is that which holdeth the visard in his hand, with the Damask cloak about him. It is (quoth she) Rhomeo Montesche, the son of your Father's capital enemy and deadly 〈◊〉 to all your kin. But the maiden at the only name of Montesche was altogether amazed, despairing for ever to attain to husband her great affectioned friend Rhomeo, for the ancient hatreds between those two families. Nevertheless she knew so well 〈◊〉 to dissemble her grief and discontented mind, as the old Gentlewoman perceived nothing, who then began to persuade her to retire into her chamber: whom she obeyed: and being in her bed, thinking to take her wont rest, a great 〈◊〉 of divers thoughts began to environ & trouble her mind, in such wise as she was not able to close her eyes, but turning here & there, fantasied diverse things in her thought, sometimes purposed to cut of the whole attempt of that amorous practice, sometimes to continue the same. Thus was the poor pucell 〈◊〉 with two contraries, the one comforted her to pursue her intent, the other proposed the imminent peril whereunto undiscreetly she headlong threw herself. And after she had wandered of long time in this amorous Labyrinth, she knew not whereupon to resolve, but wept incessantly, and accused herself, saying: Ah Caitiff and miserable creature, from whence do rise these unaccustomed travails which I 〈◊〉 in mind, provoking me to lose my rest: but infortunate wretch, what do I know if that young Gentleman do love me as he sayeth. It may be under the vail of sugared words he goeth about to steal away mine honour, to be revenged of my Parents which have offended his, and by that means to my everlasting reproach to make me the fable of the Verona people. Afterwards suddenly as she condemned that which she suspected in the beginning, said: Is it possible that under such beauty and rare comeliness, disloyalty and Treason may have their siege and lodging? If it be true that the face is the faithful messenger of the minds conceit, I may be assured that he doth love me: for I marked so many changed colours in his face in time of his talk with me, and saw him so transported and besides himself, as I cannot wish any other more certain luck of love, wherein I will persist immutable to the 〈◊〉 gasp of life, to the intent I may have him to be my husband. For it may so come to pass, as this new alliance shall 〈◊〉 a perpetual peace and amity between his house and mine. Arresting then upon this determination still, as she saw Rhomeo passing before her Father's gate, she showed herself with merry countenance, and 〈◊〉 him so with look of eye, until she had lost his sight. And continuing this manner of life for certain days, Rhomeo not able to content himself with looks, daily did behold and mark the situation of the house, and one day amongs others he espied julietta at her chamber window, bounding upon a narrow lane, right over against which Chamber he had a garden, which was the cause that Rhomeo fearing discovery of their love, began then in the day time to pass no more before the gate, but so soon as the night with his brown mantel had covered the earth, he walked alone up and down that little street. And after he had been there many times, missing the chiefest cause of his coming, julietta impatient of her evil, one night repaired to her 〈◊〉, and perceived through the brightness of the Moon her friend Rhomeo hard under her window, no less attended for, than he himself was weighting. Then she secretly with tears in her eyes, and with voice interrupted by sighs, said: signor Rhomeo, me think that you hazard your person too much, and commit the same into great danger at this time of the night, to protrude yourself to the mercy of them which mean you little good. Who if they had taken you, would have cut you in pieces, and mine honour (which I esteem dearer than my life,) hindered & suspected for ever. Madam answered Rhomeo, my life is in the hand of God, who only can dispose the same: 〈◊〉 if any man had sought means to bereave me of life, I should (in the presence of you) have made him known what mine ability had 〈◊〉 to defend that 〈◊〉. Notwithstanding life is not so dear, and of 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 ̄ unto me, but that I could 〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉 the same for your sake: and although my 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 been so great, as to be dispatched in that place, yet 〈◊〉 I no cause to be sorry therefore, except it had been by losing of means, the same to forego, the way how to make you understand the good will and duty which I bear you: desiring not to conserve the same for any commodity that I hope to have thereby, nor for any other respect, but only to love, serve, and honour you, so 〈◊〉 as breath shall remain in 〈◊〉. So soon as he had made an end of his talk, love and pity began to seize upon the heart of julictta, and leaning her head upon her 〈◊〉, having her face all besprent with tears, she said 〈◊〉 Rhomeo: Sir Rhomeo, I pray you not to renew those things again: for the only memory of such 〈◊〉, maketh me to counterpoise between death & life, my heart being so united with 〈◊〉, as you cannot receive the least injury in this world, wherein I shall not be so great a partaker as yourself: beseeching you for conclusion, that if you desire your own health & 〈◊〉, to declare unto me in few words, what your determination is to attain: for if you covet any other secret thing at my hands, more than mine honour can well allow, you are marvelously deceived: but if your desire be godly, and that the friendship which you 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 to bear me, be founded upon virtue, and to be concluded by marriage, receiving me for your wife & lawful spouse, you shall have such part in me, as 〈◊〉 any regard to the obedience & reverence that I own to my parents, or to the ancient enmity of our family, 〈◊〉 will make you the only Lord & master over me, and of all things that I possess, being priest and ready in all points to follow your commandment. But if your intent be otherwise, and think to reap the fruit of my virginity, under pretence of wanton 〈◊〉, you be greatly deceived, and do pray you to avoid and suffer me from henceforth to live in rest amongs mine equals. Rhomeo which looked for none other thing holding up his hands to the heavens, with incredible joy and contentation, answered: Madam for somuch as it hath pleased you to do me that honour to accept me for such a one, I accord and consent to your request, and do offer unto you the best part of my heart, which shall remain with you for guage & sure testimony of my saying, until such time as God shall give me leave to make you the entire owner and possessor of the same. And to that intent I may begin mine enterprise, to morrow I will to Friar Laurence for 〈◊〉 the same, who besides that he is my ghostly Father, is accustomed to give me instruction in all my other secret affairs, and fail not (if you please) to meet me again in this place at this very hour, to the intent I may give you to understand the devise between him and me, which she liked very well, & ended their talk for that time. Rhomeo receiving none other favour at her hands for that night, but only words. This friar Laurence of whom hereafter we shall make more ample mention, was an ancient Doctor of Divinity, of the order of the friars Minors, who besides the happy profession which he had made in study of holy writ, was very skilful in Philosophy, and a great searcher of nature secrets, & exceeding famous in Magic knowledge, and other hidden and secret sciences, which nothing diminished his reputation, because he did not abuse the same. And this Friar through his virtue and pietic, had so well won the citizens hearts of 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 he was almost the confessor to them all, and of all men generally reverenced and beloved: and many times for his great prudence was called by the lords of the City, to the weighty affairs of the same. And amongs other he was greatly favoured by the lord of 〈◊〉, that time the principal governor of Verona, and of all that family of 〈◊〉, and of the capelets, and of many other. The young Rhomeo (as we have already declared) from his tender age, bore a certain particle amity to friar Laurence, & departed to him his secrets, by means whereof so soon as he was gone from 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 strait to the friars Franciscans, where from point to point he discoursed the success of his love to that good father, & the conclusion of the marriage between him & 〈◊〉, adding upon the end of talk, that he would rather choose shameful death, 〈◊〉 to fail her of his promise. To whom the good 〈◊〉 after he had debated divers matters, & proposed 〈◊〉 the inconveniences of that secret marriage, exhorted him to more mature deliberation of the same: notwithstanding, all the alleged persuasions were not able to revoke his promise. Wherefore the Friar vanquished with his stubborness, and also forecasting in his mind that the marriage might be some 〈◊〉 of reconciliation of those two houses, in the end agreed to his request, 〈◊〉 him, that he might have one delayed day for 〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉 what was best to be done. But if Rhomeo for his part was careful to provide for his affairs, julietta like wise did her 〈◊〉. For seeing that 〈◊〉 had none about her to discover her passions, she devised to impart the whole to her nurse which lay in her 〈◊〉, appointed to 〈◊〉 upon her, to whom she committed the entire secrets of the love between Rhomeo & her. And although that old woman in the beginning resisted In hetta her intent, yet in that end she knew so well how to persuade and win her, that she promised in all that she was able to do, to be at her commandment. And then she sent her with all diligence to speak to Rhomeo, and to know of him by what means they might be married, & that he would 〈◊〉 her to understand the determination between friar Laurence & him. Whom 〈◊〉 answered, how the 〈◊〉 day wherein he had informed friar Laurence of the matter, the said friar deferred answer until the next, which was the very same, and that it was not passed one hour 〈◊〉 he returned with final resolution, & that Friar Laurence & he had devised, that she the Saturday following, should desire leave of her mother to go to confession, & to repair to the church of saint Francis, where in a certain chapel secretly they should be married, praying her in any wise not to fail to be there. Which thing she brought to pass with such discretion, as her mother agreed to her 〈◊〉: and accompanied only with her governess, and a young maiden, she repaired thither at the determined day & time. And so soon as she was entered that church, called for the good 〈◊〉 friar Laurence, unto whom answer was made that he was in the shriving chapel, & 〈◊〉 advertisement was given him of her coming. So soon as friar Laurence was certified of julietta, he went into the body of the Church, & willed the old woman and young 〈◊〉 to go hear service, and that when he had heard the confession of julietta, he would send for them again to wait upon her. julietta being entered a little Cell with Friar Laurence, he 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 the door as he was wont to do, where Rhomeo and he had been together fast shut in, the space of one whole hour before. Then Friar Laurence after that he had 〈◊〉 them, said to julietta: Daughter, as Rhomeo here present hath certified me, you be agreed and contented to take him to husband, and he like wise you 〈◊〉 his espouse and wife. Do you now still persist and continue in that mind? The Lovers answered that they desired none other thing. The Friar seeing their conformed and agreeable wills, after he had discoursed somewhat upon the 〈◊〉 of marriage dignity, pronounced the usual words of the Church, and 〈◊〉 having received the ring from Rhomeo, they rose 〈◊〉 before the Friar, who said unto them: If you have any other thing to confer together, do the same with speed: for I purpose that Rhomeo shall go from hence so secretly as he can. Rhomeo sorry to go from julietta said secretly unto her, that she should send unto him after dinner the old woman, and that he 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 to be made a corded ladder the same evening, thereby to climb up to her chamber window, where at more leisure they would devise of their affairs. Things determined between them, either of them retired to their house with incredible contentation, attending the happy hour for consummation of their marriage. When Rhomeo was come home to his house, he declared wholly what had passed between him and julietta, unto a servant of his called Pietro, whose 〈◊〉 he had so greatly tried, as he durst have trusted him with his life, and commanded him with expedition to provide a ladder of cords with. 〈◊〉. strong hooks of iron fastened to both ends, which he easily did, because they were much used in Italy. julietta did not forget in the evening about five of the clock, to send the old woman to Rhomeo, who having prepared all things necessary, caused the ladder to be delivered unto her, and prayed her to require julietta the same evening not fail to be at the accustomed place. But if this journey 〈◊〉 long to these two passioned lovers, let other judge that have at other times assayed the like: for every minute of an hour seemed to them a thousand years, so that if they had had power to command the heavens (as 〈◊〉 did the 〈◊〉) the earth had incontinently been shadowed with darkest clouds. The appointed hour come, Rhomeo put on the most sumptuous apparel he had, and conducted by good fortune near to the place where his heart took life, was so fully determined of his purpose, as easily he 〈◊〉 up the garden wall. Being arrived hard to the window, he perceived julietta, who had already so well fastened the corded ladder to draw him up, as without any danger at all he entered her chamber, which was so clear as the day, by reason of the tapers of virgin 〈◊〉, which julietta had caused to be lighted, that she might the better behold her Rhomeo. 〈◊〉 for her part, was but in her night kerchief: who so soon as she perceived him, coled him about the neck, and after she had kissed & rekissed him a million of times, began to embrace him between her arms, having no power to speak unto him, but by sighs only, holding her mouth close against his, and being in this trance beheld him with pitiful eye, wiche made him to live and die together. And afterwards somewhat come to herself, she said with sighs deeply fetched from the bottom of her heart: Ah Rhomeo, the exampler of all virtue and gentleness, you be most heartily welcome to this place, wherein for your lack and absence, and for fear of your person, I have gushed forth so many tears, as the spring is almost dry: but now that I hold you between my arms, let death and fortune do what they 〈◊〉, for I count myself more than satisfied of all my sorrows 〈◊〉, by the favour alone of your presence: whom Rhomeo with weeping eye, giving over silence answered: Madam 〈◊〉 as I never received so much of fortune's grace, as to make you feel by lively experience what power you had over me, & the torment every minute of that day sustained for your occasion, I do assure you the lest 〈◊〉 that vexeth me for your absence, is a thousand times more painful than death, which long time or this had cut of that thread of my life, if the hope of this happy 〈◊〉 had not been, which paying me now the just tribute of 〈◊〉 weepings past, maketh me better content & more glad, than if the whole world were at my 〈◊〉, beseeching you (without further memory of ancient grief) to take advise in time to come how we may content our passionate hearts, & to sort our affairs with such wisdom and discretion as our enemies without advantage may let us continue the remnant of our days in rest & quiet. And as julietta was about to make answer, the old woman came in the mean time, and said unto them: He that wasteth time in talk, recevereth the same to late. But for so much as either of you hath endured such mutual pains, behold (quoth she) a camp which I have made ready, (showing them the field 〈◊〉 which she had prepared and furnished,) whereunto they 〈◊〉 agreed, and being then between the sheeets in priny bed, after they had gladded and cherished themselves with all kind of delicate 〈◊〉 which love was able to devise, Rhomeo unloosing the holy lines of virginity, took possession of the place, which was not yet besieged with such joy and contentation as they can judge which have assayed like delights. Their marriage thus 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 perceiving the morning make too hasty approach, took his leave, making promise that he would not fail within a day or two to resort again to the place by like means and semblable time, until Fortune had provided sure occasion unfearfully to manifest their marriage to that whole world. And thus a month or twain, they continued their joyful minds to their incredible satisfaction, until Lady fortune envious of their 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 her 〈◊〉 to tumble them into such a bottomless pit, as they paid her usury for their pleasures past, by a certain most 〈◊〉 and pitiful death, as you shall understand hereafter by the discourse that followeth. Now as we have before declared, the capelets & the Montesches were not so well reconciled by the Lord of Verona, but that there rested in them such sparks of ancient displeasures, as either parts waited but for some light occasion to draw togethers, which they did in the Easter holy days, (as bloody men commonly be most willingly disposed after a good time to commit some nefarious deed) besides the gate of Boursarie leading to the old castle of Verona, 〈◊〉 troop of the 〈◊〉 rencountred with certain of the Montesches, and without other words began to set upon them. And the capelets had for chief of their glorious 〈◊〉 one called Thibault cousin germane to julietta, a young man strongly made, and of good experience in arms, who exhorted his Companions with stout stomachs to repress the boldness of the 〈◊〉, that there should from that time forth no memory of them be left at all. And the rumour of this fray was increased throughout all the corners of Verona, that succour should come from all parts of the City to depart the same. Whereof Rhomeo advertised, who walked alonges the City with certain of his companions, hasted him speedily to the place where the slaughter of his Parents and allies were committed: and after he had well advised & beholden many wounded & hurt on both sides, he said to his companions: My friends let us part them, for they be so fleshed one upon an other, as they will all be 〈◊〉 to pieces before the game be done. And saying so, 〈◊〉 thrust himself amids the troop, and did no more but part the blows on either side, crying upon them aloud. My friends, no more it is time henceforth that our quarrel cease. For besides the provocation of God's just wrath, our two families be slanderous to the whole world, and cause this common wealth to grow unto disorder. But they were so eager and furious one against the other, as they gave no audience to Rhomeo his council, and bend themselves to kill, dismember, and tear each other in pieces. And the fight was so cruel and outrageous between them, as they which looked on, were amazed to see them endure those blows, for the ground was all covered with arms, legs, thighs, and blood, wherein no sign of cowardness appeared, and maintained their fight so long, that none was able to judge who had the better, until that Thibault cousin to julietta inflamed with ire and rage, turned towards Rhomeo, thinking with a foin to run him through. But he was so well armed and defended with a privy coat which he wore ordinarily for the doubt he had of the capelets, as the prick rebounded: unto whom Rhomeo made answer: Thibault thou mayst know by the patience which I have had until this present time, that I came not hither to fight with thee or thine, but to 〈◊〉 peace and atonement between us, and if thou thinkest that for default of courage I have failed mine endeavour, thou dost great wrong to my reputation. And impute this my sufferance to some other particular respect, rather than to want of stomach. Wherefore abuse me not, but be content with this great effusion of blood, and murders already committed, and provoke me not I beseech thee to pass the bounds of my good will & mind. Ah Traitor, said Thibault, thou thinkest to save thyself by the plot of thy pleasant tongue, but see that thou defend thyself, else presently I will make thee feel that thy tongue shall not guard thy corpse, nor yet be the buckler to defend the same from present death. And saying so, he gave him a blow with such fury, as had not other warded the same, he had cut of his head from his shoulders. And the one was no readier to lend, but the other incontinently was able to pay again, for he being not only wroth with the blow that he had received, but offended with the injury which the other had done, began to pursue his enemy with such courage and vivacity, as at the third blow with his sword, he caused him to fall backward stark dead upon the ground, with a prick vehemently thrust into his throat, which he followed till his sword appeared through the hinder part of the same, by reason whereof the conflict ceased. For besides that Thibault was the chief of his company, he was also borne of one of the Noblest houses within the City, which caused the potestate to assemble his Soldiers with diligence for the apprehension and imprisonment of Rhomeo, who seeing ill fortune at hand, in secret wise conveyed himself to Friar Laurence, at the Friars franciscans. And the Friar understanding of his fact, kept him in a certain secret place of his Covent, until Fortune did otherwise provide for his safe going abroad. The brute spread throughout the City, of this chance done upon the Lord Thibault, the capelets in mourning weeds caused the dead body to be carried before the signory of Verona, so well to move them to pity, as to demand justice for the murder: before whom came also the Montesches, declaring the innocency of Rhomeo, and the wilful assault of the other. The Counsel assembled & witnesses heard on both parts, a strait commandment was given by the Lord of the City to give over their weapons, and touching the offence of Rhomeo because he had killed the other in his own 〈◊〉, he was banished Verona for 〈◊〉. This common misfortune published throughout the City, was generally sorrowed and lamented. Some complained the death of the Lord Thibault, so well for his dexterity in arms, as for the hope of his great good service in time to come, if he had not been prevented by such cruel death. Other bewailed (specially the Ladies and Gentlewomen) the overthrow of young Rhomeo,) who besides his beauty & good grace wherewith he was enriched, had a certain natural allurement, by virtue whereof he drew unto him the hearts of each man, like as the stony Adamant doth the cankered iron, in such wise as the whole nation and people of Verona lamented his mischance: but above all, infortunate julietta, who advertised both of the death of her cousin Thibault, and of the banishment of her husband, made the air sound with infinite numbered of mournful plaints and miserable lamentations. Then feeling herself too much outraged with extreme passion, she went into her chamber, and overcome with sorrow threw herself upon her bed, where she began to reinforce her dolour after so strange fashion, as the most constant would have been moved to pity. Then like one out of her wits, she gazed here and there, and by Fortune beholding the window whereat Rhomeo was wont to enter into her chamber, cried out: Oh unhappy window, Oh entry most unlucky, wherein were woven the bitter toil of my former missehaps, if by thy means I have received at other times some 〈◊〉 pleasure or transitory contentation, thou now makest me pay a tribute so rigorous and painful, as my tender body not able any longer to support that same, shall henceforth open the gate to that life where the ghost discharged from this mortal burden, shall seek in some place else more assured rest. Ah Rhomeo, Rhomeo, when acquaintance first began between us, and I reclined mine ears unto thy suborned promises, confirmed with so many oaths, I would never have believed that in place of our continued amity, and in appeasing of the hatred of our houses, thou 〈◊〉 dost have sought occasion to break the same by an act so vituperious and shameful, whereby thy fame shall be spotted for ever, and I miserable wretch desolate of spouse and companion. But if thou hadst been so greedy after the capelets blood, wherefore didst thou spare the dear blood of mine own heart when so many times, and in such secret place the same was at the mercy of thy cruel hands? The victory which thou shouldest have gotten over me, had it not been glorious enough for thine ambitious mind, but for more triumphant solemnity to be crowned with the 〈◊〉 of my dearest kinsman? Now get thee hence therefore into sonte other place to deceive some other, so unhappy as myself. Never come again in place where I am, for no excuse shall hereafter take hold to assuage mine offended mind. In the mean time I shall lament the rest of my heavy life, with such store of tears, as my body dried up from all humidity, shall shortly search relief in earth. And having made an end of those her words, her heart was so grievously strained, as she could neither weep nor speak, and stood so 〈◊〉, as if she had been in a trance. Then being somewhat come again unto herself, with 〈◊〉 voice she said: Ah 〈◊〉 tongue of other men's 〈◊〉, how 〈◊〉 thou so 〈◊〉 to speak of him whom his very enemies do commend and praise? How presumest thou to impute the blame upon Rhomeo, whose unguiltiness and innocent deed every man alloweth? Where from henceforth shall be his refuge? sith she which ought to be the only bulwark, and assured rampire of his distress, doth pursue & defame him? Receive, receive then Rhomeo, the satisfaction of mine ingratitude by that sacrifice which I shall make of my proper life, and so the fault which I have committed against thy loyalty, shallbe made open to the world, thou being revenged & myself punished. And thinking to use some further talk, all the powers of her body failed her with signs of present death. But the good old woman which could not imagine that cause of julietta her long absence, doubted very much that she suffered some passion, and sought her up and down in every place within her father's palace, until at length she found her lying a long upon her bed, all the outward parts of her body so cold as Marble. But the good old woman which thought her to be dead, began to cry like one out of her wits, saying: Ah dear daughter and 〈◊〉, how much doth thy death now grieve me at the very heart? And as she was seeling all the parts of her body, she perceived some spark of life to be yet within the same, which caused her to call her many times by her name, till at length she brought her out of her sound. Then she said unto her: Why julietta mine own dear darling, what mean you by this turmoiling of yourself? I can not tell from whence this your behaviour & that immoderate heaviness do proceed, but well I wot that within this hour I thought to have accompanied you to the grave. Alas good mother (answered woeful julietta) do you not most evidently perceive and see what just cause I have to sorrow and complain, losing at one instant two persons of the world which were unto me most dear? Me think answered the good woman, that it is not seemly for a Gentlewoman of your degree to fall into such extremity. For in time of tribulation 〈◊〉 should most prevail. And if the Lord Thibault be dead, do you think to get him again by tears? What is he that doth not accuse his overmuch presumption? would you that Rhomeo had done that wrong to him, & his house, to suffer himself outraged & assailed by one, to whom in manhood and prowess he is not inferior? Sufficeth you that Rhomeo is alive, and his affairs in such estate, who in time may be called home again from banishment, for he is a great lord, and as you know well allied and favoured of all men: wherefore arm yourself from henceforth with patience. For albeit that Fortune doth 〈◊〉 him from you for a time, yet sure I am, that hereafter she will restore him unto you again with greater joy and contentation than before. And to the end that we be better assured in what state he is, if you will promise me to give over your heaviness, I will to day know of Friar Laurence whether he is gone. To which request julietta agreed, and then the good woman repaired to S. Francis, where she found Friar Laurence, who told her that the same night Rhomeo would not fail at his accustomed hour to visit julietta, and there to do her to understand what he purposed to do in time to come. This journey than fared like the voyages of mariners, who after they have been tossed by great & troublous tempest, seeing some Sun 〈◊〉 pierce the heavens to lighten the land, assure themselves again, and thinking to have avoided shipwreck, and suddenly the seas begin to swell, the waves do roar, with such vehemence and noise, as if they were fallen again into greater danger than before. The assigned hour come, Rhomeo failed not according to his promise to be in his Garden, where he found his furniture priest to mount the chamber of julietta, who with displayed arms, began so straightly to embrace him, as it seemed that the soul would have abandoned her body. And they two more than a large quarter of an hour were in such agony, as they were not able to pronounce one word, and wetting each others face fast closed together, the tears trickeled down in such abundance, as they seemed to be thoroughly bathed therein. Which Rhomeo perceiving, and thinking to stay those immoderate tears, said unto her: Mine own dearest friend julietta, I am not now determined to recite the particulars of the strange haps of frail and inconstaunte Fortune, who in a 〈◊〉 hoystethe a man up to the highest degree of her wheel, and by and by, in less space than in the twynckeling of an eye, she throweth him down again so low, as more misery is prepared for him in one day, than favour in one hundred years: which I now prove, and have experience in myself, which have been nourished delicately amongs my friends, and maintained in such prosperous state, as you do little know, (hoping for the full perfection of my felicity) by means of our marriage to have reconciled our parents and friends; and to conduct the residue of my life, according to the scope and lot determined by almighty GOD: and nevertheless all mine enterprises be put back, and my purposes turned clean contrary, in such wise as from henceforth I must wander like a vagabond through diverse 〈◊〉, and sequestrate myself from my friends, without assured place of mine abode, which I desire to let you weet, to the intent you may be exhorted, in time to come, patiently to bear so well mine absence, as that which it shall please God to appoint. But julietta, all affrighted with tears and mortal agonies, woulds not suffer him to pass any further, but interrupting his purpose, said unto him: Rhomeo, how canst thou be so hard hearted and void of all pity, to leave me here alone, besieged with so many deadly miseries? There is neither hour nor Minute, wherein Death doth not appear a thousand times before me: and yet my mishap is such, as I can not die, and therefore do manyfestelye perceive, that the same Death preserveth my life, of purpose to delight in my griefs, and triumph over my evils. And thou like the minister and tyrant of her cruelty, dost make no conscience (for ought that I can see) having achieved the sum of thy desires and pleasures on me, to abandon and forsake me. Whereby I well perceive, that all the laws of Amity are dead and utterly extinguished, for so much as he, in whom I had greatest hope and confidence, and for whose sake I am become an enemy to myself, doth disdain and contemn me. No no Rhomeo, thou must fully resolve thyself upon one of these. 〈◊〉. points, either to see me incontinently thrown down headlong from this high window after thee: or else to suffer me to accompany thee into that country or place whither Fortune shall guide thee: for my heart is so much transformed into thine, that so soon as I shall understand of thy departure, presently my life will departed this woeful body: the continuance whereof I do not desire for any other purpose, but only to delight myself in thy presence, and to be partaker of thy missefortunes. And therefore if ever there lodged any pity in the heart of Gentleman, I beseech 〈◊〉 Rhomeo with all humility, that it may now find place in thee, and that thou wilt vouchsafe to receive me 〈◊〉; thy servant, and the faithful companion of thy 〈◊〉. And if thou think that thou canst not conveniently receive me in the estate and habit of a wife, who shall let me to change mine apparel? Shall I be the first that have used like shifts, to escape the tyranny of parents? Dost thou doubt that my service will not be so good unto thee as that of Petre thy servant? Will my loyalty and fidelity be less than his? My beauty which at other times thou hast so greatly commended, is it not esteemed of thee? My tears, my love, and the ancient pleasures and delights that you have taken in me, shall they be in oblivion? Rhomeo seeing 〈◊〉 in these alterations, fearing that worse inconvenience would chance, took her again between his arms, and kissing her amorously, said: julietta, the only mistress of my heart, I pray thee in the name of God, and for the fervent love which thou bearest unto me, to 〈◊〉 & do away those vain cogitations, except 〈◊〉 mean to seek & hazard the destruction of us both: for if thou persever in this determination, there is no remedy but we must both perish: for so soon as thine 〈◊〉 shall be known, thy father will make such earnest pursuit after us, that we can not choose but be descried & taken, and in the end cruelly punished. I as a 〈◊〉 and stealer of thee, and thou as a disobedient daughter to her father: and so in stead of pleasant and quiet life, our days shallbe abridged by most shameful death. But if thou wilt recline thyself to reason, (the right rule of human life,) and for the time abandon our mutual delights, I will take such order in the time of my banishment, as within. 〈◊〉. or. 〈◊〉. months without any delay, I shallbe revoked home again. But if it fall out otherwise (as I trust not,) how so ever it hap, I will come again unto thee, and with the help of my friends will fetch thee from Verona by strong hand, not in counterfeit apparel as a stranger, but like my spouse and perpetual companion. In the mean time quiet yourself, and be sure that nothing else but death shall divide and put us asunder. The reasons of Rhomeo so much prevailed with julietta, as she made him this answer: My dear friend I will do nothing contrary to your will and pleasure. And to what place so ever you repair, my heart shall be your own, in like sort as you have given yours to be mine. In the mean while I pray you not to fail oftentimes to advertise me by Friar Laurence, in what state your affairs be, and specially of the place of your abode. Thus these two poor lovers passed the night together, until the day began to appear, which did separate them, to their extreme sorrow and grief. Rhomeo having taken leave of julietta, went to S. Frances, and after he had advertised Friar Laurence of his affairs, departed from Verona in the habit of a Merchant stranger, and used such expedition, as without hurt he arrived at Mantona, (accompanied only with Petre his servant, whom he hastily sent back again to Verona, to serve his Father) where he took a house: and living in honourable company, assayed certain months to put away the grief which so tormented him. But during the time of his absence, miserable julietta could not so cloak her sorrow, but that through the evil colour of her face, her inward passion was descried. By reason whereof her mother, who heard her oftentimes sighing, and incessantly complaining, could not forbear to say unto her: Daughter if you continue long after this sort, you will hasten the death of your good Father and me, who love you so dearly as our own lives: wherefore henceforth moderate your heaviness, and endeavour yourself to be merry: think no more upon the death of your cousin Thibault, whom (sith it pleasend God to call away) do you think to revoke with tears, and to withstand his almighty will? But the poor Gentlewoman not able to dissemble her grief, said unto her: Madam long time it is sithence the last tears for Thibault were poured forth, and I believe that the fountain is so well soaked and dried up, as no more will spring in that place. The mother which could not tell to what effect those words were spoken held her peace, for fear she should trouble her daughter: and certain days after seeing her to continue in heaviness and continual griefs, assayed by all means possible to know, aswell of her, as of other the household servants, the occasion of her sorrow, but all in vain: wherewith the poor mother 〈◊〉 beyond measure, purposed to let the Lord Antonio her husband to understand the case of her daughter. And upon a day seeing 〈◊〉 at convenient leisure, she said unto him: My Lord, if you have marked the countenance of our daughter, and her kind of behaviour sithence the death of the Lord Thibault her cousin, you shall perceive so strange mutation in her, as it will make you to marvel: for she is not only contented to forego meat, drink and sleep, but she spendeth her time in nothing else but in weeping & lamentation, delighting to keep herself solitary within her chamber, where she tormenteth herself so out ragiously, as if we take not heed, her life is to be doubted, and not able to know the original of her pain, the more difficult shall be the remedy: for albeit that I have sought means by all extremity, yet cannot I learn the cause of her sickness. And where I thought in the beginning, that it proceeded upon the death of her cousin, now I do manifestly perceive that contrary, specially when she herself did assure me that she had already wept and shed the last tears for him, that she was minded to do. And uncertain whereupon to resolve, I do think verily that she mourneth for some despite, to see the most part of her companions married, & she yet unprovided, persuading with herself (it may be) that we her parents do not care for her. Wherefore dear husband, I heartily beseech you for our rest and her quiet, that hereafter ye be careful to provide for her some marriage worthy of our state: whereunto the Lord Antonio willingly agreed, saying unto her: Wife, I have many times thought upon that whereof you speak, notwithstanding sith as yet she is not attained to the age of. 〈◊〉. years, I thought to provide a husband at leisure. Nevertheless things being come to these terms, & knowing that virgin's chastity is a dangerous treasure, I will be mindful of that same to your contentation, and she matched in such wise, as she shall think the time hitherto well delayed. In the mean while mark diligently whither she be in love with any to the end that we have not so great regard to goods, or to that nobility of that house wherein we mean to 〈◊〉 her, as to that life & health of our daughter, who is to me so dear as I 〈◊〉 rather 〈◊〉 a beggar without lands or goods, than to bestow her upon one which shall use & entreat her ill. Certain days after that the Lord Antonio had bruited the marriage of his Daughter, many Gentlemen were suitors, so well for that excellency of her beauty, as for her great richesses & revenue. But above all others the alliance of a young Earl named Paris, the Count of Lodronne liked the Lord Antonio: unto whom liberally he gave his consent, & told his wife the party upon whom he did mean to bestow his daughter. The mother very joyful that they had found so honest a Gentleman for their daughter: caused her secretly to be called before her, doing her to understand what things had passed between her father & the Count Paris, discoursing unto her the beauty & good grace of that young Count, that virtues for which he was commended of all men, joining thereunto for conclusion that great richesses & favour which he had in the goods of fortune, by means whereof she & her friends should live in eternal honour. But julietta which had rather to have been torn in pieces than to agree to that marriage, answered her mother with a more than accustomed stoutness: Madam, I much marvel, & therewithal am astoned that you being a Lady discreet & honourable, will be so liberal over your daughter as to commit her to that pleasure & will of an other before, you do know how her mind is bend: you may do as it pleaseth you, but of one thing I do well assure you, that if you bring it to pass, it shall be against my will. And touching the regard and estimation of Count Paris, I shall first lose my life before he shall have power to touch any part of my body: which being done, it is you that shall be counted the murderer, by delivering me into the hands of him, whom I neither can, will, or know which way to love. Wherefore I pray you to suffer me henceforth thus to live, without taking any further care of me, for so much as my cruel fortune hath otherwise disposed of me.  
The dolorous mother which knew not what judgement to fire upon her daughter's answer, like a woman confused & besides herself went to seek the Lord Antonio, unto whom without conceyling any part of her daughter's talk, she did him understand the whole. The good old man offended beyond measure, commanded her incontinently by force to be brought before him, if of her own good will she would not come. So soon as she came before her father, her eyes full of tears, fell down at his feet, which she bathed with the lukewarm drops that distilled from her eyes in great abundance, & thinking to open her mouth to cry him mercy, the sobs and sighs many times stopped her speech, that she remained dumb not able to frame a word. But the old man nothing moved with his daughter's tears, said unto her in great rage: Come hither thou unkind and disobedient daughter, hast thou already forgotten how many times thou hast heard spoken at the table, of the puissance and authority our ancient Roman fathers had over their children? unto whom it was not only lawful to sell, guage, and otherwise dispose them (in 〈◊〉 necessity) at their pleasure, but also which is more, they had absolute power over their death & life? With what irons, with what torments, with what racks would those good fathers chasten and correct thee if they were alive again, to see that ingratitude, misbehavor and disobedience which thou usest towards thy father, who with many prayers and requests hath provided one of the greatest lords of this province to be thy husband, a gentleman of best renown, and endued with all kind of virtues, of whom thou and I be unworthy, both for the notable mass of goods and substance wherewith he is enriched, as also for the honour and generosity of the house whereof he is descended, and yet thou playest the part of an obstinate and rebellious child against thy father's will, I take the omnipotency of that almighty God to witness, which hath 〈◊〉 to bring thee forth into this world, that if upon Tuesday next thou failest to prepare thyself to be at my castle of 〈◊〉, where the Count Paris purposeth to meet us, and there give thy consent to that which thy mother & I have agreed upon, I will not only deprive thee of my worldly goods, but also will make thee espouse and marry a prison so straight and sharp, as a thousand times thou shalt curse the day and time wherein thou wast borne. Wherefore from hence forth take advisement what thou dost, for except the promise be kept which I have made to the Count Paris, I will make thee feel how great the just choler of an offended father is against a child unkind. And without staying for other answer of his daughter, the old man departed the chamber, and 〈◊〉 her upon her knees. julietta knowing the fury of her father, fearing to incur his indignation, or to 〈◊〉 his further wrath, retired for that day into her chamber, and contrived the whole night more in weeping than sleeping. And the next morning feigning to go hear service, she went forth with the woman of her chamber to the friars, where she caused father Laurence to be called unto her, and prayed him to hear her confession. And when she was upon her knees before him, she began her confession with tears, telling him the great mischief that was prepared for her, by the marriage accorded between her father, and the Count Paris. And for conclusion said unto him: Sir, for so much as you know that I can not by God's law be married twice, and that I have but one God, one husband, and one faith, I am determined (when I am from 〈◊〉) with these two hands which you see joined before you, this day to end my sorrowful life, that my soul may bear witness in the heavens, and my blood upon the earth of my faith and loyalty preserved. Then having ended her talk, she looked about her, and seemed by her wild countenance, as though she had devised some 〈◊〉 purpose. Wherefore Friar Laurence, astoned beyond measure, fearing lest she would have executed that which she was determined, said unto her: Mistress julietta, I pray you in the name of God by little and little to moderate your conceived grief, and to content yourself whilst you be here, until I have provided what is best for you to do, for before you part from hence, I will give you such consolation and remedy for your afflictions, as you shall remain satisfied and contented. And resolved upon this good mind, he speedily went out of the Church unto his chamber, where he began to consider of many things, his conscience being moved to hinder the marriage between the Count Paris and her, knowing that by his means she had espoused an other, and calling to remembrance what a dangerous enterprise he had begun, by committing himself to the mercy of a simple damosel, and that if she failed to be wise and secret, all their doings should be descried, he defamed, and Rhomeo her spouse punished. He then after he had well debated upon an infinite numbered of devices, was in the end overcome with pity, and determined rather to hazard his honour, than to suffer the adultery of Count Paris with julietta. And 〈◊〉 determined hereupon, opened his closet, and taking a viol in his hand, returned again to julietta, whom he found like one that was in a trance, waiting for news, either of life, or death.  
Of whom the good old father demanded upon what day her marriage was appointed. The first day of that appointment (quoth she) is upon wednesday, which is the day ordained for my 〈◊〉 of marriage accorded between my father and Count Paris, but the nuptial solemnity is not before the. x. day of September. Well then (quoth the religious father) be of good cheer daughter, for our Lord God hath opened a way unto me both to deliver you & Rhomeo from the prepared thraldom. I have known your husband from his cradle, and he hath daily committed unto me the greatest secrets of his conscience, and I have so dearly loved him again, as if he had been mine own son. Wherefore my heart can not abide that any man should do him wrong in that specially wherein my counsel may stand him in stead. And for somuch as you are his wife, I ought likewise to love you, & seek means to deliver you from the martyrdom and anguish wherewith I see your heart besieged. understand then (good daughter) of a secret which I purpose to manifest unto you, and take heed above all things, that you declare it to no living creature, for therein consisteth your life and death. Ye be not ignorant by the common report of the citizens of this City, and by the same published of me, that I have travailed through all the Provinces of the habitable earth, whereby during the continual time of. xx. years, I have sought no rest for my wearied body, 〈◊〉 rather have many times protruded the same to the mercy of brute beasts in the wilderness, & many times also to the merciless waves of the seas, and to the pity of common pirates together with a thousand other dangers and shipwrecks upon sea and land. So it is good daughter that all my wandering voyages have not been altogethers unprofitable. For besides the incredible contentation received ordinarily in mind, I have gathered some particular fruit, whereof by the grace of God you shall shortly feel some experience. I have proved the secret properties of stones, of plants, metals, & other things hidden within the bowels of the earth, wherewith I am able to help myself against the common law of men, when necessity doth serve: specially in things wherein I know mine eternal God to be least offended. For as thou knowest I being approached as it were, even to the brim of my grain, & that the time draweth near for yielding of mine account before the auditor of all auditors, I ought therefore to have some deep knowledge and apprehension of God's judgement more than I had when that heat of inconsidered youth did boil within my lusty body. Know you therefore good daughter, that with those graces and favours which the heavens prodigally have bestowed upon me, I have learned and proved of long time the composition of a certain paaste, which I make of divers soporiferous simples, which beaten afterwards to powder, & drunk with a quantity of water, within a quarter of an hour after, bringeth the receiver into such a sleep, and burieth so deeply the senses and other spirits of life, that the cunningest Physician will judge the party dead: and besides that it hath a more marvelous effect, for the person which useth the same feeleth no kind of grief, and according to the quantity of the dough, the 〈◊〉 remaineth in a sweet sleep, but when the operation is perfect & done, he returneth into his first estate. Now than julietta receive mine instruction, and put of all feminine affection by taking upon you a manly stomach, for by the only courage of your mind consisteth the 〈◊〉 or mishap of your affairs. Behold here I give you a viol which you shall keep as your own proper heart, and the night before your marriage, or in the morning before day, you shall fill the same up with water, & drink so much as is contained therein. And then you shall feel a certain kind of pleasant sleep, which encroaching by little & little all the parts of your body, will constrain them in such wise, as 〈◊〉 they shall remain: and by not doing their accustomed duties, shall lose their natural feelings, and you abide in such ecstasy the space of xl. hours at the least without any beating of poulse or other perceptible motion, which shall so astonne them that come to see you, as they will judge you to be dead, & according to the custom of our City, you shall be carried to the churchyard hard by our Church, where you shall be entombed in the common monument of the 〈◊〉 your ancestors, & in the mean time we will send word to the Lord Rhomeo by a special messenger of the effect of our devise, who now abideth at Mantua. And the night following I am sure he will not fail to be here, than he and I together will open the grave, and lift up your body, and after the operation of the powder is past, he shall convey you secretly to Mantua, unknown to all your Parents and friends. Afterwards (it may be) Time the mother of truth shall cause concord between the offended City of Verona and Rhomeo. At which time your common cause may be made open to the general contentation of all your friends. The words of the good Father ended, new joy surprised the heart of julietta, who was so attentive to his talk as she forgot no one point of her 〈◊〉. Then she said unto him: Father, doubt not at all that my heart shall fail in performance of your commandment: for were it the strongest poison or most 〈◊〉 venom, rather would I thrust it into my body, than to consent to fall in the hands of him, whom I utterly 〈◊〉: with a right strong reason than may I for 〈◊〉 myself, and offer my body to any kind of mortal danger to approach and draw near to him, upon whom wholly dependeth my life & all the contentation I have in this world. Go your ways then my daughter (quoth the Friar) the mighty hand of God keep you, and his surpassing power defend you, and confirm that will and good mind of yours, for the accomplishment of this work. julietta departed from Friar Laurence, and returned home to her father's palace about. xi. of the clock, where she found her mother at the gate attending for her: and in good devotion demanded if she continued still in her former follies? But julietta with more gladsome cheer than she was wont to use, not suffering her mother to ask again, said unto her: Madam I come from S. Francis Church, where I have tarried longer peradventure than my duty requireth: how be it not without fruit and great rest to my afflicted conscience, by reason of the godly persuasions of our ghostly father Friar Laurence, unto whom I have made a large declaration of my life. And chief have communicated unto him in confession, that which hath passed between my Lord my father and you, upon the marriage of Count Paris and me. But the good man hath reconciled me by his holy words and commendable exhortations, that where I had mind never to marry, now I am well disposed to obey your pleasure and commandment. Wherefore 〈◊〉 I be séeche you to recover the favour & good will of my father, ask pardon in my behalf, and say unto him (if it please you) that by obeying his Fatherly request, I am ready to meet the Count Paris at Villafranco, and there in your presence to accept him for my Lord and husband: in assurance whereof, by your patience, I mean to repair into my closet, to make choice of my most precious jewels, that I being richly adorned and decked, may 〈◊〉 before him more agreeable to his mind and pleasure. The good mother rapt with exceeding great joy, was not able to answer a word, but rather made speed to seek out her husband the Lord Antonio, unto whom she reported the good will of her daughter, and how by means of Friar Laurence her mind was changed. Whereof the good old man marvelous joyful, praised God in heart, saying: wife this is not that first good turn which we have received of that holy man, unto whom every Citizen of this Common wealth is dearly 〈◊〉. I would to God that I had redeemed. xx. of his years 〈◊〉 the third part of my goods, so grievous is to me his extreme old age. The self same hour the Lord Antonio went to seek the Count Paris, whom he thought to persuade to go to Villafranco. But the Count told him again, that the charge would be to great, and that better it were to reserve that cost to the marriage day, for the better celebration of the same. Notwithstanding if it were his pleasure, he would himself go visit julietta: and so they went together. The mother advertised of his coming, caused her Daughter to make herself ready, and to spare no costly jewels for adorning of her beauty against the Countess coming, which she bestowed so well for garnishing of her parsonage, that before the Count parted from the house, she had so stolen away his heart, as he lived not from that time forth, but upon meditation of her beauty, and slacked no time for acceleration 〈◊〉 that marriage day ceasing not to be importunate upon father and mother for the end and consummation thereof: And thus with joy enough passed forth this day and many others until the day before the marriage, against which time the mother of julietta did so well provide, that there wanted nothing to set forth the magnificence and nobility of their house. Villafranco whereof we have made mention, was a place of pleasure, where the lord Antonio was wont many times to recreate himself a mile or two from Veronna, there the dinner was prepared, for so much as the ordinary solemnity of necessity must be done at Veronna. julietta perceiving her time to approach, dissembled the matter so well as she could: and when time forced her to retire to her chamber, her woman would have waited upon her, and have lain in her chamber, as her custom was: But julietta said unto her: Good and faithful mother, you know that to morrow is my marriage day, and for that I would spend the most part of the night in prayer, I pray you for this time to let me alone, and to morrow in the morning about. 〈◊〉. of the clock come to me again to help me make me ready. The good old woman willing to follow her mind, suffered her alone, and doubted nothing of that which she did mean to do. julietta being within her chamber having an eawer full of water standing upon the table filled the viol which the Friar gave her: and after she had made the mixture, she set it by her bed side, & went to bed. And being laid, new thoughts began to assail her, with a conceit of grievous death, which brought her into such case as she could not tell what to do, but plaining incessantly said: Am not I the most unhappy and desperate creature, that ever was borne o● woman? for me there is nothing left in this wretched world but mishap, misery, and mortal woe, my distress hath brought me to such extremity, as to save mine honour and conscience, I am forced to devour the drink whereof I know not the virtue: but what know I (said she) whether the operation of this powder will be to soon or to late, or not correspondent to the due time, and that my fault being discovered, I shall remain a jesting stock and fable to the people? what know I moreover, if the serpents and other venomous and crawling worms, which commonly frequent the graves and pits of the earth will hurt me, thinking that I am dead? But how shall I endure the stench of so many carrions and bones of mine ancestors which rest in the grave, if by fortune I do awake before Rhomeo & Friar Laurence do come to help me? And as she was thus plunged in the deep contemplation of things, she thought that she saw a certain vision or fancy of her cousin Thibault, in the very same sort as she saw him wounded and imbrued with blood, and musing how that she must be buried quick amongs so many dead carcases and deadly naked bones, her tender and delicate body began to shake and tremble, and her yellow locks to stare for fear, in such wise as frighted with terror, a cold sweat began to pierce her heart, and bedew the rest of all her membres, in such wise as she thought that an hundred thousand deaths did stand about her, haling her on every side, and plucking her in pieces, & feeling that her forces diminished by little and little, fearing that through to great debility she was not able to do her enterprise, like a furious and insensate woman, without further care, gulped up the water within the viol, then crossing her arms upon her stomach, she lost at that instant all the powers of her body, and remained in a trance. And when the morning light began to thrust his head out of his Orient, her chamber woman which had locked her in with the key, did open the door, and thinking to awake her, called her many times, and said unto her: Mistress, you sleep to long, the Count Paris will come to raise you. The poor old woman spoke unto the wall, and 〈◊〉 a song unto the deaf. For if all the horrible and tempestuous sounds of the world had been canoned forth out of the greatest bombards, and sounded through her delicate ears, her spirits of life were so fast bound and stopped, as she by no means could awake, wherewith the poor old woman amazed, began 〈◊〉 shake her by the arms and hands, which she found so cold as marble stone. Then putting hand unto her mouth, suddenly perceived that she was dead, for she perceived no breath in her. Wherefore like a woman out of her wits, she ran to tell her mother, who so mad as Tiger, bereft of her faons, hied herself into her daughter's chamber, and in that pitiful state beholding her daughter, thinking her to be dead, cried out: Ah cruel death, which hast ended all my joy and bliss, use thy last scourge of thy wrathful ire against me, lest by suffering me to live the rest of my woeful days, my torment do increase: then she began to fetchsuch straining sighs as her heart did seem to cleave in pieces. And as her cries began to increase, behold the father, the Count Paris, and a great troop of Gentlemen and Ladies, which were come to honour the feast, hearing no sooner tell of that which chanced, were stroke into such sorrowful dumps as he which had beheld their faces would easily have judged that the same had been a day of ire & pity, specially the lord Antonio, whose heart was frapped with such surpassing woe, as neither tear nor word could issue forth, & knowing not what to do, straight way sent to seek that most expert physicians of the town, who after they had inquired of the life passed of julietta, deemed by common report, that melancholy was the cause of that sudden death, & then their sorrows began to renew a 〈◊〉. And if ever day was lamentable, piteous unhappy and fatal, truly it was that wherein julietta her death was published in Verona: for she was so bewailed of great & small, that by the common plaints the common wealth seemed to be in danger, & not without cause. For besides her natural beauty accompanied with many virtues wherewith nature had enriched her) she was else so humble, wise and debonair, as for that humility and courtesy she had stolen away the hearts of every wight, and there was none but did lament her misfortune. And whilst these things were in this lamented state, Friar Laurence with diligence dispatched a Friar of his Covent, named Friar Anselme, whom he trusted as himself, and delivered him a letter written with his own hand, commanding him expressly not to give the same to any other but to Rhomeo, wherein was contained the chance which had passed between him and julietta, specially that virtue of the powder, and commanded him the next ensuing night to speed himself to Verona, for that the operation of the powder that time would take end, & that he should carry with him back again to Mantua his 〈◊〉 julietta, in dissembled apparel, until Fortune bade otherwise provided for them. The friar made such haste as (too late) he arrived at Mantua, within a while after. And because the manner of Italy is, that the Friar travailing abroad ought to take a companion of his covent to do his affairs within the City, the Friar went into his covent, but because he was entered in, it was not lawful for him to come out again that day, for that certain days before, one religious of that covent as it was said, did die of the plague. Wherefore the magistrates appointed for the health and visitation of the sick, commanded the warden of the house that no Friars should wander abroad the City, or talk with any citizen, until they were licensed by the officers in that behalf appointed, which was the cause of the great mishap, which you shall hear hereafter. The Friar being in this perplexity, not able to go forth, and not knowing what was contained in the letter, deferred his journey for that day. Whilst things were in this plight, preparation was made at Veronna, to do the obsequies of julietta. There is a custom also (which is common in Italy,) to place all the best of one lineage and family in one Tomb, whereby julietta was laid in the ordinary grave of the 〈◊〉, in a churchyard, hard by the Church of the Friars, where also the Lord Thibault was interred. And her obsequies honourably done, every man returned: whereunto Pietro, the servant of Rhomeo, gave his assistance. For as we have before declared, his master sent him back again from Mantua to Verona, to do his father service, and to advertise him of that which should chance in his absence there: who seeing the body of julietta, enclosed in tomb, thinking with the rest that she had been dead in deed, incontinently took post horse, and with diligence road to Mantua, where he found his master in his wont house, to whom he said, with his eyes full of tears: Sir, there is chanced unto you so strange a matter, as if so be you do not arm yourself with constancy, I am afraid that I shall be the cruel minister of your death. be it known unto you sir, that yesterday morning my mistress julietta left her life in this world to seek rest in an other: and with these eyes I saw her buried in the Churchyard of S. Francis. At the sound of which heavy message, Rhomeo began woefully to 〈◊〉, as though his spirits grieved with the 〈◊〉 of his passion at that instant would have abandoned his body. But strong Love which would not permit him to faint until the extremity, framed a thought in his fantasy, that if it were possible for him to die besides her, his death should be more glorious, and 〈◊〉 (as he thought) better contented. By reason whereof, after 〈◊〉 had washed his face for 〈◊〉 to discover his sorrow, he went out of his chamber, and commanded his man to 〈◊〉 behind him, that he might walk through out all the corners of the City, to find proper remedy (if it were possible) for his grief. And 〈◊〉 others, beholding an Apoticaries' shop of little furniture and less store of boxes and other things requisite for that science, thought that the very poverty of the master Apothecarye would make him willingly yield to that which he pretended to demand. And after he had taken him aside, secretly he said unto him: Sir, if you be the master of the house, as I think you be, behold here Fifty Ducats, which I give you, to the intent you deliver me some strong and 〈◊〉 poison that within a quarter of an hour is able to procure death unto him that shall use it. The covetous Apothecary enticed by gain, agreed to his request, and sayning to give him some other medicine before the people's face, he speedily made ready a strong and cruel poison, afterwards he said unto him softly: Sir, I 〈◊〉 you more than is needful, for the one half in an hours space is able to destroy the strongest man of the world: who after he had received the poison, returned home, where he commanded his man to departed with diligence to Veronna, and that he should make provision of candles, he tinder box, and other instruments meet for the opening of the grave of julietta, and that above all things he should not fail to attend his coming besides the Churchyard of S. Francis, and upon pain of life to keep his intent in silence. Which Pietro obeyed in order as his master had commanded him, and made therein such expedition, as he arrived in good time to Verona, taking order for all things that were commanded him. 〈◊〉 in the mean while being solicited with mortal thoughts, caused ink and paper to be brought unto him, and in few words put in writing all the 〈◊〉 of his love, the marriage of him and julietta the mean observed for consummation of the same, the help that he had of Friar Laurence, the buying of his poison, and last of all his death. Afterwards, having finished his heavy tragedy, he closed the letters, and sealed the same with his seal, and directed the Superscription thereof to his father: and putting the letters into his purse, he mounted on horseback, and used such diligence, that he arrived upon dark night at the City of Veronna, before the gates were shut, where he found his servant tarrying for him there, with a Lantern and instruments beforesaid, meet for the opening of the grave, unto whom he said: Pietro, help me to open this Tomb, and so soon as it is open, I command thee upon pain of thy life, not to come near me, nor to stay me from the thing I purpose to do. Behold, there is a letter which thou shalt present to morrow in the morning to my father at his uprising, which peradventure shall please him better than thou thinkest. Pietro, not able to imagine what was his masters intent, stood somewhat aloof to behold his masters gests and 〈◊〉. And when 〈◊〉 had opened the vault, Rhomeo descended down two 〈◊〉, holding the candle in his hand, and began to behold with pitiful eye, the body of her, which was the organ of his life, and washed the same with the tears of his eyes, and kiss it tenderly, holding it hard between his arms, and not able to satisfy himself with her 〈◊〉, put his fearful hands upon the cold stomach of julietta. And after he had touched her in many places, and not able to feel any certain 〈◊〉 of life, he drew the poison out of his box, and swallowing down a great quantity of the same, cried out: O julietta, of whom the world was unworthy, what death is it possible my heart could choose out more agreeable than that which it suffereth hard by thee? What grave more glorious, than to be buried in thy tomb? What more worthy or excellent Epitaph can be vowed for memory, than the mutual and pitiful sacrifice of our lives? And thinking to renew his sorrow, his heart began to fret through the violence of the poison, which by little and little assailed the same, and looking about him, espied the body of the Lord Thibault, lying next unto julietta, which as yet was not altogether putrefied, and speaking to the body, as though it had been alive, said: In what place so ever thou art (O cousin Thibault) I most hearty do cry thee mercy for the offence which I have done by depriving of thy life: and if thy ghost 〈◊〉 wish and cry out for vengeance upon me, what greater or more cruel satisfaction canst thou desire to have, or henceforth hope for, than to see him which murdered thee, to be empoisoned with his own hands, and buried by thy side? Then ending his talk, feeling by little and little that his life began to fail falling prostrate upon his knees, with feeble voice he softly said: O my Lord God, which to redeem me didst 〈◊〉 from the bosom of thy father, & tookest human flesh in the womb of the virgin, I acknowledge and confess, that this body of mine is nothing else but earth and dust. Then seized upon with desperate sorrow, he fell down upon the body of julietta with such vehemence, as the heart faint and attenuated with too great torment, not able to bear so hard a violence, was abandoned of all his sense and natural powers, in such fort as the siege of his soul failed him at that instant, and his membres stretched forth, remained stiff and cold. Friar Laurence which knew the certain time of the powders operation, marveled that he had no answer of the letter which he sent to Rhomeo by his fellow Friar Anselme, departed from S. Francis, and with instruments for the purpose, determined to open the grave to let in air to julietta, which was ready to wake: and approaching that place, he espied a light within, which made him afraid, until that Pietro which was hard by, had certified him that Rhomeo was within, & had not ceased there to lament and complain the space of half an hour. And then they two were entered the grave, & finding Rhomeo without life, made such sorrow as they can well conceive which love their dear friend with like perfection. And as they were making their complaints, julietta rising out of her trance, and beholding light within the tomb, uncertain whether it were a dream or fantasy that appeared before her eyes, coming again to herself, knew Friar Laurence, unto whom she said: Father I pray thee in the name of God 〈◊〉 perform thy promise, for I am almost dead. And then Friar Laurence concealing nothing from her, (because he feared to be taken through his too long abode in that place) faithfully rehearsed unto her, how he had sent Friar Anselme to Rhomeo at Mantua, from whom as yet he had received no answer. Notwithstanding he found Rhomeo dead in the grave, whose body he pointed unto, lying hard by her, praying her sith it was so, patiently to bear that sudden misfortune, & that if it pleased her, he would convey her into some monastery of women where she might in time moderate her sorrow, and give rest unto her mind. julietta had no sooner cast eye upon the dead corpse of Rhomeo, but began to break the fountain pipes of gushing tears, which ran forth in such abundance, as not able to support the furor of her grief, she breathed without ceasing upon his mouth, and then throwing herself upon his body, & 〈◊〉 it very hard, seemed that by force of sighs and sobs, she would have revived, and brought him again to life, and after she had kissed and rekissed him a million of times, she cried out: Ah the sweet rest of my cares, & the only port of all my pleasures and pastimes, hadst thou 〈◊〉 sure a heart to choose thy Churchyard in this place between the arms of thy perfect lover, and to end the course of thy life for my sake in the flower of thy youth when life to thee should have been most dear & delectable? how had this tender body power to resist the furious combat of death, very death itself being here present? How could thy fender & delicate youth willingly permit that thou shouldest approach into this filthy & infected place, where from henceforth thou shalt be the pasture of worms unworthy of thee? Alas, alas, by what means shall I now renew my plaints, which time and long patience ought to have buried and clearly quenched? Ah I miserable and caitiff wretch, thinking to find remedy for my griefs, I have sharpened the knife that hath 〈◊〉 me this cruel blow, whereof I receive the cause of mortal wound. Ah happy and fortunate grave which shalt serve in world to come for witness of the most perfect alliance that ever was between two most fortunate lovers, receive now the last sobbing sighs, & entertainment of the most cruel of all the cruel subjects of ire & death. And as she thought to continued her complaints, Pietro advertised Friar Laurence the he heard a noise besides the citadel, wherewith being afraid, they 〈◊〉 departed, fearing to be taken. And then julietta seeing herself alone, & in full liberty, took again Rhomeo between her arms, kissing him with such affection, as she seemed to be more attainted with love than death, and drawing out the dagger which Rhomeo ware by his side, she pricked herself with many blows against the heart, saying with feeble & pitiful voice: Ah death the end of sorrow, and beginning of felicity, thou art most hearty welcome: fear not at this time to sharpen thy dart: give no longer delay of life, for fear that my spirit travail not to find Rhomeos' ghost amongs such numbered of carrion corpses. And thou my dear Lord and loyal husband Rhomeo, if there rest in thee any knowledge, receive her whom thou hast so faithfully loved, the only cause of thy violent death, which frankly offereth up her soul that none but thou shalt joy the love whereof thou hast made so lawful conquest. And that our souls passing from this light, may eternally live together in the place of everlasting joy: and when she had ended those words she yielded up her ghost. While these things thus were done, the guard & watch of the City by chance passed by, & seeing light within the grave, suspected strait the they were Necromancers which had opened the 〈◊〉 to abuse the dead bodies for aid of their art: & desirous to know what it meant, went down into the vault, where they 〈◊〉 Rhomeo & julietta, with their arms embracing 〈◊〉 others neck, as though there had been some token of life. And after they had well viewed them at leisure, they knew in what case they were. And then all amazed they sought for the thieves which (as they thought) had done the murder, and in the end found the good father Friar Laurence and Pietro the servant of dead Rhomeo (which had hid themselves under a stall) whom they carried to prison, and advertised the Lord of Escala, and the Magistrates of Verona of that horrible murder, which by and by was published throughout the City. Then flocked together all the Citizens, women & children, leaving their houses, to look upon that pitiful sight, and to the end that in presence of the whole City, the murder should be known, the Magistrates ordained that the two dead bodies should be erected upon a stage to the view and sight of the whole world, in such sort and manner as they were found within the grave, and that Pietro and Friar Laurence should publicly be examined, that afterwards there might be no murmur or other pretended cause of ignorance. And this good old Friar being upon the scaffold, having a white beard all wet & bathed with tears, the judges commanded to declare unto them who were the authors of that murder, sith at untimely hour he was apprehended with certain irons besides the grave. Friar Laurence a round and frank man of talk, nothing moved with that accusation, said unto them with stout and bold voice: My masters, there is none of you all (if you have respect unto my forepast life, and to my aged years, and therewithal have consideration of this heavy spectacle, whereunto unhappy fortune hath presently brought me) but doth greatly marvel of so sudden mutation & change unlooked for, for so much as these three score and ten or twelve years sithence I came into this world, and began to prove the vanities thereof, I was never suspected, touched, or found guilty of any crime which was able to make me blush, or hide my face, although (before God) I do confess myself to be the greatest and most abominable sinner of all the redeemed flock of Christ. So it is notwithstanding, that sith I am priest & ready to render mine account, and that death, the grave and worms do daily summon this wretched corpse of mine 〈◊〉 appear before the justice seat of God, still weighting and 〈◊〉 to be carried to my hoped grave, this is the hour I say, as you likewise may think wherein I am fallen to the greatest damage & prejudice of my life and honest port, and that which hath engendered this sinister opinion of me, may peradventure be these great tears which in abundance trickle down my face, as though the holy scriptures do not witness, that jesus Christ moved with human pity and compassion, did weep and pour forth tears, & that many times tears be the faithful messengers of a man's innocency. Or else the most likely evidence and presumption, is the suspected hour, which (as the magistrate doth say) do make me culpable of the murder, as though all hours were not indifferently made equal by God their creattor, who in his own person declareth unto us the there be twelve hours in the day, showing thereby that there is no exception of hours nor of minutes, but that one may do either good or ill at all times indifferently, as the party is guided or forsaken by the spirit of God: touching the irons which were found about me, needful it is not now to let you understand for what use Iron was first made, and that of itself it is not able to increase in man either good or evil, if not by the mischievous mind of him which doth abuse it. Thus much I have thought good to tell you, to the intent that neither tears, nor iron, ne yet suspected hour, are able to make me guilty of the murder, or make me otherwise than I am, but only the witness of mine own conscience, which alone if I were guilty should be the accuser, the witness, and the hangman, which (by reason of mine age and the reputation I have had amongs you, and the little time that I have to live in this world should more torment me within, than all the mortal pains that could be devised. But (thanks be to mine eternal God) I feel no worm that gnaweth, nor any remorse that pricketh me touching that fact, for which I see you all troubled & amazed. And to set your hearts at rest, and to remove the doubts which hereafter may torment your consciences, I swear unto you by all the heavenly parts wherein I hope to be, that forth with I will disclose from first to last the entire discourse of this pitiful tragedy, which peradventure shall drive you into no less wondre and amaze, than those two poor passionate lovers were strong and patient, to expone themselves to the mercy of death, for the fervent and indissoluble love between them. Then the Fatherly Friar began to repeat the beginning of the love between juhetta and Rhomeo, which by certain space of time confirmed, was prosecuted by words at the first, then by mutual promise of marriage, unknown to the world. And as within few days after, the two lovers feeling themselves sharpened and incited with stronger onset, repaired unto him under colour of confession, protesting by oath that they were both married, and that if he would not solemnize that marriage in the face of the Church, they should be constrained to offend God to live in disordered lust. In consideration whereof, and specially seeing their alliance to be good and conformable in dignity, richesse and Nobility on both sides, hoping by that means perchance to reconcile the Montesches and Capcllets, and that by doing such an acceptable work to God, he gave them the Church's blessing in a certain Chapel of the friars Church, whereof the night following, they did consummate the marriage fruits in the Palace of the capelets. For testimony of which copulation, the woman of juliettaes' chamber was able to depose: Adding moreover, the murder of Thibault, which was cousin to julietta: by reason whereof the banishment of Rhomeo did 〈◊〉, and how in the absence of the said Rhomeo, the marriage being kept secret between them, a new Matrimony was entreated with the Count Paris, which misliked by julietta, she fell down prostrate at his feet in a Chapel of S. Francis Church, with full determination to have killed herself with her own hands, if he gave her not council how she should avoid the marriage agreed between her father and the Count Paris. For conclusion, he said, that although he was resolved by reason of his age and dearness of death to 〈◊〉 all secret Sciences, wherein in his younger years he had delight, notwithstanding, pressed with importunity, and moved with pity, fearing lest julietta should do some cruelty against herself, he stained his conscience, and chose rather with some little fault to grieve his mind, than to suffer the young Gentlewoman to destroy her body, and hazard the danger of her soul. And therefore he opened some part of his ancient cunning, and gave her a certain powder to make her sleep, by means whereof she was thought to be 〈◊〉. Then he told them how he had sent Friar Anselme to carry letters to Rhomeo of their enterprise, whereof hitherto he had no answer. Then briefly he concluded how he found Rhomeo dead within the grave, who as it is most likely did impoison himself, or was otherwise smothered or suffocated with 〈◊〉 by finding julietta in that state, thinking she had been dead. Then he told them how julietta did kill herself with the dagger of Rhomeo, to bear him company after his death, and how it was impossible for them to save her for the noise of the watch which forced them to flee from thence. And for more ample approbation of his saying, he humbly besought the Lord of 〈◊〉 and the Magistrates to send to Mantua for Friar Anselme to know the cause of his 〈◊〉 return, that the content of the letter sent to Rhomeo might be seen. To examine the woman of the chamber of julietta, and and Pietro the servant of Rhomeo, who not attending for 〈◊〉 request, said unto them: My Lords when Rhomeo entered the grave, he gave me this 〈◊〉, written as I suppose with his own hand, who gave me express commandment to deliver them to his father. The packet opened, they found the whole 〈◊〉 of this story, specially the Apothecary's name, which sold him the poison, the price, and the cause wherefore he used it, and all appeared to be so clear and evident, as there rested nothing for further verification of the same, but their presence at the doing of the particulars thereof, for the whole was so well declared in order, as they were out of doubt that the same was true. And then the Lord Bartholomew of 〈◊〉, after he had debated with that Magistrates of these events, decreed that the woman of julietta her chamber should be 〈◊〉, because she did conceyle that privy marriage from the father of Rhomeo, which if it had been known in time, had bred to the whole City an universal benefit. Pietro because he obeyed his master's commandment, and kept close his lawful secrets, according to the well 〈◊〉 nature of a trusty 〈◊〉, was set at liberty. The apothecary taken, racked, and found guilty, was hanged. The good old man Friar Laurence (as well for respect of his ancient service which he had done to the common wealth of Veronna, as also for his 〈◊〉 life (for the which he was specially recommended) was let go in peace, without any note of infamy. notwithstanding by reason of his age, he voluntarily gave over the world, and closed himself in a hermitage, two miles from Veronna, where he lived. v. or. vj. years, and spent his time in continual prayer, until he was called out of this transitory world, into the blissful state of everlasting joy. And for the compassion of so strange an infortune, the Montesches and Capellettes poured forth such abundance of tears, as with the same they did evacuate their ancient grudge and choler, whereby they were then reconciled. And they which could not be brought to atonement by any wisdom or human council, were in the end vanquished and made friends by pity. And to immortalizate the memory of so entire and perfect amity, the lord of Veronna ordained, that the two bodies of those miraculous lovers should be 〈◊〉 entombed in the grave where they ended their 〈◊〉, where was erected a high marble 〈◊〉, honoured with an infinite numbered of excellent 〈◊〉, which 〈◊〉 this day be apparent, with such noble memory, as amongs all the rare excellencies, wherewith the City is furnished, there is none more famous than the monument of Rhomeo & julietta.   

Two Gentlewomen of Venice.  
¶ Two Gentlemen of VENICE were honourably deceived of their wives, whose notable practices, and secret conference for archieving their desire, occasioned divers accidents, and engendered double benefit: wherein also is recited an eloquent oration, made by one of them, pronounced before the Duke and state of that City: with other chances and acts concerning the same.  
The. xxuj. Novel.  
HEre have I thought good to summon. y. gentlewomen of Venice to appear in place, and to mount on stage amongs other Italian dames to show cause of their bold incountrie against the folly of their two husbands, that uncharitably against order of neighbourhood, went about to assail the honesty of either's wife, and weening they had enjoyed others felicity, by the women's prudence, foresight and aware government, were both deceived, and yet attained the chiefest benefit that marriage state doth look for: so that if search be made amongs antiquities, it is to be doubted whether greater chastity, and better policy could be found for 〈◊〉 of an intended purpose. Many deeds have been done by women for safeguard of their husband's lives, as that of Minyae, a sort of women whose husbands were imprisoned at Lacedaemon, & for treason condemned who to save their husbands, entered into prison the night before they should die, & by exchange of apparel, delivered them, and remained there to suffer for them. Hipsicratea also the Queen & wife of 〈◊〉 king of Pontus, spared not her noble beauty and golden locks to manure herself in the use of arms to keep her husband company in perils and dangers: and being overcome by Pompeius, and flying away, never left him unaccompanied, ne forsook such travel as he himself sustained. The like also of Aemilia, Turia, 〈◊〉, Portia, & other Roman dames. But that such have prevented their husband's folly, seldom we read, saving of Queen Marie, the wife of Don Pietro king of Arragon, who marking the folly of her husband, and sorry for his disordered life, honest jealousy opening her continent eyes, forced her to seek means to remove his wanton acts, or at leastwise by policy & wise foresight to make him husband & culture his own soil, that for want of seasonable tillage was barren & void of fruit. Wherefore consulting with the lord Chamberlain, who of custom brought whom the King liked best, was in place of his woman, bestowed in his bed, and of her that night begat the young Prince Giacomo, that afterwards proved a valiant and wise King. These passing good policies of women many times abolish the frantic lecherous fits of husbands given to superfluous lusts, when first by their chaste behaviour & womanly patience they 〈◊〉 that, which they be loath to see or hear of, and then demanding counsel of sobriety and wisdom, excogitate sleights to shun folly, and expel discourtesy, by husbands careless use. Such practises and devices, these two Gentlewomen whom I now bring forth, disclose in this discourse ensuing.  
In the City of Venice, (which for riches and fair women excelleth all other within the region of Italy) in the time that Francisco Foscari, a very wise Prince, did govern the state, there were two young gentlemen, the one called Girolamo Bembo, and the other Anselmo Barbadico, between whom as many times chanceth amongs other, grew such great hatred and cruel hostility, as each of them by secret and all possible means devised to do other shame and displeasure, which kindled to such out rage, as it was thought impossible to be pacified. It chanced that at one time both of them did marry two noble young Gentlewomen, excellent & fair, both brought up under one nurse, and loved each other like two sisters, and as though they had been both born of one body. The wise of Anselmo, called Isotta, was the daughter of Messer 〈◊〉 Gradenigo, a man of great estimation in that city, one of the procurators of San Marco, whereof there were not so great numbered in those days as there be now, because the wisest men & best approved of life were chosen to that great and noble dignity, none allotted thereunto by bribe or ambition. The wife of Girolamo Bembo was called Lucia, that daughter of Messer Gian Francisco Valerio Cavalier, a Gentleman very well learned, and many times sent by the State, ambassador into divers countries, and after he had been Drator with the Pope, for his wisdom in the execution of the same was in great estimation with the whole city. The two Gentlewomen after they were married, & heard of the hatred between their husbands, were very sorrowful and pensive, because they thought the friendship and love between them twain, continued from their tender years, could not be, but with great difficulty kept, or else altogether dissolved & broken. Not withstanding being discrete and wise, for avoiding occasion of their husband's offence, determined to cease their accustomed conversation & loving familiarity, & not to frequent each others company, but at places & times convenient. To whom Fortune was so favourable, as not only their houses were near together but also joining, in the backsides whereof their gardens also confined, separated only with a little hedge, that every day they might see one another, & many times talk together: Moreover the servants & people of either houses were friendly & familiar, which did greatly content the two loving Gentlewomen, because they also in the absence of their husbands, might at pleasure in their gardens disport themselves. And continuing this order that space of. iij. years neither of them both were with child. In which space Anselmo many times vicwing and casting his eyes upon Madonna Lucia, fell earnestly in love with her, & was not that day well at ease, wherein he had not beholden her excellent beauty: 〈◊〉 that was of spirit and wit subtle, marked the looks & manner of Anselmo, who neither for 〈◊〉, ne other cause did render like looks on him, but to see to what end his loving cheer & countenance would 〈◊〉. Not 〈◊〉 she seemed rather 〈◊〉 to behold him, than elswher to employ her looks. On the other side the good 〈◊〉, the wise order and pleasant beauty of Madonna Isotta was so excellent & plausible in the sight of master Girolamo, as no lover in the world was better pleased with his Lady than 〈◊〉 with her: who not able to live without the sweet sight of Isotta (that was a crafty & wily wench) was 〈◊〉 her quickly perceived. She being right honest & wise, and loving her husband very dearly, did bear that 〈◊〉 to Girolamo, that she generally did to any of the 〈◊〉, or to other stranger that she never saw before. But her 〈◊〉 more & more inflamed, having lost that liberty of himself, wounded & pierced with the amorous arrows of Love, could not convert his mind to any other 〈◊〉 to mistress Lucia. These two women wonted to hear service every day ordinarily at the church of 〈◊〉, because they lay long a bed in the mornings, & commonly service in that church was said somewhat late: their pews also somewhat distant one from an other. Whether their y. amorous husbands continually used to follow them 〈◊〉 off, & to place themselves where either of them might 〈◊〉 view his beloved: by which custom they seemed to the common people to be jealous over their wives. But they prosecuted that matter in such wise, as either of them without shipping, sought to send other into Cornovale. It came to pass then, that these. 〈◊〉. beloved gentlewomen one knowing nothing of another, determined to consider better of this love, because the great good will long time borne, should not be interrupted, Upon a certain day when their 〈◊〉 were abroad, resorting together to talk at their garden hedge according to their wont manner, they 〈◊〉 to be 〈◊〉 & merry: and after loving salutations, mistress Lucia spoke these words unto her companion. Isotta my dear beloved sister, I have a tale to tell you of your husband, that perchanuce will seem stranger than any news that ever you heard. And I (answered mistress Isotta) have a story to tell you, that will make you no less to wonder than I at that which you have to say, and it may be will put you into some choler & chafe. What is that quod that one and other. In the end either of them told what 〈◊〉 & love their husbands went about. Whereat although they were in great rage with their husbands, yet for that time they laughed out the matter, and thought that they were sufficient (as in very deed they were, a thing not to be doubted) and able to satisfy their husband's hunger and therewithal began to blame them, and to say that they deserved to learn to play of the Cornets, if they had no greater fear of God, and care of honesty than their husbands had. Then after much talk of this matter, concluded that they should do well to expect what their husbands would demand. Having taken order as they thought meet, they agreed daily to espy what should chance, and purposed first with sweet and pleasant looks to bait and lure each other féere, to put them in hope there 〈◊〉 that they should satisfy their desires, which done for that time they departed. And when at the Church of Sanfantino or other place in Venice, they 〈◊〉 to meet their lovers, they showed unto them cheerful and merry countenance: which the lovers well noting, were the gladdest men of the world: and seeing that it was impossible in speech to utter their minds, they purposed by letters to signify the same. And having found Purcivaunts to go between parties, (whereof this City was wont to be full) either of them wrote an amorous letter to his beloved, the content whereof was, that they were very desirous secretly to talk with them, thereby to express the burning affections that inwardly they bore them, which without declaration and utterance by mouth in their own presence, would breed them torments more bitter than death. And within few days after (〈◊〉 great difference of time between,) they wrote their letters. But Girolamo Bembo having a pregnant wit, who could well indite both in prose and 〈◊〉, wrote an excellent song in the praise of his darling in Italian Meter, and with his letter sent the same unto her, the effect whereof both follow.  

Alively face and piercing beauty bright  
Hath linked in love my silly senses all:  
A comely port, a goodly shaped wight  
Hath made me slide that never thought to fall:  
Her eyes, her grace, her deeds and manners mild,  
So strains my heart, that love hath wit beguiled.   

But not one dart of Cupid did me wound,  
A hundred shafts lights all on me at ones:  
As though dame kind some new devise had found,  
To tear my flesh, and crash a two my bones:  
And yet I feel such joy in these my woes  
That as I die, my spirit to pleasure goes.   

These new found fits, such change in me do breed,  
I hate the day, and draw to darkness lo:  
Yet by the lamp of beauty do I feed  
In dimmest days and darkest nights also,  
Thus altering state and changing diet still,  
I feel and know the force of Venus will.   

The best I find, is that I do confess,  
I love you dame, whose beauty doth excel:  
But yet a toy doth breed me some distress,  
For that I dread you will not love me well,  
That love ye wots shall rest in me alone:  
And fleshly breast, shall bear a heart of slone.   

O Goddess mine, yet hear my voice of ruth,  
And pity him, that heart presents to thee:  
And if thou want a witness for my truth  
Let sighs and tears my judge and record be,  
Unto the end a day may come in haste,  
To make me think I spend no time in waist.   

For nought prevails in love to serve and sue  
If full effect join not with words at need,  
What is desire or any fancies new  
More than the wind? that spreads abroad in 〈◊〉  
My words and works, shall both in one agree  
To pleasure her, whose servant would I be.   
The subtle dames receiving those amorous letters and song disdainfully, at the first 〈◊〉 to take them at the bringers hands, as they had determined, yet afterwards they showed better countenance. These letters were tossed one from an other, whereat they made great pastime, and thought that the same would come to very good success, either of them keeping still their husbands letter, and agreeing without injury done one to an other trunly to deceive their husbands. The manner how, you shall perceive anon. They devised to send word to their lovers, that they were ready at all times to satisfy their suits, if the same might be secretly done, and safely might make repair unto their houses, when their husbands were absent, which in any wise they said, must be done in the night, for fear least in the day time they were descried. Again these provident and subtle women had taken order with their maids, whom they made privy to their practice, that through their gardens they should enter into others house, and be shut in their chambers without light, there to tarry for their husbands, and by any means not to be seen or known. This order prescribed and given, Mistress Lucia first did her lover to understand, that the night ensuing at. iiij. of the clock at the postern door, which should be left open, he should come unto her house, where her maid should be ready to bring him up into the chambered, because her husband master Girolamo would that night embark himself to go to Padova. The like mistress Isotta did to master Girolamo, appointing him at. v. of the clock which she said was a very convenient time, because master Anselmo that night would sup and lie with certain of his friends at Murano, a place besides Venice. Upon these ne was, the two lovers thought themselves the most valiant and fortunate of the world, no enterprise now there was but seemed easy for them to bring to pass, yea if it were to expel the Saracens out of 〈◊〉, or to deprive the great Turk of his kingdom of Constantinople. Their joy was such, as they could not tell where they were, thinking every hour a whole day before night came. At length the time was come so long desired, and the husbands accordingly gave diligent attendance, and let their wives to understand, (or at lest wise believed they had) that they could not come home that night for matters of great importance. The women that were very wise, seeing their ship sail with so prosperous wind, feigned themselves to credit all that they offered. These young men took either of them his Gondola (or as we term it their barge) to disport themselves, & having supped abroad, rowed in the Canali, which is that water that passeth through divers streets of the city, expecting their appointed hour. The women ready at. iij. of the clock, repaired into their gardens, & after they had talked & laughed together a pretty while, went one into an others house, & were by that maids brought up to that chambers. There either of them that candle being light, began diligently to view that order & situation of the place, & by little & little marked the chiefest things they looked for, committing that same to memory. Afterwards they put out that candle, & both in trembling manner expected the coming of their husbands. And 〈◊〉 at. iiij. of that clock the maiden of Madonna Lucia stood at the door to wait for that coming of master Anselmo, who win a while after came, & gladly was let in by that maid, & by her conducted up to the chamber even to the bed side. The place there was so dark as hell, & impossible for him to know his wife. The. ij. wives were so like of bigness & speech, as by dark without great difficulty they could, be known. When Anselmo had put of his clothes, he was of his wife amorously entertained, thinking the wife of 〈◊〉 had received him between her arms, who above 〈◊〉. M. times kissed her very sweetly, and she for her part sweetly rendered again to him so many. What followed it were folly to describe. Girolamo likewise at. v. of the clock appeared, and was by the maid conveyed up to the chamber, where he lay with his own wife, to their great contentations. Now these. 〈◊〉. husband's thinking they had been embraced by their beloved ladies, to seem brave and valiant men of war, made greater proof of their manhood, than they were wont to do. At what time their wives (as it pleased God to manifest by their delivery) were begotten with child of. 〈◊〉. fair 〈◊〉, & they the best contented women of that world. This practice continued between them many times, few weeks passing but in this sort they lay together. Neither of them for all this, perceived themselves to be deluded, or conceived any suspicion of collusion by reason that chamber was still without light, & in the day the women commonly failed not to be together. The time was not long but their bellies began to swell, whereat their husbands were exceeding joyful, believing verily that one of them had fixed horns upon an others head. Nowbeit the poor men for all their false belief had bestowed their labour up on their own soil, watered only with the course of their proper fountain. These. 〈◊〉. jolly wenches seeing themselves by this amorous practice to be with child, began to devise how they might break of the same, doubting lest some slander and ill talk should rise: and thereby the hatred and malice between their husbands increase to greater fury. And as they were about this devise, an occasion chanced, utterly to dissolve their 〈◊〉 meetings but not in that sort as they would have had it. For the women determined as merrily they had begun so iocundly to end: but Fortune the guide of human life disposeth all enterprises after her own pleasure, who like a puissant Lady carrieth with her the success of each attempt. The beginning she offereth freely to him that list, the end she calleth for, as a ransom or tribute payable unto her. In the same street, or as they call it Rio, & Canale, not far from their houses, there dwelled a young woman very fair and comely, not fully xx. years of age, which then was a widow, and a little before the wife of M. Niccolo Delphino, and the daughter of M. Giovanni Moro, called Gismonda. She besides her father's dowry (which was more than a thousand 〈◊〉) had left her by her husband, a great portion of money, jewels, plate, and household furnitures. With her fell in love Aloisio Foscari, the nephew of the Duke, who making great suit to have her to wife, consumed the time in beholding his Lady, and at length had brought the matter to so good pass, as one night she was contented at one of the windows of her house directly over against a little lane to hear him speak. Aloisio marvelous glad of those desired news 〈◊〉 appointed night about v. or. vj. of the clock with a ladder made of ropes (because the window was very high, went thither alone. Being at the place making a sign concluded upon between them, attended when the gentle woman should throw down a little cord to draw up the ladder accordingly as was appointed, which not long after was done. Gismonda when she had received the end of the ladder, tied it fast to the iawme of the window, and gave a token to her lover to mount, he by force of love being very venturous, lively and lustily scaled the window. And when he was upon the top of the same, desirous to cast himself in, to embrace his Lady, and she not ready to receive him, or else upon other occasion, he fell down backward, thinking as he fell to have saved himself twice or thrice by catching hold upon the ladder, but it would not be. Notwithstanding, as God would have it, the poise of his body fell not upon the pavement of the street fully, but was stayed by some lets in the fall, which had it not been so, no doubt he had been slain out of hand, but yet his bones were sore bruised, and his head deeply wounded. The infortunate Lover seeing himself sore hurt with that pitiful fall, albeit he thought that he had received his death's wound, and impossible to live any longer, yet the love that he bore to the widow, did so far surmount the pain by him sustained and the grief of his body sore crushed and broken, that so well as he could, he raised himself up, and with his hands stayed the blood that ran from his head, to the intent it might not raise some slander upon the widow that he loved so well: and 〈◊〉 alongs the street toward the houses of Girolamo and Anselmo aforesaid. Being come thither with great difficulty, not able to go any further for very pain and grief, he fainted and fell down as dead, where the blood issued in such abundance, as the ground therewith was greatly imbrued and arrayed, and every one that saw him thought him to be void of life. Mistress Gismonda exceeding sorrowful for this mischance, doubted that he had broken his neck, but when she saw him departed, she comforted him so well as she could, and drew up the ladder into her chamber. Such chances happen to earnest lovers, who when they think they have scaled the top of their felicity suddenly tumble down into the pit of shame or reproach, that better it had been for them leisurely to expect the grace of their Ladies at convenient place and hour, than hardily without providence to adventure like desperate soldiers to climb the top of the vamure, without measuring the height of the walls, or viewing the substance of their ladders, do receive in the end cruel repulse, & fall down headlong either by present death or mortal wound, to receive everlasting reproach and shame. But turn we again now to this disgraced Lover, who lay gasping between life and death. And as he was in this sorrowful state, one of the captains, a Noble man appointed to see orders observed in the night, with his band (which they call Zaffi) came thither. And finding him lying upon the ground, knew that it was Aloisio Foscari, & causing him to be taken up from the place where he lay, thinking he had been dead, commanded that he should be conveyed into the Church hard adjoining, which immediately was done. And when he had well considered the place where he was found, he doubted that either Girolamo Bembo or Anselmo Barbadico, before whose doors he thought the murder committed, had killed him, which afterwards he believed to be true, because he heard a certain noise of men's feet at one of their doors. Wherefore he divided his company, placing some on the one side of their houses, and some on the other besieging the same so well as he could. And as fortune would, he found by negligence of the maids, the doors of the. ij. houses open. It chanced also that night that the two lovers one in others house were gone to lie with their Ladies, who hearing the, & stur made in the house by the sergeants suddenly the women leapt out of their beds, & bearing their apparel upon their shoulders, went home to their houses throughtheir gardens unseen of any, and in fearful wise did attend what should be the end of the same. Girolamo & Anselmo not knowing what rumour & noise that was, although they made haste in the dark to cloth themselves, were by the officers without any field fought, apprehended in each others chamber, & remained prisoners at their mercy: whereat the captain and his band did greatly marvel, knowing the hatred between them. But when Torches and lights were brought, and the two Gentlemen carried out of doors, the wonder was the greater for that they perceived them almost naked, and prisoners taken in each others house. And besides this admiration, such murmur and slander was raised, as the quality of every vulgar head could secretly devise or imagine, but specially of the innocent women, who how faultless they were, every man by what is said before may conceive, and yet the cankered stomachs of that troop conceived such malice against them, as they 〈◊〉 and brawled against them like curs at strange Dogs whom they never saw before. The Gentlemen immediately were carried to prison, ignorant upon what occasion. Afterwards understanding that they were committed for the murder of Aloisio Foscari, and imprisoned like thieves, albeit they knew themselves guiltless of murder or Theft, yet their grief and serowe was very great, being certain that all Venice should understand how they between whom had been mortal hatred, were now become copartners of that which none but the true professors ought to 〈◊〉. And although they could not abide to speak together, like those that deadly did hate one another, yet both their minds were fixed upon one thought. In the end, conceiving fury & despite against their wives, the place being so dark that no light or sun could pierce into the same, whereby without shame or disdain one of them began to speak to another, and with terrible oaths they gave their faith to disclose the troth in what sort either of them was taken in others chamber, and frankly told the way and mean how each of them enjoyed his pleasure of others wife: whereupon the whole matter (according to their knowledge) was altogether by little & little manifest and known. Then they accounted their wives to be the most arrant strumpets within the whole City, by dispraising of whom their old rancour began to be forgotten, & they agreed together like two friends, who thought that for shame they should never be able to look men in the face, ne yet to show themselves openly within the City, for sorrow whereof they deemed death the greatest good turn and benefit that could chance unto them of any thing in that world. To be short, seeing no means or occasion to comfort & relieve their pensive and heavy states, they fell into extreme despair, who ashamed to live any longer, devised way to rid themselves of life, concluding to make themselves guilty of the murder of Aloiso Foscari. And after much talk uttered between them of that cruel determination, still approving the same to be their best refuge, they expected nothing else, but when they should be examined before the Magistrates.  
Foscari as is before declared was laid into that Church for dead, and that Priest straightly charged with the keeping of the same, who caused him to be conveyed into the mids of the church, setting. 〈◊〉. torches a light, that one at his head, & the other at his feet, & when the company was gone, he determined to go to bed the remnant of the night to take his rest. But before he went, seeing that the Torches were but short, and could not last passed. ij. or. iij. hours, he lighted two other, and set them in the others place, for that it should seem to his friends, if any chanced to come, what care and worship he bestowed upon him. The priest ready to departed, perceived the body somewhat to move, with that looking upon his face, espied his eyes a little to begin to open. Wherewithal somewhat afraid, he crying out, ran away: Notwithstanding his courage began to come to him again, and laying his hand upon his breast, perceived his heart to beat, and then was out of doubt that he was not dead, although by reason of loss of his blood, he thought little life to remain in him. Wherefore he with one of his fellow priests which was a bed, and the clerk of the parish, carried master Foscari so tenderly as they could into the priest's chamber, which adjoined next the church. Then he sent for a surgeon that dwelled hard by, and required him diligently to search the wound, who so well as he could, purged the same from the corrupt blood, and perceiving it not to be mortal, so dressed it with oils and other precious ointments, as Aloisio came again to himself. And when he had anointed that recovered body with certain precious and comfortable oils, he suffered him to take his rest. The priest also went to bed and slept till it was day, who so soon as he was up, went to seek the Captain to tell him of the good news that master Aloisio Foscari was recovered again, who by the 〈◊〉 Captain was committed to him in charge. The Captain at that time was gone to the palace at San Marco, to give the Duke advertisement of this chance, after whom the priest went, & was let in to the duke's chamber, to whom he declared what he had done to master Aloisio. The Duke very glad to hear tell of his nephews life, although then very pensive for the news brought unto him by the Captain, entreated one of the Signior de not, to take with him two of the best surgeons, and to call him that had already dressed his nephew, to go visit the wounded Gentleman, that he might be certified of the truth of that chance. All which together repaired to the priests chamber, where finding him not a sleep, and the wound fair enough to heal, did thereunto what their cunning thought meet and convenient. And then they began to inquire of him, that was not yet full recovered to perfect speech, how that chance happended, telling him that he might frankly confess unto them the truth. The more diligent they were in this demawde, because the Surgeon that dressed him first, alleged, that the wound was not made with sword, but received by some great fall or blow with mace or club, or rather seemed to come of some high fall from a window, by reason his head was so grievously bruised. Aloisio hearing the Surgeon's sudden demand, presently answered, that he fell down from a window, and named also the house. And he had no sooner spoken those words, but he was very angry with himself and sorry: And therewithal his dismayed spirits began to revive in such wise, as suddenly he chose rather to die than to speak any thing to the dishonour of mistress Gismonda. Then the signor di not, asked him what he did there about that time of the night, and wherefore he did climb up to the window, being of so great a height: which he could not keep secret, by reason of the authority of the Magistrate that demanded the question, 〈◊〉 he thought that if his tongue 〈◊〉 run at large, and committed a 〈◊〉 by rash speaking, his body should therefore suffer the smart. Wherefore before he would in any wise spot the name of 〈◊〉, whom he loved better than his own life, determined to hazard his life and honour, to the mercy of justice, and said: I declared even now, which I can not deny, that I fell down from the window of mistress Gisinonda Mora. The cause thereof (being now at state, wherein I know not whether I shall live or die) I will truly disclose. Mistress Gismonda being a widow, & a young woman, without any man in her house, because by report she is very rich of jewels and money, I purposed to rob and despoil. Wherefore I devised a ladder to climb up to her window, with mind full bend to kill all those that should resist me. But my 〈◊〉 was such, as the ladder being not well fastened fell, and I myself therewithal, and thinking to recover home to my lodging with my ladder made of cord, my 〈◊〉 began to fail, and fell down I wot not where. The Signior de not, whose name was Domenico Mariperto, hearing him say so, marveled greatly, and was very sorry, that all they in the chamber, which were a great number, as (at such chances commonly be) did hear those words: and because they were spoken so openly, he was forced to say unto him: Aloisio I am very sorry that thou hast committed such folly, but for so much as sorrow now will not serve to remedy the trespass, I must needs she we myself both faithful to my country, & also careful of mine honour, without respect of people. Wherefore thou shalt remain here in such safe custody as I shall appoint, & when thou art better amended thou must according 〈◊〉 desert be referred to that jail. Leaving him then there under sure keeping, he went to the counsel of the Dieci, (which magistrates in that city be of 〈◊〉 authority) and finding the lords in counsel, he opened the whole matter unto them. The precedents of the Counsel which had heard a great numbered of complaints of many thefts done in the night within the City, took order that one of the captains that were appointed to the diligent watch and keeping of Aloisio, remaining in the priest's house, should cause him to be examined, & with torments forced to tell the truth, for that they did verily believe that he had committed many robberies beside, or at lest wise was privieand accessary to the same, and knew where the thieves were become. Afterwards the said Counsel did sit upon the matter of Girolamo Bembo and Anselmo Barbadico, found at midnight naked in each others chamber, and committed to prison as is before remembered. And because they 〈◊〉 many matters beside of greater importance, to entreat upon, amongs which the wars between them and Philippo Maria Vesconte, duke of Milane, the aforesaid causes were deferred till an other time, notwithstanding in the mean while they were examined. The Duke himself that time being in counsel, spoke most severely against his nephew. Nevertheless he did hardly believe that his nephew being very rich, and endued with great honesty, would abase himself to a vice so vile and abominable as theft is, whereupon he began to consider of many things, and in the end talked with his nephew secretly alone, and by that means learned the troth of the whole matter. In like manner Anselmo and Girolamo were examined by commissioners appointed by the state, what one of them did in an others chamber, at that hour of the night, who confessed that many times they had seen Aloisio Foscari, to pass up & down before their houses at times inconvenient, & that night by chance one of them not knowing of another, espied Aloisio, thinking that he lingered about their houses, to abuse one of their wives, for which cause they went out, and so soon as they 〈◊〉 taken him, they killed him. Which confession they openly declared accordingly, as whereupon before they were agreed. Afterwards with further circumstance being examined upon the Article of being one in another's 〈◊〉, it appeared that their first tale was utterly untrue. Of all which contradictions the Duke was advertised, and was driven into extreme admiration, for that the truth of those disorders could not be understanded and known. Whereupon the Dieci, and the assistants were again assembled in council according to the manner, at what time after all things thoroughly were debated and ended, the Duke being a very grave man, of excellent wit, advanced to the Dukedom by the consent of the whole state, as every of them were about to rise up, said unto them: My Lords there resteth one thing yet to be moved, which peradventure hitherto hath not been thought upon. There are before us two complaints, the effect whereof in my judgement is not thoroughly conceived in the opinions of divers. Anselmo Barbadico and Girolamo Bembo, between whom there hath been ever continual hatred, left unto them as a man may say even by father's inheritance, both of them in either of their chambers, were apprehended in a manner naked by our Sergeants, and without torments, or for fear to be racked upon the only interrogatories of our ministers, they have voluntarily confessed that before their houses they killed Aloisio our Nephew. And albeit that our said Nephew yet liveth, & was not stricken by them or any other as should appear, yet they 〈◊〉 themselves guilty of the murder. What shall be said them to the matter, doth it not seem doubtful? Our Nephew again hath declared, that in going about to rob the house of Mistress Gismonda Mora, whom he meant to have slain, he fell down to the ground from the top of a window, wherefore by reason so many robberies have been discovered within the City, it may be presumed that he was the 〈◊〉 and malefactor, who ought to be put to the torments, that the truth may be known, and being found guilty, to feel the severe punishment that he hath deserved. Moreover when he was found lying upon the ground, he had neither ladder nor weapon, whereupon may be thought that the fact was otherwise done, than hitherto is confessed. And because amongs moral virtues, temperance is the chiefest and worthy of greatest commendation, and that justice not righteously exercised, is injustice & wrong, it is meet and convenient for us in these strange accidents, rather to use temperance than the rigour of justice. And that it may appear that I do not speak these words without good ground, mark what I shall say unto you. These two most mortal enemies do confess that which is impossible to be true, for that our Nephew (as is before declared) is a live, and his wound was not made by sword, as he himself hath confessed. Now who can tell or say the contrary, but that shame for being taken in their several Chambers, and the dishonesty of both their wives, hath caused them to despise life, and to desire death? We shall find if the matter be diligently inquired and searched, that it will fall out otherwise than is already supposed by common opinion. For the contrariety of examinations, unlikelihood of circumstances, and the impossibility of the cause, rendereth the matter doubtful. Wherefore it is very needful diligently to examine these attempts, and thereof to use more advised consideration. On the other side, our Nephew accuseth himself to be a 〈◊〉, and which is more, that he meant to kill mistress Mora when he broke into her house. Under this grass my Lords as I suppose, some other Serpent lieth hidden, that is not yet thought of. The Gentleman ye know before this time was never defamed of such outrage, ne suspected of the least offence that may be objected. Besides that, all ye do know, (thanks therefore be given to almighty God) that he is a man of great richesses and possessions, and hath no need to rob. For what necessity should drive him to rob a widow, that hath of his own liberally to bestow upon the succour of widows? Were there none else of substance in the City for him to give attempt, but to a widow a comfortless creature, contented with quiet life to live amongs her family within the bounds of her own house? What if her richesses, jewels and plate be great, hath not Aloisio of his own to redouble the same? But truly this Robbery was done after some other manner than he hath confesfessed. To us than my Lords it appertaineth, if it so stand with your pleasures, to make further inquiry of the same, promising unto you upon our Faith, that we shall employ our whole diligence in the true examination of this matter, and hope to bring the same to such good end, as none shall have cause to blame us, the final sentence whereof shall be reserved to your judgement. This grave request and wise talk of the Duke pleased greatly the Lords of the Council, who referred not only the examination, but also the final sentence unto him.  
Whereupon the wise Prince being fully informed of that chance happened to his Nephew, attended only to make search, if he could understand the occasion why Bembo and Barbadico so foolishly had accused themselves of that which they never did. And so after much counsel & sundry devices examined and made, his nephew then was well recovered, and able to go abroad, being set at liberty. After sundry examinations I say, he also had learned the troth of the case touching the other two prisoners which he communicated to the Lords of the aforesaid council called Dieci. Then he caused with great discretion, proclamation to be made throughout Venice, that Anselmo and Girolamo should be beheaded between the two Pillars, and Aloisio hanged, whereby he thought to know what suit the women would make, either with or against their husbands, & what evidence mistress Gisinonda would give against Aloisio. The brute hereof dispersed through Venice, divers talk thereupon was raised, & no communication of any thing else in open streets and private houses, but of the putting to death of those men And because all three were of honourable houses, their kinsmen & friends made suit by all possible means for their pardon. But their confessions published, that rumour was made worse, (as it daily chanceth in like cases) than the matter was in deed, & the same was noised how Foscari had confessed so many thefts done by him at divers times, as none of his friends or kin durst speak for him. Mistress Gismonda which bitterly lamented the mischance of her lover, after she understood the confession he had made, and evidently knew that because he would not blemish her honour, he had rather willingly forego his own, and therewithal his life, felt herself so inflamed with fervent love toward him, as she was ready presently to surrender her ghost. Wherefore 〈◊〉 sent him word that he should comfort himself, because she was determined to manifest the very troth of the matter, and hoped upon her declaration of true evidence, sentence should be revoked, for testimony whereof, she had his loving letters yet to 〈◊〉, written to her with his own hands, and would bring forth in the judgement place, the corded ladder, which she had kept still in her chamber, Aloisio hearing these loving news, and of the evidence which his Lady would give for his defence, was the gladdest man of the world, and caused infinite thanks to be rendered unto her, with promise that if he might be rid and discharged out of prison, he would take her for his loving spouse and wife. Whereof the Gentlewoman conceived singular contentation, loving her dear friend with more entire affection than her own soul. Mistress Lucia and mistress Isotta, hearing the dispercled voice of the death of their husbands, and understanding the case of mistress Gismonda by an other woman, laid their heads together likewise to devise means for saving their husbands lives: and entering into their barge or Gondola, went to seek mistress Gismonda, and when they had debated upon the truth of these chances, concluded with one assent to provide for the safeguard and delivery of their husbands, wherein they showed themself both wise and honest. For what state is more honourable and of greater comfort than the married life, if in deed they that have yoked themselves therein be conformable to those delights, and contentation which the same conduceth? Wealth and riches maketh the true united couple to rejoice in the 〈◊〉 of Fortune, granted by the sender of the same, either of them providing for disposing thereof, against the decrepit time of old age, and for the bestowing of the same upon the fruit accrived of their bodies. Poverty in any wise doth not offend them, both of them glad to labour and travail like one body, to sustain their poor and needy life, either of them comfortably doth minister comfort in the cruel time of adversity, reudring humble thanks to God for his sharp rod and punishment enflicted upon them for their manifold sins committed against his majesty, travailing by night & day by sweeting brows to get brown bread, & drink full thin to cease the cries and pitiful craving of their tender babes, wrapped in cradle & instant on their mother to fill their hungry mouths. Adverse fortune maketh not one to forsake the other. The loving 〈◊〉 ceaseth not by painful suit to troth and go by night and day in heat & called to relieve the misery of her husband. He likewise spareth not his pain to get and gain the living of them both. He abroad and at home according to his called state, she at home to save the lucre of that labour, and to do such necessary travail incident to the married kind. He careful for to get, she heedful for to save. He by 〈◊〉 and Art, she by diligence and household toil. O the happy state of married folk: O surpassing delights of marriage bed: which maketh these. 〈◊〉. poor gentlewomen, that by honourable policy saved the honour of themselves and honestly of their husbands, to make humble suit for their preservation, who were like to be berieved of their greatest comforts.  
But come we again to declare the last act of this Tragedy. These married women, after this chance befell, upon their husband's imprisonment, began to be abhorred of their friends and parents, for that they were suspected to be dishonest, by reason whereof dolefully lamenting their misfortune, not withstanding, their own conscience void of fault, did bid them to be of good cheer and comfort. And when the day of execution came they did their friends and parents to understand that their conceived opinion was untrue, & prayed them to forbear their disdain and malice, till the truth should be thoroughly manifested, assuring them that in the end their own innocency and the guiltless crime of their husbands should openly be revealed to the world. In the mean time they made request unto their friends, that one of the Lords called Auogadori might be admitted to understand their case, the rest to be referred to themselves, wherein they had no need either of Proctor or Advocate. This request seemed very strange to their friends, deeming their case to be shameful and abominable. Nevertheless diligently they accomplished their request, & understanding that the Council of the Dieci had committed the matter wholly to the Duke, they inade a supplication unto him in that name of yt. iij. Gentlewomen, wherein they craved nothing else but their matter might be herd. The Duke 〈◊〉 his advise like to take effect, assigned a day when that same should be heard, commanding them at that time before him & the Lords of the Council & all the college of the state to appear. The day being come, all that Lords assembled, desirous to see to what issue this matter would grow. On the morning the three Gentlewomen honestly accompanied with other Dames, went to the palace, and going along the street of San Marco, diverse people 〈◊〉 to utter many railing words against them. Some cried out (as we see by unstable order the vulgar people in like cases use to do) and doing a certain courtesy by way of disdain and mockery: Behold that honest women, that without sending their husbands out of Venice, have placed them in the castle of Cornetto, and yet the arrant whores be not ashamed to show themselves abroad, as though they had done a thing that were honest and praise worthy. Other shot forth their bolts, and with their proverbs proceeding from their malicious mouths, thwited the poor women at their pleasure. Other also seeing mistress Gismonda in their company, thought that she went to declaim against master Aloisio Foscari, and none of them all happened on the troth. Arrived at the palace, ascending the marble stairs or steps of the same, they were brought into the great hall, where the Duke appointed the matter to be heard. Thither repaired the friends and those of nearest kin to the three Gentlewomen; and before the matter did begin, the duke caused also the three prisoners to be brought thither. Thither also came many other Gentlemen, with great desire to see the end of those events. Silence being made, the duke turning his face to the women, said unto them: Ye Gentlewomen have made request by supplication to grant you public audience according to justice, for that you do allege that law and order doth so require, and that every well ordered common wealth condemneth subject without due answer by order of law. Behold therefore, that we desirous to do justice, be ready in place to hear what ye can say. The two husbands were very angry and wrathful against their wives, & the more their stomachs did 〈◊〉 with choler and disdain to see their impudent and shameless wives with 〈◊〉 audacity to appear before the majesty of a counsel so honourable and dreadful, as though they had been the most honest and 〈◊〉 women of the world. The. 〈◊〉. honest wives perceived the anger and displeasure of their husbands, and for all that were not afraid ne yet dismayed, but smiling to themselves and somewhat moving their heads in decent wise, seemed unto them as though they had mocked them. Anselmo more angry and impatient than Girolamo, broke out into such fury, as had it not been for the majesty of the place, and the company of people to have stayed him, would have killed them: and seeing he was not able to hurt them, he began to utter the vilest words, that he possibly could devise against them. Mistress Isotta hearing her husband so spitefully to spit forth his poison in the presence of that honourable assembly, conceived courage, and craving licence of the Duke to speak, with merry countenance and good utterance began thus to say her mind:  
Most excellent Prince, and ye right honourable lords, perceiving how my dear husband uncomely and very dishonestly doth use himself against me in this noble company, I do think master Girolamo Bembo to be affected with like rage & mind against this gentlewoman mistress Lucy his wife, although more temperate in words, he do not express the same. Against whom if no reply be made, it may seem that he hath spoken the truth, and that we by silence should seem to condemn ourselves to be those most wicked women whom he allegeth us to be. Wherefore by your gracious pardon and licence (most honourable) in the behalf of mistress Lucy and myself, for our defence I purpose to declare the effect of my mind although my purpose be clean altered from that I had thought to say, being now justly provoked by the unkind behaviour of him, whom I do love better than myself, which had he been silent and not so rashly run to the overthrow of me and my good name, I would have concealed and only touched that, which should have concerned the purgation and safeguard of them both, which was the only intent & meaning of us, by making our, humble supplication to your majesties. Nevertheless, so so far as my feeble force shall stretch, I will assay to do both the one and the other, although it be not appropriate to our kind in public place to declaim, or yet to open such bold attempts, but that necessity of matter and opportunity of time and place, doth bolden us to enter into these terms, whereof we crave a thousand pardons for our unkindly dealings, and tender double thanks to your honours, for admitting us to speak. Be it known therefore unto you, that our husbands against duty of love, laws of marriage, and against all reason, do make their heavy complaints, which by & by I will make plain and evident. I am right well assured, that their extreme rage & bitter hearts sorrow do proceed of. y. occasions: The one, of the murder whereof they have falsely accused themselves: the other of iealosy, which grievously doth gnaw their hearts, thinking us to be vile & abominable women, because they were surprised in each others chamber. Concerning the murder, if they have soiled their hands therein, it appertaineth unto you my lords to tender their desert. But how can the same be laid to our charge, for somuch as they (if it were done by them) committed the same without our knowledge, our help & counsel? And truly I see no cause why any of us ought to be burdened with that outrage, and much less cause have they to lay the same to our charge. For meet it is that he that doth any unlawful act, or is accessary to the same, should suffer that due penalty & severe chastisement accordingly as the sacred laws do prescribe, as an example for other to abstain from wicked facts. But hereof what need I to dispute, wherein the blind may see to be none offence, because (thanks be to God) Master Aloisio liveth, which declareth the fond confession of our ungitle husbands, to be contrary to troth? And if so be our husbands in deed had done such an abominable enterprise, reason and duty had moved us to sorrow and lament them, because they be borne of noble blood, and be gentlemen of this noble city, which like a pure virgin inviolably doth conserve her laws & customs. Great cause I say, had we to lament them, if like homicides & murderers they had spotted their noble blood with such fowl 〈◊〉, thereby deserving death, to leave us young women widows in woeful plight. Now it behoveth me to speak of the iealoufis they have conceived of us, for that they were in each others chamber, which truly is the doubtful knot & scruple that forceth all their disdain & grief. This I know well is the nail that pierceth their heart: other cause of offence they have not: who like men not well advised, without examination of us and our demeanour, be fallen into despair, and like men desperate, 〈◊〉 wrongfully accused themselves. But because I may not consume words in vain, to stay you by my long discourse from matters of greater importance, I humbly beseech you (right excellent prince) to command them to tell what thing it is, which so bitterly doth torment them. Then the Duke caused one of the noble men assistant there, to demand of them the question: who answered, that the chiefest occasion was, because they knew their wives to be harlots, whom they supposed to be very honest: & for somuch as they knew them to be such, they conceived sorrow and grief, which with such extremity did gripe them at that heart, as not able to sustain that great infamy, ashamed to be seen of men were induced through desire of death to confess that they never did. Mistress Isotta hearing them say so, begun to speak again, turning herself unto them: Were you offended then at a thing which ye thought inconvenient & not meet to be done? We then have greatest cause to complain. Why then 〈◊〉 husband went you to the chamber of mistress Lucy at that time of the night? What had you to do there? what thing thought you to find there more than was in your own house? And you master Girolamo, what constrained you to forsake your wives bed to come to my husbands, where no man ever had, or at this present hath to do but himself? were not that sheets of the one so white, so fine, neat & sweet as the other? I am (most noble Prince) sorry to declare my husband's folly, and ashamed that he should forsake my bed to go to an other, that did account myself so well worthy to entertain him in mine own, as the best wife in Venice, and now through his abuse, I abstain to show myself amongs the beautiful and noble dames of this City. The like misliking of herself is in mistress Lucy, who (as you see) may be numbered amongs the fairest, Either of you ought to have been contented with your wives, & not (as wickedly you have done) to forsake them, to seek for better bread than is made of wheat, or for purer gold than whereof the Angel is made: O worthy deed of yours, that have the face to leave your own wiués, that be comely fair & honest, to seek after strange carrion. O beastly order of men that can not content their lust within the bounds of their own house, but must go hunt after other women as beasts do after the next of their kind that they chance upon. What vile affection possessed your hearts to lust after others wife? You make complaint of us, but we with you have right good cause to be offended, you ought to be grieved with your own disorder, and not with others offence, and this your affliction patiently to bear, because you went about to beguile one an others love, like them that be weary and glutted with their own fare, seeking after other dainties more delicate if they were to be found.  
But praised be God and our provident discretion, if any hurt or shame hath chanced, the same doth light on you. Moreover I know no cause why men should have more liberty to do evil than we women have: albeit through the weakness and cowardice of our sex, ye men will do what ye lift. But ye be now no Lords, nor we servants, and husbands we do you call, because the holy laws of Matrimony (which was the first Sacrament given by God to men after the creation of the world) do require equal faith, and so well is the husband bound to the wife as she unto him. Go to then & make your complaint: the next Ass or beast ye meet, take her to be your wife. Why do ye not know that the balance of justice is equal, and weigheth down no more of one side than of other? But let us now leave of to reason of this matter, and come to that for which we be come hither. Two things (most righteous Prince) have moved us to come before your majesty, & all this honourable assembly, which had they not been, we would have been ashamed to show our faces, & less presumed to speak or once to open our lips in this Noble audience, which is a place only meet for them that be most expert and eloquent orators, and not for us, to whom the needle & distaff be more requisite. The first cause that forced us to come forth of our own house, was to let you understand that our husbands be no murderers, as is supposed, neither of this Gentleman present master Aloisio, ne yet of any man else: and thereof we have sufficient and worthy testimony. But herein we need not to travail much, or to use many words: for neither master Aloisio is slain, ne any other murdered, that is known or manifest hitherto. One thing resteth, which is that Madonna Lucia and I do humbly beseech your excellent Majesty, that your grace and the authority of the right honourable Lords here present, 〈◊〉 vouchsafe to reconcile us to our husbands, that we may obtain pardon and favour at their hands, because 〈◊〉 have so manifestly made their acts to appear, and for that we be the offence, and they the offenders, and yet by their own occasions, we have committed the error (if it may be so termed.) And now to come to the conclusion, I do remember 〈◊〉 I was a child, that I have heard the Gentlewoman my mother say (whose soul God pardon) many times unto me, and other my sisters, & to mistress Lucia, that was brought up with us, being by her instructed in divers good and virtuous lessons, that all the honour a woman can do unto her husband, whereby she beautifieth him and his whole race and family, consisteth in her honest, chaste, and virtuous life, without which, she ought rather to die than live. And that a Gentleman's wife when she hath given her body to the use of an other man, is the common mark for every man to point at in the street where she goth, her husband thereby incurring reproach & shame which no doubt is the greatest iniuric and scorn that an honest Gentleman can receive, and the most shameful reproach that can blemish his house. Which lesson we so well remembering, desirous not to suffer the careless and unbridled appetites of our 〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉 unrained, and run at large to some dishonest end, by a faithful and commendable policy, did provide for the mischief that might ensue. I need not here rehearse the enmity and debate that many years did reign between our husbands fathers, because it is known and manifest unto the whole City. We two therefore here present, the wives of those noble Gentle men, brought up together from our Cradle, perceiving the malice between our husbands, made a virtue of necessity, deeming it better for us to lose our sweet & ancient conversation, than to minister occasion of disquietness. But the nearness of our houses would not that natural hatred should defrande and take away 〈◊〉 engrafted amity. Wherefore many times when our husbands were gone forth, we met together, & talked in our gardens, between which there is but a thin hedge beset with primme and roses, which commodity in their absence we did discreetly use. And as sometimes for pleasure we walked with our husbands there, ye (she turning unto them) did cast your eyes upon each others wife, and were straight way in love, or else perchance you feigned yourselves to be, which espied by us, many times between ourselves did comen of the same, and red your amorous letters and song sent unto us. For which dissoyaltie & treason towards us your wives, we sought no dishonour to your persons, we were content to suffer you to be abused with your fond love, we blabbed it not abroad to our gossips, as many lewd and fantastical women be wont to do, thereby to raise slander to our husbands, and to stir up ill report upon them, whose infirmities it becometh us to conceal and hide. We devised means by some other way to let you understand your fault, and did cast upon you many times right loving looks. Which although it were against our own desire, yet the cause and full conclusion of the same, was to practise, if it were possible, to make you friends. But considering that this love and allurements of either parts, could not tend to other end, as we conjectured, but to increase displeasure, and to put the swords into your hands, we therefore consulted between ourselves, & uniformly in one mind did agree for 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 & satisfaction of all parts, at such nights as ye feigned to go into divers places about earnest affairs as ye alleged, Mistress Lucy with the help of Cassandra my maid, through the Garden came into my chamber, and I by means of jane her maid by like way repaired unto hers. And it poor men guided by our maids were brought unto your chambers where ye lay with your own wives, and so by tilth of others land in strange soil (as ye believed) ye lost no labour. And because your embracements then, were like to those achieved by amorous Gentlemen, using us with more earnest desire than you were wont to do, both we were begotten with child: which ought to be very gladsome and grateful unto you, if ye were so feign to have children as ye showed yourselves to be. If than none other offence doth grieve you, if remorse of conscience for other cause doth not offend you, if none other sorrow doth displease you: Give over your grief. Remit your displeasure. Be glad and joyful. Thank us for our policy, and pleasant disport that we made you. If hitherto ye have been enemies, henceforth be friends, put of that ancient malice so long continued, mitigate your hateful mood, and live ye from henceforth like friendly Gentlemen, yield up your rancour into the lap of your Country, that she may put him in exile for ever, who like a pitiful and loving mother would gladly see all her children of one accord and mind. Which if ye do, ye shall do singular pleasure to your friends, ye shall do great discomfort to your foes, ye shall do singular good to the common wealth, ye shall do greatest benefit to yourselves, ye shall make us humble wives, ye shall increase your posterity, ye shall be praised of all men, 〈◊〉 finally shall departed the best contented men that ever the world brought forth. And now because ye shall not think that we have picked out this tale at our finger's ends, thereby to seek your safeguard and our fame and praise, behold the letters which you sent us, behold your own hands subscribed to the same, behold your seals assigned thereunto, which shall render true testimony of that which unfeignedly we have affirmed. Then both delivered their letters, which viewed and seen, were well known to be their own husband's hands, and the same so well approved her tale, as their husbands were the gladdest men of the world, and the Duke and signory marvelously satisfied & contented. In so much as the whole assembly with one voice, cried out for their husband's deliverance. And so with the consent of the Duke & the whole signory they were clearly discharged. The parents, cousins and friends of the husbands & wives were wonderfully amazed to here this long history, and greatly praised the manner of their delivery, accounting the women to be very wise, and mistress Isotta to be an eloquent gentlewoman, for that she had so well defended the cause of their husbands & of themselves. Anselmo and Girolamo openly in the presence of all the people embraced and kissed their wives with great 〈◊〉. And then the husbands shaked one an other by the hands; between whom began a brotherly accord, and from that time forth lived in perfect amity and friendship, exchanging the wanton love that either of them bare to others wife into brotherly friendship, to the great contentation of the whole City. When the multitude assembled to hear this matter thoroughly was satisfied, the Duke with cheerful countenance looking toward Gismonda, said thus unto her: And you fair Gentlewoman, what have you to say? Be bold to utter your mind, and we will gladly hear you. Mistress Gismonda bashful to speak, began wonderfully to blush, into whose cheeks entered an orient rud, intermixed with an Alabaster white, which made her countenance more 〈◊〉 than it was wont to be. After she had stood still a while 〈◊〉 her eyes declined towards the ground, in comely wise lifting them up again with shamefast audacity she begun to say: If I most noble prince, in open audience should attempt to speak of love, whereof I never had experience, or knew what thing it was, I should be doubtful what to say thereof, and peradventure durst not open mouth. But hearing my father (of worthy memory) many times to tell that your majesty in the time of your youth disdained not to open your heart to receive the amorous flames of love, & being assured that there is none but that doth love little or much, I do not doubt but for the words which I shall speak, to obtain both pity and pardon. To come then to the matter: God I thank him of his goodness, hath not permitted me to be one of that sort of women, that like hypocrites do mumble their Pater nosters to saints, appearing outwardly to be devout & holy and in fruit do bring forth devils, and all kinds of vices, specially ingratitude, which is a vice that doth suck & dry up the fountain of godly piety. Life is dear to me (as naturally it is to all) next which I esteem mine honour, that peradventure is to be preferred before life, because without honour life is of no reputation. And where man & woman do live in shame notorious to the world, the same may be termed a living death rather than a life. But the love that I bear to mine only beloved master Aloisio here present, I do esteem above all that jewels & treasures of the world, whose parsonage I do regard more than mine own life. The reason that moveth me there to is very great, for before that I loved him, or ever meant to fire my mind that way, he dearly regarded me, continually devising which way he might win & obtain my love, sparing no travel by night & day to seek the same. For which tender affection should I show myself unkind and froward? God forbidden. And to be plain with your honours, he is more dear & acceptable unto me, than that balls of mine own eyes, being the dearest things that appertain to that furniture of the body of man, without which no earthly thing can be gladsome and joyful to the sense and feeling. Last of all, his amorous and affectionate demonstration of his love towards me, by declaring himself to be careful of mine honour, rather more willing to bestow his own, than to suffer the same to be touched with the left suspicion of dishonesty, I can not choose, but so faithfully embrace, as I am ready to guage my life for his sake, rather than his finger should ache for that offence. And where hath there been ever found such liberality in any lover? What is he that hath been ever so prodigal, to employ his life, the most special pledge in this world, rather than he would suffer his beloved to incur dishonour? Many histories have I red, and Chronicles of our time, and yet I have found few or none comparable unto this Gentleman, the like of whom be so rare and seldom as white crows or swans of colour black. O singular liberality, never heard of before. O fact that can never be sufficiently praised. O true love most unfeigned. Master Aloisio rather than he would have my fame any one jot to be impaired, or suffer any shadow of suspicion to blemish the same, frankly hath confessed himself to be a thief, regarding me & mine honour more than himself & life. And albeit that he might a thousand ways have saved himself without the imprisonment & adversity which he hath sustained: nevertheless after he had said, being then past remembrance through the fall, that he fell down from my window, & perceived how much that confession would prejudice and hurt my good name, and spot the known honesty of the same, of his good will choose to die rather than to speak any words that might breed ill opinion of me, or the least thing of the world that might ingendre infamy & slander. And therefore not able to call back the words he had spoken of the fall, nor by any means could colour the same, he thought to save that good name of another by his own hurt. If he then thus readily & liberally hath protruded his life to manifest danger for my benefit & safeguard, preferring mine honour above the care of himself, shall not I abandon all that I have, yea & therewithal hazard mine honour for his salvation? But what? Shall I disdain bountifully to employ myself & all the endeavour of my friends for his delivery? No no (my Lords) if I had a thousand lives, & so many honours at my commandment, I would give them all for his relief and comfort, yea if it were possible for me to recover a fresh. x. C. M. lives, I would so frankly bestow them all, as ever I desired to live, that I might enjoy mine own Aloisio. But I am sorry, and ever shallbe sorry, for that it is not lawful for me to do more for him, than that which my small power and possibility is able. For if he should die, truly my life could not endure: if he were deprived of life, what pleasure should I have to live in this world after him? whereby (most honourable & righteous judge,) I believe before the honest, not to lose any one jot of mine honour, because I being (as you may see) & young woman & a widow desirous to marry again, it is lawful for me to love and to be beloved for none other intent (whereof God is the only judge) but to attain a husband according to my degree. But if I should lose my reputation and honour, why should not I adventure the same for him, that hath not spared his own for my sake? Now to come to the effect of the matter, I do say with all dutiful reverence, that it is an accusation altogether false and untrue, that ever master Aloisio came to my house as a Thief against my will. For what need he to be a thief, or what would he do with my goods, that is a lord and owner of. xx. times so much as I have? Alas good Gentleman, I dare depose and guage my life, that he never thought, much less did any robbery or thing unlawful, wherewith justly he may be charged. But he repaired to my house with my consent, as a loving and affectionate lover, the circumstance whereof, if it be duly marked, must avouch the same to be of truth infallible. For if I had not given him licence to come, how was it possible for him to convey his ladder so high, that was made but of ropes, and to fasten the same to the iaume of the window, if none within did help him. Again, how could the window of the chamber be open at that time of the night, which is still kept shut, if it had not been by my consent. But I with the help of my maid threw down to him a little rope, whereunto he tied his ladder and drew the same up, and making it so fast, as it could not undo, and then made a sign for master Aloisio to come up. But as both our ill fortune would have it, before I could catch any hold of him, to mine inestimable grief and hearts sorrow he fell down to the ground. Wherefore (my lords) I beseech your honours to revoke the confession wherein he hath made himself to be a thief. And you master Aloisio declare the troth as it was, sith I am not ashamed in this honourable assembly to tell the same. Behold the letters (my lords) which so many times he wrote unto me, wherein he made suit to come to my speech, and continually in the same doth call me wife. Behold the ladder, which till now, did still remain in my chamber. Behold my maid, which in all mine affairs, is as it were mine own hand and helper. Master Aloisio being here upon demanded of the Lords of the articles, which she in her tale had recited, confessed them all to be true: who at the same instant was discharged. The Duke greatly commended them both, her for her stout audacity, in defence of an innocent Gentleman, and him for his honour and modesty, seeking to preserve the fame and good report of the Gentlewoman. Which done, the Counsel disassembled and broke up. And the friends of both the parties accompanied them home to the house of mistress Gismonda, where to the great rejoice and pleasure of all men, they were solemnly married in sumptuous and honourable wise, and master Aloisio with his wife lived in great prosperity long time after. Mistress Lucia and mistress Isotta, at the expired time were delivered of two goodly sons, in whom the fathers took great joy and delight. Who with their wives after that time lived very quietly and well, one loving an other like natural brethren, many times sporting among themselves discreetly at the deceits of their wives. The wisdom of the Duke also was wonderfully extolled and commended of all men, the fame whereof was increased and bruited throughout the region of Italy, And not without cause. For by his prudence and advise, the dominion of the state and Common wealth was amplified and dilated. And yet in the end being old and impotent, they unkindly deposed him from his Dukedom.   

The Lord of Virle  
¶ The Lord of VIRLE, by the commandment of a a fair young widow called ZILIA, and for his promise made, the better to attain her love, was contented to remain dumb the space of three years, and by what means he was revenged, and obtained his suit.  
The. xxvij. Novel.  
THey that have passed the most part of their youth in human follies, and have rather followed the vanities of fools & insensate lovers, in matters of love, and that the contemplation of heavenly things, or else of those that here on earth may give some entry for man to attain glory and honour of his name, they I say, shall serve me for witnesses, to confirm the opinion of long time rooted in the fancies of men: which is, that the beauty and comely favour of a woman, is the very true & natural Adamant that can be found, sith the same stone (for a certain attractive power and agreeable quality therein enclosed) doth not better draw the iron, than the woman doth, by a certain hidden force, which resting under the allurement of her eye, draweth unto it that hearts & affections of men, which hath made many beléene, that the same only essence was sent to us below, to serve both for men's torment and joy together. But yet there is an other thing of greater wonder it is not to hear tell that Paris forsook Troy, to go visit Helena in Grece, that Hercules had given over his mace, to handle the 〈◊〉 at the commandment of a woman, or that Solomon was sotted in his wisdom to dally with those that made him a voluntary slave. But that a woman of whom a man had received no favour and courtesy at all, had forgotten her own duty to her servant, if it seem not strange, I can not tell what to call wonderful or marvelous: if defence of speech for love, is not deemed such, whereby man is different from brute beasts: (for reason is altogether refused by lovers, and notwithstanding our fathers have seen the example of that virtue no long time passed in the person of a Gentleman, very wise and well trained up in other things. A case so strange as declaring the singular force of nature in that matter, wherein the seemeth to have given the prefermennt above all things in earth. Examples hereof, is the effemination of Hercules, the deprivation of Samsons strength, the loss of sense, and the idolatry of the famous and wise king Solomon, and the simplicity of a warelesse and uncircumspect Gentleman, of whom ye shall read the History.  
Thurin (as is well known to them that have traveled Piedmont) is the ornament & bulwark of all the country, so well for the natural site of the place, as for the artificial and industrious work of man's hand, which hath instaured and furnished with great magnificence, that which nature had indifferently enriched, for the rudeness and little knowledge of the time past. Now besides this stately & strong city, there standeth a little town named Montcall, a place no less strong, and of good defence, than well planted in a fair and rich soil. In this town there dwelled a Gentlewoman a widow called Zilia, beautiful amongs the most excellent fair Gentlewomen of the country, which country (besides the other happy & heavenly influences) seemeth to be specially favoured, for having the most fairest and courteous Gentlewomen, above any other within the compass of Europa. Notwithstanding this fair Zilia, degenerating from the nature of her climate, was so haggard and cruel, as it might have been thought. she had been rather nourished and brought up amid the most desert mountains of Savoy, than in the pleasant and rich champayn country, watered and moistened with Eridanus, the father of rivers, at this day called the Pau, the largeness whereof doth make men to marvel, and the fertility allureth every man to be desirous to inhabit upon the same. This fair rebellious widow, albeit that she was not above. xxiv. or. xxv. years of age, yet protested never more to be subject to man, by marriage, or otherwise, thinking herself well able to live in single life: A mind truly very holy and commendable, if the pricks of that flesh do obey the first motions and adhortations of the spirit, but where youth, pleasure, and multitude of suitors do address their endeavour against that chastity (lightly enterprised) the Apostles counsel aught to be followed, who willeth young widows to marry in Christ, to avoid the temptations of the flesh, and to flee offensive slander and dishonour before men. Now mistress Zilia (her husband being dead) only bend herself to enrich her house, and to amplify the possession of a little infant which she had by her late departed husband. After whose death she became so covetous, as having removed, and almost cut off quite the wont port she used in her husbands days, employed her maids in household affairs, thinking nothing to be well done that passed not through her own hands. A thing truly more praise worthy, than to see a sort of effeminate, fine, and dainty fingered dames, which think their honour diminished if they hold but their nose over their household matters, where their hand and diligence were more requisite, for so much as the mistress of the house is not placed the chief to hear only the reasons of them that labour, but thereunto to put her hands, for her present eye seemeth to give a certain perfection to the work which the servants do by her commandment. Which caused the historians in times past, to describe unto the posterity a gentlewoman called Lucretia, not babbling amongs young foolish girls, or running to feasts and Maigames, or Masking in the night, without any regard of the honour and dignity of her race and house, but in her Chamber sowing, spinning, and carding, amids the troop of her maiden servants: wherein our mistress Zilia passed the most part of her time, spending no minute of the day, without some honest exercise, which she did for that she liked not to be seen at feasts and banquets, or to be gadding up and down the streets, wandering to gardens or places of pleasure, although to such places youth sometimes may have honest repair to refresh their wearied bodies with some virtuous recreation, & thereby to rejoice the heaviness of the mind. But this Gentlewoman was so severe in following the rigorous and constrained manners of our ancients, that impossible it was, to see her abroad, except it were when she went to Matins or other divine service. This Gentlewoman seemed to have studied the divinity of the Egyptians, which paint Venus holding a key before her mouth, & setting her foot upon a Tortus, signifying unto us thereby, that duty of a chaste woman, whose tongue ought to be locked, that she speak not but in time and place, and her feet not straying or wandering, but to keep herself within the limits of her own house, except it be to serve God, and sometimes to render our bounden duty to them which have brought us into light. Moreover Zilia was so religious (I will not say superstitious) and rigorous to observe customs, as she made it very squeimish and strange to kiss Gentlemen that met her, a civility which of long time hath been observed, and yet remaineth in the most part of the world, that Gentlewomen do welcome strangers and guests into their houses with an honest and chaste kiss. Notwithding the institution and profession of this widow had wiped away and deferred this point of her youth: whither it were for that she esteemed herself so fair, as all men were unworthy to touch the utter parts of so rare and precious a vessel, or that her great and inimitable chastity made her so strange, to refuse that which her duty and honour would have permitted her to grant. There chanced about this time that a gentleman of the Country called Sir Philoberto of Virle, esteemed to be one of the most valiant Gentlemen in those parts, repaired upon an holy day to Montcall, (whose house was not very far off the Town) and being at divine service, in place of occupying his sense and mind in heavenly things, and attending the holy words of a Preacher, which that day declared the word of God unto the people, he gave himself to contemplate the excellent beauty of Zilia, who had put off for a while her mourning vail, that she might the better behold the good father that preached, and receive a little air, because the day was extreme hot. The Gentleman at the first blush, when he saw that sweet temptation before his eyes, thought himself rapt above the third heaven, and not able to withdraw his look, he fed himself with the venom which by little and little, so seized upon the soundest parts of his mind, as afterwards being lively rooted in heart, the Gentleman was in danger still to remain there for a guage, without any hope of ease or comfort, as more amply this following discourse, shall give you to understand. Thus all the morning he beheld the Gentlewoman, who made no more account of them, that with great admiration did behold her, than they themselves did of their life, by committing the same to the hands of a woman so cruel. This Gentleman being come home to his lodging, inquired what fair widow that was, of what calling, and of what behaviour, but he heard tell of more truly, than he would of good will have known or desired to have been in her, whom he did presently choose to be the only mistress of his most secret thoughts. Now understanding well the stubborn nature and uncivil manner of that widow, he could not tell what part to take, nor to what Saint to vow his devotion, to make suit unto her he thought it time lost, to be her servant, it was not in his power, having already inguaged his liberty into the hands of her, which once holding captive the hearts of men, will not infraunchise them so soon as thought and will desire. Wherefore baiting himself with hope, and tickled with love, he determined what soever chanced, to love her, and to assay if by long service he could lenify that hard heart, and make tender that unpliant will, to have pity upon the pain which she saw him to endure, & to recompense his laboursome travels, which he thought were virtuously employed for gaining of her good grace. And upon this settled deliberation, he retired again to Virle (so was his house named) where disposing his things in order, he returned again to Montcall to make his long resiance there, to put in readiness his furniture, and to weld his artillery with such industry, as in the end he might make a reasonable breach to force and take the place: For surprising whereof, he hazarded great dangers, the rather, that he himself might first be taken. And where his assaults and policies could not prevail, he minded to content himself with the pleasure and pastime that he might receive in the contemplation of a thing so fair, and the ordinary sight of an image so excellent. The memory of whom rather increased his pain than yielded comfort, did rather minister corrosive poison, than give remedy of ease, a cause more of cruel and sudden death, than of prolonged life. Philoberto then being become a citizen of Montcall, used to frequent the Church more than he was wont to do, or his devotion served him, and that because he was not able elsewhere to enjoy the presence of his Saint, but in places and temples of devotion: which no doubt was a very holy and worthy disposition, but yet not meet or requisite to observe such holy places for those intentes, which ought not to be profaned in things so fond and foolish, and acts so contrary to the institution and mind of those, which in times paste were the first founders and erectors of temples. signor Philoberto then moved with that religious superstition, made no conscience at all to speak unto her within the Church. And true it is, when she went out of the same, he (moved with a certain familiar courtesy, natural to each Gentleman of good bringing up) many times conducted her home to her own house, not able for all that (what so 〈◊〉 he said) to win the thing that was able to engender any little contentation, which grieved him very much: For the cruel woman feigned as though 〈◊〉 understood nothing of that he said, and turning the wain against the oxen, by contrary talk she began to tell him a tale of a tub, of matters of her household, whereunto he gave so good heed, as she did to the hearing of his complaints. Thus these two, of divers affections, and moved with contrary thoughts, spoke 〈◊〉 to an other, without apt answer to either's talk. Whereby the Gentleman conceived an assured argument of his ruin, which void of all hope & means, he saw to be inevitable, and therefore practised with 〈◊〉 dames of the City, that had familiar resort unto her house, and used frequent conversation with 〈◊〉 rebellious lady Zilia. To one of them then he determined to communicate his secrets, and to do her to understand in deed the only cause that made him to 〈◊〉 at Montcall, and the grief which he sustained, for that he was not able to discover his torment to her, that had given him the wound. This Gentleman therefore, repaired to one of his neighbours, a woman of good courage, which at other 〈◊〉 had experimented what meats they feed on, which 〈◊〉 at Venus' table, and what bitterness is intermingled, amid those drinks that Cupid quaffeth unto his guests. 〈◊〉 whom (having before conjured her to keep secret that which he would declare) he disclosed the secrets of his mind, expressing his love without naming of his lady before he herd the answer of his neighbour, who understanding almost to what purpose the affections of the patient were directed, said unto him: Sir, needful it is not to use long orations, the love that I bear you for the honest qualities which hitherto I have known to be in you, shall make me to keep silent, that whereof as yet I do not know the matter, and the assurance you have, not to be abused by me, constraineth me to warrant you, that I will not spare to do you all the pleasure & honest service I can. Ah mistress (answered sir Philoberto) so long as I live, I will not fail to acknowledge the liberality of your 〈◊〉, by offering yourself patiently to hear, and secretly to keep the words I speak, accorduigly as they deserve: and that (which is more than I require) you do assure me that I shall find such one of you, as will not spare to give your aid. Alas, I resemble the good and wise Captain, who to take a 〈◊〉 doth not only aid himself with the forwardness and valiance of his soldiers, but to spare them, and to avoid slaughter for making of way, planteth his cannon, and battereth the wall of the fort, which he would assail, to the intent that both the soldier and the ordinance may perform and suffice the perfection of the plat, which he hath framed and devised within his politic head. I have already encouraged my soldiers, and have lost the better part truly in the skirmish which hath delivered unto me my sweet cruel enemy. Now I am driven to make ready the fire, which resteth in the kindled match of your conceits, to batter that fort hitherto 〈◊〉, for any assault which I can make. I understand not (said she smiling) these Labyrinths of your complaints, except you speak more plain. I never haunted the wars, 〈◊〉 knew 〈◊〉 thing it is to handle weapons, improper and not seemly for mine estate and kind. The war (quoth he) whereof I speak, is so natural and common, as I doubt not, but you have sometimes 〈◊〉, with what 〈◊〉 and camisadoes men use to take their enemies, how they plant their 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 what means both the assailant and 〈◊〉 ought to use. So far as I see (said she) there 〈◊〉 nothing for us, but the assurance of the field, sith we be ready to enter in combat: and do think that the fort shall not be hard to win, by reason of the walls, dikes, ramparts, bulwarks, platforms, counterforts, curtines, vamewres & engines which you have prepared, besides a numbered of false brayes and flanks, placed in good order, and the whole defended from the thundering cannons and bombards, which do amaze the wandering enemy in the field. But I pray you leaving these warlike tumults, to speak more boldly without these extravagantes and digressions, for I take pity to see you thus troubled, and ready to exceed the bounds of your modesty and wont wisdom. Do not marvel at all mistress (quoth he) sith according to new occurrents and alterations, both the purpose, talk, and counsel ordinarily do change. I am become the servant of one which maketh me altogether like unto those that 〈◊〉 mad, and bound in chains, not able to speak or say any thing, but what the spirits which be in them, do force them to utter. For I neither will, think, or 〈◊〉 any thing, but that which the enchanter Love doth command and suffer to express, who, so rigorously doth 〈◊〉 my heart, that in place where boldness is most requisite, he depriveth me of force, and leaveth me without any countenance. And being alone, God 〈◊〉 how frankly I do wander in the place, where mine enemy may command, and with what 〈◊〉 I do invade her province. Alas, is it not pity then to see these diversities in one self matter, and upon one very thing? Truly I would endure willingly all these travails, if I 〈◊〉 in the end my service might be accepted, and hoped that my 〈◊〉 should find relief: but living in this 〈◊〉, I must needs nourish the 〈◊〉 and the solace of the unhappy, which are wishes and vain hope, trusting that some God, will 〈◊〉 me a faithful friend that will assay to rid me from the hell wherinto I am thrown, or else to shorten this miserable life, which is a 〈◊〉 times more painful than death. In saying so, he began to sigh so strangely as a man would have thought that two smiths 〈◊〉 working at the 〈◊〉, had given two blows at his stomach, so vehement was the enclosed wind within his heart, that made him to fetch forth those terrible 〈◊〉, the eyes not forgetting to yield forth a river of tears, which gushing forth at the centre of his heart, mounted into his brains, at length to issue forth, through the spout proper to the channel of such a fountain. Which the gentlewoman seeing, moved with compassion, could not contain to keep him company in 〈◊〉, and therewithal said unto him. Although mine estate and reputation, which to this day I have kept unspotted, defend the use of my good will in things that may 〈◊〉 mine honour, yet sir by seeing the extremity which you suffer, to be 〈◊〉, I will somewhat 〈◊〉 my conscience, & assay to succour you with so good heart, as 〈◊〉 you trust me with the secrets of your thought. There resteth only for me to know, the thing that you will have me to do, and towards what woman your devotions be inclined: for sure I am to give her such 〈◊〉 of that which I have seen and known of your good will & service towards the mistress of your heart, that 〈◊〉 shallbe altogether out of taste, and void of appetite, 〈◊〉 she do not accept that affectionate offered will, the like whereof shall never be proffered again. And truly such a woman may judge herself right happy to have a Gentleman, so 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 and faithful, for 〈◊〉 and lover, which honouring and serving her beauty 〈◊〉 good 〈◊〉, is the 〈◊〉 and ornament of the 〈◊〉 of his Lady. 〈◊〉 the earth 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 forth in these days like 〈◊〉, men being grown to 〈◊〉 disloyalty, as in the end it will defraud the virtue of Fidelity from them, and wholly plant the same, in the soil of women's hearts: and they not able to depart the force and 〈◊〉 thereof, will 〈◊〉 upon them conditions that be cruel, to punish the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 of 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, who disguised with the vizard of feigned friendship, and painted with coloured amity, languishing in sighs and sorrows, 〈◊〉 to deceive them that prodigally employ 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 into the hands of those cruel, inconstant 〈◊〉 foolish suitors. Ah Mistress answered the Gentleman: how may I be able to recompense that only 〈◊〉 which you 〈◊〉 promise me now? But be sure that you see 〈◊〉 a Soldier and Gentleman which shall no less be prodigal of his life to do you 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 you be liberal of your reputation to ease his pains. Now sith it pleaseth you to show such favour to 〈◊〉 me your help and support in that which paineth me, I require no more at your hands, but to bear a Letter which I shall write to Mistress Zilia, with whom I 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 in love, as if I do receive no solace of my 〈◊〉, I know not how I shall avoid the cutting of my thread, which the spinning sister's 〈◊〉 twisted to prolong my life, that henceforth can receive no succour, if 〈◊〉 your means I 〈◊〉 not achieve the thing that holdeth me in such bondage. The Gentlewoman was 〈◊〉 sorrowful, when she understood that 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 had 〈◊〉 his Love upon such one, as would not 〈◊〉 to that request, and much less would 〈◊〉 any rest unto his miseries, and therefore 〈◊〉 herself to move that 〈◊〉 fantasy out of his 〈◊〉. But he was already resolved in his misehappe, which perceiving in the end she said: To the 〈◊〉 Sir that you do not think that I do mean to excuse the 〈◊〉 of my promise, make your letters, and of my Faith I will deliver them. And albeit I know 〈◊〉 well what be the honours and glory of that Pilgrim, yet I will render to you again the true answer of her 〈◊〉 which she shall use to me, whereby you may consider the gain you are like to make by pursuing of a woman (although fair) of so small desert. The Gentleman failed not to give her 〈◊〉 thanks, praying her to 〈◊〉 until 〈◊〉 had written his letters: whereunto she most willingly obeyed. He then gone into his Chamber, 〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉 a hundred hundred matters to write unto his Lady, and after he had fixed them in mind, 〈◊〉 ink and paper writing as followeth.  
The Letters of Signior Philoberto of Virle, to Mistress Zilia of Montcall.  
THe passion 〈◊〉 which I endure (Madam) through 〈◊〉 love of you, is such, as 〈◊〉 that I am assured of the little love you bear me, in 〈◊〉 of the incredible servitude which mine 〈◊〉 and desire is 〈◊〉 to employ, I have no will to 〈◊〉 my force, ne yet to rid myself from 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 will to 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 beauty, although even from the beginning I felt the 〈◊〉 of the mortal 〈◊〉 which now 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. Alas I 〈◊〉 not know 〈◊〉 what 〈◊〉 I am borne, nor what fate doth 〈◊〉 my years, 〈◊〉 I do 〈◊〉 that heaven and love, and her whom I 〈◊〉 do conform themselves with one assent to 〈◊〉 mine overthrow, who think myself of 〈◊〉 born and sustained in my first young age, to be the 〈◊〉 man and 〈◊〉 servant of you my 〈◊〉 dear, 〈◊〉 whom alone, I yield my heart 〈◊〉 as it is, and the joy of 〈◊〉 thoughts 〈◊〉 in my 〈◊〉, by the contemplation and remembrance of your excellent and perfect grace, whereof if I be not favoured, I 〈◊〉 for death, from which even presently I 〈◊〉: 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 fear of that which she can do, or of the ugly 〈◊〉 which I conceive to be in her, but rather to confirm my life, this body, for instrument to exercise the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 for doing of your commandments, where I shall prove that unworthy cruelty, both of your gentle 〈◊〉, and of the body fraught full of that, which dame Nature can depart of her abundant graces. 〈◊〉 sure madame that you shall shortly see the end of him, which attendeth yet to bear so much as in him 〈◊〉 lie, the vehement love into an other world, which maketh me to pray you to have pity on him, who (attending the rest and final sentence of his death or life) doth humbly kiss your white and delicate hands, 〈◊〉 god to give to you like 〈◊〉 as his is, who 〈◊〉 to be,  
Wholly yours, or not to be at all. Philoberto of Virle.  
The letter written, closed and sealed, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉 neighbour, who promised him again to 〈◊〉 him 〈◊〉 at night. Thus this 〈◊〉 went her way, leaving this poor languishing Gentleman hoping against his hope, and feigning by and by some joy and pleasure, wherein he 〈◊〉 himself with great contented mind. Then suddenly he called again unto remembrance, the cruelty & 〈◊〉 of Zilia, which showed before his eyes so many kinds of death, as times he thought upon the same, thinking that he saw the choler wherewith his little courteous mistress furiously did entertain the messenger, who found Zilia coming forth of a garden adjoining to her house, and having saluted her, and received like courteous salutation, she would have framed her talk, for honest excuse in that 〈◊〉 charge & message: for her also unto whom she was sent, and for some ease to the poor gentleman which approached nearer death than life. But Zilia broke of her talk saying: I marvel much gentle neighbour to see you here at this time of the day, knowing your honest custom is to let pass no minute of the time, except it be employed in some virtuous exercise. Mistress answered the messenger, I thank you for the good opinion you have of me, and do pray you to 〈◊〉 the same. For I do assure you that nothing vain & of little effect hath made me slack my business at this time, which me think I do not 〈◊〉, when I enforce myself to take pity and mercy upon the afflicted sort: and the cause thereof I would disclose, if I feared not to offend you, and break the love which of long time between us two hath been frequented. I know not (said Zilia) whereunto your words do tend, although my heart doth throb, and mind doth move to make me think your purposed talk to be of none other effect, than to say a 〈◊〉 which may redound to the prejudice of mine 〈◊〉. Wherefore I pray you, do not open any thing that 〈◊〉 be contrary, be it never so little to the duty of Dames of our degree. Mistress said the neighbour, I suppose that the little likelihood which is in you with the thing for the help whereof I come to speak, hath made you feel the passion, contrary to the grief of him that endures so much for your sake. Unto whom not thinking thereof I gave my faith in pledge to bear this Letter. In saying so, she drew the same out of her bosom, and presenting them to cruel 〈◊〉, she said: I beseech you to think that I am not ignorant of the 〈◊〉 wherewith the Lord of 〈◊〉 is affected, who wrote these letters. I promised him the duty of a messenger towards you: and so constrained by promise I could do no less, than to deliver you that which he doth send, with service such as shall 〈◊〉 for ever, or if it shall please you to accept him for such a one as he desireth. For my part I pray you to read the contents, and accordingly to give me answer: for my faith is no further bound, but faithfully to report to him the thing whereupon you shall be resolved. Zilia which was not wont to receive very oft such embassades, at the first was in mind to break the letters, and to return the messenger to her shame. But in the end taking heart, and changing her affection, she read the letters not without showing some very great alteration outwardly, which declared the meaning of her thought that diversly did strive within her mind: for suddenly the changed her colour twice or thrice, now waring pale like the increasing 〈◊〉, Eclipsed by the Sun, when the feeleth a certain darkening of her borrowed light, than the Uermilion and coloured taint came into her face again, with no less hew than the blomed Rose newly budded forth, which increased half so much again, the excellency of that wherewith Nature 〈◊〉 endued her. And 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 paused a while. Notwithstanding, after that she had red, and red again her lovers letter, not able to dissemble her foolish anger which vere her heart, she said unto the mistress messenger: I would not have thought that you, being such as each man knoweth, would (by abusing your duty,) have been the ambassador of a thing so uncomely for your estate, and the house whereof you come, and towards me which never was such one (ne yet pretend to be,) to whom suit should be made for doing of such follies. And trust to it that it is the love I bear you, which shall make me dissemble that I think, and hold my peace, reserving in silence, that which (had it come from an other than you) I would have published to the great dishonour of her which had made so little account of my chastity. Let it suffice therefore in time to come for you to think and believe, that I am chaste and honest: and to advertise the Lord of 〈◊〉 to proceed no further in his suit: for rather will I die, than agree to the least point of that which he desires of me. And that he may know the same, be well assured that he shall take his leave of that private talk which sometimes I used with him to my great dishonour, as far as I can see. Get you home therefore, and if you love your honour so much, as you see me curious of my chastity, I beseech you use no further talk of him, whom I hate so much, as his 〈◊〉 is excessive, by loving her which careth not for those amorous toys and feigned passions, whereunto such loving fools do suffer themselves to be carried headlong. The messenger ashamed, to hear herself thus pinched to the quick, answered her very quietly without moving of her patience: I pray to God (mistress) that he may remedy the different disease almost incurable in either of you twain, the same being so vehement, as altered into a 〈◊〉, maketh you in this wise, incapable of reason. Finishing these words she took her leave of Zilia, and arrived to the lovers house, she found him lying upon his bed, rather dead than alive: who seeing his neighbour returned back again, with face so sad, not tarrying for the answer which she was about to make, he began to say: Ah infortunate Gentleman, thou payest well the usury of thy pleasures past, when thou didst live at liberty, free from those travails which now do put thee to death, with out suffering thee to die. Oh happy, and more than right happy had I been, if inconstant Fortune had not devised this treason, wherein I am surprised and caught, and yet no ransom can redeem me from prison, but the most miserable death that ever poor lover suffered. Ah mistress, I know well that Zilia esteemeth not my letters, ne yet regardeth my love, I confess that I have done you wrong by thus abusing your honest amity, for the solace of my pain. Ah fickle love, what fool is he which doth commit himself to the rage and fury of the waves of thy foaming and tempestuous seas? Alas I am entered in, with great gladsome cheer, through the glistering show before mine eyes of the faint sun beams, whereunto so soon as I made sail, the same denied me light to thrust me forth into a thousand winds, tempests, and raging storms of rain. By means whereof I see no mean at all to hope for end of my mishaps: and much less the shipwreck which suddenly may rid me from this danger more intolerable, than if I were overwhelmed within the bottomless depth of the main Ocean. Ah deceiver, & wily soldier, why hast thou made me enterprise the voyage far of from thy solitudes and wilderness, to give me over in the midst of my necessity? Is this thy manner towards them, which frankly follow thee by trace, and pleasantly subdue themselves to thy traitorous follies? At lest wise if I saw some hope of health I would endure without complaint thereof: yea, and it were a more dangerous tempest. But O good God, what is he of whom I speak? Of whom do I attend for solace and relief? of him truly which is borne for the overthrow of men? Of whom hope I for health? Of the most noisome poison that ever was mingled with the most subtle drugs that ever were. Whom shall I take to be my defender? He which is in ambush traitorously to catch me, that he may martyr me worse than 〈◊〉 hath done before. Ah cruel wench, that thou shouldest measure so evil the good will of him that never purposed to trespass the least of thy commandments. Ah, that thy beauty should find a subject so stubborn in thee, to torment them that love and praise thee. O maugre and unkind recompense, to expel good servants that: be affectionate to a service so just and good. Ah Basilisk, coloured over with pleasure and sweetness, how hath thy sight dispersed his poison throughout mine heart? At least wise if I had some drug to repel thy force, I should live at ease, & that without this suit and trouble. But I feel and prove that this sentence is more than true:  

No physic herbs the grief of love can cure,  
Ne yet no drug that pain can well assure.   
Alas, the sear cloth will not serve, to tense the wound the time shall be but lost, to cut the same is but increase of pain, to salve the same breedeth matter to cause mine overthrow. To be short, any dressing can not avail, except the hand of her alone which gave the wound. I would to God the saw the bottom of my heart, and viewed the closet of any mind, that she might judge my firm saith and know the wrong she doth me by her rigour and froward wil But O unhappy man, I feel that she is so resolved in obstinate mind, as her rest seemeth only to depend upon my pain, her ease upon my grief, and her joy upon my sadness. And saying so, began strangely to weep, and sighing between, lamented, in so much as, that mistress messenger not able to abide the grief and painful travail wherein she saw the poor gentleman wrapped, went home to her house: not withstanding she told afterward the whole success of his love to a Gentleman, the friend of Philoberto. Now this Gentleman was a companion in arms to the lord of Virle; and a very familiar friend of his, for which cause he went about by all means to put away those foolish and frantic conceits out of his fancy, but he profited as much by his endeavour, as the passionate gained by his heaviness: who determining to die, yielded so much to care and grief, as he fell into a grievous sickness, which both hindered him from sleep, and also of his appetite to eat and drink, giving himself to muse upon his follies and fancied dreams, without hearing or admitting any man to speak unto him. And if he did hear them, his words tended to the complaint of the cruelty of one, whom he named not, and sounded of desire he had to end his life upon that complaint. The physicians round about were sought for, who could give no judgement of that disease (neither for all the signs they saw, or any inspection of the urine, or touching of the pulse) but said that it was a melancholy humour distilling from the brain, which caused the alteration of his sense: howbeit their art and knowledge were void of skill to evacuate the gross blood that was congealed of 〈◊〉 melancholy. And therefore despairing of his health, with hands full of money they gave him over. Which his friend and companion perceiving, marvelous sorry for the affliction of his friend, ceased not to practise all that 〈◊〉 could by letters, gifts, promises and complaints to procure Zilia to visit the patient. For he was assured that the only presence of her was able to recover his friend. But the cruel woman excused herself through her widdowhed, that it should be unseemly for one of her degree (of intent) to visit a Gentleman, whose parentage and alliance she knew not. The solicitor of the Lord of Virle his health, seeing how little his prayers availed with his implacable fury, knew no longer to what 〈◊〉 he might vow himself for counsel, in the end resolved to solicit her which had done the first message, that she might devise some means to bring them to speak together. And finding her for his purpose, thus he said unto her: Mistress, I marvel much that you make so little account of the poor lord of Virle who lieth in his bed attending for death. Alas, if ever pity had place in woman's heart, I beseech you to give your aid to help him, the mean whereof in whom it lieth, is not ignorant unto you. God is my witness (quoth she) what travail I could take, to help him: but in things impossible, it is not in man to determine, or rest assured in judgement. I will go unto him and comfort him so well as I can, that peradventure my promises may 〈◊〉 some part of his pain: and afterward we will at leisure better consider upon that which we shall promise. hereupon they went together to see the patient, that began to look up more 〈◊〉 than he was wonted: who seeing the Gentlewoman, said unto her: Ah mistress, I would to God I had never proved your fidelity, to feel the passing cruel heart of her, that rather doth esteem her honour, to practise regour and tyranny upon me, than with gentleness to maintain the life of a poor feeble knight. Sir (said she) I can not tell what you mean thus to torment yourself: for I trust to cure you between this and to morrow, and will do mine endeavour to cause you speak with her, upon whom wrongfully perchance you do complain, and who dareth not to come unto you, lest some occasion be given of suspicion to 〈◊〉 speakers, which will make the report more slanderous, when they know the cause of your disease. Ah (said the patient) how joyful and pleasant is your talk? I see well that you desire my health, and for that purpose, would have me drink of those liquors, which superficially do appear to be sweet, afterwards to make my life a hundred times more faint and feeble than now it is. Be you there said she? And I swear unto you by my faith not to fail to keep my promise, to cause you speak alone with mistress Zilia. Alas mistress said the lover, I ask no more at your hands, that I may hear with mine own ears the last sentence 〈◊〉 or defiance. Well put your trust in me, said she, and take you no thought but for your health. For I am assured ere it be long, to cause her to come unto you, and then you shall see whether I am diligent in those matters I took in hand, and to what effect mine attempts do prove. Me think already (quoth he) that my sickness is not able to stay me from going 〈◊〉 her that is the cause of my debility, when it shall 〈◊〉 her to command me, where soever it be, sith her only remembrance will be of no less force in me, than 〈◊〉 clearness of the sun beams is to evaporate the thickness of the morning mists. Even so is she (if such be her cheer to me) the 〈◊〉 wherein my day shall take increase, or the night which eclipseth and obscureth the brandishing brightness of my first sunbeams. With that the Gentlewoman took her leave of him, (who without let of his companion (immediately rose up) and she went home attending opportunity to speak to Zilia, whom two or three days after she met at Church, and they two being alone together in a Chapel, said unto her with feigned tears, forced from her eyes, and sending forth a cloud of sighs: Madam, I nothing doubt at all, but that last letters which I brought you, made you conceive some ill opinion of me, which I do guess by the frowning face that ever sithence you have borne me. But when you shall know the hurt which it hath done, I think you will not be so hard, and void of pity, but with patience to hearken that which I will say, and moved to pity the state of a poor Gentleman, who by your means is in the pangs of death. Zilia, which till then never regarded the pain and sickness of the patient, began to sorrow, with such passion, not to grant him further favour than he had already received, but to find some means to ease him of his grief, and then to give him over for ever. And therefore she said unto her neighbour: Mistress I thought that all these suits had been forgotten, until the other day, a Gentleman prayed me to go see the Lord of Virle, who told me as you do now, that he was in great danger. But seeing that he waxeth worse and worse, I will be ruled by you, being well assured of your honesty and virtue, and that you will not advise me to that which shall be hurtful to mine honour. And when you shall do what you can, you shall win so much as nothing, & yet shall ease him nothing at all, which wrongfully plaineth of my cruelty. For I do not purpose to do any private fact with him, but that which shall be meet for an honest Gentlewoman, and such as a faithful tutor of her chastity, may grant to an honest and virtuous gentleman. His desire is none other (said the gentle woman) for he entreateth but your presence, to let you wit by word, that he is ready to do the thing which you shall command him. Alas, said 〈◊〉, I know not how I shall be able to do the same: for it is impossible to go to him without suspicion, which the common people will lightly conceive of such light & familiar behaviour. And rather would I die than adventure mine honour, hitherto conserved with great severity & diligence. And sith you say, that he is in extremes of death, for your sake I will not stick to go unto him, that hereafter he may have no cause to complain of my rudeness. I thank you (said the messenger for the good will you bear me, & for the help you promise unto the poor passionate gentleman, whom these news will bring on foot again, & will do you reverence for that good turn. Sith it is so (said Zilia) to morrow at noon let him come unto my house, where in a low chamber, he shall have leisure to say to me his mind. But I purpose by God's help, to suffer him no further than that which I have granted. As it shall please you (said her neighbour) for I crave no more of you but that only favour, which as a messenger of good news, I go to show him, recommending myself in the mean time to your command. And then she went unto the patient, whom she found walking up & down the chamber, indifferently lusty of his person, and of colour meetly fresh for the time he left his 〈◊〉.  
Now when sir Philoberto saw the messenger, he said unto her: And how now mistress, what news? Is Zilia so stubborn as 〈◊〉 was wont to be? 〈◊〉 may see her (said she) if to morrow at noon you have the heart and dare go unto her house. Is it possible (said he embracing her) that you have procured for me that good turn, to deliver me from the 〈◊〉, wherein I have so long time been 〈◊〉? 〈◊〉 trusty and assured friend, all the days of my life I will remember that pleasure and benefit, and by acknowledging of the same, shall be ready to render like, when you please to command, or else let me be counted the most unkind and uncourteous Gentleman that ever made profession of love: I will go by God's help to see mistress Zilia, with intent to endure all trouble that Fortune shall send unto me, protesting to vere myself no more, although I see my 〈◊〉 hap otherwise to end than my desert required and that good luck hath cause to work against me. But yet against Fortune to contend, is to war against myself, whereof the victory can be but 〈◊〉. Thus he passed all the day, which seemed to last a thousand years to him, that thought to receive some good entertainment of his lady, in whose bonds he was catched before he thought that woman's malice could so far exceed, or display her venomous sting. And truly that man is void of sense, which suffereth himself so fond to be charmed, 〈◊〉 the peril of the abused aught to serve him for example. They be to the masculine kind a great confusion, and unwares for want of due foresight, the same 〈◊〉 suffer itself to be bound & taken captive by the very thing which hath no being to work effect, but by his own free-will. But this enchantment which riseth of women's beauty, being to men a pleasant displeasure, I think to be decked with that drawing virtue and allurement, to punish and torment the faults of men, for they once fed and baited with a fading favour & poisoned sweetness, forget their own perfection, and nuzzled in their foolish fancies, seeking felicity and sovereign gift, in the matter wherein doth lie the sum of their unhaps. In like manner the virtuous and shamefast dames, have not their eyes of mind so blindfold, but that they see whereunto those frank services, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 faiths and vices coloured and stuffed with, exterior virtue do tend: and doubt not but those lovers do imitate the Scorpion, whose venom lieth in his tail, the end of such love, being the ruin of good renown, and the decay of former virtues. For which cause the heavens, the friend of their sex, have given them a providence, which those gentle, unfavoured lovers term to be rigour, that by those means they may prove the desert of a suitor, both for their great contentation and praise, and for the rest of them that do them service. This just right and modest providence, that cruel Gentlewoman used not to the good and faithful lover, the Lord of Virle, who was so humble a servant of his unkind mistress, as his goodness redounded to his great 〈◊〉 and folly, as manifestly may appear by that which followeth.  
Sir Philoberto then thinking to have gained much by having made promise, liberally to speak to 〈◊〉 Lady, went unto her at the appointed time, so well a contented man truly of that grace, as all the unkindness past was quite forgot. Now being come to the lodging of mistress Zilia, he found her in the devised place with one of her maids waiting upon her. When she saw him after a little cold entertainment, she began to say unto him with feigned joy, that never moved her within, these words: Now sir, I see that your late 〈◊〉 was not so strange as I was given to under stand, for the good state wherein I see you presently to be, which from henceforth shall make me believe, that the passions of men endure so long as the cause of their affections continue within their fancies, much like unto looking glasses, which albeit they make the equality or 〈◊〉 of things represented to apere, yet when the thing seen doth pass & vanish away, the forms also do void out of remembrance, like the wind which lightly whorleth too & fro through the plain of some deep valley. Ah madame answered he, how easy a matter it is for the 〈◊〉 person to counterfeit both joy & dissimulation in one very thing, which not only may forget that conceit that moveth his affections, but the object must 〈◊〉 remain in him, as painted and 〈◊〉 in his mind. Which truly as you say is a looking glass, not such one for all that, as the counterfeited appearance of represented forms hath like vigour in it, that the first and true 〈◊〉 & shapes can so soon vanish without leaving the trace of most perfect impression of such forms within the mind of him, which liveth upon their only remembrance. In this mirror then (which by reason of the hidden force I may well say to be ardent & burning) have I looked so well as I can, thereby to form the sustentation of my good 〈◊〉. But the imagined shape not able to support such perfection, hath made the rest of the body to fail (weakened through the minds passions) in such wise as if that hope to recover this better part half lost, had not cured both, the whole decay of the one had followed, by thinking to give some accomplishment in the other. And if you see me Madam, attain to some good state, impute not the same I beseech you, but to the good will & favour which I receive by seeing you in a private place, wherein I conceive greater joy than ever I did, to say unto you the thing which you would not believe, by words at other times proceeding from my mouth, ne yet by advertisement signified in my 〈◊〉 letters. Notwithstanding I think that my martyrdom is known to be such as every man may perceive that the sum of my desire is only to serve and obey you, for so much as I can receive no greater comfort, than to be commanded to make repair to you, to let you know that I am hole (although 〈◊〉 over by 〈◊〉) when you vouchsafed to employ 〈◊〉 in your service, and think myself raised up again 〈◊〉 one 〈◊〉 thousand deaths at once, when it shall please you to have pity upon the grief & passion, which I 〈◊〉. Alas what causeth my 〈◊〉 to see that 〈◊〉 beauty of yours to make the proof of a cruelty so great? 〈◊〉 you determined Madam thus to 〈◊〉 the 〈◊〉 gentleman that is ready to sacrifice himself in your 〈◊〉, when you shall departed to him some favour of your 〈◊〉? Do you think that my passions be 〈◊〉 or 〈◊〉? Alack, alack, the tears which I have shed, the loss of 〈◊〉 to eat and drink, the weary passed nights, the long contrived sléepelesse time, the restless turmoil of myself, may well assure that my 〈◊〉 heart is of better merit than you esteem. Then seeing her to fire her eyes upon the ground, and thinking that he had already won her, he reinforced his fair talk, & sighing at 〈◊〉 between, not sparing the 〈◊〉 which trickled 〈◊〉 alongs his face, he prosecuted his talk, saying: Ah fair amongs the fairest, would you blot that divine beauty with a cruelty so furious, as to cause the death of him which loveth you better than himself? Ah mine eyes, which hitherto have been 〈◊〉 with two lively springs to express the hidden griefs within my heart, if your unhap be such, that the only dame of your contemplations, and cause of your tears, do cause the humour to increase, which hitherto in such wise hath emptied my brain, that there is no more in me to moisten your drought, I am content to endure the same, until my heart shall feel the last pang, 〈◊〉 thee of nourishment, and me of mine 〈◊〉. The Gentlewoman, whether she was weary of that 〈◊〉, or rather doubted that in the end her chastitis should receive some assault through the dismesured passion which she saw to endure, said unto him with rigorous words: You have talked and written enough, you have 〈◊〉 well solicited her, which is thoroughly resolved by former mind, to keep her honour in that worthy reputation of degree, wherein she maintaineth the same amongs the best. I have hitherto suffered you to abuse my patience, and have used that familiarity which they deserve not that go about 〈◊〉 to assail the chastity of those women that patiently give them 〈◊〉, for the opinion they have conceived of some shadowing virtue of such foolish suitors. I now do see that all your words do tend to beguile me, and to deprive me of that you cannot give me: which shall be a warning for me henceforth, more wisely to look about my business and more warily to take heed of the charms of such as you be, to the end that I by bending mine open 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 not both surprised and overcome with your enchantments. I pray you then for conclusion, and the last sentence of my will, that I hear no more these words, neither from you, nor yet from the Ambassador that cometh from you. For I neither will, ne yet pretend to 〈◊〉 to you any other favour than that which I have enlarged for your comfort: but rather do protest, that so long as you abide in this Country, that I will neither go forth in street, nor suffer any Gentleman to have access into this place except he be my near kinsman. Thus for your importune suit. I will 〈◊〉 myself, for 〈◊〉 unto you in those requests which duty & womanhood ought not to have 〈◊〉. And if you do proceed in your folly, I will seek redress according to your desert which 〈◊〉 now I have deferred, thinking that time would have put out the 〈◊〉 heat of your folly and wanton youth.  
The infortunate Lord of Virle, hearing this 〈◊〉 sentence, remained long time without speech, so astoned as if he had been fallen from the clouds. In the end for all his despair he said to Zilia 〈◊〉 countenance indifferent merry: Sith it is so madame, that you take from me all hope to be your perpetual servant, & that without other comfort or contentation I must 〈◊〉 departed your presence, never (perchance) hereafter to speak unto you again, yet be not so squeimish of your beauty, and cruel towards your languishing lover, as to deny him a kiss for a pledge of his last farewell. I demand nothing here in secret, but that 〈◊〉 you may perform openly. It is all that alone which I crave at your hands in recompense of all the travails, pains, & afflictions suffered for your sake. The malicious dame full of rancour and spiteful rage said unto him: I shall see by and by sir, if that love which you 〈◊〉 to bear me, be so vehement as you seem to make. Ah Madam (said the unadvised lover) command only, and you shall see with what devotion I will perform your will, were it that it should cost me the price of my proper life. You shall have (quoth she) the kiss which you require of me if you will make promise, and swear by the saith of a Gentleman, to do the thing which I shall command, without fraud, covin, or other delay. Madam (said the over wilful lover) I take God to witness that of the thing which you shall command I will not leave one jot 〈◊〉, but shall be executed to the uttermost of your request and will. She hearing him swear with so good affection, said unto him smiling: Now then upon your oath which I believe, and assured of your virtue and Noble nature, I will also perform and keep my promise: And saying so, she embraced him & kissed him very lovingly. The poor gentleman not knowing how 〈◊〉 he had brought that dissavorable favour, and bitter sweetness, held her a while between his arms, doubling kiss upon kiss, with such pleasure, as his soul thought to fly up to the heavens with that empoisoned balm which he sucked in the sweet and sugared breath of his cruel mistress: who undoing herself out of her lovers arms, said unto him: Sith that I have made the first disclosure both of the promise and the effect thereof, it behoveth that you perform that which resteth, for the full accomplishment of the same. Come on hardily (saith he) & God knoweth how speedily you shall be obeyed. I will then (quoth she) & command you upon your promised faith, that from this present time, until that space of three years be expired, you speak to no living person for any thing that shall happen unto you, nor yet express by tongue, by sound of word, or speech, the thing you want or desire, otherwise if you shall do, I will never trust living man for your sake, but will publish your same to be villainous, and your person perjured, and a promise breaker. I leave for you to think whether this unhappy lover were amazed or not, to hear such a strange request and commandment so unjust, and therewithal the difficulty in the performance. Notwithstanding he was so stout of heart, and so religious an observer of his 〈◊〉, that at that very time he began to do the part which she had commanded, playing 〈◊〉, and using other signs, that he would do his duty, according to her demand. Thus after his right humble reverence unto her, he went home, where feigning that he had lost his speech by means of a Catarrh or rheum which distilled from his brain, he determined to forsake his country until the time of his penance was expired. Wherefore setting stay in his affairs, and providing for his train, he made him ready to departed. Notwithstanding, he wrote a Letter unto Zilia, before he took his journey, which was towards the country of France, that in old time hath been the solace and refuge of the miserable, as well for the pleasantness and temperature of the air, the great wealth and the abundance of all things, as for the courtesy, gentleness, and familiarity of the people: which may compare with any other Nation upon the earth.  
Now the Letter of Philoberto, fell into the hands of Lady Zilia, by means of his Page instructed for that purpose: who advertised her of the departure of his master, and of the despair wherein he was. Whereof she was somewhat sorry, and offended: but yet putting on her ancient severity, took the Letters, and breaking the seal, found that which followeth.  

THE very evil that causeth mine annoy  
The matter is that bredes to me my joy,  
Which doth my woeful heart full sore displease,  
And yet my hap and hard ill luck doth ease.  
I hope one day when I am frank and free,  
To make her do the thing that pleaseth me,  
Whereby gain I shall, some pleasant gladness,  
To supply mine undeserved sadness,  
The like whereof no mortal Dame can give  
To loving man that here on earth doth live.  
This great good turn which I on her pretend,  
Of my conceits the full desired end,  
Proceeds from thee (O cruel mistress mine)  
Whose froward heart hath made me to resign  
The full effect of all my liberty  
(To please and ease thy fond fickle fancy)  
My use of speech, in silence to remain:  
To every wight a double hellish pain.  
Whose faith hadst thou not wickedly abused  
No stress of pain for thee had been refused,  
Who was to thee a trusty servant sure,  
And for thy sake all dangers would endure.  
For which thou hast defaced thy good name,  
And there unto procured eternal shame.  
I That roaring tempest huge which thou hast made me felt,  
The raging storms whereof, well near my heart hath swelled  
By painful pangs: whose weltering waves by troubled skies  
And thousand blasts of wind that in those seas do rise  
Do promise shipwreck sure of that thy sailing Bark  
When after weather clear doth rise some tempest dark.  
For either I or thou which art of Tiger's kind,  
In that great raging gulf some danger sure shalt find,  
Of that thy nature rude the destiny's enemies be,  
And thy great overthrow full well they do foresee.  
The heavens unto my estate no doubt great friendship shoe  
And do seek ways to end, and finish all my woe.  
This penance which I bear by yielding to thy hest  
Great store of joys shall heap, and bring my mind to rest.  
And when I am at ease amids my pleasant haps,  
Then shall I see thee fall, and suarlde in Fortune's trapes.  
Then shall I see thee ban and curse the wicked time  
Wherein thou madest me gulp such draft of poisoned wine.  
By which thy mortal cup, I am the offered wight,  
A vowed sacrifice, to that thy cruel spite.  
Wherefore my hoping heart, doth hope to see the day,  
That thou for silence now, to me shalt be the pray.  
I O blessed God most just, whose worthy laud and praise  
With uttered speech in Skies aloft I dare not once to raise,  
And may not well pronounce & speak what sufferance I sustain,  
Ne yet what death I do endure, whiles I in life remain.  
Take vengeance on that traitress rude, afflict her corpse with woe,  
Thy holy arm redress her fault, that she no more do so.  
My reason hath not so far strayed, but I may hope and trust  
To see her for her wickedness, be whipped with plague most just:  
In the mean while, great havinesse my sense and soul doth bite,  
And shaking fever vex my corpse for grief of her despite.  
My mind now set at liberty, from thee (O cruel dame)  
Doth give defiance to thy wrath, and to thy cursed name,  
Proclaiming mortal war on thee, until my tongue untied  
Shall joy to speak to Zilia fast weeping by my side.  
The heavens forbidden, that causeless wrong abroad should make his vaunt,  
Or that an undeserved death, forget full tomb should haunt:  
But that in written book and verse their names should ever live,  
And eke their wicked deeds should die, and virtues still revive.  
So shall the pride and glory both, of her be punished right,  
By length of years, and tract of time. And I by virtues might  
Full recompense thereby shall have, and stand still in good fame,  
And she like caitiff wretch shall live, to her long lasting shame.  
Whose fond regard of beauty's grace, contemned hath the force  
Of my true love full fixed in her: her heart void of remorse,  
Esteemed itself right foolishly, and me abused still,  
Usurping my good honest faith and credit at her will.  
Whose loyal faith doth rest in soul, and therein still shall bide,  
Until in filthy stinking grave, the earth my corpse shall hide.  
Then shall that soul fraught with that faith, to heavens make his 〈◊〉.  
And rest among the heavenly rout, bedecked with sacred air. (pair,  
And thou for thy great cruelty, as God above doth know,  
With rueful voice shalt weep and wail for thy great overthrow,  
And when thou wouldst fain purge thyself for that thy wretched  
No kindness shall to thee be done, extreme shall be thy meed (deed  
And where my tongue doth want his will, thy mischief to display  
My hand and pen supplies the place, and shall do so always.  
For so thou hast constrained the same by force of thy behest:  
In silence still my tongue to keep, t'accomplish thy request.  
Adieu, farewell my tormenter, thy friend that is full mute,  
Doth bid thee farewell once again, and so he ends his suit.   
He that liveth only, to be revenged of thy cruelty, Philoberto of Virle.  
Zilia like a disdainful woman made but a jest at the letters and complaints of the infortunate lover, saying that she was very well content with his service. And that when he should perform the time of his probatiou, she should see if he were worthy to be admitted into the fellowship of them which had made sufficient proof of the order and rule of love. In the mean time Philoberto road by great journeys (as we have said before) towards the goodly and pleasant Country of France. wherein Charles the seventh that time did reign, who miraculously (but give the French man leave to flatter & speak well of his own Country, according to the flattering and vaunting nature of that Nation) chased the English men out of his lands and ancient Patrimony in the year of our Lord. 1451. This king had his camp then warfaring in Gascoine, whose luck was so fortunate as he expelled his enemies, and left no place for them to fortify in the said Country, which encouraged the king to follow that good occasion, and by prosecuting his victorious fortune, to profligat out of Normandy, & to dispatch himself of that enemy, into whose hands and servitude the Country of Guiene was rightly delivered and victoriously won and gotten by the Englishmen. The king then being in his Camp in Normandy, the Piedmont Gentleman the Lord of Virle aforesaid, repaired thereunto to serve him in his person, where he was well known of some Captains which had seen him at other times, and in place where worthy Gentlemen are wont to frequent, and in the Duke of Savoyes' court, which the Frenchmen did very much 〈◊〉, because the Earl of Piedmont that then was Duke of Savoy had married jolanta the second daughter of Charles the seventh. These Gentlemen of France were very much sorry for the misfortune of the Lord of Virle, and knowing him to be one of the bravest and lustiest men of arms that was in his time within the Country of Piedmont, presented him before the King, commending unto his grace the virtue, gentleness, and valianee of the man of war: Who after he had done his 〈◊〉 according to his duty, which he knew full well to do, declared unto him by signs that he was come for none other intent, but in those wars to serve his majesty: whom the king heard and thankfully received, assuring himself and promising very much of the 〈◊〉 Gitleman for respect of his parsonage which was comely and well proportioned, and therefore represented some force and great dexterity: and that which made the king the better to fantasy that gentleman, was the report of so many worthy men which extolled even to that heanens the prowess of that Piedmont knight. Whereof he gave assured testimony in that assault which that king made to deliver 〈◊〉 the chief City & defence of all 〈◊〉 in the year of our Lord. 1451. where Philoberto behaved himself so 〈◊〉 as he was that first that mounted upon that walls, & by his dexterity & invincible force, made way to the soldiers in the breach, whereby a little while after they entered & sacked the enemies, driving them out of that City, & wherein not long before, that is to say. 1430. that Duke of Somerset caused loan that Pucelle to be burnt. The King advertised of that service of the dumb Gentleman, would recompense him according to his desert, and because he knew him to be of a good house, he made him a Gentleman of his chamber, and gave him a good pension, promising him moreover to continued his liberality, when he should see him prosecute in time to come, that towardness of service which he had so haply begun. The dumb Gentleman thanking the king very humbly, both for that present princely reward, & for promise in time to come, lifted up his hand to heaven, as taking God to witness of the faith, which inviolable he promised to keep unto his Prince: which he did so earnestly, as hardly he had promised, as well appeared in a skirmish between that French, & their ancient enemies the English men, on whose side was the valiant & hardy Captain the Lord Talbot, who hath eternised his memory in the victories obtained upon that people, which sometimes made Europa & Asia to tremble, & appalled the monstrous & warlike Country of Africa. In this conflict the Piedmont knight joined with the lord Talbot, against whom he had so happy success, as upon that shock & 〈◊〉, he overthrew both man & horse, which caused the discomfiture of that English men: who after they had horsed again their captain, 〈◊〉 amain, leaving the 〈◊〉 bespread with dead bodies and bloodshed of their companions. This victory recovered such 〈◊〉 & boldness to that French, as from that time forth the English men began with their places and forts to lose also their hearts to defend themselves. The king exceedingly well contented with the prowess & valiance of the dumb gentleman, gave him for service past the charge of v. C. men of arms, & endued him with some possessions, attending better fortune to make him understand how much the virtue of valiance ought to be rewarded & cherished by Princes that be aided in their necessity with the diligence of such a virtuous & Noble Gentleman. In like manner when a Prince hath something good in himself, he can do no less but cherish that which 〈◊〉 himself by Princely conditions, sith that virtue in what so ever place it taketh root, can not choose but produce good fruit, that use whereof far surmounts them all which approach that place, where these first seeds were thrown. Certain days after, the king desirous to rejoice his Knights and Captains that were in his train, and desirous to extinguish quite the woeful time which so 〈◊〉 space held France in fearful silence, caused 〈◊〉 triumph of Turney to be proclaimed within the City of Roan, wherein the Lord of Virle was deemed and esteemed one of the best, which further did increase in him the good will of the king, in such wise as he determined to procure his health, and to make him have his speech again. For he was very sorry that a gentleman so valiant was not able to express his mind, which if it might be had, in council would serve the state of common wealth, so well as the force and valour of his body had till then served for defence and recovery of his places. And for that purpose he made Proclamation by sound of Trumpet throughout the Countries aswell within his own kingdom, as the regions adjoining upon the same, that who so ever could heal that dumb Gentleman, should have ten thousand franks for recompense. A man might have then seen thousands of Physicians assembled in field, not to skirmish with the English men, but to combat for reward in recovery of the patients speech, & begun to make such war against those ten thousand Franks, as the King was afraid that the cure of that disease could take no effect: and for that cause ordained furthermore, that who so ever would take in hand to heal the dumb, and would not keep promise within a certain prefixed time, should pay the said sum, or for default thereof should pledge his head in gage. A man might then have seen those Physic masters, aswell beyond that Mountains, as in France itself, retire home again, bleeding at the nose, cursing with great impiety their patrons, Galen, Hypocrates and Avicen, and blamed with more than reproachful words, the Art wherewith they fished for honour and richesses. This brute was spread so far, and babbling Fame had already by mouth of Trump published the same throughout the most part of the Provinces, Towns, and Cities near and far off to France, in such wise as a man would have thought that the two young men (which once in the time of the Macedonian wars brought tidings to Vatinius that the King of 〈◊〉 was taken by the Consul Paulus Emilius) had been vagant and wandering abroad to carry news of the King's edict for the healing of the Lord of Virle. Which caused that not only the brute of the Proclamation, but also the credit and reputation wherein the said Lord was with the French King, came even to Montcall, and passed from mouth to mouth, till at length Zilia the principal cause thereof understood the news, which rejoiced her very much, seeing the firm amity of the dumb Lord, and the sincere faith of him in a promise unworthy to be kept, for so much as, where 〈◊〉 and fear bear swinge in hearts of men, religion of promise, specially the place of the given faith, giveth over his force and revolteth, and is no more bound but to that which by good will he would observe. Now thought she, thought? nay rather she assured herself, that the Gentleman for all his written letter was so surprised with her love, and kindled with her fire in so ample wise, as when he was at 〈◊〉: and therefore determined to go to Paris, not for desire she had to see her patient and penetenciarie, but rather for covetise of the ten thousand Franks, whereof already she thought herself assured, making good account that the dumb Gentleman seeing himself discharged by her of his promise, for gratifying of her, would make no stay to speak, to the intent she might bear away both the 〈◊〉 and money which all others had 〈◊〉 till that time. Thus you see that she whom honest amity and long service could little induce to compassion and desire to give some ease unto her most earnest lover, yielded herself to covetous gain and greediness for to increase her richesse. O cursed hunger of Money, how long wilt thou thus blind the reason and spirits of men? Ah perilous gulf how many hast thou overwhelmed within thy bottomless throat, whose glory, had it not been for thee, had surpassed the clouds, and been equal with the brightness of the Sun, where now they be obscured with the thickness of thy fogs and palpable darkness. Alas the fruits which thou bringest forth for all thine outward appearance, conduce no felicity to them that be thy possessors, for the dropsy that is hidden in their mind, which maketh them so much the more thirsty, as they drink oft in that thirsty Fountain, is cause of their alteration: and most miserable is that insatiable desire the Covetous have to glut their appetite, which can receive no contentation. This only 〈◊〉 sometimes procured the death of the great and rich Roman Crassus, who through God's punishment fell into the hands 〈◊〉 the Persians, for violating and sacking the Temple of God that was in Jerusalem. Sextimuleus burning with Covetousness and greediness of money, did once cut of the head of his patron and defender Caius 〈◊〉 the Tribune of the people, incited by the Tyrant, which tormenteth the hearts of the couctous. I will not speak of a good number of other examples in people of all kinds, and divers nations, to come again to Zilia. Who forgetting her virtue, the first ornament and shining quality of her honest behaviour, feared not the weariness and travail of way, to commit herself to the danger of loss of 〈◊〉, and to yield to the mercy of one, unto whom she had done so great injury, as her conscience (if she had not lost her right sense) ought to have made her think that he was not without desire to revenge that wrong 〈◊〉 done unto him, & specially being in place where she was not known, and he greatly honoured and esteemed, for whose love that Proclamation and search of Physic was made and ordained. Ziha then having put in order her affairs at home, departed from Montcall, and passing the Mounts, arrived at Paris, at such time as greatest despair was had of the dumb Knight's recovery. When she was arrived there, within few days after she inquired for them that had the charge to entertain such as came, and would take upon them the cure of the said patient. For (said she) if there be any man in the world, through whom the Knight may get his health, I hope in God that I am she which shall have the praise. Hereof the Commissaries deputed hereunto, were advertised, who caused the fair Physician to come before them, and asked her if it were she, that would take upon her to cure this dumb Gentleman. To whom she answered, my masters it hath pleased God to reveal unto me a certain secret very proper and meet for the cure of his malady, wherewithal if the patient will, I hope to make him speak so well, as he did these two years past & more. I suppose said one of the Commissaries, that you be not ignorant of the 〈◊〉 of the King's Proclamation. I know full (quoth she) the effect thereof, & therefore do say unto you, that I will lose my life if I do not accomplish that which I do promise, upon condition that I may have licence to tarry with him alone, because it is of no less importance than his health. It is no marvel said the Commissary, considering your beauty, which is sufficient to frame a new tongue in the most 〈◊〉 person, that is under the heavens. And therefore do your endeavour, assuring you, that you shall do a great pleasure unto the King, and besides the praise which you shall acquire, get the good will of the dumb gentleman which is the most excellent man of the world, and therefore shall be so well recompensed, as you shall have good cause to be routented with the King's liberality. But (to the intent you be not deceived) the meaning of the Proclamation is, that within. xv. days after you begin the cure, you must make him hole, or else to satisfy the pains ordained in the same. Whereunto she submitted herself, blinded by Avarice and presumption, thinking that she had like power over the Lord of Virle, as when she gave him that sharp and cruel penance. These conditions promised, the Commissaries went to advertise the Knight, how a Gentlewoman of Piedmont was of purpose come into France to help him: whereof he was marvelously astoned. Now he would never have thought that Zilia had borne him so great good will, as by abasing the pride of her courage, would have come so far to ease the grief of him, whom by such great torments she had so wonderfully persecuted. He thought again that it was the Gentlewoman his neighbour which sometimes had done her endeavour to help him, and had provoked Zilia to absolve him of his faith, and acquit him of his promise. Musing upon the diversity of these things, & not knowing whereupon to settle his judgement, the deputies commanded that the woman Physician should be brought to speak with the patiented. Which was done: and brought in place, the Commissaries presently with drew themselves. The Lord of Virle seeing his enemy come before him, whom sometimes he loved very 〈◊〉, judged by and by the cause wherefore she came, that only avarice and greedy desire of gain 〈◊〉 rather procured her to pass the mountains travail, than due and honest amity, wherewith she was double bound through his perseverance and humble service, whereby he was estranged of himself, as he fared like a shadow and image of a dead man. Wherefore calling to mind the rigour of his Lady, her incivility and fond commandment, so long time to forbid his speech, the love which once he bore her, with a vehement desire to obey her, suddenly was so cooled and qualified, that love was turned into hatred, and will to serve her, into an appetite of revenge: whereupon he determined to use that present fortune, and to play his part with her, upon whom he had so foolishly doted, and to pay her with that money wherewith she made hint feel the fruits of unspeakable cruelty, to give example to fond and presumptuous dames, how they did abuse Gentlemen of such degree whereof the Knight was, and that by having regard to the merit of such personages, they be not so prodigal of themselves, as to set their honour in sale for vile reward and filthy muck: which was so constantly conserved and defended by this Gentlewoman, against the assaults of the good grace, beauty, calour, and gentleness, of that virtuous and honest suitor. And notwithstanding, in these days we see some to resist the amity of those that love, for an opinion of a certain virtue, which they think to be hidden within the corpse of excellent beauty, who afterwards do set themselves to sale to him that giveth most, and offereth greatest reward. Such do not deserve to be placed in rank of chaste Gentlewomen, of whom they have no smack at all, but amongs the throng of strumpet's kind, that have some spark and outward show of love: for she which loveth money 〈◊〉 hunteth after gain, will make no bones, by treason's trap to betray that unhappy man, which shall yield himself to her: her love tending to unsensible things, and such in deed, as make the wisest sort to falsify their faith, and sell the right and equity of their Judgement. The Lord of Virle, seeing Zilia then in his company, and almost at his commandment, feigned as though he knew her not, by reason of his small regard and less entertainment showed unto her at her first coming: Which greatly made the poor Gentlewoman to muse. Nevertheless she making a virtue of necessity, and seeing herself to be in that place, from whence 〈◊〉 could not depart, without the loss of her honour and life, purposed to prove Fortune, and to commit herself unto his mercy, for all the mobiltie which the ancient attribute unto Fortune. Wherefore shutting fast the door, she went unto the Knight, to whom she spoke these words: And what is the matter (sir knight) that now you make so little account of your own Zilia, who in times past you said, had greater power and authority over you? What is the cause that moveth you hereunto? Have you so soon forgotten her? Behold me better, and you shall see her before you, that is able to acquit you of your promise, and therefore prayeth you to pardon her committed faults done in times passed by abusing so cruelly the honest and 〈◊〉 love which you bore her. I am she, which through folly and temerity did stop your mouth, and tied up your tongue. give me leave I beseech you, to open the same again, and to break the line, which letteth the liberty of your speech. She seeing that the dumb Gentleman would make no answer at all, but Mum, and showed by signs, that he was not able to undo his tongue, weeping began to kiss him, embrace him, & make much of him, in such wise, as he which once studied to make eloquent orations before his Lady, to induce her to pity, forgot then those ceremonies, and spared his talk, to show himself to be such one as she had made at her commandment, mused and devised altogether upon the execution of that, which sometime he had so painfully pursued, both by words and continual service, and could profit nothing. Thus waked again by her, which once had mortified his mind, assayed to renew in her that, which long time before, seemed to be a sleep. She more for fear of loss of life, or the price of the reward, than for any true or earnest love, suffered him to receive that of her, which the long suitor desireth to obtain of his mistress. They lived in this joy and pleasure the space of. xv. days ordained for the assigned term of her cure, wherein the poor Gentlewoman was not able to convert her offended friend, to speak, although she humbly prayed him to show so much favour, as at least she might go free, from either loss: telling him how little regard she had to her honour, to come so far to do him pleasure, and to discharge him of his promise. Much other gay and lowly talk she had to move the knight to take no regard of that she said, for he determined to bring her in such fear, as he had been heaped full of heaviness, which came to pass at the expired time. For the commissaries seeing that their patient spoke not at all, summoned the gentlewoman to pay the penalty pronounced in the edict, or else to lose her life. Alas, how bitter seemed this drink to this poor Gentlewoman, who not able to dissemble the grief that priest her on every side, began to say: Ah I wretched and Caitiff woman, by thinking to deceive an other, have sharpened the sword to finish mine own life. 〈◊〉 it not enough for me to use such cruelty towards this mine enemy, which most cruelly in double wise taketh revenge, but must I come to be thus tangled in his snares, and in the hands of him, who enjoying the spoils of mine honour, will with my life, deprive me of my fame, by making me a common fable, to all posterity in time to come? O what hap had I that I was not rather devoured by some furious and cruel beast, when I passed the mountains, or else that I broke not my neck, down some steep & headlong hill, of those high and hideous mountains, rather than to be set here in stage, a pageant to the whole city to gaze upon, for enterprising a thing so fondly, done of purpose by him, whom I have offended. Ah signor Philoberto, what 〈◊〉 rewardest thou for pleasures received, and favours felt in her, whom thou didst love somuch, as to make her die such shameful and dreadful death. But O God, I know that it is for worthy guerdon of my foolish and wicked life. Ah disloyalty and fickle trust, is it possible that thou be harboured in the heart of him, which had the brute to be the most loyal and courteous Gentleman of his country? Alas, I see well now that I must die through mine only simplicity, and that I must sacrifice mine honour to the rigour of him, which with two advantages, taketh over cruel revenge of the little wrong, wherewith my chastity touched him before. As she thus had finished her complaint, one came for her to carry her to prison, whether willingly she went for that she was already resolved in desire, to live no longer in that misery. The gentleman contented with that pain, and not able for to dissemble the grief, which he conceived for the passion which he saw his well-beloved to endure, the enjoying of whom renewed the heat of the flames forepast, repaired to the king, unto whom to the great pleasure of the standers by, and exceeding rejoice of his majesty (to hear him speak) he told the whole history of the love between him and cruel Zilia, the cause of the loss of his speech, and the sum of his revenge. By the faith of a Gentleman (said the King) but here is so strange an history as ever I heard: and verily your faith and loyalty is no less to be praised and commended than the crueltic and covetousness of the woman worthy of reproach and blame, which truly deserveth some grievous and notable justice, if so be she were not able to render some apparent cause for the coverture and hiding of her folly. Alas sir (said the Gentleman) pleaseth your majesty to deliver her (although she be worthy of punishment) and discharge the rest that be in prison for not recovery of my speech, sith my only help did rest, either at her commandment which had bound me to that wrong, or else in the expired time, for which I had pledged my faith. To which request, the King very willingly agreed, greatly praising the wisdom, courtesy, and above all the fidelity of the lord of Virle, who causing his penitentiary to be set at liberty, kept her company certain days, as well to feast and banquet her, in those lands and possessions which the king's majesty had liberally bestowed upon him, as to satiate his appetite with the fruits whereof he had savoured the taste when he was voluntarily dumb. Zilia found that favour so pleasant, that in a manner she counted her imprisonment happy, and her travel rest, by reason that distress made her then feel more lively the force and pleasure of liberty, which she had not found to be so pleasant, had she not received the experience and pain thereof. Mark here how fortune 〈◊〉 with them which trusting in their force, despise (in respect of that which they do themselves) the little portion that they judged to be in others. If the vainglory and arrogant presumption of a chastity impregnable had not deceived this Gentlewoman, if the sacred hunger of gold had not blinded her, it could not 〈◊〉 been known, wherein her incontinency consisted, not in the minion delights and alluring toys of a passionate lover, but in that covetous desire of filling her purse, and hypocritical glory of praise among men. And notwithstanding, ye see the gain which she made, to 〈◊〉 her turn nothing at all, but to the perpetual reproach of her name, and raised a slander, such as ill speakers and enemies of womankind, do burden that sex withal. But the fault of one which by her own presumption deceived herself, ought not to obscure the glory of so many virtuous, fair and honest dames, who by their chastity, liberality and courtesy, be able to deface the blot of folly, covetousness, and cruelty of this gentlewoman here, and of all other that do resemble her. Who taking leave of her lover, went home again to Piedmont, not without an ordinary grief of heart, which served her for a spur to her conscience, and continually forced her to think, that the force of man is less than nothing, where god worketh not by his grace, which failing in us, our works can savour but of the 〈◊〉 & corruption of our nature, wherein it tumbleth and tosseth like the Sow that walloweth in the puddle full of filth and dirt. And because ye shall not think in general terms of woman's chastity and discretion, that I am not able to vouch some particular example of later years, I mean to tell you of one, that is not only to be praised for her chastity in the absence of her husband, but also of her courage and policy in chastizing 〈◊〉 vaunting natures of two Hungarian lords that made their brags they would win her to their wills, and not only her, but also all other, what soever they were of womankind.   

A Lady of Boeme  
¶ Two Barons of 〈◊〉 assuring themselves to obtain their suit made to a fair Lady of 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 of her a strange and marvelous repulse, to their great shame and infamy, cursing the time that ever they adventured an enterprise so foolish.  
The. xxviij. Novel.  
P Enelope, the woeful wife of absent Ulysses, in her tedious longing for the home return of that her aduèturous knight, assailed with careful heart amid the troop of amorous suitors, and within the bowels of her royal palace, deserved no greater fame for her valiant encountries & stout defence of the invincible and Adamant fort of her chastity, than this Boeme Lady 〈◊〉 by resisting two mighty barons, that canoned the walls and well mured rampart of her pudicitie. For being threatened in his Prince's court, whether all the well trained crew of each science and profession, did make repair, being menaced by Venus' band, which not only summoned her fort, and gave her a camisado by thick AP Arms, but also forced the place by fierce assault, she like a courageous and politic captain, gave those brave and lusty soldiers, a fowl repulse, 〈◊〉 in end taking them captines, urged them for their victuals to fall to woman's toil, more shameful than shameless Sardanapalus amid his amorous troop.  
I need not aggravate by length of preamble, the fame of this, Boeme Lady, nor yet 〈◊〉 recount the triumph her victory: vain it were also by glorious hymns to chant the wisdom of her believing Make, who not careless of her life, employed his care to serve his Prince, and by service at chieved the cause that drove him to a soldiers state. But yet for trustless faith in the prime conference of his future port, he consulted with Pollaco, for a compounded drug, to ease his suspect mind, which medicine so eased his malady, as it not only preserved him from the infected humour, but also made him happy for ever. Such fall the events of valiant minds, though many time's mother jealousy that 〈◊〉 witch steppeth in her foot to annoy the well disposed heart. For had he joined to his valiance credit of his loving wife, without the blind advise of such as profess that black and lying science, double glory he had gained: once for endeavouring by service to seek honour: the second, for absolute trust in her, that never meant to beguile him, as by her first answer to his first motion appeareth. But what is to be objected against the Barons? Let them answer for their fault, in this discourse ensuing: which so lessoneth all noble minds, as warily they ought to beware how they adventure upon the honour of Ladies, who be not altogether of one self and yielding tramp, but well 〈◊〉 and steeled in the shamefast shop of loyalty, which armure defendeth them against the fond skirmishes and unconsidred conflicts of Venus' wanton band. The majesties also of the King and Queen, are to be advanced above the stars for their wise dissuasion of those noble men from their hot & heedless enterprise and then their justice for due execution of their forfeit, the particularity of which discourse in this wise doth begin.  
Mathie Coruine sometime king of Hungaric, about the year of our Lord. 1458. was a valiant man of war, and of goodly parsonage. He was the first that was famous, or feared of the Turks, of any prince that governed that kingdom. And amongs other his 〈◊〉 so well in arms and letters, as in liberality and courtesy he excelled all that reigned in his time. He had to wife Queen Beatrice of Arragon, the daughter of old 〈◊〉, king of Naples, and sister to the mother of Alphonsus, Duke of Ferrara, who in learning, good conditions, and all other virtues generally dispersed in her, was a surpassing Princess, & she wed hirself not only a courteous & liberal Gentlewoman to king Mathie her husband, but to all other, that for virtue seemed worthy of honour and reward: in such wise as to the court of these two noble princes, repaired the most notable men of all nations that were given to any kind of good exercise, and every of them according to their desert and degree were welcomed and entertained. It chanced in this time, that a knight of 〈◊〉, the vassal of King Mathie, for that he was likewise king of that country, borne of a noble house, very valiant and well exercised in arms, fell in love with a passing fair Gentlewoman of like nobility, and reputed to be the 〈◊〉 of all the country, and had a brother that was but a poor Gentleman, not lucky to the goods of fortune. This Boemian knight was also not very rich, having only a castle, with certain revenues 〈◊〉, which were 〈◊〉 able to yield unto him any great maintenance of living. Falling in love then with this fair Gentlewoman, he demanded her in marriage of her brother, & with her had but a very little dowry. And this knight not well foreseeing his poor estate, brought his wife home to his house, & there, at more leisure considering that same, begun to feel his lack & penury, & how hardly & scant his revenues were able to maintain his port. He was a very honest & gentle person, & one that delighted not by any means to burden & fine his tenants, contenting himself with the revenue which his ancestors left him, the same amounting to no great yearly rend. When this gentleman perceived that he stood in need of extraordinary relief, after many & divers considerations with himself, he purposed to follow the court, & to serve king Mathie his sovereign lord & master, there by his diligence & experience, to seek means for ability to sustain his wife & himself. But so great & fervent was that love that he bore unto his lady, as he thought it impossible for him to live one hour 〈◊〉 her, & yet judged it not best to have her with him to the court, for avoiding of further charges 〈◊〉 to courting ladies, whose delight 〈◊〉 pleasure resteth in the toys & tricks of the same, that cannot he well avoided in poor gentlemen, without their names in the Mercers or Draper's jornals, a heavy thing for them to consider if for their disport they like to walk that streets. The daily thinking thereupon, brought that poor Gentleman to great sorrow & heaviness. The lady that was young, wise & discrete, marking the manner of her husband, feared that he had some 〈◊〉 of her. Wherefore upon a day she thus said unto him: Dear husband, willingly would I wish & desire a good turn at your hand, if I witted I should not displease you. Demand what you will (said the knight) if I can I will gladly perform it, because I do esteem your satisfaction, as I do mine own life. Then the Lady very soberly prayed him, that he would open unto her the cause of that discontenment, which he showed outwardly to have, for that his mind and behaviour seemed to be contrary to ordinary custom, & contrived day and night in fighes, avoiding the company of them that were wont specially to delight him. The Knight hearing his lady's request, paused a while, and then said unto her: My well-beloved wife, for so much as you desire to understand my thought and mind, and whereof it cometh that I am so sad and pensive, I will tell you: All the heaviness wherewith you see me to be affected, doth tend to this end. Fain would I devise that you and I, may in honour live together, according to our calling. For in respect of our parentage, our livelihood is very poor, the occasion whereof were our parents, who mortgaged their lands, & consumed a great part of their goods that our ancestors left them. I daily thinking hereupon, and conceiving in my head divers imaginations, can devise no means but one, that in my 〈◊〉 seemeth best, which is, that I go to the Court of our sovereign lord Mathie, who at this present is inferring wars upon the Turk, at whose hands I do not mistrust to receive good 〈◊〉, being a most liberal prince, and one that esteemeth all such as be valiant and active. And I for my part will so govern myself (by God's grace) that by desert I will procure such living and 〈◊〉, as hereafter we may live in our old days a quiet life to our great stay and comfort: For although Fortune hitherto hath not favoured that state of parentage, whereof we be, I doubt not with noble courage to win that in despite of Fortune's teeth, which obstinately hitherto she hath denied. And the more assured am I of this determination, because at other times, I have served under the Lord Vaivoda in Transsyluania, against the Turk, where many times I have been required to serve also in the Court, by that honourable Gentleman, the Count of Cilia. But when I did consider the beloved company of you (dear wife) the sweetest companion that ever wight did 〈◊〉, I thought it unpossible for me to forbear your presence, which if I should do, I were worthy to sustain that dishonour, which a great number of careless Gentlemen do, who following their private gain and will, abandon their young and fair wives, neglecting the fire which Nature hath instilled to the delicate bodies of such tender creatures. Fearing therewithal, that so soon as I should departed, the lusty young Barons and Gentlemen of the country would pursue the gain of that love, the price whereof I do esteem above the crown of the greatest emperor in all the world, and would not forego for all the riches and precious jewels in the fertile soilt of Arabia, who no doubt would 〈◊〉 together in greater heaps than ever did the wowers of Penelope, within the famous grange of Ithaca, the house of wandering Ulysses. Which pursuit if they did attain, I should for ever hereafter be ashamed to show my face before those that be of valour and regard. And this is the whole effect of the scruple (〈◊〉 wife) that hindereth me, to seek for our better estate and fortune. When he had spoken those words, 〈◊〉 held his peace. The Gentlewoman which was wise and stout, perceiving the great love that her husband bore her, when he had stayed himself from talk, with good and merry countenance answered him in this wise: Sir Vlrico (which was the name of the Gentleman) I in like manner as you have done, have devised and thought upon the Nobility and birth of our ancestors, from whose state and port (and that without our fault and crime) we be far wide and divided. Notwithstanding I determined to set a good face upon the matter, and to make so much of our painted sheath as I could. In deed I confess myself to be a woman, and you men do say that women's hearts be faint I feeble: but to be plain with you, the contrary is in me, my heart is so stout and ambitious, as peradventure not meet and consonant to power and ability, although we women will find no lack if our hearts have pith and strength enough to bear it out. And feign would I support the state wherein my mother maintained me. Now be it for mine own part (to God I yield the thanks) I can so moderate and stay my little great heart, that contented and satisfied I can be, with that which your ability can bear, and pleasure command. But to come to the point, I say that debating with myself of our state as you full wisely do, I do verily think that you being a young Gentleman, lusty and valiant, no better remedy or devise can be found, than for you to aspire & seek the King's favour and service. And it must needs rise and redound to your gain and preferment, for that I hear you say the King's majesty doth already know you. Wherefore I do suppose that his grace (a skilful Gentleman to way and esteem the virtue & valour of each man) cannot choose but 〈◊〉 & recompense the well doer to his singular contentation & comfort. Of this mine opinion I durst not before this time utter word or sign for fear of your displeasure. But now sith yourself hath opened the way & means, I have presumed to discover the same, do what shall seem best unto your good pleasure. And I for my part, although that I am a woman (accordingly as I said even now) that thy nature am desirous of honour, & to show myself abroad more rich and sumptuous than other, yet in respect of our fortune, I shall be contented so long as I live to continue with you in this our Castle, where by the grace of God I will not fail to serve, love, and obey you, and to keep your house in that moderate sort, as the revenues shall be able to maintain the same. And no doubt but that poor living we have orderly used, shall be sufficient to find us two, and. v. or. 〈◊〉. servants with a couple of horse, and so to live a quiet and merry life. If God do send us any children, till they come to lawful age, we will with our poor living bring them up so well as we can, and then to prefer them to some Noble men's services, with whom by God's grace they may acquire honour and living, to keep them in their aged days. And I do trust that we two shall use such mutual love, and rejoice, that so long as our life doth last in wealth and woe, our contented minds shall rest satisfied. But I weighing the stoutness of your mind, do know that you esteem more an ounce of honour, than all the gold that is in the world. For as your birth is Noble, so is your heart and stomach. And therefore many times seeing your great heaviness, and manifold muses and studies, I have wondered with myself whereof they should proceed, and amongs other my conceits, I thought that either my behaviour and order of dealing, or my parsonage did not like you: or else that your wont gentle mind and disposition had been altered and transformed into some other Nature: many times also I was content to think that the cause of your disquiet mind, did rise upon the disuse of arms wherein you were wont daily to accustom yourself amongs the troops of the honourable, a company in deed most worthy of your presence. 〈◊〉 many times these and such like cogitations, I have sought means by such loving allurements as I could devise, to ease and mitigate your troubled mind, and to withdraw the great impiety and care where with I saw you to be affected. Because I do esteem you above all the world, deeming your only grief to be my double pain, your aching finger, a 〈◊〉 feverfit, and the least woe you can sustain most bitter death to me, that loveth you more dearly than myself. And for that I do perceive you are determined to serve our Noble King, the sorrow which without doubt will assail me by reason of your absence, I will sweeten and lenify with contentation, to see your commendable desire appeased and quiet. And the pleasant memory of your valiant facts shall beguile my penfife thoughts, hoping our next meeting shall be more joyful than this our disjunction & departure heavy. And where you doubt of that confluence & repair of the dishonest which shall attempt the winning & subduing of mine heart & unspotted body hitherto inviolably kept from that touch of any person, cast from you that fear, expel from your mind that fond conceit: for death shall sooner close these mortal eyes, than my chastity shall be defiled. For pledge whereof. I have none other thing to give, but my true and simple faith, which if you dare trust, it shall hereafter appear so firm & inviolable, as no spark of suspicion shall enter your careful mind, which I may well term to be careful, because some care before hand doth rise of my behaviour in your absence. The trial whereof shall yield sure evidence and testimony, by passing my careful life which I may with better cause so term, in your absence that God knoweth will be right 〈◊〉 and careful unto me, who joyeth in nothing else but in your welfare. Nevertheless all means and ways shall be agreeable unto my mind for your assurance, and shall breed in me a wonderful contentation, which lusteth after nothing but your satisfaction. And if you list to close me up in one of the Castle towers till your return, right glad I am there to continued an Anchoress life: so that the same may ease your desired mind.  
The Knight with great delight gave ear to the answer of his wife, and when she had ended her talk, he began to say unto her: My well-beloved, I do like well and greatly commend the stoutness of your heart, it pleaseth me greatly to see the same agreeable unto mine. You have lightened the same from inestimable woe, by understanding your conceived purpose and determination to guard & preserve your honour, praying you therein to persevere still remembering that when a woman hath lost her honour, she hath foregone the chiefest jewel she hath in this life, and deserveth no longer to be called woman. And touching my talk proposed unto you, although it be of great importance, yet I mean not to departed so soon. But if it do come to effect I assure thee wife, I will leave thee Lady and mistress of all that I have. In the mean time I will consider better of my business, and consult with my friends and kinsmen, and then determine what is best to be done. Till which time let us live & spend our time so merely as we can. To be short, there was nothing that so much molested the Knight, as the doubt he had of his wife, for that she was a very fine and fair young Gentlewoman: And therefore he still devised and imagined what assurance be might find of her behaviour in his absence. And resting in this imagination, not long after it came to pass that the Knight being in company of divers Gentlemen, and talking of sundry matters, a tale was told what chanced to a gentleman of the Country which had obtained the favour and good will of a woman, by means of an old man called Pollacco, which had the name to be a famous enchanter and Physician, dwelling at Cutiano a City of Boeme, where plenty of silver Mines and other metals is. The knight whose Castle was not far from Cutiano, had occasion to repair unto that City, and according to his desire found out Pollacco, which was a very old man, and talking with him of divers things, perceived him to be of great skill. In end he entreated him, that for so much as he had done pleasure to many for 〈◊〉 of their love, he would also instruct him, how he might be assured that his wife did keep herself honest all the time of his absence, and that by certain signs he might have sure knowledge whether she broke her faith, by sending his honesly into Cornwall. Such vain trust this Knight reposed in the lying Science of Sorcery, which although to many other is found deceitful, yet to him served for sure evidence of his wives fidelity. This Pollacco which was a very cunning enchanter as you have hard, said unto him: Sir you demand a very strange matter, such as where with never hitherto I have been acquainted, ne yet searched the depth of those hidden secrets, a thing not commonly sued for, ne yet practised by me. For who is able to make assurance of a woman's chastity, or tell by signs except he were at the deed doing, that she hath done amiss? Or who can gain by proctor's writ, to summon or sue a spiritual Court, peremptorily to affirm by never so good evidence or testimony, that a woman hath hazarded her honesty, except he swear Rem to be in Re, which the greatest 〈◊〉 that ever Padua bred, never saw by process duly tried? Shall I then warrant you the honesty of such 〈◊〉 cattle prone and ready to lust, easy to be vanquished by the suits of earnest pursuers? But blame worthy surely I am, thus generally to speak: for some I know, although not many, for whose poor honesties I dare adventure mine own. And yet that number how small so ever it be, is worthy all due reverence and honour. Notwithstanding. (because you seem to be an honest Gentleman) of that knowledge which I have, I will not be greatly 〈◊〉. A certain secret experiment in deed I have, wherewith perchance I may satisfy your demand. And this is it. I can by mine Art in small time, by certain compositions, frame a woman's Image, which you continually in a little box may carry about you, and so oft as you list behold the same. If the wife do not break her marriage faith, you shall still see the same so fair and well coloured as it was at the first making, & seem as though it newly came from the painter's shop, but if perchance she mean to abuse her honesty, the same will wax pale, and in deed committing that filthy fact, suddenly the colour will be black, as arrayed with coal or other 〈◊〉, the smell whereof will not be very pleasant: but at all times when she is attempted or pursued, the colour will be so yellow as gold. This marvelous secret devise greatly pleased the Knight, verily believing the same to be true, specially much moved & assured by the fame bruited abroad of his science, whereof the Citizens of 〈◊〉 told very strange & incredible things. When the price was paid of this precious jewel, he received the Image, & joyfully returned home to his castle, where tarrying certain days, he determined to repair to that Court of the glorious king Mathie, making his wife privy to his intent. Afterwards when he had disposed his household matters in order, he committed that government thereof to his wife, & having prepared all necessaries for his voyage, to the great sorrow & grief of his beloved, he departed & arrived at Alba Regale, where that time the King lay with Queen Beatrix his wife: of whom he was joyfully received & entertained. He had not long continued in the Court, but he had obtained & won the favour & good will of all men. The King (which knew him full well) very honourably placed him in his court, & by him accomplished divers and many weighty affairs, which very wisely and trustily he brought to pass according to the king's mind & pleasure. Afterwards he was made Colonel of a certain number of footmen sent by the king against the Turks to defend a hold which the enemies of God begun to assail under the conduct of Mustapha Basca, which conduct he so well directed, & therein stoutly behaved himself, as he chased all the Infidels out of those coasts, winning thereby that name of a most valiant soldier & prudent captain. Whereby he marvelously gained the favour & grace of the king, who (over and beside his daily entertainment) gave unto him a Castle, and the Revenue in fee farm for ever. Such rewards deserve all valiant men, which for the honour of their Prince & country do willingly employ their service, worthy no doubt of great regard & cherishing, upon their home return, because they hate idleness to win glory, devising rather to spend hole days in field, than hours in Court, which this worthy Knight deserved, who not able to sustain his poor estate, by politic wisdom & prowess of arms endeavoured to serve his Lord and country, wherein surely he made a very good choice. Then he devoutly served and praised God, for that he put into his mind such a Noble enterprise, trusting daily to achieve greater fame and glory: but the greater was his joy and contentation, because the image of his wife enclosed within a box, which still he carried about him in his pursy, continued fresh of colour without any alteration. It was noised in the Court, that this valiant Knight Vlrico, had in Boeme the fairest and goodliest Lady to his wife that lived either in Boeme or Hungary. It chanced as a certain company of young Gentlemen in the Court were together, (amongs whom was this Knight) that a 〈◊〉 Earon said unto him: How is it possible sir 〈◊〉, being a year and a half since you departed out of Boeme, that you have no mind to return to see your wife, who as the common fame reporteth, is one of the goodliest women of all the Country: truly it seemeth to me, that you care not for her, which were great pity if her beautic be correspondent to her fame. Sir (quod Vlrico) what her beauty is I refer unto the world, but how so ever you esteem me to care of her, you shall understand that I do love her, and will do so during my life. And the cause why I have not visited her of long time, is no little proof of the great assurance I have of her virtue and honest life. The argument of her virtue I prove, for that she is contented that I should serve my Lord and king, and sufficient it is for me to give her intelligence of my state and welfare, which many times by letters at opportunity I fail not to do: the proof of my Faith is evident by reason of my bounden duty to our sovereign Lord of whom I have received so great and ample benefits, and the warfare which I use in his grace's service in the frontiers of his Realm against the enemies of Christ, whereunto I bear more good will than I do to wedlock love, preferring duty to Prince before marriage, albeit my wives faith and constancy is such, as freely I may spend my life without care of her devoir, being assured that besides her beauty she is wise, virtuous and honest, and loveth me above all worldly things, tendering me so dearly as she doth the balls of her own eyes. You have stoutly said (answered the Barone) in defence of your wives chastity, whereof she can make unto herself no great warrantise, because a woman sometimes will be in mind not to be moved at the requests and gifts offered by the greatest Prince of the world, who afterwards within a day upon the only sight and view of some lusty young man, at one simple word uttered with a few tears and shorter suit, yieldeth to his request. And what is she then that can conceive such assurance in herself? What is he that knoweth the secrets of hearts which be impenetrable? Surely none as I suppose, except God himself. A woman of her own nature is movable and pliant, & is the most ambitious creature of the world. And (by God) no woman do I know but that she lusteth and desireth to be beloved, required, sued unto, honoured & cherished? And oftentimes it cometh to pass that the most crafty dames which think with feigned looks to feed their divers lovers, be the first that thrust their heads into the amorous nets, and like little birds in hard 〈◊〉 of weather be caught in lovers 〈◊〉 wigs. Whereby sir Vlrico I do not see that your wife (above all other women compact of flesh and bone) hath such privilege from God, but that she may be soon enticed and corrupted. Well sir (said the 〈◊〉 Knight) I am persuaded of that which I have spoken, and verily do believe the effect of my belief most true. Every man knoweth his own affairs, & the fool knoweth better what he hath, than his neighbours do, be they never so wise. Believe you what you think good, for I mean not to digress from that which I conceive. And suffer me (I pray you) to believe what I list, sith belief cannot hurt me, nor yet your discredit can hinder my belief, being free for each man in semblable chances to think & believe what his mind lusteth and liketh. There were many other Lords and Gentlemen of the court 〈◊〉 at that talk, and as we commonly see (at such like meeting) 〈◊〉 man uttereth his mind: whereupon many and sundry opinions were produced touching that question. And because divers men be of divers natures, and many presume upon the pregnancy of their wise heads, there rose some stur about that talk, each man obstinate in his alleged reason, more froward 〈◊〉 than reason did require: the communication grew so hot, and talk broke forth so loud, as the same was reported to the 〈◊〉. The good Lady sorry to hear tell of such strife within her Court, abhorring naturally all controversy and contention, sent for the parties, & required them from point to point to make recital of the beginning and circumstance of their reasons and arguments. And when she understood the effect of all their talk, she said, that every man at his own pleasure might believe what he list, affirming it to be presumptuous and extreme folly, to judge all women to be of one disposition, in like sort as it were a great error to say that all men be of one quality and condition: the contrary by daily experience manifestly appearing. For both in men and women, there is so great difference and variety of natures, as there be heads and wits. And how it is commonly seen that two brothers and sisters, born at one birth, be yet of contrary natures and 〈◊〉, of manners and conditions so divers, as the thing which shall please the one, is altogether displeasant to the other. Whereupon the 〈◊〉 concluded, that the 〈◊〉 Knight had good reason to continue that good & honest credit of his wife, as having proved her fidelity of long time, wherein she showed herself to be very wise & discrete. Now because (as many times we see) the natures and appetites of divers men to be insatiable, and one man to be sometimes more foolish hardy than another, even so (to say the 〈◊〉,) were those two Hungarian Barons, who seeming wise in their own conceits, one of them said to the 〈◊〉 in this manner: Madam your grace doth well maintain the sear of womankind, because you be a woman. For by nature it is given to that kind, stoutly to stand in 〈◊〉 of themselves, because their imbecility and weakness otherwise would bewray them: and although good reasons might be alleged to open the causes of their 〈◊〉, and why they be not able to attain the haut excellency of man, yet for this time I do not mean to be tedious unto your grace, lest the little heart of woman would rise and display that conceit which is wrapped within that little mould. But to return to this chaste Lady, through whom our talk began, if we might crave licence of your majesty, and safe 〈◊〉 of this Gentleman to know her dwelling place, and have 〈◊〉 to speak to her, we doubt not but to break with our battering talk, the Adamant walls of her 〈◊〉 that is so famous, and carry away that spoil which 〈◊〉 we shall 〈◊〉. I know not answered the 〈◊〉 Knight, what ye can or will 〈◊〉, but sure I am, that hitherto I am not 〈◊〉. Many things were spoken there, and sundry opinions of 〈◊〉 parts alleged. In end the two Hungarian. 〈◊〉 persuaded themselves, and made their vaunts that they were able to climb the skies, and both would attempt and also bring to passeny enterprise were it never so great, affirming their former offer by oath, and would gauge all the lands and goods they had, that within the space of. v. months they would either of them obtain the Gentlewoman's good will to do what they list so that the Knight were 〈◊〉, neither to return home, ne yet to advertise her of that their determination. The Queen and all the standers by laughed hearty at this their offer, mocking and jesting at their foolish and youthly conceits. Which the Barons perceiving, said: You think Madam that we speak triflingly, and be not able to accomplish this our proposed enterprise, but Madam, may it please you to give us leave, we mean by earnest attempt to give proof thereof. And as they were thus in reasoning and debating the matter, the king (hearing tell of this large offer made by the Barons) came into the place where the Queen was, at such time as she was about to dissuade them from their frantic devise. Before whom he being entered the chamber, the two Barons fell down upon their knees, and humbly besought his grace, that the compact made between sir Vlrico and them might proceed, disclosing unto him in few words the effect of all their talk, which frankly was granted by the king. But the Barons added a Proviso, that when they had won their wager, the Knight by no means should hurt his wife, and from that time forth should give over his false opinion, that women were not naturally given to the suits and requests of amorous persons. The Boeme Knight, who was assured of his wives great honesty and loyal faith, believed so true as the Gospel, the proportion and quality of the image, who in all the time that he was far off, never perceived the same to be either pale or black, but at that time looking upon the image, he perceived a certaińe yellow colour to rise, as he thought his wife was by some love pursued, but yet suddenly it returned again to his natural hew, which boldened him to say these words to the Hungarian barons: Ye be a couple of pleasant and unbelieving Gentlemen, and have conceived so 〈◊〉 opinion, as ever men of your calling did: but sith you proceed in your obstinate folly, and will needs guage all the lands and goods you have, that you be able to vanquish my wives honest and chaste heart, I am contented, for the singular credit which I repose in her, to join with you, and will pledge the poorelyving I have for proof of mine opinion, and shall accomplish all other your requests made here, before the majesties of the King and Queen. And therefore 〈◊〉 it 〈◊〉 your highness, sith this fond devise can not be beaten 〈◊〉 of their heads, to give licence unto those noble men, the lords Vdislao, and Alberto, (so were they called) to put in proof the merry conceit of their disposed minds (whereof they do so greatly brag) and I 〈◊〉 your good grace and favour, am content to agree to their demands: and we answered the Hungarians do once again affirm the same which we have spoken. The King willing to have them give over that strife, was entreated to the contrary by the Barons: whereupon the King perceiving their follies, caused a decree of the bargain to be put in writing, either parties interchangeably subscribing the same. Which done, they took their leaves. Afterwards, the two Hungarians began to put their enterprise in order, and agreed between themselves, Alberto to be the first that should adventure upon the Lady. And that within 〈◊〉 weeks after, upon his return, the Lord Vladislao should proceed. These things concluded, 〈◊〉 all furnitures for their several journeys disposed, the Lord Alberto departed in good order, with two 〈◊〉 directly traveling to that castle of the Boeme knight, where being arrived, he lighted at an Inn of the town adjoining to the castle, and demanding of the host, the conditions of the Lady, he understood that she was a very fair woman, and that her honesty and love towards her husband far excelled her 〈◊〉. Which words nothing 〈◊〉 the amorous 〈◊〉, but when he had pulled of his boots, and richly 〈◊〉 himself, he repaired to the Castle, and 〈◊〉 at the Gates, gave the Lady to understand that he was come to see her. She which was a courteous Gentlewoman, caused him to be brought in, and 〈◊〉 gave him honourable entertainment. The 〈◊〉 greatly mused upon the beauty and goodliness of the Lady, singularly commending her honest order and behaviour. And being set down, the young Gentleman said unto her: Madam, moved with the 〈◊〉 of your surpassing beauty, which now I see to be more excellent than Fame with her swiftest wings is able to carry, I am come from the Court to view and see if that were true, or whether lying brutes had 〈◊〉 their vulgar talk in vain: but finding the same 〈◊〉 more fine and pure than erst I did expect, I crave licence of your ladyship, to conceive none 〈◊〉 of this my 〈◊〉 and rude attempt: and herewithal he began to join many trifling and vain words, which dallying suitors by heat of lusty blood be wont to shoot forth, to declare themselves not to be speechless or tong-tied. Which the Lady well espying, speedily imagined into what port his 〈◊〉 bark would arrive: 〈◊〉 in the end when she saw his ship at road, began to enter in pretty loving talk, by little and little to encourage his fond attempt. The Baron thinking he had caught the Eel by the tail, not well practised in Cicero his school, ceased not 〈◊〉 to contrive the 〈◊〉, by making her believe, that he was far in love. The Lady weary (God wot) of his fond 〈◊〉 and amorous reasons, and yet not to seem scornful. made him good countenance, in such wise as the Hungarian two or three days did nothing else but proceed in vain pursuit: She perceiving him to be but a 〈◊〉 of the first coat, devised to recompense his Follies with such entertainment, as during all his life, he should keep the same in good remembrance. Wherefore not long after, feigning as though his great wisdom, uttered by cloquente talk, had 〈◊〉 her, she said thus unto him: My 〈◊〉, the reasons you produce, and your pleasant gesture in my house, have so enchanted me, that impossible it is, but I must 〈◊〉 agree unto your will: for where I never thought during life, to stain the purity of marriage bed, and determined continually to preserve myself inviolably for my husband, 〈◊〉 Noble grace and courteous behaviour, have (I say) so bewitched me, that ready I am to be at your commandment, humbly 〈◊〉 your honour to beware, that knowledge hereof may not come unto mine husband's ears, who is so 〈◊〉 and cruel, and loveth me so dearly, as no doubt he will without further trial either himself kill me, or otherwise procure my 〈◊〉: & to the intent none of my house may suspect our doings, I shall desire you to morrow in the morning about nine of the clock, which is the 〈◊〉 time of your repair hither, to come unto my castle, wherein when you be entered, speedily to mount up to the chamber of the highest 〈◊〉, over the door whereof, ye shall find the arms of my husband, entailed in marble: and when you be entered in, to shut the 〈◊〉 fast after you, and in the mean time I will wait and and provide, that none shall molest and trouble us, and then shall bestow ourselves for accomplisment of that which your love desireth. Now in very deed this chamber was a very strong prison ordained in ancient time by the progenitors of that territory, to imprison and punish the bassals and tenants of the same, for offences and crimes committed. The Baron hearing this liberal offer of the Lady, thinking that he had obtained the sum of all his joy, so glad as if he had conquerend a whole kingdom, the best contented man alive, thanking the Lady for her courteous answer, departed, and returned to his Inn. 〈◊〉 knoweth upon how merry a pin the heart of this young Baron was set, and after he had liberally banqueted his host and hostess, pleasantly disposing himself to mirth and recreation, he went to bed, where joy so lightened his merry head, as no sleep at all could close his eyes: such be the savage pangs of those that aspire to like delights, as the best reclaimer of the wildest hawk could never take more pain or devise 〈◊〉 shifts to man the same for the better achieving of her pray, than did this brave Baron sustain for bringing his enterprise to effect. The next day early in the morning he rose, dressing himself with the sweetest parfumes, and putting on his finest suit of 〈◊〉, at the appointed hour he went to the castle, and so secretly as he could, according to the Lady's instruction, he conveyed himself up into the chamber 〈◊〉 he found open, and when he was entered, he shut the same. The manner of the door was such, as none within could open it without a 〈◊〉, and besides the strong lock, it had both bar and 〈◊〉 on the outside, with such fastening, as the devil himself being locked within, could not break forth. The Lady which waited hard by for his 〈◊〉, so soon as she perceived that the door was shut, stepped unto the same, and both double locked the door, and also without she barred and fast bolt the same, carrying the 〈◊〉 away with her. This chamber was in the highest tower of the house (as is before said) wherein was placed a bed with good furniture, the window whereof was so high, that none could look out without a ladder. The other parts thereof were in good and convenient order, apt and meet for an honest prison. When the Lord Alberto was within, he sat down, waiting (as the Jews do for Messiah) when the Lady according to her appointment should come. And as he was in this expectation, building castles in the air, and devising a thousand Chimaeras in his brain, behold he heard one to open a little wicket that was in the door of that chamber, which was so strait and little, as scarcely able to receive a loaf of bread, or cruse of wine, used to be sent to the prisoners. He thinking that it had been the Lady, rose 〈◊〉, and heard the noise of a little girl, who looking in at the hole, thus said unto him: My Lord Alberto, the Lady Barbara my mistress (for that was her name) hath sent me thus to say unto you: That for so much as you be come into this place, by countenance of Love, to despoil her of her honour, she hath imprisoned you like a thief, according to your desert, and purposeth to make you suffer penance according to the measure of your offence. Wherefore so long as you shall remain in this place, she mindeth to force you to gain your bread and drink with the art of spinning, as poor women do for sustentation of their living, meaning thereby to cool the heat of your lusty youth, and to make you taste the sour sauce meet for them to assay, that go about to rob Ladies of their honour: she bade me likewise to tell you, that the more yarn you spin, the greater shall be the abundance and delicacy of your fare: the greater pain you take to gain your food, the more liberal she will be in distributing of the same: otherwise (she saith) that you shall fast with bread and water. Which determinate sentence she hath decreed, not to be infringed & broken for any kind of suit or entreaty that you be able to make. When the maiden had spoken these words, she shut the portal door, and returneo to her Lady. The Baron which thought that he had been comen to a marriage, did eat nothing all the morning before, because he thought to be entertained with better & daintier store of viands, who now at those news fared like one out of his wits, and stood still so amazed, as though his legs would have failed him, and in one moment his 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 to vanish, and his force and breath forsook him, and fell down upon the chamber 〈◊〉, in such wise as he that had beheld him, would have thought him rather dead than living. In this state he was a great time, & after wards somewhat coming to himself, he could not tell whether he dreamt, or else that the words were true, which the maiden had said unto him: In the end seeing, and being verily assured, that he was in a prison so sure as bird in Cage, through 〈◊〉 and rage was like to die, or else to lose his wits, faring with himself of long time like a mad man, and not knowing what to do, passed the rest of the day in walking up and down the chamber, raving, stamying, staring, cursing, and using words of greatest villainy, lamenting and bewailing the time and day, that so like a beast and 〈◊〉 man, he gave the attempt to despoil the honesty of an other man's wife. Then came to his 〈◊〉 the loss of all his lands and goods, which by the 〈◊〉, authority were put in compromise, than the shame, the scorn, and rebuke whyehe he should receive at other men's hands, beyond measure vexed him: and reporten bruited in the Court (for that it was impossible but the whole world should know it) so grieved him, as his 〈◊〉 seemed to be strained with two sharp and biting nails, the pains whereof, forced him to lose his wits and under standing. In the mids of which pangs furiously vaulting up and down the chamber, he espied by chance in a corner, a 〈◊〉 furnished with good 〈◊〉 of flare, and a spindle hanging thereupon: and 〈◊〉 with choler and rage, he was about to spoil and break the same in pieces: but remembering what a hard weapon Necessity is, he stayed his wisdom, and albeit he had rather to have contrived his leisure in noble and Gentlemanlyke pastime, yet rather than he would be idle, he thought to reserve that Instrument to avoid the tedious lack of honest and familiar company. When supper time was come, the maiden returned again, who opening the portal door, saluted the Baron, and said: My Lord, my mistress hath sent me to visit your good Lordship, and to receive at your good hands the effect of your labour, who hopeth that you have spun some substantial web of thread for earning of your supper, which being done, shall be readily brought unto you. The Baron full of rage, fury, and felonious mood, if before he were fallen into choler, now by protestation of these words, he seemed to transgress the bounds of reason, and began to rail at the poor wench, scolding and chiding her like a strumpet of the stews, faring as though he would have beaten her, or done her some 〈◊〉 their mischief: but his mood was stayed from doing any hurt: The poor 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 by her 〈◊〉, in laughing wise said unto him: Why (my lord) do you chafe & rage against me? Me thinks you do me wrong to use such reproachful words, which am but a servant, and bound to the commandment of my mistress: Why sir, do you not know that a 〈◊〉 or messenger suffereth no pain or blame? The greatest King or Emperor of the world, receiving 〈◊〉 from a meaner Prince, never useth his ambassador with scolding words, ne yet by villainy or rebuke abuseth his person. Is it wisdom then 〈◊〉 you, being a present prisoner, at the mercy of your keepers, in this 〈◊〉 sort to revile me with 〈◊〉 talk? But 〈◊〉, leave of your rages, and quiet yourself for this present time, for my mistress marveleth much why you durst come (for all your noble state) to give 〈◊〉 to violate her good name, which message she required me to tell you, ovenr and besides a desire she hath to know, whether by the science of Spinning, you have gained your food: for you seem to kick against the wind, & beat water in a mortar, if you think from hence to go before you have earned a recompense of the meat which shallbe given you. Wherefore it is your lot patiently to suffer the 〈◊〉 of your fondattempt, which I pray you gently to sustain, and think no scorn thereof hardly: for desperate men & hard adventurers must needs suffer the dangers thereunto belonging. This is the determinate sentence of my mistress mind, who fourdeth you no better fare than bread and water, if you can not show some pretty spindle full of yarn for sign of your good will at this present pinch of your distress. The maiden seeing that he was not disposed to show some part of willing mind to gain his living by that 〈◊〉 science, shut the portal door, and went her way. The unhappy Baron (arrived thither in very ill time) that night had neither bread nor broth, and therefore he fared according to theproverbe: He that goth to bed supperless, lieth in his bed restless. For during the whole night, no sleep couldfasten his eyes. Now as this baron was closed in prison fast, so the La die took order, that secretly with great cher ehis servants should be entertained, and his horse with sweet hay and good provender well maintained, all his furnitures, sumpture horse and carriages conveyed within the Castle, where wanted nothing for the state of such a parsonage but only liberty, making the host of the Inn believe (where the Lord harboured before) that he was returned into Hungary.  
But now turn we to the Boeme Knight, who knowing that one of the two Hungarian Competitors, were departed the Court, and ridden into Boeme, did still behold the quality of the enchanted image, wherein by the space of three or four days, in which time, the baron made his greatest suit to his Lady, he marked a certain alteration of colour in the same: but afterwards returned to his native form: and seeing no greater transformation, he was well assured, that the Hungarian Baron was repulsed, and employed his labour in vain. Whereof the Boeme Knight was exceedingly pleased and contented, because he was well assured, that his wife had kept herself right pure and honest. notwithstanding his mind was not well settled, ne yet his heart at rest, doubting that the Lord Vladislao, which as yet was not departed the Court, would obtain the thing, and acquit the fault, which his companion had committed. The imprisoned Baron which all this time had neither 〈◊〉 nor drunken, nor in the night could sleep, in the morning, after he had considered his misadventure, and well perceived no remedy for him to go forth, except he obeyed the Lady's hest, made of necessity a virtue, and applied himself to learn to spin by force, which freedom and honour could never have made him to do. Whereupon he took the distaff, and began to spin. And albeit that he never spun in all his life before, yet 〈◊〉 by Necessity, so well as he could, he drew out his thread, now small and then great, and many times of the meanest sort, but very often broad, ill favoured, ill closed, and worse twisted, all cut of form and fashion, that sundry times very heartyly he laughed to himself, to see his cunning, but would have made a cunning woman spinner burst into ten thousand laughters, if she had 〈◊〉 there. Thus all the morning he spent in spinning, and when dinner came, his accustomed messenger, the maiden, repaired unto him again, and opening the window demanded of the Baron how his work went forward, and whether he were disposed to manifest the 〈◊〉 of his coming into Boeme? He well beaten in the School of shame, uttered unto the maid the whole compact and bargain made between him and his companion, and the Boeme Knight her master, & afterwards showed unto her his spindle full of thread. The young Wench smiling at his work, said: By Saint Marie this is well done, you are worthy of victual for your hire: for now I right well perceive that Hunger forceth the Wolf out of her den. I con you thank, that like a Lord you can so pvissantly gain your living. Wherefore proceeding in that which you have begun, I doubt not but shortly you will prove such a workman, as my mistress shall not need to put out her 〈◊〉 to spin (to her great charge and cost) for making of her smocks, but that the same may well be done within her own house, yea although the same do serve but for Kitchen clothes, for dresser boards, or cleaning of her vessel before they 〈◊〉 served forth. And as your good deserts do merit thanks for this your art, now well begun, even so your new told tale of coming hither, requireth no less, for that you have disclosed the truth. When she had said these words, she reached him some store of meats for his dinner, and bad him well to far. When she was returned unto her Lady, she showed unto her the Spindle full of thread, and told her therewithal the whole story of the compact between the Knight Vlrico, and the two Hungarian Barons. Whereof the Lady sore astoned, for the snares laid to 〈◊〉 her, was notwithstanding well 〈◊〉, for that she had so well for seen the same: but most of all rejoiced, that her husband had so good opinion of her honest life. And before she would advertise him of these events, she purposed to attend the coming of the Lord Vladislao, to whom she meant to do like penance for his careless bargain and dishonest opinion, accordingly as he deserved, marveling very much that both the Barons, were so rash & presumptuous, dangerously (not knowing what kind of woman she was) to put their lands and goods in hazard. But considering the nature of divers brainsick men, which pass not how carelessly they adventure their gained goods, and inherited lands, so they may 〈◊〉 the pray, after which they vainly hunt, for the prejudice & hurt of other, she made no account of these attempt, s sith honest matrons force not upon the suits, or vain consumed time of light brained coxcombs, that care not what fond cost or ill employed hours they waste to annoy the good renown and honest brutes of women.  
But not to discourse from point to point the particulars of this intended journey, this poor deceived Baron in short time proved a very good Spinner, by exercise whereof, he felt such solace, as not only the same was a comfortable sport for his captive time, but also for want of better recreation, it seemed so joyful, as if he had been pluming and 〈◊〉 his Hawk, or doing other sports belonging to the honourable state of a Lord. Which his well arrived labour, the maiden recompensed with abundance of good and delicate meats. And although the Lady was many times required to visit the Baron, yet she would never to that request consent. In which time the Knight Vlrico ceased not continually to view and revewe the state of his image, which appeared still to be of one well coloured sort. And although this use of his was divers times marked and seen of many, yet being earnestly demanded the cause thereof, he would never disclose the same. Many conjectures thereof 〈◊〉 made, but none could attain the truth. And who would have thought that a Knight so wise and prudent had worn within his purse any enchanted thing? And albeit the King and Queen had intelligence of this frequent practice of the Knight, yet they thought not meet for any private and secret mystery, to demand the cause. One month and a half was passed now, that the Lord Alberto was departed the Court, and become a castle knight and cunning spinster: which made the Lord Vladislao to muse, for that the promise made between them was broken, and heard neither by letter or messenger what success he had received. After divers thoughts imagined in his mind, he conceived that his companion had happily enjoyed the end of his desired joy, and had gathered the wished fruits of the Lady, and drowned in that main sea of his own pleasures, was overwhelmed in the bottom of oblivion: wherefore he determined to set forward on his journey to give onset of his desired fortune: who without long delay for execution of his purpose, prepared all necessaries for that voyage, and mounted on horseback with two of his men, he journeyed towards Boeme, & within few days after arrived at the Castle of the fair and most honest Lady. And when he was entered the Inn where the Lord Alberto was first lodged, he diligently inquired of him, and hard tell that he was returned into Hungary many days before, whereof much marveling, could not tell what to say or think. In that end purposing to put in proof the cause wherefore he was departed out of Hungary, after diligent inquiry of the manners of the Lady, he understood the general voice, that she was without comparison the most honest, wise, gentle and comely Lady within the whole Country of Boeme. Incontinently the Lady was advertised of the arrival of this Baron, and knowing the cause of his coming, she determined to pay him also with that money which she had already coined for the other. The next day the Baron went unto the Castle, & knocking at the gate, sent in word how that he was come from the Court of King Mathie, to visit and salute the Lady of that Castle: and as she did entertain the first Baron in courteous 〈◊〉, and with loving countenance, even so she did the second, who thought thereby that he had attained by that pleasant entertainment, the game after which he hunted. And discoursing upon divers matters, the Lady showed herself a pleasant and familiar Gentlewoman, which made the Baron to think that in short time he should win the price for which he came. Notwithstanding, at the first brunt he would not by any means descend to any particularity of his purpose, but his words ran general, which were, that hearing tell of the fame of her beauty, good grace and come, linesse, by having occasion to repair into Boeme to do certain his affairs, he thought it labour well spent to ride some portion of his journey, though it were beside the way, to digress to do reverence unto her, whom fame advanced above the skies: and thus passing his first visitation, he returned again to his lodging. The Lady when the Baron was gone from her Castle, was rapt into a rage, greatly offended that those two Hungarian Lords so presumptuously had bended themselves like common thieves to wander and rove the Countries, not only to rob and spoil her of her honour, but also to bring her in displeasure of her husband, and thereby into the danger and peril of death. By reason of which rage (not without cause conceived) she caused an other Chamber to be made ready, next wall to the other Baron that was become such a Notable spinster. And upon the next return of the Lord Vladislao, she received him with no less good entertainment than before, and when night came, caused him to be lodged in her own house in the Chamber prepared as before, where he slept not very sound all that night, through the continual remembraunee of his Lady's beauty. Next morning he perceived himself to be locked fast in a Prison. And when he had made him ready, thinking to descend to bid the Lady good morrow, seeking means to unlock the door, and perceiving that he could not, he stood still in a dump. And as he was thus standing, marveling the cause of his shutting in so fast, the Maiden repaired to the hole of the door, giving his honour an 〈◊〉 salutation, which was, that her Mistress commanded her to give him to understand, that if he had any lust or appetite to his breakfast, or minded from thence for the to ease his hunger or contain life, that he should give himself to learn to reel yarn. And for that purpose she willed him to look in such a corner of the Chamber, and he should find certain spindle's of thread, and an instrument to wind his yarn upon. Wherefore (quoth she) apply yourself thereunto, and lose no time. He that had that time beholden the Baron in the face, would have thought that he had seen rather a Marble stone, than the figure of a man. But converting his cold conceived mood, into mad anger, he fell into ten times more displeasure with himself, than is before described by the other Baron. But seeing that his mad béhavioure and beastly usage was bestowed in vain, the next day he began to reel. The Lady afterwards when she had intelligence of the good and gainful spinning of the Lord Alberto, and the well disposed and towardly réeling of the Lord Vladislao, greatly rejoiced for making of such two Notable workmen, whose workmanship exceeded the labours of them that had been apprentyzes to the occupation seven years together. Such be the apt and ready wits of the soldiers of love: Where in I would wish all Cupid's darlings to be nuzzled and applied in their youthly time: then no doubt their passions would appease, and rages assuage, and would give over their over bold attempts, for which they have no thank of the chaste and honest. And to this goodly sight the Lady brought the servants of these Noble men, willing them to mark and behold the diligence of their masters, and to imitate the industry of their goodly exercise, who never attained meat before by labour they had gained the same. Which done, she made them take their horse & furnitures of their Lords, and to departed: otherwise if by violence they resisted, she would cause their choler to be calmed with such like service as they saw done before their eyes. The servants seeing no remedy, but must needs departed, took their leave. Afterwards she sent one of her servants in post to the Court, to advertise her husband of all that which chanced. The Boeme Knight receiving this good news declared the same unto the King and Queen, and recited the whole story of the two Hungarian Barons, accordingly as the tenor of his wives letters did purport. The Princes stood still in great admiration, and highly commended the wisdom of the Lady, 〈◊〉 her for a very sage and politic woman. Afterwards the Knight Vlrico humbly besought the King for execution of his decree and performance of the bargain. Whereupon the King assembled his counsel, and required every of them to say their mind. Upon the deliberation whereof, the Lord Chancellor of the kingdom, with two Counsellors, were sent to the Castle of the Boeme Knight, to inquire and learn the process and doings of the two Lords, who diligently accomplished the King's commandment. And having examined the Lady and her maiden with other of the house, & the Barons also, whom a little before the arrival of these Commissioners, the Lady had caused to be put together, that by spinning & réeling they might comfort one an other. When the Lord Chancellor had framed & digested in order the whole discourse of this history, returned to the court where the King & Queen with the Peers & Noble men of his kingdom caused the acts of the same to be divulged & bruited abroad, and after much talk and discourse of the performance of this compact, pro & contra, the Queen taking the Lady's part, and favouring the Knight, the King gave sentence that sir Vlrico should wholly possess the lands and goods of the two Barons to him, and to his heirs for ever, and that the Barons should be banished out of the kingdoms of Hungary & Boeme, never to return upon pain of death. This sentence was put in execution, & the unfortunate Barons exiled, which specially to those that were of their consanguinity and blood, seemed too severe & rigorous. Nevertheless the covenant being most plain & evident to most men, the same seemed to be pronounced with great justice and equity, for example in time to come, to lesson rash wits how they judge & deem so indifferently of women's behaviours amongs whom no doubt there be both good & bad, as there be of men. Afterwards the. y. Princes sent for the Lady to that Court, who there was courteously entertained, & for this her wise & politic fact had in great admiration. The Queen than appointed her to be one of her women of honour, & esteemed her very dearly. The knight also daily grew to great promotion, well beloved and favoured of the King, who with his Lady long time lived in great joy & felicity, not forgetting the cunning man Pollacco, that made him the image and likeness of his wife: whose friendship and labour he rewarded with money, and other benefits very liberally.   

Dom Diego and Gineura  
¶ DOM DIEGO a Gentleman of Spain 〈◊〉 in love with fair GINEURA, and she with him: their love by means of one that envied DOM DIEGO his happy choice, was by default of light credit on her part interrupted. He constant of mind, fell into despair, and abandoning all his 〈◊〉 and living, repaired to the Pyrene Mountains, where he led a savage life for certain months, and afterwards known by one of his friends, was (by marvelous circumstance) reconciled to his 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, and married.  
The. xxix. Novel.  
men's mischances occurring on the brunts of divers Tragical fortunes, albeit upon their first taste of bitterness, they savour of a certain kind of loathsome relish, yet under the Kind of that unsaverouse sap, doth lurk a sweeter honey, than sweetness itself, for the fruit that the posterity may gather and learn by others hurts, how they may 〈◊〉 and shun the like. But because all things have their seasons, and every thing is not convenient for all times and places, I purpose now to show a Notable example of a vain and superstitious Lover, that abandoned his living and friends, to become a Savage desert man. Which History resembleth in a manner a Tragical comedy, comprehending the very same matter and argument, wherewith the greatest part of the 〈◊〉 sortearme themselves to cover and defend their follies. It is red and seen too often by common custom, and therefore 〈◊〉 here to display what rage doth govern, and headlong hale fond and licentious youth conducted by the pang of love, if the same be not moderated by reason, and cooled with sacred lessons even from the Cradle to more mature and riper age. For the Tyranny of love amongs all the deadly foes that 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉 our minds, glorieth of his force, vaunting himself able to change the proper nature of things, be they never so sound and perfect: who to make them like his lusts, 〈◊〉 himself into a substance qualified diversly, the better to entrap such as be given to his vanities. But having avouched so many examples before, I am content for this present to tell the discourse of two persons, chanced not long sithence in Catheloigne. Of a Gentleman that for his constancy declared two extremities in himself of love and folly. And of a Gentlewoman so fickle and inconstant, as love and they which waited on him, be disordered, for the trustless ground whereupon such foundation of service is laid, which ye shall easily conceive by well viewing the difference of these twain: 〈◊〉 I mean to 〈◊〉 to the lists, by the blast of this 〈◊〉 trump. And thus the same beginneth.  
Not long after that the victorious & Noble prince, young 〈◊〉, the son of Alphonsus King of Arragon was dead, Lews the twelfth, that time being French King, upon the Marches of Catheloigne, between Barcelona and the Mountains, there was a good Lady then a widow, which had been the wife of an excellent and Noble knight of the Country, by whom she had left one only daughter, which was so carefully brought 〈◊〉 by the mother, as nothing was to dear or heard to be brought to pass for her desire, thinking that a creature so Noble and perfect, could not be trained up too delicately. Now besides her incomparable furniture of beauty, this young Gentlewoman was adorned with hair so fair, curl, and yellow, as the new fined gold was not matchable to the shining locks of this tender infant, who therefore commonly was called Gineura la Blonde. Half a days journey from the house of this widow, lay the lands of an other Lady a widow also, that was very rich, and so well allied as any in all the land. This Lady had a son, whom she caused to be trained up so well in Arms and good letters, as in other honest exercises proper and meet for a Gentleman and great Lord, for which respect she had sent him to Barcelona the chief City of all the Country of 〈◊〉. Senior Dom Diego, (for so was the son of that widow called) 〈◊〉 so well in all things, that when he was. 〈◊〉. years of age, there was no Gentleman of his degree, that did excel him, ne yet was able to approach unto his perfections and commendable behaviour. A thing that did so well content that good Lady his mother, as she could not tell what countenance to keep to cover her joy. A vice very comen to fond and foolish mothers, who flatter themselves with a shadowed hope of the future goodness of their children, which many times doth more hurt to that wanton and wilful age, than profit or advancement. The persuasion also of such towardness, full oft doth blind that spirits of youth, as that faults which follow the same be far more vile than before they were: whereby the first Table (made in his first colours) of that imagined virtue, can take no force or perfection, and so by incurring sundry mishaps, the parent & child commonly escape not without equal blame. To come again therefore to our discourse: it chanced in that time that (the Catholic king deceased) Philippe of Ostrich which succeeded him as heir passing through France, came into Spain to be invested and take possession of all his signiories and kingdoms: which known to the Citizens of Barcelona, they determined to receive him with such pomp, magnificence and honour, as duly appertaineth to the greatness and majesty of so great a Prince, as is the son of the Roman Emperor. And amongs other things they prepared a triumph at the Tilt, where none was suffered to enter the lists, but young Gentlemen, such as never yet had followed arms. Amongs whom Dom Diego as that Noblest person was chosen chief of one part. The Archduke then come to Barcelona after the received honours and Ceremonies, accustomed for such entertainment, to gratify his subjects, and to see the bravery of the young Spanish Nobility in arms, would place himself upon the scaffold to judge the courses and valiance of the runners. In that magnific and Princely conflict, all men's eyes were bend upon Dom Diego, who course by course made his adversaries to feel the force of his arms, his manhood and dexterity on horseback, and caused them to muse upon his toward 〈◊〉 in time to come, whose noble gests then acquired the victory of the camp on his side. Which moved King Philip to say, that in all his life he never saw triumph better handled, and that the same seemed rather a battle of strong & hardy men, than an excercise of young Gentlemen never wonted to support the deeds of arms & travail of warfare. For which cause calling Dom Diego before him he said. God grant (young Gentleman) that your end agree with your goodly beginnings & hardy shock of 〈◊〉 done this day. In memory whereof I will this night that ye do your watch, for I mean to morrow (by God's assistance) to dub you knight. The young gentleman blushing for shame, upon his knees kissed the Prince's hands, thanking him most humbly of the honour and favour which it pleased his majesty to do him, vowing & promising to do so well in time to come, as no man should be deceived of their conceived opinion, nor the king frustrate of his service, which was one of his most obedient vassals & subjects. So the next day he was made Knight, & received the collar of the order at the hands of King Philip, who after the departure of his prince which took his journey into Castille, retired to his own 〈◊〉 & house, more to see his mother, whom long time before he had not seen, than for desire of pleasure that be in fields, which notwithstanding he exercised so well as in end 〈◊〉 perceived 〈◊〉 in towns & cities, to be an imprisonment 〈◊〉 respect of that he felt in Country. As the Poets whilom feigned love to shoot his arrows amid that 〈◊〉, forests, fertile fields, sea coasts, shores of great rivers and fountain brinks, and also upon the tops of huge and high Mountains at the pursuit of the sundry sorted Nymphs and 〈◊〉 dimigods, deeming the same to be a mean of liberty to follow loves tract without suspicion, void of company and loathsome cries of Cities, where 〈◊〉, envy, false report, and ill opinion of all things, have pitched their camp and raised their tents. 〈◊〉 contrariwise frankly and without dissimulation in the fields, the friend discovering his passion to his Mistress, they enjoy the pleasure of hunting, the natural music of birds, and sometimes in pleasant herbers' 〈◊〉 with the murmur of some running brooks, they communicate their thoughts, beautify the accord and unity of lovers, and make the place famous for that first witness of their amorous acquaintance. In like manner thrice & four times blessed 〈◊〉 they there, who leaning the unquiet toil that ordinarily doth chance to them that abide in Cities, do render 〈◊〉 y of their studies to the Muses whereunto they be most minded. 〈◊〉 Dom Diego at his own house loved & cherished of his mother, reverenced and obeyed of his subjects after he had employed some time at his study, had none other ordinary pleasure but in rousing the Dear, hunting the wild Boar, run the Hare, sometimes to fly at the Heron or fearful Partridge alongs the fields, Forests, ponds and steep Mountains. It came to pass one day, as he Hunted the wild Mountain Goat, which he had dislodged upon the Hill top, he espied an old Heart that his dogs had found, who so joyful as was possible of that good luck, followed the course of that swift and fearful beast. But (such was his Fortune) the dogs lost the foot of that pray, and he his men: for being horsed of purpose, upon a fair jennet, could not be followed, and in end losing the sight of the Dear, was so far severed from company, as he was utterly ignorant which way to take. And that which grieved him most was his horse out of breath scarce able to ride a false gallop. For which cause he put his horn to his mouth, and blewe so loud as he could. But his men were so far off, as they could not hear him. The young Gentleman being in this distress, could not tell what to do, but to return back, wherein he was more deceived than before, for thinking to take the way home to his Castle, wandered still further off from the same. And trotting thus a long time, he spied a Castle situated upon a little Hill, whereby he knew himself far from his own house. Nevertheless hearing a certain noise of hunters, thinking they had been his people, resorted to the same, who in deed were the servants of the mother of Gineura with the golden locks, which in company of their mistress had hunted the Hare, Dom Diego, when he drew near to the cry of the Hounds, saw right well that he was deceived. At what time night approached, & the shadows darkening the earth, by reason of the suns departure, began to cloth the heavens with a brown and misty mantel. When the mother of Gineura saw the Knight which road a soft pace, for that his horse was tired, and could travail no longer, and knowing by his outward appearance that he was some great Lord, and ridden out of his way, sent one of her men to know what he was, who returned again with such answer as she desired. The Lady joyful to entertain a Gentleman so excellent and famous, one of her next neighbours, went forward to bid him welcome, which she did with so great courtesy as the Knight said unto her: Madam I think that fortune hath done me this 〈◊〉, by setting me out of the way, to prove your courtesy and gentle entertainment, and to receive this joy by visiting your house, whereof I trust in time to come to be so perfect a 〈◊〉, as my predecessors heretofore have been. Sir said the Lady, if happiness may be attributed to them, that most do gain, I think myself better favoured than you, for that it is my chance to lodge and entertain him, that is the worthiest person and best beloved in all Catheloigne. The Gentleman blushing at that praise, said nothing else, but that affection forced men so to speak of his virtues, notwithstanding such as he was, he vowed from thence for the his service to her and all her household. Gineura desirous not to be 〈◊〉 in courtesy, said that he should not so do, except she were partaker of some part of that, which the Knight so liberally had offered to the whole family of her mother. The Gentleman which till that time took no heed to the divine beauty of the Gentlewoman, beholding her at his pleasure, was so 〈◊〉, as he could not tell what to answer, his eyes were so fixed upon her, spending his looks in 〈◊〉 of that fresh hue, stained with a red Uermilion, upon the Alabaster and fair colour of her clear and beautiful face. And for the imbelishing of that natural perfection, the attire upon her head was so covenable & proper, as it seemed the same day she had looked for the coming of him, that afterwards endured so much for her sake. For her head was adorned with a Garland of Flowers, interlaced with her golden and enamelled hair, which gorgeously covered some part of her shoulders, 〈◊〉 and hanging down, sometime over her passing fair forehead, somewhiles upon her ruddy cheeks, as the sweet and pleasant windy breath did move them to and fro: ye should have seen her wavering and crisped tresses disposed with so good grace and comeliness, as a man would have thought that Love, and the three Graces could not tell elsewhere, to harbour themselves, but in that rich and delectable place of pleasure, in gorgeous wise laced and 〈◊〉. Upon her ears did hang two sumptuous and rich oriental pearls, which to the artificial order of her hair added a certain splendent brightness. And he that had beholden the shining and large forehead of that Nymph, which gallantly was beset with a diamond of inestimable price and value, chased with a tress of gold, made in form of 〈◊〉 stars, would have thought that he had seen a rank of the twinkling planets, fixed in the 〈◊〉 in the hottest time of Summer, when that fair season discovereth the order of his glittering clouds. In like manner the sparkling eyes of the fair Gentlewoman, adorned with that goodly vault with two arches, equally by even spaces distinct and divided, died with the 〈◊〉 Indian tree, did so well set forth their brightness, as the eyes of them that stayed their looks at noon days directly upon the Sun, could no more be dazzled and offended, than those were, that did contemplate those two flaming stars, which were in force able thoroughly to pierce even the bottom of the inward parts. The nose well form, justly placed in the amiable valley of the visage, by equal conformity distinguished the two cheeks, stained with a pure carnation, resembling two little Apples that were arrived to the due time of their maturity and 〈◊〉. And then her Coralline mouth, through which breathing, issued out a breath more soot & savorous than Amber, Musk, or other aromatical perfume, that ever the 〈◊〉 soil of 〈◊〉 brought forth. She sometime unclosing the door of her lips, discovered two rank of pearls, so finely blanched, as the purest Orient would blush, if it were compared with the beauty of 〈◊〉 incomparable whiteness. But he that will take upon him to speak of all her unspeakable beauty, may make his vaunt that 〈◊〉 hath seen all the greatest perfections that ever dame Nature wrought. Now to come a little lower, on this fresh Diana appeared a neck, that surmounted the blanch colour of milk, were it never so excellent white, and her stomach somewhat mounting by the two pomels and firm teats of her breasts, separated in equal distance, was covered with a vail, so lose and 〈◊〉, as those two little pretty mountains might easily be seen, to move and remove, according to the affection that rose in the centre of that modest and sober pucelles mind: who over and beside all this, hath such a pleasant countenance and joyful cheer, as her beauty more than wonderful, rendered her not so worthy to be served and loved, as her natural goodness and disposed courtesy appearing in her face, and her excellent entertainment and comely grace to all indifferently. This was not to imitate the manner of the most part of our fair Ladies and 〈◊〉, who (moved with what opinion I know not) be so disdainful, as almost their name causeth discontentment, and breedeth in them great imperfection, who by thinking to appear more brave & fine, by too much squeymishe dealing, do offuscate and darken with Follie their exterior beauty, blotting and defacing that which beauty maketh amiable and worthy of honour. I leave you now to consider whether Dom Diego had occasion to forego his speech, & to be bearest of 〈◊〉, being lively assailed with one so well armed as Gineura was with her graces & honesty: who no less abashed with the port, countenance, sweet talk, and stately behaviour of the knight, which she viewed to be in him by stealing looks, felt a motion (not wont or accustomed) in her tender heart, the made her to change colour, & by like occasion speechless: an ordinary custom in them that be surprised with the malady of love to lose that use of speech where the same is most necessary to give the entire charge in the heart, which not able to support and bear the burden of so many passions, departeth some portion to the eyes, as to the faithful messengers of the minds secret conceits, which tormented beyond measure, and burning with affection, causeth sometimes the humour to gush out in that part that discovered the first assault, and bred the cause of that fever, which frighted the hearts of those two young persons, not knowing well what the same might be. When they were come to the Castle, and dismounted from their horse, many welcomes and gratulations were made to the knight, which yielded more wood to the fire, and lively touched the young Gentleman, who was so outraged with love, as almost he had no mind of himself, and rapt by little and little, was so intoxicated with amorous passion, as all other thoughts were loathsome, and joy displeasant in respect of the favourable martyrdom which he suffered by thinking of his fair and gentle Gineura. Thus the knight which in the morning disposed himself to pursue the heart, was in heart so attached, as at evening he was become a servant, yea and such a slave, as that voluntary servitude wholly dispossessed him from his former freedom. These be the fruits also of folly, invegling the eyes of men, that launch themselves with eyes shut into the gulf of despair, which in end doth cause the ruin and overthrow of him, that yieldeth thereunto. Love proceedeth never but of opinion: so likewise the ill order of those that be afflicted with that passion, riseth not elsewhere, but by the fond persuasion which they conceive, to be blamed, despised and deceived of the thing beloved: where if they measured that passion according to his valour, they would make no more account of that which doth torment them, than they do of their health, honour and life, who for their service and labour delude them, and recompense an other with that which the foolish lover shall employ, that doth haste despair to him, and end more than desperate, by seeing an other come to enjoy that, for which he hath beat the bushes. During the time that supper was preparing, the Lady sent her men to seek the huntsmen of Dom Diego, to give them knowledge where he was become, and thereof to certify his mother, who when she heard tell that he lay there, was very glad, being a right good friend and very familiar neighbour with the Lady, the hostess of her 〈◊〉. The Gentleman supping after he had tasted the fervent heat that broiled in his mind, could eat little meat, rather satisfied with the feeding diet of his amorous eyes, which without any manner of jealousy, distributed their nourishment to the heart, and 〈◊〉 very soberly, privily throwing his secret pricks, with lovely and wanton look, to the heart of the fair Lady, which for her part spared not to render usury of rolling looks, whereof he was so sparing, as almost he durst not lift up his eyes for dazzling of the same. After supper, the Knight bidding the mother and daughter good night, went to bed, where in steed of sleep, he fell to sighing and imagining a thousand divers 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 like numbered of follies, such as they do whose brains be fraught with love. Alas (said he) what meaneth it, that always I have lived in so great liberty, and now do feel myself attached with such bondage as I can not express, whose effects nevertheless be fastened in me? Have I hunted to be taken? Came I from my house in liberty, to be shut up in prison, and do not know whether I shall be received, or being received, have entertainment, according to my desert? Ah Gineura, I would to God, that thy beauty did prick me no worse, than the tree whereof thou takest thy name, is sharp in touching, and bitter to them that 〈◊〉 the same. Truly I esteem my coming hither happy (for all the passion that I endure) sith the purchase of a grief so lucky doth qualify the joy, that made me to wander thus over 〈◊〉. 〈◊〉 fair amongs the fairest, truly the fearful beast which with the bloody hareboundes was torn in pieces, is not more martyred, than my heart divided in opinions upon thine affection. And what do I know if thou lovest an other more worthy to be favoured of thee than thy poor Dom Diego. But it is impossible that any can approach the sincerity the I feel in my heart, determining rather to endure death, than to serve other but fair & golden Gineura: therefore my loyalty receiving no comparison cannot be matched in man sufficient (for respect of the same) to be called servant of thine 〈◊〉. Now come what shall, by means of this, I am assured that so long as Dom Diego liveth, his heart shall receive none other impression or desire, but that which inciteth him to love, serve, & honour the fairest creature at this day within the compass of Spain. 〈◊〉 hereupon, sweeting, labouring & traveling upon the framing of his love, he found nothing more expedient than to tell her his passion, & let her understand the good will that he had to do her service, & to pray her to accept him for such, as from that time forth would perpetrate nothing but under that title of her good name. On the other side Gineura could not close her eyes, & knew not that cause almost that so 〈◊〉 her of sleep, wherefore now tossing on the one side, & then turning to the other inhir rich & goodly bed, fantasied no fewer devices than passionated Dom Diego did. In the end she concluded, that if that knight showed her any evident sign, or opened by word of mouth of love and service, she would not refuse to do the like to him. Thus passed the night in thoughts sighs & wishes between these. 〈◊〉. apprentices of the thing, whereof they that be lerners, shall soon attain the experience, & they that follow the occupation thoroughly, in short time be their 〈◊〉 masters. The next day that knight would departed so soon as he was up: but the good widow, embracing that parsonage & good order of the knight in her heart, more than any other that she had seen of long time, entreated 〈◊〉 so earnestly to tarry as he which loved better to obey her request than to departed, although feigned the contrary, in that end appeared to be vanquished upon the great importunity of the lady. All that morning that mother & the daughter passed the time with Dom Diego in great talk of common matters. But he was then more astoned & enamoured than the night before, in such wise as many times he 〈◊〉 so unaptly to their demands, as it was easily perceived that his mind was much disquieted with some thing, that only did possess the force & vehemence of that same: not withstanding the lady imputed that to the 〈◊〉 of that gentleman, & to his simplicity, which had not greatly frequented that company of Ladies. When dinner time was come, they were served with such great fare & sundry delicates, accordingly as with her heart she wished to entertain the young lord, to the intent from that time forth, he might more willingly make repair to her house. After dinner he rendered thanks to his hostess for his good cheer & entertainment that he had received, assuring her, that all the days of his life he would employ himself to recompense her courtesy, and withal duty & endeavour to acknowledge that favour. And having taken his leave of the mother, he went to the damosel, to her I say, that had so sore wounded his heart, who already was so deeply graven in his mind, as the mark remained there for ever, taking leave of her, kissed her hands, & thinking verily to express that whereupon he imagined all the night, his tongue & wits were so tied & rapt, as the gentlewoman perfectly perceived this alteration, whereat she was no whit discontented and therefore all blushing, said unto him: I pray to God sir, to ease and comfort your grief, as you leave us desirous and glad, long to enjoy your company. Truly Gentlewoman (answered the Knight,) I think myself more than happy, to hear that wish proceed from such a one as you be, and specially for the desire which you say you have of my presence, which shall be ever ready to do that which it shall please you to 〈◊〉. The Gentlewoman bashful for that offer, thanked him very heartily, praying him with sweet and smiling countenance, not to forget the way to come to visit them, being well assured, that her mother would be very glad thereof. And for mine own part (quoth she) I shall think myself happy to be partaker of the pleasure and great amity that is between our two houses. After great reverence & leave taken between them, Dom Diego returned home, where he told his mother of the good interteynement made him, and of the great honesty of the Lady his hostess: wherefore Madam (quoth he to his mother) I am desirous (if it be your pleasure) to let them know how much their bountiful hospitality hath tied me to them, and what desire I have to recompense the same. I am therefore willing to bid them hither, and to make them so good cheer, as with all their heart they made me when I was with them. The Lady which was the assured friend of the mother of Gineura, liked well the advise of her son, and told him that they should be welcome, for the ancient amity of long time between them, who was wont many times to visit one an other. Dom Diego upon his mother's words, sent to entreat the Lady and fair Gineura, that it would please them to do him the honour to come unto his house: To which request she so willingly yielded, as he was desirous to bid them. At the appointed day Dom Diego sought all means possible honourably to entertain them: In meats whereof there was no want, in instruments of all sorts, Mummeries, Morescoes, and a thousand other passetimes, whereby he declared his good bringing up, the gentleness of his spirit, and the desire that he had appear such one as he was, before her, which had already the full possession of his liberty. And because he would not fail to accomplish the perfection of his intent, he invited all the Gentlemen and Gentlewomen that were his neighbours. I will not here describe the least part of the provision for that feast, nor the diversity of meats, or the delicate kinds of wines. It shall suffice me to tell that after dinner they danced, where the knight took his mistress by the hand, so glad to see herself so advanced, as he was content to be so near her, that was the sweet torment and unspeakable passion of his mind, which he began to discover unto her in this wise: Mistress Gineura, I have been always of this mind, that Music hath a certain secret hidden virtue (which well can not be expressed) to revive the thoughts and cogitations of man, be they never so mournful and pensive, forcing them to utter some outward rejoice: I speak it by myself, for that I live in extreme anguish & pain, that all the joy of the world seemeth unto me displeasant, care, and disquietness: and nevertheless my passion, agreeing with the plaintiff voice of the instrument, doth rejoice and conceive comfort, as well to perceive insensible things 〈◊〉 to my desires, as also to see myself so near unto her, that hath the salve to ease my pain, to discharge my disease, and to deprive my mind from all griefs. In like maner-reason it is, that she herself do remedy my disease, of whom I received the prick, and which is the first foundation of all mine evil. I can not tell (said the Gentlewoman) what disease it is you speak of, for I should be very unkind to give him occasion of grief, that doth make us this great cheer. Ah Lady mine (said the Knight) fetching a sigh from the bottom of his heart, the entertainment that I receive by the continual contemplation of 〈◊〉 beauties, and the unspeakable 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 those two beams, which twynckle in your 〈◊〉, be they that happily do vere me, and make me drink this cup of bitterness, wherein not withstanding I find such sweetness as all the heavenly drink called Ambrosia, feigned by the poets, is but gall in respect of that which I taste in mind, feeling my devotion so bent to do you service, as only Death shall untie the knot wherewith voluntarily I knit myself to be your servant for ever, and if it so please you, your faithful and loyal friend and husband. The young Damoselle not wonted for to hear such Songs, did change her colour at least three or four times, and nevertheless 〈◊〉 a little anger of that which did content her most: and yet not so sharp, but that the Gentleman perceived well enough, that she was touched at the quick, and also that he was accepted into her good grace and favour. And therefore he continued still his talk, all that time after dinner, and the maiden said unto him: Sir, I will now confess that grief may cover alteration of affections proceeding from love. For although I had determined to dissemble that which I think, yet there is a thing in my mind (which I may not name) that governeth me so strongly, and draweth me far from my proper devices and conceits, in such wise as I am constrained to do that which this second inspiration doth lead me unto, and doth force my mind to receive an Impression, that what will be the end thereof, as yet I know not. Not withstanding, reposing me in your virtue and honesty, and acknowledging your merit, I think myself happy to have such 〈◊〉 for friend, that is so fair and comely a Knight, and for such I do accept you until you have obtained of my Lady my mother, the second point, which accomplisheth that which is most desired of them, that for virtues sake do love. For but only for that, you shall be none otherwise favoured of me, than hitherto you have been. Till now have I attended for this right happy day of joy and bliss (said the 〈◊〉) in token whereof, I do kiss your white and delicate hands, and for acknowledging the favour that presently I do receive, whereby I may make my vaunt to 〈◊〉 the servant of her, that is the fairest, most courteous, and honest Gentlewoman on this side the Mountains. As he had ended those words, they came to cover for supper, where they were served so honourably, as if they had been in the Court of the Monarch of Spain. After supper, they went to walk abroad alongs the 〈◊〉 side, beset with willow trees, where both the beauty of the time, the running 〈◊〉, the charm of the natural music of birds, and the pleasant murmur of the trembling leaves, at the whistling of the sweet Western wind, moved them again to renew their pastime after dinner. For some did give themselves to talk, and to devise of 〈◊〉 matter: some framed nosegays, garlands, and other pretty poesies for their friends: Other some did leap, run, and throw the bar. In the end a great lord, neighbour to Dom Diego, whose name was Dom Roderigo, knowing by his friends countenance to what saint he was vowed, & perceiving for whose love 〈◊〉 feast was celebrate, took by 〈◊〉 hand a gentlewoman that sat next to fair Gineura, and 〈◊〉 her to dance after a song, whereunto she being pleasant and wise, made no great refusal. Dom Diego failed not to join with his mistress, after whom followed the rest of that noble train, every of them as they thought best. Now the Gentlewoman, that began to dance, song this song so apt for the purpose, as if she had entered the heart of the enemy and mistress of Dom Diego, or of purpose had made the same in the name of her, whom the matter touched above the rest.  

Who may better sing and dance amongs us Ladies all,  
Than she that doth her lovers heart possess in bondage thrall?   

The young and tender feebleness  
Of mine unskilful age,  
Whereof also the tenderness  
Doth feeble heart assuage:  
Whom beauty's force hath made to frame  
Unto a lovers hest.  
So soon as first the kindled flame  
Of loving toys increase.   

Who may better sing and dance, amongs us Ladies all,  
Than she that doth her lovers heart possess in bondage thrall?   

I have assayed out to put  
The fire thus begun,  
And have attempted of to cut  
The thread which love hath spun:  
And new alliance feign would flee  
Of him whom I love best,  
But that the Gods have willed me  
To yield to his request.   

Who may better sing and dance amongs us Ladies all,  
Than she that doth her lovers heart possess in bondage 〈◊〉   

So amiable is his grace,  
Not like among us all:  
So passing fair is his face,  
Whose hue doth stain us all:  
And as the shining sunny day  
Doth every man delight,  
So he alone doth bear the sway,  
Amongs each loving wight.   

Who may 〈◊〉 sing and dance amongs us Ladies all,  
Than she that doth her lovers heart possess in bondage thrall?   

Why should not then, the fairest dame,  
Apply her gentle mind,  
And honour give unto his name,  
With humble heart and kind?  
Sith he is full of courtesy,  
Indewd with noble grace,  
And breast replete with honesty,  
Well known in every place.   

Who may better sing and dance amongs us Ladies all,  
Than she that doth her lovers heart possess in bondage thrall?   

If I should love, and serve him than,  
May it be counted vice?  
If I retain that worthy man,  
Shall I be deemed unwise?  
I will be gentle to him sure,  
And render him mine aid:  
And love that wight with heart full pure,  
That never love assayed.   

Who may better sing and dance amongs us Ladies all,  
Than she that doth her lovers heart possess in bondage thrall?   

Thus the most sacred unity,  
That doth our hearts combine:  
Is void of wicked flattery,  
The same for to 〈◊〉.  
No hardened rigour is our guide,  
Nor folly doth us lead:  
No Fortune can us twain divide,  
Until we both be dead.   

Who may better sing and dance amongs us Ladies all,  
Than she that doth her lovers heart possess in bondage 〈◊〉?   

And thus assured certainly,  
That this our love shall dure,  
And with good luck hope verily,  
The same to put in ure.  
The sown sedes of amity,  
Begun betwixt us twain,  
Shall in most perfit unity,  
For evermore remain.   

Who may better sing and dance amongs us Ladies all,  
Than she that doth her lovers heart possess in bondage thrall!   
This song delighted the minds of many in that company, and principally Dom Diego & Gineura, who felt themselves tickled without laughing: notwithstanding, the maiden rejoiced to hear herself so greatly praised in so noble a company, & specially in that presence of her friend who had no less pleasure by hearing the praises of his beloved, than if he had been made Lord of all Arragon. She for all her dissembled countenance used openly, could not hide the alteration of her mind, without sending forth a sudden change of colour, that increased that fair & goodly taint of her face. Dom Diego seeing that mutation, was so joyful as was possible, for thereby he knew and judged himself assured of the good grace of his mistress & therefore wring her finely by the hands, said unto her very soberly 〈◊〉. What greater pleasure my loving wench can there happen unto your servant, than to see the accomplishment of this Prophetical 〈◊〉? I assure you that in all my life I never heard music, that delighted me so much as this, & thereby do understand that good will of the Gentlewoman, which so courteously hath discovered yours towards me, & the faithful service where of you shall see me from hence forth so liberal, as neither goods nor life shall be spared for your sake. Gineunra who loved him with all her heart, thanked him very humbly, and prayed him to believe that the song was not untruly song, and that without any fail, she had thereby manifested all the secrets of her mind. The dance ended, they sat them down round about a clear fountain, which by silent discourse, issued from an high and moisty rock, environed with an infinite numbered of Mapletrées, Poplers & Ashes. To which place a page brought a lute to Dom Diego, whereupon he could play very well, & made it more pleasantly to sound for that he accorded his feigning voice to the instrument, singing this song that followeth.  

That I should love and serve also, good reason doth require,  
What though I suffer loathsome grief, my life in woe to wrap?  
The same be th'only instruments, of my good luck and hap,  
The food and pray for hungry corpse, of rest th'assured hire.   

By thought whereof (O heavy man) gush forth of tears great store  
And by & by rejoiced again, my dreary tears do cease:  
Which guerdon shall mine honour sure, in that triumphant peace,  
The sum whereof I offer now, were it of price much more.   

Which I do make withal my heart, unto that blessed wight,  
My proper Goddess here on earth, and only mistress dear:  
My goods and life, my breathing ghost within this carcase here,  
I vow unto that majesty, that heavenly star most bright.   

Now sith my willing vow is made, I humbly pray her grace,  
To end th'accord between us pight, no longer time to tract:  
Which if it be by sured band, so haply brought to pass,  
I must myself thrice happy count, for that most heavenly fact.   
This song made the company to muse, who commided the trim invention of the Knight, and above all Gineura praised him more than before, & could not so well refrain her looks from him, & he with country change rendering like again, but that the two widows their mothers conceived great heed thereof, rejoicing greatly to see the same, desirous in time to couple them together. For at that present they deferred the same, in consideration they were both very young. Notwithstanding it had been better that the same conjunction had been made, before fortune had turned the wheel of her unstableness. And truly delay and prolongation of time sometimes bringeth such and so great missehaps, that one hundred times men curse their fortune, and little advise in foresight of their infortunate chances that commonly do come to pass. As it chanced to these widows, one of them thinking to lose her son by the vain behaviour of the others daughter, who without that help of God, or care unto his will, disparaged her honour, and prepared a poison so dangerous for her mother's age, that the food thereof prepared the way to the good Lady's grave. Now whiles this love in this manner increased, and that desire of these two Lovers, flamed forth ordinarily in fire and flames more violent, Dom Diego all changed and transformed into a new man, received no delight, but in the sight of his Gineura. And she thought that there could be no greater felicity, or more to be wished for, than to have a friend so perfect, and so well accomplished with all things requisite for the ornament and full furniture of a Gentleman. This was the occasion that the young Knight let no week to pass without visiting his mistress twice or thrice at the least, and she did unto him the greatest courtesy and best entertainment, that virtue could suffer a maiden to do, who is the diligent treasurer and careful tutor of her honour. And this she did by consent of her mother. In like man, rhonestie doth not permit that chaste maidens should use long talk, or immoderate speech, with the first that be suitors unto them: & much less seemly it is for them to be over squeimishe nice, with that man which seeketh (by way of marriage) to win power and title of the body, which in very deed, is or aught to be the moiety of their soul. Such was that desires of these two Lovers, which notwithstanding was impéeched by means, as hereafter you shall hear. For during the rebounding joy of these fair couple of loyal lovers, it chanced that the daughter of a noble man of the Country, named Ferrando de la Serre, which was fair, comely, wise, and of very good behaviour, by keeping daily company with Gineura, fell extremely in love with Dom Diego, and assayed by all means to do him to understand what the puissance was of her love, which willingly she meant to bestow upon him, if it would please him to honour her so much, as to love her with like 〈◊〉. But the Knight which was no more his own man, 〈◊〉 rather possessed of another, had lost with his liberty his wits, and mind to mark the affection of this Gentlewoman of whom he made no account. The Maiden nevertheless ceased not to love him, and to 〈◊〉 all possible ways to make him her own. And knowing how much Dom Diego loved Hawking, she bought a 〈◊〉 the best in all the Country, and sent the same to Dom Diego, who with all his heart received the same, and effectuously gave her thanks for that desired gift, praying the messenger to recommend him to the good grace of his Mistress, and to assure herself of his faithful service, and that for her sake he would keep the hawk so tenderly as the balls of his eyes. This Hawk was the cause of the ill fortune that afterwards chanced to this poor lover. For going many times to see Gineura with the Hawk on his fist, & bearing with him the tokens of the goodness of his Hawk, it escaped his mouth to say, that the same was one of the things that in all the world he loved best. Truly this word was taken at the first bound contrary to his meaning, wherewith the matter so fell out, as afterwards by despair he was like to lose his life. Certain days after, as in the absence of the Knight, talk rose of his virtue and honest conditions, one prainsing his prowess & valiance, another his great beauty and courtesy, another passing further, extolling the sincere 〈◊〉 and constancy which appeared in him touching matters of love, one envious person named Gracian spoke his mind them in this wise: I will not deny but that Dom Diego is one of the most excellent, honest and bravest Knights of Catheloigne, but in matters of Love he seemeth to me so weltering and inconstant, as in every place where he cometh, by and by he falleth in love, and maketh as though he were sick, and would die for the same. Gineura maruelliing at those words, said unto him: I pray you my friend to use better talk of the Lord Dom Diego. For I do think the love which the Knight doth bear to a Gentlewoman of this Country, is so firm and assured, that none other can remove the same out of the siege of his mind: Lo how you be deceived gentlewoman (quod Gracian,) for under colour of 〈◊〉 service, he and such as he is do abuse the simplicity of young Gentlewomen. And to prove my saying true, I am assured that he is extremely enamoured with the daughter of Dom Ferrando de la Serre, of whom he received an Hawk, that he loveth above all other things. Gineura remembering the words which certain days before Dom Diego spoke touching his Hawk, began to suspect and believe that which master Gracian alleged, and not able to support the choler, which cold jealousy bred in her stomach, went into her Chamber full of so great grief and heaviness, as she was many times like to kill herself. In the end, hoping to be revenged of the wrong which she believed to receive of Dom Diego, determined to endure her fortune patiently. In the mean time she conceived in her mind a despite and hatred so great and extreme against the poor. Gentleman that thought little hereof, as the former love was nothing in respect of the revenge by death, which she then desired upon him. Who the next day after his wont manner came to see her, having (to his great damage) the Hawk on his fist, which was the cause of all that iealosse. Now as the Knight was in talk with the mother, seeing that his beloved came not at all (according to her custom) to salute him and bid him welcome, inquired how she did. One that loved him more than the rest, said unto him: Sir, so soon as she knew of your coming, immediately she withdrew herself into her Chamber. He that was wise and well trained up, dissembled what he thought, imagining that it was for some little fantasy, whereunto women willingly be subject. And therefore when he thought time to depart, he took leave of the widow, and as he was going down the stairs of the great Chamber, he met one of the maids of Gineura, whom he prayed to commend him to her mistress.  
Gineura during all this time took no rest, devising how she might cut of clean her love entertained in Dom Diego, after she knew that he carried the Hawk on his fist: which was the only cause that did put her into that frenzy. And therefore thinking herself both despised and mocked of her Knight, & that he had done it in despite of her, she entered into so great rage and choler, as she was like to fall mad. She being then in this trouble of mind, behold her Gentlewoman came unto her, and did the Knight's message. Who hearing the simple name of her supposed enemy, begun to sigh so strangely, as a man would have thought her soul presently would have departed her body. Afterwards when she had vanquished her raging fit which stayed her speech, she 'gan very tenderly to weep, saying: Ah traitor & unfaithful lover, is this the recompense of the honest and firm amity which I have borne thee, so wickedly to deceive me under the colour of so faint and detestable a friendship? Ah rash and arrant Thief, is it I upon whom thou oughtest to vend thy wicked trumperies? Dost thou think that I am no better worth, but that thou prodigally shouldest waste mine honour to bear that spoils thereof to her, that is in nothing comparable unto me? Wherein have I deserved this discourtesy, if not by loving thee more than thy beauty & feigned love deserve? Didst thou dare to adventure upon me, having thy conscience wounded with such an abominable and deadly treason? Durst thou to offer thy mouth to kiss my hand, by the mouth of another, to whom thou hadst before dedicated thy lying lips in thine own proper person? I praise God that it pleased him to let me see before any other worse chance hath happened, the poison by thee prepared for the ruin of my life and honour. Ha fool, hope not to take me in thy trap, nor yet to deceive me through thy sugared and deceitful words. For I swear by the almighty God, that so long as I shall live, I will account thee none other, but as the most cruel and mortal enemy that I have in this world.  
Then to accomplish the rest of her careful mind, she wrote a letter to give her farewell to her old friend Dom Diego. And for that purpose instructed her Page with this lesson, that when the Knight should come, he should be ready before her lodging and say unto him in the behalf of her, that before he passed any further, he should read the letter, and not to fail to do the contents. The Page which was malicious, and ill affectioned to Dom Diego, knowing the appointed day of his coming, waited for him a quarter of a mile from the Castle, where he had not long tarried, but behold the innocent lover came, against whom the Page went, bearing about him more hurtful & noisome weapons, than all the thieves and robbers had in all the Country of Catheloigne. In this manner presenting his mistress letters, he said unto him: My Lord, Madam Gineura my mistress hath sent me unto you, & because she knoweth how fearful you be to displease her, prayeth you not fail to read this letter before you pass any further, and there withal accomplish the effect of the same. The Knight abashed with that sudden message, answered the Page: God forbidden my friend (quoth be) that I should disobey her by any means, unto whom I have given a full authority and puissance over mine affections. So receiving the letters, he kissed them three or four times, and opening them, found that he hoped not for, and red that which he thought not off. The contents whereof were these.  
The Letters of fair Gineura, to the Knight Dom Diego.  
THere shall pass no day of my life, from making complaints of thee disloyal and perjured Lover, who being more esteemed and better beloved than 〈◊〉 didst deserve, hast made so small account of me, whereof I will be revenged upon myself, for that I have thus lightly believed thy words so full of craft and guile. I am in 〈◊〉 that thou from hence for the shalt fly, to buzz and beat the bushes, where 〈◊〉 suspectest to catch the prey: for here thou art like to be deceived. Go varlet, (go I say,) to 〈◊〉 her which holdeth thee in her nets and snares, and whose Presents (although of small value) have 〈◊〉 thee more than the Honest, virtuous, and 〈◊〉 Love, that virtue herself began to knit between us. And sith a carrion Kite hath made thee 〈◊〉 further off, than the wind of the air was able to bear thee, God defend that Gineura should go about to hinder thy follies, and much less tosuffer herself to be beguiled through thine excuses. 〈◊〉 rather God defend (except thou desirest to see me die) that thou shouldest ever be in place where I am, assuring 〈◊〉 of this my mind, never to be changed so long as my soul shall rest within my body: which giving breath unto my panting breast, shall never be other, but a mortal enemy to Dom Diego: and such one as even to the Death will not fail to prosecute the 〈◊〉 of the most traitorous and unfaithful Knight, that ever was girt with girdle, or armed with sword. 〈◊〉 behold the last favour that thou canst, or oughtest to hope of me, who liveth not but only to martyr and 〈◊〉 thee, and never shall be other but  
The greatest enemy that ever thou hast, or shalt have, Gineura the fair.  
The miserable lover had no sooner read the contents of the letter, but lifting up his 〈◊〉 to the 〈◊〉, he said: Alas, my God thou knowest well if ever I have 〈◊〉, that I ought to be banished from the place, where my contentation is chief fixed, & from whence my heart shall never depart, chance what mishap and fortune so ever. Then turning himself towards the Page, he said: Sir Page my friend, say unto my Lady, most humbly commending me unto her, that for this present I will not see her, but hereafter she shall hear some news from me. The Page well lessoned for the purpose, made him answer, saying: Sir she hath willed me to say thus much by mouth, that ye cannot do her greater pleasure, than never to come in place where she is: for so much as the Daughter of Dom Ferrando de la Serre hath so 〈◊〉 you in her nets, that loath she is your faithful heart should hang in balance, and expect the uncertain love of two Ladies at once.  
Dom Diego hearing the truth of his mishap, & the occasion of the same, made light of the matter for that time, till at length the choler of his mistress should begin to cool, that thereby she might know upon how brittle ground she had planted a suspicion of her most faithful and loving servant, and so retiring towards his house, altogether vexed and ill contented, he went into his Chamber, where with his dagger he paunched the gorge of the poor Bird, the cause of his Lady's 〈◊〉, saying: Ha vile carrion Kite, I swear by the blood of him, that thou shalt never be the cause again, to make her fret for such a trifling thing as thou art: I believe that what so ever fury is hidden within the body of this cursed Kite, to engender a Plague, the same now is seized on me, but I hope to do my mistress to understand what Sacrifice I have made of the thing which was sent me, ready to do the like upon mine own flesh, where it shall please her to command. So taking ink & paper, he made answer to Gineura as followeth.  
The letters of Dom Diego to Gineura the fair.  
BUt who would ever have thought (my Lady dear) that a light opinion could so soon have divided and disparkled your good judgement, to condemn your Knight before you had heard what he was able to say, for himself? truly I thought no more to offend you, than the man which you never knew, although you have been deceived by coloured words, uttered by those that be envious of my hap, and enemies of your joy, who have filled your mind full of false report. I swear unto you (by God, my good Lady) that never thing entered into my fantasy more, than a desire to serve you alone, and to avoid the acquaintance of all other, to preserve for you a pure and entire heart. Whereof long agone I made you an offer. In witness whereof I humbly 〈◊〉 you to believe, that so soon as you see this Bird (the cause of your anger and occasion of my mishap) torn and pluck in pieces, that my heart feeleth no less alteration or torment: for so long as I shall understand your displeasure to endure against me, assure yourself my life shall abide in no less pain than my joy was great, when I frankly possessed your presence. Be it sufficient (madame) for you to know, that I never thought to offend you. Be contented I beseech you, with this sacrifice which I send you, if not, that I do the 〈◊〉 upon mine own body, which without your good will and grace can not longer live. For my life depending upon that only benefit, you ought not to be astoned if the same 〈◊〉 his nourishment doth perish, as frustrate of that food, proper and apt for his appetite: and by like means my said life shall revive, if it may please you to spread your beams over mine obscure and base parsonage, and to receive this 〈◊〉 for a fault not committed. And so waiting a gentle answer from your great 〈◊〉, I humbly kiss your white 〈◊〉 delicate hands with all humility, praying God sweet lady, to let you see how much I suffer without desert, and what puissance you have over him that 〈◊〉 all your  
Faithful and ever servant most obedient Dom Diego.  
The letter closed and sealed, he delivered to one of his faithful and secret servants, to bear (with the dead Hawk) unto Gineura, charging him diligently to take heed to her countenance, and above all, that faithfully he should bear away that which she did say unto him for answer. His man failed not to speed himself with diligence: and being come before Gineura, he presented that which his master had sent her. She full of wrath and indignation, would not once 〈◊〉 to read the letter, and much less to accept the present which was a witness of the contrary of that she did 〈◊〉, and turning unto the Messenger, she said: My friend, thou mayest go get thee back again, with the self same charge which thou hast brought, and say unto thy master, that I have nothing to do with his Letters, his excuses, or any other things that cometh from his hands, as one having good expeperience of his sleights and deceits. Tell him also, that I praise God, in good time I have taken heed to the little faith and trust that is in him for a countergard in time to come, lightly never to be deceived. The serving man would fain have framed an Oration to purge his master, but the fierce Gentlewoman broke of his talk, saying unto him, that she was well resolved upon her intent, which was, that Dom Diego should never recover place in her mind, and that she hated him as much at that time as ever she loved him before. Upon which answer the Messenger returned, so sorrowful for the misfortune of his master (knowing him to be very innocent) as he knew full well into what despair his master would 〈◊〉, when he understood those pitiful and heavy news: not with standing needs he must know them, and therefore when he was come before Dom Diego, he recited unto him from point to point his embassage, and delivered him again his letters. Whereof the infortunate Gentleman was so sore assooned, as he was like to have fallen down dead at that instant. Alas (said he) what ill luck is this, that when I thought to enjoy the benefit of my attempt, Fortune hath revolted to bring me to the extremity of the most desperate man that ever lived? Is it possible that my good service should be the cause of my approached overthrow? Alas, what may true and faithful lovers henceforth hope for, if not the loss of their time, when after long devoir and duty, an Envious fool shall come to deprive them of their joy and gladness, and they feeling the bitterness of their abandoned farewell, one that loveth less shall bear away the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 of such hope, and shall possess without desert the glory due to a good and faithful 〈◊〉. Ah fair Gineura, that thou seest not the grief which I do 〈◊〉, and the affection wherewith I serve thee, and how much I would suffer to gain and recover thy good grace and favour. Ha vain hope, which until now haste filled me, with mirth and gladness, altogether spent and powdered in the gaulle of operation of thy bitter savour, and the taste of thy corrupted liquor: better it had been for me at the beginning to have refused thee, than afterwards received, cherished, and sincerely beloved, to be banished for so light occasion, as I am full sore ashamed to conceive the same within remembrance: but Fortune shall not have her will over me: for so long as I shall live, I will continue the servant of Gineura, and my life I will preserve, to let her understand the force of Love: By continuance whereof, I will not stick to set myself on fire with the lively flames of my passion, and then withdraw the 〈◊〉 of my joy, by the rigour and frowardness that shall proceed from her. When he had finished his talk, he began to sigh and lament so strangely, as his man was about to go to call the lady the mother of the Knight his master: In whom did appear such signs, as if Death had 〈◊〉 at hand, or else that he had been attached with the Spirit of frenzy. But when he saw him about to come again to himself, he said thus unto him: How now sir, will you cast yourself away for the foolish toy of an undiscrete girl, ill mannered and taught, and who perchance doth all this, to prove how constant you would be? No no sir, you must turn over an other leaf, and sith you be determined to love her, you must persevere in your pursuit. For at length it is impossible, but that this diamond hardness, must needs be mollified, if she be not a devil incarnate, more furious than the wildest beasts, which haunt the deserts of Lybia. Dom Diego was comforted with that admonition, and purposed to persist in his affection, and therefore sent many messages, gifts, letters, and excuses to his angered mistress Gineura: But she made yet 〈◊〉 account of them than of the first, charging the messengers not to trouble themselves about those 〈◊〉, for she had rather die than to see him, or to receive any thing from him, whom she hated above all things of the world. When news hereof came to the knight, he was altogether impatient, and seeing the small profit which he did gain by pursuing his foolish opinion, and not able to bestow his love elsewhere, he determined to die: and yet unwilling to imbrue his hands with his own blood, he purposed to wander as a varabunde into some desert, to perform the course of his unhappy and sorrowful days, hoping by that means to quench the heat of 〈◊〉 amorous rage, either by length of time, or by 〈◊〉, the last refuge of the miserable. For which purpose then, he caused to be made two pilgrims weeds, the one for himself, & the other for his man, and prepared all their necessaries for his voyage. Then writing a Letter to his Gineura, he called one of his men, to whom he said: I am going about certain of mine affairs, whereof I will have no man to know, and therefore when I am gone, thou shalt tell my Lady mother what I say to thee, and that within twenty days (God willing) I mean to return. Moreover I require thee, that four days after my departure, & not before, to bear these letters to mistress Gineura, and if so be she refuse to receive them, fail not to deliver them unto her mother: take heed therefore if thou love me, to do all that which I have given thee in charge. Afterwards he called his servant unto him, which had done the first message unto Gineura, which was a wise and gentle fellow, in whom the knight reposed great affiance, to him he declared all his enterprise, and the end whereunto his fierce determination did extend. The good servant which loved his master, hearing his intent so unreasonable, said unto him: Is it not enough for you sir to yield yourself a pray to the most fierce and cruel woman that liveth, but thus to augment her glory, by seeing herself so victorious over you? Are you ignorant what the malice of women is, and how much they triumph in tormenting the poor blinded souls that become their servants, and what praise they attribute unto 〈◊〉, if by some misfortune they drive them to despair? Was it without cause that the Sage in times paste did so greatly hate that sex and kind, as the common ruin & overthrow of men? What moved the Greek Poet to sing these verses, against all sorts of women?  

A common woe though silly woman be to man,  
Yet double joy again she doth unto him bring:  
The wedding night is one, as wedded folk tell can,  
The other when the knell for her poor soul doth ring.   
If not for that he knew the happiness of man consisted more in avoiding the acquaintance of that fury, than by embracing and cherishing of the same, sith her nature is altogether like unto Aesop's serpent, which being delivered from peril and danger of death by the shephierd, for recompense thereof, 〈◊〉 his whole house with his venomous 〈◊〉 and rammish breath. O how happy is he that can master his own affections, & 〈◊〉 a free man from that passion, can rejoice in liberty, 〈◊〉 from the sweet evil which (as I well 〈◊〉) is the cause of your despair. But sir, your wisdom ought to vanquish those light conceits, by setting so light of that your rebellious Gentle woman as she is unworthy to be favoured by so great a Lord as you be, who deserveth a better parsonage than hers is, and a frendlier entertainemen than a farewell so foolishly 〈◊〉. Dom Diego, although that he took pleasure to hear those discourses of his faithful servant, yet he showed so sour a countenance unto him, as the other with this little word held his peace. Sith than it is so sir, that you be resolved in your mishap, it may please you to accept me to wait upon you, whither you are determined to go: for I mean not to live at 〈◊〉 ease, and suffer my master, in pain and in grief. I will be partaker of that which Fortune shall prepare, until the heavens do mitigate their rage upon you, and your predestinate mishap. Dom Diego, who 〈◊〉 no better company, embraced him very lovingly, thanking him for the good will that he bore him, and said: This present night about midnight, we will take our 〈◊〉, even that way whether our lot and also Fortune shall guide us, attending either the end of my passion, or the whole overthrow of myself. Their intent they did put in proof: For at midnight that Moon being clear when all things were at rest, and the crickets chirping through the crevices of the earth, they took their way unseen of any. And so soon as Aurora began to garnish her mantle with the colours of red and white, and the morning star of the Goddess of stealing love, appeared, Dom Diego began to sigh, saying: Ah ye fresh and dewy mornings, that my hap is far from the contentation of others, who after they have rested upon the cogitation of their ease and joy, do awake by the pleasant chirping of the birds, to perform by effect that which the shadow and fantasy of their mind, did present by dreaming in the night, where I am constrained to separate by great distance exceeding vehement continuation of my torments, to follow wild beasts, wandering from thence where the greatest number of men do quietly sleep and take their rest. Ah Venus, whose star now conduceth me, & whose beams long ago did glow and kindle my loving heart, how 〈◊〉 it that I am not entreated according to the desert of my constant mind and meaning most sincere? Alas, I look not to expect any thing certain from thee, sith thou hast thy course amongs the wandering stars. Must the influence of one star that ruleth over me, deface that which that 〈◊〉 would to be accomplished, & that my cruel mistress, deluding my languors & griefs triumpheth over mina infirmity, & overwhelmeth me with care and sorrow, that I live pining away, amongs the savage beasts in that wilderness? for so much as 〈◊〉 that grace of my lady, all company shall be so tedious & loathsome unto me, that the 〈◊〉 thought of a true 〈◊〉 with her, that hath the 〈◊〉 of me, shall serve for that comfort & true remedy of all my troubles. Whiles he had with these pangs forgotten himself, he saw that the day began to wax clear, the Sun already spreading his golden beanies upon the earth, and therefore began hastily to set forthwards, using byways, and far from common used trades, so near as he could, that he might not by any means be known. Thus they road forth even until noon: but seeing their 〈◊〉 to be weary and faint, they lighted at a village, far from the high way: where they refreshed themselves, and baited their horse until it was late. In this sort by the space of three days they traversed the 〈◊〉, until they 〈◊〉 to the foot of a mountain, not frequented almost but by wild and savage beasts. The country round about was very fair, pleasant, and fit for the solitariness of the knight: for if shadow pleased him, he might be delighted with the covert of an infinite numbered of fruitful trees, where with only nature had furnished those hideous and savage deserts. Next to the high and well timbered forests, there were groves and bushes for exercise of hunting. A man could desire no kind of venison, but it was to be had in that wilderness: there might be seen also a certain sharp and rude situation of craggy and 〈◊〉 rocks, which notwithstanding yielded some pleasure to that eyes, to see them tapissed with a pale moasure green, which disposed into a frizzled guise, made the place pleasant and the rock soft, according to the fashion of 〈◊〉. There was also a very fair and wide cave, which liked him well, compassed round about with fir 〈◊〉, cedar trees, pine apples, Cyprus, and trees distilling a certain rosin or gum, towards the bottom whereof, in the way down to the valley, a man might have 〈◊〉 a passing company of Ewe trees, Poplers of all sorts; and Maple trees; the leaves whereof felt into a lake or pond, which came by certain small gutters into a fresh & very clear fountain right against that 〈◊〉. The knight seeing the ancienty and 〈◊〉 of the place, deliberated by and by to plant there the siege of his abode, for performing of his penance and life. And therefore said unto his servant: My friend, I am 〈◊〉 that this place shall be that monastery, to make that 〈◊〉 profession of our religion, and where we will accomplish the voyage of our 〈◊〉. Thou 〈◊〉 both the beauty and solitariness, which do rather command us here to rest, than any other place near at band. The servant yielded to the pleasure of his master, and so lighting from their horse, they dissurnished them of their saddles and bridles, giving to them the liberty of the fields, of whom afterwards they never heard more news. The saddles they placed within the cave, & leaving their ordinary apparel, they clothed themselves in Pilgrims weeds, fortifying the mouth of the cave, that wild beasts should not hurt them when they were a sleep. There the servant began to play the 〈◊〉, and to make. y. 〈◊〉 beds of moss, whose spindle and wheel were of wood, so well poollished & trimmed, as if he had been a carpenter well expert in that occupation. They 〈◊〉 of nothing else but of that fruits of those wild trees, sometimes of the fruits of herbs, until they had devised to make a crossbow of wood, wherewith they killed now & then a Hare, a Coney, Kid, & many times some stronger beast remained with them for gage: whose blood they pressed out between. 〈◊〉. pieces of wood, & roasted them against the Sun, serving the same in, as if it had been a right good dish for the first course of their sober & undelicate table, whereat the pure water of the fountain, next unto their hollow and deep house, served in 〈◊〉 of the good wines and delicious drinks that abounded in that house of Dom Diego. Who living in that poor estate, ceased night nor day to complain of his hard fortune and cursed plight, going many times through the deserts all alone, that better to muse and study thereupon, or (peradventure) desirous that some hungry Bear should descend from the Mountain, to finish his life & painful griefs. But the good servant knowing his master's sorrow & mishap, would never go out of his sight, but rather exhorted him to return home to his goods and possessions, and to forget that order of life, unworthy for such a parsonage as he was, and uncomely for him that ought to be endued with good reason & judgement. But the desperate Gentleman wilful in his former deliberation, would not hear him sprake of such 〈◊〉. 〈◊〉 that if it escaped the servant to be earnest & sharp against the rudeness & sottish cruelty of Gineura, it was a 〈◊〉 to see Dom Diego mount in choler against him, saying: Art thou so hardy to speak ill of the gentlewoman, which is the most virtuous & honest parsonage under the cope of heaven? Thou mayst thank the love I bear thee, otherwise I would make thee feel how much the slander toucheth me at the heart that thou uttrest against her, which hath right to punish me thus for mine 〈◊〉, and that it is I that commit the wrong in complaining of her severity. Now sir said the servant, I do in deed perceive what manner of thing the contagion of love is. For they which once do feel the corruption of that air, think nothing good or savoury, but the filthy smell of that 〈◊〉 meat. Wherefore I humbly beseech you a little to set apart, & remove from mind, that 〈◊〉 & presumptuous dame Gineura, and by forgetting her beauty, to measure her desert & your grief, you shall know then (being guided by reason's lore) that you are the simplest and weakest man in the world, to torment yourself in this wise, and that she is the fondest girl, wholly 'straught of wits, so to abuse a Noble man that meriteth the good grace & sweet embraeement of one more fair, wise & modest, than she 〈◊〉 herself to be to you. The Knight hearing this, thought to abandon patience, & therefore said unto him: I swear unto thee by God, that if ever thou have any such talk again, either I will die, or thou shalt departed out of my company, for I cannot abide by any means to suffer one to despise her whom I do love and honour, & shall so 〈◊〉 during life. The servant loath to offend his master, held his peace, heavy for all that in heart, to remember how the poor Gentleman was resolved to finish there, (in the desert unknown to his friends) all the remnant of his life. And who aswell for the evil order, and not 〈◊〉 nurture, as for assidual plaints and wé 〈◊〉, was become so pale & lean, as he better resembled a dry chip, than a man having feeling or life. His eyes were sunk into his head, his beard 〈◊〉, his hair staring, his skin full of filth, altogether more like a wild and savage creature (such one as is depainted in brutal form) than fair Dom Diego, so much commended and esteemed through out the kingdom of Spain. Now leave we this amorous Hermit to passionate & plain his misfortune, to see to what end the Letters came that he wrote to his cruel Mistress. The day 〈◊〉 for delivery of his Letters, his servant did his charge, and being come to the house of Gineura, found her in the Hall with her mother, where kissing his masters letters, he presented them with very great reverence to the Gentlewoman. Who so soon as she knew that they came from Dom Diego, all changed into raging colour and foolish choler, threw them incontinently upon the ground, saying: Sufficeth it not thy master, that already twice I have done him to understand, that I have nothing to do with his letters nor Ambassades, and yet goeth he about by such assaults to increase my displeasure and agony, by the only remembrance of his folly? The mother seeing that uncivil order, although she understood the cause, and knew that there was some discord between the two Lovers, yet thought it to be but light, sith the Comike Poet doth say:  

The lovers often falling out,  
And pretty wrangling rage:  
Of pleasant love it is no doubt,  
The sure renewing gage.   
She went unto her Daughter, saying: What great rage is this? Let me see that letter that I may read it: For I have no fear that Dom Diego can deceive me with the sweetness of his honey words. And truly daughter you need not fear to touch them, for if there were any poison in them, it proceeded from your beauty that hath bitten and stung the Knight, whereof if he assay to make you a partaker, I see no cause why he ought to be thus rigorously rejected, deserving by his honesty a better entertainment at your hands. In the mean time one of the Serving men took up the letters, and gave them to the Lady, who reading them, found written as followeth.  
The letters of Dom Diego to Mistress Gineura.  
MY dearest and most well-beloved Lady, sith that mine innocency can find no resting place within your tender corpse, what honest excuse or true reason so ever I do allege, and sith your heart declareth itself to be implacable, and not pleased with him that never offended you, except it were for overmuch love, which for guerdon of that rare and incomparable amity, I perceive myself to be hated deadly of you and in such wise contemned, as the only record of my name, causeth in you an insupportable grief and displeasure unspeakable. To avoid I say your indignation, and by my mishap to render unto you some 〈◊〉 and contentment, I have meant to dislodge myself so far from this Country, as neither you nor any other, shall ever hear by fame or true report, the place of my abode, nor the grave wherein my bones shall rest. And although it be an 〈◊〉 hearts sorrow and torment, which by way of pen can not be declared, to be thus misprised of you, whom alone I do love and shall, so long as mine afflicted soul shall hang upon the feeble and brittle thread of life: yet for all that, this grief falling upon me, is not so 〈◊〉, as the punishment is grievous, by imagining the passion of your mind, when it is 〈◊〉 with 〈◊〉 and wrath against me, who liveth not, but to wander upon the thoughts of your perfections. And forsomuch as I do feel for the debility that is in me, that I am not able any longer to bear the sour shocks of my bitter torments and martyrdom that I presently do suffer, yet before my life do fail, and death do seize upon my senses, I have written unto you this present letter for a testimonial of your rigour, which is the mark that justifieth my ungyltinesse. And although I do complain of mine unhappy fortune, yet I mean not to accuse you, only contented that each man do know, that firm affection and eternal thraldom do deserve other recompense than a farewell so cruel. And I am well assured, that when I am dead, you will pity our torment, knowing then, although to late, that my loyalty was so sincere, as the report of those was false, that made you believe, that I was very far in love with the daughter of Dom Ferrande de la Serre. Alas, shall a noble Gentleman that hath been well trained up, be fordidden to receive the gifts that come from a virtuous Gentlewoman? Ought you to be so incapable and void of humanity, that the sacrifice which I have made of the poor bird, the cause of your disdain, my repentance, my lawful excuses, are not able to let you see the contrary of you persuasion? Ah, ah, I see that the dark and obscure vail of unjust disdain & 〈◊〉 anger, hath so blindfold your eyes, and 〈◊〉 your mind, as you can not judge the truth of my cause and the unrighteousness of your quarrel. I will render unto you none other certificate of mine innocency, but my languishing heart, which you clepe between your hands, feeling such rude entertainment there, of whom he looked for rejoice of his travels. But for somuch then as you do hate me, what resteth for me to do, but to pro cure destruction to myself? And sith your pleasure consists in mine overthrow, reason willeth that I obey you, and by death to sacrifice my life in like manner as by life you were the only mistress of my heart. 〈◊〉 only thing cheereth up my heart, & maketh my death more miserable, which is, that in dying so innocent as I am, you shall remain faulty, the only cause of my ruin. My life will departed like a puff, & soul shall vanish like a sweet summers blast: whereby you shall be ever deemed for a cruel woman and bloody murderer of your devout and faithful servants. I pray to God mine own sweet Lady, to give you such contentation, joy, pleasure, and gladness, as you do cause through your rigour, discontentation, grief & displeasure to the poor lan guishing creature, and who for evermore shall be  
Your most obedient and affected servant Dom Diego.  
The good Lady having red the Letter, was so astoned, as her words for a long space stayed within her mouth, her heart panted, and spirit was full of confusion, her mind was filled with sorrow, to consider the anguishes of the poor vagabund and foster hermit. In the end before the household dissembling her passion which moved her sense, she took her daughter aside, whom very sharply she rebuked, for that she was the cause of the loss of so notable and perfect a Knight as Dom Diego was. Then she red the Letter unto her, and as all her eloquence was not able to move that cruel damsel, more venomous than a serpent against the knight who (as she thought) had not endured the one half of that which his inconstancy and lightness & well deserved, whose obstinate mind the mother perceiving, said unto her: I pray to God (dear daughter) that for your 〈◊〉, you be not blinded in your beauty, & for the refusal of so great a benefit as is the alliance of Dom Diego, you be not abused with such a one as shall dim the light of your renown & glory, which hitherto you have gained amongs the sobrest and modest maidens. Having said so, the wise and sage widow, went toward the servant of Dom Diego, of whom she demanded what 〈◊〉 his master departed, which she knowing, & not igno rant of the occasion, was more wroth than before: notwithstamnding she dissembled what she thought, & sending back his servant, she required him to do her hearty commendations to the lady his mistress, which he did. The good lady was joyful thereof, for not knowing that contents of her sons letters, she looked that he had sent word unto his lady of the just hour of his return. But when she saw that in. xx. days, nor yet within a month he came not, she could not tell what to think, so dolorous was she for the absence of her son. The time passing without hearing any news from him she began to torment herself, and be so pensive, as if she had heard certain news of his death. Alas (quoth she) and wherefore have the heavens given me the possession of such an exquisite fruit, to deprive me thereof before I do partake the goodness and sweetness thereof, and enjoy the grifts proceeding from so goodly a stock. Ah God, I fear that my immoderate love is the occasion of the loss of my 〈◊〉, and the whole ruin of the mother, with the demolition and waist of all our goods. And I would that it had pleased God (my son) that hunter's game had never been so dear, for thinking to catch the pray thou thyself was taken, and thou wandering for thy better disport, missing the right way, so strangely didst 〈◊〉, that hard it is to reduce thee into the right tract again. At least wise if I knew the place, whereunto thou art repaired to find again thy loss, I would travail thither to bear 〈◊〉 company, rather than to line here void of a husband, betrayed by them whom I best trusted, and 〈◊〉 from the presence of thee my son, the staff and only comfort of mine old age, and the certain hope of all our house and family. Now if the mother vere herself, the son was eased with no great rejoice, being now a free citizen with the beasts & fowls of the forests, dens and caves, leaving not the profundity of the woods, the craggednesse of the rocks, or beauty of the valley, without some sign or token of his grief. Sometime with a puncheon well sharpened, serving him in steed of a penknife, he graved the success of his love upon on hard stone. Other times the soft bark of some tender and new grown spraye served him in place of paper or parchment. For there he carved in 〈◊〉 properly combined with a knot (not easily to be known) the name of his Lady, interlaced so properly with his own, that the finest 〈◊〉 might be deceived, to disciphre the right interpretation. Upon a day then, as he passed his time (according to his custom) to muse upon his myssehaps, and to frame his success of love in the air, he engraved these verses on a stone by a fountain side, adjoining to his savage and rustical house.  

If any forest Pan, doth haunt here in this place,  
Or wandering Nymph, hath heard my woeful plaint:  
The one may well behold, and view what drop of grace,  
I have deserved, and eke what griefs my heart doth taint,  
The other lend to me some broke or shower of rain,  
To moist mine heart and eyes, the gutters of my brain.   
Somewhat further of many times at the rising of the Sun, he mounted the top of an high and green Mountain to solace himself upon the fresh and green grass where four pillars were erected, (either naturally done by dame Nature herself, or wrought by the industry of man,) which bore a stone in form four square, well hewed, made and trimmed in manner of an Altar, upon which Altar he dedicated these verses to the posterity.  

Upon this holy squared stone, which Altar men do call,  
To some one of the Gods above, that consecrated is,  
This doleful verse I consecrate, in token of my thrall,  
And deadly griefs that do my silly heart oppress.  
And vex with endless pains, which never quiet is.  
This woeful verse (I say) as surest gage of my distress,  
I grave on Altar stone for ever to remain,  
To show the heart of truest wight, that ever lived in pain.   
And upon the brims of that table, he carved these words:  

This Mason work erected here, shall not so long abide,  
As shall the common name of two, that now uncoupled be,  
Who after froward fortune past, knit each in one degree,  
Shall render for right earnest love, reward on either side.   
And before his lodging in that wild and stony 〈◊〉 upon the bark of a goodly & lofty beech tree, feeling in himself an unaccustomed lustiness, thus he wrote:  

Th' increasing beauty of thy shape, extending far thy name,  
By like increase I hope to see, so stretched forth my fame.   
His man seeing him to begin to be merrily disposed, one day said unto him: And wherefore sir serveth that lute, which I brought amongs our males, if you do not assay thereby to recreate yourself, & sing thereupon that praises of her whom you love so well: yea and if I may so say, by worshipping her, you do commit Idolatry in your mind. Is it not your pleasure that I fetch the same unto you, that by imitation of Orpheus, you may move the trees, rocks, and wild beasts to bewail your misfortune, and witness the penance that you do for her sake, without cause of so heinous punishment: I see well (〈◊〉 the Knight) that thou wouldest I should be merry, but mirth is so far from me, as I am estranged from her that holdeth me in this misery. Notwithstanding I will perform thy request, and will awake that instrument in this desert place, wherewith sometime I witnessed that greatest part of my passions. Then the Knight receiving the Lute, sounded thereupon this song ensuing.  

The waves and troubled 〈◊〉, that moves the seas aloft,  
Which runs & roars against the rocks, & threateneth dangers oft,  
Resembleth lo the fits of love,  
That daily do my fancy move.   

My heart it is the ship, that drives on salt sea 〈◊〉,  
And reason sails with senseless wit, and never looketh home,  
For love is guide, and leads the dance,  
That brings good hap, or bredes mischance.   

The furious flames of love, that never ceaseth sure,  
Are loc the busy sails and oars, that would my rest procure,  
And as in Skies, great winds do blo,  
My swift desires runs, fleeting so.   

As sweet Zephyrus' breath, in spring time feeds the flowers,  
My mistress voice would joy my wits, by her most heavenly powers,  
And would exchange my state I say,  
As Summer changeth Winter's day.   

She is the Arctic star, the gracious Goddess to,  
She hath the might to make and mar, to help or else unde,  
Both death and life, she hath at call,  
My war, my peace, my ruin and all.   

She makes me live in woe, and guides my sighs and looks,  
She holds my freedom by a lace, as fish is held with hokes,  
Thus by despair, in this concaite,  
I swallow up both hook and bait.   

And in the deserts lo I live, among the savage kind,  
And spend my time in woeful sighs, raised up by care of mind,  
All hopeless to, in pains I pine,  
And joys for ever do resine.   

I dread but Charon's boat, if she no mercy give,  
In darkness then my soul shall dwell, in Pluto's reign to live,  
But I believe, she hath no care,  
On him that caught is in her snare.   

If she release my woe, a thousand thanks therefore,  
I shall her give, and make the world to honour her the more,  
The Gods in Skies will praise the same,  
And 〈◊〉 bear of her good name.   

O happy is that life, that after torment 〈◊〉,  
And earthly sorrows on this mould, for better life shall 〈◊〉,  
And live amongs the Gods on high,  
Where love and lovers never die.   

O life that here I lead, I freely give thee now,  
Unto the fair where ere she rests, and look thou show her 〈◊〉  
I linger forth my years and days,  
To win of her a crown of praise.   

And thou my pleasant lute, cease not my songs to sound,  
And show the torments of my mind, that I through love 〈◊〉 found,  
And always tell my Mistress still,  
Her worthy virtues rules my will.   

The Foster Lover.  
The Foster lover singing this song, sighing 〈◊〉 times between, the trickling tears ran down his face: who thereby was so disfigured, as searce could they have known him, which had all the days of their life frequented his company. Such was the state of this miserable young gentleman, who drunk with his own wine, balanced himself down to despair rather than 〈◊〉 the hope of that which he durst not look for. Howbeit like as the mischiefs of men be not always durable, & that all things have their proper season, even so fortune repenting her evil entreaty, which wrongfully she had caused this poor penetenciarie of Gineura to endure, prepared a means to readuaunce him aloft upon her wheel, even when he thought least of it. And certes, herein appeared the mercy of God, who causeth things difficult & almost impossible to be so easy, as those that ordinarily be brought to pass. How may it hereby be perceived, that they which were plunged in the bottom 〈◊〉 defiance, deeming their life utterly forlorn, be soon exalted even to the top of all glory and felicity? Hath not our age seen that man which was by authority of his enemy judged to die, ready to be carried forth to the scaffold miraculously delivered from that danger, and (wherein the works of God are to be marveled) that same man to be called to the dignity of a prince, and preferred above all the rest of the people. Now Dom Diego attending his fieldish Philosophy in the solitary valeis of the rich Mountain Pyrene, was helped with help unlooked for, as you shall hear.  
You have hard how he had a neighbour & singular friend, 〈◊〉 Noble gentleman named Dom Roderigo. This gentleman amongs all his faithful companions, did most lament the hard fortune of Dom Diego. It came to pass. 〈◊〉, months after that the poor wild penitent person was gone on his pilgrimage, that Dom 〈◊〉 took his journey into Gascoine for diverse his urgent affairs, which after he had dispatched, were it that he was gone out of his way, or that God (as it is most likely) did drive him thither, he approached toward that coast of the Pyrene mountains, where that time his good friend Dom Diego did inhabit, who daily grew so weak & feeble, as if God had not sent him sudden succour, he had gained that he most desired, which was death that should have been the end of his travails & afflictions. The train of Dom Roderigo being then a bow shot off from the savage cabin of Dom Diego, they espied the tracts of men's feet newly 〈◊〉, and begun to marvel what he should be that dwelled there, considering the solitude & 〈◊〉 of the place, & also that the same was far of 〈◊〉 or house. And as they devised hereupon, they saw a man going into a Cave, which was Dom Diego, coming from making his complaints upon the rock 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 before. From which having 〈◊〉 his face toward that part of the world where he thought the lodging was of that saint, whereunto he addressed his devotions, Dom Diego hearing the noise of the horse, was retired because he would not be seen. The knight which road that way, seeing that, & knowing how far he was out of the way, commanded one of his men to gallop towards the Rock, to learn what people they were that dwelled 〈◊〉, & to demand how they might coast to the high way that led to Barcelone. The servant approaching near the cave, perceived the same so well impaled & fortified 〈◊〉 beastres skins before, fearing also that they were thieves & robbers that dwelled there, durst not approach, & less inquire the way, & therefore returned towards his master to whom he told what he saw. The Knight of another manner of metal & hardiness than that rascal and coward servant, like a stout, courageous & valiant man, 〈◊〉 to the cave, & demanding who was within, he saw a man come forth so disfigured, horrible to look upon, pale with staring hair upright, that pitiful it was to behold him, which was the servant of the foster hermit. Of him Roderigo demanded what he was, & which was that way to Barcelone. 〈◊〉 answered that disguised person: I know not how to answer your demand, & much less I know the country where we now presently be. But sir said he sighing, true it is that we be two poor companions whom fortune hath sent hither, by what ill adventure I know not, to do penance for our trespasses & offences. Roderigo hearing him say so, begun to call to his remembrance his friend Dom Diego, although he never besore that time suspected the place of his above. He lighted then from his horse, desirous to see the singularities of that 〈◊〉, and the magnificence of that cavish lodging, where be entered and saw him whom he sought for, and yet for all that did not know him: he commoned with him a long time of the pleasure of that solitary life in respect of them that lived entangled with the combresome follies of this world. Forsomuch quoth he as that spirit distracted & withdrawn from worldly troubles is elevable to the contemplation of heavenly things, & sooner attendeth to the knowledge & reverence of his God, than those that be conversant amongs men, and to conclude, the complaints, that delights, ambitions, covetousness, vanities & superfluities that abound in the confused maze of worldly troop, do cause a misknowledge of ourselves, a forgetfulness of our creator, and many times a negligence of piety and pureness of religion.  
Whiles the unknown Hermit & the Knight Roderigo talked of these things, the servants of Ro. visiting all the corners of the deep and stony cel of those penitents, by fortune espied two saddles, one of them richly wrought & armed with plates of steel, that had been meet for some goodly jennet. And upon the plate well wrought, graven & enamelled, the gold for all the rust cankring the plate, did yet appear. For which purpose one of them said to that servant of Dom Diego. Good father hitherto I see neither Mule nor horse, for whom these saddles can serve, I pray 〈◊〉 to sell them unto us, for they will do us more pleasure, than presently they do you. Masters (quoth the Hermit,) if they like you, they be at your commandment. In the mean time Roderigo having ended his talk with the other Hermit, without knowing of any thing that he desired, said unto his men. Now sirs to horse, & leave we these poor people to rest in peace, & let us go seek for the right way which we so well as they have lost. Sir (quoth one of his men,) there be. y. saddles, & one of them is so exceeding fair, so well garnished & wrought as ever you saw. The knight feeling in himself an unaccustomed motion, caused them to be brought before him, & as he viewed & marked the rich harness and trappings of the same, he stayeth to look upon the hinder part minonly wrought, & in the mids of the engraving he read this devise in the Spanish tongue.  Que brantare la fe, es causa muy sea. That is to say. To violate or break faith, is a thing detestable. 
That only inscription made him to pause a little more. For it was the Poesy that Dom Diego bore ordinarily about his arms, which moved him to think that without doubt one of those Pilgrims was the very same man to whom that saddle did appertain. And therefore he bent himself very attentively afterwards to behold first the one, & then the other of those desert Citizens. But they were so altered, as he was not able to know them again. Dom Diego seeing his friend so near him, & the desire that he had to know him, chafed very much in 〈◊〉 mind and the more his rage begun to ware, when he saw Roderigo approach near unto him more advisedly to look upon him, for he had not his own affections so much at commandment, but his blood moved his entrails, and mounting into the evident place, caused outwardly the alteration which he endured, to appear. Roderigo seeing him to change colour, was assured of that which before he durst not suspect: & that which made him that 〈◊〉 believe that he was not deceived, was a little tuft of hair, so yellow as gold, which Dom Diego had upon his neck, whereof Dont Roderigo taking heed, gave over all suspicion, & was well assured of that he doubted. And therefore displaying himself with his arms opened upon the 〈◊〉 of his friend, & embracing him very lovingly, bedewing his face with tears, said unto him: Alas my Lord 〈◊〉 Diego, what evil luck from heaven hath departed you 〈◊〉 that good company of them which die for sorrow, to see themselves be reaved of that beauty, light & ornament of their fellowship: What be they that have given you occasion thus to eclipse the brightness of your name, when it ought most clearly to shine, both for your present pleasure, & for the honour of your age? Is it from me sir, that you ought thus to hide yourself? Do you think how I am so blind, that I know not right well, you to be that Dom Diego, that is so renowned for virtue and prowess? I would not have tarried here so long, but to bear away a power to rejoice two persons, you being the one, by withdrawing you from this heavy and unseemly wilderness, and myself the other, by enjoying your company, and by bearing news to your friends, who sith your departure, do bewail and lament the same. Dom Diego seeing that he was not able to conceyle the truth of that which was evidently seen, and feeling the loving embracements of his best friend, began to feel a certain tenderness of heart like unto that which the mother conceiveth, when she hath recovered her son that was long absent, or the chaste wife, the presence of her dear husband, when she clepeth him between her arms, and frankly culleth and cherisheth him at her pleasure. For which cause not able to refrain any longer for joy and sorrow together, weeping and sighing began to embrace him with so good and hearty affection, as with good will the other had sought for his knowledge And being come again to himself, he said to his faithful and most loving friend: Oh God, how uneasy and difficult be thy judgements to comprehend? I had thought to live here miserably, unknown to all the world, & behold, I am here discovered, when I thought lest of it: I am 〈◊〉 deed (quoth he to Roderigo) that wretched & unfortuante Dom Diego, even that your very great & loving friend, who weary of his life, afflicted with his unhap, and tormented by fortune, is retired into these deserts, to accomplish the overplus of the rest of his ill luck. Now sith that I have satisfied you herein, I beseech you that being content with my sight, ye will get you hence and leave me here to perform that little remnant which I have to live, without telling to any person that I am alive, or yet to manifest 〈◊〉 place of my abode. What is that you say sir (said Roderigo) are you so far 'straught out of your right wits, to have a mind to continue this brutal life, to deprive all your friends from the joy which they receive by enjoying your company? Think I pray you, that God hath caused us to be borne noble men, & having power and authority not to live in corners, and buried amid the slave rye of the popular fort, or remain idle within great palaces or privy places, but rather to illustrat and give light with the example of our virtue to them which apply themselves to our manner of good behaviour, & do live as depending upon our 〈◊〉 & commandments: I appeal to your faith, what good shall succeed to your subjects, who have both heard & also known the benefit bestowed upon them by god, for that he gave them a lord so modest and virtuous, & before they have experimented the goodness and virtue, be deprived of him, that is adorned and garnished with such perfections? What comfort, contentation and 〈◊〉 shall my lady your mother receive, seeing the loss of you to be so sudden, after your good & delicate bringing up, instructed with such great diligence to be utterly bereaved of that fruit of that education? It is you sir, that may command obedience to parents, succour that afflicted, & do justice to them that crave it: Alas, they be your poor subjects that make complaints, even of you, for denying them your due presence. It is you of whom my good madame doth complain, as of him that hath broken & violated his faith, for not coming at that promised day. Now as he was about to to continué his oration, Dom Diego unwilling to hear him, broke his talk saying: Ah sir, & my great friend: It is an easy matter for you to judge of mine affairs, & to blame mine absence, not knowing peradventure the occasion the same. But I esteem you a man of so good judgement, & so great a friend of things honest, & of the same 〈◊〉, as by understanding my hard luck when you be advertised of that cause of my withdrawing into this solitarieplace, you will right lie confess, & plainly see that the wisest & most constant have committed more vain follies than these done by me, forced with like spirit that now moveth & tormenteth my mind. Having said, he took aside Roderigo, where he did tell unto him the whole discourse both of his love & also of the rigour of his Lady, not without weeping, in such abundance & with such frequent sighs & 〈◊〉, as interrupted his speech, that Roderigo was constrained to keep him company, by remembering that obstinacy of her that was the mistress of his heart, & thinking that already he had seen the effect of like mishap to fall upon his own head, or near unto that like, or greater distress than that which he saw his dear & perfect friend to endure. Notwithstanding he assayed to remove him from that desperate mind & opinion of continuance in that desert. But the froward penitent swore unto him, that so long as he lived (without place recovered in the good graces of his Gineura, he would not return home to his house, but rather change his being, to seek more savage abode, & less frequented than that was. For (said he) to what purpose shall my return serve, where continuing mine affection, I shall feel like cruelty that I did in time past, which will be more painful & 〈◊〉 for me to suffer than voluntary exile & banishment, or bring me to that end wherein presently I am. Content yourself, I beseech you, and suffer me to be but one unhappy, and do not persuade me to prove a second affliction, woorsse than the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
Roderigo hearing his reasons so lively and well applied, would not reply, only content that he would make him promise to 〈◊〉 there two months, and in that time should attempt to 〈◊〉 himself. And for 〈◊〉 own part, he swore unto him, that he would be a means to reconcile Gineura, and bring them to talk together. Moreover, he gave him assurance by oath, that he should not be discovered by him, nor by any in his company. Wherewith the Knight somewhat recomforted, thanked him very affectuously. And so leving with him a field bed, two servants, and money for his 〈◊〉, Roderigo took his leave, telling him that shortly he would visit him again, to his so great contentation, as ever he was left and forsaken with grief and sorrow, himself making great moan for the unseemly state, and miserable plight of Dom Diego. And God knoweth whether by the way, he 〈◊〉 the 〈◊〉 of pitiless Gineura, blaspheming a million of times the whole sex of womankind, peradventure not without just cause. For there lieth hidden (I know not what) in the breasts of women, which at times like the wane and increase of the Moon, doth change and alter a 〈◊〉 can not tell on what foot to stand to conceive the 〈◊〉 of the same: which fickle fragility of theirs (I dare not say mobility) is such, as the subtilest 〈◊〉 of them all, best skilled in Turner's Art, can not (I say not deface) so much as hide or colour that natural imperfection.  
Roderigo arrived at his house, frequented many times the lodging of Gineura, to espy her fashions, and to see if any other had conquered that place, that was so well assailed and besieged by Dom Diego. And this wise and sage knight used the matter so well, that he fell in acquaintance with one of the Gentlewoman's pages, in whom she had so great trust, as she conceyled from him very few of her greatest secrets, not well observing the precept of the wise man, who counseleth us not to tell the secrets of the mind to those, whose judgement is but weak, and 〈◊〉 tongue very frank of speech. The knight 〈◊〉 familiar with this page, dandled him so with fair words, as by little and little he wrong the worms out of his nose, & understood that when Gineura began once to take pepper in snuff, agoinst Dom Diego, she fell in love with a Gentleman of biscay, very poor, but beautiful, young, and lusty, which was the steward of the house: and the page added further, that he was not then there, but would return within three days, as he had sent word to his mistress, and that two other Gentlemen would accompany him to carry away Gineura into biscay, for that was their last conclusion: and I hope (quoth he) that she will take me with her, because I am made privy to their whole intent. Roderigo hearing the treason of this flight and departure of the unfaithful daughter, was at the first brunt astoned, but desirous that the page should not mark his alteration, said unto him: In very deed meet it is, that the Gentlewoman should make her own choice of husband, sith her mother so little careth to pronide one for her. And albeit that the Gentleman be not so rich and noble, as her estate deserveth, her affection in that behalf ought to 〈◊〉, and the honesty of his person: for the rest Gineura hath (thanks be to God) wherewith to entertain the state of them both. These words he spoke, far from the thought of his heart. For being by himself, thus he said: O blessed God, how blind is that love, which is unruled, and out of order: and what despair to recline to them, which (void of reason) 〈◊〉 feed so foolishly of vain thoughts and fond desires, that two commodities, presented unto them, by what ill luck I know not, they forsake the best, and make choice of the worst. Ah Gineura, the fairest Lady in all this country, and the most unfaithful woman of our time, where be thine eyes and judgement? whither is thy mind strayed and wandered, to acquit thyself from a great lord, fair, rich, noble, and virtuous, to be given to one that is poor, whose parents be unknown, his prowess obscure, and birth of no apparent reputation. Behold, what maketh me believe, that 〈◊〉 (so well as Fortune) is not only blind, but also dazzleth the sight of them that he embraceth and captivateth under his power and bondage. But I make 〈◊〉 vow (false woman) that it shall never come to pass, and that this master biscay shall never enjoy the spoils which justly be due unto the travaple and faithful service of the valiant and virtuous 〈◊〉 Dom Diego. It shall be he, or else I will die for it, which shall have the recompense of his troubles, and shall feel the calm of that tempest, which presently holdeth him at anchor, amid the most dangerous rocks that ever were.  
By this means Roderigo knew the way how to keep promise with his friend, which lived in expectation of the same. The two days paste, whereof the Page had spoken, the beloved of Gineura, sailed not to come, and with him two galants of biscay, valiant Gentlemen, and well exercised in arms. That night Roderigo went to see the old widow Lady, the mother of the maiden, and synding opportunity to speak to the Page, he said unto him: I see my friend, accordingly as you told me, that you 〈◊〉 upon departing, the Steward of the house being now returned. I pray thee tell me, if thou have need of me, or of any thing that I am able do for thee, assuring thee, that thou shalt obtain and have what so ever thou requirest. And therewithal I have thought good to tell thee, and give thee warning (for thine own sake specially) that thou keep all things close and secret, that no 〈◊〉 or 〈◊〉 do follow, to blot and deface the fame and praise of thy Mistress. And for myself I had rather die, than once to open my mouth, to discover the least intent of this enterprise. But tell me, I pray thee, when do you departed? Sir (quoth the page) As my mistress saith, to morrow about ten or eleven of the clock in the evening, when the Lady her mother shall be in the sound of her first sleep. The knight hearing that, and desirous of no better time, took his leave of the Page, and went home, where he caused to be sent for ten or twelve Gentlemen, his neighbours and tenants, whom he made privy of his secrets, and partakers of that he went about, to deliver out of captivity and misery, the chiefest of all his friends. The night of those two lovers departure, being come, Dom Roderigo, which knew the way where they should pass, be stowed himself and his company in Ambush, in a little grove, almost three miles off the lodging of this fugitive Gentlewoman: where they had not long tarried but they heard the trampling of horse, and a certain whispering noise of people riding before them. Now the night was somewhat clear, which was the cause, that the Knight amongs the throng, knew the Gentlewoman, besides whom road the miserable wretch that had 〈◊〉 her away. Whom so soon as Roderigo perceived, full of despite, moved with extreme passion, welding his lance into his rest, broke in the nearest way upon the infortunate lover, with 〈◊〉 vehemency, as neither coat of mail or placard was able to save his life, or warrant him to keep company with that troop which banded under loves Ensign, was miserably slain, by the guide of a blind, naked, and thievish little boy. And when he saw he had done that he came for, he said to the rest of the company: My friends, this man was careless to make invasion upon other men's ground. These poor Biskayes surprised upon the sudden, and seeing the ambushment to multiply, put spurs to their horse to the best advantage they could for expedition, leaving their 〈◊〉 or gaping for breath, & giving a sign that he was dead. Whiles the other were making themselves ready to run away, two of Roderigo his men, covered with scarves, armed, and unknown, came to seize upon sorrowful Gineura, who beholding her friend dead, began to weep and cry so strangely, as it was marvel that her breath failed not. Ah traitorous théenes (said she) and bloody murderers, why do ye not address your selves to execute cruelty upon the rest, 〈◊〉 you have done to death him, that is of greater value than you all? 〈◊〉 my dear friend, what crooked and grievous fortune have I, to see thee groveling dead on the ground, and I abiding in life, to be the pray of murderous thieves, & thou so cowardly bereaved of life? Roderigo with his face covered, drew near unto her, and said: I beseech you gentlewoman, to forget these strange fashions of complaint, sith by them ye be not able to revive the dead, ne yet make your end of griefs. The maiden knowing the voice of him that had bereaved her friend, began to cry out more fiercely than before. For which cause one of the Gentlemen a companion of Roderigo, having a black counterfeit beard with two lunets, in manner of spectacles, very large and great, that covered the most part of his face, approached near the basheful maiden, and with big voice and terrible talk, holding his dagger upon her white and delicate breast, said unto her: I swear by the Almighty God, if I hear thee speak one word more, I will sacrifice thee unto the ghost of that varlet, for whom thou makest thy moan, who deserved to end his days upon a gallowe tree, rather than by the hands of a gentleman. Hold thy peace therefore thou foolish girl, for greater honour and more ample benefit is meant to thee, than thou 〈◊〉 deserved. Ingratitude only hath so overwhelmed thy good nature, that thou art not able to judge who be thy friends. The Gentlewoman fearing death, which as she thought was present, held her peace, down alongs whose eyes a river of tears did run, and the passion of whose heart, appeared by 〈◊〉 sighs, and never ceasing sobs, which in end so qualified her cheer, that the exterior sadness was wholly enclosed in the mind and thought of the afflicted Gentlewoman. Then Roderigo caused the body of the dead to be buried in a little Country chapel, not far out of their way. Thus they travailed two days before Gineura knew any of them, that had taken her away from her lover: even so they permitted none to speak unto her, nor to any of her company, which was none else but a waiting maid, and the page that had discovered all the secrets to Dom Roderigo.  
A notable example surely for stolen and secret marriages, whereby the honour of the contraded parts, is most commonly blemished, the commandment of God violated, who enjoineth obedience to our parents in all rightful causes, who 〈◊〉 for any light 〈◊〉, they have power to take from us the 〈◊〉 which otherwise natural law would give us, 〈◊〉 ought they of duty to do, where rebellious 〈◊〉 abusing their goodness, do consume without fear of 〈◊〉 bertie, the thing which is in the hand and will 〈◊〉 their fathers. In like manner divers undiscreet 〈◊〉 foolish mothers are to be accused, which suffer their daughters of tender and childish age, to be 〈◊〉 red of their servants, not remembering 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 the flesh is, how prone and ready men be to do evil, and how the seducing spirit waiting still upon us, is proclive and prone to surprise and catch us within his snares, to th'intent he may rejoice in the ruin of souls washed and redeemed with the blood of the son of God. This troop drawing near to the cave of Dom Diego, Roderigo sent one of his men to 〈◊〉 him of their coming, who in the absence of his friend, 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉 with hope, shortly to see the only Lady of his heart, accompanied with a merry 〈◊〉 joyful train, so soon as he had somewhat 〈◊〉 his wild manner of life, he also by little and little 〈◊〉 a good part of his lusty and fresh colour, and almost had recovered that beauty, which he had when he first became a Citizen of those deserts. Now having understanded the message sent unto him by Roderigo, God knoweth if with that 〈◊〉 tidings he felt a motion of blood, such as made all his membres to leap and dance, which rendered his mind astoned, for the only memory of the thing, that poised his mind up and down, not able to stand with equal balance, which rather he ought to have made rejoice than complain, being assured to see her, of whom he demanded only grace and pardon, but for recovery thereof, he durst not repose any certain judgement. In the end hoisting up his head like one risen from a long and sound sleep, he said: Praise be to God, who yet before I die, hath done me that pleasure, to suffer me to have a sight of her, that by causing my martyrdom, continueth this disordered life, which shall procure in like sort mine utter ruin and decay: Upon the approach where of, I shall go more joyful, charged with incomparable love, to visit the ghosts beneath dead, in the presence of that cruel sweet, and who tormenting me with ticklish tentation, hath made me taste honey sugared with 〈◊〉 gall, more dangerous than the suck of poison, and under the vermilion rudde of a new sprouted rose 〈◊〉 blown forth, hath hidden secret thorns, the pricks whereof hath me so lively touched, as my wound can not well be cured, with any balm that may be thereunto applied, without enjoying of that mine own happy mishap, or without that remedy, which almost I feel the same only resting in death, that so long and oftenymes I have desired, as the true remedy of my pains and grief. In the mean while Dom Roderigo, which till that time was not known unto Gineura, drew near unto her by the way as he road, and talked with her in this sort: I doubt not (Gentlewoman) but that you think yourself not well contented to see me in this place, in such company, and for occasion so unseemly for my degree and state: and moreover knowing what injury I seem to do unto you, that ever was, and am so affectionate and friendly to that whole stock of your race & lineage, & am not ignorant that upon that first brunt you may judge my cause unjust to carry you away from the hands of your friend, to bring you into these 〈◊〉, wild, and solitary places. But if ye considered the force of that true amity, which by virtue showeth the common bonds of hearts and minds of men, & shall measure to what end this act is done, without to much staying 〈◊〉 the light apprehension of choler, for a beginning somewhat troublesome, I am assured then (that if you be not wholly deprived of reason) I shall not be altogether blamed, nor you quite of fault. And bycanse 〈◊〉 draw near unto the place, whether (by the help of God) I mean to conduct you, I beseech you to consider, that the true servant which by all service and duty studieth to execute the commandments of him that hath 〈◊〉 over him, doth not deserve to be beaten or driven away from the house of his master, but to be favoured and cherished, and aught to receive equal recompense for his service. I speak not this for myself, my devotion being 〈◊〉 elsewhere, and not to you, saving for that honest affection which I ought to bear to all virtuous and chaste persons. The 〈◊〉 whereof I will not deny unto you in time and place, where I shall use such 〈◊〉 towards you, as is meet for a maiden of your age and state. For the greatness of noble men & puissant, doth most appear & show forthit self, when they use mildness & gentleness unto those, to whom by reason of their authority they might do 〈◊〉 tie & malice. Now to that end that I do not make you doubtful long. All that which I have done & yet do mean to do, is for none other purpose, but to ease the grievous pains of that most faithful lover that liveth at this day under that circle of the Moon. It is for the good Knight Dom Diego, that loveth you so dearly & still worshippeth your noble fame who because he will not! show himself disobedicnt, liveth miserably among brute beasts, amid the craggy rocks and mountains and in the deep solitudes of comfortless dales & valleys. It is to him I say that I do bring you, protesting unto you by oath (Gentlewoman) that that misery wherein I saw him, little more than. vj. weeks past, toucheth me so near the heart, as if the Sacrifice of my life sufficed alone, (& without letting you to feel this painful voyage) for the solace of his 〈◊〉 I would spare it no more, than I do mine own endeavour and honour, besides the hazarding of that loss of your good grace and favour. And albeit I well perceive, that I do grieve you, by causing you to enter this painful journey, yet I beseech you that that whole displeasure of this 〈◊〉 may be imputed unto my charge, and that it would please you lovingly to deal with him, who for your sake useth such cruel misdemeanour against himself. Gineura as a woman half in despair for the death of her friend, behaved herself like a mad woman void of wit and sense, and the simple remembrance of Dom Diego his name so astoned her, (which name she hated far more than the pangs of death) that she staid a long time, her mouth not able to shape one word to speak. In the end vanquished with impatience, burning with choler, and trembling for sorrow, looked upon Dom Roderigo with an eye no less furious, than a Tigress caught within the net, and seeth before her face her young Fawns murdered, wring her hands, and beating her delicate breast, she used these or such like words: Ah bloody traitor and no more Knight, is it of thee that I ought to look for so detestable a villainy and treason? 〈◊〉 darest thou be so hardy to entreat me for an other that hast in mine own presence killed him, whose death I will pursue upon thee, so long as I shall have life within this body? Is it to thee false thief and murderer, that I ought to render account of that which I meant to do? who hath appointed thee to be arbitrator, or who gave thee commission to capitulate the articles of my marriage? Is it by force then, that thou wouldest I should love that unfaithful Knight, for whom thou hast committed & done this act, that so long as thou livest shall blot and blemish thy renown, and shall be so well fixed in my mind, and the wounds shall cleave so near my heart, until at my pleasure I be revenged of this wrong? No, no, I assure thee that any force done unto me, shall never make me otherwise disposed, than a mortal enemy both to thee which art a Thief & ravisher of an other man's wife, & also to thy desperate friend Dom Diego, which is the cause of this my loss: And now not satisfied with the former wrong done unto me, thou goest about to deceive me under the colour of good and pure amity. But sith wicked Fortune hath made me thy prisoner, do with me what thou wilt, and yet before I suffer and endure that that traitor Dom Diego do enjoy my virginity, I will offer up my life to the shadows and ghosts of my faithful friend and husband, whom thou hast so traitorously murdered. And therefore (if honestly I may or ought entreat mine enemy,) I pray thee that by doing thy duty, thou suffer us in peace, and give licence to me, this Page, and my two poor maidens, to depart whether we list. God 〈◊〉 (quod Roderigo) that I should do a trespass so shameful, as to deprive my dearest friend of his joy and contentation, and by falsifiing my faith be an occasion of his death, and of your loss, by leaving you without company, wandering amids this wilderness. And he continued thus his former discourse and talk, to reclaim this cruel Damsel to have pity upon her poor penitent, but he gained as much by his talk, as if he had gone about to number the sands alongs the sea coasts of the main Ocean. Thus devising from one talk to an other, they arrived near the Cave, which was the stately house of Dom Diego: where Gineura lighted, and saw the poor amorous Knight, humbly falling down at her feet, all forworne, pale, and disfigured, weeping with warm tears, he said unto her: Alas my dear Lady, the alone and only mistress of my heart, do you not think that my penance is long enough for the sin which ignorantly I have committed, if ever I have done any fault at all? Behold I beseech you (good Lady dear) what joy I have conceived in your absence, what pleasures have nursed mine hope, and what consolation hath entertained my life: which truly had it not been for the continual remembrance of your divine beauty, I had of long time abbreviated to shorten the pains which do renew in me so many times the pangs of death: as oftentimes I think upon the unkindness showed unto me by making so little account of my fealty: which can, nor shall receive the same in good part, were it so perfect as any assurance were able to make it. Gineura swelling with sorrow, and full of feminine rage, blushing with fury, her eyes sparkling forth her choleric conceits, vouchsafed not so much as to give him one word for answer, and because she would not look upon him, she turned her face on the other side. The poor and afflicted lover, seeing the great cruelty of his felonious mistress still kneeling upon his knees, redoubling his arms, fetching his sighs with a voice, that seemed to be drawn by force from the bottom of his heart, said unto her: Sith the sincerity of 〈◊〉 faith, & my long service 〈◊〉 Gineura, cannot persuade you that I have been a most obedient, faithful, & very loyal servant towards you, as 〈◊〉 any man that hath served Lady or 〈◊〉, and that without your favour & grace it is 〈◊〉 possible for me any longer to live, yet I do very humbly beseech you, for that all other comfort is denied me, if there be any gentleness and courtesy in you, that I may receive this only grace at your hands for the last that ever I hope to crave: which is, that you being thus grievously offended with me, would do justice to that unfortunate man, which upon his knees doth instantly crave the same. Grant (cruel mistress) this my request, do vengeance at your pleasure upon him, which willingly yieldeth himself to death with the effusion of his poor innocent blood to satisfy you, and verily far more expedient it is for him thus to die, by appeasing your will, than to rest on live to your discontentment or annoyance. Alas, shall I be so unfortunate, that both life and death should be denied me by one person of the world, whom I hope to content and please by any sort or means what so ever resting in mine humble obedience? Alas Gentlewoman rid me from this torment, and dispatch yourself from the grief which you have to see this unhappy Knight, who would say and esteem himself to be happy (his life being loathsome unto you) if he may content you, by death done by your own hands, sith other favour he cannot expect or hope for. The maiden hardened in her opinion, stood still immovable, much like unto a rock in the midst of the sea, 〈◊〉 with a tempest of billows and foamy 〈◊〉, in such wise as one word could not be procured from her mouth. Which unlucky Dom Diego perceiving, attached with the fear of present death, and failing his natural force fell down to the ground, and fainting said: Ah, what a recompense do I receive for this so faithful Love? Roderigo beholding that hideous 〈◊〉, whilst the others went about to 〈◊〉 Dom Diego, repaired to Gineura, and full of heaviness mingled with 〈◊〉, said unto her: By God (false 〈◊〉 woman) if so be that I do change my mind, I will make thee feel the smart, no less than thou showest thyself dishonourable to them that do thee honour: Art thou so careless of so great a Lord as this is, that humbleth himself so low to such a strumpet as thou art? who without regard either to his renown, or the honour of his house, is content to be abandoned from his noble state, to become a fugitive and stranger? What cruelty is this for thee to misprise the greatest humility that man can imagine? What greater amends 〈◊〉 thou wish to have although the 〈◊〉 which thou presupposest had been true? Now (if thou be wise) change this opinion, except thou wouldst have me do into so many pieces, thy cruel 〈◊〉 and unfaithful heart, as once this poor knight did in parts the unhappy hawk, which through thy folly did breed unto him this distress, and to thyself the name of the most cruel and disloyal woman that ever lived. But what greater benefit can happen unto thee, than to see this Gentleman utterly to forget the fault, to conceive no sinister suspicion of thy running away, craving thine acquaintance, and is contented to sacrifice himself unto thine anger to appease and mitigate thy rage? Now to speak no more hereof, but to proceed in that which I began to say, I offer unto thee then both death and love, choose whether thou list. For I swear again by him that seeth and heareth all things, that if thou play the fool, thou shalt feel and prove me to be the cruelest enemy that ever thou hadst: and such a one as shall not fear to imbrue 〈◊〉 hands with the blood of her that is the death of the chiefest of all my friends. Gineura hearing that resolute answer, 〈◊〉 herself to be nothing afraid, nor declared any token of fear, but rather 〈◊〉 to have encouraged Roderigo, in brave and mannish sort, far divers from the simplicity of a young and tender maiden, as a man would say, such a one as had never felt the assaults and troubles of adverse fortune. Wherefore frouncing her brows, and grinning her teeth with closed 〈◊〉, and 〈◊〉 very bold, she made him answer: Ah thou knight, which once gavest assault to commit a villainy & treason, thinkest thou now without remorse of conscience to continued thy mischief? I speak it to thee villain, which 〈◊〉 shed the blood of an honester man than thou art, fearest not now to make me a companion of his death. Which thing spare not hardily to 〈◊〉, to the intent that I living, may not be such a one as thou falsely judgest me to be: for never man hitherto 〈◊〉, and never shall, that he hath had the spoil of my virginity: from the fruit whereof, like an arrant thief, thou hast deprived my loyal spouse. Now do what thou list: for I am far better content to suffer death, be it as cruel as thou art mischievous, & borne for the 〈◊〉 & vexation of honest maidens: not withstanding I humbly beseech almighty God, to give 〈◊〉 so much pleasure, contentation and joy in thy love, 〈◊〉 thou hast done to me, by hastening the death of my dear husband. O God, if thou be a just God, such a one, as from whom we thy poor creatures do believe, all 〈◊〉 to proceed, thou I say, which art the rampire and refuge of all justice, pour down thy vengeance and plague upon these pestiferous thieves and murderers, which have prepared a worldly plague upon me thine innocent damsel. Ah wicked Roderigo, think not that death can be so fearful unto me, but that with good heart, I am able to accept the same, trusting verily that one day it shall be the cause of thy ruin, and overthrow of him, for whom thou takest all these pains. Dom Roderigo marvelously rapt in sense, imagined the woman to be fully bend against him, who then had puissance (as he thought,) over her own heart: and thinking, that he saw her moved with like rage against him, as she was against Dom Diego, stood still so perplered and void of right mind, that he was constrained to sit down, so feeble he felt himself for the only remembrance of her evil demeanour. And whilst this was a doing, the handmaid of Gineura, and her Page, enforced to persuade their mistress to have compassion upon the knight that had suffered so much for her sake, and that she would consent to the honest requests and good counsel of Roderigo. But she which was stubbornly bent in her foolish persuasions, said unto them: What fools? are you so much be witched, either with that feigned tears of this disloyal knight, which colourably thus doth torment himself, or else are ye enchanted with the venomous honey & tyrannical bravery of the thief which murdered my husband and your master? Ah unhappy caitiff maiden, is it my chance to endure the 〈◊〉 of such Fortune, when I thought to live at my best case, and thus cruelly to tumble into the hands of him, whom I hate so much as he feigneth love unto me? And morcover my unlucky fate is not herewith content, but redoubleth my sorrow, even by those that be of my frayn, who ought rather to encourage me to die, than consent to so vureasonable requests. Ah love, love, how evil be they recompensed which faithfully do homage unto thee? & why should not I forget all 〈◊〉, never hereafter to have mind on man to prove beginning of a pleasure, which tasted and 〈◊〉 bringeth more displeasure than ever joy engendered 〈◊〉. Alas, I never knew what was the fruit of that which so strangely did attach me, and thou O 〈◊〉 and thievishe Love, haste ordained a banquet 〈◊〉 with such bitter dishes, as forced I am perforce to taste of their eager sweets: Avaunt sweet folly, avant, I do henceforth for ever let thee 〈◊〉, to embrace the death, wherein I hope to find my greatest rest, for in thee I find nought else but heaps of straining 〈◊〉. Avoid from me all my myssehap, 〈◊〉 from me ye furious ghosts and 〈◊〉 most unkind, whose gauds and toys dame love hath wrought to keep occupied my loving mind, and suffer me to take end in thee, that I may live in an other life without thee, being now charged with cup of grief, which I shall 〈◊〉 in venomous drink soaked in the sops of 〈◊〉. Sharpen thou thyself, (O death unkind) prepare thy dart, to strike the corpse of her, that she may void the quarrels shot against her by her adversary. Ah poor heart strip thyself from hope, and qualify thy desires. Cease henceforth to wish thy life, seeing and feeling the appointed fight of love and life, combatting within my mind, elsewhere to seek my peace in an other world, with him to joy, which for my sake was sacrificed to the treason of varlets hands, who for the perfect 〈◊〉 of his desires, nought else did seek but to soil his 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 with the purest blood of my loyal friend. And I this abundance of tears do shed to satiate his felonous mood, which shall be the just shortening of my doleful days. When she had thus complained, she began horribly to torment herself, and in furious guise, that the cruelest of the company were moved with compassion, seeing her thus strangely 'straught of wits: 〈◊〉 they did not discontinue by duty to solicit her to have regard to that which poor fainting Dom Diego did endure. Who so soon as with fresh 〈◊〉 water he was revived, 〈◊〉 still the heaviness of his Lady, and her increased disdain and choler against him, vanished in divers soundings: which moved Roderigo from study 〈◊〉 wherein he was to rise, whereunto that rage of Gineura had cast him down, because forgetting all imaginary affection of his Lady, and proposing his duty before his eyes, which each Gentleman oweth to gentle damsels and women kind, still beholding with honourable respect the grief of the martyred wilderness Knight, sighing yet by reason of former thought, he said unto Gincura. Alas, is it possible, that in the heart of so young and delicate a maiden, there may be harboured so strange fury and unreasonable rage? O God, the effect of the cruelty resting in this woman, painting itself in the imaginative force of my mind, hath made me fear the like mishap to come to the cruel state of this disaventurous gentleman: Notwithstanding (O thou cruel beast) think not that this thy fury shall stay me from doing thee to death, to rid thee from folly and disdain, & this unfortunate lover from despair and trouble, verily believing, that in time it shall be known what profit the world shall gain by purging the same of such an infected plague as is an unkind and arrogant heart: and it shall feel what utility riseth by thine, overthrow. And I do hope besides that, in time to come, men shall praise this deed of mins, who for preserving the honour of one house, have chosen rather to do to death two offenders, than to leave one of them alive, to obscure the glory and brightness of the other. And therefore (said he) turning his face to those of his train) Cut the throat of this 〈◊〉 and froward beast, & do the like to them that be come with her, show no more favour unto them all, than that cursed strumpet doth mercy to the life of that miserable Gentleman, who dieth there for love of her.  
The maiden hearing the cruel sentence of her death, cried out so loud as she could, thinking rescue would have come, but the poor wench was deceived: for the desert knew none other, but those that were abiding in that troop. The Page and the woman servant exclaimed upon Roderigo for mercy, but he made as though he heard them not, and rather made sign to his men to do what he commanded. When Gineura saw that their death was purposed in deed, confirmed in opinion rather to die, than to obey, she said unto the executioners: My friends, I beseech you let not these innocentes abide the penance of that which they never committed. And you Dom Roderigo, be 〈◊〉 on me, by whom the fault, (if a woman's faith to her husband may be termed a fault) is done. And let these 〈◊〉 departed, that be God knoweth, innocent of any crime. And thou my friend, which livest amongs the shadows of faithful lovers, if thou have any feeling, as in deed thou provest being in another world, behold that pureness of mine heart & fidelity of my love: who to keep the same inviolable, do offer myself voluntarily to the death, which this cruel tyrant prepareth for me. And thou hangman the executioner of my joys, and murderer of the immortal pleasures of my love (said she to Roderigo) glut thy gluttonous desire of blood, make drunk thy mind with murder, & 〈◊〉 of thy little triumph, which for all thy threats or persuasible words, thou 〈◊〉 not get from the heart of a simple maiden, ne carry away the victory for all the battered breach made into the rampire of her honour. When she had so said, a man would have thought that the memory of death had cooled her heat, but that same served her as an assured solace of her pains. Dom Diego come to himself seeing the discourse of that tragedy, being now addressed to the last 〈◊〉 & end of that life and stage of fair & golden locked Gincura, making a virtue of necessity, recovered a little courage to save, (if it were possible) the life of her, that had put his own in hazard miserably to end. Having stayed them that held the maiden, he repaired to Dom Roderigo, to whom he spoke in this wise: I see well my good Lord and great friend, that the good will you bear me, causeth you to use this honest order for my behalf, whereof I doubt if I should live a whole hundred years, I shall not be able to satisfy the least of the bonds wherein I am bound, the same surpassing all mine ability and power. Yet for all that (dear friend) sith you 〈◊〉 the fault of this mishap to arise of my predestinate ill luck, and that man cannot avoid things once ordained, I beseech you do me yet this good pleasure (for all the benefits that ever I have received) to send back again this gentlewoman with her train, to the place from whence you took her, with like assurance & 〈◊〉, as if she were your sister. For I am pleased with your endeavour, & contented with my misfortune, assuring you sir beside, that the trouble which she endureth, doth far more grieve my heart than all that pain which for her sake I suffer. That her sorrow then may decrease, and mine may renew again, that she may line in peace, and I in war for her cruel beauty sake, I will wait upon Clotho, the spinner of the threden life of man until she break the twisted lace that holdeth the fatal course of my doleful years. And you Gentlewoman live in rest, as your poor suppliant, wretched Dom Diego shallbe citizen of these wild places, & vaunt you 〈◊〉 that you were that best beloved maiden that ever lived. marvelous truly be the forces of Love, when they discover their perfection: for by their means things otherwise impossible be reduced to such facility, as a man would judge that they had never been so hard to obtain, and so painful to pursue. As appeared by this damsel, in whom the wrath of fortune, the pinch of jealousy, the intolerable rage of her friends loss, 〈◊〉 engendered a contempt of Dom Diego, an extreme desire to be revenged on Dom Roderigo, and a 〈◊〉 of longer life. And now putting of the 〈◊〉 of blind appetite, for the esclarishing of her understanding eyes, and breaking the Adamant rock planted in the mids of her breast, she beheld in open 〈◊〉 the steadfastness, patience and perseveration of her great friend. For that supplication of the Knight had greater force in Gineura, than all his former services. And full well 〈◊〉 showed the same, when throwing herself upon that neck of the desperate Gentleman, and embracing him very lovingly she said unto him: Ah sir, that your felicity is the beginning of my great joy of mind, which 〈◊〉 now of sweetness in the very same, in whom I imagined to be the wellspring of bitterness. The diminution of one grief is, and shall be the increase of 〈◊〉 bond, such as for ever I will call myself the most humble slave of your worship, lowly beseeching you nevertheless to pardon my follies, wherewith full fondly I have abused your patience. Consider a while sir, I beseech you, the nature and secrecy of love. For those that be blinded in that passion, think themselves to be perfect seers, and yet be the first that commit most 〈◊〉 faults. I do not deny any committed wrong & trespass, and do not refuse therefore the honest and gentle correction that you shall appoint me, for expiation of mine offence. Ah my noble Lady (answered the knight) all rapt with pleasure, and half way out of his wits for joy, I humbly beseech you inflict upon my poor wretched body no further pangs of death by remembering the glory of my thought sith the recital bringeth with it a taste of the travails which you have suffered for my joy & contentation. It is therefore (quoth she) that I think myself happy: for by that means I have known the perfect qualities that be in you, & have proved two extremities of virtue. One consisteth in your constancy and loyalty whereby you may vaunt yourself above him that sacrificed his life upon the bloody body of his Lady, who for dying so, finished his travails. Where you have chosen a life worse than death, no less painful a hundred times a day, than very death itself. The other consists in the clemency wherewith you calm and appease the rage of your greatest adversaries. As myself which before hated you to death, vanquished by your courtesy do confess that I am double bound unto you, both for my life and honour: and hearty thanks do I render to the Lord Roderigo for that violence he did unto me, by which means I was induced to acknowledge my wrong, & the right which you had to complain of my foolish resistance. All is well, said Roderigo, sith without peril of honour we may return home to our houses: I intent therefore (said he) to send word before to my Ladies your mothers of your return, for I know how so well to cover and excuse this our enterprise and secret journeys, as by God's assistance no blame or displeasure shall ensue thereof. And like as (said he smiling) I have builded the fortress which shot into your camp, and made you fly, even so I hope (Gentlewoman) that I shall be the occasion of your victory, when you combat in close camp, with your sweet cruel enemy. Thus they passed the journey in pleasant talk, recompensing the. 〈◊〉. lovers with all honest & virtuous entertainment for their 〈◊〉 and troubles past. In the mean while they sent one 〈◊〉 their servants to the two widow ladies, which were 〈◊〉 great care for their children, to advertise them that Gineura was gone to visit Dom Diego, then being in one of the castles of Roderigo, where they were determined if it were their good pleasure, to consummate their marriage, having given faith & affiance one to the other. The mother of Gineura, could not here tell of more pleasant news: for she had understanded of the foolish flight & escape of her daughter, with that steward of her house, whereof she was very sorrowful, & for grief was like to die, but assured & recomforted with those news, she 〈◊〉 not to meet the mother of Dom Diego, at the appointed place whither the y. lovers were arrived two days before. There the marriage of that fair couple (so long desired) was 〈◊〉 with such magnificence as was requisite for the state of those two noble houses. Thus the torment 〈◊〉, made the joy to savour of some other taste than they do feel, which without pain in that exercise of loves pursuit, attain the top of their desires: And truly their pleasure was altogether like to him that nourished in superfluous delicacy of meats can not aptly so well judge of pleasure, as he which sometimes lacketh that abundance. And verily Love without bitterness, is almost a cause without effects: for he that shall take away griefs and troubled fancies from lovers, depriveth them of the praise of their steadfastness, and maketh baine the glory of their perseverance: for he is unworthy to bear away the price and garland of triumph in the conflict, that behaveth himself like a coward, and doth not observe the laws of arms and manlike duties in the combat. This history than is a mirror for loyal lovers, and chaste suitors, and maketh them detest the unshamefastness of those, which upon the first view do follow with might and main, the Gentlewoman or Lady that giveth them good face or countenance whereof any gentle heart or mind, nursed in the schoolhouse of virtuous education, will not be squeamish to those that shall by chaste salutation or other incountrie, do their courteous reverence. This history also yieldeth contempt of them, which in their affection forget themselves, abasting the generosity of their courages, to be reputed of fools, the true champions of Love, whose like they be that desire such regard. For the perfection of true Love consisteth not in passions, in sorrows, griefs, martyrdoms, or cares, and much less arriveth he to his desire, by sighs, exclamations, weepings, and childish plaints: for so much as virtue ought to be the band of that indissoluble amity, which maketh the union of the two severed bodies of that woman man, which Plato describeth, & causeth man to travel for his whole accomplishment in that true pursuit of chaste lovein which labour truly fond walked Dom Diego, thinking to find the same by his despair amid the sharp solitary deserts of those Pyrene mountains. And truly the duty of his perfect friend, did more lively disclose the same (what fault so ever he did) than all his countenances, eloquent letters or amorous messages. In like manner a man doth not know what a treasure a true friend is, until he hath proved his excellency, specially where necessity maketh him to taste the sweetness of such delicate meat. For a friend being a second himself, agreeth by a certain natural 〈◊〉 & atonement to the affections of him whom he loveth, both to participate his joys and pleasures, and to sorrow his adversity, where Fortune shall use by some misadventures, to show her accustomed moblitie.    

Salimbene and Angelica  
¶ A Gentleman of SISNA, called ANSELMO SALIMBENE, courteously and gently delivereth his 〈◊〉 from death. The condemned party seeing the kind part of SALIMBENE, rendereth into his hands his sister ANGELICA, with whom he was in love, which gratitude and courtesy, SALIMBENE well marking, moved in conscience, would not abuse her, but for recompense took her to his wife.  
The. thirty. Novel.  
WE do not mean here to discover the sumptuosity & magnificence of Palaces, stately & won derfull to the view of men, ne yet to reduce to memory that marvelous effects of man's industry to build and lay foúdations in the deepest channel of the main sea, ne to describe their ingenious industry, in breaking the craggy mountains, and hardest rocks, to ease the crooked passages of weary ways, for armies to march through inaccessible places. Only now do we pretend to show the effects of love, which surmount all opinion of common things, and appear so miraculous as the founding and erecting of the Collisaei, Colossaei, Theatres, Amphitheatres, Pyramids, and other works wonderful to the world, for that the hard endured path of hatred and displeasure long time begun, and obstinately pursued with strange cruelty, was converted into love, by th'effect of love and concord, such as I know none, but is so much astoned, as he may have good cause to wonder, considering the stately foundations, upon which kings and great monarchs have employed the chiefest revenues of their provinces. Now like as Ingratitude is a vice of greatest blame and discommendation amongs men, even so gentleness & kindness ought to bear that title of a most commendable virtue. And as the Thebans were accused of that crime, for their great captains Epaminondas & Pelopidas. The Plateens (contrariwise) were praised for their solemn observation of the Greeks benefits, which delivered them out of the Persians bondage. And the Sicyonians bear away the price of eternal praise, for acknowledging the good turns received of Aratus, that delivered them fran the cruelty of the tyrants. And if Philippo Maria, duke of Milan, deserved eternal reproach for his ingratitude to his wife Beatrix, for the secret kill of her, he being enriched with her goods and treasures: a barbarous turk borne in Arabia, shall carry the praise from him, who being vanquished in Arabia by Baldovine, king of Jerusalem, and he and his wife taken prisoners, and his treasures fallen into the hands of that good king, issued of the Lorraine blood. Nevertheless seeing that the Christian had delivered him, and restored again his wife, would not be vanquished in magnificence and 〈◊〉, & much less bear the name of an unkind prince, but rather when Baldovine was overcome of that infidels, and being retired within a certain city, that Admiral of Arabia, came to him in the night, and telling him the devise of his companions, conveyed him out of the 〈◊〉, & was his guide until he saw him free peril. I 〈◊〉 alleged that premises, because the history which I purpose to recite, avoucheth two examples not vulgar or common, the one of very great love, & the other of such 〈◊〉 ceptation and knowledging thereof, as I thought it pity the same should lurk from the acquaintance of 〈◊〉 English men. And that they alone should have the 〈◊〉 thereof which understand the Italian tongue, supposing that it shall bring some fruit and commodity to this our English soil, that each wight may frame their life on those which in strange countries far from us, have lived virtuously without reproach that might soil or spot their name.  
In Sienna then (an ancient and very noble City of Toscane, which no long time past was governed by her Magistrates, and lived in her own laws and liberties, as the Lucquois, Pisans, and Florentines do) were two families very rich, noble, and the chief of the City called the Salimbenes and Montanines, of the race & stock whereof, excellent men in their common wealth have descended, very good and expert soldiers for 〈◊〉 of armies. Those two houses in the beginning were so great friends, and frequented such love and 〈◊〉, as it seemed they had been but one house & 〈◊〉, daily using each others company, and banqueting one another. But Italy in all times being as it were a store house of troubles and a very mart of sedition, bands and partialities, specially of civil wars in every City, it could not be that Sienna should alone enjoy her liberty in peace, and accord of Citizens, and vaunt herself to be free from knowledge of particular debate. For of wars she had good experience against the Florentines, who by long remembrance have done what they could to make her subject unto them. Now the cause of that discord rose even by them which kept the Citizens in unity and concord and was occasioned by those. y. houses the noblest & most puissant of their common wealth. It is not unknown to any man, that antiquity ordained it to be peculiar for nobility, to train up the children of noble houses in hunting, aswell to bolden & nosel them in dangers, as to make them strong and accustomed in travail, & to force them shun the delicate life and great idleness which accompany honourable houses, and those of gentle blood, for somuch as by the pursuit of beasts, sleights of war be observed: the hounds be the square battle, the greihoundes be the flanquarts and wings to follow the enemy, the horseman serveth to give the chase when the game speedeth to covert, the horns be the trumpets to sound the chase and retire, & for encouragement of the dogs that run. To be short, it seemeth a very camp in battle, ordained for the pleasure and pastime of noble youth. Nevertheless, by hunting divers missefortunes do arise, and sundry dangers have happened by the same. Meleager lost his life for the 〈◊〉 of the wild boar of Callydonia. Shafalus lost his life for killing his dear beloved Procris, and Acastus was accursed for murdering the King's son of whom he was the Tutor. William Rufus, one of our english Kings, the son of the Conqueror, was slain with an arrow in the New forest by a French gentleman called Walter Tyrel, as he was pursuing the heart. Other histories report divers perils chanced in hunting, but yet the same worthy to be cherished, frequented and used by good advise and moderate pastime. So the hunting of the wild Boar defiled the City of Sienna, with the blood of her own Citizens, when the Salimbenes and Montanines upon a day in an assembled company, encountering upon a great and fierce boar, took him by force of men and beasts, When they had done, as they were banqueting and 〈◊〉 of the nimbleness of their dogs, each man praising his own, as having done best, there rose great 〈◊〉 amongs them upon that matter, and proceeded so far, as foudly they began to revile one another with words, and from taunting terms to earnest blows, wherewith divers in that skirmish were hurt on both sides. In the end the Salimbenes had the worse, and one of the principal 〈◊〉 in the place, which appalled the rest, not that they were discouraged, but attending time and season of revenge. This hatred so strangely kindled between both parts, that by little and little, after many combats and overthrows of either side, the loss lighted upon the Montanines, who with their wealth and richesse were almost brought to nothing, and thereby the rigour and choler of the Salimbenes appeased, none being able to resist them, and in space of time forgot all injuries. The Montanines also that remained at Sienna, lived in quiet, without challenge or quarrel of their 〈◊〉 versaries, howbeit 〈◊〉 talk and haunt of others company utterly surceased. And to say the truth, there were almost none to quarrel withal, for the whole blood and name of the Montanines rested in one alone, called Charles the son of Thomas Montanine, a young inam so honest and wet brought up, as any then in Sienna, who had a sister, that for beauty, grace, courtesy and honesty, was comparable with the best in all Thoscame. This poor young Gentleman had no great revenue, for that the patrimony of his predecessors was wasted in charges for entertainment of soldiers in the time of the and debates aforesaid. A good part also was confiseate to the chamber of Sienna for trespasses & forfeitures committed: with the remain he sustained his family, and indisserently maintained his port soberly within his own house, keeping his sister in vecent and moderate order. The maiden was called Angenlica, a name of troth, without offence to other, due to her. For in very deed in her were harboured the virtue of courtesy and gentleness, and was so well instructed and nobly brought up, as they which loved not the name or race of her, could not forbear to commend her, and wish that their daughter were her like. In such wise as one of her chiefest foes was so sharply beset with her virtue and beauty, as he lost his quiet sleep, & lust to eat & drink. His name was Anselmo Salimbene, who would willingly have made suit to marry her, but the discord past, quite mortified his desire, so soon as he had devised the plot within his brain and fancy. Notwithstanding it was impossible that the love so lively graven and 〈◊〉 in his mind, could easily be defaced. For if once in a day he had not seen her, his heart did feel the torments of toasting flames, and wished that the Hunting of the Boar, had never decayed a family so excellent, to the intent he might have matched himself with her, whom none other could displace out of his remembrance, which was one of the richest Gentlemen, and of greatest power in Sienna. Now for that he ourst not discover his amorous grief to any person, was the chiefest cause that martyred most his heart, & for the ancient festered malice of those two families, he despaired for ever, to gather either flower or fruit of that affection, presupposing that Angelica would never fire her love on him, for that his Parents were the cause of the defaite & overthrow of the Montanine house. But what? There is nothing durable under the heavens. Both good and evil 〈◊〉 their revolution in the government of human affairs. The amities and hatreds of Kings and Princes, be they so hardened, as commonly in a moment he is not 〈◊〉 to be a hearty friend, that lately was a 〈◊〉 foe, and spired nought else but the ruin of his adver fairy? We see the variety of human chances, and then 〈◊〉 judge at eye what great simplicity it is to stay & settle certain and infallible iudgemit upon 〈◊〉 unstaid doings. He that erst governed a king, & made all things to tremble at his word, is suddenly thrown down, & dieth a shameful death. In like sort, another which looketh for his own undoing, seeth himself advanced to his estate again, and vengeance taken of his enemies. Calir Bassa governed whilom that great Mahomet, that won the Empire of Constantinople, who attempted nothing without the advise of that Bassa. But upon the sudden he saw himself rejected, & the next day strangled by commandment of him, which so greatly honoured him, & without just cause did him to a death so cruel. Contrariwise Argon the T artarian, entering arms against his uncle Tangodor Cavi, when he was upon the point to lose his life for his rebellion, and was conveyed into. Armenia to be executed there, was rescued by certain T artarians the household servants of his dead uncle, and afterwards proclaimed king of T artarie about the year. 1285. The example of the Empress Adaleda is of no less credit than the former, who being fallen into the hands of Beranger the usurper of that Empire, escaped his fury and cruelty by flight, & in the end married to Otho the first, saw her wrong revenged upon Beranger and all his race by her son Otho the second. I advouch these histories to prove the mobility of fortune, & the change of worldly chances, to the end you may see that the very same misery which followed Charles Montanine, hoisted him aloft again, & when he looked for least succour, he saw deliverance at hand. Now to prosecute our history, know ye that while Salimbenc by little & little pined for love of Angelica, whereof she was ignorant & careless, and albeit she courteously rendered health to him, when sometime in his amorous fit he beheld her at a window, yet for all that she never guessed the thoughts of her loving enemy. During these haps it chanced that a rich citizen of Sienna, having a farm adjoining to the lands of Montanine, desirous to increase his patrimony, & annere the same unto his own, and knowing that the young gentleman wanted many things, moved him to sell his inheritance, offering him for it in ready money, a M. Ducats, Charles which of all the wealth & substance left him by his ancestor, had no more remaining but that country ferme, & a Palace in the City (so the rich Italians of each city, term their houses,) and with that little lived honestly, & maintained his sister so well as he could, refused flatly to dispossess himself of that portion, which renewed unto him that happy memory of those that had been the chief of all the common wealth. The covetous wretch seeing himself frustrate of his prey, conceived such rancour against Montanine, as he purposed by right or wrong to make him not only to for fait the same, but also to lose his life, following the wicked desire of tyrannous jesabel, that made Naboth to be stoned to death, to extort and wrongfully get his vinyeard. About that time for the quarrels & common discords reigning throughout Italy, that nobility were not assured of safety in their countries, but rather the common sort, & rascal number, were that chief rulers and governors of the common wealth, whereby the greatest part of the nobility or those of best authority being banished, the villainous band, and grossest kind of common people made a law (like to the Athenians in the time of Solon) that all persons of what degree & condition so ever they were, which practised by himself or other means the restablishing or revocation of such as were banished out of their City, should lose & forfeit the sum of M. florins, and having not wherewith to pay the condemnation, their head should remain for gage. A law no doubt very just and righteous, scenting rather of the barbarous cruelty of the Goths and 〈◊〉, than of true christians, stopping the retire of innocents exiled for particular quarrels of Citizens incited one against another, and rigorously rewarding mercy and courtesy, with execution of cruelty incomparable.  
This citizen than purposed to accuse Montanine for offending against the law, because otherwise he could not purchase his intent, and the same was easy enough for him to compass, by reason of his authority and estimation in the City: for the inditement and plea was no sooner read and given, but a number of post knights appeared to depose against the poor gentleman, to bear witness that he had trespassed the laws of the Country, and had sought means to introduce the banished, with intent to kill the governors, and to place in state those 〈◊〉, that were the cause of the Italian troubles. The miserable gentleman knew not what to do, ne how to defend himself. There were against him the Moon & the. vy. stars, the state of the City the Proctor and judge of the court, the witnesses that gave evidence, and the law which condemned him. He was sent to prison, sentence was pronounced against him with such expedition, as he had no leisure to consider his affairs. There was no man, for fear to incur the displeasures of the Magistrates, that durst open his mouth to speak or make suit for his deliverance. Like as that most part of friends in these days resembling that crow, that flieth not but after carrion to gorge his ravenous 〈◊〉, and such friends do visit the house of the friend but for profit, reverencing him so long as he is in prosperity, according to the Poet's complaint.  

Like as the purest gold in fiery flame is tried,  
Even so is faith of friends in hard estate descried  
If hard mischap doth thee affray,  
Each of thy friends do flee away,  
And he which erst full friendly ef to thee,  
A friend no more to thy poor state is he.   
And simple wights ought not to be afraid, and think amiss if friends do flee away, sith Princes and great Lords incur such hap and fortune. The great leader of the Roman armies, Pompeius, the honour of the people and senate of Rome, what companion had he to flee with him? Which of his ancient friends took pain to rescue and deliver him from his enemies hands which did pursue him? A king of Egypt which had known and found this good Roman Prince a kind & gentle friend, was he that killed him, and sent his head to his 〈◊〉 and unsatiable greedy gut julius Caesar, falsifying his promised faith, and forgetting his received pleasures. Amongs all the comforts which this poor Sienna Gentleman found, although but a cursed traitor, was this unfaithful and pestiferous Camaeleon, who came and offered him all the pleasure and kindness he was able to do. But the varlet attended convenient time to make him taste his poison, and to let him see by 〈◊〉, how dangerous a thing it is to be ill neighboured, hoping after the condemnation of Montanine, he should at pleasure purchase the Lordship, after which with so open mouth he gaped. Over whom he had his will: for two or 〈◊〉 days after the recital of the inditement, and giving of the evidence, Charles was condemned, & his fine sessed at M. Florins to be paid within. xv. days, until which 〈◊〉 to remain in prison. And for default of such payment to lose his head, because he had infringed the laws, and broken the statutes of the Senate. This sentence was very difficult for poor Montanine to digest, who saw all his goods like to be despoiled and confiscate, complaining specially the fortune of fair Angelica his sister, which all the time of the imprisonment of her dear brother, never went out of the house, ne ceased to weep & lament the hard fortune wherinto their family was like to fall by that new mischance: Alas (said that fair courteous damsel) will the heavens never be appeased but continually extend their wrath upon that deplored family, & shall our missehaps never cease? Had it not been more tolerable for our consumed blood, that the dissensions past, had been tried by dent of sword, than to see that present innocency of the young gentleman my brother in danger to be guiltlessly accused & put to death, through that unjustice of those, which bear mortal malice to noble blood, & glory in deprivation of the whole remembrance of the same? O damnable state that must hale the guiltless to the gibbet & irrevocable judgement of those judges remaining in a city, which men call free, albeit a consused multitude hath the upper hand, & may so be, that nature hath produced them to tread under foot noble wights for their offences. Ah dear brother, I see well what is the cause, if thou hadst not that little Lordship in the Country, & stately house in the city, no man would have envied thine estate, or could have charged thee with any crime, which I would to God, thou hadst not only enterprised, but also brought to pass, to the intent thou mightst have been revenged of the wrong, which these cankered carls ordinarily do unto thy Noble blood. But what reason is it that merchants & artificers, or the sons of villains should rule a common wealth? O happy Countries where kings give laws, & Princes see by proved sight, those persons which resemble them, & in their places bear the sway. And O unhappy we, that be the slaves of a wayward state, perverted by corruption. Why did our predecessors mind to establish any liberty at all, to thrust the same into the confused government of the commons of our country? We have still the Frenchmen at our tail, or that people of our highest bishop, or else those crafty Florentines, we be the common pray of all those that list to follow the haunt, and that which is our extremest misery, we make ourselves the very 〈◊〉 of them, that of right aught to be reputed that 〈◊〉 amongs us all. Ah dear brother, that thy wretched time is come, the only hope of our decayed family. Thou hadst never been committed to ward, had not thy false assured foes been sure of witness to condemn thee. Ah that my life might ransom thine, & redeem again thine estate & succour, thou shouldest be sure that forthwith Angelica would prepare hirself to be the pray of those hungry ravening wolves, which bleat and bellow after thy lands & life. While this fair damsel of Sienna in this sort did torment herself, poor Montanine seeing that he was brought to the last extremity of his desired hope, as each man naturally doth seek means to prolong his life, knowing that all other help failed for his deliverance, except he sold his land, aswell to satisfy the fine, as to prevail in the rest of his affairs, sent one of the gailers to that worshipful usurer the cause of his calamity, to offer him his land for that price and sum of a M. Ducats. The pernicious & 〈◊〉 villain seeing that Montanine was at his mercy, & stood in the water up to the very throat, and knew no more what to do, as if already he had triumphed of his life and land so greatly coveted, answered him in this manner: My friend, thou shalt say to Charles Montanine, that not long ago I would willingly have given him a good sum of money for his farm, but sithence that time I have employed my money to some better profit: and albeit I was in mind to buy it, I would be loath to give above. 〈◊〉. 〈◊〉. Florins, being assured that it can not be 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, as my money is able to bring yearly gain into my 〈◊〉.  
See how Avarice is the pickpurse of secret and 〈◊〉 gain, & the very whirlpool of honesty & 〈◊〉, coveting nought else but by unrighteous pray 〈◊〉 other men's goods, to accumulate and heap together. The abundance whereof bringeth no greater good 〈◊〉 unto the gluttonous owner, but rather the mind 〈◊〉 such is more miserable, and carrieth there withal more decrease of quiet, than increase of filthy muck. The covetous man beareth no love but to his treasure, nor exerciseth charity but upon his coffers, who than he would be dispossessed thereof, had rather sell the life of his natural father. This detestable villain having sometimes offered M. Ducats to Charles for his inheritance, will now do so no more, aspiring the total ruin of the Montanine family. Charles advertised of his mind, and amazed for the Counsels decree, well saw that all things contraried his hope and expectation, and that he must needs die to satisfy the excessive and covetous lust of that Cormerant, whose malice he knew to be so vehement, as none durst offer him money, by reason of the unhappy desire of this never contented varlet: for which consideration thoroughly resolved to die, rather than to leave his poor sister helpless, and without relief, and rather than he would agree to the bargain tending to his so great loss and disadvantage, and to the tyrannous dealing of the wicked tormentor of his life, seeing also that all means to purge and aver his innocency, was taken from him, the 〈◊〉 decree of the judges being alre ady passed, he began to dispose himself to repentance and salvation of his soul, making complaint of his missehapsin this manner.  

TO what hath not the heavens hateful been,  
Since for the ease of man they weave such woe?  
By divers toils they lap our corsses in  
With cares and griefs, whereon our mischiefs grow:  
The bloody hands and sword of mortal foe,  
Do search mine evil, and would destroy me quite,  
Through heinous hate, and hateful heaped spite.   

Wherefore come not the fatal sisters three,  
That draw the line of life and death by right?  
Come 〈◊〉 all, and make an end of me,  
For from the world, my spirit would take his flight.  
Why comes not now fowl Gorgon full in sight,  
And Typhon's head, that deep in hell remains?  
For to torment the silly souls in pains?   

It better were for me to feel your force,  
Than this mishap of murdering envies rage,  
By cursed means and fall upon my corpse,  
And work my 〈◊〉 amid my flowering age:  
For if I were dispatched in this desire,  
The fear were gone, of black infernal fire.   

O Gods of seas, and cause of blustering wind,  
Thou Aeolus and Neptune to I say,  
Why did you let my Bark such fortune find  
That safe to shore I came by any way?  
Why broke ye not, against some rock or bay,  
The keel, the stern, or else blew down the mast,  
By whose large sails, through surging seas I passed?   

Had those things happed, I had not seen this hour,  
The house of dole, where woeful spirits complain,  
Nor usurers on me had used such power,  
Nor I had seen depainted in disdain,  
The God of care, with whom dead Ghosts remain,  
Who howls and skrekes in hollow trees and holes,  
Where Charon reigns, among condemned souls.   

Ah, ah, since hap will work my wretched end,  
And that my ruin by judgement is decreed:  
Why doth not hap such happy fortune send,  
That I may lead with me the man in deed,  
That stained his faith, and failed me at my need,  
For gain of gold, as usurers do God knows,  
Who cannot spare the dropping of their nose?   

I should have slain the slave that served me so,  
Oh God forbidden, my hands were brewed in blood.  
Should I desire the harm of friend or foe?  
Nay better were to wish mine en'my good:  
For if my death I thoroughly understood,  
I should make short the course I have to run,  
Since rest is got, when worldly toil is done.   

Alas, alas, my chiefest way is this,  
Aguiltlesse death to susfer as I can,  
So shall my soul be sure of heavens bliss,  
And good renown shall rest behind me than,  
And body shall take end where it began,  
And fame shall fly before me, ere I flit  
Unto the Gods, where jove in throne doth sit.   

O God convert, from vice to virtue now,  
The heart of him that falseth faith with me,  
And change his mind, and mend his manners throw,  
That he his fault and fowl offence may see,  
For death shall make my fame immortal be:  
And whiles the Sun which in the heavens doth shine,  
The shame is his, and honour shall be mine.   

Alas I mourn not for myself alone,  
Nor for the same of my forefuthers' old,  
'tis Angelic, that carseth me to moon,  
'tis she that fills my breast with sansies cold,  
'tis she more worth, than was the slice of gold,  
That moves my mind, and bredes such passions strange,  
As in myself I feel a wondrous chaknge.   

Have pity Lord of her and me this day,  
Since destiny thus hath sundered us in 〈◊〉,  
O suffer not 〈◊〉 virtues to decay,  
But let her take in friendship such delight,  
That from her breast all vice be banished quite.  
And let her like, as did her noble race  
When I poor man 〈◊〉 dead, and out of place.   

Alas my hand would write these woeful lines,  
That feeble spirit denies for want of might,  
Wherefore my heart in breast consumes and pines,  
With deep desires, that far is from man's sight,  
But God he sees mine innocency and right,  
And knows the cause of mine accuser still,  
Who seeks my blood to have on me his will.   
When Charles thus complained himself, and thoroughly was determined to die, great pity it was to see how fair Angelica did rend her face, & tear her golden locks, when she saw how impossible it was to save her obstinate brother from the cruel sentence pronounced upon him, for whom she had employed all her wits and fair speech, to persuade the nearest of her kin to make suit. Thus rested she alone full of such heaviness & veration as they can think which see themselves deprived of things that they esteem most dear. But of one thing I can well assure you, that if ill fortune had permitted that Charles should have been put to death, the gentle damsel also had breathed forth the final gasp of her sorrowful life, yielding therewithal the last end of the Montanine race & family. What booteth it to hold process of long discourse? Behold the last day is come deferred by the judges, whereupon he must either satisfy the fine, or die the next day after like a rebel and traitor against the state, without any of his kin making suit or mean for his deliverance: albeit they visited the fair maiden, and comforted her in that her wretched state, instructing her how she should govern herself patiently to suffer things remediless. Angelica accompanied with her kin, & the maidens dwelling by that were her companions, made the air to sound with outcries & waimenting, and she herself exclaimed like a woman distraught of wits, whose plaints the multitude assisted with like eiulations & outcries, wailing the fortune of the young gentleman, & sorrowful to see the maiden in danger to fall into some mishap. As these things were thus bewailed, it chanced about. ix. of the clock at night, that Anselmo Salimbene, he whom we have said to be surprised with the love of Angelica, returning out of the Country, where he had remained for a certain time, and passing before the house of his Lady, according to his custom, heard the voice of women & maidens which mourned for Montanine, & therewithal stayed: the chiefest cause of his stay was, for that he saw go forth out of the palace of his Angelica, divers women making moan & lamentation: wherefore he demanded of that neighbours what noise that was, & whether any in those quarters were dead or no. To whom they declared at length, all that which ye have heard before. Salimbene hearing this story, went home to his house, & being secretly entered into his chamber, begun to discourse with himself upon that accident, and 〈◊〉 a thousand things in his head, in the end thought that Charles should not so be cast away, were he justly or innocently condemned, and for the only respect of his sister, that she might not be left destitute of all the goods and inheritance. Thus discoursing divers things, at length he said: I were a very simple person now to rest in doubt, sith Fortune is more curious of my felicity than I could wish, and seeketh the effect of my desires, when lest of all I thought upon them. For behold, Montanine alone is left of all the mortal enemies of our house, which to morrow openly shall lose his head like a rebel & seditious person, upon whose ancestors in him shall I be revenged, and the quarrel between our two families, shall take end, having no more cause to fear renewing of discord, by any that can descend from him. And who shall let me then from enjoying her, whom I do love, her 〈◊〉 being dead, and his goods confiscate to the signory and she without all maintenance and relief, except the aid of her only beauty and courtesy? What maintenance shall she have, if not by the love of some honest Gentleman, that for his pleasure may support her, and have pity upon the loss of so excellent beauty? Ah Salimbene, what hast thou said? Hast thou already forgotten that a Gentleman for that only cause is esteemed above all other, whose glorious facts ought to shine before the brightness of those that force themselves to follow virtue? Art not thou a Gentleman borne and bred in noble house, ssued from the loins of gentle and noble parents? Is it ignorant unto thee, that it pertaineth unto a noble and gentle heart, to revenge received injuries himself, without seeking aid of other, or else to pardon them by using clemency and princely courtesy, burying all desire of vengeance under the tomb of eternal oblivion? And what greater glory can man acquire, than by vanquishing himself, and chastising his affections and rage, to bind him which never thought to receive pleasure or benefit at his hand? It is a thing which exceedeth the common order of nature, and so it is meet and requisite, that the most excellent do make the effects of their excellency appear, and seek means for the immortality of their remembrance. The great Dictator Caesar was more praised for pardoning his 〈◊〉, and for showing himself courteous and easy to be spoken to, than for subduing the brave and valiant Galls and Britons, or vanquishing the mighty Pompee. Dom Roderigo Vivario, the Spaniard, although he might have been revenged upon Dom Pietro, king of Arragon, for his infidelity, because he went about to hinder his voyange against the Saracens at Grenado, yet would not punish or ransom him, but taking him prisoner in the wars, suffered him to go without any tribute, or any exaction of him and his 〈◊〉. The more I follow the example of mighty personages in things that be good, the more notorious and wonderful shall I make myself in their rare and noble deeds. And not willing to forget a wrong done unto me, whereof may I complain of Montanine? what thing hath he ever done against me or mine? And albeit his predecessors were enemies to our family, they have therefore borne the penance, more hard than the sin deserved. And truly I should be afraid, that God would suffer me to 〈◊〉 into some mishap, if seeing one afflicted, I should rejoice in his affliction, & take by his decay an argument of joy & pleasure. No no, Salimbene is not of mind, that such fond imagination should bereave good will to make himself a friend, & to gain by liberality & courtesy her, which for her only virtue deserveth a greater lord than I. Being asiured, that there is no man (except he were 〈◊〉 of all good nature & humanity) specially bearing the love to Angelica, that I do, but he would be sorry to see her in such heaviness and despair, & would attempt to deliver her from such dolorous grief. For if I love her as I do in deed, must not I likewise love all that which she earnest lie loveth, as him that is now in danger of death for a simple fine of a thousand Florins. That my heart do make appear what the love is, which maketh me tributary and subject to fair Angelica, & that each man may know, that furious love hath vanquished kings & great monarchs, it behoveth not me to be abashed, if I which am a man & subject tapassions, so well as other, do submit myself to the service of her, who I am assured is so virtuous as even very necessity cannot force her to forget the house, whereof she took her original. Vaunt thyself then 〈◊〉 Angclica to have forced a heart of itself impregnable, & given him a wound which the stoutest lads, might sooner have deprived of life, than put him out of the way of his gentle kind: And 〈◊〉 Montanine, think, that if thou wilt thyself, thou wynnest to day so hearty a friend, as only death shall separate the union of us twain, and of all our posterity. It is I, nay it is I myself, that shall excel thee in duty, pointing the way for the wisest, to get honour, and violently compel the moved minds of those that be our adversaries, desiring rather vainly to forego mine own life, than to give over the virtuous conceits, which be already grifted in my mind. After this long discourse seeing that the time required diligence, he took a thousand Ducats, and went to the Treasurer of the fines, deputed by the state, whom he fond in his office, and said unto him: I have brought you sir, the Thousand Ducats, which Charles Montanine is bound to pay for his deliverance. Tell them, and give him an acquittance that presently he may come forth. The Treasurer would have given him the rest, that exceeded the sum of a Thousand Florins: but Salimbene refused the same, and receiving a letter for his discharge, he sent one of his servants therewithal to the chief Jailer, who seeing that the sum of his condemnation was paid, immediately delivered Montanine out of the prison where he was fast shut, and fettered with great and weighty gives. Charles' thinking that some Friar had been come to confess him, and that they had showed him 〈◊〉 mercy to do him to death in prison, that abroad in open shame of the world he might not deface the noble house whereof he came, was at the first sight astoned, but having prepared himself to die, praised God, and besought him to vouchsafe not to forget him in that sorrowful passage, wherein the stoutest and courageous many times be faint & inconstant. He recommended his soul, he prayed forgiveness of his sins: and above all, he humbly besought the goodness of God, that it would please him to have pity upon his sister, and to deliver her from all infamy and dishonour. When he was carried out of the Jail, and brought before the chief Jailer, suddenly his gives were discharged from his legs, & every of the standers by looked merrily upon him, without speaking any word that might asfray him. That Courtesy 〈◊〉 for, made him attend some better thing, and 〈◊〉 him of that which before by any means he durst not think. And his expectation was not deceived. For the Jailer said unto him: Be of good cheer sir, for behold the letters of your discharge, wherefore you may go at liberty whether you list. In saying so, he opened the pri son, and licenced Montanine to departed, praying him not to take in ill part his entreaty and hard imprisonment, for that he durst do none other, the State of the City having so enjoined him. May not each wight now behold how that the events of love be divers from other passions of mind? How could Salimbene have so charitably delivered Montanine, the hatred being so long time rooted between the two houses, if some great occasion which hath no name in Love, had not altered his nature, and extinguished his affection? It is meritorious to secure them whom we never saw before, sith nature moveth us to do well to them that be like ourselves. But faith surmounteth there, where the very natural inclination feeleth itself constrained, and seeth that to be broken, which obstinately was purposed to be kept in mind. The graces, gentleness, beauty, mild behaviour and allurement of Angelica, had greater force over Salimbene, than the humility of her brother, although he had kneeled a hundred times before him. But what heart is so brute, but may be made tractable and mild, by the contemplation of a thing so rare, as the excellent beauty of that Sienna maiden, and would not humble it self to acquire the good graces of so perfect a damsel? I will never accuse man for being in love with a fair and virtuous woman, nor esteem him a slave, which painfully serveth a sober maiden, whose heart is fraught with honest affections, and mind with desire tending to good end. Well worthy of blame is he to be deemed which is in love with the outward hue, and praiseth the tree only laden with flowers, without regard to the fruit, which maketh it worthy of commenbation. The young maiden must needs resemble the flower of the Spring time, until by her constancy, modesty, and chastity, she hath vanquished the concupiscence of the flesh, and brought forth the hoped fruit of a virtue and chastity not common. Otherwise, 〈◊〉 shall be like the enrolled soldier, whose valiance his only mind doth witness, & the offer which he maketh to him that doth register his name in that muster books. But when the efsect of 〈◊〉 is joined with his 〈◊〉, and proof belieth not his promise, than the 〈◊〉 embraceth him, and advanceth him, as a glass for his affairs from that time forth. The like of dames having passed the assaults and resisted the attempts of their assailants which be honest, not by force being not required, but inclined by their own nature, and the diligence of their chaste and invincible heart. But return we again unto our purpose, Montanine, when he was delivered, forthwith went home to his house, to comfort her, whom he was more than sure to be in great distress and heaviness for his sake, and which had so much need of comfort as he had, to take his rest. He came to that gate of his palace (where being known that it was Montanine) his sister by any means could not be made to believe the same: so impossible seem things unto us, which we most desire. They were all in doubt like as we read that they were, when S. Peter escaped Herod's prison by the Angel's means.  
When Angelica was assured that it was her brother, sobs were laid aside, sighs were cast away, and heavy weepings converted into tears of joy, she went to embrace and kiss her brother, praising God for his deliverance, and making account that he had been raised from death to life, considering his stoutness of mind, rather bend to die than to forego his land, for so small a price. The dames that were kin unto him, and tarried there in company of the maiden half in despair, lest by despair and fury she might fall into outrage, thereby to put her life in peril, with all expedition advertised their husbands of Montanines liberty, not looked for, who repaired thither, as well to rejoice with him in his joy and good fortune, as to make their excuse, for that they had not travailed to rid him from that misery. Charles which cared nothing at all for those mouth blessings, dissembled what he thought, thanking them nevertheless for their visitation and good remembrance they had of him, for visiting & comforting his sister, which honour he esteemed no less than if they had employed the same upon his own person. Their friends & kinsfolk being departed, & assured that none of them had paid his ransom, he was wonderfully astoned, & the greater was his grief for that he could not tell what he was, which without request, had made so gentle a proof of his liberality: if he knew nothing, far more ignorant was his sister, forsomuch as she did think, that he had changed his mind, & that the horror of death had made him sell his country inheritance, to him which made the first offer to buy the same: but either of them deceived of their thought went to bed. Montanine rested not all the night, having still before his eyes, the unknown image of him that had delivered him. His bed served his turn to none other purpose, but as a large field or some long alley within a wood, for walks to make discourse of his minds conceits, sometimes remembering one, sometimes another, without hitting the blank and naming of him that was his deliverer, unto whom he confessed himself to owe his service and duty so long as he lived. And because he saw the day begin to appear, and that the morning, the Uauntcurrour of the day, summoned Apollo to harness his horse to begin his course in our Hemisphere, he rose and went to the Chamberlain or treasurer, such as was deputed for receipt, of the Fines, sessed by the State, whom he saluted, and receiving like salutation, he prayed him to show him so much pleasure, as to tell him the party's name, that was so liberal to satisfy his fine due in the 〈◊〉 of the State. To whom the other answered: None other hath caused thy deliverance (O Montanine) but a certain person of the world, whose name thou mayst easily guess, to whom I gave an acquittance of thine imprisonment, but not of the just sum, because he gave me a thousand Ducats for a thousand Florins, and would not receive the overplus of the debt, which I am ready to deliver thee with thine acquittance. I have not to doc with the money (said Charles) only I pray you to tell me the name of him that hath done me this great courtesy, that hereafter I may acknowledge him to be my friend. It is said the Chamberlain) Anselmo Salimbene, who is to be commended and praised above all thy parents and kin, and came hither very late to bring the money, the surplusage whereof, behold here it is. God forbidden (said Montanine) that I should take away that, which so happily was brought hither to rid me out of pain: and so went away with his acquittance, his mind charged with a numbered of fancies for the fact done by Salimbene. Being at home at his house, he was long time stayed in a deep consideration, desirous to know the cause of that gentle part, proceeding from him whose whose parents and ancestors were the capital enemies of his race. In the end like one rising from a sound sleep, he called to mind, that very many times he had seen Anselmo with attentive eye and fired look to behold Angelica, and in eyeing her very lovingly, he passed every day (before their gate) not showing other countenance, but of good will, and with friendly gessure, rather than enemies face, saluting Angelica at all times when he met her. Wherefore Montanine was assured, that the only love of Salimbene towards his sister had caused that deliverance, concluding that when the passion doth proceed of good love, seized in gentle heart and of noble enterprise, it is impossible but it must bring forth the marvelous effects of virtues gallantise, of honesty and courtesy, and that the spirit well borue, can not so much hide his gentle nurture, but the fire must flame abroad, and that which seemeth difficult to be brought to pass, is facility, and made possible by the conceits and endeavours so well employed, and not common to a mind that is not severed from villainy: wherefore in the end not to be surmounted in honesty, ne yet to bear the mark of one, that unthankfully accepted good turns, he determined to use a great prodigality upon him, that under the name of foe, had showed himself a more faithful friend, than those that bare good face, and at need were furthest off from afflicted Montanine, who not knowing what present to make to Salimbene, but of himself and his sister, purposed to 〈◊〉 his mind to Angelica, and then upon knowledge of her will to perform his intent. For which cause understanding that his gracious enemy was gone into the country, he thought well to consider of his determination, and to break with her in his absence, the better to execute the same upon his next return to the city. No called Angelica aside, and being both alone together, he used these or such like words: You know dear sister, that the higher is the fall, the more dangerous it is, and greater grief he feeleth that doth fall from high than he that tumbleth down from place more low and of lesser stéepenesse. I speak this, because I call to mind the condition, nobility, and excellency of our ancestors, the glory of our race, and riches of all our house, which constraineth me many times to sigh, & shed a stream of tears, when I see the sumptuous palaces that were the homes and resting places of our fathers, and grand fathers, when I see on all parts of this City, the Arms, and scutcheons painted and embossed, bearing the mark of the antiquity of our house, and when I behold the stately marble tombs and brazen monuments, in divers our temples erected for perpetual memory of many knights and generals of wars, that sorted forth the Montanine race: & chief I never enter this great palace, the remnant of our inheritance and patrimony, but the remembrance of our ancestors, so glanceth over mine heart, as an hundred hundred times, I 〈◊〉 for death, to think that I am the post alone of the misery and decay fallen upon the name and famous family of the Montanines, which maketh me think our life to be unhappy, being down fallen from such felicity, to feel a misery most extreme. But one thing alone ought to content us, that amid so great poverty, ill luck, ruin & abasement, none is able to lay unto our charge any thing unworthy of the nobility & the house, whereof we be descended, our life being conformable to the generosity of our predecessors, whereby it chanceth, that although our poor estate be generally known, yet none can affirm, that we have forligned that virtue of them, which virtuously have lived in our race. If so be 〈◊〉 have received pleasure or benefit of any man, never disdained I with all duty to acknowledge a good turn, still shunning the vice of ingratitude, to soil the reputation, wherein hitherto I have passed my life. Is there any blot which more spotteth the renown of man, than not confessing received benefits and pleasures performed in our necessity? You know in what peril of death I was, these few days past, through their false surmise which never 〈◊〉 me, and home almost miraculously I was redeemed out of the hangman's hands, & the cruel sentence of the unrighteous magistrate, not one of our kin offering themselves in deed or word for my defence, which forceth me to say, that I have felt of my kin, which I never thought, & have tasted, such commodity at his hands, of whom I never durst expect or hope for pleasure, relief, aid or any comfort. I attended my deliverance by suit of those, whom I counted for kin & friends, but the same so soon vanished, as the necessity & peril were present. So pressed with woe, and forsaken of friends, I was afraid that our adversaries (to remove all fear and suspicion in time to come) would have purchased my total ruin, & procured the overthrow of the Montanines name, by my death, and approached end. But good God, from the place whereof I feared the danger, the calm arose, which hath brought my bark to the haven of health, & at his hands where I attended ruin, I have tasted affiance & sustentation of mine honour & life. And plainly to proceed, it is Anselmo Salimbene, the son of our ancient & capital enemies, that hath showed himself the very loyal & faithful friend of our family, and hath delivered your brother by payment to the State, the sum not of a thousand Florins, but of a thousand ducats to ransom the life of him, who thought him to be his most cruel adversary. O Gentleman's heart in deed, & gentle mind, whose rare virtues do surpass all humane understanding. Friends united together in band of amity, amaze the world by that effects not vulgar in things which they do one for an other. But this surmounteth all, a mortal enemy, not reconciled or required, without demand of assurance for that pleasure, which he doth, payeth the debts of his adversary: which fact exceedeth all consideration to them, that discover the facts of men. I can not tell what name to attribute to the deed of Salimbene, and what I ought to call that his courtesy, but this must I needs protest, that the example of his honesty and gentleness is of such force, and so much hath vanquished me, as whether I shall die in pain, or live at case, never am I able to exceed his liberality. Now my life being engaged for that which he hath done to me, and he having delivered the same from infamous death, it is in your hands (dear sister) to do the devise imagined in my mind, to the intent that I may be only bound to you for satisfying the liberality of Salimbene, by means whereof, you which wept the death and wailed the lost liberty of your brother, do see me free, and in safety, having none other care but to be acquitted of him, to whom both you and I be dearly bound. Angelica hearing her brother speak those words, and knowing that Salimbene was he, that had surpassed all their kin in amity and comfort of their family, answered her brother, saying: I would never have thought (good brother) that your deliverannce had come to pass by him whose name even now you fold, and that our enemies breaking all remembrance of ancient quarrels, had care of the health and conservation of the Montanines. Wherefore if it were in my power I would satisfy the courtesy and gentleness of Ansehno, but I know not which way to begin the same, I being a maid that knoweth not how to recompense a good turn, but by acknowledging the same in heart: and to go to render thanks, it is neither lawful or comely for me, and much less to offer him any thing, for the little access I have to his house, and the small familiarity I have with the Gentlewomen of his kin. Notwithstanding brother, consider you wherein my power resteth to aid and help you, and be assured (mine honour saved) I will spare nothing for your contentation. Sister (said Montanine) I have of long time debated with myself what is to be 〈◊〉, and devised what might be the occasion that moved this young Gentleman to use so great kindness toward me, and having diligently pondered and weighed what I have seen and known, at length I found that it was the only force of love, which constrained his affection, and altered the ancient hatred that he bore us, into new love, that by no means can be quenched. It is the covert fire which love hath kindled in his entrails, it is love which hath raised the true effects of gentleness, and hath consumed the conceits of displeased mind. O the great force of that amorous alteration, which upon the sudden exchange, seemeth impossible to receive any more change or mutation. The only beauty and good grace of you sister, hath induced our gracious enemy, the servant of your perfections, to deliver the poor Gentleman forlorn of all good fortune. It is the honest life and commendable behaviour of Angelica Montanine, which have incited Anselmo to do an act so praise worthy, and a deed so kind, to procure the deliverance of one, which looked not for a chance of so great consequence. Ah Gentle young Gentleman, Ah Princely mind, and heart noble and magnanunous. Alas how shall it be possible that ever I can approach the honest liberality wherewith thou haste bound me for ever? My life is thine, mine honour dependeth of thee, my goods be tied to thee. What resteth then? if not that you (sister) void of cruelty do use no unkindness to him that loveth you and who for love of you hath prodigally offered his own goods to rid me from pain and dishonour? If so be, my life and 〈◊〉 have been acceptable unto thee, and the sight of me discharged from prison was joyful unto thee, if thou gavest thy willing consent that I should sell my 〈◊〉, grant presently that I may with a great, rare, & precious present, requite the goodness, pleasure & courtesy that Salimbene hath done for your sake: And sith I am not able with goods of fortune to satisfy his bounty, it is your person which may supply that default, to the intent that you and I may be quitted of the 〈◊〉, wherein we stand bound unto him. It behoveth that for the offer and reward of money which he hath employed, we make present of your beauty, not selling the price of your chastity, but delivering the same in exchange of courtesy, being assured for his gentleness & good nurture sake, he will use you none otherwise, or usurp any greater authority over you, than vertus permitteth in each gentle and noble heart. I have none other mean of fatisfaction, ne larger ransom to render free my head from the tribute which Salimbene hath given for my life and liberty. Think (dear sister) what determinate answer you will make me, and consider if my request be meet to be denied. It is in your choice and pleasure to deny or consent to my demand. If so be that I be refused and lose the means by your refuse to be acquitted of my defender, I had rather forsake my City and Country, than to live here with the name of ingratitude, for not acknowledging so great a pleasure. But alas, with what eye shall I dare behold the Nobility of Sienna, if by great unkindness I pass under silence the rarest friendship that ever was devised? What hearts sorrow shall I conceive to be pointed at with the finger, like one that hath forgotten in acknowledging by effect, the received pleasure of my deliverance? No (sister) either you must be the quiet of my mind, and the acquittance of us 〈◊〉, or else must I die, or wander like a vagabond into strange Countries, and never put foot again into Italy. At those words Angelica stood so astoned and confused, and so besides herself, like as we see one distraught of sense that feeleth himself attached with some amaze of the Palsy. In the end recovering her spirits, and beblubbered all with tears, her stomach panting like the bellows of a forge, she answered her brother in this manner: I know not loving brother by reason of my troubled mind how to answer your demand, which seemeth to be both right and wrong, right 〈◊〉 respect of the 〈◊〉, not so, in consideration of the request. But how I prove the same, and what reason I can allege and discover for that proof, hearken me so patiently, as I have reason to complain and dispute upon this chance more hard and difficult to avoid, than by reply able to be defended, sith that life and the hazarding thereof is nothing, in regard of that which you will have 〈◊〉 to present with too exceeding prodigal liberality, and I would to God that life might satisfy the same, then be sure it should so soon be employed, as the promise made thereof. Alas good God, I thought that when I 〈◊〉 my brother out of prison, the near distress of death, whereunto unjustly he was thrown, I thought (I say) and firmly did believe, that fortune the enemy of our joy, had vomited all her poison, and being despoiled of her fury and crabbed nature had broken the bloody and venomous arrows, wherewith so long time she hath plagued our family, and that by resting of herself: she had given some rest to the Montanine house of all their troubles & misadventures. But I (O miserable wight) do see & feel how far I am divided from my hope, and deceived of mine opinion, sith that furious stepdame, appeareth before me with a face more fierce & threatening, then ever she did, sharpening herself against my youth in other sort, than ever against any of our race. If ever she persecuted our ancestors, if she brought them to ruin and decay, she now doth purpose wholly to subvert the same, and throw us headlong into that bottomless pit of all misery, exterminating for all together, the remnant of our consumed house. Be it either by loss of thee (good brother,) or the violent death of me which cannot hazard my chastity for the price of mine unhappy life: Ah good God, into what anguish is my mind exponed, & how do I feel the force and violence of froward fortune? But what speak I of fortune? How doth hard luck ensue, that is predestinated by the heavens upon our race? Must I at so tender years, and of so feeble kind make choice of a thing, which would put the wisest upon earth unto their shifts? My heart doth fail me, reason wanteth and judgement hangeth in balance by continual agitations, to see how I am driven to the extremity of two dangerous straits, & environed with fearful jeopardies, forcibly compelled either to be divided and separated from thee (my brother,) whom I love above mine own life, & in whom next after God I have fised and put my hope and trust, having none other solace, comfort and help, but thee, or else by keeping thee, am forced to give unto another, & know not how, that precious treasure which being once lost, cannot be recovered by any means, & for the guard and conservation whereof, every woman of good judgement that loveth virtue, ought a thousand times to offer herself to death (if so many ways she could) rather than to blot or soil that inestimable jewel of chastity, wherewith our life is a true life: contrariwise she which fond suffereth herself to be disseazed and spoiled of the same, & looseth it without honest title, albeit she be a live, yet is she buried in the most obscure cave of death, having lost the honour which maketh Maidens march with head upright. But what goodness hath a Lady, gentlewoman, maiden or wife, wherein she can glory, her honour being in doubt, and reputation darkened with infamy? Whereto served the imperial house of Augustus, in those Ladies that were entitled with the emperors daughters, when for their villainy, their were unworthy of the title of chaste and virtuous? What profited Faustina the Imperial crown upon her head, her chastity through her abominable life, being rapt and despoiled? What wrong hath been done to many simple women, for being buried in the tomb of dark oblivion, which for their virtue and pudique life, merited eternal praise? Ah Charles my brother dear, where hast thou bestowed the eye of thy fore seeing mind, that without foresight and care of the fame due to the honest dames, and chaste damosels of our family, having lost the goods & fathers inheritance, wilt have me in like sort sorgoe my chastity, which hitherto I have kept with héedeful diligence. Wilt thou dear brother by the price of my virginity, that Anselmo shall have greater victory over us, than he hath gotten by fight of sword upon the allied remnant of our house? Art thou ignorant that the wounds and diseases of the mind, be more vehement than those which afflict the body? Ah I unhappy maiden and what ill luck is reserved for me, what destiny hath kept me till this day to be presented for Venus' Sacrifice, to satisfy a young man's lust, which coveteth (peradventure) but the spoil of my virginity? O happy the Roman maid, slain by the proper hands of her woeful father Virginius, that she might not be soiled with infamy, by the lecherous embracements of ravenous Appius, which desired her acquaintance. Alas that my brother do not so, rather I would to God of his own accord he be the 〈◊〉 minister of my life, ready to be violated, if God by 〈◊〉 grace take not my cause in hand? Alas death, why 〈◊〉 thou not throw against my heart thy most piercing dart, that I may go wait upon the shadows of my thrice happy parents, who knowing this my grief, will not be void of passion to help me wail my woeful state. O God why was not I choked and strangled, so soon as I was taken forth the secret embracements of my mother's womb, rather than to arrive into this mishap, that either must I lose the thing I deem most dear, or die with the violence of my proper hands? Come death, come, and cut the unhappy thread of my woeful life, stop the pace of tears with thy trenchant dart that stream outrageously down my face, and close the breathing wind of sighs, which hinder thee from doing thine office upon my heart, by suffocation of my life and it. When she had ended those words, her speech did fail, and waxing pale and faint, (sitting upon by'r stool) she fared as though that very death had sitten in her place. Charles thinking that his sister had been dead, 〈◊〉 with sorrow, and desirous to live no longer after her, seeing he was the cause of that swooning, fell down dead upon the ground, moving neither hand nor foot, as though the soul had been departed from the body. At the noise which Montanine made by reason of his fall, Angelica revived out of her swoon, and seeing her brother in so pitiful plight, and supposing he had been dead for care of his request, for being berieved of her brother, was so moved, as a little thing would have made her do, as 〈◊〉 did, when she viewed Pyramus to be slain. But conceiving hope, she threw herself upon her brother, cursing her fortune, banning the stars of cruelty, and her lavash speech, and herself for her little love to her brother, who made no refusal to die to save his land for relief of her: where she denied to yield herself to him that loved her with so goodaffection. In the end she applied so many remedies unto her brother, sometimes casting cold water upon his face, sometimes pinching and rubbing the temples and pulses of his arms, & his mouth with vinegar, that she made him to come again: and seeing that his eyes were open, beholding her intentively with that countenance of a man half in despair, she said unto him: For so much brother as I see fortune to be so froward, that by no means thou canst avoid the cruel lot, which launcheth me into the bottom of mortal misery, and that I must adventure to follow the endeavours of thy mind, and obey thy will, which is more gentle & noble, than fraught with reason, I am content to satisfy the same, and the love which hitherto thou hast born me. Be of good cheer, and do with me & my body what thou list, give and present the same to whom thou pleasest. Well be thou sure, that so soon as I shall be out of thy hands and power, I will be called or esteemed thine no more, and thou shalt have less authority to stay me from doing the devices of my fantasy, swearing & protesting by the almighty God, that never man shall touch Angelica, except it be in marriage, and that if he assay to pass any further, I have a heart that shall encourage my hands to sacrifice my life to the chastity of noble dames which had rather die than live in 〈◊〉 of dishonesty. I will die a body without 〈◊〉, and the mind void of consent, shall receive no shame or filth that can soil or spot the same. In saying so, she began again to weep in such abundance, as the humour of her brain ran down by the issue of both her eyes. Montanine albeit sorrowful beyond measure to see his gentle & chaste sister in such vexation & heaviness, rejoiced yet in his mind, that she had agreed to his 〈◊〉, which presaged the good luck that afterwards chanced unto him, for his liberal offer. Wherefore said he to Angelica, I was never in my life so desirous to live, but that I rather choose to die, than procure a thing that should turn thee to displeasure and grief, or to hazard thine honour and reputation in danger or peril of damage, which thou hast ever known, and shouldest have still perceived by effect, or more properly to speak, touched with thy finger, if that incomparable and rare courtesy and liberality of Salimbene had not provoked me to require that, which honestly thou canst not give, nor I demand without wrong to thee, and prejudice to mine own estimation and honour. But what? the sear I have to be deemed ingrate, hath 〈◊〉 me forget thee, and the great honesty of Anselmo maketh me hope, yea and steadfastly believe, that thou shalt receive none other displeasure, but to be presented unto him, whom at other times we have thought to be our mortal enemy. And I think it impossible that he will use any villainy to her, whom he so fervently loveth, for whose sake he feareth not the hatred of his 〈◊〉, & disdained not to save him whom he hated, and on whom he might have been revenged. And for so much sister, as the face commonly showeth the sign and token of the hearts affections, I pray 〈◊〉 by any means declare no sad countenance in the presence of Salimbene, but rather cheer 〈◊〉 thy face. dry up the abundance of thy tears, that he by seeing thee joyful and merry, may be moved to 〈◊〉 his courtesy and use thee honestly, being satisfied with thy liberality, and the offer which I will make of our service.  
Here may be seen the 〈◊〉 of two divers things, duty combating with shame, reason being in contention with himself. Angelica knew and confessed that her brother did but his duty, and that she was bound by that same very bond. On the other side, her estate and virginal chastity, broke the endeavours of her duty, and denied to do that which she esteemed right. Nevertheless she prepared herself to follow both the one and the other: and by acquiling the duty to her brother, she ordained the mean, to discharge him of that, which he was bound to his benefactor, determining nevertheless rather to die, than shamefully to suffer herself to be abused, or to make her lose the flower, which made her glister amongs the maidens of the city, & to deface her good fault by an act so villainous. But that special rare virtue was more singular in her, than was the continency of Cyrus the Persian King, who fearing to be forced by the allurements of the excellent beauty of chaste Panthea, would not suffer her to be brought into his presence, for fear that he being surmounted with foolish lusts, should force her, that by other means could not be persuaded to break the holy laws of marriage, and promised Faith to her husband. For Salimbene having in his presence, and at his commandment her, whom above all things he loved, would by no means abuse his power, but declared his Gentle nature to be of other force and effect, than that of the afore said king, by reading the success of this history you shall perceive.  
After that Montanine and his sister had uttered many other words upon their determination, and that the fair maiden was appeased of her sorrow, attending the issue of that which they went about to begin: Anselmo was come home out of the Country, whereof Charles having intelligence, about the second hour of the night, be caused his sister to make her ready, and in company of one of their servants that carried light before them, they came to the lodging of Salimbene, whose servant seeing Montanine so accompanied to knock at the gate, if he did marvel I leave for you to think, by reason of that displeasure & hatred which he knew to be between the two families, not knowing that which had already passed for the beginning of a final peace of so many controversies: for which cause so astoned as he was, he went to tell his master that Montanine was at the gate, desirous secretly to talk unto him. 〈◊〉 knowing what company Charles had with him, was not unwilling to go down, & 〈◊〉 two torches to be lighted, came to his gate to entertain them, & to welcome the brother and the sister, with so great courtesy & friendship as he was surprised with love, seeing before his eyes the sight of her, that burned his heart incessantly, not discovering as yet the secrets of his thought, by making her to understand the good will he bore her, and how much he was her servant. He could not tell well whether he was incharmed, or his eyes daselled, or not well wakened from 〈◊〉 when he saw Angelica, so amazed was he with the strangeness of the fact, and arrival of the maiden to his house. Charles seeing him so confused, and knowing that the great affection he bore unto his sister, made him so perplexed & besides himself, said unto him: Sir we would gladly speak with you in one of your chambers, that there might be none other witness of our discourse, but we. 〈◊〉. together. Salimbene which was 〈◊〉 with joy, was able to make none other answer, but, Go we whether you please. So taking his Angelica by the hand, they went into that hall, & from thence into his chamber, which was furnished according to that state & riches of a Lord, he being one of the wealthiest & chief of the city of Sienna. When they were set down, & all the 〈◊〉 gone 〈◊〉, Charles began to say to Salimbene, these words: You may not think it strange (sir Salimbene) if against the laws & customs of our common wealth, I presently do call you, for knowing the band wherewith I am bound unto you, I must for ever confess & count myself to be your slave & bondman, you having done a thing in my behalf that deserveth the name of Lord & master. But what ungrateful man is he that will forget so great a benefit, as that which I have received of you, holding of you, life, goods, honour, & this mine own sister that enjoyeth by your means the presence of her brother & her rest of mind, not losing our noble reputation by the loss prepared for me through unrighteous judgement, you having stayed the ruin both of her & me, and the rest of our house & kin. I am right glad sir, that this my duty & service is bound to so virtuous a gentleman as you be, but exceeding sorry, that fortune is so froward & contrary unto me, that I am not able to accomplish my good will, and if ingratitude may lodge in mind of a needy Gentleman, who hath no help but of himself, and in the will of his chaste sister, and mind united in two people only saved by you, duty doth require to present the rest, and to submit all that is left, to be disposed at your good pleasure. And because that I am well assured, that it is Angelica alone which hath kindled the fire of desire, and hath caused you to love that which your predecessors have deadly hated, that same spark of knowledge, which our misery could not quench with all his force, hath made the way, and showed the path whereby we, shall avoid the name of ingrate & forgetful persons, & that same which hath made you liberal towards me, shallbe bountifully bestowed upon you. It is Angelica sir which you see present here, who to discharge my band, hath willingly rendered to be your own, submitting herself to your good will, for ever to be yours. And I which am her brother, and have received that great good will of her, as in my power to have her will, do present the same, & leave her in your hands, to use as you would your own, praying you to accept the same, & to consider whose is the gift, and from wheuce it cometh, and how it ought to be regarded. When he had said so, Montanine rose up, and without further talk, went home unto his house. If Anselmo were abashed at the Montanines arrival, and 〈◊〉 at the Oration of Charles, his sudden departure was more to be marveled at, and therewithal to see the effect of a thing which he never hoped, nor thought upon. He was exceeding glad & joyful to see himself in the company of her, whom he desired above all things of the world, but sorry to see her heavy & sorrowful for such chance. He supposed her being there, to proceed rather of the young man's good & gentle nature, than of the maidens will & liking. For which cause taking her by the hand, & holding her between his arms, he used these or such like words: Gentlewoman, if ever I had felt & known with what wing that variety & lightness of worldly things do fly, & the gains of inconstant fortune, at this present I have seen one of that most manifest profess which seemeth to me so 〈◊〉, as almost I dare not believe that, which I see before mine eyes. I know well that it is for you, and for the service that I bear you, that I have broken the effect of that hatred, which by inheritance I have received against your house, and for that devotion have delivered your brother. But I see that fortune will not let me to have the upper hand, to be the conqueror of her sudden pangs. But you yourself shall see, & every man shall know, that my heart is none other than noble, & my devices tend, but to the exploit of all virtue & gentleness: wherefore I pray you (said he kissing her lovingly) be not sad, & doubt not that your servant is any other now, having you in his power, than he was when he durst not discover the ardent love that vexed him, & held him in feeble state, full of 〈◊〉 and thought, you also may be sure, that he hath not had the better hand over me, ne yet for his courtesy hath obtained victory, nor you for obeying him. For sith that you be mine, and for such yielded and given to me, I will keep you, as her whom I love & esteem above all things of the world, making you my companion, and the only mistress of my goods, heart, and will. Think not that I am the friend of Fortune, and practise pleasure alone without virtue. It is modesty which commandeth me, and honesty is the guide of my conceits. Assure you then, & repose your comfort on me: for none other than Angelica Montanine, shall be the wife of Anselmo Salimbene: and during my life, I will be the friend, the defender and supporter of your house. At those good news, the drowsy and wandering spirit of the fair Sienna maid awaked, who ending her tears, and appeasing her sorrow, rose up, and made a very low reverence unto her courteous friend, thanking him for his great and incomparable liberality, promising all service, duty, and amity, that a Gentlewoman ought to bear unto him, whom God had reserved for her spouse and husband. After an infinite numbered of honest embracements and pleasant kisses given and received on both parts, Anselmo called unto him one of his Aunts that dwelled within him, to whom he delivered his new conquest to keep, and speedily without delay he sent for the next of his kin and dearest friends: and being come, he entreated them to keep him company, in a very urgent and weighty business he had to do, wherein if they showed themselves diligent in his request, doubtful it is not, but he addressed speed for accomplishment of his enterprise. Then causing his Aunt and well-beloved Angelica to come forth, he carried them (not without their great admiration) to the palace of Montanine, whither being arrived, he and his company were well entertained of the said Montanine, the brother of fair Angelica. When they were in the hall, Salimbene said to his brother in law that should be: Senior Montanine, it is not long sithence, that you in company of my fair Gentlewoman here, came home to speak with me, desirous to have no man privy to the effect of your conference. But I am come to you with this troop to disclose my mind before you all, & to manifest what I purpose to do, to the intent the whole world may know your good & honest nature, and understand how I can be requited on them, which endeavour to gratify me in any thing. Having said so, and every man being set down, he turned his talk to the rest of the company in this wise: I doubt not my 〈◊〉 & noble dames, but that ye much muse and marvel to see me in this house so late, and in your company, and am sure, that a great desire moveth your minds to know for what purpose, that cause, and why I have gathered this assembly in a time unlooked for, and in place where none of our race and kin of long time did enter, and less did mean to make hither their repair. But when you do consider what virtue and goodness resteth in the hearts of those men, that shun and avoid the 〈◊〉 of mind, to follow the reasonable part, and which properly is called spiritual, you shall thereby perceive, that when gentle kind and noble heart, by the great mistress 〈◊〉 Nature, be grifted in the minds of men, they cease not to make appear the effect of their doings, sometime producing one virtue, sometimes another, which cease not to cause the fruit of such industry both to blow and bear: In such wise, as the more those virtuous acts and commendable works, do appear abroad, the greater diligence is employed to search the matter wherein she 〈◊〉 cause to appear the force of virtue and excellency, conceiving singular delight in that her good and holy delivery, which bringeth forth a fruit worthy of such a stock. And that force of mind and generosity of noble heart is so firm and sure in operation, as although human things be unstable and subject to change, yet they can not be severed or disparkled. And albeit it be the butt and white, whereat Fortune dischargeth all her darts and shafts, threatening shooting and assailing the same round, yet it continueth stable and firm like a rock and cliff beaten with the violent fury of waves rising by wind or tempest. Whereby it chanceth, that riches and dignity can no more advance the heart of a slave and villain, than poverty make vile & abase the greatness of courage in them that be procreated of other stuff than of common sort, which daily keep the majesty of their original, and live after the instinct of good and noble blood, wherewith their ancestors were made noble, and sucked that same virtue out of the teats of Noursses breasts, who in the mids of troublesome 〈◊〉 of Fortune that do assail them, and depress their modesty, their face and countenance, and their facts full well declare their condition, and do to understand, that under such a misery, a mind is hid, which deserveth greater guerdon than the eager taste of calamity. In that did glow and shine the youth of the Persian and Median Monarch, being nurssed amongs the stalls and stables of his grandfather, & the gentle kind of the founder of stately Rome, suckeled in the shepecoates of Prince's shepherds. Thus much have I said, my good lords and dames, in consideration of the noble courage and gentle mind of Charles Montanine, and of his sister, who without prejudice to any other, I dare to say, is the paragon and mirror of all chaste and courteous maidens, well trained up, amongs the whole troop of those that live this day in Sienna, who being brought to the end and last point of their ruin, as every of you doth know, and their race so sore decayed, as there remaineth but the only name of Montanine: notwithstanding they never lost the heart, desire, ne yet the effect of the courtesy, and natural bounty, which ever doth accompany the mind of those that be 〈◊〉 in deed, Which is the cause that I am constrained to accuse our ancestors, of to much cruelty, and of the little respect which for a controversy occurred by chance, have pursued them with such mortal revenge, as without ceasing, with all their force, they have assayed to ruinated, abolish, and for ever 〈◊〉 that a right noble and illustre race of the Montanines, amongs whom if never any goodness appeared to the world, but the honesty, gentleness, courtesy and virtuous manners of these twain here present, the brother and sister, yet they ought to be accounted amongs the rank of the noblest and chiefest of our City, to the intent in time to come it may not be reported, that we have esteemed and cherished riches and drossy muck, more than virtue and modesty. But imitating those excellent governors of Italy, which held the Roman Empire, let us rather reverence the virtuous poor, than praise or prize the rich, given to vice and wickedness. And for so much as I do see you all to be desirous to know that cause and argument, which maketh me to use this talk, and forceth me to praise the 〈◊〉 and goodness of the Montanines, pleaseth you to stay a little with patience, and not think the time tedious, I mean to declare the same. Plainly to confess unto you (for that it is no crime of death, or heinous offence) the gifts of nature, the beauty and comeliness of fair Angelica here present, have so captivate my mind, and deprived my heart of liberty, as night and day travailing how I might discover unto her my martyrdom, I did consume in such wise, as losing lust of sleep and meat, I feared ere long to be either dead of sorrow, or 〈◊〉 of my right wits, seeing no means how I might avoid the same, because our two houses and families were at continual debate: and albeit 〈◊〉 were ceased, and quarrels forgotten, yet there rested (as I thought) a certain desire both in the one and the other of offence when time and occasion did serve. And yet mine affection for all that was not decreased, but rather more tormented, and my grief increased, hopeless of help, which now is chanced to me as you shall hear. You do know, and so do all men, how within these few days past, the Lord Montanine here present, was accused before the signory, for trespasses against the statutes and Edicts of the same, and being prisoner, having not wherewith to satisfy the condemnation, the law affirmed that his life should recompense and supply default of money. I not able to suffer the want of him, which is the brother of the dearest thing I esteem in the world, and having not her in possession, nor like without him to attain her, paid that sum, and delivered him. He, by what means I know not, or how he conjectured the benevolence of my deed, thinking that it proceeded of the honest 〈◊〉 and affection which I bore to gracious and amiable Angelica, well considering of my curteste, hath overcome me in prodigalitle he this night came unto me, with his sister my mistress, yielding her my slave and bondwoman, leaving her with me, to do with her as I would with any thing I had. Behold my good Lords, and ye noble Ladies and cousins, and consider how I may recompense this benefit, and be able to satisfy a present so precious, & of such value and regard, as both of them be, such, as a right puissant prince and lord, may be contented with a duty so liberal and jewel in estimable of two offered things. The assistants that were there, could not tell what to say, the discourse had so much drawn their minds into divers fantasies and contrary opinions, seeing that the same required by deliberation to be considered, before lightly they uttered their minds. But they knew not the intent of him, which had called them thither, more to testify his fact, than to judge of the thing he went about, or able to hinder and let the same. True it is, that the Ladies viewing and marking the amiable countenance of the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, would have judged for her, if they feared not to be refused of him, whom the thing did touch most near. Who without longer stay, opened to them all, what he was purposed to do, saying: Sith ye do spend time so long upon a matter already meant and determined, I will ye to know, that having 〈◊〉 of mine honour, and desirous to satisfy the honesty of the brother and sister I mind to take Angelica to my wife and lawful spouse, uniting that which so long time hath been divided, and making in two bodies, whilom not well accorded & agreed, one like and uniform will, praying you each one, joyfully to joy with me, and yourselves to rejoice in that alliance, which seemeth rather a work from heaven, than a deed concluded by the counsel and industry of men. So likewise all wedded fears in holy Wedlock (by reason of the effect and the Author of the same, even G O D himself, which did ordain it first) be written in the infallible Book of his own prescience, to the intent that nothing may decay, which is sustained with the mighty hand of that Almighty God, the God of wonders, which verily he hath displayed over thee (dear brother) by making thee to fall into distress and danger of death, that mine Angelica, being the mean of thy dyliveraunce, might also be cause of the atonement which I do hope henceforth shall be, between so noble houses as ours be. This final decree revealed in open audience, as it was, against their expectation, and the end that the kindred of Anselmo looked for, so was the same no less strange and bathful, as joyful and pleasant, feeling a sudden joy, not accustomed in their mind, for that union and alliance. And albeit that their riches was unequal, and the Dowry of Angelica nothing near the great wealth of Salimbene, yet all men did deem him happy, that he had chanced upon so virtuous a maiden, the only modesty and integrity of whom, deserved to be coupled with the most honourable. For when a man hath respect only to the beauty or riches of her, whom he meaneth to take to wise, he most commonly doth incur the mischief, that the spirit of dissension intermeddleth amid their household, whereby pleasure vanishing with age, maketh the riveled face (beset with a thousand wrinkeled furrows) to grow pale and dry. The wife likewise when she seeth her goods to surmount, the substance of her wedded husband, she advanceth her heart, she swelleth to make himself a conqueror by marriage, but she diminyshing no jot of her noble mind, he must seek else where his price of victory. To her a desire to kill herself (if things succeeded contrary to her mind) might have stopped the way to her great glory, had she not regarded her virginity, more than her own life. The second seemeth to go half constrained, and by manner of acquittal, and had his affection been to render himself 〈◊〉 to his foe, his patron and preserver, it would have diminished his praise.  
But sithence enough we have hereof discoursed, and been large in treaty of Tragicomical matters, intermixed and suaged (in some part) with the interviews of dolour, modesty, and indifferent good hap, and in some wholly imparted the dreadful ends like to terrible beginnings, I mean for a relief, and after such sour sweet banquets, to interlarde a liquorous refection for sweeting the mouths of the delicate: And do purpose in this Novel ensuing, to manifest a pleasant disport between a Widow and a Scholar, a passing practice of a crafty dame, not well schooled in the discipline of Academical rules, a surmounting science to trade the novices of that form, by aware foresight, to incountre those that by laboursome travail and nightly watch, have studied the rare knowledge of mathematicals, and other hidden and secret Artes.  
Wishing them so well to beware, as I am desirous to let them know by this 〈◊〉, the success of such attempts.   

Mistress Helena of Florence  
¶ A Widow called Mistress HELENA, with whom a Scholar was in love, (she loving an other) 〈◊〉 the same Scholar to stand a whole 〈◊〉 night in the Snow to wait for her, who afterwards by a 〈◊〉 and policy, caused her in july, to stand upon a Tower stark 〈◊〉, amongs Flies and gnats, and in the 〈◊〉.  
The. xxxi. Novel.  
DIuerte we now a little from these sundry haps, to solace ourselves with a 〈◊〉 devise, and pleasant circumstance of a Scholars love, and of the wily guilty 〈◊〉 of an amorous Widow of Florence. A Scholar returned from Paris to 〈◊〉 his knowledge at home in his own Country, learneth a more cunning lecture of Mistress Helena, than he did of the subtilest Sorbone Doctor, or other Mathematical from whenee he came. The Scholar as plainly he had applied his book, and earnestly herkned his readings, so he simply meant to be a faithful lover and devout requirant to this joily dame, that had vowed her devotion & promised pilgrimage to an other saint. The scholar upon the first view of the widows wandering looks, forgetting Ouides lessons of loves guiles, pursued his conceit to the uttermost. The scholar never remembered how many valiant, wise and learned men, wanton women had seduced and deceived. He had forgot how Catullus was beguiled by Lesbian, Tibullus by Delia, Propertius by Cynthia, Naso by Corinna, Demetrius by Lamia, Timotheus by Phryne, Philippe by a Greek maiden, Alexander by Thais, Hannibal by Campania, Caesar by Cleopatra, Pompeius by Flora, Pericles by Aspa ga', Psammiticus the king of Egypt by Rhodope, and divers other very famous by women of that stamp. He had not been well trained in holy writ, or heard of Samsons Dalida, or of Salamons' concubines, but like a plain dealing man, believed what she promised, followed what she bade him, waited whiles she mocked him, attended till she laughed him to scorn. And yet for all these joily pastimes invented by this widow, to deceive the poor Scholar, the scaped not free from his Logic rules, nor safe from his philosophy. He was forced to turn over Aristotle; to revolve his Porphyry, and to gather his wits about him, to requite this loving peat, that had so charitably dealt with him. He willingly searched over Ptolemy, perused Albumazar, made haste to Haly, yea & for a shift bestirred him in Erra Pater, for matching of two contrary elements. For cold in Christmas holy days, and frost at Twelftide, showed no more force in this poor learned scholar, than the Sun's heat in the Feries of july; gnats, flies, & wasps, at noon days in Summer upon the naked tender corpse of this fair Widow. The Scholar stood below in a Court, benoommed for cold, the widow preached a loft in the top of a Tower, and 〈◊〉 would have had water to cool her extreme heat. The scholar in his shirt bedecked with his demissaries. The widow so naked as her grandmother Eve, without vesture to shroud her. The widow by magic Art what so ever it cost, would feign have recovered her lost lover. The Scholar well espying his advantage when he was asked council, so incharmed her with his syllogisms, as he made her to mount a tower, to curse the time that ever she knew him or her lover. So that widow not well beaten in causes of school, was whipped with the rod, wherewith she scourged other. Alas good woman, had she known that old malice had not been forgotten, she would not have trusted, & less committed herself to the circle of his enchantments. If women witted what dealings are with men of great reading, they would amongs one hundred other, not deal with one of the meanest of those that be bookish. One Girolamo Ruscelli alearned Italian making pretty notes for that better elucidation of the Italian Decamerone of Boccaccio, judgeth Boccaccio himself to be this scholar, whom by another name he termeth to be Rinieri. But whatsoever that Scholar was, he was truly too extreme in revenge, & therein could use no mean. For he never left the poor feeble soul, for all her courteous words and gentle supplication, until the skin of her flesh was parched with the scalding sun beams. And not contented with that, dealt his almose also to her maid, by sending her to help her mistress, where also she broke her leg. Yet Philenio was more pitiful over the three Nymphs & fair Goddesses of Bologna, whose History you may read in the xlix. Novel of my former Tome. He fared not so roughly with those, as Rinieri did with this, that sought but to gain what she had lost. Well, how so ever it was, and what differency between either of them, this History ensuing, more amply shall give to understand.  
Not long sithence, there was in Florence, a young gentlewoman of worshipful parentage, fair and comely of parsonage, of courage stout, and abounding in goods of fortune (called Helena,) who being a Widow, determined not to marry again, because she was in love with a young man that was not void of nature's goodly gifts, whom for her own tooth, above other she had specially chosen. In whom (setting aside all other care) many times (by means of one of her maids which she trusted best) she had great pleasure and delight. It chanced about the same time that a young Gentleman of that City called Rinieri, having a great time studied at Paris, returned to Florence, not to sell his Science by retail, as many do, but to know the reasons of things, and the causes of the same, which is a marvelous good exercise for a Gentleman. And being there honoured & greatly esteemed of all men, aswell for his courteous behaviour, as also for his knowledge, he lived like a good Citizen. But as it is commonly seen, they which have best understanding and knowledge in things, are soon tangled in Love: even so it happened to this Rinieri, who repairing one day for his passetime to a feast, this Madam Helena clothed all in black, (after the manner of widows) was there also, and seemed in his eyes so beautiful and well favoured, as any woman that ever he saw; and thought that he might be accounted happy, to whom God did she we so much favour, as to suffer him to be cleped between her arms: & beholding her divers times, and knowing that the greatest and dearest things can not be gotten without labour, he determined to use all his endeavour and care in pleasing of her, that thereby he might obtain her love, and so enjoy her. The young Gentlewoman not very bashful, conceiving greater opinion of herself, than was needful, not casting her eyes towards the ground, but rolling them artificially on every side, and by and by perceiving much gazing to be upon her, espied Rinieri earnestly beholding her, and said smiling to herself: I think that I have not this day lost my time in coming hither, for if I be not deceived, I shall catch a Pigeon by the nose. And beginning certain times steadfastly to look upon him, she forced herself so much as she could, to seem effectuously to behold him: and on the other part thinking, that the more pleasant and amorous she showed herself to be, the more her beauty should be esteemed, chief of him whom specially she was disposed to love. The wise Scholar giving over his Philosophy, bend all his endeavour hereunto, & thinking to be her servant, learned where she dwelled, and began to pass before her house under pretence of some other occasion: whereat the Gentlewoman rejoiced for the causes beforesaid, feigning an earnest desire to behold him. Wherefore the Scholar having found a certain mean to be acquainted with her maid, discovered his love: praying her to deal so with her mistress, as he might have her favour. The maid promised him very willingly, and incontinently reported the same to her mistress, who with the greatest scoffs in the world, gave ear thereunto & said: Seest thou not from whence this goodfellow is come, to lose all his knowledge & doctrine that he hath brought us from Paris. Now let us devise therefore how he may be handled for going about to seek that, which he is not like to obtain. Thou shalt say unto him, when he speaketh to thee again, that I love him better than he loveth me, but that it behoveth me to save mine honour, and to keep my good name and estimation amongs other women. Which thing, if he be so wise (as he seemeth) he ought to esteem & regard. Ah poor Wench, she knoweth not well, what it is to mingle housewifry with learning, or to intermeddle distaffs with books. Now the maid when she had found the Scholar, told him as her mistress had commanded: whereof the Scholar was so glad, as he with greater endeavour proceeded in his enterprise, and began to write letters to the Gentlewoman, which were not refused, although he could receive no answers that pleased him, but such as were done openly. And in this sort the Gentle woman long time fed him with delays. In the end she discovered all this new love unto her friend, who was attached with such an aching disease in his head, as the same was fraught with the rheum of ialosie: wherefore she to she we herself to be suspected without cause (very careful for the Scholar) sent her maid to tell him, that she had no convenient time to do the thing that should please him, sithence he was first assured of her love, but hoped the next Christmas holidays to be at his commandment: wherefore if he would vouchsafe to rome the night following the first holiday, into the court of her house, she would wait there for his coming. The Scholar the best contented man in the world, failed not at the time appointed, to go to the Gentlewoman's house: where being placed by the maid in a base court, and shut fast within the 〈◊〉, he attended for her coming, who supping with her friend that night, very pleasantly recited unto him all that she had determined then to do, saying: Thou mayst see what love I do bear unto him, of whom thou hast foolishly conceived this jealousy. To which words her friend gave 〈◊〉 with great delectation, desiring to see the effect of that, whereof she gave him to understand by words. New as it chanced the day before, the snow fell down so thick from above, as it covered all that earth, by which means 〈◊〉 Scholar within a very little space after his arrival, began to be very cold, howbeit hoping to receive recompense, he suffered it patiently. The Gentlewoman a little while after, said unto her friend: I pray thee let us go into my chamber, where at a little window we may look out, and see what he doth that maketh thee so jealous, and hearken what answer he will make to my maid, whom of purpose I will send to speak unto him. When she had so said, they went to that window, where they seeing the Scholar (they not seen of him,) 〈◊〉 the maid speak these words: Rinieri, my mistress is the angriest woman in the world, for that as yet she can not come unto thee. But the cause is, that one of her brethren is come to visit her this Evening, and hath made a long discourse of talk unto her, and afterwards bad himself to supper, and as yet is not departed, but I think he will not tarry long, and then immediately she will come. In the mean time she prayeth thee to take a little pain. The scholar believing this to be true, said unto her: Require your Mistress to take no care for me till her leisure may serve: howbeit entreat her to make so much hast as she can. The maid returned and went to bed, and the dame of the house said then unto her friend? Now sir, what say you to this: Do you think that if I loved him as you mistrust, that I would suffer him to tarry beneath in the cold to cool himself? And having said so, she went to bed with her friend, who then was partly satisfied, and all the night they continued in great pleasure and solace, laughing & mocking the miserable Scholar that walked up and down the court to chafe himself, not knowing where to sit, or which way to avoid the cold, and cursed the long tarrying of his mistress brother, hoping at every noise he heard, that she had come to open the door to let him in, but his hope was in vain. Now she having sported herself almost till midnight, said unto her friend: How think you (sir) by our Scholar, whether judge you is greater, his wisdom, or the love that I bear 〈◊〉 him? The cold that I make him to suffer, will extinguish the heat of suspicion which ye conceived of my words the other day. Ye say true (said her friend,) and I 〈◊〉 assure you, that like as you are my delight, my rest, my comfort and all my hope, even so I am yours during life. For the confirmation of which renewed amity, they spared no delights which the loving Goddess doth use to serve and employ upon her servants and suitors. And after they had talked a certain time, she said unto him: For God's sake (sir) let us rise a little, to see if the glowing fire which this my new lover bathe daily written unto me, to burn in him, be quenched or not. And rising out of their beds, they went to a little window, & looking down into the court, they saw the Scholar dancing upon the snow, whereunto his 〈◊〉 teeth were so good instruments, as he seemed the 〈◊〉 dancer that ever trod a Cinquepace after such Music, being forced thereunto through the great cold which be suffered. And then she said unto him: what say you to this my friend, do you not see how cunning I am to make men dance without Laber or Pipe? Yes in deed (said her lover) ye be an excellent physician. Then (quoth she) let us go down to the door, and I will speak unto him, but in any wise speak you nothing, and we shall hear what reasons and 〈◊〉 he will frame to move me to compassion, and perchance shall have no little pastime to behold him: whereupon they went down softly to the door, and there without opening the same, she with a soft voice out at a little bull, called the Scholar unto her. Which he hearing, began to praise God and thank him a thousand times, believing verily that he should then be let in, and approaching the door, said: I am here mine (own sweet heart) open the door for God's sake, for I am like to dic for cold. Whom in mocking wise she answered: can you make me believe (M. Scholar) that you are so tender, or that the cold is so great as you affirm, for a little Snow that lieth without? There be at Paris far greater snows than these be: but to tell you the troth, you can not come in yet, for my brother (the devil take him) came yesternight to supper, and is not yet departed, but by & by he will be gone, and then you shall obtain the effect of your desire, assuring you, that with much ado I have stolen away from him, to come hither for your comfort, praying you not to think it long. Madam said the Scholar, I beseech you for God's sake to open the door, that I may stand in covert from the snow, which within this hour hath fallen in great abundance, and doth yet continue: & there I will attend your pleasure. Alas sweet friend (said she) the door maketh such a noise when it is opened, that it will easily be heard of my brother, but I will pray him to departed, that I may quickly return again to open the same. Go your way then (said the Scholar) & I pray you cause a great fire to be made, that I may warm me when I come in, for I can scarce feel myself for cold. Why, it is not possible (said the woman) if it be true that you wholly burn in love for me, as by your sundry letters written, it appeareth, but now I perceive that you mock me, and therefore tarry there still on God's name. Her friend which heard all this, & took pleasure in those words, went again to bed with her, into whose eyes no sleep that night could enter for the pleasure & sport they had with the poor Scholar. The unhappy wretched Scholar whose teeth clacked for cold, saring like a Stork in cold nights, perceiving himself to be mocked, assayed to open the door, or if he might go out by some other way: and seeing it 〈◊〉, stalking up and down like a Lion, cursed the nature of the time, the wickedness of the woman, the length of the night, and the folly and simplicity of himself: and conceiving great rage and despite against her, turned suddenly the long and fervent love that he bore her, into despite and cruel hatred, devising many and divers means to be revenged, which he then far more desired, than he did in that beginning to lie with his Widow. After the prolixity and length of the night, day approached, and the dawning thereof began to appear: wherefore the maid instructed by her mistress, went down into that Court, and seeming to have pity upon the Scholar, said unto him: The Devil take him that ever he came hither this night, for he hath both let us of sleep, and hath made you to be frozen for cold, but take it patiently for this time, some other night must be appointed. For I know well that never thing could chance more displeasantly to my mistress than this. But the Scholar full of disdain, like a wise man which knew well that threats and menacing words, were weapons without hands to that threatened, retained in his stomach that which intemporate will, would have broken forth, and with so quiet words as he could, not showing himself to be angry, said: In décde I have suffered that worst night that ever I did, but I know the same was not through your mistress fault, because she having pity upon me, came down to ercuse herself and to comfort me, and as you say, that which cannot be to night, may be done another time, commend me then unto her, and far well. And thus the poor Scholar stiff for cold, so well as he could, returned home to his house, where for extreme cold and lack of 〈◊〉 being almost dead, be threw himself upon his bed, and when he awaked, his arms and legs were benoommed. Wherefore he sent for physicians and told them of the cold which he had taken, who incontinently provided for his health: and yet for all their best and speedy remedies, they could scarce recover his sinews, wherein they did what they could: and had it not been that he was young, & the Summer approaching, it had been to much for him to have endured. But after he had recovered health, and grew to be lusty, secret malice still resting in his breast, he thought upon revenge. And it chanced in a little time after, that Fortune prepared a new accident to the Scholar to satisfy his desire, because the young man which was beloved of the Gentlewoman, not caring my longer for her, fell in love with an other, and gave over the solace and pleasure he was wont to do to mistress Helena, for which she consumed in weepings and 〈◊〉. But her maid having pity upon her sorrows, knowing no means to remove the melancholy which she conceived for the loss of her friend, and seeing the Scholar daily pass by according to his common custom, conceived a foolish belief that her mistress friend might be brought to love her again, and wholly recovered, by some charm or other sleight of Necromancy, to be wrought and brought to pass by the Scholar. Which devise the told unto her mistress, and she undiscreetly (and without the due consideration, that if the Scholar had any knowledge in that science, he would help himself) gave credit to the words of her maid, and by and by said unto her, that she was able to bring it to pass, if he would take it in hand, and therewithal promised assuredly, that for recompense he should use her at his pleasure. The maid diligently told the Scholar hereof, who very joyful for those news, said unto himself: O God, praised be thy name, for now the time is come, that by thy help I shall requite the injuries done unto me by this ungracious woman, and be recompensed of the great love that I bore unto her: and said to the maid: Go tell thy mistress that for this matter she need to take no care, for if her friend were in India, I could presently force him to come 〈◊〉, and ask her forgiveness of the thing he hath committed against her will. And the manner and way how to use herself in this behalf, I will give her to understand when it shall please her to appoint me: and fail not to tell her what I say, comforting her in my behalf. The maid carried that answer, & it was concluded, that they should talk more hereof at the church of S. Lucy, whither being come, & reasoning together alone, not remembering that she had brought the Scholar almost to the point of death, she revealed unto him all the whole matter, & the thing which he desired, praying him instantly to help her, to whom the Scholar said: True it is Lady, that amongs other things which I learned at Paris, the Art of 〈◊〉, (whereof I have very great skill,) is one: but because it is much displeasant to God, I have made an oath never to use it, either for myself, or for any other: howbeit the love which I bear you, is of such force, as I can not deny you any request, yea and if I should be damned amongs all the devils in hell, I am ready to perform your pleasure. But I tell you before, that it is a harder matter to be dove, than peradventure you believe, and specally when a woman shall provoke a man to love, and a man the woman, because it can not be done but by the proper person, whom it doth touch, and therefore it is meet, what so ever is done, in any wise not to be afraid, for that the conjuration must be made in the night, and in a solitary place without company: Which thing I know not how you shall be disposed to do. To whom the woman more amorous than wise, answered: Love pricketh me in such wise, as there is nothing but I dare attempt, to have him again, that causeless hath forsaken me. But if it be your pleasure, tell me wherein it behoveth that I be so bold and hardy. The Scholar (subtle enough) said: I must of necessity make an image of brass, in the name of him that you desire to have, which being sent unto you, you must when the Moon is at her full force, bathe yourself alone stark naked in a running river at the first hour of sleep. 〈◊〉. times with the same image: and afterwards being still naked, you must go up into some tree or house unhabited, and turning yourself towards the northside thereof with the image in your hand, you shall say. 〈◊〉. times certain words, that I will give you in writing, which when you have done, two damsels shall come unto you, the fairest that evor you saw, and they shall salute you, humbly demanding what your pleasure is to commaundé them: to whom you shall willingly declare in good order what you desire: & take heed above all things, that you name not one for an other: and when they be gone, you may descend down to the place where you left your apparel, and array yourself again, and afterwards 〈◊〉 home unto your house, and assure yourself, that before the mid of the next night following, your friend shall come unto you weeping, and crying mercy and forgiveness at your hands. And know ye, that from that time forth. he will never forsake you for any other.  
The Gentlewoman hearing those words, gave great credit 〈◊〉: and thought that already she held her friend between her arms, and very joyful said: Doubt not but I will accomplish all that which you have told me: and I have the meetest place in that world to do it: for toward the valley of Arno, very near the river side, I have a manor house, secretly to work 〈◊〉 attempt that I list: and now it is the month of 〈◊〉, in which time bathing is most pleasant. And also I remember that not far from the river, there is a little tour unhabited, into which one can scarce get up, but by a certain ladder made of chestnut tree, which is already there, whereupon the shepherds do sometime ascend to the turrasse of the same tour, to look for their cattle when they be gone astray: and the place is very solitary and out of the way. Into that tour will I go up, and trust to do all that you have required me. The Scholar which knew very well both the village whereof she spoke, and also the tour, right glad for that he was assured of his purpose, said: Madam, I was never there, and do neither know the village, nor the tour, but if it be as you say, it is not possible to find any better place in the world: wherefore when the time is come, I will send you the image, and the prayer. But I hearty beseech you, when you have obtained your desire, and do perceive that I have well served your turn, to have me in remembrance, & to keep your promise: which the Gentlewoman assured him to do without fail, and taking her leave of him, she retired home to her house. The Scholar joyful for that his devise should in deed come to pass, caused an image to be made with certain Characters, and wrote a tale of a tub in stead of the prayer. And when he saw time he sent them to the Gentlewoman, advertising her that the night following, she must do the thing he had appointed her. Then to proceed in his enterprise, he and his man went secretly to one of his friends houses that dwelt hard by the town. The woman on the other side, and her maid repaired to her place: where when it was night, making as though she would go 〈◊〉, she sent her maid to bed: afterwards about ten of the clock she went very softly out of her lodging, and repaired near to the town upon the river of Arno, and looking about her, not seeing or perceiving any man, she unclothed herself, and hid her apparel under a bush of thorns, and then bathed herself. vy. times with the image, and afterwards stark naked holding the same in her hand, she went towards the tour. The Scholar at the beginning of the night being hidden with his servant 〈◊〉 the willows and other trees near the tour, saw all the aforesaid things, and her also passing naked by him, (the whiteness of whose body surpassed as he thought, the darkness of the night, so far as black exceedeth white) who afterwards beheld her stomach, and the other parts of her body, which seemed unto him to be very beautiful. And remembering what would shortly come to pass, 〈◊〉 had some pity upon her. And on the other side, the temptation of the flesh suddenly assailed him, provoking him to issue forth of the secret corner, to surprise her, and take his pleasure upon her, and within a while after was vanquished both with the one and the other. But calling to his remembrance what she was, and what great wrong he had sustained, his malice began to kindle again, and did remove from him his compassion, and lust, continuing still 〈◊〉 in his determination, and so did let her pass. The Widow so being upon the tour, and turning her face towards the North, began to say the 〈◊〉 which the Scholar had given her. Within a while after the Scholar entered in very softly, and took away the ladder whereupon she got up, & stood still to hear what would say and do. Who having. vy. times recited her prayer, attended the coming of the two damsels: for whom she waited so long in vain, as she began to be extremely cold, and perceived the dawning of the day appear. Wherefore taking great displeasure that it came not to pass as the Scholar had told her, she said to herself: I doubt much least this Scholar will reward me with such another night, as wherein once I made him to wait: but if he have done it for that occasion, he is not well revenged, for the nights now want the third part of the length of those then, beside, the cold that he endured, which was of greater extremity. And that the day might not discover her, she would have gone down out of the tour, but she found the ladder to be taken away. Then as though the world had melted under her feet, her heart began to fail, & fainting, fell down upon the terrace of the tour, and when her force began to come again, she began pitifully to weep and complain. And knowing well that the Scholar had done that deed, she grew to be angry with herself, for that she has offended another, and too much trusted him whom she ought (by good reason) to have accounted her 〈◊〉. And after she had remained a great while in this plight, then looking if there were any way for her to 〈◊〉 down, and perceiving none, she renewed her weeping, whose mind great care and sorrow did pierce saying to herself: O unhappy wretch what will thy brethren say, thy parents, thy neighbours, and generally all they of 〈◊〉, when they shall understand that thou hast been found here stark naked? Thy honesty which hitherto hath been never stained, shall now be attached with the blot of shame, yea and if thou were able to find (for remedy hereof) any matter of excuse (such as might be found) the wicked Scholar (who knoweth all thy doings) will not suffer thee to lie: Ah miserable wretch, that in one hours space, hast lost both thy friend & thine honour. What shall become of thee: who is able to cover thy shame? When she had thus complained hirself, she was wrapped in such sorrow, as she was like to cast herself headlong down from the tour: but the sun being already risen, she approached near one of the corners of the wall, espying if she could see any boy keeping of cattle, that she might send him for her maid. And it chanced that the Scholar which had slept a while under a bush, awaked, & one espied the other, to whom the scholar said: Good morrow Lady, be the damsels yet come? The woman seeing and hearing him, begun again bitterly to weep, and prayed him to come up to the tour, that she might speak with him. The Scholar was thereunto very agreeable, and she lying on her belly upon the terrace of the tour, discovering nothing but her head over that side of the same, said unto him weeping: Rinieri, truly if ever I caused thee to endure an ill night, thou art now well revenged on me: for although it be the month of 〈◊〉, I thought (because I was naked) that I should have frozen to death this night for cold, besides my great and continual tears for the offence which I have done thee, and of my folly for believing thee, that marvel it is mine eyes do remain 〈◊〉 my head: & therefore I pray thee, not for the love of me, whom thou oughtest not to love, but for thine own 〈◊〉 which art a gentleman, that the shame & pain which I have sustained, may satisfy the offence & wrong I have committed against 〈◊〉: & cause mine apparel to 〈◊〉 brought unto me, that I may go town from hence, & take not that from me, which 〈◊〉 thou art not able to restore, which is, mine honour: for if I have deprived thee of being with me that night, I can at all times when it shall please thee, render many for that 〈◊〉. Let 〈◊〉 suffice thee then with this, and like an honest man content thyself by being a little revenged on me, in making me to know what it is to hurt another. Do not, I pray thee, practise thy power against a woman: for the Eagle hath no fame for conquering of the Dove. Then for the love of God, and for thine honour sake, have pity and remorse upon me. The Scholar with a cruel heart remembering the injury that he had received, and seeing her so to weep and pray, conceived at one instant both pleasure & grief in his mind: pleasure of the revenge which he above all things desired, and grief moved his manhood to have compassion upon the miserable woman. Notwithstanding, pity not able to overcome the fury of his desire, he answered: Mistress Helena, if my prayers (which in 〈◊〉 I could not moisten 〈◊〉 tears, ne yet sweeten them with sugared words, as you do yours now) might have obtained that night wherein I thought I should have died for cold in the Court full of snow, to have been conveyed by you into some covert place, an easy matter it had been for me at this instant to hear your suit. But if now more than in times past your honour do ware warm, and be so grievous for you to stand stark naked, make your prayers to him, between whose arms it grieved you not at all to be naked that night, wherein you heard me troth up & down the court, my teeth chattering for cold, and marching upon the snow: and at his hands seek relief, and pray him to bring your clothes. and fetch a ladder that you may come down: force yourself to set your honours care on him, for whom both then, and now besides many other times, you have not feared to put the same in peril: why do you not call for him to come and help you? and to whom doth your help better appertain than unto him? You are his own, & what things will he not provide in this distress of yours? or else what person will he seek to secure, if not to help and secure you? Call him (foolish woman) and prove if the love which thou 〈◊〉 him, and thy wit together with his, be able to deliver thee from my folly, whereat (when both you were togethers) you took your pleasure. And now thou hast experience whether my folly or the love which thou didst bear unto him, is the greatest. And be not now so liberal and courteous of that which I go not about to seek. 〈◊〉 thy good nights to thy 〈◊〉 friend, if thou chance to escape from hence alive: for from myself I clearly discharge you both. And truly I have had to much of one: and sufficient it is for me to be mocked once. Moreover by thy crafty talk uttered by subtle speech, and by 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 praise, thou thinkest to force the getting of my good will, and thou callest me Gentleman, valiant man, thinking thereby to withdraw my valiant mind from punishing of thy wretched body: but thy flatteries shall not yet blear mine understanding eyes, as once with thy unfaithful promises thou didst beguile my overweening wit. I now too well do know, and thereof 〈◊〉 thee well assure, that all the time I was a scholar in Paris, I never learned so much, as thou in one night didst me to understand. But put the case that I were a valiant man, yet thou art none of them upon whom valiance ought to show his effects: for the end of repentance in such cruel beasts as thou art, and the like revenge, ought to be death alone: where amongs men thy pitiful plaints which so lamentably thou speakest, ought to suffice. But yet as I am no Eagle, & 〈◊〉 no Dove, but a most venomous serpent, I intend so well as I am able, so persecute thee mine ancient enemy, with the greatest malice I can devise, which I can not so properly call revenge, as I may term it correction: for that the revenge of a matter ought to surmount the offence, & yet I will bestow no revenge on thee: for if I were disposed to apply my mind thereunto, for respect of thy displeasure done to me, thy life should not suffice, nor one hundred more like unto thine: which if I took away, I should but rid a vile, mischievous & wicked woman out of the world. And to say the 〈◊〉, what other devil art thou (to 〈◊〉 pass a little beauty 〈◊〉 thy face, which within few years will be so riveled as the oldest crib of the world) but the most unhappy and wicked woman, the dame of the devil himself: for thou tookest no care to kill and destroy an honest man (as thou even now didst term me) whose life, may in time to come be more profitable to the world, than an hundred thousand such as thine, so long as the world endureth. I will teach thee then by the pain thou sufferest, what it is to mock such men as be of skill, and what manner of thing it is to delude and scorn poor Scholars, giving thee warning hereby, that thou never fall into such like folly, if thou escapest this. But if thou have so great a will to come down as thou sayest thou haste, why dost thou not leap and throw down thyself, that by breaking of thy neck (if it so please God) at one instant thou rid thyself of the pain, wherein thou sayest thou art, and make me the best contented man of the world. For this time I will say no more to thee, but that I have done enough for thee, by making thee to mount so high. Learn then now so well how thou mayst get down, as thou didst know how to mock & deceive me. While the Scholar had preached unto her these words, that wretched woman wept continually, & the time still did pass away, the sun rising more and more: but when she perceived that he held his peace, she answered: O cruel man, if the 〈◊〉 night was grievous unto thee, & my fault appeared great, can not my youth and beauty, my tears and humble prayers be able to mitigate thy wrath and to move thee to pity: do at least that thou 〈◊〉 be moved & thy cruel mind appeased for that only act, let me once again be trusted of thee, and sith I have manifested all my desire, pardon me, for this time, thou haste sufficiently made me feel the penance of my sinew. For, if I had not reposed my trust in thee, thou hadst not now revenged thyself on me, which with ardent desire, thou 〈◊〉 full well declare. Give over then thine anger, & pardon me henceforth: for I am determinod if thou wilt forgive me, & cause me to come down out of this place, to forsake for ever that unfaithful lover, & to receive thee for my only friend & lord. Moreover where thou greatly blamest my beauty, esteeming it to be short, & of small account, such as it is, & the like of other women I know, not to be regarded for other cause: but for pastime & pleasure of youthly men, & therefore not to be contemned: & thou thyself truly art not very old: & albeit that cruelly I am entreated of thee, yet therefore I cannot believe that thou wouldest have me so miserably to die, as to cast myself down headlong, like one desperate, before thy eyes, whom (except thou were a liar as thou art now become) in time passed I did well please & like. Have pity then upon me, for God's sake, for that Sun gins to grow exceeding hot, & as the extreme & bitter cold did hurt me the last night even so that heat beginneth to molest me. Whereunto the Scholar which kept her there for the nonce, and for his pleasure, answered: Mistress you did not now commit your faith to me for love you bore me, but to have that again, which you had lost, wherefore that deserveth no good turn, but greater pain: And fond thou thinkest this to be the only means, whereby I am able to take desired revenge. For I have a thousand other ways, and a thousand traps have I laid to tangle thy feet, in making thee believe that I did love thee, in such wise as thou should 〈◊〉 have gone no where at any time, if this had not chanced, but thou shouldest have fallen into one of them: & surely thou couldst have chanced into neither of them, but would have bred thee more annoyance and shame than this (which I chose not for thine ease, but for my greater pleasure.) And where all these means had failed me, the pen should not, wherewith I would have displayed thee in such colours, as when it had come to thy knowledge, thou wouldst have desired a thousand times a day, that thou hadst never been borne. For the forces of the pen be far more vehement, than they can esteem that have not proved them by experience. I swear unto thee by God, that I do rejoice, and so will to the end, for this revenge I take of thee, and so have I done from the beginning: but if I had with pen painted thy manners to the world, thou shouldest not have been so much ashamed of other, as of thyself, that rather than thou wouldst have looked me in the face again, thou wouldst have plucked thine eyes out of thy head: and therefore reprove no more the sea, for being increased with a little brook. For thy love, or that thou be mine own, I care not, as I have already told thee, & love him again if thou canst, so much as thou wilt, to whom for the hatred that I have borne him, I presently do bear so much good will again, and, for the benefit which he hath done thee now. You be enamoured and desire the love of young men, because you see their 〈◊〉 somewhat fresh, their beard more black, their bodies well shaped to dance and run at tilt & ring, but all these qualities have they had, that be grown to elder years, and they by good experience know what other are yet to learn. Moreover you deem them the better horsemen, because they can journey more miles a day than those that be of farther years. Truly I confess, that with great force they please such 〈◊〉 Gentlewomen as you be, who do not perceive (like savage beasts) what heaps of evil do lurk under the form of fair appearance. Young men be not content with one lover, but so many as they behold, they do desire, and of so many they think themselves worthy: wherefore their love can not be stable. And that this is true, thou mayst now bear true witness thyself. And they thinking themselves worthy to be honoured and cherished of their paramours, have none other glory but to vaunt of those whom they have enjoyed: which fault maketh many to yield themselves to those that be discrete and wise, and to such as be no blabs or Tell-tales. And where thou sayest that thy love is known to none, but to thy maid and me, thou art deceived, and worse believest, if thou believe the same: for all the inhabitants of the street wherein thy lover dwelleth, & the street also wherein thy house doth stand, talk of nothing more than of your love. But many times in such cases, the party whom such brute doth touch, is the last that knoweth the same. Moreover, young men do rob thee, where they of elder years do give thee. Thou then (which hast made such choice) remain to him whom thou hast chosen, & me (whom thou sloutest) give leave to apply to an other: for I have found a woman to be my friend, which is of an other discretion than thou art, and knoweth me better than thou dost. And 〈◊〉 thou mayst in an other world be more certain of mine eyes desire, than thou hitherto art, Throw thyself down so soon as thou canst, that thy soul already (as I suppose) received between the arms of the devil him self may see, if mine eyes be troubled or not, to view thee break thy neck. But because I think thou wilt not do me that good turn, I say if that Sun begin to warm thee, remember the cold which thou madest me suffer, which if thou canst mingle with that heat, no doubt thou shalt feel the same more temperate. The comfortless woman seeing that the Scholars words tended but to cruel end, began to weep & said: Now then, sith nothing can move thee to take pity for my sake, at lest wise for the love of her, whom thou sayest to be of better discretion than I, take some compassion: For her sake (I say) whom thou callest thy friend, pardon me & bring hither my clothes that I may put them on, & cause me if it please thee to come down from hence. Then the Scholar began to laugh, & seeing that it was a good while passed. 〈◊〉. of the clock, he answered: Well go to, for that woman's sake I cannot well say nay, or refuse thy request, tell me where thy garments be, and I will go seek them, & cause thee to come down: She believing that, was somewhat comforted, and told him the place where she had bestowed them. And the Scholar went out of the tour, & commanded his servant to tarry there, & to take heed that none went in until he came again. Then he went to one of his friends houses, where he well refreshed himself, and afterwards when he thought time, he laid him down to sleep. All that space mistress Helena which was still upon the tour, and recomforted with a little foolish hope, sorrowful beyond measure, began to sit down, seeking some shadowed place to bestow herself, and with bitter thoughts & heavy cheer in good devotion, waited for his coming, now musing, now weeping, them hoping, & suddenly despairing that Scholars return with her clothes: & changing from one thought to an other, like one that was weary of travel, & had taken no rest all the night, she fell into a little 〈◊〉. But that sun which was passing hot, being about 〈◊〉, glanced his burning beams upon her 〈◊〉 body & bare head, with such force, as not only it singed that flesh in sight, but also did chip & parch the same, with such roasting heat, as she which sound slept, was constrained to wake: & feeling that raging warmth, desirous somewhat to remove herself, she thought in turning that all her roasted skin had opened and broken, like unto a skin of parchment holden against the fire: besides which pain extreme, her head began to ache, with such vehemence, as it seem to be knocked in pieces: And no marvel, for the pament of the tour was so passing hot, as neither upon her feet, or by other remedy, she could find place of rest. Wherefore without power to abide in one place, she still removed weeping bitterly. And moreover, for that no wind did blow, the tour was filled with such a swarm of Flies and Gnats, as they lighting upon her parched flesh, did so cruelly bite and sting her, that every of them seemed worse than the prick of a needle, which made her to bestir her hands, incessantly to beat them off, cursing still herself, her life, her friend and Scholar. And being thus and with such pain bitten and afflicted with the vehement heat of the Sun, with the flies and gnats, hungry, & much more thirsty, assailed with a thousand grievous thoughts, she arose up, & began to look about her, if she could hear or see any per son, purposing whatsoever came of it to call for help. But her ill fortune had taken away all this hoped means of her relief: for the husbandmen and other labourers were all gone out of the fields to shroud themselves from heat, sparing their travail abroad, to thrash their corn, and do other things at home, by reason whereof, she neither saw or heard any thing, except Butterflies, humble bees, crickets, & the river of Arno, which making her lust to drink of the water, quenched her thirst nothing at all, but rather did augment the same. She saw be sides in many places, woods, shadows and houses, which likewise did breed her double grief, for desire she had unto the same. But what shall we speak any more of this unhappy woman? The Sun above, and the hot tour payment below, with the bitings of the flies and gnats, had on every part so dressed her tender corpse, that where before the whiteness of her body did pass the darkness of the night, the same was become red, all arrayed and spotted with gore blood, that to the beholder and viewer of her state, she seemed the most ill favoured thing of the world: & remaining in this plight, without hope or council, she looked rather for death than other comfort. The Scholar after the clock had sounded three in the after noon, awaked, and remembering his Lady, went to the tour to see what was become of her, & sent his man to dinner, that had eaten nothing all that day. The Gentlewoman hearing the Scholar, repaired so feeble and tormented as she was, unto the trap door, and sitting upon the same, pitifully weeping began to say: Rinieri, thou art beyond measure revenged on me, for if I made thee freeze all night in mine open court, thou hast toasted me to day upon this tour, nay rather burnt, and with heat consumed me: and besides that, to die & stern for hunger and thirst. Wherefore I pray thee for God's sake to come up, and sith my heart is faint to kill myself, I pray thee heartily to do the same. For above all things I desire to die, so great and bitter is the torment which I endure. And if thou wilt not show me that favour, yet cause a glass of water to be brought unto me, that I may moisten my mouth, sith my tears be not able to cool the same so great is the drought & heat I have within. Well knew the Scholar by her voice, her weak estate, and saw beside the most part of her body all toasted with the Sun: by the view whereof, and humble suit of her, he conceived a little pity. Notwithstanding he answered her in this wise: Wicked woman thou shalt not die with my hands, but of thine own, if thou desire the same, and so much water shalt thou have of me, for cooling of thine 〈◊〉, as dampened Dives had in hell at Lazarus hands, when he lifted up his cry to Abraham, holding that saved wight within his blessed bosom, or as I had fire of thee for easing of my cold. The greater is my grief that the vehemence of my cold must be cured with the heat of such a stinking carrion beast, and thy heat healed with the coldness of most soot and savourous water distilled from the orient Rose. And where I was in danger to lose my limbs and life, thou wilt renew thy beauty like the Serpent when he casteth of his skin. Oh I miserable wretch (said the woman) God give him such beauty gotten in such wise, that wisheth me such evil. But (thou more cruel than any other beast) what heart hast thou, thus like a Tyrant to deal with me? What more grievous pain could I endure of thee, or of any other, than I do, if I had killed and done to death thy parents, or whole race of thy stock and kin with most cruel torments. Truly I know not what greater cruelty could be used against a traitor which had sacked or put a whole City to the sword, than that thou hast done to me, to make my flesh to be the food & roast meat of the Sun, and the bait for liquorous flies, not 〈◊〉 to reach hither a simple glass of water, which would have been granted to the 〈◊〉 thief and manqueller, when they be haled forth to hanging, yea wine most commonly, if they 〈◊〉 that same. Now for that I see thee still remain in 〈◊〉 mind, 〈◊〉 that my passion can nothing move thee, I will prepare patiently to 〈◊〉 my death, that God may have mercy on my soul, whom I humbly do beseech with his righteous eyes to behold that cruel fact of thine. And with those words, she approached with pain to the middle of the terrace, despairing to escape that burning heat, and not only once, but a thousand times, (besides her other sorrows) she thought to sown for thirst, and bitterly wept without ceasing, complaining her mishap.  
But being almost night, the Scholar thought he had done enough, wherefore he took her clothes, & wrapping the same within his servants cloak, he went home to the Gentlewoman's house, where he found before the gate, her maid sitting all sad and heavy, of whom he asked where her mistress was. Sir (said she) I cannot tell, I thought this morning to find her a bed, where I left her yester night, but I cannot find her there, nor in any other place, ne yet can tell whether to go seek her, which maketh my heart to throb some misfortune chanced unto her. But (sir quoth she) can not you tell where she is? The Scholar answered: I would thou hadst been with her in the place where I left her, that I might have been revenged on thee so well, as I am of her. But believe assuredly, that thou shalt not escape my hands until I pay thee thy desert, to the intent hereafter in mocking other, thou mayst have cause to remember me. When he had said so, he willed his man to give the maid her mistress clothes, and then did bid her to seek her out if she would. The servant did his masters commandment, and the maid having received them, knew them by and by, and marking. well the Scholars words, she doubted lest he had slain her mistress, and much 〈◊〉 she had to refrain from crying out. And the Scholar being gone, 〈◊〉 took her mistress garments and ran unto the tour.  
That day by hap, one of the Gentlewoman's labouring men, had two of his Hogs run a stray, and as he went to seek them (a little while after the Scholars departure) he approached near the tour, looking round about if he might see them. In the busy search of whom he heard the miserable plaint that the unhappy woman made, wherefore so loud as he could, he cried out: Who weary there above? the woman knew the voice of her man, and calling him by his name, she said unto him: Go home I pray thee to call my maid, and cause her to come up hither unto me. The fellow knowing his mistress voice, said unto her: what Dame, who hath borne you up so 〈◊〉? your maid hath sought you all this day, and who would have thought to find you there? He then taking the staves of the ladder, did set it up against the tour as it ought to be, and bound the steps that were wanting, with fastenings of Willow twigs, and such like pliant stuff as he could find. And at that instant the maid came thither, who so soon as she was entered the tour, not able to forbear her voice, beating her hands, she began to cry: Alas sweet mistress where be you? she hearing the voice of her maid answered so well as she could: Ah (sweet wench) I am here above, cry no more, but bring me hither my clothes.  
When the maid heard her speak, by and by for joy, in haste she mounted up the Ladder, which the labourer had made ready, and with his help gate up to the ferrasse of the tour, and seeing her Mistress resembling not a human body, but rather a wedden faggot half consumed with fire, all weary and withered, lying a long stark naked upon the ground, she began with her nails to wreak the 〈◊〉 upon her face, and wept over her with such 〈◊〉 as 〈◊〉 she had been dead. But her Dame prayed her for God's sake to hold her peace, and to help her to make her ready: and understanding by her that no man knew where she was become, except they which carried home her clothes, & the labourer that was present there, she was some what recomforted, and prayed them for God's sake to say nothing of that chance to any person. The labourer after much talk & request to his mistress, to be of good cheer, when she was risen up, carried her down upon his neck, for that she was not able to go so far, as out of the tour. The poor maid which came behind, in going down the ladder without taking heed, her foot failed her, & falling down to the ground, she broke her thigh, for grief whereof she began to roar and cry out like a Lion. Wherefore the labourer having placed his dame upon a green bank, went to see what the maid did ail, and perceiving that she had broken her thigh, he carried her likewise unto that bank, and placed her be sides her mistress, who seeing one mischief upon another to chance, and that she of whom she hoped for greater help, than of any other, had broken her thigh sorrowful beyond measure, renewed her cry so miserably, as not only the labourer was not able to comfort her, but he himself began to weep for company. The Sun having travailed into his Western course, and taking his farewell by settling himself to rest, was at that point of going down. And the poor desolate woman unwilling to be benighted, went home to the labourers house, where taking two of his brothers and his wife, returned to fetch the maid and carried her home in a chair. Then chéering up his dame with a little fresh water, & many fair 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 carried her up upon his neck into a chamber, afterwards his wife made her warm drinks and meats, & putting of her clothes, laid her in her bed, and took order that the mistress and maid that night were carried to Florence, where the mistress full of lies devised a tale all out of order of that which chanced to her and her maid, making her brethren, her sisters, and other her neighbours believe, that by flush of lightning and evil spirits, her face and body were blistered, and the maiden strooken under the arse bone with a Thunderbolt. Then Physicians were 〈◊〉 for, who not without great grief and pain to the woman (which many times left her skin sticking to the sheeets) cured her cruel fever, and other her diseases, and likewise the maid of her thigh: which caused the Gentlewoman to forget her lover, and from that time forth wisely did beware and take heed whom she did mock, and where she did bestow her love. And the Scholar knowing that the maid had broken her thigh, thought himself sufficiently 〈◊〉, joyfully passing by them both many times in silence. Behold the reward of a foolish wanton widow for her morkes and flouts, thinking that no great care or more provident heed ought to be taken in jesting with a Scholar, than with any other common person, nor well remembering how they 〈◊〉 know (not all, I say, but the greatest part) where the Devil holdeth his tail: and therefore take heed good wives and widows, how you give yourselves to mocks and dalliance specially of Scholars. But now turn we to another widow that was no amorous dame, but a sober matron a motherly gentlewoman, that by pity and money redeemed & ransomed a King's son out of miserable captivity, being utterly abandoned of all his friends. The manner and means how, the Novel ensuing shall she we.   

Camiola and Rolande.  
¶ A Gentlewoman 〈◊〉 widow called CAMIOLA, of her own mind ransomed ROLANDE, the king's son of Sicilia, of purpose to have him to her husband, who when he was redeemed, unkindly denied her, against whom very 〈◊〉 she inveighed, and although the 〈◊〉 proved him to be her husband, yet for his unkindenesle, she utterly refused him.  
The. xxxij. Novel.  
BVsa a Gentlewoman of Apulia, maintained ten thousand Roman soldiers within the walls of Cannas, that were the remnant of the army after that overthrow there: and yet her state of richesses was safe and nothing diminished, and left thereby a worthy testimony of liberality as Valerius Maximus affirmeth. If this worthy woman Busa for liberality is commended by ancient authors: if she deserve a monument amongs famous writers for that splendent virtue which so brightly blasoneth the Heroical natures of Noble dames, then may I be so bold amongs these Novels to bring in (as it were by the hand) a widow of Messina, that was a gentlewoman borne, adorned with passing beauty and virtues. Amongs that rank of which her comely qualities, the virtue of liberality glistered like the morning star after the night hath cast of his dark and cloudy mantel. This gentlewoman remaining in widows state, and hearing tell that one of the sons of Federick, and brother to Peter that was then king of the said Island called Rolande, was carried prisoner to Naples, and there kept in miserable captivity, and not like to be redeemed by his brother for a displeasure conceived, nor by any other, pitying the state of the young Gentleman, and moved by her gentle and courageous disposition, and specially with the virtue of liberality, ransomed the said Rolande, and 〈◊〉 no interest or usury for the same, but him to husband, that aught upon his knees to have made suit to be her slave and servant for respect of his miserable state of imprisonment. An affiance between them was concluded, and he redeemed, and 〈◊〉 he was returned, he falsed his former faith, and cared not for her. For which unkind part, she before his friends inveigheth against that ingratitude, and utterly for saketh him, when (sore ashamed) he would very feign have recovered her good will. But she like a wise Gentlewoman well weighing his inconstant mind before marriage, lusted not to taste, or put in proof the fruits & success thereof. The entire discourse of whom you shall briefly and presently understand.  
Camiola a widow of the City of Sienna, that daughter of a gentle Knight called Signior Lorenzo 〈◊〉, was a woman of great renown & fame, for her beauty, liberality & shame fastness, and led a life in Messina, (an ancient City of 〈◊〉) no less commendable than famous, in the company of her parents contenting herself with one only husband, while she lived, which was in the time when Federick the third was king of that 〈◊〉: and after their death she was an heir of very great wealth and richesse, which were always by her conserved and kept in marvelous honest sort. Now it chanced that after the death of Federick, Peter succeeding, by his commandment a great army by sea was equipped from 〈◊〉, under the conduct of john County of Chiaramonte, (the most renewmed in those days in feats of war,) for to aid the people of Lippari, which were so strongly and earnestly besieged, as they were almost all dead and consumed for hunger. In this army, over and beside those that were in pay, many Barons and Gentlemen willingly went upon their own proper costs and charges, as well by sea as land, only for fame, and to be renowned in arms. This Castle of Lippari was assaulted by Godefrey of Squilatio a valiant man, and at that time Admiral to Robert 〈◊〉 of jerusalem and Sicily: which Godefrey by long siege & assault had so 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 people within, as daily he hoped they would surrender. But having advertisement (by certain Brigandens which he had sent abroad to scour the seas) that the enemies army (which was far greater than his) was at hand, after that he had assembled all his navy together in one sure place, he expected the event of fortune. The enemies so soon as they were seized & possessed of the place, without any resistance of 〈◊〉 places abandoned by Godefrey, carried into the city at their pleasure all their victuals, which they brought with them for which good hap and chance the said Count john being very much encouraged and puffed up with pride, offered battle to Godefrey. Wherefore he not refusing the same, being a man of great courage, in 〈◊〉 night time fortified his army with boards, timber, and other rampires, and having put his navy in good order, he encouraged his men to fight, and to do valiantly the next day, which done, he caused the Ankers to be weighed, and giving the sign, turned the prowess of 〈◊〉 ships against 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 army, but Count john who thought that Godefrey would not fight, and durst not once look upon 〈◊〉 great army of the Sicilians, did not put his fleet in order of fight, but rather in readiness to pursue the enemies. But seeing the courage and the approach of them that came against him, began to fear, his heart almost failing him, and 〈◊〉 him that he had required his enemy to that which he thought never to have obtained. In such wise as mistrusting the battle, with troubled mind, changing the order given, and notwithstanding not to seem altogether fearful, incontinently caused his ships to be put into order after the best manner he could for so little time, himself giving the sign of battle. In the mean while their enemies being approached near unto them, and making a very great noise with cries and shouts furiously entered with the prowess of the ships amongs the Sicilians, which came slowly forth, & having first thrown their 〈◊〉 and grapples to stay them, they began the fight with Darts, Crossbows and other shot, in such sort as the Sicilians being amazed for the sudden mutation of Council, and all environed with fear, and the soldiers of Godefrey perceiving 〈◊〉 same, entered their enemies ships, and coming to blows, even in a moment all was filled with blood, by reason whereof the Sicilians then despairing of themselves, and they that feared turning the 〈◊〉, fled away: but nevertheless the victory reclining towards Godefrey, many of their ships were drowned, many taken, and divers Pinnasses by force of their 〈◊〉 escaped. In that fight died few people, but many were hurt, and john the captain general taken prisoner, and with him almost all the Barons, which of their own accords repaired to those wars, and besides a great number of soldiers, many Ensigns aswell of the field, as of the galleys, and specially the main standard was taken. And in the end, the Castle being rendered after long voyages, and great fortunes by Sea, they were all chained, carried to Naples and there imprisoned. amongs those prisoners, there was a certain Gentleman called Roland, the natural Son of king Federick deceased, a young Prince very comely and valiant. Who not being redeemed, tarried alone in prison very sorrowful to see all others discharged after they had paid their ransom, and himself not to have wherewith to furnish the same. For King Pietro (to whom the care of him appertained by reason he was his brother) for that his wars had no better success, and done contrary to his commandment, conceived displeasure so well against him, as all others which were at that battle. Now he then being prisoner without hope of any liberty, by means of the dampish prison, and his feet clogged with irons, grew to be sick and feeble. It chanced by fortune, that Camiola remembered him, and seeing him forsaken of his brethren, had compassion upon his mishap, in such wise, as she purposed (if honestly she might do the same) to set him at liberty. For the accomplishment whereof without prejudice of her honour, she saw none other ways but to take him to husband. Wherefore she sent divers unto him secretly, to confer if he would come forth upon that condition, whereunto he willingly agreed. And performing each due ceremony, under promised faith, upon the gift of a ring willingly by a deputy he espoused Camiola, who with so much diligence as she could, paid two thousand Crowns for his ransom, and by that means he was delivered.  
When he was returned to Messina, he repaired not to his wife, but fared as though there had never been any such talk between them, whereof at the beginning Camiola very much marveled, and afterwards knowing his unkindness, was greatly offended in her heart against him. Notwithstanding, to the intent she might not seem to be grieved 〈◊〉 reason, before she proceeded any further, caused him lovingly to be talked withal, and to be exhorted by following his promise to consummate the marriage. And seeing that he denied ever any such contract to be made, she caused him to be summoned before 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 judge, by whom sentence was given that he was her husband by 〈◊〉 of his own letters, & by witness of certain other personages of good reputation, which afterwards he himself confessed, his face blushing for shame, for that he had forgotten such a manifest benefit and good turn. When 〈◊〉 kind part of Camiola done unto him, was thoroughly known, he was by his brethren reproved & checked for his villainy: 〈◊〉 by their instigation & the persuasion of his friends, he was contented by humble request to desire Camiola to perform the 〈◊〉. But the gentle 〈◊〉 which was of great courage, in the presence of divers 〈◊〉 were with him, when he required her thereunto answered him in this manner: Roland I have great cause to render thanks to almighty God, for 〈◊〉 it pleased him to declare unto me the proof of 〈◊〉 unfaithfulness, before thou 〈◊〉 by any means contaminate (under the colour of marriage) the purity of my body, and that through his 〈◊〉, by whose most holy name thou 〈◊〉 about to abuse me by false and perjured oath, I have foreseen thy 〈◊〉 and deceit, wherein I believe that I have gained more, than I 〈◊〉 have done by thee in marriage. I suppose that when thou were in prison, thou didst mean no less, than now by effect thou she west, and didst think that I, forgetting of what house I was, presumptuously desired a husband of the royal blood, and therefore wholly inflamed with thy love, didst purpose to beguile me by denying the troth, when thou hadst recovered liberty through my money, and thereby to reserve thy 〈◊〉 for some other of more famous alliance, being restored to thy former degree. And hereby thou hast given proof of thy will, and what mind thou hadst so to do if thine ability had been correspondent. But God, who from the lofty skies doth behold the humble & low, and who forsaketh none that hopeth in him, knowing the sincerity of my conscience, hath given me the grace by little travail, to break the bands of thy deceipts, to discover thine ingratitude, and make manifest thine infidelity, which I have not done only to display the wrong towards me, but that thy brethren & other thy friends might from henceforth know what thou art, what affiance they ought to repose in thy faith, & thereby what thy friends ought to look for, & what thine enemies ought to fear. I have lost my money, thou thy good name. I have lost the hope which I had of thee, thou the favour of the king and of thy brethren: I the expectation of my marriage, thou a true & constant wife: I the fruits of charity, thou the gain of amity: I an unfaithful husband, thou a most pure & loyal wife. Now the Gentlewomen of Sicilia do marvel at my magnificence and beauty, and by praises advance the same up into the heavens: and contrariwise every of them do mock thee, & deem thee to be infamous. The renowned writers of each country will place me amongs the rank of the noblest dames, where thou shalt be depressed & thrown down amongs the heaps of the most unkind. True it is, that I am somewhat deceived by delivering out of prison, a young man of royal and noble race, in stead of whom I have redeemed a rascal, a liar, a 〈◊〉 of his faith, and a cruel beast: and take heed hardily how thou do greatly 〈◊〉 thyself, & I wish thee not to think that I was moved to draw thee out of prison, and take thee to husband for the good qualities that were in thee, but for the memory of ancient benefits which my father received of thine (if Federike, a king of most sacred remembrance were thy father, for I can scarcely believe, that a son so dishonest should proceed from so noble a gentleman as was that famous prince.) I know well thou thinkest that it was an unworthy thing, that a Widow not being of the royal blood, should have to husband, the son of a 〈◊〉, so strong and of so goodly parsonage, which I willingly confess: but I would have thee a little to make me answer (at lest wise if thou canst by reason) when I paid so great a sum of money to deliver thee from bondage and captivity, where was then the nobility of thy royal race? where was thy force of youth? and where thy beauty? if not that they were closed up in a terrible prison, where thou wast detained in bitter grief and sorrow, and there with those natural qualities, covered also in obscure darkness, that compassed thee round about. The ill favoured noise and jangling of thy chains, the deformity of thy face forced for lack of light, and the stench of the infected prison that provoked sickness, and the forsaking of thy friends, had quite debased all these perfections wherewith now thou seemest to be so lusty. Thou thoughtest me then to be worthy, not only of a young man of a royal blood, but of a God, if it were possible to have him, & so soon as (thou contrary to all hope) didst once 〈◊〉 thy natural country, like a most pestilent person without any difficulty, haste changed thy mind, never since thou wast delivered, 〈◊〉 did call into thy remembrance how I was that 〈◊〉, that I was she (alone) that did remember thee: that I was (she alone) that had compassion on thy mishap, and that I was only she, who for thy health did employ all the goods she had. I am, I am (I say) that Camiola, who by her money ransomed thee out of the hands of the Capital enemies of thine ancestors, from fetters, from prison: & finally delivered thee from misery extreme, before thou were altogether settled in despair. I reduced thee again to hope, I have revoked thee into thy country, I have brought thee into the royal palace, and restored thee into thy former estate, and of a prisoner weak, and ill-favoured, have made thee a young Prince, strong, and of fair aspect. But wherefore have I remembered these things, whereof thou oughtest to be very mindful thyself, and which thou art not able to deny? Sith that for so great benefits thou hast rendered me such thanks, as being my husband in deed, thou hadst the face to deny me marriage, already contracted by the deposition of honest witnesses, and approved by letters signed with thine own hand. Wherefore didst thou despise me that hath delivered thee? Yea and if thou couldst have stained the name of her with infamy, that was thine only refuge and defender, yea and wouldst gladly have given cause to the common people, to think less than honesty of her. Art thou ashamed (thou man of little judgement) to have to wife a widow, the daughter of a knight? 〈◊〉 how far better had it been for thee to have been ashamed to break thy promised faith, to have despised the holy and dreadful name of God, and to have declared by thy cursed unkindness, how full fraught thou art with vice. I do confess in deed that I am not of the royal blood: not withstanding from the cradle, being trained and brought up in the company of king's wives and daughters, no great marvel it is, if I have endued and put on a royal heart and manners, that is able to get and purchase royal nobility. But wherefore do I multiply so many words? No no I will be very facile and easy in that wherein thou hast been to me so difficult and hard by resisting the same with all thy power. Thou hast refused heretofore to be mine, and having vanquished thee, to be such, frankly of mine own accord, I do grant that thou art not. Abide (on God's name) with thy royal nobility, nevertheless 〈◊〉 with the spot of infidelity. Make much of thy youthly lustiness, & of thy transitory beauty, and I shall be contented with my widow apparel, and shall leave the riches which god hath given me to heirs more honest than those that might have come of thee. Avaunt thou wicked young man, & sith thou art counted to be unworthy of me, learn with thine own expense, by what subtlety & guiles thou mayest betray other dames, sufficeth it for me to be once deceived. And I for my part fully determine never to tarry longer with thee, but rather chastened to live without husband, which life I dame far more excellent than with thy match continually to be coupled.  
After she had spoken these words, she departed from him, and from that time forth, it was impossible either by prayers, or admonitions to cause her change her holy intent. But Rolande all confused, repenting himself to late of his ingratitude, blamed of 〈◊〉 man, his eyes fired upon the ground, 〈◊〉 not only the presence of his brethren but of all 〈◊〉 of people, daily led from that time forth, a most miserable life, and never durst by reason to demand her again to wife, whom he had by disloyalty refused. The king and the other barons, marveling of the noble heart of the Lady, singularly commended her, and exalted her praises up into the skies, uncertain nevertheless wherein she was most worthy of praise, either for that (contrary to the covetous nature of women) she had ransomed a young man with so great a sum of money, or else after she had delivered him, and sentence given that he was her husband, she so courageously refused him, as an unkind man, unworthy of her company.  
But leave we for a time, to talk of widows, and let us see what the Captain and Lieutenant of Nocera can allege upon the discourse of his cruelties, which although an over cruel history, yet depainteth the success of those that apply their minds to the sports of Love, such Love I mean, as is wanton placed, and directed to no good purpose, but for glutting of the body's delight, which both corrupteth nature, maketh feeble the body, lewdly spendeth the time, and specially offendeth him whom maketh proclamation, that whoremongers and adulterers shall never inherit his kingdom.   

The Lords of Nocera  
¶ Great cruelties chanced to the Lords of NOCERA, for adultery by one of them committed with the captains wife of the fort of that City, with an enterprise moved by the Captain to the Citizens of the same for rebellion, and the good and dutiful answer of them: with other pitiful 〈◊〉 rising of that notable and outrageous vice of whoredom.  
The. xxxiij. Novel.  
THE furious rage of a husband offended for the chastity violated in his wife, surpasseth all other, & engendereth malice against the doer whatsoever he be. For if a Gentleman, or one of good nature, cannot abide an other to do him any kind of displeasure, & much less to hurt him in his body. how is he able to endure to have his honour touched, specially in that part which is so near unto him as his own soul? Man and 〈◊〉 being as it were one body and one will, wherein men of good judgement cannot well like the opinion of those good fellows which say that the honour of one that is lusty and courageous, dependeth not upon the fault of a foolish woman. For if that were true which they so lightly vaunt, I would demand wherefore they be so animated & angry against them which adorn their head with branched horns, the Ensigns of a Cuckold. And truly nature hath so well provided in that behalf, as the very savage beasts do fight, and suffer death for such honest jealousy. Yet will I not praise, but rather accuse above all faulty men, those that be so fond jealous, as each thing troubleth their mind, and be afraid of the flies very shadow that buzz about their faces. For by paining & molesting themselves with a thing that so little doth please and content them, until manifest and evident proof appear, they display the folly of their minds imperfection, and the weak steadfastness of their fantasy. But where the fault is known, & the vice discovered, where the husband seeth himself to receive damage in the soundest part of his movable goods, reason it is that he therein be advised by timely deliberation and sage foresight, rather than with headlong fury & raging rashness to hazard the loss of his honour, and the ruin of his life and goods. And like as the faith and fidelity of the undefiled bed hath in all times worthily been commended: even so he that polluteth it by infamy, beareth the penance of the same. Portia the daughter of Cato, and wife of Brutus shall be praised for ever, for the honest & inviolable love which she bore unto her beloved husband, almost like to lose her life when she heard tell of his certain death. The pudicitie of Paulina the wife of Seneca appeared also, when she assayed to die by the same kind of death wherewith her husband violently was tormented by the unjust commandment of the most cruel and horrible Emperor Nero. But whores and harlots having honest husbands, and well allied in kin and ligneage, by abandoning their bodies, do prodigally consume their good renown: If they escape the Magistrates, or avoid the wrath of offended husbands for the wrong done unto them, yet they leave an immortal slander of their wicked life, and youth thereby may take example aswell to shun such shameless women, as to follow those Dames that be chaste and virtuous. Now of this contempt which the wife beareth to her husband, do rise very many times notorious slanders, and such as are accompanied with passing cruelties: wherein the husband ought to moderate his heat and calm his choler, and soberly to chastise the fault, for so much as excessive wrath and anger, do Eclipse in man the light of reason, and such rages do make them to be semblable unto brute and reasonless beasts: Meet it is to be angry for things done contrary to right & equity, but temperance and modesty is necessary in all occurrentes, be they with us, or against us. But if to resist anger in those matters, it be hard and difficult, it is also to be thought that the greater impossibility there is in the operation and effect of any good thing, the greater is the glory that banquisheth the affection and mastereth the first motion of the mind which is not so impossible to govern, and subdue to reason, as many do esteem.  
A wise man than cannot so far forget his duty, as to exceed the bounds and limits of reason, and to suffer his mind to wander from the siege of Temperance, which if he do after he hath well mingled Water in his Wine, he may chance to find cause of repentance, and by desire to repair his offence, augment his fault, sin being so prompt and ready in man, as the crime which might be covered with certain justice, and coloured by some law or righteous cause, maketh him many times to fall into detestable 〈◊〉 and sin, so contrary to mildness and modesty, as the very tyrants themselves would abhor such wickedness. And to the end that I do not trouble you with allegation of infinite numbers of examples, serving to this purpose, ne render occasion of tediousness for you to revolve so many books, I am contented for this present, to bring in place an History so over cruel, as the cause was reasonable, if duty in the one had been considered, and rage in the other bridled and foreseen, who madly murdered and offended those that were nothing guilty of the fact, which touched him so near. And although that these be matters of love, yet the reader ought not to be grieved nor take in evil part, that we have still that argument in hand. For we do not hereby go about to erect a schoolhouse of love, or to teach youth the wanton toys of the same: but rather bring for the these examples to withdraw that pliant and tender age of this our time, from the pursuit of like follies, which may (were they not in this sort warned) engender like effects that these our Histories do recount, and whereof you shall be partakers by reading the discourse that followeth.  
Ye must then understand, that in the time that Braccio Montane, and Sforza Attendulo flourished in Italy, and were the chiefest of that Italian men of war, there were three Lords and brethren, which held under their authority and puissance Fcligno, Nocera, and Trevio, parcel of the Dukedom of Spoleto, who governed so lovingly their lands together, as without division, they maintained themselves in their estate, & lived in brotherly concord. The name of the eldest of these three Lords, was Nicholas, the second Caesar, and the youngest Conrade, gentle personages, wise and well-beloved so well of the Noble men their neighbours, as also of the Citizens that were under their obeisance, who in the end showed greater loyalty towards them, than those that had sworn their faith, and had given pledges for confirmation thereof, as ye shall perceive by reading that which followeth. It chanced that the eldest oftentimes repairing from Foligno to Nocera, and lodging still in the castle, beheld with a little too much wanton eye, the wife of his lieutenant which was placed there with a good number of dead pays, to guard the fort, & keep under the Citizens, if by chance (as it happeneth upon the new erection of estates) they attempted some new enterprise against their sovereign Lords. Now this Gentlewoman was fair, and of better grace singularly delighting to be looked upon: which occasioned the Lord Nicholas, by perceiving the wantonness and good will of the mistress of the Castle, not to refuse so good occasion, determining to prosecute the enjoying of her, that was the bird after which he hunted, whose beauty and good grace had deeply wounded his mind: wherein if he forgot his duty, I leave for all men of good judgement to consider. For me think that this young Lord ought rather singularly to love and cherish his lieutenant that faithfully and trustily had kept his Castle and Forte, than to prepare against him so traitorous an attempt and ambush. And if so be his said lieutenant had been accused of felony, misprision, or Treason (yet to speak the troth) he might have delivered the charge of his castle unto an other, rather than to suborn his wife to folly. And ought likewise to have considered that the lieutenant by putting his trust in him, had just cause to complain for ravishing his honour from him in the person of his wife, whom be aught to have loved without any affection to infringe the holy law of amity, the breaking whereof dissolveth the duty of each servant towards his sovereign Lord and master. To be short, this blinded lover yielding no resistance to love, and the foolish conceit which altereth the judgements of the wisest, suffered his fancy to rove so far unto his appetites, as on a day when the lieutenant was walked abroad into the Castle, to view the soldiers and dead pays (to pleasure him that sought the means of his displeasure) he spoke to the Gentlewoman his wife in this manner: Gentlewoman, you being wise and courteous as each man knoweth, needful it is not to use long or Rethorical Orations, for so much as you without further supply of talk do clearly perceive by my looks, sighs and earnest views, the love that I bear you, which without comparison nippeth my heart so near as none can feel the parching pains, that the same poor portion of me doth suffer. Wherefore having no great leisure to let you further understand my mind, it may please you to show me so much favour as I may be received for him, who having the better right of your good grace, may there withal enjoy that secret acquaintance, which such a one as I am deserveth: of whom ye shall have better experience if you please to accept him for your own. This mistress lieutenant which counted herself happy to be beloved of her Lord, and who took great pleasure in that adventure, albeit that she desired to let him know the good will that she bore unto him, yet dissembled the matter a little, by answering him in this wise: Your disease sir is sudden, if in foe little time you have felt such excess of malady: but perchance it is your heart that being over tender, hath lightly received the prick, which no doubt will so soon vanish, as it hath made so ready entry. I am very glad (Sir) that your heart is so merrily disposed to dalliance, and can find some matter to contrive the superfluity of time, the same altering the diversity of man's complexion, accordingly as the condition of the hourly planet guideth the nature of every wight. It is altogether otherwise (answered he) for being 〈◊〉 hither as a 〈◊〉 and Lord, I am become a servant and slave: And briefly to speak my mind, if you have not pity upon me, the disease which you call sudden, not only will take increase, but procure the death and final ruin of my heart. Ah sir (said the Gentlewoman) your grief is not so deeply rooted, and death so present to succeed, as you affirm, ne yet so ready to give over the place, as you protest, but I see what is the matter, you desire to laugh me to scorn, and your heart craveth something to solace itself which cannot be idle, but must employ the vacant time upon some pleasant toys. You have touched the prick (answered the Lover) for it is you in deed whereupon my heart doth joy, and you are the cause of my laughter and passetime, for otherwise all my delights were displeasures, and you also by denying me to be your servant, shall abbreviate and shorten my living days, who only rejoiceth for choice of such a mistress. And how (replied she) can I be assured of that you say? the disloyalty and infidelity of man being in these days so fast united, and following one another, as the shadow doth the body, wheresoever it goeth. Only experience (said he) shall make you know what I am, and shall teach you whether my heart is any thing different from my words: and I dare be bold to say, that if you vouchsafe to do me the pleasure to 〈◊〉 me for your own, you may make your vaunt to have a Gentleman so faithful for your friend, as I esteem you to be discrete, and as I desire to 〈◊〉 you 〈◊〉 the effect of mine affection, by such some honest order as may be devised. Sir (said she) it is well and 〈◊〉 spoken of you, but yet I think it strange for such a Gentleman as you be, to debase your honour to so poor a Gentlewoman, and to go about both to dishonour me, and to put my life in peril. God forbidden (answered the Lord Nicholas) that I be cause of any slander, and rather had I die myself than minister one simple occasion whereby your fame should be brought in question. Only I do pray you to have pity upon me, and by using your courtesy, to satisfy that which my service & faithful friendship doth constrain, and bind you for the comfort of him that loveth you better than himself. We will talk more thereof hereafter (answered the lieutenants wife) and then will I tell you mine advise, and what resolution shall follow the sum of your demand. How now Gentlewoman (said he) have you the heart to leave me void of hope, to make me languish for the prorogation of a thing so doubtful, as the delays 〈◊〉 which love deferreth? I humbly pray you to tell me whereunto I shall trust: to the intent that by punishing my heart for proof of this enterprise, I may 〈◊〉 also mine eyes by reaving from them the means for ever more to see that which contenteth me best, and wherein 〈◊〉 my solace, leaving my mind full of desires, and my heart without final stay, upon that greatest pleasure that ever man 〈◊〉 choose. The Gentlewoman would not lose a Noble man so good & 〈◊〉: whose presence already pleased her above all other things, and who voluntarily had agreed to his request, by the only sign of her gests and looks, said unto him smiling with a very good grace: Do not accuse my heart of lightness, nor my mind of 〈◊〉 and treason, if to please & obey you, I forget my duty, & abuse the promise made unto my husband, for I swear unto you (sir) by God, that I have more forced my thought, & of long time have constrained mine appetites in dissembling the love that I bear you, than I have received pleasure, by knowing myself to be beloved by one agreeable to mine affection. For which cause you shall find me (being but a poor Gentlewoman) more ready to do your pleasure, and to be at your commandment, than any other that liveth be she of greater port and regard than I am. And who to satisfy your request, shall one day sacrifice that fidelity to the jealous fury of her husband. God defend (said the young Lord) for we shall be so discrete in our doings, & so 〈◊〉 shall communicate & talk together, as impossible it is for any man to 〈◊〉 the same. But if mishap will have it so, and that some ill luck do discover our dealings, I have shift of ways to colour the same, & power to stop the mouths of them that dare presume to clatter and have to do with our private conference. All that I know well enough sir (said she) but it is great simplicity in such things for a man to trust to his authority, the forced inhibition whereof shall provoke more babble, than rumour is able to spread for all his tattling talk of our secret follies. Moreover I would 〈◊〉 very glad to do what pleaseth you, so the same may be without slander. For I had rather die, than any should take us in our privities and familiar pastimes: let us be contented with the pleasure that the 〈◊〉 of our joy may grant, and not with such contentation as shall offend us, by blotting the clearness of our 〈◊〉 names. Concluding then that time of their new acquaintance, which was the next day at noon, when that Lieutenant did walk into the City, they ceased their talk for fear of his interview. Who (upon his return) doing reverence unto his Lord, told him that he knew where a wild Boar did haunt, if it pleased him to see the passetime. Whereunto the Lord Nicholas feigned lovingly to give ear (although against his will) for so much as he thought the same hunting should be a delay for certain days to the enjoying, (pretended and assured) of his beloved. But she that was so much or more esprised with the raging and intolerable fire of love, speedily found means to satisfy her lovers suit, but not in such manner as was desired of either parts, wherefore they were constrained to defer the rest until an other time. This pleasant beginning so alured the Lord of Nocera, as under the pretence of hunting, there was no week that passed, but he came to 〈◊〉 the warrener of his lieutenant. And this order continuing without 〈◊〉 one little suspicion of their love, they governed themselves wisely in the pursuit thereof. And the Lord Nicholas used the game and sport of Hunting, and an infinite number of other exercises, as the running of the King and Tennis, not so much thereby to find means to enjoy his Lady, as to avoid occasion of jealousy in her husband, being a very familiar vice in all Italians, the cloak whereof is very heavy to bear, and the disease troublesome to sustain. But what? Like as it is hard to beguile an 〈◊〉 in the account of his money, for his continual watch over the same, and slumbering sleeps upon the books of his reckonings and accounts, so difficult it is to deceive the heart of a jealous man, and specially when he is assured of the grief which his head hath conceived. Argus was never so clear eyed for all his hundred eyes over jupiters' leman, as those lovers be, whose opinions be ill affected over the chastity of their wives. Moreover what fool or Ass is he, who seeing such undiscrete familiarity of two lovers, the privy gestures, and demeanours without witness, their stolen walks at untimely hours, & sometimes their embracements to strait and common before servants, that would not doubt of that which most secretly did pass? True it is that in England (where liberty is so honestly observed as being alone or secret conversation giveth no cause of suspicion) that same might have 〈◊〉 borne withal. But in Italy, where the parents themselves be for the most part suspected, (if there had been no fact in deed committed) that familiarity of the Lord Nicholas, with his lieutenants wife was not suffrable, but exceeded the bounds of reason, for so much as the commodity which they had chosen for pos sessing of their love, (albeit the same not suspicious) animated them afterwards to frequent their familiarity & disport to frankly, & without discretion: which was that cause that fortune (who never leaveth that joys of men without giving thereunto some great alarm,) being envious of the mutual delights of those. 〈◊〉. lovers, made that husband to doubt of that which he would have dissembled, if honour could so easily be lost without reproach, as blood is shed with out peril of life. But that matter being so clear, as the fault was evident, specially in the party which touched him so near as himself, that lieutenant before he would enterprise any thing, and declare what he thought, 〈◊〉 thoroughly to be resolved of that which he saw as it were 〈◊〉 in a cloud, and by reason of his conceived opinion he dealt so warily and wisely in those affairs, & was so subtle an espial, as one day when the lovers were at their game, and in their most strait and secret embracements, he viewed them coupled with other leash, than he would have wished, and coled with straighter bands than reason or honesty did permit. He saw without being seen, wherein he felt a certain ease and contentment, for being assured of that he doubted, & purposed to ordain a sour refection after their delightsome banquet, the simple lovers ignorant by sign or 〈◊〉, that their enterprises were discovered. And truly it had been more tolerable and less hurtful for the lieutenant, if even then he had perpetrated his vengeance, and punished them for their wickedness, than to use the cruelty wherewith afterwards he blotted his renown, and foiled his hands by Bedlam rage in the innocent blood of those that were not privy to the folly, and less guilty of the wrong done unto him. Now the captain of the Castle for all his dissimulation in covering of his grief, and his felony and treason intended against his sovereign Lord, which he desired not yet manifestly to appear, was not able any more from that time forth to speak so lovingly unto him, nor with such respect and reverence as he did before, which caused his wife thus to say unto her lover: My Lord I doubt very much lest my husband doth perceive these our common practises, & secret familiar dealings, & that he hath some hammer working in his head, by reason of the countenance, & unchéereful entertainment which he showeth to your Lordship, wherefore mine advise is, that you retire for a certain time to Foligno. In the mean space I will mark & 〈◊〉 if that his alteration be conceived for any matter against us, and wherefore his wont looks have put on this new alteration & change. All which when I have (by my espial and secret practice sounded) I will speedily advertise you, to the end that you may provide for the safeguard of your faithful and loving servant. The young Lord, who loved the Gentlewoman with all his heart, was attached with so great grief, and driven into such rage, by hearing those wicked news, as even presently he would have known of his lieutenant, the cause of his diswonted cheer. But weighing the good advise which his woman had given him, paused upon the same, & 〈◊〉 her to do what she thought best. By reason whereof, giving warning to his servants for his departure, he caused the Lieutenant to be called before him, unto whom he said: Captain, I had thought for certain days to sport and pass my time, but hearing tell that the Duke of Camerino cometh to Foligno, to debate with us of matters of importance, I am constrained to depart, and do pray you in that mean time to have good regard unto our affairs, and if any news 〈◊〉 chance, to advertise the same: with all expedition. Sir (said the Captain) I am sorry that now when our passetime of hunting might yield some good recreation unto your honour, that you do thus forsake us, notwithstanding sith it is your good pleasure, we will cease the chase of the wild Boar till your return. In the mean time, I will make ready the cords and 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 the taking of the same, that upon your coming, nothing want for the furniture of our sport. The Lord Nicholas, seeing his Lieutenant so pleasantly disposed, and so little bend to choler, or jealous fantasy, was persuaded, that some other toy had rather occupied his mind, than any suspicion between his wife and him. But the subtle husband searched other means to be 〈◊〉, than by killing him alone, of whom he received that dishonour, and was more crafty to enterprise, and more hardy to execute, than the lovers were wise or well advised to prevent and withstand his sleights and policies. And albeit that the wife (after the departure of her friend) assayed to draw from him the cause of his altered cheer, yet could she never learn, that her husband had any ill opinion of their love. For so many times as talk was moved of the Lord Nicholas, he exalted his praise up into the heavens, and commended him above all his 〈◊〉. All which he did, to beguile the policies of her, whom he saw to blush, and many times change colour, when she heard him spoken of, to whom she bore better affection than to her husband, unto whom (in very deed) she did owe the faith and integrity of her body. This was the very toil which he had laid to entrap those amorous persons, and purposed to rid the world of them by that means, to remove from before his eyes, the shame of a 〈◊〉 title, and to revenge the injury done to his reputation. The Mistress of the Castle seeing that her husband (as she thought) by no means did understand her 〈◊〉, desired to continue the pleasure, which either 〈◊〉 them desired, and which made the third to die of frenzy, wrote to the Lord Nicholas, the letter that followeth.  
My Lord, the fear I had, that my husband should perceive our love, caused me to entreat you certain days past, to discontinue for a time, the frequentation of your own house, whereby I am not a little grieved, that contrary to my will, I am defrauded of your presence, which is far more pleasant unto me, than my husbands 〈◊〉, who ceaseth not continually to talk of the honest behaviour, and commendable qualities that be in you, and is sorry for your departure, because he feareth that you mislike your entertainment, which should be (saith he) so grievous and noisome unto him, as death itself. Wherefore I pray you 〈◊〉, if it be possible, and that your affairs do suffer you to come hither, to the end I may enjoy your 〈◊〉 presence, and use the liberty that our good hap hath prepared, through the little jealousy of my husband your Lieutenant: who I suppose before it be long will 〈◊〉 you, so great is his desire to make you passetime 〈◊〉 hunting within your own land and territory.  
Fail not then to come, I beseech you, and we will so well consider the government of our affairs, as the best sighted shall not once descry the lest suspicion thereof, recommending myself most humbly (after the best manner I can) to your good lordship.  
This Letter was delivered to a lackey to bear to the Lord Nicholas, and not so privily done, but that Lieutenant immediately espied the deceit, which the sooner was disciphred, for so much as he daily lay in wait to find the means to revenge the wrong done unto him, of purpose to beat the iron so long as it was hot, & to execute his purpose before his wife took heed, and felt the endeavour of his enterprise. And because that she had assayed by divers ways to sound his heart, and feel whether he had conceived displeasure against the Lord her lover, the day after wherein she had written to her friend, he sent one of his men in post to the three Lords, to require them to come the next day to see the pastime of the 〈◊〉 and greatest Wild Boar, that long time was bred in the Forests adjoining unto Nocera, Albeit that the Country was fair for 〈◊〉, and that divers times many fair Boar's 〈◊〉 been encountered there.  
But it was not for this, that he had framed his errand, but to trap in one toil and snare the three brethren, whom he determined to sacrifice to the altar of his vengeance, for the expiation of their elder brother's trespass, and for soiling the nuptial bed of his servant. He was the wild Boar whom he meant to strike, he was the pray of his unsatiable and cruel appetite. If the fault had been general of all three togethers, he had had some reason to make them pass the brack of one equal fortune, and to tangle them within one net, both to prevent thereby (as he thought) his further hurt, and to chastise their lewd behaviour. For many times (as lamentable experience teacheth) Noble men for the only respect of their nobility, make no conscience to do wrong to the honour of them, whose reputation and honesty they ought so well to regard as their own. Herein offended the good prince of the jews David, when to use his Bersabe without suspicion, he caused innocent Urias to be slain, in am of recompense for his good service, and diligent execution of his behests. The children of the proud Roman King Tarqvinius, did herein greatly abuse themselves, when they violated that noble Gentlewoman Lucrece, whom all histories do so much remember, and whose chastity, all famous writers do commend. Upon such as they be, vengeance ought to be dove, and not to defile the hands in the blood of innocentes, as the parents and kinsmen of dead Lucrece did at Rome, and this Lieutenant at Nocera, upon the brethren of him that had sent him into Cornwall, without passing over the seas. But what? Anger proceeding of such wrong, surmounteth all frenzy, and exceedeth all the bounds of reason, and man's so devoid of wits, by seeing the blot of defamation, to light upon him, as he seeketh all 〈◊〉 to hurt and displease him that polluteth his renown. All the race of the Tarquin's for like fact were banished Rome, for the only brute whereof, the husband of the fair ravished wife, was constrained to avoid the place of his nativity. Paris alone violated the body of Menelaus the Lacedemovian King, but for revenge of the ravished Greek, not only the glory and richesse of stately Troy, but also the most part of Asia and Europa, was overturned and defaced, if credit may be given to the records of the ancient. So in this fact of the Lieutenant, the Lord Nicholas alone, had polluted his bed, but the revenge of the cruel man extended further, and his fury raged so far, as the guiltless were in great danger to bear the penance, which shall be well perceived by the discourse that followeth. The Captain then having sent his message, and being sure of his intent (no less than if he already had the brethren within his hold, upon the point to couple them together with his wife, to send them all in pilgrimage to visit the faithful sort, that blazon their loves in an other world, with Dido, Phyllis, and such like, that more for despair than love, be passed the straictes of death) caused to be called before him in a secret place, all the soldiers of the Fort, and such as with whom he was sure to prevail, to whom not without shedding forth some tears, and she wing heavy countenance, he spoke in this manner:  
My Companions & friends, I doubt not but ye be abashed to see me wrapped in so heavy plight, and appear in this form before you (that is to say) bewept, heavy, panting with sighs, and all contrary to my custom, in other state and manner, than my courage and degree require. But when ye shall understand the cause, I am assured that the case which seemeth strange to you, shall be thought just and right, and so will perform the thing wherein I shall employ you. Ye know that the first point that a Gentleman ought to regard, consisteth not only in repelling the 〈◊〉 done unto the body, but rather it behoveth that the fight begin for the defence of his honour, which is a thing that proceedeth from the mind, and resorteth to the body, as the instrument to work that which the spirit appointeth. Now it is honour, for conservation whereof, an honest man and one of good courage feareth not to put himself in all peril and danger of death, and loss of goods, referring himself also to the guard of that which toucheth as it were our own reputation. In such wise as if a good Captain do suffer his soldier to be a wicked man, a robber, a murderer, and 〈◊〉 exacter, he beareth the note of dishonour albeit in all his doings he governeth his estate after the rule of honesty, & doth nothing that is unworthy his vocation. But what? he being a head united to such members, if the parts of that united thing be corrupt and nought, the head must needs bear that blot of the fault before referred to the whole body. 〈◊〉 (said he sighing) what part is more near, and dearer to man, than that which is given unto him for a pledge and comfort during his life, and which is conjoined to be bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh, to breathe forth one mind, and think with one heart and equal will. It is of the Wife that I speak, who being the moiety of her husband, ye ought not to muse if I say, that the honour of the one is the rest of the other, and the one infamous and wicked, the other feeleth the troubles of such mischief, and the wife being careless of her honour, the husband's reputation is defiled, and is not worthy of praise, if he suffer such shame unrevenged: I must (Companions & good friends) here discover that which my heart would feign keep secret, if it were possible, and must rehearse a thing unto you, which so soon as my mouth would feign keep close, the mind assayeth to force the overture. And loath I am to do it, were it not that I make so good account of you, as ye being 〈◊〉 to me with an unseparable amity, will yield me your comfort and aid against him that hath done me this villainy, such as if I be not revenged upon him, needs must I be the executioner of that vengeance upon myself, that am loath to live in this dishonour, which all the days of my life (without due ultion) like a worm will torment and gnaw my conscience. Wherefore before I go any further, I would know whether I might so well trust your aid and secure in this my business, as in all others I am assured you would not leave me, so long as any breath of life remained in you. For without such assurance, I do not purpose to let you know that pricking nail that pierceth my heart, nor the grief that grieveth me so near, as by uttering it without hope of help I shall open the gate to death, and die without relief of my desire, by punishing him, of whom I have received an injury more bloody than any man can do. The Soldiers which loved the Captain as their own life, were sorry to see him in such estate, and greater was their dolour to hear words that tended to nothing else but to fury, vengeance, and murder of himself. Wherefore all with one accord promised their help and main force towards and against all men for the bringing to pass of that which he did mean to require. The Lieutenant assured of his men, conceived heart and courage, and continuing his Oration and purpose, determined the slaughter and overthrow of the three Trinicien brethren, (for that was the surname of the Lords of Foligno,) who pursued his Oration in this manner: Know ye then (my companions and good friends) that it is my wife, by whom I have endured the hurt & loss of mine honour, and she is the party touched, and I am he that am most offended. And to the end that I do not hold you longer in suspense, and the party be concealed from you, which hath done me this outrage: Ye shall understand that Nicholas Trinicio, the elder of the three lords of Foligno and Nocera, is he, that against all right and equity hath suborned the wife of his Lieutenant, and soiled the bed of him, whereof he ought to have been the defender & the very bulwark of his reputation. It is of him my good friends, and of his that I mean to take such vengeance, as eternal memory shall display the same to all posterity: and never lord shall dare to do a like wrong to mine, without remembrance what his duty is, which shall teach him how to abuse the honest service of a Gentleman that is one of his own train. It resteth in you both to hold up your hand, and keep your promise, to the end that the Lord Nicholas, deceiving and mocking me, may not trust & put affiance in your force, unto which I hearty do recommend myself. The Soldiers moved and incited with the wickedness of their Lord, and with the wrong done to him, of whom they received wages, swore again to serve his turn in any exploit he went about, and required him to be assured, that the Trinicien brethren should be overthrown, and suffer deserved penance, if they might lay hands upon them, and therefore willed him to seek means to allure them thither, that they might be dispatched. The Lieutenant at these words renewing a cheerful countenance, and she wing himself very joyful for such success, after he had thanked his soldiers, and very lovingly embraced the chiefest of them, revealed his devised policy, & hoped shortly to have them at his commandment within the Fort, alleging that he had dispatched two messengers unto them, and that his wife also privily had sent her page: unto whom he purposed to give so good a recompense, as never more she should plant his horns so high, under a colour of gentle entertainment of her ribald & friend. They were scarce resolved upon this intent, but news were brought him, that the next day morning, the three lords accompanied with other nobility would come to Nocera, to hunt that huge wild Boar, whereof the Lieutenant had made so great avant. These news did not greatly please the Captain, forsomuch as he feared, that his purpose could not (conveniently) be brought to pass, if the company were so great. But when he considered that the Lords alone, should lodge withinthe Fort, he was of good cheer again, and stayed upon his first intent. The Triniciens the next day after came very late, because the Lord Berardo of Varano Duke of Camerino, desired to be one, and also the two brethren tarried for Conrade, who was at a marriage, & could not assist the tragedy that was played at Nocera, to his great hap and profit. To this troop came to Nocera late, and having supped in the City, the Lord Nicholas and the Duke of Camerino went to bed in the Fort, Caesar the brother of Trinicio tarrying behind with the train, to lodge in the city. Stay here a while (ye gentlemen) ye I say, that pursue the secret stealths of love, never put any great trust in Fortune, which seldom keepeth her promise with you. Ye had need therefore to take good heed, lest ye be surprised in the place, where privily you give the assault, and in the act wherein ye desire the assistance of none. See the barbarous cruelty of a Lieutenant, which loved rather to kill his corrival, in his cold blood, than otherwise to be revenged, when he saw him a bed with his wife, purposely that the erample of his fury might be the better known, and the secret selander more evident, from the root whereof did 〈◊〉 an infinite numbered of murders and mischiefs. About midnight, then when all things were at rest under the dark silence of the night, the Lieutenant came to the chamber of the Lord Nicholas, accompanied with the most part of the watch, and having stopped up the yeoman of his chamber, he so dressed the companion of his bed, as for the first proof of his courtesy, he caused his membres and privy parts to be cut of, saying unto him with cruel disdain: Thou shalt not henceforth (wicked wretch) weld this lance into the rest, thereby to batter the honour of an honester man than thyself. Then launching his stomach with a piercing blade, he tore the heart out of his bely, saying: Is this the traitorous heart that hath framed the plot and devised the enterprise of my shame, to make this infamous villain without life, & his renown without praise? And not 〈◊〉 with this cruelty, he wreaked that like upon the remnant of his body, that sometimes the runagate Medea did upon her innocent brother, to save that life of herself, and of her friend jason. For she cut him into an hundred thousand pieces, giving to every member of the poor murdered soul her word of mockery & contempt. Was it not sufficient for a tyrannous husband to be revenged of his shame, and to kill the party which had defamed him, without using so furious Anatomy upon a dead body, and wherein there was no longer feeling? But what? Ire being without measure, & anger without bridle or reason, it is not to be wondered, if in all his acts the Captain overpassed the just measure of vengeance. Many would think the committed murder upon Nicholas, to be good and just: but the justice of an offence, ought not so long time be conceyled, but rather to make him feel the smart at the very time the deed is done, to the end that the nipping grief of pestilent treason wrought against the betrayed party, be not obscured and hidden by sudden rage and lack of reason, rising in the minds first motions, and thereby also the fault of the guilty, by his indiscretion covered: otherwise there is nothing that can colour such vice. For the law indifferently doth punish every 〈◊〉, that without the Magistrates order taketh authority to 〈◊〉 his own wrong. But come we again unto our purpose. The Captain all imbrued 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, entered the chamber of the Duke of 〈◊〉, whom with all she rest of the strangers that 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, he lodged (without speaking any word) in a deep and obscure prison. 〈◊〉, what rest they took that night, which were come to hunt 〈◊〉 Wild 〈◊〉. For without travailing 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 in the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 of the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, who when 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 her vermilion clear, began to thewe herself, when all the Hunters did put themselves in a readiness, and coupled up their Dogs to march into the Field, behold, one of the Captains cruel ministers went into the City, to cause the Lord 〈◊〉 to come and speak with his brother Nicholas, and entreated him not to tarry, for that he and the Duke were disposed to show him some disport. Caesar which never suspected the least of these chanced murders, desired not to be prayed again, but made haste to the butchery like a Lamb, & in the company of the Wolves themselves that were in readiness to kill him. He was no sooner in the court of the Castle, but seven or eight varlets apprehended him and his men, and carried him into the chamber (bound like a thief) wherein the membres of his miserable brother were cut of, & dispersed, whose corpse was pitifully gored and arrayed in blood. If Caesar were abashed to see himself bound and taken prisoner, he was more astoned when he perceived a body so dismembered, and which as yet he knew not. Alas (said he) what sight is this? Is this the Boar. which thou hast caused us to come hither to hunt within our very Fort: The Captain rising up, all imbrued with blood, whose face & voice promised nothing but murder to the miserable young gentleman said: See Caesar, the body of thine adulterous brother Nicholas, that infamous whore monger, and mark if this be not his head: I would to God that Conrade were here also; that ye might all three be placed at this sumptuous banquet, which I have prepared for you. I swear unto thee then, that this should be the last day of all the Trinicien race, and the end of your. tyrannies and wicked life: But sith I can not get the effect of that which my heart desireth, my mind shall take repast in the triumph which Fortune 〈◊〉 ordained.  
Cursed be the marriage & wedding at Trevio, that hath hindered me of an occasion so apt, and of the means to dispatch a matter of such importance, as is the overthrow of so many tyrants. Caesar at this sentence stood so still, as whilom did the wife of Loath, by seeing the City on fire, and consume into ashes: by the sight whereof she was converted into a stone of salt. For when he saw that bloody pageant, and knew that it was his brother Nicholas, pity & fear so stopped the pipes of his speech, as without complaining himself or framing one word, he suffered his throat to be cut by the barbarous captain, who threw him half dead upon that corpse of his brother, 〈◊〉 that blood of either of them might cry up to that heavens for so loud vengeance, 〈◊〉 that of Abel did, being slain by the treason of his nearest bro ther. Behold that dreadful beginnings of a heart rapt in fury, and of that mind of him that not resisting his fond affections, executed the terrible practises of his own brain, and preferring his fantasle above reason, devised such ruin and decay, as by these examples the posterity shall have good cause to wonder. The like cruelty used Typhoon towards his brother Osiris by chopping his body in. xxvi. gobbets, whereby ensued the 〈◊〉 of him and his, by Orus whom some do surname Apollo. And troweth that captain to look for less mercy of the brother of the other twain that were murdered, and of the Duke's kindred whom he kept prisoner? But he was so blinded with fury, and it may be, led by ambition and desire to be made Lord of Nocera, that he was not contented to venge his shame on him which had offended, but assayed to murder and extinguish all the Trinicien blood: the inheritance only remaining in them. And to come to the end of his enterprise, this Italian Nero, not content with these so many slaughters, but thereunto adjoined a new treason, assaying to win the Citizens of Nocera to move rebellion against their Lord, causing them to assemble before the Fort, unto whom upon the walls he used this or like Dration. I have hitherto (my masters) 〈◊〉 the little pleasure that my heart hath felt to 〈◊〉 so many true & faithful Citizens, subject under the will & unbridled lusts of two or three 〈◊〉: who have gotten power and authority over us, more through our own folly & cowardice, than by valiance, virtue and justice, either in them or those which have despoiled this Country of their ancient liberty. I will not deny but principalities of long 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉 derived by succession of inheritance, have had some spice and kind of equity, and that Lords of good life and conversation ought to be obeyed, defended and honoured. But where invasion and seizure is against right, where the people is spoiled, and laws violated, it is no conscience to disobey and abolish such monsters of nature. The Romans in their prime age of their common wealth full well declared the same, when they banished out of their City the proud race of the Tyrant Tarquin, and when they 〈◊〉 about to exterminate all the roots of cruelty and Tyrannical power. Our neighbours the 〈◊〉 once did the like under the conduct of Dion, against the disruled fury and wilful cruelty of Denis the Tyrant of Syracuse, and the Athenuns against the children of Pisistratus. And ye that be sorted from the stock of those Samnites, which in times passed so long held up their heads against the Roman force, will ye be so very cowards & weak hearted for respect of the title of your signiory as ye dare not with me to attempt a valiant enterprise for reducing yourselves into liberty, and to 〈◊〉 that vermin brood of tyrants which swarm through out the whole Region of Italy. Will ye be so mated and dumped, as the shadow alone of a fond and inconstant young man, shall hold your nose to the grindstone, and draw you at his lust like an Ore into the stall? I fear that if ye saw your wives and daughters haled to the passetime and pleasure of these tyrants, to glut the whoredom of those stinking Goat bucks, more lecherous and filthy than the senseless sparrows: I fear (I say) that ye durst not make one sign for demonstration of your wrath and displeasure. No, no (my masters of Nicera,) it is high time to cut of the Hydra his heads, and to strangle him within his cave. The time is come (I say) wherein it behoveth you to show yourselves like men, and no longer to dissemble the case that toucheth you so near. Consider whither it be good to follow mine advise, to reposside again the thing which is your own, (that is to wit,) the freedom wherein your ancestors gloried so much, and for which they feared not to hazard their goods and lives. It will come good cheap, if you be ruled by me, it will redound to your triple fame, if like men ye follow mine advise, which I hope to let you shortly see without any great peril or loss of your Citizen's blood. I have felt the effect of the Trinicien Tyranny, and the rigour of their unrighteous government, which having begun in me, they will not fail, if they be not chastised in time, to extend on you also, whom they deem to be their slaves. In like manner I have first begun to repress their boldness, and to withstand their l●ud behaviour: yea and if you mind to understand right from wrong, an easy matter it will be to perform the rest, the tune being so commodious, and the discovery of the thing whereof I have made you privy, so convenient. And know ye, that for the exploit of mine intent, and to bring you again altogether in liberty, I have taken the two Lords Nicholas and Caesar prisoners, attending till fortune do bring to me the third, to pay him with like money and equal guerdon, that not only you may be free and settled in your ancient privilege, but my heart also satisfied of that wrong which I have received by their injustice. Believe (masters) that the thing which I have done, was not without great cause, nor without open injury received, as by keeping it close I burst, & by telling that same I am ashamed. I will keep it secret not wtstanding, & shall pray you to take heed unto yourselves, that by universal consent, the mischief may be prevented. Devise what answer you will make me, to that intent that I by following your advise, may also be resolved upon that I have to do, without prejudice but to them to whom the case doth chief appertain. During all this 〈◊〉, the wicked captain kept close the murder which he had committed, to draw the worm out of the Nocerines 〈◊〉, & to see of what mind they were, that upon the intelligence thereof, he might work and follow the time accordingly, He that had seen the Citizens of 〈◊〉 after that seditious Dration, would have thought that he had heard a murmur of Bees, when issuing forth their hives, they light amidst a pleasant Herber, adorned & beautified with divers coloured flowers. For the people flocked and assembled togethers, and began to murmur upon the imprisonment of their Lord, and the treason committed by the lieutenant, thinking it very strange that he which was a household servant durst be so bold to seize on those to whom he did owe all honour and reverence. And do assure you that if he had 〈◊〉 below, as he was upon the rampire of the walls, they had torn him into so many pieces, as he had made gobbets of the Lord Nicholas body. But seeing that they could not take him, they went about to seek the deliverance of them, whom they thought to be yet alive: and one of the chief of the City in the name of them all shortly & briefly, answered him thus. If malice did not well discover itself in the sugared and traitorous composition of thy words (O Captain) it were easy enough for an inconstant people (bend to change, and desirous of innovations,) to hear and do that, which such a traitor and flatterer as thou art dost propose: but we having 〈◊〉 time endured nothing of the 〈◊〉 that savoureth of tyranny, cruelty, or excess, we were no less to be accused of felony, than thou art guilty of rebels crime, by seizing upon the persons of thy Lords, if we should yield credit to thy serpents hissing, or lend aid to thy traitorous practice, thou ghost about against them who by innobling thee, are traitorously bereaved of that which concerned their reputation and greatness. We 〈◊〉 an honest people and faithful 〈◊〉. We will not be both wicked and unhappy at once, & without cause expel our heads out of our common wealth, when they shall perpetrate the mischiefs which thou hast alleged for example. Upon such 〈◊〉 and strange facts we shall take new advise and Council. To be short, thou shalt pleasure us to set our Lords at liberty, and thou like a wise man shalt do thy duty, and satisfy a people which easily can not endure that a subject do wrong to those to whom he oweth 〈◊〉. And fear not to receive any evil of them nor yet to feel annoyance, for we will take upon us by honest means to crave pardon for thy fault how heinous so ever it be. But if thou continue thine 〈◊〉, be sure that the Lord Conrade shall be advertised, and with all our power we shall secure him, by force to let thee feel the nature of treason, and what reward is incident to the practisers of the same. The Captain 〈◊〉 he was abashed with that answer, and saw that it would not be well with him, if he did not provide speady 〈◊〉 and order for his affairs, aswell for the coming of the Lord Conrade, as of the brother of the Duke 〈◊〉, told the Citizens that within three or 〈◊〉 days he would give them a resolute answer, and so it might be, 〈◊〉 unto their wills, and dcliver them whom he had in hold. This gentle answer did nothing stay the Citizens for the accomplishment of that which they thought 〈◊〉 to do, knowing also that the gallant had not commenced that comedy, but for other toys which his 〈◊〉 head had framed for a further intended mischief, for which cause they assembled their Council, and concluded that one should ride in post to the Lord Conrade, (the third and remnant of the brethren,) that he might come to take order for the deliverance of Nicholas and Caesar whom they thought he had reserved still a live in captivity. The Nocerines showed this courtesy (not but that they would gladly have been at liberty, if the way had been better trodden,) aswell for the little trust they reposed in the Captain, who they thought would be no more gentle and faithful, than he showed himself to be loyal to his masters, as for that Conrade was well beloved of the Lords his neighbours, and specially of the imprisonned Duke and his brother Braccio Montone, who had the Italian men of war at his pleasure, & that the Noble men would assist him with all their power. Wherefore they considered that their fairest & best way, for avoiding of factions, was to keep themselves trusty & true, and by not hearkening to a traitor, to bind their sovereign Lord with such duty and obedience, as the unkindest man of the world would confess and acknowledge for the consequence of a matter of such importance. The seditious captain on the other side void of hope, and in greater rage than 〈◊〉 was before, persisted in his folly, not without foreseeing how he might save himself, which he had politicly brought to pass, if God had not shortened his way, by payment of usury for his wickedness, and by the very diligence of them in 〈◊〉 he reposed his trust, the manner and how, immediately 〈◊〉 follow.  
So soon as he had given over the Council of the Citizens, and a little bethought him what he had to do, he called before him two young men, whom above all others he trusted best. To these young men he delivered all his Gold, Silver and Jewels, that they might convey the same out of the jurisdiction of his Lords, to the intent that when he saw himself in danger, he might retire to the place where those gallants had before carried his furniture, and mounting them upon two good steeds, he let them forth at the postern gate, praying them so soon as they could to return advertisement of their aboode, and that speedily he would send after them his children and the rest of his 〈◊〉, telling them that he specially committed his life and goods into their hands, and that in time and place he would acknowledge the benefit done unto him in that distress. The two that were thus put in trust for safeguard of his things, promised unto him Golden hills and miracles: but so soon as they had lost the sight of their master, they devised another complette, and determined to break faith to him which was forsworn, and who made no conscience not only to revolt, but also 〈◊〉 to kill his sovereign Lords. They thought it better to ride to 〈◊〉, to tell that Lord Conrade the pitiful end of his brethren, and the imprisonment of the Duke of Camerino, than to seek rest for him, whom God permitted not to be saved, for his heinous sin already committed, and for that which he meant to do upon his wife. For all the diligence that the Nocerines had made, yet were the lieutenants men at Trevio before them, and having filled the 〈◊〉 of Conrade with those heavy news, and his eyes with tears, his mind with sorrow, & spirit with desire to be revenged & as Conrade was about to mount on horseback with the train he had, the Citizens were arrived to disclose the imprisonment of his brethren. To whom Conrade made answer: I would to God (my friends) that the tyrant had been contented with the little cruelty whereof you speak, for than I would find the means to agree the parties upon that knowledge of their variance. But (alas) his malice hath passed further, & hath beastly slain my brethren: but I swear by the almighty God, that if he give me life, I will take such, and so cruel vengeance on him, as he shall be a glass to all his like, to see the punishment of a fault so horrible. Depart my friends, depart & get you home, dispose your watch and guard about the Castle, that the traiter do not escape: and assure yourselves that this your love shall never be forgotten, & you shall have of me not a tyrant as he 〈◊〉 hath protested, but rather such a Lord, and better also, than hitherto ye have me proved. If Conrade had not been pressed with heaviness, he had 〈◊〉 goodly songs against the treason of the lieutenant, and would have accused his brother of indiscretion, for trusting him, whose wife he had abused, and well did know that he espied the same. But what? The business required other things than words: & extreme folly it is to nip the dead with taunts, or with vain words to abuse the absent, specially where ultion and revenge is easy, and the means manifest to chastise the temerity of such, and to be acquitted of the wrong done unto him that cannot do it himself. Conrade then took his way towards Tuderto, where then remained the Lord Braccio, and thereof was Lord and governor, and had also under his government Perugia, and many other Cities of the 〈◊〉 Church, and who with the dignity of the great Constable of Naples, was also Prince of Capua, to him the Trinicien brother all be 〈◊〉 with tears and transported with choler & grief, came to demand succour for revenge of the lieutenants trespass, saying: For what assurance (my Lord) can Princes and great Lords hope henceforth, when their very servants shall rise, and by constraining their masters, make assay to usurp their signiories wherein they have no title or interest? Is this a revenge of wrong, in steed of one to kill twain, and yet to wish for the third to dispatch the world of our race? Is this to pursue his enemy, to seek to catch him in trap, which knoweth nothing of the quarrel, & to make him to suffer the pain? My two brethren be dead, our cousin germane the Duke is in prison, I am here comfortless, all sad & pensive before you, whom likewise this matter toucheth, although not so near as it doth me, but yet with like dishonour. Let us go (my Lord) let us go I beseech you to visit our good host that so rudely entreateth his gests which come to visit him, and let us bear him a reward, that he may taste of our coming, let us go before he save himself, that with little travail & less harm to an other, the ribald may be punished, who by his example if he longer live, may increase courage both in servants to disobey, and in subjects to rebel, without conscience, against their heads and governors? It is a case of very great importance, and which ought to be followed with all rigour and cruelty. And he ought never to be supported, comforted or favoured, which shall by any means attempt to revolt or arm himself against his Prince, or shall constrain him or her that is his sovereign Lord or mistress. Is not a Prince constituted of God to be obeyed, loved and cherished of his subjects? Is it not in him to make & ordain laws, such as shall be thought needful and necessary for common wealth? Ought not he then to be obeyed of his subjects and vassals? Ought they then to teach the head, & command the chiefest member of their body? I do remember a tale (my Lord) recited by Menenius Agrippa that wise and Notable 〈◊〉, who going about to reconcile the commons with the Senate, alleged a fit and convenable example. In time past (quoth he) when the parts of mankind were at variance, and every member would be a Lord, generally conspiring, grudging & alleging, how by their great travail, pains, and careful ministry, they provided all furniture and maintenance for the belly, and that he like a sluggish beast stood still, & enjoyed such pleasures as were given him, in this murmur and mutiny, all they agreed that the hands should not minister, the mouth should not feed, the tée the should not make it serviceable, the feet should not travail, nor head devise to get the same: and whilst every of them did forsake their service and obedience, the belly grew so thin, and the 〈◊〉 so weak and feeble, as the whole body was brought to extreme decay & ruin, whereby (said Agrippa) it appeareth that the service due unto the belly (as the chief portion of man) by the other members is most necessary, the obeying & nurssing of whom doth instill force and vigour into the other parts through which we do live and be refreshed, and the same digested & dispersed into the veins and vital powers engendereth mature and fine blood, and maintaineth that whole state of the body, in comely form and order. By which trim comparison applied to 〈◊〉 war is deflected & mollified the stout courage & 〈◊〉 of the multitude. Even so agreeing with Agrippa, if the members grudge & disobey against their chief, the state must grow to ruin. To be short, in certain haps a traiter may be cherished, and he that hath falsified his first faith: but treason and perjury evermore be detested as vices execrable. In this deed neither the thing, nor yet the doer hath any colour of excuse, the trespass & cause for which it is done being considered. Sufficeth it sir, for so much as there is neither time nor cause of further discourse, what need we to decide the matter, which of itself is evident? Behold me here a poor Trinicien brother without brethren, joyless without a fort at Nocera. On the other part consider the Duke of Camerino in great distress and danger, to pass that straight of death my brethren did. Let us go (I pray you) to deliver the captive, and by revenging these offences and murders to settle my City in former state & freedom, which that villain goeth about to take from me, by encouraging my subjects to revolt & to enter arms, thereby to expel our house from the title of the same. As Conrade spoke these words, & with great gravity & 〈◊〉 pronouncing sundry tokens of sorrow, that Constable of Naples wrath beyond measure for these unplesant news, & full of grief & choler against that traitorous lieutenant, swore in the hearing of them all, that he would never rest one good sleep until that quarrel were avenged, and had quited that outrage done to the Lord Conrade, and that wrong which he felt in him for the imprisonment of the Duke of Camerino. So he concluded, and the soldiers were assembled through out all the parts of the constables lands, upon the end of the week to march against the fort of Nocera, the Citizens whereof had laid diligent 〈◊〉 and watch for the escape of the captain, who without bashfulness determined with his men to defend that same, & to 〈◊〉 fortune, making himself believe that his quarrel was good, and cause just to withstand them that should have the heart to come to assail him. The Constable in the mean time sent a Trumpet to Nocera, to summon the Captain to surrender, and to tell the cause of his revolt, and at whose provocation he had committed so detestable a Treason.  
The Captain well assured and boldened in his wickedness, answered that he was not so well fortified to make a surrender so good cheap, & for so small a price to forego his honour & reputation: and furthermore, that his wit was not so slender, but he durst devise and attempt such a matter without the council of any other, & that all the deeds and devices passed till that time, were of his own invention. And to be even with the wrong done to his honour by the Lord Nicholas Trinicio, for the violation of his wives chastity, he had committed the murders (told to Braccio) being angry, that all the tyrannous race was not in his hand to spill, to the end he might deliver his country, and put the Citizens in liberty, albeit that fond they had refused the same, as unworthy of such a benefit, and well deserved that the tyrants should 〈◊〉 them at their pleasure, and make them also their common slaves and drudges. The trumpet warned him also to tender to him the Duke, because he was guiltless of the fact, which the Captain regarded so little as he did the first demands, which was. that cause (the company being arrived at Nocera, and the Constable understanding the little account the Castle gentleman made of his summones) that the battery the very day of their arrival was laid and shot against the place with such thunder and dreadful thumps of Canon shot, as the hardiest of the mortpayes within, began to faint. But the courage & little fear of their chief, retired their hearts into their bellies. The breach being made again, the Constable who feared to lose the Duke in the captains fury, caused the Trumpet to summon them within to fall to composition, that bloodshed might not stir their soldiers to further cruelty. But so much gained this second warning as the first, for which cause the next day after the assault was given, where if the assailed was valiant, the resistance was no less than bold and venturous. But what can thirty or forty men do against the force of a whole country, and where the general was one of the most valiant and wisest Captains of his time, and who was accompanied with the flower of the Neapolitan footmen. The assault continued. iiij. or. v. hours, but in the end the Dead pays not able to sustain the force of the assailants, forsook the breach, and assaying to save themselves, the Lieutenant retired to the Ripe of the Fort, where his wife continued prisoner, from the time that the two brethren were slain. Whiles they without, ruffled in together in heaps amongs the defendants, the Duke of Camerino, with his men, found means to escape out of prison, and there with all began furiously to chastise the ministers of the disloyal Captain, which in little time were cut all to pieces. Conrade being within, found the Captain's father, upon whom he was revenged, and killed him with his own hands. And not content with that, carried into further rage and fury, he flashed him into gobbets, and threw them to the dogs. Truly a strange manner of revenge, if the Captain's cruelty had not attempted like inhumanity. To be short, horrible it is to repeat the murders done in that stir and hurly-burly. For they that were of the captains part, and taken, received all the strangest and cruelest punishment that man could devise. And were it not that I have a desire in nothing to bely the author, and less will to leave that which he hath written upon the miserable end of those that were the ministers and servants to the barbarous tyranny of the Captain, I would pass no further, but conceyle that which doth not deserve remembrance, except to avoid the example, which is not strange, the cruelty of revenging heart in the nature of man, in all times growing to such audacity, as the torments which seem incredible, be liable to credit as well for those we read in ancient histories, as those we hear tell of by hear say, and chancing in our time. He that had the upper hand of his 〈◊〉, not content to kill, but to eat with his ranenous teeth the heart disentrailde from his adversary, was he less furious than Conrade by making an Anatomy of the body of the Captain's father? And he that 〈◊〉 Galleazze Fogase into the mouth of a Canon, tying his head unto his knees, and causing him to be carried by the violent force of gunpowder into the city from whence he came, to bribe and corrupt certain of his enemies army, did he show himself to be more courteous than one of these? Leave we a part those that be past, to touch the miserable end wherewith Conrade caused that last tribute of the Captain's soldiers to be paid. Now amongs these, some were tied to that tails of wild horses, & trained over hedges & bushes, & down the stiepnesse of high rocks, some were haled in pieces, & afterwards burnt 〈◊〉 great martyrdom, some were divided & parted alive in four quarters, other sowed naked within an ox hide, & so buried in earth up to the chin, by which torments they finished their lives with fearful groanings. Will ye say that the Bull of Perillus, or Diomedes Horses, were afflictions more cruel than these: I know not what ye call cruelty, if these acts may bear the title of modesty. But all this proceeded of wrath & disdain of either parts. The one disdained that the servant should be his head, & the other was offended, that his sovereign lord should assay to take that from him, which his duty commanded him to keep. Conrade took in ill part the treason of the Captain, who beyond measure was angry that the lord Nicholas had made him a brother of Vulcan's order, & had registered him in the book of husbands, which know that, they dare not speak. In sum, the one had right, & the other was not without some reason, & notwithstanding both surmounted the bounds of man's mild nature. The one ought to content himself (as I have said) for being 〈◊〉 on him that had offended him, & the other of the murder done, during the assault without showing so bloody tokens of his cruelty, & so apparent 〈◊〉 of 〈◊〉, upon that ministers of that brutal & bloody captain who seeing his father put to death with such martyrdom, & his men so strangely tormented, was vanquished with choler, despair & impatience. And albeit that he had no great desire to hurt his 〈◊〉, yet was he surmounted with such rage, as aprehending her, & binding her hands & feet, she still crying him mercy, & craving pardon for her faults at the hands of god & him, he threw her down from the highest tour of the kipe upon that 〈◊〉 of the castle court, not without tears & abashment of all which saw that monstrous & dreadful sight: which the soldiers viewing, they fired the tour, & with fire & smoke forced that captain to come forth, & by like means made him, his brother & children to tread that dance that his wife before had done. Conrade by & by caused those bodies to be thrown forth for food to the wolves, & other ravening beasts & birds living upon that pray of carrion, causing also his brethren & that gentlewoman honourably to be buried, which gentlewoman had born that penance worthy for her fault. Such was that end of that most miserable, & ill governed love, that I think man hath ever red in writing, & which doth clearly witness, that theridamas is no pleasure so great but Fortune by changing & turning her wheel maketh a hundred times more bitter than desire of such joy doth yield delight. And far better it were (besides the offence done to god) never to cast eye on woman, than to board or prove them to raise such slanders & facts which cannot be recounted but with the horror of the hearers, nor written but to the great grief of those the muse & study upon that same: not withstanding for instruction of our life, both good & bad examples be introduced & offered to the view of each degree and state. To the end that whoredom may be avoided, & bodily pleasure eschewed, as most mortal and pernicious plagues that do infect as well the body and reputation of man, as the integrity of the mind. Besides that each man ought to possess his own vessel, and not to covet that is none of his, unseemly also it is to solicit the neighbours wife, to procure thereby the disjunction and defaite of the whole bond of marriage, which is a treasure so dear and precious, and carrieth so great grief to him that seeth it defaced, as our Lord (to declare the gravity of the fact) maketh a comparison of his wrath against them which run after strange Gods, and applieth the honour due unto him to others that do not deserve the same, with the just disdain and rightful choler of a jealous husband, fraught with despite to see himself despoiled of the seizure and possession only given to him, and not subject to any other, what soever he be. Learn here also (O ye husbands) not to fly with so nimble wing, as by your own authority to seek revenge without fearing the follies & slanders that may ensue. Your sorrow is just, but it behoveth that reason do guide your fantasies, and bridle your over sudden passions, to the intent that ye come not after to sing the doleful song of repentance, like unto this foolish man, who having done more than he ought, and not able to retire without his overthrow, threw himself into the bottomless gulf of perdition. And let us all fix fast in memory, that never unruled rage, and wilful choler, brought other benefit than the ruin of him that suffered himself to run headlong into the same, and who thinketh that all that which is natural in us, is also reasonable, as though Nature were so perfect a work woman, as in man's corruption she could make us Angels or half gods. Nature following the instinct of that which is natural in us, doth not greatly stray from perfection, but that is given to few, and those whom God doth love and choose. And Virtue is so seldom found, as it is almost impossible to imitate that perfection. And briefly to say, I will conclude with the Author of this present History:  

Anger is a 〈◊〉 short,  
To him that can the same excel:  
But it is no laughing sport  
In whom 〈◊〉 senseless rage doth dwell.  
That pang confoundeth each man's wits  
And shameth him with open shame,  
His honour fades in frantic fits,  
And blemisheth his good name.    

The King of Morocco.  
¶ The great Courtesy of the King of MOROCCO, (a City in BARBARY) 〈◊〉 a poor Fisherman, one of his subjects, that had lodged the King, being strayed from his company in hunting.  
The. xxxiiij. Novel.  
FOr so much as the more than beastly cruelty recounted in the former History, doth yield some sour taste to the minds of those that be courteous, gentle and well conditioned by nature, and as the stomach of him that daily useth one kind of meat, be it never so delicate & dainty, doth at length loath and disdain the same, and utterly refuseth it. I now change the diet, leaving for a certain time the murders, slaughters, despairs, and tragical accidents, chanced either in the love, or in the jealousy of a lover, or of a husband, & turn my style to a more pleasant thing, that may so well serve for instruction of the noble to follow virtue, as that which I have already written, may rise to their profit, warily to take heed they fall not into such deformed and 〈◊〉 faults, as the name and praise of man, be defaced and his reputation decayed: if then the contraries be known by that which is of divers natures, the villainy of great cruelty shall be cowerted into the gentleness of great courtesy, and rigour shall be condemned, when with sweetness and generosity, the noble shall assay to win the heart, service, and affected devotion of the basest sort: so the greatness and nobility of man placed in dignity, and who hath puissance over other, consisteth not to show himself hard and terrible, for that is the manner of tyrants, because he that is feared, is consequently hated, evil beloved, and in the end forsaken of the whole world, which hath been the cause that in times past Princes aspiring to great 〈◊〉, have made their way, more easy by gentleness and Courtesy, than by fury of arms, stablishing the foundations of their dominions more firm & durable by those means, than they which by rigour and cruelty have sacked towns, overthrown Cities, depopulated provinces, and 〈◊〉 lands with the bodies of those, whose lives they have deprived by dent of sword, 〈◊〉 the government and authority over other, carrieth greater subjection than puissance. Wherefore Antigonus, one of the successors of great Alexander (that made all the earth to tremble upon the recital of his name) seeing that his son behaved himself to arrogantly, and without modesty to one of his subjects, reproved and checked him, and amongs many words of 〈◊〉 and admonition, said unto him: Knowest thou not my son, that the estate of a King, is a noble and honourable servitude? Royal words (in deed) and meet for a King: For albeit that each man doth him reverence, and that he be honoured and obeyed of all, yet is he for all that, the servant and public minister, who ought no less to defend his subject, than he that is the subject to do him honour and homage. And the more the Prince doth humble himself, the greater increase hath his glory, and the more wonderful he is to every wight. What advanced the glory of that julius Caesar, who first depressed the senatory state of government at Rome? Were his victories achieved over the Galls and Britons, and afterwards over Rome itself, when he had vanquished Pompee? All those served his turn, but his greatest fame rose of his clemency and courtesy: In such wise as he showed himself to be gentle, and favourable even to them, whom he knew not to love him, otherwise than if he had been their mortal enemy. His successors as Augustus, Vespasianus, Titus, Marcus Aurelius, & Flavius were worthily noted for clemency: notwithstanding I see not one draw near to great courage and gentleness, joined with the singular courtesy of Dom Roderigo Vivario the spaniard surnamed Cid toward King Pietro of Arragon that hindered his expedition against the moor at Grenadoe: For having vanquished the 〈◊〉 King, and taken him in battle, not only remitted the revenge of his wrong, but also suffered him to go without ransom, and took not from him so much as one fort, esteeming it to be a better exploit to win such a king with courtesy, than bear the name of cruel, in putting him to death, or seizing upon his land. But because acknowledging of the poor, and enriching the small, is more commendable in a Prince, than when he showeth himself gentle to his like, I have collected this discourse and fact of King Mansor of Morocco, whose children (by subtle and feigned religion) Cherif succeeded, the son of whom at this day enjoyeth the kingdoms of Su, Morocco, and the most part of the 〈◊〉 confining upon Aethiopia. This history was told by an Italian called Nicholoso Baciadonne, who upon this accident was in Africa, and in traffic of merchandise in the land of Oran, situated upon the coast of that South seas, and where the Genevois and Spaniards use great intercourse, because the country is fair, well peopled, and where the inhabitants (although the soil be barbarous) live indifferent civilly, using great courtesy to strangers, and largely departing their goods to the poor, towards whom they be so earnestly bent, and loving, as for their liberality and pitiful alinesse, they shame us Christians. They maintain a great numbered of Hospitals, to receive and entertain the poor and needy, which they do more charitably than they that be bound by the law of jesus Christ, to use charity towards their brethren, with that courtesy and humane mildness. These Oraniens delight also to record in writing the success of things that chance in their time, and carefully reserve the same in memory, which was the cause that having registered in their Chronicles, (which be in the Arabia letters, as the most part of the Countries do use) this present history, they imparted the same to the Genevois merchants, of whom the Italian Author confesseth 〈◊〉 have received the Copy. The cause why that Genevois merchant was so diligent to make that inquiry, was by reason of a city of that province, built through the chance of this History, and which was called in their tongue, Caesar Elcabir, so much to say, as A great Palace. And because I am assured, that courteous minds will delight in deeds of courtesy. I have amongs other the Novels of Bandello, chosen by Francois de Belleforest, and myself discoursed this, albeit the matter be not of great importance, and greater things and more notorious courtesies have been done by our own kings and Princes. As of Henry the eight a Prince of notable memory in his progress in to the north the xxxiij. year of his reign, when he disdained not a poor Miller's house, being straggled from his train, busily pursuing the Hart, and there unknown of the Miller, was welcomed with homely cheer, as his mealy house was able for the time to minister, and afterwards for acknowledging his willing mind, recompensed him with dainties of the Court, and a Princely reward. Of Edward the third, whose Royal nature was not displeased pleasantly to use a 〈◊〉 Tanner, when divided from his company, he met him by the way not far from Tomworth in Staffordshire, and by cheapening of his welfare steed (for steadiness, sure and able to carry him so far as the stable door) grew to a price, and for exchange the Tanner craved 〈◊〉 shillings to boot between the Kings and his. And when the King satisfied with disport, desired to show himself by sounding his warning blast, assembled all his train, And to the great amaze of the poor Tanner, (when he was guarded with that 〈◊〉) he well guerdoned his good pastime and familiar dealing with the order of 〈◊〉 and reasonable revenue for the maintenance of the same. The like examples our Chronicles, memory, and report plentifully do avouch and witness. But what? this History is the more rare and worthy of noting, for respect of the people and Country, where seldom or never courtesy haunteth or findeth harborough, and where Nature doth bring forth greater store of monsters, than things worthy of praise.  
This great King Mansor then was not only the temporal Lord of the Country of Oran and Moracco, but also (as is said of Prete jean,) Bishop of his law and the Mahomet priest, as he is at this day that 〈◊〉 in Feze, Sus, and Morocco. Now this Prince above all other pleasure, 〈◊〉 the game of Hunting. And he so much delighted in that passetime, as sometime he would cause his Tents in the mid of the deserts to be erected, to lie there all night, to the end, that the next day he might renew his game, and 〈◊〉 his men of idleness, and the wild beasts of rest. And this manner of life he used still, after he had done justice and hearkened the complaints for which his subjects came to disclose thereby their griefs. Wherein also he took so great pleasure, as some of our Magistrates do seek their profit, whereof they be so squeymishe, as they be desirous to satisfy the place whereunto they be called, and render all men their right due unto them. For with their bribery and sacred golden hunger, Kings and Princes in these days be ill served, the people wronged, and the wicked out of fear. There is none offence almost how villainous so ever it be, but is washed in the water of bribery, and cleansed in the holly drop, wherewith the poets feign jupiter to corrupt the daughter of Acrisius fast closed within the brazen tour. And who is able to resist that, which hath subdued the highest powers?  
Now return we from our wanderings: This great King Mansor on a day 〈◊〉 his people to hunt in the not marish & fenny Country, which in elder age was far off from the City of Asela, which the Portugals hold at this present, to make the way more free into the Isles of Molncca, of the most part whereof their King is Lord.  
As he was attentive in following a Bear, & his pastime at the best, the Elements began to dark, and a great tempest rose, & such as with the storm & violent wind, scattered the train far of from the King, who not knowing what way to take, nor into what 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 retire, to aviode the tempest, the greatest the he felt in all his life, would with a good will have been accompanied as the Trojan 〈◊〉 was, when being in like pastime and fear, he was constrained to enter into a cave with his Queen Dido, where he performed the joys of his unhappy marriage. But Mansor being without company, and without any Cave at hand, wandered alongs the champagne so careful of his life, for fear of wild beasts, which flock together in those deserts, as the Curtiers were 〈◊〉, for that they knew not whether their Prince was gone. And that which chief grieved Mansor, was his being alone without a guide: And for all he was well mounted, he durst pass no further for fear of drowning, and to be destroyed amids those Marshes, whereof all the country was very full. On the one side he was frighted with thunderclaps, which rumbled in the air very thick & terrible. On the other side the lightning continually flashed on his face, the roaring of the beasts appalled him, the ignorance of the way so astoned him, as he was afraid to fall into the running brooks, which the outrageous rains had caused to swell & rise. It is not to be doubted, that orisons and prayers unto his great prophet Mahomet were forgotten, & whether he were more devout than when he went on pilgrimage to the Idolatrous Temple of Mosqua. He complained of ill luck, accusing Fortune, but chief his own folly, for giving himself so much to hunting, for the desire whereof, he was thus straggled into unknown Countries. Sometimes he raved and vomited his gall against his gentlemen and household servants, and threatened death unto his guard. But afterwards, when reason overshadowed his sense, he saw that the time, and not their negligence or little care caused that disgrace. He thought that his Prophet had poured down that tempest for some Notable sin, and had brought him into such & so dangerous extremity for his faults. For which cause he lifted up his eyes, and made a thousand Mahomet mows, and Apish mocks (according to their manner.) And as he fixed his eyes a lost up to the heavens, a flash of lightning glanced on his face so violently, as it made him to hold down his head, like a little child reproved by his master. But he was further daunted and amazed, when he saw the night approach, which with the darkness of his cloudy mantle, stayed his pace from going any further, & brought him into such perplexity, as willingly he would have forsaken both his hunting and company of his servants to be quit of that danger. But God careful of good minds (with what law so ever they be trained up.) and who maketh the sun to shine upon the just and unjust, prepared a means for his safeguard, as ye shall hear. The African King being in this trance, and naked of all hope, necessity (which is the clearest thing of sight that is) made him diligently to look about, whether he could see any person by whom he might attain some security. And as he thus bend himself to descry all the parts of the Country, he saw not far of from him, the glimpse of a light which glimmered out at a little window, whereunto he addressed himself, & perceived that it was a simple cabane situate in the midst of the sennes, to which he approached for his succour & defence in the time of that 〈◊〉. He rejoiced as you may think, and whither his heart leapt for joy, I leave for them to judge which have assayed like dangers, how be it I dare believe, that the sailors on the seas feel no greater joy when they arrive to harborough, than the king of Morocco did: or when after a Tempest, or other peril, they disery upon the prow of their ship, the brightness of some cliff, or other land. And this king having felt the tempest of wind, rain, hail, lightning, and Thunder claps, compassed round about with Marshes and violent streams of little rieurs that ran along his way thought, he had found a Paradise by chancing upon that rustical lodge. Now that Cottage was the refuge place of a poor Fisher man, who lived and sustained his wife and children with Eels which he took alongs the ditches of those deep and huge Marshes. Mansor when he was arrived to the door of that great palace, covered and thacked with Reed, called to them within, who at the first would make no answer to the Prince that tarried their coming at the gate. Then he knocked again, and with louder voice than before, which caused this fisher man, thinking that he had been some Rippier (to whom he was wont to sell his ware, or else some stranger strayed out of his way,) speedily went out, and seeing the King well mounted and richly clothed, and albeit he took him not to be his sovereign Lord yet he thought he was some one of his Courtly Gentlemen. Wherefore he said: what fortune hath driven you (sir) into these so desert and solitary places, and such as I marvel that you were not drowned a hundred times, in these streams and bottoms whereof this Marish and 〈◊〉 Country are full? It is the great God (answered Mansor) which hath had some care of me, and will not suffer me to perish without doing greater good turns & better deeds than hitherto I have done. The kings coming thither, seemed to Prognosticate that which after chanced, and that God had poured down the tempest for the wealth of the Fisher man, and commodity of the Country. And the straying of the King was a thing appointed to make void those Marshes, and to purge and cleanse the Country. Semblable chances have happened to other Princes, as to Constantine that great, besides his City called New Rome, when he caused certain Marshes and ditches to be filled up and dried, to build a fair and sumptuous Temple, in the honour and memory of that blessed Virgin that brought forth the Saviour of the world. But tell me good man (replied Mansor) canst thou not show me the way to the Court, and whether the King is gone? for gladly (if it were possible) would I ride thither. verily (said the Fisher man) it will be almost day before ye can come there, the same being. x. leagues from hence. Forsamuch as thou knowest the way (answered Mansor) do me so great pleasure to bring me thither, & be assured that besides the that good turn, for which I shall be bound unto thee, I will courteously content thee for thy pains. Sir (said the poor man) you seem to be an honest gentleman, wherefore I pray you to light, and to tarry here this night, for that it is so late, and the way to the City is very evil and cumbersome for you to pass. No no (said the King) if it be possible, I must repair to the place whither the King is gone, wherefore do so much for me as to be my guide, and thou shalt see whether I be unthankful to them that employ their pains for me. If King Mansor (said the Fisher man) were here himself in person, and made the like request, I would not be so very a fool, nor so presumptuous, (at this time of the night) to take upon me without danger to bring him to his Palace. Wherefore (said the King)? Wherefore (quoth you)? because the Marshes be so dangerous, as in the day time, if one know not well the way, the 〈◊〉, (be he never so strong and lusty,) may chance to stick fast, & tarry 〈◊〉 for gage. And I would be sorry if the King were here, that he should fall into my peril, or sufler annoyance, & therewithal would dame myself unhappy if I did let him to incur such evil or encumbrance. Mansor that delighted in the communication of this good man, and desirous to know the cause that moved him to speak with such affection, said unto him: And why carest thou for the life, health, or preservation of our king? What hast to do with him that art so sorry for his state, and careful of his safety. Ho, ho, said the goodman, do you say that I am careful for my prince? verily I love him a hundred times better than I do myself, my wife or children which God hath sent me: and what sir, do not you love our Prince? Yes that I do (replied the King,) for I have better cause than thou, for that I am many times in his company, and live upon his charge, and am entertained with his wages. But what 〈◊〉 thou to care for him? Thou knowest him not, he never did thee any good turn or pleasure: nor yet thou needest not hope henceforth to have any pleasure at his hands. What? (said the fisher man) must a Prince be loved for gain and good turns, rather than for his justice & courtesy? I see well that amongs you master Courtiers, the benefits of kings be more regarded, and their gifts better liked than their virtue and nobility, which maketh them wonderful unto us: and ye do more esteem the gold, honour and estates that they bestow upon you, than their health and safeguard, which are the more to be considered, for that the King is our head, and God hath made him such one to keep us in peace, and to be careful of our states. Pardon me if I speak so boldly in your presence. The King (which took singular delight in this Country Philosopher,) answered him: I am not offended because thy words approach so near the troth: but tell me what benefit hast thou received of that king Mansor, of whom thou makest such account and 〈◊〉 so well? For I cannot think that ever he did thee good, or showed thee pleasure, by reason of thy poverty, and the little furniture within thy house in respect of that which they possess whom he loveth and favoureth, and unto whom he showeth so great familiarity and benefit. Do 〈◊〉 me sir (replied the good man) for so much as you so greatly regard the favours which subjects receive at their Prince's hands, as in deed they ought to do. What greater goodness, 〈◊〉, or benefit ought I to hope for, or can receive of my King (being such one as I am,) but the profit and utility that all we which be his vassals do apprehend from day to day in the justice that he rendereth to every wight, by not suffering the puissant and rich to suppress and 〈◊〉 the feeble and weak, and him that is 〈◊〉 of fortunes goods, that indifferency be maintained by the officers to whom he committeth the government of his provinces, and the care which he hath that his people be not devoured by exactions, and intolerable tributes. I do esteem more his goodness, clemency and love, that he beareth to his subjects, than I do all your delicates and ease in following the court, I most humbly honour and reverence my king in that he being far from us, doth nevertheless so use his government, as we feel his presence like the Image of God, for the peace and union, wherein we through him do live and enjoy without 〈◊〉 that little which God and fortune have given us. Who (if not the King) is he that doth preserve us, and defend us from the 〈◊〉 and pillages of those thieves and Pirates of Arabia, which make war and invade their neighbours? and there is no friend they have but they would displease if the King wisely did not forbio & prevent their villainies. That great Lord which keepeth his Court at Constantinople and maketh himself to be adored of his people like a God, bridleth not so much the Arabians, as our King doth, under the Protection and safeguard of whom, I that am a poor Fisher man, do joy my poverty in peace, and without 〈◊〉 of thieves do nourish my little family, applying myself to the fishing of Eels that be in these ditches and fenny places, which I carry to the market towns, and sell for the sustenance and feeding of my wife and children, and 〈◊〉 myself right happy, that returning to my cabane and homely lodge at my pleasure, in what so ever place I do abide, because (albeit far of from neighbours,) by the been 〈◊〉 and diligence of my Prince, none stay my journey, or offendeth me by any means, which is the cause (said he lifting up his hands and eyes aloft,) that I pray unto God and his great Prophet Mahomet, that it may please them to preserve our King in health, and to give him so great hap and contentation, as he is virtuous and debonair, and that over his enemies (flying before him,) 〈◊〉 may evermore be victorious, for nourishing his people in peace, and his children in joy and Nobility. The King seeing that devout 〈◊〉 of the 〈◊〉, and knowing it to be without guile or 〈◊〉, would gladly have discovered himself, but yet willing to reserve the same for better opportunity, he said unto him. For somuch as thou 〈◊〉 st that king so well, it is not impossible but those of his house be welcome unto thee, and that for thy Mansors sake, thou wilt help and do service to his Gentlemen. Let it 〈◊〉 you (replied he) that my heart is more inclined to the King, than to the wills of those that serve him, 〈◊〉 hope of preferment. Now being so affectionate to the King as I am, think whither his household servants have power to command me, and whither my willing mind be priest to do them good or not. But me think ye need not to stay here at the gate in talk, being so wet as you be: wherefore vouchsafe to come into my house, which is your own, to take such simple lodging as I have, where I will entreat you, (not according to your merit) but with the little that God and his Prophet have departed to my poverty: And to morrow morning I will conduct you to the City, even to that royal Palace of my Prince. Truly (answered the King) albeit necessity did not provoke me, yet 〈◊〉 honesty deserveth well other reputation than a simple Country man, and I do think that I have profited more in hearing thee speak, than by hearkening to the flattering and 〈◊〉 tales of Courting triflers, which daily employ themselves to corrupt the ears of Princes. What 〈◊〉 (said the peasant,) think you that this poor coat and simple lodging be not able to apprehend the precepts of virtue? I have sometimes heard tell, that the wise avoiding Cities & troops of men, have withdrawn themselves into the deserts, for leisure to contemplate heavenly things. Your skill is great replied Mansor: Go we then, 〈◊〉 you please to do me that courtesy as this night to be mine host. So the King went in to the rustical lodge, where in steed of Tapistery and Turkey hangings, he saw the house stately hanged with fisher nets and cords, and in place of rich seeling of Noble men's houses, he beheld Canes and Reeds which served both for the seeling and covering. The fishermanaes wife continued in the kitchen, whilst Mansor himself both walked and 〈◊〉 his own horse, to which horse the fisher man durst not once come near for his courage & stately trappour, with one thing he was abundantly refreshed, and that the most needful thing which was fire, whereof there was no spare, no more than there was of fish. But the King which had been daintily said, and did not well taste and like that kind of meat, demanded if his hunger could not be supplied with a little flesh, for that his stomach was annoyed with the only savour of the Eels. The poor man, (as ye have somewhat perceived by the former discourse,) was a pleasant fellow, and delighted rather to provoke laughter, than to prepare more dainty meat, said unto the King: It is no marvel though our Kings do furnish themselves with country men, to serve them in their wars, for the delicate bringing up and little force in fine courtiers. We, albeit the rain doth fall upon our heads, and the wind assail every part of our bodies all dirty and wet, do not care either for fire or bed, we feed upon any kind of meat that is set before us, without seeking sauce for increasing of our appetite: and we (behold) are númble, healthy, lusty, and never sick, nor our mouth out of taste, where ye do feel such distemperance of stomach, as pity it is to see, & more ado there is to bring the same into his right order and taste, than to ordain and dress a supper for a whole army. The King who laughed (with displayed throat,) hearing his host so merrily disposed, could have been contented to have heard him still, had not his appetite provoked him and the time of the night very late. Wherefore he said unto him. I do agree to what you allege, but perform I pray thee my request, & then we will satisfy ourselves with further talk. Well sir (replied the King's host,) I see well that a hungry belly hath no lust to hear a merry song, whereof were you not so eager and sharp set, I could sing a hundred. But I have a little Kid which as yet is not weaned, the same will I cause to be made ready, for I think it cannot be better bestowed. The supper by reason of the hosts courtesy, was passed forth in a thousand pleasant passetimes, which the Fisherman of purpose uttered to recreate his guest, because he saw him to delight in those devices. And upon the end of supper, he said unto the King: Now sir, how like you this banquet? It is not so sumptuous as those be that be ordinarily made at our Prince's court, yet I think that you shall sleep with no less appetite than you have eaten with a good stomach, as appeareth by the few words you have uttered in the time of your repast. But whereunto booteth it to employ time, or deined for eating, in expense of talk, which serveth not but to pass the time, and to shorten the day? And meats ought rather to be taken for sustentation of nature than for provocation or motion of this feeble and transitory flesh? verily (said the King) your reason is good, and I do mean to rise from the table, to pass the remnant of the night in rest, therewith to 〈◊〉 myself so well as I have with eating, and do thank you heartily for your good advertisement. So the King went to bed, and it was not long ere he fell a sleep, and continued 〈◊〉 the morning. And when the Sun did 〈◊〉, the Fisherman came to wake him, telling him that it was time to rise, and that he was ready to bring him to the Court. All this while the Gentlemen of the King's train were searching round about the country to find his majesty, making cries and hues, that he might hear them. The King knowing their voices, and the noise they made, went forth to meet them: and if his people were glad when they found him, the Fisherman was no less, amazed to see the honour which the courtiers did unto his guest. Which the courteous King perceiving said unto him: My friend, thou 〈◊〉 here, that Mansor, of whom 〈◊〉 thou madest so great account, and whom thou saidst, that thou didst love so well. Be 〈◊〉, that for the 〈◊〉 thou hast done him, before it be long, the same shall be so well acquitted, as for ever thou shalt have good cause to remember it. The good man was already upon his marrowbones beseeching the King that it would please him to pardon his rude entertainment, and his overmuch familiarity which he had used unto him. But Mansor causing him to rise up, willed him to departed, and said that within few days after he should hear further news. Now in these fens and marish grounds, the King had already builded divers Castles and lodges for the pleasure and solace of hunting. Wherefore he purposed there to erect a goodly City, causing the waters to be voided with great expedition, which city he caused to be builded immediately, and compassing the circuit of the appointed place, with strong walls and deep dyches, he gave many immunities & privileges to those, that would repair to people the same, by means whereof, in little time, the same was reduced to the state of a beautiful & wealthy City, which is the very same, that before we said to be Caesar Elcabir, as much to say, The great Palace. This goodly work being thus performed, Mansor sent for his host, to whom he said: To the end from henceforth thou mayest more honourably entertain Kings into thy house, and mayest entreat them with greater sumptuosity, for the better solacing of them with thy Courtesy and pleasant talk, behold the City that I have builded, which I do 〈◊〉 unto thee and thine for ever, reserving nothing but an acknowledgement of good will, to the end thou mayest know, that a Gentleman's mind nuzzled in villainy, is discovered, when forgetting a good turn, he incurreth the vice of Ingratitude. The good man seeing so goodly an offer, 〈◊〉 present worthy of such a King, fell down upon his 〈◊〉, and kissing his foot with all humility, said unto him: 〈◊〉 if your liberality did not supply the imperfection of my merit, and 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 what wanted in me, to attain so 〈◊〉 state, I would excuse myself of the charge which it pleaseth you to give me, and whereunto for lack of training up, and use of such a dignity, I am altogether unfit. But 〈◊〉 that the graces of God, and the 〈◊〉 of Kings ought never to be rejected, by accepting this benefit with humble thanks for the clemency of your royal majesty, I rest the servant and slave of you and yours. The King hearing him speak so wisely, took him up, and embraced him, saying: Would to God and his great Prophet, that all they which rule Cities, and govern Provinces, had so good a nature as thine, than I durst be bold to say, that the people should live better at their ease, and monarchs without great charge of conscience, for the ill behaviours of their officers. Live good man, live at thine 〈◊〉, maintain thy people, observe our laws, & increase the beauty of the City, whereof from this time forth we do 〈◊〉 thee possesser.  
And truly the present was not to be contemned, for that the same at this day is one of the fairest that is in Africa, and is the land of the black people, such as the Spaniards call Negroes. It is very full of gardens, furnished with abundance of Spices brought from the Molucces, because of the martes and 〈◊〉 ordained there. To be short, Mansor showed by this gift what is the force of a gentle heart, which can not abide to be vanquished in courtesy, and less suffer that under forgetfulness that memory of a received good turn be lost. King Darius whilom, for a little garment, received in gift by Silofon, the Samien, recompensed him, with the gaive and royal dignity of that city, and made him sovereign Lord thereof, and of the Isle of Samos. And what greater virtue 〈◊〉 illustrate the name of a noble man, than to acknowledge and prefer them, which for natural shame and 〈◊〉, dare not behold the majesty of their greatness? God sometimes with a more courteous eye doth look upon the presents of a poor man, than the fat and rich offerings of him that is great and wealthy. Even so a benefit, from what hand soever it proceedeth, cannot choose to bring forth the fruits of his liberality that giveth the same, who by using largesse, feeleth also the like in him, to whom it is employed. That magnificence no long time passed used the Signiory of Venice, to Francisco Dandulo, who after he had dured the great displeasures of the Pope, in the name of the whole City, upon his return to Venice, for acknowledgement of his patience, and for abolishment of that shame, was with happy and uniform acclamation of the whole state elected, and made Prince and Duke of that Common wealth. Worthy of praise truly is he, that by some pleasure 〈◊〉 an other to his courtesy: but when a noble man, acknowleageth for a 〈◊〉, that which a subject is bound to give him by duty and service, there the proof of praise carrieth no fame at all. For which cause I determined to display the history of the barbarous king Mansor, to the intent that our Gentlemen, nourished and trained up in great 〈◊〉, may assay by their mildness and good education, to surmount the courtesy of that Prince, of whom for this time we purpose to take our Farewell.    

The Conclusion, with an Advertisement to the Reader.  
〈◊〉 thou hast gained for thy better instruction, or what conceived for recreation by reading these. 〈◊〉. Novels, I am no judge, although (by deeming) in reading and perusing, thou mayst (at thy pleasure) gather both. But how soever profit or delight, can satisfy mine appointment, wherefore they were preferred into thy hands, contented 〈◊〉 I that thou do vouchsafe them. Good lessons how to shun the darts and pricks of insolency, thou findest in the same. The virtuous noble may savour the fruits and taste the liquor that stilleth from the gums or buds of Virtue. The contrary may see the blossoms fall, that bloom from the shrubs of disloyalty and degenerate kind. Young Gentlemen & Ladies do view a plot founded on sured ground, and what the foundation is, planted in shattering 〈◊〉, with a fashion of attire to garnish their inward parts, so well as (spareless) they employ upon the vanishing pomp. Every sort and 〈◊〉 that warfare in the field of humane life, may sent here the savourous fruit (to outward liking) that fanished the sensual taste of Adam's wife. They see also what griftes such fading fruits produce unto 〈◊〉: what likewise the lusty growth and spring of virtues plant, and what delicates it brancheth, to those that carefully keep the slips thereof, within the orchard of their minds. diverse Tragical she 〈◊〉 by the pens description have been disclosed in greatest number of these histories, the same also I have 〈◊〉 and swéetened with the course of pleasant matters, of purpose not to 〈◊〉 the dainty minds of those that shrink and fear at such rehearsal. And because suddenly (contrary to 〈◊〉) this volume is risen to greater heap of leaves, I do omit for this present time sundry Novels of merry devise, reserving the same to be joined with the rest of an other part, wherein shall succeed the remnant of Bandello, specially such (suffrable) as the learned French man François de Belleforrest hath selected, and the 〈◊〉 done in the Italian. 〈◊〉 also out of Erizzo, sir Giovani Fiorentino, Parabosco, Cynthio, Straparole, Sansovino, and the best liked out of the Queen of 〈◊〉, and other Authors. 〈◊〉 these in so good part with those that have and shall come 〈◊〉, as I do offer them with good will, courteously 〈◊〉 such faults and errors, as shall present themselves, either burying 〈◊〉 in the 〈◊〉 of 〈◊〉, or prefermitting them with the beck of Courtesy. The which in deed, or the most part, had not offended thee, if time had not been spent before the Printer could 〈◊〉 to an end hereof.  
FINIS.   

Imprinted at London by Henry Bynneman for Nicholas England. ANNO. M. D. LXVIL. Novembris. 8.   

divers Faults escaped in Printing.  
Faults. Correction. In the summary of the Novels. Tarquinus Tarqvinius Fol. 5. line. 12. because for that Fol. 39 page. 2. line. 19 on. Or Fol. 41. line. 22. conciation Conciliation Fol. 47. line. 33. and to Fol. 53. page. 2. line. 26. these the Fol. 76. page. 2. xiii. Novel. xii. Novel. Fol. 87. line. 7. xiv. Novel. xiii. Novel. 〈◊〉. Fol. line. 22. the these Fol. 92. line. 15. page. 2. she a word 〈◊〉 Fol. 94. line. 2. 〈◊〉 Sestertios Eodem. line. 28. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Eodem. page. 2. line. 8. must be was Fol. 95. line. 5. Novel. xv. Novel. xiv. Eodem. Zenobia Queen of. etc. who although she was a gentle Queen, yet a Christian Princess. etc. Zenobia Queen of. etc. who although she was a Gentile Queen, yet a Princess so worthy of. etc. Fol. 102. line. 31. 〈◊〉 sustained Fol. 105. line. 12. committing to commit Fol. 135. line. 25. Dicilia Sicilia Fol. 141. line. 27. Paolina Paola Eodem. line. 3. In a word 〈◊〉 Fol. 154. page. 2. Tinnagoras Timagoras Fol. 161. line. 26. falcons 〈◊〉 Fol. 163. line. 8. grisly 〈◊〉 Fol. 167. pag. 2. line. 〈◊〉. insummate insinuate Fo. 178. line. 2. page. 2. qualitied qualified Fol. 185. line. 8. page. 2. Romida Romilda Fol. 214. line. 22. To a word 〈◊〉 Fol. 242. line. 22. then when Fol. 249. line. 6. pa. 2. Sansantino San Fantino Fol. 292. page. 2. line. 3. his her Fol. 306. page. 2. line. 17. arrived approved Fol. 359. line. 30. ssued issued Fol. 404. page. 2. line. 32. man's man is Fol. 407. line. 22. To So  
Le buone parole onzeno, Le cattive ponzeno.